Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

I will tell of the tiger hunt. When I say tiger hunt, I don't mean some farcical affair like Monsieur Tartarin's lion hunts from Tarascon. This is the genuine article—a real tiger hunt. The location was in Korea—in mountains barely twenty ri from Keijō—and though one might laugh today at the notion of tigers appearing there, until about twenty years ago, even in Keijō itself, cattle and horses from Heizan Ranch near Dongdaemun Gate were often carried off in the dead of night. To be precise, they were not taken by tigers but by a wolf-like creature called nukute (豺); regardless, this was still a time when walking alone through the suburbs at night remained perilous. There was even a story like this. At the police box outside Dongdaemun Gate, one evening when a police officer sat alone at his desk, a creature suddenly began making a terrifying noise, scraping and clawing at the entrance’s glass door. When he looked up in shock, that thing—to his utter astonishment—was a tiger. The tigers—two of them—were standing on their hind legs, their front claws frantically clawing away. The police officer turned pale, immediately propping a log from the room against the door as a makeshift barricade, piling up every chair and table available on the inner side to reinforce the entrance, then stood ready with his drawn sword while trembling uncontrollably—utterly terrified—or so the story goes. However, after letting the police officer stew in his terror for about an hour, the tigers finally gave up and went off somewhere—or so the story goes. When I read this story in the Keijō Daily, I couldn't help but find it absolutely hilarious. The police officers who normally acted so high and mighty—this was still an era in Korea when officers could swagger about unchecked—when I imagined how they must have panicked that night, piling up chairs, tables, and every other scrap of junk before the door like they were spring cleaning, my boyhood self simply couldn't contain his laughter. Moreover, those two tigers that came—the ones standing on hind legs and clawing frantically to intimidate the officer—never struck me as real tigers at all. They seemed more like the police officer himself being threatened might appear: saber at his hip, boots on his feet, stiff handlebar mustache twirled upward, ready to bark "Hey, you!" like some childishly exaggerated tigers from a fairy-tale kingdom.

II

Now, before I speak of the tiger hunt, I must first tell of a friend. That friend’s name was Cho Daihwan. As his name made clear, he was a Peninsula person. Everyone said his mother had been a mainland Japanese. I vaguely recall hearing this directly from him, or perhaps I had simply convinced myself of it. Despite our closeness, I never once saw his mother. In any case, his Japanese was remarkably skilled. Moreover, being an avid reader of novels, he even knew Edo-period lexicon that Japanese boys in the colonies had never heard. And at first glance, no one could have discerned he was a Peninsula person. Cho and I had been friends since fifth grade.

In the second term of that fifth grade, I transferred from mainland Japan to Ryūzan Elementary School. Those who frequently changed schools in childhood due to their father’s job circumstances or some such reason will remember. There was nothing more unpleasant than the early days after transferring to a new school. Different habits, different rules, different pronunciation, different ways of reading textbooks. And the many malicious eyes that sought to torment the newcomer without reason. I was driven into a shrinking, timid state of mind, terrified that no matter what I did, I might be laughed at. A couple of days after transferring to Ryūzan Elementary School, during another reading class, when I began reciting the lines of a poem by Jō no Takayoshi that was inscribed on a cherry tree, everyone burst into uproarious laughter. The harder I blushed and desperately tried to reread it, the more everyone dissolved into laughter. In the end, even the teacher ended up wearing a faint smile around their mouth. I became thoroughly disgusted, and as soon as class ended, I hurriedly slipped out of the classroom. Standing alone at the edge of the playground where I still had no friends, I gazed dejectedly at the sky, fighting back tears. Even now I remember: that day, a fierce sandstorm enveloped the area like a thick fog, and through the murky veil of sand, the sun faintly filtered a moon-like pale yellow light. I later learned that across Korea and Manchuria, such days occurred about once a year on average. In other words, winds would rise in Mongolia’s Gobi Desert, carrying that sand and dust all the way here. That day, utterly dumbfounded by the ferocious weather I was witnessing for the first time, I kept gazing at where the tall poplar treetops at the playground's edge disappeared into the white haze of dust, all the while spitting repeatedly from my mouth that quickly filled with gritty sand. Then suddenly from beside me came a strange, strained, mocking laugh accompanied by a voice: “Hey, you’re so ashamed you’re just spitting all over the place.” When I looked, there stood a rather tall, thin boy with narrow eyes and flared nostrils, his smile suffused less with malice than with mockery. It was true that my spitting stemmed from the dust in the air, but when confronted like this, it also seemed undeniable that I had been spitting excessively—those repeated "ptui ptui" sounds—to distract from the lingering shame of my earlier "Do not let Tian Goujian be in vain" blunder and the awkwardness of standing there utterly alone. Having been called out on this, I was suddenly flooded with two or three times the shame I’d felt earlier. Flushed crimson and without considering the consequences, I lunged at the boy, my face crumpling as I fought back tears. To be honest, it wasn't that I leaped at that boy thinking I could win. As a small and cowardly child, I had never won a fight before.

So even then, resigned to defeat—and precisely because of that—I lunged at him with a face half-contorted by tears. Yet to my astonishment, the very opponent I had braced myself to be thoroughly beaten by—charging forward with eyes squeezed shut—proved unexpectedly weak. As we grappled in the mechanical exercises' sandpit at the playground's edge—having fallen and continued tussling—I found I could pin him down effortlessly. While inwardly startled by this outcome, I still kept my guard up, frantically jabbing at his collar while maintaining tight-shut eyes. But eventually noticing his complete lack of resistance, when I abruptly opened my eyes, there beneath my hands were his narrow eyes gazing up with an inscrutable expression—whether earnest or mocking—that seemed cunning. I suddenly sensed something akin to insult, slackened my grip, and immediately stood to distance myself from him. Then he too rose, brushing sand from his black woolen coat while avoiding my gaze, twisting the corners of his eyes in an awkward grimace toward the other boys who had rushed over at the commotion. I instead felt the discomfort of apparent defeat, returning to the classroom with peculiar unease.

A couple of days later, the boy and I walked home from school along the same path. At that time, he told me his name was Cho Daihwan. When I heard the name, I reflexively asked him to repeat it. Though I had come to Korea, it had never occurred to me there might be a Korean in my own class; moreover, nothing about that boy's appearance suggested he was Korean. When I finally understood through repeated questioning that his name was indisputably Cho, I felt guilty for having pestered him so insistently. I must have been rather precocious for my age at that time. I took pains to ensure he wouldn't become self-conscious about being Korean—not just then but continuously even after we began playing together regularly. Yet this consideration seemed unnecessary. For Cho himself appeared utterly indifferent to the matter—indeed, since he had voluntarily disclosed his name, I reasoned he must feel no particular concern about it. In truth, this proved to be my misunderstanding. Cho had actually been acutely sensitive on this point—less about being a Peninsula person himself than about how his friends remained perpetually aware of it while condescendingly including him in their games. At times, even our teachers' and my own well-meaning attempts to prevent him from developing such awareness only deepened his sullen discontent. That is to say, precisely because he himself fixated on this matter, he paradoxically affected complete indifference in his mannerisms—even going so far as to deliberately announce his own name. But I would only come to understand this much later.

In any case, that was how our bond was forged. The two of us graduated elementary school simultaneously, entered Keijō Middle School at the same time, and began commuting together every morning by train from Ryūzan.

III

Around that time—specifically from the end of elementary school through the start of middle school—I knew he was infatuated with a certain girl. Our elementary school class was co-ed, and that girl served as vice-class president. ("Class presidents were chosen from among the boys.") She was a tall girl—her complexion not particularly fair but with luxuriant hair and eyes of strikingly long beauty. I had occasionally heard classmates compare this girl to frontispiece illustrations by an artist named Kasoyo in magazines like Shōjo Club. Cho had apparently liked the girl since elementary school, but when she too began commuting by train from Ryūzan to a girls' school in Keijō—encountering each other during their daily rides—his feelings grew even more fervent. Once, Cho became serious and confided in me about that matter. "At first I hadn't felt that strongly either," he said at the time, "but after hearing an older friend praise her beauty, I suddenly found her unbearably precious." Though unspoken, one could easily imagine his sensitive nature tormenting him anew over Peninsula People versus Mainland Japanese concerns. I still clearly remember. One winter morning at Namdaemun Station's transfer area—when that girl (herself seemingly acting on impulse) unexpectedly greeted him directly—I remember his flustered expression as he returned the greeting, nose reddened by cold. Then there was that time we all rode the train together. As we stood before her seat, a passenger vacated the adjacent spot. She shifted sideways—making space for Cho (though one might interpret it as for me too). The look on his face then—equal parts panic and delight!...The reason I recall such trifles? Well—not that it matters—but of course I too secretly nursed aching feelings for her. Yet in time his—our—sorrowful affection faded as days passed and pimples multiplied on our faces. Before life's ceaselessly emerging mysteries, we lost sight of those forms—or perhaps it's truer to say. From then we gradually began casting sharp inquisitive eyes upon life's strange fascinations. The two of us—adults chaperoning us of course—set out on a tiger hunt precisely then. But since I'm here—though reversing order—I'll postpone the hunt to speak of what became of him later. When it comes to memories after that—why, there remain but two or three.

IV

By nature, he was a man fascinated by strange things, showing almost no enthusiasm for the tasks imposed at school. During kendo practice, he would usually claim illness and observe from the sidelines, watching us through those narrow eyes of his with a sneer playing on his face as we earnestly donned masks and swung bamboo swords. But one day during fourth period, after kendo had ended, he approached me while I still wore my mask and began recounting how he had seen tropical fish at the Mitsukoshi Gallery the previous day. In an intensely excited tone, he extolled their beauty and insisted I must go see them too, saying he would accompany me there again. That day after school, we stopped by the Mitsukoshi on Honmachi-dori. It was likely Japan's earliest introduction to tropical fish. When we entered the enclosure of the third-floor exhibition hall, aquariums lining all the surrounding windows bathed the interior in a faint bluish gloom like that of an aquarium. Cho first led me to a tank at the center of the window-lined wall. In water turned blue and translucent by the reflected sky, between five or six aquatic plants, swam two beautiful fish - paper-thin and flat like small silk-covered fans moving quietly. They looked somewhat like flounders swimming upright as if positioned vertically. Moreover, their triangular sail-like fins, nearly matching their torsos in size, were truly magnificent. On their grayish-white torsos that shifted hues with every movement like jewel beetles' iridescence, several thick purplish-red stripes stood out vividly like gaudy necktie patterns.

“How about that!” Cho said exultantly beside me as I stared intently. A procession of rising bubbles appearing green through the glass’s thickness. Fine white sand spread across the bottom. Narrow-bladed aquatic plants growing upward. Between them swam diamond-shaped fish, moving their ornamental tail fins with delicate care as though cherishing them. As I gazed fixedly at these elements, I gradually felt myself peering through a submarine viewer into some South Seas abyss. Yet even then, I thought Cho’s display of wonder too performative. Though long familiar with his passion for “exotic beauty,” I now recognized extravagant affectation in his rapture and determined to puncture it. When we finally left Mitsukoshi and walked down Honmachi-dori together after seeing everything, I deliberately told him:

“It’s not that they aren’t beautiful, but Japanese goldfish are just as lovely, you know.”

The reaction appeared immediately. His face—pockmarked with acne scars, with those characteristically narrow eyes, flared nostrils, and thick lips—as he stared back at me in silence became instantly filled with a complex expression: pitying laughter at my failure to comprehend delicate beauty, but more than that, protest against my current mean-spiritedly cynical attitude, these emotions intermingling in chaotic entanglement. After that, I recall he didn’t speak to me for about a week.

…………

V

There must have been far more significant matters between him and me during our association, yet I find myself remembering only these trivial incidents with foolish clarity, while most other things have faded from memory. Human memory seems generally structured in such a manner. And among other things I clearly remember—yes, that night during our third-year winter drill.

It was certainly late November—a day of cold winds.

That day, third-year students and above conducted a fire-starting drill near Yeongdeungpo on the southern bank of the Han River. When we went out scouting and looked down from a sparse grove atop a small hill, there stretched a white sand plain into the distance, through whose midpoint flowed a winter river the color of a dull blade, bleakly coursing along. And high above in the sky, the familiar craggy ridges of Bukhansan Mountain were etched in bluish-purple against the heavens. Amidst this winter-bare scenery, amidst the smells of backpack leather, gun oil, and gunpowder, we scoured the area all day long.

That night, we were to pitch our tents on the sandy banks of Noryangjin along the Han River. We dragged our tired legs, painfully feeling the weight of our rifles against our shoulders as we trudged through the difficult riverbed sand with heavy steps.

We must have reached the campsite around four o'clock.

Just as we were finally about to set up the tents, the previously clear sky abruptly clouded over, and large hailstones began clattering down fiercely. The hailstones were terribly large. Unable to bear the pain, we scrambled under the tent that had been spread out on the sand but not yet pitched, each of us trying to be first. To our ears came the sound of hail fiercely pounding against the tent's thick fabric. The hail ceased after about ten minutes. We who had stuck our heads out from under the tent—seven or eight of us having crammed into that same tent—exchanged glances and burst into laughter simultaneously. At that moment, I noticed that Cho Daihwan too was among those who had just pulled their heads out from the same tent. However, he was not laughing. He wore an anxious pale complexion and looked downward. Beside him stood a fifth-year student called N, reprimanding him with a stern face. When everyone had scrambled under the tent, Cho had apparently used his elbow to shove the senior student and knock off his glasses. By nature, there was a deeply entrenched custom of senior students acting imperiously at our middle school. Saluting when encountering them on pathways went without saying; in all other matters too, absolute obedience to upperclassmen was required. At that moment too, I thought Cho would meekly apologize. However, unexpectedly—or perhaps because we were watching nearby—he stubbornly refused to apologize straightforwardly. He merely stood there stubbornly silent. Senior Student N glared down at Cho with evident animosity for a while, but after casting a glance our way, he turned sharply around and walked off without another word.

To tell the truth, this was not the only instance—Cho had long been targeted by senior students. First of all, it was said that even when encountering them on the street, Cho rarely saluted them. This seemed to often stem from the fact that Cho, despite being nearsighted, did not wear glasses. Even without that, given his inherent precociousness for his age—prone to occasionally sneering at the upperclassmen’s arrogant behavior—and coupled with his excessive immersion in Nagai Kafū’s novels by that time, which made him appear somewhat too effete in the eyes of those hardline seniors, it was only natural he drew their ire. According to Cho himself, he had apparently been threatened twice with remarks like, “You’re being insolent.” “If you don’t correct yourself, I’ll beat you,” he had apparently been threatened. Especially two or three days before this drill, he had been dragged to the front of Sujeongjeon—the ruins of the old Yi Dynasty palace—behind the school and was on the verge of being beaten when, fortunately, the student supervisor happened to pass by, allowing him to narrowly escape. Cho had been telling me this story with that characteristic sneer playing about his mouth, but then, suddenly turning serious, he said the following: “I am not afraid of them, nor do I find being beaten frightening. Yet despite this, my body trembles when I face them.” “Even if I tell myself it’s foolish, my body just starts trembling on its own. What in the world is causing this?” he asked me then with a serious face. He always wore a mocking smile and remained constantly on guard against being seen through, yet at times would unexpectedly reveal such honest aspects of himself. Admittedly, after exposing such honest aspects of himself, he would invariably assume an expression as if immediately regretting his actions and revert to his usual sneering countenance.

Given that there had already been such history between him and the senior students as I had described, that must be why he couldn't bring himself to apologize properly at the time. That evening, even after the tents had been set up, he still wore an anxious, unsettled expression. Dozens of tents were pitched across the riverside, and once straw had been spread inside each to complete the preparations, they began lighting fires within. At first, the firewood smoldered inside, making it utterly unbearable to stay within. When the smoke finally subsided, the meal began—rice balls that had hardened rock-solid in our backpacks since morning. When that ended, we went outside once for roll call. After that was done, we would return to our respective tents and rest on the straw spread over the sand. The sentries standing outside the tents were on one-hour rotations, and since my shift was scheduled from four to five o'clock at dawn, I could sleep soundly until then. Inside that same tent were five third-year students (among them was Cho) and, serving as supervisors, two fourth-year students. No one seemed likely to fall asleep at first. Gathered around the makeshift stove we had dug into the sand at the center, our faces flushed crimson in the firelight yet still hunching our necks and raising our coat collars against the cold seeping in from outside and below, we indulged in idle chatter. That day, amidst our trivial boasts—stories about how our drill instructor Lieutenant Mannen had nearly fallen from his horse, about trespassing into a farmhouse’s backyard during the march and quarreling with its farmers, about fourth-year scouts who slipped away to secretly drink from pocket whiskey bottles they’d brought along before returning to give half-hearted reports—our conversation gradually shifted, as such things do, into boyish and, in retrospect, utterly naive lewd talk. As expected, the fourth-year students—being a year older—were primarily the ones providing such topics. We listened intently to the senior students' stories—whether based on experience or their imagination—our eyes shining, and burst out in delightfully raucous cheers at even the most trivial matters. However, amidst this, Cho Daihwan alone remained silent with an expression of little interest. Even Cho could not exactly claim to lack interest in this sort of talk. However, he must have discerned "servile flattery" in our attitude of laughing uproariously at the senior students' trivial jokes and resented it bitterly.

As we grew tired of talking and the fatigue from the day set in, each of us lay down on the straw, pressing our bodies together to ward off the cold. I too lay there shivering beneath three woolen shirts layered with a jacket, coat, and overcoat, the cold piercing through them all, yet must have eventually drifted off to sleep regardless. I woke what must have been two or three hours later, startled by what I thought was a high-pitched sound. The moment I did, an uneasy premonition gripped me. When I strained to listen, another strangely shrill voice echoed from beyond the tent—this one unmistakably agitated. The voice seemed to belong to Cho Daihwan. I jolted upright and searched for him—the figure who had been lying beside me earlier that evening. Cho was gone. He had likely gone out for his sentry duty shift. But that voice—the one that had sounded so unnervingly threatened? Then, at that very moment, his voice came through clearly from just beyond the tent's thin fabric layer—now trembling unmistakably.

“I don’t see it as that wrong.”

“What?”

“Don’t you think that’s wrong?” This time, a different deep voice resounded, bearing down like a weight. “You're insolent.” “You bastard!” Simultaneously came the unmistakable sharp crack of a slap, followed by what sounded like a rifle clattering onto sand, then two or three dull thuds—the noise of someone being violently struck—each following in rapid succession. I comprehended everything in an instant. I had had a bad premonition. Given that Cho was disliked to begin with, and considering the incident that had occurred during the day, I had harbored a suspicion since evening that he might be targeted on a night like this. It now appeared that this had truly come to pass. I sat up inside the tent, but unable to do anything, simply remained with my heart pounding, peering out at the scene outside for some time. (The friends outside were all sound asleep.) Before long, after sensing two or three people departing, the outside returned to a hushed stillness. I prepared myself and stealthily stepped out of the tent to look. Outside was an unexpectedly pure white moonlit night. And there, about two ken away from the tent on the moonlit pure white sandy expanse, crouched a solitary black figure—a single boy, motionless like a small dog, face bowed and utterly still. The rifle had fallen on the sand nearby, and its bayonet tip glinted in the moonlight. I went to his side and, still looking down at him, asked, “Is it N?” N was the name of the fifth-year student who had quarreled with him during the day. Cho, however, remained looking down and gave no answer. After a moment, he suddenly let out a cry and threw himself onto the cold sand, then began to wail like a baby, his back quivering. I was startled.

About ten meters away, the sentry from the neighboring tent was also watching. Yet Cho's uncharacteristically raw wailing moved me. I tried to help him up. He refused to rise. When I finally lifted him, not wanting other sentries to witness this, I dragged him toward the stream. The moon of the eighteenth or nineteenth night hung like a rugby ball in the frigid sky, its cold clarity accentuating rows of triangular tents on the white sand expanse—each flanked by seven or eight bayonets stacked upright. Sentries stood exhaling pale breath, rifle butts gripped stiffly against the cold. We walked away from the tent cluster toward the Han River's main current. Only then did I realize I'd been carrying Cho's rifle—picked from where it fell—in his stead. Cho trudged with gloved hands dangling limp, head bowed, when abruptly—still face-downcast—he spoke. His voice broke through lingering sobs as he uttered words meant to reproach me.

“What does it even mean...” “What does it even mean—this business of being strong or weak...”

His words were too simple for me to fully grasp what he meant, but their tone struck me. Not a shred of his usual self remained.

“I—” Here he broke into childlike sobs again. “I—I don’t consider being beaten by those bastards as losing. Not at all.” “Really.” “And yet—” He sniffled once more, face still lowered. “I’m still so frustrated.” “So even though it’s frustrating, I can’t bring myself to confront it.” “I’m too scared to confront it.” “—” When his words trailed off there, I thought he might burst into tears again. His voice had carried such raw intensity. But he didn’t cry. Regretting my inability to find suitable words of comfort, I walked in silence, watching our shadows stain the sand black. Truly—ever since our schoolyard tussle—he’d always been a coward.

“What does it even mean... to be strong or weak... I wonder...” “Honestly.” —And then, at that moment, he repeated those words once more.

Before we knew it, we had come to the bank of the Han River's main stream. Near the bank, a thin sheet of ice had already spread across the entire area, while even in the midstream's expansively flowing sections, several sizable chunks of ice drifted. The areas where water was visible shone beautifully under the moonlight, but the ice-covered parts had their light extinguished like frosted glass. As I gazed at the water's surface, thinking it would likely freeze over completely within the week here, I abruptly recalled his earlier words and—feeling I had discovered their hidden meaning—was stunned. "What does it even mean to be strong or weak..." —or so I thought at that moment, with a sudden realization— that these words of Cho's might not be merely personal reflections on his current individual circumstances, was what I thought then. Of course, looking back now, this may have been my overinterpretation. Though precocious, to read such profound meaning into the words of a mere third-year middle school student suggests I had likely overestimated him. But given that this was Cho—who always pretended not to care about his origins while actually being deeply concerned, and who seemed to attribute part of why the upperclassmen bullied him to that very fact—and given that I knew him well, my having thought that way at the time was not entirely unreasonable. Having thought this, when I saw Cho's wilted figure standing beside me—I who had already been at a loss for comforting words—I became even more uncertain of what to say, and could only stare silently at the water's surface. But even so, I felt somewhat happy in my heart. That cynic, that poseur Cho, had completely shed his usual outward demeanor—as I mentioned before, there had indeed been times when such things occurred, but never with such honest vehemence as tonight to surprise me. The fact that he had shown me his naked, cowardly self—not a Mainlander but a Peninsula person—had given me satisfaction. We stood like that on the cold riverbank for some time, gazing at the pale nightscape stretching across the opposite shore from Ryūzan to Dokumura County and Cheongnyangni, all bathed in moonlight............

Apart from the events of that encampment night, there was truly nothing else I could recall about him. This was because not long after that—still before we reached our fourth year—he had suddenly vanished from school without giving even me a single word of warning. Needless to say, I immediately went to check his house. His family was of course there. Only he was missing. Beyond his father’s faltering Japanese reply that he had gone to China for a short time, I could obtain no clues. I was absolutely furious. There should have been at least some word of farewell beforehand. I tried to think of various reasons for his disappearance, but it proved futile. Could the events of that encampment night have been the direct motive? That incident alone didn’t seem reason enough to leave school, yet I still felt there must have been some connection. As I considered this, his earlier words—all that talk of “strong” and “weak”—increasingly came to seem charged with meaning.

Before long, various rumors concerning him began to circulate. For a time, I heard rumors that he had joined some kind of movement and was actively involved. Next came stories—though somewhat later—that he had gone to Shanghai and ruined himself. Each of these seemed possible to me, yet at the same time, both felt equally groundless.

Thus, I left for Tokyo immediately after finishing middle school, and after that, heard no news whatsoever of him.

VI

While claiming to tell the story of the tiger hunt, it seems I’ve gotten a bit ahead of myself.

Now, at this point, I must finally return to the main subject. As for this tiger hunt story, as I mentioned earlier, it occurred around New Year's two years before Cho disappeared—that time when he and I were beginning to gradually forget, without consciously trying to do so, the Vice-Class President Girl from our elementary school days with her long-lashed, beautifully shaped eyes.

One day after school ended, when I came to the tram stop with Cho as usual, he said to me, “I’ve got something good to tell you—let’s walk to the next stop.” Then, while walking, he asked if I wanted to go on a tiger hunt. This coming Saturday, his father was going on a tiger hunt, he explained, and he would be taken along too. Since my name had already been mentioned beforehand, his father would surely permit it—why didn’t we go together? Having never considered tiger hunting before, I apparently spent that moment looking back at him with an astonished expression that doubted his words’ veracity. The very notion that a tiger—a creature existing only in zoos or magazine illustrations—might materialize before my eyes in reality, and within three or four days no less if I consented, was something beyond my wildest dreams. First I repeatedly confirmed—to the point of annoying him—that this wasn’t some trick. Only then did I ask about the location, participants, and expenses. In the end—or rather, after I absolutely insisted they take me along by any means necessary if his father agreed—our plan was settled. Cho’s father came from an old aristocratic family, having apparently served as a high-ranking official during Korea’s era. Even now retired, he remained what they called yangban—his wealth evident from his son’s fine clothes. Yet Cho—likely unwilling to expose his Peninsula household life—had always refused visitors; though I knew where he lived, I’d never been there and consequently didn’t know his father. They supposedly went tiger hunting almost yearly, but this would be Cho Daihwan’s first time being included. Hence his excitement. That day until we parted at the tram stop, we speculated endlessly about our impending adventure—particularly how much danger we might face. After leaving him and returning home, upon seeing my parents’ faces, I carelessly—for the first time—confronted the formidable obstacle at this venture’s outset: How could I obtain their permission? The primary hurdle lay here. In our household, Father constantly preached “harmony between Japan and Korea” yet disapproved of my closeness with Cho. Allowing me on such a dangerous excursion with this friend? Out of the question from the start. After agonizing over possibilities, I resolved on this scheme.

Near the middle school in Seodaemun lived a relative of mine—the household into which my cousin had married. On Saturday afternoon, I would leave home under the pretense of visiting them, mentioning at the time that I might stay over that night. Neither my house nor that relative's home had a telephone—at least this way, I could fully conceal matters for that single evening. Of course, discovery was inevitable later, but I cared little how harshly I might be scolded when that time came. At any rate, I resolved to somehow carry out this deception for just that night. To gain such a rare and precious experience, I was precisely the sort of petty hedonist who wouldn't balk at parental reprimands.

The next morning at school, when I asked Cho whether his father had consented, he answered with an irritated look, "Of course he did." From that day onward, our ears became deaf to schoolwork entirely. Cho regaled me with various tales heard from his father—that tigers only hunt after dark; that leopards climb trees while tigers cannot; that our destination might harbor both species; along with details about using Remington or Winchester rifles—all delivered as if he'd possessed this knowledge since time immemorial. Ordinarily I'd have retorted "What's this? Secondhand boasts again," but intoxicated by visions of adventure, I eagerly absorbed his performative expertise.

On Friday after school, I went alone to Changgyeonggung (keeping this secret even from Cho). Changgyeonggung was the former royal garden of Prince Yi and is now a zoo. I went to the tiger’s cage and stood there. Inside the steel-lined cage, at a distance of no more than one meter from me, the tiger lay with its front legs neatly aligned, eyes narrowed. It did not appear to be asleep yet never once glanced toward me as I approached. I drew as close as possible and observed him carefully—the muscular back resembling a calf’s bulk; dark dorsal hues fading into pale yellow across its belly; black stripes cutting vivid patterns through that tawny canvas; white hairs frosting his brow and ear tips; a head proportioned with lethal efficiency rather than lions’ ornamental bulk—all radiating functional ferocity. When I imagined this creature soon leaping before me in mountain wilds, my heart pounded uncontrollably. Prolonged scrutiny revealed new details—the white underjaw and cheeks previously unnoticed; his nose’s jet-black tip soft like a cat’s pad—so tempting I nearly reached through bars to touch it. Satisfied with these discoveries, I prepared to leave only to realize—throughout my hour-long vigil—the beast had never once acknowledged me. Feeling insulted by this indifference, I growled low like an animal trying to provoke his attention. He never even twitched an eyelid.

Finally, Saturday arrived.

Impatiently waiting for fourth-period mathematics to end, I hurried home. After finishing lunch, I put on two extra shirts over my usual layers, thoroughly prepared cold-weather gear including a hood and earmuffs, then went outside declaring—as per my prearranged plan—that I "might stay over at my relative's house." It was still too early for the four o'clock train, but I couldn’t bear to wait quietly at home. When I went to the agreed-upon first and second-class waiting room at Namdaemun Station, Cho was already there. Instead of his usual uniform, he wore what looked like a ski suit—a warm-looking black outfit from head to toe. He said his father and friend would arrive shortly. As we talked, two gentlemen appeared at the waiting room entrance wearing hunting attire with gaiters and carrying large rifles over their shoulders. Spotting them, Cho raised his hand slightly from where we stood, then introduced me to the tall, beardless man as "Nakayama-kun" when they approached. This was my first time seeing his father—a robust man with a ruddy complexion who appeared slightly younger than fifty, his narrow eyes mirroring his son's. When I bowed silently, he responded with a smile. His silence stemmed undoubtedly from limited Japanese proficiency, as Cho had forewarned. To the other man—brown-bearded and clearly not Mainland Japanese—I also gave a slight bow. The man returned the silent gesture while listening to Cho's Korean explanation, smiling down at my face.

The departure was exactly at four o'clock. Our party consisted of four people including myself, plus another man—though I didn't know which master's servant he was—who came along carrying the masters' cold-weather gear, food, ammunition, and the like.

Even after boarding the train, Cho and I—having taken seats side by side—continued talking just between the two of us, hardly exchanging a word with the adults. Cho did not seem to like using Korean much in front of me. To the occasional words that seemed like admonishments directed from across the way by his father, he would only reply in the briefest manner. The winter day had grown completely dark inside the train. As the railway entered the mountainous area, it became apparent that snow had accumulated outside the window. The train arrived at our destination station—I believe it was a station called something-or-other before Sariwon—but now I simply cannot recall the name. While each and every scene remains vividly etched in my memory, strangely enough, I have utterly forgotten the crucial name of the station. When we arrived at ——, it was already past seven o'clock. When we stepped down before the dimly lit, low wooden station, a wind sweeping down from the black sky over the snow made us involuntarily shrink our necks. There was not a single house-like structure in front of the station. Beyond the wind-swept field, only the pitch-black shadow of what seemed to be a mountain loomed against the starry sky devoid of moon. After walking two or three blocks along the single road, we came to a stop before a low Korean-style house that stood solitary on our right. When we knocked on the door, it immediately opened from inside, and yellow light flowed onto the snow. Since everyone had entered, I too hunched my back and crawled in through the low entrance. The interior of the house was entirely covered with oiled paper over ondol floor heating, and a stifling wave of warmth suddenly enveloped us. Inside were seven or eight Koreans smoking and talking, but when they turned toward us, they all bowed in unison. Then, from among them emerged a red-bearded man who appeared to be the master of the house; after speaking with Cho’s father for some time, he withdrew deeper inside. The arrangements had apparently been made beforehand, for after drinking a cup of tea, two professional hunters and five or six beaters—though hunters and beaters wore similar outfits making them hard to distinguish, I could tell them apart by the size of their guns as per Cho’s guidance—emerged from the house to join us outside. Outside, about four dogs were also waiting.

After walking about half a ri along the narrow, snow-lit country path, the road finally began to approach the mountains. Through sparse woods, the beaters climbed ahead, their straw boots crunching crisply into the fresh snow. The dogs—their fur color indistinct in the snowlight, not particularly large—would sometimes take side paths, sniffing at tree roots and rocky outcrops here and there as they trotted along, now moving ahead of us, now falling behind. We then formed a tight group slightly behind and began treading in their footsteps. With my heart pounding at thoughts like "What if a tiger leaps out from the side?" or "What if one attacks from behind?", I continued walking in silence, barely speaking with Cho anymore. As we ascended, the path gradually worsened. In the end, the path disappeared, and we had to climb over jagged tree roots and protruding rocky outcrops. The cold was severe. My nose froze and stiffened. Though I wore a hood and had fur pressed against my ears, the pain still felt as if they might tear off. Every time the wind occasionally rustled the treetops, I would startle. When I looked up, stars were shining vividly through the sparsely spaced branches of bare trees. Had we been following such mountain paths for nearly three hours? After circling around the base of a boulder as large as a small hill, we—already quite exhausted by then—emerged into a small clearing within the forest. Then, the beaters who had arrived there slightly before us saw our figures and raised their hands to signal. Everyone dashed in that direction. I too, startled, ran after them without delay. Looking where one of them pointed, there indeed were clearly imprinted in the snow footprints measuring seven or eight sun in diameter, identical to a cat's. And those footprints, spaced at intervals, crossed the clearing at a right angle to the direction we had come from, stretching from one grove to another. Moreover, according to Cho’s translation of one of the beaters’ words, these footprints were indeed still very fresh.

Cho and I had both become unable to speak from extreme agitation and fear. The group followed those footprints for some time, advancing through the grove while vigilantly watching front and back. When the footprints soon led us to another clearing in the woods, we found two large pine trees at the forest's edge, standing among many bare trees. The guides spent some time comparing both trees before climbing one of the twisted specimens and hammering the poles, planks, and mats they carried on their backs between its branches, swiftly constructing a makeshift platform there. It stood about four meters above ground. They spread straw inside it, where we would wait. Tigers always return along their outgoing path, they say. Therefore by waiting among those pine branches, we would ambush the tiger upon its return. The straw-covered platform stretched between three thick curved branches proved surprisingly spacious, accommodating not only our foursome but also two hunters. When I climbed up there, I felt relieved knowing at least we couldn't be attacked from behind anymore. Once we had ascended, the beaters disappeared deep into the forest with their dogs, rifles shouldered and torches at ready.

Time wore on. The ground appeared quite bright from the snow's whiteness. Below us lay a clearing of about fifty tsubo, sparse woods stretching endlessly around it. The only trees retaining their leaves seemed limited to the one we'd climbed and its neighboring pine. The bare trunks stood jet-black against the white earth, intersecting like cracks in porcelain. Whenever great winds came, the forest would roar momentarily before fading to distant murmurs that dissolved into the frigid sky. Through gaps in the pine boughs, starlight stabbed down at us with threatening intensity.

As we continued keeping watch like this for some time, the earlier fear had largely faded away. But now in its place came cold that advanced without mercy. From the tips of my wool-socked feet rose a sensation that was neither quite chill nor pain, creeping upward inch by inch.

The adults were busy talking among themselves, but to me, beyond the occasional word "tiger" (horan-i) that reached my ears, their conversation remained completely incomprehensible. I too, forcing myself to stay cheerful, stuffed caramel into my mouth and began talking with Cho while shivering. Cho told me about a Korean man who had been attacked by a tiger in this vicinity some years back. It was said that half of the man’s face—from his head down to his jaw—had been sheared off by a single strike of the tiger’s foreleg, as if gouged out. Cho recounted this story—clearly a secondhand account from his father—with such fervor, as though he had witnessed it firsthand. The intensity of his delivery made it seem as though he was practically willing such a tragedy to unfold before his very eyes at that very moment. And in truth, even as I listened to his story, I secretly harbored an expectation that such an event might occur—so long as it remained within the bounds of my own safety.

But even after waiting two hours, then three, there remained not a single sign of anything resembling a tiger. In another two hours, dawn would break. According to Cho's father's account, even when coming on a tiger hunt like this, finding fresh footprints right away had been exceptionally good luck—usually they would be made to stay two or three days at a farmhouse at the mountain's base. Given this, it might well be that none would appear tonight. In that case, being unable to stay due to school and family obligations, I would have to return without having seen anything. If that happened, what would Cho do? Would he intend to stay here with his father for however many days it took until the tiger appeared? It would be so unsatisfying to go back alone. ……Once I started thinking such things, the tension that had been building since nightfall gradually began to ease.

At that moment, Cho took out a bunch of bananas from the bag he had brought and shared some with me. As I ate those cold bananas, a peculiar thought occurred to me. Looking back now, it's truly laughable, but at that time I had earnestly considered scattering these banana peels below to make the tiger slip. Of course, even I hadn't been convinced that a tiger would surely slip on banana peels and thus be easily shot down, but I did hold some expectation that such a thing wasn't entirely impossible. And then I threw all the banana peels from what I'd eaten as far as possible toward where the tiger was thought to pass. Thinking I'd rightly be laughed at, I had kept this idea secret from Cho as well though.

Now then，the bananas were gone，but still no tiger appeared. From disappointed expectations and slackened tension，I began growing drowsy. Shivering in bitter cold yet nodding off repeatedly. Then，from across our makeshift platform，Cho’s father who'd positioned himself apart reached over to tap my shoulder．Laughing through broken Japanese，he warned：“Tigers matter less than catching cold．” I answered his concern with a tight smile． Yet soon enough，my eyelids drooped again． How much time slipped away then？ In fitful sleep，I saw it－the Korean man from Cho’s story，mauled by striped shadows．．．．．．

Now then, how did it happen? I remain unaware of how it transpired. Only when a piercing scream of terror tore through me did I regain my senses and see. Directly below us, no more than thirty meters from our pine branch, lay a scene identical to my dream vision. A black-and-yellow beast crouched low in the snow, presenting its flank to our position. Before it lay a man—presumably one of the beaters—separated by three or four ken, collapsed like a cast-off zōri sandal with his rifle discarded nearby, hands braced behind him and legs splayed forward, vacant eyes fixed on the tiger in petrified stare. The predator—contrary to typical depictions of coiled haunches ready to spring—advanced with right forepaw raised like a housecat playfully batting at string, claws unsheathed but movements almost leisurely. Though startled, half-convinced this dream-state persisted, I rubbed my eyes for clearer view— —when gunfire exploded by my ear. Three more shots followed in rapid succession: BANG-BANG-BANG! Acrid gunsmoke assaulted my nostrils. The advancing tiger roared wide-mouthed, momentarily rearing on hind legs before crashing down with seismic finality. From startled awakening to gunfire echoes and beast's collapse—all transpired within ten fleeting seconds. I stood transfixed, gazing dumbly as though watching newsreel footage from some distant theater.

Immediately, the adults climbed down from the trees. We followed suit and climbed down. On the snow, both the beast and the human lying before it remained motionless. We first used the ends of our sticks to poke at the tiger's body lying there. Since it showed no signs of moving, we finally felt relieved and all approached the carcass. The entire vicinity was stained a vivid red with fresh blood upon the snow. The length of the tiger lying with its face turned sideways was at least five shaku in torso alone. By then, the sky was gradually brightening, and the colors of the surrounding treetops had become faintly discernible, making the yellow and black stripes strewn across the snow indescribably beautiful. What struck me as unexpected was how black the area around its back appeared compared to what I had imagined. Cho and I looked at each other’s faces, let out sighs of relief, and though we knew the danger had passed, we still trembled nervously as we gingerly touched the sharp claws that until moments ago could have torn through even the thickest hide, and the white whiskers exactly like those of a house cat.

As for the man lying there, he had merely lost consciousness from sheer terror and sustained no injuries whatsoever. Later I heard that this man was indeed one of the beaters who had given up searching for the tiger and was returning to our group when, while relieving himself in that clearing, a tiger had suddenly emerged from the side. What shocked me was Cho Daihwan's attitude at that moment. He came to where the man lay unconscious and, while roughly kicking his body with his foot, said to me: "—Chh! Not even injured—"

“Tch! He’s not even injured—” This was by no means said in jest; it carried the distinct resonance of resenting this man’s unscathed state—indignation that he had not become the victim of the tragic outcome his own expectations had long anticipated. And his father, watching nearby, made no move to stop his son from tormenting the beater with his foot. Suddenly, I thought I saw the blood of this land’s local aristocracy flowing through their veins. As I watched Cho Daihwan glaring resentfully down at the unconscious man, observing the bitter expression drifting between his narrowed eyes, I thought to myself: this must be what that storytelling phrase “the physiognomy of unfulfilled ends” referred to—the one I’d once read in some historical tale.

Before long, the other beaters came flocking upon hearing the gunshots. They bound the tiger's limbs two each, threaded a thick pole through them, hung it upside down, and descended the now brightened mountain path. Having descended to the station, we rested awhile—the tiger would be transported later as cargo—then immediately boarded the morning train back to Keijō. Though the conclusion proved too simple compared to my expectations—particularly disappointing having dozed off and missed seeing the tiger emerge—I nevertheless returned home satisfied with the thought that I had undertaken a proper adventure.

About a week later, when my lie was exposed through relatives in Seodaemun, it goes without saying that I received a severe scolding from my father.

Seven

Now then, with this, I finally finished the tale of the tiger hunt.

And so, about two years after this tiger hunt—not long following that night of the fire-starting drill—he vanished without a word from our circle of friends, just as I mentioned before. And so, for fifteen or sixteen years since then, I had not seen him at all. No—to say that would be a lie. The truth is, I did meet him. Moreover, it had happened just recently. That is precisely why I found myself compelled to begin this tale, but the nature of that encounter was so peculiar that I remain uncertain whether it can truly be called a meeting at all.

The circumstances unfolded as follows.

About three days ago in the afternoon, having combed through secondhand bookstores along Hongō-dōri to find a certain book requested by a friend, I walked from Akamon toward Third Ward with considerable eye strain. As it was exactly lunch hour, the street overflowed with lines of university students, high schoolers, and other pupils. When I neared Third Ward at the alley curving beside a thicket, my eyes caught on a tall man standing motionless in the human current—so exceptionally high that his head alone seemed to protrude from the crowd. Gaunt and in his thirties, he wore Lloyd glasses. Not only was the man extraordinarily tall, but his appearance was strikingly conspicuous. Beneath an old maroon-edged fedora slouching like Amida Buddha's headdress glinted large Lloyd glasses—one temple missing, replaced by string—while his stained high-collared uniform lacked two buttons. His grimy elongated face bore sparse, unkempt stubble around parched white lips that lent him a vacant look—yet between those narrowly set eyebrows lingered something that made one feel he demanded wary attention. It was a face that blended country bumpkin with pickpocket. Approaching from five or six ken away, I had already spotted this bizarre figure—a man whose excessively tall frame seemed mismatched to his surroundings—amidst the crowd and fixed my gaze on him. He too appeared to have been looking my way, for when I came within about one ken, a slight easing showed between his faintly furrowed brows. Then that imperceptible softening spread instantly across his face before his eyes—without any smile—suddenly turned toward me and nodded as if acknowledging an old acquaintance. I started. After glancing around to confirm the nod was meant for me, I began urgently ransacking my memory's recesses. All the while maintaining a puzzled stare at him, I felt something stir in my mind's farthest corner—something unclear yet long forgotten. By the time this inexplicable sensation had fully bloomed, my eyes were already returning a nod to his gaze. By then I felt certain this man numbered among my old acquaintances. Only the question of who exactly remained unresolved.

The man, upon seeing my nod of acknowledgment, appeared to assume I had recognized him too, and started approaching me. Yet without initiating conversation or offering a smile, he wordlessly fell into step beside me and began retracing his own path. I likewise kept silent, striving earnestly to recall his identity.

After walking five or six steps, the man said to me in a hoarse voice—nowhere in my memory did such a voice exist—“Give me a cigarette.” I searched my pocket and held out a half-empty box of Bat cigarettes before him. He accepted it, thrust one hand into his own pocket, then suddenly made a strange face as he gazed at the Bat box before looking at me. For a while he maintained that foolish expression, looking back and forth between the Bat cigarettes and me, then silently tried to hand back the box I had given him. I silently accepted it while looking up at his face with mingled feelings—the muddled sense of having been hoodwinked and a flash of irritation at seeming mocked. Then, for the first time, he floated something resembling a faint smile at the corner of his mouth and muttered like this to himself.

“When you rely on words for memory, you often make mistakes like this.” —— Of course, I couldn’t comprehend what he meant. But this time he began explaining in an energetic, hurried tone as if discussing something profoundly interesting. According to his account, when he took the Bat cigarettes from me and reached into his pocket for matches, he discovered he already had an identical cigarette case there. At that moment he froze, realizing what he’d actually wanted wasn’t cigarettes but matches. Then he started pondering why he’d made such an absurd mistake. To call it a simple error would end the matter—but then where had that error originated? After various considerations, he reached this conclusion: It was because his memory operated entirely through words. When first noticing his lack of matches, he’d resolved to obtain some from whoever he met next—encoding this intention linguistically as “I must receive matches from others” within his memory. As for the physical craving—that whole-body demand for matches (an odd phrase, but clarifying things in this moment, he added)—he hadn’t preserved that sensory urgency in his memory. This became the mistake’s root. While sensations and emotions might fade, they never conflate; but word-based memories, though precise, sometimes transmute into entirely different things. The characters for “matches” in his memory had somehow been replaced by those for “cigarettes”…… So he explained. He presented this discovery with such infectious enthusiasm that it seemed utterly fascinating—even appending an unexpected conclusion about this being intellectuals’ universal flaw of conceptual abstraction. Truthfully, I paid little attention to his explanation of this problem that so captivated him. Rather, listening to his frantic rapid-fire speech—undoubtedly a quirk residing somewhere in my memory despite the altered voice—I kept desperately trying to recall his identity. Yet like struggling to remember an elementary character while feeling certain you know it, I kept circling the issue like debris caught in a whirlpool’s outer currents—utterly unable to plunge into its core.

In the midst of this, we reached the Hongō Third Ward tram stop. He stopped there, so I followed suit. He might be intending to board the tram. We stood side by side, gazing absently at the pharmacy's display window before us. He seemed to have found something there and walked with large strides to the window. I followed him and peered in. It was an advertisement for newly released sexual devices, with what appeared to be samples arranged on black cloth. He stood before it, peering for a while with a faint smile. I stood beside him, watching. And then, at that moment—when I peered at his sardonic smirk from the side—I suddenly remembered everything. Until that moment, my memories had been swirling like dust around the edges of a whirlpool in my mind; then, in an instant, they plunged into the whirlpool’s center. That sardonic smirk with twisted lips. Though he wore glasses, narrow eyes peered out from behind them. His gaze—a blend of guilelessness and suspicion. Oh, who else could it be but him? Whose gaze could it be but his—the one who spitefully kicked aside the beater that had narrowly escaped death by tiger and looked down in contempt? In that moment, as I jumbled together memories of the tiger hunt, tropical fish, and fire-starting drills all at once, I found myself utterly amazed—why had it taken me so long to recognize him? And now, with heartfelt joy, I moved to tap him on the shoulder from behind. But just then, a streetcar from Masagocho arrived at the stop. Upon seeing this, he whirled around and ran off toward the streetcar before my hand could reach his tall shoulders, utterly unaware of my movement.

Then he nimbly leapt aboard, turned toward me from the conductor's platform, raised his right hand slightly in a nod, and bending his tall frame, disappeared inside. The streetcar immediately started moving. And thus I lost sight of my friend Cho Daihwan—whom I had met after over a decade—in the crowds of greater Tokyo once more, without exchanging a single word with him as Cho Daihwan.