4-1

by 太宰治

The brush used for friction is like a slightly softer version of the stiff-bristled brush used for haircuts. For this reason, at first, being rubbed with this brush can be quite painful, and sometimes friction bumps can appear on the skin. However, most people get used to it in about a week.

When it's time for friction, cheerful assistants divide up the work and take turns performing friction on all the students. They fold a towel into a small metal basin, soak it in water, press a brush against the towel to wet it, and then begin the "shash-sha" friction. Friction is, in principle, performed almost all over the body. For the first week after admission, it's only on the limbs, but after that, it's full-body. Lying on one's side, they first rub the hands, then the feet, chest, and abdomen, then turn over to rub the other hand, foot, chest, abdomen, back, and waist. Once you get used to it, it's quite pleasant, and the feeling of having your back rubbed is especially indescribable. There are both skilled and unskilled assistants.

I will write more about these assistants later.

It is no exaggeration to say that life at the dojo consists of two things: bending and stretching exercises, and friction. Since the shortage of supplies remained unchanged even after the war, it might not be a bad idea to show one's fighting spirit against illness through such methods for a while. Other activities include lectures from 1 PM, nature time at 4 PM, and reports from 8:30 PM. For lectures, the director, instructors, and various distinguished guests who visit the dojo for inspection take turns speaking through a microphone, and their voices flow into our rooms through loudspeakers in the hallway. We sit on our beds and listen in silence.

This loudspeaker, which had become unusable due to power shortages during the war, was immediately put back into service as soon as the war ended and power usage was slightly relaxed. Recently, the director has been giving lectures on a theme that could be called "The History of the Development of Japanese Science." In a calm tone, he explains the hardships of our ancestors in a truly clear manner. Yesterday, he spoke about Sugita Genpaku's "Rangaku Kotohajime" (The Beginnings of Dutch Studies). The part where Genpaku and his colleagues first opened a Western book and wondered how to translate it, stating, "It was truly like setting sail on the vast ocean in a ship without a rudder, boundless and without a place to anchor, merely utterly bewildered," was particularly impressive. Although I learned about Genpaku's struggles from Mr. Kiyama Ganmo, my history teacher in middle school, I felt a completely different sensation this time.

Ganmo used to say trivial things about Genpaku's appearance, but the director's lectures are very enjoyable for me. On Sundays, records are broadcast instead of lectures. I don't particularly like music, but listening to it once a week isn't bad. Sometimes, the assistant's live singing is played between records, which makes me feel more anxious and restless than entertained. However, this seems to be the most welcomed by the other students, with Seishichi-dono, for example, listening with narrowed eyes. He himself must be eager to broadcast his own doditsu verses.

Four o'clock in the afternoon is a time of quietude. During this time, our body temperature rises the most, our bodies feel sluggish, and our mood becomes irritable. Therefore, although we are given thirty minutes to spend freely, most students quietly lie on their beds during this time. Incidentally, in this dojo, it is absolutely forbidden to use a comforter on the bed at any time other than during nighttime sleep. During the day, we lie on the bed in our nightclothes without any blankets or anything else, but once you get used to it, it feels clean and, on the contrary, pleasant.

The 8:30 PM report is news about the day's world affairs. Various reports flow from the loudspeaker in the hallway, delivered in the tense tone of the duty clerk. In this dojo, reading books, let alone newspapers, is forbidden. Excessive reading might be bad for the body. I think it's not so bad to escape the flood of bothersome thoughts, if only while I'm here, and live simply, believing only in the single fact of a new beginning.

However, I have little time to write letters to you, and this troubles me. I rush to get out stationery and write after meals, but there's so much I want to say. This letter also took two days to write. But as I get used to life in the dojo, I'll probably get better at utilizing short periods of time. I seem to be very optimistic about everything now. I have no worries at all; I've forgotten everything.

By the way, my nickname in this dojo is "Skylark." It's truly a trivial name. My name, Koshiba Risuke, apparently sounds like "small skylark," so I got that nickname. It's not particularly honorable, but at first, it was somehow unpleasant and terribly embarrassing. However, lately I've become tolerant of everything, so even when called "Skylark," I respond casually. Do you understand? I'm no longer the old Koshiba. Now I'm a skylark in this health dojo. I'm chirping and making a fuss. So, please read my future letters with that in mind. Don't frown and think, "What a frivolous fellow!"

"Skylark," one of the assistants calls me sharply from outside the window even now.

"What is it?" I replied calmly.

"Are you doing it?"

"I'm doing it."

"Keep it up."

"Alright, here I come."

Do you understand what this exchange is? This is the greeting of this dojo. It seems that when assistants and students pass each other in the hallway, they always exchange these words. I don't know when it started, but surely the director who manages this place didn't decide it. It must have been thought up by the assistants. It's very cheerful, and a little boyish strength seems to be a common spirit among the nurses here. Giving harsh nicknames to everyone—the director, instructors, students, and office staff—is also the work of these assistants. There's something about them that makes you wary. I will continue to observe these assistants and report in detail next time.

First, a brief overview of our dojo is as follows. Excuse me.

September 3rd

Dear Sir/Madam. When September comes, it really feels different, doesn't it? The wind blows across the lake's surface, making it chilly. The chirping of insects has also become quite loud, hasn't it? I'm not a poet like you, so I don't have any special feelings just because autumn has arrived, but yesterday evening, a young assistant stood by the pond below my window, looked at me, smiled, and said,

"Tell Tsukushi that the bell crickets are chirping."

Hearing such words, I understood that autumn deeply affected these people, and I felt a little choked up. This assistant seems to have had a crush on Nishioka Tsukushi, who shares my room, for a while now.

When I replied, "Tsukushi isn't here. She went to the office a moment ago," she suddenly became displeased and even spoke rudely,

"Oh, really? It doesn't matter if she's not here. Does Hibari dislike bell crickets?" she retorted strangely, and I was utterly bewildered, not understanding what she meant.

This young assistant has many inexplicable aspects, and I have been most cautious of her for a long time. Her nickname is "Maa-bou."

By the way, today I'll also introduce the nicknames of the other assistants. As I wrote in my previous letter, the assistants here are quite formidable, giving harsh nicknames to the men, but the students are no less, calling all the assistants by nicknames, so it's pretty much an even match. However, the nicknames thought up by the students seem to show some consideration for women, and a little kindness can be felt. Masako Miura, so "Maa-bō." Nothing special. Shizuko Takenaka, so "Take-san" is the most thoughtless. Utterly commonplace. Also, an assistant wearing glasses should probably be called "Demekin" (pop-eyed goldfish), but they refrained and called her "Kintoto" (goldfish). Because she's thin, "Urume" (sardine). Because she has a lonely face, "Hai-chai." These might be on the better side, but they seem a bit reserved. Even though she's terribly unattractive, she has a perm, paints her eyelids red, and wears strange, heavy makeup, so she's called "Kujaku" (peacock). They probably called her "Kujaku" to make fun of her, but the person herself might have become even more proud, strengthening her confidence, thinking, "Yes, I am a peacock." There's absolutely no irony. If it were me, I'd call her "Tennyo" (heavenly maiden). She wouldn't think, "Yes, I am a heavenly maiden." There are many others like "Tonakai" (reindeer), "Kōrogi" (cricket), "Tantei" (detective), "Tamanegi" (onion), but they're all trite. Only one, "Kakuran," I think is a bit cleverly named. There's an assistant with a wide face and bright red cheeks, which truly reminds one of an red ogre mask, but they wisely refrained and avoided that, calling her "Kakuran" from "Oni no Kakuran" (an ogre's sudden illness). The idea is refined.

"Kakuran."

"What is it?" she replies with a composed face.

"Keep up the good work."

"Alright, here I come!" she replies energetically. If Kakuran keeps up the good work, I can't compete. Not just her, but the assistants here, though a bit rough around the edges, seem to be truly kind-hearted, good people.