Crackling Mountain and Other Stories. Osamu Dazai

I asked, a little awkwardly. Until then, I had never talked to a maid about anything other than her household chores.

      “No,” Miyo answered softly.

      I burst out laughing. But my younger brother remained silent as he waved his fan at a firefly caught on the edge of the net. Somehow or other I felt very odd.

      After that, I became quite conscious of Miyo. Whenever the red string was mentioned, it was her image that came to mind.

      III

      I was in the fourth year of high school now, and several classmates came over to visit almost every day. I would serve cuttlefish and wine, then tell them all sorts of nonsense. A book’s just come out, I once said. It tells how to light charcoal. Another time I showed them my copy of The Brute Machine, a novel by an up-and-coming writer. I had smeared oil over the cover, so that I could exclaim, Here’s how they’re selling things nowadays. A queer binding job, isn’t it? I astonished them again with a work entitled My Lovely Friend. I had cut out certain parts and arranged for a printer I knew to insert some outrageous paragraphs of my own. This book, I told my friends, was truly a rare specimen.

      Miyo began to fade from memory. Anyway, I had this odd feeling of guilt over two people falling in love in the same household. Besides, I never had anything good to say about girls. I’d think of Miyo for only a moment, but still I’d get angry with myself. So I didn’t say anything about her to my friends, let alone to my brother.

      Then I read a well-known novel¹¹ by a Russian author that gave me pause. The work tells of a woman who gets sent to prison. Her downfall begins when her employer’s nephew, a university student from the nobility, manages to seduce her. I lost track of the general sense of the novel, but I did put a bookmark of pressed leaves at the page where they kiss for the first time beneath a wildly blooming lilac. For me, a great novel wasn’t about other people; I couldn’t avoid seeing myself and Miyo in this couple. If only I were bolder, I’d act like that student. Just thinking about these things plunged me into despair. Timid and provincial, I had led a totally dull life. I would prefer instead to be a glorious martyr.

      I told my younger brother these thoughts one evening after we went to bed. I had meant to be serious, but the pose I assumed got in the way. I ended up acting flippant—patting my neck, rubbing my hands together, and speaking without any elegance whatever. How pathetic that habit forced me to act this way.

      My younger brother listened in bed, his tongue flicking across his thin lower lip. He did not turn toward me.

      Will you marry her? he asked. It seemed a difficult question to ask.

      For some reason or other I was taken aback. Who knows, I shrugged, if that’s even possible? I tried to sound disheartened.

      My brother suggested that such a marriage wasn’t very likely. He sounded surprisingly circumspect and grown-up.

      Listening to him, I realized how I truly felt. I was offended and angry. Sitting up on the bedding, I lowered my voice and insisted, That’s why I’m going to carry on this fight.

      My younger brother twisted about under his calico blanket, as if he were going to say something. He glanced at me and smiled slightly. I too broke out laughing and said, Well then, since I’ll be leaving . . . Then I extended my hand toward him.

      My brother stuck his right hand out from the blanket. I shook his limp fingers several times, laughing softly.

      It was easier to convince my friends. They pretended to rack their brains as they heard me out, but that was merely for effect, as I well knew. They would accept my plan in the end. And that’s exactly what did happen.

      During the summer vacation of that fourth year, I virtually dragged two of these friends home with me, insisting that the three of us prepare for our college entrance exam together. I also wanted to show off Miyo to them, but this I kept to myself. I prayed that neither of my friends would seem disreputable in the eyes of my family. The friends of my older brothers were all from well-known families in the region and wore jackets complete with all the buttons. My friends had every button but two missing.

      At that time a large chicken coop stood near the vacant house out back. There was also a caretaker’s shed where the three of us could spend the morning studying. The outside of this shed was painted green and white, while the inside had a wood floor about four tatami mats¹² large and a new table and chairs, the furniture varnished and arranged in an orderly manner. There were two wide doors, one to the north and the other to the east, along with a casement window facing south. When someone opened the window and doors, the wind always blew in and riffled the pages of our books. Outside a flock of yellow chicks ran in and out of the grass that grew as thickly as ever around the shed.

      The three of us would look forward to lunchtime, eagerly trying to guess which of the maids would come to fetch us. If it was someone other than Miyo, we would make a fuss by pounding on the table and clicking our tongues. When Miyo came, we would fall silent, only to burst out laughing when she left. One fine morning my younger brother joined us to study. As noon approached, we began our usual guessing game. My brother kept to himself, however, pacing back and forth near the window as he memorized his English vocabulary cards. The rest of us made all sorts of jokes; we threw books at one another and stomped on the floor. I also went so far as to get personal with my brother. Anxious to draw him into the fun, I said, You’re pretty damned quiet today. What’s the matter with you? Then, chewing lightly on my own lip, I glared at him.

      Shut up! he yelled. His right arm whirled about, and several vocabulary cards flew from his hand. I turned away in amazement. And suddenly I made an unpleasant decision. From now on, I’d give up on Miyo. Within a few minutes I was doubling over with laughter, as though nothing had happened.

      Luckily someone other than Miyo came to announce lunch. We went back in single file to the main house, taking the narrow path that ran through the bean field. I lingered behind, whooping it up as I tore off one round leaf after another.

      From the very beginning I had never thought I’d be the victim. At the moment I was merely disgusted, nothing more. My clusters of white lilacs had been soiled with mud. And I was all the more disgusted when the prankster turned out to be my own flesh and blood.

      For two or three days thereafter I fretted over all sorts of things. Wouldn’t Miyo herself have walked in the garden? My brother had been almost embarrassed when shaking my hand. In brief, hadn’t I been taken in? For me, nothing was more humiliating than that.

      During this period one misfortune followed another. My friends, my brother, and I were all seated at the table one day as Miyo served lunch. Even while doing this, she crisply waved a round fan with a monkey’s face painted in red. I would watch her carefully, to see which one of us she fanned the most. When I realized that she favored my brother, I gave way to despair and let my fork clatter onto the plate.

      Everyone was banding together to torment me. I rashly suspected my friends of knowing all along. I’d better just forget about Miyo—that’s what I told myself.

      Several days thereafter I went out to the shed in the morning while neglecting to remove the package with five or six cigarettes by my pillow. Later, realizing my mistake, I rushed back only to find the room made up and the cigarettes gone. Now I was in for it. I called Miyo and asked reproachfully, What happened to the cigarettes? Did someone find out?

      She looked gravely at me and shook her head. The next moment she stood on her tiptoes, reached behind the upper wall panel, and brought out the small green package with its sketch of two flying golden bats.

      This episode restored my courage a hundredfold and revived my earlier determination. All the same I felt disheartened over my brother’s role in the affair. I was uncomfortable with him because of this; and, in the company of my friends too, I stopped making a fuss about Miyo. From now on I wouldn’t try to entice her. Instead, I would wait for her to make the next move. I was able to give her lots of opportunities too. I often summoned her to my room and told her to do useless chores. Whenever she came in, I somehow managed to assume a relaxed and carefree pose.

      In order