Nureki Chimuo Archive

Rakka-san.

Yesterday, after saying goodbye to you, it was still early, so I decided to go see a movie. I walked all the way to that theater and stood there thinking for a little while.

It was a double feature of two somewhat appealing comedies. The American film “The Hangover” and the U.S.-U.K. co-production “The Men Who Stare at Goats.”

The start times were just right, so I was about to go in. But then I decided against it.

Lately, I’ve been putting off writing the manuscript titled “The Story of Minomura Ko” (working title) that Kawade Shobo has commissioned me to write.

(Because I’ve had to write manuscripts for Web Sniper and SM Net.)

Okay, I decided to head straight home and continue writing “The Story of Minomura Ko.”

On my way to the station, I stopped by Book Off and bought a copy of Yoh Henmi’s “The Lukewarm Water of the Red Bridge” from the Bunshun Bunko series.

It had a list price of 250 yen, so when I paid 300 yen, I got 175 yen in change. It turned out to be a half-price sale day.

Cheap! It’s so cheap I almost feel bad.

Takaaki Yoshimoto wrote the commentary, and I wanted to read that.

I’ve also seen the film adaptation of “The Lukewarm Water of the Red Bridge” directed by Shohei Imamura. It was a thrilling and interesting movie.

Once I got on the train, I started to feel hungry.

Then, the image of that delicious katsudon from “Umebayashi” inside Akihabara Station popped into my mind.

I want to eat it!

A fierce internal struggle raged between the urge to get back to my room as soon as possible to tackle the overdue manuscript and the desire to eat Umebayashi’s 750 yen katsudon.

I am a base person.

Fifteen minutes later, I was eating that katsudon.

It was so delicious, so delicious, I almost cried. I thought to myself, “This is pure pleasure.”

Well, come to think of it, it’s simply that this restaurant’s slightly sweet katsudon suits my taste.

(Come to think of it, didn’t Nagai Kufu die while eating his favorite katsudon at a neighborhood diner?)

After that, I drank a 250 yen hot coffee at the coffee shop across from Umebayashi. This was delicious, too. They even have wine.

There’s a table in the center for eating and drinking, and nearly ten different shops are lined up around it. Customers choose what they like, carry it over themselves, and sit down to eat wherever they please.

It’s the kind of place that’s been popping up all over the place for the past few years. With Japanese soba shops, Chinese snack bars, and bakeries all under one roof, it might seem a bit chaotic, but the interior design is fresh and thoughtful, giving it a stylish, modern food court vibe.

Sipping hot coffee after eating a katsudon while leisurely reading the writings of Tsuneo Henmi and Takaaki Yoshimoto was a truly luxurious pleasure. Calling it bliss might be an overstatement, but it was indeed a wonderful feeling.

In fact, at this coffee shop, at 11 AM, four days from now, I will be waiting for Rakka-san. And, using this place as our starting point, we will spend a delightful day together.

At exactly 11 AM four days from now, or perhaps five minutes before 11, or maybe five minutes past 11, you will appear in my line of sight, wearing your usual black hat, smiling shyly.

When you spot me, your eyes beneath the hat will widen in surprise, and you’ll shyly cover your lips with three fingers of your left hand (for some reason, always the left hand), not that you only have three fingers, you have five, of course. Then, tilting your neck and shoulders slightly to the left, you’ll take a couple of wobbly steps backward. Then, when you return to your original spot, this time with a clear smile, bowing your head, approaching me, you’ll say, “Good morning.”

On this day (that is, four days later), the place I’ll be showing you isn’t the usual Asakusa, but an unknown location far from Tokyo, a place I’ve hardly ever been to myself.

Well, actually, I did visit the bustling area centered around the station a few times several years ago. There were plenty of movie theaters there, too.

But according to the map, the place I’m taking you to is about a twenty or thirty minute walk from the station, far from the downtown area.

You and I won’t take a taxi, we’ll walk there hand in hand, getting along just fine.

Will we actually be able to reach that unknown place without getting lost? But isn’t it a little exciting to walk together down streets we’ve never walked before in an unfamiliar town far from Tokyo, filled with both anxiety and a sense of anticipation? It’s bound to be fun. It’s definitely going to be fun.

The place you and I will reach is a quiet, aging two-story wooden building, tucked away in a corner of a street lined with shabby, struggling shops. Or perhaps it’s a dilapidated building with patches of peeling plaster. In short, it’s a small theater.

“Wait, ‘what’s plastered?’” you ask.

I’m not exactly sure myself.

(Though you’d know right away if you saw it.)

I’ll look it up in the dictionary.

It says that mortar is a mixture of cement and sand, kneaded with water. It’s used for joining stone and bricks, and for finishing walls and floors.

Well, in short, it means that rough-textured, stain-covered brown building.

That said, I haven’t actually seen that little theater myself.

Since I’ve never seen it, I’m going to check it out with high expectations.

The image of that shabby theater’s slightly grimy, mortar-plastered exterior is just a figment of my imagination.

It’s a fantasy of mine. I just hope it’s like that. If there were a few actor’s banners dyed red, green, yellow and navy blue standing in front of the theater, I’d be absolutely thrilled.

That’s the image of the Shirahige Theater from the “The Second Floor Where the Lewd Woman Lives” series of novels I wrote long ago under the pen name Fujumi Iku, Rakka-san.

And I believe the plays performed in such a theater would surely be of a nature befitting such a venue.

For the past few years, every month (or even two or three times a month) I’ve been watching those performances with you, Rakka-san, in Asakusa, amidst the explosive cheers of that usual, packed-to-the-brim audience, where the actors give their all with such passionate, all-out performances. I wonder what kind of art they’ll present when they come to this lonely stage far from Tokyo.

Partly because I want to find that out for myself, I’m going to visit. And I want to show you that kind of stage.

If a troupe that has left Tokyo delivers a performance as passionate as the ones in Asakusa, I will of course be delighted and offer my heartfelt applause. Conversely, even if they reveal that they are cutting corners, I can accept that as well.

To me, the artistry of those who perform day and night on the Asakusa stage looks, without exaggeration, as if they are risking their lives.

For a whole month, I believe each and every one of them is giving 120 percent of their spirit and physical strength.

If they were to keep that up for two months, I think they would start collapsing one after another. It wouldn’t be surprising if they did.

I believe their lives, centered around the stage, are something truly extraordinary, going beyond the limits of human physical and mental endurance.

It is an art form so intense and grueling. That's why I’d be curious to see how they unwind when they’re away from Asakusa.

Huh? What did you say?

Are you saying that’s a rather mean-spirited curiosity?

Yes, I know.

Writers, by nature, possess malicious and cruel hearts.

But you know, Rakka-san.

Maybe… and I mean just maybe… to cater to the tastes of the regulars who come to that old theater in an old town far from Tokyo, they might just slip in a performance of an old play, something like “Stepmother’s Cruelty” or a tale of karma, you know, Rakka-san.