Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Cicada—Tetetsukusu—the Muses’ servant—Apollo’s messenger—daytime dreamer—a tourist dispatched to this world to report to Olympus’s Apollo on the various deeds of humans on earth—the guest’s name being Tetetsukusu—cicada.

“That foolish legend—”

“Come on, sing! Now it’s your turn!”
I was being pressed like this, yet somehow I couldn’t bring myself to sing—but neither could I stay still—so I climbed onto a sake barrel and started talking instead.

“Enough already! That’s plenty!”
“We didn’t come here to drink and listen to some damn speech!”

“Fine then! Let’s just borrow a stanza from Auerbach’s old-fashioned chorus like we always do and have everyone take turns singing however they please—how’s that?”

“Hear, hear! Then let’s have you start us off, Watermill Owner!”

The tavern in our village—where regulars like the charcoal burners from the woods, the bailiff from the village office, the Village Chief’s wayward son, the cattle herder from the pasture, tenant farmers working wheat fields, fishermen without boats, myself the novelist, two college students H and R who lived in my house equally devoted to literary studies, and former village chiefs from neighboring villages—had nightly uproars that bore an uncanny resemblance to Auerbach’s rowdy youths!
And so it was that we had unwittingly come to call this tavern by that name—Auerbach—where we would sing whatever improvised verses we pleased, and at intervals all raise our voices in that chorus: “Like one tormented by burning love—” until it had become our custom.

“Alright then!”

And the Watermill Owner flamboyantly stood up while stomping out a rhythm, singing a song that went something like this: “I too have sorrows and pains beyond telling! Last night again—last night—I came home from here good and drunk, only for my old woman to slam the door in my face all cross-like. Got me so mad I smashed the damn gate to splinters! Then yesterday’s rain swelled the millstream till that waterwheel spun like a demon possessed—made my racket seem like nothing! I raged like a madman, waterwheel spray pouring over my head like rain as I fought and grappled and wrestled with that spinning shadow under moonlight—till I felt like some brave actor in a play! And when my head spun round, I collapsed right in the middle of crown vetch-blanketed fields... Now that’s a chorus!”

“Like one tormented by burning love, like one tormented by burning love—”

The regulars clapped their hands and stomped their feet in unison, singing at the top of their lungs as if their throats might burst.

“The red berries that girl gave me—”

This time, the Village Chief began to sing with dramatic gestures.

“Carelessly ate it and it was poison... The agony unbearable—scratching at anything within reach, gnawing and thrashing about, writhing in torment and flailing wildly—until spent and futile, I collapsed—”

Chorus: “Like one tormented by burning love…”

This Village Chief had until recently been obsessively frequenting city geishas, but before he knew it he had squandered his fortune, fallen from his honorary post, and been abandoned by those very geishas—leaving him this pitiful wretch who nightly drowned his sorrows at this tavern with no outlet for his brooding passions.
The song had been so painfully earnest that for a moment, the entire group lowered their eyes in sympathy.

"I think most people in this world live with a sort of reckless desperation—wouldn’t you say?"

The Bailiff muttered such things in an oddly sentimental tone.
"But aren't the forms of that reckless abandon supposed to be endlessly varied?"

Then he, leaning against the sake counter and staring fixedly as if lost in thought, turned toward me with a look that seemed to seek agreement—so I immediately,

"Don't be absurd—" I denied.
He must have visited my residence some twenty or thirty times over the past year or so.
And while muttering "How pitiful," he affixed red "Seizure" notices to every item in the house.
Each time he and I exchanged red-faced wry smiles, our intimacy grew deeper.
He became friends with the Village Chief through motives similar to mine and, on his way back from duty at dusk, became a regular at this tavern under my and the Village Chief's guidance.

When I left that house and moved to this village, the only belongings I had were an American Indian gown and a pair of rusted fencing swords, both of which had long hung as wall decorations in my study.
On the auction day, these items alone found no buyers and naturally remained with me.
Having no other clothes to wear, I had no choice but to keep wearing this same garment—and I would bestow nicknames like "Rocinante" or "Bucephalus" upon Dorian, the mare the Watermill Owner always lent me. At times I would play the La Mancha gentleman, driving Rocinante deep into the forest to practice fencing; other times I'd raid my uncle's house in town with fearsome plundering, then upon returning to the village atop Bucephalus, ponder the new kingdom I ought to establish—my heart mirroring that of Alexander the Great returning triumphant from Arbela. Back in town, my pitiful aged mother—her farsighted eyes brimming with tears—was said to offer daily prayers of sorrow, lamenting that her only son had completely lost his mind.
Knowing all these circumstances and more, the Bailiff would ask unnecessary questions like, “Your singing during those choruses looks particularly strained,” or, “To keep up such a nonchalant face while dressed in tatters—how do you manage it?”

No—I had one particular inborn habit.
At all times—morning and evening alike—I found myself strangely compelled to attempt valiant exercises.
No matter my circumstances or where I lived, each morning would find me besieged by sorrow like terrifying smoke coalescing into a tornado; each evening saw me pursued by passion akin to some unknowable fire—leaving me utterly unable to remain composed. To battle this sorrow and wrestle with this passion would I attempt calisthenics; race about on motorcycles; drink heavily; quarrel with my wife; chase after beauties; swim vigorously—and once having wrung healthy sweat from my body could I instantly return to being a clear-headed optimist.
Since coming to this village had I rather felt such immense purpose—more than ever before.
In place of motorcycles stood a sturdy Rocinante.
In place of mechanical exercises served fencing.
When considering how those native garments and this pair of fencing swords—final relics from my predecessors that had proven most useful—might aid me did I feel uncanny excitement; more still was I struck by ancestral reverence’s raw power unlike anything ever known before.

In this village, there are beautiful hills, forests deep as dreams perfect for hunting, a murmuring stream that beckons anglers, and this lively tavern—what more could I possibly lack!

It was.
When prolonged storms left neither forest game nor sea catch to fill our provisions, I could transform myself into a marauder swift as a bird of prey without feeling the slightest compunction.
And when I would gallop my horse along the cliffside road back to my village dwelling, I would be swept into a dreamlike state as though suddenly finding myself in the longed-for Middle Ages, becoming so enraptured by the thrill that it bordered on ecstasy.

“However, this expression of mine—this sorrow-laden countenance I occasionally end up displaying before you all…”

As I began explaining myself to the Bailiff—lo and behold—the me whose turn it was started singing with uncharacteristic vigor!
Mistaking this as intentional, they all beat their barrel seats to keep rhythm and raised their voices in unison,

“Like one tormented by burning love—like one tormented by burning love—”

they chorused,

“Hear now! Let us hear the travel tales of our dear minstrel who’s washed up in our village from the city!”
“Sing till our bellies swell round as Doctor Luther’s—sing your heart out till we burst!”

they rained down their relentless demands like arrows from every direction.

(We often observe the phenomenon where intimate groups develop unique jargon or peculiar customs among themselves; here at this tavern, it had become customary for the regulars—whenever exchanging any conversation—to rise one after another like choristers on stage, avoiding direct eye contact with their interlocutors as they conducted dialogues through song accompanied by gestures.)
Though I alone had never managed to imitate this custom, at that very moment—elated by recalling that triumphant scene—when I attempted to explain "this expression of mine... this sorrow-laden countenance," I found myself unexpectedly gliding on tiptoe to the tavern's center as if winged, voicing my words with the same cadence and gestures they employed in their performances; thus it was only natural that they misinterpreted this as flattery and welcomed it with delight.

II

“That foolish legend of Tetetsukusu—” I began to intone as if singing.
If I simply added rhythm to my speech, they would listen with perfectly straight faces.
When speaking earnestly in ordinary conversation, they would grow so embarrassed listening that they’d demand I stop—exactly as we in daily life would cringe and cover our ears in disgust if someone spoke with exaggerated melodic inflections as if singing.
They had fallen into the habit of turning away while saying this.

They showered me with wind-like applause, then fell silent and waited for my utterance.
Indeed, once accustomed to this method—I suddenly thought—this must be the ideal approach.
By nature I was poor at conversation; with anyone I spoke to, my inherent disposition first made me overly considerate of the other party, unable to easily voice my thoughts—which filled me with melancholy—but once accustomed to this method, I realized I could simply fix my gaze upon an empty space in midair and deliver a leisurely soliloquy instead. Thus I could convey my intentions without reservation and surely find pleasure in doing so—I planted my feet firmly and smartly flung the hem of my gown over my shoulder.

“The tale of Tetetsukusu—reaching back to the dawn of Egyptian civilization, its origins lie in the splendid and resplendent era of King Khufu.”

With measured cadence, I spread my arms wide and began to intone in an otherworldly voice.
“As all know, King Khufu was a peerless great astronomer who discovered five planets, perfected the sciences of astronomy and surveying, and even invented astrology of unparalleled mystery. Yet even this king revered the legend of Tetetsukusu all the more, embodying the evening chapel’s sacred image with a golden cicada. It is said he would prostrate himself at this statue’s feet for a full hour before ascending his astrological tower, paying homage to her divine favor.”

There, I could not help but take a drink of water.
Eagerly awaiting my utterance, the assembled audience raised their voices in chorus.

"Tattered clouds drift through evening skies where one star gleams—
Though faint its glow,
How deep lies that celestial sea!
Ah! Since Chaldea’s shepherds first saw you four thousand years past,
Your light stays ever young while all creation ages thus!"

"Ah! This speaks of that song’s era—a time so ancient nothing older exists in all creation."

“Yes—it’s a mysterious legend believed from those ancient times down to our present day.”
“The cicada is said to be our watcher, dispatched by Apollo and the Muses of Olympus to observe and report on the conduct of us earthly humans.”
“She observes every minute detail of our lives and reports them to Mount Olympus.”
“The song of hers that we hear is apparently a preparatory song for her to report to Apollo.”
“Therefore, when the evening star discovered by the Chaldean shepherds began to shine—kings, moralists, thieves, and ruffians alike would all prostrate themselves upon the ground. Imagining both the scene of her meeting with the Muses and the image of themselves that she would report, they trembled with fear, gave thanks, and prayed for eternal happiness.”
“…When this superstition reached Greece, Homer and Socrates and Plato and Anacreon and Aristoteleis too—each according to their station—some sang of it in verse with palms pressed together lecturing on its divinity, others proved it through theories of material science… Thus was it sung and studied and worshipped by various people through such means, until finally becoming tragic material for fatalist monologues. In one comedy, an astrologer and physicist clashed over Tetetsukusian debates for fifty years until meeting their ends mid-contention. And O Tetetsukusu—you who appear like a phantom only to vanish in an instant—if you claim to drink naught but dew, what should I give you? I shall never refuse; take freely from the storehouse of my breast whatever you desire! However brief our meeting in this world may be, your song shall never fade from my sight any more than the eastern star discovered by Phoenician pirates. And I ceaselessly pray that the songs I bid you report to Apollo may be blessed with fortune… Then when this lengthy folk ballad—interpolated with such exceedingly sentimental choral passages across a hundred stanzas—was once sung by an Athenian elegiac poet, it spread with terrifying speed upon transmission’s wings: north beyond Thessaly to the continent, across the Ionian Sea to the Roman Empire, straddling the Black Sea to eastern nations—until in but moments it had reached every inlet and shore.”

Originating in the distant reign of King Khufu, having flown through five thousand years of time's sky, one night I dreamed of Tetetsukusu. It was a lone cicada darting straight toward Mount Olympus. When I listened closely, the sound of her wingbeats transformed into discernible words.

(If only that man could have sung the songs he himself created—then I would have forgiven all sins he had committed……)

“Gentlemen, what sin have I committed, I wonder...”

Having sung up to this point, my field of vision suddenly began spinning violently, and I nearly collapsed right there.—“Thus, this sorrow-laden expression I occasionally wear…is not me searching for sins I’m said to have committed yet cannot know…rather, it stems from anxiety over Tetetsukusu’s season that will soon be upon us…”

My voice launched into a raging current and gradually began shifting into an ordinary lecture tone.
Then they surged forth and chorused “Like one tormented by burning love—” obliterating me.
At that moment, someone stood up and pointed at me,

“You’ve been calling that Egyptian pharaoh’s name ‘Fufu! Fufu!’ all this time, but that’s a huge mistake.
What kind of king would have such a laughable name?”

“The largest among the pyramids of Giza today is that of King Fufu.
Don’t you know King Fufu’s commemorative monument still towers solemnly over Egypt’s skies even after enduring five thousand years of wind and rain, you barrel lout!”

And I, assuming a defiant stance, bellowed at him.
"The K in Khufu is silent, damn it!"
"You damn fool!"

And the man barked back sharply. This was the ruffian who—whenever I occasionally slipped from rhythm and unwittingly lapsed into lecture tones—would click his tongue most sharply in irritation while muttering "Can't stand it!" As for me, I had been growing increasingly irritated by that man's blatant tongue-clicking since earlier. "The K is silent!" "Don't make me laugh! Go check a middle school history textbook, damn it! It's pronounced Kutsu-fu!"

“What furigana your middle school textbook used I don’t know,” I gestured with my hands, “but in this massive—” I spread my arms wide “—Corinth Historian Dictionary, the K is clearly silent!” I spat out while thrusting a ferocious hate-filled face right before his nose.

“What?!”

As my opponent bristled with murderous intent and thrust out his fist, I too—

“What?!”

I retorted and thrust out my fist.

III

"I've decided to stop going to the tavern for the time being."

"But how pitiful—even at home there's nothing left to play with."
"And even your precious horn (trumpet) has been taken away!"

"Precious—" I scoffed. "It's nothing of the sort."
"I don't need anything."
"With nothing at all—I could keep talking with you like this forever, that alone would be supreme satisfaction…… Endless dreams would beautifully unfurl from one to the next…… How joyous it would be if I could turn those dreams into songs for you to hear—if I must name a lack, that's about all there is."

“My, what a silver tongue you have!”

My wife blushed like a girl and leaned against the chest of one she trusted.
After three days confined to my bedroom from that night's fervent exhaustion, I first set foot on earth and came to the hill behind the mikan orchard, where I sat down upon Slope's grass.
And draping a single gown over both our shoulders, we gazed at the tranquil village scenery while exchanging idle chatter—until stars had appeared above the opposing forest and scattered lights began glowing throughout the village, yet still we remained seated having forgotten even to rise.—(Try as I might, I had utterly forgotten his name and could not recall it; thus as everyone called him, I too denoted his pronoun here as "the ruffian"—for he came respectfully delivering that gown I'd supposedly discarded at the tavern that next morning,

“When I returned and checked the dictionary, just as you stated, the K was indeed silent.”

“Ah, well in that case I must apologize—truth be told, even I didn’t have such firm conviction back then, but I simply got swept up in the momentum of my own words…”

“I was exactly the same way. Damn, I really missed out on a drink here. Even the village’s top ruffian—who makes his living picking fights and getting others to buy him drinks—can’t keep up this line of work like this…”

“I too think I won’t be going to Auerbach for a while—not until I can sing freely.”

With that peculiar tone of voice we always used, we sang these words back and forth before parting.)

“I’d actually left it there meaning to give it to the Village Chief, but…”

“Why did you do such a pointless thing? You’ll catch cold without this.”

“I want it! Give it back! No—I won’t say ‘Give it back!’ If you were to discard it, I meant to retrieve it myself—remembering how the Village Chief often says such things—”

“What a strange Village Chief.”

“To keep me from catching colds, I’ll give you this Maiwai in exchange.”

“What’s Maiwai?”

“It’s given to fishermen during bountiful catches—that tanzen-style coat with colorful Seven Deities of Good Fortune dancing along its hem, you know—the Happy Coat.”

“The one you gave Mrs. Flora last Christmas! The one she was delighted about becoming the center of attention at the masquerade ball with—the one she sent a photo of herself wearing, right? If it’s that one… I’d like to have it too.”
“I’m not using it for costumes—it’s for practical use.”
“It should be fine in the village, shouldn’t it?”
“And anyway, it’s not like we could afford a spring coat this year either.”

There were times when my wife and I would shift from discussions about my gown to conversations like these.

“When evening comes, it’s still rather chilly, isn’t it?”

“Oh, you poor thing—come now, press your shoulders tighter against me here. You must wrap yourself completely in this.”

“Right, right—speaking of Flora, there was this hand organ I received from her five or six Christmases ago. When we moved, I found it in the old bookcase and quietly brought it here.”
“Because I worried that even in the most primitive life, having not a single instrument would make things dreary…”
“Well now, when I spent a whole day mending the holes in its bellows recently, it turned out I can actually play it passably well.”
“It’s in that tent over there.”

“Then I’ll go get it.”

Near the mikan orchard, we had set up a single tent that served as an auxiliary living space whenever this village’s undefined boundaries offered no proper residence.

“You play it for me.”

My wife alternated between sweetly melancholic ballads she had recently learned from H—“The Dandy” and “Someone Is Waiting for Me”—to humor me. Empty vegetable carts returning from town and field workers of all ages looked up from the highway to wave their hats. Some even stopped unwittingly, lingering awhile enraptured by the exquisite music. Others passed by heckling—“Like one tormented by burning love…”—whenever we paused for breath. A young man strode briskly past with his hoe, singing affectedly of waiting lovers and unknown names—the drowsy rumble of wagon wheels rolling along the white road audible all the while. The rhythmic clop of a packhorse’s hooves mingled with the waterwheel’s turning in the swollen stream ahead. Its spray shone white and vivid as butterflies in the dimness. These moving forms dissolved moment by moment into low-hanging mist, like a long caravan hastening from grassland to grassland toward our village. Silhouettes resembling figures from revolving lanterns waved hands, raised whips, and cheered as they marched toward the newly lit village. Carriages passed, oxcarts passed, milk carts passed—and there against the flow I barely discerned a lone horse approaching. Its rider, spotting us atop the hill,

“Come down here at once—it’s an emergency!”
“Mr. H and Mr. R are recklessly intent on dueling and about to head to the riverbank!”
“Only you can act as their second.”
“You must go, no ifs or buts!” he shouted, then turned toward the thinning procession hastening home in scattered groups and bellowed, “Lend us one of those market-returning carriages!”

H and R were university students living with me, though they were constantly at odds due to ideological differences.
It was strange that these antagonists maintained a coexistence, but since I—positioned between them—was the sort of peacemaker who nodded along to both ideologies, a triangular peace persisted so long as I remained present.
The only drawback was how I struggled whenever one would corner me with tirades against the absent party—(I had a habit of unwittingly adopting my interlocutor's fervor, becoming needlessly agitated.) Yet being someone who respected "human passion" regardless of its form, I held them both in equally fierce esteem for their rare, single-minded ardor. Moreover, they were the most impoverished artists imaginable—dependent on my hut for shelter, otherwise condemned to sleep beneath open skies.
As for them, beyond their ideologies, passions, and physical appearances, I knew nothing of their histories.
Because it was troublesome, I simply called them university students, though in truth I didn't know whether they'd graduated from any institution or were even currently enrolled.
Not only that, but since H excelled with firearms and R with angling, by now their desertion might have left me faltering instead.
Fish and birds formed our staple diet.

I embraced my wife with one arm and took the reins of the vegetable wagon. The one who had come to report was the Watermill Owner, mounted upon Dorian.

“Come on—quickly!”

Urged on by the Watermill Owner who was pulling me, I lost myself and cracked the whip with a hiss above the horse’s head. Because the carriage had iron wheels, it raised a tremendous rumble as it galloped headlong.

“Hold on tight now, so you don’t get thrown off…”

Probably having taken on the form of an Ashura, I screamed frantically—"That peace and this chaos! But my wife, imagine this as the frenetic movement following the phantasmal waltz—just listen to the storm of musical notes. Never let your body tremble from fear!"

I strained my quivering voice and accelerated to chariot-like speed.

By now, not a single soul remained on the highway; the road ahead lay pale, brightened by moonlight.

*

Instead of narrating the cause of the duel, I will insert the following sentence.

*

(Auerbach's Song)

I was one who devoted myself wholeheartedly to crafting novels in my daily life, yet I had never composed a song. Though lacking experience, this longing—no, not merely longing but a smoldering ember of desperate yearning coiled deep within my chest—sprang from imagining how free of regret I might feel, how joyfully I might live each day, if only I could give voice through song to those sorrows and joys that drifted through my mind like shadows with each season, or to every tragic event and ludicrous torment I'd encountered in this world. Thus when drunk, I would often raise my voice to sing those joyous tunes composed by ancient Bacchic hymnodists and elegiac poets, sighing how I too wished to entrust my whole existence to wine and lyre music—to spend my days singing brightly through both dreams and waking hours. And so night after night, leaning against the tavern table with that heavy gaze which understandably led some to mistake me for a philosopher, I even developed that frog-like habit—once fixing my eyes upon something, becoming transfixed for hours on end.

“If you like that lamp so much, I’ll give it to you—I’ll even accompany you back—” the tavern girl once fretted. “Because whenever you return home, you always end up looking like a marionette—there’s no way I could let you walk around swinging such a fragile lamp.” “I’ll take it—since I’m lighting the lantern to escort you anyway.”

Of course, I wasn't gazing at the lamp because I particularly liked it, but realizing it would be rude to refuse, I abruptly shifted my demeanor,

“My dearest Ms. Lulu—”

Having said this, I took the girl’s hand,

“Thank you.
How happy I would be if this lamp were lit in my room,” I replied.
And so the girl, delighted, promptly hung that lamp from the ceiling of my room for me,

“When this lamp is lit—as a sign that you’re in your room thinking of me—I’ll look through the glasses you gave me from here—and pray for you.”

she said.
And then—I who had never before heard such magnificent, beautiful words spoken for me by any woman; I who through daily reading of tales had offered up my soul in desperate yearning before a princess—now transformed into that fortunate knight laying his heart at her feet—with sudden joy swelling my chest and violently trembling lips,

"Oh, this lamp shall continue burning through every night—every single night—in this blessed room," I groaned as if in anguish.

Yet when the following evening came, I found myself at a tavern table with my wife, and looking back toward my hillside room—no matter how I peered through the tree shadows—all was pitch-dark. I continued gazing vacantly at the scene of my wife dancing hand in hand with the young man from the watermill to the phonograph's music.

On the following evening, I listened to the two university students spark debate over the etymology of Greek comedic actors.
A argued that the term KOMOIDOS for comedic actors derived from KATA-KOMAS—meaning "wandering from village to village"—while B contended that it originated from KOMAZEIN, signifying "drinking leads to revelry, and revelry leads to drinking," with neither yielding an inch.
The situation reached such a pitch that they seemed on the verge of coming to blows—I observed the two debaters’ expressions as though I were a sculptor studying his models.

“Let’s head to the seaside and duel.”

“I had been waiting for that pathetic provocation to come.”
“Very well——”
“Ms. Lulu—bring us water—”

The two university students stood up simultaneously, their noses clashing and eyes glaring fiercely.
And the two pointed at me simultaneously and said, “The two fencing swords hanging on the wall of your study will settle our dispute.”
“We stake our lives on insisting this—now, you come along too…”
they ordered.

The Village Chief, who had been watching this entire affair from the sidelines, finally unable to bear it any longer, spoke to me.

“Mr. Makino, isn’t it only natural that you yourself should render this judgment?”
“Not only are those two your friends, but wasn’t it you who forced drink upon them in the first place? You who expounded those dubious—theories about the origins of Greek tragedy and comedy, leading their thinking astray?”
“In this situation, you—the fact that you never voice your opinion is a terrible vice.”
“If you’re going to insist on Plato now, then why didn’t you—after denying the distinction between tragedy and comedy from the start—put on a poet’s face?”

“Village Chief, please wait—I, that is...”

I tried to explain, but my jaw began chattering noisily, rendering me utterly speechless.
Of course, even had my jaw not been chattering, I would never have found any words of defense...
But I too am a man—to tremble over such trifles! This shame is unbearable— With all my strength, I prayed to the gods and squeezed my eyes shut to deliver a clear verdict between the two arguments. Yet regardless of approach—was 'village to village' factual?
Was 'drinking and revelry' legitimate?
I simply could not judge.—And while wanting at least to conceal this unsightly jaw-chattering—since everyone knew how I tended to develop a stutter whenever compelled to speak earnestly—yes!
so evasively that,

“Give me a glass of water too, Ms. Lulu!”

The moment I tried to speak, it transformed into a genuine stutter—I couldn’t even manage to get those words out.

“Water? Water!
“Water...—”

“I don’t know.
“A shameless liar like you—don’t expect me to fetch even a drop of water.”

“Where’s my wife? Wife—wife—water...”
“Wife—wife—water...”

“Last night, you babbled in your sleep about our lamp conversation—your wife heard it and was absolutely furious. Poor thing.”
“Tonight when you return—what awful fate she’ll subject you to—your wife just now clenched her fist and went off to the watermill for some fun.”

From beside us, the Village Chief again pressed me to arbitrate the duel.—I had become utterly unable to comprehend anything,

“Then who in the world should I duel, Warts?!” I shouted, seizing the rose-adorned jug from the sake stand, flinging away the flower, and splashing its water.

*

Thus I was—my life trampled underfoot by song's demands, suffering miseries yet ceaselessly longing for and envying the elegiac poets of antiquity—when through the Village Chief's request it came to pass that I was to compose a dithyramb comprising three parts: processional song—chorus—dirge.

Thus I found myself ceaselessly occupied with its composition.
This notion stemmed from the Village Chief’s considerate hope that once this song was completed, the tavern regulars would sing it nightly, and thus most arguments—along with tragedies and comedies—would likely cease.
When I imagined how delightful it would be if the time came when my song was sung by everyone at that tavern—a strange tremor coursed through my entire body, and such was my joy that even violent jaw-chattering arose.

And so in those days, no matter how I might gaze vacantly at the lamp, refrain from intervening in debates, forget yesterday’s promises and sit pale-faced, or babble whatever nonsense in my sleep—none raised objections. Everyone simply left my contemplative expression undisturbed, awaiting the day the song would be complete—such was how things stood then.

I was striving to condense the story I had chronicled there—into a fifteen-line processional song with tripodic meter—and give voice to it through song.

"If I could present my debut song titled 'The Song of Auerbach,' that would be happiness."

End.

April 9, 1930 — Written while leaning against the sake barrel at Auerbach, the village tavern we had presumptuously named.

But not a single verse of song had yet emerged in my mind.
Before long, various circumstances of life began rotating toward deterioration with waterwheel-like force, and above all, the two students embroiled in the KOMOIDOS debate—having heaped passion upon passion—finally stirred up such turmoil that they shattered the peaceful village’s twilight dreams.

IV

“Behold! I am Tetetsukusu’s Imperial Guard who rises brandishing the shield of absolute denial against all theories! Fools—turn your eyes upon my Komoidas shield! Will R’s sword shatter? Or shall my blade send H’s KOMAZEIN deflected high into the air—?”

“Come now! You two pitiful duelists—your opponent stands here! Can’t you see how my Komoidas sword tip flutters—scattering moonlight like ayu fish dancing on summer rivers, or foxfire darting through shadowed woods—mocking you with Mokke (the fencing technique of ‘ridicule’)?”

And then, the moment the carriage arrived at the dueling grounds, I parted the two duelists to left and right and raised my voice in rebuke.

Then I noticed the surrounding spectators had suddenly burst into uproarious laughter, clutching their stomachs.
(This would later be explained to me: as I blurted out those phrases, I must have appeared like a slow-witted actor desperately straining to recall his lines while floundering about—stammering and rolling his eyes wildly in a pitiable spectacle! Though the words that finally emerged were grandiloquent phrases worthy of heroic verse, the wretched manner of their delivery defied description!)
Tripping over words, pausing mid-sentence, squeezing my eyes shut while twisting my neck to devise phrases—then seizing upon words only to produce a trembling voice more akin to a coward’s shriek than a knight’s battle cry—startling myself before laboriously groaning anew—confronted with this incoherent display, the spectators burst into laughter: “Ha! Ha! Ha!”
“Just like Mr. Jintarou of Nioh Gate!”
they whispered before erupting in mirth.
——Jintarou of Nioh Gate was an extraordinarily zealous amateur gidayu enthusiast. Once he began practicing recitations, he would forget everything—strolling country paths with friends, tilling fields under open skies—losing himself in terrifying expressions and gestures, wholly oblivious to dusk’s approach. In short, he ranked among Tetetsukusu’s most devoted servants.
His residence beside the Nioh Gate at the shrine forest’s entrance earned him that epithet in lieu of a surname—but his features, warped by gidayu obsession, made even mundane objects reflected in his wide, fixed eyes appear as insubstantial shadows from Muō’s distant void. Thus he’d contort his face into sudden fury at trivial moments, snap his mouth rigidly square, then stand dazed in fields with that expression—so frequently that one wondered: had generations dwelling by guardian deities’ gate bred in him a mimic’s desire until their ferocious gaze became his own?
“Congratulations!”
or “How pitiable!”?
Initially regarded by villagers with reverential awe—as some karmic marvel—they gradually realized he was merely an amateur enthusiast, their gazes shifting to pity and scorn.
Moreover, despite his fervor, his artistic ineptitude proved extraordinary—so much that rumors circulated: what if he hosted a recital and received invitations——?
For though not wealthy, he overflowed with compassion, beloved equally by wastrels and paupers; yet regarding his art alone, he grew hypersensitive—were any invitation declined, he’d bare displeasure openly, even nurturing hostility.)

Hearing my voice, the villagers burst into involuntary laughter, but upon encountering the next tragic scene, fell as silent as still water.

The two duelists, upon noticing my voice, seemed to suddenly slacken in spirit—and as if slipping from the pinnacle of their fervor, scattering petals of passion like a cascading waterfall—burst into tears in unison while discarding their swords and rushing to clasp against my chest.

“Let’s roam from village to village—discarding this KATA-KOMAS sword…”

“Let’s drink and revel—spend the night at Auerbach, KOMAZEIN…”

When I encountered these groans from the two, my chest suddenly swelled, and using the shield as great wings, I firmly drew them both close.

“Let’s drink and revel through the night—and without waiting for dawn, we’ll depart this village! Oh, alright, alright! It’s my fault—everything is my fault! Forgive me!”

I choked back sobs.—Upon this shield’s surface were inscribed Greek letters meaning: “Should there be any who know Komoidas’ heart, let us drink together and continue our journey side by side.” This shield—a cardboard one where I had inscribed floral lettering instead of heraldic emblems—was what we three had used when disguising ourselves as Spartan soldiers for the masquerade ball held during Bacchus’s libation festival at the village tavern just recently.

“What the hell—you’re causing such a ruckus only to end it like that? This is no joke!”

“Those delinquent brats probably stirred up all that commotion just to distract us and make a run for it.”

“Tonight at every house—they’ll tether guard dogs to stable doors and chain up those riverboats before bedding down—that’s how we’ll do it.”

“That writing on their shield supposedly means something like ‘Let’s drink together—if we keep carousing, we’ll eventually sing a proper song!’ But those fools couldn’t manage a single verse even after all this time, so in their desperation, they ended up turning on each other in some pathetic infighting…”

“If you’re going to turn on each other, I at least expected you’d put on a proper show when I came to see...”

The villagers departed, leaving behind such scornful jeers, but we remained unconscious beneath a single shield, having forgotten even a single word of retort.

After some time had passed, I was helped to my feet by both the tavern maid and my wife taking my arms.
And flanking them were the two students—barely propped up with their swords serving as makeshift canes.

The duelists, like soldiers returning home defeated and gasping their last breaths, staggered up the country path supported by two delicate women.

“Look! Isn’t it beautiful? So many fireflies dancing over the wheat fields!”

“You should look back! A full moon—right over the mountain! It must be quite late by now, but somehow it doesn’t feel lonely in the least.”

“Does it hurt to turn around? Then look at our five shadows here—how terribly long they are! My, your legs stretch out so sleek and lengthy! Someone raise their hand—I bet it’ll reach clear across the river!”

“Mr.H, Mr.R—try lifting those swords up high! See how far their shadows stretch—test how far they reach!”

The two women continued offering words of comfort—each more tender than the last—but the wounded soldiers kept their heads deeply bowed, doing nothing but nod in response.

“We’re near the shrine now—once we get there, you’ll see the tavern’s lights.”
“Once we get there, if you three can’t walk any further, I’ll just call out ‘Dad!’ from that point—”
“If I just call out loudly, Dad will bring the carriage to pick us up, so there’s nothing to worry about.”

“Ms.Myō, they must be heavy.”
“If it’s too much for you, leave the three here and go fetch some sake to let them drink.”
“That way, all three of them will regain their vigor in no time.”

“I’m quite alright—it’s you we should be worrying about…”

“I’m fine too. We can walk much faster—my husband and Mr. H are both so light, you know…”

“Mr. R is light too—look how he’s practically riding on my back!”

“Dad, are you still awake?”

“But my dad’s the only one keeping Mr.Jintarou company again tonight.”
“Mr.Jintarou’s gidayu recital is finally drawing near—starting tonight he’ll be practicing at my house—but…”

“Oh my!”

“Under normal circumstances, even earlier, the villagers wouldn’t have made such a fuss over something this trivial and come to gawk. But if we’d kept dawdling, Mr.Jintarou would have caught us, so we took advantage of this commotion to slip away and rush over here.”

“Then we must hurry back, or it would be pitiful for Father.”

“Yes—so once I reach the Nioh Gate, I’ll call for Father.—How I detest that talentless dilettante—Jintarou of the Nioh Gate Eyeballs!”

“Calling out before the Nioh Gate sounds delightful—I’ll raise my voice there too.”

“When I passed by the Nioh Gate during the day, that Jintarou was there hefting a massive signboard for his own recital or some such thing, setting it up right beside the gate.”
“Since it’s so detestable, shall I tear it down?”

“Yes, let’s tear it down.”

“Don’t go doing something so foolish.”

I finally muttered.
"I'll gladly go listen."
"Tonight too, on this evening free from drunkards' racket, I'll have you let me listen—I'll soak in Jintarou's voice... and seize that precious sentiment."

“Five people linking arms in a row like this—”

Seeming to think it would be troublesome if I became strangely excited again—though I couldn’t tell whether it was my wife or Ms. Lulu—she hastily amended her words. “Walking like this… The road looks so pale and flat, almost as if we’re ice skating with our arms linked, don’t you think?”
“Hohoho… How amusing!!”
“Come now—La Mancha Gentleman, Sophocles’ disciple, and Plato School’s dropout—cheer up and try ice-skating with one accord all the way to the Nioh Gate!”

“That’s right! Let’s all sing together while—if we can’t manage ice-skating, we’ll ride Nancy Lee’s waves instead, or become Chaldean shepherds dancing on clouds for all I care.”
“With this path so softly glowing with moonlight—bright white and overflowing—couldn’t you imagine waves or clouds however you please?!”
“Let’s step onto the clouds and fly away—fly away!”

She kept urging them with such words, but not a single man could muster a response.
But when we—compelled by those words—opened our bleary eyes wide, the moonlit white path ahead, the wave-like wheat fields, and the dusky shrine forest all appeared as nothing but three amorphous forms of clouds. We found ourselves struck by a dreamlike sensation—astride Pegasus, piercing through Toapairon’s void, charging straight toward Apollo’s abode on Olympus.

“Ah yes—you did say you’d recently learned the Greek term for ‘above the clouds,’ didn’t you?”
“With this, I’ve memorized five Greek words—or so.”
“Tetetsukusu-cicada, Komoidos-comedy actor, Kata-komas, village to village... or was it Komazein—drinking and carousing... that’s right, and then above the clouds—Hmm... What was it again?”

“Not just five—I’ve already memorized over three hundred.”

“My, look at you—before I knew it! At this rate, if you keep it up for a year, you’ll be reading original texts and even writing poetry in Greek! How impressive indeed!”

“At this rate, my everyday speech might end up becoming ancient Greek before long…”

“Why would that be sad?”

“While the count of dead words keeps increasing... inversely proportional to my...”

“That’s mere superstition—utter nonsense—”
“Remember—there’s no possible harm in it.”
“If you were to become a professor or such, nothing could bring me greater joy...”
“Now then—what was that ‘above the clouds’ called again?”

“…………”

“Please tell me—the Nioh Gate’s visible now, and Mr. Jintarou’s signboard looks so stark white and clear—”

“Let me see… I haven’t the faintest idea?”

“Straight ahead—over there… in…”

“Is that the gate to Olympus’s palace?”

“That’s right. We’re stepping on clouds and will arrive any moment now.”
“Once we reach there, there’ll be enough Nectar—sacred sake—to revive you all… Ha ha ha!”
“Come now—cheer up! Hurry!”
“But I just can’t recall—what was it again?”
“Above the clouds—?”

“Enough—”
“It’s Paapaaneferasu.”

Flustered, I blurted out awkwardly—then regaining some vigor—fixed my gaze on the white signboard before the Nioh Gate and quickened my unsteady strides.