Five

A spring night is a curious and melancholy thing. What a human being makes of it I cannot say; at my level, a mere cat's level, I arrive at melancholy and can venture nothing more by way of romance. Even so, when I sit gazing at the moon from this ramshackle dwelling that has stood twelve or thirteen years, so close to the neighbours that one can smell their dinner cooking — the curious feeling I have in those moments is not so easily put into words.

　Cats have their own philosophy; cats have their own poetic sensibility. That humans take everything in creation to be meaningless unless it exists for their sake is sheer human arrogance. The moon does not rise for the sake of human love poetry. The warbler does not sing for the sake of human haiku. The charm of a spring night, the romance of a night moon — these things exist of themselves in the natural world between heaven and earth; they did not originate in the human heart. Humans simply do not know their true source, and so imagine that all such things exist on their behalf.

　This is not the occasion for philosophical enquiry of that sort. When I say melancholy, it is no more than a pleasant feeling upon seeing the moon reflected on the veranda, a sense that the weather is fine tonight. My master is reading in the bedroom. "Reading" is perhaps too strong a word; he is not pursuing any particular learning. It is simply that my master has a habit, fixed as fate, of reading before bed, without which he cannot sleep. Each night he picks up a book, reads no more than three pages, and falls asleep. This is of course perfectly harmless — the book is merely a sleeping draught, and the result is the same whether he reads or not; if so he might as well not bother, but since the habit is ingrained, I am in no position to advise otherwise. Tonight he has picked up London Notes. After five or six pages he is snoring magnificently; the candle still alight, the book resting on his chest, and a tremendous din filling the room.

　I leap up to take a look. The candle burns brightly; the book is propped on my master's chest; his arms have fallen open to either side, and he sleeps sprawled like the character for "large."

　I curl up near the pillow and observe. My master snores, his rotund belly rising and falling, his great moustache billowing with each breath. At that moment, from the corner by the lavatory, a dark shape flickers past.

　I instantly raise every hair on my body. The shape pauses and peers this way. By the candle light I can barely make out a human form. The figure creeps along the base of the wall — silently, silently — toward the study. My master knows nothing; he goes on snoring.

　The figure stops at the study entrance, peers inside, appears to spot something, and reaches in. First it feels a garment folded on the desk; then it tucks a haori hanging on the stand under one arm, and moving with it towards the veranda, catches sight of the yam my master bought yesterday, laid out on the veranda. The figure regards the yam with evident indecision, then apparently makes up its mind, tucks the yam under the other arm as well, and — carrying haori and yam together — slips toward the front entrance.

　I wanted to cry out but no sound came. I wanted to spring but my legs would not respond. This is what people mean by "a cat that forgets it's a cat at the sight of a mouse": in body I was a cat; in spirit I was nothing of the sort.

　The figure was just pulling open the lattice door to escape when it stopped and headed toward the kitchen. Standing before the stove, it struck a match and lit something. From the movement, it was clearly smoking.

　What a composed thief! Stealing and then calmly stopping for a smoke. From beneath the moonlit shadows I studied the intruder's face intently.

　— Why, it looked like Kangetsu.

　No — of course not. If it had actually been Kangetsu, that would have been one thing; it was simply that the figure's silhouette bore a remarkable resemblance to him.

　The figure strolled out through the front entrance and disappeared into the spring night.

　Some time later my master said "ah?" and started awake, groping about the pillow, finding nothing, searching again for the mosquito-net cord, which of course was not there, and finally saying "hmm?" and opening his eyes at last, looking around. The candle had burned low; the book had slid from his chest onto the bedding.

　"O-San! O-San!"

　"What is it?" O-San responded sluggishly.

　"Did anything happen?"

　"No, nothing," — and silence again.

　My master picked up his book as though nothing had occurred, lay down again without extinguishing the candle, and before long had drifted peacefully back to sleep.

　The following morning the sun was already high when my master emerged from the bedroom with a sleepy face. Going to wash his face, he discovered the yam was gone from the veranda.

　"O-San, where's the yam from the veranda?"

　"I don't know."

　"It was certainly there yesterday."

　"I've no idea. Maybe a rat..."

　"Rats don't eat yams whole! Go check the study — see if anything else is missing."

　O-San went to the study and returned shortly. "Your haori is gone."

　"What!"

　My master rushed to the study. The haori on the stand was indeed gone.

　"We were robbed last night. Go to the police box and report it!"

　My master was quite agitated. O-San, unhurried, tidied herself up and made ready to go out.

　"Go at once, for pity's sake — stop dawdling!"

　"Yes, yes." — O-San dawdled out.

　My master sat in the study in a state of restless agitation. I took my place on the veranda and quietly enjoyed the spring garden. A few white magnolias had opened in the breeze.

　Before long O-San returned with a constable.

　"At approximately what time last night did the theft occur?"

　"I don't know. Midnight, I suppose."

　"What precisely was taken?"

　"A haori, and a yam."

　"What value do you place on the haori?"

　"Seven or eight yen, approximately."

　"And the yam?"

　"Twenty or thirty sen."

　"Understood. From where did the burglar enter?"

　"Over there, by the lavatory," — my master pointed to the garden, — "the low wall has a loose stone there."

　"I see. Then please fill this out." The constable produced a notebook. "Name of complainant —"

　My master gave his name.

　"Occupation —"

　"Teacher."

　"Items stolen — haori, one, estimated value eight yen; yam, one, estimated value twenty sen; two items in total. — And if you have any information about the appearance of the suspect, please state it."

　My master paused, then said: "He looked rather like Kangetsu."

　"Kangetsu — who is that?"

　"One of my students. Mizushima Kangetsu."

　"Does this person have a prior record of theft?"

　"No," — my master gave a pained smile, — "it was merely a resemblance. It need not have been him at all."

　"Age?"

　"Twenty-three or four, approximately."

　"Build?"

　"Medium height, somewhat slender."

　The constable recorded everything, then said: "Very well, the report is duly accepted; if any trace is found, you will be notified at once." And off he went, ramrod straight.

　My master remained alone in the study, muttering: "Kangetsu... can it really have been Kangetsu...?"

　At that moment a voice called "Excuse me" from outside, and a man of over thirty with an honest, plain face entered.

　"Oh, Tatara! It's been a long time." My master's expression lightened somewhat.

　"I have been neglecting my duties to you for some time — I hope you are well. I've come today expressly to..."

　"Ah, sit down, sit down. I've just been in one spot of bother after another. A burglar came last night and made off with the haori."

　"Good heavens!" Tatara Sampei sat down and listened. "Was the loss serious?"

　"Haori and yam together, under ten yen; but the indignity of it."

　"In broad daylight?"

　"No, at night. While I was asleep."

　"Didn't you catch a glimpse of the face?"

　"No — well, there was a vague resemblance to someone..."

　"Oh? Who?"

　"Kangetsu."

　"Ha ha ha, well that would be... though having a thief that looks like Kangetsu is rather hard on the man. You're certain it was a thief?"

　"Well — it needn't have been a thief necessarily, but having made off with the haori and the yam, thief or no thief it comes to much the same thing, ha ha."

　"You take it very calmly, ha ha ha. Well, since the things are gone there's nothing to be done about it. But actually the reason I've come today is that I have a favour to ask..."

　Tatara Sampei then explained his purpose. It was a long story; the gist of it was that he wished to make use of my master's name in some connection or other. My master heard him out and said with a frown: "That sort of thing is not in my line."

　"Nothing elaborate is needed — just your backing, a word in the right place..."

　"A word in the right place — that is to say, pulling strings. I have always found that sort of thing distasteful."

　"No, no, it isn't exactly pulling strings..." Tatara Sampei bowed his head and went on explaining with the perseverance of an honest man. My master listened with a look of discomfort.

　As they talked, the conversation drifted toward domestic matters. Tatara Sampei had at one time lodged here as a boarder.

　"Whatever became of the other people who lived here?"

　"This and that. They've scattered."

　"When I was here last time, there was one with a big moustache —"

　"Ogawa?"

　"No, the tall thin one..."

　"Irifune?"

　"No, not him. The one who laughed 'heh heh' at everything..."

　"Ah, Kitayama. He's dead."

　"Is that so, dead." Tatara Sampei accepted this with great composure. "And the one who always said he wanted a cat..."

　"A cat? Who on earth said that?"

　"There's one being kept here, isn't there — whose cat is that?" Tatara Sampei looked in my direction.

　"Ah, that's a stray — came on its own. Lives here now, more or less. No name."

　"Is that so. Speaking of cats — in China, people eat cat. Apparently it's quite good."

　Tatara Sampei fixed me with an appraising look from top to bottom.

　I felt every hair on my body stand on end, and without making a show of it, quietly shifted further along the veranda.

　"Oh, you were in China?"

　"Three years in Shanghai. The Chinese say cats are delicious — something like chicken, apparently. I tried it once myself."

　I had by now moved from the veranda into the garden, and was sitting in apparent unconcern beneath the white magnolia, basking in the sun as though I had heard not one word.

　The conversation between the two men reached me no longer. My master seemed to say something about taking Tatara somewhere, and before long the two went out together.

　After my master left, the house fell quiet, and I began to think seriously about something.

　The something was: catching mice.

　I confess with some shame that, for all my residence in this household in the capacity of cat, I have never yet successfully caught a single mouse. This is not from want of diligence; it is a matter of circumstance. The house has long been infested with mice, yet no one has troubled themselves about it, and my master shows complete indifference to the mouse question — so that although my will has been there, the opportunity for action never arose.

　Today, however, the thief had entered while my master slept, and had my master found the courage to bite the intruder's leg — no wait, that is my role — had I found the courage to do so, the matter might have been nipped in the bud. The thought is mortifying. To be a cat and fail to step forward when a thief arrives is a dereliction of duty of the first order!

　From today I shall renew the cat's vocation. First: mice.

　I take up a post on the veranda before the bedroom and wait.

　After a while, from the ceiling: thump thump thump — a mouse passing overhead.

　Then, from the crack at the base of the wall, a grey nose-tip appeared, glanced left and right, confirmed no one was about, and — a grey form shot out.

　First attack!

　I sprang upon it with full force — but the mouse had vanished into the wall's base in an instant.

　Second attempt. A sound from the kitchen direction; I crept stealthily toward it, but the mouse appeared to have noticed, retreated into its hole, and I never so much as glimpsed its tail.

　Third attempt. I set an ambush behind the rice bin and concentrated every faculty. I waited. After some time, a decidedly plump mouse appeared at leisure in my field of view. Silently I gathered my four limbs, held my breath, counted in my heart — one, two, three!

　I launched myself — but missed my footing somehow, and struck the wooden shelving with my full weight. The bowls and dishes clanked and crashed to the floor, knocking over a miso crock with a tremendous boom.

　From the next room my master shouted "What was that?" and came rushing out with a stick in his hand.

　I had instantly assumed a perfect posture on the veranda, sitting primly upright, the picture of a cat that has been sitting there composedly all along.

　"Not a thief then..." My master looked around, let out a long breath, and went back inside.

　The mouse question, it seems, will require further training.