Pathway to Japanese Literature

My old friend F, who had returned from Europe after twenty years away, remained as talkative as ever, bringing some outlandish new topic with him each time he visited.

He was a born vagabond.
While still in his mother’s womb, he had already moved residences three times; from Hokkaido to Kyushu, they drifted between prefectural capitals until elementary school; for middle school—first and second years in Yamaguchi, third year in Kanazawa, fourth year transferred to Taipei—where he finally completed his fifth year.

The reason he had aspired to become a painter—aside from genuinely liking art—was the notion that he could work anywhere, and particularly because he felt opportunities for overseas travel might come relatively easily.

Despite scarcely receiving any allowance from home, he still came to Tokyo and attended various art schools for two or three years, but even that became too much trouble, and finally, he fled Japan.

Of course, he couldn’t possibly have had sufficient travel funds; he simply boarded a cargo ship in Kobe on a whim and, just like that, disembarked nonchalantly in Marseille.

What he did after that remains unknown.
In his occasional letters, he nonchalantly boasted about his impoverished life in Paris.
And yet, how many times was I made to read those letters where F wrote in a tone that seemed to have utterly forgotten about painting—nothing but frivolous matters like chatter about cafés along the Grands Boulevards or some Polish student or whatnot?

However, after this European war began—just when I thought all correspondence had abruptly ceased—he was sent back on that exchange ship from Europe.

“So, how’s the painting going?”

When I saw his face after so long, I simply couldn't resist asking that first.

“What? Painting?”
“That stuff doesn’t matter.”
“For one thing, if I was painting pictures, I’d only end up hungry.”

“Hmm.”
“Then how do you fill your stomach?”
“The stomach? Well, this is it.”

With that, he thrust both hands forward and demonstrated by clenching and stretching his ten fingers.

“What the hell’s that?”

“Don’t you get it? It’s massage.”

He had tried everything and discovered that this was the best way to supplement his meals.

“The clients aren’t necessarily limited to Japanese people.”

“Of course. People from any country get stiff shoulders—massage their lower backs and they’ll say it feels wonderful.”

“Even women?”

“Well, we’ve no reason to turn them away, have we?”

With a sly grin, he boasted.

One day, tipsy from a bottle of beer, he began appraising beauties from various countries that I hadn’t even asked about when suddenly his eyes took on a different intensity,

“Speaking of which, on this return voyage, I ended up with the most outlandish man.
“He must be five or six years older than me, but his background remains a complete mystery.
“It’s not that he’s hiding anything, but his stories never quite add up.
“He seemed like a failed diplomat or someone connected to newspapers, yet claimed to hold a medical license and spoke like some General Staff Office agent—altogether a peculiar character.
“His French flowed effortlessly, his English nearly as smooth, and he handled German and Italian with equal ease.
“On top of that, he called his Turkish and Russian ‘broken,’ but listening up close? Far more competent than that.
“This man and I shared a cabin—no, rather, he talked and talked.
“Even I couldn’t get a word in edgewise.
“The way he knew damn well everything I didn’t—it astonished me.
“A fellow like that—what do you call it?—when it comes to women, he radiates this... this aura of omniscience.
“Listen—at my age, having seen my share of the world, I’ve never met or even heard of such a bizarre creature.
“Ah right—his face had something peculiar about it.
“Those mismatched eyes bulging with eccentricity, yet he looked so un-Japanese people often mistook him for a Spaniard.
“His nose was smashed flat like a boxer’s, but stick a fake mustache beneath it? Damn thing gave him this oddly dignified air.
“Oh right—there’s something about this man I absolutely must tell you.
“You free today?”

Though I couldn't exactly call myself free at the time, I figured hearing some strange story from F's mouth wouldn't be too tedious, so I nodded.

He gulped down the remaining beer foam at the bottom of the glass with apparent regret, and then began his tale.

“Once we passed the Mediterranean, we’d already become friends who shared frank conversations.”
“No—calling us friends goes too far.”
“Let’s say fellow travelers unashamed of our disgrace.”
In Port Said, first thing, the two of us disembarked from the ship together.
He strolled through backstreets as if returning to his homeland.
“Ever seen that international flesh market?”
“I barely knew such places outside Marseille—had to follow his lead.”
Then he suddenly halted at a house entrance and rang the bell.
The woman who emerged—you can imagine—was a plump matron showing wary recognition as she jerked her chin: Come in.
He marched into the parlor like he owned the place and barked in English—“This room’s boiling.” “Wait—you’re regulars?” Her composure cracked near a “Damn!” but he grandly offered cigarettes—first to her, then me—before lighting his own. “First-timers or not—hot stays hot.”
“Bring beer.”
She left.
Soon five-six girls flooded in with the drinks—same as anywhere. He slouched on the sofa, smoke curling from his lips as he scrutinized each.
To every one he spoke—English here, French there, Arabic sometimes—hitting what seemed each girl’s mother tongue dead-on. Left me gaping.
“Sure I can guess ethnicities roughly—but nailing it like that? Beyond me.”

After some drinking and chatting, the plump woman from earlier took a seat facing him and inquired in French with exaggerated Gallic mannerisms: "Monsieur, where might you be from?"

"Me?"
"Don't I look like your compatriot?"
"My companion here—this one's an Oriental Prince."

"Hmm—that part makes sense—but you being French...?"
"I can't believe it.—Oh? So if someone's mother was born in Spain, they can't be French?—Then where in France are you from?—Oh, my homeland is Paris."

"Though my grandfather was born in Normandy."
"Huh—Normandy?"

"How nostalgic."
"La Gimoré Coast... Mont Saint-Michel..."

"My hometown."

Thereupon, he calmly hummed a Norman folk song before proposing a toast to Mont Saint-Michel.
Then he asked the woman:

“And with whom might I have the honor of speaking?”

“Pardon—how rude of me—I am Madame Louise Klepatz… and you are…?”

“Me?
“I am the Nameless Count… though in truth, my stage name is Leo Compa—a traveling actor.”

“Leo Compa… An artiste, hmm.
“When I was a child, whenever a theater troupe came to town, it used to set my heart racing.
“Have you ever been to Dieppe?”

“Not just been there—
“How many times did I nearly piss myself in front of that city hall? I couldn’t even tell you.”

“Oh—you know the town hall.”
“My house stood right before it.”
“Back then, I kept a small café.”

“Café de la Municipalité…”

“Yes—the place next door… Café du Pont Rouge…”

“Ah yes—that existed.”
“A refined madam with chestnut hair would emerge from the dim back room and gently call out the master’s name—him deep in talk with customers—in her soft voice.”
“What was it now… The master’s name… Michel… No—Georges… No, that’s not right either…”

—It must have been François.
“My father…”
“He died ten years ago.”

“Madame, when did you come here?”

“Exactly ten years ago.
I’d been in Le Havre until then.”

“Le Havre… The town where my grandfather served as a city council member.”
“But until what year were you at Café du Pont Rouge?”
“Or rather—until nineteen hundred and what year?”

“Until 1919—the end of the First World War.”

“In the autumn of 1918, I was properly on tour.”
“Of course, just a minor role.”
“The performance was ‘The Marriage of Figaro’… the Canual troupe… you remember, don’t you?”

“Was that really how it was?”
“Ah, that autumn—I had no time for theater.”
“Should I just say it?”
“I chased after American soldiers all the way to Paris.”
“They dragged me back right away, though.”

In this manner, their conversation showed no signs of ending, but I stood there gaping vacantly, like a fox had tricked me.

In any case, after finishing their business and as they were about to leave, the madam in question planted a lingering kiss on him. The kiss lasted so long that I found myself wondering why—but there was simply a reason for it all along. Once outside, I burst out laughing. He suggested we stop by one more place. Seemingly having a particular house in mind, he kept searching for the number—"Ah, here it is"—and came to a halt at its entrance. The door stood open.

“We’re two here. How many hands do you have free there?”

To the woman who emerged, he inquired in French.

“As many as you need. If you like, how about two at a time?”

“Ah—unfortunately, we’re not quite so well-prepared for that.”
First, let’s quench our thirst.

The place was set up to lead straight into a grand hall, where people sat around numerous tables drinking, eating, and dancing.

He said in Italian to a woman who had approached him.

"Was the one who guided us earlier the madam here?"
"Nuh-uh—that was the madam’s stepmother."
"Then call the madam here."

Before long, the one who appeared was a glamorous woman just under thirty who could have passed for an actress,

Monsieur, what can I do for you?

With that, she approached our table.

“Oh, please do sit down.”
“We’ve just disembarked from our ship—a French vessel direct from Marseille bound for the Orient.”
“From pier to doorstep, we raced here solely to meet you.”
“Now tell me—doesn’t that declaration startle you, Mademoiselle Yvonne Chammeel?”

The woman widened those sea-green eyes and stared at us in turn.

“What on earth—how do you know my name?”

“There’s no need to worry. I am a friend of the man you loved so dearly three years ago. Do you know where he is now? I imagine you don’t.”

As he said this, he once again took out a rolled cigarette from his pocket and offered it to the woman and me.

The woman stared at him for some time. But quietly,

“Are you French?”

"As you’ve surmised… and I too hold a commission in the Republic’s fleet."

"So… the same ship as Julien?"

"You could say that."
"For until today, we had coincidentally served aboard the same ship three times."

"Tell me—where is Julien?"

"That is what I came to tell you."
"However, Mademoiselle—when I saw your face, my heart overflowed."
"My friend here is an Oriental samurai, but if tears were to well up in my eyes, he would surely despise me."
"But I beg of you."
"So that I may speak frankly and tell you everything, shall we not be alone for a while?"
"In the meantime, I would ask that my companion not be left bored…"

The two of them soon vanished from sight.
I was utterly stunned.
I couldn’t tell where the performance ended and reality began.
With a sixteen-year-old Algerian girl perched on my lap, I guzzled beer.
Had nearly thirty minutes passed already?
The woman who’d first greeted us at the entrance came to retrieve me.
Following her, I found them seated side by side on a plush divan in an inner salon-style room.

“Hey—I’ve finally mustered the courage and told Mademoiselle Yvonne everything.”
“You know better than anyone just how much I had been suffering to accomplish this mission.”
“Mademoiselle still has Captain Julien Tremieu’s photograph displayed in her room, as you can see.”
“When I resolutely began to briefly recount that incident—the turret explosion on the cruiser Amiral Colée that I’d told you about—Mademoiselle had already intuitively envisioned her lover’s accidental death in her mind.”
“However, behold—”
“Though I came to this noble woman bearing nothing but sorrowful tidings, she—even amidst her unbearable grief—accepted with satisfaction both my friendship with Captain Tremieu and furthermore, the modest service I rendered her.”
“She says she’ll keep me by her side tonight as a substitute for Captain Tremieu.”

While speaking to me, he said this in French so she would understand—with utmost decorum taking her hand and kissing the back of it.

I felt a bit foolish, but,

“Colonel, you truly are a fortunate man. Drink your fill of Mademoiselle Yvonne’s tears, then go vomit them before Captain Tremieu’s grave or whatever it is.”

And this too, I said to him in French.
Then the woman dazedly narrowed her eyes and gave me a vague nod.

The next morning, we had to quicken our pace to make the ship’s departure, but all along the way, he kept saying this.

“How about it—never thought you’d see this kind of game, eh?”

“Somehow or other, you sure stitch lies seamlessly.”
“How did you really know that woman’s name?”

“Of course—I heard it from the madam at the previous house.”
“When I asked if there were any other French women’s establishments in this area, they told me about this particular house.”
“I gathered whatever information I could, then crafted the script.”
“The only lead was the story about her having been involved with a naval lieutenant three years ago and being utterly infatuated.”
“However, I never imagined she’d be such a prize.”
“This time—Djibouti?”
“It’s a dull port, but there might be something worth picking up again.”

In this manner—along Africa’s east coast, you know, that scorching desert town—that man would talk to a Black woman as if they’d known each other for years.
In Colombo, in Singapore… Ah yes—when you came to Singapore, Japanese women’s contingents had established their stronghold.
He too, apparently intrigued, entered an establishment when invited, but said he couldn’t muster any interest and abruptly walked out.

“Can’t do it… our fellow countrymen get under my skin.”

Yet there at a Japanese restaurant, when a waitress fell into stomach spasms and made a fuss, he pulled a syringe from his pocket and fixed her up in no time.

But since the ship was to anchor in Saigon for one week, I was looking forward to it.
Sure enough, from the very first night, he dragged me off to some strange place.
“Where do you think it was?”
“It was the police.”
He said to the night-duty officer: “There’s something I’d like to look into—might I see the French census ledgers?”
The officer asked: “Just who are you?”
“That’s only natural.” He presented his business card. “This is who I am.”
I didn’t even look at what sort of card it was—anyhow, something dubious.
The officer, appearing somewhat surprised, suddenly became polite and brought out several census ledgers.
He examined them meticulously, jotting something down in his notebook.

“Oh, thank you.”
“Please have a drink with this.”

He tossed a 100-franc note there and went outside.

“Well, if this goes smoothly, it’ll make for quite the diversion.”
The tricycle we’d abandoned earlier was trailing behind.
As if suddenly remembering, he signaled to me and climbed into the car.

“Ryu MacMahon, Number Twenty-One—got it?”
*“Hurry, hurry…”*

The two cars began to move.
Gazing at the rows of Binro trees on either side, I thought the Saigon streets, now sinking into evening dusk, seemed like something out of a dreamland.

The car stopped.
Apparently, unless you paid, the car wouldn’t wait.

A villa-style building surrounded by a white wooden fence stood visible through the lit windows, nestled among neatly arranged shrubs.
The gate opened when pushed.
Before the entrance bell could ring, an Annamite girl who seemed to be a maid quietly opened the front door and looked our way.

“Is Madame Shoutan present?”

He inquired gently.

As the Annamite maid disappeared into the interior, a slender woman of refined bearing—appearing about forty-five or forty-six—emerged in a thin white dress that revealed her bare feet beneath.

“Who might you be?”

Madame, I am of the Lemonje household who is hosting your son Léopold.

“Oh, so you’re from Lyon?”

“Yes, indeed. I was suddenly dispatched to the Orient on official business. I, Professor Trepatz, have been giving lectures on Oriental history at Lyon University.”

“Oh my, oh my… Well then, please come in… Unfortunately, the lights are rather dim tonight…”

“Allow me to introduce. This is my Japanese friend F—a renowned scholar who also teaches art history at Tokyo University. We have traveled together from France.”

I was so flustered that even as a hand was being offered to me, I had forgotten to grasp it.

The parlor was decorated with middle-class refinement; the large windows bore only mosquito-proof wire mesh, and the expansive lawn in the garden glistened with dew.

“In that case, Professor—I take it Léopold has been constantly under your care?”

With that, Madame did not wait for his response,

“Though I must say, letting him leave home at that age weighs on my mind—but fortunately, as you may know, since our household was acquainted with Mr. Frisson of Saint-Simon High School, I resolved to entrust him there after all.
From my son as well—he frequently writes that the household seems truly splendid.
...In that case, Professor—what relation might you have to Monsieur Lemonje, with whom my son is staying?”

“No—rather, I am what you might call his uncle,” he said. “Though we don’t usually visit despite living in the same town, I’ve heard all about your son through my nephew and his wife…” “This time too—when told I must visit Saigon without fail to convey your son’s good health—it seemed an opportune moment…”

“Oh! Then—has he left the hospital already?”

“Hospital?”
“Ah, I’ve heard such talk—but rest assured, it’s merely trifling. No, nothing warranting your concern.”
“Regardless, one can’t be too cautious with health… I would’ve visited myself, but preparations for departure kept me occupied.”

“That eases my mind.”
“His recent letter mentioned troubling X-ray results—he’s taking leave from school to enter the hospital. I’ve been frantic…”
“After consulting my daughters, I considered going to see him myself.”

“Oh no—there’s absolutely no need for that. In that case, my nephew and his wife should have entrusted me with delivering a detailed report to you. Yes, yes—that would be Léopold’s older sister and younger sister present here, I take it.”

He navigated the conversation with astonishing meticulousness.

“Ah, my daughter Elaine is running rather late today, but Paulette will come pay her respects shortly,” she said. “Would the Professors care for some iced tea?”

“Ah, we’ll gratefully accept whatever you provide,” he replied obsequiously.

To this, he replied obsequiously.

When Madame withdrew, I shot him a look that said enough was enough.
I just can’t bear to watch such dangerous stunts.

Yet I had to bow before his sheer artistry.

That evening, we were of course treated to dinner, and to top it off, they went so far as to offer us lodging.

Paulette, the younger sister, came following behind her mother, carrying a tea tray.
She still carried the scent of a childlike girl.
At dinner, Elaine too took her seat at the table, pressing a handkerchief to her dampened neck.
This was a woman who, simply by being a mature unmarried female, possessed both a vibrant spirit and body capable of knowing and feeling everything.

When the meal ended, the mother said to her two daughters that if they weren’t too tired, they should have a carriage called to guide the guests to somewhere like the botanical garden.
The Annamese girl went to call a carriage to the crossroads.
In the carriage, the women sat facing forward while the two men faced backward, positioned opposite each other.
By the way, when the tricycle driver who had brought us there suddenly demanded payment right then, everyone burst into laughter.

Now, the carriage glided out.
A gentle breeze caressed the cheeks.
The beautiful woman’s gaze glowed strangely.
I felt like singing.
But I abandoned that impulse and, for what felt like the first time, addressed them directly.

“What do you young ladies think of Japan?”

What a foolish question I had asked.

“As for present-day Japan—though I mean no offense to you—I find it rather odd. All they ever think about is picking fights—isn’t that so?”

With that, Elaine, the elder sister, spoke in a coquettish tone—slightly furrowing her brows yet with a smile playing at the corners of her mouth.

“Exactly,” I thought.
“It’s quite fine to obtain what one desires without fighting.
It’s the same as saying that deceiving someone without causing displeasure is the polite thing to do.
Miss Elaine—if I recall correctly—you’re fond of music, are you not?”

“My older sister teaches piano at a girls’ school,” Paulette interjected from beside us.

“You, Miss Paulette!”

I tried it out.

“I can’t do anything.”
“Just… cleaning the garden or something like that…”

The laughter of four people drifted along the path through the dense forest of the botanical garden.

“That evening—what do you think happened? Can you imagine?”

I spent a sleepless night all alone in the bedroom assigned to the two of us.
The scoundrel had apparently slipped out of the bedroom by morning and gone off somewhere to read an amusing book.
For the next week, the bastard didn't spend a single full night in our bedroom, I tell you.
He would time it perfectly, silently rise without fail, and head out into the corridor under the pretext of going to get some fresh air.
It creaked.

A week had passed.
At the moment of parting, I watched intently to see what he would do.
First to Madame Shoutan, the mother; next to the elder daughter, Mademoiselle Elaine; and finally to the younger daughter, Mademoiselle Paulette—he exchanged formal handshakes with each in turn.

“It has been an unforgettable, delightful week that I shall carry with me all my life,” he said. “Should Mr. Leopold choose to pursue Oriental studies at university, the relationship between myself and yourselves would naturally deepen further. Well then, farewell.”

I listened to his speech while comparing the faces of the three women. All three appeared to have faint tears pooling in their eyes while striving earnestly to conceal them.

After returning to the ship, I gave the bastard a thorough scolding and made him confess the unvarnished truth.
Now, I may not have the right to declare it as truth outright, but what is likely considered true is that he had apparently conquered all three—the mother and her daughters.
What an appalling man.

"But unless I tell how this appalling man finally met his downfall, this story won't have a proper ending. Now listen—that happened in Shanghai."

The stage was now set in the former French Concession—one of those establishments run by White Russian émigrés.

He would grab the madam proprietor as usual and say something like this.
Through my dubious Russian, I roughly grasped that it went something like this.

“When did you come here from Harbin?”

“Harbin?”
“Oh, that? That was ages ago.”

"Even if it was long ago."

I too had stayed in Harbin for some time. He had surely seen her face somewhere before.

"What nonsense are you saying? I’ve no recollection of ever seeing your face."

"Well now, that’s strange. Surely we couldn’t have merely passed each other on Kitaiskaya Street?"

"Do you know Kitaiskaya? Do you know the madam of Hotel Modern?"

"Know her? I practically lived there! We drank Ukhtomsky and vodka there every night like clockwork."

“Duke Ukhtomsky or something?”

“Duke Sukampin always made me foot the bill, but he was quite the guide in Harbin.”

“If you were so chummy with Duke Ukhtomsky, we might’ve crossed paths somewhere, no? So—you know Goriev?”

“See? Ukhtomsky’s partner—that Jewish lush…”

“You know Goriev...? Hmm…”

“Nikolai Sergeevich...”

“That’s a lie, Alexei Androvich…”

“Yeah, yeah… I’m terrible with Russian names,” he said. “But I actually met that Goriev fellow recently.”

“Where exactly?”

“Right here in Shanghai.”

“Liar! That man would never come to a place like Shanghai!”

“But he has come. Shall I bring him here for you?”

“I don’t want to see him!”

Up to that point, I could somehow follow along, but after that it became hopeless—utterly incomprehensible. Both of them began talking over each other uncontrollably. Though called an old woman, she was still a strapping figure in her early fifties. With hands planted on her hips, she launched into some tirade that he seemed half-amusedly engaged with—until she started stamping her feet in fury.

She bellowed at full volume.

From the back room emerged a bearded monk-like man and two youths who immediately began yanking violently at his collar. The impact sent him reeling backward. My feet got trampled more times than I could count.

When he regained his footing, the bearded monk landed a thunderous punch square on his jaw. Completely bewildered and finding no way to intervene, I stood watching calmly until he turned toward me—

“Get outside quickly,” he said.
I did as instructed.
Inside the house came the sound of something large toppling over.
He pressed his bleeding nostril with one hand while—

“Well now... This time we’ve botched it.”

With an awkward laugh in his voice, he grabbed my shoulder.

“Let’s hurry….”

The two hurried.

They hailed a rickshaw and had it rush to the pier.

Choosing a deserted corner of the ship's deck, the two leaned back in deck chairs.

“Is your nosebleed all right?”

“The nosebleed’s nothing serious, but my lower lip’s split inside.”
“My mouth tastes metallic.”

“You can’t exactly apply medicine yourself—how about seeing a doctor?”

“No—it’d look a bit bad. Well, I just pushed the grudge a bit too far. We shouldn’t have brought unnecessary characters into it. We were fine up to Duke Ukhtomsky, but things went south after that. Then this Jewish man named Goriev—someone we didn’t even know—had to show up and complicate everything. That old woman got scared of this Goriev fellow and convinced herself I was some kind of his agent or something. A woman like that’s impossible to handle. Once she gets that idea in her head, there's no reining her in. Damn, that hurts… Speak and my split lip stings—autumn wind’s bite.”

For the first time, he showed me a dejected look.

Wahahaha!

F was shaking his shoulders in delight all by himself—as though he too had just concluded some exhilarating tale.