十一 2

“I went and listened as attentively as I could, but somehow I just couldn’t work up much interest,” said Tōfū, plainly envious. “You’re better off not getting interested. Though I speak of it calmly now, the suffering I went through then was of a kind beyond all imagining. —After that, sir, I finally screwed up my courage and bought it.” “Hm, why did you?” “It was the evening just before the November Emperor’s Birthday. The whole family had gone off together on an overnight trip to the hot springs, so there was no one at home. I claimed to be ill, skipped school that day, and stayed in bed. All I could think about, lying there, was that tonight I would slip out and at last get the violin I’d been longing for.” “You faked sick and even cut school?” “I certainly did.” “Well, well, that’s a bit of genius, I must say,” remarked Mentei, sounding rather impressed. “I couldn’t wait for dusk, poking my head out from under the covers. With nothing to do, I burrowed back in and shut my eyes to wait, but it was no use. When I stuck my head out, the fierce autumn sun beat full upon the six-foot shoji, glaring so hot that I flew into a rage. Up above, a cluster of slender shadows swayed now and then in the autumn wind, catching my eye.” “What do you mean, those slender shadows?” “I’d peeled some persimmons and hung them from the eaves to dry.” “I see. And then?” “With no choice, I got out of bed, slid open the shoji, stepped onto the veranda, and ate one of the dried persimmons.” “Good?” the master asked, like a child. “Delicious, the persimmons around there. You’d never get that flavor in Tokyo, not in a hundred years.” “Persimmons aside, what then?” Tōfū asked this time. “Then I burrowed back in, shut my eyes, and silently prayed to the gods and Buddhas for night to come quickly. After what I thought was three or four hours, I figured it must be dark by now and poked my head out — but lo and behold, the fierce autumn sun still blazed upon the six-foot shoji, and up above the cluster of slender shadows swayed and fluttered.” “I’ve heard this already.” “It happened more than once. Then I’d get out of bed, open the shoji, eat a dried persimmon on the veranda, crawl back into bed, and silently pray to the gods and Buddhas for night to come quickly.” “Back to where you started, eh?” “Now, sir, please don’t get impatient. Listen. After enduring another three or four hours in bed, I thought surely it must be dark now and stuck my head out — and still the fierce autumn sun beat full upon the six-foot shoji, and up above the cluster of slender shadows swayed and fluttered.” “It’s the same thing no matter how far you go.” “Then I got out of bed, opened the shoji, stepped onto the veranda, and ate a dried persimmon…” “Ate another persimmon? This just goes on and on with persimmons, no end to it.” “I was getting impatient myself.” “The one listening is a good deal more impatient than you.” “Sir, you’re so hasty it’s hard to tell the story.” “The listener’s a bit troubled too,” Tōfū muttered, hinting at his own discontent. “If you gentlemen are troubled, there’s nothing for it. I’ll wrap it up soon. In short, I ate a dried persimmon, burrowed in, burrowed in and ate, until I’d finished every last one hanging from the eaves.” “Once you’d eaten them all, it must’ve been dark.” “But no such luck. I ate the last dried persimmon, thought it must be dark by now, and poked my head out — and still the fierce autumn sun blazed full upon the six-foot shoji…” “I’ve had enough. This goes on forever with no end.” “I’m sick of telling it too.” “But with that much patience, you could accomplish most anything. If you’d kept quiet, the autumn sun would’ve blazed till tomorrow morning. When on earth did you plan to buy the violin?” Even Mentei, it seemed, was losing his patience. Only Dokusen remained composed, as if he could sit through till tomorrow morning or the morning after, unmoved no matter how the autumn sun blazed. Kanetsuki, perfectly calm, said: “You ask when I meant to buy it — why, as soon as night fell, I meant to go straight out and buy it. The pity is, no matter when I poked my head out, the autumn sun was blazing. —Ah, the suffering I went through then was nothing like the mere impatience you gentlemen feel now. After eating the last dried persimmon and seeing it still was not dusk, I was utterly crushed and couldn’t help but cry. Tōfū, I wept, truly ashamed.” “I’m sure you did. Artists are by nature sentimental and full of sorrow, so I sympathize with the tears, but do move the story along,” said Tōfū, good-natured as ever, dead serious in his absurd remark. “I’d love to move it along, but the sun simply refused to set, so what could I do?” “If the sun won’t set, the listener suffers too — let’s stop,” the master, apparently at his limit, broke in. “If we stop, you’ll be at a loss — this is just where it gets good.” “Then listen — just pretend it’s already dark, will you?” “Well, it’s a rather forced request, but since it’s you, sir, I’ll bend and say it’s now dark.” “That’s convenient,” Dokusen remarked coolly, and the whole company burst out laughing. “At last night fell. Relieved, I breathed easy and left my lodgings in Kurakake Village. I’ve always disliked noise, so I deliberately avoided the convenient city and for a while dwelt in a snail’s hermitage in a remote hamlet where few footsteps tread…” “ ‘Few footsteps tread’ is a bit grand,” the master objected. “ ‘Snail’s hermitage’ is overblown too. A four-and-a-half-mat room with no alcove would be more sketch-like and amusing,” Mentei complained. Only Tōfū praised: “The facts aside, the language is poetic and pleasing.” Dokusen, grave, asked, “Living there, the commute to school must be dreadful. How many ri is it?” “Only four or five chō to school. The school itself sits in a remote hamlet…” “Then the students must mostly lodge around there,” Dokusen pressed, unconvinced. “Yes, nearly every farmhouse has one or two.” “And that’s ‘few footsteps’?” he countered head-on. “Well, if there were no school, footsteps would indeed be few. …As for my attire that night, over a hand-woven cotton padded jacket I wore a uniform greatcoat with brass buttons, and pulled the coat’s hood well over my head, taking care to draw no eyes. It was the season of fallen persimmon leaves, and from the lodgings to the Nangō highway the path was thick with them. Each step crunched, and I worried someone might be following. Looking back, the woods of Tōrinji stood black and dense, darker still in the dark. Tōrinji is the Matsudaira family temple, at the foot of Kōshin Mountain, barely a chō from my lodgings — a profoundly secluded sanctuary. Above the woods stretched an endless starry night, and the familiar River of Heaven crossed the Nagase River aslant, its end — its end, let’s see, flowing roughly toward Hawaii…” “Hawaii’s a bit far-fetched,” Mentei said. “I came two chō along the Nangō highway, entered the city from Takadai-chō, passed through Kojō-chō, turned at Sengoku-chō, glanced at Kubedai-chō, went through Tōri-chō first, second, third blocks in turn, then Owari-chō, Nagoya-chō, Shachihoko-chō, Kamaboko-chō…” “You needn’t name every town. The point is, did you buy the violin or not?” the master asked impatiently. “The instrument shop is Kanazen — that is, Kanazawa Zenbē’s — so we’re not there yet.” “Not there yet is fine, just buy it soon.” “Very well. When I arrived at Kanazen, the lamp in the shop blazed…” “Blazed again? Your ‘blazed’ never comes just once or twice, it’s a trial,” Mentei put up his guard this time. “No, this blazing is but a single passing blaze, no need for concern. …Seen through the lamplight, the violin faintly reflected the autumn glow, its carved body bearing a cold light upon its rounded curves. Only a part of the tightly strung wires shone white and glittering to the eye. …” “Nicely described,” Tōfū complimented. “I thought, that’s it, that’s the violin — and suddenly my heart raced and my legs went weak…” “Hmph,” Dokusen sniffed through his nose. “Before I knew it I dashed in, pulled my toad-mouth purse from my hidden pouch, and drew two five-yen bills from it…” “So you bought it?” the master asked. “I meant to, but wait — this is the crucial part. A rash move would spoil all. I’ll abandon it, I thought, and just barely held back.” “What, still didn’t buy it? One violin sure strings a man along.” “It’s not that I’m stringing you — it’s just, I couldn’t buy it yet, so there’s no help.” “Why?” “Why? It was still early evening, with crowds passing.” “Who cares? Even if two or three hundred passed, you’re a queer enough fellow,” the master fumed. “Ordinary folk, even a thousand or two, I wouldn’t mind — but school boys roaming with rolled-up sleeves and big canes, I can’t just step in. Some even call themselves the Sediment Faction, forever sunk at the bottom of the class, quite pleased with themselves. Those are exactly the ones strong in judo. I can’t go reaching for a violin. Who knows what I’d meet. I do want the violin, surely, but I’m rather fond of my life. Better to live unplayed than be killed playing.” “So you gave up without buying?” the master pressed. “No, I bought it.” “What a tiresome fellow. If you’ll buy, buy quickly. If not, say so — just settle it.” “Heh heh heh, the world doesn’t open up as one wishes,” Kanetsuki said coolly, lit a *Asahi* cigarette, and began to puff.

The master, seeming to find it a bother, rose and went into his study; he returned with a worn Western book, flopped onto his belly, and began reading. Dokusen had somehow withdrawn to before the alcove and was setting out go stones, wrestling alone. The fine tale dragged so long that listeners dropped away one, two, until only Tōfū, faithful to art, and Mentei, never wearied by length, remained.

Kanetsuki blew a long stream of smoke boldly into the world, then resumed at his former pace. “Tōfū, I thought then: early evening is no good, but at midnight Kanazen would be asleep — also no good. I must come when the school boys have finished their strolls and Kanazen not yet shut. Else the plan comes to naught. But timing that well is hard.” “Indeed, that would be hard.” “I reckoned that time at about ten o’clock. So I must pass the hours till ten somewhere. Returning home to set out again was troublesome. Visiting a friend sat ill with me. So I resolved to stroll the city till the hour. Usually two or three hours of wandering pass before I notice, but that night time crawled — I felt keenly what Chishū meant by his verse.” He turned meaningfully toward Mentei. “There’s the old line, ‘cruel to one who waits, the foot-warmer’ — and ‘crueler to the waiter than the waited’ — the violin hung at the eaves must have suffered too, but you, wandering lost like a detective with no clue, suffered more. Like a bereaved dog, a stray — nothing’s so pitiful as a homeless dog.” “Dogs are cruel. I’ve never been compared to one before.” “Hearing you, I feel as if reading some old artist’s life, and cannot help sympathy. The dog was Mentei’s joke — ignore it and proceed,” Tōfū soothed. Not that Kanetsuki needed soothing to continue. “Then from Kadomachi through Hyakki-chō, from Kōrikae-chō to Takajō-chō, before the prefectural office I counted bare willows, by the hospital counted lit windows, on Kon’ya Bridge smoked two rolled cigarettes, and checked the time. …” “Was it ten?” “Alas, no. —Across Kon’ya Bridge, up the river east through Kawazoe, there were three massage men. And a dog barked furiously, sir…” “A dog’s distant bark by the riverside on an autumn night — rather theatrical. You’re a fugitive, then.” “Had I done something wrong?” “About to, by the looks.” “Poor me, is buying a violin wrong? Every music-school student’s a criminal.” “Do what none approve, and any good deed makes you criminal — so none are so unreliable as criminals. Christ born in such a world were criminal. Handsome Kanetsuki buying a violin there is criminal too.” “Then I’ll yield and be criminal. Criminal’s fine, but not reaching ten o’clock is troubling.” “Recite more town names. If that’s not enough, blaze the autumn sun again. Still not? Eat three dozen dried persimmons. We’ll listen till ten, so go on.”

Kanetsuki grinned. “Outdone, I can only surrender. I’ll leap to ten o’clock. At the promised ten, I came before Kanazen — the night chill was setting in, and even the moneychangers’ street was near empty, the clogs from afar lonely to the ear. Kanazen had shuttered the big door, leaving only a small side gate with shoji. I felt as if tailed by a dog, and opening the shoji to enter gave me a queer unease…”

The master lifted his eyes from the dirty book. “Oi, did you buy the violin yet?” “About to,” Tōfū answered. “Still not? Endless,” the master muttered, and read on. Dokusen, silent, had filled most of the board with black and white.

“I plunged in, hood still up, and said, ‘Give me the violin.’ Four or five boys and clerks clustered by the brazier looked up startled, and as one stared at my face. Unthinking, I raised my right hand and yanked the hood forward. ‘Give me the violin,’ I said again; the boy nearest, peering at me, gave a hesitant ‘Hai’ and rose, bringing down three or four from where they hung. ‘How much?’ ‘Five yen twenty sen.’ “ ‘All the same price?’ ‘Hai, no difference, all sturdily made.’ I drew a five-yen bill and twenty sen silver from my purse, wrapped the violin in my prepared cloth. Through it, the shop folk had stopped talking and stared at my face. The hood hid it, yet I was restless to be on the street. At last, cloth beneath my coat, I stepped out — and the clerk’s loud ‘Thank you!’ made me shiver. On the street, I looked about: none in sight, but a chō away came three men reciting poetry to shake the neighborhood. Frightened, I turned west at Kanazen’s corner, along the moat to Yakushi road, from Han’s Kimura to Kōshin’s foot, and home. It was ten to two.” “Like walking all night,” Tōfū said sympathetically. “At last up. What a long backgammon journey,” Mentei sighed. “Now comes the good part. All before was mere prologue.” “More? This is no small thing. Most would lose the patience contest to you.” “Patience aside, stop here and it’s ‘Buddha made, soul left out’ — I’ll say a bit more.” “Speak as you like; we’ll listen.” “How about you, Master Kushami? Do listen — the violin’s bought. Eh, sir?” “This time selling the violin? No need to hear that.” “Not selling yet.” “Then no need to hear.” “Troublesome. Tōfū, only you listen eagerly. A bit disheartening, but no help — I’ll tell it roughly.” “Rough or not, take your time, it’s fascinating.” “The violin won at last, first trouble was where to put it. Many visit me, so hanging or leaning it would soon be found. Dig and bury — too troublesome to dig up.” “So you hid it in the ceiling?” Tōfū said lightly. “No ceiling — a farmhouse.” “That was trouble. Where’d you put it?” “Guess where.” “No idea. In the door pocket?” “No.” “Wrapped in bedding, in the closet?” “No.”

As Tōfū and Kanetsuki thus debated the violin’s hiding place, the master and Mentei talked fervently aside. “How do you read this?” the master asked. “Which?” “These two lines.” “What? *Quid aliud est mulier nisi amicitiae et inimica*… why, that’s Latin, isn’t it?” “I know it’s Latin, but how do you read it?” “But you always say you read Latin,” Mentei, sensing danger, dodged. “Of course I read it. I can read it, but what is this?” “ ‘I can read it, but what is this’ is harsh.” “Never mind, just translate to English.” “ ‘Just translate’ is fierce — like a private’s orderly.” “Orderly or not, what is it?” “Latin aside — let’s hear Kanetsuki’s tale. He’s at the crisis: discovered or not, at the barrier’s edge. —Kanetsuki, then what?” Mentei joined the violin circle; the master was left behind, pathetic. Kanetsuki, emboldened, explained the hiding place. “At last I hid it in an old trunk. My grandmother gave it when I left home; she’d brought it as her own bride’s gift, so they say.” “That’s an antique. Poor harmony with a violin. Eh, Tōfū?” “Yes, rather unharmonious.” “The ceiling wasn’t harmonious either,” Kanetsuki shot back. “Unharmonious, but poetic — rest easy. ‘Autumn lonely, violin hid in trunk’ — how’s that, gentlemen?” “Sir’s quite the haikuist today.” “Not just today. Always in my head. My haiku depth once made the late Shiki gasp in awe.” “Sir, were you acquainted with Shiki?” Tōfū asked, earnest. “Acquainted or not, we exchanged hearts by wireless,” Mentei said absurdly; Tōfū fell silent, awed. Kanetsuki laughed and went on. “Hiding place settled, next was taking it out. Merely out, I could steal a glance unseen, but a glance does nothing. It must be played. Played, it sounds. Sounds, discovered. Just one fence of hibiscus from me, the Sediment chief lodges — dangerous.” “Troubling,” Tōfū sympathized. “Indeed. Sound proves all — Lady Kogō failed thus. Theft or counterfeit notes would be easier hid, but music can’t be concealed.” “If only no sound came…” “Wait. ‘If only no sound’ — but some things can’t hide even silent. When we self-cooked at a temple in Koishikawa, there was Suzuki’s Fujii, who loved mirin, bought it in a beer bottle, drank alone. One day he’d gone out, and Kushami sneak-drank it…” “I never drank Suzuki’s mirin — that was you,” the master suddenly roared. “Oh, I thought you safe in your book, but listening still. A man never to be careless with — ears and eyes alike sharp. Well, reminded, I drank too. I did, but it was you exposed. —Gentlemen, hear: Kushami can’t hold liquor. Thinking it mirin, he drank hard, and oh, his face swelled red — a sight not to be seen twice…” “Silence. Can’t even read Latin.” “Hahaha. Fujii returned, shook the beer bottle — over half gone. Sure someone drank, he looked and found the general stiff in the corner like a doll of hardened red clay…”

The three laughed outright; the master, reading, chuckled; Dokusen, having overplayed his hand, dozed face-down on the board.

“There was a case of discovery without a sound yet—

“Stories of the world, in your language.”