Pathway to Japanese Literature

Preface

This was written immediately after the war ended, while Mr. Dazai remained evacuated to Kanagi and I alone kept watch over the Mitaka house.
Afterward, when Mr. Dazai returned to Tokyo, I crossed over to Hokkaido in his stead.
At that time, I left everything I had written in Mr. Dazai's care.
When I came up to Tokyo this time following Mr. Dazai's passing, I found he had shown consideration for this work as well—the title had been altered to "Mephisto," and though supplementary writings had been appended to the end, they were now excised.
It was only because Mr. Dazai still lived that I dared write such backstage trivialities; now that he is gone, I must beg the indulgence of you readers and hope this might provide material for some commemorative jest.

“Excuse me.”

“Yes.”

“Is Mr. Dazai at home?”

“Mr. Dazai is currently in Aomori.”

“Did he evacuate?”

“He first went from here to Kofu, suffered disaster there, and then returned to his home country.”

“Might I ask for the address in Aomori?”

The visitor took out a notebook.
"I'll tell you about autumn properly," I said.

"Aomori Prefecture, Kita-Tsugaru County, Kanagi Town—care of Tsushima Bunji."
"That's your elder brother's residence."

"And will Mr. Dazai not be returning here at all?"

“No, he will return eventually.”
“For now I’m the one house-sitting.”

As described above, I was living alone in this thatched house in Mitaka; here, there were daily visitors and letters arriving.
Needless to say, they were not for me—all were visitors and letters for Mr. Dazai.
Each time I went to the entrance to respond and forwarded the letters to Aomori.
This was, so to speak, something like my daily routine.
People from magazine companies, students, and occasionally young women would stand at the entrance, but I recently came to feel not only a profound weariness toward this daily routine but also the growing hassle of administrative tasks.
I began to feel as though I were sitting at a post office counter.
It was all just an uninspired routine, and I even began to feel a sort of unbearable frustration.
“Why’s it always ‘Dazai this, Dazai that’? How about Mr. Koyama once in a while?”
“It seems I should at least be allowed to say something like that.”
“Is this jealousy?”
So to speak, it might be called the jealousy of the unknown toward the famous.
And this jealousy of mine—when directed at women—stirred in me an impulse to scratch my entire body raw.
One night after days piled up of me watching with resentful eyes women who left without hesitation upon hearing “He’s in Aomori,” I conceived a rebellious wish.
In Faust there’s that scene where Mephistopheles disguises himself as Dr. Faustus to deal with a visiting student—that’s what I thought of.
In other words, I felt like preaching dharma in place of our sect’s founder to these pious men and women devoted to Dazaism.
As proof that I too am quite a fool—the moment this idea struck me—I became elated by that very unstable plan and even began sensing a faint purpose in life.
However upon reconsidering—there being that saying about teaching dharma according to one’s audience—I decided this plan wouldn’t apply to magazine staffers.
“I’m not that much of a prankster.”

I don't want to interfere with people's livelihoods. Next comes university students—though just imagining it delights me, this notion of confronting those brilliant scholars from the nation's highest institution who fancy themselves the new generation's intellects and thoroughly outmaneuvering them—I find myself fundamentally ill-equipped to handle university students. Confessing this may complicate my social navigation, but I'm that classic dropout who didn't even properly finish middle school. For someone like me, university students remain perpetually awe-inspiring. Even now, much like how police officers always seem older than myself, I can't shake the feeling that all students are intimidating older brothers. Lacking both education and cultivated talents renders me utterly servile. Moreover, one crucial reason I dread students is their inevitable recitation of dazzling proper nouns like Valéry and Rilke—names that leave me squinting—while I stand there dumbstruck, incapable of mustering any coherent response. However I posture, I'll inevitably be exposed. That'd be like some fierce hound's true form turning out to be a petty imp—I'd likely get trampled underfoot. University students are my personal demon gate. I'll gladly pass on that ordeal. Now we're left with female visitors. Unimpressive in appearance and dampened in spirit—though not quite how Mr. Dazai would phrase it—I may be a talentless, homely man with no redeeming charm, yet I refuse to believe I'd lose to women. While lacking formal education, am I not what you'd call a man of letters? In my youth, there were marvelous magazines like Kuraku and Bungei Kurabu that I devoured obsessively. Exactly—I'm a literary man. I won't lose to women. Even if my gambit fails and my true self gets exposed, surely no woman would resort to crude physicality. I resolved to execute my precarious scheme exclusively with women. Yet when push came to shove, even I faltered. The void seemed too vast to confront.

I came to think of myself as a thoroughly weak-willed good-for-nothing man.
Today's the day, today's the day—I kept repeating to myself, yet each time the moment came, my resolve would crumble, leaving me to helplessly watch opportunities slip through my fingers.
While I considered myself rather unbridled in imagination, it seemed I was fundamentally deficient in execution.
Nurturing this extraordinary scheme within me, I let days drift by in idle discontent; yet through some trivial catalyst one day, I finally managed to purge my accumulated frustrations.

Titled "Mephisto"—or perhaps more aptly called "The Mitaka Chronicles"—what follows is the unvarnished account of these events.

That day, I was sleeping in as usual.
The ease of living alone meant there was no one to complain, so I lived freely, rising and sleeping whenever I pleased.
For one thing, the inconvenience of having to gather firewood and draw water myself after waking just to get breakfast had made me indolent, binding me ever more tightly to the futon's warmth… That day too, I remained in that drowsy state until sunlight began streaming into the room.

Then, suddenly shattering the morning's peaceful air, the voice of the neighborhood association's oral circular announcement rang out.
“Everyone, there is rice rationing!”
I woke up all at once.
This must indeed be what they mean by making even a coward rise.
I kicked off the futon and leapt up with vigor, swiftly folded the bedding to store it in the closet, and set about cleaning the house—a task I had neglected for about a week. To forcibly describe my state at that moment: with a lion-like ferocity that would make even Musashibō Benkei, were he called to assist in a grand cleaning, think “Ah, so this is how it’s done,” I swept and wiped every corner clean—from the tatami room down to the kitchen, veranda, and even the toilet.
After changing the wash water and finally reaching a stopping point, I sat cross-legged in the sunny spot on the veranda, relieved, and felt throughout my entire being the thought that “Life is indeed joyful—a place of purpose.”
I am a man who is usually lazy and far from vigorous, but there are three occasions when I become proactive in life.
First, when I read a good work; next, when someone is kind to me; and then when there is rice rationing like this.
Carrying my rice bag, as if I’d received some sort of tonic injection—full of vigor and light-footed—I set off for the rationing center. But such is the way of this fickle world: an unexpected misfortune lay in wait there, striking me down.
In front of the rationing center, the members of the neighborhood association had already gathered, but when they caught sight of me, the group leader emerged from the crowd and delivered the unfortunate news that concerned me alone.
“Mr. Koyama, it seems you’ve received an excess amount from prior distributions, so there will be no ration today.”
It was truly a bolt from the blue—like hearing an air raid siren while bathing—and under the group leader’s merciless pronouncement, Benkei (that is, I) immediately burst into tears.
I had long understood, at least somewhat, that the world was full of pitfalls—but I hadn’t known such cruel threats existed even within the rice rationing system.
Just when I was in high spirits and feeling a positive will toward life—they say the next moment lies in darkness—I felt there was no one as unfortunate as myself in these times, and with the sympathetic gazes of the neighborhood group members on my back, I dejectedly set off for home.
Going was easy, but the return was dreadful; plodding homeward with steps like a sheep being led to slaughter, I felt something akin to fury toward something within me welling up.
I came to feel as though I had suffered some unreasonable humiliation.
I don’t usually find being single particularly lonely, but in times like these, I feel it would be convenient to have something to take out my anger on.
Arriving home, I roughly opened and closed the front door, rushed into the kitchen and flung down the rice bag, then stood rigid as a statue for a while before reluctantly lifting the lid of the rice bin. Peering inside with exaggerated caution like Matsuomaru in a kabuki drama, I let out a thick sigh, snapped the lid shut again, rolled my eyes and flared my nostrils—as if making some grave resolution—then emerged onto the veranda with a washbasin. Grabbing the dried sweet potatoes there in fistfuls and piling them into the basin, I returned to the kitchen, took down the rice steamer from the shelf and dumped in the potatoes. Forcing the lid on despite overflow, I plugged in the electric heater and placed the steamer atop it, finally sitting cross-legged with an air of triumphant completion.
It was nothing more than him, in a fit of anger over not receiving the rice ration, deciding to steam some potatoes and stuff himself—but even so, the exaggeratedness of this man’s expression was something else.
This was the face of a miser scraping together the last coins from their purse.

Just then.

The sound of the front door opening rang out, followed by a bright voice calling, “Excuse me.”
“Yes!”
Caught off guard, I involuntarily gave an energetic reply and bolted out to the entrance.

A single white lily.
I took one look and shouted within my chest, "Alright, I'll do it!"
I found myself suddenly possessed of decisiveness.

“Mr. Dazai,”
Not letting her finish—“I’m Dazai. Well, come on up.”
She smiled at my somewhat hurried tone but showed no sign of suspicion. “Then I shall impose on you briefly,” she said.
Her demeanor was solemn.
I suddenly felt the throbbing of my chest grow violent.

Now then, we're about to enter a battle of feints and truths through our dialogue, but before that begins, there's something I must clarify upfront.
Should anyone perceive my responses in this forthcoming exchange as halting or incoherent and thereby hastily judge me as some dull-witted man with a leaden tongue—that would indicate a fundamental misunderstanding.
Throughout this interrogation, I painstakingly suppressed my true self while laboring to counterfeit Tsugaru dialect's distinctive cadences.
And should anyone dismiss this effort as trivial exertion—that too would betray their ignorance.
Those Tsugaru speech rhythms constituted an absolutely indispensable requirement for convincing my interlocutor I was none other than Dazai Osamu himself.
Indeed, my imitation of that regional accent put her at such ease from the outset that she might as well have been lounging in her own parlor.
Had I confronted her without this artifice—using my natural voice instead—what then?
I'd have met humiliating defeat before our knees touched the zabuton cushions.
Let me declare plainly—I am the last scion of that vanished breed they called true Edokko, my sensibilities honed metropolitan-sharp from birth, my tongue naturally silvered through no conscious effort, my conversation skills peerless.
Imagine an atmosphere where talk flows like plum blossom fragrance through spring gardens—where none grow distracted or weary but linger eternally in vernal delight... Laugh if you will at my grandiloquence.
That I possess innate gifts for rhetoric and ambient sorcery finds proof in Dazai's own secret confession to me.
This was what Mr. Dazai told me on that occasion.

"I'm competitive by nature, so I don't want to admit this—and I'd never say it to anyone else—but when I sit facing you, even I can't help feeling ashamed of my provincial ways."
In this dialogue exchange, I had constantly been applying brakes to my otherwise smoothly rotating eloquence—a fact I trust readers will acknowledge—so I earnestly beg you not to judge me as some dullard akin to a bear cub from Wakagiyama based solely on the clumsy conversational manner conveyed in these pages.
Moreover, being both someone yet to achieve success and still unmarried, I wanted to avoid any sort of misunderstanding by all means possible.
Furthermore, there was one more thing I needed to clarify in advance: the sentiments and opinions I foolishly present here all belonged solely to me, and Mr. Dazai had absolutely no involvement in them.
Because my disguise and voice were so masterfully executed, readers might develop unexpected misconceptions—I couldn't risk causing any unforeseen trouble for Mr. Dazai.
I had to state this clearly in advance.

“Well, over here—to where the sun reaches.”
“…First time in Mitaka, eh?”

“Yes.”

“Wasn’t it hard to find? Didn’t get lost, huh?”

“Yes, I got a little lost.”

“Did you get off at Mitaka Station after all? People also come from the Kichijoji direction though.”

“Yes, I got off at Mitaka.”
“Can people also come from Kichijoji?”

“Yeah, they come through Inokashira Park and such, you know.”

“Oh, is that so? The sunlight here is wonderful—that’s what matters most, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, if the weather’s good enough, I don’t need a hibachi.”

“It’s truly warm and pleasant.”

“When alone, one tends to indulge oneself—doing nothing but basking in the sun all day.”

With a thoroughly surprised expression,

“Oh, are you living alone now, Mr. Dazai?”

“Yeah, I sent my wife and children back home—to my brother’s place in Aomori.”
“Living the bachelor life.”

“Is that so?”
“Do you handle the cooking yourself?”
“That must be quite trying.”
“...Yet you keep everything so tidy.”

The visitor didn't know this happened to be right after a major cleaning.
Here I would convey an impression of this person.
She had a cool air about her.
She had a radiant air about her.
The face showed not a trace of makeup.
The hair was a carelessly tied bun.
The clothing was sober.
Yet in both jacket and skirt could be perceived an unobtrusive taste.
It felt perfectly suited to its pattern.
Her age would have been around twenty-one or twenty-two.
There are people whose beauty crumbles when they laugh; this person gained charm.
That gave people an utterly worldly-wise impression.
Yet no shadow of misfortune lingered there.
Had she grown up in a large family and tasted some hardship?
When facing her,the impressions of girl and woman intermingled，tingling the observer’s senses like an electric current.

(Mr. Dazai, you mustn't laugh. Even I'm not exactly a complete novice, you know. But let's stop this now. I never wanted to go down realism's path in the first place.)

“Mr. Dazai, won’t you be returning to your hometown? Don’t you feel like going back?”

“I don’t feel like it. A pilgrim who returns to his hometown is a fool. I am eternally a pilgrim. That’s what I think.”

“A migratory bird?”

“Yeah, a migratory bird.”

"But you’ll be summoning your family here soon, won’t you?"

“No, I plan to keep my wife and children confined at Honshu’s northern tip for now. Bachelorhood has its own flavor. Lately, I’ve been feeling such nostalgia for Saigyō and Bashō. They feel so dear, don’t they?”

“In that case, your poor wife.”

"A wife? Just assign her to mind the children."

“Oh my.”

“And what’s more, I’m plotting to establish a mistress’s residence soon.”

“Oh my.”

Her surprise was so earnest that I panicked,

"No—truth be told, it hasn’t yet escaped the realm of fantasy."
“In the first place, there aren’t even any candidates.”

“Are you prospecting?” she asked, already wearing a smile.

“That’s right—I’m on the hunt.”

“But a mistress’s residence—what’s that about? It seems quite contrary to a life devoted to Bashō’s elegant ideals.”

“That’s precisely a commonplace argument. The mistress’s residence is precisely what radiates from the very depths of a man’s refined life—the ultimate reality. It is by arriving there that a man can perfect his life of refined elegance. All family life is gray; the only green—nay, golden—is life in a mistress’s residence.”

“That’s sheer sophistry.”

“Sheer sophistry, you say? When things don’t go their way, you women just dismiss everything as sophistry and foolish arguments, don’t you? When you hear ‘mistress’s residence,’ don’t you immediately imagine the scene of two people listlessly sitting around a long brazier? Pathetic. There’s a whole spectrum of mistress residences—from the sublime to the ridiculous. The Dragon Palace in Urashima, the Sparrow’s Inn—all Japanese folktales convey our ancestors’ yearning for mistress dwellings. Have you read my book Otogizōshi? What? You haven’t? That’s disgracefully unstudious. I insist you buy a copy and read it three times over. You shouldn’t waste time reading *Shufu no Tomo* and obsessing over sweet potato storage methods. Have you read Aftanides’ treatise on concubinage? Of course not. As Aftanides said—no, never mind that now. There’s no point overwhelming a young thing like you here. My mistress residence theory remains embryonic—I’ll unveil it to the world once my ideological framework matures. When that day comes, you’ll sit quietly and digest every word with due reverence. I daresay even your average housewife might find it edifying.”

“I’m looking forward to it.”

She laughed mockingly, yet it didn’t provoke any unpleasant feelings in me.
She seemed like a pleasant person.

"But even Bashō was shady, you know."

“What’s shady about him?” “Did Bashō have a mistress or something?”

“That’s right. ‘In mountain shadows, a melon field to sustain oneself’—there are people who find this verse suspicious. Bashō? For all his supposed refinement, that old man was quite the shrewd operator. Don’t you think he must’ve stashed some mistress away in some mountain hollow teeming with provisions? ‘You grow melons there’ while evening cooling—isn’t that just feigning ignorance? That’s corny. It’s exactly the kind of verse some acne-faced literary youth would come up with.”

“Oh, I think it’s rather charming.”

“Good? What’s good about it?”

“That melon verse of Bashō’s.”
“It’s lyrical.”

“Tch, you don’t seem entirely against it yourself.”
“While we’re at it, I’ll show you one more: ‘Neither morning nor evening can grasp it—the melon flower.’”

“My, all of Bashō’s melon verses do seem to have a refreshing quality about them, I must say.”

“Don’t go spouting Fujimura-esque platitudes. Though you fiercely opposed my mistress-residence theory, surely even you imagine a life secluded in some mountain village with a lover—gazing at melon blossoms wouldn’t be so disagreeable.”

“No, I entertain no such fantasies for myself. Yet knowing Bashō composed those verses gives me a certain... nostalgic warmth.”

“So you mean nostalgia suits Bashō, while Dazai merits vulgarity?”

He spoke with deliberate provocation.
Just one more push—the enemy would break through the ring!

“Oh, that wasn’t my intention at all.”
“But as for you, Sensei…”

"You don't have to mince words."
"No need for restraint."

She showed an expression of suppressing some amusement, but
“But sensei, there’s no way you could ever realize something like a mistress’s residence anyway.”

Got me!
I’d been cleanly countered with a last-ditch throw.
I let my guard down by underestimating her as a woman.
I had unintentionally misjudged the enemy's strength.
I had to reorganize my ranks.

“That’s harsh.”
“I’ve been utterly despised, haven’t I?”
“Do I look like such a coward to you?”
“Alright! I’ll definitely realize my aspirations and show you.”
“I will definitely have a mistress.”
“If my mistress has a child, I’ll dote on them like crazy.”
“A child born to a mistress—from the parents' perspective—that must be all the more pitiful.”
“Moreover, children born to mistresses aren’t so bad, are they?”
“Look, in plays when it’s a boy born to a mistress, he wears a rough-patterned kasuri kimono with long sleeves—you see? His obi sash gets tied in this bow with flowing tassels, and without exception he’s always a beautiful youth.”
“He’s the type who gets bullied by neighborhood brats only to be pitied by the girls.”
“That’s a good role.”
“Don’t you have some memory of that yourself?”
“There must’ve been at least one such child in your neighborhood during your girlhood.”
“And you secretly thought about that child in your heart—I suppose.”

I just kept spouting whatever came out of my mouth. I had just been lightly countered and was on the verge of tears, but through all that nonsense, I somehow managed to ease the tension in my expression. She simply laughed silently at my foolish remarks. Unable to stay seated any longer, I abruptly stood up and went to the kitchen, lifted the lid of the rice steamer, and jabbed at the potato with chopsticks—still hard. After gulping a ladleful of water from the bucket and wiping my face with a hand towel, I returned to find foreign cigarettes on the table—vivid in design and color. Was she planning to give me these? Like getting sweets after a moxa treatment. I'm no child. Still, I recomposed myself and sat facing her again, though playing host like this made me recall my first visit to Dazai-san's place. Compared to this composed woman before me now, I'd been extraordinarily tense back then. Fancying myself a warrior of singular caliber—it being our first meeting after all—I'd secretly worried Dazai-san might not recognize me, but such fears proved unfounded.

That time, when Dazai-san saw my pencil-written manuscript and remarked, "I've used pencils too, but they make you press harder and tire faster," I vigorously nodded—"Yes, absolutely! I can't help pressing too hard"—then made some pretentious comment about gripping the pencil like a bamboo sword due to my intense creative passion. To this fervent display, Dazai-san—sitting motionless as ever with slightly hunched back and downcast eyes before finally lifting his face wearily—observed: "Your shoulders seem tense." I was completely deflated. My sense of inadequacy toward this man deepened irrevocably.

“Sensei, don’t you smoke tobacco?”

I carelessly began to reply, then realized—that’s right, back in high school I was already a chain smoker burning through seventy Hope cigarettes a day—

“Well, unfortunately I’ve run out.”

“If you’d like, please help yourself.”

“Thanks.”
“I appreciate the offer, but foreign ones don’t agree with me.”
“I tried them once, but I couldn’t stop burping for about three days.”
“They don’t seem to agree with my palate.”

“It would be troublesome if you started burping, wouldn’t it?”

“The food’s terrible.”
“If you want to eat, don’t hold back.”

“No, I’m not much of an eater.”

“That’s right.”
“It doesn’t suit you.”

She showed a defiant glint in her eyes and smiled faintly while staring at me.
I felt a sense of wanting to hide my face.

“‘Sensei,’ she began hesitantly, still maintaining that smile at her lips.”
I involuntarily stared back at her face.
“Sensei, you’re younger than you appear in photographs,”
“Huh?”
“Moreover, you are far more beautiful.”

It was utterly unexpected. I turned beet red. I reddened with no way to hide it. Here I should have been blushing doubly, but even were I a master actor, such skillful pretense would be beyond me. I simply flushed crimson—for no one but Koyama Kiyoshi himself. Two careless blunders already—though I’d anticipated the lack of signed promo photos from the start, must she really affect such Mona Lisa airs? Damned impertinent. Could she actually be here to seduce Dazai Osamu? A George Sand type might well have worn such an expression. “I’ve been devotedly reading Sensei’s Schoolgirl.” Wouldn’t it be nice if she’d shown charm enough to add, “I was quite struck by your transformation”?

“I don’t get shy. I’ve been practicing not to get shy lately. It’s unbecoming for a man to keep blushing all the time. Even so, you’re not nearly traditional enough.”

“No, it’s just that you seemed rather different from your photographs.”

“Photographs—I hate them.”
“I’ve never trusted them from the start.”
“Cameras are no good because they lack a heart.”
“They lack a heart that should respond to the truth of things.”
“There are people who say cameras are honest, but that sort of honesty is what you might call crap realism.”

“Well, how should I put it? But Sensei, you’re truly done a disservice in photographs.”

It was a feeling of being tickled and tantalized. Though I felt guilty toward Dazai-san far away in Kanagi, I didn’t entirely dislike this situation. Ah, being alone was such an oppressive thing.

“Moreover, since I’m far too modest in how my cheek addresses the town within my works, strangers seem to regard me as some sort of Notre-Dame monster.”
“It’s vexing dealing with folks who can’t grasp a poet’s penchant for obscurity.”
“Well, it’s as if I invited this false accusation upon myself.”
“I have no one to blame.”
“By the way, regarding appearance, I have one anecdote from my past.”
“However, in front of someone I’m meeting for the first time, well, you see…”

“I would very much like to hear it.”

“Well then, shall I tell the story? What I call my Kabuki-za Theatre incident, you see. At the time, it caused quite a stir among friends. It’s a story from the past. One day, on my way back from a stroll in Ginza, I wandered into the Kabuki-za Theatre on a whim. As it happened, that day there was some geisha group viewing—whether from Yanagibashi or Shinbashi, I can’t recall—and there they were, these resplendent women filling the seats.” Secretly blessing this fortunate coincidence of a fine day, even during the performance I found myself more distracted by them than the stage, when before long among that group sitting a little ways from my seat, there were some who kept glancing my way while whispering to each other. “I couldn’t help but grow curious myself, and though I couldn’t quite make it out when I strained my ears—‘Sis, Narikomaya’s here!’ ‘What? Where?” “Oh, it’s Narikomaya!” “‘How lovely!’ I tried to survey my surroundings inconspicuously. To my right sat an old man who might be called a Master Kikakudō type with his juttoku hood, to my left a thoroughly ordinary female student resembling a Miss YWCA—her round face as if drawn with a compass, glasses perched atop it—and looking around beyond them, there was no sign of anyone matching this Narikomaya who was the subject of their sigh-like whispers.” “They still showed no sign of ceasing their whispers or casting glances over their shoulders.” “I found myself in this strange mix of ecstasy and anxiety, you see—and when I became convinced their gazes were all falling squarely on my face, that feeling reached its absolute peak.”

“Excuse me for interrupting, but what exactly is this ‘Narikomaya’?”

“Isn’t he an actor? The previous Fukusuke. But you haven’t seen Fukusuke before, have you? Well, if you picture him as something like the very model of a handsome man, you wouldn’t be wrong.”

“Now then—at that moment of peak tension—something flashed through my mind.”

“I once received what you might call chivalric counsel from someone.”

“About how to conduct oneself when receiving suggestive glances from professionals in theaters.”

“In such situations—so they say—those women never fail to find some opening from their target to hand over calling cards. Therefore, one must remain mindful and leave ample gaps to let them smoothly perform this act.”

“Recalling this advice then—and rousing a great surge of valor thinking Now I too shall pursue what my predecessor sought—I rose swiftly during intermission and went out to the corridor.”

“Holding close this martyr-like wish—Where life’s encounters and destined bonds lie hidden only God knows; toward opportunity I shall remain utterly obedient—I paced fervently back and forth along Kabuki-za’s corridors.”

“I believed I’d left sufficient openings.”

“Feeling almost like I’d become Sukeroku himself—my heart fluttered with anticipation that business cards would soon rain down.”

“So, did it rain?”

“But not a single drop fell. They too came out to the corridor and gathered in small clusters here and there, though they still wouldn’t stop those whispers of theirs. ‘How lovely, Narikomaya!’ ‘My, doesn’t he have a nice profile?’ ‘Oh look, he’s taking out a handkerchief to wipe his nose.’ ‘Doesn’t he resemble Pushkin?’ Of course they didn’t actually say that last part—but still, not a single soul among that crowd stepped forward to show me any particular courtesy. I lost count of how many times I paced that corridor, but it all ended in futility.”

“It must have felt like you were being teased, don’t you think?”

“That’s right. They only lavish praise but never undo purse strings. Professionals truly are cunning creatures. When I later recounted this tale among friends, they chorused ‘Treat us!’—declaring that merely being mistaken for Narikomaya counted as grand success—and for a time thereafter called me by that name.”

“What an amusing story.”
“That’s so like you, Sensei.”

“The part where it doesn’t succeed, right? I’d love to give you some lingering sentimental aftermath, but facts remain facts. Anyway, it’s an old story. But even now, I’ll sometimes remember it and find myself stroking my chin alone.”

When he said that, his hand naturally went to his chin.
The stubble prickled against his palm.
"More handsome than your photos, eh Dazai-san? Envy-worthy, envy-worthy"—I involuntarily smirked, then jolted to awareness. When I looked at the visitor's face, her gaze had passed over my head and now lingered somewhere behind me.
Behind me was the tokonoma alcove, and on the wall hung Dazai-san’s calligraphy scroll—oh, this one. “Waiting and waiting / This year bloomed peach flowers / Hearing ‘white’ yet / The blossoms are crimson.”
This is Dazai-san’s poem from his work *Leaves and the Magic Flute*, which the reader is already familiar with.
When Dazai-san was staying at a lodge at the foot of Mount Mitake in Bushū writing *Justice and Smile*, one day I visited and was allowed to stay overnight; the next day, his wife came to pick up Sonoko-san, who was on his back, and I returned to Mitaka together with them.
It was during that time—with his drunken brush flowing freely—that he wrote this poem on shoji paper for me.
After that, I was conscripted and mobilized to Nippon Kentetsu Kōgyō Kabushikigaisha in Mikawashima. Among my fellow workers was a paperhanger, and I asked him to mount it.
During that March 10th air raid, I was caught in the disaster at Shitaya Ryusenji-cho, and at that time I took this scroll along with several of my humble works and my mobilization bag, wrapped in a cloth bundle, and fled.
It was after I began house-sitting at the thatched cottage in Mitaka that I first hung this on the wall.
The visitor was now gazing intently at it.

“You’re staring with such mockingly intense scrutiny.”
“Do you despise it?”
“This belongs to a friend.”
“A friend who kept house for me while I was evacuated to Kofu.”
“I merely left it hanging there carelessly, but you mustn’t scorn it.”

“Did you compose this poem when your child was born?”

“No—why do you ask?”

“When you thought it would be a boy but it turned out to be a girl—isn’t that the sentiment expressed in the poem?”

“You have quite an odd intuition.”
“That’s not it, but...”

“Then, does it carry some romantic implication?”

“Well, some things are better left unsaid—that’s how it goes. I just wielded a drunken brush in a tipsy daze and presented it for a friend’s amusement, but he went and had it splendidly framed. Come March 10 air raid, they say he fled carrying it like a family heirloom.”

“My, he’s quite an admirable person.”
“So you do still write novels?”

“Yeah, Sensei does write them.”

“Who might that be?”

“Who do you mean? Just saying the name won’t start anything.”
“The things he’s writing haven’t seen the light of day even once.”

“My, he’s quite unknown.”
“That’s splendid.”
“But they’ll be published eventually, won’t they?”

“Since he isn’t in a position to live idly off his writing, he’ll probably start a business before long.”

“So you’re granting him a branch of your shop, then?”

“I suppose I can’t entirely play ignorant.”

“What a terribly indifferent tone you have.”
“I’m looking forward to it.”
“Might I hear his name?”

“Aren’t you being absurdly eager? That’s what they call yearning for unseen love, isn’t it? Not to dampen your spirits, but you really shouldn’t get your hopes up too much.”

“My, if Sensei himself says such things, that’s precisely when we’ll get nowhere, isn’t it? It’s for your friend’s business opening announcement.”
“He’s a dull yet pretentious man, so I don’t know what kind of name he’d put on display, but it’s Koyama Kiyoshi.”

My face burned as if on fire.
This too could not be helped.
It was not for anyone’s sake—it was for my unfortunate friend.
When starting out, didn’t everyone experience feelings like this?
Oh, what embarrassment!
“Koyama Kiyoshi is such a ridiculous name.”
“He can’t help but blush.”
“Doesn’t it have that tumbling-down-a-hill feel?”
“In Shinpa theater, there’s some whiny-voiced actor with a name like that.”
“And that one’s also a country-circuit actor.”
“Couldn’t it have been a bit better?”
“He acts like he’s some handsome guy, you know.”

“Oh, that’s not true at all. It’s a lovely name—something refined... Charles-Louis Philippe, that sort of feel.”

“Is that so? I don’t agree. Of course, you haven’t met the man himself. Take one look at him, and even you’d want to revise that impression.”

“Oh my, you do go on with such mother-in-lawish remarks.”

“Again with the ‘my, oh my.’ Why must you women constantly use those interjections—‘ah’ this and ‘my’ that?”
“As long as you women keep clinging to those banal phrases, no matter how hard we writers try, we’ll never bring fresh air to our conversations.”

“I refuse.”
“That’s what we call self-justification.”

“What exactly am I supposed to be justifying?”

“It’s an unshakable established reputation that Sensei isn’t particularly skilled at depicting conversations.”

Impudent wench.
This time she landed a light tap on the wrist.
She’s got quite the bite to her.

“Oh? There exists such an established reputation?”
“That’s news to me.”
“Only husbands remain ignorant.”
“At any rate, that was careless of me.”
“I shall engrave your admonition in my liver and never forget it.”
“Still, you show clumsiness in the art of words.”
“One mustn’t use language that handcuffs those bearing unshakable reputations.”
“When confronted so rigidly, even I find myself compelled to engrave it in my liver.”
“Therein lies the essence—handle it delicately, acknowledging such rumors may exist while restraining them. That constitutes true literary craft.”
“You appear yet unmarried, do you not?”
“Cease this spirited prattling.”
“You might become a Diet member yet find no marital prospects.”
“Regarding prose alone—this I comprehend faintly.”
“How insolent! From a mere woman!”
“I make no self-justifications here.”
“Nor do I attack you.”
“I impart unto you certain minor innovations concerning verbal artistry.”
“You must attend with that intent.”
“In matters of prose, I possess some slight understanding.”
Of course, setting aside my own circumstances.

No—that too might be self-conceit.
"You’re unmarried—this makes sense—no, what am I saying? Ah, I’m hopeless—I know nothing—understand nothing—don’t believe a single word I say."

This here—Dazai-sensei’s signature jumbled, incoherent style.
It’s the kind of thing that would have the Younger Generation applauding and cheering, but the fact that this wasn’t a talkie was utterly regrettable.
Hmph, when it came to wielding the voice and mannerisms of Dazai Osamu himself—this tongue’s life-or-death dexterity—well, none could surpass me there.
Yet even when confronted with my painstakingly crafted performance, she showed not the slightest reaction,

“Oh no, how could I have been so impertinent… So you’re Mr. Koyama after all—that brilliant intellect, that radiant talent—”

“And to top it off with ‘unrestrained and free-spirited,’ huh? But it’s the opposite. He’s just a squirming potato bug. His dullness of mind is extreme. Take this hero, for example—he only realizes today a humiliation from ten years ago, agonizing and groaning over ‘I was disgraced back then! I should’ve been outraged!’ until he finally gives himself asthma and ends up bedridden for a week. That’s how he operates—everyday life’s just one belated realization after another. Try talking face-to-face with him for five minutes—you’ll be bored to death. At his age, he can’t manage even seasonal greetings properly, let alone make normal small talk. He’s like a baby. You know that rakugo bit—where Gonbei goes ‘Blimey, it’s scorchin’!’ and someone retorts ‘At this rate, the whole mountain’s gotta be on fire!’? That’s him. Whenever he opens his mouth, it’s nothing but literature. And he piles up such extreme rhetoric that I’m left speechless. ‘I don’t want to lose my solitary attitude.’ ‘Let’s summon our lofty spirits and do this as if ready to die.’ With Sensei, sobriety itself is a state of intoxication.”

“You’re quite the serious one, aren’t you?”

“Seriousness isn’t some trifling matter.”
“It’s what you’d call the very pinnacle of damned earnestness.”
“The sort who’d visit a public bath wearing a morning coat and silk hat.”
“Yet when uncouthness reaches such extremes, it becomes rather humorous.”
“He’s like an ornament in the tokonoma alcove of a tea house.”

“And what of your own writings?”

“Now, regarding these crucial writings of yours.”
“To put it in terms of a simile—it’s like the Surugaya shop clerk tallying accounts before his master: pure dutifulness.”
“It’s like cracking foreheads together till sparks fly—stories stripped bare of all artifice.”
“The absolute zenith of shit realism.”

“What is this? Ever since I began listening, you’ve done nothing but speak ill of him.”
“He’s your disciple, isn’t he?”
“Sensei shouldn’t criticize your own disciple.”
“I’ve never read your work myself, but I’m sure you write wonderful pieces.”

“Now look here—you’re the one who keeps stubbornly defending Koyama!”
“This is getting tiresome.”
“You came to see Dazai, didn’t you?”
“You didn’t come here to discuss Koyama.”
“Not that I’m jealous, but this is tedious.”
“Let’s stop talking about Koyama altogether.”
“Ever since we mentioned Koyama even once, I feel like we’ve become some clumsy comic duo act.”
I might have actually succeeded had I become a comedy writer instead.
“Now this is a revelation!”

In truth, I had grown weary even of self-aggrandizement.
(Dazai-san once said: “Lie!”)

“Talking about people who seem born from literary excrement has made me feel rather oppressive.”
“Let’s change the mood, shall we?”
“Aren’t there any ghost stories?”
“Since Kyoka, even ghost stories seem to have dried up, don’t you think?”
“In a world where atomic bombs rain down, even ghosts can’t find a place to dwell, can they?”
“This is a digression, but atomic bombs—aren’t they what you’d call the forbidden move in sumo?”
“For example, one might call it Raiden’s kumade.”

“That does seem possible.”
“Oh right—what was it? I heard bombs fell around here too, isn’t that right?”

“Yeah, while atomic bombs didn’t fall here, we actually had a narrow escape.”
“There used to be a house beyond this garden, but the damage was so severe they had to demolish it.”
“Even this house has been battered by the blast.”
“Even now when it rains, the roof leaks.”
“The fact this shoji lacks glass is another memento from that time.”

“When the air raid commotion settled and we entered the house, the entrance shoji had fallen onto the futon left spread out, its glass dislodged.”
“Since it landed on the futon, the glass hadn’t broken.”
“Dazai-san took that dislodged glass as heaven-sent manna and carried it to his regular bar to request sake in exchange.”
“While Marmeladov—that drunkard from Crime and Punishment—swallows his wife’s socks, Dazai-san here went and swallowed shoji glass panes.”
“Regarding drinkers’ credentials—which deserves seniority and which junior status—I’d like to put that question to Mr. Dostoevsky.”

“Did it fall that close?”

“Close? It wasn’t just close—they conducted a concentrated bombing raid centered around my house, covering this entire small neighborhood.”
“Incoming planes—incoming planes kept dropping them one after another.”
“And they were all big ones—250-kg and 500-kg monsters, I tell you.”

“That must have been terrible.”
“I would like to hear all the details from the very beginning.”

“It was the April 2nd predawn air raid—the first time they used those time bombs.”
“Four or five days before that, I’d evacuated my wife and children to her hometown in Kofu—leaving just me and Koyama here.”
“Koyama keeps appearing in this story too, but since Sensei also plays a role—even if minor—we can’t cut it out.”
“Koyama had come here after getting caught in the March 10th air raid.”
“That night, after we’d gotten some liquor from our usual bar in Kichijoji and started drinking together, this big shot casually showed up.”
“Tanaka Hidemitsu came all the way from Yokohama carrying a one-sho bottle.”

“Is that the author of *The Fruits of Olympus*?”
“How wonderful!”
“That novel truly embodies youthful literature.”
“So then, Sensei—when you, Mr. Koyama, and Mr. Tanaka had gathered together—a bomb fell right then?”
“How historically significant.”

“Now don’t mock me.”
“I’m about to recount our brush with death.”
“We three began drinking—Koyama being a lightweight—so Tanaka and I drained nearly all of it. We composed nonsensical linked verses, and even after retiring to bed, we heckled that framed Giotto Madonna like drunks catcalling streetwalkers—‘Doesn’t this Mary reek of carnal impurity?’”
“‘Look at those eyes and neckline!’ ‘She’s a magic-lantern Mary from the pleasure quarters!’ ‘Giotto must’ve confused her with Magdalene!’ We toyed with such sacrilegious aesthetics until finally dozing off near dawn.”
“‘How lonely the white plum blossoms! O B-29!’”
“That doggerel verse Tanaka spat out—in hindsight, it functioned as an incantation.”
“Soon enough, as if answering his terrestrial summons, B-29s came calling.”
“When I awoke to ‘Air raid!’, enemy planes already loomed overhead—flares casting wan light—we barely dressed before the booms began.”
“After herding those two panicked fools into the shelter first, Yoshitsune here stayed perfectly calm—gulping down the morning-after sake I’d saved in my teacup.”

“How crafty of you.”

“That’s too harsh a word for it.”
“When it comes to liquor, I do hold seniority by a day.”
“But let me tell you—when we entered that air-raid shelter, what a shock awaited us.”
“We managed to squeeze in but couldn’t budge an inch.”
“The shelter at my place was something I’d cobbled together halfheartedly—shallow as a puddle.”
“It would’ve sufficed for just me and my family, but with Tanaka—that hulking fellow—present, and neither Koyama nor I being small men... Well, even the shelter must’ve been taken aback.”
“Crouching there with our bodies pressed together, I could feel Tanaka’s trembling torso vibrating against mine.”
“‘What’s wrong with you?’ I asked.”
“‘C-cold,’ he chattered through rattling teeth.”
“Looking over, I saw he wore only an undershirt—no time to grab his coat.”
“Though his shivering seemed more than mere chilliness, he dashed back inside for his coat anyway.”
“When he returned to the shelter, he glared resentfully—‘Dazai-san, you drank it!’”
“Seems he’d remembered his morning-after drink while fetching his coat and meant to retrieve it.”
“‘Think I’d overlook that?’ I shot back.”
“‘Then take this!’ he declared, producing rationed bonito flakes from his pocket—emergency provisions for our siege.”
“Pure panic.”
“Tanaka’s always been like this—once at a drinking party, he excused himself to the toilet only to return clutching their cat.”
“‘Apologies for dirtying your lavatory,’ he announced.”
“‘Brought you this cat instead.’ As if feline procurement constituted proper apology!”
“The man’s utterly addled.”

“And what did Mr. Koyama do?”

“As for Koyama—he’s beyond the pale, you know. He was apparently in a daze, half in a trance.”

“That sounds like the precursor to a fainting spell.”

“That’s right. There seems to be something about Koyama’s cerebral nerve tissue that isn’t quite ordinary. When I was in Kofu and he came to visit—we drank wine together—it turned into a truly pitiful affair. In a half-sobbing voice, he said, ‘Mr. Dazai, does God exist?’ I earnestly replied, ‘I think He exists. If there were no God, who would see the wicked deeds we’ve done in secret?’ I rebuked him. ‘God keeps a ledger—in that ledger of His, every unknown evil and good we’ve committed is recorded.’ When I said this, he puckered his face even more and said, ‘It seems I won’t die peacefully on tatami mats after all. I’ll end up hanging myself, won’t I?’ This left me quite startled too, you see. After getting him home, I said, ‘Just lie down for a bit,’ and gave him a pillow. But once he’d napped, he recovered as cleanly as a malaria patient after the fever breaks, then started grinning and saying things like, ‘There’s this cute girl at my company—whenever she brings me tea, her cheeks always flush pink. Is this an auspicious sign for me? Or perhaps inauspicious?’ he’d say with a grin, spouting such lovey-dovey nonsense. He’s making a mockery of people. I’ve made it a rule not to drink much with Koyama anymore. What spineless drivel—and over just a bottle or two of wine! If someone were to pester me with ‘Mr. Dazai, please die with me,’ I couldn’t handle it. This may have gone off track, but in any case, Tanaka and Koyama were in such a state—and as you can imagine, the shelter was packed to capacity—with the added problem that every time a bomb fell, the shelter walls would crumble until all three of us were half-buried. That sound—or rather, that roar—of bombs whistling down through the air was truly horrendous, an awful thing. But when they hit the ground and explode—that’s when it’s terrifying. Whooosh, boom! Crack-crack-crack, clatter-clatter, thud!”

“You’ve got to experience it firsthand to understand,” I said. “After all, it was a close-range bomb.” Each time the explosions came, the three of us would cling together yet never feel truly alive. Tanaka and Koyama seemed convinced my house had long since been blown away, but I still retained some semblance of composure since I could see my entranceway’s glass door through a gap in the shelter wall.

After several blasts, we heard a neighborhood watchman shout, “Mr. Tsushima’s backyard is burning!” We scrambled out to investigate, only to find billowing white smoke without visible flames. We stood dumbstruck as if fox-bewitched until someone cried “Poison gas!”—at which everyone panicked, covering faces as they fled.

“Water! Get water!” I screamed without knowing why myself. Tanaka and Koyama went tumbling toward the well pump, working it with creaking groans as they gulped water noisily. Gradually the smoke thinned—proving no poison after all—but just as we sighed in relief came more booms! We dove back into our crumbling shelter where no true safety existed.

“This time we’re finished,” I kept thinking—that constant dread became unbearable. Later we found huge garden stones scattered before our shelter; bombs next door had hurled them our way—a direct hit would’ve crushed us instantly.

When the next lull came, their mud-caked faces—foreheads, cheeks, noses all smeared—looked so absurd I laughed outright until they made me feel my own filthy face.

“Out of sight, out of mind” they say—yet though we’d cowered lifeless moments before, during that brief respite we amused ourselves critiquing each other’s grimy visages until civil defense shouts came: “Ms. ○○’s shelter collapsed! Help needed!”

Now this Ms. ○○ was a scholar’s widow in our district—a refined lady who’d grace even me with gentle nods when we met on streets—someone I’d long secretly admired.

Hearing “Ms. ○○’s in peril!” knightly fervor surged through me—forgetting danger, I kicked free from shelter to charge heroically forth when Tanaka grabbed my ankle yelling “Stop! Stop!”

“A call from reality,” you might say—or perhaps like Sancho Panza feigning restraint on windmill-charging Don Quixote.

“Though Tanaka likely meant to restrain me out of concern, in that moment his voice felt like a demon’s whisper. ‘Begone, Satan!’ I roared—kicking down his clinging hands, shoving him aside, tucking the fireman’s hook under my arm lest I forget this essential tool—and just as I prepared to stride down my kabuki stage runway, came another Boom! Boom!”
“The Don Quixote of Mitaka Village scrambled back into the air-raid shelter.”

“That was such a near miss.”
“Wouldn’t that be when the gallery shouts ‘Narikoma-ya!’?”
“And what became of Ms. ○○?”

“After about an hour of artificial respiration was administered, she was revived, I hear. For me as well—having felt such a surge of spirit, something I’ve rarely experienced even looking back on half my life—the timing proved unfavorable. The honor of my fresh valor was wasted, leaving a regret that will linger a thousand years.”

“But when push comes to shove, Sensei proves braver than his disciples after all, doesn’t he?”

“That’s right.
“That’s been the established way since time immemorial.
“A retainer cannot surpass his lord, a disciple cannot equal his master, and a wife cannot outdo her husband.”

“Even so, Mr. Tanaka is a battlefield-seasoned warrior, isn’t he?”

“That’s right. While someone like Koyama remains a useless foot soldier who’s no help in any situation—peacetime or emergency—so that’s to be expected, Tanaka usually prides himself on being a tough guy who’d declare himself Sakanoue no Tamuramaro, Chinzei Hachirō Tameyoshi, or even Mori no Ishikawa Goemon. Naturally I felt reassured and had secretly been counting on him—but lo and behold, things unfolded exactly as you’ve heard.”
“This comes from Tanaka’s earnest account, but he said the situation at that time felt like facing the enemy across fifty meters on the front lines.”
“And he claimed the terror surpassed even that of actual combat.”
“When dawn broke and we withdrew from there, Tanaka’s parting words became another gem.”
“‘I’m never returning to Mitaka again.’ Even the great Sun Wukong himself must’ve had his courage shaken out of him, it seems.”

“But it’s fortunate your wife and children weren’t here, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah, writers have a strange intuition, don’t they?”

These casually uttered words were in fact an exact reproduction of Dazai-san’s own recollections from that time—ones I had mimicked verbatim in this conversation—and they left me with a lingering sense of guilt.
When I was burned out of Ryusenji Town on March 10th, I immediately screamed “Ah! Disaster-stricken! Disaster-stricken!” and rushed all the way to Mitaka to plead my case.
Mr. Dazai promptly said, “Let’s study together.”
It felt as though I’d driven out his wife and children myself.
When dawn broke after the Mitaka air raid and Mr. Tanaka had returned to Yokohama, we found ourselves scrambling about amidst time bombs detonating here and there. When I remarked, “Seems I’m quite the disaster magnet,” someone advised, “Best not dwell on it.” But when I added, “They say what happens twice will happen thrice,” they responded with a bitter smile: “What a thing to say”—though all this transpired.

“Then, before long, the enemy planes departed and dawn broke—but to make matters worse, they’d left behind these time bombs as parting gifts. Those things started going off everywhere, and whether because the soil was soft or whatnot, unexploded ones got buried all over the place. With no telling when those might blow up next, none of us could even go home to clean up.”
“The townspeople were all taken to the nearby elementary school, see, and until further notice, they weren’t allowed to just go back home—that’s how it was.”
“Even those who wanted to return home after taking direct hits found their houses gone—there were so many like that—so Koyama and I ended up staying with Mr. Kamei Katsuchirō in Kichijoji for about a week.”

“Mr. Kamei’s house remained unharmed, I take it?”

“Yes, Mr. Kamei’s place didn’t suffer any damage until the war’s end.”
“While imposing on him, enemy planes kept attacking—each time sending us scrambling in and out of the air-raid shelter with his family—yet Mr. Kamei remained unflappably composed during those raids: utterly resolute and utterly calm, as if one might envision Prince Shōtoku himself strolling through Ikaruga Village’s spring sunlight.”
“He operated on a completely different plane from those trembling at sirens or fainting from panic.”
“Perhaps owing to his weighty responsibility as air defense leader—even while we shook in that shelter—Mr. Kamei kept a megaphone at his lips, relentlessly relaying radio updates to the neighborhood association. Seeing him maintain that elder’s dignity and steady composure made me reluctant to act shamefully myself—but given this followed our terrible ordeal, though not to Tanaka or Koyama’s degree, whenever someone shouted ‘Enemy planes!’, my legs—no, my whole body—went tumbling toward that shelter.”
“The body won’t obey the mind.”
“No sooner do I think ‘Ah!’ than I’m already slipping inside.”
“Even I—the Don Quixote of real life—had finally grown physically sick of these raids, you see.”

“No, where there’s life, there’s hope.”
“I’m so relieved you’re unharmed.”
“Oh, isn’t there something on the fire?”
“It seems to be blowing quite violently.”

“Oh! Right—the potatoes! The potatoes!”

He had been so engrossed in conversation that he’d completely forgotten.
Flustered, he rushed to the kitchen and removed the lid to look—the potatoes were already steamed enough that there was no need to poke them with chopsticks.
When he returned to the sitting room after heaping them into a large bowl, she was jotting something down in a small notebook.
She stared wide-eyed at the heaped mound of potatoes placed on the table—perhaps startled—but quickly regained her usual composed expression and resumed writing with her fountain pen.

"They might be a bit over-steamed," he said, promptly stuffing one into his mouth. It seems I've managed to pull off the disguise after all. There appeared to be no loss of composure whatsoever—if anything, I might actually have a talent for acting. They say it’s the fox who borrows the tiger’s might, but even my impersonation naturally exuded something moving enough to impress others; she was likely recording that very impression in her notebook right now. Once this thought struck me, my affectations grew all the more pronounced—I felt compelled to spout moralist-style maxims worthy of filling those pages with worldly wisdom for her benefit. Yet spouting maxims while munching potatoes felt distasteful, and though I wanted to shift gears with an old senryū verse, lines like “Borrowing the tiger’s might to peddle five-scent incense” came off as too pretentious… though truth be told, I was too busy devouring potatoes.

“Now, let’s talk while we eat.”
“I’ll dig in heartily too, so don’t you fall behind.”
“Mr. Fujimura has those Iroha cards, don’t you know?”
“Among them, well, there’s one called ‘a heaping mound of taro.’”
“In other words, this is it.”
“This is sweet potato, but they’re much the same.”
“This is mere conjecture on my part, but I humbly suspect Mr. Fujimura conceived this phrase after observing a certain lady of his acquaintance.”
“At least for me, this phrase allows me to clearly envision a certain type of woman.”
“A heaping mound of taro—the impression this phrase gives is absolutely not male; it is undeniably female.”
“I may be a lousy fortune-teller, but let me try to spin this into something.”
“Generally speaking, it’s a type more commonly seen in rural areas than in cities.”
“It’s better to make her a complete country bumpkin.”
“When washed by city water, this becomes something entirely different.”
“First, health—this impression is clear to anyone, don’t you think?”
“She’s of average height and moderately plump.”
“She’s somewhat sturdily built, but it’s decidedly not the hysterical sort of plumpness.”
“She has a round face, a sanguine complexion, and cheeks that are always glistening.”
“Fertile.”
“She's a hard worker.”
“She loves doing laundry.”

“However, she isn’t very skilled at sewing.”
“That said, she isn’t the type to calmly dress her husband and children in tattered kimonos.”
“When she has free time, she mends rags—she’s the type to prepare dusters and such in advance.”
“She isn’t particularly skilled at simmered dishes.”
“They’re a bit coarse in flavor.”
“Her disposition is kind and hospitable toward guests, but her manner of hospitality—in other words, this heaping mound of taro—is precisely that.”
“It’s non-stop chatter and a literal onslaught of taro heaped mountain-high.”
“I can understand wanting to entertain guests to the fullest, but it’s the type that goes about conveying abundance through sheer volume rather than any artistry—a single-minded onslaught of quantity.”
“Mr. Fujimura must have at some point received such hospitality from that housewife—finding her likable yet also somewhat overwhelming.”
“Upon returning home, he muttered, ‘Well, today I faced a heaping mound of taro assault.’ Thus, by happenstance, the ‘sa’ section of his planned Iroha karuta was filled.”
“As for me, I don’t mind the heaping mound of taro itself, but the chatter leaves me speechless.”
“She seems nice enough as a household manager, but I’ll pass on having her as a wife.”

“That’s quite a brilliant contrivance.”

“However, the brilliance lies with Mr. Fujimura.”
“Despite appearances, Mr. Fujimura seems to have possessed quite an elegant taste in humor.”
“He brought it to the very end of the karuta and made sure to find a suitable husband for this housewife.”
“S—‘Watermelon Completely Naked,’* as they say.”
“This requires no explanation.”
“Watermelon Completely Naked*—this is absolutely not female; it is undeniably male.”
“He’s no less healthy than his wife.”
“He’s even stouter than his wife.”
“His stature leans toward the shorter side for a man.”
“But dress him in a montsuki and hakama, and behold how dignified and impressive he becomes!”
“Something akin to a town hall revenue officer, I should think.”
“Well-regarded by both superiors and subordinates alike.”
“Come summer, he’ll strip to the waist, drenched in sweat, likely to wrestle with the office boy.”
“When someone like the village mayor inquires, ‘Where’s the revenue officer?’ the office lad replies, ‘Taking another nap under the wisteria trellis out back.’”
“No sooner does he return home than he flops onto the tatami, teasing the children.”
“Let his wife prattle on beside him—it troubles him not a whit.”
“Well, that’s about the measure of it.”
“For a wife who’s a heaping mound of taro, a completely naked watermelon of a husband makes the perfect match.”
“This couple will fare splendidly, mark my words.”
“Even their children will grow up carefree.”

“This too is my speculation, but there must have been people around Mr. Fujimura who gave off that ‘Watermelon Completely Naked’ vibe.”
“Now, don’t you feel that way?”
“But let’s put an end to this karuta commentary now.”
“Ah, right! There was one perfect thing for you.”
“I shall present it.”
“I’ll tell you now—you’d better note this down in your notebook so you don’t forget.”

She solemnly opened the notebook and held the fountain pen at the ready.
Hmph, women are so naive—the moment they think it’s about them, they start giving you those passionate looks.
“Ha—‘a lantern from the nose,’ as they say.”

For a moment she seemed to flinch, but immediately showed a defiant glint in her eyes, never losing her smile as her expression seemed to say, “Do tease me all you like.”

“It’s a lie! It’s a joke!”
“Who would do such a thing—who’d think of you that way?”
“That’s me—no, Koyama.”
“Koyama is that kind of man, you see.”
“He always acts like he’s got a lantern hanging from his nose.”
“Anyway, why don’t we just conquer this heaping mound before us together?”

“Yes, it’s delicious,” she said with an innocent face. “But it’s surprising there’s so much taro.”

“I go all the way to Chiba to buy them.”

“Oh, do you go out to buy provisions too, Mr. Dazai?”
“It must be difficult.”

“It’s convenient because there’s a train from Nakano to Chiba.”
“Well, it takes a whole day.”
“I haul seven or eight kan at a time.”

“It’s still men who do it after all.”

“Well now—I see plenty of girls your age around too.”
“Everyone’s hauling quite a load these days, I tell you.”
“Don’t you go too?”
“From what I glimpsed in that instant—you’re a bicycle virtuoso.”
“How’s that—bullseye, eh?”

“Spot on.”

I ate heartily, but she didn’t hold back either.
Talking while eating felt peaceful and nice.
I began feeling a familiar, relaxed mood, as if sitting with a cousin I’d grown up alongside since childhood.
I started wanting to tear off the mask completely.
I might have genuinely fallen for this person.
If she had any intention of becoming my bride, I thought I might even take her in.

“How about some sweet red bean soup, Mr. Dazai?”

“Well then, I wouldn’t refuse.”
“And right now I’ve got this overwhelming craving for bean paste buns.”

“Oh, I must say.
“I’d like some bean paste buns too, I must say.”

“Those bean paste buns disappeared in the blink of an eye, didn’t they?”
“Wasn’t there one with salted cherry blossoms stuffed in that indented part like a navel?”
“When you’re surrounded by nothing but substitutes, you start longing for the real thing, don’t you?”

“Oh yes, when I was a child I loved bean paste buns so much—I usually brought them instead of a proper lunchbox on school excursions, I must say.”

“That’s right. On sunny days, I’d like to go for a walk with some bean paste buns.”

While eating taro, I seemed to have forgotten my posture entirely. I slipped into an entranced, surrendering mood—like soaking in a quiet indoor bath on a spring rain afternoon while listening to distant shamisen plucking. Though laying bare my provincial roots, discussing bean paste buns perhaps suited me best. Ah, how I wished we could talk forever. Yet that would leave her thinking Dazai Osamu was some gluttonous fool. To be frank, I’m the sort of man whose mouth waters at even a newspaper headline about bumper crops. Despite maintaining smooth pretense until now, during this meal I faced imminent danger of unintentionally exposing my true nature—resulting in my Dazai-esque affectation growing thin. This wouldn’t do. I had to don that demon mask once more.

“While my longing for bean paste buns is one thing, I now find myself intensely wanting to fall in love. I feel like asking some master of that art to teach me the ropes. And I want to pull off a spectacular one at that. For instance, performing a once-in-a-lifetime steamy scene with a famously talented actress and having our scandalous affair echo through posterity—that’s what I crave. You see, I’ve had this strange reputation forever—they say Dazai can’t write romance novels, that I should just stick to delinquent boys. How outrageous! They’re making a fool of me. They seem to think of me as nothing but a delinquent ringleader or some wholesaler. So I want to correct that misconception once and for all—to demonstrate through actual deeds that I too can wring crimson tears from the daughters of this land. Maybe it’s because I’m nearing forty and growing anxious.”

“Middle-aged love?”

“Yes, middle-aged love—” I muttered, and the moment I did, I burst out laughing.
It was because I had remembered that Mr. Dazai’s upper jaw had full dentures.

“Oh, how dreadful I must say! What is so funny, I must say?”

“No—”
I finally managed to suppress my laughter but in that instant thought of,
“Speaking of middle-aged love, that Tayama Katai fellow was quite interesting.”

Still wearing a half-convinced expression, she said, “*Futon*?”

“You’ve read it too, I see. In that novel, there’s a scene where the protagonist drinks sake, collapses in the toilet still wearing his padded robe, and lies there sulking in protest—you know? It’s funny.”

“Well? I don’t recall that part well, I must say.”

She wore an expression suggesting such peripheral details escaped her memory.

“I recently reread some Katai—they’re all so masterful. There are interesting ones among his late-life short stories. I’ve forgotten the title, but Katai travels with a woman and her mother. When things sour between Katai and the woman, the mother stuck in the middle frets alone. Then there’s this scene where Katai sulks and hurls his Shingen bag down right in the middle of the street. It’s brilliant.”

“You always take interest in such peculiar things, don’t you?”

“But Shingen bags are fascinating, don’t you think? It’s where Katai’s true character shines through! This absolutely must be a Shingen bag. If this were a suitcase or a cane, it just wouldn’t do. Don’t you get the sense that Katai went through his whole life lugging around an ungainly Shingen bag? To me, somehow all contemporary writers seem to be putting on airs by carrying slender canes or something.”

“And which would you say you are?”

“Wouldn’t asking that just be uncouth? I’m part of the Shingen bag faction.”

“Well?”
“Isn’t the Shingen bag your aspiration, I must say?”

“You do have a paradoxical way of putting things.”
“This isn’t some idle yearning.”
“It’s my fundamental essence.”
“I’ve been a man wrestling with this Shingen bag of mine since time immemorial.”

"But your works all stand out so strikingly—truly refined with an elegant beauty, I must say."
"They feel worlds apart from something like a Shingen bag, I must say."

"I’m flattered by the 'beauty' remark."
"This isn’t specifically about my work, but lotus flowers—they’re beautiful, aren’t they? Yet their roots lie in the mud."

“Well? I don’t quite understand these things myself, but they say this Sanetomo contracted smallpox in his boyhood and was called the Pockmarked Shogun. Yet when I read your *The Right Minister Sanetomo*, the image of a beautiful noble prince still floats vividly to mind.”

“Beauty again?”
“It’s getting tiresome.”
“I somehow feel like I’ve become the leading man in a movie.”
“Well, just you wait and see.”
“If I really start writing in earnest, there won’t be anyone left calling me beautiful anymore.”

“Yes, I too would very much like to read this so-called Shingen bag novel of yours.”
“And there’s one more thing I’ve been absolutely wanting to ask—throughout Meiji, Taisho, and Showa eras, which literary figure do you respect most?”

“Iwano Hōmei.”
(Mr. Dazai—any objections?)

“Hōmei?”
“Did such a person truly exist?”
“Could you perhaps mean Doppo?”

Even if she seemed clever, that was just a woman's shallowness.
She did appear to prefer the leading-man type after all.
Tsk, damn Ms. Iwanami Bunko.

"Hōmei."

“Is this Hōmei person really that great, I must say?”

“Not just great—throughout Meiji, Taisho, and Showa, among all the literary figures there are, Hōmei is Japan’s number one, I tell you!”

“What about Sōseki?”

“He’s no rival. At his advanced age, doesn’t even have an I Am a Cat to show for himself. If Sōseki were Hōmei, he’d have wrecked his household and bolted ages ago.”

“What about Mr. Kafū?”

“A sparrow never forgets its dance steps, even at a hundred. An old man’s cold shower.”

“What about Haruo?”

“Too devoted to his children, too steeped in desolation.”

“What about Naoya?”

“For a god, he’s a bit too much of a man.”
“He’s the cane faction.”

“What about Zenzo?”

“Zenzo is a great senior from my hometown, and I’d very much like to support him, but he’s another failure.”
“If he’s going to churn out hackneyed verses about middle-aged romance and raccoon dogs shedding tears, then he’s hopeless.”
“It’s a miniature garden hobby.”
“I mean, here’s Zenzo with this rock-solid, almost too-good-to-use name, yet he fails to live up to it—what’s with this ‘Suirishū’ business?”
“If people start calling themselves fools of their own accord, they’re already finished.”
“It’s precisely this favoritism that grates on my nerves.”

“What about Hakuchō?”

“That man’s prose style has never molted, I tell you.”
“Doesn’t it always feel like the neighborhood bigshots putting on some grandiose circus act?”
“Makes me want to say ‘job well done,’ but never quite brings out a proper ‘thank you kindly.’”

“What about Tatsuo?”

“Karuizawa’s never agreed with my constitution.”
“Whenever I read his works, I can’t help imagining them as thermometers—room ones or fever sticks.”

“What about Riichi?”

“If we go listing each name one by one like this, there’ll be no end to it. Riichi, Yasunari—given today’s widespread food shortages, I can’t help but think they must be surviving on mist or something. How on earth did they manage such an inhuman feat?”

How fortunate I was born a man in the evening cool. Who did I need to hold back for? After all, I had Bushū's Boss Dazai of Mitaka Village in Tama District—Japan's number one—by my side, leaving nothing in this world to fear. They say a blind snake knows no fear—this must be what they meant. She opened her notebook again and diligently recorded each instance of my presumptuous bluster.

"You really don't need to go out of your way to write all that down."
"When you do such things, I can't help but feel responsible, I tell you."

Somehow he was starting to feel suffocated.
"You wouldn’t go tattling that Dazai was badmouthing people like this, would you?
I merely asserted that Hōmei is a singular hero.
I have no ulterior motive, I tell you.
Let me just say—I’ve got an enlarged heart, I tell you."

“Oh my, for someone of your stature as sensei, how timid of you.”
“It’s unbecoming for you—a man—to say such compromising things.”
“And there’s one more thing I’d like to ask.”

“What is it? If it’s not something that would disrupt public peace and order, I might deign to answer.”

“What defines a literary person? Could you perhaps illustrate this through some metaphorical parable?”

This was troublesome. A quick answer proved difficult. I wanted to send an SOS to Kanagi right then. When asked "What is the kingdom of heaven?" Christ had immediately convinced his disciples with an apt parable. When asked "What is a poet?" the Showa-era false prophet could only flounder helplessly. His look of bewilderment resembled that of a failing student called to the blackboard. "Unless a grain of wheat falls to the ground and dies..." I could have recited this scripture while keeping up appearances, but that would have exposed the plagiarism too blatantly. The enemy—though female—remained formidably competent. There was a risk of utter humiliation—oh, how I prayed this would go well.

“How about this one? If it pleases you, please feel free to use it. In a certain place, a large group of people had gathered and were gossiping about a certain man. But listening from earlier on—my, it was dreadful—there wasn’t a single person who had anything good to say about him. ‘He’s got that look of something missing where it ought to be.’ ‘Feels like he’s never without lice year-round.’ ‘How did someone like that even manage to live this long?’ ‘The heavenly sun and rice keep him alive—how true.’ While the worst remarks were too harsh to make public, what with him being besieged on all sides and surrounded by enemies, you’d think no amount of sneezing could catch up to this rumored figure’s infamy—when suddenly, from within that crowd, someone blurts out without caring how it kills the mood: ‘Wait, I don’t think so—that man has his good points too.’ That person is a literary person.”

With an unconvinced, frustrated expression, she said, “I do get some vague sense of understanding, but ultimately it’s about being a friend to the weak or something along those lines—”

I was inexpressibly irritated.
Unwilling though I was, this was how it stood.
I couldn’t come up with any other clever remarks.
Even this might be nothing but apish mimicry—a mere knack for passing off a cup as a gallon.
However, for my part, I also had this desire to depend on someone.
I was a conscience-stricken man.
I could in fact hear the voices of siege on all sides.
Yet for my sake too—“But I don’t think so.”
I also felt as though someone was constantly saying that for me.
I had no other rivalry whatsoever then.
I resolved not to feel ashamed of my own shamelessness anymore.
I might have simply become tainted through worldly experience.
Then I didn’t mind.
Don’t lie too much.

“By the way—this time I’d like to ask you—what did you think of this Dazai fellow you met for the first time? To tell the truth.”

As an impostor, it weighed on me.
It would also serve as a lesson for future reference.

“I thought you were just like your works.”

“When you say ‘just like your works’...?”

“I thought you were a kind and approachable person.”

Ah—words I had never heard before in my life.
I couldn’t help wanting to say thank you.

Had it ended there, that would have been fortunate—but reality took a cruel turn instead.

“Thank you ever so much for sharing such varied stories today—your theories on maintaining a mistress’s residence, your disaster survival experiences, even your elevated literary perspectives.”
“Oh dear—how negligent of me! Forgive my delayed introduction—ah yes, I represent ○○ Magazine and would like permission to publish our conversation as an interview feature in next month’s issue of ○○ Magazine.”
“My sincere apologies for overstaying my welcome.”
“Well then...”

I stood dazed like a raccoon dog tricked aboard a mud boat, utterly at a loss. I’d thought our conversation had flowed smoothly from the start—but she was just a businesswoman after all. That expression as she scribbled in her notebook with a fountain pen—that was professionalism incarnate. Her fearless modern-woman act stemmed entirely from occupational demands. Nothing more than what you’d call visit-hardened poise. What a farce! Getting swept up in her pleasantries—the cousin mentions, her sweet potato-eating style, even that “prettier than your photo” line about taking her as a bride— So I’m just a spoiled brat after all—a lecherous fraud—and as darkness swallowed my vision, I grasped an unavoidable truth:

“Now, wait just a moment,” I said. “If such a thing were published in a magazine, I’d be in trouble.” I began, “In that case, I’ll be scolded by Mr. Dazai—expelled—” then realized my blunder—too late—and continued, “Saying you ‘forgot to mention it’ is sneaky! Cowardly! You’re lying about being a magazine reporter. Aren’t you a female detective? Are you threatening me?”

Mephisto finally flew into a rage and even blurted out nonsense.