Eleven

One afternoon Meitei and Dokusen were playing Go in front of the tokonoma alcove. My master, Kangetsu, and Tofu were also present.

　"I take that back," said Meitei, lifting a stone.

　Dokusen's goatee trembled slightly. "Again? The true spirit of Go is indifference to winning and losing. The moment you calculate victory, you have already vulgarised the game and lost its essential flavour."

　"Splendid. Then I'll take it back again."

　"That makes the sixth retraction."

　"Seven would be equally fine, since you don't care about winning."

　The two of them continued this leisurely exchange while Meitei picked up and replaced stones without urgency.

　Kangetsu reached into his coat and produced three sticks of dried bonito, which he laid out on the tatami. "Brought these from home. Still warm." The three sticks did indeed radiate a faint bodily warmth.

　"You carried them inside your coat?" Tofu looked at them sideways.

　"No choice. There was a rat on the ship and it gnawed the tip of one." Kangetsu pointed to the end of one stick; there was indeed a chewed patch. "So I slept with them inside my coat. The rat also chewed the side of my violin's body."

　Tofu's ears pricked up at the word violin. "Do you really play, Kangetsu?"

　"A little. Speaking of my violin, there is rather a remarkable story behind it."

　"Do tell." My master looked up from his book.

　"I was at school in the country — a very remote place. The school lacked everything. Students drilled barefoot in military exercises. Lunch was an enormous rice-ball with a single pickled plum in the centre. The shops sold almost nothing — if you wanted an ashtray, they told you to go cut bamboo from the grove."

　"Admirably simple."

　"Simplicity in the extreme. There was a women's school nearby where the violin was compulsory, and a shop nearby sold violins — several hanging together, swaying in the wind and sometimes making accidental sounds. Those sounds, to me, were like music from another world. I wanted one desperately, every single day."

　"For a long time, presumably?"

　"For months, every single day. But the dormitory had an unwritten rule: any student who showed an interest in refined arts was beaten by the senior students for being effeminate."

　"A rigorous school culture." Meitei put down his stone and leaned in with interest.

　"The day before the Emperor's Birthday, all my dormitory companions went to the hot springs. I feigned illness and stayed behind. Then I waited the entire day for darkness. I kept poking my head out of the futon to check — blazing sun still hitting the paper screens — and retreating again. Countless times. To pass the time I ate the dried persimmons hanging outside, one after another, until there were none left."

　"All of them!"

　"Every last one. At which point I declared night by executive decision."

　The room erupted in laughter.

　"I put on my padded kimono, then my gold-buttoned school uniform coat with the hood pulled low, and set out through the fallen persimmon leaves. I went past Tōreiji Temple and through many named streets of the castle town — Takano-dai, Kojō-chō, Sengoku-chō, all the Tōri-chōme, Owari-chō, Nagoya-chō, Shachihoko-chō… and reached Kanezen — Kaneko Zenbei's shop — at ten o'clock. The shop was nearly closed, only the side door open, and four or five apprentices huddled around the brazier, startled when I came in. I bought a violin for five yen and twenty sen, wrapped it in a large furoshiki, tucked it inside my coat, and left."

　"How did it feel?"

　"As I walked out, the apprentices called out in unison: 'Thank you for your custom!' My heart nearly stopped. I ran home without once looking back. I reached the dormitory at one-fifty in the morning."

　"Ha! And where did you hide it?"

　"In my grandmother's old wicker trunk — the one she gave me as a farewell present when I left home, the same trunk she had brought with her when she married. Quite an antique. Not exactly harmonious with a violin."

　Tofu said: "Inharmonious it may be, but it makes a haiku. Autumn desolation — a violin hidden in an old trunk. What do you think, gentlemen?"

　"You're producing quite a number of verses today, sensei."

　"Not just today. I always have them ready in my belly. My attainments in the art of haiku were such that even the late Shiki himself would have been compelled to roll his tongue in admiration."

　"Sensei, were you acquainted with Shiki?" the guileless Tofu asked sincerely.

　"Not in person — but we were in constant spiritual communion via wireless telegraph." This absurdity was so comprehensive that Tofu fell silent. Kangetsu laughed and continued.

　"So the hiding was solved, but the playing was another problem altogether. Simply taking it out to look at was possible, but looking gets you nowhere. You have to play. Playing makes sound. Sound means discovery. The head of the school's most militant faction lodged just the other side of a hibiscus hedge."

　"Awkward."

　"Precisely. The moment there's a sound, nothing can be hidden. You can conceal pilfered food or counterfeit money, but music cannot be done in secret."

　"If only it made no sound…"

　"I once had an experience of something silent that was still discovered," Meitei said. "When I was living in a temple in Koishikawa, there was a man called Suzuki Tō who was very fond of mirin — sweet cooking wine — and kept some in a beer bottle, which he drank privately for pleasure. One day he went for a walk, and Kushami — "

　"I never touched Suzuki's mirin! It was you who drank it!" My master's voice suddenly rang out from behind his book.

　"My goodness, you've been listening all along. Your ears are remarkably efficient. Well, I grant you I drank some too, but the one who was discovered was you — gentlemen, you should understand that our host is fundamentally unable to hold drink. He drank the mirin on the assumption that it was someone else's property, which added a dimension of resolve; the result was that his face swelled up bright red and was truly a sight to behold —"

　"Hold your tongue. You can't even read Latin."

　The three visitors burst into frank laughter. My master put down his book and chuckled quietly. Dokusen had long since fallen asleep on the Go board; a thread of drool was tracing a luminous path down his goatee.

　"Kangetsu, is the violin story finished?" My master surrendered at last. "Not yet. This is where it gets interesting — just the right moment to pay attention. In fact, perhaps our colleague sleeping on the Go board — Dokusen sensei — might also be persuaded to wake up. It's not good for one to sleep so extravagantly, you know."

　"Dokusen. Wake up, wake up. There's an interesting story. The doctor says you mustn't sleep like that."

　Dokusen raised his head: "Eh?" A long silver thread of drool stretched from the goatee to the board, gleaming like a snail's trail.

　"Ah, I was sleeping well. The white clouds on the mountain peak, resembling my indolence. Most refreshing."

　"We all accept that you were sleeping. Perhaps you might now refrain from doing so."

　"Very well. Is there something interesting?"

　"Kangetsu is about to — what was it exactly, Kushami?"

　"I have no idea what comes next."

　"Now I am about to play the violin," Kangetsu said.

　"Kangetsu is about to play the violin. Come and listen."

　"Still the violin? How trying."

　"You're the sort of man who plays a stringless zither, so this doesn't trouble you — but Kangetsu's violin squeaks and shrieks and can be heard through all the neighbouring walls, which is where the trouble lies."

　"Is that so. Kangetsu, don't you know of any way to play a violin without being heard?"

　"I don't. If you do, I should very much like to be told."

　"If you'd simply look at the white ox in the alley, you'd see at once." This made no sense to anyone. They concluded that Dokusen was still half-asleep and producing oracular nonsense, and Kangetsu tactfully continued without engaging.

　"I eventually devised a plan. The following day was the Emperor's Birthday. I spent the whole day in the dormitory, unable to settle — opening the trunk lid, closing it, opening it again. At last, when evening came and a cricket began to chirp inside the trunk, I reached in and took out the violin and the bow."

　"The moment has arrived," said Tofu.

　"I inspected the bow from tip to handle —"

　"You sound like an incompetent sword-dealer," Meitei said drily.

　"The feeling was exactly that of a samurai examining a fine blade by lamplight on a long winter night. I held the bow and trembled all over."

　"That is genius," said Tofu. "That is epilepsy," said Meitei. My master said: "Why not just play it?" Dokusen made a face suggesting the whole situation was regrettable.

　"Fortunately the bow was undamaged. I then examined the violin itself by lamplight, turning it over and back. This examination took approximately five minutes. Throughout, if you would kindly imagine, the cricket in the trunk was chirping steadily."

　"Whatever you need us to imagine, imagine it — now play."

　"I'm still not playing. The violin also proved undamaged. Thus reassured, I stood up —"

　"Going somewhere?"

　"Please be quiet for a moment. I am telling a story and cannot proceed with an interruption at every clause."

　"Gentlemen, we are to be quiet. Shh. Shh."

　"You're the only one who's been speaking."

　"Ah — quite right. Forgive me. Respectful attention, respectful attention."

　"With the violin tucked under my arm and my sandals thrust on my feet, I went two or three steps out of the door and then stopped — wait a moment —"

　"Here we go. Something is bound to go wrong."

　"There are no more dried persimmons, you know, even if you go back."

　"With the various sensei interrupting so indefatigably, I find I have no choice but to address Tofu alone. All right, Tofu — I had gone two or three steps and turned back. I retrieved the red blanket I had bought for three yen twenty sen when I left my hometown, pulled it over my head, and blew out the lamp. Instant total darkness. I could no longer find my own sandals."

　"But where are you going?"

　"Please listen. After considerable searching, I found the sandals and went outside. Starry night, fallen persimmon leaves, red blanket, violin. I turned right and climbed the rising road toward Mount Kōshin. The bell of Tōreiji Temple rang out — the sound came through the blanket, through my ears, and spread through my skull. What time, do you think?"

　"No idea."

　"Nine o'clock. I was alone, on a dark autumn night, about to climb eight chō of mountain path to a place called Ōdaira. Under normal circumstances I am rather timid, and would have found such a path quite frightening — but when one is entirely consumed by a single purpose, there is simply no room left for fear. Strange, really. Ōdaira is a flat clearing on the south slope of Mount Kōshin — on a clear day from there you can see the entire castle town below through the red pines. In the centre is a flat rock about eight tatami mats in size. To the north is a pond called Unuma, surrounded by camphor trees of extraordinary girth. A place that feels uneasy even by day, because of the adjacent pond. Engineers had been kind enough to cut a path up for exercises, so the climb itself was manageable."

　"And when you reached Ōdaira?"

　"I spread the blanket on the flat rock and sat down. I had never climbed this mountain on so cold a night before. Once I sat still, the surrounding silence gradually seeped into the bottom of my soul. The only thing that can disturb a person in that state is fear itself; once that single element is removed, what remains is a pure and icy spiritual luminosity. After sitting in a kind of daze for some twenty minutes, I had the feeling that I was a single person living inside a palace of crystal — no, more than that: not only my body, but my mind and spirit too, had become as transparent as cooled agar, and I could no longer tell whether I was inside the crystal palace or whether the crystal palace existed inside me."

　"This is becoming rather remarkable," said Meitei in a perfectly serious tone. Dokusen nodded: "A most interesting state."

　"Had that condition continued, I think I might have sat on that flat rock until morning without playing a single note."

　"Are there foxes up there?" Tofu asked.

　"In this state of perfect dissolution, with no boundary between self and world, no certainty whether I was alive or dead, there suddenly came from deep in the old swamp behind me — a scream. Gyaaah!"

　"Here it comes."

　"The sound rolled and echoed through all the autumn treetops of the mountain, and swept away on the wind. I snapped back to myself —"

　"At last," said Meitei, pantomiming relief.

　"I looked around. Mount Kōshin was completely silent. Not a sound, not a drip. What was that noise? Too sharp for a human voice, too loud for a bird, too improbable for a monkey in these parts — what was it? The moment this question rose in my mind, it mobilised a whole army of agitated thoughts that had been kept in suspension, which came charging through my skull in complete disorder, like a city crowd gone mad at a royal procession. Every pore on my body opened simultaneously. Courage, fortitude, composure — all of them evaporated like steam. My heart began dancing a jig beneath my ribs. My legs started vibrating like the hum of a kite in the wind. This was beyond bearing. I yanked the blanket over my head, seized the violin under my arm, staggered off the flat rock, and ran down all eight chō of mountain path as fast as my legs would carry me, burst into the dormitory, wrapped myself in the futon, and went to sleep. Even now, thinking about it, my spine goes cold."

　"And then?"

　"That was the end."

　"You didn't play the violin?"

　"How could I, after a Gyaaah like that? You would have run too, Tofu."

　"I feel somehow cheated."

　"Feel however you like; it is what happened." Kangetsu looked around the room with an expression of complete satisfaction.

　"Excellent work," Meitei said admiringly. "Bringing the story all the way to that point must have required considerable craft. I had been genuinely listening, thinking this was a Japanese male counterpart of Sandra Belloni. It is a pity that Sandra Belloni stirred the soul under the moon, while you were startled by a supernatural creature in an old swamp — a hair's-breadth separating the sublime from the comic. I trust you feel the loss keenly."

　"Not particularly," said Kangetsu, unruffled.

　"Taking a violin up a mountain is precisely the sort of High-Collar behaviour that invites being frightened," said my master.

　"What a pity," said Dokusen, "that such a fine man should make his living in that cave of demons." As usual, nobody understood precisely what Dokusen meant, and Kangetsu least of all.

　"Speaking of which," Meitei said after a moment, "are you still at the university polishing glass balls these days?"

　"Not lately. I've been back in the country on a home visit, so it's been on hold. Besides, I've had quite enough of polishing glass balls. I'm thinking of giving it up."

　My master's brow contracted slightly. "But you can't get your doctorate without finishing the polishing."

　"The doctorate? Ha. I don't need the doctorate anymore."

　"But then the marriage will be delayed indefinitely, and both families will be inconvenienced."

　"What marriage?"

　"Your marriage."

　"My marriage to whom?"

　"To Miss Kaneda."

　"What?"

　"What do you mean, what? It was all arranged."

　"Nothing was arranged. If they want to spread rumours, that's their business."

　"This is rather drastic. Meitei, you know all about this affair, don't you?"

　"That affair — the nose affair, you mean? You and I aren't the only ones who know about it — it's a public secret, known throughout the land. The newspapers have been pestering me about when they can run photographs of the happy couple under the headline 'Turtle Doves' — the matter has become something of a nuisance. And Tofu has apparently been composing a lengthy wedding ode for the past three months, waiting only for Kangetsu to acquire his doctorate — isn't that right, Tofu?"

　"I wouldn't say I've been anxious about it, but yes, I have a work of considerable sympathetic depth in preparation, to be made public at the appropriate moment."

　"You see — your affairs have ramifications in all directions. You can't just quietly abandon the ball-polishing. Be a man and go back to the laboratory."

　"I'm causing everyone such trouble, and I'm sorry for it, but the doctorate — I'm afraid I really don't need it anymore."

　"Why not?"

　"Because — I already have a proper wife."

　"What! A secret marriage! The world is full of surprises. Kushami, did you hear that? Kangetsu has already taken a wife!"

　"There are no children yet. It would be quite alarming if a child arrived within a month of the wedding."

　"When and where did this take place?" My master demanded with the manner of a magistrate.

　"When I went home, she was there waiting for me. These dried bonito I brought today were gifts from relatives to celebrate the marriage."

　"Only three sticks — rather meagre congratulations."

　"There were many more; I brought just three."

　"A girl from your home province, then. Presumably rather dark-complexioned?"

　"Very dark, yes. Perfectly suited to me."

　"And what is to be done about the Kaneda side?"

　"Nothing need be done."

　"That seems rather lacking in consideration. Don't you think, Meitei?"

　"Not at all. Giving her to someone else amounts to exactly the same thing. Marriage is just two people bumping into each other in the dark. Since bumping into each other is entirely unnecessary, the whole business is superfluous; and if it's superfluous, it doesn't matter which two skulls collide. The only one with real cause for complaint is Tofu, who went to the trouble of composing that wedding ode."

　"If circumstances require it, the ode can easily be redirected. I'll compose a separate piece for the Kaneda wedding."

　"The freedom of the poetic temperament is a wondrous thing."

　"Have you sent a formal refusal to the Kaneda family?" My master was still preoccupied with Kaneda.

　"Sent a refusal? I've never made any approach to them in the first place. Neither have they formally proposed to me. If I stay quiet, that's quite sufficient. Besides, there are probably a dozen detectives already who have reported the whole business in full detail."

　The word detective made my master's face darken. "Then say nothing," he decreed, but his irritation was not yet spent, and he launched into the following disquisition:

　"A man who extracts your wallet while you're not paying attention is a pickpocket; a man who extracts information from your conversation while you're not paying attention is a detective. A man who quietly removes a shutter and steals your possessions is a burglar; a man who quietly manipulates you into revealing your mind is a detective. A man who holds a sword to your chest and takes your money is a robber; a man who brandishes threatening language to coerce your will is a detective. Therefore detectives belong to the same family as pickpockets, burglars, and robbers, and are beings with whom no decent person should associate. Do not give in to them under any circumstances."

　"Don't worry. A thousand detectives, two thousand detectives, massed in battle formation — I fear none of them. Kangetsu Mizushima, master glass-ball polisher and Bachelor of Science, at your service."

　"Bravo! The buoyancy of the newly married scholar is a fine thing to witness. But Kushami — if detectives are cousins to pickpockets, burglars, and robbers, what does that make a man like Kaneda, who employs them?"

　"Something in the Kumasaka Chōhan line."

　"Kumasaka — very good. 'That which appeared as one became two and vanished' — but the Kumasaka of our local neighbourhood, the one who built his fortune on loan-sharking and extortion, is a different breed from the heroic original. That one will never vanish. Being caught in his net would be a lifelong misfortune. Watch yourself, Kangetsu."

　"I'm not concerned. 'How menacing the thief!' — his methods are well known to me in advance. Let him come — he'll get what he deserves." Kangetsu quoted a Noh libretto with perfect composure and a certain theatrical swagger.

　"On the subject of detectives," Dokusen said, rising serenely above the practical situation to ask a general philosophical question, "why is it that twenty-first-century human beings are tending increasingly toward detective-like behaviour?"

　"Prices are too high," said Kangetsu.

　"Because they have no appreciation of art," said Tofu.

　"Because civilisation has given everyone spines and made them as prickly as sugar-crystals," said Meitei.

　It was now my master's turn. He assembled his thoughts in an imposing manner and began:

　"This is a question I have pondered considerably. In my analysis, the detective tendency of contemporary people is rooted entirely in an excessive development of self-consciousness. By self-consciousness I do not mean the variety Dokusen describes — enlightenment, the unity of self with the cosmos, and so forth — I mean the awareness of the radical difference of interests between oneself and every other person. This self-consciousness sharpens by the day as civilisation progresses, until finally not a single gesture can be performed naturally and spontaneously. Henley said of Stevenson that he could not enter a room with a mirror without pausing to examine his own reflection in it — that he was constitutionally incapable of forgetting himself for an instant. This perfectly captures the modern tendency. Asleep, it is I; awake, it is I; this I follows one everywhere and makes every human action increasingly artificial, increasingly self-constrictive, increasingly suffocating — like two young people at an introductory meeting, compelled to perform every movement under the other's observation from morning until night. Words like 'ease' and 'tranquillity' retain their characters and their meanings but have lost all connection to experience. In this respect, modern people are detective-like; they are burglar-like. The detective's profession consists of gaining secret advantage over others — which requires high self-consciousness. The burglar lives in constant dread of capture — his self-consciousness, by necessity, never rests. Modern people, sleeping or waking, are perpetually calculating their own advantage and disadvantage — their self-consciousness must be equally perpetual. Twenty-four hours a day spent furtive and crouching, finding no repose until the grave — this is the modern condition. It is the curse of civilisation. Thoroughly absurd."

　"Well observed," said Dokusen — for this sort of problem he was never backward in coming forward. "Kushami's analysis goes right to the heart of the matter. The ancients taught: forget the self. Modern teachers teach: never forget the self. Hence the complete divergence of the results. The self fills every moment of consciousness; there is therefore no moment of peace. One is always in the furnace of the burning hell. The world's most efficacious medicine is forgetfulness of self. 'Entering no-self under the moon at midnight' is the praise of that supreme condition. Modern people even perform acts of kindness without natural spontaneity. The English pride themselves on their 'nice' behaviour, but the self-consciousness behind it is stretched nearly to breaking. When the English monarch was visiting India and dining with Indian royalty, one of the princes, unaware of court protocol, inadvertently reverted to native custom and picked up a potato with his fingers, afterwards dying of embarrassment — whereupon the monarch, without a word, picked up his own potato with two fingers in exactly the same way…"

　"Is that English niceness?" Kangetsu asked.

　"I heard another story," said my master, picking up the thread. "In a British military barracks, the officers gave a banquet for an enlisted man. At the end of the meal, finger bowls were brought out. The enlisted man, unaccustomed to formal dining, raised his to his lips and drank the water. The regimental commander immediately drained his own finger bowl to the health of the enlisted man. The officers present followed suit, each raising his finger bowl in toast."

　"I have one too," said Meitei, unwilling to be left out. "When Carlyle was presented to the Queen for the first time, this eccentric man having no knowledge of court etiquette, he walked in, said 'How do?' and sat straight down in a chair. The ladies-in-waiting and courtiers standing behind the Queen nearly burst out laughing — but the Queen turned and gave a slight signal, whereupon the entire company quietly sat down in chairs, and Carlyle's dignity was preserved."

　"Knowing Carlyle's temperament, he probably wouldn't have cared if everyone remained standing," said Kangetsu.

　"The self-consciousness of kindness aside," Dokusen continued, "the stronger the self-consciousness, the more effortful every kindness becomes. Which is a pity. People commonly say that as civilisation advances, violence decreases and relations between individuals grow more gentle. This is completely mistaken. With self-consciousness this powerful, how could gentleness be possible? What appears on the surface to be perfect calm and order is internally an experience of extraordinary strain — like two sumo wrestlers gripped together in the centre of the ring without moving: from outside it looks perfectly peaceful, but in their bellies the waves are crashing."

　"Old-fashioned quarrels used violent force, which in some ways made them less corrupt," Meitei said. "Modern quarrels are far more sophisticated, which only intensifies the self-consciousness further. Bacon said that nature can only be conquered by obeying her — and modern quarrelling follows Bacon's maxim precisely. Like judo: one uses the opponent's own force to throw them."

　"Or like hydroelectricity," said Kangetsu. "Rather than fighting the current, you redirect it and produce power from it —" Dokusen immediately picked up the thread: "And so in poverty one is bound by poverty; in wealth, bound by wealth; in sorrow, bound by sorrow; in joy, bound by joy. Talented people are undone by their talent; clever people are defeated by their cleverness; and short-tempered individuals like Kushami need only have their irritability exploited and they will leap out immediately, falling straight into the enemy's trap —"

　"Ha!" Meitei clapped his hands. My master smiled thinly and said: "It's not quite as easy to catch me as all that." Everyone burst out laughing at once.

　"As for someone like Kaneda — what will be his undoing?"

　"The wife undone by her nose; the husband by his greed; the retainers by the detectives."

　"And the daughter?"

　"The daughter — I've never seen her face, so it's hard to say — but she'll probably be done in by her clothes, her food, or drink. Hardly likely to be undone by love. She might end up, like Sotoba Komachi, undone by her wandering."

　"That's rather harsh," said Tofu, who had dedicated poems to her.

　"That is precisely why 'Let the mind dwell nowhere and thereby arise' is such an important text," said Dokusen, settling with considerable satisfaction into the persona of the lone enlightened man. "Without reaching that condition, a person cannot help but suffer."

　"You needn't be quite so self-congratulatory. You might just be the one who falls headlong in a flash of lightning."

　"At any rate," my master said, "if civilisation continues along these lines, I have no wish to go on living."

　"There's no need to hesitate — simply die," Meitei said briskly.

　"Dying is even less appealing." My master was inexplicably firm on this point.

　"At birth, no one thinks carefully about being born," said Kangetsu with a detached air. "At death, it seems everyone agonises over it."

　"It's the same as borrowing money without anxiety but repaying it with considerable distress," said Meitei, always ready with a parallel.

　"He who does not worry about repaying a debt is fortunate, just as he who does not worry about death is fortunate," said Dokusen, rising above the earthly sphere.

　At this point my master reached for an old book he had brought from the study. "When a man takes a wife and begins to think women are wonderful things, he is making a grave error. For purposes of general education, I shall read aloud a passage of some interest. This book is by Thomas Nashe and dates from the sixteenth century — even in those days the defects of women were already clearly understood."

　"Remarkable!" said Kangetsu. "My wife's bad qualities were being documented three centuries before she was born?"

　"There are various complaints about women, among which your wife is necessarily included. Pay attention. First, an introduction to the classical philosophers' views of women: Aristotle says — women being inherently worthless, if one must marry, one should marry a small woman rather than a large one; a small worthless thing causes less damage than a large one —"

　"Is Kangetsu's wife large or small?"

　"She falls in the large worthless category."

　"Magnificent! This book is worth its weight in gold. Read on."

　"One asked: what is the greatest miracle in the world? The sage replied: a chaste woman —"

　"Which sage?"

　"The name is not given."

　"Almost certainly a sage who had been jilted."

　"Next comes Diogenes. One asked: at what age ought a man to marry? Diogenes replied: the young man, not yet; the old man, no longer."

　"He thought of that in his barrel."

　"Pythagoras: in the world there are three dreadful things — fire, water, and women."

　"Greek philosophers really did say the most casually remarkable things. Now in my own view, there is nothing in the world to be afraid of. Enter fire and not be burned; enter water and not drown —" Dokusen's inspiration faltered.

　"Encounter women and not be besotted," Meitei supplied the conclusion. My master read steadily on.

　"Socrates held that governing women and children is the supreme difficulty of human life. Demosthenes said: if a man wishes to torture his enemy, let him give his own wife to that enemy — the domestic storms will harass him by day and night until he can no longer rise from his bed. Seneca named women and ignorance as the two great scourges of the world; Marcus Aurelius said women resemble ships in their resistance to management; Plautus said women's addiction to finery is a stratagem to conceal their native ugliness. Valerius once wrote to a friend: there is no act so extreme that a woman will not undertake it. I pray that heaven will have mercy and not allow you to fall into their snares. He also wrote: What is a woman? Is she not the enemy of friendship? Is she not unavoidable suffering? Is she not necessary harm? Is she not natural temptation? Is she not poison disguised as honey? If abandoning her is dishonourable, then not abandoning her is an even greater torment —"

　"That is quite sufficient, sensei. I have heard quite enough defamation of my humble wife."

　"There are still four or five more pages."

　"That will do very well. I believe your wife may be about to return, actually," said Meitei — and at that moment from the direction of the sitting room came the mistress's voice calling the maidservant: "Kiyoshi! Kiyoshi!"

　"Well now — your wife is right here all along, old man."

　My master laughed his quiet laugh. "No matter."

　"Madam! Madam! When did you return?" Meitei called toward the sitting room.

　Silence from the sitting room.

　"Madam — did you hear what was said just now?"

　Still no answer.

　"Those remarks were not your husband's personal views. They belong to Mister Nashe of the sixteenth century. Please set your mind at ease."

　"I know nothing about it," said his wife's voice, briefly, from somewhere far away. Kangetsu covered a smile.

　"I know nothing about it either, ha ha ha ha!" Meitei laughed without restraint, when the front door was thrown open with a crash — no announcement, no greeting — and heavy footsteps came down the hall, and the sitting-room sliding doors were flung back unceremoniously to reveal the face of Tatara Sampei.

　Tatara Sampei today was arrayed very differently from his usual self: a dazzling white shirt under a brand-new frock coat, clearly not fitted to his measurements. He was carrying four bottles of beer knotted together in a string, which he deposited next to the bonito sticks without greeting anyone, then sat down heavily and immediately spread his knees in an attitude of martial confidence.

　"Is the stomach trouble any better lately, sensei? Keeping indoors like this is no good, I tell you."

　"I haven't said it's better or worse."

　"You haven't — but your colour isn't good, sensei. You look a bit yellow. Fishing is very good right now. I hired a boat from Shinagawa last Sunday —"

　"Did you catch anything?"

　"Not a thing."

　"And without catching anything it's still enjoyable?"

　"One cultivates the spirit of great freedom, you know. Gentlemen — have any of you been fishing? It's very fine, drifting about on the open sea in a small boat."

　"I would prefer a large boat drifting about on a small sea," said Meitei.

　"If one is going to fish at all, only whales or mermaids will do," said Kangetsu.

　"Can one actually catch such things? Literary people really are lacking in common sense —"

　"I am not a literary person."

　"Then what are you? For a businessman like me, common sense is everything. Sensei, my common sense has improved enormously of late. When one is surrounded by that sort of company, one cannot help but develop it naturally."

　"Develop what, precisely?"

　"Well, for instance —" He produced a cigarette with a gilt mouthpiece and began puffing on it. "One can't be taken seriously if one smokes Asahi or Shikishima."

　"Can you actually afford these luxuries?"

　"The money isn't there yet, but it will work itself out. These cigarettes make a remarkable difference to one's credit."

　"Rather less labour-intensive than Kangetsu's ball-polishing," Meitei remarked to Kangetsu. Before Kangetsu could respond, Tatara said:

　"You're Kangetsu, are you? You still haven't become a doctor then? Since you're not taking her, I've decided to take her myself."

　"Take the doctorate?"

　"No — Miss Kaneda. To be honest, I felt rather bad about it. But they absolutely insisted I accept, so in the end I agreed. Sensei, I've been worried it was a bit rough on Kangetsu."

　"Please don't give it a second thought," said Kangetsu. My master said: "If you want her, by all means."

　"That's a happy resolution! This shows you need never worry what becomes of a daughter — there's always someone to come along and take her. There you have it, Tofu — fresh subject matter. Set to work immediately." Meitei said this with characteristic relish, and Tatara immediately turned to Tofu:

　"Are you Tofu? Would you compose something for my wedding? I'll have it printed and distributed everywhere. Even submitted to Taiyō magazine."

　"Yes, I'll compose something. When do you need it?"

　"Anytime. Something old would do as well. In return — I'll invite you to the reception and give you champagne. Have you had champagne? Champagne is delicious. Sensei — I was thinking of hiring a band for the reception, and having them play Tofu's words set to music. What do you think?"

　"Do as you like."

　"Sensei, would you write the music?"

　"Don't be ridiculous."

　"Is there anyone in this house with musical ability?"

　"Kangetsu — the failed-doctorate candidate — is a violin virtuoso. Beg him earnestly. Although champagne alone may not be sufficient to move him."

　"The champagne I am offering is not the four- or five-yen kind. Kangetsu, would you compose the music?"

　"Absolutely. Even for twenty-sen champagne. Gratis, even."

　"Gratis is not what I'm proposing — there will be a proper gift. If not champagne, how about this kind of gift?" He reached into his coat's inner pocket and spilled seven or eight photographs onto the tatami. Half-length portraits, full-length portraits, standing, seated, in hakama, in long-sleeved kimono, with elaborate hair — all of them young women.

　"Sensei, these are my candidates. I'm offering one of them to Kangetsu or Tofu as a thank-you for your services. What about this one?" He thrust a photograph at Kangetsu.

　"Very nice. Please do make the introduction."

　"This one too?" He thrust another.

　"That one too is very nice. I beg your services."

　"Which one?"

　"Either will do."

　"You're quite susceptible, aren't you. Sensei, this one is a certain doctor's niece."

　"Hm."

　"She has an excellent temperament and is quite young — seventeen. This one has a dowry of a thousand yen. This other is the daughter of a prefectural governor —" He went on in this vein, entirely self-propelled.

　"Could I have all of them?" Kangetsu asked.

　"All of them? That's rather greedy. Are you a polygamist?"

　"Not a polygamist, but an omnivore."

　"Put those things away," said my master, with the tone he used on troublesome students. Tatara hurriedly gathered the photographs one by one and tucked them back in his pocket.

　"What is this beer?"

　"A house gift, sensei. I bought it at the corner sake shop — a pre-celebration. Please drink."

　My master clapped for the maidservant to come and open the bottles. My master, Meitei, Dokusen, Kangetsu, and Tofu raised their cups with grave ceremony and drank to Tatara's romantic good fortune. Tatara was radiant with happiness.

　"Will all of you attend the reception? You will come, won't you?"

　"I will not," my master said immediately.

　"Why not? It's the great ceremony of my life. Won't you come? That seems rather heartless."

　"Not heartless. Simply not coming."

　"Is it a matter of clothes? I can sort out a haori and hakama for you. Come out among people sometimes, sensei. I'll introduce you to important people."

　"My absolute refusal."

　"Your stomach might get better."

　"If it doesn't, it doesn't."

　"Well, if you're going to be that stubborn, I give up. Meitei, will you come?"

　"Absolutely. If I could serve as the go-between, I should consider it an honour. Champagne at the three-cup ceremony on a spring evening — though I hear the go-between is actually Suzuki Tō? Yes, I supposed as much. I shall have to be content as an ordinary guest."

　"Dokusen?"

　"One fishing-rod, a wind and moon holiday, I fish for men among white weeds and red smartweed —"

　"Is that a Tang poem?"

　"Couldn't say."

　"Very unclear. Kangetsu, you'll come, given the history between you?"

　"Certainly. I shouldn't want to miss hearing my own composition played by the orchestra."

　"And Tofu?"

　"Yes — I'd like to read my new poem aloud to the happy couple."

　"That would be wonderful. Sensei, I have never been so happy in my life. So I'm going to have one more beer." He began drinking the beer he had brought himself, glug by glug, and turned red all over.

　The brief autumn day gradually darkened. The fire in the brazier had long since gone out; cigarette ends were scattered through the ash. Even this easygoing company seemed to have reached the natural end of their gathering. "It's grown quite late — shall we go?" Dokusen was first to rise. The others said their goodbyes and headed for the entrance one by one. After a theatrical gathering like a variety hall had dispersed, the room felt lonely.

　My master ate his supper and went into the study. His wife drew her kimono collar close against the chill of the room and sat sewing an everyday garment she had washed and dried. The children lay in a row, heads on their pillows, asleep. The maidservant had gone to the bathhouse.

　These people who seem so carefree — tap at the bottoms of their hearts and somewhere you will hear a sad sound. For all his apparent enlightenment, Dokusen's feet never leave the ground like everyone else's. Meitei's apparent indifference to everything is no less a real life for all that. Kangetsu finished with his glass balls at last and brought a wife home from the countryside, which is entirely appropriate; but appropriate circumstances, when sustained too long, are apt to become tedious. Tofu, in another ten years, will no doubt come to see the excessive offering of poetry for what it is. As for Tatara — it is hard to say whether he belongs to the water or the land; if he can spend his life treating people to champagne and considering it a triumph, that in itself is a form of success. Suzuki Tō rolls wherever things go and picks up mud as he rolls; those who pick up mud go further in the world than those who refuse to move.

　As for my life among human beings as a cat — that has now stretched past two years. I had always considered myself a cat of rather exceptional perspicacity, and then a short while ago I received a startling blow to my self-regard: a fellow feline of my acquaintance, one Kater Murr, abruptly made an appearance with considerable fanfare. On enquiry, it emerged that he had died a hundred years ago but, stirred by curiosity, had taken the form of a ghost and come all the way from the distant land of the dead expressly to give me a fright. This cat, when going to meet his mother, had brought a fish as a greeting gift — and, being unable to restrain himself on the way, ate it himself. A being of such filial negligence also possessed talent not inferior to any human's, and had once, it was said, composed a poem that astonished his owner considerably. If such a remarkable individual appeared a whole century before me, it is clear that a mediocre specimen like myself should long ago have tendered my resignation and retired to some place where there is nothing whatsoever.

　My master will die of his stomach condition sooner or later. Old man Kaneda is already dead of greed. The autumn leaves have mostly fallen. If death is the appointed fate of all things, and if living serves no great purpose, then dying quickly may be the wisest choice. According to the various learned opinions expressed today, the human race is destined to end in universal suicide. If I am not careful, I too may find myself born into that constricted world. A frightening prospect. For some reason I feel restless and out of sorts. Perhaps I should drink some of Tatara's beer and raise my spirits.

　I made my way to the kitchen. A draught from the rattling lattice door — slightly ajar, the wind must have crept through — had evidently extinguished the lamp, but the night is moonlit and the window casts a shadow. On a tray sit three cups in a row; two of them hold about half a cup of brown liquid. Even warm water in a glass cup looks cold; and this liquid, standing in the moonlight beside the fire-extinguishing pot, makes my whiskers feel cold before I have even touched it. And yet — let us try. Tatara drank it and turned scarlet and breathed scorching air. If a cat drinks it, perhaps the same vivacity is possible. It's an uncertain existence at best; one should do everything while alive. Regretting from the shadow of the grave is too late. With determination I extended my tongue and gave a tentative lap — and was startled. My tongue felt as though stabbed by a needle. I cannot imagine what pleasure human beings derive from drinking this rotten substance, but for a cat it is quite undrinkable. I started to withdraw my tongue — and then reconsidered. Human beings are forever saying that good medicine tastes bitter. When they catch cold they grimace and drink strange preparations; whether they drink because it cures them or get better because they drink it has always been an open question. Here is a fine opportunity to settle the matter with beer. If my stomach goes bitter all the way through, so be it; if I end up as cheerful and oblivious as Tatara, that would be an unprecedented gain, and I could recommend it to the neighbourhood cats. Whatever happens, I leave it to fate. I steeled myself and extended my tongue again. To drink with the eyes open was difficult; I squeezed them firmly shut and began lapping once more.

　I persisted through discomfort, and by the time I finished the first cupful a strange thing had occurred. The initial needle-pricks and the sensation of pressure on my whole mouth had gradually eased as I drank, and by the time I finished the first cup I no longer found it particularly difficult. Confident now, I dispatched the second cup without trouble. I then licked clean the drops that had spilled onto the tray, collecting every last drop into my stomach.

　For a while afterwards I sat very still, monitoring my own internal states. Gradually my body warmed. The edges of my eyes grew hazy. My ears burned. I wanted to sing. I wanted to dance the cat dance. I found myself thinking that my master and Meitei and Dokusen could all go to the devil. I wanted to scratch old man Kaneda. I wanted to bite off a portion of my mistress's nose. A variety of impulses of this nature came and went. At last I had a floating wish to stand up. Standing, I had a rolling wish to walk. I had a wish to go outside. Outside, I had a wish to say good evening to the moon. The whole situation was most agreeable.

　So this is what intoxication means, I thought, drifting about without aim, moving my unreliable paws at approximately the angles required for locomotion. For some reason I was intensely sleepy. I could not tell whether I was asleep or walking. My eyes were meant to be open but were extremely heavy. This, I thought, is as good a state as any — sea or mountain, nothing can frighten me — and in the same moment that my front paws buckled and slid forward, there was a splashing sound, and something inside me went — finished. How it was finished I had no time to consider. Only the awareness: finished — and then everything came apart.

　When I came to myself I was floating on water. I clawed in every direction because it was unbearable, but I could only claw water, and every claw-stroke sent me under again. With nothing else available, I launched myself upward with my hind legs and raked at whatever was there with my front paws; something scraped and gave the faintest resistance. My head surfaced enough to look around. I had fallen into a large earthenware water-jar. This jar, in the summer, had held water-weed; since then a crow called Kanzō had been coming to eat the weed and bathe in the water. Bathing uses water; less water means the crow stops coming. I had noticed recently that the water level had dropped and the crow no longer visited — I simply had not anticipated being the one to come here and bathe in the crow's place.

　The distance from water surface to jar rim was over four inches. I could not reach it by stretching; I could not clear it by jumping. Staying still meant only sinking. Struggling meant clawing at the jar — which, when I connected, gave a fractional lift, but when I slipped I immediately sank. And sinking was suffocating, so I clawed again immediately. Gradually my body tired. My spirit was urgent but my paws were growing slack. Eventually I could no longer tell whether I was sinking in order to claw or clawing in order to sink.

　In the midst of this suffering, I thought the following: the source of this torment is the single wish to get out of the jar. Getting out is the desire, but it is perfectly clear that I cannot get out. My legs are less than three inches long. Even floating at the surface and extending my front paws to the maximum does not reach a jar rim more than five inches high. If my paws cannot reach the rim, then no amount of clawing or urgency, no hundred years of effort, will ever get me out. To attempt what is clearly impossible is irrational. Irrationality is the source of suffering. To seek suffering voluntarily, to submit to torture by one's own choice, is foolishness.

　"Enough. Let it go. No more clawing — that chapter is closed."

　I surrendered my front paws, my hind legs, my head, my tail — everything — to natural forces. No more resistance.

　Gradually it became easier. Whether it was suffering or peace I could no longer tell. Whether I was in the water or on the tatami floor I could no longer tell. Wherever I was, however I was, it did not matter. I was simply at ease. No — even ease was beyond my power to feel. The sun and moon cut away. Heaven and earth ground to powder. I enter into the inconceivable great peace. I die. In dying I attain this great peace. The great peace cannot be attained without dying. Namu Amida Butsu. Namu Amida Butsu. How grateful. How grateful.