Pathway to Japanese Literature

At the office of Geksekai Corporation—which operated two or three entertainment ventures in Asakusa Park—the Managing Director arrived as usual at a quarter to ten in the morning with a bright face. It was a beautifully clear autumn morning; through the window could be seen nearly twenty spectators already waiting before the neighboring Mikado-za for its opening. The Managing Director surveyed them thoroughly, then looked up at the sky with apparent satisfaction. Immediately before them rose Kinema-kan's white wall, leaving only a narrow sliver of sky visible—thoroughly scrubbed clean by last night's rain. Yet the Managing Director stared fixedly at the sapphire-blue rays streaming through that gap, blinking repeatedly.

“It’s nice weather, isn’t it? At this rate, we’ll surely have a full house today.” The clerk nearby spoke up. “When you’re in a weather-dependent business, you finally come to understand the true worth of Lord Sun.” The Managing Director answered while withdrawing from the window. Then, gazing at the young playwright who had just bowed to him, he said, “You probably don’t understand yet, but in Asakusa, a hundred or two hundred people difference rides on the weather patterns.” “Well, today being Sunday, we should have a full house,” said the playwright in a casually cadenced voice that still retained student mannerisms.

"Hmm, yes yes—I was just thinking of commending you," said the Managing Director with that universally encouraging expression people adopt when praising young men. "This morning at the baths, I heard talk of our theater's reputation. By all accounts, your latest chain play appears to be quite the success." "A fortunate turn of events," the playwright replied with a peculiarly strained smile. "You shall continue procuring prime material with utmost diligence."

This playwright had just graduated from university that year. And driven purely by the need to eat, he had entered this place where he wrote chain plays anonymously. He lacked the confidence to produce sophisticated creative works independently, and moreover, had been in circumstances since his school days that forced him to confront occupational concerns. To keep himself fed, there was no alternative. He cast aside all artistic integrity and committed himself to "the way of commercial authorship."

Of course, the occupation of playwright wasn't without its appeal. The fact that his own writings—projected onto white sheets or illuminated by footlights—could stir up a myriad of emotions in the audience was no small pleasure to him as he secretly observed this from the shadows. On the first and fifteenth days—workers' holidays—the theater was always packed to capacity, but whenever the spectators' cheers filling up to the third floor reached his ears from behind the backdrop, he would involuntarily smile and glance around his surroundings. At times, he saw beautiful geishas in the special seats weeping silently at his tragedies. At times, he saw boisterous-looking students unwittingly getting excited over his action-packed plays.

When he first started, there wasn’t a single day when he didn’t wish to abandon this detestable line of work as soon as possible. The troupe leader made strange demands. The stage props were being difficult. He received requests from the cinematographer to remove scenes. Complaints arose from the office staff. He was thoroughly perplexed. And he hoped to obtain freedom as soon as possible and for the day when he could create exactly as he wished. However, as he grew accustomed to it—once he swallowed his pride—everything became easier to manage. Spectatorship had been frightening at first, but now it had grown endearing. He had come to find pleasure in freely making their emotions ebb and flow. The occupation he had found unbearably loathsome was becoming bit by bit more interesting. Lately, he even began to forget his lifelong purpose. And when he realized this, he started in surprise and rebuked himself. To end up as a mediocre writer like this—I must possess too precious an artistic talent to waste. However, when would the day come when I could create exactly as I wished? Before that day arrives—would this occupation have poisoned me? He systematically thought about the concept of occupation. How utterly wretched that people must first and foremost eat to survive! But there are people in the world who make a living doing what they love. There are also those who walk their own chosen path and earn their keep doing so.

He thought about the free literati of the world. He thought about scholars. Then he thought about every possible occupation. Occupations come in all varieties. And those in every occupation envy other professions. However, what agony it must be to be unable to make his primary calling into an occupation...

The playwright paced up and down in a corner of the office, pursuing the succession of occupational questions he had been considering.

The bell announcing the theater's opening had long since finished ringing, and by then about half the spectators had entered the auditorium. The band's music drifted in. Wooden clappers echoed through the air. Shrill voices calling for patrons rang out. The shuffle of spectators' footsteps filtered through. Outside, the world brimmed with bustling crowds and clamor. Yet here in the office, stillness reigned - lethargy and listlessness hung heavy about the room. The Managing Director sat at his desk, likely concocting some novel attraction for Charline Hall's upcoming program.

The two or three clerks who remained after the others had gone to the auditorium were idly perusing the entertainment section of the Asakusa Report. Another sat silently staring at the flyer printed with this month's performance titles, his gaze unfocused... "Even they aren't content with their own occupations," the young playwright thought.

At that moment, the receptionist entered holding a business card. And she placed it on the Managing Director’s desk. When the Managing Director picked it up and looked, the business card read: "Newly Returned from Abroad Magician, Jungle Jap, Emoto Shin'ichi." A momentary wrinkle of peculiar anticipation formed on the Managing Director’s face. And from beneath it came a deep, resonant voice.

“Very well. Show him in here,” he replied to the woman, then turned to the clerks and added: “Another magician has come asking to be hired, you know. I think I’ll give him the usual trial.”

“If he does well, will you assign him to Charline Hall?” asked a clerk.

“That’s right. If they’re different tricks, having one more magician should be fine.”

The playwright's contemplation was momentarily shattered. But in that instant, he thought, “Ah, so there exists an occupation like magician in this world.”

The magician entered the office accompanied by the receptionist. He wore a blue-striped suit. He held a bowler hat in his hand. He walked in with an oddly composed gait. Surveying the room, he nodded lightly to everyone as he approached the Managing Director. The Managing Director stood up. The two exchanged their usual greetings.

“Where have you been until now?” The Managing Director asked magnanimously. “I was in Shanghai. “Before that, I spent a long time in America. “I trained in magic there. “Though mine is called magic too, it differs from others’—we call it the Entranced Arts.”

“Hmm. So you’re a stage mesmerist then.” “E~, that’s right. Through kiai alone—putting birds and beasts to sleep, divining objects inside boxes, slicing daikon radishes placed on an arm with a sword, and smashing beer bottles against the forehead to break them.” “Hmm, that’s different. Actually, you’re probably aware that we currently have a magician named Haguro Tenkai at Charline Hall.” “Ah, his skill with playing cards and red balls. That must be him,” the magician said with satisfaction at the Managing Director’s tone. “That person’s magic is just ordinary.”

“Well then, could I have you show me one of your skills for the test? We do give a basic trial everywhere, you see...” said the Managing Director. “Yes, let’s do it—if I don’t demonstrate it, you’ll never grasp my true artistry.” The magician declared with the pride common to all such performers.

The clerks pulled the tables slightly closer together, making space in the center of the not-so-spacious office. The playwright, who had been silent, helped while laughing. Then they leaned against the nearby wall with the Managing Director and watched what this magician would do. The magician smoothly slipped out of his jacket. He cheerfully surveyed his surroundings before declaring in an exhilarated voice: “Shall I begin by putting birds and beasts to sleep for your viewing pleasure? I’ve christened this the Avian-Beast Spirit-Summoning Art.”

“Unfortunately there are no birds or beasts here now, are there?” said the Managing Director. “The preparations have been properly made,” he said with a glance toward the receptionist. “Miss—if you’d be so kind as to fetch the box left at the entrance.”

A small cage was brought in. Inside it were a rabbit and a chicken. “Everyone,” he declared with a rehearsed performer’s cadence while thoroughly surveying the room, “as you can see, this is an authentic rabbit I borrowed today from a bird seller passing by.” Behind him at the Mikado-za entrance, two or three usherettes in blue uniforms stood watching with amused smiles during their lull. The magician occasionally flickered his gaze toward them.

“Now then, allow me to put this one to sleep for your viewing.” He repeated this again and placed the rabbit on the desk there. The white rabbit shook its ears—which had been pressed down until now—once or twice, its red eyes darting about as if still unaware of its current position. The magician watched it with satisfaction for a while, but when he thought the rabbit had looked his way, he suddenly spread his fingers strangely before it and—snap! Snap! —he shouted four or five times. And then, wonder of wonders, the rabbit suddenly laid its ears flat and plopped down asleep.

“It’s absolutely not dead.” “As you can see, its heart is beating.” Having said this, he glanced again at the usherettes.

“A form of hypnotism, huh?” The Managing Director remarked with some satisfaction. “And when will that wake up?” “If I want to rouse it, it’ll wake immediately.” “Leave it asleep and it’ll keep sleeping till it’s a hundred twenty-five.” He continued speaking, rather pleased with his own quip. “If left like this, it’ll sleep three or even four days without eating.” “This way’s quieter and easier to handle, you might say.” “Maybe I should get him to hypnotize me too and sleep without eating.” One of the clerks made this remark.

“Indeed, it must be nice not being noisy.” The playwright teased the clerk. The magician had been silently listening to this exchange, but upon noticing—particularly—the Managing Director’s keenly interested expression, he grew increasingly animated, “Now then, allow me to wake it up for your viewing.” He snapped again! Snap! He repeated the snaps. And then he lightly dropped the revived rabbit from the desk onto the floor. The rabbit—this rabbit that had been so utterly limp until now—adjusted its posture slightly and attempted two or three weak yet unmistakable jumps.

The playwright suddenly recalled the popular phrase “leap of life” and chuckled softly to himself. “Can you put the chicken to sleep too?” the Managing Director inquired.

“Certainly, allow me to put it to sleep for your viewing.” “They’ll all lie down for you.” “The brutes regard every place as their lounge, don’t they?” The magician wore a servile smile as he spoke. “Only doves won’t fall asleep.” “Doves are clever, you see.” “You gentlemen must be aware that doves’ wisdom is even mentioned in the Bible.” “It’s not doves.” “Perhaps it’s a snake.” The playwright interjected, secretly astonished at the man’s knowledge. “Truth be told, I don’t actually know which it is.” “I merely heard it from someone in America, so…” The magician said while scratching his head in an exaggerated manner. And then he immediately set about putting the next chicken to sleep.

When restrained by the magician's hand, the chicken let out only a sharp clucking cry; but once placed on the desk from his grasp, it already lay stretched out with its neck gone limp.

Then he brought out a handbox. It was a small box made of plain paulownia wood, about a foot square, with an intimidatingly large silver lock hanging from it. He demonstrated by tapping it a couple of times,

“Now, as you can see, this box has no tricks or hidden mechanisms.” “Would someone please put something into this?” “I’ll perform clairvoyance and show you.” One of the clerks, amused, brought it to the corner of the room. And taking from his pocket a measuring tape he happened to have on him for that day’s use, he placed it inside.

The magician received it and placed it on a stand about five shaku high with legs, lit a candle himself, illuminated the box's top, bottom, left, and right, then closed his eyes tightly for a while. The clerks, seeing the magician's apparently perplexed state, became somewhat pleased and whispered among themselves. "This isn't an ordinary thing, is it?" the magician said after a moment. "Judging by length, it's four or five shaku—a long, thin string-like thing." "And somehow it's coiled up like a snake." "And there's a small metal fitting attached as well." "You've gone and put in something quite mean-spirited and tricky, which has given me quite a hard time." "How about that—did I get any part right?"

He turned toward the clerks as if to humor them and, while saying so, broke the seal. From inside emerged the measuring tape in its original state. “I see.” The Managing Director was impressed.

“Ah, a measuring tape, is it.” “Well, I couldn’t quite measure up to reason!” The magician said this so smoothly that one might have thought he’d intentionally failed to guess correctly just for the sake of delivering his pun. Everyone burst into laughter once more. He grew even more pleased with himself and continued speaking. “Now then, allow me to show you all what I believe will be your first encounter with this particular trick. “Those clairvoyant types actually just listen for sounds when receiving the box or sneak a peek—but this here’s the real technique. “I don’t suppose there’s a radish being sold around here?”

“O-Hisachan, you go buy it,” the clerk ordered the receptionist. “But walking around carrying a radish in broad daylight would look ridiculous.” The woman laughed cheerfully. “You’re not entirely against the idea, are you?” “You might as well start practicing being a dutiful wife now.” “A wife doesn’t need to be some kind of performer.” “Then shall I become one?” The magician interjected. The woman gave a light shrug. “Won’t you please go fetch it?” the Managing Director finally said. The woman showed none of the disgust her words might suggest and went out laughing to procure the radish.

“Ah! Hold your horses!” The magician called her back. “Wilted ones won’t do. “It can’t be like you lot—all watery and splitting clean with one slice.…” As he said this, he turned toward the usherettes and laughed. “Now then, while we wait, allow me to demonstrate the thickness of my skin… or rather, the hardness of my forehead bone.” “Please bring me one beer bottle.” A beer bottle was brought. He picked up that reddish-black bottle and nonchalantly tapped his forehead twice—then on the third swing of his arm—wham! With that cry, he struck straight between his brows as though firing an arrow. At that instant, ochre glass shards scattered with a flash from his forehead. When the people, startled, looked around for where his face might be, there he unexpectedly was—laughing while stroking his slightly flushed forehead in a dazed manner...

“It’s a wonder you don’t get injured.” The Managing Director, who had been momentarily dumbfounded, asked. “Yes. If you pull forward while striking out of fear of injury, you might get cut. If you strike while sliding it toward your head, you’ll only sustain an injury once in ten thousand attempts.”

After a short while, the receptionist returned there carrying a radish. “Well now, this is top-notch, top-notch.” “You have an excellent eye for selection.” The magician offered this flattery with the characteristic familiarity of an itinerant performer. Then he abruptly began rolling up his left sleeve. A rather brawny reddish-black arm appeared twisted from the rolled-up cuff of his striped shirt. The people wondered what he would do next and compared the red arm to the white radish placed atop it.

“I’ll slice this radish clean in two right here on my hand for you all.” “As you can plainly see, this hand’s no fake.” “Say that sort of thing and my old mum’ll box my ears.” The usherettes stifled giggles behind their hands.

He said with renewed vigor.

“There’s a chance I might slice this very hand clean in half.” “Should that happen, perhaps one of you ladies might suck out the blood or wipe it with a white handkerchief.” “Well then, let’s begin without delay.”

The magician resolutely recomposed his face into a solemn expression and took up a somewhat long sword in his right hand. Tension flooded his face for a moment... his forehead slightly paling, eyes fiercely fixed upon his left arm. He was clearly measuring the radish's thickness. He took the rhythm with a couple of practice swings, then shouted "Yatsu!" just as before—and in an instant, the radish was sliced in two and scattered on the floor. "Well, that's more or less the gist of it."

He looked around with a face intoxicated by his own deceptive arts. And his gaze—with an unnatural intensity—lingered on the Managing Director for a moment.

“Well done. “That was entertaining.” “We’ll formalize the contract properly later, but for now you’ll appear at Charline Hall.” “Do you have any marquee-worthy titles?” “Beyond ‘Newly Returned from America.’” “Something like…‘Viewed by His Imperial Highness of America’ or such…” “Does America even have royalty?” The playwright said with a laugh. “Oh, I was speaking hypothetically.” “I wouldn’t care if kings became presidents.” “Then shall we say ‘Viewed by Mrs. Roosevelt, Former First Lady’?” the magician tossed out casually.

“That’s not bad. If it’s Roosevelt who goes lion hunting, then his wife would at least do something like watching rabbits sleep.” The playwright interjected sarcastically. “Then let’s go with that as our promotional hook. Now then, do come along to the reception room over there. We’ll discuss salary.”

While saying this, the Managing Director invited the magician with a frank attitude different from ordinary showmen. The magician tidied up the props there, glanced once more toward the women, then with a stifled laugh attempted to follow while shaking his hips in American-style swagger.

At that moment, the playwright suddenly called out, “You!” The problem from earlier suddenly rose in his mind.

The magician's occupation. He found himself wanting to ask about that state of mind.

“Did you go to America meaning to become a magician from the very beginning?” “No, I’d set out planning to do honest work at first, but right when I couldn’t put food on the table anymore, I joined up with a magician’s troupe and wound up doing what you might call clerical tasks.” “Then through watching and copying others bit by bit, these things started growing on me—until before I knew it, it’d turned into a full-fledged trade.”

“Hmm.” “That radish-slicing act must’ve taken considerable practice.” “How many years did it cost you?” “Well now,” “At first I used training hoops—been at it daily these six years or so.” “Heh. Had you poured that zeal elsewhere, you might’ve made something proper of yourself by now.”

“I do think that myself sometimes.” “But boss—what can I say—it’s just so darn entertaining.” “Once you step onto this path, there’s no darn returning to proper society.”

“Hmm, so that’s how it is... Once anyone gets into this business, they can never pull their feet out again, huh?” The playwright said with quiet intensity, as though steeling himself. “That’s right. When the crowd roars like that—it stays thrilling no matter your age. That’s what I keep going for. If there were any honest trade for someone like me, there’s nothing I’d want more than to take it up. Well now—look at me blathering on. Pardon...” He excused himself and headed toward the reception room.

Once again, the band's noise arose clamorously. Then, threading through it, the sound of wooden clappers resounded. At the theater, the first run of the chain play was probably about to begin. The usherettes also left. The clerks returned to their desks. However, this young playwright alone remained standing, gazing at where the magician had gone while lost in contemplation. Ah, occupation, occupation. He had to first remain exactly as he was for just this one day. When he heard "Second call!", he hurried to the dim backstage area.

(April 1916)