Pathway to Japanese Literature

Butterflies

He was not an old man.
He was just over twenty-five years old.
But still, he was an old man.
For each ordinary year others lived, this old man had lived it three times over.
He had attempted suicide twice.
One of them had been a double suicide.
Three times he had been thrown into jail.
as a thought criminal.
Though not a single one ever sold, he wrote over a hundred novels.
Yet none of these were acts this old man had committed in earnest.
They were detours, so to speak.
What still made this old man’s crushed chest throb and his sunken cheeks flush were two things: getting drunk and spinning endless fantasies while gazing at different women.
No—they were two memories.
His crushed chest, his sunken cheeks—these were no lie.
The old man died on this day.
In the old man’s long life, only two things held no falsehood: being born and dying.
He kept lying until his final breath.

The old man was now on his sickbed.
It was an illness he had contracted from his indulgences.
The old man had wealth sufficient to avoid hardship in his livelihood.
But it was wealth insufficient for indulging in pleasures.
The old man did not think dying now was regrettable.
A meager livelihood was something the old man could not comprehend.

When ordinary people near their end, they often gaze intently at their own palms or look up vacantly at the eyes of their close relatives, but this old man mostly kept his eyes shut. Sometimes he would squeeze them tight; other times he would gently open them to let his eyelids quiver faintly—he did nothing more than quietly engage in such actions. He claimed to see butterflies. Blue butterflies, black butterflies, white butterflies, yellow butterflies, purple butterflies, pale blue butterflies—thousands upon thousands of them swarming densely right above his forehead, he claimed. He said it deliberately. Thirty miles away stretched a haze of butterflies. The sound of a million wingbeats resembled the drone of midday horseflies. This must be combat. Wing powder fell like rain—broken legs, eyeballs, antennae, long tongues.

When asked, “What would you like to eat? Anything,” he answered, “Red bean porridge.” When the old man was eighteen and first wrote what could be called a novel, he had included a scene where an old man on his deathbed murmurs a desire for red bean porridge.

Red bean porridge was prepared. It was rice porridge with boiled adzuki beans scattered over it, seasoned with salt. It was a delicacy from the old man’s hometown. Keeping his eyes shut and remaining on his back, after taking two spoonfuls, he said, “That’s enough.” When asked if there was anything else, he smiled faintly and answered, “I want to play.” The old man’s kind, uneducated yet clever, young and beautiful wife—before the assembled relatives—blushed not out of jealousy, and then, still clutching the spoon, stifled her sobs as she wept.

**Thief**

This year, it had been decided he would flunk out.
Even so, he would take the exam.
The beauty of futile efforts.
I was drawn to that beauty.
This morning I rose early, slipped my arms into my student uniform for the first time in a full year, and passed through the tall iron gate emblazoned with its chrysanthemum crest.
I passed through timidly.
Immediately stood a row of ginkgo trees.
Ten on the right and ten on the left—all giants.
When thick with leaves, this path turns dusky like an underground passage.
Now not a single leaf remained.
At the path’s end rose a great red ornamental brick structure.
This was the auditorium.
I had seen its interior only once during the entrance ceremony.
It had left me with an impression like that of a temple.
Now I gazed up at the electric clock on its tower.
Fifteen minutes remained until the exam.
Gazing fondly at the statue of the detective novelist’s father, I descended the gentle slope to the right and entered the garden.
This had once been the garden of a feudal lord.
In its pond swam carp and colored carp and soft-shelled turtles.
Until five or six years prior, a pair of cranes had dwelled here.

Even now, there were snakes in this thicket. Migratory birds such as wild geese and ducks also rested their wings in this pond. The garden, in reality, was not even two hundred *tsubo* in size, but to the eye, it appeared to span about a thousand *tsubo*. It was the work of superior garden design technique. I sat down on the bear bamboo grass by the pond’s edge, leaned my back against the rootstock of an old oak tree, and stretched both legs out long in front. Rocks of varying sizes and uneven shapes lined the path, and from their shadows, the pond spread out expansively. Under the cloudy sky, the pond’s surface shone white, the ripples’ wrinkles folding playfully. After lightly placing my right foot over my left, I muttered.

“I am a thief.”

University students passed through the front path in single file—an unbroken stream flowing ceaselessly.
They would become their hometowns’ prides someday.
Handpicked elite students.
They read identical notes while every last one strove to memorize them uniformly.
I took out a cigarette from my pocket and put one between my lips.
No matches.

“Lend me a light.”

I selected a handsome male student and called out to him.
The university student, wrapped in a pale green overcoat, stopped without lifting his eyes from his notes and handed me the gold-tipped cigarette he’d been holding between his lips.
He gave it over and plodded away just like that.
Even at this university, there existed a man who could rival me.
I transferred the flame from that gold-tipped foreign cigarette to my own cheap one, rose slowly to my feet, then flung the gold-tipped cigarette to the ground and ground it under my heel again and again with loathing.
Then he made his leisurely entrance into the exam hall.

In the exam hall, over a hundred university students were all shrinking back further and further toward the rear.
If they were to sit in the front seats, they were concerned that they wouldn’t be able to write their answers as they pleased.
I sat down in the very front seat like an honor student and lit a cigarette, my fingertips trembling slightly.
I had neither notes to check under the desk nor a single friend to consult with in whispers.

Before long, the red-faced professor came rushing into the exam hall in a fluster, carrying a bulging briefcase.
This man was Japan’s foremost French literary scholar.
I saw this man for the first time today.
He was quite a figure, and unwittingly, I felt intimidated by the wrinkles between his brows.
Among this man’s disciples were said to be Japan’s foremost poet and Japan’s foremost critic.
Japan’s foremost novelist—I thought of that and secretly felt my cheeks grow hot.
While the professor scribbled questions on the board, the university students behind me whispered not about academic matters but mostly about the economic boom in Manchuria.
On the board were five or six lines of French.
The professor slouched slovenly in the lectern’s armchair and declared with unmistakable displeasure.

“With questions like these, even if you tried to fail, you couldn’t.”

The university students laughed quietly and weakly.
I laughed too.
The professor then muttered a few words of unintelligible French and began writing something on the lectern’s desk.

I did not know French.
No matter what question came up, I intended to write that Flaubert was a spoiled brat.
I pretended to be lost in thought for a while—lightly closing my eyes, brushing dandruff from my short hair, studied the color of my nails.
Before long, I picked up the pen and began to write.

Flaubert is a spoiled brat.
His disciple Maupassant is an adult.
The beauty of art is, after all, the beauty of service to the citizens.
Flaubert did not know this sad resignation, but Maupassant did.
Flaubert threw away his entire life trying to wash away the disgrace of his debut work, *The Temptation of Saint Anthony*, receiving poor reviews.
Enduring what is called excruciating labor, each time he finished writing one work after another, regardless of public opinion, the wounds of his humiliation throbbed and ached ever more violently, the unfilled void in his heart expanded and deepened ever further, and thus he died.
Deceived by the phantom of masterpieces, enchanted by eternal beauty, carried away by it, in the end he could not save even a single close relative—let alone himself.
Baudelaire is the spoiled brat.
The above.

I did not write things like “Professor, please pass me.” He read it twice over and found no mistakes; then, holding his overcoat and hat in his left hand and that single sheet of exam paper in his right hand, he stood up. The honor student behind me was flustered because I stood up. My back had indeed become this man’s windbreak. Ah. On that rabbit-like, adorable honor student’s answer sheet was written the name of an up-and-coming writer. I pitied this famous up-and-coming writer’s flustered state even as I bowed with pointed intent to that grubby old professor and submitted my exam paper. I calmly exited the exam hall and, as soon as I did, tumbled down the stairs.

Upon stepping outside, the young thief was struck by a profoundly sorrowful thought.
What is this melancholy?
Where the hell did this come from?
Even so, while walking down the wide gravel path flanked by ginkgo trees—puffing out his overcoat’s shoulders and striding briskly with large steps—he answered that it was due to hunger.
In the basement of Classroom 29, there was a large cafeteria.
I made my way there.

The hungry university students overflowed from the basement cafeteria, forming a serpentine line that spilled out aboveground, its tail reaching all the way to the ginkgo trees.
There, a decent lunch could be had for fifteen sen.
It stretched about a hundred meters long.

――I am a thief.
A contrarian like no other.
Artists back then didn’t kill people.
Artists back then didn’t steal things.
You bastards.
Shabby little schemers.

He pushed through the university students and finally reached the cafeteria entrance.
At the entrance was a small notice, on which the following had been written.

Today marks three full years since your cafeteria first opened its doors—a milestone we acknowledge with humble gratitude.
In commemoration of this occasion, modest though our offering may be, we would be honored to provide our services.

The service items were displayed in a glass case near the entrance.
Red prawns rested in the shade of parsley leaves, while on the cross-section of a boiled egg cut in half, a blue agar “壽” (*kotobuki*—longevity) character was stylishly rendered in cursive script.
When I peered into the cafeteria, waitress girls in white aprons were fluttering about, weaving through the black jungle of university students partaking in the service offerings.
Ah, on the ceiling hung international flags.

The blue flower that scented the university’s basement—a ticklish antidote to it all.

Ah，things that had converged on an auspicious day．
Let us celebrate together．
Let us celebrate together．

The thief fluttered down like falling leaves in retreat，soared up aboveground，inserted his body into the serpentine tail，and vanished in the blink of an eye．

Duel

That was no imitation of foreign ways.
It was no exaggeration—it was because he genuinely wished to kill his opponent.
But that motive was not profound.
It was not that there existed a man identical to me, and we hated each other out of a belief that two of one thing were unnecessary in this world; nor was it that this man had been my wife’s former lover and went around minutely spreading those two or three facts to the neighbors in a naturalistic manner.
The opponent was a young peasant wearing a dog-fur vest, whom I had met for the first time that very night at the café.
I had stolen that man’s alcohol.
That was the motive.

I was a high school student in a northern castle town.
I enjoyed having fun.
But I was rather stingy with money.
Usually I would smoke my friends' cigarettes exclusively, never get haircuts, and once I'd patiently saved up five yen, I would sneak out alone to town and spend every last sen of it.
In a single night, I couldn't spend more than five yen—nor could I spend less than five yen.
And yet with that five yen, I always seemed to achieve maximum impact.
I would first exchange the tiny coins I'd saved up grain by grain for my friend's five-yen bill.
If the bill was crisp enough to cut your hand, my heart would leap all the higher.
I'd carelessly cram it into my pocket and head out to town.
For these once or twice monthly excursions was how I lived.

At that time, I was tormented by an inexplicable melancholy.
Absolute loneliness and total doubt.
To put it into words would have been vile!
Compared to Nietzsche, Verlaine, and Sakutarō, Maupassant, Mérimée, and Ōgai seemed more genuine.
I poured my soul into five-yen diversions.

Even when entering cafés, I never showed eagerness.
I feigned world-weary exhaustion.
In summer, I'd say "A cold beer."
In winter, "Hot sake."
I wanted them to think my drinking stemmed purely from seasonal whims.
While grimacing through each reluctant swallow, I ignored the pretty waitresses.
Every café had one middle-aged waitress—all eagerness, no allure—and I'd only speak to her type.
Our conversations stuck to weather patterns and commodity prices.
I had mastered counting emptied bottles with divine stealth.
When six beer bottles lined the table, when ten sake decanters stood ranked, I'd rise abruptly as if remembering something and mutter "Check" under my breath.
It never surpassed five yen.
I'd deliberately rummage through pockets—
pretending to have forgotten where I'd hidden the money—
until finally "discovering" those pants pockets.
Then I'd fidget my right hand inside for a while.

I was pretending to select five or six bills. Finally pulling out a single bill from my pocket, I checked whether it was a ten-yen note or five-yen note before handing it to the waitress. "It's not much," I'd say of the change, giving it all away without a glance. Hunching my shoulders and striding out of the café, I never once looked back until reaching my school dormitory. Starting the next day, I would begin saving up coins again—penny by penny.

On the night of the duel, I entered a café called “Himawari.”
I had thrown on a navy blue cloak and was wearing pure white leather gloves.
I never went to the same café twice in a row.
I feared that consistently using five-yen bills would arouse suspicion.
My visit to “Himawari” was my first in two months.

Around that time, a foreign youth who bore some resemblance to me was on the verge of making it as a film actor, so I too gradually began catching women’s eyes.
When I sat down in the corner chair of that café, all four waitresses there—dressed in kimonos of various styles—lined up before my table.
It was winter.
I said, “Hot sake.”
Then I hunched my shoulders as if unbearably cold.
The resemblance to the film actor directly benefited me.
Even though I remained silent, one young waitress offered me a cigarette.

“Himawari” was small and dirty.
On the eastern wall was pasted a poster of a woman with a face twice as long as it was wide, her hair tied in a Western-style bun, listlessly propping her cheek on her hand and baring walnut-sized teeth in a smile.
At the bottom of the poster, “Kabutobīru” was printed sideways in black.
On the western wall facing it was hung a mirror measuring about one tsubo.
The mirror was housed in a frame painted with gold powder.
At the north entrance hung a soiled red-and-black striped muslin curtain, and on the wall above it, a photograph of a Western woman—lying naked on grassy marshland, laughing uproariously—had been pinned into place.
On the southern wall, a single paper balloon was stuck.
It was right above my head.
There was no harmony at all—infuriatingly so.
Three tables and ten chairs.
In the center was a stove.
The earthen floor was planked.
I knew that in this café, I could never settle down.
The dim lighting was still a small mercy.

That night, I received bizarre hospitality.
Around the time I emptied the first flask of hot sake poured by that middle-aged waitress, the young waitress who had earlier given me a cigarette suddenly thrust her right palm under my nose.
Without showing surprise, I slowly raised my face and peered into the depths of her small pupils.
She wanted her fortune told.
I understood instantly.
Even silent, my body radiated a prophet’s lofty aura.
I didn’t touch her hand—just glanced—and muttered she’d lost her lover yesterday.
It hit true.
Then came stranger courtesies.
One plump waitress even called me *Sensei*.
I read all their palms.
Nineteen years old.
Born in the Tiger year.
Pining for a man too good for her.
Loves roses.
Your family dog whelped puppies.
Six pups.
All true.
The gaunt middle-aged waitress with cool eyes slumped when told she’d buried two husbands.
This uncanny precision thrilled me most of all.

I had already emptied six flasks.
At that moment, a young peasant wearing a dog-fur vest appeared at the entrance.

The peasant sat down at the table right next to mine, turning the fur-covered back of his vest toward me, and said, “Whiskey.”
The pattern of the dog fur was spotted.
Because of this peasant’s appearance, the euphoria at my table subsided temporarily.
I began to feel pricking pangs of regret over having emptied six flasks.
I wanted to get drunker.
I wanted to exaggerate tonight’s joy even more.
I could only drink four more.
That wasn’t enough.
It wasn’t enough.
I’d steal it.
I’d steal this whiskey.
The waitresses would see I wasn’t stealing for money but as some prophet’s outlandish joke—they might even applaud.
This peasant too would likely crack a bitter smile at a drunkard’s prank.
Steal!
I reached out, took the whiskey cup from the neighboring table, and calmly drained it.
No applause came.
Silence fell.

The peasant turned toward me and stood up.
“Get outside.”
Having said that, he started walking toward the entrance.
I, too, followed the peasant with a smirk.
In passing, I caught a fleeting glimpse of a mirror set in a golden frame.
I was a composed, handsome man.
In the depths of the mirror was submerged a laughing face one foot by two feet.
I regained my composure.
Confidently, I flicked the muslin curtain with a snap.

Under the square eaves light with *THE HIMAWARI* written in yellow Roman letters, we came to a stop.
The four waitresses had their pale faces hovering in the dimly lit entrance.

We began the following argument.

“Don’t push your luck.”

“I wasn’t mocking you.”
“I was just acting spoiled.”
“What’s wrong with that?”

“I’m a peasant.”
“When you act spoiled like that, it pisses me off.”

I took another look at the peasant’s face.
It was a small head with a short cropped haircut, thin eyebrows, monolid eyes with whites showing below the iris, and bluish-black skin.
His height was certainly at least six inches shorter than mine.
I decided to keep playing it off.

“I just wanted to drink whiskey.”
“Because it looked tasty.”

“I wanted to drink it too.”
“The whiskey was too good to waste.”
“That’s all.”

“You’re honest.”
“Cute.”

“Don’t get cocky.”
“You’re just a student.”
“Slathering that white makeup all over your face.”

“But I’m supposed to be a fortune-teller.”
“I’m a prophet, you know.”
“Surprised?”

“Don’t even pretend to be drunk.”
“Get on your hands and knees and apologize.”

Understanding me requires courage above all else.
That's not a bad line.
I am Friedrich Nietzsche.

I was waiting for the waitresses to step in and stop him any moment now.
However, the waitresses all wore cold expressions and waited for me to be hit.
Before long, I was hit.
As the right fist came flying in from the side, I swiftly ducked my neck.
I flew backward about eighteen meters.
It was my white-lined hat that had taken the blow for me.
I began walking to pick up that hat, smiling deliberately slowly.

Day after day of sleet had turned the road into a slushy mess. The moment I crouched down to pick up the mud-caked hat, I thought about fleeing. Five yen saved—I’d drink it again somewhere else. I took two or three running steps. Slipped. Fell flat on my back. I must have looked like a squashed rain frog. My own gracelessness made me seethe slightly. My gloves, jacket, trousers—even my overcoat—were all smeared with mud. I slowly clambered up, lifted my head, and trudged back to the peasant. He stood encircled and guarded by the waitresses.

I had not a single ally.
That conviction awakened my savagery.

“I want to thank you.”

After sneering and saying that, I took off my gloves and even hurled my more expensive mantle into the mud.
I was somewhat satisfied with my own old-fashioned lines and gestures.
Someone stop me.

The peasant clumsily took off his dog-fur vest, handed it to the beautiful waitress who had given me cigarettes, and then slipped one hand into his pocket.

“Don’t try anything dirty.”

I braced myself and issued that warning.

A silver flute came out from his pocket.
The silver flute sparkled under the eaves lantern’s light.
The silver flute was handed to the middle-aged waitress who had lost two husbands.

The peasant’s very simplicity had me enthralled.
It was not in a novel; in truth, I wanted to kill this peasant.

“Come at me!”

Having shouted that, I kicked the peasant’s shin with all my might with my mud-caked boot.
I knocked him down, then went to gouge out those clear sanpaku eyes.
The mud-caked boot kicked futilely at the air.
I noticed my own clumsiness.
I felt sad.
A faintly warm fist landed across my left eye and large nose.
Crimson flames erupted from my eye.
I saw that.
I pretended to stagger.
A sharp smack struck from my right earlobe down to my cheek.
I planted both hands in the mud.
In an instant, I sank my teeth into the peasant’s leg.
The leg was hard.
It was a roadside poplar stake.

I lay face down in the mud, frantically trying to burst into loud sobs now of all times, but alas, not a single tear came.

Black Woman

The Black Woman was inside the cage. The interior measured about three square meters, with a single log stool placed in the pitch-dark back corner. She sat there embroidering. What embroidery could possibly be done in such darkness? The boy sneered like a shrewd gentleman, carving deep wrinkles beside his nose and twisting his mouth.

Nippon Charivari had brought along one Black woman. The village stirred. They said she devoured people. That bright red horns grew from her head. That flower-shaped patches covered her entire body. The boy didn't believe any of it. He would think: It's not like the villagers truly believed those rumors themselves. Leading such dreary, dreamless lives, they must've seized this chance to fabricate legends, pretending belief while growing drunk on them. Every time he heard their facile lies, he'd gnash his teeth, cover his ears, and bolt home. The boy thought their gossip idiotic. Why didn't they discuss more important matters? Wasn't the Black Woman supposed to be female?

Charivari’s band paraded through the village’s narrow streets and, in under sixty seconds, managed to spread their propaganda to every nook and cranny of the village.
Thatched-roof houses lined both sides of the single road for about three blocks, nothing more.
The band did not halt their march even after reaching the outskirts of the village. Playing *Hotaru no Hikari* over and over, they wound their way through rapeseed fields, then emerged into mid-planting rice paddies. Proceeding single-file along narrow ridges, they roused every last villager into revelry before crossing a bridge, passing through a forest, and finally arriving at a neighboring village half a ri away.

In the eastern end of the village stood an elementary school, and further east of that school was a pasture.
The pasture spanned about 330 square meters, carpeted with Dutch clover, where two cows and half a dozen pigs were grazing and frolicking.
Charivari erected a mouse-gray tent hut in this pasture.
The cows and pigs were relocated to the owner’s barn.

At night, the villagers entered the tent in clusters of two or three with cloths over their cheeks.
There were sixty or seventy customers.
The boy struck the adults and pushed them aside again and again until he reached the front row.
He rested his chin on the thick rope encircling the round stage and stayed perfectly still.
Every now and then he would lightly close his eyes and feign rapture.

The acrobatic program proceeded.
Barrel.
Knit fabric.
The crack of a whip.
Brocade.
Emaciated old horse.
Prolonged applause.
Kaabaito.
About twenty gas lamps hung haphazardly around the hut at irregular intervals while night insects fluttered tauntingly around them.
Perhaps there wasn’t enough tent fabric; a large hole about thirty-three square meters had been left open in the hut’s ceiling through which the starry sky was visible.

The Black Woman’s cage was pushed onto the stage by two men.
The cage, apparently equipped with wheeled legs at its base, slid onto the stage with a clattering sound.

The hooded customers’ shouts and applause.
The boy listlessly raised his eyebrows and began quietly observing the inside of the cage.

The boy erased the shadow of a scornful laugh from his face.
The embroidery was none other than the Hinomaru flag.
The boy’s heart began to beat with a faint thump-thump.
It wasn’t because of soldiers or any other concepts resembling soldiers.
It was because the Black Woman hadn’t deceived him.
She had truly been embroidering.
The Hinomaru embroidery was simple enough that one could do it even while groping in the dark.
Thank goodness.
This Black Woman is honest.

Before long, the Master of Ceremonies in a tailcoat—sporting a Jintan-ad-style mustache—informed the audience of her general background, then turned toward the cage and barked twice, “Keruri! Keruri!” flourishing the whip in his right hand. The crack of the whip pierced the boy’s chest sharply. He felt jealous of the Master of Ceremonies. The Black Woman stood up.

Threatened by the crack of the whip, the Black Woman performed two or three acts with sluggish clumsiness. They were lewd acts. Leaving the boy behind, none of the other customers knew this. Was she deceiving them or not? Were there crimson horns or not? Such trifles alone concerned them.

A single blue rush waist wrap was fastened around the Black Woman’s body. It appeared to have been thickly coated with oil, gleaming intensely across every inch. Finally, the Black Woman sang a fragment of Noh-style chant. The accompaniment came from the Master of Ceremonies’ whip cracks—simple repetitions of “Shaabon, Shaabon.” The boy cherished the reverberation of that chant. No matter how graceless the words might be, he thought, if they carried a heartrending sincerity within them, they would inevitably produce a resonance that moves people. With this thought, he squeezed his eyes tightly shut again.

That night, thinking of the Black Woman, the boy defiled himself.

The next morning, the boy went to school.
He climbed over the classroom window, leaped across the backdoor stream, and ran toward the Charinee tent.
Through a gap in the tent, he peered into the dim interior.
The Charinee people had spread futons across the stage and lay sprawled like caterpillars in sleep.
The school bell rang.
Classes were about to begin.
The boy did not move.
The Black Woman wasn't sleeping.
Search as he might, she remained unfound.
The school fell silent.
Classes must have started.
Lesson Two: Alexander the Great and Physician Philip.
Long ago in Europe there was a hero called Alexander the Great.
He distinctly heard a girl's clear voice reciting.
The boy did not move.
The boy held fast.
That Black Woman's just an ordinary woman.
She must come out of the cage daily to play with everyone.
A woman who does laundry, smokes tobacco, gets angry in Japanese.

The girl’s recitation ended, and the teacher’s hoarse voice began to be heard.
"I believe trust is a virtue."
"It seems Alexander the Great was able to preserve his life precisely because he possessed this virtue."
"Everyone."

The boy still did not move.
She has to be here.
The cage must surely be empty.
The boy stiffened his shoulders.
As I kept peering in like this, the Black Woman would sneak up behind me and hug my shoulders tight.
So I stayed alert even behind me, keeping my shoulders small and rigid to be perfectly embraced.
The Black Woman will surely give me the embroidered Hinomaru flag.
At that moment I’d say this without showing weakness:
"How many before me?"

The Black Woman did not appear.
Leaving the tent, the boy wiped the sweat from his narrow forehead with his kimono sleeve and slowly made his way back to school.
He came down with a fever.
His lungs were bad, they said.
He cleverly deceived the old male teacher wearing hakama and button-up boots.
Even after taking his seat, the boy choked on fake, hacking coughs.

According to the villagers’ accounts, the Black Woman had indeed been confined in the cage, loaded onto a covered wagon, and left this village.
The Master of Ceremonies had concealed a pistol in his pocket to protect himself.