Nureki Chimuo Archive

Note: This chapter references many forms of Japanese music and dance forms, as well as historical figures. I have provided links to these for additional context, and hopefully immersion. Some of the songs have actual recordings to which I have linked, and while the music may be different from what was played by the Sennosuke troupe in Toride City, hopefully they can help capture some small essence of the nights of Nureki in his youth. Before confessing my conversation with Koume, I suppose I ought to explain a bit more about this travelling troupe (among us, we called traveling troupes “dosa,” with a tinge of contempt or self-mockery, we called it “dosa-mawari42 .” Sakura Sennosuke’s troupe didn’t just perform plays about stepmother cruelty. They did everything from imitation kabuki-style plays to sentimental tearjerkers and Soganoya-style sentimental comedies. They constantly adapt to the tastes of the local audience. After all, it’s a daily-changing play. Explaining the Shinpa or Soganoya-style plays here would take too long, so I’ll skip that. Oh, and then there are many plays stolen, no, borrowed, from the swordplay troupe led by Noboru Umezawa and Osamu Kanai, which enjoyed immense popularity until the early Showa era. Those swordplay performances by Umezawa and Kanai were also offshoots of Shinkokugeki, but explaining that would take us down a never-ending rabbit hole, so I’ll skip it. There’s no point in me showing off my knowledge of Japanese popular theater history here. I should just note that as a child, my father frequently took me to the theaters where these plays were performed. In other words, I actually saw their performances. Oh dear, I’ve gone off on a tangent again. Such digressions are surely not very interesting for readers. Let me get back on track. ドサ回り: meaning travelling troupe, but can also mean local hoodlum

Sakura Sennosuke’s troupe performs a “dance show” with recorded accompaniment and singing for about thirty to forty minutes right after opening (they gauge the audience’s reaction while doing this. If they judge the audience to enjoy this kind of dance, they’ll keep going for over an hour). Sennosuke and Kyoko’s eldest daughter and son, that is, Koume and Matsutaro, will be the stars of this dance show. There are many yakuza dances in wandering minstrel enka43 songs like “Akagi’s Lullaby,” “Tonegawa Moonlit Night,” “Three Men on the Road,” and “Journey of Longing for My Wife.” Koume is thirteen, and Matsutaro is ten. The sight of these two children, wearing the gangster’s wigs, dressed in costumes, swords at their sides, dancing in full regalia, is endearing, and the audience applauds and cheers unconditionally. Especially for the petite Matsutaro, cheers of “Cute! Cute!” erupted from the audience, and tips flew toward the stage. The contents of these tips were, of course, cash, which became one of the troupe’s main sources of income. My first stage performance with this troupe, as I mentioned briefly before, took place in the garden of the stationmaster’s home at a certain station along a private railway line originating from Toride City, Ibaraki Prefecture (which was still Toride Town at the time). The two-story gatehouse featured a spacious garden where seating was arranged. However, just like in Matsudo, the seating consisted only of mats laid directly on the ground. The stage is set in an eight-mat room facing the garden and its veranda. A curtain is drawn between the audience seats and the veranda, giving it the semblance of a stage. The night the troupe moved from Matsudo to the stationmaster’s house in this Ibaraki village, while Sennosuke was hanging black curtains on the walls of the room that would serve as the stage, he said to me: “This is Kyoko’s family home. When Kyoko and I first got together, her father was furious and banned us from coming here. But once we had a grandchild, he forgave us.” The travelling actor who came to the village, Sennosuke, made the stationmaster’s daughter, a prominent local figure, fall in love with him. She ran away from, and eventually she herself began performing on stage. It was only natural that her respectable father, a man of status and honor, flew into a rage. For a time, they were estranged, effectively disowned. Now that he has two grandchildren, he’s even offering up his own backyard. “Enka”: traditional style Japanese popular ballad.

“He’s a good man, my father,” Sennosuke said, offering a grateful smile as he bowed his head toward the inner living room where his father was. The chairman’s kindness is something even my father understands, I murmured to myself. A sixteen-year-old rookie actor couldn’t possibly say such a cheeky thing to the chairman out loud. Sennosuke asked me to appear in the dance show featuring Koume and Matsutaro. “I can’t dance,” I immediately shook my head and said. “Learn from Koume. Practice for just an hour and you’ll be able to dance,” Sennosuke said with a light laugh. Then, calling Koume who was laying out the mats for the guests in the garden, he said, “Before tonight’s curtain rises, teach Sentaro one or two things.” “Yes,” Koume replied curtly, her face sulky. There were only two hours left until the curtain rose at seven. I was terrified. Koume ordered me to put on a yukata, and she herself changed from her red skirt into a yukata. Then she summoned the manager, Den-san, and ordered him in a haughty tone, “Teach Sentaro how to dance. Play the record.” It was a side of Koume I hadn’t seen before. Den-san was a senior figure in this industry, likely well past his mid-fifties. Den-san casually replied, “Sure thing,” and got ready for dance practice. (So she’s acting all high and mighty just because she’s the troupe leader’s daughter.) That’s what I simply thought at the time. I knew Koume could dance skillfully, having seen her perform nightly during the Matsudo show. Though she was thirteen, when she danced she deliberately made an adorable face to win over the audience. Then, with an almost lewd innocence, she would flirt with the patrons. I did find Koume adorable, but back in Matsudo, my attention was drawn to the intense drama of Kyoko being painfully bound and tormented, writhing in agony; a stepmother’s cruel treatment.

Sennosuke and Kyoko have visited my home in Matsudo several times. While I’ve seen their faces and demeanor outside of their stage performances as a couple, this was my first time getting a close look at Koume’s everyday self. Koume’s manner when teaching me to dance was oddly mature and damnably insolent. She was stiff and stilled, and at times felt less arrogant than outright haughty. It couldn’t be helped, really, she’d barely finished elementary school, spent her life traveling from stage to stage, and knew nothing of the world. But first and foremost, her speech was rough and insolent. Koume taught me “Kantaro Tsukiyo Uta” and “Tabigasa Michiyuki.” Surprisingly, while Koume naturally wore panties when outside the stage in her red skirt, she wore absolutely no underwear when she put on her yukata for practice. (I accidentally wrote “panties,” but back then there were no such thin, small pieces of fabric called “panties”; instead, there were loose-fitting undergarments called “bloomers.” A few years ago, “no-panties cafes” became a topic of discussion, but if such a place existed in this era, it would probably be called a “no-bloomers cafe.”) Though it wasn’t cold as the season moved toward summer, Koume wore only her yukata over her bare skin, without any undergarments. In Japanese dance, it is forbidden to wear Western-style undergarments even during practice. Particularly for female dancers, it is said that wearing shorts or similar garments beneath the kimono while dancing diminishes the sensuality. However, even for Koume, it was bold to suddenly appear wearing only a yukata, without a waist sash or a skin-colored undergarment. For male roles in dance shows, since they often portray traveling yakuza, wearing pants under the yukata during practice won’t get you scolded. This is because on stage, they wear half-length leggings with patches or arm guards and leg wraps. The male actors of Sennosuke’s troupe (though even with Den-san included, there were only three of them) always wore a single fundoshi44 as their only undergarment. (I too began wearing a fundoshi as my undergarment starting with the next day’s rehearsal.) On the lower part of the veranda where the stage is set, Den-san spins the record and rehearsal for “Kantaro Tsukiyo Uta” begins. First, Koume dances and, using her as a model, I move my limbs and shake my head. Koume, who had been looking bored and unmotivated, suddenly gets into the spirit of things when it counts, occasionally raising her voice sternly to instruct me. Traditional Japanese undergarment

It was frustrating to learn the basics of yakuza dancing from a girl three years younger than me, but I figured, “When in Rome…” Suddenly, I realized. The collar of Koume’s yukata had come undone, and the scent of sweat seeping from her skin brushed past my nose. The collar opened wider, and Koume’s small, rounded breasts came into view. Their cuteness made me gasp for breath and feel dizzy for a moment. I was overwhelmed by the eroticism of the shape of breasts belonging to a young girl. Until then, I had thought Koume was just a child. My object of eroticism was her mother, Kyoko. No, not the real Kyoko. I was drawn to the image of that pitiful, wretched girl in the play. Kyoko bound on stage, endlessly tormented in a stepchild abuse drama, and it could be said that image was what led me all the way to that small village in Ibaraki. But right before my eyes, the small yet plump, rounded breasts of Koume emitted a tantalizing scent of sweat, breathing vividly. Precisely because they were small, they possessed a raw, fresh, and erotic quality. Kyoko’s large breasts swayed heavily, a mother’s breasts, no longer an object of eroticism. Koume’s yukata collar, now further disheveled and spread open as she pressed her body close to mine to teach me the dance with fervor, carried the scent of sweat mingled with sweetness. I felt Koume’s rough breathing right before my face, and at the same time, I saw the red, rice-grainlike nipples on the peaks of her small breasts hidden beneath her yukata. The shocking eroticism made my knees tremble. Trying not to succumb to that shock, I moved my limbs and hips as Koume instructed. At the climax of the dance, Koume twisted her upper body, flung her sleeves wide, and boldly spread her legs to strike a pose. The hem of her yukata split wide open to the sides, revealing her thighs. Actually, it was at that moment I realized Koume wasn’t wearing any underwear. My eyes caught sight of her pale crotch. I was utterly knocked off my feet by the eroticism emanating from her. The rehearsal for “Kantaro Tsukiyo Uta,” in which I must dance alone, is finally over. Though “rehearsal” might be overstating it, it was more like learning the choreography. Or rather, it was just learning the sequence of how to move my body and limbs. “There’s no time left, so that’ll have to do. It can’t be helped,” Koume said to me in a mature tone.

Koume suggested we dance another “Tabigasa Dochu” together. She and I would dance as a pair. The man she loved set out on a journey. It was a dance of a woman who followed him and travelled together. This too was a yakuza’s wandering enka song. “Sentaro-san, you just stand right in the middle of the stage and move around as if you’re keeping the beat. I’ll dance around you to the music,” Koume said this in her usual sharp tone while retying the loose obi of her yukata. But the stern expression she’d been wearing until just now had softened considerably. Come to think of it, this was the first time Koume and I had ever faced each other like this and exchanged words. Koume was nervous in her own way. I thought maybe her tension eased because I’d learned one dance. “Tabigasa Dochu” is indeed a dance performed by the duo of me and Koume, but I just stand around aimlessly while Koume alone moves to my right and left, comes to the front and circles around to the back. Learning two dances at once was beyond my amateur abilities, so perhaps it was the daughter of the troupe leader’s thoughtful consideration that I only had to stand still for one of them. Midway through the song, Koume boldly threw her arms around me while dancing. She clung to my chest with both hands, batting her eyelashes as she peered up at my face from below. At times like that, I couldn’t meet her gaze and felt flustered. Koume is about fifteen centimeters shorter than me. Seeing me flustered, my face surely red, Koume might have found it amusing. While teaching me to dance, Koume was tormenting my heart. That night, Ichimura Namie from the troupe did my makeup and dressed me in my costume. A veteran of this industry well past forty, Namie was originally a wig-maker who also played the shamisen in the orchestra pit, beat the drums, and acted. A truly versatile woman. As she applied white powder to my face, she said things like: “Things must be tough sometimes, but in times like these, you just have to endure it. These days, being able to live each day without worrying about putting food on the table is something to be thankful for.” On the night of the Tokyo air raids, she was the unfortunate one whose parents, husband, and three children all perished in the flames. She had met her current husband,

Ichimura Nagamatsu, a year ago, though they were not yet legally married. Yet, she told me with a bright smile, “You’re young, so you’ve got plenty of interesting things ahead of you.” About seventy people gathered in the stationmaster’s home garden. The dance show began, starting with Koume and Matsutaro performing the “Nozaki Folk Song.” Koume danced the Oshome role, while Matsutaro danced the Hisamatsu role. Hisamatsu was significantly smaller than Oshome, which drew bright laughter from the audience. After that, I somehow managed to finish dancing “Kantaro Tsukiyo Uta.” As I retreated to the wings, Koume came up beside me and whispered in my ear, “That wasn’t dancing, it was radio calisthenics!” and called me names. Next, Kyoko danced “Murasaki Kouta,” followed by Sennosuke performing “Otonegetsuyo.” Then came the duet by Koume and me, “Tabigasa Dochu.” Nervously waiting for the troupe leader’s dance to end, my heart pounding, Koume, who had been standing beside me, suddenly threw her arms around my chest. Then, “Let’s get along from now on,” she said, pushing her lips forward. Since I was about to go on stage, I was startled and reflexively pulled my chin back to avoid her lips. Koume stared intently into my eyes and flashed a mischievous grin. Then, twice, thrice, she pursed her red-painted lips and lunged at mine. I recoiled and dodged. This girl was terrifying. Perhaps because she was wearing the makeup of a gangster woman chasing a gangster man, Koume’s smile was terribly seductive and mature beyond her years. Her presence, pressing close to me while waiting for her cue in the dark corner of the stage wings, felt eerie. She began to seem like a little devil. I was stiff with fear and trembling. Koume smiled and said to me, “That’s a lie. If we kissed now, my lipstick would smudge. Of course it’s a lie. You silly goose, Sentaro-san.” The girl from the traveling troupe used the old word “kiss (接吻: seppun)” instead of “kiss (キス: kissu).” That alone remains vividly in my memory, but I don’t recall how she danced “Tabigasa Dochu.” After eleven thirty that night, I was soaking alone in the bath, where the powdered soap scum glistened and floated on the surface after everyone else had finished. The bathroom in the country house was dim. The firewood in the bath stove had nearly burned out, but the smell of smoke lingered. Then, from the other side of the glass, Koume called out to me.

“Sentaro, are you in there? I’m coming in too.” Before I could answer, the glass door to the bathroom opened and Koume entered, completely naked. Her naked form appeared in the steam and approached me. I panicked. Koume should have finished her bath two hours ago. With a childish gesture, she straddled the edge of the tub and sipped one leg into the water, deliberately bringing her crotch close to my face. I saw her pubic hair, faintly visible like wisps of smoke. Koume pressed down on my shoulders from above, innocently yet mischievously, as I tried to scramble out of the bath in a hurry. “Sennosuke and Kyoko always do this sort of thing in the bath. And Nagamatsu-san and Namie-san get in together too.” The girl refers to her own father and mother simply as Sennosuke and Kyoko. As I sank my body into the water, she wrapped both arms around my back. Water gushed over the edge of the tub. White steam filled the bathroom. I wrapped my arms around Koume’s back too. It was a wooden tub meant for one person. We couldn’t both fit unless we pressed our bodies close together. The girl’s body felt neither stiff nor soft, but supple like the stem of a plant. Had holding her in the bath made her feel so pliant? My chest cradled her small, swelling breasts. It felt like we’d been embracing in the water for a very long time, though in reality it must have been only five or six minutes. As I held her close, the girl’s flesh seemed to melt away bit by bit, until only her bones remained inside my chest, like a single wire. More than sixty years have passed since then. One day in mid-March in 2008, I was again at the scene of a bondage photo shoot. But I’ve forgotten the model’s face from yesterday, the shape of her body, and what we did. Only her name is jotted down in my notebook, so I could look it up, but I can’t recall her face anymore. The sensation of touching her body has vanished from my hands. For instance, if I happened to bump into her on the street, I’d be so forgetful I wouldn’t recognize her (it actually happened once. Embarrassing, I know.). But I still clearly remember the names, faces, voices, and stage presence of those members of the Sakura Sennosuke troupe from sixty years ago.

That night, we embraced in the murky, glistening bathwater where melted white powder, grease, and grime floated, but we never had sex. Even without sex, the sweet sensation of that night, the excitement, the intoxication, and the dizzying pleasure remain vivid and clear in my memory, as if it happened yesterday. Ah, her tiny nipples like red rice grains. I licked that red rice grain with my tongue just once. Perhaps it’s precisely because we didn’t have sex that this memory remains so vivid. The experience of me, completely naked, embracing a completely naked female body for the first time. Early summer at sixteen. I didn’t penetrate her, but I did kiss her. No, I kissed her deeply. Life with the traveling troupe ended after three months, and I returned to my home in Matsudo. It had been agreed from the start that it would only be for three months. The pleasure with Koume was delightful, yet terrifying to me as a boy. I couldn’t say why, but it was terrifying. The plays and dances changed daily. That is, the repertoire changed every day. Every day, Koume taught me song and dance. Hands touching, the scent of Koume’s sweat, it was a pleasure. A pleasure tinged with dread. The boy I was feared that such joyful days couldn't possibly last in this world. There was a terror that a terrible reckoning would surely come. I think the reason I never tried to see Koume again after that was because of that fear. 2008.3.24