სიკვდილი

აკუტაგავა – “ცხოვრება იდიოტისა”, 1927

სანამ ეგეთივე ცდას ჩაატარებდე, სარეპეტიციოდ გასტროსკოპიაზე უნდა მიხვიდე. მანიპულაციის ჩატარებამდე უმკაცრესად იკრძალება ჭამა უახლოესი რვა-ათი საათის განმავლობაში.
გასტროსკოპიას ატარებენ ექიმ-ენდოსკოპისტები, რომლებმაც სპეციალიზაცია გაიარეს გასტროსკოპიაში. უსიამოვნო შეგრძენებების თავიდან ასაცილებლად პაციენტის ყელი მუშავდება ლიდოკაინით. პაციენტს სთხოვენ, კბილები მოუჭიროს პლასტმასის ალიკაპს, რომლის შიგნითაც ხვრელია დატოვილი, სადაც შეჰყავთ ენდოსკოპის მილი; მერე სთხოვენ, მოადუნოს ყელი და გააკეთოს გადაყლაპვის მოძრაობა, რომლის დროსაც ექიმს შეჰყავს გასტროსკოპი საჭმლის მომნელებელში. გამოკვლევის ჩატარების დროს ღებინების კრუნჩხვების და სხვა უსიამოვნო შეგრძნებების შესამცირებლად პაციენტს რეკომენდაციას აძლევენ მშვიდად და ღრმად ისუნთქოს. მოწყობილობას მიეწოდება ჰაერის მცირე რაოდენობა, რათა გაასწოროს კუჭ-ნაწლავის ტრაქტის ზედა ორგანოები. ექიმი ათვალიერებს მომნელებელ, კუჭის და თორმეტგოჯა ნაწლავის ზედაპირს. აუცილებლობისას, ტარდება ფოტო და ვიდეო გადაღებები და გამოსახულების ჩაწერა. ჩვენებების მიხედვით შეიძლება ჩატარდეს ბიოპსია ანდა ტრანსენდოსკოპიური pH-მეტრია. ასევე ჩვენებების მიხედვით ატარებენ ისეთ სამკურნალო მანიპულაციებს, როგორიცაა სისხლდენის შეჩერება, პოლიპების მოშორება, წამლის შეყვანა. მერე გასტროსკოპი ამოაქვთ საყლაპავი მილიდან.
ეს ჭირთათმენა სამი-ოთხი წუთი გრძელდება და რამდენჯერმე გეგონება, რომ უკვე დაიხრჩე.
მე თავის ჩამოხრჩობაზე არც მიფიქრია, ისე მომიწია ამ მანიპულაციის გაკეთება და რამდენჯერმე მეგონა, რომ უკვე დავიხრჩე, რადგან მესმოდა ჩემივე ხროტინი, ასევე რამდენჯერმე წამომაზიდა… და ამ ჭირთათმენის ბოლოს სულ ჭირის ოფლში ვცურავდი…
მოკლედ, ძალიან მაგარი რამეა ეს გასტროსკოპია – ისეთ ექსტრიმში ხარ, რომ შენი ცხოვრების გამოდარდებასაც ვერ ასწრებ და რაც მთავარია, ნელ-ნელა და მომაბეზრებლად, ცრემლიანი მოგონებებით არა კვდები…
მერე ექიმმა მითხრა, 1,0×1,2 სმ. ზომის წყლული გაქვსო, გამომიწერა ექვსი წამალი, რასაკვირველია, ულსეპანის თამადობით და ერთი თვით, და კიდევ დიეტა დამინიშნა, სადაც ყველაფერი უგემურია და რაც გემრიელია, არაფრის ჭამა არ შეიძლება.
დავიწყე ამეების სმა და დიეტობაც, მეტი რა გზაა – გრძელ შარში ხარო, ექიმმა შემაშინა, ვარიკოზული ვენის ამოჭრაზე არც იფიქრო, სანამ ეს წყლული არ შეხორცდება – სისხლდენა დაიწყება და ვეღარ გავაჩერებთო; ხომ არ გინდა, ნახევარი კუჭი ამოგაჭრათ და დაინვალიდდეო… ერთ თვეში მოხვალ და ამ ზონდს კიდევ ერთხელ გადაყლაპავო…

ანდრომ მითხრა, მოსკოვში ინდური წამალი იყიდება, სახელად “პილობაქტი”, თოთხმეტი აბი ორასი დოლარი ღირს, მაგრამ იმას რომ დალევ ერთ კვირაში, ხუთი წლით თავისუფალი ხარ წყლულისგანო…

ПИЛОБАКТ (PYLOBACT)

CLARITHROMYCIN, OMEPRAZOLE, TINIDAZOLE
Производитель: RANBAXY LABORATORIES Ltd
Представительство: РАНБАКСИ ЛАБОРАТОРИЗ Лтд
Код АТХ: A02BD

Форма выпуска, состав и упаковка

Комбинированный набор (суточная доза)
Блистер содержит:
капсулы (2 шт. в уп.) 1 капс.
омепразол 20 мг
таблетки, покрытые оболочкой (2 шт. в уп.) 1 таб.
кларитромицин 250 мг
таблетки, покрытые оболочкой (2 шт. в уп.) 1 таб.
тинидазол 500 мг
6 шт. (в комплекте – таблетки двух видов и капсулы) – блистеры (7) – пачки картонные.

Регистрационный №:
комбинированный набор (суточная доза): блистер.; капс. 20 мг: 2 шт; таб., покр. оболочкой, 250 мг: 2 шт.; таб., покр. оболочкой, 500 мг: 2 шт.; в упаковке 7 блистеров – П №012233/01-2000 13.09.00

Фирма-производитель — RANBAXY LABORATORIES Ltd

129223 Москва, Мира пр-т, ВВЦ
Деловой центр ТЕХНОПАРК
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Тел.: (095) 234-56-11; Факс: (095) 234-56-19

Ranbaxy Laboratories Ltd
10th floor, Devika Tower, 6
Nehru Place, New Delhi – 110019

Ranbaxy Ireland Ltd
Spafield Cork Road
Cashel, CO, Tipperary, Ireland

Ohm Laboratories Inc.
(Ranbaxy Group Company)
1385 Livingston Ave, PO Box 7397
North Brunswick, NJ 08902, USA

და ეს ყველაფერი დავამთავროთ მხიარული, ჩიტირეკია და თან დარდიანი გენიოსის ერთი მაგარი ნათქვამით:

***
ფრანსუა ვარ, ესეც ისე,
მაწევს, როგორც განაჩენი.
ეუწყება მალე კისერს,
რას იწონის გავა ჩემი.

ფრანსუა ვიიონი

Para sa lahat ng nanghihingi ng buod ng mga kwetong pinag-aaralan niyo sa Filipino (Si Kesa at Si Morito, Aanhin Ninyo Yan, Kay Estella Zeehandelaar), pasensya na po dahil di ko pa kayo mapagbibigyan sa ngayon. Busy pa ako. Malapit na kasi birthday ko. Haha! Meganon! Bumabanggit. Hinde, kasi malapit na yung periodical exam namin kaya busy ako. Pasensya na talaga. I will entertain requests if I’m not too busy or if I can push through my schedule. Thanks sa inyong pag-unawa.

Laurette Naomi Pizer (ed.) – Great Psychological Stories (Panther, 1967)

D H Lawrence – Mother and Daughter
Willa Cather – Paul’s Case
Henry James – The Real Thing
Vladimir Nabokov – “That Aleppo Once.”
Ryunosuke Akutagawa – The Handkerchief
Ivan Bunin – Sunstroke
Isaac Bashevis Singer – The Spinoza of Market Street
Colette – The Kepi.

Tulong sa pag-aaral. Kesa and Morito ang title na alam ko pero ang nakalagay sa source ay Gates of Hell.

Part I

The Soliloquy of Morito, the Samurai

Outside the gates of the house, Morito walks up and down over the dead leaves. Sunk in thought, he gazes at the moon.

Ah, the moon is already risen. I, who usually long for its light, have today dreaded this brightness. The Morito who has existed hitherto is to disappear forever in the course of this one night. Tomorrow I shall be a murderer! At the thought, I feel my whole body trembling. I picture the moment, so rapidly approaching, when these two hands will be drenched with another’s blood. Oh, what a vile creature shall I seem to myself! The movie more vile because I feel no hatred for the man I am about to slay.

I remember him from long ago. His name and rank — Lieutenant Wataru of the outer Palace Guards — I have learned only recently, but the man himself, with his pale, gentle face, I have known ever since I can remember. At one time, on first discovering that he was Kesa’s husband, I felt bitterly jealous of him, but now my jealousy has vanished without a trace. Though Wataru may still be my rival in love, I have for him neither hatred nor resentment. Indeed, my strongest feeling for him is one of sympathy. When I learned from Kesa’s aunt how he dad tried to gain her niece’s love, I even experienced for Wataru a certain affection. In his efforts to win Kesa for his wife, he went so far as to study the composition of poetry, and when I used to imagine the sort of poem that issued from the pen of this sober warrior, I could never help smiling. NOr was it a smile of derision. Always I was touched but the single mindedness of this man who went to such lengths to gain a lady’s favor. In a way it has been satisfying to think of someone exerting himself so greatly for the love of a woman whom I myself love.

But do I really love Kesa? As I think back on our relationship, the answer to that question seems doubtful. I did, indeed, believe that I loved her before she ever married Wataru. Yet looking back now, I can see this love for what it really was. At that time I was still chaste, and I desired her ardently. Was my love anything more, in fact than the sentimental embellishment of this physical desire? Then came the years of her marriage when we no longer saw each other, yet Kesa was constantly in my mind. However, I ask myself if this would have been true had I already known her physically. As it was, my feeling for her was always tinged with a sense of frustration. This sense of frustration it was that led to our present relationship, which I had feared and at the same time eagerly awaited. And what now? Again I ask myself, “Do I really Kesa?”

I must sum up the happenings of the past. It was three years since I had seen her when I ran into Kesa by chance at the dedication of the Watanaba Bridge. After that, I tried to devise a way of meeting her in secret, and at last succeeded. Indeed, I succeeded not only in meeting her, but of possessing her as I had dreamed of doing all those years. And yet my meeting with Kesa was a terrible disappointment. As we sat side by side on the straw mats in the house of her aunt, I realized that my desire for her was far less powerful than formerly — in part, perhaps, because I was no longer chaste, in larger part because Kesa was less beautiful than before.

Yes, the Kesa before me was quite a different woman from the Kesa of the past. Her skin had lost its luster and there were dark rings beneath her eyes. The voluptuous texture of her flesh had disappeared — if, indeed, its very existence had not been in my imagination alone. The one thing that had not changed was her eyes: those dark. intense eyes of hers. This transformation in Kesa drained me of desire; I remember that my involuntary reaction on at last finding myself face to face with her was – to avert my glance.

Why, then, did I make love to her, now that I felt so little regret at not having done so in the past? For one thing, I was moved by a strange desire to subjugate this woman. Sitting beside me, Kesa went out of her way to describe in exaggerated terms her love for her husband, Yet somehow the words did not ring true. All this is only vanity, I said to myself. Or perhaps, I thought, she is trying to forestall my pity. I had a desire to expose her – a desire perhaps motivated by conceit, yet based on the conviction that these protestations of wifely love were not genuine. This I believed firmly, and my opinion has not changed.

I hesitated to admit to myself a yet baser motive. I was gripped by pure lust that day. Love played no part, and indeed, any other woman would have suited me as well. As I think back, my actions seems to me as that of a man who possesses a prostitute for pay.

So, pushed on by vanity and lust, I made love to Kesa, or humiliated her, it might be more honest to say, “Why ask myself now whether I love Kesa? What I felt for her then was closer to loathing. I remember that after it was over, she threw herself down and burst into tears. When I raised her head and made her look at me, she appeared to me even more despicable than myself. The tousled hair and perspiring face, smeared with make-up, symbolized for me the ugliness of this woman’s body and mind. Any love I may have had died at that moment, and hatred took its place. Yet it si for the sake of this woman whom I do not love that I am about to kill a man I do not hate!

The fearsome idea sprung into being that very moment. Holding her soiled body in my arms, I heard my words issue forth, as if another person were speaking them. “I must kill Wataru, must I not?’ I whispered to her, and now that I think back, it seems to me that I was mad. Never will I fully understand what made me say them! Despising and hating Kesa, did I have an irresistible urge to add still further to her humiliation? How better do so than by obtaining her consent to the murder of Wataru — Wataru, the man she pretended so to love? Thus, as in a nightmare, I urged her to acquiescence to a crime which I had not the slightest desire to commit! Surely a demon spirit possessed my will, stifling all rational faculties. Or else a force I am yet unable to define made me whisper that fearful suggestion in her ear.

And suddenly she raised her head, looking me fully in the eye. “Yes, you must kill him,” she said to me. I was utterly appalled at the swiftness of her compliance. For the first time I noticed a strange brightness in her eyes; and I knew that this was no innocent victim of my lust, but a vulgar adulteress.

Bitter disappointment gripped me, and at the same moment I first realized the full horror of my plan. I was disgusted by this vulgar, licentious woman with her withered looks, and would have given anything to take back my words. Though far from pure myself, I could then have taken refuge in moral indignation, damning her for her infidelity. Now even this hypocritical consolation was barred me. I knew that the die was cast when Kesa, with that new expression in her eyes, gazed at me though she were seeing straight into my heart.

Not only hatred, but a new emotion took possession of me then. A fear of Kesa had been born, for I knew without a shadow of  doubt that she would retaliate were I to break our pact. My  fright it was which made me fix the day and hour of the deed, and to this moment my fear of her still owns me. Cowardly I may be, yet anyone who saw Kesa as I saw her would have been as cowardly! Though she was crying, her eyes were dry. With despair, I realized that if I did not kill Wataru, then it was I who would meet death through her machinations. As I gazed at her, aghast, I saw a smile form on her mouth, and a dimple – yes, a dimple – sprang into her cheek.

My cursed words have bound me yet further to defile my heart. True, the deed has not yet been perpetrated. Even at this last moment, could I not still break the pledge? But no, it is not possible! Fearing the revenge of Kesa, I must stand by my word. Yet in my heart I know that it is not only fear that is driving me, a coward, to kill a guiltless an. What is this other force – this force that drives me on? Can it be – No, no, I must  brush the thought aside! I despise Kesa, fear her, even hate her. Can it be that with all this – I nevertheless still love her?

Morito continues to pace up and down silently in the moonlight. Out of the night comes the sound of a voice singing an ancient ballad:

“Lost in utter darkness

Is the human heart.

It flames for a moment with earthly lust,

Then fades into obscurity.”

Part II

The Soliloquy of Lady Kesa

Night. In her bedroom, her back to the lamp. Kesa distractedly gnaws at her sleeve, sunk in thought.

Will he come, or will he not? Unthinkable is ti that Morito should not come, but the moon has already faded and there is no sound of footsteps. This little lamp alone relieves the darkness of the house.

Can he have changed his mind? Oh, it is not possible! Should Morito fail me, then I must live the rest of my life in shame, like a harlot, never daring to raise my head to the light. Degradation and shame will be my lot. No better will I be than a corpse cast by the wayside. Humiliated and despised, I shall have to remain silent when my shame has been brought to light. Even my own death will not suffice to put a term to it.

But Morito will come. This much I have known ever since I gazed into his eyes that fateful day, and saw terror written there. Mingled with his hatred and scorn is that deadly fear of me, and it is which brings him here tonight. Not on my charms am I counting, but on the base fear in Morito’s heart. Soon, soon, I shall hear him creeping stealthily toward this house.

Ah, what a wretched woman have I become to reason thus! My heart is wrung when I think of the change in me. Confident in my beauty, I once lived in the knowledge that I could make men act as I willed. Only when I met Morito in my aunt’s house that day did I know that my beauty was dead. I could see my ugliness reflected in his eyes. Warm and seductive were his words, but it needs more than seductive words to reassure a woman who has once become aware of her own ugliness. Anger and grief swept over me, and there came back to me the melancholy feeling I experienced one night as a child when my nurse held me up to view an eclipse of the moon.

Incomparably more desolate did I feel this other time in my aunt’s house. All the dreams locked in my heart were blasted in one moment and a cloak of sadness descended on me, like the sadness of a rainy dawn. Shuddering, I yielded my dead body to this lecher whom I did not love.

What could have thrust me into that act of shame? Perhaps it was the feeling of loneliness brought on by my own ugliness. Perhaps I sought to forget my pain by losing myself in one delirious moment. Or could it be that I was gripped by the same impure desires as Morito himself? The thought fills me with shame. Ah, how I hated myself after I had left his arms and regained possession of my body! Tears of anger and loneliness wet my cheeks. Not only had I lost my virtue, but I had lost it to a man who hated me like some leprous dog.

And then? Thinking back now, subsequent events seem as vague as if they happened int he far-distant past. I remember that as I rose, still convulsed with tears, I felt his mustache touch my ear, felt his warm breath on my cheek. “I must kill Wataru, must I not?” he whispered to me, and a fearsome excitement gripped me at those words. Terrible as they were they nonetheless offered me a glimmer of consolation. Should not I, should not any woman, feel gratified at the knowledge that a man loved her to such an extent — yes, even though his love might cost her the life of her husband.

For a long while my sobbing continued and into my dark, lonesome soul filtered a chill light that was like light of the moon, not the sun. At some time I must have given my assent to his gruesome proposal, and it was not until then that I really thought of my husband for the first time. Stricken with despair, I had thought only of myself and my shame, but now I thought of my husband, my gentle husband. Vividly I saw his face smiling as it always smiles when he speaks to me.

That was when my plan took shape. At that moment I determined that I should die in his place. Briefly my decision brought calm, but when I looked at Morito and again saw my ugliness reflected in his eyes, my resignation vanished. Once again, I remembered that eclipse of the moon, seen as a child in the arms of my nurse. All the dark thoughts flooded back. Then I knew that it was not out of Love of my husband that I had decided to sacrifice my life for him; it was only because I had found a convenient way to atone for the sin of adultery. I lacked the courage to take my own life, but wanted to appear to the outside world as a little better than I was.

Yes, I had caught sight of my hidden motive. At the same time, I realized that another still baser motive lurked behind it. Under the pretext of dying for my husband, was I not seeking to revenge myself on Morito for his hatred and contempt, for his having used my body as an instrument to satisfy his lust? Looking into his face that awful night, I understood myself for the first time, and my heart froze within me. Now I know for certain that I am not dying for my husband. I am dying for myself! I am dying to obtain revenge on Morito for having wounded my heart and sullied my body. Not only have I no purpose in living on; I lack even a worthy purpose for which to end my life.

Yes, purposeless my death will be, but is not now even a purposeless death eminently to be desired. Forcing a smile, I agreed to help him murder my husband, Morito is an astute man and from my tone he must have sensed what I would do should he dare to break his word. But no, he will keep his word: vey soon he will be here… Was that the wind blowing against my shutters?… When I realize that after tonight my torturing thoughts will no longer pursue me, I am quite overcome with relief. Tomorrow’s sun will throw its chilly rays on my lifeless body. My husband when he sees me — But no, I must not think of my husband! He loves me, but I lack the strength to return his love. I am a woman who can love but one man, and that man is coming here to kill me tonight. I have been dragged into darkness by my sinister lover. Now even the weak flicker of this little lamp seems to me like a dazzling flame…

Kesa blows out the lamp. Presently there is the faint sound in the darkness of a shutter being opened. The pale moonlight streams into the room.

- Translated from Japanese by Ivan Morris

Source

Tulong sa pag-aaral. Rashōmon salin sa inggles. Kung may typographical errors, pasensya na, masyadong mahaba kaya ang hirap icheck.

It happened one evening. A lowly servant was under the Rashōmon gate, waiting for the rain to stop. Under the broad gate, there was no one but him. On one of the large, round pillars, whose red paint was peeling off in places, there was only a solitary katydid. Because the gate was located on Suzaku Boulevard, you would normally expect to find two or three other people there, waiting for the rain to let up. But there was nobody there but him.

You see, over the last two or three years there had been a series of disasters in Kyoto: earthquakes, whirlwinds, fires and famines. The capital was falling apart in many different ways. According to old records, Buddhist statues and altars had been smashed, and their vermilion-lacquered and gold or silver-foiled wood piled up on the side of the road and sold as kindling. Needless to say, with the capital in this condition, there was no one to repair the gate, and indeed, nobody even gave it a second thought. Taking advantage of this state of neglect, foxes and badgers began to live there. Robbers lived there. Eventually, it had even become customary to take unclaimed corpses to the gate and dump them there. So after sunset, people got scared, and nobody dared set foot near the gate after dark.

In their place, a large murder of crows had flocked there. During the day, countless birds could be seen flying around in circles while cawing at the high ornamental ridge-end tiles. They looked just like scattered sesame seeds, particularly when the sky above the gate turned red at sunset. The crows, of course, had come to peck at the flesh of the dead bodies on top of the gate. Today, however, perhaps because it was late, not a single bird could be seen. But what you could see were their white droppings, stuck in patches to the stone steps, which were crumbling in places, with long weeds growing from the cracks. The servant, wearing a navy-blue kimono that had faded from over-washing, sat down on the seventh-and-top step of the stone staircase. He watched the rain fall while playing with a large pimple on his right cheek, lost in his own thoughts.

A little while ago, I wrote, “A lowly servant was waiting for the rain to stop”. However, even if the rain did stop, the servant still wouldn’t have anything to do. Normally, of course, he would have been expected to return to his master’s house, but he had been released from the service of his master four or five days before. As I wrote earlier, at this time, the city of Kyoto was deteriorating in many different ways. That this servant had been dismissed by his master, who had employed him for so many years, was merely another small side effect of this decline. So, rather than saying, “A lowly servant was waiting for the rain to stop”, it would have been more appropriate to say, “A lowly servant, trapped by the rain, had nowhere to go, and didn’t know what to do”. The weather that day further served to darken the mood of this Heian-period servant. The rain had started falling at a little after 4 PM, and still showed no signs of letting up. For now, foremost on the servant’s mind was how he would make his living tomorrow—how he would get through this “hopeless situation”. As he tried to piece together his wandering thoughts, he listened pensively to the sound of the rain falling on Suzaku Boulevard.

The rain engulfed Rashōmon, and gales of rain from far away pounded down upon the gate with a tremendous noise. The darkness of night gradually set in from above, and if you were to look up, it might seem as if the large, gloomy clouds were suspended from the ends of the tiles that jutted out from the roof of the gate.

In order to somehow get through his “hopeless situation”, the servant might have to set his morals aside. If he refused to do things that he thought were morally questionable, then he would only end up starving to death under a roofed mud wall, or on the side of the road. And then he would be taken to this gate, to be discarded, like a dog. “If I am willing to do whatever it takes to survive…” His thoughts had circled through his head a number of times, and they had finally arrived here. But this “if” would always remain a mere hypothetical. For although the servant acknowledged that he had to do whatever he could to get by, he didn’t have the courage to bring the sentence to its foregone conclusion: “I am bound to become a thief.”

The servant sneezed, and stood up wearily. Kyoto—so chilly in the evening—was already cold enough that he wished he had a brazier. The wind and the darkness blew mercilessly between the pillars of the gate. The katydid that had been sitting on the red pillar was long gone.

The servant tucked his head into his chest, hunched up his shoulders—clad in the blue kimono he wore over his thin yellow underclothes—and looked around the gate. “If there is a place where I won’t be bothered by the wind or the rain; a place where I won’t be seen; a place where it looks like I can sleep comfortably all night; then I will spend the night there”, he thought. Luckily, just then, he spotted the wide, red staircase that led to the tower atop the gate. The only people he might find up there would already be dead! So, the servant, being careful that his simple wooden-hilted sword did not slip out of its sheath, stepped on the bottom stair with his straw sandal.

It was a few minutes later. Halfway up the wide staircase leading to the top of the gate’s tower, the man held his breath, and, crouching like a cat, looked up cautiously. The light of a fire shone down softly upon the man’s right cheek from the top of the tower. It was that same cheek, with the red pus-filled pimple among the stubble. The servant had taken for granted that everyone up there would already be dead. But when he climbed up two or three more steps, he saw that not only had someone had lit a fire up there, they seemed to be moving it back and forth… He could tell this from the way that the muddy, yellow light wavered in the spider webs hanging from every nook and cranny of the ceiling.  A lighted fire… on this rainy night… and on top of this gate… Surely this could be no ordinary human.

The servant crept up to the top step of the steep staircase, his feet as silent as a gecko’s. He straightened out his body as much as he could, stuck his neck out as far as possible, and cautiously peered into the tower. As the rumours had said, a number of corpses had been discarded in the tower, but the firelight wasn’t as bright as he had expected, so he couldn’t tell how many. Although the light was dim, what he did know was that some of the bodies were wearing kimonos, and others were naked. Predictably, the corpses’ numbers counted both men and woman, mixed together amongst the dead. The bodies looked so much like clay dolls, that you might doubt that any of them had ever even been alive. Their mouths open and their arms outstretched, they were strewn haphazardly across the floor. And while the higher parts of their bodies—like their chests and shoulders—caught some of the dim firelight, they cast shadows on the lower parts, and the corpses were as eternally silent as a mute.

The servant instinctively covered his nose from the putrid stench of the rotting bodies. But the next instant, his hand fell away from his face. A strong emotion had almost completely robbed him of his sense of smell.

It was at that moment that the servant first caught glimpse of the person squatting among the corpses. It was an emaciated, little, old, white-haired woman in a dusky-red kimono. The old woman was carrying a lighted pine torch, and staring at one of the corpses’ faces. Judging from the length of its hair in places, it was probably the body of a woman.

For a while, moved by six parts fear and four parts curiosity, the servant forgot even to breathe. To borrow a phrase from the writers of the chronicles of old, he felt as if “the hairs on his head and body had grown thick”. The old woman thrust the handle of the pine torch into the space between the floorboards. She placed both hands on the corpse’s head, and like a monkey picking the lice off its child, she began to pull out strands of the corpse’s long hair, one-by-one. The hairs seemed to be coming out with very little effort.

Each time she plucked one of those hairs, the servant grew a little bit less frightened. And each time she plucked one of those hairs, the intense hatred that he now felt for this woman grew a little bit stronger. No—it is probably misleading to say that he hated her, per se. Rather, it was a revulsion against all forms of evil, which was growing stronger by the minute. At that moment, if someone again raised the question that the servant had been thinking about under the gate—whether he would starve to death or become a criminal—the servant would almost certainly have chosen starvation, without an ounce of regret. Like the torch the old woman had jammed between the floorboards, this was how ardently the man’s heart burned against all that was evil.

The servant, of course, didn’t know why the old woman was pulling out the corpse’s hair, so, rationally, he had no way of knowing if it was immoral or not. But for this servant, on this rainy night, on top of this gate, pulling out a dead woman’s hair was an unforgivable sin. Of course, the servant had already forgotten that until very recently, he was considering becoming a robber himself.

The servant strained his legs, and, suddenly, leapt up from the stairs without warning. He strode over to the woman, his hand on the wooden hilt of his sword. Needless to say, the woman was scared out of her wits.

As soon as the old woman saw the servant, she sprung up as if she had been fired from a crossbow.

“You! Where are you going?”

The servant shouted. He stood firmly in the old woman’s way, as she tripped over corpses in a frenzied attempt to escape. The old woman tried to shove him aside. But the servant still had no intention of letting her go, and he pushed her back. For a while, the two grappled among the corpses without saying a word. But the outcome of this battle was clear from the beginning. In the end, the servant grabbed the old woman’s arm and wrenched her down to the floor. Her arm, like a chicken leg, was merely skin and bones.

“What were you doing? Well, what were you doing? SPEAK! If you don’t tell me, you’ll get THIS!”

The servant pushed the old woman away from him, and, suddenly, he drew his sword and thrust the pale white steel before her eyes. But the old woman said nothing. Her hands shook uncontrollably, her shoulders heaved as she panted. Her eyes were open so wide that they looked like they were going to pop right out their sockets, but still, like a mute, she remained obstinately silent. Seeing this, the servant then realized that he held this woman’s life in the palm of his hand. When he realized this, his heart, which had been burning so fiercely with hatred, cooled down, until all that remained were the feelings of pride and satisfaction that come with a job well done. The servant looked down at the woman, lowered his voice and said:

“I’m not an official from the police department or anything. I’m just a traveller who happened to be passing under the gate a moment ago. So I’m not going to tie you up or anything like that. But it would be best if you told me what you were doing on top of this gate just now.”

The bug-eyed old woman, opened her eyes even wider, and stared at the servant’s face. She looked at him with the piercing red eyes of a bird of prey. And then, her lips—so wrinkled that they were almost a part of her nose—moved, as if she were chewing something. You could see her pointed Adam’s apple moving in her gaunt throat. Then, from that throat, came a pant-broken voice that sounded like the cawing of a crow.

“I’m taking this hair… I’m taking this woman’s hair to… Well, I thought I’d make a wig.”

The servant was disappointed that the old woman’s answer was so unexpectedly dull. Along with the disappointment, those old feelings of hatred and contempt came flooding back to him. And somehow, he must have conveyed these feelings to the old woman. With the hairs she had stolen from the corpse still clutched in one hand, she mumbled in a raspy, toadish voice:

“I see. Well, perhaps it is immoral to pull out the hairs of the dead. But these corpses up here—all of them—they were just the sort of people who wouldn’t have minded. In fact, this woman whose hair I was just pulling out a moment ago—she used to cut snakes into 5-inch pieces, dry them, and go sell them at the camp of the crown prince’s palace guard, saying it was dried fish. If she hadn’t died in the plague, she would probably still be going there now. And yet, the guards said this woman’s dried fish tasted good, and they always bought it to go with their rice. I don’t think what she did was immoral. If she hadn’t done it, she would have starved to death, so, she just did what she had to. And this woman, who understood so well these things we have to do, would probably forgive me for what I’m doing to her too.”

The old woman said something along those lines.

The servant put his sword back in its scabbard and rested his hand on its hilt while he listened to her story unsympathetically. Sure enough, while he listened, his right hand nursed the red pus-filled pimple on his cheek. As he was listening to her story, he felt the courage that he had lacked under the gate a few moments earlier building up inside him. It was leading him in the completely opposite direction of the courage he had when he climbed up the gate and grabbed the old woman. The servant was no longer debating whether to starve to death or become a thief. The way he felt now, the idea of starving to death was virtually unthinkable.

“That’s definitely true,” the servant agreed derisively when she had finished speaking. He took a step forward and suddenly tore his right hand away from the pimple. Grabbing the woman by the scruff of the neck, he said to her in a biting tone:

“Well then, you won’t hold it against me if I try to steal your clothes. If I don’t, you see, I too will starve.”

The servant deftly stripped the woman of her kimono. She tried to cling to his leg, but he kicked her violently onto the corpses. The entrance to the stairwell was a mere five paces away. In the blink of an eye, the servant ran down the steep staircase and into the darkness, carrying the dusky-red kimono under his arm.

For a while, the old woman lay there as if she were dead, but it was only a short time before she lifted her naked body off the corpses. Whimpering, she crawled over to the stairs, by the light of her still-lit torch. She stuck her head into the stairwell door, and looked down to the bottom of the gate, her short white hair hanging upside down. But outside, there was only the pitch-black darkness of night.

Where the servant went to, nobody knows.

Tulong sa pag-aaral. Pasensya na kung maraming typographical error, ang haba kaya.

Si Kesa at si Morito

Salin ni Lualhati Bautista

Mula sa “Rashōmon atbp. pang Kuwento”

Ni Ryūnosuke Akutagawa

UNANG
BAHAGI: MONOLOGO NI MORITO

Sa pagkakatingin sa buwan habang nag-iisip, naglalakad si Morito sa ibabaw ng mga
lagas na dahon sa makalabas ng bakod ng kanyang bahay:

Sumikat na ngayon ang buwan. Karaniwang hinihintay ko nang may pagkainip ang pagsikat ng buwan. Pero ngayong gabi, ang maliwanag na sikat ng buwan ay yanig na sumusindak sa akin. Kinikilabutan akong isipin na ang gabing ito ay magwawasak sa aking kasalukuyang sarili at gagawin akong isang karumal-dumal na mamamatay-tao. Isipin na lang kapag ang mga kamay na ito’y namula sa dugo! Anong kasumpa-sumpang nilalang ang magiging tingin ko sa aking sarili kapag nagkaganoon! Ang puso ko’y di mababagbag sa sakit kung papatay ako ng isang kaaway na kinasusuklaman ko, pero ngayong gabi ay kailangan kong patayin ang isang lalaking hindi ko kinasusuklaman.

Matagal ko na siyang kilala. Kahit kamakailan ko lang nalaman ang kanyang pangalan, Wataru Saemonno-jo, mula’t sapul pa’y kilala ko na ang kanyang magandang mukha. Nang matuklasan kong asawa siya ni Kesa, totoong sandali rin akong nag-apoy sa panibugho. Pero ngayon, ang panibugho ko’y napawi na, hindi nag-iwan ng anumang bakas sa aking isip o puso. Kaya para sa aking karibal sa pag-ibig, wala akong pagkamuhi o masamang hangarin. Manapa, mabuti ang isipin ko para sa kanya. Nang sabihin sa akin ng tiya ko, si Komorogawa, kung paano niya pinagsikapan at pinagsakitang makuha ang puso ni Kesa, nakadama ako ng simpatiya sa kanya.
Naunawaan ko, na sa buong hangarin niya na mapangasawa ito, pinaghirapan pa niyang matutong sumulat ng tula. Hindi ko maisip na ang simple at nakababagot na lalaking iyon ay sumusulat ng mga tula ng pag-ibig, at isang ngiti ang gumuguhit sa aking mga labi sa kabila ng damdamin ko. Hindi ito ngiti ng pag-uyam; naaantig ako sa pagkamasuyo ng isang lalaki na ginagawa ang lahat para makuha ang isang babae. Posible pa rin na ang kanyang masimbuyong pag-ibig ang nagtulak sa kanyang sambahin ang  minamahal kong si Kesa ay nakapagdudulot sa akin ng kasiyahan.

Pero mahal ko ba talaga si Kesa? Ang aming pag-iibigan ay maaaring paghiwalayin sa dalawang baitang, ang nakaraan at ang kasalukuyan. Minahal ko siya bago siya ikinasal kay Wataru, o iyon ang aking palagay. Pero ngayong tumitingin ako sa aking puso, nakikita ko na marami akong motibo. Ano ang gusto ko sa kanya? Siya ang klase ng babaeng kinadaramahan ko ng mga hangaring makalaman kahit noong mga panahong ako’y wala pang bahid-dungis. Kung mapahihitulutan ang eksaheradong pahayag, ang pag-ibig ko sa kanya’y hindi hihigit pa sa isang
sentimental na bersyon ng motibong nagtulak kay Adan sa piling ni Eba. Malinaw ito sa mga pag-aalinlangan ko na patuloy siyang mahalin kung sakaling ang aking hangarin ay natupad. Bagamat nanatili siya sa isip ko sa sumunod na tatlong taon pagkaraang maputol ang aming ugnayan, hindi ko tiyakang masasabi na mahal ko siya. Sa kasunod na pakikipag-ugnayan ko sa kanya, ang pinakamalaking ipinagsisisi ko ay iyong hindi ko siya nakilala ng lubos. Pinarurusahan ng kawalang-kasiyahan, nahulog ako sa kasalukuyang relasyon, na gumugimbal sa akin, gayunman, alam kong mangyayari. Ngayo’y itinatanong kong muli sa aking
sarili, “Mahal ko ba siya talaga?”

Nang makita ko uli siya tatlong taon pagkaraan, sa pagdiriwang na kaugnay ng pagkakayari ng Tulay ng Watanabe, ginawa ko ang lahat ng paraan para Makita siya nang patago. Sa huli’y nagtagumpay ako. Hindi lang ako nagtagumpay na makita siya, kundi inangkin ko pa ang kanyang katawan na gaya ng pinapangarap ko. Sa pagkakataong iyon, ang panghihinayang na di ko siya nakilala nang pisikal ay hindi ang tanging nangingibabaw sa akin. Nang maupo ako sa tabi niya sa nababanigang silid ng bahay ni Koromogawa, napansin ko na malaking bahagi ng aking panghihinayang ang naglaho na. Malamang na ang aking hangarin ay pinahina ng pangyayaring hindi na ako malinis. Pero ang pinakapangunahing dahilan ay hindi siya ang inaasahan kong magiging   siya. Nang magkakaupo kaming magkaharap, natuklasan ko na hindi siya ang imahen ng malabantayog na kagandahang binuo ko sa isip sa nakaraang tatlong taon. Malayo siya sa idolong pinakaasam-asam ko sa aking puso. Ang kanyang mukha, na makapal na nakukulapulan ng matingkad na pulbos, ay pinaglahuan na ng malaking bahagi ng dating kasariwaan at makinis na panghalina. Sa ilalim ng mga mata niya’y nakahugis ang nangingitim na guhit. Ang tanging hindi nagbago sa kanya ay ang kanyang malilinaw, bilog, maiitim na mga mata. Nang makita ko siya sa bagong paninging ito, nagimbal ako, at sa kabila ng aking damdamin ay di ko napigilang iiwas ang aking mga mata.

Kung gayo’y paano ko nagawang makipagtalik sa isang babaeng napakanipis ng pagkakabigkis ko? Una’y itinulak ako ng kakatwang kagustuhan na mapangibabawan ang dating hangarin ng puso ko. Sa pagkakaupong magkaharap, binigyan niya ako ng isang eksaheradong kuwento ng kanyang pag-ibig sa kanyang asawa. Wala siyang iniwan kundi hungkag na alingawngaw sa aking tainga. “Mayroon siyang hambog na ideya tungkol sa kanyang asawa,” naisip ko. May hinala rin ako na maaaring ito’y tulak ng kanyang kagustuhang huwag nang pagningasin pa ang aking pagnanasa. Kasabay nito, patindi nang patindi ang dating hangarin kong ihantad ang kanyang kasinungalingan. Bakit itinuturing ko iyong kasinungalingan? Kung sasabihin ninyo sa akin, minamahal kong mambabasa, na ang sariling kayabangan ko ang nagtulak sa akin para maghinalang kasinungalingan ang kanyang pahayag, hindi ko maitatatwa ang inyong bintang. Ano’t anuman, pinaniniwalaan ko noon at pinaniniwalaan ko hanggang ngayon, na iyon ay kasinungalingan.

Pero hindi ang hangaring makapanlupig ang tanging ngumangatngat sa akin  nang mga sandaling iyon. Pinamumulahan akong banggitin ito- pinangingibabawan ako ng pagnanasa. Hindi iyon basta panghihinayang lang na hindi ko nakilala ang kanyang katawan. Iyon ay hamak na kalibugan mismo na ni hindi nangangailangan na ang kabilang panig ay maging ang babaeng iyon. Marahil ay walang lalaking umarkila ng babae sa isang bahay-putahan na magiging mas hamak pa sa akin nang mga sandaling iyon.

Ano’t anuman, batay sa ganyang iba’t ibang motibo, nagkaroon ako ng relasyon kay Kesa. O, manapa, inalisan ko siya ng dangal. Bilang pagbalik sa unang tanong na binitiwan ko, hindi ko na kailangang itanong pa ngayon sa aking sarili kung mahal ko siya.  Nang matapos ang lahat, sapilitang ibinangon ko siya aking mga bisig- ang babaeng ito na umiiyak na ibinagsak ang kanyang sarili.  At nagmukha siyang mas walang dangal kaysa sa akin.  Ang kanyang nakasabog na buhok at nagpapawis na katawan, ang lahat ay indikasyon ng kapangitan ng kanyang isip at katawan.  Hindi kamaliang sabihin na simula nang araw na iyon, sa puso ko’y nagkaroon ako ng bagong pagkamuhi sa kanya. At ngayong gabi’y papatayin ko ang isang lalaking hindi ko kinamumuhian, para sa kapakanan ng babaeng hindi ko iniibig.

“Patayin natin si Wataru,” bulong ko sa tainga ni Kesa. Baliw na nga ako para gawin ang napakagarapal na mungkahing iyon.  Wala sa loob na inihiga ko sa tainga niya ang nakaraang hangarin ko ns hamunin ng labanan si Wataru at pagwagian ang kanyang pag-ibig.  Ano’t anuman, “Patayin natin si Wataru,” bulong ko, at tiyak na tiyak na bumulong ako nang nagtatagis ang mga ngipin, sa kabila ng aking damdamin. Kapag naaalala ko ngayon, hindi ko masasabi kung ano ang nag-udyok sa akin para gawin ang padalus-dalos na bagay na iyon.  Ang tanging naiisip ko bilang paliwanag ditto ay ginusto kong tagpian ang relasyon sa kasalukuyan, at habang tumitindi ang paghamak at pagkasuklam ko sa kanya, lalo kong kinaiinipan na mawasak ko ang kanyang dangal.  Wala nang mas aangkop pa sa mga layuning ito kundi patayin ang asawang ipinangangalandakan niyang mahal niya, at makuha ang kanyang pagsang-ayon mula sa kanyang pagpapatumpik-tumpik.  Kaya tulad sa isang lalaking binabangungot, nakapanaig ako sa kanya na maisakatuparan naming dalawa ang pagpatay na hindi ko gusto.  Kung iyan ay hindi sapat para ipaliwanag ang aking motibo sa pagmumungkahing patayin si Wataru, wala nang paliwanag na dapat tangkain, maliban sa isang kapangyarihang banyaga sa mga mortal (marahil ay demonyo o diyablo) ang nagtataboy sa akin sa makasalanang daan.  Nagpupumilit at paulit-ulit na ibinulong ko ang ganoo’t ganoon ding bagay sa tainga niya.

Sa huli’y nag-angat siya ng mukha at sinabi, “Oo, dapat mo ngang patayin si Wataru.” Hindi lamang ako nasorpresa sa biglang pagsang-ayon niya, kundi nakakita ako ng mahiwagang kinang sa kanyang mga mata na hindi ko napansin noon. Taksil na babae-iyon ang naging tingin ko sa kanya. Gumuhit sa nag-iinit na utak ko ang iglap na pagkabigo at paghihilakbot- at oo, pagkasuklam.  Kung maaaari lang ay babawiin ko ang pangako ko noon din. Sa gayo’y mapangangalanan ko siyang mang-aapid, at ang aking kunsensiya’y makapagkakanlong sa makatwirang pagngingitngit. Pero hindi ko nagawa. Inaamin ko agad kong nakita na imposible iyon sa saglit na bigla siyang tumitig sa akin.  Nagbago na ang kanyang anyo, na para bang nakita niya ang laman ng aking puso.
Nahulog ako sa malungkot na kalagayanng pakikipagtipan para paslangin ang kanyang asawa dahil sa takot ko na paghigantihan niya ako kapag nabigo akong tuparin  ang aking bahagi ko sa usapan.  Ngayon, ang takot na ito’y
mahigpit at matatag na dumaklot sa akin. Magtawa kayo kung ibig ninyo, sa aking karuwagan.  Ito ang gawa ng isang hindi nakaaalam kung gaano kahamak ang kanyang kalaguyo. “Kapag hindi ko pinatay ang kanyang asawa, papatayin niya ako sa kahit na anong paraan. Kailangan kong patayin ang kanyang asawa at kung hindi’y papatayin niya ako,” desperadong naisip ko, sa pagkakatingin ko sa kanyang walang luha pero umiiyak na mga mata.  Pagkatapos kong bitiwan ang aking pangako, hindi ba may nasilip akong ngiti sa kanyang bibig at biloy na gumuhit sa kanyang maputlang pisngi?  Ay, dahil sa kasumpa-sumpang pangakong ito, idadagdag ko ang krimen na buktot na pagpaslang  sa pinakamaitin na pusong maaaring maisip.  Kung tatalikuran ko ang nakatakdang pakikipagtipan na magaganap ngayong gabi. Hindi, ipinagbabawal iyon ng aking pangako.  Lagpas ito kaya kong batahin.  Isa pa, natatakot ako sa
kanyang paghihiganti. Totoong-totoo ito.  Pero may iba pang nag-uudyok sa akin na gawin iyon.  Ano ito?  Ano ang malaking kapangyarihang iyon na nagbubunsod sa akin, sa duwag na “ako,” para patayin ang isang inosenteng lalaki?  Hindi ko masasabi.  Hindi ko masasabi.  Pero posibleng…  Hindi, hindi maaari.  Pinandidirihan ko siya.  Kinatatakutan ko siya.  Kinasusuklaman ko siya.  Pero gayunpaman, maaari ring dahil mahal ko siya.

Si Morito, na patuloy sa paglalakad, ay hindi na nagsalita pa.  Ang pag-awit ng isang balada ay pumailanlang
sa gabi.

Ang isipan ng tao ay nasa dilim, Walang ilaw na makapagbigay-liwanag.Nagsisindi ito ng apoy ng makamundong paghahangad, Upang
humayo at lumitaw, sa loob lang ng isang iglap.

IKALAWANG
BAHAGI: MONOLOGO NI KESA

Gabi, sa ilalim ng isang lampara, nakatayo si Kesa, nakatalikod sa ilawan, nag-iisip nang malalim at kagat-kagat ang Manggas ng kanyang kimono.

Darating ba siya o hindi, ewan ko. Imposibleng hindi. Lumulubog na ang buwan, pero walang marinig kahit isang yabag, kaya maaaring nagbago ang isip niya. Kapag hindi siya dumating… Araw-araw akong mabubuhay sa kahihiyan, tulad sa isang
puta. Paano ako nalubog sa kahihiyan at kasamaan. Mawawalan ako ng dangal at tatapak-tapakan na lang, sa pagkakabilad ng kahihiyan ko. Gayunma’y kakailanganin kong manahimik na parang pipi. Kapag nagkagayon ay dadalhin ko hanggang kabila ng libingan ang aking pagsisisi. Sigurado akong darating siya. Mula noong nakaraang araw, iyon na ang aking pananalig. Natatakot siya sa akin. Kinasusuklaman niya ako’t pinandidirihan, gayunpama’y natatakot siya sa akin. Talaga, kung ang aasahan ko lang ay ang sarili ko, hindi ako makasisiguro sa kanya.Pero maasa ako sa kanya. Umaasa ako sa kanyang pagkamasarili. Umaasa ako sa buktot na takot na pinipukaw ng pagkamakasarili sa kanya.

Pero ngayong hindi ko na magawang umasa sa sarili ko, napakahamak ko nang nilalang! Hanggang noong tatlong taon na ang nakararaan ay may tiwala ako sa akong sarili, at higit sa lahat, sa aking kagandahan. Mas matapat kung sasabihin nating “hanggang noong araw na iyon” kaysa “noong tatlong taon na nakararaan”. Noong araw na iyong makita ko siya sa silid ng bahay ng aking tiya, isang sulyap sa kanyang mga mata at nakita ko ang aking kapangitan na nasasalamin sa kaniyang isip. Kinausap niya ako nang masuyo at mapagmahal, na akala mo’y walang problema. Pero paano pa maaaliw ang puso ng isang babae sa sandaling matuklasan niya ang kapangitan ng kanyang pagkatao? Nagimbal ako, nayanig, nagdalamhati. Di-hamak na mabuti pa ang nakasisindak na pagkabalisang dala ng paglalaho ng buwan na nakita ko sa aking kamusmusan sa mag bisig ng aking tagpag-alaga, kung ihahambing sa malamultong pagkalunos na nagpakulimlim sa isipan ko nang mga sandaling iyon. Naglahong lahat ng pangarap at pangitain  sa aking puso. Ang kalungkutan ng isang maunos na madaling-araw ay tahimik na bumalot sa akin. Ngatal sa kalungkutan, sa huli ay isinuko ko ang aking katawan, na para na ring patay, sa mga bisig ng lalaking hindi ko iniibig – sa mga bisig ng isang makamundong lalaki na nasusuklam at nandidiri sa akin. Hindi ko na ba makakaya ang aking kalungkutan mula nang buong linaw na maipamukha sa akin ang aking kapangitan? Sinikap ko bang mailibing ang lahat sa hibang na sandaling iyon na sumubsob ako sa kanyang dibdib? O itinutulak din ako ng kahiya-hiyang paghahangad lang na gaya rin niya? Maisip ko lang iyon ay nilulukob na ako ng kahihiyan! Kahihiyan! Kahihiyan! Lalo na noong ilayo ko na ang aking sarili sa kanyang mga bisig, hiyang-hiya ako.

Ang pagka-inis at kalungkutan ay naghatid ng walang katapusang luha  sa aking mga mata sa kabila ng pagsisikap ko na huwag umiyak. Hindi lamang ako nagdadalamhati sapagkat nawalan ako ng dangal, higit sa lahat ay nahihirapan ako’t nagdurusa dahil ako’y pinadidirihang tulad sa isang asong ketongin na kinasusuklaman at pinarurusahan. Ano ang aking nagawa mula noon? Ang meron lang ako’y ang pinakamalabong ala-ala niyon na para bang isa iyong bagay sa malayong nakalipas. Natatandaan ko lang ang kanyang mahabang tinig na bumubulong, “Patayin natin si Wataru,” at dumampi sa aking tainga ang kanyang bigote habang ako’y humihikbi. Pagkarinig sa mga salitang ito, kakatwang nakadama ako ng  sigla. Oo, sumigla ako’t lumiwanag na tulad ng sinag ng buwan, kung  ang sinag ng buwan ay matatawag na maliwanag. Bakit hindi, hindi ba ako inaliw ng mga salitang ito? Ay, hindi ba ako – hindi ba ang isang babae’y isang nilalang na nakadarama ng kaligayahan sa pag-ibig ng isang lalaki sukdulang patayin niya ang sarili niyang asawa?

Nagpatuloy ako sa pagluha sa loob nang may malungkot at masiglang pakiramdam na tulad sa sinag ng buwan. Kailan ako nangakong makipagtulungan sa pagpaslang sa aking asawa?

Noon lamang pumasok sa isip ko ang aking asawa. Matapat kong sinasabing “noon lang”. Hanggang sa mga oras na iyon, ang isip ko’y buung-buong nakatuon sa aking sarili atsa aking kahihiyan. Pagkaraa’y nakita ko ang larawan ng nakangiting mukha ng aking asawa. Malamang na nang sandaling maalala ko ang kanyang mukha, gumuhit sa isip ko ang plano. Nang mga sandaling iyon ay disidido na akong mamatay, at ikinagagalak ko ang aking desisyon. Pero nang huminto na ako sa pag-iyak, nang magtaas ako ng mukha, at tumingala sa kanyang mukha para matagpuan ang kapangitan kong nasasalamin doon, dama ko’y naglahong lahat ang aking kaligayahan. Ipinagunita nito sa akin ang kadiliman ng paglalaho ng buwan na nakita ko kasama ang aking tagapag-alaga. Iyon, tulad ng nangyari, ay iglap na nagpalaya sa lahat ng masamang ispiritung nagtatago sa ilalim ng aking kaligayahan. Dahil nga ba sa pagmamahal ko sa aking asawa kaya mamamatay ako para sa kanya? Hindi, kundi dahil lang sa resonableng pangangatuwirang ito, ibig kong pagbayaran ang pagkakasala kong pakikipagtalik sa iba. Dahil walang tapang na magpakamatay, nasa akin ang buktot na hangaring makapag-iwan ng magandang impresyon sa mga tao. Ang kabuktutan kong ito ay maaari na rin sigurong palampasin. Sa ilalim ng pagkukunwaring mamamatay ako sa aking asawa, hindi ba ako nagpaplanong ipaghiganti ang aking sarili laban sa pagkamuhi sa akin ng aking kalaguyo, sa kanyang pandidiri sa akin, sa kanyang buhong na pagnanasa? Pinatutunayan ito ng isang sulyap sa kanyang mukha na pumawi ng mahiwagang kislap na tulad sa mapulang liwanag ng buwan, at nagpalamig sa aking puso sa matinding pagdadalamhati. Mamamatay ako, hindi para sa aking asawa kundi para sa aking sarili. Mamamatay ako, para parusahan ang aking kalaguyo sa pananakit niya sa aking puso at para sa aking hinanakit sa pagdungis niya sa aking katawan. Ay, hindi lang ako walang karapatang mabuhay kundi wala ring karapatang mamatay.

Pero ngayon, gaano kainam pang mamatay na lang kahit sa pinakakahiya-hiyang paraan, kaysa mabuhay. Nakangiti nang pilit, paulit-ulit kong ipinangako na papatayin namin ang aking asawa. Dahil matalas ang pakiramdam niya, marahil ay natunugan niya sa  mga salita ko kung ano ang mangyayari kapag hindi niya tinupad ang kanyang pangako. Kaya mukhang imposible na pagkatapos niyang mangako ng ganoon ay aatrasan niya iyon. Tunog ba iyon ng hangin? Kapag naiisip ko na ang mga dinaramdam ko mula noong araw na iyon ay matatapos na sa wakas ngayong gabi, nakakahinga ako. Tiyak na ang bukas ay maghuhunos ng kanyang malamig na liwanag sa aking katawang walang ulo. Kapag nakita iyon ng aking asawa, siya’y… hindi, hindi ko siya iisip. Mahala ko ng aking asawa. Pero wala akong lakas na gantihan ang kanyang pag-ibig. Isang lalaki lang ang maaari kong mahalin. At ang lalaki iyon ay darating ngayong gabi para patayin ako. Kahit ang gaserang ito’y napakaliwanag para sa akin,
akong pinahihirapan ng aking mangingibig.

Hinipan ni Kesa ang ilawan. Hindi nagtagal at narinig ang mahinang tunog ng isang nabuksang kandado, at bumaha sa loob ang maputlang sinag ng buwan.

Nueva película japonesa esta vez estará basado en un one-shot del autor Ryunosuke Akutagawa y que llevara por título Tajomaru.

Esta película tratara sobre las aventuras de un bandido ninja llamado Tajomaru. Que se estrenara en el mes de Septiembre en los cines japoneses, además ya tenéis un tráiler para que veáis como pinta la película, que posiblemente no pisara tierras españolas.

I’m not a theatre buff but it seems I’ve been seeing a little more than usual! Last week I went to see a pair of plays based on the works of two Japanese authors. The link suggests that these plays were based on the work of Yukio Mishima, famous gay fascist author who committed suicide; but in fact the second play, Hellscreen, was based on the work of Akutagawa Ryunosuke. It would appear there was a small error here…

… anyway, the two plays are very interesting, with quite beautiful language (they were in English). However, the acting was quite ordinary. I am such a phillistine that I didn’t notice – I just thought “why do people always have to be so wooden in plays?” but in fact, apparently, according to my ever-so-knowledgeable friends, the acting was “amateur”. To me all theatre is amateur. Haven’t these guys seen Home and Away? In the first one the hammy acting was bearable; in the second, not so much. But the stories and language were nice and it only cost me 6 pounds. I recommend it for those interested in seeing some very nice Japanese work brought to life. But I should warn you, gentle reader – the subject matter is murder and sadism. You go warned!

Rashomon: siempre nuevo en un usado

“Era un frío atardecer. Bajo Rashomon, el sirviente de un samurai esperaba que cesara la lluvia. No había nadie en el amplio portal. Sólo un grillo se posaba en una gruesa columna, cuya laca carmesí estaba resquebrajada en algunas partes. Situado Rashomon en la Avenida Sujaltu, era de suponer que algunas personas, como ciertas damas con el ichimegasa o nobles con el momiebosh, podrían guarecerse allí; pero al parecer no había nadie fuera del sirviente. Y era explicable, ya que en los últimos dos o tres años la ciudad de Kyoto había sufrido una larga serie de calamidades: terremotos, tifones, incendios y carestías la habían llevado a una completa desolación”.

Obra maestra de Ryunosuke Akutagawa, Rashomon relata el encuentro entre un sirviente y una anciana en la Puerta Rashomon, donde frecuentemente se encontraban cadáveres no reclamados. El hombre, hambiento, está pensando en convertirse en ladrón, cuando se encuentra con la mujer que le roba el pelo a los muertos.

Akira Kurosawa se inspiró en el cuento de Akutagawa para filmar su propia Rashomon, la que fue y es saludada como otra obra maestra.

Hana Yori Dango star, Oguri Shun, will act a Jidaigeki movie titled “Tajomaru”. This movie is based on a short story called “Yabu No Naka” by author, Ryunosuke Akutagawa. This new movie is planned to be a little different than the original story that was told.

Oguri Shun will play the main character, Tajomaru.

For a role like this, Oguri had to practice horse riding every day for months because it was planned to start filming on November. He also was trained for sword fights with co-star, Hiroki Matsukata.

The movie is scheduled to open next fall.

Rashomon and Other Stories

Rashomon and Other Stories
Ryunosuke Akutagawa
Transl. Takashi Kojima

One of my goals while I was in Tokyo this summer was to consume as much Japanese fiction as I could. Loving books as I do, I believe that literature is one of the best paths to understanding a culture. And so, in the course of six weeks, I read six novels and 19 short stories by Japanese authors. For the short amount of time that I had, I believe I had a fairly broad survey of authors and styles, enough at least to feel like I had a sharpened ability to talk about Japanese literature. I devoured these books every morning and every afternoon on the train.

Occasionally, the story would be so engaging that I would almost miss my stop. One of these hypnotic pieces was found in The Oxford Book of Japanese Short Stories (ed. Theodore Goosen): “In a Grove,” by Ryunosuke Akutagawa. I have never read a short story that held me with such vise-like intensity.

“In a Grove”
A masterful and thrilling mystery, this story uses seven court testimonies to reconstruct a rape and a murder. The woodcutter gives the first testimony, supplying the basic details of a man’s corpse he found in the forest. A traveling Buddhist priest follows his report with a description of the dead man’s wife on horseback, and then a policeman states that he has arrested a notorious murderer and rapist, Tajomaru, who is suspected of the crime. An old woman, the wife’s mother, presents a tearful lament for her dead son-in-law and missing daughter, giving their names and ages. But it’s the final three accounts that are utterly astounding in their scope and contradiction. Tajomaru, the rapist and robber, speaks first; Masago, the young wife, is second; and Takehiko, the murdered man, tells his story through a medium. Though I am reluctant to give anything away, it is necessary to note that the brilliance of this work lies in its presentation of the mutability of memory and truth. Akutagawa, with this story, would remind his readers that truth comes in shades of gray and that what may be reality to one is not reality to another. Because it’s so incredible, I think you need to read it right now (it’s a very short story), so follow this link.

“In a Grove” is included in a collection of Akutagawa’s short stories, Rashomon and Other Stories, translated by Takashi Kojima and recommended by Francine Prose in her list, “Books to be Read Immediately,” contained in her book Reading Like a Writer. The stories are short and accessible, supported by Kojima’s light and literal translation. I won’t review all of the stories, but rather close with these two, which also ranked in my favorites:

“Rashomon”
Akutagawa is remembered largely because director Akira Kurosawa memorialized this story in his film by the same title. It is a brief and strange tale of a luckless samurai’s servant who dashes under the Rashomon, which was the largest gate in imperial Kyoto, for shelter from the rain. He climbs the stairs to a tower, where he finds the room, consistent with rumor, littered with corpses. In the corner, he spots an old woman crouched over a girl’s body, plucking out the corpse’s hair. He is suddenly possessed by unnatural anger and fear, convinced that this old woman is the incarnation of evil, and rushes on her with a knife. While holding her down, he demands to know what she is doing. Trembling with fear, she says she is only collecting hair to make a wig. Temporarily satisfied, he releases her, but then he changes his mind and tears off her clothes and all her possessions and runs away with them. And that’s the whole story. I’m not sure myself what it means entirely, but it raises the answerless question, What is the source of human behavior? Why do people commit evil? Akutagawa is increasingly concerned with this question, and it figures in all of the stories contained in this book.

“Kesa and Morito”
Returning to the form of varying narrators, Akutagawa captures the confessions of a man and a woman caught in an affair, and in a plot to murder the woman’s husband. Morito admits that he was filled with lust for Kesa. Even though he respected her husband, Wataru, he could not keep himself from her and he rapes her one night. Afterward, he whispers in her ear, “Let’s kill Wataru.” Reluctantly, she agrees. But as Morito is now meditating on this plan, he comes to an astonishing conclusion: He does not love Kesa and he does not want to kill her husband. He says, plainly, “And tonight I am going to murder a man I do not hate, for the sake of a woman I do not love.” Morito is resolved to go through with the murder for fear of Kesa’s retaliation. Kesa speaks next, overwhelmed with shame because of the rape, and grief because she has agreed to be an accomplice to her husband’s murder. She does not want to go through with it anymore than Morito does, but swears to herself never to reveal it. Kesa is unbearably heartsick: “Oh, not only am I unworthy of living, but unworthy of dying.”

Violence or the threat of violence figures heavily in Akutagawa’s stories. His characters are transfixed by the potential to damage or destroy, uncertain of the factors that propel them to action. These stories are unbelievably good and compelling because of their powerful simplicity, their driving prose that begs one to ask, What lies at the bottom of the human heart? What lives in the sludge of the spirit? Akutagawa will not tell us the answer. Instead, he gives his haunting characters voices.

At the end of Morito’s confession, he is pacing in his room and he hears a ballad rising out of the night–a song that is a fitting summary of Akutagawa’s conception of the human condition:

“The human mind is in the dark,
With not a light to shine upon.
It burns a fire of worldly cares,
To go and fade in but a span.”

Day 5 (Thursday)

After bidding farewell to our friendly old lady (she offered to take a photo for us), we travelled all the way from north (Naruko Onsen) to south (Shuzenji)…tranferring at least 4 times. From Naruko Onsen, we took a local train to Furukawa (古川) and transferred to a Shinkansen to Tokyo…then another train to Mishima (三島) and then a local train to Shuzenji (修善寺)….all because we were unable to connect to Odoriko (伊豆号) from Tokyo ;p

It’s tiring day as we had to look for a locker at Tokyo Station to leave our luggage so that we could travel light to Shuzenji. Most of the lockers were used up, so we had to choose a large locker for our small luggage ;p

We bought a bento for our lunch..Tokyo Station is a busy interchange…worst than Narita Airport. When we were on the Shinkansen to Mishima, the train conductor took a long time looking at my railpass. I told Bfurn tt it could be my “doctor’s handwriting” or he had never seen a Singaporean before. When I was about to start my lunch, the train conductor walked back and requested to look at our pass again. Then he said I couldn’t use our railpass for Mishima…so I told him I’d the reservation ticket from Sendai station and wasn’t told that. I figured due to his limited English (I bet he regretted not studying hard ;p), he relented and said it’s ok. Anyway, we digged into our bento….

We alighted at Mishima…uh-oh, we were stopped at the exit, again it’s due to our railpasses…hiyo, I tried to tell them we were rushing for a connecting local train…then in his simple English, he wanted to make a copy of my railpasses and took away my reservation tickets…whatever since we were rushing…then again we were asked to pay at the local train entrance cos the railpass is not valid on this stretch of private line ;p

The local train moved slowly for about an hour before we reached Shuzenji station…alas, we still had to take a bus there ;p (so don’t be too happy if the train station bears the name of your destination.) We alighted at the Shuzenji bus-stop….walked for about 10 minutes and passed Hie Shrine (日枝神社) before we saw our Arai Ryokan (新井旅館）, which comprises heritgage buildings/structures…yes, my name was on the “Welcome Board”….cheap thrill!

We were greeted at the entrance by a few ladies (later I figured they were waiting for a VIP ;p)…We were brought to a lobby area. While we registered, we were served ocha and sweets….what a feeling !! The lady spoke to us in English and explained a lot of things to us….aiya, how could we remember right. She brought us to our room on the 2nd storey. Wow, it’s very nice, looks newly renovated and the room is huge….even the toilet is automated leh…

In view that the day was short in autumn, we decided to go out for a walk first instead of going to the onsen. It’s very quiet, it could be that it’s a weekday or the tourists had left. I loved the serenity in this place. We visited Shuzenji Temple (修善寺), where the place got its name. Crossed the road to Tokkonoyu (独鈷の湯) and strolled in Bamboo Grove Lane (竹林の小径). Compared to the north, autumn was a bit late in the south because most maple leaves were green. We took time to savour the transquility and we could hear the Katsuragawa river (桂川) flows. We ate Wasabi ice cream (Izu area is famous for wasabi) and also bought “seafood biscuit” from an old shop before heading back to ryokan.

We headed to the open air bath, actually there was only a cat ;p before coming back for our sumptous dinner…the food looked pretty and exquisite served by a stoned-face lady. No communication leh…We had hot sake (which I found out that I paid for it, okie, it’s not expensive, in fact cheaper than beer in Singapore). We were very happy and rested. We saw a phote frame with some Japanese writeup. According to my limited Japanese and using my Chinese, we figured that Ryunosuke Akutagawa （芥川龍之介） stayed in this room before. He was a famous writer who penned one of his greatest works in this very room….woohoo….with excitement, we took a lot of photographs…posing here and there;p

At 10pm, we made our way to the famous rotenbo in this ryokan. Why 10pm? The reason being that that’s the time, it’s Lady’s turn to use it lor…so we checked the timetable to make sure we use the right one…after a hot bath, we were back into our zzzzz land.

Judul: Rashomon (Kumpulan Cerita)
Pengarang: Akutagawa Ryunosuke
Penerbit: KPG (Kepustakaan Populer Gramedia)
Cetakan Pertama: Januari 2008
Jumlah Halaman: 175 halaman
No. ISBN: 979-910-093-3

Mengisahkan pertemuan seorang Genin (samurai kelas rendah) dengan seorang perempuan tua di gerbang Rashomon, Kyoto. Konon, gerbang ini juga menjadi tempat pembuangan mayat-mayat tak dikenal hingga tak seorangpun berani mendekatinya di malam hari. Di dera rasa lapar yang hebat, terjadi dilema dalam benak Genin, apakah dia akan terus bertahan disitu atau membuang jauh-jauh harga dirinya dengan menjadi pencuri sebagai jalan terakhir bertahan hidup. Pertemuannya dengan sang perempuan tua awalnya menimbulkan rasa jijik di hati Genin karena melihat ulah perempuan itu yang mencuri rambut mayat-mayat yang tergeletak di Rashomon. Si perempuan tua berkilah bahwa ia terpaksa melakukan itu demi bertahan hidup, ditambah kenyataan bahwa salah satu mayat yang ia curi rambutnya dulu adalah seorang perempuan pedagang daging yang sering menipu konsumennya. Lalu bagaimana dengan Genin? Apakah dia akan terus berpegang pada prinsipnya untuk tidak mencuri?

Ryunosuke Akutagawa adalah penulis Jepang era Taisho yang dijuluki sebagai “Bapak Cerpenis Jepang”. Sepanjang hidupnya, tercatat kurang lebih 150 cerpen yang telah ditulis Akutagawa dimana tujuh diantaranya dimuat dalam buku ini. Kisah Rashomon pertama kali diterbitkan pada tahun 1915 di Teikoku Bungaku dan sampai kini menjadi salah satu topik diskusi sah-tidaknya mencuri sesuatu demi bertahan hidup.

Buku yang wajib Anda baca!!!

Ryûnosuke Akutagawa (1892- 1927), escriptor japonès del període Taisho, de la generació “neo-realista” sorgida a finals de la Primera Guerra Mundial.

AKUTAGAWA, Ryûnosuke. KAPPA. LOS ENGRANAJES. DOS NOVELAS. (Kappa, 1927 i Haguruma, 1927). Buenos Aires: Paradiso, 2006; 122 pp; traduït per Kazuya Sakai; ISBN 987-9409-58-2; il.lustració de la coberta, MÈTODE PER CONTROLAR ELS KAPPAS, 1881, de Tsukioka Yoshitoshi.

    El pacient numero 23 explica les seves vivències en el món dels Kappa. Aquests éssers, que viuen en els rius i tenen els canals i les canonades de Tòquio com els seus carrers, tenen les seves pròpies normes socials, no sempre similars a les humanes.

Acompanyant a Kappa, Els engranatges, relata els fragments de la vida i les al.lucinacions d’un escriptor, barrejant la realitat amb el deliri.

Kappa. Humans i éssers fantàstics. Dos móns i dues societats. Problemes i crítica social. Sàtira del món humà.

“No le contesté, y me dí la vuelta instintivamente para contemplar el Gran Templo. Éste elevaba sus altas torres y cúpulas hacia el nublado cielo como si fueran numerosos tentáculos, reflejando la sombría impresión que deja un espejismo en el cielo del desierto.”

Els engranatges. Al.lucinacions i visions confoses. Retalls de la vida d’un escriptor. Engrunes que cauen per un pou.

“Vi además una cosa extraña delante de mis ojos. ¿Una cosa extraña…? Eran unos engranajes semitransparentes que giraban a velocidad vertiginosa. Es algo que se viene repitiendo desde hace tiempo. Los engranajes se multiplican y me dificultan la visión; pero sólo por unos minutos, luego desaparecen y entonces me acomete un terrible dolor de cabeza.”

La ficció i la realitat, poden anar de la mà, col.locant-se en el mateix pla el món real i el fantàstic, la ficcionalitat i l’autobiografia. En aquestes darreres obres d’Akutagawa és així. Els problemes que queien sobre seu, són el rerefons d’ambdues novel.les, sobretot de la segona. En Kappa, amb un estil clar i irònic, la crítica social utilitza el món d’uns éssers a mig camí entre la mitologia i la zoologia, donant la imatge inversa del mirall del món humà. En Els engranatges, un escriptor cau en una espiral d’al.lucinacions, visions i de foscor, que reflexa els darrers mesos de la vida del propi Akutagawa. En ambdos relats, els problemes sobre l’existència humana i els deliris de la bogeria, es passegen com ombres entre les seves paraules, donant una visió lleugera i densa, extravagant i fidel, a la vegada.

… Un i un altre cop. Amunt i avall. Amunt i avall. Moviments ara més ràpids, ara més lents. Cops de cap repetits, una i una altra vegada. Caparrades insistents. El cotxe accelera i la molla que uneix el cap amb el cos de plàstic marró del gosset, es gronxa a gran velocitat. Amunt i avall. Amunt i avall…

Era un frío atardecer. Bajo Rashomon, el sirviente de un samurai esperaba que cesara la lluvia. No había nadie en el amplio portal. Sólo un grillo se posaba en una gruesa columna, cuya laca carmesí estaba resquebrajada en algunas partes. Situado Rashomon en la Avenida Sujaltu, era de suponer que algunas personas, como ciertas damas con el ichimegasa o nobles con el momiebosh, podrían guarecerse allí; pero al parecer no había nadie fuera del sirviente. Y era explicable, ya que en los últimos dos o tres años la ciudad de Kyoto había sufrido una larga serie de calamidades: terremotos, tifones, incendios y carestías la habían llevado a una completa desolación. Dicen los antiguos textos que la gente llegó a destruir las imágenes budistas y otros objetos del culto, y esos trozos de madera, laqueada y adornada con hojas de oro y plata, se vendían en las calles como leña. Ante semejante situación, resultaba natural que nadie se ocupara de restaurar Rashomon. Aprovechando la devastación del edificio, los zorros y otros animales instalaron sus madrigueras entre las ruinas; por su parte ladrones y malhechores no lo desdeñaron como refugio, hasta que finalmente se lo vio convertido en depósito de cadáveres anónimos. Nadie se acercaba por los alrededores al anochecer, más que nada por su aspecto sombrío y desolado.

En cambio, los cuervos acudían en bandadas desde los más remotos lugares. Durante el día, volaban en círculo alrededor de la torre, y en el cielo enrojecido del atardecer sus siluetas se dispersaban como granos de sésamo antes de caer sobre los cadáveres abandonados.

Pero ese día no se veía ningún cuervo, tal vez por ser demasiado tarde. En la escalera de piedra, que se derrumbaba a trechos y entre cuyas grietas crecía la hierba, podían verse los blancos excrementos de estas aves. El sirviente vestía un gastado kimono azul, y sentado en el último de los siete escalones contemplaba distraídamente la lluvia, mientras concentraba su atención en el grano de la mejilla derecha.

Como decía, el sirviente estaba esperando que cesara la lluvia; pero de cualquier manera no tenía ninguna idea precisa de lo que haría después. En circunstancias normales, lo natural habría sido volver a casa de su amo; pero unos días antes éste lo había despedido, no obstante los largos años que había estado a su servicio. El suyo era uno de los tantos problemas surgidos del precipitado derrumbe de la prosperidad de Kyoto.

Por eso, quizás, hubiera sido mejor aclarar: “el sirviente espera en el portal sin saber qué hacer, ya que no tiene adónde ir”. Es cierto que, por otra parte, el tiempo oscuro y tormentoso había deprimido notablemente el sentimentalismo de este sirviente de la época Heian.

Habiendo comenzado a llover a mediodía, todavía continuaba después del atardecer. Perdido en un mar de pensamientos incoherentes, buscando algo que le permitiera vivir desde el día siguiente y la manera de obrar frente a ese inexorable destino que tanto lo deprimía, el sirviente escuchaba, abstraído, el ruido de la lluvia sobre la Avenida Sujaku.

La lluvia parecía recoger su ímpetu desde lejos, para descargarlo estrepitosamente sobre Rashomon, como envolviéndolo. Alzando la vista, en el cielo oscuro se veía una pesada nube suspendida en el borde de una teja inclinada.

“Para escapar a esta maldita suerte -pensó el sirviente- no puedo esperar a elegir un medio, ni bueno ni malo, pues si empezara a pensar sin duda me moriría de hambre en medio del camino o en alguna zanja; luego me traerían aquí, a esta torre, dejándome tirado como a un perro. Pero si no elijo…”

Su pensamiento, tras mucho rondar la misma idea, había llegado por fin a este punto. Pero ese “si no elijo…” quedó fijo en su mente. Aparentemente estaba dispuesto a emplear cualquier medio; pero al decir “si no…” demostró no tener el valor suficiente para confesarse rotundamente: “no me queda otro remedio que convertirme en ladrón”.

Lanzó un fuerte estornudo y se levantó con lentitud. El frío anochecer de Kyoto hacía aflorar el calor del fuego. El viento, en la penumbra, gemía entre los pilares. El grillo que se posaba en la gruesa columna había desaparecido.

Con la cabeza metida entre los hombros paseó la mirada en torno del edificio; luego levantó las hombreras del kimono azul que llevaba sobre una delgada ropa interior. Se decidió por fin a pasar la noche en algún lugar que le permitiera guarecerse de la lluvia y del viento, en donde nadie lo molestara.

El sirviente descubrió otra escalera ancha, también laqueada, que parecía conducir a la torre. Ahí arriba nadie lo podría molestar, excepto los muertos. Cuidando de que no se deslizara su espada de la vaina sujeta a la cintura, el sirviente puso su pie calzado con sandalias sobre el primer peldaño.

Minutos después, en mitad de la amplia escalera que conducía a la torre de Rashomon, un hombre acurrucado como un gato, con la respiración contenida, observaba lo que sucedía más arriba. La luz procedente de la torre brillaba en la mejilla del hombre; una mejilla que bajo la corta barba descubría un grano colorado, purulento. El hombre, es decir el sirviente, había pensado que dentro de la torre sólo hallaría cadáveres; pero subiendo dos o tres escalones notó que había luz, y que alguien la movía de un lado a otro. Lo supo cuando vio su reflejo mortecino, amarillento, oscilando de un modo espectral en el techo cubierto de telarañas. ¿Qué clase de persona encendería esa luz en Rashomon, en una noche de lluvia como aquélla?

Silencioso como un lagarto, el sirviente se arrastró hasta el último peldaño de la empinada escalera. Con el cuerpo encogido todo lo posible y el cuello estirado, observó medrosamente el interior de la torre.

Confirmando los rumores, vio allí algunos cadáveres tirados negligentemente en el suelo. Como la luz de la llama iluminaba escasamente a su alrededor, no pudo distinguir la cantidad; únicamente pudo ver algunos cuerpos vestidos y otros desnudos, de hombres y mujeres. Los hombros, el pecho y otras partes recibían una luz agonizante, que hacía más densa la sombra en los restantes miembros.

Unos con la boca abierta, otros con los brazos extendidos, ninguno daba más señales de vida que un muñeco de barro. Al verlos entregados a ese silencio eterno, el sirviente dudó que hubiesen vivido alguna vez.

El hedor que despedían los cuerpos ya descompuestos le hizo llevar rápidamente la mano a la nariz. Pero un instante después olvidó ese gesto. Una impresión más violenta anuló su olfato al ver que alguien estaba inclinado sobre los cadáveres.

Era una vieja escuálida, canosa y con aspecto de mona, vestida con un kimono de tono ciprés. Sosteniendo con la mano derecha una tea de pino, observaba el rostro de un muerto, que por su larga cabellera parecía una mujer.

Poseído más por el horror que por la curiosidad, el sirviente contuvo la respiración por un instante, sintiendo que se le erizaban los pelos. Mientras observaba aterrado, la vieja colocó su tea entre dos tablas del piso, y sosteniendo con una mano la cabeza que había estado mirando, con la otra comenzó a arrancarle el cabello, uno por uno; parecía desprenderse fácilmente.

A medida que el cabello se iba desprendiendo, cedía gradualmente el miedo del sirviente; pero al mismo tiempo se apoderaba de él un incontenible odio hacia esa vieja. Ese odio -pronto lo comprobó- no iba dirigido sólo contra la vieja, sino contra todo lo que simbolizase “el mal”, por el que ahora sentía vivísima repugnancia. Si en ese instante le hubiera sido dado elegir entre morir de hambre o convertirse en ladrón -el problema que él mismo se había planteado hacía unos instantes- no habría vacilado en elegir la muerte. El odio y la repugnancia ardían en él tan vivamente como la tea que la vieja había clavado en el piso.

Él no sabía por qué aquella vieja robaba cabellos; por consiguiente, no podía juzgar su conducta. Pero a los ojos del sirviente, despojar de las cabelleras a los muertos de Rashomon, y en una noche de tormenta como ésa, cobraba toda la apariencia de un pecado imperdonable. Naturalmente, este nuevo espectáculo le había hecho olvidar que sólo momentos antes él mismo había pensado hacerse ladrón.

Reunió todas sus fuerzas en las piernas, y saltó con agilidad desde su escondite; con la mano en su espada, en una zancada se plantó ante la vieja. Ésta se volvió aterrada, y al ver al hombre retrocedió bruscamente, tambaleándose.

-¡Adónde vas, vieja infeliz! -gritó cerrándole el paso, mientras ella intentaba huir pisoteando los cadáveres.

La suerte estaba echada. Tras un breve forcejeo el hombre tomó a la vieja por el brazo (de puro hueso y piel, más bien parecía una pata de gallina), y retorciéndoselo, la arrojó al suelo con violencia:

-¿Qué estabas haciendo? Contesta, vieja; si no, hablará esto por mí.

Diciendo esto, el sirviente la soltó, desenvainó su espada y puso el brillante metal frente a los ojos de la vieja. Pero ésta guardaba un silencio malicioso, como si fuera muda. Un temblor histérico agitaba sus manos y respiraba con dificultad, con los ojos desorbitadas. Al verla así, el sirviente comprendió que la vieja estaba a su merced. Y al tener conciencia de que una vida estaba librada al azar de su voluntad, todo el odio que había acumulado se desvaneció, para dar lugar a un sentimiento de satisfacción y de orgullo; la satisfacción y el orgullo que se sienten al realizar una acción y obtener la merecida recompensa. Miró el sirviente a la vieja y suavizando algo la voz, le dijo:

-Escucha. No soy ningún funcionario imperial. Soy un viajero que pasaba accidentalmente por este lugar. Por eso no tengo ningún interés en prenderte o en hacer contigo nada en particular. Lo que quiero es saber qué estabas haciendo aquí hace un momento.

La vieja abrió aún más los ojos y clavó su mirada en el hombre; una mirada sarcástica, penetrante, con esos ojos sanguinolentos que suelen tener ciertas aves de rapiña. Luego, como masticando algo, movió los labios, unos labios tan arrugados que casi se confundían con la nariz. La punta de la nuez se movió en la garganta huesuda. De pronto, una voz áspera y jadeante como el graznido de un cuervo llegó a los oídos del sirviente:

-Yo, sacaba los cabellos… sacaba los cabellos… para hacer pelucas…

Ante una respuesta tan simple y mediocre el sirviente se sintió defraudado. La decepción hizo que el odio y la repugnancia lo invadieran nuevamente, pero ahora acompañados por un frío desprecio. La vieja pareció adivinar lo que el sirviente sentía en ese momento y, conservando en la mano los largos cabellos que acababa de arrancar, murmuró con su voz sorda y ronca:

-Ciertamente, arrancar los cabellos a los muertos puede parecerle horrible; pero ninguno de éstos merece ser tratado de mejor modo. Esa mujer, por ejemplo, a quien le saqué estos hermosos cabellos negros, acostumbraba vender carne de víbora desecada en la Barraca de los Guardianes, haciéndola pasar nada menos que por pescado. Los guardianes decían que no conocían pescado más delicioso. No digo que eso estuviese mal pues de otro modo se hubiera muerto de hambre. ¿Qué otra cosa podía hacer? De igual modo podría justificar lo que yo hago ahora. No tengo otro remedio, si quiero seguir viviendo. Si ella llegara a saber lo que le hago, posiblemente me perdonaría.

Mientras tanto el sirviente había guardado su espada, y con la mano izquierda apoyada en la empuñadura, la escuchaba fríamente. La derecha tocaba nerviosamente el grano purulento de la mejilla. Y en tanto la escuchaba, sintió que le nacía cierto coraje, el que le faltara momentos antes bajo el portal. Además, ese coraje crecía en dirección opuesta al sentimiento que lo había dominado en el instante de sorprender a la vieja. El sirviente no sólo dejó de dudar (entre elegir la muerte o convertirse en ladrón) sino que en ese momento el tener que morir de hambre se había convertido para él en una idea absurda, algo por completo ajeno a su entendimiento.

-¿Estás segura de lo que dices? -preguntó en tono malicioso y burlón.

De pronto quitó la mano del grano, avanzó hacia ella y tomándola por el cuello le dijo con rudeza:

-Y bien, no me guardarás rencor si te robo, ¿verdad? Si no lo hago, también yo me moriré de hambre.

Seguidamente, despojó a la vieja de sus ropas, y como ella tratara de impedirlo aferrándosele a las piernas, de un puntapié la arrojó entre los cadáveres. En cinco pasos el sirviente estuvo en la boca de la escalera; y en un abrir y cerrar de ojos, con la amarillenta ropa bajo el brazo, descendió los peldaños hacia la profundidad de la noche.

Un momento después la vieja, que había estado tendida como un muerto más, se incorporó, desnuda. Gruñendo y gimiendo, se arrastró hasta la escalera, a la luz de la antorcha que seguía ardiendo. Asomó la cabeza al oscuro vacío y los cabellos blancos le cayeron sobre la cara.

Abajo, sólo la noche negra y muda.

Adónde fue el sirviente, nadie lo sabe.

Laurette Pizer (ed.) – Stories Strange And Sinister (Panther 1965)

Tales of the Uncanny, Bizarre and Grotesque

Truman Capote – Miriam
Guy De Maupassant – Who Knows?
Leo Tolstoy – The Porcelain Doll
Ryunosuke Akutagawa – Autumn Mountain
Virginia Woolf – Lappin and Lapinova
Marcel Ayme – The Ubiquitous Wife
Jorge Luis Borges – The Zahir
Yury Olesha – Love
Isak Dinesen – The Young Man With The Carnation

thanks to nightreader of Vault for providing the cover scan and contents!

Every time I sit down to read a book by a Japanese author, I curse myself for forgetting all the Kanji I learned when I was still living in Japan. I can still converse in Japanese without too much trouble (although my vocabulary has been slowly dying a pathetic, tortured death) but I can no longer read much of anything. This is so frustrating. Especially when I come across a text that seems like it might actually be somewhat accessible in the original. 

I finished Jay Rubin’s translation of Ryunosuke Akutagawa’s Rashomon and Seventeen Other Stories last night with mixed feelings. The book is extremely well researched and well presented. It was a delight to spend a few weeks inside these powerful and vivid stories. But I’m a little ambivalent about the translation. Rubin is a terribly experienced translator so I really shouldn’t start ranting about work that I probably couldn’t even attempt to accomplish myself. Still, there were moments when I couldn’t help scolding myself that I hadn’t just gone ahead and ordered a copy of some of these stories in Japanese so I could at least take on a few of the sentences myself. 

Most of what troubled me occurred in the last half of the collection, the stories gathered under Rubin’s titles, Modern Tragicomedies and Akutagawa’s Own Story. These were written during the latter period of Akutagawa’s very short life (he committed suicide at the age of 35) when he finally succumbed to peer/social/literary pressure and started writing about his own life. At that time (cir. 1920), most Japanese novelists wrote fairly undiluted autobiographies and that was it. Akutagawa would have preferred to write fiction, but no one would have understood. This frustration definitely contributed to the decline of his mental health. 

Most of these later stories are like volatile portraits. One of my favorites from this section is titled The Life of a Stupid Man and it works as a mosaic of Akutagawa’s life presented in 51 very short impressionistic flashes. To me they read very much like unregulated haiku. Regardless of length or syllables, many of them had two flat beats and a long mournful downbeat.  

18. Moon

He happened to pass her on the stairway of a certain hotel. Her face seemed to be bathed in moonglow even now, in daylight. As he watched her walk on (they had never met), he felt a loneliness he had not known before. 

26. Antiquity

He was nearly overwhelmed by peeling Buddhas, heavenly beings, horses and lotus blossoms. Looking up at them, he forgot everything – even his good fortune at having escaped the clutches of the crazy girl. 

37. “Woman of Hokuriku”

He met a woman he could grapple with intellectually. He barely extricated himself from the crisis by writing a number of lyric poems, some under the title “Woman of Hokuriku”. These conveyed a sense of heartbreak as when one knocks away a brilliant coating of snow frozen onto a tree trunk.  

Am I the only one that thinks some of these read a little stilted? Maybe it was the time period, the cold, narrative distance that young Japanese writers adopted to be able to write about their own lives so intimately. Maybe it was simply because Akutagawa didn’t feel comfortable in that form. Maybe I am just being overly censorious. 

In any event, this Akutagawa reading is the first for Dolce Bellezza’s Japanese Literature challenge. If you are interested, please join in. She has some wonderful prizes lined up and I am eager to read thoughts and reviews of what the other participants have chosen. 

Logophile’s newsflash – I just found all of Akutagawa’s works in Japanese here. AND, I have found what I’ll be using to finish out Dolce Bellezza’s challenge. The Tale of Genji. This site gives you the classical Japanese, the modern Japanese and the Romaji version, in three interactive panes. Plus I have my English translation to follow along. This will be great.        

Nel frattempo, il blog the books del Guardian prosegue con l’analisi di alcuni grandi scrittori di racconti: a parte lo scontato, ma ovviamente dovuto, omaggio all’arte di Raymond Carver, altrettanto ovviamente paragonato al sommo Cechov, ecco alcuni nomi interessanti a proposito dei quali sono completamente al buio: Julian Maclaren-Ross, Ryunosuke Akutagawa, Mavis Gallant. Qualcuno conosce e consiglia questi tre?

Diary of Torment

‘- I don’t have the strength to keep writing this. To go on living with this feeling is painful beyond description. Isn’t there someone kind enough to strangle me in my sleep?’

Ryunosuke Akutagawa, ‘Spinning Gears’, Rashomon and Seventeen Other Stories, tr. Jay Rubin

Few short story endings are as chilling as the last paragraph of the posthumous Spinning Gears by Akutagawa. What’s even more disturbing is the fact that the author did kill himself at the age of 35, exactly 80 years ago today.

To me, the story itself is a literary masterpiece in the sense that it lingers in the mind for days after reading it; it beckons me to read it again and again, as if whispering that the answer to why one of Japan’s finest literary minds would take his own life lies somewhere in the text. Throughout his depiction of the protagonist’s descent into madness, Akutagawa’s language remains clear and his style deceptively simple, immersing the reader gradually into the narrator’s mind, thus making the story’s ending all the more terrifying.

The story opens with the first person narrator taking a taxi to the train station and being told by a fellow passenger about a ghost who wears a raincoat. Concerned about missing his train to Tokyo, the protagonist dismisses the story but as soon as he reaches the station, he spots a man in a raincoat. The angel-of-death-like appearance of this rain-coated apparition marks the beginning of the collapse of the protagonist’s mind and its presence continues to shadow him everywhere he went: on the train, at the hotel in Tokyo, on the city streets. Later, he would learn that his brother in-law had committed suicide by throwing himself under a train wearing a mere raincoat in spite of it being the coldest time of the year.

Symbols of death and decay pervade the narrative: the appearance of maggots on the narrator’s dinner plate; the reflection of his own face in the mirror revealing the bones beneath his skin; a dog passing him in the streets four separate times or the crows cawing four times assuming significance simply because number four in Japanese is also a homonym for death. Books picked up a random all seem to taunt him, depict his life or predict his death. In the Maruzen bookstore, the caption on a poster of St George slaying a dragon reminds him of the character ‘dragon’ which he uses in his own name; the knight’s face resembles the face of his enemy. This in turn reminds him of a story about the art of slaughtering dragons, a metaphor for a useless skill: writing. Throughout the narrative, we find the narrator’s mind combining, recombining, associating and re-associating isolated incidents, hallucinations or otherwise, to give them meaning: each event a portent of his own death.

From Akutagawa’s own suicide note, A Note to a Certain Old Friend, it seems to me that these tropes of death are no less than metaphors for the self-confessed thoughts of death which had plagued the author in the last couple of years of his life. In other words, it seems to confirm the view that if one is constantly on the look out for signs one is bound to find it everywhere.

In the midst of his anxieties, optical illusions would assault the narrator in the form of a set of translucent spinning gears whose numbers would increase until half his field of vision was blocked, and then vanish within moments, to be replaced by a headache. At other times, warnings of death would plague him through acousma or auditory hallucinations whether in the form of overheard conversations between strangers, or whispers in the night, telling him that diable est mort, the devil is dead. Commentators such as Haruki Murakami and Jorge Luis Borges have suggested Spinning Gears to be an allegory for the disintegrating machinery of modern life, the author’s indictment on the collision between western/eastern cultures at the turn of the 19^th century and its harrowing effect on an individual’s psyche. Bit by bit, we also learn about the narrator’s (and Akutagawa’s own) crippling fear of inheriting his mother’s madness, and his attempts to drown out his anxieties with drugs including Veronal: the same pills which Akutagawa would use to end his life.

Of course, the reader can never really know the actual reasons why Akutagawa contemplated suicide. In A Note to a Certain Old Friend, he himself confessed that ‘no one who attempts suicide … is fully aware of all his motives, which are usually too complex’; all he knew of his own suicide was that it was driven by ‘a vague sense of anxiety, a vague sense of anxiety about my own future.’

However, given that a writer’s self-esteem, especially one of Akutagawa’s stature, is often inextricably linked with his reputation, I began to explore to what extent his death was hastened by his insecurities as a writer.

Young Man of Shou Ling

Murakami in his introduction to Rashomon and Seventeen Other Stories likened Akutagawa to a ‘pianist who has been born with a natural gift for superb technique. Because his fingers move so swiftly and with such clarity, the task of pausing occasionally to look long and hard at something – at the inner depths of the music – can be inhibited before he is aware of it. His fingers move with natural speed and grace and his mind hurries to keep up. Or perhaps his mind forges ahead and the fingers hurry to keep up. In either case an unbridgeable gap begins to form between him and the movement of time of the world around him. Just a gap almost certainly added to Akutagawa’s pscychological burdens and impelled him towards suicide.’

In the text of Spinning Gears itself, the narrator alludes to being the perfect ‘Young Man of Shou Ling’, the protagonist of a Chinese story by Han Fei, whose name Juryo Yoshi the narrator had ironically used as a pen name earlier on in his writing career. In the story, the protagonist had left the rural village to learn the elegant walking style of the city dwellers of Handan but found himself crawling home because he had forgotten to walk in the Shou Ling style before mastering the Handan style. As an analogue to Akutagawa’s own life, it seems to imply that owing to his meteoric rise, Akutagawa had begun his career by flying before learning how to walk, and as a result had skipped certain stages which were critical to his development as a writer. Among them, I believe, is learning how to fail. Having been feted as a prodigy by no less than the literary legend Natsume Soseki very early in his career, Akutagawa had not only lost out in terms of building up his resilience to failure and the criticism of his peers, he had also never found, in Murakami’s words, ‘that single thing he absolutely had to write about.’

In an attempt to advance his work, Akutagawa began to write in the confessional ‘I-Novel’ style, basing his fiction closely on the facts of his life. With hindsight, Akutagawa had written these last stories, replete with self-examinations and recriminations, to his detriment. By its very formulation, the author of the ‘I-Novel’ must also be the protagonist of the story and the genre is one which exposes the dark side of the author’s life. Given Akutagawa’s hypersensitivity, this type of writing would hinder him as the author from keeping an objective distance from his protagonist. I also believe that his very act of committing his dark thoughts to writing had the effect of reinforcing them in his mind, perhaps even to the extent of subconsciously devising in his last manuscripts the blueprint and rationale for his own suicide.

If one’s own writing is indeed a reflection of oneself, I shudder to think what Akutagawa must have felt when he looked in his mirror of ink and saw the face of the man whom he knew in his heart of hearts will commit murder; his own.

Dark Night of the Soul

Akutagawa may well have written fiction such as Spinning Gears with his life as subject-matter to seek refuge from his acute despair, but it seems that this same introspection had led him to conclude that nothing was real.

‘I began to feel that anything and everything was a lie. Politics, business, art, science: all seemed just a mottled layer of enamel covering over this life in all its horrors.’

The narrator’s paranoia concerning fires and images of inferno flashing through his mind suggest that the layer of illusion was burning right before his eyes, revealing nothing but horror. Life as he knew it had lost all meaning.

Something about the narrator’s identification with the spiritual struggles of the protagonist in Naoya Shiga’s A Dark Night’s Passing alerts me to the possibility that the narrator could be going through nothing less than the dark night of the soul, in the mystical sense; the fires and infernos he was seeing, synonymous with the shattering of the mind’s attachment to the ego; and the horror he was experiencing, the realisation of the void, or nothingness. We often hear of mystics suffering frightening periods of depression or ‘darkness’ in the interim period before their enlightenment, and many had even contemplated suicide.

Could it be that Akutagawa had given a negative interpretation to what was actually a blessing in disguise? Could it be that having reached the very end of his intellect, Akutagawa had mistakenly perceived the void confronting him as nothing more than a prelude to madness? And rather than acknowledging the death of his ego he had chosen to kill his body instead, thus depriving himself of what could be the most transformative experience of his self? Of course, these are mere speculations, and one cannot know for certain.

Something niggles though; reading the postscript to A Note to A Certain Old Friend, the romantic in me cannot help but feel that had he hung on to his life a little longer and surrendered to his experiences, he would have gained what he had desired all his life but forsaken through his death: ‘to make a god of [him]self’.