Second Memoir (3/3)

by Osamu Dazai

I was in a situation where I inevitably had to face the landlord's daughter and others, similarly called "comrades," every day. Unlike with various women before, I couldn't skillfully avoid them, and I found myself desperately trying to appease these two out of anxiety in my heart. It was as if I was paralyzed, unable to move.

Around that time, I received an unexpected kindness from a waitress at a large café in Ginza. Even though we had only met once, I felt bound by that kindness, experiencing such worry and fear that I couldn't move. However, by then, I was able to ride the train alone without relying on Horiki's guidance, and I could even go to the Kabuki-za. I had gradually learned to feign boldness enough to enter a café wearing a kasuri kimono.

In my heart, I still doubted, feared, and agonized over human confidence and violence, but on the surface, I was gradually able to greet others with a straight face. No, in reality, it was my nature that I couldn't greet anyone without a painful, clown-like smile of defeat, but somehow, thanks to daily exercise, interactions with women, and financial hardship, I had acquired enough "skill" to exchange greetings in a daze.

Carrying a dreadful feeling wherever I went, I thought that if I could mingle and blend in with the many drunk customers, waitresses, and boys at a large café, my feeling of being pursued might calm down. Clenching ten yen in my hand, I entered that large café in Ginza alone and, smiling, said to the waitress:

"I only have ten yen, so keep that in mind."

"Don't worry."

She had a Kansai accent. That single remark strangely calmed my trembling heart. It wasn't because my financial worries disappeared, but because I felt that there was no need to worry when I was near her.

I drank alcohol. Feeling at ease with her, I didn't feel the need to play the clown; instead, I showed my taciturn and gloomy side without hiding it, and silently enjoyed my drink.

"Do you like this?"

The woman arranged various dishes in front of me, but I shook my head.

"Just alcohol is fine. You drink too."

It was a cold autumn night. As Tsuneko (I think that's what she was called, but my memory is fading and I'm not sure. I'm the kind of person who even forgets the name of the person I committed a love suicide with) had told me, I was waiting for that person at a sushi stall behind Ginza, eating rather unappetizing sushi. Even if I forgot her name, the bad taste of the sushi from that time remains vividly in my memory. I can still clearly recall the sight of the bald old man, whose face resembled a Japanese rat snake, shaking his head and deceptively making sushi. In later years, I would sometimes notice faces on trains that resembled that sushi chef, and I'd let out a wry smile. While that person's name and face have faded from my memory, I remember the sushi chef's face so accurately that I could draw it, probably because the sushi was so bad and caused me coldness and pain at that time.

That person was renting the second floor of the carpenter's house at the main office. I was on that second floor, not hiding my usual gloomy mood, drinking tea while pressing one hand against my cheek as if suffering from a terrible toothache. My appearance, in turn, seemed to appeal to that person. That person also felt completely isolated amidst the cold winter winds blowing and only fallen leaves dancing wildly.

While we spent time together, she told me she was two years older than me and her hometown was Hiroshima. She had a husband who was a barber in Hiroshima, but they had run away together to Tokyo last spring. Her husband didn't do any proper work in Tokyo and eventually ended up in prison for fraud. She said she had been visiting him in prison every day with some kind of offering, but she intended to stop starting tomorrow.

However, for some reason, I could never take any interest in women's personal stories. Whether it was because she was a poor storyteller, or because she misplaced the emphasis in her narrative, it always went in one ear and out the other for me.

Lonely.

I had hoped to find empathy in a single murmur from a woman, rather than in her myriad personal stories, but it struck me as strange and mysterious that I had never once heard such a word from any woman in this world. However, though that person did not say "lonely," she was enveloped in a profound, silent loneliness, and when I drew close, my body too was enveloped in that current, blending harmoniously with my own somewhat prickly, melancholic current, allowing me to be freed from fear and anxiety, "like a withered leaf settling on a rock at the bottom of the water."

Completely unlike the feeling of sleeping soundly and securely in the arms of those idiotic prostitutes, the night I spent with the wife of that fraudster was for me a night of blissful liberation. I do not intend to use such a grand word with such unhesitating affirmation again in any future record.

It was just a single night's event. When I woke up in the morning, I was back to my original frivolous, adorned clown self. A coward fears even happiness. One can be hurt by happiness, as if wounded by cotton. Before being hurt, I was eager to part ways quickly, and like my usual clown self, I set up a smokescreen.

"'When money runs out, the relationship ends'—you know, the interpretation is actually reversed. It doesn't mean a woman dumps a man when he loses money. It means that when a man loses money, he naturally becomes disheartened, useless, his laughter loses its power, he becomes strangely resentful, and ultimately, in desperation, the man breaks up with the woman. It's written that way in the Kanazawa Daijirin. Poor thing. I understand that feeling too, though."

I remember saying something so ridiculous that it made Tsuneko laugh. I quickly left, without even washing my face, thinking there was no need to stay long, but my absurd remark at the time, "When money runs out, so does the relationship," later caused an unexpected complication.

For a month after that, I did not see the benefactor of that night. As the days passed since we parted, my joy faded, and the temporary favor I had received began to feel rather frightening. Even the mundane detail of having left Tsuneko to bear the entire bill at that cafe started to bother me. Tsuneko, too, seemed to me like just another woman who would threaten me, similar to the boarding house daughter or that female higher normal school student, and I constantly feared her, even from a distance. Furthermore, I couldn't shake the feeling that I would be met with a furious anger if I were to reunite with a woman I had slept with, and so I increasingly avoided Ginza. However, this reluctance of mine did not stem from my own cunning; it was because I had not yet fully understood the strange phenomenon that women live by completely severing two worlds, as if in total oblivion, with not even a speck of connection between what happens after they sleep together and what happens after they wake up in the morning.

At the end of November, Horiki and I were drinking cheap sake at a street stall in Kanda. Even after leaving that stall, this bad friend insisted on drinking somewhere else, and even though we had no money left, he still persisted, "Let's drink, let's drink!" At that moment, I was also emboldened by alcohol.

"Alright, then, I'll take you to the land of dreams. Don't be surprised, it's a place of wine and women..."

"A cafe?"

"That's right."

"Let's go!"

And so, the two of us boarded the streetcar, and Horiki said excitedly,

"I'm starving for women tonight. Can I kiss a waitress?"

I wasn't very fond of Horiki putting on such a drunken act. Horiki knew this, so he emphasized to me:

"Listen. I'm going to kiss her. I'm definitely going to kiss the waitress who sits next to me. Got it?"

"I don't care."

"Thank you! I'm starving for a woman."

We got off at Ginza 4-chome, and relying on Tsuneko, I entered that so-called grand cafe, a veritable paradise of wine and women, almost penniless. The moment Horiki and I sat down opposite each other in an empty booth, Tsuneko and another waitress rushed over. The other waitress sat down with a thud next to me, and Tsuneko sat down with a thud next to Horiki. I gasped. Tsuneko was about to be kissed.

I didn't feel any regret. I originally had little sense of possessiveness, and even if I occasionally felt a faint twinge of regret, I lacked the energy to assert ownership and contend with others. Later, there were even times when I silently watched my common-law wife being violated.

I wanted to avoid human squabbles as much as possible. I was afraid of being caught in their vortex. Tsuneko and I were together for just one night. Tsuneko was not mine. I couldn't possibly harbor desires like regret. However, I gasped.

It was because I felt sorry for Tsuneko, who was receiving Horiki's intense kiss right before my eyes. Tsuneko, defiled by Horiki, would have to part ways with me. However, I didn't have the positive passion to keep Tsuneko, and though I gasped for a moment at Tsuneko's misfortune, thinking, "Ah, this is the end," I quickly gave up as simply as water, compared Horiki's and Tsuneko's faces, and grinned.

However, the situation, quite unexpectedly, took an even worse turn.

"I quit!"

Horiki said, twisting his mouth,

"Even I can't bring myself to... with such a shabby-looking woman."

He crossed his arms, looking completely dumbfounded, stared at Tsuneko, and gave a wry smile.

"Sake. I have no money."

I whispered to Tsuneko. I truly felt like drinking until I was drenched. To the eyes of a commoner, Tsuneko was just a shabby, poor woman not even worth a drunkard's kiss. Surprisingly, or unexpectedly, I felt as if I had been struck by lightning. I drank more sake than ever before, got completely drunk, exchanged glances with Tsuneko, and smiled sadly at each other. When I thought about it, she was just a strangely tired, poor woman, but at the same time, a sense of affinity between two penniless people welled up in my chest. I felt affection for Tsuneko, and for the first time in my life, I actively became aware of a faint stir of love within me. I vomited. I lost consciousness. It was also the first time I had ever gotten so drunk from sake that I lost myself.

When I woke up, Tsuneko was sitting by my pillow. I had been sleeping in the room on the second floor of a carpenter's house in Honjo.

"They say 'when money runs out, the relationship ends,' but you were serious, weren't you? You won't come. It's a complicated ending. Even if I earn money for you, is it no good?"

"It's no good."

After that, she also rested, and as dawn approached, the word "death" first came from her lips. She seemed utterly exhausted from her life as a human being, and I, too, felt that I could no longer live when I thought about my fear and annoyance with the world, money, women, and my studies. So, I lightly agreed to her suggestion.

However, at that time, I still didn't have a real sense of "let's die." There was still a hint of "play" hidden somewhere.

That morning, the two of them wandered through Asakusa's Rokku district. They entered a coffee shop and drank milk.

"You, pay for it."

I stood up and took out my coin purse from my sleeve. When I opened it, there were three copper coins. A feeling more gruesome than shame overwhelmed me, and my mind drifted to my room at Senyukan. An desolate room where only my uniform and futon remained, with nothing that could be pawned. I realized clearly that the kasuri kimono and cape I was wearing now, this was my reality.

As I hesitated, she also stood up and peered into her own coin purse.

"Oh, is that all?"

It was an innocent voice, but it pierced me to the bone. For the first time, I felt that only the voice of the person I loved could hurt so much. Neither "that much" nor "this much," three copper coins could no longer be called money. It was a strange humiliation I had never experienced before. A humiliation that made it impossible to live. After all, at that time, I probably hadn't completely escaped the species of rich young master. At that moment, I truly resolved to die by my own hand.

That night, we jumped into the sea at Kamakura. She said, "I borrowed this obi from a friend at the shop," untied it, folded it, and placed it on a rock. I also took off my cape, placed it in the same spot, and we entered the water together.

She died. And only I was saved.

I was a high school student, and perhaps my father's name carried some prestige, as it seemed to be reported as a rather significant issue in the newspapers.

I was admitted to a seaside hospital, and a relative from my hometown rushed over and took care of various matters. I was told that my father and the entire family were furious, and that this might lead to a complete break with my birth family. However, more than any of that, I missed the deceased Tsuneko and kept crying. Truly, I had loved only that poor-looking Tsuneko more than anyone else I had ever known.

A long letter arrived from the landlord's daughter, containing fifty tanka poems. All of them were tanka that began with the strange phrase, "Please live." Also, nurses would come to my hospital room, laughing cheerfully and playing, and some nurses would tightly grasp my hand before leaving.

It was discovered at that hospital that I had a problem with my left lung, which turned out to be very convenient. Eventually, I was taken from the hospital to the police under the charge of aiding suicide, but at the police station, they treated me as a sick person and specifically placed me in a protective room.

Late at night, an elderly police officer who was keeping watch in the duty room next to the protective room quietly opened the connecting door and spoke to me.

"Hey!"

"You must be cold. Come over here and warm yourself."

I deliberately entered the duty room dejectedly, sat on a chair, and warmed myself by the brazier.

"You still miss the woman who died, don't you?"

"Yes."

I replied in an especially faint, almost vanishing voice.

"That, after all, is human nature."

He gradually became more imposing.

"Where did you first establish a relationship with the woman?"

He asked pompously, almost like a judge. He was looking down on me as a child, and in the idleness of an autumn night, he seemed to be trying to extract some lewd stories from me, pretending as if he himself were the chief interrogator. I quickly sensed this and struggled to suppress my laughter. I knew that I was allowed to refuse to answer any of the police officer's "unofficial questions," but to add to the amusement of the autumn night, I remained utterly earnest, expressing sincerity as if I truly believed that the police officer was the chief interrogator and that the severity of the punishment rested solely on his discretion, and I gave a vague "statement" that satisfied his curiosity somewhat.

"Hmm, I understand most of it now. If you answer everything honestly, I'll go easy on you too."

"Thank you. I appreciate your consideration."

It was an almost divine performance. And for me, it was a powerful performance that brought no particular benefit.

When morning broke, I was summoned by the chief of police. This time, it was a formal interrogation.

The moment I opened the door and entered the chief's office,

"Oh, what a handsome man. It's not your fault. It's your mother's fault for giving birth to such a handsome man,"

the still young chief, dark-skinned and looking like a university graduate, said abruptly. I felt miserable, like an ugly cripple with a big red birthmark covering half my face.

The police chief's interrogation, much like a judo or kendo practitioner, was remarkably straightforward, a world apart from the clandestine, persistent, and lecherous "interrogation" by the old patrolman late that night. After the questioning concluded, the chief, while preparing the documents to send to the prosecutor's office, said,

"You must strengthen your body. It looks like you're coughing up blood."

he said.

That morning, I had a strange cough, and each time I coughed, I covered my mouth with a handkerchief. Then, the handkerchief was stained with blood, as if red hail had fallen on it. However, it wasn't blood from my throat, but blood that came out when I fiddled with a small boil that had formed under my ear the previous night. Still, I found it troublesome to explain, so I simply answered "yes" and kept my eyes down, remaining quiet.

The chief finished writing the documents and told me, "Whether you'll be indicted is up to the prosecutor, but it would be best to ask your guarantor to come to the Yokohama prosecutor's office today by telegram or phone. You must have a guardian or guarantor, right?"

I remembered Shibuta, the dealer of calligraphic works, paintings, and antiques who frequented my father's Tokyo villa. He was from the same hometown as us and, through my father's arrangements, had also become my school's guarantor. He was a stocky, unmarried man in his forties, and my father always called him "Hirame" (flounder). I naturally started calling him that too.

I borrowed the police phone book, found the phone number for Hirame's house, and called. When I asked him to "come to the Yokohama Public Prosecutor's Office," Hirame, as if a different person, accepted with an arrogant tone.

"Hey, you'd better disinfect that phone right away. After all, he's spitting up bloody phlegm," the chief's loud voice reached my ears even in the protective custody room.

After noon, I was tied around the torso with a thin hemp rope, which I was allowed to conceal with my cloak. However, a young police officer firmly held the end of the rope, and we both headed to Yokohama by train.

Strangely, I felt no anxiety at all, and the police protective custody room and the old police officer seemed nostalgic. I don't know why I felt this way, but being bound as a criminal, I actually felt relieved and at ease. Even now, as I write about those memories, I feel truly happy.

However, among the nostalgic memories of that period, there was one tragic failure that I will never forget in my life. In a dimly lit room at the Public Prosecutor's Office, I underwent a simple interrogation by the prosecutor. The prosecutor was a quiet man in his late thirties; even if I possessed beauty, it must have been a beauty of depravity, but his face had an intelligent and serene atmosphere, what one might call a righteous beauty. He seemed to be an unpretentious person, so I was completely unguarded and vaguely made my statement.

However, suddenly I started coughing again, and I took out a handkerchief from my sleeve. Catching sight of the blood, a base thought crossed my mind: perhaps this cough could be of some use. So, I exaggeratedly added two extra coughs, "Gohon, gohon," and while covering my mouth with the handkerchief, I glanced at the prosecutor's face. At that moment, he displayed a quiet smile. "Is that true?"

At that moment, a cold sweat ran down my back. Even now, remembering it makes me want to spin around in terror. It might have been even worse than when that idiotic Takeichi called it a "trick" and poked me in the back during middle school, sending me to hell. These two incidents are records of my greatest failures in acting throughout my life. Sometimes, I even think it would have been better to be sentenced to ten years in prison than to face that prosecutor's quiet contempt.

I was granted a suspended prosecution. However, I felt no joy at all; instead, I was utterly miserable, sitting on a bench in the prosecutor's office waiting room for my guarantor, Hirame, to arrive.

Through the tall window behind me, I could see the sunset sky, and gulls were flying in a shape resembling the character for "woman."