On the Question of Apparel Fukusō ni tsuite

The narrator of “Memories,” it will be recalled, had a secret yearning to dress in style. This interest in clothes crops up regularly in Dazai’s writings. Dazai wrote one story entitled “The Dandy” and began another with a sketch giving the narrator’s thoughts on suicide and dress. Having received some fabric for a summer kimono, the narrator postpones committing suicide until he can wear the new garment.

The present tale is a comic tour-de-force, the author portraying himself as one who gets into trouble even in trying to escape the hold of fashion. Here the emphasis on dress and appearance becomes a means whereby the author can create and manipulate his own self-image. Several incidents are described in turn, each of them more complicated than the previous one. The author-figure involved in these incidents is jaunty and sociable enough. But his companions—whether his drinking buddies or his wife—are kept more or less in the background, and his jauntiness readily lapses into a kind of mordant humor. In a more thorough way than his counterpart in “Memories,” this narrator is playful and self-mocking. The mood of pathos and humor that he creates out of these attributes is one quite common in Dazai’s anecdotal reminiscences.

The sketch ends with the most striking incident of all, the argument at the Asagaya tavern. Here Dazai uses the approaching wartime environment of Japan as background. (“On the Question of Apparel,” it should be noted, was published in February 1941, when the Japanese were being urged to avoid extravagance by, among other things, wearing drab khaki clothing. In fact, the author refers to this very phenomenon by playfully confronting his readers with a “homework assignment” at the end of his narrative.) Dazai’s narrator engages in the argument mindful of a celebrated incident at Ataka Barrier¹ involving Yoshitsune and his bodyguard Benkei, two of the most romanticized figures in Japanese history. Yoshitsune, mentioned briefly in “Undine” and the heroic general of the Genpei War (1180-85), was trying to escape capture and death at the order of his older brother Yoritomo, the de facto ruler of Japan at the time, owing to Yoshitsune’s vanquishing of the Heike forces. In order to gain passage for Yoshitsune past Yoritomo’s suspicious guards at the barrier, Benkei boldly struck his master. Convinced that a subordinate would never commit such an outrage, the guards were deceived into believing that Yoshitsune was in fact an underling, and they accordingly allowed him to pass through.

I was fascinated for only a short time—fascinated with apparel. While a freshman at Hirosaki High, I would wear a stiff sash over my striped kimono—whether I was heading for the house of a certain lady for lessons in ballad chanting or merely out for a stroll. This caper lasted just one year. When it was over, I threw away my stylish clothes in disgust.

Not on principle, mind you, not at all. But something happened that freshman year that made me change my ways. Having come to Tokyo for the winter recess, I flung aside the entrance curtain to an odenya bar² one evening and walked in dressed to the hilt. With the nonchalant assurance of a man-about-town, I told the waitress, Make it a hot flagon. Mind you, make it hot, now.

It was hot all right, but I still managed to swallow the saké. Then, having gotten my tongue untied, I let go with every bit of bluster I had memorized for the occasion. And when I had uttered my final sentence—something like, What the hell’re you talking about?—the waitress smiled brightly and asked in total innocence, So you’re from Tohoku?

She probably meant it as a compliment, but this reminder of my provincial speech quite sobered me. I’m not an utter fool. In disgust I gave up on stylish clothes right then, and thereafter I tried my best to wear ordinary things. But I’m tall for a Japanese and I stand out even when walking down the street. (I’ve been measured at five feet, seven inches, but I don’t believe it. I’m actually five-six and a half.)

Even when I got to the university, I tried to dress normally. But my friends kept up their warnings, claiming that high rubber boots were out of place— and that was that. But I found them convenient. You don’t need any socks; you simply wear the boots over your bare feet or tabi,³ and no one ever knows the difference. Generally, I wore mine without socks, and they kept my feet plenty warm. When you leave the house, there’s no need to squat at the front door and fiddle around forever tying up the laces. You shove one leg into a boot, then the other, and off you go. And when it’s time to remove the boots, you needn’t bother taking your hands from your pockets. Give a kick and your boot comes right off. While they’re on, you can go through a puddle or along a muddy lane without a care. They’re real treasures, these rubber boots of mine, so why shouldn’t I walk about in them?

But, my solicitous friends replied, the boots were strange and I had better give them up. They claimed that wearing such boots in perfect weather seemed eccentric. So they must have thought that I wore the boots just to be stylish—a terrible mistake on their part. Ever since that freshman year when I learned to my sorrow that I wouldn’t qualify as a man-about-town, I had cherished simplicity and economy in matters of food, dress, and shelter. But I was taller than most men, and my features—my nose, for example, or my entire face—were larger than average. Somehow this seemed to offend people. I would put on a sports cap in total innocence, only to hear all sorts of advice from my concerned friends. What! You’ve really come up with something there! . . . Hardly suits you ... It’s strange, so you’d better get rid of it.

So what was I to do? Evidently a man must discipline himself in proportion to his size. I would have gone quietly into hiding, but people would not permit it.

In desperation I considered growing a full beard in the manner of our prime minister a few years back, His Excellency Hayashi Senjūrō; but the sight of a big, bearded fellow prowling in and out of the three rooms of my small house would be strange indeed, so I had to give up the idea.

Once a friend of mine looked at me seriously and said, You know, if George Bernard Shaw had been born in Japan, he would not have made it as a writer. Equally serious myself, I pondered the extent of literary realism in Japan and then replied—Yes, you’re right. Our approach to writing is quite different here. I was going to mention several more ideas when the friend laughed and said—No, that’s not what I mean. Isn’t Shaw seven feet tall? A writer like that couldn’t manage in Japan.

He was quite offhand and took me in utterly. I couldn’t really laugh off his innocent joke, either. Indeed, there was something quite chilling about it. If I had been just a foot taller . . . ! That was too close for comfort.

Having surmised in that freshman year how evanescent fashion could be, I gave up on choosing my garb. Instead, I put on whatever was at hand and acted as though I were dressed like any ordinary person. My friends kept finding something or other to criticize all the same. Unnerved by their remarks, I gradually began to worry about my appearance. Even so, I had been told time and again about my uncouthness and was sick of hearing about it. That’s why I never felt any longer like wearing anything special or ordering a haori⁴ jacket of antique cloth tailored just for me. No, the craving for style was gone now, and so I docilely put on whatever had been given to me.

I’m not sure why, but I’m very stingy about clothes and geta.⁵ Spending money on such things cuts me to the quick—that’s really how I feel about it. I’ll set out to buy a new pair of geta with five yen in my pocket, only to pace back and forth in front of the shoe store. When I’m completely bewildered, I make a determined rush into the beer hall next door to spend every sen. I must be set against wasting my own money on clothes.

Until three or four years ago, Mother would send me clothes and other things from home for every season. But we hadn’t seen one another for over ten years, and I could tell from her choice of gaudy patterns that she didn’t realize I was now a man of taste who sported a moustache. A certain kimono in the flecked style, loose-fitting and unlined, made me seem like a sumo wrestler of low rank, while the nightshirt dyed all over with peach blossoms transformed me into a doddering actor of the modern stage. This simply wouldn’t do. And yet, since it was my policy to meekly wear whatever was given to me, I did so regardless of how appalled I really was. Friends who dropped in could hardly keep from laughing when they saw me sitting gravely on folded legs in the middle of my room and puffing on a cigarette. I was hardly amused, however, so I eventually got up and took the offending clothes to a storehouse.

I can’t even have Mother send me one kimono any more. Instead I must buy whatever clothes I need from my own income as a writer. I’m so stingy, though, that I’ve bought just two kimonos the last three or four years: an unlined, flecked garment in the Kurume style⁶ and a white, summer kimono, also flecked. When I need something else, I withdraw one of Mother’s selections from the storehouse. For summer wear I’ve another flecked kimono with a white background, and as autumn draws near, I alternate between two unlined kimonos—one of a patterned fabric, the other of silk. At home I always wear a yukata, right underneath my tanzen.⁷

When I walk about in the silk kimono, the hem of the skirt rustles pleasantly. Unfortunately it always rains if I go out in that garment, a warning perhaps from my dead father-in-law who once owned it. I’ve encountered veritable floods in that kimono, once in southern Izu and again at Fuji-Yoshida. The Izu incident occurred in the early part of July, when a rampaging stream almost swept away the tiny inn where I was staying. I was drawn into the incident at Fuji-Yoshida because of the Fire Festival in late August. When a friend from the area invited me for a visit, I replied, It’s too hot now, but I’ll come once the weather cools down. My friend’s response to this was rather testy. The Fire Festival occurs just once a year, he wrote, and the weather’s plenty cool already here in Yoshida. By next month it’ll be too cold.

I hastily got ready to leave. As I left home, my wife found fault with my appearance. You’ll run into a flood once again if you keep wearing that same kimono, she said. Her words gave me a sense of foreboding.

The weather was fine as far as Hachioji. But from the moment I boarded the train at Otsuki for Yoshida, the rain came down in buckets. The passengers on their way for sightseeing or mountain-climbing were so packed in they could barely move. Hearing each and every one of them grumble about the rain, I was so overcome with guilt for having worn my late father-in-law’s kimono that I couldn’t even look up. Since the rain was even worse at Yoshida, I scurried along with the friend who met me into a nearby restaurant. My friend seemed to feel sorry for me, but I was the one to really feel contrite, knowing as I did the real cause of the storm. I couldn’t confess, though, for my sin was too terrible.

The Fire Festival was a shambles.

On the day Mount Fuji closes for the winter, each household in Yoshida heaps up kindling at the front gate, hoping to start a blaze greater than all the others. The spectacle was in honor of Konohanasakuya, the princess who subjected herself to an ordeal by fire in giving birth to her three children, thus proving to the human deity Ninigi that he was indeed their father.⁸ I had never seen the festival and was anxious to be there. But the downpour had ruined the preparations, so my friend and I just stayed in the restaurant and drank as we waited for the rain to slacken. As the wind picked up in the evening, a waitress opened the shutter slightly and murmured, “Ah, there’s a small fire out there.”

My friend and I stood up and observed the glow in the southern sky. Even in the midst of this raging storm, at least one person had managed to light a beacon for the princess. But I couldn’t help being depressed, knowing as I did that my own kimono had brought on this terrible storm. If I so much as hinted to the waitress that the man standing before her had come brazenly down here from Tokyo on no special errand and ruined one of the few annual pleasures to which both the young and old, the men and women citizens of Yoshida looked forward, I would probably end up getting thrashed by the townspeople. And so, ever a blackguard, I told neither the waitress nor my friend about this crime.

When the rain eased up late that evening, my friend and I left the restaurant to spend the night at a large inn near the lake. By the next morning the weather had cleared, so I said good-bye and boarded the bus that ran to Kōfu through Misaka Pass. The bus had gone by Lake Kawaguchi and must have been starting its climb up the pass some twenty minutes later when it came to a halt. Seeing the huge avalanche that blocked the road, we fifteen or so passengers got off, hitched up our kimono skirts, and started picking our way over the avalanche in groups of two or three. Finding the road again, we kept on walking, determined to get through the pass. No matter how far we went, though, the bus from Kōfu never appeared. Finally we gave up, returned to our own bus, and headed back to Yoshida.

All of this came about because of that cursed silk kimono of mine. The next time I hear even a rumor about a drought, I’ll put on the kimono and set out for the affected area. I’ll just take a stroll, and the rain will come down in torrents—an unexpected service from someone so generally incompetent.

In addition to the Rain-maker, I still own the first kimono I ever bought with a manuscript payment, an unlined garment in the Kurume style. I take good care of this article, wearing it only when I go out on special occasions. I consider it a first-class garment, yet other people don’t give it much attention. Whatever business discussions I have while wearing this kimono turn out rather poorly. I’m treated offhandedly, and that means the kimono must seem like ordinary apparel in the eyes of others. Feeling defiant as I head for home, I hit upon the example of my fellow Tsugaru writer, Zenzō Kasai, a careless dresser if there ever was one. That’s when I swear firmly never to give up my unlined kimono.

The period during which I change from unlined to lined clothing is a difficult one. For about ten days, from late September through early October, I’m totally alone with my miseries. I have two lined kimonos sent by Mother, one of a patterned fabric, the other of some kind of silk. The design of both is so delicate and the color so subdued that I keep them at home, without depositing them at a storehouse in some obscure corner of town. However, I’m not the sort to turn out in a silk kimono and felt sandals, twirling a cane as I stroll along. In fact I’ve worn the silk kimono only twice in the last year or so—to celebrate the New Year at my wife’s home in Kōfu and to assist a friend at a meeting with a prospective bride. In both instances I had misgivings about the kimono, and a cane and felt sandals were simply out of the question. I dressed instead in hakama and a new pair of “single-block” geta.

I’m not trying to act barbarian by disliking sandals. After all, sandals look elegant and they don’t make a racket like geta do. So you needn’t leave them at the cloakroom when entering a quiet place like a theater or library. But when I tried wearing a pair of them, the soles of my feet seemed to be slipping on a straw mat. It was irritating and unbearable. I felt far more weary than when I wear geta and since then I’ve never put on a pair of felt sandals.

To walk about twirling a cane gives one a feeling of importance, and that’s not bad at all. But I’m a bit taller than most people, and canes are always too short for me. I’ve got to bend somewhat to make sure the tip strikes the ground. I must seem an old lady on her way to visit a grave as I go along hunched over, my cane tapping at every step. Five or six years ago I came across a long, narrow pickel, as the Germans call it, and started using it as a cane, but quickly gave it up when a friend grumbled about my poor taste. It wasn’t a question of taste, however. Since the typical short cane wouldn’t let me walk resolutely, I soon became irritated with it. For one with my physique, a long, sturdy pickel was a necessity.

I’ve also been instructed to hold the cane so it doesn’t strike the ground. It gets to be luggage then, and that’s something I can’t tolerate. When I go on a trip, I figure out how to board the train empty-handed. Life itself is bound to be dreary if you carry a lot of baggage about. The less the better. After spending the thirty-one years of my life more or less weighed down, why should I carry an onerous piece of luggage even while walking?

Whenever I go out with something, I try to stuff the article inside the front opening of my kimono, regardless of how unsightly it looks. I certainly can’t do that with a cane, though. A cane’s got to rest on the shoulder or hang from the hand, a bother in either case. Besides, a dog might well mistake a cane for some barbaric weapon and begin barking furiously. There’s nothing good about carrying a cane. Regardless of how I think about it, I’m just unfit for a silk kimono, felt sandals, white tabi, and a cane. Maybe it’s just the pauper in me.

While I’m on this subject, I should mention that I haven’t worn foreign clothes in the seven or eight years since I quit school. It’s not that I dislike them, far from it. Since they’re light and convenient, I’m always yearning for such clothes. Mother never sent me any from home, though, and I can hardly wear what I don’t own.

Since I’m five feet six and a half inches tall, a suit ready-made in Japan wouldn’t fit. And to have a tailor make one would surely cost more than a hundred yen, with the shoes, shirt, and other required accessories. I’m stingy about my needs; I’d rather hurl myself from a cliff into the raging sea than throw away over a hundred yen on a suit of clothes.

On one occasion I had to attend a celebration in honor of a friend’s new book. With nothing to wear other than a tanzen, I had to borrow from another friend. Clad in a foreign outfit—jacket, shirt, necktie, shoes, and socks—I showed up with a craven smile on my lips. My reputation suffered again, for my friends did not seem impressed with my appearance. I heard all kinds of remarks—So you’re wearing a suit for a change ...Well, it’s hardly an improvement ... Nope, it doesn’t agree with you ... What? Again!

Finally the friend who had lent the clothes whispered to me in the corner. “Thanks to you, that suit of mine’s already notorious. I don’t think I’ll be wearing it to go out anymore.”

That’s what happened the one time I tried wearing foreign clothes. Since I’m not about to waste a hundred yen on a tailor, it will probably be a long time before I try again.

For now, I have no choice but to go around in the Japanese clothes I have on hand. As I said earlier, I have two lined kimonos, but I don’t like the silk one. I prefer my patterned kimono. Anyway I’m comfortable in the poorest kimono, the sort a student might wear, and I would gladly spend the rest of my life living as a student. When I have a meeting scheduled for the next day, I fold my patterned kimono and place it under my mattress for the night. I feel somewhat edgy, as though I were about to take the college entrance exam, but at least the kimono will appear to be pressed. It’s a fine garment, one for special occasions. As autumn deepens and I can begin going proudly about in this kimono, I breathe a sigh of relief.

It’s the time between seasons that’s really troublesome—especially between summer and autumn. Any transition annoys a feckless person like myself, and I can’t make up my mind between my unlined summer garment and my lined autumn one. To tell the truth, I want to wear my lined kimono with its flecked pattern right away, but the days are still too warm. So I stick to my unlined garment, and that makes me feel cold and desolate. No wonder that I go about hunched over and shivering in the wind—or that criticisms about “advertising my penury” or “acting from spite” or “menacing people like some beggar” start all over again. In fact, I long to dress properly, without upsetting people by looking like Han Shan and Sheh Teh, those two beggars who appear in the Zen paintings. The trouble is, I don’t have a serge kimono, and that’s what I need most.

Actually, I do sort of have one. It’s a kimono with pale red stripes running both down and across that I bought on the sly during my fashionable days as a high-school student. When I awoke from the spell of fashion, I realized a fellow like me couldn’t wear such a garment. It obviously belonged on a woman.

I must have been insane. The kimono was so gaudy that words can hardly describe it. Remembering how I used to put on this garment and stroll aimlessly and languidly about, I can only hide my face and groan. I never should have worn it. I can’t stand the sight of that kimono, and I’ve left it in storage a long time now.

Last autumn I tried to arrange the clothes, blankets, and books I had left in the storehouse. I sold off the useless items and brought the rest back home. My wife was present as I opened the large cloth bundle. Needless to say, I was nervous and embarrassed to reveal before her very eyes how slovenly I had been before our marriage. A filthy yukata had been left in the storehouse unlaundered, and a rolled-up tanzen with a tear in the backside had not been repaired. Nothing that came out of the bundle was presentable. Dirt, mold, garments with strange, gaudy patterns—that’s all there was. This was not the legacy of a solid citizen, and I cringed in self-contempt as I unpacked the bundle.

“Sheer decadence!” I declared. “But I suppose we can sell the stuff to some rag-picker.”

“Oh no!” my wife shot back. She inspected each article, ignoring the filth. “Look! This one’s pure wool! Let’s remake it.”

The serge kimono! I almost fled in horror. What was it doing here? It should have remained in storage. I had picked up the wrong article at some point. Blunderer!

“I wore it years ago. Rather flashy, wouldn’t you say?”

I hid my embarrassment and spoke calmly.

“What luck! You don’t have a single serge kimono, and now you can wear this.”

I couldn’t. During the ten years in storage, the kimono fabric had turned a strange color, something on the order of bean jelly, while the red stripes had faded to an unhealthy persimmon color. It was an old woman’s kimono, and I turned away from it in disgust.

This past autumn I leaped out of bed early one morning, knowing that I had to finish a story that very day for a certain publisher. An unfamiliar kimono lay neatly folded alongside my pillow. It proved to be the serge kimono itself, just right for the cool weather already in the air. Washed and re-sewn, the garment was more presentable than before, but there was no mistaking the bean-jelly fabric and the persimmon-colored stripes. With work to be done, however, I couldn’t bother about my appearance. I dressed in silence and started writing without any breakfast. I finished slightly past noon and was just breathing a sigh of relief when an old friend unexpectedly dropped in.

His timing was perfect. We ate lunch, talked over various matters, and went out for a walk. Only as we were entering the woods at Inokashira Park did I realize how strange I looked. I came to a halt and groaned, “Oh no, I shouldn’t be out like this.”

My friend stared at me, his brows knit in a worried expression. “What’s the trouble?” he asked. “Is it your stomach . . . ?”

“No, nothing like that.” I forced a smile. “It’s an odd kimono, don’t you agree?”

“Well ...” His tone was somber. “It seems a bit flashy.”

“I bought it ten years ago,” I mentioned, moving forward a step or two. “It seems more suitable for a woman, and the color’s changed too . . .” I couldn’t go any further.

“Calm down,” my friend counseled, “It’s not so noticeable.”

“You think so?” I was already feeling better.

We came out of the woods, descended the stone steps, and strolled around the pond.

But the thing kept bothering me. I was a big, hirsute fellow, thirty-one years old, with some experience of hardship. Yet here I was wandering through the park in a pair of worn-out geta and a tasteless kimono. A stranger might take me for some filthy neighborhood bum, and friends would become all the more contemptuous of me. There he goes again, they would exclaim, it’s about time he grew up. That’s how misunderstood I’ve been all these years.

“How about going to Shinjuku?” my friend proposed.

“Are you kidding? If someone sees me around Shinjuku in this outfit . . .” I shook my head.

“No one will think the worse of you.”

“Count me out,” I stubbornly insisted. “Let’s stop at the teahouse instead."

“I need a real drink. C’mon, let’s get out of here and head for town.”

“They serve beer at the teahouse.”

I didn’t feel like heading for town—not in this kimono. Besides, my story needed revision, and that made me uneasy.

“It’s too chilly at the teahouse,” my companion countered. “I want to relax with a drink.”

I had heard he was having a bad time of it recently.

“Well,” I conceded, “Asagaya maybe. But not Shinjuku.”

“You’ve an interesting place in mind?”

It wasn’t especially interesting, but the tavern at Asagaya had its advantages. I had been there occasionally, and my credit was good until the next visit whenever I was a bit short. Since they knew me, this strange outfit would not arouse suspicion, either. I needn’t worry about how I looked. After all, the tavern didn’t employ any hostesses.

Dusk was beginning to settle when we left the train at Asagaya and began to walk down the street. I could hardly bear to see my reflection in the store windows, just like some Han Shan or Sheh Teh in those Zen paintings. Since the kimono was bright red, I remembered how an old man puts on a colorful undergarment to celebrate his eighty-eighth birthday.

These were difficult times, and there was nothing I could do to help. My writing had gone unrecognized. The last ten years seemed to have passed as one day while I loitered about Asagaya in a pair of worn-out geta. And I was back again today, decked out in the red kimono as well. Always I seemed to be on the losing end.

“Things don’t change no matter how old you get. I’ve tried my best, and yet . . .” As we walked along, I began to let my grievances against life come tumbling out. “Maybe that’s what writing’s all about,” I went on. “But there’s something wrong with me. Imagine, walking about in an outfit like this one.”

My friend looked at me sympathetically. “That’s right, you’ve got to dress properly. Now I’ve suffered plenty of setbacks at the office . . .”

He worked for a company in Fukugawa, but he wasn’t the sort to spend money on clothes.

“It’s not just how you dress,” I tried to argue. “It goes deeper. I didn’t get the right sort of education. Now take Verlaine’s case,⁹ for example ...”

What did Verlaine have to do with my red kimono? An abrupt shift of thought even for me, and I felt quite sheepish about the remark. Whenever I’m feeling down and out, though, I remember Verlaine’s doleful countenance, and it helps. The very weakness of the man gives me the strength to pull myself together and keep going. I firmly believe that true glory can emerge only after the most timid introspection. In any event I want to live on, to have a life bereft of means but filled with pride.

“Was I stretching things with that Verlaine business?” I asked. “Well, regardless of what I say, this kimono is out of the question.”

I was at my wits’ end, but my friend merely chuckled as the street lights came on. “Forget it,” he counseled.

That evening at the tavern I struck my friend in the face—an awful blunder. For this, the kimono was surely to blame. Of late I had disciplined myself to laugh off just about anything, and even violence, up to a certain point at least, did not affect me. But that night I acted. I believe the red kimono was entirely at fault, a good example of the frightening influence clothes can exercise over a man.

I was so depressed when we entered that I took a seat in the darkest corner, abjectly ignoring the tavern keeper as I drank my saké. My friend, for some reason or other, was in very good spirits. He denounced all artists—ancient and modern, Eastern and Western—and ended up lashing out at the tavern keeper. Now the latter, I knew, had a temper. On one occasion a young fellow had gotten out of hand, just like my friend was doing, and begun to shout at the other patrons. The tavern keeper had suddenly looked stern, as if he were a different person. What’s the matter with you, he had scolded, don’t you realize what the country’s going through? He had then ordered the youngster off the premises, with a warning never to return.

Tonight it was my friend who was defying this formidable tavern keeper, and I shuddered to think that both of us might be thrown out at any moment. Normally I would have added my own bombast to his, and to hell with the ignominy of getting tossed out of a tavern. But I cringed over my appearance. Pst! Pst! I quietly hissed, keeping an eye on the tavern keeper. Sharper and sharper became my friend’s tongue until we were just one step away from getting kicked out. Then a desperate course of action occurred to me— the precedent of Ataka Barrier and the blow that Benkei delivered to save Yoshitsune’s life. Having made this decision, I slapped my friend twice on the cheek—taking care not to hurt him while making the sharpest possible sound.

“Calm down! You don’t usually act like this. What’s the matter with you tonight? Calm down!” I shouted loud enough for the tavern keeper to hear and was just sighing with relief that we would not be thrown out when Yoshitsune arose and came at Benkei.

“What’s the big idea, hitting me like that. You won’t get away with it!” he screamed.

The plot had gone awry. Poor Benkei stood up, utterly befuddled as he dodged blows left and right, and hoped that someone would come to his rescue.

Finally the tavern keeper came straight over to where I was and said, “You’re bothering the other customers. Would you mind leaving?”

But why was he asking me to leave? Come to think of it, I was the one who had started the fracas. And how could someone else realize that I was only playing the role of Benkei and not really chastising anyone? To all appearances I was definitely the aggressor.

Filled with chagrin, I left my friend drunk and raving in the tavern. Once again, my appearance had failed me. If I had been properly dressed, the tavern keeper would have recognized my character to some extent and he would not have humiliated me like that. Thus did Benkei, now expelled from the tavern and trudging with his shoulders hunched through the Asagaya Quarter, reason to himself. I want a serge kimono, he thought, I want something in which I can stroll about without a care. But I’m so stingy about buying clothes that I’ll have all sorts of trouble from here on out as well.

Assignment: How about a citizen’s uniform?