Heed My Plea
Author: Dazai Osamu
Translation: James O'brien
Date: February, 1940

Introduction
Heed My Plea (Kakekomi Uttae)

The first of several tales in this collection based extensively on other texts, "Heed My Plea" amply demonstrates the author's familiarity with the New Testament and his intense interest in the figure of Christ. Dazai calls up his biblical quotations and references so freely as to startle the reader accustomed to seeing the scriptural passages in their usual context. Since the author employs a lively style to recast the biblical episodes, it seemed preferable to depend on a contemporary translation for the quoted passages rather than one of the more stately, older translations. The New English Bible: New Testament, published by Oxford University Press, was judged most suitable for this purpose.

Scholars have shown that Dazai began to study the Bible during the mid-1930s, applying himself to the task with special intensity in the autumn of 1936 while spending a month in a hospital for psychiatric observation. Although his interest appears to have diminished after his marriage to Ishihara Michiko in 1939, there is documentation showing that he subscribed from 1941 through 1946 to a Japanese periodical entitled Biblical Knowledge.

Dazai's wife has revealed that her husband dictated "Heed My Plea" to her orally at one sitting early in their marriageー without pausing to choose his words, either. Her testimony is occasionally cited as evidence that the author was expressing ideas an feelings very close to himー indeed, that he had personally experienced an internal conflict acted out in the tale between Christ and Judas. Be that as it may the tale is wholly in the form of a dramatic monologue by Judas, his breathless tone being crucial to the narrative but difficult to convey in translation.

Although Judas addresses his plea to one or more officials, some Japanese critics, mindful of the above testimony, contend that Dazai is simply using Judas as a means of venting his own cri du coeur upon the reader. Although the author presumably prepared himself carefully before sitting down with Michiko, the heightened rhetoric and the sudden transitions of the monologue do convey an impression of spontaneous composition.

However, the degree of authorial deliberation behind the tale becomes evident when one takes note of the irony in a host of passages. Such irony is especially evident in those passages where Judas abruptly changes his mindー and he often does, nowhere more egregiously than at the end of his monologue, where he seems to deny his entire protest. Furthermore, the original title of the tale, "The Direct Appeal," possibly evokes less immediate sympathy for Judas than the freely rendered English title.

In any event some readers will possibly dismiss Judas as a totally unreliable narrator because of his sudden changes of mind; others will possibly take this very phenomenon as a sign that the witness is being forthright. Dazai himself seems to render an adverse judgment by having Judas finally admit to a mercenary motive seems conclusive in the telling, it does not come across as the culmination to which the tale has been leading. The sense of an arbitrary ending could signify that the author might not have resolved the precise nature of Judas' quarrel with Christ.

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Listen to me! Listen! I'm telling you, master, the man's horrible. Just horrible. He's obnoxious. And wicked. Ah, I can't bear it! Away with him! Yes, yes, I'll be calm. But you must put an end to himーhe's against the people. Yes, I'll tell everythingーthe whole story from beginning to end. And I know where he is, so I'll take you there right away. Put him to the sword then, and don't show any mercy. It's true that he's my teacher and lord, but I'm thirty-three years old too; I was born just two months after him, so there's not really much difference between us. The arrogance of the man, the contempt...Imagine, ordering me about like that! Oh, I've had enough. I can't take it anymoreーbetter to be dead than to hold in one's wrath. How many times have I covered up for him? But no one realizes thatーnot even him. I take that back, he does realize it. He's fully aware of it, and that makes him all the more contemptuous of me. He's proud too, so he resents any help I give him. He's so conceited that he ends up making a fool of himself. He's convinced that taking help from someone like me makes him look weak. That's because he's desperate to have others believe him omnipotent. Pure stupidity! The world's not like that. You've got to bow before someone to get on. That's the only wayーstruggle ahead one step at a time while keeping others back. What can he do, really? Not a thing. He's like a lamb that's lost in the woods. Without me he'd have died long ago in some abandoned meadow, together with his good-for-nothing disciples. "Foxes have their holes, birds have their roosts, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head." There's the evidence! You see it, don't you? And what good does Peter do? Or James, John, Andrew, and Thomas? Fools, the whole bunch of them! They only follow at his heels uttering the unctious, spine-chilling comments. They're completely taken in by his mad notion of a heaven, and every one of them will want to be some sort of royal minister as the day of the kingdom draws near. The fools can't even earn their daily bread here in this world. Wasn't it I who kept them from starving? I who had him preach his sermons and then coaxed a donation from the crowd? I who got the wealthy villagers to contribute as well? Besides that, I did our everyday shopping and looked after our lodging too. I did everything and didn't complain either. but not a word of gratitude did I get, either from him or from those foolish disciples. Day after day I slaved on my own, but instead of thanking me, he would pretend not to know. And always there were those impossible commands: "Feed the multitude!" he insisted, when all we had were five loaves and two fishes. I had to struggle behind the scenes then and fill the order. Oh yes, I admit that I had helped him from time and time again with all those miracles and sleight-of-the-hand tricks. Considering the sort of things I did, I might seem a stingy person. I'm a man of taste, though, and not stingy at all. I saw him as a lovely, innocent person without the slightest greed. That's why even though I scrimp and save to buy the daily bread, I don't hate him for squandering our every penny. He's a beautiful man of the spirit, and I appreciate him even though I'm only a poor merchant. I don't even mind when he wastes every pittance I've scraped together. But if he only had a kind word for me now and then...instead of all this hostility. He was kind to me just once. We were all strolling along the shore one spring when he suddenly called out to me and said, "I realize that you, so helpful to me always, feel pangs of loneliness. But you mustn't keep looking so depressed. It's the hypocrite, wishing others to know of his melancholy, who lets his feelings show. You may be lonely, but you can wash your face, smooth your hair with pomade, and smile as if nothing is wrong. That's the way of the true believer. You don't quite understand? Let me put it this way, then. We may not be able to see our True Father, but He can see even into our hearts. Isn't that enough for you? No? It isn't? But everyone gets lonely." At these words I felt like crying out, "I don't care whether the Heavenly Father knows about me or not. Or people too, for that matter. I'm satisfied so long as you know. I love you. The other disciples may love you, but not the way I do. I love you more than anyone else does. Peter and the two Jameses merely follow you in hopes of getting something, but I alone understand. And yet I know that nothing will come of following you, and that makes me wonder why I can't leave. Well, without you, I would simply perish. I could not go on living. Here's an idea that I've kept to myself until now. Why don'T you just abandon those useless disciples and give up preaching the Heavenly Father's creed. Be an ordinary man and live the rest of your life with your mother Mary and with me. I still own a small house in my native village. The large peach orchard is still there, and so are my aging parents. In the spring, just about now, the blossoms are splendid. You could spend your entire life there in comfort. And I would always be near, anxious to help. Find a good woman and take her as your wife." After I had spoken, he smiled wanly and murmured as if to himself, "Peter and SImon are fishermen. They have no fine orchard. James and John are also poor fishermen. They have no land on which to spend their lives in comfort." He resumed his quiet stroll along the beach, and thereafter we never spoke intimately to one another again. He simply would not confide in me. I love him. If he dies, I shall die with him. He is mineーmine alone, and I will slay him rather than hand him over. I forsook my father, my mother, and my land. I followed him until now. But I don't believe in heaven or in God, and I don't believe he will rise from the dead either. *Him* the King of Israel? Those foolish disciples believe he's the Son of God, and that's why they leap about each time he speaks the Good News of God's Kingdom. They'll be disappointed soonーI'm sure of that. The man even says that he who exalts himself shall be humbled and he who humbles himself shall be exalted. Does anyone in the real world get away with such cajolery? Deceiver! One thing after anotherーnonsense from beginning to end. Oh, I don't believe a word he says, but I do believe in his beauty. Such beauty is not of this world, and I love him for thatーnot for any reward. I'm not one of your minions who believes the Heavenly Kingdom is at hand and cries out, "Hurrah! Now I'll be a minister of some breanch or other!" I simply don't want to leave him, that's all. I'm content to be near him, to hear his voice and to gaze upon his person. If only he would cease preaching and live a long life together with me. Ah, if only that were possible, how happy I'd be. I only believe in happiness in this world. I'm not afraid of any judgement hereafter. Why doesn't he accept this pure and unselfish love of mine? Ah, slay him for me! I know where he is, master, and I'll take you there. He hates me, despises me. Scornedーthat's what I am. But he and his disciples would have starved without me. How could he mistreat me when I kept all of them fed and clothed? Listen to this! Six days ago a woman from the village stole into the room where he was dining at Simon of Bethany's house. It was Mary, the younger sister of Martha, and she was carrying and alabaster jar filled with Oil of Nard. Without a word she poured the oil over him from head to toeーand didn't beg his pardon afterward either. No, she merely crouched there, quite calm, and began gently wiping his feet with her own hair. The whole thing appeared very strange as the room became filled with fragrance. Then I shouted angrily at the girlーshe shouldn't be so rude! Look! I went on, Wasn't his garment soaked through? And spilling such expensive oilーwasn't that almost a crime? What a foolish woman! Didn't she realize that such oil cost three hundred denarii? How pleased the poor would be if the oil were sold and the money given to them. Where waste occurs, want will follow. After I had scolded her, he looked straight at me and said, "Why must you make trouble for this woman? It is a fine thing she has done for me. You have the poor among you always; but you will not always have me. When she poured this oil on my body it was her way of preparing me for the burial. I tell you this: wherever in the world this gospel is proclaimed, what she has done will be told as her memorial." By the time he finished, his pale cheeks were slightly flushed. I don't usually believe what he says, and I could easily have ignored this as more puffery on his part. But there was something different, and a strangeness in the voice and in the look took, that had never been there before. For a moment I was taken aback; but then I looked again at the slightly flushed cheeks and faintly brimming eyes, and suddenly I knew. Oh, how horrible! How disgraceful even to mention it. A wretched farmgirlーand him in love with...No, not quite *that*ーsurely not that. And yet, it was something perilously close to it. Wasn't that how he felt? How humiliating for him to be moved even slightly by an ignorant farmgirl. A scandal beyond repair. All my life I've had this vulgar, detestable ability to sniff out a shameful emotion. One look and I can spot a weakness. It might have been a slight, but there was something special in his feelings for her. That's the truth, no question about it. My eyes cannot err. No, it just couldn't be so! This was intolerable! He was caught in a trap. Never had he seemed so ridiculous. No matter ow much a woman had loved him, he had always remained beautifulーand calm as the very waters. Never had he been the least bit ruffled. And then he gave in, like any slouch. He's still young, so perhaps this was natural. But I was born just two months after him, so we're almost the same age. We're young, both of us, but I'm the one who's held out. I gave my heart to him alone and refused to love any woman. Martha the older sister has a sturdy build; indeed, she's as big as a cow, and has a violent temper too. She works furiously at her choresーthat's her one virtue. Otherwise she's just another farmgirl. But Mary the younger sister is different. She has delicate limbs and almost transparent skin. Her hands and feet are tiny and plump, and her large eyes are deep and clear as a lake. There's a distant dreaminess about them too, and that's partly why the villagers all marvel at her gracefulness. Even I was so astonished that I thought of buying her something, maybe even some white silk, while I was in town. Oh, now I'm getting off the track. Let's see, what was I saying...Oh yes, I was biter. It just didn't make sense. I could have stamped my feet in resentment. If he's young, well so am I. I've got talent too, and I'm a fine man with a house and orchard besides. I gave up everything for him only to realize that I'd been taken in. I discovered that he was a fraud. Master, he took my woman. No! That's not it. She stole him from me. Ah, that's wrong too. I'm just blurting things outーdon't belive a word. I'm confused, and you must pardon me. There's not a word of truth to my babbling. Mere ranting and ravingーnothing more. But I was ashamed, so ashamed that I wanted to rend my breast. I couldn't understand why he felt this way. Ah, jealousy is such an unbearable vice, but my longing for him was so great that I continued to renounce my own life and kept following him till now. But instead of consoling me with a kind word, he favored this wretched farmgirl, blushing in her company even. Well, he's a slouch and he's done for. There's no hope for him. He's mediocreーa nobody. So what if he dies. Perhaps the devil had possessed me, but here I suddenly had a frightening thought. He wanted to be slain anyway, I reasoned, so why shouldn't I do it? He sometimes acted as though he wanted someone to slay him. I'd do it with my own hand, then, because I don't want anyone else to. I'd slay him, then die myself. Master, I'm ashamed of these tears. Yes, all right, I won't weep anymore. Yes, yes, I'll speak calmly. The next day we set out for Jerusalem, the city of our dreams. As we drew near the temple, a large crowd of both young and old followed after him. Presently he took note of a lone, decrepit ass standing by the road, and, mounting the animal with a smile, he looked grandly at his disciples and spoke of fulfilling the prophecy, "Tell the daughters of Zion, 'Here is your King, who comes to you in gentleness, riding on an ass.'" I alone was depressed by the incident. What a pathetic figure. Was *this* how the Son of David was to ride into the Temple of Jerusalem for the long-awaited Passover? This was the debut for which he had always yearned? Making a spectacle of himself astride this decrepit, tottering ass? I could only pity him for taking part in this pathetic farce. Ah, the man was done for. If only he lived another day even, he would only humiliate himself further. A flower doesn't survive if it's wiltingーbetter to cut it in bloom. I love him best, and I don't care how much the others despise me. I resolved ever more firmly to slay him right away. The crowed swelled moment by moment, and garments of red, blue, and yellow were flung down all along the route. The people welcomed him with their cries and lined the way with palm branches. Before and behind him, from the left and the right, the crowd swirled about like a great wave, jostling the man and the ass he was riding, while everyone sand, "Hosanna to the Son of David. Blessings on him who comes in the name of the Lord. Hosanna in the Heavens." Peter, John, Bartholomew, and the other disciplesーfools to the manーembraced one another ecstatically and exchanged tearful kisses, as if they had been following a triumphant general or seen the Kingdom of Heaven with their own eyes. The stubborn Peter held onto John and broke into joyful weeping. As I watched, I recalled the days of poverty and hardship when we traveled about preaching the gospel. In fact, warm tears welled in my own eyes. And so he entered the temple and descended from the ass. Who knows what it was that possessed him then, but he picked up a rope and began brandishing it, driving out all the cattle and sheep that had been on sale, and knocking over the tables of the money-changers and the seats of the pigeon sellers. "My house shall be called a house of prayer," he thundered, "but you are making it a robber's cave." Was he daft? How, I wondered, could this gentle man carry on like a drunkard? The astonished multitude asked what he was talking about, and, gasping for breath, he replied: "Destroy this temple, and in three days I will raise it again." Even those simple disciples, unable to accept this claim, could only stare. But I saw what he was up toーhe was showing off like a child might. Since he was constantly saying that all things were possible through faith in him, here was his chance to show his mettle. But flailing a rope about and chasing away helpless merchants? What a niggardly way to prove something! I almost smiled at him from pity. If defiance meant no more than kicking over the seats of pigeon sellers, then he was finished. His self-respect was gone, he simply didn't care anymore. He knew that he had reached his limit. And so he would be seized during Passover and take leave of the world, before his weakness became too evident. When I realized what he was up to, I gave him up for good. How amusing to think that I had once loved this conceited pup so blindly. Presently he faced the crowd gathered at the temple and spewed forth the most insolent abuse yet. I was rightーsurely the man was desperate. To my eye he even looked slightly bedraggled. He was just itching to be slain. "Alas for you, lawyers and Pharisees, hypocrites! You clean the outside of your cup and dish, which you have filled inside by robbery and self-indulgence! Blind Pharisees! Clean the inside of the cup first; then the outside will be clean also. "Alas for you, lawyers and Pharisees, hypocrites! You are like tombs covered with whitewash, they look well from outside, but inside they are full of dead men's bones and all kinds of filth. So it is with you: outside you look like honest men, but inside you are brimful of hypocrisy and crime. "You snakes, you vipers' brood, how can you escape being condemned to hell? "O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, the city that murders the prophets and stones the messengers sent to her! How often have I longed to gather your children as a hen gathers her brood under her wings; but you would not let me." Silly and stupidーthat's what I thought. It turns my stomach just to repeat his words here. Why, the man who says such things has got to be deranged. He's carried on about other nonsense tooーfamines, earthquakes, stars falling from the sky, the moon not giving its light, vultures gathering to peck the carcasses that fill the land, the weeping and the gnashing of teeth. He speaks in such a reckless manner, as if he's stuck on himself. It's madnessーthe man doesn't know his place. But he won't get away with it. It's the cross for himーthat's for certain. Yesterday I heard from a pedlar in town how the elders and priests had met secretly in the latter's court and decided to execute him. I also learned they were fearful the people would rise up if he were seized in public, so thirty pieces of silver would be given to anyone who reported when he would be along with his disciples. He was going to die then, so there was no time to lose. I had to hand him over, I thought, rather than let someone else do it. It was my duty to betray him, a last sign of my enduring love. But this would place me in a trap tooーwill anyone, I wondered, recognize the devotion behind this deed? It makes no difference, though, because mine is a pure love that doesn't seek recognition. And even if people despise me forever and I end up suffering in eternal hellfire, it will be like nothing alongside of my unquenchable love for him. So determined was I to fulfill my mission that a shudder ran over me as I thought the matter over. I quietly watched for an opportunity, and finally, on the day of the Feast, it came. We had rented a second-floor room in an old eating place upon the hill. All thirteen of us, both Master and disciples, were seated in the dim chamber about to begin the supper when suddenly he rose and removed his tunic without a word. What would he be up to? we wondered. We watched as he took the pitcher from the table and carried it to a corner. There he emptied the water into a small basin. Then, having tied a clean, white towel about his waist, he began to wash our feet. While he was watching the feet of one disciple, the others would idle about in total bewilderment. I alone sensed what was lurking in the Master's mind. He was lonelyーand so frightened that he would now cling to these ignorant bigots. What a pity. He must have realized what fate held in store for him. Even as I watched, I felt a cry rising in my throat until suddenly I wanted to embrace him and weep. Oh, how sad. Who could ever accuse you? You were always kind and just, ever a friend tot he poor, and always shimmering with beauty. I know that you are truly the Son of God. Please forgive me, for I have watched these two or three days for a chance to betray you. But not any more. How criminal to think of betraying you! Rest assured that, even if five hundred officials or a thousand soldiers should come, they won't lay a finger on you. But they are watching, so let's be wary. And let's be on our way too. Come, Peter. And you too, James. Come, John. Everyone, come! Let's live the rest of our lives protecting this gentle Master of ours. I felt a profound love for him, but I couldn't express it. There was something sublime about it that I had never known before. The tears of contrition that flowed down my cheeks felt quite agreeable. Finally he washed my feetーever so quietly and gently, and then he wiped them dry with the towel at his waste. Oh, how he touched me! Ah, at that moment I seemed to be in paradise. Thereafter he washed the feet of Philip and Andrew. Peter was next, but the simple man could not hide his misgivings. Pursing his lips, he petulantly asked, "Master, why do you wash my feet?" "Ah, you do not understand what I am doing, but one day you will," the master gently admonished, crouching next to Peter. But Peter grew yet more stubborn. "No! Never! You must never wash my feet, for I am unworthy of it," he said, then drew back his feet. Raising his voice ever so slightly, the Master gave notice: "If I do not wash you, you are not in fellowship with me." The startled Peter bowed low and implored, "Ah, forgive me. Not only my feet, Lord, wash my hands and head as well." I couldn't help laughing. The other disciples grinned, and the whole room seemed to brighten up. He smiled too and then said to Peter, "A man who has bathed needs no further washing; he is altogether clean. And not only you. But James and John too. All of you are clean and without sin. All except..." Here he paused and sat up straight. For an instant his eyes took on a look of unbearable suffering. Then they shut tighty and did not open. "Except...If only all of you were clean..." I instantly thoughtーMe! That's who he meant! He had seen through my melancholy a moment ago and knew that I planned to betray him. But things were different nowーI had changed completely. I was cleansed and my heart transformed. Ah, but he didn't realize it. He hadn't noticed. No! You're mistaken! I wanted to cry out, but the words lodged in my throat and I cravenly swallowed them like spit. For some reason I couldn't speak. I just couldn't. After he had finished speaking, something perverse sprang up within me. Meekly I gave into the feeling, whereupon the cowardly suspicion that perhaps I was unclean expanded into a dark, ugly cloud that swirled within my gut and exploded into a righteous indignation. What! Damned? Me damned? He despised me from the bottom of his heart. Betray him! I told myself. Yes, betray him! I would slay himーand myself too. My earlier determination revived, and I became an utter demon of vengeance. Seemingly unaware of how turbulent my feelings had become, he presently took up his tunic, carefully put it on, and sat down at the table. By the time he spoke, his face was pale. "Do you understand what I have done for you?" he asked. "You call me 'Master' and 'Lord,' and rightly so, for that is what I am. Then if I; your Lord and Master, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another's feet. I shall probably not be always with you, and thus I have set an example for you to follow. In very truth I tell you, a servant is no greater than his master, nor messenger than the one who sent him. If you know this, happy are you if you act upon it." Wearily he spoke these words, then began to eat in silence. Bowing his head, he spoke once more: "In truth, in very truth I tell you, one of you is going to betray me." There was a deep sorrow in his voice, as if he were both weeping and moaning. The disciples nearly recoiled in shock. They stood up, knocking the chairs over, and gathered about him. "Is it I, Lord? Master, can you mean mey?" they cried. Like one already condemned, he barely moved his head. "It is the man to whom I give this piece of bread when I have dipped it in the dish. Alas for that man by whom the Son of Man is betrayed. It would be better if he had never been born." For him, these were unusually specific words. After he had spoken them, he took a piece of bread and, stretching forth his hand, placed it unerringly in my mouth. Instead of shame, I now felt hatred. My courage immediately came back, and I hated him for turning malicious once againーhe was his old self, humiliating me before the others. He and I were like fire and water; we would always be separate. To place a piece of bread in my mouth as though feeding his dog or catーwas this all he could do in revenge? Ha! The Fool! Master, he then told me to do the deed quickly, and so I ran from the place and fled along the dark road as fast as I could. I arrived here only moments ago, and I've made my plea in haste. You must punish himーpunish him as you see fit. You can seize him and beat him with a rod, strip and crucify him even. I've had enough of him; he's terrible...obnoxious...Tormenting me even yet...Ah, damn him! He'll be in the Garden of Gethsemane, by the River Kidron. The meal is over, and it's the hour for prayer, so he'll be there with his disciples. No one else will be around. If you go right away, you can capture him easily. Oh, those birds are making such a ruckus, aren't they? I wonder why I hear them singing tonight? I remember how the birds were chirping even as I ran through the wood. It's an unusual bird that sings in the night. My childlike curiosity got the better of me, and I wanted a glimpse of the bird. So I stopped and, tilting my head, looked up at the trees...ah, forgive me, I'm boring you. Master, is everything ready? Ah, the sweetnessーit makes me feel splendid. It's also the final night for me, isn't it? Master, you'll be so good as to observe both of us standing side by side after tonight. I'll show you the two of us, Master, standing side by side this evening. I don't fear him. We're the same age, and I won't lower myself. I'm a young man of quality, just like him. Ah, those birds are still making a ruckus. How annoying! Why do songbirds chirp here and there? What's all the noise about? Oh yes, the money! You're handing it over? Thirty pieces of silverーfor me? Ah yes, but I really don't want it. So take it back before I hit you. I didn't make this plea for money. Take it back! No, wait, I didn't mean that. Please forgive me. I accept your offer. Yes, I'm a merchant. That's why that lovely man always scorned me. But I am a merchant, so I'll take it. I'll betray him fully, just for the lucre. That'll be my best revenge. Betrayed for thirsty pieces of silverーjust what he deserves! And I won't shed a tear since I don't love him anyway. I never loved him at all. Master, everything I said was false; there's no question that I followed him around for the money. When I realized this evening that he wouldn't let me earn a penny, I quickly changed sides, like any merchant would. Moneyーthat's the only thing. Thirty pieces of silver. Oh, how splendid! I accept. I'm just a penny-pinching merchant, and I can't help being greedy. Yes, thank you. Yes, yes, I forgot to mention it, but I'm Judas the Merchant. Yes, that's Judas Iscariot.

Hell in a Bottle
Author: Yumeno Kyusaku
Translation: Angela Yiu
Date: October, 1928



Dear Father, Mother, and all those who have come to save us,

At long last, a ship has finally come to our rescue on this remote island.

The large ship with twin stacks lowered two boats onto the raging waves. Mixed in with the onlookers on board the ships are the forms of our dear Father and Mother for whom we have longed night and day. And, oh! They are waving white handkerchiefs at us.

Father and Mother must have come to our rescue after reading the letter in the first beer bottle we threw into the ocean.

White smoke billowed out of the vessel, and the sound of the whistle was loud and clear, seemingly proclaiming, “We’re here to save you!” The sound startled the birds and insects on this little island and sent them flying off faraway into the sea.

Yet to us, the sound was more fearful than the trumpets of the Last Judgment. It was as though heaven and earth split into two, the gleam of the eyes of God and the fire of hell flashing before our eyes.

Oh, my hands are trembling, my heart choked with anxiety…I can barely write. My vision is blurred with tears.

The two of us will climb up the cliff that directly faces the ship and, holding each other tight in plain view of Father, Mother, and the sailors who have come to save us, we will plunge straight into the depths of the pool to die. The sharks there will no doubt tear us up in an instant. And the people in the boat will spot the beer bottle with this letter inside and retrieve it.

Oh, dear Father, dear Mother. Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. We beg you to abandon us and think not of us as your beloved children.

To those of you who have come all the way from your faraway home to save us, we are so very sorry for that we are going to do. Please, we beg you to forgive us. Have mercy on us for our tragic fate, which compels us to die just as our joyful return to the human world–to the bosoms of our loving Father and Mother–arrives.

We cannot atone for our sins without being punished, body and soul, as retribution for the grave and terrible prespasses the two of us committed on this remote island.

Do forgive us not for confessing any further. We were mad and worthy only to be food for sharks…

Oh, Farewell!

From the piteous two

Forsaken by God and man

Oh, inscrutable and all-seeing God.

Shall no other way besides death deliver us from this predicament?

I cannot count the times I have climbed up this steep cliff we called “God’s Footrest” all alone to peer into the bottomless pool below where two or three sharks always sim in playful rounds. Oh, how many times have I thought of throwing myself down there! Yet every time these thoughts rose in me, poor Ayako came to my mind, and, heaving a soul-wrenching sigh, I would climb back down to the craggy rocks. I know for certain that if I were to die, Ayako will throw herself in after me.

How many years has it been since Ayako and I drifted to this remote little island, after being tossed about by the raging waves with the nurse and her husband, the captain of the boat, and the sailors? Here, the summer is endless, with neither Christmas nor the New Year to mark time, but I sense that ten years must have passed.

All we had with us at that time were a pencil, a knife, a notebook, a magnifying glass, three beer bottles filled with water, and a small Bible.

Yet we were happy.

On this lush and green island, except for the occasional appearance of large ants, not a single bird, beast, or insect came to trouble us. At the time, I was eleven, and Ayako had just turned seven. There was an overflowing abundance of food for us. We found ourselves among mynas, parrots, birds of paradise that we had only seen in picture books, as well as fantastical butterflies of which we had neither seen nor heard. All year round, delicious coconuts, pineapples, bananas, gorgeous flora in bright red and purple, fragrant herbs and grasses, birds’ eggs big and small were everywhere to be found. A stick was all we needed to catch as many birds and fish as we wanted.

After we had gathered sufficient food, we arranged some dried grass on driftwood and used the magnifying glass to light a fire. Then we cooked and ate.

In time, we discovered a pure, clear spring that appeared during low tide between the cape and the crags on the east side of the island, so we built a little hut using the wreckage of the boat on the beach and paved it with soft dried grass. That was where Ayako and I slept. Right next to the hut, on the side of the crag, we bored a square-like cavity with old nails from the boat and made that into a storage space. Our outer and inner clothing ended up torn and tattered by rain, so we would go about naked like real barbarians. Nevertheless, morning and night, we never missed a day climbing up to God’s Footrest to read the bible and pray for Father and Mother.

The two of us wrote a letter to Father and Mother and inserted it carefully into a beer bottle, sealed it tight with resin, and after kissing it over and over again, we cast it into the ocean. The bottle was carried by the currents that circle the island all the way out to sea, never to return again.

To create a marker for rescue, we erected a tall pole at the highest point of God’s Footrest, and continued to replenish it with fresh green leaves to make it visible.

Sometimes we bickered, as children always do, but always made peace immediately and played school or some such games. I always had Ayako play the pupil and used the Bible to teach her how to read and write. The two of us came to think of the Bible as God, Father, Mother, and Teacher all rolled into one and treasured it far more than the magnifying glass and the beer bottles, placing it on the topmost shelf in the cavity in the rocks. We were truly happy and peaceful. This island was like heaven to us.

Despite our blissful, idyllic life alone on this remote island, what made me think that the fearsome demon had stolen in upon us?

Yet I was dead certain that the demon had indeed crept in between us and taken us unawares.

When it began I could not tell, but as the days and months went by, it became obvious to my eyes that Ayako’s body had acquired a voluptuous beauty that was nothing short of miraculous. Sometimes she sparkled like a flower sprite, and at other times she lured like a demon…when I saw her, I felt confused and stricken with a mysterious sadness.

“Brother…”

When she called me and flew toward me, her eyes twinkling with innocence, I felt a rousing deep within my heart, the likes of which I had never experienced before. Every time she called, my heart trembled with fear, as though condemned to wallow in the anxiety of total destruction.

Yet in time, Ayako too began to behave differently. Like me, she had turned into a completely different person. She would gaze at me deeply with her lovely, teary eyes. She looked as though she were ashamed to touch my body, as if doing so would fill her with a great sadness.

We stopped fighting. Instead of quarreling, we both looked melancholic, and at times let out quiet sighs, born of the fact that our solitary existence on this remote island had become a source of unspeakable pain, pleasure, and intense loneliness for us. Not only that, but whenever we looked at each other, our eyes would fill with the growing darkness of a deathly gloom. Then all of a sudden we would be startled back to our senses as a thunderous roar–a warning from God or a cruel joke from the demon, I could not tell–ripped through our hearts. This happened many times a day.

Even though we knew precisely how each other felt, we dared not breathe a word to each other, fearing the punishment of God. What if the boat of salvation came AFTER we let it happen…we remained silent, troubled by the same thought deep in our hearts.

One quiet, clear afternoon, as we stretched out on the sandy beach after filling ourselves with cooked sea turtle eggs, gazing at the flowing white clouds faraway on the horizon, Ayako turned to me suddenly and said,

“Brother, if one of us were to die of illness–what shall the other one do?”

Ayako turned bright red, and from her downcast eyes, great drops of tears fell unceasingly on the hot sand. I saw an unspeakably sad smile on her face.

I had no idea what my expression looked like at that moment. I simply could not breathe–my heart thumped as though it was about to burst, and I stood there without a word, stricken dumb. Quietly I left Ayako by herself and climbed up to God’s Footrest, prostrating myself and tearing my hair.

“Oh, Father, who art in heaven! Ayako knows not what she does. That is why she said what she said to me. Please, I beg thee not to punish that virgin. Forever and ever, keep her pure and clean. Have mercy on me too…

“And yet, my Lord, whatever shall I do! How can I deliver myself from that torture! The fact that I still live is an immeasurable sin against Ayako. But if I die, I will cast her into even deeper sorrow and suffering. Oh, my Lord and my God, whatever shall I do…

“Oh merciful Lord…

“Here I am, sand in my hair, prostrate on the cliff before thee. If my wish to die serves to execute thy divine will, I implore thee to strike out my life this very nmoment with a bolt of blazing lightning. Oh, inscrutable and all-seeing God! Hallowed be thy name! May a sign appear on earth for thy unworthy servant…”

But the Lord gave not a single sign. White clouds drifted like strands of silk in the azure sky. Below the cliff, sharks swam playfully among the swirls of pure white waves in the cobalt water, flashing their tails and fins from time to time.

Gazing deep into that clear and fathomless blue pool, my eyes began to trace endless circles, and my head began to spin. Faltering and stumbling, I nearly fell into the foamy waves that crashed against the rocks, but I pulled myself together and stopped at the edge of the cliff. Before I knew what I was doing, I sprang up to the highest point of the cliff, and, without a moment’s hesitation, tore down the pull with the wilted coconut leaves that stood at the apex and hurled it all the way down to the bottomless pool.

“We’re safe. Now even the rescue boat will just sail by without noticing.”

I laughed aloud in great scorn and ran down the cliff at tremendous speed into our little shed like a lone wolf forsaken by its pack. I picked up the Bible opened to the Book of Songs, set it on top of the members left from cooking turtle eggs, threw in a pile of dried grass and fanned up the blaze. Then, with all the strength and desperation that my voice could summon, I called Ayako’s name as I dashed out to the beach in search of her…

When I caught sight of her, she was kneeling on a huge rock on a cape that jutted far out into the sea, her face lifted toward the sky as though she was praying.

I stumbled two or three streps backward. The divine beauty of a virgin, swathed in the blood-red glow of the setting sun, kneeling on a purple rock among the raging waves…

Entirely unaware of the rising tides that brought seaweed drifting to her knees, she prayed undistracted as golden waves washed up to her…oh, the nobility of that form, the dazzling beauty of it all…

My body stiffened like a rock, and, for a moment, I stared vacantly without a thought. But all of a sudden, Ayako’s intention became clear to me, and I jumped up in a flash. Running like a madman, I slid down the rock covered with seashells, sustaining numerous cuts, and climbed up to the rock on the cape. Ayako was flailing, crying and screaming like a crazed woman as I carried her tightly in my arms down the cape, our bodies covered with blood. It took a tremendous effort to return to where the little shed was.

Yet our little shed no long existed. Along with the Bible and dried grass, it had turned into white smoke and disappeared far beyond the blue sky.

And then, the two of us–our bodies and souls–were cast out into the murky depths of darkness, left to wail and regret our lot day and night. Not only were we incapable of holding each other tight to comfort and encourage ourselves, and pray and mourn for our loss, we could not even lie down together to sleep.

That must have been punishment for having burnt the Bible.

At night, the light of the stars, the sound of the waves, the humming of insects, the rustling of leaves, the sound of nuts falling from trees, each and everything whispered the words of the Bible and closed in on us with an ever tightening grip. Lying there paralyzed and sleepless with fear, we felt as though they had come to peer into our hearts writing in the agony of separation. It was truly frightening.

When daybreak came after a long, long night, a long, long day lay in waiting for us. The bright sun that shone on this island, the singing parrots, the dancing birds of paradise, the beetles, moths, coconuts, pineapples, the colors of flowers, the fragrance of grass, the sea, clouds, wind, rainbow, each and everything became entangled with Ayako’s dazzling figure and suffocating fragrance, and twirled around me in a whirlpool of blinding brilliance until I thought it might attack and kill me. In the midst of all that, Ayako’s sorrowful eyes, betraying the same torment, gazed at me steadily with the sadness of the Lord in one and the smile of the demon in the other.

My pencil is near its end, so I can’t go on writing for long.

Having encountered such torture and oppression, we still pray to seal our sincere, god-fearing hearts into this bottle and toss it into the sea.

Before we yield to the temptation of the demon…

At least while our bodies are still pure…

Dear God…As we endure this great suffering, our flesh becomes richer and suppler by the day, and without succumbing to even a single illness, we continue to enjoy good health and beauty, surrounded and nourished by the clear air, water, abundant food, and the beautiful, delightful flowers and birds on this island…

Oh, what horrible suffering! This island of bliss is now nothing less than hell.

My God, my God. Why have you forsaken me…

Why can’t you simply destroy the two of us…

Father, Mother. The two of us are good and getting along on this island. Please come to rescue us right away.

The Surgery Room
Author: Kyoka Izumi
Translation: Asa Yoneda
Date: April 20, 1971

Part 1

The surgery was to take place at a certain hospital in the Tokyo suburbs, and the Countess Kifune was the patient on whom my dear friend Doctor Takamine was to perform the operation. Driven by curiosity, I imposed upon Takamine to allow me to attend. In order to present my case as strongly as possible, I concocted an argument about my being an artist and why seeing the surgery would be useful to me. In the end, I prevailed.

I left my house at a little after nine that morning and rushed by rickshaw to the hospital. Once inside the building, I proceeded down a long corridor and toward the surgery room as a small entourage of women, presumably servants of some family of the nobility, emerged from the door at the opposite end. We met halfway down the hallway.

These women were escorting a girl of about seven or eight who was wearing a long jacket over her kimono. I watched them as they continued down the corridor and disappeared from view. As I covered the remaining distance from the infirmary’s entrance to the surgery area and then down the long hallway that led to the recovery rooms, I encountered numerous members of the aristocracy. Some were dressed in frock coats, others in formal kimono; there were officers in military uniform, and various women of the nobility–all of them distinguished in appearance. They seemed to weave within the corridor, intersecting here, converging there, now stopping, now walking. Remembering the many carriages I had seen parked by the hospital gate outside, I now realized whom they had brought. Some of those present looked grave, others appeared pensive, still others seemed flustered. All of them, though, shared a look of distress. The hurried scuffle of their shoes echoed against the high, lonely hospital ceiling, clattering in the rooms and down the long hallway; and the strange sound of echoing footsteps made the occasion seem all the more dismal.

Eventually, I found my way to the surgery room.

Takamine was sitting restfully in a chair with his arms folded. He glanced over and greeted me with a smile. Though about to take on an awesome responsibility, one that seemed to concern the entire upper echelon of society, my friend Takamine, a rare example of composure, appeared perfectly collected, as if he were sitting down to dinner. Accompanying him were three assistants, one attending physician, and three nurses from the Red Cross. Some of these nurses wore medals on their uniforms, no doubt bestowed upon them for acts of distinguished service.Otherwise, no women were present in the operating room. There were a number of men, however, all of them relatives of various noble rank. One stood out among them–despondent, an ineffable expression on his countenance. He would be the patient’s husband, Count Kifune.

The surgery room itself was bathed in a luminescence so radiant that I could count the particles of dust in the air. It stood somehow apart, stark and inviolate. And there in the center of the room lay the Countess Kifune, focus of concern for both those outside the room and those inside, who were closely observing her. Wrapped in a spotless white hospital gown, she lay on the operating table as if a corpse–face drained of color, nose pointing upward, chin narrow and frail, and her arms and legs seeming too fragile to bear even the weight of fine silk. Her teeth were slightly visible between pale lips. Her eyes were tightly closed, and her eyebrows drawn with worry. Loosely bound, her hair fell lightly across her pillow and spilled down on the operating table.

At the sight of this noble, elegant, and beautiful woman, now ailing and feeble, I felt a chill spread through my body.

When I glanced over at Takamine, he appeared unaffected, showing no signs of

apprehension or worry. He was the only one seated. His composure was reassuring, yet I could feel only dread as I looked at the countess in her weakened state.

At that juncture the door opened slowly and a young woman quietly entered. I recognized her as one of the servants I had passed in the corridor earlier, the most striking of the three. She approached the countess and whispered, “My Lady, the princess has stopped crying. She’s sitting quietly in the next room.”

The countess acknowledged her with a nod. One of the nurses went over to Doctor Takamine. “We’re ready to proceed.”

“Very well.”

I detected a slight quaver in Takamine’s voice. Scanning his face, I thought I could see a subtle change of expression.

Any man, no matter how great, would certainly feel some apprehension when plkaced in a situation such as this. My sympathies went out to him.

Acknowledging the doctor’s intent, the nurse turned to the servant. “Then we’re ready. If you could be so kind as to–”

At this cue the woman approached the operating table and, placing both hands on her knees, bowed to the countess. “Madame, the medication. If you please, all we need you to do is count to ten, or spell out a word.”

The countess didn’t answer.

“Madame?” The servant repeated herself. “Can you hear me, madame?”

The countess responded. “Yes. I hear you.”

“Then shall we go ahead?”

“With the anesthetic?”

“Yes, madame. For a short while until the operation is over. They say you must be anesthetized.”

The countess did not answer immediately.

“I don’t need it,” she finally replied in a clear voice.

Everyone in the room exchanged glances.

“But the doctors can’t do the surgery without it.”

“Then I won’t have the surgery.”

The servant fell silent and turned to the count.

The count stepped forward. “My dear, don’t be unreasonable. How can you do without anesthesia? Please now, cooperate.”

At this point the baron intervened. “If you insist on this unreasonable behavior, I shall ask to have the princess brought in. Do you know what will happen to her if you don’t get better?”

“I know what will happen.”

“Then you’ll take the medicine?” the servant inquired.

The countess slowly shook her head.

One of the nurse interceded. “But why not?” she asked in a gentle voice. “It’s no at all unpleasant. You will feel a little drowsy and then it will be over.”

At this the countess’s eyebrows arched and her lips twisted as if she were racked with pain. She half-opened her eyes. “If you must persist, then I’ll have to tell you why. I’ve been keeping a secret in my heart. And now I’m afraid the medication will make me reveal it. If I can’t be treated without anessthetic, then I refuse to have the operation. Please leave me alone!”

If my ears did not betray me, the countess, fearing she might divulge some secret while in a state of unconsciousness, was actually willing to face death in order to protect what was in her heart. What, I wondered, was her husband feeling as he heard her say such things? Ordinarily, if a man’s wife were to say something of this sort it would be cause for a scandal. And ye the people treating her were hardly in a position to ignore her wishes, especially if she was so adamant about not wanting anyone to know what she was thinking.

The count approached her bed and asked gently, “You can’t tell even me?”

“I can tell no one,” the countess replied firmly.

“But you don’t know the medication will make you talk–”

“I do. It’s something that’s always on my mind. I know I’ll say something.”

“Now you’re being unreasonable again.”

“Then I’m sorry!” The countess seemed to fling the words down. With this she turned on her side, away from everyone. Her body was racked with illness. I could hear her teeth chattering.

Only one person in the room appeared unshaken, and that was Doctor Takamine. I had glanced over in his direction earlier. For a moment he seemed to have lost his composure, but presently his confidence returned.

Frowning, the baron turned to the count. “Kifune, bring the princess in. She’ll change the countess’s mind.”

The count nodded and called the servant. “Aya!”

“Sir?” She looked back at him.

“Bring the princess.”

But then the countess interrupted. “Don’t do it, Aya. Why do I have to be asleep for this operation?”

The nurse forced a smile. “The physician is going to make an incision in your chest. It would be dangerous if you moved even a little.”

“Then I won’t. I won’t move. Go ahead. Just do it.”

I shuddered to hear such a childish notion. I doubted whether even medical observers would have the strength to watch.

The nurse spoke again. “But madame, even if you don’t move it will still hurt. It’s not like clipping a nail.”

At this the countess’s eyes opened widely. She regained her composure and asked in a clear voice, “Doctor Takamine is doing the operation, isn’t it?”

“Yes. The chief of surgery. But even Doctor Takamine can’t perform the operation painlessly.”

“Go ahead. It won’t hurt.”

For the first time, the attending physician interceded. “Madame, your illness is not trivial. We will have to cut through muscle and shave the bone. If you could only bear with us for a short while.”

The operation was clearly beyond the endurance of any normal human being, yet the countess appeared unshaken.

“I’m well aware of that. But I don’t care, not in the least.”

“Her illness has affected her mind,” the count observed painfully.

“Perhaps we ought to consider putting this off to another day,” the baron suggested. “In time we might be able to persuade her.”

The count immediately agreed, as did everyone in the room–everyone, that is, except Takamine.

“The operation can’t wait! The problem here is that you all take this illness too lightly. All this talk about emotion is simply an excuse. Nurses! Hold her down!”

At his stern command, the five nurses quickly surrounded the countess and pinned down her arms and legs. Their duty was only to obey, to follow the doctor’s orders without questioning, to allow no emotions to interfere.

“Aya! Help me!” The countess cried out in a thin gasp.

Her servant rushed forward to stop the nurses. But then she turned to the countess and spoke in a gentle, trembling voice. “Please. Just for a moment. Madame, can’t you be patient?”

The countess’s face turned ashed. “You, too! All right, then go ahead. Even if I get better I’m going to die eventually. Operate on me! Just like this.”

With her thin white hand, the countess weakly opened her kimono and revealed her bosom.

“Even if I die, it won’t hurt! I won’t move an inch. Go ahead. Cut me.”

It was clear from her expression that nothing could persuade her now. Her dignity weighed heavily upon those in the room. No one spoke. Not even a stifled cough was heard.

At that sober moment, Doctor Takamine, who had remained as still as cold ash, nimbly rose from his chair.

“Nurse, the scalpel.”

“What?” The nurse hesitated, her eyes widening.

As we all watched with astonishment, the nurse stared at Takamine’s face as another assistant picked up the sterile scalpel with an unsteady hand and passed it to Takamine. He took it from her and, with a few brisk steps, moved to the operating table.

“Doctor, are you sure?” asked one nurse nervously.

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll do our best to hold her down.”

Takamine raised his hand to stop her. “That won’t be necessary.” With this he quickly opened the patient’s gown.

The countess crossed her arms and grasped her shoulders. Takamine, now transformed into a sacred, all-powerful being, spoke to her in a solemn voice, as if taking an oath. “Madame, I take all responsibility. Allow me to proceed with the surgery.”

“Yes,” she answered with a single word, her ashen cheeks suddenly flushing crimson. The countess gazed directly at Takamine, oblivious to the knife now poised over her naked breast.

A red winter plum fallen to the snow, the smooth trickle of blood flowed down her chest and soaked into the white gown. The countess’s cheeks returned to their pallid hue, but her composure seemed complete.

It had come to this. Takamine worked with superhuman speed, not wasting a single movement. None of us in the room, from the servant to the attending physician, had a moment to utter a word. While her chest was being cut open, some trembled, some covered their eyes, some turned away, some stared at the floor. I was gripped by a cold chill.

In the space of a few seconds Takamine brought the surgery to its critical juncture as the scalpel found the bone. At this point the countess, who had been unable to turn over in bed for these past twenty days, released a deep “Ah” from her throat. Suddenly she sat up and firmly grasped the doctor’s right arm with both hands.

“Are you in pain?” he asked.

“No. Because it’s you. You!”

The countess slumped back. Her eyes stared upward and fixed themselves upon the famous surgeon’s face in one last ghastly, cold gaze.

“But you couldn’t have known.”

At this instant, she grabbed the scalpel from Takamine’s hand and plunged it into her body, just below her breast. Takamine, his face ashen, stammered,

“I haven’t forgotten!”

His voice, his breath, his handsome figure.

A smile of innocent joy came to the countess’s face. She released Takamine’s hand and ell back on the pillow as the color faded from her lips. At that moment the two of them were absolutely alone, oblivious to earth and heaven and the existence of another soul.

Part 2
Nine Year Earlier

The date is May fith, and the azaleas are in full bloom. Takamine, a medical school student, and I are walking through the Koishikawa Botanical Garden. We wander arm in arm, in and among the fragrant grasses, viewing the wisteria that grows around the pond.

As we turn to climb a small hill covered with azaleas, a group of sightseers emerges from the opposite direction. In the lead is a man with a moustache, wearing a Western suit and a stovepipe hat. He is a coachman for a noble family. Three women follow, each carrying a parasol, and then comes a second coachman, dressed like the first. We can hear the smooth, crisp rustle of silk as they approach. Takamine’s head turns and follows them as they pass by.

“Did you see that?” I ask.

“I did.” Takamine nods.

We climb the hill to get to a view of the azaleas. The flowers are beautiful and brilliant, but they are not so exquisite as the women we have just seen.

Two young men, probably merchants, are sitting on a nearby bench. We overhear their conversation.

“Kichi,” one says to the other. “What a day we’ve had!”

“Every once in a while I’m glad I listen to you. We’re lucky we didn’t have to go to Asakusa.”

“All three were so beautiful. Which was the plum blossom, and which the cherry?”

“The one who has to be married, though, with her hair done like that.”

“Who cares how they wear their hair? They’re beyond us anyway.”

“What about the young one? You’d think she’d wear something a little nicer.”

“Maybe she doesn’t want to attract attention. Did you see the one in the middle? She was the most beautiful of all.”

“Do you remember what she was wearing?”

“Something lavender.”

“That’s all you can say? ‘Something lavender’? You need to read more or something. It’s unlike you not to notice.”

“But I was dazed. I couldn’t look up the entire time.”

“So you just saw her from the waist down. Is that it?”

“Cleanse your filthy mind, you idiot! I had such a quick glance I couldn’t see anything.”

“Not even the way they moved? It was as if their feet didn’t touch the ground. They drifted along in a mist. Now I know what’s so special about the way a woman walks in a kimono. Those three were a breed apart. They were completely at home in elegant society. How could common trash ever try to imitate them?”

“Harsh words.”

“Harsh but true. Remember how I made that pledge at the Konpira Shrine? I said I wasn’t going to see any prostitutes for three years. Well, I’ve broken my promise. I still keep the charm to protect me, but I slip over to the brothels at night. Luckily, I haven’t been punished yet. But now I see the light. What’s the point of hanging out with those whores? They tempt you with their pretty red colors, but what are they really? Just trash! Squirming maggots!”

“Oh, come on.”

“No. I’m serious. Think about it! They have hands. They stand on two legs. They dress in fine silk. They even carry parasols. Judging from that, you’d think they’d be real women, even ladies. But compared to those three we saw today, what are they really? They’re dirty, unspeakably filthy! It makes me sick to think you can still call them women.”

“That’s an awful thing to say, but maybe you have a point. I’m a fool for a pretty face myself. But after today I’m purged. I’m starting over. Never mind about just any woman.”

“You’ll spend your whole life looking. You think one of them would ever be interested in you? ‘Oh, Genkichi, please.’”

“Cut it out.”

“Suppose one of them called you ‘Darling’? What would you do?”

“Probably run away.

“You, too?”

“You mean you’d–”

“I’d run, definitely.”

Takamine and I look at each other for a whole, neither of us speaking. “Shall we walk some more?” I finally suggest.

We both get up. When we have left the two young men behind, Takamine can no longer contain his emotions. “Did you see how those two men were moved by true beauty? Now that’s a subject for your art. That’s where you ought to study!”

Because I’m a painter, I am indeed moved. I see, far across the park, gliding through the shade of a large camphor tree, a flutter of lavender silk. Outside the park gates stands a large carriage, fitted with frosted glass windows and being drawn by two fine horses. Three coachmen are resting beside it.

For the next nine years, until the incident at the hospital, Takamine never said a word about her, not even to me. Given his age and position in society, he could have married well. Yet he never did. If anything, he became even more strict in matters of personal conduct than he had been in his student days. But I have already said enough.

Although their graves are in different places–one in the hills of Aoyama, one in downtown Yanaka–the countess and Doctor Takamine died together, one after the other, on the same day.

Religious thinkers of the world, I pose this question to you. Should these two lovers be found guilty and denied entrance into heaven?

The Moon Over the Mountain
Author: Nakajima Atsushi
Translation: Charles Shirō Inouye
Date: September 20, 1969

Li Zheng of Longxi, a brilliant and promising young man, passed the civil service examination in the lats years of the Tianbao era and was appointed to a post in Jiangnan. Being naturally self-centered and proud, however, he found that life as a bureaucrat fell short of the ambitions he had for himself, and before long, he had resigned and returned to his home in Guolue. There he holed up and threw himself into composing verse. Instead of lowering himself to doing the bidding of an unworthy superior, he thought, he would make an immortal name for himself as a poet. But his big break never came, and in the meantime, he had to eat. Lu Zheng felt that he was running out of time.

He started to look increasingly haggard. He lost weight, his bones showing through his skin, while his eyes took on a strange glitter. He was unrecognizable as the rosy-cheeked young man who’d made such an auspicious start to his career.

After a few more years of straitened circumstances, he finally gave in and took up a provincial post out east in order to provide for his wife and children. He’d also more or less given up on the idea of making his name as a poet. In the years he’d been away, his former peers had been elevated to high stations, and it’s easy to imagine how it must have chafed to take orders from people he’d dismissed as dullards back when he was a rising star. He sulked and brooded, his behavior becoming more and more erratic and antisocial.

One year into the new job, he had been sent to a place on the banks of the Rushui when he finally snapped. In the middle of the night, he leapt out of bed with a wild look in his eyes and ran off into the darkness, screaming incoherently. That was the last anyone saw of Li Zheng. No trace of him was found in the surrounding countryside, and no one could discover what had become of him.

The following year, Yuan Can of Chenjun, a high-ranking government inspector, was dispatched to Lingnan, and along the way he stopped at Shangyu. When he rose before dawn the next day to continue on his journey, the innkeeper told him, “A man-eating tiger roams the road ahead, and travelers are only safe in broad daylight. Wait for morning before you set off.” Yuan Can was traveling with a sizable retinue, however, and feeling confident that they would keep him safe, he ignored the innkeeper’s suggestion and set off without delay.

As the party made their way across a clearing in the woods by the last light of the moon, a fearsome tiger leapt out from the tal grass, just as the innkeeper had warned. THe tiger seemed to be on the verge of attacking Yuan Can, when at the last second it turned around and disappeared back from where it had come.

“That was a close call,” a human voice muttered from the thicket. “That was a close call.”

Yuan Can was sure he’d heard the voice before, and even in his fright, he managed to place it.

“Is that you, Li Zheng, old friend?” he cried.

Yuan Can had passed the civil service examination the same year as Li Zheng, and had once been his closest friend. His gentle personality had accommodated Li Zheng’s prickly disposition when few others would.

For a while, there wsa no reply–only the occasional faint sound of someone trying to hold in sobs. At least, a low voice said, “Indeed, it is I–Li Zheng of Longxi.”

Yuan Can forgot his fear, and, dismounting his horse, approached the thicket. “Come out and talk to me, friend,” he said. “Why won’t you show yourself?”

“I am no longer the man you remember,” came Li Zheng’s reply. “I can’t bear for you to see what I’ve become. And more importantly, I should spear you the alarm and disgust that my new appearance provokes. But the joy of meeting you again so unexpectedly almost makes me forget my shame. Might you stay a little while and talk with your old friend, despite his hideous new form?”

Looking back later he found it strange, but in that moment, Yuan Can was unperturbed by this extraordinary development; he took the whole thing in stride. Telling his retinue to halt, he went to stand beside the thicket and converse with the unseen voice. They spoke of gossip in the capital and the latest news about their friends. Yuan Can told Li Zheng of his prestigious new post, at which Li Zheng expressed his congratulations. Once they’d covered these topics in the frank manner of two friends who had known each other when they were young, Yuan Can asked Li Zheng what had happened to him.

“Around a year ago, I came to thi region and lodged by the banks of the Rushui. I fell asleep, and awake to a voice calling my name from outside the inn. I followed it to find that it was coming from the darkness, and I raced off after it as though I was in a trance. Before I knew it, the road had led me into the woods, and I was clawing at the ground with my fingers as I ran. I was full of a strange strength, and leapt easily over the rocks in my path. After a while I had noticed fur had sprouted down my forearms and over my hands.

“Once it got light, I found a mountain stream and stopped to look at my reflection, only to find a tiger looking back at me. At first I couldn’t believe my eyes. Then I thought I must be dreaming–I’d had dreams before where I’d known I was in a dream. But eventually I had to accept that I was awake. I felt numb, then terrified. I experienced a profound fear at the realization that truly anything was possible. How had this happened? It was beyond me. How could any of us know anything at all? We’re all just dumb animals, saddled with a life we didn’t ask for, sentenced to exist without a reason for living. I longed for death. Just then, a hare ran across the clearing. The human in me winked out, and when I came to again, tufts of fur littered the grass around me and my mouth was sticky with blood.

“That was the tiger’s first kill.”

“I cannot bear to confess to you the things I’ve done since. I have a few precious hours each day when my humanity resurfaces, when I can think and speak and quote from the classics once again. But then I’m confronted by the evidence of my own savage acts, and in being forced to face up to my terrible fate, I’ve never felt more miserable, frightened, angry… With each passing day, though, I have less and less time as myself. Where I used to wonder what I’d done to deserve being turned into a tiger, now I sometimes catch myself wondering why I was human before.

“It frightens me. Soon enough, my humanity will be lost forever, buried under these brutish habits like the foundations of a ruined castle swallowed up by the earth. Then I’ll forget who I once was; I’ll prowl these parts, feral, and if I see you on this road again i won’t know you as a friend, but rend you limb from limb, devour you, and feel nothing.

“I think all of us, whether beast or human, were something else once. Maybe we remember at first, but over time we forget, and believe ourselves to have always been the way we are now… But what difference does it make? No doubt I’ll be happier once the human part of me is gone completely, though the man in me dreads that more than anything. Aah, I can’t tell you how terrible and lonely and hopeless it makes me feel, the idea of forgetting I was human! You can’t possibly understand. No one can… I’m alone with this. But before my humanity is lost entirely, I have one request to make of you.”

Yuan Can and his retinue listened, transfixed, to this incredible story. The voice went on:

“I dreamed of being known for my poetry; and yet look at me now. No one has read the hundreds of poems I wrote. The manuscripts have probably been lost or destroyed. But I still know a few dozen by heart. Will you copy them down for me? I’m under no illusion that this will make me a proper poet, of course. But their literary value aside, I ruined my life and sacrificed my sanity for poetry, and I can’t die without passing on at least a few lines of my own.”

Li Zheng’s voice rang out clearly from the tall grass, and Yuan Can told one of his attendants to write down everything he said. He recounted more than thirty poems of varying lengths, stylish and elegant, clever and refined, each inspiring admiration and attesting to the writer’s uncommon ability. At the same time, Yuan Can had the uneasy impression that while his friend’s talent was clearly of the highest order, there was something lacking in these poems–something hard to describe–which kept them from being true works of art.

When he had finished reciting his old poems, Li Zheng turned suddenly self-deprecating. “It pains me to admit it, but even in this debased form I still sometimes picture men of taste in the capital leafing through a volume of my poetry. What a thing to dream of as I lie in a mountain cave! Go ahead and laugh. I’m a pathetic man who thought he could be a poet, but only ended up as a tiger.” (Yuan Can listened with a heavy heart, remembering how Li Zheng had always been hard on himself, even in his youth.)

“Anyway, as long as I’m giving you something to laugh about, let me try my had at extemporizing a poem for the occasion. Just to prove there’s something left of me under all this godforsaken fur.”

Yuan Can told his attendant to write this down, too.

By a twist of nature, cruelly transformed
Caged by calamity and inescapable fate
My teeth and claws keep the world at bay
We were friends once, esteemed in equal measure
Now you ride forth in a palanquin
While I am a beast skulking in the weeds
The moon shines over the mountain tonight
Yet I cannot sing its praises; I can only howl

The cold light of the fading moon, the glistening dew blanketing the ground, and the chill wind through the trees announced the approach of dawn. Yuan Can and his retinue forgot all about the bizarreness of the situation, and in the hush following Li Zheng’s words they were left with nothing but solemn compassion for the unfortunate poet.

“I know I said earlier that I don’t know how this happened,” Li Zheng continued. “But as I ponder it, there is one thing that comes to mind. Back when I was human, I went out of my way to avoid others. People said I was arrogant and snobbish. What they didn’t understand was that I was simply insecure. I took pride in my reputation as a prodigy back home, of course. But even that was the pride of a coward. I told everyone that I wanted to be a poet, but I never sought out a teacher to learn from, or even found other scholars with whom to hone my craft. At the same time, I told myself I was better than the rabble and held myself apart from them. All this was to protect my cowardly ego, my narcissistic shame.

“Out of fear that I might turn out not to be a genius, I hesitated to polish the uncut gemstone of my own potential; but, convinced that I had a gift, I was not content to remain in the rough. Over the years, I shut myself off from society, alienating myself from the people around me, and fed my cowardly ego with resentment and rage until it was bursting at the seams. Each of us hass an animal nature we must strive to tame. Well, this arrogant shame was my inner beast: the tiger.

“The tiger ruined me, mistreated my family, hurt my friends, and in the end transformed my own outward appearance into something befitting my inner self. Now I see that I utterly wasted what little gift I had. I postured cynically, claiming that life was too long to do nothing but too short to do anything worthwhile, when in fact I was gripped by the craven anxiety that I might be revealed as an imposter, along with a shiftlessness that made me shy away from any strenuous effort.

“How many people gifted with far less talent than I have turned themselves into respected poets through hard work and dedication? By the time I realized this, it was too late–I had already become a tiger. It makes me want to claw my heart out in regret. I can no longer live as a man; I could compose the finest poetry in the world, but no one would be any the wiser.

“Even worse, my mind gets more and more tigerish by the day. What am I to do? What about all those years I wasted? I can hardly stand it.

“When it all gets to be too much, I climb up to the ccrag at the top of that mountain and howl into the empty valley. I need someone to know the anguish in my heart. I was there again last night, roaring at the moon, hoping in vain for someone to understand my suffering. But the animals that hear me only quake in fear and hide themselves away. To the mountains and forests, the moon and the dew, I’m just another lunatic tiger howling in rage. No matter how I leap into the air or throw myself to the ground, not a single person sees what I’m going through. Just like when I was a man, and no one understood how sensitive my feelings were. My fur is wet with more than just the night dew.”

The darkness around them was finally fading, and the sound of a horn rang out plaintively from somewhere beyond the trees.

“I must take my leave. It’s almost time for me to go back (to become a tiger again),” came Li Zheng’s voice from out of the thicket. “But before I bid you farewell, I need to ask you one last thing. It’s my family in Guolue. They have no way of knowing the truth of what’s befallen me. When you return from the south, would you inform them that I’m long dead? Whatever happens, don’t tell them of what transpired here today. I know it’s a lot to ask, but they’re alone in the world, and if you could ensure they don’t end up cold and hungry on the streets, it would be the greatest kindness I could imagine.”

Loud sobs came from the thicket, and Yuan Can, crying now himself, promised his friend he would do everything he asked.

Li Zheng reverted immediately to his previous mocking tone. “I should have asked that of you first, of course, if I had a human heart,” he said. “But I was the kind of man who’s more concerned about his mediocre poetry than his destitute wife and children; it stands to reason, then, that I ended up in this form.”

Finally, he asked Yuan Can to promise he would avoid coming this way again when he returned from Lingnan. By then he might be too far gone to know his old friend, and might attack him. After they parted, though, would uan Can stop at the top of the next hill and look back this way? Li Zheng would reveal himself to his friend once more–not to impress him, but simply to let his hideous form banish any lingering desire Yuan Can might have to return this way and see him again.

Yuan Can spoke heartfelt words of parting, then mounted his horse. Desperate, wretched sob issued once more from within the thicket. Yuan Can rode away in tears, glancing back over his shoulder time and time again.

When the party reached the top of the hill, they stopped as they had promised and turned to look at the clearing whence they had come. At that very moment, as though it had been lying in wait, a tiger lept out of the tall grass and onto the road. The tiger looked up at the pale, dull moon and roared two or three times, then disappeared among the bushes.