Nureki Chimuo Archive

The second act of the kyogen performed by the Takejaku Troupe at the Shirahige Theater in Mukojima is as follows.

1. Light Theater. Tatsuan’s Game of Life. Three Scenes

Tatsuan………Kataoka Tobei Wife O-Tetsu………Bando Sakiko Iwataya………Sawamura Tetsuzaburo Wife O-Matsu……Fushimi Yoko

2. Shinrei Yaguchi Crossing Scene: Tonbee’s Residence

O-Fune…………………Bando Takejaku Watashimori Tonbee……Sawamura Tetsuzaburo Nitta Yoshimine………………Onoe Otojo Servant Rokuzo………………Kataoka Tobei Stagehand………………Fushimi Yoko

3. Two Crossing Guards. Second Scene

Sankichi………Tobei Kinzo………Tetsuzaburo Geisha Somika………Otojo Horiguchi Shinsaku………Bando Takejaku Sankichi’s Wife………Fushimi Yoko

I know I’m repeating myself, but these kyogen titles and cast names are my handwritten signs posted on the wooden wall behind the short, slanted hanamichi protruding from downstage left.

It was the impoverished era immediately after the war, when we couldn’t afford luxuries like programs.

Of course, we couldn’t make posters or flyers either.

In my memory, I recall the sight of a few handwritten, two-color (red and black) flyers posted on the walls of burned-out houses and telephone poles in Mukojima, Sumida Ward, just across the Shirahige Bridge.

The character “台” for the role appearing in the second play, “Shinrei Yaguchi Crossing,” used a complex character with many strokes on the flyers back then.

My handwriting in the notebook is a direct copy of that.

I looked it up in the dictionary I have on hand, but that character is no longer listed.

The entry for “うてな” only lists “台.”

In my notebook, it is neatly transcribed in my own writing as “臺.”

Do computers or word processors even have characters like this nowadays?

R-san, I know it’s a hassle, but could you look into it for me?

The word “うてな (utena)” itself was still part of everyday speech during my childhood.

It refers to a palace built high up with a good view. It also means a platform with a flat top designed to hold things.

The calyx of a plant is also called “utena,” but this character ”蕚” might not exist anymore either.

For some reason, the name of my master, Ichikawa Fukunosuke, is missing from the cast list for the second performance at the Shirahige Theater.

The absence of his name means he did not appear.

Furthermore, the names of Kawabe Saburo and his troupe, who have been participating in several recent performances with the Takejaku troupe, are also missing.

“Tatsuan’s Game of Life” was a performance by Kawabe’s troupe.

Since the Kawabe troupe is not participating, Tachibana Ichiza’s Tobei is playing the lead role of “Tatsuan,” which Kawabe Saburo usually performed, while the other roles are being played by Kabuki actors.

In short, Ichikawa Fukunosuke and the Kawabe Saburo troupe are not performing in this production.

But I have absolutely no memory of this at all.

Why was I, his apprentice, the only one performing, while Fukunosuke, the leading onnagata, was taking a break?

Even when I say “performing,” it was surely just standing on stage in a minor role with hardly any lines, and otherwise running errands in the dressing room.

I’m writing this “Talking Theater” now while looking at my diary from that time, but there’s no record whatsoever about those circumstances.

There must have been some reason on the promoter’s side, but there was no one who would explain the situation to a newcomer like me, a sixteen year old actor.

Even if I had known the reason, it wouldn’t have mattered.

In the most chaotic period immediately after the war, in a corner of downtown Tokyo that had barely escaped destruction, among people struggling with scarce food and daily hardship, the reasons why an actor from a small theater troupe performing meagerly didn’t show up were, frankly, of no consequence.

Besides, I’m probably the only one bringing this back to consciousness sixty years later.

“What meaning could there possibly be in reviving such a trivial matter from so long ago?” I suddenly ask myself.

There is absolutely no significance whatsoever.

Why am I writing so tediously about these matters, things from the distant past, forgotten by everyone else, trivial occurrences in the corners of ordinary life, things that are, you might say, little more than dust and rubbish?

I answer: I write because I want to write.

Why would you want to write such things? Stringing them together won’t make you any more impressive.

Far from being something to boast about, isn’t it rather the sort of background you’d better off hiding from the world?

In those days, the derogatory term “riverbank beggar” still clung to life.

A riverbank beggar is what they call an actor.

They were also called "riverbank performers.” The name came from the days when kabuki was performed on the banks of the Shijo River in Kyoto.

My mother loved theater and performing arts almost as much as my father did. Yet, even she, when she learned I was hired by the Tsurukame Theater, muttered under her breath, “So you’re going to be a riverbank beggar, are you?” And for a moment, her face looked sad.

My father was nearby at the time and said, “Theater is most enjoyable when you’re doing it with an amateur troupe. Once you make it your job, the hardships outweigh the fun.”

He didn’t oppose it outright, but his expression clouded over just like my mother’s, and he avoided looking me straight in the face.

Why do I feel the need to write about something I’m not proud of, something I should probably keep hidden?

I never thought I had this kind of morbid fascination.

If anything, I’m a person with a strong sense of vanity.

There’s another reason I’m writing down these old, shameful things, so to speak.

It’s because R-san is right beside me, is urging me on, “Write! Write! Write with all your might!”

Getting my butt kicked feels good.

Whatever he writes, it is Nureki Chimuo who breathes within it.

No matter what he writes, it is Nureki Chimuo who has lived that way.

I can’t be the only one interested. Everyone is reading it.

Is that so? Would anyone even read something like this?

Yes, there must be.

Now, write it. Write it. You must write it.

It’s because I’m told things like that, something like courage, something like a reason to live, wells up inside me, and that’s why I’ve written until now.

Yes, I’ll write.

But what I write is still boring, you know. Things from my childhood aren’t worth writing down at all.

It’s fine. Write. Just write.

Come to think of it, I might have written this “Talking Theater” with R-san as my sole reader.

Even if that’s the case, it’s fine.

That’s how it should be, just make up your mind and accept it.

As mentioned earlier, Kawabe Saburo’s troupe and Ichikawa Fukunosuke did not appear in the second performance at Shirahige Theater.

The name of the actress Fushimi Yoko appears in all three of the plays lined up.

Fushimi Yoko does not belong to Kawabe Saburo’s troupe.

She was also not an actress with the Bando Takejaku troupe. All actresses in the Takejaku troupe were formally considered disciples of Master Takejaku, and this was immediately apparent because their names began with “Bando.”

Fushimi Yoko, in a sense, was a guest performer with the troupe.

She appeared to be three or four years older than me, but I later learned she was actually my same age.

In other words, generally speaking, she was still a young girl.

Yet on stage, she was bold, mature beyond her years, and highly skilled.

In comedies, she naturally played the role of a young woman, but also portrayed a married woman with children.

In kabuki, she flawlessly portrayed dignified samurai wives and the like.

I remember when she played the role of a betrayed wife in “Two Crossing Guards,” clutching her infant and preparing to throw herself onto the train tracks. Sawamura Tetsuzaburo, watching from the wings, murmured in admiration, “She’s remarkably skilled. If she’s this accomplished at such a young age, what will she become in the future?”

This Fushimi Yoko also goes by another name, Komori Akiko.

As mentioned earlier, the “New Star Kabuki” troupe, performing at the Tsurukame and Shirahige theaters, was divided into two companies, one led by Bando Tsuruzo and another led by Bando Takejaku.

Fushimi Yoko was a disciple of Bando Tsuruzo in the Japanese dance division and also went by the stage name Fuji Ryuko.

There must have been some reason why Tsuruzo’s disciple was performing as a guest artist with the Takejaku troupe instead of appearing on Tsuruzo’s own stage, but I had no way of knowing that back then.

This young actress, Fushimi Yoko, would make a dazzling debut on the Asakusa stage a few years later and become the popular star Asaka Mitsuyo.

It feels disrespectful to refer to her by her name alone, as she is still an active and energetic troupe leader today. However, this “Talking Theater” has omitted honorifics from the start, so I hope you’ll forgive me.

Asaka Mitsuyo herself wrote about this period of her life in a very candid style. It was published in 1958 by Gakufu Shion, a publisher in Nagasaki, Toshima Ward, under the title “Onna Kengeki” (Women’s Swordplay).

Written in her characteristic frank and spirited style, it depicts the social climate of the era, the underbelly of the entertainment world, and the interactions between people. It has become a valuable historical document.