You see, I once went to the Ubako hot springs and ended up sharing a room with an old man. He was supposedly a retired kimono dealer from Tokyo or something. Well, since we were just roommates, whether he was a kimono dealer or a used-clothing peddler didn't matter to me, but one troublesome thing did come up. That is, three days after I arrived at Ubako, I ran out of tobacco. As you gentlemen probably know, Ubako is a single house in the mountains where there's nothing to do but soak in the bath and eat—an inconvenient place if ever there was one. So running out of tobacco there was a real disaster. When you don't have something, you only want it more, and the moment I realized I had no tobacco, I suddenly got a craving unlike anything usual. And just to be mean about it, that old geezer had brought a whole furoshiki full of tobacco and was climbing the mountains with it. He'd take it out bit by bit and, all but saying 'you want a smoke, don't you,' sit cross-legged right in front of me puffing away. If he'd just puffed, I might've let it slide, but in the end he'd blow smoke rings, blow it straight up, blow it sideways, even blow it backwards like the opposite of the pillow in the tale of the Handan dream, or blow it out his nose like a lion entering and exiting its den. In short, he was flaunting his smoking."
"What do you mean by 'flaunting his smoking'?"
"You flaunt clothes or props, but since it's tobacco, it's flaunting your smoking."
"Hmm, rather than suffer like that, why not just ask for some?"
"But I didn't ask. I'm a man too."
"Hmm, were you not allowed to ask?"
"I might've been able to, but I didn't ask."
"So what did you do?"
"I didn't ask—I stole."
"Good heavens."
"He'd hung a hand towel and gone off to the bath, so I thought, now's my chance, and smoked one after another in a frenzy, but before I could even think 'ah, bliss,' the shoji slid open, and when I turned around—there was the owner of the tobacco."
"Didn't he go in the bath?"
"He was about to go in when he realized he'd forgotten his money pouch, so he turned back from the corridor. Not that anyone would steal a pouch, but that's besides the point—what came after was the theft."
"Words fail me. That's quite the tobacco performance."
"Hahaha, the old man had discernment too. Never mind the pouch, but when he opened the shoji, the smoke from two days' worth of pent-up smoking was thick in the room—truly, 'evil travels a thousand miles,' as they say. It was exposed in an instant."
"Did the old man say anything?"
"He had the wisdom of age, I'll give him that. Without a word, he wrapped fifty or sixty rolled cigarettes in half-sheet paper and said, 'Pardon me, but if this coarse leaf is acceptable, please do smoke,' then went back down to the bath."
"Is that what they call Edo taste?"
"Whether it's Edo taste or kimono-dealer taste I don't know, but after that the old man and I became the best of friends, and I stayed on happily for two weeks before coming back."
"You were treated to tobacco the whole two weeks?"
"Something like that."
"Has the violin matter been settled yet?" the master finally laid his book face down, sat up, and at last declared his surrender.
"Not yet. This is where it gets interesting. It's just the right time, so please listen. And while we're at it, that teacher sleeping on the go board—what was his name, oh, Dokusen Sensei—I'd like Dokusen Sensei to hear this too. Hey, sleeping like that is bad for you. It's fine to wake him, isn't it?"
"Oi, Dokusen, wake up, wake up. There's an interesting story. Get up. They say sleeping like that is poison. Your wife's worried, they say."
"Eh?" Dokusen Sensei raised his face, and a single long thread of drool ran down his goatee, shining clearly like the trail of a snail.
"Ah, I was sleepy. The white clouds atop the mountain resemble my own laziness. Ah, I slept so well."
"We all acknowledge you slept, but wouldn't you get up a bit?"
"Very well, I can get up. Is there an interesting story?"
"Now we're finally getting to the violin—what was it he did, Kusamori?"
"I haven't the faintest idea what he did."
"He's just about to play the violin. Listen, come over here."
"He's just about to play the violin. Come over here and listen."
"Still the violin? What a nuisance."
"You're one of those who play the stringless qin, so you shouldn't mind, but Cold Moon's playing screeches and squeaks for all the neighbors to hear, so he's in real trouble."
"Is that so. Cold Moon, do you know a way to play violin without the neighbors hearing?"
"I don't, but if there were one I'd like to learn."
"You'd know at once if you saw the white ox in the alley," he said something incomprehensible. Cold Moon judged he was half-asleep and spouting rare nonsense, so deliberately ignored him and continued.
"At last I devised a plan. The next day was the Emperor's Birthday, so I stayed home from morning, lifting the paulownia box lid to look, covering it again, fidgeting the whole day away. At last evening came, and when the crickets began to chirp from the bottom of the box, I steeled myself and took out the violin and bow."
"Here it comes at last," said Tōfū. "Don't play too much or it's dangerous," cautioned Meitei.
"First I took the bow and examined it from tip to guard..."
"You're not a hack sword polisher," Meitei scoffed.
"Truth is, thinking this is my own soul, I felt like a samurai polishing a fine blade under the lamp at night, drawing it from its sheath. I trembled, bow in hand."
"A true genius," said Tōfū, and Meitei added, "A true epileptic." The master said, "Why not just play quickly." Dokusen made a face as if to say what a predicament.
"Thankfully the bow was fine. Next I brought the violin close to the lamp, examining front and back. Imagine the crickets chirping constantly from the box bottom for about five minutes..."
"Think whatever you like, just play without worry."
"I haven't played yet.—Fortunately the violin too had no flaws. Certain it was safe, I stood up abruptly..."
"Going somewhere?"
"Just listen quietly, please. If you interrupt every line, I can't tell the story..."
"Oi gentlemen, he says be quiet. Shh, shh."
"You're the only one talking."
"Hmm, so I am. Pardon me. I listen reverently, reverently."
"Hugging the violin under one arm, I stepped out the grass door in my slippers, two or three steps, but wait a moment..."
"There he goes. I figured he'd go somewhere the power was bound to be out."
"Even if you went back, there's no dried persimmons left."
"Gentlemen, your interruptions are most regrettable, but I've no choice but to address Tōfū alone.—Listen, Tōfū: I stepped out two or three steps but turned back, threw the red wool blanket I bought for three yen twenty sen when I left the country over my head, and puff, extinguished the lamp—plunged in darkness, I could no longer tell where my slippers were."
"Where on earth are you going?"
"Just listen. At last I found the slippers, and stepping outside, a starry night, persimmon leaves, red blanket, violin. Turning right, right, on tiptoe, I approached Kōshin Mountain. The bell of Tōrinji rang 'boon' through the blanket, through the ear, echoed in my head. What time, do you think?"
"No idea."
"Nine o'clock. From there, alone on an autumn night, I climbed the eight-chō mountain path to a place called Ōhira. Normally I'm so cowardly I'd be terrified, but in single-minded fervor, strangely, not scared at all—not a trace of such thought arose. My chest was full only of wanting to play the violin, a strange thing. This Ōhira is on the south side of Kōshin Mountain; on a clear day you climb and see the whole castle town below through red pines—a superb view, a flatland—yes, maybe a hundred tsubo. In the center is a single rock the size of eight mats, north side connected to a pond called Unuma, surrounded only by camphors three men could embrace. Being in the mountains, the only dwelling is a camphor-collecting hut, and the pond vicinity is unpleasant even by day. Luckily engineers cut a path for maneuvers, so climbing wasn't hard. At last on the rock, I laid the blanket and sat. First time climbing such a cold night, settled on the rock, the loneliness gradually seeped to my core. In such moments only fear disturbs the heart; strip that away, and what remains is a clear, crisp, ethereal air. For some twenty minutes in a daze, I felt like the sole dweller of a crystal palace. And my body—nay, not just body, heart and soul too, as if made of agar or such, strangely transparent; whether I was in the crystal palace or the crystal palace was in my belly, I no longer knew..."
"Quite the turn," Meitei teased earnestly, and Dokusen seemed a bit impressed: "A fascinating state."
"Had this lasted, I might've sat on the rock till morning, violin untouched, in a haze..."
"A fox around?" asked Tōfū.
"Thus, self and other indistinguishable, unsure if alive or dead, suddenly from the old pond behind came a 'gyā!'..."
"Here it comes."
"The sound echoed far, swept the autumn treetops with the storm wind, and I snapped back to myself..."
"At last, relief," Meitei patted his chest.
"Great death, once, heaven and earth renewed," Dokusen winked. Cold Moon didn't get it at all.
"Then, back to myself, I looked around: Kōshin Mountain silent, not a sound of dripping. What was that noise? Too sharp for human, too loud for bird, for monkey—none here. What? As the question rose, the calm crowd in my head stirred to interpret, chaotic, like Tokyo citizens welcoming Lord Connaught. Then every pore opened; courage, guts, sense, composure—guests all—evaporated like shōchū on hairy shins. Heart danced the sittepco under the ribs. Legs trembled like a kite's hum. Intolerable. I pulled the blanket over my head, tucked the violin under my arm, hopped off the rock, and ran down the eight-chō path to the foot, home, into bedding, asleep. Even now, never such a ghastly feel, Tōfū."
"And then?"
"That's the end."
"You didn't play?"
"Want to or not, I couldn't—with a 'gyā!' You'd not play either."
"Somehow your tale feels unsatisfying."
"Feel as you like, it's fact. What say you, Sensei?" Cold Moon looked around, quite pleased.
"Hahaha, bravo. Took much agonizing to get there. I thought a male Sandra Belloni appeared in the Land of Eastern Gentlemen, and listened solemn till now," said Meitei, then as if expecting questions on Sandra Belloni, none came, so he explained alone: "Sandra Belloni playing harp by moonlight, singing Italic songs in the forest—akin yet differently wrought from you climbing Kōshin with violin. Pity: she startled the moon's Chang'e, you the old pond's strange tanuki—at the cusp, comedy and sublime part ways. Regrettable, no?"
"Not so regrettable," Cold Moon unconcerned.
"Playing violin atop a mountain—that's high-collar, hence the scare," the master criticized.
"A good man makes his living in this demon cave. Pity," sighed Dokusen. None of Dokusen's words Cold Moon ever understood. Not just Cold Moon—likely no one.
"By the way, Cold Moon, still grinding pearls at school lately?" Meitei shifted topic.
"No, I went home recently, so paused. Pearls bore me; thought to quit."
"But no pearls, no doctorate," the master frowned, but the man was easy: "Doctor? Hehehe. Doctor's fine not to be."
"But the marriage delayed, both sides troubled."
"Marriage? Whose?"
"Yours."
"Who am I to marry?"
"Miss Kaneda."
"Heh?"
"'Heh?' Wasn't it promised?"
"No promise. Don't spread that; their whim."
"Rough. Meitei, you know the case?"
"The case—nose event? Not just you and me, public secret known all over. The Manichi even ran your photos as 'Bride and Groom,' asking me when. Tōfū wrote a mandarin-duck poem, waiting three months, worries it'll rot unused if you're no doctor. Right, Tōfū?"
"Not so worried yet, but I mean to publish a sympathetic work."
"See? Your doctorate ripples all around. Steady, grind pearls."
"Heheh, sorry to trouble, but doctor's fine not to be."
"Why?"
"Why—I have a clear wife."
"My, serious. Secret marriage when? Sly world. Kusamori, he has a wife and child."
"No child yet. A month in, no child."
"When, where married?" the master, like an examining judge.
"When? Home, she waited. This bonito I brought is a wedding gift from relatives."
"Three sticks—cheap."
"Many, brought three."
"Country girl, dark?"
"Yes, black. Fits me."
"Kaneda side?"
"Nothing to do."
"Rude, no? Meitei?"
"Not rude. Same whoever. Marriage is bumping in the dark. Unneeded bump—who cares. Only pity is Tōfū's poem."
"Poem I can redirect. For Kaneda's wedding I'll write another."
"Poet's freedom."
"Told Kaneda?" master still concerned.
"No. No reason. I never proposed. Silence suffices.—Silence suffices. By now ten, twenty detectives know all."
Hearing 'detective,' master grimaced: "Hmph, then stay silent," he ruled, but unsated, held forth: "Pickpocket robs pockets unaware; detective hooks hearts unaware. Thief slips shoji, steals unaware; detective slips tongue, reads mind unaware. Burglar stabs notice, takes money; detective threatens, bends will. Thus detective is kin to pickpocket, thief, burglar—never to be upwind. Hearing them is habit-forming. Never yield."
"Safe. Thousand detectives in formation upwind—I fear not. Pearl-grinding B.Sc. Mizushima Cold Moon."
"Bravo. Newlywed scholar's vigor. But Kusamori, if detective is thief kin, what is Kaneda who employs them?"
"Like Kumazaka Chōhan."
"Kumazaka fine. 'One seen Chōhan became two and vanished'—but copper-coin Chōhan of Yokochō won't vanish, greedy to the end. Caught by him, karma. Beware, Cold Moon."
"Pshaw. Oh fearful thief, your skill known afore. Unabashed you enter—I'll teach you pain," Cold Moon calm, Hōshō-style bravado.
"On detectives, twentieth-century men trend detective-like; why?" Dokusen, aloof, asked.
"High prices," Cold Moon.
"No art taste," Tōfū.
"Civilization's corners, edgy like sugar candy," Meitei.
Master's turn. He intoned: "I've pondered. Cause is over-strong self-awareness. Not Dokusen's 'see nature, become Buddha,' but..."
"Oho, complex. Kusamori, such talk—I too shall decry modern civilization."
"Speak freely, though you've naught to say."
"I have. You revered detectives as gods, now call them thieves—contradiction. I've never shifted from before birth to now."
"Detective is detective. Then was then, today today. Unchanged is undeveloped. 'Fool never shifts'—you."
"Harsh. Detective earnest has charm."
"I'm no detective."
"Not, hence honest. Stop quarrel. Hear the argument."
"Today's self-awareness is knowing too well the gap between self and other's interests. As civilization sharpens it daily, acts grow unnatural. Henley said Stevenson, in a mirrored room, must see his reflection each pass—never forget self. Today's trend. Sleep or wake, 'I' clings; acts artificial, self uneasy, world bitter—like matched couples, strained dawn to dusk. 'Leisurely' meaningless. Thus modern man is detective, thief. Detective profits unseen—needs self-awareness. Thief fears capture—needs it. Modern man thinks gain-loss awake or asleep—needs it. Always jittery, sneaky, no peace till grave. Civilization's curse. Absurd."
"Fine exegesis," Dokusen, not one to withdraw. "Kusamori speaks my mind. Ancients taught forget self; moderns, don't. Always self-conscious, always hell. Nothing like forgetting self. 'Past midnight, moonlit, enter non-self'—that verse. Modern kindness is unnatural. England's nice acts show self-awareness. Prince of Wales in India dined with rajah; rajah forgot, grabbed potato by hand, blushed; Prince pretended, took with two fingers..."
"That's English taste?" Cold Moon.
"I heard," master continued. "British barracks, officers feasted a sergeant. After, finger bowl—sergeant drank it. Colonel toasted his health..."
