Pathway to Japanese Literature

Magichi's ideology was what they called Regressivism. In an era when even cats and ladles were hoisting trite banners like existentialism and communism, the very fact that Magichi had devised an unheard-of school of thought called Regressivism compelled one to declare he was no ordinary rat.

The name Magichi was of course an epithet—one that stemmed from his gluttony. At five shaku four sun five bu and fifteen kan, he was an ordinary Japanese man with no peculiar features to his face—yet through some cruel twist of fate, he possessed a stomach ill-adapted to the times, one that demanded he consume roughly triple the portions of an average healthy person just to sustain himself. He was twenty-five that year. Now, when it comes to the matter of his profession, an explanation is required. He had been drafted as a student soldier at twenty and was digging holes somewhere in Japan when the war ended. When he returned to his birthplace in Asakusa, he found it reduced to scorched earth, and his mother—the sole survivor—had already transformed into the wife of an oden stall owner.

"Oh, you’re back. In one piece. Everyone here’s dead." "You made it back in one piece." “Everyone here’s dead.”

Ofukuro raised her face with an expression devoid of amusement, paused her work for a moment, and that was all she said. Magichi thought it was Ofukuro he had looked up at. She wasn’t his dear old mother after all. She had a certain charm about her—wasn’t she actually quite a beauty?—he found himself idly thinking.

New Father and Ofukuro were on excellent terms. Magichi was beneath their notice. However, bound by the obligations of this transient world, they worked him as an unpaid servant. Magichi felt admiration for New Father, thinking him a marvel, but it was New Father and Ofukuro who panicked.

Through his soldiering days of digging holes—what sort of training he underwent remained unclear—Magichi’s appetite had grown monstrous. Being merchandise, they couldn’t hide it. Nor could they keep constant watch. Magichi would thrust his hands in without hesitation and surreptitiously devour hefty portions before anyone noticed. If sent on an errand run, he’d eat into their purchases; if given five bowls of Chinese soba, he’d gnaw through ten ears of corn for good measure—all while convinced he was exercising tremendous restraint.

“I really wanted pork cutlet, but that stuff’s pricey.” “I’ve been holding back like crazy.”

Such was the state of affairs.

“You damn brat. Why don’t you try thinking about the damn times! Don’t you know there’s rationing? That the government and citizens are one body? That we’re all suffering through this damn defeat? Damned fool!”

“Oh. For someone who knows better, you’re talking nonsense. You can’t survive on rations—that’s why this business keeps you fed. But damn, ain’t that a fine mess. You’re making this damn awkward.”

There, New Father and Ofukuro put their heads together and held a secret meeting. Even working him for free wasn’t worth it. Chopping him into pieces and dumping him in the Sumida River wasn’t an option either. They did have a sharp kitchen knife, and Magichi was horse-like enough—yet unlike a horse, there was no worry he’d kick up a fuss—but even having lost the war, prisons still existed, making things rather troublesome.

At that moment, New Father tapped his forehead and celebrated his new discovery. At the Saitama farming households where New Father went to procure rice, there lived a dimwitted bushwhacker of an only daughter. They were seeking a son-in-law, but in these times where women weren’t scarce—moreover, country rustics these days busied themselves buying up city suits and jumpers, puffing foreign cigarettes as they danced like dandies—so those who were three parts human and seven parts beast wouldn’t even glance their way. New Father and Ofukuro spelled out the consequences to Magichi. If he did not consent to this arrangement, they would disown him. Now, in this democratic age, once one reached twenty years of age, they became independent individuals—no longer parent nor child. Since this was indeed sound logic, even Magichi came to realize this truth. That there were no social obligations or human feelings was truly splendid—bracing. Having been tempered by war, Magichi could not be mistaken in recognizing truly beautiful humanity.

It was at this time that he came to profoundly embrace Regressivism, and thus became a son-in-law with the preparedness of a soldier sworn to perish for heaven's mandate.

It was a grand wedding. His bride had an amusingly piggish face reminiscent of Zhu Bajie. Her slightly plump figure—pigeon-chested and broad-hipped—held a charm consistent with her features. Yet the true obstacle lay elsewhere. As a spoiled country-bred only child, she’d never brushed her teeth until war’s end. Horrified by postwar “glamour films,” she’d belatedly taken up the habit—too late. Every tooth stood rotten. Brushing irritated the nerves into throbbing pain. Through clenched jaws she endured it—patience stacked upon patience. But with a husband secured? Done deal. No more suffering through toothbrushing.

Magichi was shocked. When the bride opened her mouth, even from a foot away, he nearly fainted. Even Regressivism had its limits—this he branded into his gut: that forging ties between man and swine-spawned creature was impossible.

So he feigned illness, shut himself in a room, spouted his pretentious knowledge, and wrote an absurd script. His pretentious knowledge came not from academic learning but from upbringing. For he was Jinta’s elder brother—raised in Asakusa through famine and drought—and thus this became his glorious expression of nostalgia.

Magichi visited the Asakusa Tanuki Troupe with the script tucked in his pocket, having loaded a handcart with about two to of rice and a full set of bedding. The two to of rice wasn’t a commission. It was his own ration.

“Cut the crap! What’s so damn lacking that you’d bail on being some farmer’s son-in-law?” “What a damn reckless bastard you are!”

Manager and artistic director Shinagawa Ippei bellowed.

“You don’t get it. I’m a Regressivist.” “Civilization ultimately means regressing.” “Meaning everyone gets bloated.” “Everyone turns into mongrels—right? Don’tcha think?” “Don’t you see?” “In the end, we’ve all gotta become mongrels—ain’t that how it goes?” “Don’t you figure it’s wrong—no offense—for savages from Japan or Malaya to chase after Europe?” “Europe comin’ to Japan and Malaya—that’s real civilization.” “’Cause climbin’ up from below was never gonna work.” “Only way’s fallin’ down from the top.” “So even I resolved myself—became some farmer’s son-in-law, meant to lower my station—but that was a mistake.” “Gotta go lower still.” “Stoop myself to join the Tanuki Troupe.” “Regressivism—I’m clutchin’ to it like a drownin’ man!” “I’m beggin’ you.”

“Cut the crap!” “I’m not messing around.” “I’ll do anything—anything at all.” “I won’t be picky—actor, stagehand, scene shifter, anything.” “That stuff? With a bit of practice, I could handle that.” “If that’s what it takes, I’ll even be your errand boy.” “If you feed me and let me sleep, I’ll do anything.” “Shall I tend the fire for this hut?” “I’ve even brought my own futon! If you’d just let me sleep right in the middle of the stage, there’d be no problem at all, would there?”

“Hmm.”

With that, Shinagawa Ippei turned away—but through his insight, he had discerned Magichi’s extraordinary qualities. There exists a certain kind of show business that can’t be done unless you’re an utter fool. However, true fools are a rare breed. Ippei, having been abandoned by his wife and struggling with menial tasks, decided to use him as a temporary manservant. But even his keen insight could not penetrate Magichi’s stomach—a failure beyond remedy.

★

If everything could have been resolved through Regressivism, that would have been fine—but that brief taste of success proved Magichi’s undoing. He once appeared as an actor and was somewhat well-received. Titled: The Amateur Throat-Proud Contest. Magichi was tone-deaf. Just as his rhythm was going haywire—a shrill voice erupting from the crown of his head, a guttural groan leaking from around his navel—the voices of heaven and earth tangled together in writhing agony.

“Yow!

“Magichaaan!” “I’ve been waiting for this!”

There had even been times when voices called out to him, making Magichi tingle all over. Though he’d gotten laughs, it was just an amateur’s fleeting triumph—no encores followed. Shinagawa Ippei had finally realized his vaunted insight had gone haywire. “You’ll never make it as an actor, but I’ll let you scrub floors for the stagehands.” “But I ain’t housing a human locust like you! Today’s your last day—go dig yourself some other rat hole!” “That’s bullshit!” “Bullshit? You’re inhaling a whole sho of rice without ration tickets! We can’t feed that!” “Get to Ueno’s underground passage! Make your ‘regression’ work there!”

“It’s no good. Rice doesn’t just fall into underground passages, does it?” “You deal with your own damn food situation. Why the hell should anyone care about that?”

And with that, he was driven out.

Indeed, Shinagawa Ippei's argument was sound. Magichi being a man who never withheld admiration for sound logic found this supremely reasonable. But he couldn't afford to keep marveling forever, so he went around pleading with each troupe member: "Hey, let me stay the night." "That ain't happenin'. Letting you crash ain't the problem—we can't keep you here indefinitely." "You're shameless enough to swipe grub and stuff your face." "That's exactly why it won't fly."

“Sure, if I’m starving I might steal—but it’s just one night, ain’t it?” “Even one night—with that bottomless stomach of yours, it won’t fly. Go try somewhere else.”

He was no good with actresses. In his hasty attempt to join the troupe, he approached each and every one of them only to be coldly rebuffed without exception—there was no prospect left. He’d long since sold off the handcart for drink money, so now—fine then—he sold the futon too and drank away the proceeds; let what remained become fields or mountains. That night, thoroughly drunk, he slept rough. This society appears warm on the surface yet remains bitterly cold at its core. That too stemmed from Magichi’s disposition. He might mooch drinks off others but operated too shrewdly to get mooched off himself—even while freeloading at Shinagawa Ippei’s apartment he’d devour two bushels of rice alone; even when selling the handcart he kept all profits for himself without ever treating anyone. This was Magichi’s heaven-sent disposition, but in this society most folks shared the same temperament—even when he’d glare at some bastard thinking *That one’s flush today* and trail them all the way to the bar, they’d just drink and eat by themselves without giving Magichi a crumb. Everyone being such upstanding samurai—how uniformly they all refused!—Magichi couldn’t help but secretly admire them.

Magichi was not the sort of man to fear living in underground passages. In these times, there were underground passages and spaces beneath temple eaves—no shortage of places to sleep—but a stomach couldn’t be satisfied with that.

The next day, he rose from sleeping rough, drank some water, made his way to the shack, and there—rather than approaching the men—visited each actress one by one to get them to share a pinch of their boxed lunches at a time. To underestimate women is a grave mistake. “What the hell are you talking about? You good-for-nothing!” Ending up being sat cross-legged by the Elder Actress and subjected to her tongue-lashing. Only two punks, resentfully sharing mere scraps of bread, were all he got.

Out of long-standing habit, he went to the senior actress’s room and watched for an opportunity. Because the grubby male actors sucked their pipes down to the filter with noisy slurps. After all, women didn’t use pipes or such things. He had been waiting for her to flick away the cigarette butt and then picked it up. Picking them up would have been one thing, but he snatched them before they were even discarded. In the past, they’d say things like “Here, have one,” but these days not a soul offered such kind words. When they saw Magichi, the senior actresses would tell their apprentices,

“Magichi’s here.” “Cigarettes, lunch boxes.” “And purses—make sure you lock everything up tight.” they said.

“Cut it out. Quit puttin’ on airs. I don’t wanna be doin’ this either. But y’see... It’s these hard times—that’s why I’m settin’ my sights on you lot. Ain’t that right? Women can scrape by with side jobs like waitressin’ or panpan work, but us men got no such luck. Since it’s a woman’s world now—that’s why you’re all sittin’ pretty. You oughta be grateful.” “What nonsense are you spoutin’? You’re nothin’ but worthless man-trash! Crazy bastard!” With matters reaching this state, he became utterly unmanageable. He was someone they’d all once admired. Had he just quickly fortified his Regressivist position, he might’ve scraped by in this society—but after being hailed just once with a “Hey! We’ve been waitin’!”, he’d gone on a spree worthy of any star actor, piled up debts he couldn’t shake, and now there was no saving him.

Magichi surrendered to hunger. Theft and murder were indeed viable strategies for regression—ones he couldn’t shy away from—but he thought it best to first attempt a discreet resolution, which wasn’t unreasonable under the circumstances. Though already reduced to menial work for the stagehands and unable to appear onstage himself, he groveled before Sanchan—a sniveling punk—to have his face painted white, then lurked in the shadows awaiting the finale.

It was the first matinee finale. The orchestral music began, and they filed out one after another. He sprang into dance, taking the lead at center stage—a hodgepodge of hula, boogie-woogie, acrobatics, and erudite pontifications—gyrating with cocked hips, and even after the others had retreated, he alone remained, performing with feverish intensity. When the curtain fell, he parted it to deliver a popular song blending heaven and earth, yin and yang. Everyone was guffawing.

Magichi clasped his palms together over his chest, tilted his head slightly, and offered a greeting.

“Ahem. Ladies and gentlemen! Your fellow curio actor—throat-proud Magichi—hereby offers his humble greetings. Our troupe has gradually received your esteemed patronage and continues its humble operations. For those such as our troupe leader and senior actors, your generous support is most appreciated—despite these times of material scarcity, we receive various gifts of provisions, living as fortunately as Minister Kosuge himself. Yet even a stalwart man such as myself—the unworthy throat-proud Magichi—finds that being labeled a mere curio actor means not a soul in this world deigns to provide me with gifts. Ahh, truly regrettable—the very height of sorrow, this iiiis. O uncannily burning blood! I am in anguish. I eage~rly await the gracious patronage of gentle maidens. Agh!”

This was because someone threw an apple that struck him square in the lower abdomen. Magichi groaned and, like a performing monkey hugging his knees, froze in place, unable to move. This is not theater. Even when several troupe members grabbed him by the collar and dragged him backstage, he couldn’t break out of his performing monkey’s pose—such was the state of things.

“Hey, you bastard. “Quit your damn clowning!” “Don’t you realize you’re making the whole troupe lose face? “You perverted lunatic!” A young troupe member slapped the cowering Magichi back and forth. Even Shinagawa Ippei guffawed. When one becomes a third-rate actor, they know better than to expect any real substance in them. For Magichi, this was truly something to be grateful for. “Boss, you’re something else.” Magichi, with feigned bashfulness, behaved heroically and offered Ippei a handshake, but—

“Cut it out. Quit messin’ around.” Magichi ended up getting shoved away. “What’s this? “The hell? “You were laughin’ your ass off earlier, but when I try showin’ some gratitude, you shove me? Not funny. “I didn’t wanna pull that stunt either. “But if I do somethin’ else instead, it’d have to be stealin’ or killin’, right? “Even a guy wouldn’t wanna wind up like Pansuke, would he?” “You idiot. “Think some damn Pansuke’s gonna pop outta the stage?”

“You’re spouting that kinda crap.” “The world’s dealings ain’t any cleaner.” “You’re fired! Out!” “Don’t be hasty now.” “Ain’t I got my own circumstances?” “Getting canned’s one thing, but you can’t boot me straight out.” “Disruptin’ business ain’t allowed.”

The present age was indeed an era that permitted no prediction of what might occur ahead, but hope passed right by Magichi without stopping.

He wandered around the audience corridor, but nothing happened. Regressivism seemed to be quite a difficult enterprise.

The only remaining method was theft—opening the ticket booth’s door, “Well, look who’s all diligent today!” But when he approached, though the ticket seller normally worked alone, today there was an assistant—and to make matters worse, a cleaning lady stood rigidly with bulging eyes, glaring sharply at Magichi, “No good. We’ve got proper precautions in place now. Heh heh heh.” “Eh heh heh” Magichi also gave a wry smile. When he turned back and tried to go up to the dressing room, the dressing room attendant was standing at the foot of the stairs,

“No way. We’ve got orders saying we can’t let you upstairs, see.” “This isn’t a joke. There are belongings here, aren’t there?” “Eh heh heh. That you’re a threadbare sparrow is something everyone in this hut knows full well.”

Magichi shuffled backstage and flopped down behind the props. I had to steal something—my stomach wouldn’t hold out much longer as things stood. It didn’t matter if it was glass or whatever. First came sleep—he dropped into a deep slumber. He was in a calm state of mind where theft or murder could be done at any time.

★ Magichi was kicked in the side and woke up. His opponent was Kuma-san from props—the strongest fighter in this theater—so he stood no chance.

“Hey, cut it out. You don’t have to kick me, do you? I’m getting up now.” “You’re in the way. Get lost.” Magichi reluctantly got up, but Kuma-san’s murderous demeanor defied restraint—which only made Magichi all the more desperate to steal something. “Hey, Kuma-san. It’s Yoshimi from Hōbai, right? Can’t you wrap some separately for me?” “Shut your trap. I said get lost—you deaf or somethin’?” Magichi gave up and started walking. There was no helping it. If I was going to steal anyway, this hut I knew so well would’ve been the reassuring choice, but with surveillance this tight, there was no way. At the exit, the dressing room attendant was glaring fiercely, making it abundantly clear he wanted him gone immediately.

“Hey you! It’s Yoshimi right? Wrap some up separate for me won’tcha? I’ll owe ya!” He knew it was useless but had to try anyway. The dressing room attendant answered by opening the back door instead—grabbed his collar—shoved him through. The door slammed shut while he still staggered.

Such things were no longer an issue. He uncharacteristically found himself dwelling on Yoshimi and Hōbai—which left him feeling awkward. Social obligations and human feelings were trivial matters. Both Germany and this guy were nothing but admirable samurai. "Life's like that," he thought with a wry smile at his own carelessness. Well, I needed to become a samurai too. What made a samurai? Someone like that Teikoku Bank criminal from Shiinamachi must be an admirable one. He found a cigarette butt on the road and picked it up. Borrowed a lighter from the lighter shop to light it. My bad. Forgive me.

The salesgirl at the lighter shop was a somewhat cute girl. Her eyes widened in surprise. He felt like teasing her a bit and slipped the lighter into his pocket. She nearly let out a cry. “Heh heh heh.” “Just kidding!” He put down the lighter, grinned slyly, and winked. Suddenly, he was thwacked. “Hey, cut it out.” “It’s just a joke!” “You pull that disrespectful shit and we won’t let it slide.”

The opponents were two. They seemed to be clerks from the shop next to the lighter shop. They might have wanted to show off their vigor to the girl at the lighter shop. “Heh heh heh.”

Magichi was a practitioner of non-resistance. It shared roots with Regressivism—the pinnacle of civilization where once all gaudy notions like enterprising spirit vanished, everyone would naturally reach this state. He hit upon a brilliant idea. He went to Shinagawa Ippei’s apartment. He borrowed the key from the superintendent. Since they’d been living together until yesterday and no official circular could’ve reached this far yet, suspicion was unlikely. He pulled it off seamlessly.

“Eh-heh-heh.” “Anyway, that guy’s too soft!” “While everyone was glaring daggers, only he kept guffawing like an idiot.” Magichi found some rice and first cooked a meal. Ippei’s cooking was something Magichi had been handling, so he was well accustomed to it. Since if Magichi weren’t there they’d likely eat out, the layabout Ippei had no reason to return home early. Magichi ate his meal slowly, and with just one or two more bowls, he would have been fully satisfied.

When luck runs out, there's nothing to be done.

Ippei returned. Originally, unlike actors, he had no need to be confined to the dressing room around the clock. Magichi started slightly, flustered, and clutched the pot with both hands. Because there was still some rice left for him to eat. “Hold on!” “Hold on!” “My bad.” “You gotta wait for me.” “Even if you’d gotten mad five minutes earlier, it’d end up the same anyway.”

He hurriedly stuffed the rice into his bowl, packing it down forcefully. He stabbed his chopsticks into it and, clutching the pickled side dish plate in one hand, retreated to a corner of the room.

“Even if you’d gotten angry five minutes later, same damn logic applies, don’t it? Bear with it already. Appetite’s something you can’t help, I tell ya. On the battlefield, didn’t they eat their own buddies’ corpses? I ain’t wanna be doin’ this neither, but got no other options here. You gotta see it from my side.” While shooting furtive looks at Ippei, Magichi desperately shoveled rice into his mouth. “Ain’t right. Keep starin’ me down like that, I’ll choke proper. When your eyes go all buggy like that—real rough deal when it’s happenin’ to you, y’know? This really ain’t right. Choked up now. Gimme five more minutes. Gotta get some water too. This pickled crap’s my own doin’, but tastes off somehow. Prob’ly just ’cause you’re glarin’, eh?”

Magichi finally finished eating his meal, poured water from the kettle into a bowl, and gulped it down. Ippei had lost his momentum, and his anger had mostly faded, but this being the theater business—where he knew all the proper forms for feigning rage—there was no slack in his performance.

“Hey, you bastard, quit screwing around!”

If wearing a kimono, he’d hike up the hem and snap into a glare—that’s how you properly feign rage. “Hey, give me a break.” “I just cooked and ate some rice—it’s not like I stole anything, I tell you.” “Though I was just about to do a little something, but since I haven’t yet, give me a break.” “Anyone breaking into an unfamiliar house would feel uneasy—not knowing the occupants’ temperament, first off not knowing the layout, isn’t that unsettling?” “You’ve gotta understand that part.” “Rough stuff and unreasonable things—I don’t wanna do ’em.”

“Enough of your crap!”

He delivered two vigorous whap-whap slaps. This too was a standard theatrical convention. However, Magichi, having been slapped whap-whap, snapped to his senses. “Ah, that’s right! “I have to get my severance pay, I tell you.” “When anyone gets fired, there’s supposed to be severance pay, right?” “It’s standard, I tell you.” “Heh heh heh.” “Cut it out, I tell you.” “You can’t just brush this off, I tell you.” “Quit your bullshit already!” “Severance pay is something received by proper full-time employees.” “You’re nothing but a temp worker or some kinda apprentice.” “And don’t forget—you’ve got that thousand-yen advance to account for.” “You should be damn grateful I’m even letting that slide!”

He delivered another whap-whap slap. Ippei too was gradually getting genuinely angry. Magichi turned pale and bared a glaring smile, but it gradually contorted.

“Tch.” “You can’t trick me.” “I’m being serious now too, I tell you.” Until just now, I hadn’t noticed that point. “That’s right—you’ve definitely got to give me what’s called severance pay, I tell you.”

Another whap-whap slap resounded. Because the slap carried concentrated force, Magichi’s neck wobbled unsteadily when struck. His eyes wavered as they blazed fiercely. He backed along the wall while spinning around.

“What’s owed must be given, I tell you.” “Tricking me—that’s cheating.” “Ever since the war ended—somehow—I’ve always been getting tricked, haven’t I?” “That’s why humans gotta regress, I tell you.” “Heh heh heh.”

Another whap-whap slap resounded. At that very moment, he had come to where the deba knife was located. Magichi’s face darkened as he grinned. It seemed as though he had merely crouched slightly and stood up. The deba knife had been plunged into Ippei’s stomach. When Ippei recoiled, Magichi calmly said, “Heave-ho!” And then he pushed the deba knife in hard with both hands.

When people heard the noise and rushed over, Magichi was thrusting the deba knife into Ippei’s neck. At that moment, it was no longer a contorted face. He seemed to be doing nothing more than playing with a toy. Seeing the crowd of people swarming over, he grinned darkly. “I must regress.”

He shouted in a resonant voice as if delivering a speech, then tumbled backward with a thud. At first it seemed he might have committed suicide—but no—whether from overeating, he lay in a deep coma, snoring like an old cat.

Magichi was diagnosed with schizophrenia, but he himself calls himself a Regressivist and periodically writes theories only to tear them up.