Pathway to Japanese Literature

I. Magic Lantern

At that time, each day was my twilight years.

It was love I fell into.
Such a thing was entirely new to me.
Before that time, I would show only my left profile in an attempt to peddle my manhood, and if the other person hesitated even for a minute, I would immediately spin around frantically and flee like a gust of wind.
But I, having grown slovenly in all things during that time, could not even maintain that wise, injury-sparing method of comportment which had nearly become fused to my very being - I engaged in what you might call reckless, immoderate love.
A hoarse murmur declaring 'There's no help for it when you're in love' constituted the entirety of my philosophy.
Twenty-five years old.
I was born now.
I am alive.
Live. End.
I am real.
There’s no help for it—I’m in love.
However, it seems I was never welcomed from the very beginning.
Just as I was gradually beginning to physically comprehend that antiquated concept of forced double suicide, I was brutally rejected—and that was the end of it.
The other person vanished somewhere.

My friends called me by the antiquated names Sano Jirōzaemon or Sano Jirō.

“Jirō.
“—But that’s good.”
“Thanks to that sort of name, your whole look’s managed to come together, hasn’t it?”
“Even getting dumped gives you some dignity—that’s proof you’ve been mooching off others from the start—but… eh, settle down.”

I have not forgotten that Bamba said that.
And yet, the one who began calling me Jirō or some such was indeed Bamba.

I became acquainted with Bamba at a sweet sake shop within Ueno Park.
I became acquainted with Bamba at a small sweet sake shop near Kiyomizu Temple that had two wooden benches laid with red felt carpets placed side by side.

The reason I would stroll out from the university's back gate to the park during breaks between lectures and occasionally stop by that sweet sake shop was because there worked a seventeen-year-old girl named Kiku—petite and clever-looking with clear eyes—whose appearance bore striking resemblance to the object of my affection.
Because the woman who was my romantic interest required some financial expenditure to meet, during times when I lacked funds I would sit on the wooden bench of that sweet sake shop, enduring my longing by leisurely sipping a cup of sweet sake while gazing at the girl called Kiku as a substitute for my beloved.
In the early spring of this year, I saw an unusual man at this sweet sake shop.
That day was a Saturday, and from morning onward it was clear.
After attending a lecture on French lyric poetry around noon, I wondered—had the plum blossoms bloomed yet? Were the cherry blossoms still waiting?
Having just been taught French lyric poetry moments before, I now visited that sweet sake shop while repeatedly humming these unsophisticated phrases of my own invention—crude verses utterly divorced from what I'd learned—to which I'd arbitrarily added a melody.
At that moment, there was already another customer.
I was surprised.
The customer’s appearance struck me as somehow bizarre.
He appeared quite emaciated yet was of average height; the suit he wore was an ordinary black serge one, but the overcoat layered atop it was most peculiar.
Though I couldn’t discern what style it was, at first glance it appeared to be Schiller’s overcoat.
The velvet and buttons were excessively numerous, the color a splendid silver-gray, and it hung so baggy it defied description.
Next came the face.
If I may describe my impression at first glance, it was a fox that had botched its transformation into Schubert.
A forehead remarkably broad to the point of peculiarity, small iron-rimmed glasses, wildly curly hair, a pointed chin, and an unkempt beard.
The skin, to use an exaggerated expression, was of a dirty blueness like a bush warbler’s feathers and completely lacked luster.
The man sat cross-legged at the center of the red felt-covered bench, all the while sipping sweet sake from a large powdered tea bowl with affected languor—ah, did he not then raise one hand and beckon me closer?
The longer I hesitated, the more unsettling this situation threatened to become—or so my intuition warned me. Forcing a smile whose meaning even I couldn’t comprehend, I settled onto the edge of the bench where the man sat.

“This morning, I ate some really tough dried squid,” came a voice that sounded deliberately strained—low and hoarse.
“My right molar is hurting unbearably.
There’s nothing as vexing as a toothache.
If I took a bunch of aspirin, it would clear up right away.
Oh, was it I who called you?
Excuse me.
For me—”
After glancing at my face, he smiled faintly at the corners of his mouth and said, “I can’t judge people worth a damn.
Blind man.—No, that’s not it.
I’m ordinary.
It’s all just a facade.
It’s a bad quirk of mine.
When meeting someone for the first time, I simply can’t help wanting to appear—well—somehow different.
There’s a term—‘self-imposed shackles.’
It’s terribly antiquated.
No good.
It’s pathological, I suppose.
Are you in the liberal arts?
You’re graduating this year, right?”

I answered.
"No.
One more year.
You see, I failed once before."

"Ah, an artist then."
Without smiling, he calmly took a sip of sweet sake.
"I've been at that music school nearly eight years now. Can't seem to graduate.
Because I've never once sat for an exam.
Testing people's abilities—that's intolerable impertinence."

"That's right."

“I merely said it.”
“In other words, I’m just not smart.”

"I often sit here like this watching people shuffle past," he said, "but at first I couldn't bear it."
"All these people around, yet none know me—none pay me heed—though there's no need for such vigorous nodding."
"I've been speaking from your perspective all along."
"But now? Now I'm unfazed."
"Rather—it thrills me."
"Like clear water flowing beneath a pillow."
"Not resignation."
"A king's delight."
After draining his sweet sake in one gulp, he thrust the matcha bowl toward me.
"The inscription here—Hakuba Kyōfukō."
"You should quit while ahead."
"Mortifying beyond endurance."
"I bequeath it to you."
"I paid dearly at an Asakusa antique shop—entrusted it here."
"My personal chalice."
"I adore your face."
"Eyes of fathomless depth."
"Eyes that yearn."
"When I die—and I might tomorrow—you'll drink from this bowl."

From then on, we met quite frequently at that sweet sake shop.
Bamba, however, did not die after all.
Not only did he not die, he even put on a little weight.
His livid cheeks swelled tautly like peach fruits.
He claimed it was alcohol bloat and added in a low voice that as his body swelled like this, it grew increasingly dangerous.
I grew increasingly close to him.
Why did I not flee from such a man, instead growing ever more intimate with him?
Was it because I believed in Bamba’s genius?

In the late autumn of last year, Joseph Szigeti—a Budapest-born virtuoso violinist—came to Japan and held three concerts at Hibiya Public Hall, though all three met with dismal attendance.
This forty-year-old genius of solitary pride became enraged and contributed an article to the Tokyo Asahi Newspaper reviling that "Japanese ears are donkey ears," yet following such invective against Japanese audiences there invariably appeared—bracketed like a poetic refrain—the phrase: "excepting one youth."
Who this "one youth" might be became the subject of whispered debates within musical circles at the time—it was said to be Bamba.
Bamba met and conversed with Joseph Szigeti.
On the night concluding the third humiliating concert at Hibiya Public Hall, Bamba spotted Szigeti's large red bald head in the shadow of a potted tree at the rear of a renowned Ginza beer hall.
Without hesitation, Bamba strode purposefully to the table adjacent to where this world-renowned yet unrewarded master sat feigning composure—a faint smile playing on his lips as he licked beer from his glass—and took a seat.
That night Bamba and Szigeti discovered mutual resonance, meticulously drinking their way through every notable café from Ginza 1-chome to 8-chome.
Joseph Szigeti paid all bills.
He remained impeccably mannered even when drinking.
His black bowtie stayed tightly knotted throughout; not once did he lay a finger on any waitress.
"Art unshaped by intellectual rigor holds no interest," he declared.
"In literature I favor André Gide and Thomas Mann," he added before forlornly biting his right thumb's nail.
He pronounced "Gide" as "Chitto."

When night had completely given way to dawn, the two men averted their faces from each other as they exchanged a listless handshake by the lotus pond in the Imperial Hotel's front garden, parting hurriedly; that very day Szigeti boarded the Empress of Canada from Yokohama to depart for America, and on the following day, an article bearing that customary refrain was published in the Tokyo Asahi Newspaper.
Yet I could not bring myself to place faith in these boastful stories he recounted—tales he told while blinking rapidly as if mortified, eventually lapsing into near-sullenness.
Whether he even possessed the linguistic ability to converse with a foreigner until dawn broke—starting from such fundamentals, I found everything suspect.
Once doubts arose, there was no end—what music theory did he command? What skill as a violinist? What substance as a composer? Of these matters I understood nothing.
Bamba would occasionally walk about with a glossy black violin case tucked under his left arm, though it perpetually held not a single item within.
By his own account, the case itself constituted a modern symbol—chillingly hollow inside—but at such moments I even harbored the bizarre suspicion of whether this man had ever touched a violin at all.
Given such circumstances—where belief or disbelief in his genius became moot through sheer lack of measurable skill—my attraction to him must have stemmed from elsewhere.
I too belonged to the camp that cared more for violin cases than violins, feeling I'd been captivated less by Bamba's artistry than by his appearance and jests.
He would frequently change outfits when appearing before me.
Beyond various suits, he wore student uniforms or workmen's jackets, once arriving in stiff obi and white tabi socks that left me flustered and blushing.
According to his nonchalant mutterings, this sartorial fluidity sprang from a desire to leave no particular impression on others.
I had neglected to mention that Bamba's family home lay in Shimorenjaku, Mitaka Village on Tokyo's outskirts—he came daily into the city without fail to carouse. His father being a landowner of considerable means meant such wardrobe changes constituted mere luxuries available to a landlord's son—and when I considered this, it seemed I hadn't been drawn by his appearance after all.

Was it because of money?
It's rather awkward to admit, but whenever we went out carousing together, he paid for everything.
He would even push me aside to pay.
Between friendship and money, there seemed to exist an exceedingly delicate interplay constantly at work, and it was undeniable that his state of affluence held a certain allure for me.
This made me wonder—perhaps my relationship with Bamba had been nothing more than that of master and servant from the very beginning, a tale ending with me being obsequiously manipulated from start to finish.

Ah, it seemed I'd let it slip in my telling.
In other words, during that time, I was leading a willless existence like goldfish excrement—as I had mentioned earlier in passing—and it must have been in such a fragile state, drifting wherever the goldfish swam, that I continued my association with Bamba.
However—the Eighty-Eighth Night.
The strange thing was how acutely attuned Bamba seemed to the calendar—one moment lamenting today was Butsumetsu*, an inauspicious Buddhist date, then muttering indistinctly about it now being Tango** or Yamimatsuri***, matters whose significance utterly escaped me. That day too found me at our usual Ueno Park sweet sake stall, drinking beer alone while steeped in late spring's muggy decadence—swollen-bellied cats napping beneath leafed-out cherry trees, petals swirling like snowflakes, caterpillars undulating—when suddenly I became aware of Bamba seated behind me in a garish green suit.
In a low voice: “Today is the Eighty-Eighth Night.”
No sooner had he muttered those words than—as if overcome with embarrassment—he heaved himself upright and gave his shoulders one great shake.
Laughing as we made our meaningless resolution to commemorate the Eighty-Eighth Night, we two set out to drink in Asakusa—but that night found me harboring an unshakable intimacy toward Bamba.
Five or six liquor shops in Asakusa.
Bamba ranted at length about Dr. Plaage’s feud with Japan's music world—as though chewing up and spitting out the words—then muttered again in soliloquy, “Plaage’s a great man, you know why?” While he whispered his reasons, I grew so desperate to see my woman that I couldn’t sit still.
I invited Bamba.
I whispered that we should go see the Magic Lanterns.
Bamba didn’t know about Magic Lantern district.
“There, there.”
“Just for today, I’m the senior.”
“Since it’s the Eighty-Eighth Night, I’ll take you there.”
While making such bashful jokes myself, I forcibly shoved Bamba—who kept muttering “Dr. Plaage, Dr. Plaage” under his breath—into the automobile.
“Hurry!”

Ah, that familiar thrill the moment we crossed the Ōkawa.

Magic Lantern Town.
In this town, alleyways resembling spiderwebs branch out in all directions, and through small windows—each about one foot by two feet—lining both sides of these alleys, young women’s faces bloom with radiant smiles. The moment one steps into this town, the weight on their shoulders slips away; they forget all postures of self and spend the night in serene composure, beautiful as escaped convicts.
Although this town seemed new to Bamba, he showed no particular surprise and walked at a leisurely pace slightly apart from me, intently examining each of the women’s faces in the small windows lining both sides.
Entering alleyways and exiting them—turning through alleyways until we reached one—I stopped and gently poked Bamba in the side; I did like this woman.
"Yes—for quite some time now," I whispered.
My love interest—without even blinking—moved only her small lower lip tightly to the left.
Bamba also came to a halt—letting both arms dangle limply while thrusting his head forward—and began scrutinizing my woman with unwavering intensity.
After a moment, turning around as if to look back, he exclaimed—

“Oh, she resembles her.”
“She does.”

I realized it for the first time—abruptly.

“No, she doesn’t hold a candle to Kiku.”
I stiffened and responded awkwardly.
I had been terribly tense.

Bamba wore a slightly flustered expression.

"You shouldn't compare things like that," he laughed, but immediately knit his brows fiercely. "No—one mustn't compare anything at all."
"The vulgarity of this comparative instinct," he muttered slowly as if lecturing himself, then began ambling away.

The next morning, we sat silent in the automobile on our return.
An oppressive tension hung in the air—if one were to utter even a word, it seemed they would come to blows.
As the automobile blended into the hustle and bustle of Asakusa and we had just begun to feel the carefree ease of ordinary people, Bamba muttered earnestly.

“Last night, a woman told me this,” he said.
“We aren’t as carefree as we look from the outside.”

I deliberately burst into exaggerated laughter.
Bamba smiled with uncharacteristic brightness and thumped my shoulder,

“Japan’s finest town.”
“Everyone lives chests-out proud.”
“No shame.”
“Astonishing.”
“Squeezing every drop from each day.”

After that, I grew so familiar with Bamba and clung to him like family that I even felt as though I had made my first friend since birth.
The moment I thought I had gained a friend, I lost my love interest.
Because I had been abandoned by the woman in such an unspeakably shameful manner—even to myself—I gained some notoriety and was ultimately saddled with that ridiculous name: Sano Jirō.
It’s only now that I can speak of it in such an offhand manner, but back then—far from being a laughing matter—I truly wanted to die.
The illness from Magic Lantern Town still hadn’t healed, leaving me in a state where I could become disabled at any moment, and I couldn’t comprehend why people had to keep living.
Before long summer vacation began; returning to my family home in the mountains at Honshu's northern tip two hundred ri from Tokyo; there day after day I sprawled beneath the chestnut tree in a rattan chair smoking seventy cigarettes daily while idling away the hours.

Bamba sent a letter.

Dear Sir,

Can't you at least wait to die?
For my sake.
If you were to commit suicide, I would secretly flatter myself—Ah, this must be meant to spite me.
If that satisfies you, then deign to die.
I too was—no, still am—unenthusiastic about living.
But I do not commit suicide.
I detest having someone flatter themselves over me.
I await illness and disaster.
But for now, my illnesses are toothache and hemorrhoids.
There's no sign of dying.
Disasters too are in no hurry to arrive.
I leave my room's window wide open all night awaiting a burglar's raid, thinking to let him kill me once and for all, but those who sneak in through the window are moths and winged ants and beetles, followed by an army of a million mosquitoes.
(You once said, 'Ah, just like me!') You—want to publish a book together?
I want to publish a book or something, repay all my debts, and then sleep soundly for about three days and nights straight.
Debt is this body of mine suspended mid-air.
A gaping black hole of debt yawns in my chest.
Thanks to publishing a book, this unfillable void may grow even deeper—but when that time comes, so be it.
Anyway, I want to skillfully bring closure to myself.
The book's title: Pirate.

As for the concrete details, I intend to decide after consulting you, but my plan is to make it an export-oriented magazine. France should be our target. Since you clearly possess exceptional language skills, please translate our manuscripts into French. I'll send a copy to André Gide and obtain his critique. Ah, now I can debate Valéry directly! Shall we give that drowsy-looking Proust a proper flustering? ("You said: 'What a pity—Proust has already died.'") Cocteau still lives. You—if only Radiguet were alive... Should I send one to Master Dekobura too and delight him? Poor soul.

Isn't this sort of fantasy delightful? Moreover, putting it into practice isn't all that difficult. (As I write, the ink dries. The quaintly peculiar style of epistolary prose. Not narrative, not dialogue, not description—an utterly peculiar yet fully self-contained uncanny style. No—that was a foolish thing to say.) According to my all-night calculations last night, with three hundred yen I can produce a magnificent book. If it's that much, even I alone could probably manage. You should write poetry and have Paul Fort read it. I am now devising a symphony in four movements titled "Pirate's Song." Once it's completed, I'll publish it in this magazine and find some way to fluster Ravel. I repeat—it's not difficult to realize. If only we had the money, it could be done. What possible reasons could there be for it being unachievable? You too had better indulge in splendid fantasies to your heart's content. What do you think? (Why must one conclude letters with wishes for good health? There exists in this world the bizarre tale of a man who—despite having a dull mind, clumsy prose, and inept speech—excels solely at letter writing.) Now then, am I skilled in epistolary arts? Or am I inept at letters?

Farewell.

This was another matter entirely, but as it had just then floated into my mind, I decided to write it down.

An age-old question: "Is knowing happiness?"

Mr. Sano Jirōzaemon, Bamba Kazuma.

II Pirate

See Naples and then die!

When I remarked, "The word 'Pirate' also denotes plagiarists of literary works—does that pose no issue?" Bamba instantly retorted, "That only heightens its appeal."
Le Pirate—thus was the magazine's name settled.
La Basoche, with which Mallarmé and Verlaine had been affiliated; La Jeune Belgique of Verhaeren's circle; others like La Semaine and Le Type—all crimson roses blossoming in foreign artistic gardens.
Those organizational periodicals through which artists of yore had addressed the world.
Ah, we too.
When I returned to Tokyo in haste after summer recess, Bamba's pirate fervor had intensified further, soon infecting me as well. Whenever we met, we would discuss—no longer splendid fantasies about Le Pirate—but concrete plans.
Four annual issues: spring, summer, autumn, winter.
Kikubai-sized format, sixty pages.
All art paper.
Club members must each acquire one pirate uniform.
A seasonal flower shall ever adorn the breast.
The members' shared watchword: Swear nothing.
What constitutes happiness?
Judge not.
See Naples and then die!
Etc.
All comrades must be comely youths in their twenties.
Each must possess preeminent skill in one art.

Following the precedent of The Yellow Book, we would find a genius artist equal to Beardsley and have them churn out illustrations in rapid succession. Without relying on the likes of the International Cultural Promotion Association, we would make our art known to foreign lands with our own hands. As funds, Bamba would contribute two hundred yen, I would contribute one hundred yen, and we planned to have the other members contribute about two hundred yen. As for members—arrangements were made for Bamba to first introduce me to Satake Rokurō, a student at Tokyo Art School who was related to him.

That day, I visited Kiku’s sweet sake shop in Ueno Park around four in the afternoon as promised with Bamba—but there he sat waiting for me on the red felt-covered bench in Meiji-era attire: a navy-dyed hemp summer kimono and Ogura hakama pants. At Bamba's feet crouched Kiku-chan—her crimson hemp-leaf patterned obi fastened tight, white flower hairpin adorning her hair—holding a lacquered serving tray as she gazed up at his face without moving, frozen in perfect stillness.

The weak western sun faintly illuminated Bamba's sallow face while evening mist swirled hazily around their bodies, enveloping them in a landscape that reeked uncannily of fox spirits.

When I approached and called out "Hey" to Bamba, Kiku let out a small "Ah!" and jumped up. She turned to greet me with a flash of white teeth, but her plump cheeks swiftly reddened.

Flustered myself, I inadvertently let slip—"Had I said something wrong?"—whereupon Kiku momentarily stiffened her expression and fixed me with an oddly serious stare before whirling around to present her back, hiding her face behind the serving tray as she scurried into the shop’s rear quarters.

It was nothing—I felt as though I were watching the movements of a marionette.

While wondering suspiciously, I casually watched her retreating figure and sat down on the bench, whereupon Bamba smirked faintly and began to speak.

“She believes completely.”
"That figure really is quite lovely."
“That guy’s not here.”
The Hakuba Kyoufukou no Tencha tea bowl - perhaps deemed too embarrassingly ostentatious - had long been abolished, and now they used the same celadon tea bowls as ordinary customers.

He took a sip of bancha. “Look at this unkempt beard of mine—how many days’ growth do you think this took?”
“When asked that—this is what happens after just two days or so.”
“Look—stay still and watch.”
“When I explained with complete seriousness that my beard grows so visibly you could see each strand swaying with the naked eye, didn’t he just silently crouch down and stare at my chin with those enormous dish-like eyes?”
“You were surprised, weren’t you?”
“Do you believe out of ignorance, or do you believe for profit?”
“Perhaps I should write a novel on the theme of belief.”
“A believes B.”
“Then C, D, E, F, G, H, and numerous other characters appear one after another, changing their methods and tactics to slander B in various ways.”
“—And then—A still believes B.”
“There is no doubt.”
“From the very start, there was no doubt.”
“A rests assured.”
“A is a woman, B is a man. What a dull novel.”
“Hah.”
He was acting oddly boisterous.
I thought I had to immediately show that I was merely listening to his words as they were and not particularly trying to fathom what was in his heart.

“That novel seems intriguing.”
“Why don’t you try writing it?”

I said in as carefree a tone as possible and gazed blankly at Saigō Takamori's bronze statue ahead.
Bamba seemed relieved.
He smoothly managed to regain his usual sullen expression.

“However—I cannot write novels. You have a fondness for ghost stories, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do like them.”
“More than anything, ghost stories seem to stimulate my imagination the most.”

“How about this ghost story?”
Bamba lightly licked his lower lip.
“The pinnacle of intellect does indeed exist.
"It is the hair-raising Avīci—the endless abyss.
"The moment one catches even a glimpse of this thing, they become incapable of uttering a single word.
“Even if one takes up the pen, they end up merely scribbling their own caricature in the corner of the manuscript paper—unable to write a single character.
"And yet, that person secretly plots to write a certain horrifying novel.
"The moment they plot it, all the world’s novels suddenly become tedious and lifeless.
“That is truly a horrifying novel.
"For instance—whether one wears their hat askew and feels self-conscious, wears it straight yet finds no peace, or impulsively removes it only to feel increasingly peculiar—this novel offers a cool resolution to such problems of unifying excessive self-consciousness about positional stability, like a Go stone placed upon the board.
“A cool resolution?”
“That’s not it.”
“Windless.”
“Cut glass.”
“White bone.”
“That’s the nature of this crystalline resolution.”
“No—that’s not it.”
"No adjectives—just 'resolution.'"
“Such a novel certainly exists.
"However—from the very day someone conceives of this novel—they begin wasting away before your eyes until finally going mad, committing suicide, or becoming mute."

“You know, Radiguet committed suicide, they say.”
“Cocteau seems to have gone mad, spending entire days on nothing but opium, and Valéry became mute for ten years.”
“Over this single novel alone, even in Japan there were quite tragic victims for a time.”
“In fact, you—”
“Hey, hey.” A hoarse voice interrupted Bamba’s story.
Startled, I turned around to find an extremely short young man in a cobalt-blue student uniform standing quietly at Bamba’s right side.

“You’re late.”
Bamba said in a tone that seemed angry.
“Hey, this Imperial University student is Sano Jirōzaemon.”
“This is Satake Rokurō.”
“The regular painter.”

Satake and I exchanged slight bows while forcing bitter smiles.
Satake’s face had the feel of a milky-white Noh mask—polished to a high gloss, devoid of any visible skin texture or pores.
His pupils lacked clear focus like glass eyeballs; his nose was cold as ivory carving, the bridge sharp as a sword.
His eyebrows were slender and elongated like willow leaves; his thin lips were as red as strawberries.
Compared to such a resplendent countenance, the meagerness of his limbs was equally astonishing in its extremity.
His height not quite reaching five shaku, his thin small palms evoked those of a lizard.
Satake remained standing and addressed me in a faint, lifeless voice like an old man’s.

“I heard about you from Bamba.”
“You’ve really had a terrible time of it, haven’t you?”
“I must say, you’re quite something.”
I glowered and looked again at Satake’s dazzlingly white face.
It remained as expressionless as a box.

Bamba clicked his tongue loudly. “Hey Satake, stop mocking people. Casually ridiculing others like that shows a despicable mentality.”
“If you’re going to insult someone, do it properly.”

“I’m not mocking anyone.”
He replied calmly, taking out a purple handkerchief from his chest pocket and slowly beginning to wipe the sweat around his neck.

“Ugh.”
Bamba let out a sigh and flopped down onto the bench.
“Do you have to tack on things like ‘ne’ or ‘yo’ at the end of every sentence just to speak?
“Just cut out those sentence-ending interjections.”
“They feel sticky on the skin and I can’t stand them.”

I felt exactly the same way.

Satake neatly folded his handkerchief and tucked it into his chest pocket, muttering as though discussing someone else’s affair.
"You put on that morning glory face and come at me, don't you?"

Bamba quietly sat up, slightly strengthened his voice, and said,
“I don’t wanna argue with you here.”
“We’re both just talking with some third party in mind, you see.”
“That’s how it is, right?”
There seemed to be some details I wasn’t aware of.

Satake bared his porcelain-like bluish-white teeth in a grin.
“Are you finished with me now?”

“That’s right.”
Bamba deliberately averted his gaze and released a painstakingly feigned petty yawn.

“Well then, I’ll take my leave.”
Satake muttered quietly thus, staring at his gold-cased wristwatch for a considerable length of time as if pondering something, then said: “I’m going to Hibiya to hear the New Symphony.
“Konoe’s become quite the businessman lately.
“You see, there’s always a foreign gentleman’s daughter sitting next to my seat.
“That’s been my pleasure lately.”
When he finished speaking, he scurried away with the nimbleness of a mouse.

“Damn it!”
“Kiku, beer.”
“Your pretty boy went back.”
“Jirō, want a drink?”
“What a dud I’ve dragged into our circle.”
“He’s Isoginchaku, you know.”
“Fight that guy and you’ll lose even standing on your head.”
“Doesn’t resist at all—just clings like glue to the fist that hits him.”
Suddenly serious, he lowered his voice: “He grabbed Kiku’s hand like it was nothing.”
“How do creeps like that steal wives so easy?”
“Impotence if you ask me.”
“We’re just nominal relatives—not a drop of shared blood. Don’t want to squabble with him before Kiku.”
“Arguing’s vile.”
“You know—Satake’s pride? Makes my skin crawl.”
He clutched his beer cup and heaved a cavernous sigh.
“Still—gotta admit his paintings have merit.”

I was in a daze. I looked down at the bustling scene of Ueno Hirokoji as it gradually darkened and became tinged with various lights. There I remained, worlds removed from Bamba's soliloquy, gripped by trivial sentimentality - the melancholy contained within those simple words I'd uttered: "Tokyo, huh."

However, five or six days later, when I read in the newspaper that Ueno Zoo had newly acquired a pair of tapirs and suddenly felt like seeing them, I went to the zoo after school—only to find Satake sitting on a bench near the waterfowl’s large iron umbrella, sketching something in his notebook.
I had no choice but to approach him and lightly tap his shoulder.

“Ah.” He groaned lightly and slowly twisted his neck toward me.
“Is that you?
You startled me.
Please have a seat here.
I’ll finish this task in a hurry now, so please wait just a little while.
There’s something I want to discuss.”
Having said this in an oddly distant tone, he took up his pencil again and began immersing himself in sketching.
I remained standing behind him for a while, fidgeting, but eventually resolved myself, sat down on the bench, and quietly peered at Satake’s sketchbook.
Satake immediately seemed to notice,

"I'm drawing pelicans," he informed me in a low voice while swiftly rendering the birds' varied poses with terribly rough lines. "There's someone who buys my sketches for about twenty yen each, as many as I can draw." He smirked to himself. "I detest telling lies like Bamba does. Are you still on about that Rakujō no Tsuki story?"

“Rakujō no Tsuki,’ you mean?” I couldn’t make sense of it.

“So, you still don’t know.”
While sketching a rear-facing pelican large in the corner of the page, he said, “Long ago, Bamba composed the piece called ‘Rakujō no Tsuki’ under the pseudonym Taki Rentarō and sold all rights to Yamada Kōsaku for three thousand yen.”

“So that’s… that famous ‘Rakujō no Tsuki’?”
My heart leaped.

“It’s a lie.”
A gust of wind flipped through the sketchbook with a flutter, revealing glimpses of nudes and floral sketches.
“Bamba’s lies are famous.”
“Crafted cleverly, you see.”
“Everyone gets taken in at first.”
“Are you still on about Joseph Szigeti?”

“I’ve heard about that.”
I was steeped in sadness.

“An article with a refrain?”
He said this with apparent disinterest and snapped his sketchbook shut.
“Thank you for waiting.”
“Let’s walk a bit.”
“There’s something I want to discuss.”

Today I'll give up on seeing the tapir couple.
And so I resolved to lend ear to this man called Satake, who struck me as even more peculiar than those tapirs.
After passing beneath the waterfowl's great iron canopy, moving past the otters' tank, and arriving before the cage housing a brown bear massive as a small hillock, Satake began speaking.
His words carried the rehearsed cadence of lines recited countless times before—phrases that might have read with some semblance of passion on paper, but were in reality merely spilled forth in that hoarse, sepulchral murmur of his.

“Bamba is utterly worthless.”
“What musician doesn’t know music?”
“I’ve never once heard him speak about music.”
“Never seen him hold a violin.”
“Compose? Please.”
“Doubt he can read a single note.”
“His own family weeps because of him.”
“Not even certain he’s enrolled in music school.”
“Once tried becoming a novelist, you know.”
“Read so many books he forgot how to write.”
“Pathetic.”
“Now parrots ‘excessive self-consciousness’ to every fool who’ll listen.”
“I’ll put it plainly – excessive self-consciousness is when hundreds of schoolgirls line both sides of the road, and you must shuffle through alone. Every twitch of your finger, every glance becomes a spastic dance. Agony! Yet here’s Bamba chattering nonsense about magazines – ”
“‘Pirate’.”
“What pirate?”
“Delusions of grandeur.”
“Trust him too much, and you’ll regret it.”
“This I declare absolutely.”
“My prophecy never fails.”

“But...”

“But?”

“I believe in Mr. Bamba.”

“I see. Is that so?” He listened to my earnest words without a trace of expression and continued: “As for this magazine venture, I don’t believe in it from start to finish. He demands fifty yen from me—absurd. They just want to stir up commotion. Not an ounce of sincerity exists.”

“You might not know yet—the day after tomorrow, Bamba and I, along with some young writer named Dazai Osamu he met through a music school senior, we three are set to visit your boarding house. Says we’ll finalize the magazine plans there—what do you think? Shouldn’t we put on our most thoroughly bored expressions when that happens? Shouldn’t we pour cold water on their grand designs?”

“No matter how magnificent a magazine we might publish, society won’t tailor proper outfits for us. However far we push ahead, anything half-finished gets cast aside. I’ve no need to be Beardsley.” His voice took on mechanical precision: “Paint strenuously—sell high—play freely. That suffices perfectly.”

The place where he finished speaking was before the lynx cage.
The lynx made its blue eyes gleam, arched its back, and stared intently at us.
Satake quietly extended his arm and pressed the lit cigarette firmly against the lynx’s nose.
And Satake’s figure was as natural as a rock.

Three: Dragon Gate

Passing through there—a single two-sen whelk, perhaps.

“Somehow—it sounds like quite the preposterous magazine.”

“No.
An ordinary pamphlet.”

“That’s precisely why you say such things.
I’ve heard countless stories about you—I know you well.
A magazine meant to outdo Gide and Valéry, they say.”

“Have you come here to mock me?”

During my brief trip downstairs, Bamba and Dazai had apparently already begun their quarrel. When I returned with tea utensils and entered the room, I found Bamba slouched disgracefully at the corner desk with his cheek propped on hand, while the man called Dazai sat diagonally opposite him against the far wall, his lanky hairy legs thrust forward and back leaning against the plaster wall. Both maintained drowsily half-closed eyes and laboriously slow speech rhythms, yet their bellies seemed to seethe with wrath and murderous intent. The corners of their eyes and edges of their speech flickered like adder tongues so conspicuously that even I could easily discern it as they engaged in this perilous verbal duel.
Satake lay stretched out right beside Dazai, smoking a cigarette while indeed darting his eyes restlessly about with a thoroughly bored expression.

It was doomed from the start.
That morning, while I was still asleep, Bamba stormed into my boarding house room.
He wore his student uniform properly that day, with a puffy yellow raincoat thrown over it.
Without removing that raincoat thoroughly soaked by the storm, he paced around the room in restless circles.
As he walked, he muttered like a man talking to himself.

“You. You.”
“Wake up.”
“I appear to be suffering from severe neurasthenia.”
“With this much rain falling, I’ll surely go mad.”
“Just imagining Pirate is enough to make me waste away.”
“You there, wake up.”
“Just the other day, I met a man called Dazai Osamu.”
“A senior from my school introduced him as a man who writes wonderfully skillful novels—but it’s all fate.”
“I decided to let him join our group.”
“You, Dazai is a horribly unpleasant fellow.”
“That’s right.”
“He’s exactly—no, a detestable fellow.”
“It’s pure loathing.”
“I feel there’s a physical incompatibility with that sort of man.”
“Completely shaved head.”
“Moreover, you—a meaningful-looking shaved head.”
“That’s bad taste.”
“That’s right, that’s right.”
“That guy adorns his entire body with his peculiar tastes.”
“Are all novelists that sort of creature, I wonder?”

“Where did he leave contemplation and scholarship and passion—all that behind?”
“An utter through-and-through hack writer.”
“A livid greasy oil-slick face—you—in René’s novel I’ve read about such a nose.”
“A nose of utmost peril.”
“By a hair’s breadth from collapsing into a dumpling shape—the deep creases at its sides came to rescue.”
“Utterly ridiculous.”
“René puts it well.”
“Thick jet-black eyebrows—so wildly overgrown they practically bury those nervous little eyes.”
“Forehead obstinately narrow—two horizontal wrinkles carved across—utterly beyond redemption.”
“Thick neck—collar line heavy and dull—three red pimple marks beneath chin.”
“My estimation—height five shaku seven sun—weight fifteen kan—tabi size eleven mon—age decidedly under thirty.”
“Oh—forgot something crucial.”
“Terrible cat-like hunch—utterly bent double—you—close eyes and imagine such man.”
“But this is lie.”
“Complete lie.”
“Master Ōyama.”
“Putting on act.”
“No mistaking that.”
“Everything from start to finish—pretense.”
“My glaring eyes don’t miss thing.”

A patchy beard growing unevenly here and there.
No—that guy couldn't possibly be unkempt.
Under no circumstances could that be possible.
That beard was deliberately cultivated.
Ah—who in the world was I even talking about?!
Please observe—I had to explain every little thing I did like this or that—or else couldn't move a finger or even manage a cough.
What a dreadful mess!
That guy's true face was flat nothingness—no eyes, no mouth, no eyebrows.
He drew eyebrows and stuck on eyes with a nose—then had the gall to play innocent.
And you—he'd turned that into his art.
Damn!
When I first glimpsed him—felt like a konjac tongue had slurped wet across my face.
When I thought about it—what wretched company I'd gathered.
Satake—Dazai—Sano Jirōzaemon—Bamba—hah! These four standing silent in line would make history itself.
That was it!
I'd do it.
All fate.
Even wretched company made an amusing twist.
I staked my entire fate on Le Pirate—limiting my life to this single year.
Become a beggar—or Byron?

God grants me five pence.

“To hell with Satake’s schemes!” He suddenly lowered his voice. “You, get up. Let me open the storm shutters for you. They’ll all be here soon. I thought we’d hold the Pirate meeting in this room today.”

I too became caught in Bamba's fervor, beginning to pace restlessly, then kicked aside the futon to rise up. Together with Bamba, we wrenched open the rotting storm shutters with a splintering crack.
The roofs of Hongō’s town were hazy with rain.

Around noon, Satake came.
Without raincoat or hat, wearing only velvet trousers and a light blue woolen jacket, his face was wet from the rain, the color of his cheeks a strange bluish glow like the moon.
The noctiluca didn’t offer us even a word of greeting and collapsed limply into the corner of the room as though melting away.

“Forgive me. I’m exhausted.”

Immediately after, Dazai slid open the shoji and materialized stealthily.
At first glance, I panicked and averted my eyes.
This won't do, I thought.
His appearance overlapped perfectly, without a fraction of a gap, with the negative image I had previously drawn based on Bamba’s description—one of the two contrasting images of admiration and revulsion.
And what made matters even worse was that Dazai’s outfit at that moment perfectly matched the very style Bamba had long detested.
Clad in a garish Oshima-patterned silk kimono with a Hyogo-style sash featuring clustered tie-dye motifs, a bold checkered hunting cap atop his head, pale yellow habutae underrobe hems offering fluttering glimpses beneath—he sat with those hems slightly hitched up, pretending to gaze vacantly at the scenery beyond the window,

“Rain falls upon the town,” he said in a feminine high-pitched voice, turning toward us as his bloodshot eyes narrowed to thread-like slits and his entire face contorted into a laugh.
I bolted from the room and went downstairs to fetch tea.
When I returned carrying the tea utensils and iron kettle, Bamba and Dazai were already locked in argument.

Dazai folded both hands behind his shaven head. “Words are irrelevant.”
“Do you even have the will to go through with it?”

“What do you mean?”

“The magazine.
“If you’re serious about it, I could work with you.”

“What in the world did you come here for?”
“Well—borne upon the wind.”
“Let me make this clear—we’ll have none of your oracular proclamations, epigrams, jests, or that simpering smirk of yours.”

“Well then, I’ll ask you—why did you call me here?”

“Do you come every time someone calls you?”

“Well, that’s right. I have convinced myself that I must do so.”

“The obligations inherent to human existence. That takes precedence. Isn’t that right?”

“Suit yourself.”

“Oh my, you’ve acquired some rather peculiar turns of phrase. Sulk. Oh, spare me that. The very idea of becoming comrades with you! When you say that—look at you! You’re already turning me into your punching bag! I can’t stand this!”

“That’s because both you and I have been punching bags from the start.”
“It’s neither about making others into punching bags nor becoming them ourselves.”

“I exist,”
“Swinging these massive balls—well then, how’ll you deal with this package?”
“That’s the essence.”
“Rather problematic, isn’t it?”

“This may be overstepping, but your words feel utterly incoherent.”
“Is something wrong?”
“Somehow I sense you lot only know artists’ biographies and remain wholly ignorant of their actual work.”

“Is that an accusation?”
“Or perhaps your research presentation?”
“An exam answer, maybe?”
“You want me to grade it now?”

“Just slander.”

“Then I’ll declare it—this incoherence is my defining trait.”
“A trait of rare pedigree.”

“An emblem of incoherence.”

“There lies the collapse of your skepticism.”
“Ah, cease this.”
“I abhor contrived camaraderie.”

“You seem not to know the stabbing grief that comes after releasing a work you’ve nurtured with your own hands to the market. You don’t know the emptiness that follows paying homage to Inari. You’ve merely passed through the first torii gate.”

“Damn it! Another oracle? I haven’t read your novels, but strip away the lyricism, wit, humor, epigrams, and pose, and what remains would be nothing but a novel full of cheap puns. In you, I sense not spirit but society. Not an artist’s refinement, but human entrails.”

“I understand.”
“But I have to go on living.”
“When I bow and say ‘I beg you,’ it even feels like an artist’s work.”
I was now thinking about how to get by in the world.
I don’t write novels as a hobby.
If I were of such fine standing that I could write as a pastime, I would never have started writing anything at all.
Once I begin, I know I can manage it passably well.
“Yet before starting, I examine from every angle why this endeavor should hold any worth when undertaken so belatedly—settle on the conclusion that making such a grandiose commencement seems unwarranted—and ultimately do nothing.”

“Given that you harbor such profound feelings, why on earth would you suggest collaborating with us on a magazine?”

“Are you planning to study me now? Because I wanted to get angry. It didn’t matter how—I just needed to scream.”

“Ah, I understand that. You want to strike a pose with your shield. But—no—you can’t even bring yourself to turn away.”

“I love you.”
“Even someone like me still doesn’t have my own shield.”
“Everything’s borrowed from others.”
“If only I had a shield of my own—no matter how tattered.”

“There is one.”
I inadvertently blurted out.
“Imitation!”

“That’s right.”
“That’s quite the achievement for Sano Jirōzaemon.”
“This is the crowning achievement of our age, I tell you!”

“Mr. Dazai.”
“A silver-gilt shield with an attached mustache pattern seems to suit you quite well.”
“No—Mr. Dazai is already calmly holding that shield in position.”
“Only we remain utterly exposed.”

“This may sound strange, but between the completely naked wild strawberry and the dressed-up market strawberry, which do you take pride in?”
“The Dragon Gate is a hellish portal with a Bodhisattva-like exterior that sends people straight into the marketplace.”
“But I know the sorrow of dressed-up strawberries.”
“And lately, I’ve begun to consider that precious.”
“I won’t run away.”
“I’ll at least try taking you that far.”
He twisted his mouth into a pained smile.
“Before long, when your eyes awaken and see—”

“Hey, don’t say that.”
Bamba weakly waved his right hand before his nose and cut off Dazai’s words.
“If our eyes awakened, we couldn’t go on living.”
“Hey, Jirō.”
“That’ll do.”
“This isn’t funny.”
“It’s unfortunate for you, but I’m quitting.”
“I don’t want to become someone’s prey.”
“The fried tofu to feed Dazai—you should go search elsewhere for that.”
“Mr. Dazai.”
“The Pirate Club disbands after just one day.”
“In exchange—”
He stood up, strode toward Dazai, and— “You monster!”

Dazai was struck on the right cheek.
He was struck loudly with an open hand.
Dazai momentarily made a completely childlike pout, but immediately pursed his dusky lips and haughtily raised his head.
I suddenly found myself liking Dazai’s face.
Satake had his eyes lightly closed, pretending to be asleep.

The rain showed no sign of letting up even as evening fell.

Bamba and I drank sake at a dim oden stall in Hongō.
At first, the two of us drank in silence like corpses, but after about two hours had passed, Bamba gradually began to speak.

“It’s Satake who must have brought Dazai into his fold.
“The two of them came together all the way to the front of the boarding house.”
“He’s exactly the sort of man who’d do something like that.”
“You know I’m aware of it.”
“Hasn’t Satake ever secretly consulted with you about something?”

“There has.”
I poured sake for Bamba.

I had wanted to somehow tend to him.

“Satake tried to wrest you from me.”
“There’s no particular reason.”
“That man nurses a peculiar grudge.”
“He surpasses me.”
“No—I can’t quite grasp it. Or rather—perhaps he’s merely some vulgar fellow after all.”
“Yes—that sort must be what the world deems an ordinary man.”
“But enough of that.”
“Abandoning the magazine felt liberating.”
“Tonight I’ll sleep soundly with my pillow piled high!”
“Moreover, you realize—I may soon be cast out. Should I awaken one dawn, I’d find myself a shelterless beggar.”
“The magazine—from inception, I never meant to pursue it.”
“It was solely because I cherished you—because I couldn’t endure releasing you—that I concocted this Pirate folly.”
“Those dewy eyes of yours when you’d swell with Pirate delusions and recite sundry plans—they alone gave my existence purpose.”
“I believed I’d survived until today solely to behold those eyes.”
“Through your instruction, I feel I’ve only now comprehended true affection’s nature.”
“You’re translucent—untainted.”
“What’s more—a comely youth!”
“I fancy I’ve glimpsed flexibility’s apotheosis within your pupils.”
“Precisely.”

“The one who peered into the well of intellect’s depths wasn’t me, wasn’t Dazai, wasn’t Satake—it was you!”
“It was unexpectedly you.—Damn it all!”
Why do I keep blathering like this?
Frivolous.
Manic.
True love stays silent till death.
That Kiku once taught me such things.
“You—breaking news!”
“It can’t be helped.”
“Kiku’s in love with you!”
“To Mr. Sano Jirōzaemon—I’d die before confessing!”
“She’s someone I’d gladly perish for.”
After spouting such paradoxes, he smashed a cider bottle against my skull and cackled—kyah-kyah—like a madman.
“Now then—you—who do you love most?”
“Dazai perhaps?”
“Huh.”

“Satake?”
“No way.”
“Right?”
“I—”

“I—”
I resolved to lay everything bare.
“I hate everyone.
It’s only Kiku I love.
I feel as though I had seen and known Kiku even before the woman across the river.”

“Well, fine.”
Bamba murmured that and showed a smile, but suddenly covered his face with his left hand and began to sob.
In a theatrical, rhythmically cadenced voice like stage lines: “You—I’m not crying. It’s fake tears.
There—tears!
Damn it all!
Let everyone say that and laugh.
I will continue performing this farce from the moment I was born until the day I die.”
I am a ghost.
Ah, don’t forget me!
I do possess talent.
Who composed Rakujō no Tsuki?
There are those who say Taki Rentarō isn’t me.
Must one doubt others to such an extent?
If it’s a lie, then let it be a lie.—No—it’s not a lie.
I must insist on what is right as right.

“It’s absolutely not a lie.”

I went out alone, swaying unsteadily.
It was raining.
Rain fell in the streets.
Ah—wasn't this the very phrase Dazai had muttered earlier?
That's right—I was tired.
Have mercy on me.
Ah!
I mimicked Satake's way of speaking.
Tch!
Aah—even my tongue-clicking had come to sound like Bamba's.
Before long, I found myself gripped by a desolate suspicion.
Who in blazes am I? I wondered, shuddering.
My shadow had been stolen.
What absolute rot—this 'pinnacle of flexibility'!

I broke into a straight run.
Dentist.
Bird shop.
Sweet chestnut shop.
Bakery.
Flower shop.
Street trees.
Used bookstore.
Western-style house.
As I ran, I noticed myself muttering something under my breath—Run, train.
Run, Jirō.
Run, train.
Run, Sano Jirō.
I kept singing it over and over in a nonsensical rhythm.
Ah, this is my creation.
This is the only poem I've ever created.
What utter slovenliness!
I'm dim-witted—that's why I'm no good.
It's my lack of discipline—that's why I'm no good.

Light.
Roar.
Star.
Leaf.
Signal.
Wind.
Ah!

IV

“Satake.”
“Do you know Sano Jirōzaemon was struck dead by a train last night?”

“I know.”
“I heard it on the radio news this morning.”

“He really managed to get himself into a fine disaster.”
“Someone like me probably won’t find peace unless I hang myself or something.”

“And then you’ll likely outlive us all. No—my prophecies do come true.”
“You—”

“What?”

“There’s two hundred yen here.”
“The pelican sketches sold.”
“I scraped this together through diligent work, hoping to spend time with Mr. Sano Jirōzaemon.”

“Give it to me.”

“Certainly.”

“Kiku.

“Sano Jirōzaemon is dead.”
“Ah, he’s gone.”
“I’ve searched everywhere—he’s nowhere to be found. Don’t cry.”

“Yes.”

“I’ll give you a hundred yen.”
“Buy yourself a fine kimono and obi with this—you’ll forget Sano Jirōzaemon for sure.”
“Water takes the shape of its vessel.”
“Hey—Satake.”
“Let’s have ourselves a grand time tonight—just us two.”
“I’ll show you the best place.”
“The finest spot in all Japan.—Funny how living on like this together feels almost... nostalgic.”

“Everyone dies in the end.”