Just beyond the Futago landing, where the ferry from Tokyo crosses the Tama River, lies the old post town of Mizonokuchi. Midway through the long, narrow town stands an inn, the Kameya.
It was early March. The sky was overcast, and a strong wind blew from the north. Always bleak, the town seemed colder and more desolate than usual. Yesterday’s snow remained on the thatched roofs that formed uneven lines down both sides of the roadway, and from the edges of the southern eaves, drops of snowmelt fell dancing in the wind. Even the rippling muddy water in sandal tracks seemed to be shivering with the cold. The sun went down, and soon most of the shops closed for the night. The town lay silent, huddled along the dark road. As an inn, the Kameya remained open, its paper windows aglow, though few travellers had stopped to spend the night, it seemed. The only sound from within was the occasional rapping of a heavy metal pipe against the wooden edge of a charcoal brazier.
All at once the sliding door shot back and a large man eased himself across the threshold. The innkeeper was still leaning against the brazier, mulling over the day’s receipts, and before he could look up the man had taken three long strides across the dirt-floored entryway and planted himself before him. The newcomer looked somewhat less than thirty years of age. He wore a Western-style suit and cloth cap, but his straw sandals and gaiters left his feet exposed like those of any Japanese traveller. He carried an umbrella in his right hand, and he hugged a small satchel under his left arm.
‘I’d like a room for the night.’
Still absorbed in examining his guest’s outfit, the innkeeper said nothing. Just then a handclap sounded from the back.
‘Take care of number six!’ the innkeeper bellowed. Then, still leaning against the brazier, he asked, ‘And you, sir, are from …?’
The man’s shoulders stiffened, and a scowl crossed his face. But then, with the hint of a smile, he answered, ‘Me? I’m from Tokyo.’
‘And you are on your way to …?’
‘Hachiōji.’
The traveller sat down on the raised wooden floor and began to untie his gaiters.
‘Hmm, Tokyo to Hachiōji, is it? This is an odd way to be going, don’t you think?’
The innkeeper’s suspicions seemed to have been aroused – he looked as though he had more to say.
Sensing this, the traveller spoke first. ‘I live in Tokyo, but that’s not where I’m coming from today. I got a late start from Kawasaki, and before I knew it the sun was down. Let me have some hot water, please.’
‘Bring some hot water right away!’ the innkeeper shouted. ‘It must have been cold on the road today. Hachiōji is probably even colder.’
His words were friendly enough, but the innkeeper’s overall manner was far from welcoming. He was about sixty years old. Over his stout frame he wore a heavily quilted jacket, which made his broad head jut out as though attached directly to his shoulders. His eyes, set into a wide, fleshy face, drooped at the corners. There was something tough and inflexible about him, but he impressed the traveller at once as a straightforward old fellow.
The traveller had washed his feet and was still drying them when the innkeeper shouted, ‘Show the gentleman to number seven!’
To the gentleman himself he had nothing more to say. Nor did he glance at him again as he retired to his room. A black cat appeared from the kitchen, crept on to the master’s lap and curled up there. The old man might have been unaware of this. His eyes were shut tight. Soon his right hand edged towards his tobacco holder, and his stubby fingers began to roll some tobacco into a little ball.
‘When number six is through with the tub, take care of number seven!’
Startled, the cat leaped down.
‘Not you, stupid!’
The cat scurried into the kitchen. A wall clock struck eight slow gongs.
‘Grandma, Kichizō must be tired. Put the warmer in his bed and let him go to sleep, poor fellow.’ The old man himself sounded sleepy.
‘He’s in here,’ came the voice of an old woman from the kitchen. ‘But he’s still studying.’
‘He is? Go to bed now, Kichizō. You can get up early tomorrow and do that. Put the warmer in his bed now, Grandma.’
‘Yes, right away.’
In the kitchen, the old woman and the maid looked at each other and tittered. There was a loud yawn out front.
‘He’s the tired one,’ the old woman muttered as she put coals into a sooty bed warmer. She was a small woman, perhaps in her late fifties.
Out front the paper door rattled in the wind as a light shower of rain swept past.
‘Close the shutters for the night!’ the old man shouted. With an exasperated click of the tongue, he muttered, ‘Rain again, damn it!’
He was right. The wind had picked up, and now it was really beginning to pour. Spring was on its way, but a freezing cold wind, bearing rain and sleet, tore across the broad Musashi Plain. All night long it raged over the dark little town of Mizonokuchi.
Midnight had come and gone, but the lamp in room seven burned brightly. Everyone in the Kameya was asleep except the two guests who sat facing each other in the middle of the room. Outside, the storm raged on. The shutters sent up a constant rattle.
‘If this keeps up, you won’t be able to leave tomorrow,’ said the man from room six.
‘I wouldn’t mind spending the day here. I’m in no hurry.’
Both men were flushed, their noses bright red. Three freshly warmed bottles of sake stood on the low table next to them, and sake remained in their cups. They sat comfortably cross-legged on the matted floor with the brazier between them as warmer and ashtray. The visitor from room six would puff on his cigarette now and then and reach out from his loose padded sleeping robe, baring his arm to the elbow to shake off the ashes. They spoke without reserve, but it was clear the two had met that night. Perhaps something had led to a remark or two through the sliding door between their rooms. The man in number six, feeling lonely, would have made the first move, followed by an exchange of business cards. An order of sake, formalities dispensed with, and soon frank expressions were creeping into their polite speech.
‘Ōtsu Benjirō’ read the business card of the man in room seven. The other’s was inscribed ‘Akiyama Matsunosuke’. Neither card had the usual listing of titles and affiliations.
Ōtsu was the man in the Western suit who had arrived after sunset. His tall, thin frame and pale face contrasted with the other’s appearance. Akiyama, in his mid-twenties, was round and ruddy, and the friendly look in his eyes made him appear to be smiling constantly. Ōtsu was an unknown writer, Akiyama an unknown painter. By some odd chance the two young unknown artists had come together in this rural inn.
‘We probably ought to get to bed. There’s no one left for us to tear apart.’
Their conversation had ranged from art to literature to religion. Absorbed in their scathing criticism of the day’s noted artists and writers, they had not even noticed earlier when the clock struck eleven.
‘It’s still early,’ said Akiyama, smiling. ‘We can’t leave tomorrow. We might as well talk all night.’
‘What time is it anyway?’ Ōtsu said, glancing at the watch beside him on the floor. ‘It’s after eleven!’
‘Well, that’s it, it’s going to be an all-nighter,’ Akiyama said, not at all bothered by the time. Staring at his sake cup, he added, ‘But if you’re sleepy, go ahead …’
‘No, not at all. I thought you were sleepy. I left Kawasaki late today and walked less than ten miles, so I feel fine.’
‘I’m not ready for bed, either. But I thought I’d just borrow this if you were.’
Akiyama picked up what looked like a manuscript of some ten pages. On the cover was the title ‘Unforgettable People’.
‘No, it’s really no good,’ said Ōtsu. ‘It’s like the pencil sketches you artists do – nothing that other people can appreciate.’ But he made no attempt to retrieve the document. Akiyama glanced at a few pages.
‘Sketches have their own special interest as sketches. I think I’d like to read this.’
‘Let me see it a minute, will you?’ Ōtsu took the sheets and leafed through them. Neither man said anything for a time. Only now did they seem to hear the storm outside. Ōtsu listened, rapt, as he stared at his manuscript.
‘This kind of night is a writer’s territory, don’t you think?’ Akiyama said. Ōtsu, silent, seemed unaware that he had spoken. Akiyama could not tell whether Ōtsu was listening to the storm or reading his manuscript, or whether, indeed, his thoughts had flown to someone far away. But he felt that Ōtsu’s expression – his eyes – had entered a painter’s territory.
Ōtsu turned to Akiyama with the look of one who has awakened from a dream. ‘Rather than have you read this,’ he said, ‘it would make more sense for me to talk about what I have written. What do you say? This is just an outline. You wouldn’t really understand it.’
‘That would be even better – to hear all the details from you.’ Akiyama saw that Ōtsu’s eyes were moist and gave off a strange gleam.
‘I’ll tell you everything I can remember. If you find it dull, though, don’t hesitate to tell me. Meanwhile, I won’t hesitate to go on talking. It’s odd, but suddenly I feel I’d like to have you hear this.’
Akiyama added charcoal to the fire and set the cooled bottles of sake into the warmer.
‘ “An unforgettable person is not of necessity one whom we dare not forget.” Look, this is the first sentence I have written here.’ Ōtsu showed Akiyama the manuscript. ‘See? First, let me explain what I mean by it. That way you can understand the overall theme – though I’m sure you understand it already.’
‘No, never mind that. Just go ahead. I’ll listen like an ordinary reader. Pardon me if I lie down …’
Akiyama stretched out on the floor, a cigarette in his mouth. Resting his head on his right hand, he looked at Ōtsu with the trace of a smile in his eyes.
‘We can’t simply call parents and children or friends or the teachers and others to whom we are obligated “unforgettable people”. These are people “whom we dare not forget”. But then there are others – complete strangers – to whom we are bound by neither love nor duty. Forgetting them would imply neither neglect of duty nor want of compassion. Yet these are the very ones we cannot forget. I would not say that for everyone there are such unforgettable people, but for me there certainly are. Perhaps for you, too.’
Akiyama nodded in silence.
‘It was the middle of spring, I remember, when I was nineteen years old. I was not feeling well and decided to leave school in Tokyo and go home for a rest, taking the Inland Sea steamer from Osaka. There was no wind that day, and the sea was calm. But all of this happened so long ago, I can remember nothing about the other passengers, or the captain, or the boy who served refreshments. No doubt there was some fellow passenger kind enough to pour my tea, and others with whom I chatted on deck, but none of this remains in my memory.
‘Because of my poor health, I must have been in low spirits. I remember, at least, that I daydreamed about the future while roaming the deck and thought about the fate of man in this life – which all young people do at such times, of course. I watched the soft glow of the spring day melt into the sea’s oil-smooth surface and listened to the pleasant sound of the ship’s hull cutting through the water. As the ship advanced, one small island after another would rise out of the mist on either side of us and disappear. The islands, each draped in a thick brocade of yellow flowers and green barley leaves, seemed to be floating deep within the mist. Before long the ship passed no more than a few hundred yards from the beach of a small island off to the right, and I stepped to the rail, letting my eyes wander in that direction. There seemed to be no farmland or houses on the island, only groves of small, low pine trees scattered beneath the hillside. Where the tide had drawn back, the damp surface of the hushed, deserted beach glistened in the sun, and now and then a long streak – perhaps the playing of little waves at the water’s edge – shone like a naked sword and then dissolved. From the faint call of a lark high over the hill, I could tell that the island was inhabited. I remembered my father’s haiku –
A soaring lark!
Ah, now I know the island
Has a farm
– and found myself thinking that there must certainly be houses somewhere on the far side of the hill. Just then, I caught sight of a lone figure on the sunlit beach. I could tell it was a man and not a woman or a child. He seemed to be picking things up repeatedly and putting them into a basket or pail. He would take a few steps, squat down and retrieve something from the sand. I kept my gaze fixed on this person foraging along the deserted little beach beneath the hill. As the ship drew further away, the man’s form became a black dot, and soon the beach, the hill and the entire island faded into the mist. Nearly ten years have gone by, yet how many times have I thought of this man on the island, a man whose face I do not know! This is one of my “unforgettable people”.
‘The next one I saw five years ago on a walking trip. My younger brother and I had celebrated New Year’s Day with my parents and then immediately set out for Kyushu, crossing the island from Kumamoto to Ōita.
‘We left Kumamoto early in the morning, prepared for our trek with sandals and gaiters – and high spirits. We walked as far as Tateno, arriving well before sunset, and there we spent the night. We left the next day before sunrise and headed for Mount Aso, whose famed white plume of volcanic smoke I had always wanted to see. Trudging along the frosty ground, crossing bridges suspended among the rocks, losing our way now and then, we were nearly at the summit of Aso by noon and probably reached the lip of the crater some time after one o’clock. The whole Kumamoto area is warm, of course, and that day it was clear and windless. Even near the top of the mountain, five thousand feet up in midwinter, we hardly felt the cold. Steam poured out of the crater and drifted up to the highest peak, Takadake, where it froze, gleaming white. There was hardly any snow on the mountain, just some dead white grass stirring in the breeze. Sharp cliffs burnt red and black were all that remained of the vast ancient crater that once gaped fifteen miles across. I could never capture the desolation in words – written or spoken. This is more your territory.
‘We climbed to the edge of the crater and for a while stood looking into the terrible pit and enjoying the vast panorama that stretched out in all directions. Up that high, to be sure, the wind was unbearably cold. Soon we retreated to the little hut next to Aso Shrine, just below the crater rim, which offered tea and rice balls. Invigorated, we climbed again to the crater.
‘By that time, the sun was sinking, and the fog that enveloped the Higo Plain below us had caught its reddish glow, turning the same colour as the charred cliff that formed the western edge of the old crater. The cone of Mount Kujū soared high above the flock of hills to the north. The plateau at its base, a carpet of withered grass that stretched for miles, also caught the glow of the setting sun. The air there was so clear, one might have caught sight of a horse and rider despite the great distance. The earth and sky seemed like a single vast enclosure. The ground shook beneath us and a thick column of white smoke shot straight up, angled off sharply, grazing Takadake, and dissolved into the distance. What could one call such a spectacle? Magnificent? Beautiful? Awe-inspiring? We stood, silent as stone figures. These are the moments when one cannot help but sense the vastness of the universe and the mystery of man’s existence.
‘What most enthralled us was the great basin that lay between distant Mount Kujū and Mount Aso, where we stood. I had always heard that this was the remains of the world’s largest volcanic crater. Now with my own eyes I could see how the plateau beneath Kujū dropped suddenly away to form the sheer cliff that continued for miles along the northern and western rim of the basin. Unlike the Nantai crater in Nikkō, which had changed into the beautiful, secluded Lake Chūzenji, this enormous crater had, through the ages, become a vast garden of grain. The villages, forests and wheat fields in the basin now caught the slanting rays of the setting sun. Down there, too, was the little post town of Miyaji and the promise it held out to us of a night of restful, untroubled sleep.
‘We talked for a while of sleeping in the mountain hut that night to see the glowing crater in the dark, but we needed to press on towards Ōita, so we started our descent to Miyaji. The downward slope was much gentler than the climb had been. We hurried along a path that snaked its way through the dry grass of the ridges and ravines. As we neared the villages, we overtook more and more horses laden with bales of hay. All around us on the paths down the mountain were men leading horses. Everything was bathed in the light of the setting sun, the air filled with the tinkling of harness bells. To every horse was strapped a load of hay. Near as the foot of the mountain had appeared from above, we seemed to be making no headway towards the villages. The sun was almost gone. We walked faster and faster, and finally broke into a run.
‘When we entered the nearest village, the sun was down and the twilight fading. The activity there was remarkable. Grown-ups were hurrying about, finishing up the day’s work. Children were gathered in the shade of fences or under eaves within sight of kitchen fires, laughing, singing, crying. It was the same here as in any country town at dusk, but I had never been so struck with such a scene, having raced down from Aso’s desolation to plunge into the midst of this humanity. We two dragged ourselves along, knowing how far the road still stretched before us in the dark but looking forward to our night’s lodging in Miyaji almost as if we were heading home.
‘We had not gone far beyond the village into woods and fields when the twilight gave way to darkness and our shadows stood out clearly on the ground. I turned to see the full moon rising beside a lesser peak of Aso, casting its clear, bluish rays upon the villages in the basin like a lord viewing his prized possessions. Directly overhead, we saw how the volcanic smoke that in the daylight had risen in white billows now shone silvery grey in the light of the moon. It seemed to strike against the opaque blue-green sky, an awesome and beautiful sight. We came to a short bridge – broader than it was long – and, glad for the chance to rest our feet, leaned for a while against the railing, watching the changing shape of the smoke in the sky and half listening to the far-off voices of the village people. Just then the sound of an empty cart came echoing from the woods through which we had passed. It drew nearer, resounding in the stillness.
‘Soon, along with the rattle of the empty cart, we could hear the clear, ringing tone of a teamster’s song. Still gazing at the stream of smoke, I listened for the song and half consciously waited for its singer to reach us.
‘A human shape appeared in the darkness, and a man’s stirring voice resounded, drawing out each note of a country tune – “Miyaji’s a fine old place under Mount Aso” – until the singer reached the bridge where we were standing. How moving it was – the spirit of the song, the strong, plaintive voice! A sturdy young man in his mid-twenties passed by, leading his horse, without so much as a glance in our direction. I kept my gaze fixed on his passing shadow, but with the rising moon at his back, I could hardly make out his profile. Even now, though, I can see the black silhouette of his powerful body.
‘I watched him disappear into the darkness, then looked up once again at the smoke of Mount Aso. The young man is another one of my “unforgettable people”.
‘This next one I happened upon when I had spent a night in Mitsugahama, Shikoku, and was waiting for a steamship. I recall that it was the beginning of summer. I left the inn first thing in the morning, and when I heard that the ship would be arriving in the afternoon, I decided to take a stroll along the waterfront. Mitsugahama is a thriving harbour town because of its location near Matsuyama in the interior. The fish market, which operates in the morning, was especially busy. The sky was bright and cloudless. The morning sun shone gloriously. Everything sparkled in its light. Colours seemed more vibrant, and the bustling scene took on added gaiety. Shouting and laughter, curses and cheers erupted from every corner. Buyers and sellers, young and old, men and women, hurried back and forth, all looking absorbed and happy in their work. A row of food stalls waited for customers, who would eat standing up. The food they offered hardly bears description. Only sailors and boat hands were eating there. Scattered all around were sea bream and flounder, eels and octopus. The sleeves and skirts of people rushing by fanned the harsh odour of raw fish.
‘I was a total stranger in the town – a mere traveller. There was not a face in the crowd that I knew, not a bald spot that looked familiar. My anonymity amid these sights aroused a strange emotion in me, and I felt I was seeing the world with a new clarity. All but forgetting my own existence, I strolled through the milling crowd until I came to the end of a quiet street.
‘The first thing I heard at that point was music. An itinerant monk stood in front of a shop, playing a lute. He might have been in his mid-forties, a short, heavy man with a broad, square face. The look on his face, the light in his eyes seemed perfectly suited to the mournful sound of the lute. His low, heavy voice followed sluggishly behind the muffled wail of the strings. No one on the street took notice of the monk, and no one appeared from the houses to listen to his music. The morning sun shone. The world went about its business.
‘But I watched the monk and listened to his playing. The narrow yet busy street with its ramshackle dwellings had little in common with the monk and the lute, but somewhere, I felt, there was a deep understanding between them. The lute’s sobbing tones drifted between the rows of houses on either side, mingling with the bold cries of peddlers and the ringing of an anvil nearby. When I heard the music, flowing like a current of pure springwater through a muddy pond, I felt as though the heartstrings of all these busy, happy, excited people on the street were playing a tune of nature. The monk, then, with his lute, is one of my “unforgettable people”.’
At this point, Ōtsu laid his manuscript aside and sank into his thoughts. Outside, the storm roared on as before. Akiyama sat up.
‘And then …?’
‘I think I’ll make that the last one. It’s getting late. There are so many left – a miner in Utashinai, Hokkaido; a young fisherman I saw on the shore of Dalian Bay in China; a boatman on the Banjō River in Kyushu with a wen on his face. We’d be up till morning if I told you everything there was to tell about them. But more important is why I can never forget them, why they appear to me again and again. That is what I want to make clear to you.
‘To tell you the truth, I am not a happy man. I am constantly plagued by life’s great questions and oppressed by my own ambitions for the future.
‘In the deepening hours of a night such as this, alone, facing the lamp, I feel the isolation in which men live, and I experience unbearable sorrow. At these times my brittle egoism seems to shatter, and the thought of others touches me deeply. I think of my friends and of days long past. But more than anything else, images of these people I have described to you come streaming into my mind. No, I see not the people themselves: I see them as figures within a much larger scene. They are part of their surroundings, part of a moment. I remember these people and from deep within me the thought wells up: How am I different from anyone else? Don’t we all receive this life of ours in a place between heaven and earth, only to return, hand in hand, along the same eternal track, to that infinite heaven? And when this feeling strikes me, I find myself in tears, for in truth there is then no self, no other. I am touched by thoughts of each and every one.
‘Only at these times do I feel such peace, such liberation, such sympathy towards all things. Only then do worldly thoughts of fame and the struggle for fortune utterly disappear.
‘I want very much to write on this theme and express exactly what I have in mind. I believe that somewhere in this world there must be those who feel as I do.’
Two years passed. Circumstances had brought Ōtsu to make his home in Tōhoku. His acquaintance with the man Akiyama, whom he had met at the inn in Mizonokuchi, had long since ended. The time of year was what it had been then in Mizonokuchi. It was a rainy night. Ōtsu sat alone at his desk, sunk in thought. On his desk was the manuscript of ‘Unforgettable People’ that he had shown to Akiyama two years before. A new chapter had been added: ‘The Innkeeper of the Kameya’.
There was no chapter called ‘Akiyama’.