A Hunch 2/2

On the next day, Toko arrives at the hospital just on time. She takes off her bra and earrings, and takes a deep breath. When she enters the exam room, following the nurse and the doctor, she doesn’t miss the heavy door to shuts her in. Toko is already too nervous and looks pale. The nurse asks her if she’s feeling okay. Toko says something like “I’m fine,” but not sure what she’s saying. As she steps forward to lie on the machine, she can’t believe what she is going to do. It is too eccentric experience for her.

This is already enough, she thinks. She even thought such an awful experience can worsen her symptoms. Lying down, she is once again asked if she needs the sleeping pills, but she says
No. Then, suddenly the nurse brings the weird looking helmet-like devise. It looks like a helmet for football players, but a little bit bigger than those.

This is something Toko has never been told before. She becomes panicked. The nurse smiles at Toko and says, “Don’t worry. This is just the thing helps your head not to move.”

When the nurse puts the thing on her head, it looks more terrible from inside. She thinks, Oh god, I’m gonna be under the electroconvulsive therapy. They even put a headphone to shut the machine’s noise out. Toko feels completely trapped. While she is trying to take a deep breath, the nurse asks her to choose the songs she wants to listen to during the test. Toko replies, “Do you have David Bowie?”

“Who?”

“David Bowie.”

“I am sorry, but I don’t know him at all, and I don’t think we have his songs here.”

Toko wonders how she has been able to live without knowing him—she must be around forty. Toko asks for whatever she has. The nurse says “Sure thing.” Toko has no idea what she is sure about.

The door is shut and Toko closes her eyes. It’s her habit; she closes her eyes when she takes the x-ray too. Something in her tells her she should.

Then there is the terrible noise. It starts like a Chinese gong ringing constantly. This wasn’t so bad for the start, Toko thought, but she feels cold sweat on her back and the hip already. Her head is completely covered with the machine and she could only stare at the white arc above her head. The noise kept on going. Dadadadada dada gagaaga ga ga ga ga…then the music comes on.

It is a terrible choice—Hotel California. She just wants to hit that nurse for her mistake. How can anyone listen to such a suffocating song under the MRI machine? Ding-dong ding-dong…The machine sounds brutal and doesn’t match the music at all. In a way, the song sounds much creepier. Their chorus echoes in her head; Such a lovely place, (such a lovely place), what a nice surprise (what a nice surprise)... What a terrible surprise.

The next song is even worse: Saturday Night by The Bay City Rollers. As boys begin spelling out S-A-T-U-R-D-A-Y with those twangy voices, the machine gives a great buzz. Toko tries to imagine her brain’s slowly scanned by the devise from the top of her head. It is impossible for her to tell what the machine is doing, though. This continuous buzz reminds her of a sixth grade boy who’s trying to play the toy guitar like Jimi Hendrix. Well, at least he’s trying.

By the time the third song, Bicycle Race by Queen is on the player, Toko begins to appreciate the nurse for keeping her upset throughout the test. At least she can get off her mind from the fear—but she can barely hear the music now. The machine seems like giving the last tenacity to picture her brain completely, and then, the machine stops and the nurse comes into the room. “You did a good job, honey. Now, watch your step.” The nurse takes Toko’s hand to help her sitting up. Her shoulders are stiff, and she stretches herself. She is free to go now.

The outside is sunny. It’s Friday afternoon and soon people will emerge from the offices for Friday nights’ release.

Toko is going to meet her fiancé for dinner tonight, and starts walking to the station. As she gets to the station, she notices she is out of cash. She finds an ATM machine to withdraw some money, but her cash cards don’t work. They are all wiped while she left her wallet in the breast pocket during the test. “Silly me—” she has no idea how she gets to the restaurant. She flips open the cell phone to call her fiancé, but she hesitates.

If I will be diagnosed the brain tumor next week, Toko thinks, and if that happens to be malignant…Toko turns around and starts to walk to her apartment, keeps on thinking, It won’t take an hour to get there—I can call him when I get there and maybe suggest him to come over my place… but she knows that she won’t call him or cook him dinner tonight. Toko feels strange as she realizes herself wishing the tumor (now she really thinks it’s there,) will be malignant, so she can blame everything on the tumor as she lets go her relationship, unwanted marriage, the job at the bank, or the dull days to raise a baby.

Yes, Toko says to herself, I will be diagnosed a bad brain tumor and what should I care anymore?  And should I care to meet someone subsequent—someone like my fiancé?

Ayako M. All Rights Reserved

A Hunch (1/2)

A Hunch

(The First Part)

Toko has been annoyed with migraines for almost a year, every single day. They started right after she graduated the collage and started working for the bank in Tokyo. She doesn’t like it and she is never interested in her job at all. The pay is great, and maybe that’s why she took this job. Days are nothing but torture. Working for a bank is too boring. After 5 p.m., she meets friends, sip a glass of wine, and goes home. Toko has a fiancé she’s supposed to marry in three months. It’s the marriage her parents set for her. She is not happy about this at all, but she is also not desperate to oppose it. She grew up this way. Everything about her life seems lukewarm. Now she finds herself turning thirty, and she questions what she has accomplished: nothing but saving plenty of money—saving for nothing planned ahead, only getting married and have a baby or two.

Toko takes aspirins daily with breakfast. A very exemplary patient. Medications did work for her a while. She was just annoyed, but when she started vomiting occasionally in the morning, she was worried. One night, she could not resist it anymore and searched headache, early morning, vomit on Google. The results were not fun to read at all. On the screen along bold letters “headache” in each result, she saw the words “brain tumor.” This terrified her. She imagined a black, gruesome clod of tissue tingling in her head. She became suspicious about everything she encountered. When she lost her appetite, she felt the tumor clinging to her satiety center. When she dropped her pen at the office, she felt it tingling on the back of her head.

It could be anywhere and the place didn’t matter at all, actually. The point was, she has the possibility of having (and moreover, developing!) a tumor in her brain, and the possibility itself is close enough that the tumor might be well as real. It’s just like the rock dams a stream and suppresses the babble. She has become silent.

Going to see a doctor took courage though she knew she would need him sooner or later. As she explained her symptoms to the doctor, she felt as if she were mocking the patients’ story she’s taken from Google. The doctor was a middle aged man, the sort of a guy you can imagine in a white coat—glasses, the meaningful face, mustache, and the expensive pen in the pocket with a BiC pen side by side. He suggested that she have the MRI test soon. “It’ll be over in fifteen minutes or so. And you won’t be irradiated.” He smiled at her with a great confidence, though it did not make her feel better or relaxed. “Does it hurt?” Toko asked him innocently. The doctor’s response was simple but quite irritating; “Of course not!” Toko had no idea why he said of course. The doctor added, “Oh, are you afraid of the closed place? Is that your problem? If so, we can give you a sleeping pill so you can sleep while you are under the test.”

Toko said no. She was almost going to say yes, but she could not imagine sleeping with her head in the MRI machine. What if there was an earthquake while she was there sleeping and the door frame skewed and no one could open the door for her?

Toko was told to come back next day. She received the brochure about the MRI test. Back to her apartment, she made a cup of black tea and started reading it carefully. She made herself nervous this way. Sipping black tea, she learned she shouldn’t wear eye shadow on the following day, because it would be burnt lightly under the strong magnetism. This somehow made her think of David Bowie’s forehead in 1970’s. Would she be cool if she painted her forehead with glittering powder like him? and let her forehead burnt? What a spacey thought.

<><><> 
--to be continued--

Ayako M. All Rights Reserved

Confessions of Masks ③ (Last part) 仮面たちの告白 ③ (最終回)

“Oh yeah? And?”

“We held each other.”

“Is that all?”

“Yes. That’s all. She insisted on not having sex because she was not married yet. She said there were certain orders to follow before she could have sex with someone.”

“What?” Murakami asks.

“Orders. She said she should get married before she has sex. I agreed with her then, but I never had a chance to go back to that island to see her again.”

“Oh yes, your story reminds me of that ‘Snow Country[1],’ Mishima-kun. I occasionally visited the northern area of Japan few years ago. There was a geisha with whom I used to drink sake,” says Kawabata—slightly blushing now.

Murakami feels uncomfortable. Both Mishima and Kawabata look like teenage boys—boys who are gathering to show off their sexual experiences, or at least, exchange some knowledge about sex.

Murakami gives a sigh. The waitress refills their coffee though Murakami feels like saying no more.

“You know, I think both of you guys are overestimating the value of sex, or rather, virginity.”

Murakami continued. “Let’s say, you’ve had a whisky with a girl at a bar, and it’s past eleven. What will you do? Take her home? And? Yes, have sex at her apartment. That is something that happens as a matter of course, the way they give you a cushion and a cup of tea at an inn[2], right?”

Both Kawabata and Mishima look puzzled and keep silent.

Murakami keeps on. “Or, I can give you another example when I was twenty, when I had this relationship with a twenty-seven year old woman. She was married and a mother of a child. Her husband worked abroad the first half of each month, and we used to spend time together at her apartment as we listened to the husband’s opera records. We shared the same interests in music. [3]Do you guys listen to any kind of music?”

“Not particularly,” Kawabata murmurs.

“Wagner,” Mishima says.

Murakami’s heart sinks.

“Okay then, how about cooking? Do you cook? Sometimes? No?”

Both of them shake their heads— looking at Murakami like kids in front of their father.

“I know you love pasta, Murakami-kun. I often find your main characters cook pasta as they talk to themselves, isn’t that right?” Kawabata points out.

“Right. I love pasta, and I love cooking it. Generally I enjoy cooking and that may be something attractive about me, like you mentioned earlier today. So, do you cook?”

“No, I have housekeepers and they cook for me every day. But I can peel tangerines for myself.” Kawabata puffs away at his cigarette. His fingers are long and dry.

“…and how about you, Mishima-san?” Murakami asks.

“Never. I have had housekeepers since my childhood. They cook, do laundry, clean the house, and all that, you know.”

“Maybe you guys can start learning how to cook with pasta, and that may help you become  more comfortable being around women. Cooking pasta is quite simple, but it also has to be done properly—just like when you go about with a woman.”

“That is…?” Kawabata leans forward, but his eyes are looking for the waitress unconsciously again. He cannot find her. She must have gone home by now. He is a little disappointed.

“Think this way—when you cook pasta, first you must boil plenty of water in a large pot. Plenty. When the water is boiling, you put a dash of salt, and then add pasta at once, right?  Then wait for seven minutes—though I prefer six minutes and forty seconds—and never leave pasta alone. Don’t pick up the phone if it rings, don’t text your friend or turn on the TV. Wait for seven minutes and serve pasta with sauce just on time.”

“Do women love pasta that much?” Kawabata says, crossing his arms.

“They like pasta, but that’s not what I mean. It is just a metaphor—let me explain it to you. Plenty of water in the pot is conversation. Talk to her and more than that, listen to her. Don’t just say yes and no, but agree with her or ask her questions to keep on talking. Let her talk as if you had put a pot on the stove to boil. Then, when both of you get to know each other well, put a dash of salt. Salt is a little bit of childishness, such as teasing her about her dimple. Teasing will keep her heart excited—and then, praise her in every possible way, constantly for about seven minutes. Ignore the phone call, never ever text your friend while you talk, and never turn on TV and twiddle your thumbs. After seven minutes, as if to drain in a colander, stop praising her in one breath, then touch her. She’ll follow you.”

+++

Murakami exhales gently and looks at his wrist watch. The sunshine is not on his watch anymore. It is past two thirty.

“Well, you guys please excuse me. I have another interview in thirty minutes. It was nice talking with both of you. I hope some of my chat may be some help.”

At the cashier, Kawabata notices the waitress is back. She might have been taking her lunch break. As a senior Kawabata pays for the three of them. As he pays, he touches her soft palm, and that makes him confident. The waitress bows, saying Arigato-gozaimashita (thank you), but as she raises her head, she says, “Wait, please, sir.”

“Yes?” Kawabata turns back, smiling.

But he finds she walks towards Murakami waiting for Kawabata and Mishima at the door. The waitress is talking to Murakami now, not Kawabata.

“I…I have been reading your stories for years, Murakami-san, would you sign a book? I just went to a bookstore nearby to buy it during my lunch time, since I never expected meeting you today. I wish I had my favorite book, which I have been reading over and over.” She blushes, licking her plump lips.

“I’ll be glad to. What is your name?” Murakami says.

“Mariko”

“Mariko, good name. Here you are.” Murakami hands the book to her and offers a handshake, and says, “and remember you can bring your own book anytime.”

“Oh, really? When will you come back here?”

“No worry, my office is near here and you are welcome to come by. Just give me your number.”

All the way through this conversation, Mishima and Kawabata are speechless. Mishima feels his thick chest wilt with discouragement. Kawabata is shocked that the she does not even recognize the Nobel Prize writer.

Both Mishima and Kawabata know by now, that to boil plenty of water in a large pot, they first need a pot—but the size of it is what you were born with. Some will get larger like Murakami, and some will get smaller like Mishima or Kawabata. No matter how they make it thicker or more decorative by doing exercises or getting prizes, the size of the pan stays the same.

In the afternoon bustle, Mishima and Kawabata leave the café together. Murakami keeps talking with the waitress girl. They will head out to that house with sleeping beauties—where there will be a space for a man and a sleeping beauty to sleep together on the same bed. No salt or seven minutes are needed in that house, and unlike thick, piping hot pasta which Murakami enjoys, the time in that house is like a silk thread—sleek and light for fingers to touch, but slips away from fingers so easily.

---

[1] Kawabata, Y. (1957). Snow country : translated with an introduction by Edward G. Seidensticker: By Yasunari Kawabata.

[2] Murakami, H. (1993). “Family Affair,” p. 182 from The elephant vanishes.

[3] Murakami, H. (1993). “A Window” from The elephant vanishes.

-----

『仮面の告白たち』

　「はぁ、それで？」

　「抱き合ったよ」

　「それだけですか？」

　「それだけ。婚前交渉なんて彼女は許さないからね。そもそも、物事には順番ってものがあるでしょう」

　「何ですって？」

　「ものごとの順番だよ。未婚の女性に手を出すなんてできないでしょう。僕も彼女の気持ちが分かったしね。あれからあの島に行く機会が無いままで残念だけれどね」

　「その話を聞いていると、『雪国』を思い出しますね、三島くん。私は、何度か北国へ旅したものですが、そこの芸者と呑むのが好きでしたよ」言いながら、川端は頬を紅潮させた。

　村上はすっかり参ってしまった。2人は、誰と寝たとか、寝ないとか、アレを知っているかいないとか、自慢しあう男子のようで、ため息が出る。

　ウェイトレスがコーヒーのおかわりはどうかと聞きに来たが、もう飲みたくは無かった。

　「どうもおふたりとも、セックスとか童貞とか、こだわり過ぎていませんかね」

　村上は続けた。

　「例えば、女の子とバーでウィスキーでも飲んでいるとしましょう、気がつくと、もう１１時。どうするか？もちろん、彼女を送っていって、アパートで抱かせてもらうんです。自然な流れです。まるで、旅館に着いたら、座布団とお茶が出てくるようにね」

　三島も川端も、何とも言えない表情で黙りこくっていたが、村上は気にせず続けた。

　「それか、僕が２０代の時の話をしましょうか。当時付き合っていた、２７歳の人は、結婚していて、子どももひとり居た。夫は毎月半分は海外だったし、そんな時に、彼女と会っていたんです。夫の趣味のオペラのレコードを聞かせてもらったりして。音楽の趣味が合ったんで。ところでお2人とも、音楽の趣味は？」

　「特に何も」川端は答えた。

　「ワーグナーはいいね」と三島は言った。

　村上はがっかりしてしまった。

　「では、料理は？ほら、たまに料理をするでしょう？」

　ふたりとも首を横に振った。まるで、父親に尋ねられて、従順に答える子どものようだった。

　「村上くんは、パスタが好きでしたね。小説の中にもよく出てきて、主人公たちが色々と思いをめぐらしながら、パスタを茹でる」川端が訊ねた。

　「あぁ、そうですね。大好きです。食べるのもいいのですが、料理が好きで、だからモテるのかもしれないですね。で、おふたりは料理をしない、と？」

　「いやいや、手伝いを雇っているので、毎日料理も頼みます。でも、みかんは自分で剥きますけどね」か細い指で煙草をふかしながら川端は言った。

　「・・・はぁ、それで、三島さんは？」

　「全く。お手伝いさんが、昔から居るもの。料理、洗濯、掃除、全てお任せしています」

　「たぶん、おふたりとも、パスタを茹でることから、始めるといいですよ。それに、パスタを茹でられるようになると、女性との付き合い方も分かってきますから。パスタを茹でるのは簡単なようでいて、正しく茹でないといけません。ちょうど、女性との付き合い方のようにね」

　「と、言うと？」川端は前のめりになって訊ねた。と、急にあのウェイトレスが気になって探したが、姿は見えなかった。もう勤務時間を終えたのかもしれない。と、思うと、すこしがっかりした。

　「つまり、こういうことです。パスタを茹でるには、大きな鍋に、湯をたっぷり沸かしますね、たっぷりと。湯が沸騰したら、塩を入れて、パスタを入れる。それから、７分待つ。―私は６分４０秒が好みですが―まぁ、茹でるわけです。このとき、電話が鳴っても取ってはいけません。携帯メールもダメ。TVもダメ。７分間、きっかり茹でて、ソースを一緒に盛り付ける」

　「女性はそんなにパスタが好きかね？」川端が腕を組んで言った。

　「好きですよ。でも、それだけじゃなくて、これは一種のメタファーなんです。つまりね、たっぷりのお湯は、会話です。女の子とは、たっぷり会話をしなくてはいけない。でも、自分が話すのよりも、話を聞いてあげることです。うん、とかいや、とか答えるのではなく、色々彼女に質問をするなりして、会話を続けること。まるでお湯を茹でるように、どんどん話してもらうこと。十分に打ち解けてきたと思ったら、塩をひとつまみ。塩と言っても、ちょっと彼女をからかうことですよ。えくぼのこととか、何でもいいから。

　ちょっとからかったりすると、女の子って、喜ぶものなんですよ―そうしたら今度は、彼女を褒めちぎるんです。７分間ね。電話が鳴っても取らないし、携帯でメールを返すなんてもってのほか。TVも見ないし、親指をもじもじさせたりしてもいけません。そうして７分間褒めちぎったら、一気にザルで湯を切るように、突然彼女に触れる。と、彼女もその気になっちゃう」

+++

　村上は軽く息を吐くと、腕時計を見た。日差しはいくらか傾いていた。２時半を過ぎていた。

　「すみませんがそろそろ失礼します。あと３０分で別の取材があるので。お会いできて嬉しかったです。何かアドバイスになったらいいのですが」

　

　支払いになって川端は、あのウェイトレスが戻ってきたことに気がついた。お昼休憩でも取っていただけなのかもしれない。会計は、年長者として、川端が奢った。金を渡すとき、川端はウェイトレスの柔らかい手に触れてみた。すると、妙に自信が沸いてきた。

　「ありがとうございました」ウェイトレスはお辞儀をするやいなや、

　「あ、待ってください」と言った。

　「ん？」川端が笑顔で振り返ったが、彼女は、カフェの入り口で川端たちを待っていた村上のもとへ小走りで近寄った。

　「ずっと・・・村上さんのファンなんです。本にサインをいただけませんか？ずっと読んでいる自分の本もあるのですが、まさか今日お会い出来るとは思わないし、お昼休みに、一冊買ってきました」

　言うと、彼女は頬を染めて、そのぷっくりとした唇を舐めた。

　「よろこんで。お名前は？」

　「真理子です」

　「真理子さん、素敵な名前ですね。はい、どうぞ」村上は彼女に本を渡すと、握手を求めた。

　「いつでも、お気に入りの本を持ってきてくれていいからね」

　「え、本当ですか？今度はいついらっしゃいますか？」

　「いやいや、僕のオフィスに来てください。電話番号を聞いてもいいかな」

　彼らのやり取りを聞きながら、三島と川端は言葉を失っていた。三島は、鍛え上げた自分の胸が、落胆でしぼむような気がしていた。川端は、彼女がノーベル文学賞受賞作家をも無視していったことがショックだった。

　ふたりとも、もう分かっていた。「たっぷりの湯」を沸かすには、大きな鍋が必要だということが―そしてその鍋の大きさは、生まれ持ったものであるということも。村上のように、大きい鍋を持って生まれる者も居れば、三島や川端のように、小さい鍋のものも居る。それは、筋肉を鍛えたり、文学賞を取ったりしても、一生変わらないままなのだ。

　
　外に出ると、午後の喧騒の中、三島と川端は共にカフェをあとにした。村上は、まだウェイトレスと話しているようだが、これから川端たちは、あの家に行くだろう。眠れる美女と、２人の男女だけに丁度良い大きさのベッドを用意してくれる、あの館へ。そこでは、７分間も、ひとつまみの塩も必要ない。
　村上が大好きな、熱々のパスタ麺ではなく、シルクの糸のようなひと時が待っている―  滑らかで、軽く、それでいて、すぐ指先から滑り落ちてしまうような、あのひと時が。

＋おしまい＋

-----

メモ：

えっと、「何これ？」という人が多いとは思いますが、原語Ver.の脚注にあるように、登場する文豪の、代表作品から、引用をして、キャラクター設定をしています。そのため、これらを読んでいないと分からないかと思われがちですが、そんなことも、なかったでしょ？

お気づきの通り、この作品は、色んな意味で実現不可能ですが、決定的に不可能なのが、三人が会う、というところかもしれませんね。三島が一番先に死にましたが、年明けのお別れ回での代表をつとめた川端氏も、その後わずか２年でこの世を去ります。今活躍しているのは、村上春樹だけですが、この３人が、もしも今でも活躍する作家だったら、どんな話をしたのでしょう。

私の作品は、全くこの「空想」にはそぐわないものですが、有名な文豪に対して、引けを取らず、おしゃべりする村上氏を書くのが、一番楽しかったです。

Confessions of Masks ② 仮面たちの告白 ②

Murakami quickly finishes his sugar toast and grabs paper napkin to wipe his buttered fingers. He was hungry. Kawabata says, “You know, I have this girl, and I have been dating her for about three months, and we haven’t even...”

The silence falls and Kawabata lowers his voice and looks straight at Murakami—“…even, kissed yet.”

Murakami becomes speechless. Mishima keeps quiet, staring at Kawabata’s coffee cup.

Murakami looks slightly puzzled for a moment. “Okay, and you want to sleep with her?”

“Yes, but I don’t know how I should get closer to her.” Kawabata shrugs and sips coffee and water interchangeably and clumsily.

“Kawabata-san, have you ever slept with a woman?”

“On no, no. Never.”

“Oh, god,” says Murakami, “A world famous writer, who is now in his late sixties with the Nobel Prize, is keeping his virginity? You are kidding me, right?” Murakami is astonished and cannot help laughing, knowing he’s being rude, anyway. But it seems like Kawabata doesn’t care.

“Wait, Murakami-kun, I haven’t slept with anyone either.” Mishima finally speaks.

“Say what??”

“I said I haven’t had sex with anyone—I mean, with a woman.”

Murakami freezes for a moment, and regrets he has chosen the sugar toast with coffee. He should have chosen a big slice of Baumkuchen so he could take time to eat and fidget with a fork as he listens to those world famous great writers—who have just confessed such personal matters to him. What are they expecting to hear from him.

“Do you know the House of Sleeping Beauties[1]?” Kawabata asks Murakami.

“Oh yeah, your novel, right?” Murakami remembers reading that novel a few years ago. It is a weird story about a guy who keeps visiting a house called the House of Sleeping Beauties. There is a female master who gives women sleeping medicines. While women are sleeping, the customer can sleep with one of them on the same bed—he’s allowed to touch the woman, but no sex. What’s the point? That was Murakami’s reaction to the story.

“Yes, ‘The House of Sleeping Beauties’ is my novel, as well, but it exists in Kyoto. I have been there several times to lie beside beauties through the night.”

“Just like in your novel? Do they really take medicine and lie beside you all night long?”

“Yes, that’s right—and when I get a chance, I will borrow her right arm too.”

Murakami is astonished. borrow her arm? It is just beyond his imagination.

“Are you talking about your story, ‘One Arm[2]’? Is that a true story too?” Murakami asks Kawabata.

Nodding, Kawabata says “Yes, she’ll take her right arm off from her shoulder and let me borrow it for one night. I carry her arm with me by holding it under my jacket and go home.”

Kawabata grins and puts some sugar and cream in his lukewarm coffee. When he swirls coffee with a spoon, the sugar makes crunchy sounds in the cup. Murakami asks for a refill of coffee. He is tired of the taste of coffee, but suddenly he’s thirsty.

Mishima is keeping quiet, but sips his coffee and finally speaks. “Kawabata-san told me about that place and I’m visiting there quite often these days as well. I am thinking about becoming a patron of the house now.” Mishima smokes a cigarette and smiles.

“Didn’t you get a chance to sleep—I mean, ask for sex with her then?”

Murakami almost feels dizzy by his own question. He too, sounds like a teenage boy now. Who are these guys?—Murakami asks himself. They were just great writers until thirty minutes ago, but now they are just like high school boys on a school trip, gathering on one bed for gossiping.

“No, asking them for sex is not allowed for anybody,” says Mishima and leans forward towards Murakami,  “—even for famous writers. But I have some experience, you know, with a woman.”

“Oh yeah? Please tell me about it.” Murakami finds Mishima’s thick chest hair slightly disturbing.

“You know, when I spent summer in Kamijima Island, I met this girl, Hatsue[3]. She was a little chubby, just like that waitress who brought coffee for us.”

“And?” Murakami urges him to the conclusion, not so interested in the small details anymore.

“And when I was caught in the serious squall, I got in this observation tower that was built by the Japanese Army in the 1940’s. I needed to be under the roof, you know. Hatsue was there. She was drying her clothes with a bonfire and was naked. My clothes were all wet, so I took off mine too. I asked her to come over in my arms to cuddle.”

---

[1] Kawabata, Y. (1969). The house of the sleeping beauties and other stories.

[2] Kawabata, Y. (1969). The house of the sleeping beauties and other stories.

[3] Mishima, Y. (1956). The sound of waves.

+To be continued+

-----

仮面たちの告白 ②
  村上は一気にトーストを平らげると、バターまみれの手を紙ナプキンで拭いた。腹ペコだったのだ。
  「それで、ここ３ヶ月くらい、お付き合いしている女の子が居るのだがね、まだ、その…」川端は声をひそめて村上に向き直って言った。
  「まだ接吻もしていないのですよ」
  村上は言葉を失った。三島も黙りこくったまま、コーヒーカップを見つめていた。少し当惑したものの、村上は、
  「なるほど。それでつまり、その子と寝たいんですね？」と聞いた。
  「えぇ、でもね、どうしていいか、皆目分からないのですよ」川端は肩をすくめてコーヒーと水を、おずおずと交互にすすった。
  「川端さん、女性の経験は？」
  「まさか、全くないですよ」
  「え？！世界的に有名な、ノーベル文学賞受賞作家が、まだ童貞？冗談でしょう、川端さん」村上は笑うしかなかった。失礼とわかっていながらも、こらえられない。ところが川端は、別段気にしていないようだ。
  「村上くん、僕もだよ」三島が急に呟いた。
  「は？」
  「だから、僕も、女性と寝たことがありませんよ、と」


  村上は凍りついた。コーヒーとトーストなんか頼むんじゃなかった。もっと何かこう、時間をかけてフォークでつついたりしながら食べられる、バームクーヘンなどにすればよかった。こんな有名作家たちに、突然性生活を打ち明けられて、手持ち無沙汰にならないはずがない。このふたりがどういうつもりなのか、さっぱり分からない。
  「眠れる美女の家、ってご存知ですか」川端が村上に訊ねた。
  「あぁ、川端さんの作品ですね？」
  村上は、数年前に『眠れる美女』を読んでいた。男が、眠れる美女の家とやらに通いつめるという、奇妙な話だった。女主人が家を管理していて、美女に眠り薬を与えるので、客たちは眠った美女たちとベッドを共にし肌を合わせることができる―けれど、セックスはできない。「なんじゃそりゃ？」が、村上の感想だった。
　「えぇ、私の作品ですけどね、本当にあるんです、眠れる美女の家が、京都に。私も３度ほど行って、美しい女性と一夜を共にしました」
　「小説と同じように？眠り薬で眠らされた女性と一夜を？」
　「あぁ、そうですよ。たまに、腕を借りることもあるんです」
  村上はもう何が何だかわからなかった―「腕を借りる？」
　「あの『片腕』のことですか？別の小説の？それも実話とか？」
　川端は頷き、「ええ、肩から右腕をはずして、貸してくれる子が居るのですよ。そうするとね、私、上着のしたに腕を抱えながら、帰るんです」そう言うと川端は、薄笑いを浮かべながら、ぬるいコーヒーをすすった。スプーンでコーヒーをかきまぜると、溶けないままの砂糖がじゃり、と音を立てた。村上はコーヒーのおかわりを頼んだ。もうコーヒーは飲みたくなかったが、ひどく喉が渇いていた。
　
　それまで三島は黙ったままだったが、コーヒーをすすると、
　「川端さんに教えてもらってね、私もよく通うようになったんだよ。彼女たちのパトロンにでもなろうかとも思っていてね」と、煙草をくゆらしながら言った。
　「それで、チャンスはなかったんですか？つまり、セックスをしたいと頼んだことは？」　村上は自分の言っていることに眩暈すら感じた。彼自信も、まるで十代の男子みたいな質問をしている。何なんだろう、このふたりは？３０分前までは、偉大な作家だったのが、今では、修学旅行の夜にだべっている高校生男子ではないか。


　「いえいえ、ダメなんですよ、セックスはダメ」三島が前のめりになって言った。「有名な作家さん、でもね。あ、でも、私も少しくらいは、そっちの経験はあるんですよ」
　「へぇ、どんな？」村上はそう言いながらも、目の前の三島の胸毛が目障りだなぁ、と思っていた。
　「夏に神島へ行ったときに、初江、という子に会ったんだよ。ちょっとぽっちゃりした子でね、ほら、ちょうどあのウェイトレスみたいな子」
　「それで？」村上にとって、女の子がどんな風かなんてどうでもよく、結論が早く聞きたかった。
　「それでね、ひどい通り雨に遭ってね、戦時中の観的哨があったので、そこで雨宿りをすることにしたんだ。すると、そこに初江が居たのだよ。焚き火で濡れた衣服を乾かしていて、裸だった。私も全身びしょ濡れだったから、自分の服も全て脱いでしまって、初江にこちらにおいで、と言ったんだ」

+つづく+

Confessions of Masks 仮面たちの告白

Confessions of Masks[1]

They have never been together alone at a café before. Of course they have met at conferences or parties and exchanged brief talks occasionally. Writers are solitary as a matter of fact, or at least, they are not interested in so-called writers’ community. Yukio Mishima, in his forties, sits in a café with his second cup of coffee. He usually doesn’t like to drink coffee outside. He prefers to invite writers or interviewers to his house which he has just built last summer. He loves to hold big parties occasionally with other writers, publishers, or actresses. Today, he is wearing a tight, low-cut, v-shaped polo shirt to show off his masculine chest.

            Next to Mishima is Yasunari Kawabata. He is sixty-nine years old, looking thin and a bit weary in his charcoal gray kimono as usual. His big eyes follow a waitress in a gray skirt and a white apron. She must be a student of Tokyo University of Arts: the campus is five minutes’ walk from this café. She reminds him of a girl who served him dinner at the reception after the Nobel Prize awarding ceremony. Both she and this waitress have slightly rounded faces and full-fleshed lips.

            “Hi,” says Haruki Murakami as he arrives at the café a little bit late. He has just had an interview about his new novel.  Although he has kept Mishima and Kawabara waiting, two literary magnates, he is calm and looks very casual. He sits in front of Kawabata by the window. The sunshine falls on his conservative wrist watch. It’s five minutes to 1 p.m., a warm, early summer day in May. Compared to Mishima and Kawabata, Murakami is natty in his dark T-shirt (with no weird Japanese-English on it, of course,) and a black cotton jacket with pale sandy colored cotton pants. He is in his mid-thirties. Mishima knows Murakami jogs daily, but he does not look sturdy—Mishima finds it as an advantage.

            “Congratulations on your Nobel Prize, Kawabata-san,” Murakami says.

            “Oh, thank you. I also received your card the other day. I am sorry I haven’t been able to write you back.” Kawabara sips coffee and sits back.

            As the waitress comes over, Kawabata glances at her lips again. She is taking Murakami’s order. He orders coffee and sugar toast. Mishima and Kawabata are having only coffee.

“Would you care for more coffee, sandwiches or anything, sir?” the waitress asks Mishima and Kawabata.

“Refill would be great,” both tell her.

“So, you published a new novel, right?” Kawabata says to Murakami.

“Yeah, just a week ago. I am also publishing it in the States in two weeks, so I actually am leaving for New York tonight.”

Mishima sips water and says, “Where are you staying in New York? I always stay at Four Seasons.”

Murakami draws himself up and says, “Oh, I’m staying at my friend’s flat. He has been a great friend for a long time since we were in Kyoto. I stay at his place whenever I go to New York. The hotels are boring and usually too overprotecting. They treat me as a famous writer. I am getting tired of it.”

“No! You are a famous writer now and it is a silly thing to be shy like that. Japanese people tend to be shy, you know. Most of us can’t have dinner alone at these high-class hotels' restaurants. I have no problem, though. Ha ha ha.” Mishima roars with laughter.

Murakami smiles. “Well, that may be true, but I am as comfortable to be with my friend and have drinks at his place or a bar.”

The waitress comes back with coffee and a sugar toast for Murakami. It is toasted golden and glossy with melted sugar all over. “Enjoy,” the waitress says to Murakami, and refills coffee for Mishima and Kawabata. Kawabata brings a cup to hold in front of her, slightly blushing.

“So, what’s up? Are we going to talk about the literary festival or new magazine or what?” Murakami asks with his mouth half full with the sugar toast, licking his sticky finger. Kawabata coughs and replies, “Well, the thing is a bit odd, but we are here to ask you something…um, delicate.”

“Okay, what’s that?” Murakami sips coffee and has another bite of the crispy toast. Mishima and Kawabata look at each other with faint smiles.

“Well, as I have been reading your novels and a few essays, I’ve noticed that you are sexually very active,” Kawabata says.

Murakami coughs as he sips coffee. His coffee goes down the wrong way. Kawabata continues,

“Well, maybe active is not the right word, sorry, but what I mean is that it seems like you are very attractive man who is more experienced.”

“Are you talking about having sex with girls? …Me? Well, but Kawabata-san, I am not in my stories. They are just my characters, as you know.”

  +To be continued+

---

[1] Inspired from. Confessions of a mask by Mishima, Y., & Weatherby, M. (1958)

『仮面たちの告白』

　皆で喫茶店で会うなど、初めてのことだった。もちろん、物書きの集まりとか、パーティで何度か話したこともある。作家というものは、本当に孤独な生き物だし、そうでなくとも、まぁ、物書き同士の仲間意識などは、大してないものだから。

　４０を過ぎた三島由紀夫は、２杯目のコーヒーを飲んでいる。外でコーヒーを飲むなど、別に彼は好きではない。雑誌の取材だって、昨年の夏に建てた新居で受ける。作家や出版関係者、女優を集めて、盛大にパーティをするのも好きなほどだ。

　今日の三島は、赤い胸の大きく開いたポロシャツで、隆々と鍛え上げた筋肉をひけらかしていた。

　彼の隣には、川端康成が座っている。６９歳の彼は、ひょろりと、弱弱しく見え、いつのも灰色の着物を着ている。

　川端の大きな目は、さっきからずっと、グレーのスカートに、真白いエプロンをしたウェイトレスの姿を追っていた。　東京芸大の学生であろう。キャンパスは、この喫茶店から歩いて５分の距離にある。

　彼女を見ていると、川端は、ノーベル賞授賞式の晩餐会での、ウェイトレスを思い出した。どちらの少女も、すこしぷっくりした唇をしていた。

　

　「どうも」と、村上春樹が遅れてやって来た。今まで、新しい小説についてのインタヴューを受けてきたところだった。文学界の巨匠とも言える、川端と三島を待たせても、気後れもしない様子で、さっさと窓際の、川端の向かいに座った。日差しが、村上の腕時計を照らしている。飾らないデザインの、腕時計。時計は、午後１時を指している。暖かい、初夏の５月。

　三島や川端に比べて、村上はこざっぱりとした、落ち着いた色のTシャツに（もちろん、奇妙なジャパニーズ・イングリッシュなど無いもの）、黒いコットンジャケット、薄茶色のスラックスという格好でいる。３０代半ばだ。

　三島は、村上がマラソンの趣味があり、よく走っていることを知っていたけれど、別にたくましくは見えなかったので、「勝ったな」などと思うのであった。

　「ノーベル文学賞受賞、おめでとうございます」村上が川端に言った。

　「あぁ、ありがとう。お祝いの手紙ももらっていたのに、返事を書けないで居て、すまないね」

　そう言うと川端は、コーヒーをすすり、椅子の背もたれに寄りかかった。

　やがてウェイトレスが村上の注文をとりにくると、川端はまた、彼女の唇をちらりと見上げた。
　村上は、コーヒーとフレンチトーストを注文した。三島と川端はコーヒーだけでも、別に気にしないのが、彼である。

　「コーヒーのおかわりはいかがですか？」と、ウェイトレスが川端と三島に尋ねると、

　「いいね、頼むよ」　と、ふたりは声をそろえて答えた。

　「それで、君は最近新作を出したんだったね？」川端が村上に尋ねた。

　「えぇ、１週間ほど前に。アメリカでも、２週間後に出るんで、今夜ニューヨークへ飛びます」
　と、急に三島は、水を飲むと訊ねた。

　「ニューヨークのどこに泊まるの？私はいつもフォーシーズンズ・ホテルだけど」

　村上はすこし驚いた。

　「いやいや、友達の家ですよ。京都に居たころから、ずっと仲良くしている奴が居まして、ニューヨークへ行くときは、いつもそこに世話になるんです。ホテルは息が詰まるし、何かこう、偉い人、みたいに扱われるでしょう。それが嫌で」

　「馬鹿なことは言いなさんな。君は今や有名な作家なんだから。日本人はこれだから、ダメだね。臆病で、三ツ星レストランでひとり食事も出来ないんだからさ。まぁ、私は違うがね。ハッハッハ」言い放つと、三島はひとり大笑いをした。

　「そうかもしれないですけど、僕は友達の家で飲むほうが、よっぽど落ち着くんですよね」村上は答えた。

　やがて、ウェイトレスがコーヒーとフレンチトーストを持ってきた。トーストは、たっぷりかけられた砂糖で、黄金色に輝いている。

　「どうぞごゆっくり」ウェイトレスはトーストを置くと、三島と川端にコーヒーを注いだ。ウェイトレスに自分のコーヒーカップを差し出すとき、川端は少し頬を赤くしていた。

　「それで、話ってなんです？何か文学フェスとか、新しい文芸誌の相談か何かですかね？」

　村上はトーストを口いっぱいにほおばりながら訊ねた。砂糖のついた指を舐めながら。
　咳払いすると、川端が答えた。

　「いやね、ちょっとデリケートな問題で、君に折り入って相談があってね・・・」

　「はぁ、何でしょう？」

　「いや、私も色々と、君の小説やエッセイを読んでいるのだがね、君はこう・・・つまり、性生活が盛んなようだね」

　村上はコーヒーを飲むと、咳き込んだ。

　それでも川端はなおも続けた。

　「いや、『盛ん』という言い方は違うかな、すまない。…まぁ、つまりその、君は、かなり経験があるな、という印象があるのですよ」

　「女の子と寝る『経験』の事の話ですか？僕が？・・・いやね、川端さん、僕は小説の中には居ないですから。登場人物は登場人物ですから、ね？」


　+つづく+

Confessions of Masks by Ayako Matsushita is licensed under a Creative Commons 表示 - 非営利 - 改変禁止 3.0 非移植 License.