七 3

I was worried. Then the man floating one tub away from my master wrinkled his brows into a figure-eight and said, "This seems a bit too strong; a hot something keeps welling up from my back," implicitly appealing for sympathy to the monsters present. "Nonsense, this is just right. A medicinal bath won't work unless it's at least this hot. In my country we get into water twice as hot as this," boasted one, holding forth. "What exactly is this bath good for, anyway?" asked the man who had folded his towel and hidden his bumpy head, addressing the company. "All sorts of things. It's supposed to be good for whatever ails you. Quite bold, isn't it," said the owner of a face that combined the color and shape of a thin cucumber. If the bath worked that well, you'd think he'd look a bit healthier. "It's best about the third or fourth day after the medicine's added. Today's a good day to soak," observed a puffed-up man, putting on a knowing air. He was probably just fat with grime. "Would it work if you drank it?" came a shrill voice from somewhere unknown. "After it cools, drink a cup before bed and you won't oddly wake up to pee, so you might try it," answered a voice whose face I couldn't tell.

Turning from the tub to survey the wooden floor, there were row upon row of Adams unfit even for a picture, lined up in every conceivable posture, washing every conceivable part. Most astonishing among them were the two Adams: one lying on his back gazing up at the high skylight, and one flat on his belly peering down into the drain. They must be very idle Adams. A bald priest squatted facing the stone wall while a little acolyte kept tapping his shoulder from behind—doubtless standing in for San-suke out of master-disciple duty. The real San-suke was there too, having caught a cold apparently, for despite the heat he wore a short coat and poured hot water from a small oval bucket over his master's shoulders. Looking at his right foot, he had a Gifu-cotton dirt-cloth wedged between the big toe. Over here a man hugging three small buckets possessively was deep in long talk with his neighbor, urging "Use the soap, use the soap." Wondering what it was about, I listened: "Guns came from abroad, y'know. In old times it was just sword-fighting. Foreigners are cowards, so they invented such things. Doesn't seem like China, probably foreign. Wadōnai didn't have 'em. Wadōnai was really the Seiwa Genji. The story goes that when Yoshitsune crossed from Ezo to Manchuria, a very learned Ezo man went along. Then Yoshitsune's son attacked the Ming, but the Ming were in trouble so they sent an envoy to the third shogun asking to borrow three thousand soldiers; the third shogun kept the envoy and wouldn't send him back.—What was his name again.—Some envoy or other.—Kept him two years and finally showed him prostitutes in Nagasaki; the child he had with one was Wadōnai. Then he went home and found the Ming destroyed by traitors...." I hadn't a clue what he was on about. Behind him a sullen-looking man of twenty-five or six was blankly scalding his crotch with white water, evidently suffering from a boil or such. Beside him, two or three youths of seventeen or eighteen chattering "you" and "I" impertinently were probably students from nearby. Next appeared a strange back, spine joints protruding as if cold bamboo had been shoved up from the buttocks, with four marks like sixteen musashi neatly arranged on each side—some of those sixteen musashi red and raw with pus around them. Writing them one by one, there's far too much; with my skill I couldn't describe even a fragment. Thinking this a troublesome task I'd begun, I was somewhat daunted when an old priest of about seventy in a pale-yellow cotton robe abruptly appeared at the entrance. The priest bowed respectfully to these naked monsters and declared fluently, "Well now, thank you all as always for your daily patronage. It's a bit cold today, so please take your time—step in and out of the white-water bath, warm yourselves leisurely.—Clerk, do keep an eye on the temperature." The clerk answered "Aye." Wadōnai greatly praised the old man: "Charming fellow. Can't do business without that." Having suddenly met this odd old man, I was a bit startled, so leaving my description as is, I devoted myself awhile to observing the priest. Presently he saw a boy of about four just out of the bath and beckoned, "Come here, young master." Seeing the priest like a daifuku trampled flat, the child thought terrible and burst into tears with a wail. The priest, slightly put out, marveled, "Oh, crying? What? Afraid of grandpa? My, my." Having no choice, he swiftly turned his wit to the child's parent. "Ah, it's you, Gen-san. Bit cold today. That burglar who got into Omiya last night—what a fool, cutting a square hole at the crawl-space, then leaving without taking a thing. Must've seen a policeman or night-watch." He pitied the burglar's folly, then caught another: "Aye, aye, cold, isn't it. You young ones don't feel it much, eh," the only one shivering despite being old.

So taken with the priest that I'd forgotten the other monsters—even my suffering, cowering master had vanished from memory—when suddenly a loud voice rose between the washing area and the floor. It was unmistakably Mr. Kushami. His voice's exceptional volume and muddy unpleasantness were no news, but given the place I was quite surprised. In a flash I diagnosed: surely he'd overheated from long endurance in the hot bath. Had it been mere illness, no blame; but that he kept his wits even while flushed was clear from why he'd bellowed. He'd picked a quarrel, unbecomingly, with a cheeky student. "Move back, your bucket's splashing into mine," he roared—naturally my master. Things depend on viewpoint, so one needn't judge this merely overheating. Perhaps one in ten thousand might read it as Takayama Hikokurō scolding mountain bandits. The man himself may have meant such a show, but since the other wasn't a bandit, the expected result won't come. The student turned and answered mildly, "I was here from the start." A normal reply; only his not leaving displeased the master, but in attitude and words it was no bandit-insult worth, as even the flushed master should know. Yet the master's rage wasn't at the seat itself; from earlier the two had, unboylike, prattled proud and knowing, and the master, forced to hear, was plainly angry at that. So even a polite reply wouldn't make him step onto the floor. Now he snapped, "What, you fool, splashing filthy water into others' buckets!" I'd found the lad slightly vexing, so inwardly cheered, but as a schoolteacher's conduct it was unbecoming. The master is too rigid. Like cinder, dry and hard. They say Hannibal crossing the Alps found a great rock blocking the road; he poured vinegar, burned it soft, then sawed it like a fish cake to pass. A man like my master, bathing in this potent medicine yet unchanged, should be vinegar-poured and fire-roasted. Else, with hundreds of such students, decades won't cure his stubbornness. The things floating in the tub, the things lounging on the wash-floor, are a society of monsters who've doffed civilization's needed clothes; naturally not bound by common rules. Do as you please. Let the lungs camp where the stomach is, let Wadōnai be Seiwa Genji, let Min-san be discredited—fine. But step from the wash-floor onto the wood and you're no monster; you've returned to the world of men, donning civilization's clothes, hence must act human. The master now stands on the threshold between wash and floor, about to re-enter the world of smiles and smooth talk. If even at that brink he's this stubborn, it's a fixed disease. A disease won't easily mend. My humble cure: ask the principal to dismiss him. Dismissed, unbending as he is, he'd surely hit the streets, then die by the road—in short, dismissal is his remote cause of death. He likes his sickness, hates death; he wants the luxury of illness short of dying. So threaten "keep this up and I'll kill you" and the coward will quake; in that quake the illness may drop. If not, so be it.

Fool or sick, he's still master. A poet wrote "value a meal's debt of lordly grace," so even a cat may mind his lot. Feeling pity, I neglected the wash-side and suddenly heard shouts toward the white tub. Another fight? I turned: at the narrow pomegranate-mouth, monsters clung with no inch to spare, hairy shins and hairless thighs entangled. Early autumn dusk fell; steam filled to the ceiling. The jostling showed dim through it. "Hot, hot" pierced my ears and rattled within. Voices yellow, blue, red, black, all overlapping in an indescribable roar. Fit only to express chaos, useless otherwise. I stood spellbound. When the "wa-wa" peaked and could go no further, suddenly from the melee a giant rose. He was surely three inches taller than the others, face unknown whether hair grew on face or face lived in hair, red and thrown back, crying in a broken-bell voice, "Umero umero, hot hot!" That voice and face towered above the tangled crowd, as if the whole bath were his alone. A superman. Nietzsche's superman. King of demons. Chief monster. As I thought, from behind the tub came an "aye." Startled, I shifted gaze: in the gloom, the short-coated San-suke hurled a lump of coal into the furnace. Through the lid, as it cracked, his half-face lit; behind him the brick wall glowed as through dark. I felt eerie and hopped from the window home. Walking, I thought: even among red-naked striving for equality, a red-naked hero arises to crush the rest. Equality isn't gained by nakedness.

Home, all was peace; master, face post-bath glistening, ate dinner. Seeing me on the veranda, he said, "Carefree cat, where've you been?" On the tray, though poor, two or three dishes; among them a broiled fish—surely caught near Odaiba yesterday. I'd noted fish are tough, but broiled and boiled, none can bear it; better sick and lingering. I sat by, pretending not to watch, ready to beg. One must know such pretense to eat fine fish. Master poked the fish, made a face, set chopsticks down. His wife opposite, silent, moved chopsticks, studying his jaw's open-close.

"Hey, smack that cat's head," he suddenly asked her.

"If I smack, then what?"

"Just smack it."

She slapped my head with her palm. No pain.

"Didn't meow."

"Eh."

"Do it again."

"Same either way," she slapped again. Nothing, so I stayed. Why, I couldn't fathom; had I, I'd cope, but "smack" left both baffled. Master, twice foiled, grew impatient: "Smack so it meows."

She, annoyed, "What good's a meow?" yet slapped. Knowing his aim, easy: meow and satisfy him. Master's a fool, tiresome. Had he said "to meow," no extra swings; I'd be freed at once not thrice. "Smack" commands only the act, not the meow—that's mine. To assume his command includes my meow is rude; respect personality. He despises the cat. Golden's a man to do this, but master priding nakedness is base. Yet he's not so mean; the order's not craft but a gnat of poor wit. Eat, belly fills; cut, blood flows; kill, die—so smack, meow: his swift leap. But sorry, illogical. By that, fall in river means death; tempura means diarrhea; salary means attendance; books mean greatness—troubling some. Must meow on smack? I'd suffer. Taken for a mejiro bell, no point being cat. I deflated him inwardly, then meowed as ordered.

Master asked his wife, "It meowed—that 'nyaa,' know if interjection or adverb?"

Too sudden, she said naught. I too thought his bath-flush lingered. This master's a famed eccentric; one called him plainly neurotic. But his confidence is huge: "I'm not, the world is." Neighbors call him "dog-dog"; he calls them "pig-pig" for fairness. Truly fair-minded, troubling. Such a man's odd question may be his breakfast trifle, but to hear, near neurotic. She, bemused, silent; I no answer. He cried,

"Hey!"

She started, "Yes."

"That 'yes'—interjection or adverb?"

"Which? Such nonsense, who cares."

"Care? It dominates national-language scholars' minds."

"A cat's meow? How odd. Not Japanese."

"Thus the puzzle—comparative study."

"Indeed," she, wise, withdrew. "So, which?"

"Vital, not quick," he chewed the fish, then pork-and-potato stew. "Pork?" "Yes." "Hmph," swallowed in contempt. "More sake."

"Drinking much tonight, quite red."

"I drink—know the world's longest word?"

"The former regent?"

"That's a name. Word?"

"Letters?"

"Yes."

"No.—Enough sake, eat rice."

"Not yet. I'll teach the longest word."

"Then rice."

"Archaiomelesidonophrunicherata."

"Nonsense."

"Greek."

"Meaning?"

"Unknown, only spelling. Six inches three lines written."

Saying sober what others say drunk—strange sight. He drank wildly tonight; usual two cups, now four; face like hot poker, suffering, yet: "More," she urged stop, "enough, you hurt."

"Hurt or not, I'll study. Ōmachi Keigetsu said drink."

"Who?" Even Keigetsu worthless to her.

"Top critic; said drink, so right."

"Fool. He or Tsukigetsu, no one advises suffering drinks."

"Not just drink—socialize, play, travel."

"Worse. First-rate critic advises family man play? Absurd."

"Play's fine; with money, maybe."

"Lucky none; start now, dreadful."

"Then stop; but treasure husband, serve better supper."

"This is it."

"Then play later, when money comes; stop tonight," ate rice-thrice in tea. I got three pork bits and a salt-broiled head.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”