In the twilight, always the twilight, in the summer, always the summer, I come out of my house, my house in Tabata, and I start to walk, I start to walk, with a bag in my hand, always the bag in my hand, I walk and I walk, with a Bible in my bag, always the Bible in my bag, I walk and I walk …
In my dark kimono and old geta, with my bag and umbrella, I come to Ueno, into the park, the scent of the green leaves of the cherry trees intense, the evening air heavy and humid, close upon the city, close upon my skin, as I walk and I walk, through the clinging, clawing night and its shadows, my own shadow now, now and evermore the image of a Kappa, that one particular Kappa, the one I’ve been drawing all these years and years, writing about these past months and months; he is clinging to me, he is clawing at me, he refuses to go, just won’t let go, walking alongside me, always beside me, a soul in exile, begging to return, to return, return, return …
At last, at last, I come out of the park, out under the bright lights of Hirokōji, more melancholy than ever, more fraught than ever; I can’t bear it, I can’t stand it. I want to have fun, to have fun and forget. Forget the world, forget myself. I go across the tramlines; I go into a café. I order a whisky, a bottle of whisky: ‘Preferably Black & White …’
‘You don’t drink alcohol,’ says my companion.
‘I can’t drink alcohol at all,’ I laugh, ‘but recently I take the occasional glass of whisky. Preferably Black & White …’
‘But then why Black & White?’
‘I like the picture of the two terriers on the label,’ I tell him, sipping my drink and then, for his amusement, I shudder in mock horror at its strength and declare, ‘Why, I feel completely drunk already …’
It feels such a long time since we’ve shared a joke and the release which laughter brings. But now I look up at him, and now I see him, see the wound still weeping through his hair, the wound from the bullet bleeding onto the table, in drops, in drops it pools, it pools, and my jovial mood is gone, my comedic turn finished; I lean towards him and say, ‘I’ve made a mistake. I should change brands …’
‘But it’s your favourite …’
‘But the two dogs, it’s one dog,’ I whisper to him. ‘Its two colours, their two natures, they’re the two sides of our soul, our own duality …’
I’ve turned a sudden, dark corner, back again on the mental ward of the asylum with Uno, my fears for him, his family, and for me, for myself, my own family –
‘You know, when his mother finally found him in the restaurant, Uno was eating the roses from the vase on the table, saying over and over, I’m so hungry, I’m so hungry … But I would say, it’s actually fortunate for the life of an artist … Yes, in spite of all that’s happened to him, I think it’s excellent for Uno! Insanity and madness are no shame for an artist. One might even say Uno has attained a higher level, reached a higher plane …’
My companion seems not to agree with me, shaking his bleeding head, even somewhat irritated. ‘You might say that, but what on earth will become of Uno’s family if he cannot be cured quickly, or if he then cannot write, or if his madness leads even to his death; how then will they survive?’
‘But as artists, we cannot avoid such things,’ I say, shrugging my shoulders. ‘It is the age we are cursed to live in. As Uno himself told me, just the other day, we are possessed by the demon of the fin de siècle …’
‘Do you really believe that? In such things?’
‘Yes, I do,’ I say, ‘I do.’
‘Well, personally, I now regret all my romantic notions of the suffering artist dying young. Those who loved me, those I left behind, they were all much weaker than me, all relied upon me. I wish now I’ d lived longer …’
‘Enough Gogol! Enough Strindberg,’ I shout, leaping up from the table, startling not only my companion but the entire café, pointing with my umbrella at the door, exclaiming, ‘We want to have fun! And so fun we shall have. Quack! Quack! To Kameido, to Kameido!’
In the back of the taxi, I tell him: ‘You know, the eastern bank of the Sumida, that was my playground as a child: Honjo, Ryōgoku and Kameido. In those days, before the flood, the garyūbai in the garden at Kiyogaoen really did resemble reclining dragons, so long and sinuous were their branches. I was enchanted, yet petrified …’
‘We once saw the famous wisteria at the Tenjin Shrine,’ he says, ‘but whenever I hear mention of Kameido now, I can only think of the earthquake and its aftermath, the horrific murders of Keishichi Hirasawa and Uhachi Nakatsuji, Sakae Ōsugi and Noe Itō, and all the others. And from all I’ve heard, Kameido is still a most desperate place, more likely to crush our souls than fill them with cheer …’
‘Exactly,’ I say, as the taxi speeds across Kototoi Bridge, down through Koume, south towards Kameido. ‘But at night, when all is darkness, you cannot see the factories. And then to walk that ground, to inhale the stench of its drains, that is reality, is it not? For two “hommes des lettres” such as we, it should be life-affirming, returning us to our homes and our work, to our words and our art with a renewed sense of vigour and vitality!’
I know he is not convinced, but it’s too
