Nureki Chimuo Archive

2008.3.28 濡木痴夢男のおしゃべり芝居 第三十四回 Nureki Chimuo’s Talking Theater Chapter 34 父も母もバカ Both my father and my mother are idiots I once wrote about my parents, “What idiotic parents they are, I’m appalled.” It was during the immediate postwar period of food shortages, when they were struggling to feed their three children properly, that I happened to meet a travelling actor. I saw that parent, who had steamed precious sweet potatoes for the actor and given him a gift of money, rejoicing. One of those “three children,” of course, was me. Several months later, I reaffirmed that my parents were idiots. They absolutely must be. My three-month stint with the Sakura Sennosuke Troupe, touring the countryside, was a youthful folly. Those days were filled with all sorts of joys and sorrows, and constant tension, but now they’re all fond memories. In my life, which is now nearing its end, those three months seem to have shone like a rose-colored glow. The fact that I still remember them so vividly is proof of that. Anyway, I was young. I think a young person can do anything. It was fine for me at sixteen, but now my father, who must be over fifty, has become an actor in the Sakura Sennosuke Troupe in my place. However, my father was an employee at Hitachi’s Kameari factory. Though forcibly conscripted by wartime authorities, he was still officially employed by a legitimate company, and our family lived in its company housing. It’s impossible for the members of a travelling troupe, who move from place to place and live together morning, noon, and night, to lead a normal life. I later learned that my father had asked an acquaintance who was a doctor to write him a medical certificate for some illness, obtained a month’s sick leave, and apparently became an actor.

My father loved theater that much. He loved it more than I did. He yearned for it more than I did. It stands to reason that I, inheriting that blood, would love theater too. If he had actually joined the traveling troupe and left his family behind, you’d have to say he was more than just foolish. But after a month, my father returned to our home in Matsudo and resumed his work life at the company. However, he seemed to have thoroughly enjoyed his life as an actor with the Sennosuke troupe, and would often cheerfully recount episodes from that time. I listened intently to my father’s story, but he showed no interest in Koume’s existence and remained unaware of the girl’s achievements. He only boasted about how his presence as an actor had benefited the troupe. My father occasionally participated as an actor in the comfort theater troupe organized within Hitachi Ltd., which I mentioned earlier, and took to the stage. Sennosuke, who had heard about it from my father and knew the situation, pulled my father out after me to fill in for the understaffed troupe. My father’s acting skills were passable, he could handle anything with some dexterity, but he wasn’t particularly skilled. If anything, his art was rather crude. As I listened to my father’s trivial boasts, I thought of Koume and felt my heart grow warm. Just as I finished writing this, I got a call from my manager, R-san. She said that Mika Suzume, who reads this column, had sent in a comment, a very thoughtful and excellent review, and she was faxing it over. In other words, she occasionally urges me on in this way, concerned about my fickle nature. My tendency to slack off on writing and immediately go off to see plays or movies instead. During the latter part of that phone call from R-san, something happened that left me completely dumbfounded. I’ll interrupt the main text to jot that down briefly. “Did you publish a poetry collection when you were younger, Nureki Sensei?” R-san asked. “Yes, I did. I was also part of a poetry club and wrote a lot.” “I just remembered, about five or six years ago, I saw a poetry collection at a used bookstore that included poems written under your real name. At that time, I knew your real name because it was listed as the editor of Uramado in the colophon of the Uramado magazine

itself. So, when I found that old anthology poetry collection in the used bookstore and discovered that real name inside, I thought, ‘Hmm, could this be the same person? Surely not?’ Do you remember, Sensei?” “Yes, I do. That’s definitely an anti-war poetry collection. The poems were written during the 1950s, when the American military intervened in the internal conflict in Korea and it turned into a war. What? You found such an old poetry collection from back then at a used bookstore?” Given my current relationship with R-san, if she were to discover my real name in an old publication, she’d naturally think “Oh?” and pick it up. However, it was five years ago that R-san discovered that poetry collection at a used bookstore. She couldn’t have known me personally. And of course, I had no idea R-san even existed. In other words, even back then, R-san was aware of my presence popping up all over the SM industry. From my perspective, it is truly an honor and a privilege. But that is not what I wish to write about here. Sixty years ago, my poetry was published. Five years ago, R-san browsed it at a used bookstore (apparently she didn’t buy it; it was quite expensive, she said). And she remembered the title of that poem of mine. “Wasn’t the title ‘The Wives of the Harmonica Row’?” “Huh? Wha–?” I blurted out without thinking. “Yes, you remember well. That’s right, exactly, that harmonica row house you mentioned is actually the Hitachi company housing that appears in the current ‘Talking Theater.’ It’s the row house I lived in.” At sixteen, I became engrossed in a traveling troupe’s play about stepchild abuse, eventually joining the company and becoming an actor myself. At the same time, I was also involved in anti-war activities as a low-level member of an organization. “I think that should be written into the Talking Theater too, but if I wrote that much, the story might veer off course even further and stray from the theme. It’s beyond my ability to write that,” I told R-san. On the other end of the phone, R-san seemed to think for a few seconds before saying, “But I suppose you should write it. More than ‘should,’ I’d like you to write it.”

“Hmm. If I were to write it, I’d depict myself sixty years ago, at sixteen, living my daily life fueled by the fervent humanism of the anti-war movement, while simultaneously agonizing over the contradictions of being utterly absorbed in plays like ‘Stepchild Bullying.’” When I muttered, R-san said, “The image of Nureki Chimuo agonizing over that contradiction in his youth… I’d like to read that, wouldn’t I? Though I don’t particularly see it as a contradiction myself.” “I’ll think about it,” I replied. But whether I should write or not, my mind is still undecided. The above story sounds unbelievable, but it’s true. R-san’s character is truly sincere and honest, her judgement is sound, she’s meticulous and has a strong sense of justice. She’s not the type to lie. Well, what to do, I wondered, and as I pondered this, I decided to return to the original topic of “my foolish father.” To put it simply, my father is a good-for-nothing coward. He has a short temper and will yell and scream when something displeases him, but he hates conflict. He’s always grinning and nodding along, a spineless coward, and naturally, he lacks any real ability to support himself. (Ah, this is truly me as a person. Genes are truly formidable.) My father’s father, that is, my grandfather, founded a Japanese confectionery shop that apparently thrived for a time, but my father, in the end, simply shut it down due to his obsession with the arts. His passion for the performing arts led him to become completely engrossed in Kiyomoto and Tokiwazu, which are forms of Joururi (narrative singing accompanied by shamisen), and he neglected his family business to dedicate himself to their study. Even after getting married (his wife, that is, the woman who gave birth to me) and having three children, he disliked the business and left everything to his employees. As the eldest son, burdened with the responsibility of protecting the family business, I eventually found myself practicing Japanese traditional dance. Perhaps a different life would have unfolded if I had become a professional dance instructor, but I lacked both the decisiveness and the talent for that. In the end, I was nothing more than an amateur who simply enjoyed the performing arts. Because of the kind of person he is, if he’s invited to something, he’ll readily jump at the chance whether it’s an impromptu, makeshift theatrical performance or a

low-budget travelling show that gets canceled if it rains; he’ll happily agree to participate without hesitation. My mother was just as foolish as my father, and the reason she was foolish was that when my father said, “I’m going to be working as an actor at Sennosuke’s place for about a month, so I’ll be away from home,” she didn’t show any signs of worry but instead smiled and said, “Oh, you’re amazing! You’ll look so handsome with makeup on!” She was the kind of woman who would send you off with a cheerful, enthusiastic voice. Yet, she was too lazy to go and see her husband’s “moment of glory.” Even when I was performing on stage with the Sennosuke troupe, she never came to see me. She was completely indifferent. To put it negatively, she was dull-witted; to put it positively my mother had a truly generous and magnanimous personality. When I start writing about my father and mother, there are so many anecdotes that it becomes impossible to organize them. I think that’s quite interesting in itself, but I end up getting sidetracked and straying from the main theme. The more I write about my parents, the more they start to resemble me, which is becoming quite annoying. When I think about it (or even without thinking about it), it seems that the fundamental qualities of who I am as a person come from the blood I inherited from my father. However, my father did not have the same preferences as me, the so-called SM tendencies. This is a conclusion I reached after carefully observing my father for a certain period of time. So I can say this with certainty. I think I will have an opportunity to write about this later. A couple of days after my father returned from the Sennosuke troupe, I was still worried about Koume, so I asked about her just once. “Hey, remember that girl over there named Koume?” “Koume? Oh, Sennosuke’s daughter, the child actress. Her dancing has that crowd-pleasing skill, but she’s so proficient it comes off a bit vulgar.” My father, who has paid quite a substantial monthly fee for dance lessons, has a lot to say about it. “Didn’t you say something to Koume?”

I avoided eye contact with my father, deliberately acting nonchalant, though my heart was pounding inside. My father replied. “Ah, that child was a bit cheeky, but kind. When I was bathing at night, she’d come in after me and often wash my back. Such a sweet child.” I felt conflicted and remained silent. In that dim bathroom, the white, naked form of the girl washing my father’s back, enveloped in steam, appeared behind my eyelids. The scent of the murky bathwater, thick and muddy from the actors’ white powder melting on their faces, collars, and limbs, came back to me. It was more of a stench than a scent, yet it felt nostalgic. What emotions had driven Koume to wash my father’s back? As she scrubbed his back with a towel, did she ever think of me? I felt a pang of sorrow, an urge to cry, and never asked my father about Koume again. Why on earth did I go and write down all these embarrassing, trivial memories from long ago? When it comes to romantic affairs in old age, one can write about anything with brazen abandon, but for some reason, the things from one’s youth and immaturity are just embarrassing. What was it that suddenly brought back memories from over sixty years ago? I looked back. Ah, I see. I get it. A collection of old, small bondage photographs kept in the sex museum’s archives. I asked Director Nakahara to make enlarged copies of over a dozen of them. I was utterly captivated by an old, battered photograph, presumably taken in the early Showa era (I think), of a group of bondage enthusiasts who hired a traveling troupe to pose for them. A photograph of an actress bound and tormented and an actor tormenting her with theatrical flair. It’s a human photograph where you can sense the scent of rope, the breath of excited enthusiasts, voices of emotion and rapture, and the actress’s body heat as she earnestly portrays fear and sorrow while bound. In an era before color film existed, everything was monochrome. As I gazed at them, I found myself transported into a world from sixty years ago. What comes across from these contemporary bondage photographs is only the editor’s and photographer’s voices directing the model’s poses and expressions, the light

professionally and flawlessly cast upon the model, and the precision of highly developed printing technology. The very soul, the core essence, is missing. Not a trace of that most vital, heart-stirring thrill of masochism that resonates with true enthusiasts. The model is undoubtedly a living human being, yet she appears no different from a mannequin. These are mere, soulless, formulaic bondage photographs and videos. Nothing more than empty shells. But really, there’s no point in saying this now. It’s futile. I’ll stop complaining. The old photographs I saw at the sex museum sparked a conversation that somehow jumped to my experiences traveling around performing in small towns. But actually, before I was hired by the Sennosuke troupe, I had some stage experience. I think I’ll write about that someday too. Though it was only three or four years, my actions during this period were chaotic for someone so young, or rather, for someone still practically a child. My eating and sleeping places changed constantly, and even I’ve forgotten most of it and can’t quite make sense of it. In the November 1953 issue of Kitan Club, I wrote a novel titled “The Traveling Actor of Pleasure and Torment” under the pen name Aoyama Mieyoshi. Taking that as my first work, I subsequently wrote many pieces on the theme of travelling actors. My experiences with the Sakura Sennosuke troupe were undoubtedly a major origin point for this. But what I really want to write about is the present. It’s my current state of mind and my actions. This is easy because I can just write down what I’m doing and thinking right now. I remember things from sixty years ago quite well, but I forget what happened yesterday. That’s why I must write it down immediately. And so, right here, Rakka-san suddenly appears. (Well now, Rakka-san. You were reading comfortably, thinking I was only writing about things from sixty years ago, when suddenly your own name appeared. You must have been startled huh? Hehehehe…) Would you believe it? I just recently received a “Late-Stage Elderly Medical Insurance Card.” I’m officially a “late-stage elderly person!”

They’re more important than ordinary seniors! (Not that great, is it?) I, a late-stage elderly person, spent four hours, from five in the evening until nine, at a love hotel called “House of Horror” with Rakka-san just three days ago. We spent an intensely rich time together. I intend to write about that richness now. Lately, I’ve been tying up Rakka-san mostly inside a building near a certain station on the Saikyo Line, that is, at Rakka-san’s office. This setup has its own tension, and the pleasure level is extremely high. However, the bed at the love hotel is soft, while the carpet laid on the office floor is still hard. It had been about three months since I’d tied her up on a white, soft bed. I intend to write about this faithfully and in detail from now on. If what I write becomes “literature,” Rakka-san won’t get angry no matter what I write. If it doesn’t become “literature” she will get angry. Whether it becomes literature or not lies in my state of mind. The time spent with Rakka-san was so utterly delightful that I let all my mental tension slip away, and as pure pleasure continued uninterrupted, if I let my guard down, I would drown in it and drift away from literature. I must write with my mind focused and my nerves concentrated. Her naked body was young and fresh and extremely beautiful. Especially when she lies on the bed, the beauty and allure of the line from her slender waist to her hips is enough to make you drool just looking at it. The pleasure I feel when caressing with both hands from the perfectly plump thighs to the buttocks, from the waist to the back, is almost ecstatic. “How beautiful, how beautiful.” And every time, after tying her up, I keep muttering like a fool, as if in a trance, while continuing to stroke her all over. Though I’m easily bored, I never tire of Rakka-san’s body. No, it’s not her body that never tires me, it’s her reactions.

It’s the sheer intensity of her reaction to the rope. Frankly, if she didn’t react this strongly, I wouldn’t feel compelled to write about it over and over again.