Blue Bamboo: Tales by Dazai Osamu (8 page)

“It appears you can’t forget your wife after all,” whispered Blue Bamboo, peering at him.

“Don’t be silly. That woman hasn’t the slightest respect for my learning. She makes me wash the dirty clothes, and push boulders around... Besides, they say she’s my uncle’s mistress. There’s nothing about her that’s worth remembering.”

“Perhaps that’s precisely what you find so precious about her, precisely what makes you miss her so—that she’s beyond redemption. I’m certain that’s what you really feel, deep inside. Didn’t Mencius say that compassion lies deep in every man’s heart? I think your true and greatest aspiration was to share life’s hardships with your wife, to live with her free of malice or resentment or spite, for the rest of your days. Go home.” Blue Bamboo’s countenance had suddenly taken on a forbidding sternness; she spoke the words sharply and without the least equivocation. “Go now.”

Yu Jung was distraught. “How can you say such a thing?” he protested. “You bring me here and try to seduce me, and now you tell me to leave. Who was it that shamed me into forsaking my home in the first place, with all that talk about fame-seekers? You’ve been toying with my affections all this time!”

“I am a goddess,” said Blue Bamboo in an even sterner tone of voice, her eyes fixed on the glittering, flowing waters of the river before her. “You may have failed your government’s examination, but you’ve passed Heaven’s test with flying colors. The deity of King Wu Shrine commanded me to investigate you, to test you, to determine whether you honestly envied his crows. Human beings who believe they could find true happiness as a bird or beast are despised by the gods more than any others. To warn you of the error of your ways, you were shot with an arrow and sent back to the human world. But you returned and prayed to become a bird again. This time the deity decided to send you on a long journey and tempt you with carnal pleasures. It was a test to see whether you’d so lose yourself in those pleasures that you’d forget all about your life as a human being. If you had forgotten, the punishment would have been terrible—too terrible for words. Human beings must suffer through their entire lives amid the love and hate that rule their world. There is no escape. All you can do is endure. Endure and struggle, struggle and endure. Learning is a splendid thing, but to make a show of having risen above worldly affairs is cowardly and mean. You must become even more attached to the world, and spend your life immersed in the hardships it presents you with. That’s what the gods most love to see in a person. I’m having the servants prepare a boat for you. Get on it, and return directly to your home. Farewell.”

The moment she uttered that final word of parting, Blue Bamboo vanished—as did the palace, the garden, and everything else. Mouth agape, Yu Jung stood there all alone on that little isle in the river.

A rudderless, sailless, dugout barge came sliding up to the shore, and Yu Jung boarded it as if in a trance. No sooner had he done so than the barge left the shore and propelled itself down the Han, then up the Yangtze to Lake Tung-t’ing, and across the lake, finally coming to rest at the shore of a fishing village near Yu Jung’s home. When he stepped ashore, the unmanned barge pulled away and headed back the way it had come, until it disappeared in the mist.

Yu Jung, disconsolate and numb with dread, peeked timorously through the rear door into the dark interior of his house. Imagine his surprise when a sweet, melodious voice called out, “You’re home!” and the woman who rushed, smiling, to greet him turned out to be...

“Blue Bamboo!”

“What are you talking about? Where have you been all this time? I got really sick and had a terrible fever, and there was no one to care for me and I missed you so much and realized what a mistake I’d made treating you so badly all this time and, oh, you don’t know how I’ve longed for you to return! The fever just wouldn’t go down, and after a while my whole body got all purple and swollen, but I knew it was my punishment for being so mean to a nice person like you, I mean I knew I had it coming, so I just resigned myself to death, but then my skin burst open and all this blue liquid came gushing out and I felt so light and easy, and then this morning I looked in the mirror and my face had changed completely—just look how pretty I am!—and it made me so happy I forgot all about my illness and got out of bed and started cleaning the house like mad, and now here you are! You’ve come home! I’m so happy! Say you’ll forgive me. It’s not only my face that’s changed, you know—my whole body is different. And my heart too! I’m so sorry for the way I treated you. But all the evil inside me was flushed away with that blue water, honest it was, so please say you’ll forget the past and forgive me and let me stay by your side forever!”

A year later a beautiful baby boy was born. Yu Jung named the boy Han-ch’an, which means “child of the Han River,” but he never told anyone, not even his beloved wife, why he’d chosen that name. It was a precious secret that he kept buried in his heart, along with the memories of his time as a sacred crow, for the rest of his life. Nor was he ever again heard to utter another pompous word about the “Way of the superior man,” but quietly carried on in the same humble poverty as before. And while it’s true that he never did earn even a sliver of respect from his relatives, this no longer seemed to bother him in the least. He lived out the rest of his days as a rustic bumpkin of the commonest sort, and buried himself in the dust of the world.

t was eight years ago. An Imperial University student exceptional only for my laziness, I spent the summer that year at Mishima, on the old Tokaido Road. Having managed to wheedle fifty yen from my elder sister, who made it abundantly clear that this was to be the last time, I stuffed an extra yukata and shirt into a schoolbag and breezed out of my boarding house. Had I immediately jumped on a train, all would have been well, but I took a detour and stopped at a pub I frequented in those days. Three friends of mine were there. They were already drunk and demanded to know where I was going all dressed up like that. Caught off guard, I found myself lamely explaining that I wasn’t going anywhere special, really, but why didn’t they come along? Once that less-than-heartfelt invitation escaped my lips I had no choice but to stick to it, and did so with a reckless vengeance. Look here, I said—fifty yen, I got it from my sister back home, why don’t we all take a little trip? Pack? What’s wrong with the clothes you’ve got on? Though I had no idea what would come of this, I refused to be denied and all but dragged them from the pub. I was a child in those days, and a bit of a goof. But the world was gentler then and allowed us to be that way.

The plan was to spend some time in Mishima and write a story. It was there that Takabe Sakichi, who was two years my junior and whose older brother ran a large saké brewery in Numazu, had recently opened a liquor shop. Sakichi and I had met in a casual way and hit it off immediately, perhaps because we were both younger sons and had both lost our fathers at an early age. I had been introduced to his brother and thought him a warm and likeable gentleman, but Sakichi, in spite of the fact that he monopolized the adoration of his entire family, found much to complain of in his role as the number two son. He had once run away from home and shown up smiling at my boarding house in Tokyo, and it was only after a good deal of petulant negotiation with the family that things calmed down somewhat and he took possession of a cozy little home on the outskirts of Mishima, where he now lived with his twenty-year-old sister and stocked casks of his brother’s saké for retail sale. This was the house I planned to go to. Sakichi had described the place to me in a letter, but I had yet to visit him there. I intended to go to Mishima and see if things looked promising; if they didn’t I’d return at once, and if they did I’d spend the summer there and write my story.

Now, however, against my better judgment, I’d gone and invited my three friends. I bought four tickets for Mishima and herded them aboard the train, feigning confidence but inwardly wondering if it was right to impose this mob on Sakichi at his little home. As the train rolled on, my anxiety only increased, and by the time night had fallen and we were nearing Mishima Station, my misgivings had so overwhelmed me that I literally began to tremble, and tears welled up in my eyes. I didn’t want my friends to sense my panic, however, and concentrated on telling them what a great fellow Sakichi was. “Once we get to Mishima, we’ll have it made,” I said again and again, repeating this idiotic and meaningless formula so many times it made even me sick. I’d sent a telegram to Sakichi beforehand, but would he actually be there to meet us? What would I do with my three friends if he didn’t show? I’d lose all face, my honor would be stained forever.

When we got off at Mishima Station and filed out through the gate, there wasn’t a soul in sight. My worst fear had been realized, and I had to suppress a whimper. From the station, situated in the middle of open fields, one couldn’t even see the lights of town. It was pitch dark whichever direction I looked, and the only sounds were the sigh of the wind over rice paddies and a heart-piercing chorus of frogs. I was at a complete loss as to what to do. Without Sakichi, there was simply no way I could handle this situation. What with the train fare and this and that, the fifty yen I’d received from my sister was nearly exhausted. I knew my friends had no money, of course, and I’d been fully aware of that when I dragged them from the restaurant. They seemed to have implicit confidence in me, however, which left me in the difficult position of having to pretend that everything was under control. I forced a smile and spoke out in a loud voice.

“That’s Sakichi for you—irresponsible as ever. He must have forgotten what time I said I was arriving. We’ll have to walk—there aren’t any buses or anything.” I said this as if I knew the place well, then picked up my bag and had just begun to march off, when a pair of yellow headlights appeared out of the darkness, bouncing toward us.

“Ah! It’s a bus!” I said. “I, ah, I guess they have buses now.” Thoroughly braced, I commanded my troops to line up behind me at the side of the road, and there we awaited the slowly lumbering vehicle. When it finally came to a stop in front of the station, Sakichi, cool and composed in a white yukata, was among the passengers who filed out. I all but groaned with relief.

Sakichi’s arrival was my salvation. He took us by hired car to Kona Hot Springs, where we stayed at the finest inn and ate and drank to the point of stupefaction. The following day my friends headed back to Tokyo, raucously thanking me for showing them such a good time. Due to Sakichi’s mediation, we’d been given a special rate at the inn, and I was able to cover it all, but after I’d bought the return tickets for my friends I had less than half a yen left.

“Sakichi,” I said, “I’m broke. Is there a room in your house I can sleep in?”

Sakichi said nothing, only slapped me on the back. And thus began my summer at his house in Mishima.

Mishima was a beautiful place, one that time had passed by. Spider-webbing the entire town was a rushing network of crystal-clear streams, the beds of which were green with waterplants. These streams flowed through the gardens of all the homes, dipped under verandas, and babbled along beside kitchen doors, so that people could wash their clothes in fresh, clean water without ever leaving their houses. Long ago the town had been a famous stop on the Tokaido Road, but its fortunes had gradually declined, and now only the old-timers clung with stubborn pride to the flashy manners and customs of livelier, more prosperous days—abandoning themselves, if you will, to the dignified vagrancy of a dying breed.

From time to time a flea market was held in a lot behind Sakichi’s house, and I once went to see it but ended up wanting to cover my eyes. They’d try to sell you anything. Seeing a man sell the bicycle he’d arrived on was strange enough, but nothing compared to the old fellow who pulled a used harmonica out of his pocket and parted with it for five sen. An old scroll with a painting of Bodhidharma, a silver-plated watch chain, a woman’s coat with a soiled collar, a toy train, mosquito netting, homemade paintings,
go
stones, a carpenter’s plane, swaddling clothes—without so much as cracking a smile, buyers and sellers haggled over these treasures, trying to beat each other out of three or four sen. Most of the people who’d gathered were older men, in their forties or fifties or even sixties, and I imagined that they’d come to this after lives of dissipation; now, for want of a quart of unrefined saké, they kicked or shoved aside their tearful, pleading wives and children as they carried away the last object of any value left in the house—or “borrowed” the grandchild’s harmonica, then slipped out the back door and scurried down to the flea market. One elderly fellow was selling his prayer beads for two sen. Even more outrageous was a bald retiree who showed up with the remains of a woman’s lined kimono wadded in a ball and stuffed in his pocket. It was filthy and falling apart—no longer what you could call a piece of clothing—and with barely contained desperation and a sneer of self-contempt, he spread these rags out on the ground and asked for bids.

The town itself was in a severe state of decay. We’d go out to drink at a run-down old joint that had been an inn long ago, with low-hanging eaves and oil-paper sliding doors, and the ancient shopkeeper there would insist on warming our saké himself. He proudly stated that he’d been heating saké for his customers for half a century and insisted that the taste of rice wine depended entirely on the way it was warmed. If he was typical of the older generation, you can imagine what the young men were like: slender, dashing rogues devoted to play and pleasure. A number of them, loafers and ruffians of every description, would gather each morning at Sakichi’s shop. Though Sakichi didn’t appear to be particularly strong, perhaps he was in fact a formidable brawler; all these fellows seemed to look up to him. I’d be on the second floor, writing, while the morning assembly began downstairs, and suddenly I’d hear Sakichi’s voice rising above the general clamor.

“Hell, that’s nothing compared to the fellow staying upstairs here. You could scour the entire Ginza in Tokyo without finding a man like him. Can he fight? Phew! He’s been in jail, you know. Expert at karate too. Look at this pillar. You see how it’s caved in here? He did that with his fist.”

None of which, needless to say, contained a speck of truth. Distressed, I’d shuffle downstairs, call Sakichi over, and speak to him in a low voice, pursing my lips in disapproval.

“Don’t be saying crazy things like that. I won’t be able to show my face around here.”

Sakichi would smile and say: “Nobody takes it seriously. They know I’m making it up as I go. As long as the story’s interesting, they’re happy.”

“Is that so? Regular lovers of the arts, eh? But listen, no more lies like that, all right? You’re making me nervous.” And with that, I’d go back up to the second floor and resume work on my story, which I’d entitled “Romanesque.” Before long, however, I’d hear Sakichi’s booming voice again.

“Talk about holding your liquor, there’s nobody who can touch the fellow upstairs. Every evening he drinks a quart of saké, and all that does is make his cheeks a little rosy. Then he stands up, real casual, and says, ‘Hey, Sakichi—let’s go to the baths.’ After a quart of saké, mind you. At the baths, he whips out an old Japanese razor and shaves, nothing to it. Not so much as a nick. Sometimes he even shaves
my
beard. Then, as soon as we get home, he goes right back to work. Cool as a cucumber.”

This too was a series of lies. Every evening, whether I asked for it or not, a half-pint bottle of saké would be on my dinner tray. Not wanting to appear ungrateful, I’d guzzle it down quickly enough, but it was, remember, saké delivered directly from the brewery, not at all diluted, and therefore extremely potent. On one bottle you’d get as drunk as you normally would on two or three. Sakichi didn’t drink the saké from his family’s brewery, claiming it would make him gag to think of the inflated profit his brother turned on the stuff, and so whenever he wanted to drink, he went elsewhere. I, therefore, unseemly though it may have been, would get drunk alone at dinner, draining my bottle of saké and then, as my head began to swim, digging into the food; and no sooner would I finish eating than Sakichi would invite me to the baths. Not wanting to seem selfish by asking to be allowed to rest awhile first, I always accepted, and off we’d go. In the baths I’d feel as if I were going to faint, or die. I’d stagger toward the dressing room to make my escape, but Sakichi would stop me, tell me I needed a shave, and kindly offer to give me one, and again I’d find myself unable to refuse, surrendering with a lame, “Well, if you really don’t mind...” Utterly exhausted by the time it was all over, I’d wobble home, mutter something about doing a little more work, crawl upstairs, collapse on the floor, and fall fast asleep. Surely Sakichi was aware of all this, and I’ll never know why he insisted on telling those preposterous yarns.

The yearly festival of the famous Grand Shrine of Mishima was fast approaching. The young ruffians who gathered at Sakichi’s shop were all members of the festival committee, and each day they excitedly hashed out their various plans and ideas—dancing platforms, parades, floats, fireworks, what have you. I was told that Mishima’s fireworks display boasted a long tradition and included a special event in which fireworks were set up in the shrine’s pond so that, reflected on the water, they appeared to come bubbling up from the depths. Large, printed programs listing the names of some hundred different fireworks to be launched were distributed to all the houses, and with each passing day the festival spirit began to infuse the town with a strangely poignant, pulsating buoyancy.

On the morning of the day of the festival the weather was fine. When I went out to the well to wash my face, Sakichi’s younger sister took the kerchief from her head, bowed deeply, and said, “Congratulations,” and I surprised myself by returning this traditional festival greeting with minimal awkwardness. I found Sakichi dressed in everyday clothes and maintaining an aloof attitude as he puttered about in his shop. When the usual gang began to arrive dressed in gaudy yukata with the same wave-shaped pattern, festival fans stuck in their sashes and matching hand towels draped around their necks, they all offered us their congratulations on the day. I’d felt rather restless since waking up that morning but didn’t have it in me to join the youths in pulling the floats through the streets, so I went upstairs and sat down to do a bit of work. Soon, however, I was back on my feet, pacing the room. I leaned on the window sill and looked down into the garden, where in the shade of a fig tree Sakichi’s sister was washing our clothes as if it were just another ordinary day.