Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“Hey, General!” came the call, and Nekohachi turned his gaze from the Kōdan Club magazine he’d been absorbed in until that moment. Having recognized the voice immediately as belonging to that person, he felt at ease.

“Well now, Mr. Takami!” he exclaimed, putting on an exaggeratedly vacant expression. “How often we meet on this train—could it be you’ve found yourself a fine new nest around these parts, eh?”

“Ah—the nest of Sugamo, I say!”

“……”
To this retort, he found himself thoroughly outmaneuvered.
But as all nearby passengers now leaned in attentively, Nekohachi felt himself slipping back into the stage persona he’d just shed upon leaving his performance venue.
With every face appearing like an expectant audience member’s, he became convinced he must counterattack here and now.
“Ain’t that the truth?” he declared, conjuring a convincing expression while sharp eyes caught their train passing before the asylum gates—instant fodder for his act—

“In a place like Sugamo, there’s only lunatics or freaks like Nekohachi living there, see?”

“Ha, ha, ha!” came someone’s laughter. He had indeed managed to get his usual reaction even here, but when he tried to restrain further quips out of consideration for their surroundings, his mouth seemed unwilling to comply.

Oh, just behave yourself.
Secretly restraining himself, he watched the other’s face. This was Takami—someone who had invited him to events once or twice—who maintained a kindly silent smile on that face bearing traces of slight intoxication and drowsiness.
The words “Hey, Little Nara Buddha” rose to his throat, but since this wasn’t one of his fellow performers, he swallowed them back.
Then came a rapid stream of words he deemed harmless.
“Well now, I’ve had my fill, eh?—And here’s you looking downright prosperous in these hard times, ain’t that right, Mr. Takami?”
“I should get a bit of that myself, eh?—Right?”
“As for the likes of me, I’ll be heading home now and finally—well—hoping to get some hot supper, but who knows if the missus has even prepared any, eh?”

“Ha, ha, ha!”
The man sitting diagonally across who had been staring this way laughed again.

As long as I could hear people’s laughter, it resonated pleasantly within me; yet I found it strange that I myself felt no amusement whatsoever.
If I were to state the reasons as an entertainer, there certainly are plenty.
If one wishes to make people laugh, laughing oneself will have no effect—that’s one of them.
But even though I refrain from alcohol that others enjoy to protect my voice for this profession, I still have to pretend to others as if I drink.
Could any other profession have such hardships?
People think entertainers just flippantly go about their lives without a care in the world, but they should try becoming one themselves.
They’re piled high with hardships unknown to others.
As for someone like me, I’m practically a human being formed from a solid mass of hardships.

Nevertheless, there was one enjoyable thing—I had broken through the rear fence of my tenement dwelling and rented the resulting vacant lot at low cost some time ago, where I grew vegetables. And when a good harvest came, not only did my family eat them, but I also distributed them to the neighbors. Just seeing the neighbors being pleased was yet another source of enjoyment for me.

The green and black caterpillars clinging to the leaves of small turnips and daikon radishes would all come tumbling down when you dug trenches along the ridges and shook the foliage toward them. You would stomp them all at once or have children poke them with sticks to kill them.

Lately, as he had also planted cucumber and eggplant seedlings, he had to take care to watch out for root-cutting insects. These insects, much like thieves and themselves, were creatures that only worked at night, so even if you searched for them during the day, you wouldn’t catch a glimpse of them. Tonight, he resolved that immediately after finishing dinner, he would strip down to just his fundoshi loincloth, have the children carry lanterns to the field, and thoroughly exterminate the root-cutting insects.

At that moment, Mr. Little Daibutsu opened his eyes wide,

“You have no more business tonight, do you?” he asked.

“Well now, I’ve managed two stages today—”
Realizing his response had been insufficient, he inferred the other’s intent and said, “Would you care for me to accompany you somewhere agreeable, eh?”

“Nah—if you’re just heading home to sleep anyway, how about tagging along with me?”

“I shall go—anywhere at your instruction.”
A song lyric about going “Even to Kegon Falls”—unbidden—rose to his lips.

“It’s a gathering of literary scholars—you know, listening in won’t be entirely without its benefits.”
“If we go now, it’ll just be two hours of endurance.”
“After that, I’ll let you have your world back.”

“That does sound interesting! Why, I’ll join you for my own edification,” he answered with such levity, yet he couldn’t help worrying whether the heavy burden he had just managed to set down might once again be shouldered upon him tonight.
For me, there is no other time when I feel as light in body and mind as on the train home each night after fulfilling my guild obligations.
From what I’ve heard, even now I won’t be able to return home for at least two or three hours.
When I thought about it, during that time as well, two or three roots of the seedlings planted in the field might have been cut by those root-cutting insects.

While remaining concerned about that on one hand, the train soon reached its terminal, so he stuffed the Kōdan Club magazine into his pocket, rose after Mr. Takami, and hobbled step by step toward the exit with his stiff, disabled body.
For over a decade now, he had been rendered half-paralyzed due to rheumatism.

Even with this body far from ordinary, thanks to the adage that art sustains life, he felt grateful to at least be able to support his wife and children to an ordinary degree.

As he walked in silence, prone to sinking into such solemn thoughts, he was suddenly jolted out of them when he encountered a stout female acquaintance.

“Nekohachi-san!” The woman called out in an uncharacteristically gentle voice that ill-suited her stout figure, proudly moving her corpulent frame forward as they passed each other—she could have simply stopped, but instead addressed him directly—“Heading home now?”

“Well, General Ōyama!”
He found himself wanting to tease her again and did so as usual.
He turned sideways and struck an exaggerated pose facing her direction, but as the woman walked away laughing, he averted his gaze and pursued her with words alone: “I’ve got another performance engagement to get to, eh?”

A reply of “Right” could be heard from behind.
“You really are quite the earner!”

“……”
Well, whether it actually brought in money or not was unclear, but seeing how she carried that body of hers with such self-importance, he too had felt compelled to boast about something—which was why he’d taken to calling where he was headed now an “engagement.”

“She’s quite a plump woman, eh,” said Mr. Takami.

“Why—with that figure of hers, she’s quite doted on by her husband—it’s unbearable!”

“Huh—?”

Mr. Takami listened earnestly, but Nekohachi himself didn't truly understand such matters.
If only it had all been mere jest.
While thinking this person proved unexpectedly difficult to converse with, he shifted the subject.

"Isn't it rather sweltering?
At this rate, might this rainy season turn into one of those dry spells, eh?
Troublesome business, that."

"Well now, if rain falls, vaudeville attendance would dwindle too, eh?"

"If it's patrons' feet we're discussing, I might as well become a pounding pestle!
I cultivate vegetables on a modest plot of borrowed land.
The true bother lies in crops failing when rains don't come as they ought."

II

While talking about such things, they entered through the gate of a certain house.
There was also a small cucumber field there, which he found charmingly refined.

Even to ascend to the second floor of that house, he had to bend his hips in a peculiar, wriggling manner; otherwise, he could not climb up.
But as for himself,

When Mr. Takami said, “I’ve brought an unusual guest tonight,” and introduced him to the group of six or seven, he too felt the same pride as when charming an audience during his usual performances.
“I thought we might have him perform something later—this is Nekohachi.”

“This should be interesting!” someone exclaimed.

“I rather liked that example—after all, I’m something of a recognized entertainer myself.”
“Even when appearing before eminent writers like yourselves, you see—it’s fortunate I don’t feel intimidated.”
Having said this and cast a sharp glance around the gathering, he saw some laughing guilelessly while others showed no signs of taking offense—realizing these were people generous enough to appreciate his jest.
But just to ensure perfect clarity, he added, “However, I must clarify beforehand—due to my rheumatism, my body doesn’t move like others’.”
“Therefore, if I appear to be sitting stiffly on purpose, it’s precisely because of that condition—it’s not that I’m particularly intimidated by any of you.”

When they responded with “Ha, ha, ha,” he first felt relieved and, now that the situation was under his control, fell silent for a while.

The study of someone’s novel began; since the subject matter concerned actors, he, as an entertainer with close ties to that world, pricked up his ears.

The man who appeared to be the master of the house—someone Nekohachi had often bathed with at public baths two or three years prior and still occasionally encountered on the streets these days—now addressed Mr. Takami,

“We’re currently discussing *The Tiger* here,” he said.

“Whose work is it?”

“It’s Mr. Kume’s *The Tiger*, published in the May issue of *Bunshō Sekai*.”

“I haven’t read it,” Mr. Takami replied.

“Few here have read it either—but since the person who specifically brought this up for our June meeting isn’t present tonight, I thought we might let it pass without comment.”

When asked “What’s the story about?”, the host answered:

“I only skimmed it after receiving that postcard urging me to consider it—superficial if you insist, but competently structured within its modest scope.”
“The author likely never aimed for profundity to begin with—for him, this might suffice. ‘Tiger’ refers to the role forced upon the protagonist, a third-rate actor.”
“To quote the original text regarding this actor: ‘He already had an eight-year-old child.’”
“‘That child made their stage debut last year and held—no, rather possessed—a future of becoming a more legitimate Shinpa actor than he himself.’”
“‘He resolved never to let that child become third-rate.’”

“……”
Upon hearing this reading, Nekohachi felt he had stumbled into something grave.
While he himself knew this thought was somewhat exaggerated, it felt as though they were speaking directly about him.
I have four sons. The eldest is fourteen and in his first year of higher elementary, the next is twelve and in his fifth year of elementary. Both are doing well and serve as class monitors.
This twelve-year-old is skilled at imitating his father and possesses even greater artistry than him, yet I still do not want him to become a second Nekohachi.
No—it is precisely to prevent my children from seeing their father mimic cat fights and animal voices while pandering to audiences from the stage that I deliberately chose to live in this inconvenient suburb from early on.
Even if a cat changes into a tiger, there’s no significant difference there.

“The role cast upon him was merely that of a tiger.” What the host read appeared to be the novel’s main text itself. “It’s not a person’s name.” “He was simply to play an actual beastly tiger.” “Given he’d even earned the nickname ‘animal actor,’ why should anyone find it strange he’d been assigned this tiger role?” “Yet he felt faintly sorrowful.” “This protagonist finds himself in a situation where—though long accustomed to it, though considering it his profession, though resigning himself to being mocked—he senses the human within him being ridiculed, even feeling somewhat indignant.”

“The author’s aims are rather skillfully consistent throughout,” interjected the Tenjin-like man with earnest intensity.

“……”

To Nekohachi, the English word "situation" that the host had just uttered lingered in his ears, and he imagined that it might mean something like being in a tight spot. And I quipped to myself that I had indeed been trapped by my patrons’ favor, had gotten myself stuck in it, and had now reached a state where I could neither advance nor retreat. But deep in his heart, he increasingly felt the disagreeable aspects of being an entertainer.

“The troupe leader notes this would be Mr. Fukai’s perfect role, wouldn’t you agree?” said the Tenjin-like man—a monkish figure with a close-cropped head protruding like mountain ranges front and back.

“Then others remarked how ‘The entire scene would be swallowed up by Mr. Fukai’s tiger,’” the host continued. “He even grew somewhat proud again.”
“But being a tiger meant having no lines, so he needed no rehearsals.”
Seizing this chance when his child begged to visit Ueno Zoo, he offered, “Shall I show you that much-talked-about hippopotamus?” while secretly planning to study tigers.
“Then aboard the train, he met a theater critic who asked their destination. ‘To see the hippo for my child,’ he replied, but the sharp critic saw right through him: ‘A lie! I’ve heard already—you’re after the tiger!’”

“A kind of sorrow emerges even in such details,” said the Tenjin-like Man.

“………”
Nekohachi widened his eyes as if struck anew upon hearing the word “sorrow.” It increasingly seemed to him that even his own circumstances were being reshaped and incisively portrayed. With his right hand pressed against the tatami and his left resting atop a folded towel on his knee, he marveled at how human emotions ultimately converge in the same place regardless of who feels them. Leaning back slightly in his sideways sitting position, he remarked, “Well now! An uneducated fellow like myself had always thought novels were just haphazard fabrications—a pack of lies strung together. Though I suppose that presumption might’ve been disrespectful to esteemed scholars from the start—but hearing this discussion, why, it’s clear they’re aiming for the genuine truth, isn’t it?”

“Of course all current novels are like that!”
The man retorted with slight irritation.
“We novelists are fundamentally different from those who write lies and find satisfaction in them!”

“Hmph.” The Tenjin-like man snorted derisively.

“Aren’t you getting rather worked up over this?” said a severely nearsighted man, smirking as he delivered the sarcastic jab.

“I’m not particularly indignant, but the world teems with fools who take slipshod popular novels like Hekirurien’s or Tokutomi Roka’s as their standard of excellence and make vulgar criticisms.”

"My apologies."
Nekohachi bowed his head slightly with an unaffected air, prompting everyone to laugh.
Yet finding himself still unsatisfied this time, he ventured a joke.
"Though I must admit—while I've yet to encounter theater critics during my research—there was this occasion when I spent the night crouching in those woods near the abandoned veterans' hospital to study earthworm cries, only to be mistaken for a burglar and challenged by a police officer."

“That too is either sorrow born of sincerity,” explained the Tenjin-like Man—but not a single “ha ha ha” came from anyone.

“……”

Contrary to expectations，Nekohachi deflated，his momentum lost.
For the first time，it struck him—these were not his audience.
Even when making others weep or laugh as an entertainer，there remained no space for my own tears or mirth.
Yet these people stood a tier above us，probing even the hearts of performers who themselves could neither weep nor laugh.
Specialists indeed，in their field.
Resolving through honest humility，he asked：“And what became of that actor afterward?”
What I truly sought was insight about the child.
Still，he’d assumed some trite conclusion—refusing demeaning roles，barring children from performances.

III

“There, you see?”
“A splendid confession! But if you want to see a tiger, no need to trek to the zoo. Make someone drink two shō—anyone’ll transform into one!”
“What say we go inspect that tiger over there?”
“—Won’t do.”
“Can’t very well ditch this one,” he said, glancing back at his child again.
“There’s that angle too,” continued the host, still consulting the book as he spoke.

Everyone had forgotten about Nekohachi and turned their attention to the tiger, but to Nekohachi, that tiger seemed like himself.
“Speaking of absurdity, Yui’s role is much the same.”
“If anything, your tiger role might be an honor—having all the popularity focused on the tiger, eh?” —— “With that thought, I intend to do my absolute best.” —— “Exactly! We’re rather counting on your tiger too.” —— “Much obliged,” said Fukai with a bitter smile, though inwardly feeling somewhat consoled.

“That won’t do now,” said Nekohachi, furrowing his brow in disapproval. “Going and pulling that ‘situation’ business right there!”

“A knowing chuckle rippled through the room.”

“I’m not sure if it was improper for someone of my lowly standing to use presumptuous English before you esteemed scholars—”
Here I’d paused to reconsider whether this foreign term truly matched what we’d call “compromise,” then pressed on: “But regardless, it’s downright troublesome how that actor—Fukai, was it?—lets theater critics’ sweet talk destroy the proper human thoughts he’d painstakingly nurtured in that situation, then goes blithely charging ahead again, you see.”

“However, that very fact also makes it rather interesting—” said the host.

“But if it were me, such a thing—” he protested earnestly as though defending himself from being such a fool, but neither the host nor anyone else lent him an ear.

“Even after just going to the zoo and seeing the tiger staring motionlessly or yawning, he returned home convinced he now understood the tiger’s feelings far better than those of any handsome man.”
At last the opening day arrived, and when the stuffed tiger appeared on stage and yawned, that alone prompted shouts of “Fukai! Fukai!” from the audience.
When voices called out “Fukai! Fukai!”, he became quite pleased with himself.
“Then, at the play’s climax, when he pounced on the heroine, he received thunderous applause from both the audience and general spectators.”

“Aren’t you making fools of people?”
This was the first utterance from a much younger person.

“That’s downright mocking people,” interjected the Tenjin-like Man with a laugh this time.

“……”
Nekohachi, too, had grown so eager to speak out that his grievances regarding the treatment he received from audiences onstage came bubbling to the surface.
“From my perspective, that’s mocking spectators who delight in trivial things—though I reckon the author’s got sympathy for the actor himself, you see. ’Cause audiences at vaudeville theaters are just the same way, that’s for certain.”

“Well now,” began Mr. Takami calmly, posing his first question, “is this a work where the author employs irony?—Having not read it myself, I can hardly offer an opinion—but judging solely by what I’ve heard here tonight?”

“It is undoubtedly irony,” declared the Tenjin-like Man in a formal tone, “but the question remains whether the author could find satisfaction in such shallow irony.”

“That’s the heart of it, isn’t it?”
The nearsighted man’s words came with unexpectedly brisk clarity, unlike what one would expect from someone with his condition.
“I haven’t read this one either, but honestly, everything that crowd writes gets craftily wrapped up in petty cleverness while having no background or depth whatsoever.”

“As Nekohachi-kun just observed,” continued the Tenjin-like Man, “the author’s sympathy for the protagonist is evident, but its expression remains extremely superficial.”

“Even if it’s superficial, there’s still a background of life.”
This was the host’s statement.
“You could say he’s an author who can only create superficial backgrounds.”
“While Mr. T’s true intent in specifically proposing this work remains unclear due to his absence tonight, I imagine he likely wanted us to deliberate on how it manages to feel both cohesive yet somehow unsatisfying—to question that very quality.”

“That’s probably the case.”

“……”

Nekohachi had wanted to quip that he didn’t understand what terms like “back” or “high-key” even meant and get everyone laughing, but having had his earlier comment acknowledged in the discussion, he now puffed up with pride and asked with exaggerated earnestness, “So does this novel just end there like that—ain’t there some kinda punchline?”

“Ha, ha, hah!”
A mere two or three people laughed.

“……”

It struck Nekohachi as bizarre where it did—this force that had come crashing over him so unexpectedly.

“I’m no rakugo storyteller!” came what seemed another unsolicited remark from the Tenjin-like Man. Nekohachi instantly recognized this as mockery of his lack of education, and once again masked his awkwardness with an apology.

“Oh! Terribly sorry!”

“Novels don’t have punchlines,” the host amended, “but this work concludes with what Nekohachi would consider one—and that very element gives life to this otherwise shallow piece.”
When Fukai, having received roaring applause at curtain call, withdrew triumphantly in his stuffed costume, a figure leapt from behind the dark backdrop crying “Father!” and clung to him.
Turning in surprise, he found his own child—though still young—weeping over how pathetically absurd their father’s role had been.
He too found himself weeping as if realizing it anew.
“And then it states: ‘The tiger and human child wept together awhile in the shadowed backdrop.’”

“The ending is rather well-crafted, wouldn’t you agree?” said the Nearsighted Man, addressing the group.

“Yet even recognizing how the entire work would collapse without it,” added the Tenjin-like Man, “one must conclude this novel’s execution remains lamentably feeble—wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s right, isn’t it?”
The host gave a reply that seemed to have all vigor drained from it.
“Ultimately, it’s not such an exceptional work.”

“……”

Even so, upon hearing this final incident of mutual weeping, Nekohachi showed such wide-eyed astonishment that one might think he'd been utterly dumbfounded. He himself wasn't unaware that this too was an intentionally exaggerated expression he had put on, yet at the same time, he felt as though something he had always kept hidden deep in his heart had involuntarily risen to his face—a simultaneous stirring of both his sorrow toward his profession and his indecision over whether to make his second son into a second Nekohachi. He strove not to let others see the expression ill-suited to his comedic profession, yet the harder he tried, the more his face refused to obey—when he glimpsed it in a mirror, he thought it had twisted into a pouting visage. But now, without attempting to cover it up, he candidly said, "Well, I was truly impressed," and paid his respects as if the novel itself were a collective work of this gathering. "I too have experienced similar sorrow, and I was truly impressed. However, if I may be permitted to offer one of you gentlemen's esteemed critiques—it seems to me that Fukai, while performing a role contrary to his true intentions, committed a grave error by letting his child witness it. Wouldn't you agree?"

“That’s irrelevant—it isn’t something the author needs to concern themselves with.”

“However, I can’t simply dismiss it,” he said, scooting forward slightly on his knees as if finally joining the debate proper, and opposed the Tenjin-like Man’s opinion. “I have children of my own—my eldest and second son both go to elementary school—but that twelve-year-old second boy’s a real genius at imitating me. When I’m laid up sick and can’t perform, he even says he’ll go take my place!”

“Ha, hah!” The Tenjin-like Man laughed in a manner that seemed both impressed and derisive.

“Though I call it a profession—what with me already making a fool of myself—I don’t want my children ridiculed too. That’s why I went outta my way to live in this inconvenient suburb, just to keep ’em from getting near the vaudeville theaters where I perform. That’s for certain.”

“Such sentiments aren’t entirely absent,” replied the host, “but since this isn’t a work that makes them its main focus, it works well enough as it is.”

“Nekohachi-kun, aren’t you belittling your own art rather too much?”
The nearsighted man posed this question thus.

“Of course I am.” He faltered momentarily, but there was no need to reconsider. “There’s no other way but that, I tell you. Though I am a human being through and through, I have to make a tiger’s roar just to earn my keep, I tell you.”

“However,” continued another voice, “in contrast to you, this work’s protagonist is always bringing his child to the theater so that he can become an entertainer sooner, isn’t he?”

“It’s a problem that there are so many fathers like that in the world.”
Nekohachi was not a little dissatisfied.
Even an entertainer was a human being, yet the people at this gathering seemed to have no sympathy for him.
Feeling that lingering here any longer wouldn’t earn him even a word of thanks, he inwardly chanted Tao Yuanming’s lines: I must return home—come now, come now, I must return home.
This was what had purified him.
And as night deepened beyond the wide-open second floor, his concerns about both his children and the seedlings in his field once again rose to consume his thoughts.

IV

At that moment,

“More than that, what irritates me most—” came the remark, and though he wanted to retort about the Tenjin-like Man’s blabbermouth tendencies again, the man pressed on in his usual fervent tone: “—is this author’s frivolous attitude.”
“An anonymous monthly critique in the Jiji Shinpo really tore into this work, even writing something like ‘Kume must be a man satisfied with such shallow stuff, which is why he’s no good.’ So I actually read it in earnest, thinking how shallow it must be—but it didn’t strike me as something to dismiss so readily.”
“However, when I inquired with our host here tonight, it appears that very critic was none other than Kume himself.”

“Oh!” Nekohachi had meant to interject reluctantly, yet found himself letting out a dry chuckle. And indeed—just as he’d thought—he found himself nodding in agreement that this work’s conclusion or punchline hadn’t sprung from the author’s true intent, but rather that its actual purpose was to mock people. Then he came to wholeheartedly admire only this person called Kume. “Isn’t he a rather amusing sort, like old Sanba?”

“Is Kume, that author, really so frivolous?” said the Tenjin-like Man.

“That’s something you’d understand just from looking at his previous works, isn’t it?”
These were the Nearsighted Man’s words.

“If a person is frivolous, then creating frivolous works is only natural—whether one likes or dislikes that is entirely up to the readers’ own discretion.”

“So in the end, it all comes down to the audience, I tell you, huh?”
Nekohachi interpreted the host’s theory thus.
And growing charmed by this line of reasoning, he added, “But he’s quite a witty fellow—I think he’s admirable, don’t you?—”

“There are all sorts of ways to be admirable, you know.”

“Ha hah!” two or three people exclaimed in unison.

“Professor,” interjected a student-like man who hadn’t uttered a word until now, his voice tinged with a nervous edge as he spoke for the first time.
“As I have not read a single one of Mr. Kume’s works, I may have no right to speak about him—but in literary creation, unless the author’s character substantiates it, the work cannot achieve depth… or so it seems to me…?”

“You always speak idealistically,” Nekohachi replied, “but even if one were the opposite—a realist—I would never deny that.”

“In that case, I can rest assured—”

“We don’t just stop at things like what you’re saying.”

“That’s exactly where I’m stuck,” said the student-like man, tilting his head slightly.

“Even if someone’s character shows through, if their lived experience isn’t expressed, won’t it still fail to become substantive?”

“…”

The nervous student-like man this time smiled, bowed, and said, “In that case, I understand.”

“………”
I don’t understand any of this at all, Nekohachi wanted to say.
He couldn’t grasp realism himself, nor did he understand concepts like substantive or empty forms; all he could recall was that rakugo storyteller’s konnyaku debate.

In the meantime, it seemed that several other novels had come under discussion, but since they didn’t capture his interest as much as the tiger story had, he suppressed a yawn while letting his eyes wander over the incomprehensible Western painting hanging on the wall to his right where he sat and the gilt-lettered books on the beer-crate shelves to his front left.
Though the host had said, “We should serve sake to Nekohachi,”

“No, I’d still prefer katsuobushi,” he replied, and had the host’s wife serve him rice cakes.
And because he had discussed with her the joys of vegetable farming and their respective children’s education, he received two or three magazines suitable for children to read.

Before long, from Mr. Takami,

“So why don’t we have you do one?” came the suggestion.

“………”

Now that this moment would finally be his domain, the dampened melancholy he'd absorbed from the tiger novel vanished entirely—he wanted his art's reputation to surpass even the tiger's. In his preparations—having unconsciously readjusted his sitting posture—there emerged a tightened focus akin to being on stage, and before he'd even begun, he could already hear his own imitation voice within. He bent his right pinky into a hook shape and was about to bring it to his gaping mouth when he paused. Examining the finger as if half-muttering to himself: "The sweat's stripped away the oil—will it work properly?"

After hastily wiping the sweat from that finger with a hand towel, as if defying any wind that might dare blow against him, he launched into his “Hōhokekyō” cry.

“That’s skillful, I say!” the Tenjin-like Man abruptly praised, though it grated on him.

“That was a bush warbler in its cage—next comes the valley-crossing.”
“Kekyo, kekyo, kekyo! Hōhokekyō!”
Then followed pine crickets, bell crickets, harness bell crickets.
Crows next—skylarks—quails.
Flattening pursed lips forward came the katydid’s call.
Muttering “This’ll bother the neighbors settled for sleep,” he differentiated male and female crane cries.
A grasshopper’s chirp too he offered.

For every cry—every single cry—since he could exert himself precisely because his listeners were attentive, he saw them all quietly incline their ears and felt satisfied that things were going exactly as intended; and as his final flourish, he prepared to demonstrate the earthworm’s voice.

“Generally when people say earthworms cry, they’re actually talking about katydid sounds—but earthworms do cry too, you know.”
After this preface and a brief katydid-like chirp, he continued, “If I make their call now, you’ll understand.
“During my research in the veterans’ hospital forest—where I once stayed overnight—their voices would stop whenever human footsteps approached.
“I’d squat there waiting patiently before trying again. If my voice matched theirs perfectly, they’d answer right away—but if I got it wrong, there’d be no reply whatsoever.”

“Ha, ha, hah!”
The host laughed with particular vigor.

“I mean every word,” I insisted earnestly.
In his response, he had simply let slip his customary jest.

“You see, abroad there are even those who’ve conducted grand studies into monkey speech.”

“Were I to learn English properly, I’d attempt it myself—”

“But monkeys don’t speak English.”

“Wah-ha! Ha!” chuckled two or three voices.

“……”
He felt as though his trump card had been snatched away, leaving him somewhat deflated.
“Though academically speaking,” he covered, “they say monkeys evolved into humans—but in this tale, the tiger’s become a monkey.”

“Well, we’re grateful for your animal mimicry sounds too,” replied the host.

Five

“Now then,” said the Tenjin-like Man—who until now had been regarded as an unpleasant fellow—asking a pertinent question at this moment.
“I’d like to hear the motivation behind why you came to do such things, you see.”
“Motivation, you say—?”

“Well, if I had to put it that way—the initial whim, you see.”

“I see, indeed.—Though I may look like this, I wasn’t a farmer from the start—or rather, not some down-and-out entertainer either.”
“Though I suppose that applies to anyone,” I quipped, and then proceeded to recount my own storied past.
“After I lost the use of one arm and leg, I discussed it with my wife and became a candy seller.”
“But just blowing a Chinese flute and sauntering around wasn’t going to get even a single snot-nosed brat to buy anything.”
“On the first day, I didn’t sell a single thing, but on the second day, I finally managed to sell just ten sen’s worth.”
“I entrusted that single silver coin to my child to make them happy, but as children do, they left it on a bridge railing while playing and another child took it.”
“On the third day, though I did go out to work, I became so disheartened thinking this would never do that I threw myself down on the Yoshiwara embankment and sat there lost in thought.”
“It was there that I received a heaven-sent inspiration which laid the foundation for my future career as an entertainer,” I said, pausing briefly to amuse my listeners before transitioning into the story of how I learned the frog’s cry.
“When I suddenly noticed, there were many frogs croaking in the rice paddies.”
Assuming the posture of when I first turned my gaze that way, I thrust my face slightly sideways and—far more skillfully than my initial attempt—brought my mouth to the hole atop my hand shaped like an egg, producing a quick “kuk-kuk” cry. “When I tried this myself, only six or seven out of the many frogs turned toward me.”
“I found this strange and pondered it for a while,” I said, then changed to a “kak-kak” cry. “When I tried it again, this time all the frogs except those six or seven turned toward me.”

In truth, he didn't think it had gone entirely smoothly, but since there had been no witnesses present at the time, he felt safe embellishing the story into a neat narrative.
“And I realized that the earlier calls were from females, and the later ones were from males.
“And so there were only six or seven males there, with all the rest being females.”

“Interesting!”

“……”
Having received praise from the Tenjin-like Man, his own enthusiasm welled up even more.
“This was my idea,” he said. “Then when I went to where children were gathered and demonstrated those imitations, surprisingly, the candy sold well.”
And from the next day onward, wherever the Frog Candy Seller went, he was awaited.

“Mr. Takami, candy selling proves to be quite profitable—with just five sen as initial capital back then, it grew to thirty or forty sen.”

“Why did you abandon such a profitable venture?”

“Well now, that’s because my indulgence grew excessive, you see.”
“Should I say this talent for mimicking creatures’ cries was innate?”
“I mimic anything.”
“No—if there’s any crying thing I can’t imitate, I’ll study it till I can.”
“Customers often demand ‘Make fireflies cry!’ or ‘Imitate a hernia worm’s wail!’—but not even a genius beyond me could manage that.”
“For me nowadays, mimicking cat fights or insects and birds has grown too common—I must even copy airplanes and automobiles to stay relevant.”

“Well now, even mimicry requires vigilance,” said the host. “Through such negligence, many things are made vulgar.”

“If that’s how you approach things,” interjected the Tenjin-like Man again, “won’t you just keep sinking into degradation? Rather than that, why don’t you instead speak naturally and without pretense at the vaudeville theater, just as you recounted your own experiences here? Wouldn’t that be far more natural and entertaining?”

“I think that’s good too,” agreed the nearsighted man.

“However, my life’s purpose lies in mocking the audience from atop the stage.”

“Well, that’s true.”
Mr. Takami, holding both knees with his hands, said in a supportive manner as if siding with him.
“When it comes to this person’s quick-witted sarcasm and mockery, it’s quite exhilarating.”

“In return, I too make compromises up to a certain point, you see. I even demonstrate cries for fireflies and hernia worms. Since they’re not things that actually cry anyway, I can make them sound however I please,” he said, then stiffening his expression: “You really don’t get it, do you? Can a hernia worm even cry? If that’s unsatisfactory—well, we’ve already taken your admission fee—you’re free to leave right away. But ending things so bleakly wouldn’t do, so in the end I let them save face—though I bet even you wouldn’t want to leave halfway through. Truth is, I don’t want to send you home either—so that’s how I handle it.”

“Could that also be considered a kind of punchline, don’t you think?”
The nearsighted man asked with a laugh.

“Well, I suppose it’s a kind of conclusion, you see.”
To Nekohachi, this had seemed like a slight misstep in his earlier remarks about the tiger; this had been his attempt to recover from that.
“But when I’m summoned before imperial princes and go ‘Gyaa! Gyaa!’ like this—” he suddenly bared his teeth, rolled his eyes, contorted his face grotesquely, performed an imitation of cats fighting, and made everyone burst out laughing at once.
However, maintaining his composure, he continued: “This isn’t some garden bird’s chirp—there’s no harm in showing you a proper cat brawl.”
“When noble ladies attend, their laughter often peeks through from behind the fans shielding their dignified faces.”
“But there are times—like when visiting Viscount [Name]—they’ll say, ‘We hear you’re skilled at rakugo as well as mimicry—entertain our guests with something amusing,’ and I must refuse.”
“It feels too presumptuous to comply.”
“Yet when pressed, I did attempt a piece—but curiously enough, they grasped nothing from the very start.”
“After all, we lowly folk only know our wretched world—so naturally our stories dwell there.—Hey, Hachikō! You there?” He demonstrated hiking up his rear to sit on the entryway frame. “Since they couldn’t fathom what this meant—damn it, you can’t hike up your buttocks when naked!—none of that clever wit resonated.”
“Though I mean no disrespect, there’s no contest—even at moments demanding uproar, you noble folk maintain your decorum.”

“That’s because their lives are completely different, you see.”

“That’s right, you see.”
He couldn’t help but be struck by how different the company of educated people truly was.
Even as he himself had actually confronted these matters firsthand—and moreover had been unable to fully explain them—they had made it understood with just a single phrase among themselves.
Truly, the lives of the upper class and people like them were completely different.
Their ways of life differed as starkly as the moon from a snapping turtle.

Thinking this, he brought to mind their tenement row houses. The first was a blacksmith prone to laziness, always being yelled at by his "mountain goddess." Next came a female hairdresser whose succession of men remained unclear. Adjacent stood his own home, beyond which lived a train conductor who began clattering about during predawn hours while people still slept soundly, departing for his bell-ringing vendor work. At the very end dwelled a one-eyed, lame-footed clamshell seller. Come summer, they all lived nearly naked—yet even among them, only his household maintained any semblance of decency. Farming served merely as my side occupation, yet through it I discovered leisure unknown to those scrambling lunatics. I even distributed daikon radishes and greens to them freely at times. Even so, we remain true Edo natives who never carry coins past midnight—I emerged from a geisha’s womb into Asakusa’s famed restaurant world, while my wife took her first bath with Kanda Aqueduct waters. Incidentally, I felt compelled to showcase my insights before them all.

“Once, a splendid carriage stopped at the entrance to my tenement row houses.”
“You already knew I was living a wretched life—‘Is this the home of the entertainer called Nekohachi?’”
“Well now,” I found myself somewhat perplexed.
“—Then, is the person himself at home?”
“The master has gone to the bath and isn’t home—but I couldn’t exactly present myself as that very person wearing just a loincloth, you see.”
“Please wait just a moment—I’ll go call him right away,” I said, temporarily stepping outside.
I signaled my wife with a glance, but she wore an awkward expression.—The moment I left the house, I immediately went to the blacksmith’s shop at the entrance, explained the situation to his wife, and had her bring me clothes and an obi sash. Feigning a return from the bathhouse, I carried a borrowed hand towel dampened with water and a soapbox.—“Apologies for the wait—I am Nekohachi. How may I assist you?”—Since there was no difference in appearance between disciple and master, it’s no wonder they found it perplexing.”
“—Actually, we’ve come from the [○○] household. They mentioned you just now—said you’re someone who does amusing performances—so we were told to come fetch you right away,’ they said.”

Six

At this point, the nearsighted man stood up, saying it would be troublesome if things ran too late.
He glared sharply up at his profile and showed a hint of displeasure, but he didn’t notice.
On top of that, the other two also stood up and left together.
If this had been a vaudeville theater, he thought resignation would come easily with the admission fee already collected.
But when people would go so far as to rudely leave mid-confession from someone speaking earnestly, he couldn’t help feeling this was true discourtesy—and found it hard to accept.
He wanted to threaten, “I’ll jump out from some dark alley and haunt you!” but with the host and other eager listeners remaining, the conversation’s momentum barely wavered.

“Them summoning you the moment your name comes up—that’s aristocrats through and through, you see.”
“It’s not that I refuse such calls outright, mind you—but when they start talking money right off the bat, this Edo native’s rebellious spirit flares up, I tell you.”

“However, if it’s business, there’s no need for that sort of thing, is there?” the host retorted.

“Well, even if it’s business, when they come at me all stiff and proper asking ‘What’s your rate?’, damn it, I just feel like saying ‘Screw this—do whatever you want!’, you see.”
“If it’s a donation, then treat it as such—that’s perfectly fine. If they can give, they should quietly contribute an amount befitting their station without making a fuss.”

“That old-fashioned approach won’t do anymore. You ought to demand upfront—state you won’t accept invitations unless they offer at least so many yen, and make nobles pay way more than commoners as befits their station. That’s what counts as savvy these days.”

“But I find it downright distasteful to bring up money matters, you see.”

"That's exactly the musty old stench of you entertainers nowadays!"

“After all, we entertainers today can’t come up with any new acts. If they don’t make a proper offer, I’ll likely refuse them outright. There was this time I was hauling a hoe naked in my field when a messenger from Viscount [○○] came right up to the plot—we’d settled on a date and time, but when they asked ‘What’s your fee?’, I turned them down flat. Entertainers live by their spirit, y’see—but if the mood takes me, I’ll go perform for free.”

“That might not be a bad thing either—by the way, what became of that pig farming venture you were starting, Takami-kun?” said the host, abruptly changing the subject.
And perhaps because he knew much about matters entirely separate from novels too, the discussion on that topic continued for a while with everyone.

“Since I’m here, you needn’t limit your discussions solely to animal matters,” I did make that quip, but I was already thoroughly weary.
This was likely due to having not yet eaten the dinner I should have had.

"The remaining guests were exchanging carefree remarks like 'Well, the trains have stopped running anyway,' but he found himself wishing everyone would leave soon.
As his mood darkened, what preoccupied him strangely was whether tonight's payment—though unnecessary—would come from Mr. Takami or from the host here.
Or would it simply go unmentioned?—that was the question.
There were those in my profession who did nothing but chatter away, but none who seemed capable of being proper listeners."

He waited patiently, thinking everything would become clear when the gathering finally broke up.
Yet since Mr. Takami and the others remained inconsiderately motionless—and finding it too dreary to simply dazedly wander home—he again began speaking to his wife about his vegetable field, a subject he'd nearly forgotten until now.
Though this wasn't my livelihood, whenever talk turned to the field, no matter whom I addressed, I'd sometimes grow so engrossed and energized that I lost myself.
This was something I had long considered both my hobby and my delight.
And,

“Once the eggplants and cucumbers start coming in, I’ll give you some whenever needed,” he said, using the offer to mask his own disagreeable expression that kept threatening to betray his discontent.
Then with the same hand he’d been holding back earlier, he reached for the rice cakes three times in quick succession.

Seven

When it was nearly 1 AM—the time when the cries of cranes from the disused soldiers’ hospital could be heard clear and resonant—everyone rose from their seats.
I too deliberately stood up with dignified resolve and descended the stairs with everyone, but when I considered how the old magazines and leftover sweets and rice crackers stuffed into my pocket might serve as tonight’s payment in lieu of proper compensation, it all felt so absurd that there in the darkness, I secretly wanted to embrace that tiger from the story and weep together with it for a while.
That I wasn’t brooding over being denied payment was something I understood when considering myself as an Edo native—and this too could be understood from seeing how even my Edo-native wife, succumbing to a woman’s softer nature, would occasionally try to set aside decent sums of money, only for me to force her to spend it by throwing it away—but when compared to the laboring lives of farmers, I found myself newly overcome with sorrow at being someone who must make a living by showing people frivolous performances.

“It’s only a small amount, but…”
Mr. Takami—who hadn’t been entirely inconsiderate—slipped me two yen coins after we stepped outside, allowing me to regain some composure.
And perhaps because of this exchange, I found myself trailing behind them,

even feeling heightened respect toward the host who had announced to everyone, “I’ll walk you out as part of my stroll.”
Yet I—likely due to some ingrained habit—loathed this miserly streak in myself.
If circumstances allowed, I would have quit being an entertainer come morning.

Now, the only thing he worried about was the weather.
While gazing up at the sky wondering when the rain would come，he trailed along behind everyone with short，bobbing steps so that in the dimly lit path，it might be heard by someone indistinguishable，

“Tiger—monkey—pig. Tonight’s talk was truly nothing but animals.”

“And your frog, you see.”
The retort came from the Tenjin-like man.

Suddenly recalling that fretful konnyaku debate, he could hear voices conversing up ahead alongside the Tenjin-like man.
When they soon passed through the abandoned soldiers’ hospital’s woods, his tenement alley entrance lay just a few yards ahead.

“Since my dwelling lies back there—though it’s a rather squalid place—should you ever pass by, please do drop in,” he said, bidding farewell to everyone. However, feeling he still had something left unsaid, he took a step forward and added, “And should you peer beyond that trifoliate orange hedge over there, you’ll see my field. It’s too dark now for you to see properly, but soon there’ll be eggplants and cucumbers aplenty—more than my family could ever eat—”

“………”

“Well then, everyone, I shall take my leave here.”

The tenement residents, who seemed to already be waiting for the eggplants and cucumbers to grow, were all fast asleep.
And the only ones who greeted Edo-ya Nekohachi himself upon his return were the dogs kept by the neighborhood liquor store.
But he found it rare even for himself to feel as humble and human as he did tonight.

The abandoned soldiers’ hospital’s forest path was so dark that he had long ago petitioned to have gas lamps bearing his name installed—both for pedestrians turning from the tram thoroughfare and for his own advertising. The permission seemed difficult to obtain for some reason, but such matters no longer concerned him. After all, no one inflicts pointless suffering upon themselves.

I couldn’t help but dwell on this overnight money earned through my own stingy disposition, but no matter what I might buy for them, the children were surely already fast asleep.
The toy stores and food stalls along the tram street must have had their doors shut as well.
And this too—though it was a situation where I should have been paying tuition myself—I could probably laugh it off as a distraction, having instead ended up receiving payment.

In any case, resolved to promptly tell his wife about tonight’s novel discussion and have her taste the entertainer’s sorrow he had keenly perceived there just as he had, he approached the entrance of his house.