Crackling Mountain and Other Stories Page 13

  “Good luck brings bad,” Harada declared, a somber look on his face. “I might die if I spend this money.” Then, glaring at his wife with bloodshot eyes, he asked, “Are you trying to kill me?” Finally he grinned and said, “No, you’re not a she-devil, I guess. Well, maybe a drink will help. I’ll die if I don’t have a drink. Look, it’s starting to snow outside. That reminds me—I haven’t had my elegant friends in for a while. You go around right this minute and ask them to come over. There’s Yamazaki, Kumai, Utsugi, Ōtaké, Iso, Tsukimura—six of them in all. Oh, one more, Tankei the priest. That makes seven. Now hurry up and invite them—and stop at the saké shop on the way back. We’ll take whatever snacks they’ve got.”

  So the earlier fuss didn’t mean anything. Harada was so tickled that he wanted a drink, that was all.

  Yamazaki, Kumai, Utsugi, Ōtaké, Iso, Tsukimura, Tankei—all ex-samurai now living in poverty in nearby tenements. When the invitation to the snow-viewing party at Harada’s arrived, they felt like sinners in hell blessed by the Buddha’s mercy—now each one of them could escape the torment of staying home on New Year’s Eve. After smoothing the wrinkles of a garment fashioned from paper, one of the men poked his head into his closet. Wasn’t there an umbrella around? Or socks? Pulling together various odds-and-ends, he proceeded to outfit himself in a cotton kimono and a warrior’s jacket. Another, with the excuse that he didn’t want to catch cold, put on five unlined kimonos and wrapped his neck in an old cotton scarf. Yet another turned his wife’s padded silk kimono inside out and rolled up the sleeves to change their shape. Still another donned a riding skirt over a short undergarment, then put on a formal summer jacket with an embroidered crest. Another hitched a quilted cloak about his waist, his hairy shins exposed and fluffy cotton sticking from the torn hem of the garment.

  As it turned out, even though none of them were properly dressed, the fact that they were all ex-samurai gave a special touch to their camaraderie. Thus, when they gathered at Harada’s home, there wasn’t a single condescending smile to be seen. They greeted one another with dignity, and, after each had taken his proper place, old Yamazaki rose in his warrior’s jacket and cotton kimono. Solemnly approaching Harada the host, Yamazaki dwelt at length on how grateful they all were to have been invited.

  Though uneasy about the tear in the sleeve of his own paper garment, Harada formally saluted his friends in return. “Welcome, each and every one of you. I thought you would like spending New Year’s Eve away from home. Having neglected each of you for such a long time, I am especially pleased that you could all make it to this snow-viewing party even on such short notice. Please make yourselves at home,” he added, urging them to eat and drink, humble though the fare might be.

  One of the guests started trembling all over as he picked up his saké cup. Asked what the trouble was, he wiped his tears and said, “Oh, it’s nothing really. I’ve been off saké for quite a while—couldn’t afford it. I hate to admit it, but I’ve forgotten how to drink.” Then he smiled rather lamely.

  “It’s the same with me,” said the guest in the riding skirt and short undergarment, edging forward on his knees. “I’ve had just two or three cups in a row and already I’m feeling queer. What should I do next? I don’t remember how to get drunk.”

  Everyone seemed to be thinking the same thing, for the men merely whispered to one another as they passed their cups back and forth. Things went on quietly for a time; but presently everyone seemed to remember how drinking was carried on. As the room grew lively with laughter, Harada Naisuke brought out the paper in which the ten coins were wrapped.

  “I’ve got something unusual to show you,” he began. “The rest of you swear off drinking and live a frugal life when your purse is empty. That’s why even if you’re in a bind on New Year’s Eve, you’re not likely to be tormented like old Harada. When I’m in a pinch, I want a drink even more. That’s the way I am, and so the debts keep piling up. Every time the year comes to an end, I feel like I’m staring right into the Eight Hells.1 So I’m forced to set aside all this business about samurai honor and run weeping for help to my relatives. It’s a disgrace. This year a relative came up with these ten coins—just in time for me to welcome in the New Year like other people. But good luck brings bad—I know that much. So I’d probably die if I kept this bounty for myself. That’s why I decided to invite all of you here for some drinking.”

  Harada was in a good mood, and the entire company breathed a sigh of relief. Several of the men expressed their feelings forthrightly.

  “What the hell!” one of them exclaimed. “If I’d known from the start, I wouldn’t have held back. I thought Harada would ask for a donation. Wasn’t much fun drinking with that on my mind.“

  “We know better now,” another chimed in, “so let’s drink up. Maybe Harada’s luck will rub off on me. There could be a registered letter at my home— from somewhere unexpected.”

  Then another cohort spoke up. “You people with the right sort of relatives have it made,” he began, “but with me it’s the other way around. They all take aim at my purse. Humpf!”

  Eventually the company became lively and cheerful, much to Harada’s delight. Wiping a drop of saké from the tip of his beard, he came out with a suggestion. “How about holding these coins in your hand for a while. They’re quite heavy, but perhaps you’d like me to pass them around. Don’t regard them as filthy lucre. Look, it says right here on the paper— Poverty Pills. To Be Taken As Often As Needed. He’s quite a wit, that relative of mine. He wrote this and sent it over. Well, go ahead and hand the coins around.”

  Harada virtually forced the ten coins upon his guests. Each man was surprised by their weight and impressed by the clever inscription. As the money went around, one guest exclaimed that a verse had come to mind. Borrowing a brush and inkstone, he wrote on the blank part of the wrapping: He takes his Poverty Pills as the snow glistens. This made the guests even more merry, and cups of saké were exchanged in a flurry.

  When the coins finally came back to Harada, old Yamazaki sat up straight. A discerning look in his eye, he turned to the host and said, “Ah, thanks to you, I’ve forgotten my years and remained here longer than I expected.” But Yamazaki did not stop with this expression of gratitude. Although he had wrapped his throat with an old cotton cloth for fear that he was catching a cold, he now threw out his chest and began singing a ballad entitled “A Thousand Autumns.” Not to be left out, the other guests and the host too marked the rhythm by clapping their hands and tapping lightly upon their knees. When the song had ended, the company gathered the warming pans, the tier boxes, the pickle jars, and whatever else happened to be there, took them to the kitchen, and handed everything over to Harada’s wife. Whether in olden days or now, samurai breeding will tell; departing birds, as the saying goes, leave no trace.

  At the urging of his guests, Harada was casually sweeping together the coins scattered beside his knee when he suddenly turned pale. A coin was missing. Despite his fearsome looks, Harada remained a coward even when he drank. Fretting and fussing as ever about what his guests might think, he decided to act as though nothing had happened and to let even this truly startling discovery pass unnoticed.

  “Just a moment,” old Yamazaki mentioned, his hand raised. “Isn’t there a coin missing?”

  “Er . . . no. It’s . . .” Harada looked flustered, like a criminal caught in the act. “It’s . . . well . . . I spent one of the coins at the saké shop—before any of you arrived. When I passed them around earlier, there were only nine left. There’s nothing wrong.”

  Yamazaki shook his head. “No, that’s not true,” he insisted, stubborn in his old age. “I held ten coins in my hand before. That’s certain. The lamp may be dim, but there’s nothing wrong with my eyes.”

  Once Yamazaki had spoken up, the other six guests all agreed with him. Yes, there certainly had been ten coins. The guests stood up together and, moving the lamp about, searched every corner of the room. The coin, however,
did not turn up.

  “There’s only one thing left to do,” Yamazaki said. “I’ll strip to my bare skin and prove I’m innocent.” He might be emaciated and shriveled, but a shred of samurai spirit still remained in Yamazaki, along with the obstinacy that comes with old age. A poor man’s got his pride. To be falsely accused meant undying shame, and Yamazaki was incensed. So he removed his warrior’s jacket and shook it out, then proceeded to take off his threadbare cloak. Wearing nothing but a loincloth, he waved the cloak grandly, as though he were casting a net.

  “You see for yourselves, don’t you?” His face was quite pale.

  The other guests could hardly let the matter rest there. Ōtaké stood up next and shook his summer jacket with its embroidered crest. After shaking out his undergarment as well, he removed his riding trousers. That left him without a stitch on, not even a loincloth. Without the least hint of a smile, he turned the trousers upside down and shook them.

  The tension in the room was unbearable as Tankei the priest stood up, his kimono tucked about his hips and his hairy shins exposed. Suddenly an angry frown spread over his face, as though he were afflicted with severe stomach pains.

  “Aware that my end had come,” Tankei began, “I composed a trivial verse to leave behind: He takes his Poverty Pills as snow glistens. My friends, there’s a coin in my breast pocket, no doubt about that. No need to even shake out the garment. I never dreamed such a disaster might happen. Only a coward would try to explain. This is it!” he cried, stripping to the waist and fingering the hilt of his sword.

  With Harada leading the way, the other guests rushed forward and seized Tankei’s hand.

  “Nobody suspects you. Even though we’re poor and live wretched lives, all of us have had a coin at some time or other. The poor are friends in their poverty. We understand how you feel—you’d take your own life to prove you’re innocent. But isn’t that foolish when no one suspects you?”

  They tried to calm Tankei, but he grew even more bitter over his misfortune. His grief mounted, and he gnashed his teeth.

  “How kind of you to say that,” he declared. “I’ll cherish your generosity beyond the grave. It’s so embarrassing to have a coin in my pocket just when this inquiry occurs. Even though you don’t suspect me, the humiliation will remain. I’ll be the laughing stock, a blunderer for life. As you all know, one can’t live without honor. It doesn’t matter that I earned this money yesterday when I sold my Tokujo blade to Jūzaemon. He’s a foreign goods dealer in Sakashita, and he gave me a coin and two sen for it. A samurai would be humiliated to make such a foolish plea at this point. I won’t say anything, just let me die. If you pity your unfortunate friend, go to Sakashita after I’m gone and discover the truth for yourselves. And see to my wretched corpse, I beg you.”

  Even as Tankei grasped his sword and struggled on once again, Harada suddenly exclaimed, “Look! There it is.”

  A coin lay glinting directly under the lamp.

  “What the devil. How’d it get down there?”

  “Well, it is dark right alongside the lampstand.”

  “Lost articles turn up in the most obvious places. But it’s important to take the usual precautions.” This last remark came from Yamazaki.

  “Ah, what a fuss over one coin. Sobered me up completely. Let’s have another round,” Harada suggested.

  The group was talking again and doubling over with laughter when Harada’s wife cried out from the kitchen, “There it is!” In a moment she came bustling into the parlor. “The coin—it’s right here,” she exclaimed, holding out a tier-box lid. When they saw the glinting coin resting on the lid, the men looked at one another in utter astonishment. Harada’s wife pushed a stray hair from her flushed brow and smiled sheepishly. Then she explained what must have happened. When she had brought in the boiled potatoes, her careless husband must have placed the steaming lid of the pot right on the floor mat. She herself had picked up the lid and placed it beneath the tier-box, without noticing the coin was stuck to the underside. After serving the meal, she had returned to the kitchen. Preparing to wash the pots and pans, she heard a tinkling sound—and there was the coin.

  She finished her tale, already out of breath. Now that there were eleven coins, the host and the guests could only gaze in suspicion at one other.

  After a moment’s hesitation, Yamazaki let out a sigh and remarked somewhat pointlessly, “Ah, another stroke of luck. Congratulations. Sometimes ten coins turn into eleven. It happens often. Keep it.”

  The other guests were amazed at this absurd explanation. Nonetheless, they all realized that urging Harada to keep the coin was the wisest course. Several of them spoke up, endorsing Yamazaki’s suggestion.

  “You should hang on to it,” one of them said. “Your relative must have sent eleven coins in the wrapping.”

  “That’s right. Since he’s supposed to be such a wit, he probably showed you ten coins, then played a joke by giving you eleven.”

  “Yes, of course. It might be an unusual trick, but it was clever of him. You should keep it.”

  They spoke this drivel in an attempt to force the coin on Harada. Yet, for perhaps the only time in his life, this timid and worthless boozer, Harada Naisuke, revealed an obstinate streak.

  “You won’t persuade me, no matter what. So don’t poke fun at me. You’ll pardon me for pointing out that I’m as poor as the rest of you. I was lucky, though, and received the ten coins. I felt guilty before heaven because of that, and toward all of you as well. I couldn’t relax—I just had to have a drink. It was so unbearable that I invited all of you here to get rid of this undeserved fortune. Now disaster has struck again. Don’t force this extra coin on someone who has too much already. Harada Naisuke may be poor, but there’s something of the old samurai in him still. I don’t want money or anything. Také the ten coins and go on home, every one of you. And don’t forget the extra coin, either.”

  Truly Harada expressed his anger in a strange manner. When he stands to gain, even if it’s only a trifle, the fainthearted man becomes so perplexed that he cringes and sweats. But he seems transformed when threatened with a loss, mustering fine-sounding arguments and striving to deprive himself. He won’t listen to reason, either; he just keeps on quibbling. As the saying goes, pull in your belly and your rump sticks out—and it works the same way with self-respect too. Shaking his head, the desperate Harada stammered on about this and that, blindly sticking to his opinion.

  “Don’t make fun of me. Ten coins turning into eleven—a nasty joke if there ever was one. But it’s not funny anymore. One of you couldn’t bear to see Tankei in distress. Whoever it was happened to have a coin, so he slipped it under the lamp to solve this crisis. A cheap trick, really. My coin stuck to the lid of the tier-box. And the one under the lamp was put there out of compassion. It doesn’t make sense to force the coin on me. Do you think I want it that much? A poor man’s got his pride. I said it before, but just when I’m feeling guilty about the ten coins and disgusted with everything, you try to force another coin on me. Have the gods deserted me? When the battle fortunes of a samurai fall this far, he can’t save his honor even by cutting open his belly. I may be a drunken fool, but I’m not a complacent dotard. You can’t make me believe that coins produce children. Now, will whoever put the coin there please take it back.

  With his generally fearsome look, Harada became truly awesome when he sat straight up and spoke in earnest. The whole company cringed and remained silent.

  “Come, speak up,” Harada declared. “A man of compassion did this, and I would be happy to serve under him my entire life. On New Year’s Eve, when even a penny means so much, this man dropped a coin next to the lamp. He did it secretly, to save Tankei’s skin. Poor men are brothers, and he couldn’t bear to watch Tankei suffer. So he slipped this coin onto the floor. One of you did this fine deed, and Harada Naisuke admires you for it. Come, speak up. Tell us who you are.”

  By this time, the mysterious benefactor was even less likel
y to reveal himself. In such a case, Harada Naisuke was no good at all. The seven guests were wide awake and sober, despite having drunk so much. They merely sighed and fidgeted at Harada’s words, leaving the matter still unresolved. His bloodshot eyes turned on them, Harada urged time after time that the benefactor speak up. However, when the cock’s crow announced the coming of dawn, he finally gave up.

  “Excuse me for keeping you here so long,” he said. “If the owner of the coin won’t speak up, there’s nothing we can do about it. I’ll put the coin on the tier-box lid and leave it in a corner of the entryway. Then, you gentlemen will please leave, one after the other. The owner should quietly take the coin on his way out. Now, how does this idea strike you?”

  Relief evident in their faces, the seven guests all looked up and agreed in unison. For the dim-witted Harada the scheme was brilliant—exactly what the fainthearted man will sometimes devise when working against his own interest.

  Pleased with himself, Harada placed the coin squarely on the tier-box lid as everyone watched. Then he took the lid to the entryway. “It’s on the far right side of the step,” he explained upon his return. “That’s the darkest part of the entryway, and no one can see if the coin’s there or not. The owner should feel around with his hand and take the coin away without making any noise. The rest of you can just go out. Well then, let’s begin—we can start with old Yamazaki. No, no, not like that—close the sliding door all the way, please. Now, after Yamazaki is outside and we can’t hear his footsteps any more, the next person should leave.”

  The seven guests all did as they were told, quietly leaving in strict order. And, after they had gone, Harada’s wife went to the entryway with a candle and confirmed that the coin had been removed.

  “I wonder who it was?” she uttered, unable herself to understand why a shudder ran up her spine.