Mokichi had been to Jishōken with Akutagawa a few times before; the restaurant seemed to be Akutagawa’s favourite, his regular choice, very close to his house in Tabata. Mokichi had hoped the prospect of dining at a familiar place, one so close to home, together with the apparent success of their afternoon visit, might have helped to soothe Akutagawa, but, in the back of the taxicab, the writer still appeared most anxious and agitated –
‘Uno’s breakdown has spooked our fellow writers. People are terrified they will be next. Just the other evening, Murō Saisei told me if the same thing were to befall him, then he would surely turn into a nymphomaniac! He made me promise to be sure he always kept his trousers on and his belt fastened … But you don’t think that by going there so often, Uno’s family feel I am interfering and meddling? And then what about Seiji? You don’t think I am making Seiji look bad …?’
Seiji Tanizaki, the translator of Poe and younger brother of Jun’ichirō, was one of Uno’s oldest and closest friends. Yet he’d called just once.
‘I’m sure you don’t need to worry about Seiji,’ said Mokichi. ‘He’s so highly strung and weak, it’s probably more upsetting for Uno if he does visit …’
‘But I’m such a very weak person, too,’ said Akutagawa.
‘But you’ve been very helpful to Uno and his wife.’
‘You really think so? You really do …?’
‘Yes, I do.’
‘You’re certain,’ asked Akutagawa again. ‘I’m sure Seiji must resent me calling on Uno, intruding every day …’
‘I’m sure Seiji is very grateful to you, given his own reluctance to visit. It really does seem to be beyond him …’
‘You’re right,’ said Akutagawa. ‘The one time he did call, Seiji simply sat there in tears. That night, he told me he couldn’t sleep for thinking about Uno’s situation, despairing for his future. He was distraught, claimed if he were to visit again, then he feared he, too, would become infected by Uno’s disease … But in that case, I must also be at risk …’
‘No,’ said Mokichi, calmly but firmly. ‘Insanity itself is not infectious. However, you do need to take care. Your anxiety and concern for your friend and his condition are taking their toll on you, affecting your own health.’
In the back of the cab, Akutagawa nodded. ‘You’re right.’
Mokichi gently put his hand on Akutagawa’s arm and asked, ‘How have you been sleeping these days? Are you sleeping?’
‘Not much,’ said Akutagawa, ‘and only with the Veronal you prescribed. Calmotin no longer has any effect at all.’
‘It’s still much better to use Veronal than not to sleep at all.’
‘You’re right,’ said Akutagawa again. ‘It’s terrible if I can’t sleep, simply unbearable, too unbearable. But even with Veronal, even then it never lasts more than thirty minutes or so, an hour at most. But it’s so dangerous not to sleep, almost an act of violence, I’d say. An act of violence …’
In the back of the cab, Mokichi nodded and said, ‘I’ll have someone deliver you another ounce of Veronal, but Veronal imported from Germany; it’s much better than the Japanese-made product. I’ll also send you some Numal, because if you can alternate Veronal and Numal, then I think you can avoid addiction. And please don’t worry about the cost; although the Japanese drugs are cheaper, the imported ones are still less than a taxi home. It’s important not to worry about the price, so please don’t.’
‘Thank you,’ said Akutagawa. ‘I’m still having to contend with all the debts my brother-in-law left my sister; the interest alone is thirty per cent! Sincerely, I appreciate your kindness, thank you.’
‘You don’t need to thank me,’ said Mokichi. ‘It’s nothing.’
‘It’s not nothing,’ said Akutagawa, in a low and sad voice, turning to stare out of the cab window, out into the twilight.
The taxi had come down through Yanaka into Nezu, then gone along Shinobazu-dōri onto Dōzaka, and now stopped.
Mokichi and Akutagawa got out of the cab, walked up an unlit, narrow side road, passed through the gate and the garden and entered Jishōken, warmly greeted by the owner, led down the wooden corridor and shown to their usual table overlooking the garden, the only customers.
The clear day had become a clouded night, the lanterns and stones in the garden of the restaurant already draped in shadows.
Mokichi turned from the window, looked across the table at Akutagawa, smiled and then said, ‘As I wrote in my last letter, I was so greatly impressed by Kappa, and so I hope, despite all you are having to contend with, you are still managing to write, and the writing is bringing you some respite?’
‘Thank you,’ said Akutagawa, ‘but you are too generous and kind in your praise. And to be honest, if I had had more time, and if I had taken more care, I could have written more of Kappa. Now I regret finishing it so prematurely, but I wanted to go on to Mirage …’
‘An exceptional work,’ said Mokichi.
‘Thank you,’ said Akutagawa again. ‘It might be the only work of which I feel confident. But even this is so far from what I had hoped to achieve. I just feel I am getting more and more tired …’
‘But at least you are still writing,’ said Mokichi.
‘Continuously,’ said Akutagawa, ‘but it no longer brings me the sense of peace I used to feel. In the next life, if there is such a punishment, I wish to be reborn as sand.’
The waitresses knelt before their table now, exchanging pleasantries with them, placing two large lacquer trays before Mokichi and Akutagawa.
‘I know how much you enjoy unagi and takuan,’ said Akutagawa, ‘and so I had asked the restaurant if they could prepare your favourite dishes.’
‘Thank you. That was most kind of you, and very good of them,’ said Mokichi, marvelling again at the care and consideration Akutagawa always showed to his friends, no matter what trials he himself was enduring.
‘It is
