Nureki Chimuo Archive

The “sibling roleplay,” or “adventure roleplay,” or “romance roleplay” between Tamayo Nishiki and myself continued for several months in this feverish, dreamlike state.

Even if the theater people involved with the Tsurukame Theater find out about my actions like this, they’re not exactly “respectable” folks themselves, so I suppose they’ll cut me some slack.

However, if the parents of the three sisters or the “serious,” respectable residents of the Tsurukame Apartments saw me, I’d be denounced immediately and ruined.

If any parent saw a young man sneaking into their three daughters’ room, sprawled out sloppily with limbs exposed, sleeping haphazardly all night long, their blood would boil and they’d be furious, no question about it.

(Looking back now, even Hideyo, a young mother of twenty-eight with a baby, was part of that sleeping arrangement. That alone was extraordinary. Moreover, Hideyo’s husband had been taken to the battlefield and was still missing in action, his fate unknown in a distant land.)

One day in early spring of 1946 (Showa 21), Tamayo sat before me with an unusually serious expression.

“Fukujiro-san, I have something to tell you. Please listen.” Saying this, Tamayo firmly grasped both my hands with hers.

Her hands gripped mine tightly, her breath brushing my face, and my heart pounded wildly.

When she became serious, Tamayo’s eyes shone with an even more bewitching, lustrous glow.

Like a lamb under a witch’s spell, my limbs went limp and my mind went numb.

“I’m telling you this because I genuinely care about you, so please listen carefully. Fukujiro, you can’t stay in this kind of theater troupe forever. Japan lost the war, and from now on we have no choice but to become a vassal state of America. Kabuki is finished. No matter how good the plays by Takejaku-san or Fukunosuke-san are, the audience simply won’t come anymore. Kabuki is done for. I have a friend, Tomie Kadokawa, a leading actress with the Tobu Theater Company. I’ll introduce you to her. You must go to Tobu and study diligently. You can’t stay in this kind of theater forever.”

Tamayo said this to me when the Takejaku troupe was performing “Gonsaburo and Sukeju” at the Heiwa Theater in Yotsugi, Katsushika Ward.

In the narrow dressing room, separated from the hanamichi by a single wooden wall, the troupe leader, Takejaku, muttered to Fukunosuke with a wry smile, “For some reason, whenever the audience numbers drop and the troupe is about to disband, we end up performing this ‘Gonsaburo and Sukeju.’”

I remember feeling an overwhelming sense of unease when I heard that, and I shrank back.

Even our loyal patrons from the Honjo Kotobuki Theater days wouldn’t take the Keisei train all the way out to Yotsugi.

The climax of “Gonsaburo and Sukeju.”

On the white sand floor of the magistrate’s office, lined up in a row, Takejaku as Gonsaburo, Fukunosuke as Sukeju. Takenosuke played Hikoemon, arrested for a crime he didn’t commit.

Onoe Otoyo, playing the son Hikosaburo, sought to clear his father’s name.

Kataoka Tobei was the real culprit, the villainous carpenter Kantaro.

Sawamura Tetsuzaburo played the magistrate Ooka Echizen-no-kami.

And then, playing the officials, Umezawa Hideo, Arisawa Kotaro, and Ichikawa Fukujiro, that is, me. Bando Chikujiro played the jailer who brought the prisoner out of the dungeon.

The audience watching the play was sparse and hollow, with the number of spectators almost equal to the number of actors performing on stage.

No matter how hard Takejaku tried to liven things up with amusing gestures and expressions, not a single laugh came from the audience.

Standing there, one hand gripping the end of the rope binding Kantaro, who was being dragged along, and the other holding a six foot staff, I heard, “That kind of play is over now.” Tamayo’s voice echoed back to me.

(Maybe I should go to the Tobu Theater, like she said, I thought.)

Yotsugi’s Heiwa Theater was a daily flop. In those days, if it weren’t for a woman named Tamayo, how lonely my days would have been.

I decided to follow Tamayo’s advice and go to the “Tobu Theater.”

“Please stop me,” I said, kneeling in seiza. Fukunosuke, seated before the dressing room mirror, merely glanced at my reflection and nodded silently.

The attendant, Nakajima-san said, “You’ve worked hard. In times like these, it can’t be helped,” and looked a little sad.

I was taken by Tamayo to the rehearsal space of the theater troupe “Tobu.”

They said everything had already been settled with Tomie Kadokawa.

Get off at Hamamatsucho Station on the National Railway.

A room inside a warehouse-like building near Shibadaimon was the rehearsal space for “Tobu” at that time.

When I opened the door, the rhythm of recorded music echoed, and a dozen or so young men and women were taking dance lessons.

Several women were wearing ballet practice wear, and I was overwhelmed by the glamorous atmosphere.

I was overwhelmed by the bright atmosphere, so different from the damp and stagnant Tsurukame Theater.

I sensed immediately that we were from different stations in life.

First, everyone was young. Their movements were sharp and lively, their expressions full of vitality.

Stepping into the room, I saw a huge mirror covering the entire left wall.

My whole body suddenly appeared reflected there, and I froze in my tracks.

One woman in the middle of her lesson spotted us and exclaimed, “Wow, Tamayo-chan, you’re here!”

She held out both hands, waving her fingers as she approached.

Then, she suddenly threw her arms around Tamayo. The two hugged each other and bounced up and down like children.

This must be Tomie Kadokawa, I thought. She was a petite actress.

Tamayo introduced me to her.

“This is Toyoichi-san.” “Nice to meet you. I’m Kadokawa. Let’s be friends.” That was the extent of the introductions.

I knew that “Tobu” was a prestigious theater company with a long history, great prestige, and considerable talent.

Joining such a distinguished company, especially with Tamayo Nishiki as my guarantor, felt like it required no audition or paperwork whatsoever.

However, I never did learn the nature of Tamayo’s relationship with Tomie Kadokawa, or what connection the troupe had to her.

Tomie Kadokawa addressed me in a tone bordering on command, “Toyoichi, you join in too. Just as you are, take off your jacket. Stand at the very back and do exactly what the person in front does. If you don’t move your body properly, your stage voice won’t come out.” she said.

There was no room for refusal.

Nodding at Tomie’s words, Tamayo smiled. That smile encouraged me.

As instructed, I took off my jacket, handed it to Tamayo, and joined the lesson.

Tomie Kadokawa and Tamayo stood in a corner watching my movements, continuing to chat amiably about something.

This was my first day after joining the theater troupe “Tobu.”

The next day, my entire body ached with muscle soreness, and I couldn’t even bend down in the restroom.

It was because of that lesson I’d suddenly been made to do on Tomie’s orders. The pain lasted about a week.

For me, it was a pain I’d never experienced before.

But even as I groaned and groaned, I felt something like hope within that pain.

I wish to state here the name “Tobu” for this theater company is a provisional title.

I want to write about myself honestly and straightforwardly.

I want to keep writing.

I am careful to not let it become a novel-like fabrication.

To that end, I want to write as honestly and truthfully as possible about the people I have interacted with. I want to write exactly what I felt.

But then, I worry that this might cause unexpected trouble for those people I’ve come into contact with. Even when writing carefully, trouble could arise at any time, in any way.

I want to avoid that.

I have had the unpleasant experience of having my past and present affairs, under the name Nureki Chimuo, written about in a funny and improper way in magazines and such.

I fear that my writing might cause others to experience that same unpleasant feeling.

(The reason I used pseudonyms for theater names like Tsurukame Theater and Shirahige Theater is the same.)

Some people find it troublesome simply because someone with a dubious sounding name like Nureki Chimuo was once close to them.

To those who think that way, I am indeed a dubious individual. I won’t deny it.

I’ve even been confronted and berated face to face, “Aren’t you ashamed to do such work?” And in front of a crowd, no less.

Some have even said that associating with me is a stain.

I’m not needlessly putting myself down. Nor am I reveling in paranoia. It’s just the reality, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

Therefore, when writing proper names as they are might cause trouble, I use pseudonyms.

I sincerely hope you’ll understand.