Pathway to Japanese Literature

These peeping glasses weren't particularly rare.
However，since they didn’t seem to be needed for the time being，I thought I’d put them away somewhere out of the way.

They might have been broken or malfunctioning in some parts.
Especially since they were covered in dust，please try not to get your hands dirty when examining them.

★

When it came to Mademoiselle Cécile Sorel, every Parisian knew her, and her name had lodged itself somewhat in the memories of Americans and Japanese as a principal actress of the Comédie-Française—though for all her being an old woman, she took pride in her looks and made a specialty of playing coquettish roles.

Her nose stood too prominent, so whether on stage, in salons, or when posing for photographs, she invariably gazed upward at the ceiling.
This was my discovery.

One morning, this woman, while sipping coffee in bed, unfolded Comédia (a variety arts gazette), and there, spread across two columns, appeared someone’s cartoon. A monstrous-looking woman—the wrinkles at her eyes’ corners betraying her age, with a great aquiline nose and a sharply jutting chin as distinctive traits. “Oh, this resembles someone,” she thought, and when she looked down at the caption, she froze. It was unmistakably the Comédie-Française—could this be Mademoiselle Cécile Sorel?

She had heard that a cartoon exhibition was to open that very day. When she realized it was her own portrait displayed at the exhibition, Mademoiselle Cécile Sorel ground her teeth against the bedsheets.

She picked up the desk telephone and summoned an acquaintance who was a lawyer.

“Oh, hello? You—did you see this morning’s Comédia?”

Then she decided to file a defamation lawsuit against Cartoonist B.

The next day’s newspapers were abuzz.
“—Demanding damages of 100,000 francs— Mademoiselle Cécile Sorel declared: ‘It is an actress’s duty to be beautiful.’”
“No—it is a right to be beautiful.”

Meanwhile, Cartoonist B—regretting his work had displeased the renowned actress—hung a charity box at the exhibition venue and appealed to general spectators for alms to raise the 100,000-franc compensation.

The exhibition venue was a scene of push and shove.

Mademoiselle Cécile Sorel could no longer stay still.
She ordered a car and rushed to the venue.
When she looked, before the painting was a seething crowd.
She pushed through the seething crowd and stepped forward.
And before the guard could stop her, she extended her slender hand and shattered the glass pane of the frame.

The next day’s newspapers—"Assault by Mademoiselle Cécile Sorel"—"The controversial painting, still damaged, was purchased by Mr. F: Diet member elected from N Prefecture, mayor of a certain city."
"Mademoiselle cut her finger on the glass.
"Moreover, the diamond from the ring she was wearing was lost somewhere during the incident"—"A 100,000-franc reward for anyone who finds and returns said diamond"—and so on.

When the exhibition concluded, the money that had gone into B-kun’s charity box totaled some 110-odd francs and a few centimes.

In time came an article reporting that the lost diamond had been delivered to Mademoiselle’s possession—so it stated.
The man who delivered it turned out to be her chauffeur.
The reporter added at the end:

"That chauffeur is a fool of a man.
If it was in the car all along, why didn’t he take it himself? Instead of splitting the 100,000-franc reward with a colleague by having them claim they found it elsewhere?"

★

It was a corner of the Latin Quarter, the tree-lined Boulevard Pasteur.
Chestnut leaves danced in the October wind as they slid across the cobblestones.
Shortly after the Great War, Paris's streetlights remained off.
Having skipped a plate of dessert, I left my regular restaurant.

It was around the time when shadow-puppet-like movements of people could be seen at the subway entrance.

Having grown tired of my solitary walk, I sat down on a nearby bench.

Then, out of nowhere, a man approached.

“Good evening.”

“Who might you be?”

“This is our first meeting.
“You’re from China, aren’t you?”

“…………”

To respond "No" would be the height of social ineptitude. In such moments, you might try saying something like “Non, Jes uis Japonais,” and then imagine the other person offering a pitiful apology. That would be a colossal mistake, with “Ca m’est égal” (“It’s all the same to me”) being the best you could muster.

There is, however, such a story. It was when I was traveling in Southern France and approached near Nice. In the same train, a French lieutenant was riding and began proposing various topics about the East to me. As I half-heartedly dealt with him,

“You’ve grown a beard—unusual for a Chinese,” he said.
It’s true that beards are rare among Chinese people, but my beard is a Japanese one.
Because it was too much trouble, I kept smirking at him, and the fellow, getting carried away,

“Are you from Beijing or Guangdong?”

“Neither. I’m Tōkeu.”

“Tōkeu—Tonkin?”

“It’s Tōkeu in Japan.”

“Are you Japanese?”

“Obviously.”

“That can’t be.”

“If you won’t have it so, then suit yourself.”

At my show of anger, he flinched slightly yet seemed reluctant to yield,

“Then one of your parents must be Chinese.”

“……”

“I’ve served long in colonies across the Orient, so I can discern an Oriental’s bone structure with precision.”
“Chinese, Japanese, Annamese—they’re all different.”

“I see. So my bone structure is Chinese, you say?”

“Beyond a shadow of a doubt.”

Since he was so thoroughly convinced, I saw no point in showing him proof and dashing his hopes. Instead, I pointed to the Japanese Embassy mark pasted inside my bag and kept wiggling the toes of my crossed leg. However, I privately wondered if perhaps there were naturalized ancestors in my lineage.

By way of preface, there was a Japanese man who, having been asked by a certain woman, "Are you Chinese?", grew dispirited and simply returned home. The same woman, on another occasion, grabbed a man who closely resembled him and this time tried saying, “You’re Japanese, aren’t you?” Then the man clenched his fist and struck the woman in the lower abdomen, apparently.

The story had digressed, but—

The man who had appeared out of nowhere and approached me asked, “You’re Chinese, aren’t you?” I calmly replied.

“I am.”

“I know your country’s saint.”

“Confucius, I suppose?”

“Exactly,” this man said, his eyes glinting sharply.

“Your countrymen are all poets as well, I hear.”

“Not exactly.”

“I know two or three international students from your country.”
“I’ve forgotten their names, but they were all most endearing people.”

Though slightly stilted in French, he was rather skilled.
Since I stayed silent,

“I am Polish.
“I am a student.
“I am a poor student.
“I am working my way through school.
“I have to earn my own bread.”

“Same here.”

“But you must receive support from the government.
“How much do you receive?”

“I don’t receive a single penny.”

“Is that true? But you can eat at a restaurant every night, can’t you?”

“There are things I can do and things I can’t.”

“I haven’t had a drop to drink or a bite to eat since yesterday.”

“Starting tomorrow, I won’t eat or drink.”

“You must be joking. You have a watch, don’t you?”

“You’re wearing clothes.”

“……”

“You can still chatter. I don’t even want to speak right now. Go away.”

“I was doing copying and translation work until the day before yesterday.”
“For copying, one line per sentence; for translation, one line per two sentences.”
“That’s how I barely managed to get bread.”
“Even that—no one will give me work anymore.”

I dismissed those words and left the bench.
In Paris, such types were everywhere, it seemed, with their sights set on Oriental gentlemen.

★

That spacious room was the salon of a hotel nestled in Southern Tyrol’s mountains—Itary’s new territory.
Merano—a modest summer retreat.
Equally suited for winter refuge.
In Japan we might liken this to Atami—though here cradled by peaks rather than coastal waves.

In one corner whispered a pair—the man an Itary officer; she wife to some Hungarian engineer whose husband had departed homeward on business seven days prior.

Sitting alone, drinking milk coffee while engrossed in the newspaper’s exchange rate section were a certain Japanese dignitary—who had detoured from Budapest yesterday—and his secretary.

French Army Lieutenant Colonel R, chairman of the Austro-Italian Border Demarcation Committee, was now preparing to take his wife and children to the Adige riverbank promenade to listen to a military band’s performance.

Likewise, Austrian Commissioner Lieutenant Colonel Z was seated across a round table from someone, discussing the Schützstaffel.

Italian Commissioner Colonel P—this one never appeared in the salon.
After finishing dinner, he would shut himself in his room and draft the amendment proposal to present at tomorrow’s meeting.

British Lieutenant Colonel K ordered his clerk to buy apples for the following morning.

Japanese Commissioner Major M promised a Russian mother and daughter a drive tomorrow afternoon.

Over here, the hotel manager was saying some pleasantries in Italian to a well-dressed woman.
It was rumored that this woman was actress Miss T from Bucharest.
And I was told by Jewish man K—who ran a first-class restaurant in Berlin—about how Japanese students in Berlin spent their money.

One day, I drove a carriage around this old town.
I asked an old man standing by the roadside if there was anything worth seeing.

Then, the old man offered to give me a tour himself.
I sat beside the old man and, while being mindful of the carriage’s rocking, engaged in conversation that shifted from one topic to another.

I learned that this old man was a surgeon who had long resided in this town.
Upon closer inspection, he was wearing an Austrian military uniform.
Along the way, noon came.
We ate.
Dr.S ate only sautéed potatoes and half-boiled eggs.

Through this doctor’s introduction, I also came to know a scholar living in this town.
Dr.F was a philosopher.
Due to rheumatism, it was said he alternated between lying down and getting up.
This hermitage where no one ever visited must have made the white-haired old philosopher experience the depths of ennui.
He was well-versed in French literature.
He had clear knowledge about Japan’s political status.
He reviled the United States and extolled China.
And he expounded on the fearsomeness of the Jews.
Dr.S, who had brought me there, informed me that he belonged to that ethnic group.
And what of himself?
I had known, without needing to ask, that he was a pure Italian.
Because everything about him was Latin.
His liberalism evoked Abbé Coignard, the protagonist of *At the Sign of the Reine Pédauque*.

★

From some conversation or other, the hotel salon was now engaged in a discussion about judo.

A Russian woman—one who had spent two years in Yokohama—insisted that all Japanese people were versed in judo and could throw down an opponent with a single finger.

I couldn’t believe all Japanese were like that, but at least military men must be judo masters.
Major M, of course, and his interpreter too—though they might appear otherwise, they probably had their skills—this being the bald-headed Romanian man who never left the Russian woman’s side for a moment.

There’s no way I’d let myself be thrown down with a single finger! Even if they come at me with both hands, I’ll be fine—on the contrary, I’ll pin down one or two of those bastards to show them. As he said this, the one thrusting out his arm was none other than that Italian officer.

I happened to be passing by right in front of them at that very moment.

“Monsieur K, come here for a moment.”

“What is it?” I replied absently and sat down in an empty chair.

“Go on then—try twisting this arm of mine with your judo.”
Macaroni struck a pose before the ladies.

“Is it okay if it breaks?”
I asked with a laugh.

“Stop that—it’s dangerous!”
The Russian woman hurriedly intervened.

“In that case, since I’m holding this position, try pushing from whichever side you like.”
“If my body moves by your power, I’ll meet you anywhere.”

Having said that, he stood up.

I placed one hand on his chest and pretended to thrust forcefully, then in that instant pressed lightly around his waist from behind with a single finger.
The women burst out laughing.
The captain stretched out both hands and lunged forward as if swimming.

★

I once began corresponding with a cadet W at the Cadet School in Augsburg through the introduction of a military attaché at the German embassy during my time at the military preparatory school.
This correspondence had continued until around the time I graduated from the military academy.
Around that time, I knew that W had also graduated from school and been assigned to an artillery regiment in the same region.

The European War began.

There was no way to know whether he was alive or dead.

I resolved to travel from Innsbruck to Munich and, thinking I might also incidentally find out what had become of my sole acquaintance in Germany during that war, one day visited the Japanese Honorary Consulate in Munich.

The consul promptly made inquiries with the Augsburg artillery brigade headquarters regarding W’s whereabouts.
As a result, it was discovered that Lieutenant W had left military service due to illness before the armistice but was still living in Augsburg.
Once I knew that much, the rest was simple.
I had the police look up his detailed address and promptly sent a telegram saying, "I want to meet."
The reply came immediately.

The next day, I boarded the Augsburg-bound train.

What sort of man would W be—the one who was supposed to meet me at the station?
The photo he had sent me long ago—I must have stored it somewhere…
When the train arrived, I scanned the Platzforum.

It was a cloudy, somewhat chilly day.

Those getting off the train and those boarding it all appeared tired.

Amidst them, a conspicuously pale-complexioned man, hunching his shoulders clad in an overcoat, approached me.

The two men looked at each other for a while.
I gradually began to realize.
That was him.

However, at that moment, I was certainly smiling more brightly than he was.
Or rather, he grasped my hand with unexpected brusqueness.

The two began walking in silence. To tell the truth, by this point I had already cooled from the excitement of having reunited with an old friend. He had probably been gassed. He claims he can still hear the artillery sounds deep in his ears. He would sometimes clutch his head and look up at the sky. The place I was led to was a rather elegant apartment where he lived with his young wife. The wife, having apparently heard about this beforehand, eagerly entertained this rare guest from afar.

Around the time the lights came on, W suddenly began talking. He would cheerfully dredge up matters I had long since forgotten—things that, he claimed, had been written in those old letters I’d sent him—and talk about them at length.

“Oh, so you’ve left the military too?”
“I had simply assumed, just as was written in those letters, that you had become a military attaché at the French embassy and had come to Europe.”

“There’s nothing much to offer, but...”

With that, I was led to the dining room.
Flowers brightly adorned the dining table, and the antique silver tableware spoke of their family’s standing.

First came the hors-d’œuvre, as per custom.
This was also quite an elaborate spread.
Moreover, for three portions, it was a surprisingly large amount.
I had heard Germans were big eaters, but this was a bit much.

“Please help yourself.”
“Please take more.”

W was vigorously moving his fork.
His wife was also quite adept.

"You aren't eating a thing."
"This is hardly to your palate, I’m sure…"

"No, nothing of the sort…"

Since I absolutely refused a second helping, the wife, with a glance that seemed like a brief signal toward her husband, appeared rather hesitant to speak,

"But, um, this is all the meal we have to offer."
"All we can offer after this are sweets, you know."

The protagonist acted somewhat awkwardly here too,

“Ah right, you still don’t know about Germany’s current situation.”
“There’s no meat.”
“Today of all days, we couldn’t get hold of anything at all.”

“Really now, you went out of your way to come here, and this is all we have to offer. Isn’t it?”
“But for us here, this is just how things are normally...”

“Is that so?
“Well then…”

Yet I couldn’t bring myself to reach for more hors-d’œuvre again, but on the other hand, I was far too hungry to graciously decline with a “Well, I’m fully aware of that.”

★

Do you know the story about how France’s former president Deschanel was found crawling along railway tracks in his pajamas? The track patrol found him and investigated thoroughly, but since he kept grandly declaring "I am President Deschanel!", they thought him a raving madman and turned him over to the police box—and that story’s actually true. What happened was, while on official business somewhere, he’d been tossed from his sleeper car. There was some joker who said you could write "Deschanel" as "Exit-Car-Sleep."

This had nothing to do with that matter, but the French would casually concoct even more comedic scenes in their daily lives.

★

It was a certain local doctor’s examination room.
A patient who had come to receive some sort of injection lay face down on the operating table, exposing their buttocks.

The doctor, holding a syringe in his hand, was stroking the buttocks.

“Don’t tense up like that…”

“But Doctor, please tell me clearly where you’re going to administer it. If I just relax that specific area, right?”

“Around here, perhaps.”
(Pressing with a finger)

Patient: "If it's around there..."
(Straining to relax just one buttock cheek) Ngh...
(The needle was already inserted.)

“Don’t move…”
“Hold still…”
(Slowly pushing in the injection) “It shouldn’t hurt.”

“It hurts.”

Woman’s voice (from the back): “Armand, I’ll just be going out for a bit.”

“Are you leaving already?”
“Well then…”

“Excuse me for a moment...”
(Approaching the doorway and sticking his head out) “What’s with those packages…?”

Woman’s voice: “The hat’s ready, but I don’t like the decorative flower, so I’m going to have it replaced.”
“But it’s such a red rose you can’t bear to look at twice.”

Doctor: “What’s wrong with a red rose?”
“So what’re you planning to do this time?”

“I’ll make it something simpler and more fitting,” came the woman’s voice.

The doctor lowered his voice: “Then I suppose you’ll stop by Martin’s on your way back.”

“If I have time,” her voice replied.

“Do you have somewhere else to stop by?”

Patient (in pain): “Doctor...”

Doctor: “Just a moment...”
“So where are you stopping by?”

Woman’s voice: “A good place.”

Doctor (irritated): “Anyway, if you go to Martin’s place, tell him we’ll settle the score tonight.”

Patient (with increasing distress): “Doctor, is everything alright?
“I think the needle might have broken.”

Doctor (glancing back briefly without answering): “I won’t tolerate you being late.
“Hey... (tsk).”

Patient (on the verge of tears): "It hurts, Doctor..."
Doctor (finally returning to his original position): "Not even half has gone in yet."

★

From Marseille, I boarded the French MM Company’s steamship Portos.

Among the first-class passengers was the Marquis of a certain country, returning to his homeland while guarding his beloved wife’s remains.

As a second-class passenger, S Bank employee X was occasionally leaning his small frame against the deck railing.

As a third-class passenger, I grew increasingly irritated by my cabinmate—a Greek merchant who incessantly hummed through his nose—while nursing futile yearnings for an Annamese beauty with blackened teeth.

A group of Chinese students were constantly engaged in heated debates in a corner of the deck.

The sergeant and his wife bound for the colonies walked arm in arm on their post-meal stroll.

The Arab man who had disembarked at Port Said appeared to be constantly chanting incantations.

Whenever I went out to the deck, I would be cornered by a Rumanian cotton merchant who claimed to be a reserve colonel. He resented how Japanese authorities acted arrogantly toward people from smaller nations while being obsequiously polite to those from major powers. He expounded on Japan's waning influence among Europe's so-called minor states. With astonishing erudition, he also lectured about global human trafficking markets. Left and right he challenged passengers to poker matches, demonstrating fearsome prowess. At every port of call, he maintained what he called his "regular haunts."

It was the morning when the ship was set to depart Shanghai.
This man went ashore and never returned.
Leaving his luggage on land, the ship weighed anchor.

As I passed by them, the group of Chinese students all turned to look my way.
Those gazes held unmistakable hostility.
At such moments, I would deliberately fix a smile at my lips and meet each of their faces in turn—this standoff persisted for over two weeks.

The ship reached Djibouti on Africa’s west coast.
With too few barges available for landing, I boarded the same one as them.
Then—perhaps judging his passengers easy marks—the black boatman abruptly stopped rowing when we still seemed halfway to shore and demanded increased payment.

The entire group were at a loss and exchanged glances.
As the sole Japanese present, I hadn't participated in their discussions, but their gazes were unmistakably seeking my cooperation.
They were all saying—though I couldn't understand a word—probably things like "Don't think you can take advantage of us just because we're yellow!" or "You idiot, we'll report you to the police!" or "Quit stalling and get moving!" or "Let's grab him together and throw him overboard!"

The Black boatman, for his part, bared his white teeth and in so-called "petit nègre" French—"Just this much more..."—showed three fingers; when that didn’t work, he resorted to hand gestures, insisting, "I won’t row the boat."

The ship was scheduled to depart tomorrow morning.
There was no need to hurry.
Even were we to land now in this sun-scorched realm of sand, it would only mean glimpsing a bronze-skinned woman balancing a water jug at her hip.
Far more compelling was watching how this clash between black and yellow might unfold.

Then it happened.
One of those who had claimed seats near me spoke for the first time—"Quel sale type!" ("What a filthy wretch!")

I responded with my eyes.

In the end, they agreed to pay the extra fare, and the boat reached shore.

Before I knew it, I had joined their group.

The first to speak to me aboard the ship was Mr. C, who had studied medicine in Paris.

Next to speak to me was Mr. K, who had studied political economy in America.

Then came Mr. L, accompanied by a French woman—this being someone who ran a Chinese restaurant in Paris.

Finally there was Mr. S, a painter and peculiar character who had once attended a Japanese art school.

They weren’t exactly divided into pro-Japanese and anti-Japanese factions, but there were indeed a few who remained silent to the end.—Even those, however, graciously took their seats at the table on the evening when they finally held a farewell banquet for me in Shanghai.

Mr. C—the medical graduate—appeared vague and elusive at first glance, yet whenever debates happened to touch upon issues like "Eastern spirit," his face would flush crimson, flecks of foam forming at the corners of his mouth as he tormented his opponent.

Mr. K of political economy, already bearing the title of university professor and newspaper journalist, applied cold, incisive criticism in a grave tone to every issue.
He particularly tore into Japanese diplomacy.
He argued in fluent English that a Japan-US war was inevitable; that in such an event, China should naturally side with America; that Japan, looking down on China’s navy, ought to swiftly occupy the Philippines; that China should then sever communications between the Philippines and the Japanese mainland to facilitate an American fleet attack on Tokyo Bay—and so on he went. As I listened in silence, night fell soundlessly over the thousand-mile expanse of sea.

★

A rumor spread through the ship that the French Mail Line’s giant vessel Portus had deliberately delayed its arrival in Kobe by three hours to accommodate a request from a certain marquis family traveling as passengers.
Apparently because it suited the schedule for their welcoming party.

The tyranny of the privileged class had now splendidly internationalized itself.

From the pier, I asked the man who was decisively signaling toward me, “Who might you be?”

That was no “who”—it was my younger brother, whom I hadn’t seen in five years.
(1928·2)