Ryūnosuke Akutagawa was standing in the street, a suitcase in his hand, another at his feet, a coat over his arm and a hat in his hand. He was wearing a fashionable Western suit, with a white shirt and a dark tie, and traditional geta on his feet. His hair brushed back and long, his face was tired but smiling, an apologetic smile –
‘I am so very, very sorry to have kept you waiting,’ said Akutagawa, bowing deeply, ‘and for all the inconvenience I have caused you. But thank you for your kindness and for your hospitality. I am Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, and I am very pleased to meet you.’
‘I am Tokutarō Nagami,’ said Nagami, bowing, ‘and I am very pleased to meet you, too. Welcome to Nagasaki, and welcome to my house.’
Akutagawa bowed again and said, ‘Thank you.’
‘But may I ask’, said Nagami, glancing up and down the empty street outside his home, ‘what has happened to Mr Kikuchi?’
Akutagawa smiled again, his apologetic smile, and said, ‘I am afraid, soon after we passed through Kobe, Kikuchi began to complain of a severe headache. He was concerned he had not yet fully recovered from the attack of Spanish flu he had only recently suffered, and worried he would infect me again, for I have already been stricken twice, and feared he might bring the epidemic to your own house. And so he alighted the train at Okayama, intending to head to Sanuki, which is the place he was born.’
‘How terrible,’ exclaimed Nagami.
‘Really,’ said Akutagawa. ‘I have heard it is quite charming.’
‘No,’ said Nagami. ‘I mean, how terrible that Mr Kikuchi is so ill. I only hope he managed to make it to Sanuki …’
‘Indeed,’ said Akutagawa. ‘There is a beautiful symmetry, is there not, in returning to the place of your birth in order to die?’
‘Well, I sincerely hope and pray it does not come to that,’ said Nagami, staring at the cold and blasé man of letters before him.
Akutagawa smiled, then said, ‘I am sorry, sincerely. I should not make such jokes when we have not met before. I have worried you unnecessarily. For all his talents, Kikuchi is a worse hypochondriac than even me. I suspected all along his headache was the result of too much conversation, and too many cigarettes, in the confines of our carriage. And when I reached Mojikō, my suspicions were confirmed. A telegram at the terminal informed me that our Lazarus has risen from the dead, and is once more making his way to Nagasaki, though he plans to spend tonight in Onomichi.’
‘Oh, what a relief,’ exclaimed Nagami.
Akutagawa smiled again, his apologetic smile again, and said, ‘Sincerely, I am sorry to have alarmed you so, Mr Nagami. Please forgive me …’
‘Not at all,’ said Nagami. ‘In fact, I must apologise to you, making you stand out here in the street, answering my questions, after you have travelled the length of the country to be here. Let us get you inside, Sensei …’
Nagami led his guest through the gate and through the garden, into the house and into the room he had had prepared. ‘I hope this room will be both comfortable and interesting for you. During the early years of Meiji, this room was used for meetings between the magistrates of Nagasaki and the trade ministers of England. I only hope it will be adequate.’
‘It is more than adequate,’ said Akutagawa. ‘Thank you.’
Nagami smiled, relieved, and said, ‘You are most welcome. And a bath has already been prepared for you. And though I know you must be exhausted by your journey, I hope the bath will refresh you, and you will join me then for dinner. I hope it will be to your liking and taste, but I have arranged a Nagasaki shippoku dinner to welcome you …’
‘I am sorry to have put you to so much trouble,’ said Akutagawa. ‘But thank you. I very much look forward to such a dinner.’
‘You are too kind,’ said Nagami. ‘The food will be nothing much, but I look forward to seeing you in an hour so …’
Now Nagami left his guest to the maids, and went back to his study to pace and to prepare, rehearsing his conversation, practising his lines, hoping not to bore his visitor from the capital, picking up the celebrated works of this famous author, rereading a passage here, a passage there …
‘It is an honour to welcome you to my home,’ said Nagami, seating his guest before one of the red round tables on the tatami mats in the main dining room, the red round table filled with dishes of Chinese origin, dishes of Portuguese origin, Dutch and Japanese. ‘This is our shippoku dinner, and you may eat from these dishes in the order you prefer. But our custom is to first begin with an ohire soup and a short speech from the host …
‘And so please, let us begin with the soup …’
‘Thank you,’ said Akutagawa.
After the soup, after his short speech, having introduced each of the dishes to his guest, and while they ate, Nagami then said, ‘I must say, I greatly admired your recent Life of Saint Christopher. It is a stylistic tour de force, so impressive in the way in which you use the language of the Japanese translation of Aesop’s Fables by the sixteenth-century Jesuits.’
‘Thank you,’ said Akutagawa. ‘It is the only work in which I myself have any confidence and, in truth, I am finding it hard to move on from. But I feel the same way about this pork, it really is quite delicious …’
Nagami smiled. ‘Thank you. If you are so taken with the tōbani, I must ensure you taste one of the dōngpōròu buns in our Shinchi Chinatown. But going back to your Life of Saint Christopher, I feel it is at least the equal of Monsieur Flaubert’s The Temptation of Saint Anthony …’
‘Thank you,’ said Akutagawa again. ‘You are too generous, though I believe La Légende de Saint-Julien to
