大日本女子裁縫最高等大学院 2

“Even Moka would be honest enough to receive it, but that’s just the trouble. Dokusen’s words are grand, but when it comes down to it, he’s no different from the rest of us. You remember the great earthquake nine years ago, don’t you? The only one who jumped from the second floor of the boarding house and got hurt was Dokusen.”

“He seems to have his own elaborate explanation for that.”

“Yes, according to him it’s something quite edifying. The thrust of Zen is sharp, and when it comes to what they call the lightning-flash response, he can react with terrifying speed. While everyone else was panicking at the earthquake, he alone jumped from the second-floor window, and said he was delighted to see the fruit of his training—limping about in great joy. A man stubborn in his excuses. There’s nothing more suspicious than those who go around making a fuss about Zen and Buddha.”

“Is that so?” said Mr. Kushami, his tone growing somewhat weak.

“Last time he was here, didn’t he spout some sleep-talking nonsense about Zen?”

“Yes, he taught me a verse: ‘In the shadow of lightning, I hear the spring wind.’”

“That lightning! It’s been his pet box since ten years ago—quite absurd. When it came to Master Mukaku’s lightning, there wasn’t a soul in the boarding house who didn’t know it. And then, when the teacher gets flustered, he sometimes reverses it by mistake and says, ‘In the shadow of the spring wind, I hear the lightning’—which is rather amusing. Try it next time. When he’s calmly holding forth, you contradict him from this side, and he’ll immediately turn upside down and say something strange.”

“One shouldn’t meet troublemakers like you.”

“Who’s the troublemaker is anyone’s guess. I detest Zen priests and those who claim enlightenment. There’s a temple called Nanzōin near my place, and an old retired man of about eighty lives there. During that white rain the other day, lightning struck the temple grounds and split a pine tree in the garden where the old man was. But the priest was perfectly composed and untroubled—so I asked, and it turns out he’s deaf. That’s why he was composed! It’s generally something like that. Dokusen may sit enlightened by himself, but the trouble is he tends to drag others in. As we speak, two people have been driven mad by his influence.”

“Who?”

“Who, you ask. One is Rino Tōzen. Thanks to Dokusen, he got fixated on Zen study, went off to Kamakura, and finally lost his mind there. You know the railroad crossing in front of Engakuji? He jumped onto the tracks and sat in zazen on the rails, boasting he’d stop the oncoming train. Fortunately the train did stop, and he kept his life, but then he declared himself a diamond-indestructible body that enters fire unburned and water undrowned, and walked bubbling around the lotus pond in the temple grounds.”

“Did he die?”

“He was lucky then—a monk from the hall happened by and saved him—but after returning to Tokyo he finally died of peritonitis. He died of peritonitis, but the cause was eating barley rice and pickles in the monks’ hall, so indirectly Dokusen killed him.”

“Blind obsession has its good and bad sides,” said the master, with a slightly uneasy look.

“Truly. There’s another among our classmates who was done in by Dokusen.”

“Dangerous. Who is it?”

“Mr. Tachimachi Rōbai. That man, too, was egged on by Dokusen and kept saying things like eels ascending to heaven, until finally he became the real thing.”

“What do you mean, the real thing?”

“The eel ascended to heaven, and the pig became a sage.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If Yagi is Dokusen, Tachimachi is Pig-sen. There was no man with a baser attachment to food, but when that greed and the Zen priest’s wicked stubbornness struck at once, he was beyond saving. At first we didn’t notice, but looking back he was spouting oddities. He’d come to my place and say, ‘Didn’t a cutlet fly onto that pine tree?’ or ‘In my country, fish cakes swim on their boards’—constantly uttering cryptic sayings. While he only said them it was fine, but when he urged, ‘Let’s go dig for gold dumplings in the ditch out front,’ I gave up. Then two or three days later he became Pig-sen and was committed to Sugamo. A pig has no qualification to go mad, but thanks entirely to Dokusen he rowed that far. Dokusen’s influence is considerable.”

“My, is he still in Sugamo?”

“Still there? He’s there with megalomania, boasting grandly. Lately he says the name Tachimachi Rōbai is dull, and calls himself Ten dō Kōhei, deeming himself an incarnation of Heaven’s Way. Fearsome. You should go see him sometime.”

“Ten dō Kōhei?”

“Ten dō Kōhei. For a madman, he picked a fine name. Sometimes he writes it as Kōhei. And saying the world is lost in delusion and he must save it, he sends letters indiscriminately to friends and such. I got four or five; one was quite long, and I was charged double postage.”

“Then the one that came to me was from Rōbai too.”

“Came to you? That’s odd. It was a red letter envelope, I suppose?”

“Yes, red in the center, white on the sides. A rather unusual envelope.”

“That, they say, he specially ordered from China. It shows the Pig-sen maxim: ‘The way of heaven is white, the way of earth is white, man stands in between and is red’…”

“Quite a fated envelope.”

“Being a madman, he put great care into it. And even after going mad, his attachment to food seems intact, for every letter mentions food—which is strange. He wrote something to you, no doubt.”

“Yes, something about sea cucumbers.”

“Rōbai liked sea cucumbers. Natural. Then?”

“Then something about blowfish and Korean ginseng, or some such.”

“Blowfish and Korean ginseng—a fine pairing. Probably meaning if you eat blowfish and get poisoned, brew Korean ginseng and drink it.”

“Doesn’t seem so.”

“Even if not, no matter. He’s mad after all. That all?”

“There’s more. A line: ‘Mr. Kushami, do have some tea.’”

“Ah ha ha, ‘do have some tea’ is rather harsh. He surely thought he’d thoroughly beaten you. Excellent. Long live Ten dō Kōhei!” Mr. Meitei laughed heartily. The master, having learned that the sender of the letter he had reread with no small reverence was a gilded madman, felt his earlier zeal and trouble were somehow wasted, and was both annoyed, and ashamed to think he had pondered a lunatic’s prose so anxiously, and finally, suspecting that if he could admire a madman’s work so, perhaps his own nerves were somewhat abnormal—thus in a combined state of irritation, shame, and worry, he sat with an unsettled face.

Just then the front lattice was roughly opened, and the heavy sound of boots echoed twice on the stone step, followed by a loud voice: “Excuse me, excuse me.” Unlike the master’s heavy seat, Meitei was a very easygoing man; without waiting for Omitsu to announce, he cried “Come in!” and leapt over the two steps of the adjoining room to the entrance. Intruding without announcement may seem rude, but once inside he acts as a servant to announce guests, which is quite convenient. However Meitei may be, he is a guest, and for the guest to appear at the entrance, the master Kushami cannot rightly stay seated in the parlor. A normal man would follow out to battle, but this is Mr. Kushami: he calmly settles his buttocks on the cushion. Though “settling” and “being settled” sound similar, their natures differ greatly.

Meitei, having flown to the entrance, was explaining something busily, then turned inward and called loudly: “Oi, master, a little trouble, but come out. No one but you will do.” The master reluctantly, hands in sleeves, slouched out. Meitei was squatting, holding a name card, bowing—a most undignified posture. The card read: “Keishichō Detective Constable, Torazō Yoshida.” Standing beside Torazō was a tall, smartly dressed man of twenty-five or six in full striped cotton. Strangely, like the master, this man stood silent with hands in sleeves. Thinking he looked familiar, the master observed closely—not just familiar. This was the thief who had visited late at night and taken the mountain yam. My, this time he comes boldly by daylight through the front door.

“Oi, this gentleman is a detective constable. He caught the thief the other day and came to summon you to appear. Came specially.”

The master, seeming to understand at last why the constable had come, bowed toward the thief with a polite greeting. Probably because the thief looked more manly than Torazō, he mistook him for the constable. The thief was surely surprised, but could not say “I am the thief,” and stood composed, hands still in sleeves. Of course his hands were manacled, so even if told to take them out, he wouldn’t. A usual person would see this, but the master, unlike modern men, has a foolish reverence for officials and police. He regards the emperor’s authority as terrifying. Though in theory he knows he hires watchmen with his own money, in practice he bows obsequiously. The master’s father was a village head in the suburbs long ago, and the habit of bowing to superiors may have cursed the son. Truly pitiful.

The constable, amused, smiled and said, “Tomorrow, by nine in the morning, come to the Nihon-zutsumi branch station. What were the stolen items?”

“Stolen items…” the master began, but unfortunately forgot most. Only Tadaa Sanpei’s mountain yam remained. Thinking the yam unimportant, but unable to finish “stolen items are…”, he looked foolish like Yotarō. To be robbed yet not answer clearly proves one not full-grown, so he boldly said, “Stolen items… one box of mountain yam.”

The thief, finding this very funny, lowered his face into his collar. Meitei laughed, “You must have treasured that yam.” The constable alone was serious.

“The yam won’t be returned, but other articles mostly are. You’ll see when you come. When we hand them over you’ll sign a receipt, so bring your seal. Must come by nine. Nihon-zutsumi branch. Under Asakusa police. Goodbye,” and he left talking to himself. The thief followed out the gate. Unable to use his hands, he left it open. The master, though impressed, seemed displeased and puffed his cheeks, slamming it shut.

“Ah ha ha, you revere constables. Always that humble attitude would make a fine man, but you’re only polite to policemen—hopeless.”

“But he came to inform me specially.”

“Came to inform, but it’s his job. Ordinary treatment suffices.”

“But it’s no ordinary job.”

“Of course not ordinary. A detective, a disagreeable trade. Lower than ordinary.”

“You’ll get in trouble saying that.”

“Ha ha, I’ll stop insulting detectives. But respecting a constable is one thing; respecting a thief is astonishing.”

“Who respected a thief?”

“You did.”

“I have any connection to a thief?”

“You bowed to the thief.”

“When?”

“Just now, prostrating yourself.”

“Don’t be silly, that was the constable.”

“A constable wouldn’t look like that.”

“Because he’s a constable he looks like that?”

“Stubborn.”

“You’re stubborn.”

“First, would a constable come to someone’s house with hands in sleeves, standing like that?”

“A constable might have hands in sleeves.”

“So aggressive, I’m impressed. While you bowed, he stood that whole time.”

“Being a constable, maybe he would.”

“What confidence. No use talking.”

“No use. You only say ‘thief, thief’ but didn’t see him enter. Just stubborn alone.”

Meitei, deeming him beyond salvation, unusually fell silent. The master, having deflated Meitei for the first time, was triumphant. To Meitei, the master’s value dropped for his stubbornness; to the master, he grew above Meitei for it. Such absurdities occur. If you persist in stubbornness and feel victorious, your personal stock falls. Strangely, the stubborn never realize until death that they’ve been despised. Happy souls. This is called porcine happiness.

“Anyway, going tomorrow?”

“Going. Told to come by nine, I’ll leave at eight.”

“What of school?”

“I’ll skip it. School,” he flung out boldly.

“Quite a spirit. May you skip?”

“May. My school pays salary, no deduction. Safe,” he confessed straight. Cunning, but simple.

“You, going is fine, but know the way?”

“Know? Take a cab, no problem,” he huffed.

“For a Tokyo expert inherited from your Shizuoka uncle, I’m impressed.”

“Impressed all you like.”

“Ha ha, Nihon-zutsumi branch is no ordinary place. It’s Yoshiwara.”

“What?”

“Yoshiwara.”

“That Yoshiwara with the brothels?”

“Yes, only one Yoshiwara in Tokyo. Well, going?” Meitei teased again.

The master, hearing Yoshiwara, hesitated slightly, but soon said, “Yoshiwara or brothel, once said I’ll go, I’ll go,” showing force where none needed. Fools assert pride thus.

Meitei only said, “Amusing, go see.” The criminal wave settled. Meitei chattered till dusk, then left fearing his uncle’s anger.

After Meitei left, the master ate quickly, retired to his study, folded hands, and thought:

“The Yagi Dokusen I admired and vowed to emulate seems, per Meitei, not worth emulating. His doctrine is unreasonable, perhaps lunatic. He has two confirmed mad disciples—dangerous. Approaching him may drag me in. The Ten dō Kōhei I thought a great sage was pure madman, now in Sugamo. Though Meitei’s tale is jest, his fame in the asylum as heaven’s lord is likely true. Perhaps I too am somewhat off. ‘Like calls like’—if I admire a madman’s words, I’m near madness. Even if not same mold, living next door, one wall broken, we may sit talking. Terrible. Lately my brain works strangely, adds wonder to odd. A spoon of brain chemistry aside, my words and acts lose moderation. No dragon spring on tongue, no clear wind under arm, but mad smell on teeth, lunatic taste on muscle—helpless. Worse, maybe I’m already a patient. Yet unharmed, still a Tokyo citizen. This is no positive-negative. Must check pulse. Pulse normal. Head hot? Not especially. But worried.”

“Comparing only myself to madmen yields no escape. Method wrong. Using madman as standard pulls me there. If using healthy as base, opposite may show. Start near. First, the frock-coat uncle—odd. Second, Kangetsu—polishes ball all day—odd. Third, Meitei—foolery as calling—positive mad. Fourth, Mrs. Kaneda—vicious, beyond sense—pure mad. Fifth, Mr. Kaneda—unknown, but with that wife, extraordinary, thus mad. Then, the Rakuun boys—young but manic, splendid. Most seem alike. Reassured. Maybe society is a mad gathering. Madmen clash, grab, scold, take; the whole as cells rises and falls—that’s society. The sensible are caged in asylums as nuisance. Then asylum inmates are normal, outside are mad. A lone madman stays mad; a group gains power and becomes sane. Great madmen use wealth, force, employ small madmen, called fine men—not few. Nothing makes sense.”

Above is the master’s thought under lone lamp that night, faithfully drawn. His opaque mind shows. Though with Kaiser mustache, he can’t tell mad from sane. He raised the question, but reached no conclusion—a man without thorough brain. His conclusions vague as morning smoke from his nose—his only trait.

I am a cat. You may doubt how a cat knows his heart, but it’s nothing. I know mind-reading. When learned? None of your business. I know. While sleeping on his lap, I rub my soft fur on his belly; a current shows his inside to my mind’s eye. Once he petted me, then thought flaying me for warmth—I felt cold. That night’s thoughts I report with honor. But he thought till “nothing makes sense,” then snored. Tomorrow he’ll forget. If he thinks again, he’ll restart, maybe not same path, but end “nothing makes sense” sure.

“Stories of the world, in your language.”