Pathway to Japanese Literature

Trip à la Mode

BUMP!

London-Paris Aviation Journey.

1928—A.D.—In early July, pummeled by a heatwave that came crashing down, bowler hats and leather gloves and women's round-heeled shoes and coal and kidney pies—in short, the old man himself, along with shadowless trees, dust-white streets, and a hulking constable moving beneath shop awnings—all wiped soot-black sweat from soot-black brows—now, that is to say, on an uncommonly hot yet otherwise perfectly peaceful summer day in the British capital nearing noon—to be precise, at 10:45 AM.

From the direction of Westminster Bridge—where an unbroken torrent of automobiles now flowed—a TAXI came rushing forth in the blink of an eye. As it came to an abrupt halt at the corner of Regent Street and Charles Street, there before the stone building alighted an Oriental man and woman with their luggage, lightly touching down onto the ground.

Travel attire and resolve now fully prepared, courage so vibrant it seemed to sweep aside all around them—AHA! Needless to say, that was none other than myself and her—the ones about to fly to Paris. Well, think that if you will.

BUMP!

This marks the beginning of the tale.

Now then—

Thereupon, while ascending the front steps of said stone building and gazing upward as nonchalantly as possible, I found layers of air standing preposterously blue and high—along the Thames' banks stretched a row of draft horses resting in tree shade, flies swarming about them, sunlight glinting on insect wings, while a workboat at riverside emitted dull groans—truly splendid weather.

“We’ll be fine if it stays like this.”

She paused briefly and uttered this faint voice.

“Yeah. But there’s no telling.” My eyes must have been smiling with a touch of malice.
“After all, it’s something humans do.”

“Oh! But it’s such a calm day.”
“There’s no wind—”

After yet another prolonged repetition of the conversation that had already been exchanged countless times between her and me since morning, we two immediately composed ourselves with ethnic dignity and resolutely proceeded to enter the building’s interior.

Well, go ahead and think that.

BUMP!

Needless to say, the corner of Charles Street and Regent Street was Imperial Airways Company's "Air House" in London—in other words, a gathering place for air travelers. It was an aviation office.

Oh !The Air House !

What sci-fi fantastical hues this neologism possessed!—Who on earth could have conceived such a term ten years prior?—Its ultramodernity, this challenge to nature!
CHIC!
CHIC!
Très chic! Art Moderne!
As evidence that we were indeed alive, the pinnacle of joy—where we keenly felt our own raw nerves stretched to their limit—must surely have lain in the thrills provided by air travel.
For this was nothing less than the century's exhilaration itself—the cutting edge, antennae, protruding lines, call it what you will—of this era of velocity mania; a sensation to be clenched between molars and savored soul-deep. Thus it was that we found ourselves nonchalantly standing there that day—merely thinking "since others fly, let us too attempt this thing called flight"—on our way to Paris for some casual venture.

But BUMP!

I must confess that the moment I stepped into this Charles Street Air House—the aviation passengers' waiting room—an honest, reflective feeling raced through my entire body like a radio wave.

At the very moment when we should have been supremely modern and daring, an unnecessary case of cold feet seized us.
Doubt—self-assurance—and again doubt.

Here, I and my common sense began our grilling session.

"Is it absolutely impossible for airplanes to crash?"

"Of course I can’t definitively assert it’ll never crash—
But with passenger planes, you could say they’re ninety-nine percent safe.
Just like how a safety razor’s safe—safe in daily use."

"Hmm, really?
But that ninety-nine percent still nags at me.
What exactly is that one percent?"

"It’s some malfunction, error, miscalculation—the sudden possibility of a completely new kind of fallacy aviation’s never encountered before, something as tiny as a pinprick."
Yet in midair, that could easily turn fatal.
"When humans—far from all-powerful—manipulate machines built for single purposes to rise high above earth, you see—doesn’t that inherently mean a relatively high danger ratio? Or should I rephrase that as an uncertainty ratio?"

Ever coldly indifferent, common sense dismissed me outright there.
BUMP!

Suicidal acts—the psychology during a crash—those emotions and scenes—newspaper articles—all these were conjured in my mind with vivid realism.

"I.A. Passenger Plane Crash-Lands"

Strikes large tree—all perish tragically

"Among the unfortunate passengers: a Japanese couple"

Or ――

"A great mystery in aviation history"

"Passenger Plane Crash-Lands for Unknown Reasons"

"A scene unbearable to behold"

Enough!

But these were unnecessary terrors for terror's sake, mere ill omens for ill omen's sake—perhaps containing some perverse fascination—and next, as I took my first step into this Charles Street Air House: AHAGH! I had to undergo even more profound spiritual dilemmas.

Science was now complacently indulging humanity. Was it truly permissible to place such blind faith in this arrogant, paltry science and brazenly soar into the heavens we'd humbly revered since birth? Or would it not be more prudent—at least in this moment—to return to the reverent sincerity of primitive people: fearing heaven with bowed heads, bending low like courtiers, plodding across the earth as slowly as snails? In truth, for mankind—particularly for the Orient—the sky was at once the sacred firmament and heavenly realm, already firmly belonging to the domain of religious concepts. By churning up this sacred space with propellers, daring to drift through skies like birds—then having the audacity to boast of this as modernity while putting on airs—this alone constituted blasphemy and hubris; moreover, I'd heard all humans were creatures deeply stained with manifold sins. Should divine punishment strike immediately—in reality, BUMP!—what catastrophe might follow?

Now, this might make it sound as though I had engaged in prolonged contemplation upon arriving at the Air House, but in truth—while stepping as nonchalantly as possible over the threshold of this Charles Street corner—it was merely that: beholding the cloudless azure vault we were soon to ascend into; the lines of draught horses along the Thames riverside; swarms of flies teasing the horses; sunlight glistening on insect wings; and all around, the good old buildings of London standing silent in dazzling sunlight—in short, encountering this optimistic scenery that seemed utterly divorced from crashes and gruesome deaths so bolstered my resolve that before I knew it,

“It’s alright, like this.”

“Yeah. But that’s not something we can know for sure.”
“After all, when humans—far from omnipotent—manipulate machines that serve no purpose beyond a specific one to ascend high above the ground—”

“Oh! But you see it’s such a calm day—”

The moment my companion and I exchanged such whispers, what had been but a fleeting fragility—something that assailed me for mere instants—was now being dissected and described here after the fact.

But the truth remained that beneath this sensation—call it a gambler’s resolve to cast dice against fate—lay a solemn determination, and this alone must surely have been the inner turmoil even the most seasoned aviator experienced anew with each flight. It was precisely this intense gambling sensation that held flight’s CHIC—a chic that could not help but enthrall modern people.

The Temptation of the Sky.

Ah!
The Air Line!
After all—how très chic!
Ultra modern!
BUMP!

“The noon flight, correct?”

A voice called me back from philosophy—from that grand, perpetually cyclical question of “Is science worthy of trust, or should it not be trusted?”

Regaining my senses and surveying the interior of the I.A. Company’s “Air House” at the corner of Charles Regent Street, I beheld a singularly grotesque figure clad in brown golf attire—his face unnervingly swarthy—and his presumed marital counterpart: a diminutive yet oddly Parisian woman with pert affectations. Both bore the two kanji characters for “desperation” etched across their brows as they swept into the hall with dashing bravado—a resolve so palpable that everyone, grasping its implications, turned toward them in astonishment.
In any case, the staff member let out a startled voice.

“Silver Wing—the noon flight, correct?”

“That’s correct.”

With a look that said I’d grown thoroughly weary of airplanes, I answered.

“Just a quick trip to Paris.”

“Understood.”
“Please present your passport and ticket.”
“Then please fill out this form and sign it.”

The passport was in order.
The tickets had been purchased two weeks prior.
Thereupon, she and I sat down side by side at a nearby desk and began filling out the required details on the paper slips each of us had been given when she remarked:

“I don’t like this.”
“It somehow feels like we’re writing wills.”

“Nationality, name, age, address—ah, I see. As long as these remain, they’d immediately know who died and where they were from.”
“What’s this? Let me see…‘Even should I crash and perish instantly, I shall never bear a grudge against your company.’”
“For future reference, as per the aforementioned clause—Ah-ha! So I’m supposed to sign here.”

Oh well, it was merely the usual immigration formality, but whether due to some premonition or not, the documents undeniably took on that appearance.

In a room identical to a train station waiting room, travelers milled about restlessly.
Each one stood on the weighing scale wearing all their coats and carrying every item meant for the flight, their body weight and the combined weight of clothing and personal effects being recorded.
When she was called up, I attempted to carry her handbag out of medieval chivalry,

“Let her carry her own handbag.”
“Thus let us ascertain the most precise numerical weight pertaining to all aspects of her person.”

BUMP!
I was reprimanded.

“London-Paris — Imperial Airways” labels were plastered onto the luggage.
Gradually, the mood grew lighter—because it was before takeoff—.
Redcaps darted about, uniformed clerks guided passengers, farewells lingered in the air—by now this aerial terminal had become indistinguishable from any ordinary waiting room.
Except that the clientele was better and all facilities were far more modern and grand luxe.
But the Air House was merely a city distribution center for air passengers, while the actual “air port” was located in Croydon, Surrey County, on London’s outskirts.
Passengers were to be transported by I.A. Company automobiles departing from the city’s Air House at 11:00 AM, but they had been instructed via telephone the previous day to present themselves without fail by 10:45—precisely to allow time for completing these procedures before departure.

Imperial Airways, Ltd ―― LONDON toPARIS

Timetable――24-hour system

Except Sundays – Daily departures from Croydon

A 07:45

B 16:30

C 12:00

Flight duration: Two and a half to four hours.

The airfare includes automobile charges between the departure/arrival airports and the city air terminal.

A: £4 14s 6d
B: £5 5s
C £5 15s 6d

Thus, with A/B/C differing in departure times and each aircraft’s specifications—size, age, speed, equipment configuration, and whether two-engine or three-engine—the fares acquired insurance-grade differentials.
In other words, this constituted the class distinction: C corresponded to first class, B to second class, and A to third class.
Needless to say, we chose C to secure every conceivable advantage.

Luggage Regulations

Up to thirty pounds per person free of charge.

For luggage exceeding thirty pounds, we will accept it at the rate of three pence per pound.

Incidentally, we brought two large suitcases, one hatbox, one grip, two small bags, one holdall, one knapsack, and one Cine-Kodak camera with accessories—all of which required us to pay an excess fee of two pounds, five shillings, and nine pence.

From London to Paris, France’s Air Union also operated three daily flights from the same Croydon Airport, resulting in a total of six takeoffs each day. In summer, however, every flight was fully booked, making tickets nearly impossible to obtain unless reserved at least two to three weeks in advance—such was the popularity.

In the Air House, a compact private room had been arranged at the rear to finally settle travelers' nerves. As we settled into our seats there and waited for departure to the airfield, a waitress appeared,

“Lunch service—would you care for some?”

Accordingly, we ordered two portions of lunch to be consumed on board, paid the fee, and received a ticket in exchange. We would present this inside the airplane and exchange it for lunch packages.

Nearby, a refined young English madam was chatting animatedly with several elderly women from various countries.

“Ah,
“Just a quick trip to Paris.”

It was the young English madam’s declaration.
This elderly woman, appearing to be a passenger, looked somewhat worried,

“It should be safe today—such a calm day.
“There’s no wind—”

“I was quite alarmed by everyone’s warnings myself, but they say nowadays it doesn’t matter how fiercely the wind blows—it’s perfectly safe.” The young madam continued with apparent confidence.
“They say the entire crew works through the night before departure to thoroughly inspect everything from the engines to the airframe—they’ll never take off unless everything’s deemed perfect.”
“But after all, it is a human endeavor—”

“Quite so.”

Soon came the signal for the cars to depart.

Two large cars laden with skybound travelers traversed the sunlit, windless, sweltering outskirts toward Croydon—.

In the car came my self-directed murmur.

“So, has that unease in your chest settled?”

Peace and composure!

Peace of mind and composure!

Peace·of·mind·and·composure!

Before long came Croydon’s newly developed “Air Port.”
It was the airfield.
A huge building.
A magnificent new aviation hotel.
An orderly departure and arrival facility.
Waiting room.
Postcard and tobacco products shop.
Cafeteria.
Restroom.
The throng of passengers and send-off people.
Another passport inspection.
For us as well, Mrs. Baanse’s family and my wife’s friend Miss Norris came early to see us off.

“What splendid weather—”

“It should be fine under these conditions.”

“Yes. Such a calm day. There’s no wind—.”

Bz-bz-bz-bzz—the call bell.

“Paris-bound!
“Paris-bound!”

With this, they were disgorged into the open field in a disorderly stream.

A vast expanse of blue-green grass spreading out, soil pressed down through time.

Ah! Lined up, lined up they were!
Wings lowered to earth!

Airplanes—biplanes, dragonfly-mimicking craft, countless dew-fresh machines—clamping down their mischievous resilience like unripe fruit taut with spring, OH!
Are you waiting now for that breeze you ought to catch?

Rebels against gravity!

Kick this earth with full abandon!

Demon Galloping Through Clouds

GRRRR—.

The pale gray colossal specter that had already begun rotating its propellers quivered its brawny, prehistoric-animal-like body minutely like jelly, docilely present before our eyes.

It was the scheduled passenger plane Silver Wing.
How stalwart that form appeared, worn by clouds and stained by the sky!

I wondered if they could possibly fly with so much loaded—the passengers’ trunks, suitcases, and bags were being crammed like a mountain into part of the plane.

Perhaps owing to the open expanse, when we reached the airfield, there was a wind.
The wind was strong enough to blow our hats away.

“Oh! What a terrible wind.”

“Well, at this point we literally have to entrust our fate to heaven, don’t we?”

A group of well-wishers had gathered in the distance—apparently too frightened to approach—wildly waving their hands and pointing cameras.
Lately, a certain sentiment—"Once you take to the skies, you shall never tread the earth again"—had been filling us with lofty pride in an Eastern manner.
Following instructions, we lined up before the plane and directed social smiles toward Miss Norris's lens, then—hurried by the conductor—no, flight attendant—clambered noisily up the stairs with other passengers through the entrance open in the aircraft's flank.

It was a strangely dance-like vibration, like that just before the Foudou Taxi began to move.

Ah, what a delightful little cabin!
The long narrow cabin—sloped like a hillside due to its raised nose—contained windows on both sides with green curtains, ten seats on each side making twenty in total along them, green-colored (green being naturally efficacious for calming nerves) plush velvet-upholstered armchairs, overhead luggage racks, a central aisle, lampshade-topped electric lights, and one white-uniformed attendant—it could well be called "a parlor sailing through the skies."

Everyone took their seats in the blink of an eye.
Having heard that the central section was best, the two of them briskly moved about and took seats in the fifth row from the rear, separating to left and right.
Their minds were strangely clear and stark, in a state where life and death were fated matters not worth deliberating.
They deliberately shifted their gaze and looked around the cabin.

Women: sixteen—breakdown: one elderly woman over seventy, seven middle-aged women, four young wives—including her—three schoolgirls, and one five- or six-year-old girl.

Men: four—including myself.
However, the nationalities of both men and women remained unknown.
These alone were our companions in "death before parting."

GRRRR—grew louder and accelerated, pushing the send-off party even farther away.
Departure must have been near.
Everyone wordlessly grabbed the edges of their chairs all at once.
Through the small window at the front, the pilot’s cockpit came into view.
There!
He had boarded.
The dark-skinned "sky guide’s" profile.
Ah!
He was smiling!
Raising a hand to the ground crew outside—white teeth, thick neck, our hero!
You must have gotten plenty of sleep last night.
You must be feeling refreshed in body and mind.
At any rate, these twenty-two lives—counting myself, her, you yourself, and Mr. Boui—now depended entirely on your skill, composure, and "split-second decisions."
If you could just safely complete this flight, I would give a speech to the fellow passengers and present you with a trophy.
I would build a villa in Brighton and dedicate it to you.
We could entirely bear your children's education expenses—

The sky never ceases to tempt.

The pilot's broad back crouched forward.

BUMP!

The airplane began to glide along the ground.

——GRRRRR・ROARING EXPLOSIONS—— and then, BUMP!

BUMP!

BUMP!

BUMP!

At first slowly, then gradually faster, then frantically—writhing, roaring, and bellowing—it continued its taxiing.

No one paid any attention to the outside anymore.
Everyone sat frozen in silence, quietly awaiting the moment when life’s feet would leave solid earth.

I envisioned—a seven-colored rainbow bridge arcing from London to Paris.

Treading upon that rainbow unattainable to people of the last century, we were now attempting to cross the heavens.

The rainbow bridge—what a realization of humanity’s dream!
What boundless ambition drove scientific conquest!

——It was as if we were inside a field gun mid-salvo; the propeller and engine noises—noise upon noise—completely monopolized my eardrum. Even if someone spoke right by my ear, all I could see was the opening and closing of their mouth like a goldfish yawning.

The woman next to me kept poking me and pointing ahead.
And she kept stuffing something into her ear.

Thinking she was doing something strange, I looked closer and realized what I'd failed to notice while being caught up in my own awestruck admiration for things like rainbow bridges—there was a piece of cotton tucked into the back of the front-row seat alongside some written material.

“Notice to Air Travelers”—seeing this, I promptly read it, and its contents were as follows.

“Imperial Airways—LTD—humbly requests that all passengers kindly peruse the enumerated articles below, provided for the convenience of celestial travel, to ensure they extend us such ample courtesy.”
For it is only by explaining these matters to the satisfaction of each and every passenger that we do so.

1. Airplanes—their regular motion in the sky.

2. How should one travel through the heavens with the greatest comfort?

3. Emergency measures and procedures for such situations."

That the third point pierced my chest goes without saying.
In other words, it was excessively considerate—enough to compel immediate perusal without even awaiting a request.

“No special clothing is required to board the airplane.
Any attire suitable for a long drive will suffice.

During takeoff, even if the aircraft seems about to rush into a corner of the airfield, you must never show surprise or panic.
Since airplanes always take off and land against the wind, after taxiing like this for a while, they will naturally lift off the ground before you know it.

Please pluck this cotton and stuff it into your ears.
In order to protect your hearing from engine noise.

Due to air pressure, you may experience temporary deafness at times.
In that case, please pinch your nostrils and strain.
Or you may simply swallow a little saliva when alighting.
It will clear up soon.

When changing direction, the airplane would often break from level flight and bank sharply to one side—this remained an entirely safe maneuver.

So-called vacuum pockets absolutely did not exist.
The BUMP minor-descent motion merely meant the aircraft vibrated with small oscillations along the vertical undulations of air currents, much like waves acting upon a ship.

The dizzy sensation one feels when peering down from tall buildings was entirely absent in the airplane.
This was because no physical connection existed to the ground.

Even those prone to seasickness will not get airsick on the airplane.
For those feeling even slightly unwell, if you inform us, Bowie will provide the onboard medicines.
An airsickness bag is also provided at each of your feet.
But the best remedy for airsickness is fresh, cold air.
Please feel free to open the windows.

All continental scheduled aircraft of our company are equipped with lavatories at the rear.
And no matter how much you move about, the plane will absolutely never lose its balance due to such activity.

For drinking water, please ask Bowie.
Whiskey, wine, and other alcoholic beverages have also been loaded.

Smoking is naturally prohibited, and under no circumstances may matches be struck aboard the aircraft—this is strictly forbidden by government regulations.

Under any circumstances, we request that you never discard anything from the airplane window.

If necessary, passengers can converse with the pilot through an aperture at the front of the cabin.

Your pilot is a veteran of the recent Great War, a seasoned warrior through countless winds and clouds.
And during flight, he constantly exchanges communications with the destination via wireless telephone, being ceaselessly supplied with abundant reports on weather conditions and air currents; with preparations arranged for any situation—in fact I・A Company now mobilizes its entire staff with all their might to safeguard your safety.

“In case of emergency during the channel crossing—exactly as with a steamship—life belts have been equipped.”

Then it went on to explain in diagrams how to wear the life belts, and further—

“There is an emergency exit in the cabin ceiling.”
“In an emergency, pull the hanging ring firmly and tear open the exit.”

“Even if the engine noise drops as though about to stop, you must never be startled.”
“It is either preparation for landing or simply that your pilot, in his judgment, has decided to reduce speed or fly lower and is acting accordingly—please rest assured.”

Another sheet was included.
It bore the heading "Partial Facts Concerning the Silver Wing," and—

"The present aircraft 'Silver Wing' is propelled by three Armstrong Siddeley-type 385-425 horsepower air-cooled Jaguar engines, which Sir Alan Cobham used with great success on his London-Cape Town route and UK-Australia round-trip flights."

The main engine is positioned at the front of the cockpit, at the nose of the aircraft, while the two auxiliary engines are located midway along both wings.

This aircraft was specially constructed for long-duration flights, with all elements of the cabin—ventilation, heating, lighting, and so forth—designed in the most modern style.

The rear of the central engine formed a firewall; the oil was stored in two tanks beneath the upper wings.

The present aircraft’s maximum speed exceeded one hundred miles per hour.

"The present aircraft’s weight when fully loaded is approximately seven and a half tons."

Having finished reading all this in one go, I hurriedly tore off cotton and stuffed it into my ears while looking around—sure enough, everyone had their ear holes plugged white.

BUMP!

And then, the aircraft that had been taxiing against the wind—though no one could say exactly when—seemed to begin hovering gently in midair.
The ground that until now had been right outside the aircraft window was steadily sinking downward.

The collaborative work of astronomy, duralumin, boldness and caution, and petroleum was initiated there.

It took off.

Off shegoes ――The Silver Wing !

OH!
Glory! What momentary rapture!
Stimulation—intoxication—transcendence—a haunted heart—this GRRRR and then BUMP!

A living ascension.
People and suitcases and travel permits and lunch parcels and Mr.Bowie.

Ha ha ha ha!

Ho... ho... ho!

Though their voices were drowned out and inaudible, every last passenger laughed with mouths agape.
Everyone was guffawing.
Somehow it was unbearably funny.
From today onward, having received new life, I felt like an entirely different creature.
It was so absurdly, unbearably funny.
It was an infantile, baseless joy.

I laugh too.
Laugh, laugh your heart out.
And ah ha ha ha ha!

HO HO HO!

As the airplane plunged forth from the airfield, flying so close it almost brushed against the middle floors of an adjacent apartment building, through its gaping window flashed a family’s bed, carpet, desk, books atop it, and a woman who had just pushed open the door to enter—all appearing enormously—far larger than reality—vividly—at that moment I suddenly felt I had become a demon.

That's it.
A fly that was teasing a horse on the banks of the Thames this morning.
I have now transformed into that very fly.

So with a buzz I'd jump down onto this window frame, then land on the desk and books in turn, tilt my head there and rub my hands—
I am a demon.

BUMP!
And Rolling.

The aircraft raced straight upwards through 'nothingness,' aiming toward the sun and yearning toward God.

Baptême de L'Air!

Large red roofs; people with legs sprouting directly from their heads; cars countable one by one—why did this town look so flat?

Ah!
Round holes—square holes—what were those? Chimneys!
Hey—they're playing tennis down there!
What fools! They should look up here!
Faces wearing shoes!
Hey! Quit waving your hands down there!

The meticulously rectangular tennis court and its vicinity appeared tinged with purple.
The airplane’s shadow was cast there.
BUMP!

The altitude already exceeded one thousand meters.
A velocity of one hundred meters.
Henceforth it would fly undulating between altitudes of one thousand to five thousand.
What might be seen from a train window over one minute now lay—no—rather sprawled beneath us in a single second, twentyfold; even just the point directly below the aircraft calculated precisely to six square miles.

We must have long since departed Croydon.
Dwellings grew sparse, and farmland resembling barber clipper tracks slid diagonally backward with a Grrrr-like motion.

The murky patch of sky must be where London lies.

The nose was fixed—straight to Paris Bourget!

By now, we felt no fear or apprehension whatsoever.
All that remained was an unbroken succession of welling elation and simple wonder.

The boundless "oceanic fury of the sky".

Male clouds.

Female clouds.

Children's clouds.

They all frolicked playfully around us.
They were making a ruckus.
They were laughing.

Speaking of laughter, the passengers who had been laughing so guilelessly until now suddenly became aware of their own mirth, and as if ashamed of having laughed, hurriedly adopted the decorum befitting the 'human world.' Amid this frenzied din, the old woman behind me spread out her Daily Mail, the middle-aged gentleman who appeared to be a merchant opened his briefcase and began reading documents, the schoolgirl peeled an apple, the young girl clung to the window, her mother grabbed her from behind, another young man staggered toward the lavatory, and the steward came selling drinks—a scene straight from a travelogue's page.

She handed me a notebook.
We were communicating through writing.
Written there was:
“How are you holding up?”

I wrote a reply.

“I’m fine.”

She smiled.
I also smiled.
Then once more, the two of us greedily resumed our observation of the world below.

The roar of the propeller, the rushing wind, the silver wings nodding with boundless confidence—and outside my window, a single chilly cable quivering plaintively.

The Earth was now spinning regardless of us.

What a sluggish civilization that is!
Truly a laughably flat, petty, narrow-minded, utterly ridiculous society, history, philosophy, and "the tragedy or comedy of life"!
What a pathetic spectacle—humanity’s daily hopes, pathos, and smiles!

The bleak fragility of life seen from above—I thought all birds must be nihilists.

The cabin was bright.
This was because there was a diamond-shaped emergency exit in the ceiling covered with thin fabric.
It was meant to be torn open.
Ripping Panel — in case of emergency, pull ring sharply. That was what it read.
The unpleasant thought I had forgotten suddenly began resurfacing.
No Smoking was also boldly written there.
Not Even Abdullas was specified immediately after.
It seemed there were those who said Abdullas weren't cigarettes because they were light.
Above our heads hung life belts suspended by single thin threads that would come free with just a slight tug.
Looking at them wasn't very pleasant.
Life-Belt, Pull Only in Emergency —

I recalled how just about a week prior, a certain Mr. X-stein—one of London's financial titans (for being an X-stein inherently meant being a shadowy power broker in those circles)—had fallen from an airplane over the Channel, sending not just the newspapers and stock exchange but all of London into an uproar. And that his corpse had been discovered on the coast yesterday, with such notices posted earlier at Croydon Airport. The day before yesterday—though this wasn't a passenger plane—this I.A. aircraft had gone BUMP! and crashed, killing without remorse that group of female typists and clerks from some company who'd been quipping about a joyride, along with the aviator.

These were precisely the facts I'd been struggling not to contemplate—but as I stared fixedly at the "tear-open panel" and life belts, I found myself envisioning mechanical failure striking now in this very sky (might the pilot suffer cardiac arrest? Could he suddenly go mad?)—all passengers leaping up, someone vaulting to rip open the ripping panel, she clinging to me, women wailing, men staggering blindly—all while our plane, transformed into a fiery comet, spiraled downward in its plummet!

What then!

Such disaster fantasies likely bloom precisely from our inner certainty of safety—yet every aerial victim thus far, whether Mr. X-stein or those I.A. typists, must have boarded their craft trusting this same hazy yet stubborn conviction that they alone would surely be spared.

Thinking this, I began to feel we had done something utterly reckless—but really, what on earth could happen to this smooth flight?

Ah, I was the devil.
Could falling or dying even be conceivable for the devil?
Devil!
Devil!
Clad in red leggings and crimson mantle, sporting a snail-like hood and dapper mustache, Mephistopheles was now soaring through the vast sky with silver wings fully spread.
With leisurely ease and calm composure, brazenly disregarding laws, courtesy, morality, and all petty virtues—this "skybound outlaw" journeyed onward.
What a modernly irresponsible CHIC!

BUMP!
And then ROLLING.

I stuck my hand out the window.
The fingers felt like they might tear off.
I wavered between cold and pain—my senses faltered in their judgment.

Bowie started writing something on the blackboard on the front wall.
Everyone’s eyes gathered on the white chalk.
NOW OVER had been written in paint above, and Bowie added more with his chalk.

NOW OVER Sevenoak.

It was Sevenoak.

Ah—holding still.

Flimsy houses—back gardens—laundry—trees—roads—people.

Chicken?
Or a dog?
A solitary black dot appeared on the white expanse.
Swaying unsteadily, Sevenoak flew back behind us.

Fields.

Forests.

Plains.

Fields—red, yellow, white—a geometric patchwork.
Forests—black masses.
Plains—clouds' shadows.

The airplane was fast.

NOW OVER Tombridge.

Oh!
A ribbon lies fallen.
Oh, it's just the national highway!
How absurdly it winds!
Countless specks sit frozen.
A procession of automobiles.
They must fancy themselves speeding along down there.
The airplane's shadow sweeps smoothly over them.

A river appeared.
A bridge stood.
People were crossing.

The river was a white silk thread, the bridge a single 6-point character, the people pen-tip dots.
Directly above hung the sun; wispy clouds streamed past; below spread an unfathomable panorama—all kingdoms and republics, treasures and ambitions and glories, each yearning to belong to me spread out beneath.
What earthly allure those delicate charms held!
Yet how pitifully meager did this world's stage appear through the devil's eye!

While we remained oblivious even in our dreams, science had been indulging in this blazing motion and passion to its heart's content. O Silver Wing and fellow aircraft! I bow my head thus. You alone are the art of the new century. Our greatest masterpiece—Ah! That's a train! A two-inch-long train! Hey, look! Ha ha ha! What a smug-faced, cheeky little reptile!

NOW OVER Dungeness.

Valley. Giant tree. Jet-black protrusion.

Rock. White sand. Glittering mica.

When the terrain varied greatly, the airplane became unsettled.
When they pulled up the control stick another notch higher to escape it, beneath us lay a vast blue carpet.

It was the Dover Strait.

ＡＨＡ!
A mercury pool.

All the passengers peered out the windows and broke into silly grins again.
There was something absurdly ticklish about it all.
The water's surface shone with uncanny serenity in the sunlight—this supple skin of liquid that looked ready to dimple at a touch, like plush fabric yielding to a finger. You could fall into this without getting hurt.

But what a gorgeously printed map this was!
Arrows of sunlight and the terraced ripples reflecting them.

The strait's color whetted my appetite.

Along with everyone else, we too ate lunch midair.
It was a sorcerers' banquet.
Our tongues found sandwiches with tomato, peach, and banana.
She received water.
She smiled as she drank.
I smiled back.

Her mouth moved broadly, hinting three Japanese syllables at me—O-Fu-Ne.

"Ah!"
"It really was a boat, a boat!"
A splendid red boat swam in the water directly below.
This was neither steamship nor proper vessel.
It was indeed a child's toy boat.
Still, what a sprawling child's toy boat this was!

Dover was busy.
A gray warship too was enveloped in the heat haze over the sea yonder.

Ah!
Fellow planes!
Three airplanes!
Two above, one below.
ＡＨ！
The sky's traffic coordination at its most bustling!
They’ve gone.

BUMP!
They're waves in the sky.

The passengers startled and groaned, "UUGH!"

BUMP!

UUUGH!

BUMP!

UUUGH!

The jolting continued for some time.
Bowie wrote something on paper and showed it to the female passenger in distress.

Bumps will soon be less.

Even devils have their differences—it seems the female of the species is made with slightly more delicacy.
The British lady kept her eyes fixed straight ahead to avoid looking down.
The old woman continued reading her newspaper, the merchant busily examined his documents, and I craned my neck awaiting France’s coastline.

Then, it appeared.

A clear boundary between land and water.
The land's sinuous advance and the sea's relentless erosion.
The French beach lay exposed as red soil.
White waves rolled against it.

This resplendent emotion: the monarch's spirit.

My every nerve thrummed in profound unison with the propeller’s joyous resonance.

Farmhouse.
A single shining lake—NO!
It’s a glass window.

NOW OVER Le Touquet.

The airplane moved swiftly.

Now French place names.

BUMP!

UUUGH!

NOW OVER Abbeville.

Paris drew near.
The neck of our forward-facing cloud pilot grew ever thicker.

"You!"
"Speed up even more!"

Coiled hills and billiard table-like pastures.

Hamlet.

Common land.

Avenue of trees.

Small town.

I ignored them.

I passed over them in silence.

I obliterated them.

Soon Paris—the open port of foreigners.

That Paris was swelling up beneath us now—Bourget at 2:30 PM was swelling up—society was swelling up—humanity was swelling up—life was swelling up beneath the plane.

Hey!
Children are running down there!
French children!

At the railroad crossing, a cart and people had gathered, waiting for the train to pass.

The plane passed over them into the sky above the grasslands—Bourget Airfield.

The end of the rainbow bridge.
Even a demon must return to human form.
The old woman folded her newspaper, the man adjusted his necktie, and the women all opened their bags to dab the tips of their noses.

BUMP!

BUMP!

BUMP!

The nostalgic ground came rushing up beneath us.
The smell of the world—pebbles, soil, blades of grass—the dark-skinned pilot’s profile smiled.
He waved to the French hangar crew below—

The last written exchange from her to me.

"I want to become a pilot."

City Face

Just like that one time.
Just as there were times when a distinctive face from among passersby encountered somewhere stuck inexplicably in one's mind—suddenly recalled without reason—so too in travel there existed mysterious small towns that somehow remained unforgettable despite holding no particular significance.

It was neither the Gothic cathedrals the town possessed, nor the grand hotel ballroom where waltzes flowed under orange-tinted lights.
Nor was it the promenades—birthplaces of the "latest trends" emphatically highlighted in Bedeka—nor the historically significant squares, nor the homes of literary masters, nor the museums.
So what left such a lasting impression of the town? There exists an indivisible atmosphere that defies analysis.

The art of travel lies in the method of remaining utterly passive as a blank slate, preparing without preparation for the unknowns that appear one after another in dizzying succession, and greeting all things with a leisurely heart.
Then in each of these—the frigid mountain station where trains halted at midnight, the ruin-like country town glimpsed beneath a viaduct, the yellow flowers on railroad ties buried in summer grasses—you would find yourself.
And once you had seen yourself reflected in these things, the mountain hamlet station, the ruin-like country town, the yellow flowers on the railroad ties—all would dissolve seamlessly into the traveler’s heart and never leave you.

With this Care-free lack of reserve, suppose you casually alight upon a town.

A new mysterious hue lay before you.

Signboards bore cryptic scripts; cafés spilled cheap chairs onto sidewalks like seas of wicker; women had sorrowful eyes; dashing young officers in uniform whistled tunes; a monocled gentleman wore Morning Coat; taxis bellowed for fares; town girls giggled in clusters of four or five; unfamiliar streetcars clattered; a nude statue’s fountain danced under station lights; policemen stood soldier-stiff; flower sellers darted up—the clamor was the city’s greeting.

Lives of differing exteriors yet identical substance gathered here as well.
I felt that keenly.
That must be why—if at that moment you felt as though you had visited this town once before, whether in dream or reality, and if the rows of houses and the flow of traffic perfectly matched your imagination—as they often did—then you could love this town and become intimately familiar with it without reservation.
Because you had already grasped the town.

This sensation that fits perfectly in the new metropolis—I call it the City Face.

The strange thing was how the City Face could never be found along modernized boulevards or those so-called "sightseeing spots." A morning market where grandmothers and housewives swirled with sundries and chatter amidst pigeons; narrow backstreets of stain-streaked warped walls, tiny windows, and barefoot children. And slopes!—Why did I love these slopes and alleyways and markets so?—Through them I discovered the City Face staring intently back at me.

Among these 'City Faces,' I carry many 'faces' that strike me with their distinctive impressions and linger stubbornly in my mind—of these, Brussels, the capital of Belgium, remains for me one of those unforgettable 'City Faces.' Those backstreets, markets, and city slopes that seem to harbor a thousand and one stories—I still treasure deep in my heart the delicate beauty of Brussels, permitted to exist in this corner of Europe—a beauty resembling an orphan girl.

In Brussels, we lived Brussels.
During that time, the cloudy days continued.

We arrived at night.

Arriving—arriving at a new city—is best done at night.
If you arrive by day, the first thing your travel-weary eyes will catch sight of is its pale blemishes.
And all that exists there is the same practical world everywhere.
But if it were night, the city—beautified by darkness and lamplight—would greet you veiled in its true countenance.
And there exists only the world of romance.
The next morning you open the hotel window and discover the true town.
Travelers inevitably come to love cities they arrive in at night.
Therefore, entering a new city is best done at night.

And we arrived at night.
From Paris to Brussels’s "South Station".

Brussels·snapshot.

Spanning the Senne River—a corruption of "Palace on the Marsh".

Hôtel de Ville—City Hall.
A successful blend of Gossec and Louis XIV styles.
Fifteenth-century architecture.

Ancien Museum—Rubens·Rubens·and Rubens.

Hall of Justice—the courthouse.
The standing statues of orators lining the forecourt’s staircase.
Cicero, Demosthenes, Ulpian.
Hill.
A bird's-eye view of the medieval cityscape.

Urinating Urchin—here referred to as Manneken.
The corner of Rue de l'Étuve and Rue du Chêne.
At the bend of a modestly narrow backstreet, its sunken wall serving as backdrop, this impudent bronze—no taller than a foot—perpetually made gurgling water sounds.
Naked child.
The oldest citizen of Brussels.
Legend has it.
Long ago, when Belgium was at war with some country and found itself in dire straits on the verge of defeat, this small child who was then king scurried out to the front lines and there defiantly urinated toward the enemy.
It was said to commemorate how they then regained momentum and won effortlessly.
That did sound like the sort of tale they’d tell.
But the reason it was called Manneken was that this urchin had quite the wardrobe; whenever there was a ceremony in the city, they dressed him in costumes appropriate to the occasion.
Hence the name “clothing doll.”
From Japan too had come battle surcoats.
He was immensely popular in the town—four or five years prior, a certain old woman had bequeathed her entire inheritance of 1,000 francs to Manneken’s upkeep before passing away.
Both sides were souvenir shops.
“We speak English.”
“We also understand German” was advertised on the window.
I stepped inside.
Manneken figurines, Manneken bells, Manneken ashtrays, Manneken spoons, Manneken whatnots——.

Tomb of the Unknown Soldier—beneath the Congress Column.
A flame that had been burning day and night since November 11, 1922.
We removed our hats.

Wiertz Museum——Rue du Vautier.
Antoine Wiertz——1806–1865——Private Museum.
In the building that had once served as his residence and studio, a collection had taken shape—bold – unconventional – realist, replete with sensuality – cruelty – madness – large-scale works.
The sheer scale became evident when we learned he had sought to borrow a temple to paint certain pieces due to spatial constraints, only for monks to brand him a heretic and refuse him the space after disputes.

Masterpieces.
The Contest for Patroclus.
Hell's Rebellion Against Heaven.
Devil's Mirror.
Condemned Prisoner's Fantasy.
Napoleon in Hell.
Secret.
Rose.
Others.
The corner doghouse and painting of a dog were also famous.
Until quite recently, works that had been kept hidden behind a curtain with only a small hole allowing a peek were now all on public display.
Works titled *Hunger*, *Madness*, *Crime*—such as one depicting a madwoman cutting off an infant’s leg to put in a cooking pot—were those pieces.
In *Expectation*, a nude woman parted the bedroom curtain while awaiting someone’s arrival; in *Curiosity*, yet another unclothed woman cracked open a door in what appeared to be a bathroom.
Orphans, live burials, Quasimodo, burned children—all these could be said to represent the pinnacle of fin-de-siècle grotesquerie.
Wiertz was often mistakenly claimed to have been a madman—such was the level of bloodshed, distorted perspectives, and perversion in his works.
Yet whether successful or not, he tried to let his brush speak.
Whether paintings taking as their subject matter idealism, revolutionary social thought, class consciousness, or resistance to war and power—setting aside whether such works qualified as art—his paintings extracted these themes with surgical precision, debated them with spittle-flying fervor until entering his studio felt like stepping into walls alive with vehement arguments.
Paintings with a mission—Wiertz became nothing less than the nineteenth century’s caricature.
But this mad genius undeniably remained humanity’s stepping stone.
Even if it were an ominous stepping stone!

——If one were to say this, Wiertz would assuredly have repeated verbatim those famous words he had inscribed in his "Self-Portrait" for his contemporaries' edification.

"In painting, is criticism even possible?"

"In the matter of painting, is criticism possible?

Belgian Museum—fossils, a multitude of prehistoric lizards.
Worth a visit."

Grand Place—from dawn until eight o'clock, morning dew and large parasols and a flower market.
One of Europe’s most beautiful medieval squares.
Large dogs pulled carts laden with milk and vegetables instead of horses, and ornately decorated buildings surrounded the uneven cobblestones.
One of these, "Guild House" Numbers 26 and 27, was where Victor Hugo lived in 1852.

The lawns and ponds of San Canteenil Park, the tree-lined avenue above the palace—Brussels’ beauty lies in the shadows between its street trees—we passed back and forth beneath them countless times each day. Light rain pattered down. We sat down on a bench in the shade of a tree. When the rain cleared, we started walking again. When we descended a single road to the lower town, there stood the southern station.

At the festival, show booths were lined up all along one side.

Along the deep-sand pavement that threatened to steal our shoes stretched booths of strongmen, freak animals, hairy women, merry-go-rounds, artificial human organs, peep shows, palm readings, boxing matches, hip-swinging dances titled *A Night in Montmartre*, frog men, instant photographs, *No Women Allowed* signs, miniature car races, Mademoiselle Blanche’s “Crystal Prophecy” Gypsy fortune-telling, anatomical male-female dolls, silhouette portraits, encore performances of *Parisian Nights*, giant serpents, thumb-sized warriors, African man-eating tribes, open-challenge *Monte Carlo* games, ring tosses, cup-and-ball games, dancing horses, electric gambling machines, undersea adventure dioramas—all amidst brass bands, jostling crowds, lantern lights, strange odors, shouts, and humid warmth.
Shoulder, shoulder, shoulder.
Flushed people’s eyes, eyes, eyes.
After all, tonight was the town’s festival.

Employing one method after another, we too went around peering into every single show booth along the row.
In front of the "Woman with Hair All Over Her Face," I exclaimed, "C’est bien!"
When I shouted “Très bien!”, the onlookers—good-natured men and women with glowing cheeks—echoed back “Très bien!”
and harmonized in chorus while whispering among themselves.
Honest, simple, and passionate—a blend of Latin and Flemish heritage.
They were genuinely marveling.
The only exception was the "Frog Man," which made us feel strangely nauseous.
This was a genuine disabled person—a body under three feet tall and around fifty years of age bore an absurdly large face that reeked of sobriety, with something like webbing attached to his extremely slender and tiny hands.
He was quietly singing French vulgar songs, appearing utterly disinterested.
That sight interfered with both my appetite and hers for some time.

While buying ice cream, they hailed a taxi and set off on their return journey, eating the ice cream inside it.
From behind, the festival's clamor still pursued the taxi along with the night breeze.

Starlight.

Tomorrow’s weather could be viewed with optimism.

Plain of Lamentation

Nunnery Forest, Soignies Forest—this Soignies being Brussels’ “Bois de Boulogne”—in any case, with green reflections making both the automobile’s interior and us passengers appear deathly pale, we drove endlessly through nothing but forests. Being a forest, enormous trees grew in profusion—those ancient trees splayed their branches wantonly, afternoon light filtering through their tangled limbs, the chill scent of soil and decaying leaves piercing our nostrils, lakes appearing here and there, women shouldering firewood scrambling to avoid our car on narrow paths—then just as we thought we’d emerged from the woods, we abruptly halted in the dust-choked center of a post-town-like settlement, where the driver turned his ruddy face toward us.

“That’s it! The house that served as General Wellington’s headquarters on June 17th and 18th, 1815.”
“It’s now the village post office, you know.”

We were on our way to the Waterloo battlefield.
No—apparently this was already Waterloo.
Looking around stood a building that ostensibly appeared "completely faithful to the period"—old and grimy yet somehow pompously standing.
Here in this place, I—

“Ah, I see.”
“That’s quite something.”

With an ambiguous expression of admiration like an American tourist, I urged her along, summoned the chauffeur, and paid a brief visit to the Duke of Wellington’s headquarters.

The second floor served as headquarters, living quarters, and bedroom combined.
"Thoroughly versed in wartime matters,"
an elderly woman—the housewife and Waterloo postmaster of this residence—emerged:

"This is the chair and desk used by the General."

"Ah, most impressive indeed."

"This is the General's bed."

"Well now! That's truly remarkable."

"This is the General's—the General's—the General's—"

After viewing bullets, spears, tattered epaulets—all naturally belonging to the General—we stepped outside.

“So these are the stairs the General trod, right?”

When I said this and knocked rhythmically on the wooden ladder steps, the driver raised his eyebrows in assurance.

“Of course, that’s right.”

He spoke as if it were his own story.
This driver was one we had picked up in Brussels, but despite his youth, he was remarkably well-versed in “the ways of those times,” gripping the steering wheel while heedless of nearly running over chickens, dogs, and occasionally villagers out strolling—half-turned in his seat as he chattered away incessantly.

“Yes, from around eleven on the seventeenth till dawn there was a torrential downpour—Napoleon’s troops weren’t properly shod, and what’s more there was a great ditch.”
“We’re heading there now.”

As we tried to head there, we came out to the corner.

There stood a modest tavern resembling a village club, with a sign that read Hôtel du Colonne.

“In 1861, Hugo stayed at this house and wrote the Waterloo chapters of Les Misérables here.”
“He must’ve come here to get a real sense of it, I suppose.”

Here too, the driver wore a face as if he himself had written it.
They trooped down and filed inside.

“I want to see the room where Hugo stayed.”

“Beer, wine, or lemonade—what’ll you have?”

The woman waiting behind the bar utterly failed to comprehend.
When we seized upon her lack of comprehension and pressed her with various questions, she admitted that while it was indeed true Hugo had stayed there, ownership had since changed hands and they no longer knew anything about it.
Hearing this exchange, the village priest smirked to himself over there.
With no other choice, we tipped back large mugs of lemonade with the driver.
Because allowing this guy alcohol now would spell trouble.

And then we drove along more backcountry roads.

Mont-Saint-Jean Plain.
This was the true battlefield.
The sun blazed down on an "earthen pyramid" standing there.
Below lay an exhibit titled "Panorama of the Period."
If you entered and lingered carelessly, a guide would come trotting after you and launch into unsolicited explanations.

“At this time Napoleon had seventy-one thousand nine hundred and forty-seven troops under his command, having taken position at that white farmhouse Plancenoit there at nine in the morning—as usual with his left hand turned behind him astride a white horse—while facing him, the Allied forces secured this Braine-l’Alleud road here—”

He was reciting rehearsed lines.

“Ah, that’s quite something.”

“It must have been truly dreadful, indeed.”

Having expressed suitable admiration, we climbed the pyramid to find a lion statue standing resolutely at the summit, the panorama we had just witnessed lying within pointing distance.

Under the eternal heavens, clouds drifted by as the Belgian fields burned aglow with sunlight.
Here too, those thoroughly versed in the period had laid out their nets,

“Look! That single tree over there—ma’am, do you see it? That marks where Napoleon’s forces struggled bitterly. And then, over there—the solitary house with its windows twinkling—”

“Ah, that’s quite something.”

“It must have been truly dreadful indeed.”

When we descended and looked through sunlight filtering into the car’s interior，the driver lay fast asleep inside．Evidently he had finally sneaked a drink－a pungent alcoholic odor hung thick within the vehicle．Now then－could we return safely to Brussels without crushing chickens，dogs，or people beneath our wheels，while steering clear of those massive trees in Soignes Forest？

Ah well－no matter how thoroughly intoxicated，he’d surely handle his own automobile with care．

At the Waterloo battlefield, I unexpectedly composed a haiku.
Whether it's any good or not—to the point of being laughed at—

Summer grass—
the remnants
of warriors' dreams

1928 Olympics

Sunlight · Crowd · Muscles · National flags.

The opening ceremony.
An overcast sky.
A cold wind.

A modern vision of ancient Greece.
Doves released.
Music performed.

Athletes from each country entered—in ABC order.

Africa.
Green jackets with white trousers.

Germany.
Top: navy blue.
Bottom: white.

Bulgaria: cavalry.

Canada.
Top: white.
Bottom: red.

Chile: white.

Egypt.
Red hats.
Blue coats.
Gray pants.

America.
Top: blue.
Bottom: white.

Flag bearer: Weissmuller.

Haiti.
Black person: one.

Italy.
Dark gray.
Light blue trousers.

Japan.
Top: blue.
Bottom: white.
Officials: frock coats with red shoes.

Flag bearer: Takaishi.

Mexico.
White with red collars.

Monaco.
White garments with red hats.
Nine.

Panama.
One.

Participating countries: forty-five in total.

Oath.
Speech.

Speech.
Speech.
Speech.

Sunlight · Crowd · Muscles · National flags.

100 meters.
200 meters.

400 meters.
Time: fifty-six and one-fifth seconds, fifty-six and three-fifths seconds.

Pistol and stopwatch.

New records emerging.

World record.

Another world record.

The type of pristine clarity a nation projects.

Official program?
Their cries.

High jump.
Javelin throw.

Preliminaries.
Semifinals, and finals.

The national flag on the main flagpole.
All stands rise.

Hats off.
National anthem.

Nagatani—ii!

Odaa—!

Nagatani: 254.

Oda: 257.

Okita.
258.

Nanbu: 255.
255.

Hitomi.
265.

Who is that?

667—Canada's Williams.

553—America's Paddock.

Sunlight · Crowd · Muscles · National flags.

The Olympic flag with its five-colored rings undulating.

Ah!
Going there—

Superhuman Nurumi chatting with someone.
Likewise, the Human Locomotive Ritora.
Haadoru, then the running long jump.

Hop, step & jump.

257—Wow!
Japan's Oda!

Result: 1521.

Olympic Ceremony!

Oda Yapon's voice.

The Japanese flag! Tears!

Kimigayo rose through Dutch skies.

Ah, imperialism raging white-hot through the pretext of sports!

Glorification of imperialism.

Glorification of victory.

Boyish patriotism!

Sunlight · Crowd · Muscles · National flags.

Holland Travel Guide

As a preface, I shall first list two or three essential pieces of knowledge regarding Holland below.

Holland—it does seem to be an independent country.
As for geography, refer to the Holland entry in geography books.
To briefly outline its topography here: generally speaking, the land lies below sea level—whereas most other countries maintain some elevation above it—forming plains so vast that nothing obstructs the view; what may occasionally appear as hills or mountains are but indolent cows sitting motionless.
At times one may glimpse towering mountain ranges in the distance, yet as these are but peaks of clouds, they invariably disperse in an instant.

Climate.
Sudden showers frequent.
Do not forget your umbrella even when venturing out under blue skies to mail a postcard.

History.
Detailed in history books.

Places of interest.

The entire country exists solely for sightseers.

National character.
Great chatterboxes.
Regardless of age or gender, they skillfully wield foreign languages—except Japanese—and can instantly transform into professional guides.
They delighted in discoursing about themselves and their past, showed little ambition for self-improvement, and indulged in comfort along with German-style beer and cheese.
When they saw people, they thrust out business cards and had a habit of requesting signatures.
Their skin ruddy, their hair white—even the children—their faces fully rounded, resembling docile livestock, and adept at flattery.

Local specialties.
Windmills, wooden shoes, fake diamonds, Dutch dolls, silverwork, Jewish people, canals.

Amsterdam—burdened this year with the unbecoming weight of the Olympics—was drenched in sweat throughout the town.
Thanks to this, we too sweltered in the heat.

Palace—take care not to mistake it for a department store and wander in to buy socks—Jewish Quarter, Rembrandt's House, Coster's Diamond Factory, National Museum—Rembrandt's Night Watch, El Greco, Goya, Renoir, Delacroix, Millet, Manet, Monet, Degas, Van Gogh, Gauguin, ETC.

Once, take Bergman’s water taxi from under the bridge in front of the station for a canal tour through the city.

Forendam and Marken Island—a day by sightseeing boat.
Carried by wind and waves—that’s all.

The Hague—Rembrandt’s Anatomy Lesson at the Mauritshuis Museum, and the Gevangenpoort prison, which was now converted into a museum that exhaustively collected instruments of torture and punishment from ages past.
The Hague's A-Number One.

It’s nice to take the train to Scheveningen Beach for a quick trip.
After having a meal at the crowded Casino and spending one guilder to walk along the bustling pier, Holland essentially comes to an END here.

And so, END.

Things that impress in Holland: the changing clouds.

Things that fail to impress: human hearts and green tea—in any case, we were made to drink this tea at the hotel, both of us slept straight through twenty-four hours, and ended up missing an entire day of the long-awaited Games.
I gather it must have been a Dutch physician’s medicinal herb.
Though it was fortunate that we woke up at all, I—after coming to my senses—seriously considered filing a lawsuit.
It is for this reason that I now issue a grave warning to my fellow travelers regarding Dutch green tea in particular.

The Nest of the Grounded Eagle

Along both sides of the narrow country road stood low wooden houses; on the road, fibers of horse dung danced in a midday fantasy; and on a second-floor overhang, a young woman sat in a rocking chair knitting.
And—given that a young woman these days would sit solemnly knitting in a rocking chair, one could well imagine the surrounding scenery.
Namely: bicycles that looked ready to transform lay scattered before entrances; sunflowers mocked them by singing improvised tunes; a large cat crossed the highway with something in its mouth, followed leisurely by another large cat; two pairs of wooden shoes drying on dust-white window frames whispered sweet nothings; the village butcher dozed atop pork; the village doctor greeted this scene as he passed by; stable smells and harmonica notes intertwined and drifted from somewhere; side streets immediately opened out into wheat fields where a gleaming wind swept through thoroughly bored stalks; upon all these things the summer sun beat down relentlessly; at an elm's crown persisted a cicada's cry; a puppy played with its own tail; a woman on the second floor discovered this, stopped knitting to laugh; her entire household emerged at this laughter to roar in mirth—and then, into this scene arrived Japanese visitors whom they'd only heard about but never seen, a married couple no less, causing the whole village to jostle before Hotel Pabst—the sole travelers' lodge—staring critically while smirking ("Hey, let me have a look too," "My, aren't they chatty," "Such jet-black hair," etc., until "Oh, do pipe down—"). Now, having merrily proceeded on my own thus far, I thought it necessary here to slow the tempo and clarify the notion of place.
Otherwise, one would have had no idea where all this commotion was taking place—so let me confess: this very backwater village was none other than Doorn Hamlet in such-and-such County of Utrecht, Holland.

Now, as for why we suddenly appeared in this Doorn village of such-and-such county and district—it was certainly not to specially observe a puppy playing with its tail (the puppy’s own, that is). There existed a single splendid reason for this.

Those who knew would know.
Wilhelm II，former German Emperor，was now gazing upon exiled Moon’s light from this remote village of Doorn where history had consigned him.
As matters required proper sequence，we began again from first principles.

To begin with, we had a close friend in Amsterdam City.
This Mr. Van Poul—a director at a ship equipment company—was the kind gentleman we had happened to select from among passersby one day to casually ask for directions. The next day, having found what he presumed to be a Japanese beverage at some grocery store near his company, he dispatched a steward to our hotel with a business card reading "Please enjoy this" and presented us a bottle of Japanese soy sauce—Yokohama Ota-made with Fuji mark—which, given our traveler's circumstances, left us feeling terribly guilty as it remained unrepaid, and so on—this "soy" being ridiculously salty—such was the situation.
Now, returning our conversation from soy sauce to the Kaiser, we—who had begun a brief acquaintance through this connection—found ourselves one evening strolling along Faiendam’s main boulevard with Mr. Van Poul,

"I meant this rural Doorn."

"Yes. The Kaiser resides there.
Doorn happens to be my hometown—I actually visited just recently."

“That’s wonderful! Could I meet him through your efforts?”

“You mean…the Kaiser? What would you even do if you met him?”

“It’s not like there’s some grand reason—I just want to meet him. By all means, please arrange it.”

“Well now, this is troublesome,” said Mr.Van Poul. “I don’t know him personally either, and even if you applied for an official meeting, of course that would be completely impossible—”

And then—after being lost in deep thought for some time—Mr.Van Poul exclaimed: “Ah! Wait! I have good news!” There at a nearby café table he smoothly drafted a letter of introduction. “Take this,” he said. Upon looking, the letter was addressed to the proprietor of Hotel Pabst in Doorn.

When I inadvertently made a face that seemed to ask, “Is this really all it takes?” the ever-kindly Mr.Van Poul laughed through his cigar smoke and said, “Well, go try it out for yourself.”

Well, the very next morning—as haste was prudent—we were promptly jostled aboard a train, then hauled like luggage onto a bus, crossing field and mountain (though in Holland there are no mountains) until at last my wife and I reached Doorn village.

Cats, wooden clogs, sunflowers—they ended up disturbing both the peace of the wheat-growing village and the hotel owner’s nap all at once.

An unusually oppressive heat hung in the air, as if the sun itself had drawn near.

After some time, the proprietor Mr. Pabst who emerged under the villagers' collective gaze first unhurriedly and methodically opened the seal of the letter of introduction, then produced his glasses and adjusted their position at length, spent considerable time reading and rereading it, next conducted a meticulous inspection of our appearances with hastily assumed dignity, and finally began to speak deliberately.

“Are you folks really Japanese?”

When I hurriedly emphatically argued and asserted that we were genuine, bona fide Japanese, old man Pabst suddenly adopted a reminiscent tone—

“It’s been quite some time since I last saw Japanese people.”
“Yes, it must have been six or seven years by now. It was summer.”
“No—autumn!”
“Ah yes, it was summer after all.”
“An elderly Japanese peddler came by to sell pictures, you know?”
“Japanese pictures, you know?”
“He stayed at my place and then—”

It showed no sign of ending.
When I could do nothing but laugh silently, the old man returned to his duties of his own accord, read through the letter one last time, and then spoke with the tremendous gravity of a privileged person as follows.

“First and foremost, you must clearly recognize that we now face an adventure entirely dependent on fate’s whims.”
“Because Old Bill”—here he used his nickname for the Kaiser—
“Old Bill! That is, the elderly former German Emperor Wilhelm!”
“—because whether you can meet him depends solely on whether fate smiles upon you.”
“You see, Old Bill often wanders through Doorn village like leaves in the wind.”
“And once he’s out, he comes to this hotel nearly every day”—Mr.Pabst pointed to a peculiar triangular chair in the parlor—“sits there for half a day chatting away.”
“But that’s mostly in winter—he doesn’t seem to go out much in summer.”
“Still, he might appear regardless.”
“Why, just ten days back he strolled in casually—patted my daughter’s head—she’s seven or eight—read an Amsterdam paper, then left again. So who knows? He might saunter in today just as sudden-like.”
“Of course I can’t promise he’ll come.”
“But even now as we speak, he might pop up round here—or else, if luck’s against you, not step outside his mansion for days.”
“So since you’ve come all this way, best stay the night and pray for fortune’s favor—that’s what I say.”
And the old man added:

“Old Bill took such a liking to this parlor that he had an identical room built inside his mansion.”

With that, he ushered us into his prized parlor.

It was a not particularly spacious room with black plank flooring, decorated from the curtains to the desk covers and carpets entirely with products from Dutch East Indies Java—a somewhat Eastern-style, pleasant room.
The vividly colored antique clock particularly caught our eye—that aside, regarding the Kaiser, hearing all this made us feel compelled toward pessimism, yet conversely, precisely because we were dealing with a living human being who couldn’t be guaranteed not to appear at any moment, it also seemed perfectly reasonable to feel emboldened.
In any case, given that there was absolutely no means for us to take the initiative, it ultimately came down to having no other method but to trust in fate as the old man said, pray, and wait for a while.
And so, when we resolved to spend a pitiful night in this “God-forsaken” Doorn, old Pabst gathered all his staff—from the two bellboys to every maid and manservant—and issued orders: should anyone spot the Kaiser, or even someone resembling him—a retreating figure would suffice—they were to fly through the air and urgently inform us.
Since rare Japanese visitors had fluttered into town, the old man was now determined to do whatever it took.
The servants too answered in unison with their lives on the line: “Aye, aye!”
I couldn’t just feign ignorance either, so I handed two cigars to the old man and scattered a fair amount of coins among the others with a “Please take care of it.”

But since we couldn’t idly laze about on the hotel’s second floor indefinitely while relying on reports that might never come, I again cornered Mr. Pabst to thoroughly inquire about the Kaiser’s current appearance—he, that is, what the old man called Old Bill—who these days favored an old-fashioned gray double-breasted coat that had once been quite popular, his body gaunt and tall, strands of white hair peeking from beneath an old straw hat, with a ruddy face and white beard, walking briskly as if too restless to endure stillness, slightly hiking up his left shoulder while tapping at nearby grass and stones with his cane—so he described.

This still seemed rather ordinary—the sort of old man you might find anywhere—but since villagers would surely all bow to the Kaiser, making him instantly recognizable, the two of us finally set out into Doorn’s afternoon streets to seek the Kaiser ourselves, like Don Quixote and Sancho Panza.

And so it was—horse dung danced along the main path, cats strolled leisurely through it, sunflowers seemed to converse with the cats, while trees, houses, haystacks, and our shadows mischievously crawled across the ground in sharp relief. Under the stark white sun without a single sound—walking like this made us feel we might drift drowsily into sleep at any moment.
Even so, I quietly prepared in my mind various attitudes to adopt and phrases to say upon encountering the Kaiser.
Once found—by whatever means—we must press in like hounds bearing respect and questions, pursuing relentlessly to the end.
This I resolved.

Because it was a compact village, we soon found ourselves before the Kaiser’s house of confinement.
It had the imposing air of a local wealthy landowner’s estate, with a gatekeeper standing guard at the sturdy gate.

I asked.

“Is the Ex-Kaiser here now?”
“What is he doing now?”

He laughed and did not answer.
After some time, he said:

“I’ll show you the rose garden—the Kaiser’s rose field.”

And he handed us two ticket-like items, so just to be sure,

“How much is it?”

“Whatever you deem appropriate.”

This must be an offering to the Kaiser, like those made at shrines.
Beside it sat a wooden box with a small slit carved straight across and a visitor registry.
There I dropped one guilder into the slot and wrote “Tokyo, Japan” beneath in Japanese.

In the distance appeared the main building, its wide-open windows stirring white lace curtains.
A cage for the wounded German eagle.
As we stood gazing, we sensed someone behind us.
They could only be Germany's Kojima Takanoris.
An elderly couple lingered there with fathomless expressions in their eyes, seemingly oblivious to our presence.

Then they proceeded to the Rosarium.
In a plot separated from the mansion by a lane, former Emperor Wilhelm II was there devotedly cultivating roses.
The season was just right.
Flowers of every color nurtured through His Former Majesty's meticulous care bloomed profusely, while here and there gardeners clipped away with their shears, and above them all clusters of rotund clouds hung motionless in the summer sky.
Here too wandered numerous Germans reminiscent of Kojima Takanori.
We asked one of those Kojima-like gentlemen to snap a photo of us with the roses in the background.

The mansion was surrounded by tall trees, and an iron fence encircled it.
A path ran immediately outside, where boot prints crushing fallen leaves spoke of the lingering reluctance in German Kojima Takanoris' hearts to depart, and of irresponsible travelers' curiosity like ours.

Like detectives, we too staked out around the house for a long time.
Ripples formed on the pond hidden by trees, and the edge of the brass bed visible on the second floor glimmered in the sunset until—

The hurriedly walking gray suit, the cane striking grass—that had been my fantasy.

Night came to Doorn, and night gave way to day.

Fate ultimately did not smile upon us.
But I am grateful we never met.
The scene where the former emperor grew irritated at receiving some boorish stranger's surprise assault by the roadside—the aged Wilhelm now tended his roses with tranquil heart.
You!
Isn’t this more than enough already?

The next day brought another stark white sun and soundless blue sky.

Horse dung powder swirled up along Yutrakte Street as a cat ambled through it, then another sauntered past; upstairs, yesterday's woman continued her knitting while sunflowers cast coquettish glances, and thoroughly bored wheat ears—At Yutrakte Station, while waiting for the Hamburg-bound train, we dashed off a letter to that kind Amsterdam gentleman, Mr. Van Poul.

We met with the Kaiser, discussed various matters, and shared a meal together.
He asked me to send his regards especially to you.