Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

I will write about Mr. Takeda.

This opening line—"I will write about Mr. Takeda"—is in fact an imitation of Mr. Takeda's own style.

Mr. Takeda wrote a novel titled Yayoi-san shortly after returning from abroad.
When I read the opening line of that novel, I was startled.

"I will write about Yayoi-san."

That was the opening line.

The novel told how Mr. Takeda—after returning to Tokyo—visited the wife of a man named Yayoi whom he had met aboard a ship bound for foreign shores, its restrained prose vividly etching this woman's presence.
The story itself felt insipid and superficially resembled an I-novel, but I suddenly wondered whether it might be entirely fictional.

Now that Mr. Takeda has died, there remains no way to verify its truth—but I thought surely a man like Mr. Takeda would never turn an actual event into some bland I-novel just as it happened.
"Though 'I' appears," I thought, "this can't be the author's own experience."
"The Tale of Snow"
In Mr. Takeda's subsequent novels, might there not have been many so-called I-novels that weren't I-novels—works handling fictional stories where this 'I' kept appearing?
Were these short stories—seemingly I-novel-like works with their delicate flavor—not precisely what Mr. Takeda himself had described as having "reached symbolism's gate at realism's end"?
They were likely peering into a symbolic world shrouded in subtle fragility.
They featured ghosts like those in Izumi Kyōka's works.
Of course, Kyōka's ghosts were authentic phantoms while Mr. Takeda's ghosts were artificial creations.
Thus though some called them tedious, one could recognize in this author's desperate conjuring of ghosts—forced through his wrestling with reality—the painstaking effort to escape from the realism he'd spent years building.

However, in the novel Yayoi-san, the way the ghosts were introduced didn’t quite work.
In that sense, it was a flawed work, but I found it intriguing that Mr. Takeda—armed with his robust descriptive power and unrestrained realism as his weapon—chose to write these subtly nuanced short stories instead of conventional war chronicles or overseas memoirs.
Because it was a fictional story, I found it even more interesting.
And what’s more, it was not a forced fabrication.
Besides, a writer returning from abroad would never begin a novel with an opening line like “I will write about Yayoi-san.”
Readers who delighted in the robust depictions of Nippon Sanmon Opera, Shisei-goto, and Ginza Hacchō must have been disappointed by Yayoi-san.
I, too, was disappointed in that sense.
Yet crafting an opening line that astonishes readers through clever construction—without revealing how it’s done—is far easier than composing something as seemingly effortless and unremarkable as “I will write about Yayoi-san,” rendered in such understated prose.

I felt Mr. Takeda’s maturity as a novelist.
I thought Mr. Takeda had come to use this kind of opening line.
However, I had no desire to imitate Mr. Takeda.
Therefore, using an opening line that imitates Mr. Takeda now was not my true intent.
Moreover, I dared to imitate him precisely to mourn Mr. Takeda.
It was because Mr. Takeda had died.
When you think about it, had Mr. Takeda not died, I would never have used such an opening line.
This made it all the more contrary to my true intentions.

I

I will write about Mr. Takeda.

A disheveled man hurriedly crossed Ebisu Bridge.

That man might be called—if one were to exaggerate—"Osaka's filthiest man".
His hair naturally lacked any oiliness and bore no trace of having been combed.
Left to run wild—disheveled, filthy, and overgrown—it had become so bushy that it covered his ears.
The collar of his rumpled kimono hung open down to his chest, leaving fully exposed the grime caked like moss.
His slovenliness was attested to by the scraggly beard on that prominently protruding jaw.
Though small in build, his sumo wrestler-like corpulence made his filthiness stand out all the more.
It felt like a wet rag was walking across Ebisu Bridge.

However, there was no downcast air about him. His slightly cross-eyed gaze bulged wide, and the sharpness with which he glanced at passersby was piercing. He seemed to have been drinking since early morning, his face glistening with oil; the hem of his kimono—rolled up despite there being no rain—revealed thick, stubby legs covered in shaggy hair that thudded heavily with each step. As he walked, recalling something, he broke into a creepy smile all by himself. When he laughed, two missing front teeth became visible. Despite being a young man, he deliberately did not replace them—doubtless out of laziness—but that very fact might have instead given an impression of unpredictability. The front teeth missing from that intense countenance—these suddenly seemed like warped things. In any case, he was eccentric.

Speaking of his eccentricities, he tied his military-style sash at the front, letting the knot’s tail hang down beneath his belly.
Had he forgotten to twist the knot around to the back, or was he simply too lazy to do so? No—according to the man himself, tying it in front was more stylish.
Belts have their decorations in front, women tie their obi cords over their sashes—and what’s more, they fasten those cords at the front too—so a man’s sash ought to be tied at the front like hakama cords, he argued.

However, no matter how much he fancied himself stylish, people refused to see it that way.
The very sash he had taken such care to tie at the front ended up being counted among his squalor.

Why was he so filthy?
In other words, it was poverty.
When he was a student at Imperial University, he did not own a uniform.
He commuted to school in the same worn-out kasuri kimono he had been wearing since his middle school days.
Because he disliked wearing hakama, when leaving his boarding house, he would stuff the hakama into his pocket and take it out in front of the school gate.
He did not own a school cap either.
Therefore, no one ever took him for a student.
They took him for a laborer or a local ruffian.
Having grown up poor, he was an ally of the poor and burned with passion for social reform, but his disheveled appearance was so filthy that when distributing flyers for the movement in front of the school, his attire was said to have been remarkably useful.

Of course, it’s not as though people become so filthy from poverty alone. That he deliberately kept himself filthy was also an act of rebellion against refined petit bourgeois tastes. He was a novelist, but common people always appeared in the novels he wrote. Many of his novels seemed as though he himself had lain down in the dust and mud of the streets to write them. Even when bourgeoisie did appear, it was solely to attack the bourgeoisie. He preferred third class over second when riding public transport, and watched movies only during discount hours. He preferred small eateries and oden stalls over high-class restaurants and would drink with laborers at cheap diners. He would stay at cheap boarding houses without hesitation. He would stay at even the filthiest brothels. No—he would deliberately choose the filthiest brothels and ascend to them. And while making himself filthy, he seemed to savor a masochistic pleasure.

However, it wasn’t that he didn’t yearn for cleanliness like anyone else. For example, he liked public baths. Whenever he came across one while walking through town, he would impulsively dash inside and use a rented towel to wash away sweat, oil, and grime until refreshed. So he would visit baths two or even three times daily. In that respect, he was particular about cleanliness. Of course, fastidious types and those with petit bourgeois tastes would call public baths unclean. They would laugh that true cleanliness lovers don’t frequent bathhouses. To put it better, his fondness stemmed from their working-class nature—perhaps he loved them as bathhouses of the common folk’s world. Yet despite this devotion, when seized by lazy inertia—as occasionally happened—he would go without bathing for ten or twenty days. His body would grow so abnormally caked in grime that moving emitted a pungent stench, yet he remained unbothered. "If I get drawn to this stench of my life—what d’you think of this filth? This here’s the grime of my soul!" he cackled self-mockingly. He strangely prided himself as Osaka’s filthiest man.

In essence, there was no significant gap between his squalid demeanor and the man himself. It was, so to speak, a filthiness that had become second nature. Even when sleeping rough among vagrants on a park bench, he looked surprisingly at home.

That such a man crossed Ebisu Bridge, walked straight north along Shinsaibashi-suji until reaching the corner of Mitsudera-zumi, then restlessly turned west and entered a café called "Castañien" right there on the block—one could not help but be astonished. "Castañien" had a modern-sounding name, but the café itself boasted exotic architecture, and its decor was oddly modern—so it seemed utterly ill-suited to him. A man who would have blended right in at a five-sen café hung with red curtains simply had to have some reason for frequenting such a place. A woman. He was, as he put it, "taking her side"—referring to Ikuko, the waitress at Castañien.

He had already been frequenting it for ten days.
No—to say he was frequenting it would be an understatement; he had practically taken up residence there.
The café opened at eleven in the morning, but from half past ten he was already settled into a booth, stubbornly lingering until one a.m. when the closed sign went up.
That amounted to over thirteen hours.
He didn’t step outside once during that time.
It was as though he were living out his entire day at Castañien.
He remained coiled in the booth with an air of immovability, as though even a crowbar couldn’t dislodge him.
Yet over those thirteen hours, he exchanged only two or three words with Ikuko.
The rest of the time, he would gaze at Ikuko’s face while thinking about his novel, reading magazines, or chatting with other customers.
Among them was Iriyama, a literary youth.
A rather handsome young man who also seemed to be courting Ikuko.
In essence, the two were secretly competing.
And each believed himself to hold the advantage.

Ikuko had caught everyone’s eye.
And true to such a woman, she avoided speaking intimately with any particular individual, instead conversing equally with every customer who frequented the establishment.
Yet by what caprice of the wind—that day Ikuko came to speak exclusively to him.
He had become thoroughly pleased with himself.

As night fell, Ikuko increasingly engaged him in conversation—so much that it became conspicuous.
Iriyama indignantly went home.

Shortly after Iriyama left, Ikuko—

“I have something I’d like to discuss with you in confidence…”
“Would you walk with me around here?”

He blushed all the way to the roots of his ears.
He regretted Iriyama’s absence.
He wanted to show Iriyama the sight of the two of them leaving Castañien together.

With his heart racing, he followed Ikuko out.
He told the owner of Castañien he would return shortly when leaving, but perhaps he might never come back.

They walked side by side north along Shinsaibashi-suji.

“So, what’s this thing you wanted to talk about?”

“…………”

Ikuko remained silent.
He too walked in silence.
They had already begun to feel like lovers.
Thus keeping silent felt more appropriate.

The sight of him—grotesquely filthy—walking with the beautiful Ikuko attracted considerable attention.
Yet every time people turned to look, he grew more pleased with himself.

When they reached the base of Shinsaibashi Bridge, Ikuko wordlessly turned back.
He too turned back without speaking.
Yet when they arrived before Daimaru, he felt compelled to say something.
Since Ikuko seemed too embarrassed to voice it herself, he reasoned that voicing it himself would resolve everything.
Just as he began to open his mouth—suddenly Ikuko:

“About what I wanted to discuss… You’re friends with Mr. Iriyama, aren’t you?”

“Yeah. We’re friends.”

His face suddenly contorted as if he’d bitten into a hairy caterpillar.

“I’m too embarrassed to tell Mr. Iriyama directly.”
“Could you tell Mr. Iriyama for me?”

“What the hell?!”

“About me…”

Ikuko’s beautiful profile suddenly lit up as if fireworks had been set off across it.

“Then, you’re saying Iriyama…”

Before he could even finish asking, “Does he like you?” Ikuko nodded.

He returned to Castañien and began drinking like an ox.
Once he started drinking, he became relentless.
He had gotten drunk to the point of near unconsciousness.

Even after being kicked out of Castañien at closing time, he kept wandering from bar to bar—by the time he staggered into Namba, it was already around three in the morning.
His head was hazy, and the approaching one-yen taxis seemed just as hazy.

“Take me to Tenkaya for five yen!”
“Make it ten yen.”
“If I said five yen, it’s five yen!”
“Well then, let’s make it eight yen.”

“Five yen!”
“Seven yen!”
“When I say go, you go! Five yen!”
“I can’t go for five yen!”
“What?! You won’t go? Why won’t you go?!”
“I said I won’t go, so I won’t!”
“When I say go, you go!”
After repeating such exchanges over and over, they ended up in a grappling brawl.
The driver struck his head with a car repair tool.
It split open and bled.
He collapsed.

The driver, startled, hauled his heavy body into the car.

And when the car pulled up in front of the Tenkaya apartment building, he—who had been collapsed on the seat—suddenly sat upright, fished out a five-yen bill from his sleeve, ripped it cleanly in two, and handed half to the driver.
And then, as if nothing had happened, he entered the apartment building.

II

I heard this story from Mr. Takeda himself.
Of course, it was Mr. Takeda’s own experience.
He said this was a story from when Mr. Takeda was a rising writer wandering Osaka.

In May of Showa 15 (1940), when I first visited Mr. Takeda’s house in Kōjimachi, he—who had been working facedown in a corner of the eight-tatami-mat room on the second floor, his futon pulled askew and his large jaw resting on a pillow—suddenly sat upright and settled behind his desk,

“When did you get here from Osaka?”
“Fujisawa Genki…?”
“How’s Osaka?”
“Do you know a café called Castañien?”

After asking these things—abruptly,

“—It’s a story from when I was loafing around Osaka…”

And with that, he told this story.

And he burst into uproarious laughter—his whole body and face convulsing as if about to topple backward—but just one eye remained utterly devoid of mirth. That single eye alone shone sharply and coldly.

I guffawed along with him, but even as I laughed, looking into Mr. Takeda’s eyes, I thought: these were no ordinary eyes. Those eyes had a slight squint. They were slightly cross-eyed. So they seemed to be staring fixedly this way, yet gave the feeling of suddenly gazing off in some unrelated direction. I thought these must be eyes that could see through to the very depths of reality. I sensed the eyes of a writer.

The slightly comical impression he gave was wild and seemingly indolent, yet delicate nerves permeated every fiber of his being.
The meticulous nerves that swiftly calculated the reality grasped through his body—I thought this was manifested in his eyes.

In that room, it had initially been just Mr. Takeda and me, but before long, magazine and newspaper reporters came streaming in until the eight-tatami-mat room had no space left to sit.
Whether they found the place comfortable, intended to camp out and extract a manuscript, or were simply content to kill time by Mr. Takeda’s side, they showed no inclination to leave—until finally the reporters gathered in a corner among themselves to play shogi or take naps.

Mr. Takeda engaged with each of those guests—peering into shogi boards, cracking jokes, creating a boisterous atmosphere through his own antics—all while writing his newspaper novel, but the eyes he turned back to the manuscript paper were piercing enough to chill the spine.

When he finished writing and handed it over to the newspaper’s messenger, Mr. Takeda fiddled with the clocks on his desk as if relieved.
On the desk lay five or six clocks.
Watching the way he took each one by one and silently wound their springs, I suddenly sensed loneliness.

There was one peculiar clock.
The case, appearing to be made of Western silver, wasn’t particularly impressive, but the dial—blue with white characters raised upon it—held an old-fashioned charm that suddenly brought to mind the Rokumeikan era.

“Nice clock. May I take a look?”

As I reached out my hand, Mr. Takeda—
“Whoa there, whoa there!”
Letting out a shrill cry as if to say “You won’t take this from me!”, he clutched the clock to his chest.
“Your eye’s quick, but your hand’s quicker.”
“I wouldn’t part with it even for a thousand yen.”
“Heh heh…”

He pressed it against his chest and wouldn't let go.
The collar of his yukata had come undone, revealing breasts.
No—or rather, Mr. Takeda’s chest was so fleshy that one could indeed call them breasts.
At that moment, a reporter from the Miyako Shimbun arrived,

“Are you going to Manchuria?”
“I must ask you to write that travel diary for us.”

“Whoa there!”

Mr. Takeda leapt up.

“First, could you write a piece under the title ‘Impressions of Going to Manchuria’?”

“Who’s going to Manchuria?”

“You’re the one—.”
“It was in our news column today.”

“Let me see…”

Takeda looked at the newspaper the reporter had produced.

“—Ah, it does appear here.
“Heh heh…”
“This is a rumor, you know.”

“Huh?!
“A rumor?”
“Who spread it?”

“It’s me. I’m the one who spread it right from this room."
“This room’s a rumor breeding ground, you know.”
“Heh heh…”

“Breeding ground…?”

“It’s a hotbed.”

Having said that, he cackled with laughter.
Before long, I left Mr. Takeda’s study.

And then, four or five days later, one night at a stall near Namba in Osaka, I found a clock identical to the one that had been on Mr. Takeda’s desk.
That was the clock he’d said he wouldn’t part with even for a thousand yen.

“How much is this?”

When I asked without any intention to buy,

“I’ll let it go for two yen and fifty sen.”

“Only…?”

I fell on my butt while standing.

I promptly bought it. I eagerly bought it. And, buzzing with excitement at the idea of packaging that clock to send to Mr. Takeda, I lingered at the night stalls until late. I bought it for two yen and fifty sen, but thinking that Mr. Takeda, being who he was, must have bought it for around two yen at a night stall in Kanda or somewhere like that, I cackled with delight. The story about tearing a five-yen bill in two and handing it to the driver became all the more amusing when I considered that it might be another of Mr. Takeda’s rumors in the making.

Upon returning home, the first thing I thought to do was write a letter. A love letter between men—the wording may sound odd, but among letters, this is the most enjoyable to write. So once I start writing, it inevitably grows lengthy. Since it threatened to become too long, I decided to forgo the letter and just send the package—but figuring out how to prepare a parcel containing a clock proved rather difficult. Moreover, I suddenly became reluctant to part with it—that is to say, I too wanted to follow in Mr. Takeda’s wake by placing that clock on my desk, and in the end, I never did send it.

In the days following September 10th, I went up to Tokyo again.
When I visited Mr. Takeda, he was out.
They said he had gone missing.
Half the reason for my trip to Tokyo had been to see Mr. Takeda.

Thinking I might find out by asking at a magazine company, I went to Bungeishunju-sha and visited my friend S, who was editing All Yomimono—S was in the middle of making a phone call.

“Hello? This is S from Bungeishunju. Do you know where Mr. Takeda... that is, TakeRin-san is?”
“Huh? What?”
“You’re searching for him too?”
“This is quite a predicament…”

By the end, his voice was half-sobbing.—I went to Kaizōsha.
The editors from Kaizōsha had gone to Dai Nippon Printing for on-site proofreading, leaving everyone absent.

When I left Kaizōsha, an empty taxi happened to pass by, so I took it and went to Dai Nippon Printing.
When I got off the elevator on the fourth floor, right in front of it was Kaizōsha’s proofreading room.

As I entered, before I could even ask—

“Mr. Takeda is here.”

said Mr.A.

“Huh?!”
“Where…?”

“He’s been canned up in the room across the way.”

The room I’d been directed to had glass walls, positioned so watchful eyes from the proofreading room could monitor it.

Mr. Takeda sat slumped like a lead ornament, planted with a heavy thud.

When I pushed open the door, from behind came:

“I’m fine.
“Won’t run away.
“Just gotta write, right?”

However, when he turned around and realized it was me,

“Oh… it’s you.”
“When did you get here?”
“Have they got you canned up?”

“They finally dragged me here in cuffs.”
“Can’t even run away.”
“The elevator’s right under their noses.—Ah, I’m tired.”

He yawned and slicked a hand over his face. His sallow complexion made plain he’d been up through the night.

On the half-sheet of orange-lined manuscript paper, only the title “The Era’s Novelist” and a name stood written—the rest lay blank. Just that title told me this was meant to be an essay about a novelist’s resolve to stand firm amid reactionary fascist storms. Crafting such a piece without censored blanks demanded agonizing precision with every word. Now I understood why Mr. Takeda wrestled so with his writing.

"I suppose I'm just in the way here."

With that, I started to leave,

“No—if you don’t stay, I’ll be lonely and at a loss.”
“Guess I just gotta write.”

he stopped me.
However, he made no attempt to speak, instead vacantly directing his drowsy, exhausted eyes toward the glass door; but perhaps having gathered his thoughts, he began writing—only to erase the two or so lines he’d written and crumple the paper.
And, as he scribbled nonsense characters on a fresh sheet of paper,

“I guess I just have to write.”
“I guess I just have to…”

he muttered to himself.
Rather than struggling to write, it was more like he was throwing a tantrum, insisting he absolutely didn’t want to write.

Mr.A entered.

“How’s it going? Have you written it?”

“Like hell I can write. If there’s beer, I could write, though.—Please, just one bottle!”

He held out one finger,

“—Just like this.”

He clasped his hands pleadingly.

“No, no! If even a drop of alcohol gets into you—you’ll drink yourself senseless before giving up! Since I went through the trouble of hauling you here, I’m standing firm on this.”
“In return, once the manuscript’s done, you can have all the draft beer you want, all the Kikumasamune you want—whatever your heart desires.”
“There—get writing! Get writing!”

“Just one bottle!”
“I absolutely won’t ask for two!”
“My throat’s so dry it’s killing me.”
“My damn brains have dried up.”
“I’ll owe you one.”
“Please! Just say yes already!”

“No!”

“Then just let me out for ten minutes! If I go get a breath of fresh air outside, I can write it! Here’s the deal—what do you say? Ten minutes! Just ten minutes!”

“No! If I let you out, you’ll vanish to who-knows-where!”

“No good?”

His speech had shifted to Osaka dialect.

“No good. If I don’t have you write it tonight, the magazine won’t come out. It’s just your manuscript.”

“What about Hino? Hasn’t he submitted yet?”

“No—it just arrived now.”

“What about Niwa…?”

“K-kun brought it.”
“A hundred pages.”

“Then you can manage without mine, can’t you?”
“Just push it back to next month.”

“No! I won’t go home until you write it.”

“Staying over? Serves you right!”

Mr.A left, laughing.

“Just write, huh? Just write!”

Mr. Takeda was cursing at Mr.A’s retreating back when, no sooner had he collapsed face down on the desk than he began snoring.

His face looked lifeless in sleep, yet his snores were bestial.

However, after about half an hour had passed, Mr. Takeda suddenly woke up, looked around blankly for a moment, then—apparently struck by some thought—placed roughly twenty blank sheets of manuscript paper into an envelope,

“Alright, let’s go.”

He stood up and left.
When I followed him, he entered the proofreading room,

“It’s done!”

He thrust the envelope at Mr.A,

“—If it gets done, that’s good enough, right?
The rest ain’t my problem.
Eh heh heh…”

He laughed eerily.

“Thank you for your trouble.”

Mr.A smiled and tried to take out the manuscript from the envelope.

The moment he did so, Mr. Takeda grabbed my hand and boarded the elevator.

By the time Mr.A saw the blank manuscript and gasped, the elevator was moving.

“What—?!”

Mr.A’s voice soon faded away.

When we got off the elevator, Mr. Takeda hiked up his coattails and ran, trying to make a break for it.
And after running who-knows-where, he finally found an oden shop and ducked under the noren curtain,

“Beer! Beer!”

He had been shouting even before sitting down.

A single beer vanished in an instant.

“Damn good, damn good! Nothing beats this!”

The moment he started on his second beer, Mr.A lumbered in and sat down beside Mr.Takeda without a word.

Mr.Takeda seemed startled, but suddenly stood up as if giving up,

“The bill!”

He thrust his hand into his sleeve but seemed unable to find his wallet.

“—That’s strange. Did I drop it?”
“Did I drop it?”

While muttering this, he gradually edged toward the entrance—then suddenly broke into a run.

"Ah! Hey, Burin!"

Mr.A hurriedly gave chase.

I was left dumbfounded, watching the two of them go.
I waited for a while, but the two did not return.

About two weeks later, when I looked at the October issue of Kaizō, Mr. Takeda’s essay titled "The Era’s Novelist" was properly published there.

III

A year passed, and Mr. Takeda went to the South.
Soon after, I heard rumors that Mr. Takeda had been killed by a crocodile in Java.

I thought it couldn’t be true.
I could believe rumors of Takeda Rintarou devouring a crocodile, but found it utterly inconceivable that he would have been devoured by one.

“Maybe this is another rumor that Mr. Burin himself started.”

So I said to my friend.

“It’s downright thrilling that the rumor Mr. Burin started in Java—‘Takeda Rintarou Suddenly Perishes, Eaten by Crocodile’—made its way all the way to Osaka.”

I laughed, thinking old habits die hard.

I thought there was no way he'd die. Wasn't this the indestructible Mr. Burin?

Sure enough, Mr. Takeda returned in good health.
He hadn't even contracted malaria.
That made perfect sense, I thought.

The literary world without Mr. Takeda felt like it had a conspicuously empty hole in that very spot, but seeing Mr. Takeda completely unchanged, I rejoiced at how that hole had finally been filled.
Even though he had been in foreign lands for four years, Mr. Takeda hadn't picked up any of the stench of a press corps member.
Mr. Takeda, who stopped by Osaka on his return journey cracking jokes and cackling loudly, was exactly the same Mr. Takeda as before the war.
It had the air of a rascal returning home.
He seemed to be itching to spread some bizarre rumor.

Sure enough, shortly after returning to Tokyo, rumors that Takeda Rintarou had gone blind reached Osaka.
Thinking this was another rumor, I cornered someone from Tokyo to ask, and they said while the blindness was a lie, his eyes were indeed in bad shape.

“Methyl alcohol, I suppose?”

When I asked, the person laughed and said it was true,

“He’s still going around drinking cheap whiskey, isn’t he? Even when gunk starts oozing from his eyes, he just keeps rubbing it away and drinking like it’s nothing. That’s just how he is—he can take it. That’s reckless.”

That it was reckless—Mr. Takeda must have realized this himself.
But he couldn’t stop.
That’s why I thought he must be spreading a self-deprecating rumor like “Takeda Rintarou has gone blind” and deliberately cackling with exaggerated cheer.

“He’ll be fine.”
“It’s not like methyl alcohol could finish him off.”
“He’s indestructible.”
“Indestructible Rintarou.”

I said those words.

Mr. Takeda eventually fell victim to an air raid.
Even when we asked the newspaper company, his evacuation site remained unknown.
It felt like he’d simply disappeared again—business as usual.

“He’ll be fine. He’s not the kind of man to be broken by suffering disaster. He’s indestructible.”

I said it again.

When I looked at the April 1st morning edition, there was an article stating, "Mr. Takeda Rintarou Passes Away Suddenly."

I was startled.
I felt as though I’d been tricked by a fox.
In the pitch-black darkness of my heart—

“Ah—he’s spread an incredible rumor this time.”

That thought saved me.

"—Today's April Fool's Day, isn't it?"

That's right—April Fool's Day. Muttering that this must be Mr. Takeda's greatest lifelong rumor, I let my tears stream down.

And then, in a hushed, despondent voice, I whispered that this man who had spread so many rumors was actually a lonely soul—a man who craved companionship.

The photograph of Mr. Takeda in the newspaper was undoubtedly glaring at a corner of the sky.

("Hikari"
Showa 21 May-June combined issue)