A vaudeville performance; on the stage, a hanging screen, a magic lantern show, scenes from the Sino-Japanese War, scenes from the Russo-Japanese War, the large crowd about him cheering the Japanese flag, screaming at the top of their lungs, ‘Banzai! Banzai! Banzai!’ A hand grabbing his sleeve, the hand gripping his arm, squeezing it tighter and tighter, a woman, a woman he recognised but could not place, laughing now, laughing and pointing, pointing and saying, ‘It’s you, it’s you, it’s always you …’
On the stage, before the screen, Yasukichi saw his double, his exact double, saw him standing on the stage, beside a box, in a tuxedo, in a top hat, calling out to the crowd, calling for a volunteer, the woman, that woman pointing at Yasukichi, pushing him forward, the crowd grabbing Yasukichi, pushing him forward, towards the stage, onto the stage, his double, in his tuxedo, in his top hat, opening the box, the world growing charnel, grim Darkness overspreading the earth, the woman, that woman on the stage, too, before the box, kissing Yasukichi on his lips, pushing Yasukichi into the box, into the box, the lid falling, the lid closing, the lid shut –
It was dark – all dark; complete and utter darkness. Yasukichi tried to speak, tried to shout, to scream, but his lips, his tongue were parched and silent, his lungs, his heart gasping, palpitating, his arms, his wrists striking the sides of the box, his feet, his face but inches from its wood, the wood, the box now trembling, now shaking, shaking and screaming, screaming with the sound of a saw, a saw and her teeth, her teeth –
How canst thou tranquilly sleep …?
Half-light, grey-light, daylight on a hillside. That woman walking towards the gates of his house, his family house in Tabata, his wife darning some cloth at the kotatsu, the woman pausing by a stone lantern in the garden, his wife singing to their son, the woman sliding open the doors to his house, his wife kneeling before her in the genkan, the woman holding out her newborn baby towards his wife, his own son crying, the baby screaming, his wife crying, the woman screaming, his wife turning to look for him, on the futon, in a Chinese-patterned robe, on his chest a Bible open, his wife shaking him, shouting at him, pleading with him, ‘Wake up, wake up …’
*
Ryūnosuke, an editor and an older colleague, Jun’ichirō Tanizaki, were sat at a café table in Jimbōchō, puffing on one cigarette after another, listening to the music from a gramophone on the other side of the room, gossiping about politicians, joking about other writers. But Ryūnosuke said very little; in truth, he felt in awe of the older writer, not only the strength of his work, but also the sheer power of his personality, his vitality, his utter vitality. Even the black suit and red necktie he was wearing today loudly announced the confidence and magnetism of the man, attracting the attention of the rest of the room, all eyes and ears turned his way, glued to their table –
‘I spent half the day riding around in an automobile.’
‘Was there some research you needed to do,’ asked the editor.
His cheek resting on his hand, the older colleague replied with complete abandon, ‘No, I just felt like riding around the city.’
Ryūnosuke envied the older man’s freedom, and his eyes must have betrayed his jealousy because now the other man asked, ‘Are you busy working on something at the moment?’
Ryūnosuke sighed. ‘Even though I feel as though I am prostituting myself, I have promised to write a detective story for Chūō kōron …’
‘Me, too,’ exclaimed the older man. ‘How funny! And I must say, I am relishing the challenge. What is your story about?’
Ryūnosuke sighed again. ‘Well, I have barely begun, but I plan to write something around the notion of doubles …’
‘Me, too,’ exclaimed the older man again. ‘How funny! Mine is almost finished and is the tale of two artists, Ōkawa and Aono. They are bitter rivals. But Ōkawa comes to see Aono as his doppelgänger and he even cites the famous story by Edgar Allan Poe …’
‘What a brilliant idea,’ said the editor. ‘And how wonderful it will be for readers to be able to compare how you both choose to address the same theme; the two brightest stars of the literary firmament, side by side, in direct competition, so to speak …’
Ryūnosuke felt ill. He excused himself and got up from the table. Quickly, he walked towards the bathroom door, locked himself inside, crouched down and vomited into the toilet. Again and again.
Ryūnosuke stood back up. He turned to the sink. He ran the water, washed his face, washed his hands, dried his face, dried his hands, and then stared at his reflection in the mirror: what have you done …
On the way back to the table, Ryūnosuke stopped by the gramophone. The music had ended. He leant over the gramophone to read the label on the record: Schwanengesang – Schubert.
Ryūnosuke felt afraid. He looked across the room for his older friend and the editor. But his friend and the editor were not there. And at their table was only one coffee cup. His own coffee cup. Ryūnosuke put down a silver coin on the counter and started out of the café –
‘That will be twenty sen, sir.’
The coin Ryūnosuke had thrown down was copper, not silver.
*
Yasukichi Horikawa put down his pen again. He picked up the packet of
