Nureki Chimuo Archive

I had Rakka-san read the script for the previous episode of this “Talking Theater.”

“Back then, did Terushi tell the Sensei that his illness was cancer?” she asked me.

By “sensei,” she meant me. I’m certainly no sensei to her, but for some reason, she’s been calling me that out of habit for as long as I can remember.

“He did. He said he had cancer and his spleen was bad. He said he’d have to be hospitalized and have surgery, so I was really shocked,” I replied.

If it had just been a problem with his pancreas, I wouldn’t have been so shocked. He said that to me while pressing his right hand against his stomach.

“It didn’t sound like ‘cancer’ to me. I heard ‘pancreas,’ though,” she said.

It was a conversation with her over the phone, not a face-to-face chat. She was supposed to have been at work at the time.

After the play ended, during the curtain call, I approached Terushi, who had come down from the stage and was standing there still in his makeup and costume, and spoke to him. Rakka-san was standing a little ways off to my left.

There was still a buzz of conversation from the other audience members around us and his voice was low and hard to make out.

But to my ears, it sounded like “cancer.”

His expression was listless and somber. I didn’t sense even the slightest hint of a joke or lighthearted banter.

That’s why I was genuinely shocked. But no matter how shocked I was, there was nothing I could do about it.

Both Rakka-san and I only get to see their plays a few times a year. At most, we’re irresponsible patrons who fill just two seats in the audience for two or three days a year, hardly what you’d call loyal fans. I’m not saying this to put myself down, but we’re no different from passersby.

He must know that, of course.

Still, it’s true that when they came to this town, Rakka-san and I both took multiple trains from our respective homes and spent time traveling to see their performance. Even so, compared to the fans who lavishly stuff cash gifts into their pockets, we’re still closer to being mere passersby. Both she and I know that their livelihood is supported by those cash gifts. And yet I said, “You’ve been losing your edge lately.”

It was a blunt, even rude and irresponsible criticism. He nodded quietly, saying, “I know,” with such sincerity and humility that I, too, was genuinely moved by his character.

And I could tell that Rakka-san, just like me, was also moved by his reaction.

“This man, he really likes your acting. He says it’s the best of all the plays that come here,” Rakka-san said to Terushi from beside me. I was surprised, as I’d always thought of her as a reserved person who wouldn’t say things like that. Terushi turned his gaze toward her and bowed his head slightly.

The “this person” she was referring to was me. Of course, I’m not the only one who likes his plays. She, in fact, liked his troupe even more than I did.

To put it bluntly, I come to see Terushi’s troupe’s plays because she drags me along.

Terushi’s charm, to put it simply, lies in the indescribable air of decadence that seeps from his very being.

It’s not something he consciously tries to project, it's more like a natural scent that’s part of who he is.

He holds the position of Artistic Director of this troupe alongside his older brother (who appears to be his biological brother), Shingo (as printed on the flyer).

The audience has, without even realizing it, grown accustomed to this dual-leader structure. Or rather, they’ve been conditioned to accept it. But come to think of it, even at Shinkokugeki, Ryutaro Tatsumi and Shogo Shimada are effectively the leaders.

Actors belonging to theater companies of this type almost universally take on female roles on stage, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

They play female roles, act, and dance. It makes one wonder if, in this world, an actor isn’t considered qualified unless they can take on a female role.

In their cross-dressing, I sense a kind of perverse quality that transcends the tradition of onnagata established on the kabuki stage. It seems they express female eroticism by exaggerating it further and adding a touch of coquettishness. Yet there is nothing vulgar about it.

In other words, it is more realistic and beautiful than traditional onnagata. It is coquettish.

Watching from the audience, I noticed that Shingo, the older brother and troupe leader, has more refined features than Terushi. He is beautiful whether playing a leading man or a female role. He is also a skilled actor.

Both brothers are tall. The older brother is a typical handsome man, but Terushi has a hooked nose and a slightly long, narrow chin. Moreover, he has an underbite.

He has the kind of face that’s perfectly suited for playing strong-willed, seemingly spiteful characters. Even when wearing female makeup, his hooked nose with its distinct ridges and his protruding, pointed chin remain unmistakable. At first glance, his face doesn’t inspire much warmth.

And yet, he sometimes received more tips and gifts passed directly from the audience onto the stage than his older brother, a handsome man who charms everyone.

I suspect that such popularity stems from the fact that the audience is unconsciously captivated and drawn to an eroticism, one that harbors a decadent quality unique to Terushi and absent in other actors, that only he possesses.

Even during the send-off, Terushi always stands quietly two or three steps behind the other actors. He never smiles or tries to be charming.

That’s not to say he’s aloof. Rather, his demeanor is reserved, like that of a timid, shy person.

There is a scene where the troupe members sit on stage in their natural state and deliver their opening remarks, that is, their greetings. The older brother, who serves as the troupe leader, is full of charm and talks a lot, but the younger brother remains in that reserved position and speaks very little. He gives the impression that he doesn’t want to speak unless it’s part of

the play’s script. You could even call him unfriendly. It seems as though he is shirking his responsibilities as the troupe leader.

However, there’s a catch.

When he takes on a role, he changes completely and becomes bold.

There’s a scene I’ll never forget.

This troupe performs a dance show at the end of their performances. They dance only the climaxes of well-known plays as a treat for the audience.

About a year ago (or maybe it’s been two years now), Terushi played the role of Hirate Zoshu in “Tenpo Suikoden.” Naturally, this was the scene depicting “Hirate’s Final Moments,” the confrontation between Sasagawa and Iioka on the banks of the Tone River, as depicted in rakugo and rokkoku storytelling.

It is a tragic scene in which Hirate Zoshu, once hailed as a prodigy at Chiba Shusaku’s dojo but who fell into ruin because of his drinking, ends up as a yakuza bodyguard and, further weakened by severe consumption, fights to the death for Sasagawa Shigezo, to whom he owed a debt of gratitude.

The tall, hook-nosed Terushi, with his sharp cheekbones, looks perfectly at home in the casual kimono of a ronin, his hair grown out in a sakayaki13 style and his tall feathers withered.

After deftly cutting down several of Iioka’s henchmen (this troupe excels at swordplay), Hirate retreats offstage to the left while coughing violently, only to reappear on stage once more.

The Iioka gangsters, brandishing their long wakizashi, surround him all at once.

The ailing Hirate is already exhausted and has no strength left to fight.

Seeing this, the boss Iioka Sukegoro, played by the senior troupe leader, emerges from atop the earthen embankment on the stage right. And so, the final showdown between the sword master Hirate Zoshu and Iioka Sukegoro begins.

However, Boss Sukegoro suddenly took on the face of the senior troupe leader, Shingo, and said, “Ah, here we go, here we go! Watch out, you’re going to get your costume dirty!”

Not only his face, but his voice and tone had also reverted to his true self. Then, as his younger brother, the stage director, approached him with his long sword drawn he backed away as if frightened.

13

A shaven pate required of the samurai of the early Edo period.

At that moment, I realized what was happening.

Readers may find this hard to believe, but I had already anticipated every single exchange that would unfold on stage from that point on.

And just as I had foreseen, the play unfolded exactly as I had imagined.

After briefly hiding offstage to the left, Terushi returned with his mouth full of red liquid, blood makeup, and reappeared on stage. Hirate Zoshu’s cheek was clearly swollen and rounded.

“I’m going to spit it out! I’m going to spit it out! Watch out!”

Iioka Sukegoro, the senior actor, spoke these words, breaking from his lines. As he spoke, he gestured with his hand to stop the henchmen who were about to attack, pushing them away from Hirate.

Furthermore, the elder stage director turned to the younger stage director, waved the palm of one hand sideways, and said with a laugh, “Stop it, hey, stop it.”

In response, the younger stage director also chuckled slightly and shook his head. It was a mischievous expression. That’s right, for Terushi, this was a kind of prank. Though it was a prank, it made for excellent theater, perfectly fitting for “Hirate’s Final Moments.”

Here, the wandering swordsman Hirate Zoshu is slain by Sukegoro, the boss of the gamblers. Suffering from severe consumption (tuberculosis), Hirate fights a large number of enemies, grows exhausted, is finally cut down, and, with his body pierced by several bamboo spears, dies while coughing up blood.

At that very moment, if he dramatically spits out the fake blood he’s been holding in his mouth with a loud gush, it creates a powerful and cool theatrical moment. The audience gasps in surprise and can’t help but applaud.

However, in this troupe, there’s no need to go that far with realism. All he has to do is act out a painful, wheezing cough and tear at his chest as if coughing up blood. That’s all it takes.

Troupes in this genre must change both their kyogen skits and dance performances every single month. The dance show “Hirate’s Last Moments” is a production that can never be performed again in this town.

If you spit out fake blood, your costume gets dirty first of all. You have to wash it and let it dry. It’s a lot of trouble.

More importantly, spitting fake blood all over the place stains the stage.

While stains on costumes can be washed out, if the stage is stained with red fake blood, cleaning it up afterward is a huge hassle.

Even after wiping away the red sticky substance, stains remain. The costumes belong to the actors, but the stage belongs to the theater owner. The theater owner hates it when the stage gets dirty. Restoring it to its original condition seems like it would take even more effort than washing the costumes.

Of course, Terushi must have been well aware of all this. Even knowing that, Terushi still wanted to do it.

And so, he did.

The troupe leader leaped backward to avoid the red splatter hitting him. As he leaped, he slashed sideways at Hirate Zoshu.

Hirate writhed in agony, let out a death cry that sounded almost pleasurable, struck a dramatic pose, and the curtain fell.

That’s right.

Dying on stage, especially being killed, feels good. You want to writhe in agony more than necessary, more than the script calls for. This desire is, in fact, similar to a sexual impulse. I’ve experienced it myself.

That’s why I understand Terushi’s feelings so well. The moment he steps offstage and takes a mouthful of the fake blood he’s prepared, the instant he’s about to spit it out already flashes before his eyes and he’s overcome by a kind of euphoria.

That sense of ecstasy comes through to me as well. And, to put it bluntly, this sensation is also reaching Rakka-san. It is precisely because it reaches her that she takes an interest in Terushi as an actor and resonates with the decadence that flows through this troupe’s performances.

Furthermore, I am astonished by, and find myself feeling a sense of intimacy with, the shrewdness of this troupe which incorporates even what might be called backstage gags into their performances without hiding them.

“Hirate’s Final Moments” is a dance show lasting no more than fifteen minutes, but this troupe also performs a play titled “Tabaru-zaka.”

It dramatizes the fierce battles of the well-known Seinan War, and features a harrowing scene in which the characters commit seppuku one after another, a performance that seems to have left a strong impression on Rakka-san.

If I were to describe that play here and now, it would take too long and stray even further from the theme of this installment, so I’ll save it for a later opportunity.

I had intended to write about “Hirate’s Final Moments” more briefly and concisely, but it ended up getting rather long. Even so, I feel as though I haven’t even covered half of what I want to say about the mysterious, decadent charm of this troupe.

Why did I, still reeling from the shock of Terushi’s diagnosis of cancer, invite Rakka-san to a coffee shop called “Hakuran?”

I was supposed to write about that, but I ended up going off on a tangent halfway through.

I had always just walked past that place, and even when Rakka-san said “I’m interested in that shop. I’d like to go inside,” I would shake my head and refuse. So why, after hearing about Terushi’s illness, did I suddenly feel like climbing those old wooden stairs? To be honest, I don’t really know myself.

I’m writing this now, hoping that perhaps I’ll figure something out as I go along.

No, wait. It’s not that I don’t know. I mustn’t beat around the bush. I do know.

Whether I’m writing about the interior of that dilapidated old coffee shop or about Terushi, it all stems from my determination to write about Rakka-san, the feeling that I must write about her.

And in trying to write about Rakka-san, I am, in the end, trying to write about myself. A record of my own life.