Nureki Chimuo Archive

Tako Hachiro called me “Sensei.”

That was because he had heard Minomura Ko, editor-in-chief of Uramado, call me “Sensei,” since I was a regular contributor to the magazine.

Minomura Ko also called Fukai Toshihiko “Sensei.”

Though I hadn’t written about it in Uramado at the time, Fukai Toshihiko published plays in specialized theater magazines and was a well-known director within the industry. Having lived through the postwar light theater scene and the world of strip theaters, it was only natural he was called “Sensei,” unlike me.

(Fukai Toshihiko appears in the 1974 collection of dialogues by Ozawa Shoichi, “Clear Talk, Sex Talk, Sacred Talk, and Casual Chat,” published by Shirakawa Shoin in Kyoto. Other names featured in this collection include Inoue Hisashi, Toita Koji. Ozaki Koji, Yoshiyuki Junnosuke, and Tanaka Komasa. It is a substantial and profoundly rich book. The vivid accounts recorded here form a solid part of the enduring history of popular culture. Yet, if you want to read these writings published over thirty years ago, you can simply pick up the book and open it immediately. But when someone tries to read this computer-written text thirty-odd years from now, will they be able to just pull it out and read it instantly like this book? As someone completely clueless about computers, I have no idea. R-san, please enlighten me.)

Fukai Toshihiko referred to Minomura Ko as “Suma-san.”

This is because Minomura Ko’s real name was Suma Toshiyuki.

Tako Hachiro naturally called Fukai Toshihiko “Sensei.” He also called Minomura Ko, who conversed with Fukai as an equal, “Sensei” too, even though he didn't quite grasp Minomura’s true identity.

For example, one night, I arrived at the “Takobeya” a little early. When I slid open the shop’s glass door with a clatter, Tako Hachiro, who was simmering stew in a large pot behind the counter, bowed his head and said, “Ah, Sensei, welcome. Where is the Master today?” That’s how it went.

The Master in question, of course, was Minomura.

“The Master will come later,” I’d say. “He’ll bring a whole bunch of important teachers with him. Make sure you cook up plenty of stew.”

Minomura had arranged to meet the writers and painters who contributed to Uramado right here in this “Takobeya.”

Even though it was called “Uramado,” Tako Hachiro couldn’t grasp what kind of magazine it was.

Later, Fukai Toshihiko would write articles for “Uramado” and “Suspense Magazine” under the pen name Kitano Ryuichi. Even though Tako Hachiro was his disciple, and had some association with Minomura Ko and myself, Tako Hachiro had absolutely nothing to do with SM.

That much, at least, I want to make perfectly clear.

Even if he didn’t understand the term SM, he knew the word “pervert.”

This was because when Fukai talked about Minomura and me to others, he would chuckle with a smirk, using the affectionate and gentle phrase “those perverted people.”

For example, whenever Minomura and I would show up at the Takobeya, Fukai, who was waiting, would greet us not with a hello but with, “Well, well, the perverted duo has arrived. Hehehe…”

He’d greet us with a happy chuckle deep in his throat. Then raising his voice a bit, “Well then, I guess I’ll become a pervert too,” he’d say, narrowing his eyes with even more intimacy and laughing happily again.

Even when Tako Hachiro is nearby, he doesn’t seem to understand what’s going on. He just tilts his head, his one squinting eye looking off in some random direction, and laughs, “Hehehehe…” That’s all he does.

The izakaya “Takobeya” hung its noren curtain on the ground floor of Inoue-so, a two-story wooden apartment building facing a narrow alley. The owner of this Inoue-so, a stylish woman called Mama, was an old acquaintance of the writer Heikichi Yoshimura, who lived in Asakusa.

Heikichi Yoshimura and Fukai Toshihiko were old workmates and close friends from the postwar Asakusa world of light theater and striptease.

Mama of Inoue-so was connected to the writer Takami Jun, famous for his novel “Under What Star,” set in Asakusa. Heikichi Yoshimura knew all about these connections and told me every detail.

Basically, everyone was connected in some way. When people linked horizontally, vertically, and diagonally all gathered together in the “Takobeya” one night, the drinks and conversation flowed freely, and the night stretched into the early hours.

The dancers from the theater managed by Fukai Toshihiko would come over after their performances.

Drunk from the sake that customers had made him drink, Tako Hachiro lay sprawled out, his face flushed red, fast asleep on the small raised tatami area at the back of the shop.

Seeing this, the dancer said, “Oh well, Tako-chan, you really are hopeless. I’ll watch the shop tonight, so don’t go wetting the bed over there.”

As she spoke, she began serving the customers, pouring them sake and dishing out stewed dishes.

Watching the dancer, Minomura Ko called out, “Miss, you’re beautiful. Would you consider modeling for our magazine next time?”

Strictly speaking, at that time, “Uramado” didn’t yet have any photo pages requiring models.

Back then, Uramado still wore the mask of a pulp fiction magazine.

“Wow, a job offer? I’d be delighted!” The dancer rejoiced, then turned to Fukai Toshihiko and asked with a flattering smile, “Sensei, is it okay if I take the job?”

“Sure, why not,” Fukai replied with a smirk, clearly enjoying himself.

“But if you model for that guy, you’ll turn into a pervert.”

“Wow, that sounds interesting. What kind of pervert?”

Shokunai meant “side job.” It was a reversal of the word, “naiko23.”

Naiko is spelled 内職, but if you spell 職内, it reads as shokunai.

In today’s terms, it’s like a part-time job. It meant taking work outside the stage. The dancers were salaried employees.

This is how regular customers would become part of the establishment and later provide services to new customers.

The clientele itself gradually became people who enjoyed the unrestrained atmosphere.

Near the bar, love hotels lined the streets. Women who lured men to such places would also show up at the Takobeya.

Tako Hachiro acted as a go-between, connecting those women with men.

I know of no other person who was so universally liked and loved.

Before long, Tako Hachiro started frequenting the home of popular comedian Yuri Toru, becoming his apprentice.

Thanks to Yuri Toru, he started appearing on television and even landed small roles in movies.

At first, he apparently aimed to be a comedian performing skits between dances at strip theaters, but that wasn’t an easy act to pull off. It wasn’t something the tongue-tied Tako Hachiro could manage.

You need a distinct character and considerable skill as an entertainer to make it on that kind of stage.

Writing this brought it back to me.

Back then, the theater Fukai Toshihiko was involved with also had performers like Sasajuro, who later went to Osaka and became a TV star, and Ichiro Chagawa.

When exactly was the heyday of the Takobeya? From what year of the Showa era to around what year?

I don’t know, since I never recorded it precisely.

All that remains for me are rather vague memories. What’s left are really just mere “impressions.”

Minomura Ko and I went to the “Takobeya” solely to meet Fukai Toshihiko. Tako Hachiro just happened to be there.

But I also encountered Tako Hachiro several times by chance in places other than the Takobeya.

Those times, I was usually walking alone through the city.

And Tako Hachiro would suddenly call out to me.

For example, on the night of the Tori no Ichi festival at Hanazono Shrine in Shinjuku, where rake sellers and street vendors crowded together in a colorful array, calling out “Come on in, come on in!” Tako Hachiro was among them, calling out to customers.

Spotting me in the throng, “Hey, Sensei! Have some sweet red bean soup! It’s on the house!” he’d say, stopping me in my tracks with a bit of force.

I could see the partially melted adzuki beans floating at the bottom of a large black iron pot.

He poured boiling water from a kettle into it, stirred it vigorously, and ladled the diluted sweet red bean soup into a plastic bowl, and said, “Here you go! Sorry to keep you waiting!” as he handed it to me.

Another time, in front of the Shinjuku Kinokuniya Ad Hoc, he was actually selling cheap ceramic bowls laid out on a table.

Spotting me from afar, he shouts, “Hey, Sensei! Buy something, anything! Just buy one thing!”

Standing about 150 centimeters tall, he had a slight build and a constant, distant gaze, his squint giving him a rather vulnerable look that made him seem like a good-natured fellow. Yet, as a former boxer, his eyes were sharp when it came to sizing up his opponent.

Reluctantly, I bought a small, inexpensive teacup.

At times like that, Tako Hachiro was probably helping out the street vendors in that neighborhood.

I wonder how business was going at the “Takobeya,” but I never asked about it and didn’t keep any records, so I have no idea.

I was once approached in front of Asakusa’s “Hanayashiki” amusement park.

Back then, there were still vacant lots in that area, with sideshow booths featuring attractions like the Snake Girl who devoured live chickens whole, or the beautiful Bear Woman covered head to toe in bear fur.

(Ah, how old and nostalgic this story is. But truly, back then, remnants of such sideshows still lingered in Asakusa.)

Tako Hachiro stood at the entrance to the "play" being performed after the tented sideshow act, working as a barker.

This time, I noticed him first and approached. He recognized me immediately.

“Hey, Sensei! Come see the show! Come on in! I’m playing a role with a topknot! I’ve got lines too! Come see it, Sensei!” Invited, I went inside.

Inside was a tent theater, popular at the time, and indeed, the play had begun.

Looking back now, I suspect it might have been an avant-garde play by a troupe calling itself the “Hamadashi Theater,” but I haven’t recorded this clearly so I can’t say for sure.

Tako Hachiro appeared wearing a topknot, yelling and waving his sword around.

The final scene was interesting and made me gasp. When the backdrop curtain was removed, the Asakusa streets, not a set, were directly visible from the audience seats, and rain was pouring down.

That rain was actually actors, still in costume, climbing onto the theater roof and pouring water from hoses and buckets.

People walking along Hanayashiki Street stopped in surprise, watching this artificial rain. Tako Hachiro was perched at the very top of the tent, wildly swinging a bucket while yelling something.