Japanese Tales of Mystery & Imagination (22 page)

But, if so, how account for the vivid colors I distinguished in the "dream"? It is well known, as all dreamers will agree, that scenes which appear on the screen of the subconscious mind are quite devoid of color, like the flickerings of a black-and-white motion picture. But even now that scene of the interior of the railway carriage flashes back vividly to my mind, especially the garish rag picture with its striking colors of purple and crimson, with the dark, piercing, snake-like eyes of the two figures depicted there.

It had only been a short time previously that I had seen a mirage for the first time in my life. Originally I had expected a mirage to be something like an ancient painting—perhaps a beautiful palace floating serenely on a sea of mist—but at the sight of a real mirage, I was startled, to say the least. There, at Uotsu, under the gnarled branches of old pine trees lining the silvery beach, I and a large group of other visitors gazed expectantly at the expansive sky and sea. Never had any sea seemed so unnaturally devoid of sound. It was an eerie and ominous gray, without even a ripple, looking more like an endless swamp.

Gazing as far as my eyes could reach, I noticed that there was no line marking the horizon, for sea and sky were merged into a thick, grayish haze. And above this haze, a large, ghost-like, white sail suddenly loomed, gliding along smoothly and serenely.

As for the mirage itself, it seemed as though a few drops of India ink had been spilt on the surface of a milk-colored film and then projected enormously against the sky. The forests of the distant Noto Peninsula were vaguely and enormously magnified, like black worms placed under a microscope and seen through a badly focused lens. At times it also took on the aspect of a strangely shaped cloud. But the location of a real cloud is clearly distinguishable, whereas in this case I discovered that the distance between the mirage and its observer was oddly immeasurable. This uncertainty of distance made the mirage even more eerie than I had ever imagined it would be.

Sometimes the mirage took the form of a horrible ogre floating in the distant sky; then, swiftly, it would assume another hazy and monstrous shape looming inches away from my face. At other times, it was like a huge, blackish dot seen directly before my eyes. A moment later, a mammoth-sized, quivering triangle would begin to grow bit by bit; then, suddenly, it too would collapse without warning. Quickly, the same indescribable mass would appear again, this time stretching horizontally and running like a long train. But again the shape would scatter before it could be brought properly into focus, transforming itself into something resembling a row of fir trees.

And yet, despite all these changes of form, each transitional process was so subtle and gradual as to be imperceptible. Perhaps the magical power of this mirage had bewitched us all. If so, then it may well have been that the same uncanny power continued to hold me in its grasp even on the train carrying me homeward. After standing and staring at the mysterious scenes projected on the sky for two hours on end, I must say that I was in a most peculiar frame of mind as I left Uotsu for the night's journey home.'

It was exactly six o'clock in the evening when I boarded the Tokyo-bound train at Uotsu Station. For some strange reason—or was it a usual thing with the trains on that line?—the second-class carriage which I occupied was almost as empty as a church after services. As I stepped into the car I found only one solitary passenger snuggled comfortably in the farthest corner.

Soon the train got underway, the locomotive chugging away monotonously as it pulled its heavy load along the deserted seaeoast, then groaning and wheezing as it began to climb. Deep in the mist of the marsh-like sea, the crimson evening glow was now barely discernible. A white sail which looked weirdly large glided smoothly in the haze. It was a sultry evening, the air seemingly bereft of all oxygen—even the occasional breezes which stole into the car through the open window were weak and thin. A series of short tunnels and rows of wooden posts erected as snow-breaks flickered past, making the scenery of the sea and sky play a game of hide-and-seek in my vision.

As the train rumbled past the precipice of Oyashirazu, dusk closed in upon us. Just at this moment, the other passenger in the dimly lit coach stirred in his corner and stood up. Watching him without any particular reason, I saw him spread a large wrapping cloth of black satin on his seat. In it he began to wrap a flat object about two feet by three in size which had hitherto been propped up against the window. Somehow the man's movements gave me a creepy feeling.

The flat object, which I supposed must be some kind of tablet, had until then been resting with its front side turned to the windowpane, and I began to wonder why. Now, as he moved the object, I caught a glimpse of the front side and saw it was a garish rag picture, strangely vivid and different from usual examples of this minor art.

My curiosity aroused, I looked closely at the owner of this strange object and was startled to note that he himself was even stranger in appearance. Thin and long-legged, he wore an old-fashioned sack coat tailored with narrow lapels and drooping shoulders and trousers of an equally outmoded and narrow cut. At first glance he made a rather comical figure. But as I continued to gaze I began to realize that his outdated attire was oddly becoming to him.

His face was pale and thin, with features which clearly distinguished him as a man of above normal intelligence. But what impressed me most were his eyes, which seemed to gleam with an uncanny light. Looking at his black and glossy hair neatly parted in the middle, I guessed him to be about forty years old. But I quickly added another twenty years when I noticed his face networked with numerous wrinkles. In fact, it may have been the complete disparity between his black, glossy hair and his multi-wrinkled face which caused me to feel so uneasy.

After he had finished wrapping up his tablet, he suddenly looked up in my direction. Caught by surprise, I had no time to turn away, and our eyes met. Seeing him smile, shyly, I returned his greeting with a nod.

While the train rumbled past two more stations, we kept to our own seats at opposite ends of the carriage, occasionally stealing a glance at each other, and then looking away quickly with embarrassment when caught in the act.

Outside, it was now quite dark. Pressing my face against the window glass, I looked out and could see nothing but the solitary lamp of a fishing boat twinkling far out at sea. Through the boundless darkness, it seemed as if our long, gloomy carriage were the only existing world, monotonously rumbling along on its creaky wheels, my peculiar companion and I the only creatures alive. Not a single new passenger had boarded our second-class coach, and, strange to recall, not even the conductor or train boy had put in an appearance.

As I watched the stranger in the far corner, my mind began to play strange tricks. For one fleeting moment he appeared to be some unholy foreign magician, and gradually a terrible fear began to gnaw at my heart. When there is no distraction to alleviate it, fear is an emotion which steadily grows in intensity. When I finally felt that I could stand the suspense no longer, I got to my feet and walked down the aisle toward the stranger. The very fear I had of him seemed to drag me toward him.

Reaching his seat, I sat down on the facing seat and, with narrowed eyes, peered closely at his furrowed face. My breathing was constricted practically to the point of suffocation.

All along I had been keenly aware that the man had been gazing at me from the moment I had risen from my seat. And then suddenly, before I had even recovered my breath, he spoke in a dry voice.

"Is this what you want to see?" he asked, nodding his head casually toward the flat parcel beside him.

I was so taken aback by the suddenness of his question that I found myself completely tongue-tied. The tone of his voice had been natural enough—so completely natural, in fact, that it further disarmed me.

"I'm sure you're dying of curiosity to see this," he said again, calling me back to my senses with a jolt.

"Yes—yes, if you would permit me," I stammered, feeling my face flushing.

"It would be a great pleasure," the old man replied with a disarming smile. Then he added: "I've been expecting you to ask me for some time."

He unwrapped the large cloth covering carefully with his long fingers and stood the tablet against the window again, this time facing me.

Unconsciously, I closed my eyes, although why, I could never explain. I simply felt that I had to. But finally, with a supreme effort, I forced my eyes open, and for the first time I saw—the thing!

It was just an ordinary wooden tablet, with a picturesque scene painted on its surface. The scene showed a suite of rooms, their floors covered with mats of pale-green straw, and their ceilings, painted in assorted colors, seemed to stretch far away into the distance, like the backdrops of the Kabuki theater. In the left foreground there was a classical window, painted with bold brush strokes, while beneath it there reposed a low, black writing desk, which seemed utterly out of place.

Against this background, there were two figures, each about one foot high, looming in bold relief, having been fashioned out of cloth and pasted on the tablet. One was a white-haired old man, garbed in a well-worn, black velvet suit of an obsolete European cut, sitting stiffly on the floor. And, strangely enough, this figure bore a striking resemblance to the old man sitting beside me. Shifting my gaze, I examined the other figure, which was that of a strikingly beautiful girl no older than seventeen or so. Her coiffure was of the classical style, while her intricately designed kimono was a long-sleeved affair of crimson artistically blended with other lighter hues, held together with a gorgeous black satin sash. Her posture was delicately amorous, for she was leaning shyly against the lap of the old man, as in a typical Japanese love scene on the stage.

In sharp contrast to the crudeness of the setting, the elaborateness of the pasted rag dolls was astonishing. The faces were fashioned out of white silk, with uncannily realistic wrinkles. As for the girl's hair, it was real, affixed strand by strand, and dressed with intricate skill. The old man's white hair too was no less real. As for his clothes, I noticed that even the seams were faithfully sewn. The buttons too, small as millet seeds, were there.

To add to all this, I also saw the swelling of the girl's breasts, the bewitching line about her thighs, the scarlet crepe of her undergarments showing from beneath her kimono, the natural fleshy texture of her white skin, the shell-like nails on her fingers. . . . In fact, all was so perfect and true to life that I even thought I could have found pores and downy hair if I had continued my scrutiny through a magnifying glass.

The tablet itself appeared very old; the colors of the background had peeled off here and there, and the costumes of the pair were faded in color. Despite these flaws, however, the two figures were so uncannily real that one would have expected them to come to life at any moment.

In the classical puppet theater I have often experienced the sensation of seeing a doll, manipulated by a real master of the art, momentarily come to life. But the two rag figures pasted on the tablet had not just a fleeting aliveness, but a permanent one.

Lost in my wonder, I had almost forgotten the old man beside me. But suddenly he gave a cackle of delight.

"Do you realize the truth now, my good man?"

After uttering this cryptic remark, he took the black leather case which had been hanging by a strap over one shoulder and calmly began to unlock it with a small key. Then, taking out a very old pair of binoculars, he held them out to me.

"Look through these," he invited.

I was reaching for the glasses when he interrupted: "No, no, you're standing too near. Step back a little. . . .There, that's better."

Although it was a strange invitation, I was gripped by an intense curiosity. The binoculars were queerly shaped, and their leather case was worn with age and use, its inner layer of brass showing here and there. Like the clothes of their owner, the binoculars too were quite a museum piece.

Taking the proffered binoculars, I raised them casually to my eyes. But the old man suddenly cried out so piercingly that I almost dropped the glasses.

"No, no, no! Wait, wait! You're holding them the wrong way!" he shrieked wildly. "Don't—don't ever do that again!"

Startled by the outcry and the insane light gleaming in his eyes, I lowered the instrument and mumbled a hasty apology, although for the life of me I could not understand the reason for his sudden consternation.