“That’s a witty little jest, isn’t it?” The master, thinking he had said something rather clever, coaxed out a smile. The guest showed no particular sign of admiration. “Is that so? I was wondering when you had found the time to go abroad, and I listened in all seriousness. Besides, you described the snail soup and the frog stew as though you had seen them with your own eyes.” “Well, someone must have told me. I’m quite an expert at telling lies, you know.” “It does rather seem that way,” said the guest, gazing at the daffodils in the vase. He looked a trifle disappointed. “So that was your little scheme, was it?” the master pressed. “No, that was only the opening. The main point comes after.” “Hmm,” the master inserted a curious interjection. “Then, since no one could possibly eat snails or frogs even if they tried, you suggested we compromise on something like a ‘tochimenbō,’ and as I wasn’t really thinking, I just said that would be fine.” “Heh, a tochimenbō is a strange thing.” “Indeed it is strange, but you looked so perfectly serious, sir, that I didn’t notice at the time,” he said, looking as though he were apologizing to the master for his carelessness. “And then what happened?” the master asked indifferently, showing no sympathy for the guest’s apology. “Then you told the waiter to bring two orders of tochimenbō, and the waiter asked, ‘You mean menchibō?’ But you, with an even more serious face, corrected him: ‘Not menchibō, tochimenbō.’” “I see. But does this tochimenbō dish actually exist?” “Well, I thought it a bit odd myself, but you were so perfectly composed, and on top of that such a seasoned traveler to the West, and especially since I was utterly convinced at the time that you had just been abroad, I chimed in and told the waiter, ‘Tochimenbō, tochimenbō!’” “What did the waiter do?” “The waiter—thinking about it now, it’s really quite absurd—pondered for a while, and then said, ‘I’m terribly sorry, but we happen to be out of tochimenbō today. If it’s menchibō, we can prepare two servings right away.’ Then you looked extremely disappointed and said, ‘Then there’s no point in having come all this way. Can’t you possibly arrange some tochimenbō for us to eat?’ and you gave the waiter a twenty-sen silver coin. The waiter said, ‘In that case, I’ll go consult with the cook,’ and went to the back.” “He must have been very eager to eat tochimenbō.” “After a while the waiter came back and said, ‘Truly sorry, but if it’s a special order we can make it, though it will take some time.’ Then Mr. Meitei, perfectly calm, said, ‘We’re on holiday for New Year, so we’ve got time to spare—let’s wait and eat it,’ and pulled a cigar from his pocket and began puffing away. So I, having no choice, took the Nippon Shimbun from my breast and started reading. Then the waiter went to the back again to consult.” “Quite a troublesome business,” said the master, leaning forward with the eagerness of one reading war dispatches. “Then the waiter came out again and said, rather apologetically, ‘Lately the ingredients for tochimenbō are in short supply; we can’t get them at the turtle shop or even at Number Fifteen in Yokohama, so we’re afraid we’re out of luck for the present.’ You said, ‘That’s a fix. We came all this way…’ and kept looking at me and repeating it. I couldn’t just stay silent, so I chimed in, ‘What a pity, what a great pity indeed.’” “Quite right,” the master agreed. What was quite right, I, the cat, cannot tell. “Then the waiter, seeming sorry too, said something like, ‘If the ingredients come in later, please do ask.’ When you asked what ingredients they used, the waiter just went ‘heh heh heh’ and didn’t answer. When you pressed him, ‘Is it Japanese-style haiku poets?’ the waiter said, ‘Yes, that’s it, which is why we can’t get them even in Yokohama nowadays. Truly our apologies.’” “Ah ha ha, so that was the punchline! How amusing,” the master laughed in an unusually loud voice. His knee shook, and I nearly fell off. The master, unconcerned, kept laughing. He seemed to have brightened suddenly on realizing he was not the only one afflicted with Andrea del Sarto. “Then, when we stepped outside, you said, ‘Well, didn’t that go smoothly? Using tochimenbō as the bait was rather funny, wasn’t it?’ and were immensely pleased with yourself. I said I was full of admiration and took my leave, but in truth the luncheon hour had been delayed and I was so hungry I was quite done in.” “That must have been a nuisance for you,” the master said, showing sympathy for the first time. I, the cat, have no objection to that. For a while the talk lapsed, and the sound of my throat rumbling reached the ears of host and guest.
Kochō drained his cold tea in one gulp and said, with a change of tone, “The truth is, I came today because I have a small favor to ask of you, sir.” “Ah, what might it be?” the master replied, matching him with equal gravity. “As you know, I’m fond of literature and art…” “Admirable,” the master poured oil on the fire. “Some of us like-minded fellows have organized a reading society, and we mean to hold a meeting once a month and continue our studies in this field. We already held the first one late last year.” “Let me ask—‘reading society’ sounds as if you attach some rhythm and read poems, songs, essays, that sort of thing. How exactly do you do it?” “Well, we start with the works of the ancients, and by and by we mean to do original pieces by members too.” “When you say works of the ancients, do you mean something like Bai Juyi’s ‘Song of the Pipa’?” “No.” “Then something in the vein of Buson’s ‘Spring Wind, Horse, Embankment Song’?” “No.” “Then what did you do?” “The other day we did a Chikamatsu love-suicide play.” “Chikamatsu? You mean the puppet-theater Chikamatsu?” There is only one Chikamatsu. When one says Chikamatsu, it can only be the playwright Chikamatsu. The master, asking again, must think himself quite foolish, but he, understanding nothing, was stroking my head tenderly. Since there are people in this world who take being stared at from the bushes as a sign of being loved, such a small error is nothing to be surprised at, and I let him stroke me and stayed put. “Yes,” Kochō answered, watching the master’s face. “Then does one person read aloud, or do you assign roles?” “We assigned roles and did it as a dialogue. The main idea is to sympathize as much as possible with the characters and bring out their natures, adding gestures and bodily movement. The speech aims above all to portray the people of that era—whether a young lady or a shop boy, we act as if that person had appeared.” “Then isn’t it rather like watching a play?” “Yes, except there are no costumes or painted backdrops.” “Excuse me, but does it go well?” “I think as a first meeting it was a success.” “And this love-suicide play you mentioned doing before—” “The part where the boatman takes the customer to the licensed quarter.” “Quite a scene,” said the schoolteacher, tilting his head slightly. The sunrise tobacco smoke blown from his nose grazed his ear and curled to the side of his face. “Oh, it wasn’t all that grand. The characters are just the customer, the boatman, the courtesan, the housemaid, the procuress, and the brothel inspector.” Kochō spoke as if it were nothing. The master made a slightly sour face at the word “courtesan,” but seeming to have no clear knowledge of the terms “housemaid,” “procuress,” and “brothel inspector,” he promptly posed a question. “Does ‘housemaid’ correspond to a servant girl in a brothel?” “I haven’t studied it thoroughly yet, but the housemaid is a girl in the teahouse, and the procuress is, I suppose, something like an assistant in the women’s quarters.” Though Kochō had just said he would assume the manner of the characters when they appeared, he seemed not to understand the natures of the procuress or housemaid. “I see, the housemaid is attached to the teahouse, and the procuress lives in the brothel. Next, the ‘brothel inspector’—is that a person, or does it refer to a fixed place? If a person, male or female?” “I think the brothel inspector is a man.” “What does he oversee?” “Well, I haven’t investigated that far yet. I’ll look into it later.” Thinking that if they did a dialogue with such ignorance, something absurd would result, I glanced up at the master’s face. The master was unexpectedly serious. “And besides you, what sort of people joined as readers?” “Various. The courtesan was Mr. K, a bachelor of law, but with his mustache and using a woman’s sickly-sweet lines, it was a bit odd. And then there’s a part where the courtesan has a fit of hysterics…” “For reading aloud, must one have a fit of hysterics to do it properly?” the master asked, worried. “Well, expression is everything,” Kochō remained every inch the man of letters. “Did the hysterics come off well?” the master tossed a wit. “The hysterics were a bit forced for the first meeting,” Kochō tossed a wit back. “And what role did you take?” the master asked. “I was the boatman.” “Heh, you the boatman?” He let slip a tone as if to say, if you can play the boatman, I could play the brothel inspector. Then he bluntly confessed, “Was the boatman too much for you?” Kochō showed no sign of taking offense, and in the same calm tone said, “That boatman ruined what was to be a fine gathering with a dragon’s head and snake’s tail. You see, four or five schoolgirls were boarding next door to the hall, and somehow or other they learned there was to be a reading that day—perhaps they found out somewhere—and came under the window to listen. I was putting on the boatman’s manner, just getting into the rhythm, thinking I had it well in hand and feeling pleased, when—probably because my gestures were too much—the schoolgirls, who had been holding it in, all burst out laughing at once. I was startled, and mortified, and my train was broken, and I couldn’t go on, so we broke up right there.” If this is what they call a success for the first meeting, one can only imagine what a failure would be, and I could not help laughing. Unconsciously my throat rumbled. The master stroked my head even more gently. Being laughed at and petted is gratifying, but there is something slightly uncanny about it. “That was a pity,” the master intoned a New Year’s condolence. “From the second meeting we mean to exert ourselves and make it grand, and that’s why I came today—actually, I wished to ask you, sir, to join and lend your assistance.” “I could never manage a fit of hysterics,” the passive master began to refuse at once. “No, you needn’t do hysterics. Here is the list of patrons,” he said, and from a purple furoshiki drew out, with great care, a small chrysanthemum-sized notebook. “We should be honored if you would sign and seal here.” He left the notebook open on the master’s knee. Looking, one saw the names of famous literary doctors and bachelors of letters arranged in orderly rows. “Well, I don’t mind being a supporter, but what are the duties?” Master Oyster looked concerned. “Duties—there’s nothing you must do, really. Just write your name and show your approval, that’s all.” “Then I’ll join,” and the moment he learned there were no duties, the master brightened at once. His face said that if he knew there was no responsibility, he would sign even a treasonists’ petition. Moreover, for the master, who had never had such a chance before, to have his name, even just his name, entered among these renowned scholars was the height of honor, so his ready reply is understandable. “Excuse me a moment,” the master went to the study to fetch his seal. I plopped onto the tatami. Kochō pinched a piece of castella from the cake dish and stuffed it whole into his cheek. He mumbled and for a while looked in distress. I recalled this morning’s zōni incident. When the master came from the study with his seal, the castella had settled in Kochō’s stomach. The master seemed not to notice that the castella in the dish was entirely gone. Had he noticed, the first suspect would surely be me.
After Kochō left, the master went into the study and looked at his desk, and found that a letter from Mr. Meitei had arrived sometime.
“Wishing you a happy New Year. …”
The master thought the opening was unusually serious. Meitei’s letters are hardly ever serious; why, the other day he got one saying, “Since then I have formed no particular attachment to any woman, nor have any love letters arrived from any quarter, and I am getting along more or less peacefully, so pray set your mind at ease.” Compared to that, this New Year’s card is exceptionally worldly.
“I should like to call upon you, but contrary to your negative policy, I plan to meet this unprecedented New Year with the most positive approach possible, and am so busy every single day my head spins, as you may imagine. …”
Indeed, that fellow must be busy running about for pleasure over New Year, the master agreed inwardly with Meitei.
“Yesterday I stole a moment to treat Kochō to tochimenbō, but unfortunately, owing to a shortage of ingredients, I could not fulfill my intent, and am exceedingly sorry. …”
It’s getting to be the usual, the master smiled silently.
“Tomorrow a certain baron’s karuta party, the day after the New Year banquet of the Aesthetics Society, the next the welcome party for Professor Toribe, the next. …”
How tiresome, the master skipped ahead.
“As above, with recitation societies, haiku meetings, tanka meetings, new-style poetry meetings, etc., one after another, and for the present I must attend without cease, so I take the liberty of substituting this card for a visit, and beg your forgiveness. …”
You needn’t have come at all, the master answered the letter.
“When you next honor me with a visit, I mean to offer at last a dinner after long absence. Though my poor kitchen has no delicacies, I am from now making ready at least tochimenbō. …”
Still waving that tochimenbō around. How rude, the master bristled a little.
“However, as tochimenbō ingredients are lately scarce, it may not be ready in time, so perhaps I might treat you to peacock tongue instead. …”
He’s hedging his bets, the master now wanted to read on.
“As you know, the meat of a peacock’s tongue is less than half a little finger, so to fill the stomach of a hearty eater like you. …”
Liar, the master said as if flinging it away.
“I must catch twenty or thirty peacocks, it seems. Yet peacocks are to be seen here and there at the zoo or Asakusa Hanayashiki, but not at all at ordinary bird shops, and I am much troubled. …”
You’re troubling yourself all on your own, the master showed not a shred of gratitude.
“This peacock tongue dish was all the rage in ancient Rome at its height, the very extremity of luxury and elegance, and I have secretly whetted my appetite for it, as you will understand. …”
What understanding? Nonsense, the master was quite cold.
“Down to the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries, throughout Europe the peacock was an indispensable delicacy at feasts. I recall that when the Earl of Leicester entertained Queen Elizabeth at Kenilworth, he surely used a peacock. In the famous banquet painting by Rembrandt, a peacock lies on the table with its tail spread. …”
If you can write a history of peacock cuisine, you can’t be all that busy, the master grumbled.
“At any rate, with such continuous feasting as lately, even I before long must surely become stomach-weak like you. …”
“Like you” is unnecessary. You needn’t use me as the standard for stomach weakness, the master muttered.
“Historians say the Romans held banquets two or three times a day. To sit at a feast twice or thrice daily, however strong one’s digestion, must breed disorder, and naturally, like you. …”
Again “like you.” Rude fellow.
“Yet they, who studied to combine luxury and hygiene, recognized the need to keep the stomach normal while greedily taking excess nourishment, and devised a secret method. …”
Hmm, the master suddenly grew intent.
“They always bathed after eating. After the bath, by a certain method, they vomited up all they had swallowed before, cleansing the stomach. Once the stomach was cleared, they returned to the table and enjoyed delicacies to their fill; having enjoyed them, they bathed again and vomited. Thus they could gorge as they pleased without the least harm to the internal organs—is not this what is meant by killing two birds with one stone? I think. …”
Indeed, that is killing two birds with one stone. The master looked envious.
“In this twentieth century, with frequent communication and increasing banquets, needless to say, and now the second year of the national war against Russia, we victorious nationals must, I am confident, seize the chance to study this Roman art of bath-and-vomit. Otherwise, our great people, before long, will all become stomach patients like you, and I am privately anxious. …”
Again “like you.” Annoying fellow, the master thought.
“Now, that we who know the West should investigate old histories and legends, rediscover this lost secret, and apply it to Meiji society, would be a merit of warding off calamity before it sprouts, and would also repay the indulgence you have so freely enjoyed. …”
Something’s odd here, the master tilted his head.
“Therefore I have of late been reading Gibbon, Mommsen, Smith, and others, but regret that I have not yet found even a clue. Yet as you know, once I set my mind to a thing I never stop until success, so I trust the revival of vomiting is not far off. I shall report upon discovery; please note. As for the tochimenbō and peacock tongue I mentioned, I should like to defer them until after said discovery, which would be convenient for me and, I think, also for you, who already suffer stomach weakness. Roughly, not all. …”
