Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Sakaguchi Ango

People may scornfully call it a “Kasturi magazine” and the whole world looks down on it, but putting together even a single issue of this thing was no easy task.
Well, just look at the President’s face.
It was haggard.
This wasn’t some delicate weariness fit for refined circles.
Financial hardship.

“Hey—don’t go saying you’re here.”
“Don’t say you’re here.”

This was the President’s catchphrase.
He was desperate.

Somehow, they had to build a reception desk at Kasturi Company’s entrance.
They opened the entrance door.
The entire view of Kasturi Company, which occupied a single room in the building—wasn’t it immediately exposed?
This was outrageous.

“Hey, President—ugh, this is outrageous.”
“It’s a matter of life and death.”
“Our company must build a reception desk.”

“What?”

This Kasturi Company called its president Sensei.
Because he was a man of letters.
He had been a man of letters.
He was refined.
He was a connoisseur.
What business did this paragon of cultivated taste have with Kasturi?
It was the end of an era.

There were precedents for literary men presiding over magazines—Bungei Shunju and Kamakura Bunko came to mind.
Yet those were no Kasturi rags; at those august institutions of high ideals and universal prestige, even their lowliest hacks wouldn’t touch anything resembling our tawdry publication.
Whoa—how savage.
Alone at our company.

Alas, Kasturi Company had no money to build a reception desk.

“Please, President—you’ve got to do something about the reception desk.”
“Literary types, manga artists—ah, just shut the hell up.”
“The moment they catch sight of your face, they’re hounding you for manuscript fees—whoa, it’s brutal.”
“Even the shopkeeper from Kasturi Alley came to hassle us for debt repayment.”
“In our company, we lock the doors and conduct business in a closed room.”
“That probably won’t work.”
“Hey, President.”

“What?”

Speaking to the President was futile.
The President would answer the world’s clamor with nothing but a gruff *“What?”*
Do not speak of such sorrows.
The desperate wish to build a reception desk belonged to none other than the President himself!
*“What?”*

But then.

Out of nowhere, 200,000 yen in cash came rolling in.
It was Editor-in-Chief Haneda Ichiro who had brought it in.

Ten years ago, Haneda Ichiro had been an actor in Asakusa’s sham revues. His acting was poor. It wasn’t well-received by the audience, but it was by his peers—for he lived in a world where women’s skin pressed stiflingly close, yet this man paid no attention to women whatsoever. He preferred men. However, it was not something vulgar like effeminate men. He detested anything overt. Therefore, he was, above all, pure-hearted, dutiful, and thus a simpleton.

An acquaintance from his Asakusa days—an older brother figure who’d helped him out a bit back then—had now become a boss.
Street peddlers and such were terms of the past; now it was the construction industry—the so-called Rikigumi—in other words, gentlemen.

When he happened to run into Boss Zenpachi of the Kuruma-gumi on the street and mentioned Kasturi Company’s dire straits during their casual chat over tea, the man had replied nonchalantly, “If you’ve got the cash, that’s all you need.”
In the end, he slapped down a 200,000-yen check.
There was Haneda—timid by nature—waiting at the counter like a criminal, his heart in his throat, when genuine 200,000-yen notes were casually stacked before him. Well I’m shocked! he thought. That’s right—200,000 yen! Why, that’s 30,000 more than what that Teigin Incident mastermind got!
He couldn’t make heads or tails of it.
In a daze, he carried it into Kasturi Company.

“What?”

With just a single groan—the President—their Sensei—fell silent and motionless.

A person with great inner turmoil may appear serene and utterly indolent at first glance.
Therefore too did their Sensei—the President—appear utterly indolent.

In winter, he would place an electric heater under his desk, stretch his legs toward it, clasp his hands behind his neck, and spend the day staring vacantly at the ceiling.
When spring warmth arrived, he would remove his shoes, stretch both legs out onto the desk, clasp his hands behind his neck, and stare vacantly at the ceiling.
When summer came, he would remove even his socks, place a pail filled with water on the desk, thrust his feet into it, clasp both hands behind his neck, and glare at the ceiling.

It was spring.
Beside both legs of the President—their Sensei—propped on the desk, 200,000 yen in cash lay piled.
Haneda’s face looked on the verge of tears.
He looked as though he had just procured it at Teigin and brought it here.
How else could such a miracle be possible?

The President—their Sensei—too wore a look of utter resignation and, with the practiced efficiency of a mud turtle, withdrew his legs beneath the desk.

“I received it.
“In other words, he gave it to us, you see.”

With a pained expression, Haneda explained the circumstances in detail.

“Why did he give it?”

“Well… I don’t get it.”
“In other words—he gave it.”
“A man’s whim… maybe?”

“Hmm.”
“A man.”
“I see.”
“A man…?”
“I understand.”

“I understand,” he shouted, though his face showed no sign of comprehension.

In any case, with Boss Kuruma set to come to the company on Friday, they resolved to wait until then—and in the blink of an eye, the 200,000 yen vanished as it wiped away their debts.

★

On Friday, Mr. Kuruma appeared, parking his private car and accompanied by his secretary.
The secretary’s shoulder width was about one meter.
Shaking hands with the President, their Sensei,
“I have heard much about your esteemed reputation.”

With smooth words, he strode into the back office, plopped down into the president’s chair with a thud, then sprang back up—

“Right.”
“Allow me to have you make the introduction.”

“This is Mr. Kuruma Zenpachi, president of the Kuruma-gumi.”

With that, Haneda announced to the entire group.

“Hmm. You in that corner! Face this way properly! Your movements are sloppy! Snap to attention! You lot aren’t cutting it! Work isn’t some game! You lot only manage to get all six of you together when you’re off taking photos of actresses in swimsuits, is that it? What a disgrace. And I hear all six of you went to those actress roundtable discussions too. One, two, three… Wait, wait—all six of you? The entire editorial staff? What a disgrace. Hey! What a disgrace.”

“Waaah!”
“I’m done for.”
“This is terrible!”
“Th-that’s not what I meant—it was just, you know, tea-time chatter—I only mentioned it in a gossipy way, that’s all.”

Haneda writhed in anguish, clutching his head and twisting his hips as he pleaded, but—

“What?!”
“So you get it now, don’t you?”
“Listen up.”
“Work isn’t some game!”
“Give it your all!”
“Hey, girl! Hmm—it’s you, isn’t it? Didn’t you shout ‘Oh! “Tō” means China!’ while doing your proofreading?”
“How old are you?”
“At your age, ‘Tō’ isn’t China—what a disgrace!”
“You go out drinking kasutori with a man and head off to dance.”
“That’s unacceptable!”
“Hey! You’re twisting gender equality!”
“First of all, you lot—acting like small-time hoodlums in this defeated Japan—drinking and dancing! Well, I drink and dance too.”
“I’ll dance vigorously!”
“Let me tell you, I throw myself into my work with everything I’ve got and rake in vast sums of cash.”
“Because I make money—that’s precisely why I drink and dance!”
“Yet what the hell are you lot?”
“You’re fooling around. Slacking off.”
“You aren’t working.”
“You aren’t making any profit, are you?”

“Hey! Listen up! I’ll whip some fighting spirit into you!”
“From now on, anyone who slacks off will be fired on the spot—got that?”
“Today, I announce the company directives.”
“You will arrive at 8 AM sharp—one minute late won’t be tolerated!”

He glared around at the entire group,

“I am departing today for an international goodwill banquet.”
“International goodwill constitutes my motto.”
“This right here!”
“Without this, Japan cannot endure! You can’t just leave matters to the Foreign Ministry!”
“I am effectively a civilian foreign minister!”
“I produce concrete achievements in international goodwill.”
“Mark my words.”
“Observe this carefully!”
“Let me make this clear—even while drinking, I drink in service of advancing this grand cause of international goodwill!”
“Yet what exactly are you people?”
“You lot bear the solemn duty of cultural stewardship.”
“Is fulfilling that responsibility not your very raison d’être?”
“International goodwill and culture!”
“This bears truly monumental significance!”
“Humbly I, Kuruma Zenpachi, freely cast forth the vast fortunes I’ve amassed to devote myself wholly to constructing a cultured nation.”
“Japan contains no other individual of my stature!”
“For my principles! For the nation! I immolate myself upon this pyre!”
“Do you comprehend?!”
“Your lives—I’ve claimed them!”

“But hey, that ain’t right.”
“Now I’m really stuck.”
“Me—my life ain’t gettin’ taken, huh.”
“Huh? Listen—when there’s only one way out, that’s trouble, y’know?”

The one who let out a loud scream was Doi Katahiko, a self-proclaimed genius poet aged twenty-six.
He had no sense of time or place.
Haneda Ichiro, dizzy and flushed with agitation,

“Ah, this isn’t good!”
“Hoh… Help me!”
“Hmm, that’s reasonable.”
“Hohoho, I am sad.”
“Ah—wait, Kimura! My heart—ah—this isn’t good—whoa—I’m collapsing!”

The meter-wide-shouldered Mr. Secretary stomped heavily over and landed five or six sideways slaps across the self-proclaimed genius poet’s face.
Doi Katahiko’s chatter wasn’t the sort to stop just because he’d been slapped and staggered.

“It hurts. Hitting someone is cowardly, don’t you think?”
“Even when I was a soldier, I got hit—really, I get hit all the time.”
“Ow, that hurts...”
“Cut it out.”
“Seriously, though—when it comes to life, I wouldn’t even do that to you.”
“So, even if I showed you something like life, it wouldn’t look good—and since I’m not Christ, I never had any life to begin with.”
“So that’s why I’m a genius.”
“Since you don’t even know I’m a genius—hey, that hurts—quit it! If you keep hittin’ me and mess up my brain, it’ll be a global loss, don’tcha think?”

Even the great gentleman of international goodwill appeared quite flustered, as if encountering such a ruffian for the first time.
The one thing a gentleman must never lose is dignity.

Mr. Kuruma calmly said, “That’s enough,” and restrained his secretary,
“You don’t wanna stick with me all the way to the alley, do ya?”

“Want me t’stick around? No way.”
“Even if y’stick around—I’d just run off anyway.”
“That Ototoi evening too, y’know—I ran off.”
“Back before that—I was stuck with that guy—couldn’t run away. Times like that—you can’t just bail.”
“I got robbed, see—ain’t got a penny to my name—so that guy just took off with fifteen hundred yen.”
“There was no other way—I pulled out my gold teeth and sold ’em.”
“It’s weird, y’know.”
“Even gold teeth—long as they’re stuck to your choppers—they’re still part o’ your body, ain’t they?”
“So, y’see.”
“You there!”
“Selling gold teeth—ain’t that just sellin’ yourself?”
“In other words—I think I’ve gone and done the whoring-around thing.”
“Whoring around and paying that bastard back fifteen hundred yen—what’s the point? Look—right here in my mouth, around this spot—from here, my chastity’s gone, and I’m disgusted.”
“You’re mocking me, huh—hey!”

“What’s your name?”

“I’m a poet, y’know. Don’tcha know? Nah, you wouldn’t. If ya did, that’d be somethin’.”
“The name Doi Katahiko—hardly anyone knows it, y’know.”
“But I’m not just writing submitted manuscripts all the time—I do write commissioned pieces too, y’know.”
“Y’know?”
“I’ve even gotten two thousand yen for a manuscript fee in some months—though they only paid half of that, which ain’t right—but since my own company’s lousy at paying fees too, I’m downright ashamed, y’know?”

“No, this man means no harm.”
“He’s just a bit eccentric—after all, his heart’s even attached to the right side of his chest, and he’s got eight cowlicks—”

When Haneda interjected and mediated,

“Hey—cut it out! This is embarrassing! Hey—that’s downright cruel!”

He flushed red in the face, desperately resenting.

Even the great gentleman of international goodwill seemed unable to find a means of direct handling.
At that, he snapped to attention, his posture stiffening,

“Attention!”
he thundered.
Now, having glared sharply at the group standing at attention,

“I only come to the office once a week.”
“In my place, this secretary’ll come to make the rounds every day.”
“Consider him me!”
“What’s this filth and gloom in the room?”
“Your surroundings mirror your spirit.”
“It’s gotta be bright and proper!”
“First step—repaint the walls white to brighten this dump.”
“Right here!”
“That’s how I always operate.”
“Culture and international goodwill demand this spirit!”
“You lot working under a top-tier figure like me—an international civilian envoy—to build a cultured nation—this is your greatest damn honor!”
“Now—bow!”

And then, with the secretary in tow, he strode out leisurely.

★

Things took an unforeseen turn.

“Mr. Haneda, that’s awful!”
“Tang was China? That’s just… but that’s awful!”
“That’s quite the insult, isn’t it?”

“Hey—hey—excuse me, you.”
“This ain’t some personal emotional issue!”

The one who restrained the group was the accounting clerk named Kataki—the youngest among them, yet as one might expect of a former bank clerk, the most sensible person in their midst who grasped common sense.

“What of Kasturi Company’s fate?”

“Yeah, exactly.”
“We can’t have that guy running wild like this, y’know.”
“I mean—this kinda erotic rag don’t suit my nature much, but hey, I’m a poet, right? I ain’t old-fashioned—I’ll do an erotic mag to put food on the table. If I’d been born a woman, I’d’ve been fine becoming a streetwalker too.”
“Why not just write poetry?”
“So, the fact that I’m a reporter for this Kasturi rag—that’s just the streetwalker spirit, y’know.”
“But y’know,”
“Kuruma’s crew’s censorship magazine ain’t right.”
“What the hell does he think he’s doing with our company?”

“In other words, he probably intends to be president.”

The group glared sharply at Haneda, then turned their eyes toward the President.

Haneda had lost his soul and any means to act—left utterly dazed in agonizing distress, hanging his head like a crucified Christ.

The President returned to the chair of unclear ownership—once seized by the gentleman of goodwill—took off his shoes, propped his feet on the desk, crossed his arms behind his neck, and stared at the ceiling.

“Hmm… just as I thought, y’know.”
“At this point, there’s nothin’ else to do but keep up that act, huh.”
“But y’know, our president’s been keepin’ up that act year-round—so maybe that’s just what a born ruin looks like, huh.”
“If there’s 200,000 yen, that’d be enough, right?”
“I’d wanna cough up 200,000 yen myself, but I ain’t got no gold teeth left to sell. If everyone here were dames, I’d order you all to hit the streets as streetwalkers—we’d rake in that much in a week! But there’s no madam around to run things, huh.”
“But, y’know—*hah*—it’s sad, huh… that sight—*hah*—that’s what no 200,000 yen looks like… just fuckin’ terrible, huh… *wah*!”

“What?”

The President glared sharply.
That was all.
Even so, his complexion remained unchanged.

“Eh-heh-heh.”
“Did he hear that?”
“That’s pitiable, y’know.”
“But I guess it’s just innate—can’t be helped.”
“The problem is, I think I’m the innate one here.”

“Exactly as Katahiko quoth.”

And with that, the President spoke leisurely, yet with a touch of sorrow.

“In short,”
“If there is no money, then there is no meaning to my being president.”
“Therefore.”
“Up until today, I have devoted myself to chasing debts and, through managing to settle some amount with great difficulty, have thus been sitting in this chair with my feet propped up on the desk like so—as you can see.”
“It was agony beyond endurance.”
“Debt is torment.”
“And yet, should you ask why I remained president in such a state—well, you see, attempting to settle my personal debts would have been even more excruciating.”
“Settling debts for our company is somewhat less agonizing, you understand.”
“Thus I borrow money with diminished pain; in any case, being fated to subsist through debt—well—through such circumstances have I remained president to this very day.”
“I perch steadfastly in the president’s chair and yield to fate—so you lot shall not lament!”

“Nooo, President!”
“President!”
“I’ll cut my belly here and now!”
“I was looking for a place to die.”
“Ten years ago—that Asakusa, that greenroom—you probably don’t know this, but backstage where the jazz played, crawling up those winding stairs while sneaking closer, listening to that sound all the while—from that moment on, I’d already been thinking: today I’ll die, tomorrow I’ll die.”
“Ah, but having committed such a grave sin and caused suffering to dear everyone, I will cut my belly.”
“Death is easy—but the sin torments me.”
“Ahh… I am in agony.”

With a shriek and a whimper, Haneda Ichiro curled up like a shrimp and collapsed in tears.

At that moment, the door to Kasturi Company opened,

“Whoa, this is awful.”
“You didn’t go and keep a bear to chase off debt collectors, did you?”
“Even I find hounding people for manuscript fees just as agonizing as debt-collecting, y’know.”
“Try showing some damn consideration for my side too!”

The one who came in muttering like this was a friend of the President’s—a literary person named Akagi Sanpei.

“Ah, Akagi.”
“Draw near.”
“Today I shall grandly deign to pay your manuscript fee.”

Haneda was beside himself, howling madly.
Mr. Sanpei shot a sidelong glance at this.

“Is that man suffering from a toothache?”

“Nonsense.”
“’Tis none but testicular inflammation that could cause such agony.”
“Today, owing to certain circumstances, he intends to commit seppuku here.”
“Due to similar circumstances, I shall generously pay you your manuscript fee as well.”
“There remains a sum that must absolutely be completely spent this very day.”
“Well—manuscript fee for Akagi Sanpei: eleven thousand yen. This is excessive.”

“Look here—this is five months’ worth that’s piled up!”

“Is that so? However, we’ll round down the fractions to ten thousand yen—make it an even sum—leaving about fifteen thousand yen remaining. Therefore, we shall now hold a banquet. There now, Haneda Uji—do not weep. The seppuku is canceled. I shall willingly resign as president. That is all there is to it. Since there are many people, the banquet will be held at Kasturi. Should there be a shortfall, there’s ten thousand yen in Sanpei’s pocket. You lot—do not hold back.”

And so, they commandeered a single establishment in Kasturi Alley and threw a grand banquet.

However, even if one were to say that resigning as president would solve everything, it wasn’t something that could be done so easily.
It was like selling off the magazine for a mere 200,000 yen.
Well then, what was one to do?
It was simple.
The 200,000 yen—that was fine.

Haneda, as the instigator, bore the anguish of having his very self carved apart. Though he kept it off his face, he grasped the President’s true feelings all too well. No matter what it took, he needed 200,000 yen. With no courage for theft left in him, only one path remained.

The next day, he called Doi Katahiko and,

“This is the wish of a lifetime.”
“With all due gravity, I implore you.”
“I am now going to stake my life for the 200,000 yen—witness it for me.”

“Hey, cut it out with the threats.”
“You don’t gotta die, do ya?”
“This is messed up.”
“Anyway, I’m so damn anxious that just sittin’ here in this chair’s takin’ all I got.”
“Can’t be no damn witness.”

“Hey, I’m telling you—this is the wish of a lifetime! Just witness it and agree to be my corroborator for posterity. Anyway, the only one who can do this is you, the poet. You’ve got an artist’s pure sense of justice and passion.”

“Hmm... Is that so? When you put it like that... I kinda gotta do it now, don’t I? This is such a pain.” Something felt off. Back during the war when I was a soldier, I hated the Special Attack Forces—thought that whole deal was wrong. But it’s Mr. Haneda who’ll die, not me. Me watching Mr. Haneda die—would that even be fun? If it’s not fun, it’s just boring—but now I’m all confused. Well, no choice then. Guess I’ll go. “Man, I’m feelin’ kinda lonely now.”

And so, the two were guided by Mr. Shoulder-Breadth-One-Meter and went to visit Boss Kuruma.

★

“Due to my incompetence, I failed to reconcile both parties’ intentions, and the 200,000 yen I humbly borrowed has been completely exhausted.”
“As this is entirely my responsibility, I considered committing seppuku at the company—but even disemboweling myself wouldn’t settle the 200,000 yen debt—so I have come to apologize.”
“In place of the money—stab me or cut me down—do as you please to satisfy your wrath.”

With that declaration, Haneda Ichiro closed his eyes.

He was a timid soul who would let out a yelp and cower even if pricked ever so slightly with a needle—a weakling through and through. However, he had utterly steeled his resolve.

It was a tragic resolve.

Having no composure left at all, his resolve was total, and his figure seated formally with closed eyes held a certain intensity. He spoke of how being cut down would be painful and agonizing. However, even so, he had resolved that he must die. Depending on one’s perspective, it could also be seen as comical.

The international envoy, unable to gauge the extent of Haneda Ichiro’s resolve, shot a sharp glare at Doi Katahiko.

“You too?”

“No way!”
“You’ve got to be kidding!”

Katahiko panicked greatly.

“I didn’t wanna come, but they told me to be a witness, so that’s why—it’s not like I should hafta say this.”
“I’ve always hated the idea of dying more than anything.”
“But I guess I’ll have to die eventually.”
“This is what’s so strange about it, I guess.”
“And so, I got all tangled up in this mess, and to this day, no one’s figured out why any of it happened.”
“Human knowledge is shallow indeed.”

“In other words—starting with Hanaichi here—you lot of punk reporters are saying you don’t want me as president anymore?”

“Hah… In other words—that’s right,” said Doi Katahiko flatly． “So I’ll take responsibility．”

“Is two hundred thousand yen not enough?” Kuruma Zenpachi barked．

Haneda closed his eyes and did not answer.

Then, Katahiko,

“Well now, I hadn’t noticed that either. Since I’m a streetwalker anyway—maybe selling myself for cash ain’t such a bad idea after all.”

“Hey, don’t shoot your mouth off.”

“It’s fine—what’s the harm if I say it?
“That’s a separate issue from your problem.”
“I’m thinking like a streetwalker here.”
“But in today’s publishing market, selling myself in units of 100,000 yen wouldn’t cut it.”
“When Anemone Publishing was sold off earlier, it went for two million—three million, maybe even five million yen.”
“After all, the higher you sell for, the better—so even us streetwalkers have it rough, huh.”
“Can’t figure it out.”

At that moment, the International Goodwill Gentleman twisted his body sharply,
“Don’t underestimate this man.”
“You insolent wretch!”

He stomped on the tatami and, with one arm, struck it with all his might.

“Do you think that I would want to become president of your Kasturi magazine? You lot—how dare you liken me, Kuruma Zenpachi of the mighty Kuruma Group, to some piddling magazine president? Do you imagine I’d ever stoop to such a thing?”

“No, President—that’s not it at all,”
“I haven’t so much as broached the matter of our company’s presidency.”
“You were the one who brought it up yourself.”
“All I said was—as apology for the two hundred thousand yen—stab me or cut me down however pleases you.”

Haneda Ichiro was pale.
He did not retreat.
He was resolved to die.

Suddenly, with a thud—a knockout punch.
Haneda’s body went flying.
It collapsed and lay motionless.
Blood gushed from his nose.
Katahiko panicked and instantly retreated two or three steps back,

“It’s not me!”
“I’m just a witness, you see.”
“However, ever since the war ended, I’ve had terrible luck—it’s been nothing but trouble.”
“Just the other day at a sushi shop, some guy mistook me for someone else—I kept saying, ‘It’s not me! Wrong guy!’—but they pummeled me anyway. Luck’s just rotten.”
“My mom—ever since I was a kid—made me carry some Narita talisman or other, and then it goes and cracks or somethin’, so even the stupidest things get messed up ‘cause the roots are rotten—I just can’t feel right about any of it.”
“You can’t go mistakin’ people like that.”
“It’s enough to make me feel so insecure.”

Three minutes—maybe five—had passed.
The International Goodwill Gentleman was silently glaring.

Haneda had collapsed flat, profusely gushing blood from his nose, still lying with eyes closed and not moving a muscle.
It was unclear whether he was dead or alive, conscious or not.

The International Goodwill Gentleman smoothly stood up.
Katahiko sprang up like a spring and assumed a fleeing posture,

“This is bad.
“My heart’s gonna give out.”
“I’m totally different—you can’t go mixin’ me up.”
“Ain’t dangerous at all.”
“Oh no—this is bad.”

“Remove him.”

Having left instructions with his secretary, the great gentleman departed.

“Yes, sir! I’ll take care of removing him.”

Katahiko was gauging the expression of the broad-shouldered man while,

“I’m asking you.”
“Can I remove him?”
“Is he dead?”
“Is it all right to shake him?”
“You can’t hit me.”
“Feels like I’ll get punched if I go—can’t do it.”
“Could you step back a bit?”

Katahiko stealthily approached Haneda and shook him.
After shaking him for two or three minutes, Haneda finally opened his eyes.

Thus, the Kasturi Company Incident came to an end.

“I was only unconscious for about a minute.
“Here I was, desperately pretending to be dead.
“That slimy nosebleed—how revolting.
“If this worked out, I’d be saved—and once that thought struck me, I prayed to every god and Buddha there was.”

This was Haneda Ichiro's account.

Therefore, even today in midsummer, that President still sat with his feet plunged into the water of the Canadianite on his desk, glaring at the ceiling, and on exceedingly rare occasions walked the streets for the relatively painless collection of debts.