八 3
Among them there are those wearing white sailcloth with black trim, a monogram stitched in the same color right in the center of the chest—quite the dandies. All of them look like mighty warriors, each worth a thousand men in single combat; their muscles are black and brawny, developed as if to proclaim that they came last night straight from Sasayama in Tanba, still in their travel-stained clothes. It would be a pity to send them to middle school and make them study. One feels they would surely be of service to the nation if set to fishing or boat-punting. As if by agreement, they have rolled their loincloths high above bare feet, looking ready to go help fight a nearby fire. They stand lined up before their master, silent, not uttering a word. The master, too, says nothing. For a while the two sides merely glare at each other, and there is a faint hint of murderous intent.
“Are you thieves?” the master interrogates. He is in a towering rage. A fit of spleen, chewed to bits between his back teeth, becomes flame and escapes through his nostrils, so that his nostrils appear remarkably furious. The nose of the Echigo lion must have been modeled after the look of an angry man. Otherwise it could not be made so terrifying.
“No, we are not thieves. We are students of Rakungaikan.”
“Liar. Would students of Rakungaikan trespass uninvited into another’s garden and house?”
“But as you see, we are wearing caps with the school badge properly attached.”
“They must be forgeries. If you are Rakungaikan students, why did you intrude so recklessly?”
“A ball flew in, that is all.”
“Why did you let the ball fly in?”
“It just flew in, that is all.”
“Outrageous fellows.”
“We will be careful hereafter, so please let this one time pass.”
“Do you think one can so easily pardon unknown persons who climb the wall and break into the premises?”
“Still, we are unquestionably Rakungaikan students.”
“If Rakungaikan students, what year are you in?”
“Third year.”
“Are you certain?”
“Yes.”
The master turns toward the back and calls, “Oi, Kora, Kora.”
Omi, born in Saitama, slides open the shoji and puts in her face with a “Yes?”
“Go to Rakungaikan and bring someone back.”
“Whom shall I bring?”
“Anyone, just bring someone.”
The maid answers “Yes,” but the scene in the garden is so strange, the errand so unclear, and the development of the incident from a while back so absurd, that she neither stands nor sits, only grinning. The master considers himself to be waging a great war. He believes he is exercising the sharpest of high-handed authority. Yet the servant who should naturally take his side not only fails to meet the occasion with seriousness, but grins as she listens to her orders. He can do nothing but grow more apoplectic.
“I say bring whoever, don’t you understand? The principal, the steward, the head teacher—”
“The principal, sir…?” The maid knows only the word “principal.”
“I said the principal, the steward, or the head teacher—don’t you get it?”
“If there is no one, would the janitor do?”
“Don’t be foolish. What would a janitor know?”
At this the maid apparently decides she has no choice; she says “Yes” and goes out. She still cannot fathom the point of the errand. Worried she might drag back even the janitor, behold—the very ethics teacher marches in through the front gate. The master, having waited for him to seat himself composedly, immediately opens negotiations.
“Just now these persons rushed into the premises…” He uses old-fashioned language like in “The Treasury of Loyal Retainers,” but cuts off his sentence with a slightly sarcastic tail: “Are they truly students of your school?”
The ethics teacher shows no particular surprise, calmly surveys the warriors lined up in the garden, then returns his gaze to the master as before and replies:
“Yes, they are all students of the school. We constantly admonish them so that such things do not happen, but… it is most troubling… why did you climb over the fence?”
True to form as students, they seem to have not a word to say to the ethics teacher, and offer no reply. They huddle quietly in a corner of the garden like a flock of sheep caught in snow, hanging back.
“A ball coming in can’t be helped. Living next to the school as you do, balls will fly over now and then. But… it is too rough. Even if you must climb the fence, if you had just slipped in quietly and retrieved it, there might be some pardon… ”
“Quite right. We do caution them well, but with so many, it cannot be helped… they must be more careful from now. If a ball flies over, go around by the front and ask permission before taking it. Understand? —Being a large school, it is nothing but trouble to manage. Since exercise is necessary in education, we cannot forbid it. Permitting it may lead to inconveniencing you, but we hope for your indulgence. In return, hereafter we will absolutely go by the front gate, ask leave, and then retrieve.”
“Well, if that is understood, it is fine. You may throw balls as much as you like. Just come by the front and mention it, that is all. Then I entrust these students to you; please take them home. Sorry to have summoned you so troubleingly,” the master gives his usual anticlimactic greeting. The ethics teacher leads the men of Sasayama in Tanba back to Rakungaikan through the front gate. The “great event” of which I speak thus arrives at a temporary settlement. If you laugh and say what great event is this, then laugh. For such persons it is no great event. I have only mirrored the master’s great event, not recorded the great event of such persons. If any would malign it as a limp ending, the spent force of a strong crossbow, let them remember this is the master’s distinguishing trait. Let them remember that the master’s becoming material for comic writing also resides in this trait. If you say dealing with fourteen- or fifteen-year-olds is foolish, I agree I must be foolish too. That is why Omaci Keigetsu says of the master that he has yet to escape childishness.
Having already related the small event and now finished the great event, I intend next to depict the lingering ripple after the great event, and tie the whole together. Some readers may think all I write is careless talk off the top of my head, but I am no such reckless cat. Behind every word and phrase lies a great cosmic philosophy; moreover, as the phrases layer and continue, head and tail correspond, before and after illuminate, and what you thoughtlessly read as trivial gossip suddenly transforms into no mean sermon—so do not commit the rudeness of lying down, sticking out your legs, and reading five lines at a gulp. Liu Zongyuan cleansed his hands with rosewater each time he read Han Yu’s prose; toward my writing, at least refrain from the disgrace of buying magazines on someone else’s tab or borrowing leftovers from friends. What I now tell is what I myself call the lingering ripple; but thinking “if it is a ripple it must be dull, I need not read it” will bring great regret. You must read to the end with care.
The day after the great event, I felt like a stroll and went out front. Turning the corner toward the side alley, I saw Mr. Kaneda and Mr. Suzuki (Fujii) standing there in deep conversation. Mr. Kaneda was returning home by rickshaw; Mr. Suzuki had called at Kaneda’s and was on his way back—the two had bumped into each other. Lately Kaneda’s house being no novelty, I rarely headed that way, but meeting them like this felt oddly nostalgic. It had been a while with Suzuki too; I decided to avail myself of the honor of a distant glimpse. Resolved, I sauntered near where the two stood, and naturally their talk entered my ears. This is not my fault. They are to blame for talking. Mr. Kaneda is the sort who sets detectives to watch the master’s movements; he will not mind my accidental listening. If he does, he understands not fairness. At any rate, I heard them. Not because I wished; the talk leapt into my ears unbidden.
“I called at your house just now and meet you most fortunately,” says Fujii with a polite bob.
“Hm, is that so. Actually I have wanted to see you for some time. Good timing.”
“Indeed, most fortunate. Any business?”
“Nothing much. Not urgent, but something only you can do.”
“Anything I can, I will. What is it?”
“Well, yes…” he ponders.
“Shall I call again at your convenience? When suits you?”
“Nah, not such a big thing. —Then since you are here, I ask.”
“Please, no reserve…”
“That eccentric, you know. Your old friend. Kusamori or some such.”
“Ah, has Kusamori done something?”
“No, nothing. But since that incident, I feel foul in the chest.”
“Quite so. Kusamori is so arrogant… he might consider his social standing, but he acts as if sole ruler of the world.”
“There. Will not bow to money, ‘practical men such as—’ and various impertinences. So I thought, show him the mettle of a practical man. I have had him weakened considerably, but he still holds out. Stubborn devil. Astonishing.”
“He lacks gain-loss sense, so he bluffs needlessly. Always been that way—cannot grasp what harms himself, hopeless.”
“Ha ha ha, truly hopeless. I tried various means and men, and finally had the school students do it.”
“Clever. Did it tell?”
“He seemed quite troubled. Must fall before long.”
“Splendid. However he swells, many against one.”
“Yes, alone he is helpless. He seemed much weakened, so I thought have you go see how he is.”
“Ah, I see. No trouble. I will go at once. I will report on my way back. It will be a sight—that stubborn one deflated.”
“Good, then stop by on return, I will wait.”
“Then I take leave.”
My, another scheme. Indeed the power of practical men is mighty. That the master, like coal cinders, is driven apoplectic; that his head becomes, as a result of anguish, a slippery pass for flies; that his head meets the fate of an icicle—all is the power of practical men. Why the earth turns on its axis I know not, but what moves the world is assuredly money. None but the practical men understand this power of money and freely wield its awe. That the sun rises east and sets west unharmed is wholly thanks to practical men. Raised in a poor pedant’s house, unaware of their grace, I blame my own blindness. Still, even the obtuse master must now wake somewhat. If he plans to push through obtuse, it is dangerous. The master’s most precious life is in peril. How will he greet Suzuki? From that, his awakening will show. No dawdling—a cat worries for his master. I slip past Suzuki and hurry home.
Suzuki is the same agreeable man. Today he does not breathe a word of Kaneda; he chatters pleasantly of harmless gossip.
“You look a bit pale, anything wrong?”
“Nothing anywhere.”
“But pale. Take care, season is bad. Sleep well?”
“Mm.”
“Any worry? I will do anything. Say freely.”
“Worry? What about?”
“Oh, if none, fine; if any, that is all. Worry is poison. Best laugh and live merrily. You seem too gloomy.”
“Laughing is poison too. Laugh recklessly and you may die.”
“No joking. Laughter brings fortune.”
“Ancient Greece had a philosopher Chrysippus, you likely know not.”
“No. So?”
“He laughed to death.”
“Heh, strange. But that is olden times…”
“Old or now, what difference? Seeing a donkey eat figs from a silver bowl, he laughed uncontrollably and died laughing.”
“Ha ha, but no need laugh so unstoppably. Laugh a little—moderately—feels good.”
As Suzuki studies the master’s state, the front gate rattles open—a guest? No.
“A ball came in, may we fetch it?”
The maid answers “Yes” from the kitchen. The student goes around back. Suzuki makes a queer face: “What?”
“The back student threw a ball into the garden.”
“Back student? There is a student behind?”
“School called Rakungaikan.”
“Ah, a school. Noisy, no?”
“Noisy? Cannot study at all. Were I Minister of Education, I would close it.”
“Ha ha, quite angry. Something rankle?”
“Rankle? From morn to night continuous rankle.”
“If it rankles, move.”
“Move? Insolent.”
“No use anger at me. Just kids, ignore them.”
“Easy for you. Yesterday I summoned the teacher and negotiated.”
“That must have been fun. He was impressed?”
“Mm.”
Again the gate opens: “A ball came in, may we fetch it?”
“My, many come. Another ball.”
“Mm, we contracted they come by front.”
“I see, that is why. Understood.”
“Understood what?”
“Why they come for balls.”
“Sixteenth time today.”
“Aren’t you bothered? Tell them not to come.”
“Tell them not to, but they come, so nothing for it.”
“If nothing for it, so be it, but no need be so stubborn. A man with corners rolls ill in the world—loss. Round things roll anywhere with ease; square things not only roll hard, but hurt at each turn as corners wear. Not your sole world; people won’t bend to you. In short, against money, resistance is loss. Only nerves hurt, health fails, none praise. They stay calm, just order others. Many vs. few, you lose. Stubbornness is fine, but while bent on winning, your study suffers, daily work troubles—in the end, toil lost, fatigue gained.”
“Excuse me, a ball just flew in, may I go around back and take it?”
“There, another,” Suzuki laughs.
“Insolent,” the master flushes red.
Suzuki, deeming the visit sufficiently fulfilled, says farewell and leaves.
In comes Dr. Amani. Few ever declare themselves apoplectic; when one notices “this is odd,” the peak is past. The master’s apoplexy peaked at yesterday’s great event, but the negotiation ended anticlimactically and somehow settled; that night in his study he pondered and noticed something odd. Whether Rakungaikan or himself is odd remains doubtful, but odd it is. Living next to a middle school yet raging all year is odd. Odd demands action. Nothing to do but take medicine, bribe the source of rage. Thus he resolved to call his usual Dr. Amani. Wise or foolish aside, noticing his own apoplexy is virtuous. Dr. Amani, calm as ever, says “How are you?” Doctors always say that; I distrust those who do not.
“Doctor, no good.”
“Eh, such a thing?”
“Do doctors’ medicines work?”
Amani, surprised but gentle, answers mildly: “Not that they don’t.”
“My stomach ailment, no matter the medicine, same.”
“Certainly not so.”
“No? Some improvement?” he asks others of his own stomach.
“Not at once, gradually. Already much better.”
“Is that so.”
“Still rage?”
“Rage even in dreams.”
“Some exercise?”
“Exercise only rages more.”
Amani, apparently dumbfounded, says “Let me see,” and examines. The master, impatient, suddenly loud: “Doctor, I read a book on hypnosis; it said apply hypnosis to cure bad habits, illnesses—true?”
“Such therapy exists.”
“Still done?”
“Yes.”
“Hard to induce?”
“Nothing to it, I often do.”
“You do?”
“Shall I try? All must succumb in theory. If you agree.”
“Interesting, do it. I longed to be hypnotized. But if I cannot wake, trouble.”
“Safe. Let us.”
Quickly decided, the master is to be hypnotized. I never saw this, and watch from the corner, delighted. The doctor starts with the eyes: strokes the upper lids downward, as if to train a habit though the master already shuts them. After a while: “Stroke like this, lids grow heavy?” Master: “Indeed heavy.” Doctor continues stroking: “Heavier, yes?” Master, perhaps in the mood, silent. Same friction repeated three or four minutes. Finally: “Now cannot open.” Poor master’s eyes are ruined. “Cannot open?” “No.” He sits eyes shut. I think him blind. After a while doctor: “Try open. You cannot.” “Is that so?”—master opens both eyes normally. Grinning: “Not taking.” Doctor grins: “No, not taking.” Hypnosis fails. Amani leaves.
Next comes—never so many guests. For unsocial master, like a lie. But they came, and a strange guest. I note him not merely as strange. As said, I paint the ripple; he is essential material. Name unknown; a man around forty, long-faced with a goat-like beard. Opposite Meitei the aesthete, I call this one the philosopher. Not because he proclaims like Meitei, but his dialogue with the master looks philosophical. Apparently old classmates; they are easy together.
“Meitei? He floats like fishcake in a pond. They say he dragged a friend into a stranger peer’s gate for tea—carefree.”
“And?”
“Did not ask. A born oddity, but no thought, pure fishcake. Suzuki? He comes? Hm, no theory but worldly-wise, carries a gold watch. But shallow, no composure. Says ‘smooth’ but knows not its meaning. If Meitei is fishcake, Suzuki is konnyaku tied in straw—slippery, only trembling.”
The master, impressed by this sharp analogy, laughs heartily for the first time in long.
“Then what are you?”
“Me? Oh, perhaps a yam. Long, buried in mud.”
“You seem always calm, enviable.”
“Only as ordinary men. Nothing to envy. Only, thankfully, I envy none—that is good.”
“Abe lately rich?”
“Same. Enough or not—
“Stories of the world, in your language.”