‘He released my thigh from his grip. I heard him get to his feet. I opened my eyes. He was standing by the table. He dropped the biscuit tin with a clang and, in one sweep of his arm, he picked up the lantern and turned, span on his heel, moving towards the bedstead, but turning, still spinning, round and around, the light circling, conjuring apparitions from the darkness, illuminating the cavern walls in a primitive, savage glow, revealing canvas upon canvas, the beam ever more brutal, more feral until, until he collapsed, half upon the bed, half upon the floor, his face to the ceiling, the lantern dangling in his hand, its rays still swinging, swaying back and forth …
‘I stood up, but too late again; I had awoken from my own nightmare into the nightmare of another man, another country –
‘He was sat up on the edge of the bed. He grabbed the pillow from the mattress, held it to his nose, closed his eyes, then sighed and said, “Yes, oh yes, this will help you see …”
‘He opened his eyes. He stood up, the pillow in his hands. He walked towards me, the pillow outstretched, the yellow cast of its cloth, its leakages of spittle, all brown and stained, coming closer, ever closer, ever closer: “If you could but see what I have seen, if you could but dream the dreams that he once dreamed …”
‘I picked up the biscuit tin, gripped it tight, held it up before my face, before this man, his hands, the pillow, that pillow, that pillow in his hands, forcing me backwards, pushing me down, down –
‘“Inhale,” he said. “Inhale and see!”
‘Down, down, the tin against my chest, the pillow pressed into my face, the smell, the stench of oil, of sweat, struggling but falling, falling backwards, falling but struggling, his weight upon me, body crushing me, smothering me, suffocating me, in English dreams, their imperial lusts, I was struggling, still struggling, struggling and falling, falling away and falling apart, I was falling apart, I was falling apart, bells tolling one, two, three, four, pealing five, six, seven, eight, ringing nine, ten, eleven, twelve, striking thirteen, thirteen, thirteen –
‘“Mr Sweeney, please,” came the voice in the dark, in the light, the silhouette in the doorway. “Her Majesty has breathed Her last.”’
*
Sōseki had ceased speaking, his cheek resting on his hand.
Ryūnosuke and Kume did not move, they did not speak. Nightingales were singing in fragments in the garden, a breeze through the leaves of the orchard.
‘Now Zeppelins rain down bombs upon the place, while their war persists and rages on, on and on without end, without end …’
His words, his voice trailed off.
Sōseki stood up behind his desk, unsteady on his feet. He waited, caught his breath. He turned, walked over to the bookcases on the far wall. He knelt down, took out a parcel wrapped in a black cloth from the bottom shelf. He stood up, carried the parcel to his desk. He set it down upon the top, untied the cloth. He picked up a red tin, decorated in yellow, white and black. He handed the tin to Ryūnosuke and said, ‘Here. You keep it now.’
Ryūnosuke stared down at the tin in his hands, the words on its lid: Huntley & Palmers Biscuits – Superior Reading Biscuits.
A Twice-Told Tale
Alone now, Yasukichi lit a cigarette and began roaming the office.
True, he taught English, but that was not his real profession.
Not to his mind, at least.
His life’s work was the creation of literature.
‘The Writer’s Craft’, Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, 1924
It was the Age of Winter, the autumn after the death of Sensei, and the ninth of the month. Ryūnosuke had finished teaching at the Academy early that day, had caught the train from Yokosuka to Tokyo, crossed the city, bought flowers and come to the northern entrance to the Zōshigaya cemetery. From the dawn, the clouds had threatened rain and Ryūnosuke was wearing a raincoat over the Western clothes in which he taught, carrying a Western umbrella along with the flowers. He entered the cemetery and walked down an avenue lined on each side with Maple and Zelkova trees, their leaves yet to turn. There was nobody else in the cemetery, nobody living. Ryūnosuke turned off the thoroughfare, went down the paths, between the stones, the paths to the dead, the stones for the dead, over roots and moss already damp in anticipation of night and rain, the branches of the trees bowing listlessly, welcoming the approach of twilight, the coming of Ryūnosuke to the grave.
Ryūnosuke leant his umbrella against the low hedge fence which enclosed the plot, stepped inside and stood before the grave. It was a temporary grave, the name of Sensei descending in black characters down the pale wood of a tall sotoba, towering beside the smaller marker to his daughter. Ryūnosuke knelt down before the rough mound of earth at the feet of the two markers. There were two vases and narrow incense holders standing in the dirt. Ryūnosuke removed the withered flowers from the vases, laid them to one side. He divided the fresh flowers he had brought into two. He placed them in the two vases. He took a box of incense sticks and his matches from the pocket of his raincoat. He removed nine sticks of incense, put the box back inside his coat, struck a match, lit the sticks and stood them in one of the holders in the mound. He stood up, he bowed his head before the grave of Natsume Sōseki and he closed his eyes …
‘Are you working hard? Are you writing something? I am watching your future. I want you to be great. But don’t get too impatient. I want you to go forward boldly like an ox; we have got to be oxen. So often we try to be horses, but it’s very hard indeed to be thoroughly oxen. So please don’t
