Nureki Chimuo Archive

My dear reader, who has read every installment of this “Talking Theater” of mine, who has also read both “Secret Bondage Stories,” written for Fuji Planning, and “Nureki Chimou’s Obscene Testament of Pleasure,” which I began writing for Web Sniper, and who has promptly purchased and read all six of my paperback books published by Kawade Shobo Shinsha. From this reader, who is the most precious to me, a question was raised.

It concerned a passage I wrote in the twenty-first chapter of this Talking Theater, titled “The Mindset of Calling Oneself a ‘Rope Master.’”

There I wrote that in 1958, I gathered with Minomura Ko, Toshihiku Fukai, Heikichi Yoshimura, Komasa Tanaka, and So Odakiri at a certain bar in Shinjuku, enjoying casual conversation. And I wrote that “Tako Hachiro” was also present.

However, Tako Hachi (real name, Seisaku Saito) began attending a boxing gym in 1958, made his professional debut in 1960, and became the Japanese champion in 1962.

Therefore, the question raised was, “Isn’t it a mistake to say he was at the drinking party with me and Minomura Ko in 1958?”

First, I want to thank this reader, K-san, for carefully reading my writing.

Indeed, you are my best reader. I thank you once again.

No matter how earnestly I write, I can’t help feeling uneasy when it’s published via these computer based media.

Even if calling it unease is an overstatement, it feels somehow unreliable and I can’t help it.

I am a die-hard “paper” person.

Unless it’s firmly printed on “paper,” I can’t even trust my own writing.

Saying this, I can almost hear R-san scolding me, “Even text flowing across a screen can be good if the content is good!” But intuitively, it just doesn’t sit right with me.

Through years of experience, I can picture the faces of those reading text printed on paper. But the faces of those viewing what appears on a computer screen? Somehow, I just can’t see them clearly.

Especially when I receive feedback from people with strange names like Pongpokoling or Chinchikuring, I simply can’t imagine them as real human beings.

(Well, then again, a name like Nureki Chimuo might not exactly be the name of someone with perfectly normal nerves.)

This time, the person who emailed me, whom I assume is using a pen name, K-san, gave a proper full name and the content was serious. So, I couldn’t just ignore this kind of question. I decided to pull myself together and write a reply.

And so, here is my answer to Mr. K.

As K-san questioned, the appearance of “Tako Hachiro” before us in 1958 may indeed be a bit premature.

I believe K-san’s observation that it should have been a little later is correct.

Then, I will write about why I came to think that way.

My brain seems to be wired to struggle with recognizing precise numbers, so whatever I write, the record-breaking figures always become vague.

That’s why I always rely on memory rather than records when writing.

I can write about memorable events from that era, but when it comes to detailed descriptions like “this happened at such-and-such a place on such-and-such a date and time,” it just becomes too much trouble.

I’m just not built with a meticulous mind. I’m terrible at arithmetic and math.

I suppose I could dig out and examine the notes I made back then, but I was born and raised in Asakusa and I’m an impatient sort. I simply can’t handle such painstaking meticulous work.

Well, but that’s just an excuse.

The bottom line is, my account of the event was wrong.

But 1958 was over fifty years ago.

Ah, fifty years!

Oh my, has it really been fifty years since then?!

It’s overwhelming.

As far as I know, not a single person who gathered at the “Takobeya” izakaya22 in Shinjuku Hyakunichino back then, drinking and making a racket, is still alive today.

They’re all gone.

I’m the only one left alive.

Why?

Because I was the youngest among them.

I write about events from fifty years ago, relying solely on memory.

Therefore, this has no documentary value.

It’s just memory. And ultimately, it’s highly sentimental, based entirely on my own subjective perspective.

Memory is a sad thing.

It’s sad because they’re all gone.

Records are cold, hard facts, so they aren’t sad.

They only calmly note the date of death and age at passing, so they do not evoke such deep sorrow.

This time, for this “Talking Theater,” I had intended to write about myself in 1946, but suddenly I felt compelled to write a reply to K-san.

So, the story leaps from the 1946 era at the Tsurukame Theater straight to the Shinjuku “Takobeya” era.

A Japanese style bar.

Ignoring any attempt at documentation, I write only fragments of memory, sentimentally.

The bar’s name “Takobeya” came from the fact it was run by “Tako Hachiro,” and he also lived there.

“Lived” doesn’t quite fit. “Dwelt” is more accurate.

Walking from Shinjuku Station, passing in front of Shinjuku Koma (ah, that theater’s gone now too), crossing the street known as Job Center Street, and turning into the narrow alley opposite leads you into the love hotel district.

These were not the bright, ostentatious, gaudy, glittering fairy tale castle-like love hotels of today. Instead, they were dark and damp, standing quietly and modestly, as if afraid of the world’s gaze.

On the left side of that narrow alley, Takobeya stood, all alone.

It was a tiny, tiny drinking establishment, devoid of any decoration, barely able to squeeze in ten customers at most.

In truth, it occupied the first floor of a two-story wooden apartment building called Inoue-so. And Tako Hachiro lived and slept in a four and a half mat room on the second floor.

I don’t know when or how Tako Hachiro came to run the Takobeya.

The first time I met Tako Hachiro and spoke to him, he was preparing stew to serve to customers at the shop.

(It was a place that only served sake and stew. That stew was actually pretty good.)

Before actually meeting him, I first heard his name from Minomura Ko.

“Sensei, do you know Kappa no Kiyo?” Minomura Ko asked me.

At the time, I was a contributor to the magazine “Uramado,” and he was an editor.

So, habitually, ceremoniously, he called me “Sensei.” Later, I somehow ended up joining the “Uramado” editorial department and then he started calling me “Foo-san.”

At the time, I often wrote under the pen name “Fujimi Iku,” so that’s why he called me “Foo-san.”

Incidentally, during this period, the name Nureki Chimuohadn’t been created yet. This story takes place long before Nureki Chimuo appeared.

“What’s this Kappa no Kiyo?” I asked.

Minomura Ko was a fan of professional boxing and knew all about Saito Kiyosaku.

“He’d keep moving forward no matter how many times he got hit. He was an interesting boxer. Next time, I’ll take you to the bar Kappa no Kiyo runs.”

He told me that he was called Kappa no Kiyo because of his hairstyle and appearance, and that he was now retired.

Then one day, as usual, I went to deliver a freshly written manuscript to the Uramado editorial office.

“There’s someone I really want you to meet. Let’s go together now. He’s the manager of the Shinjuku French Theater, a director and a writer.”

I don’t know what year, month, or day of the Showa era this was. I didn’t record it, and I don’t remember.

The Shinjuku French Theater was a strip theater located behind what is now the Isetan Annex.

I think there was a building called the Sogo Department Store back then, and it was adjacent to it.

Or perhaps the French Theater was built in the building after the Sogo Department Store withdrew? I don’t know. That French Theater itself disappeared a long time ago.

Anyway, this is an old story from fifty years ago.

(This sort of thing might be written about in Hata Ichibei’s “Comedians’ Revolving Stage” or Yodobashi Taro’s “Life Sleeping on the Floor.”)

An iron staircase leading up from the street below is attached to the back entrance on the outside of the second floor of that strip theater building.

You climbed the iron stairs from outside to enter the theater’s dressing rooms.

Holding onto the railing outside that backstage entrance, Minomura Ko pointed out a figure standing there, seemingly lost in thought, and said to me from a distance.

“That’s Fukai Toshihiko. See? He looks like an interesting guy, doesn’t he?”

Minomura Ko and I climbed the stairs leading up to the backstage entrance of the nude theater.

This is my memory of meeting Fukai Toshihiko, a truly remarkable man I will never forget for the rest of my life.

At that time, Fukai Toshihiko was living in a room on the second floor of an apartment building called Inoue-so, Shinjuku Hyakunincho, a so-called “Takobeya.”

It was the room next to Tako Hachiro’s.

After quitting boxing, Tako Hachiro aspired to be a comedian, and Fukai Toshihiko was a big shot in the strip world who had launched many famous comedians in Asakusa.

When I met Fukai Toshihiko, Tako Hachiro called him “Master” and was studying under him.

Fukai Toshihiko and Minomura Ko grew close and developed a tight relationship. Initially, it was because Fukai Toshihiko, who had free access to strip club girls, was providing models for “Uramado.”

However, they found they were on the same wavelength, and eventually developed a deep, human, and fascinating friendship.

(As for me, several years later, I became the resident writer for Fukai Toshihiko’s troupe and even accompanied them on their traveling performances along the Tokaido Road.)

When Fukai Toshihiko, the well-connected boss of the striptease world, and Minomura Ko, the equally well-connected editor, painter, and writer, met at the “Takobeya,” their respective professional connections and friends would naturally gather around them.

It was a dazzling array of faces.

Because Tako Hachiro was the proprietor of that establishment, the man responsible for bringing customers their sake and serving them bowls of stew, it was only natural that Tako Hachiro was present at such a gathering.

But I cannot now clearly state how many years, from which Showa year to which, that era lasted.

All that remains is to recall the record of my faint, brief, yet deeply impressionable friendship with Tako Hachiro.

So, next, I shall attempt to write down those memories fragmentarily.

The following message was submitted by K-san. We are reprinting it with his permission.

K-san’s email 10-14-2009 09:48

Nureki Sensei, I always look forward to reading “Nureki Chimuo’s Talking Theater,” “Bondage Secrets,” and the recently launched “Nureki Chimuo’s Obscene Testament of Pleasure.”

I’ve also read all six paperback volumes of Nureki-san’s works published by Kawade Shobo Shinsha. I’ve even posted comments several times in the past on “Bondage Secrets.”

I consider myself a fairly dedicated pervert and enthusiast, but I get incredibly nervous about emailing Nureki-san, who “hates fake enthusiasts who approach wearing the mask of a true enthusiast.” I’m afraid he might say something like, “You’re not a pervert at all. You’re just a fake.”

Regarding “Nureki Chimuo Talking Theater,” I have a question, though it might seem like nitpicking. If possible, I’d appreciate your thoughts when you have a moment. I occasionally visit the museum, so I’d be delighted if you could comment then (though I’d be too intimidated to ask anything if I actually saw you, Nureki Sensei).

My question concerns Nureki Chimuo’s Talking Theater, Chapter 21, “The Mindset of Calling Oneself a ‘Rope Master.’” In it, you wrote about memories from a Shinjuku bar in 1958. It’s the memory of Suma-san (Minomura Ko) introducing himself by saying, “I’m a rope master.”

You mention that Tanaka Komasa, Fukai Toshihiko, Yoshimura Heikichi, and Tako Hachiro were also present at the time.

I’m personally organizing the history of SM as a hobby, and seeing the name “Tako Hachiro” here surprised me a bit. I knew his name appeared in SM circles from the mid-60s onward, but learning he was interacting with Suma-san and Nureki-san as early as 1958 was quite surprising.

However, as I’ve recently been tracing Tako Hachiro’s path, 1958 was when Tako Hachiro, ask Saito Seisaku, was 18 years old, having just graduated high school and moved from Sendai to Tokyo. He was working transporting film reels between theaters and hadn’t yet joined a boxing gym. He seems to have harbored aspirations for the entertainment world, but I think it might have been a bit too early for him to be drinking with people like Tanaka Komasa in Shinjuku. Tako Hachiro started going to the boxing gym in 1959, made his professional debut in 1960, and became the Japanese champion in 1962. So,

* Wasn’t this 1958 actually a bit later, around 1960? * Wasn’t Tako Hachiro absent from this 1958 gathering?

I think it must be one of these two possibilities. What do you think?

I apologize for nitpicking the details, but since Nureki Sensei’s work holds immense historical value, I believe this section is crucial for the record of SM history. If there is any misunderstanding on your part, I would appreciate it if it could be corrected.

I realize this email is quite presumptuous, but I hope you will forgive me.

K

The following is a reply from Nureki Chimuo to K-san.

It was written prior to the composition of the above “Talking Theater, Chapter 97” and sent to K-san as a private letter via me, R-san.

Please note that we always ask for permission before publishing any correspondence in “Talking Theater.”

If you prefer your correspondence to remain private, we will not publish it. Please feel free to send your questions anytime.

Nureki Chimuo’s Response 10-15-2009 11:09

From Nureki Chimuo Mr K.,

I couldn’t be happier that you’ve already read my “Talking Theater,” “Secret Bondage Stories,” and even my latest work, “Obscene Testament of Pleasure,” which just started recently.

Furthermore, I’m deeply grateful to hear you’ve also read the six paperback volumes published by Kawade Shobo Shinsha. I offer my heartfelt thanks once again.

Among the messages sent to me via the internet, R-san selects the meaningful ones, prints them out neatly, and lets me read them.

Regarding your comments about “Tako Hachiro,” I felt I absolutely had to respond properly, which is why I’m writing this as a personal letter.

(Of course, this too is my handwritten manuscript that R-san has retyped for the computer.)

Centering on the letters you sent, Director Nakahara of the Sex Industry Museum and I spent a truly fulfilling time yesterday (10-14-2009), chatting happily for over three hours, reminiscing about various things.

(As always, my chatter ended up getting in the way of the director’s work quite a bit.)

The conversation spread endlessly, even touching on Tako Hachiro and the people around him, and we just couldn’t seem to stop.

Back then, Tako Hachiro was in charge of a small izakaya called “Takobeya” (a tiny place with just the manager, no staff), and that’s where we all gathered.

Back then, the person Tako Hachiro called his master was Fukai Toshihiko, and his friends were Yoshimura Heikichi and Suma Toshiyuki. I was Suma Toshiyuki’s companion (this was before the name Nureki Chimuo was born), and so the human connections spread rapidly and endlessly.

Fukai Toshihiko lived on the second floor of the “Takobeya” with his young, beautiful lover (Hiroe Kumi), whom he met on tour, and right next to him was where Tako Hichiro slept and lived. Nakata Masahisa and Tanaka Komasa were originally editor and writer, and Suma Toshiyuki set up his desk next to Nakata Masahisa and began editing “Uramado.”

Eventually, I became the resident writer for Fukai Toshihiko’s traveling theater troupe, touring from place to place. Tanaka Komasa joined that troupe as an actor, and so the story keeps expanding. Within our circle of friends, Tako Hachiro was always there, playing a supporting role, sticking close by. Being an izakaya owner, he was always in a supporting role. In short, it was an era when we all got along well and had a lively, fun time together.

As for the matter you inquired about, I believe I will write about it in the “Talking Theater.” Thank you very much. Please write again.

2009.10.15 11:09