Blue Bamboo: Tales by Dazai Osamu (15 page)

“I want you to stay in bed the entire day today. You mustn’t be getting up and wandering all about. You can eat your meals here. I’ve prepared some rice gruel, and Sato [the maid] is bringing some up for you.”

“Mother, I have a favor to ask.” He spoke in a weak, defensive tone. “It’s my turn today. Is it all right if I write my part?

“What?” His mother looked at him blankly. “What
ever
are you talking about?”

“You know. The chain story. We’ve started another one. I was bored yesterday, so I talked Hatsué [the elder sister] into showing me the manuscript. I thought about it all night last night, about how to continue. It’s going to be kind of difficult this time.”

“Absolutely not. I won’t hear of it,” the mother said, smiling. “Besides, not even great writers can come up with good ideas when they’re suffering from a cold. Why don’t you let your big brother handle it?”

“Forget that. He won’t do at all. He doesn’t have any talent. Everything he writes ends up sounding like a speech.”

“What a thing to say! Your elder brother always writes the most splendid, manly prose. I, for one, like his pieces best.”

“You don’t understand these things, Mother. You just don’t understand. I have to write the next part, no matter what. I’m the only one who can do it. Please? You’ll let me write it, won’t you?”

“I’m sorry. You’ve got to stay in bed all day today. Ask your brother to take your turn. You can write your part tomorrow or the next day, when you’ve got your strength back.”

“No I can’t. You don’t understand. You think it’s just some silly little game.” He gave an exaggerated sigh of despair and pulled the quilt up over his head.

His mother smiled. “I see. I’ve hurt your feelings, haven’t I? Well, then, why don’t we do this: You lie there in bed and dictate to me at your leisure. I’ll write it all down just as you tell me. All right? Let’s do it that way. Last spring, when you were in bed with a fever, didn’t I write out that difficult report of yours for school, just as you dictated it? I did a surprisingly good job that time, didn’t I?”

The patient simply lay there with the quilt pulled up over his head and made no reply, leaving the mother somewhat nonplussed. It was at this juncture that the maid, Sato, entered the room carrying a breakfast tray. Sato, who was from a fishing village in the countryside, had worked for the Irie family since she was twelve, and, having lived in the house for four years now, had thoroughly assimilated the family’s romantic spirit. She borrowed ladies’ magazines from the daughters and read them in her free time, being a particular fan of the old “vendetta tales” they often featured. She was also thoroughly taken with the maxim “Chastity at all costs,” and was quietly, fiercely determined to put her life on the line to protect her virtue, should it ever come to that. Hidden in her wicker trunk was a silver paper knife the elder daughter had given her. She thought of it as a dagger, to be used on herself if worst came to worst. She had a darkish complexion but nicely drawn, dainty features, and her clothing was always immaculate. She was slightly lame in her left leg, which tended to drag somewhat when she walked, but in a way this limp of hers was actually rather becoming. She revered the members of the Irie family almost as if they were gods. To her, the grandfather’s silver-coin medal seemed an honor of such magnitude that it made her dizzy just to think of it. She firmly believed the elder daughter to be the greatest scholar on earth and the younger daughter the most beautiful woman. But the second son she loved more than life itself. What a thrill it would be to set out with such a handsome young master on a journey to seek revenge! How drab the world was now that people never carried out vendettas, as they had in the past! Such were the idiotic thoughts that often occurred to her.

Sato deferentially set the tray next to the second son’s pillow, casting a forlorn glance at the quilt, which was still pulled up over his head. The mother merely looked on, smiling quietly. Sato sat there waiting in silence for some time, but when nothing happened, she turned to the mother and timidly, fearfully asked: “Is it very serious?”

“Well, it’s hard to say.” The mother was still smiling.

Suddenly the second son threw back his quilt, rolled onto his stomach, pulled the tray over, grabbed the chopsticks, and began to devour the food. Sato was startled but quickly regained her composure and waited on him, relieved to see him exhibiting such vitality. The second son didn’t say a word, but it was clear that his appetite was healthy enough: he slurped up his rice gruel at a furious pace and ferociously stuffed his cheeks with pickled plums. Then, as he chipped the shell from a softboiled egg, he spoke.

“Sato, what do you think? If, for example, you and I were to get married, how do you think you would feel?”

This was truly a bolt from the blue. If Sato was shocked by the question, the mother was ten times more so.

“My! What an absurd... If that’s your idea of a joke, young man... Sato, he’s just teasing you, you know. Of all the outrageous... It’s not the least bit... Good heavens!”

“For example, I mean.” The second son was coolly indifferent. All he’d been thinking about since he’d burrowed under his quilt was the plot to the story. A recklessly self-indulgent young man, he had no idea how painfully his “example” had pierced Sato’s slender breast.

“How would it make you feel? I need to know. It’ll help me write. The story’s taken a really difficult turn.”

“But it’s such a ridiculous thing to ask!” the mother protested, though she was already inwardly relieved. “Sato can’t answer a question like that. Can you, Sato? Takeshi [the second son] is just babbling nonsense, isn’t he?”

“I...” Sato was willing to venture a reply to any question whatsoever if it might be of service to the young master. Ignoring the discomfited gaze the mother was now directing toward her, she steeled her resolve, clenched her fists tightly, and said: “I’d take my own life.”

“Oh, great.” The second son slumped dejectedly. “That’s no good at all. I can’t kill Rapunzel off. If she dies, that’s the end of the story. Forget it. Damn. This is really difficult. What to do?” He was thoroughly intent on the story, and nothing else. Sato’s heroic reply hadn’t been of any service after all.

Utterly crestfallen, she quietly stacked the dishes, produced an artificial little laugh to hide her embarrassment, picked up the tray, and fled the room. As she shuffled down the hallway, she considered bursting into tears, but since she wasn’t particularly sad she instead began to giggle quite uncontrollably.

The mother felt grateful for the ingenuousness of youth, and was also somewhat ashamed of the turbid state of her own heart and the agitation she had felt. She told herself there was no need to worry.

“Well? Just lie back and let it all come out. I’ll write it down for you. Have you gathered your thoughts?”

The second son lay supine again, pulled the quilt up to his chest, closed his eyes, and furrowed his brow. He seemed to be in considerable agony. Finally, in an affected, austere tone of voice, he said: “I believe I have, indeed. Well, then. If you will.”

The mother stifled a laugh.

The following is the entire text of that day’s son-to-mother dictation.

A beautiful baby boy was born. Everyone in the castle was ecstatic. But Rapunzel, after giving birth, grew weaker with each passing day. The best doctors in the land were summoned, but none of them could do anything to keep her condition from worsening. Soon she was so frail that it was clear her life was in danger.

“I told you... I told you.” Rapunzel lay in bed quietly shedding tears as she chided her husband. “I told you I didn’t want to have a baby. I’m the daughter of a witch... I can tell, in a vague sort of way, what lies ahead. I had a premonition that something bad would happen if I gave birth to a child. These premonitions of mine always, always come true. I wouldn’t mind dying so much, if that would be the end of the curse. But I have a feeling there’s more to it than that. If there really is a God, as you taught me, I think I should pray to Him. Someone holds a grudge against us, I’m sure of it—I can feel it. Maybe we were making a terrible mistake from the beginning.”

“No. No, that’s not true.’ The prince paced back and forth beside Rapunzel’s bed, denying everything she said, but inwardly torn and tormented. His joy over the birth of his son had lasted but a fleeting moment before Rapunzel’s sudden, mysterious decline; now his anxiety was so great that he was unable to sleep nights and spent all his time pacing his lady’s sickroom, utterly beside himself. He did, indeed, love Rapunzel. It would be a mistake to assume that he was merely infatuated with her, that he doted on her only because of the beauty of her face and figure, or because she was, for him, an exotic flower from an alien environment whose ignorance of the world stimulated his protective instincts. And to doubt the sincerity of the prince’s love on the grounds that it wasn’t born of a lofty spiritual bond or a sense of a common ancestry and destiny, would also be a mistake. The prince adored Rapunzel. He was madly in love with her.

He loved her, that’s all. Is that not enough? True love is complete in and of itself. And what women really desire, deep down, is precisely that sort of honest, single-minded devotion. It’s one thing to speak of a lofty spiritual bond or commitment to a common destiny, but if the two parties don’t love each other, it all comes to nothing. Such high-flown words as “spirituality” and “destiny” have no real meaning without love, and are in fact merely used to manage the flood of lovers’ feelings and to justify their passionate behavior. For young lovers, there is nothing so repulsive as such misguided attempts to validate their emotions. Particularly unbearable is the hypocritical man’s pose of aiding a damsel in distress. If he loves her, why can’t he just state it clearly?

The day before yesterday, when I went to visit the house of the writer D., and this subject came up, D. had the gall to call me a “philistine.” I know the man well, however, and from what I’ve seen of his private life, all I can say is that he himself is a calculating schemer who bases all his actions on sheer self-interest. He’s a liar. I don’t care if he calls me a philistine. He can call me anything he wishes. I like to tell the truth, just as I see it. It’s best to do what one likes.

But I digress. I simply cannot imagine a love based merely on concepts like “spirituality” or “understanding.” The prince’s love was open and direct. His affection for Rapunzel was of the purest sort. He loved her from the bottom of his heart.

“You mustn’t say such crazy things. You’re not going to die,” he told her now, with a censorious pout. “Don’t you realize how much I love you?” The prince was an honest person. But honesty, however noble a virtue, was scarcely enough to save Rapunzel now. “You must live!” he cried. “You mustn’t die!” There were no other words left for him to say. His voice dropped to a murmur. “I ask for nothing else—only that you live.” And just at that moment, a harsh voice whispered in his ear.

“Do you really mean that? You’ll be satisfied if she remains alive, no matter what?”

The prince spun around. His hair was standing on end, and he felt as if his entire body had been doused with ice water. It was Rapunzel’s mother, the old witch.

“You!” he bellowed. It was not a courageous bellow, however, but one of terror. “What do you want?”

“I came to help my daughter,” the old woman said calmly, then bared her teeth in a smile. “I knew what was happening. There’s nothing in this world I don’t know. I knew all along that you’d brought my daughter to this castle, and how you’ve loved and cared for her. Mind you, if I had thought for a moment that you were only toying with her affections, I wouldn’t have just stood by and watched. But that didn’t seem to be the case, so I’ve remained in the background all this time and let you be. It gives even an old witch like me a little pleasure to know that her daughter is leading a happy life.

“But it’s all over now, isn’t it? I don’t suppose you know this, but when the daughter of a witch is loved by a man and gives birth to a child, only one of two things can happen: either she dies, or she turns into the ugliest woman in the world. Rapunzel doesn’t seem to have been fully aware of this, but she must have had some inkling of what would happen. She didn’t want to have a baby, did she? The poor thing. What do you intend to do with her now? Let her die? Or do you want her live on, with a face as hideous as mine? A moment ago you said all you wanted was that she live, no matter what. Did you really mean it? I myself was every bit as beautiful as Rapunzel when I was young. Then a hunter fell in love with me and I ended up giving birth. I wanted to live, at any cost, and that’s what I told my mother when she revealed the choice I had to make. She cast a spell and saved my life, but it left me with the spectacular face you see before you. Well? What do you say? Just now you said you ask only that she live. You weren’t lying, I take it?”

“Let me die,” moaned Rapunzel, writhing on her bed. “If I die, everyone else can go on living in peace. O my prince, you’ve cared for me all this time, and I ask for nothing more. I don’t want to live on in wretchedness.”

“Let her live!” the prince bellowed—this time with genuine courage. Hot sweat rolled down his agonized forehead. “Rapunzel will never end up with a face like yours, old witch!”

“You don’t believe me? Very well. I’ll see to it that Rapunzel lives to a ripe old age. But can you promise you’ll always love her, no matter how horrible she ends up looking?”

— V —

The passage dictated by the second son from his sickbed appeared, for all its brevity, to constitute a rather considerable leap. Confined to bed and with nothing but rice gruel for nourishment, however, even the haughty, impertinent, spoiled child whose habit it is to heap scorn on the entire roster of contemporary Japanese writers was unable to give us more than a glimpse of his singular genius; indeed, he hadn’t spewed out so much as a third of what he’d originally planned to say before he succumbed to exhaustion. It seems, regrettably, that not even genius can overcome the debilitating effects of a mild fever. He’d no sooner begun his great leap forward than he was forced to entrust the baton to the following member of the team.