The four of us crossed the bridge. There were some impressive-looking houses off to the right. Chōzō pointed to the most imposing one among them and said it was where the manager lived. Then, looking to the left, he said, “Over here’s the hole. OK, kid?”
I had never heard the expression “the hole” before, and I strongly considered asking him about it, but I decided to accept the fact that something over here was probably “the hole” and just keep quiet. Later, when I was in a position where I had no choice but to understand the word clearly, it turned out to be not much different from what I first figured. Soon we went left and walked more in the direction of the hole. Following some rails, we climbed higher and higher. There were lots of shabby little houses all around. Chōzō said that these were where the miners lived, and I assumed that I, too, would be living in a house like this from now on, but I was wrong. There were two small rooms (six-mat and three-mat) in each of these shacks, and, true, there were miners living here, but only miners with families. Bachelors like me were not allowed in. We continued to climb, weaving our way among the shacks. The next things that came into view were some long, narrow (but still noticeably broadbeamed) barracks tucked at the foot of some rock cliffs. At first, I thought there were just a few of these buildings, but the more we climbed, the more we saw. They were all pretty much the same size and shape, and all were built up against cliff walls, but each faced in a different direction. Since they had been squeezed willy-nilly onto what little land could be reclaimed from the mountain slope, such fine distinctions as southern exposure or eastern view had been sacrificed. For one thing, the road itself meandered all over the place. When you thought you were passing to the right of a building ahead of you, you’d end up in front of it. Another you thought was directly overhead and expected to reach it soon, but suddenly the road swerved off and you never came near the place. You never knew where you were. And there were faces sticking out of these long, narrow buildings. Now, there’s nothing unusual about faces in the windows of a house, but these were not ordinary faces. Each in its own way was poorly formed, and the color was bad. Even the extent of the badness was out of the ordinary. The blue-gray, blackish, brownish color was something that life in the city could never prepare you for. Hospital patients are nowhere near as bad. When, climbing the mountain road, I first saw these faces, I felt I understood “the hole” even though I still had no idea what it was. Nevertheless, I told myself, “hole” or no, there couldn’t be too many faces like this. I was wrong. Every one of these barracks I passed had faces showing, and they were all the same. By the time we reached our destination at one o’clock, I had been presented with so many awful faces and had had my own face stared at so much—all the faces in the barracks windows were looking at us, without exception, and all with a vicious kind of expression in the eyes—that I concluded the hole must be a truly horrible place.
Our “destination” was one of the long barracks. They called these dormitories “boilers,” though I’m not sure why. Maybe because that’s where they boil the rice they feed the miners. Later, I tried asking one of the miners about the meaning of boiler, but all I got for my pains was a bawling out. “What the hell are you talking about? A boiler is a boiler.” The jargon they use in this little society—”the hole,” “boiler,” “jangle”—consists entirely of words that have come into being and circulate through sheer chance. Anger is the only reply for anyone foolish enough to ask what they mean. There’s no time to ask the meaning of things, no time to answer, and anyone who tries to find out is considered a great fool, so language here is extremely simple and absolutely practical.
As a result, I still don’t know the original meaning of “boiler.” Just keep in mind that a boiler is one of those long barracks at the base of a cliff. So, anyhow, we finally got there. Why we chose that particular boiler is something that only Chōzō can explain. As far as I could tell, Chōzō was not the exclusive supplier for this one place. No sooner had he dumped me at this boiler than he took the red blanket and the boy off to another one. I realized later that this meant they would be taking their meals at some other boiler. Once Chōzō took them off, I never heard from them again. I never once ran into them in the mine. What a strange business. I had fallen in with the red blanket, who had come flying out of the eatery, and with the boy, who had suddenly materialized on the dusky mountainside; we had led and followed each other through the summer night and slept together beneath the dilapidated thatched roof, finally reaching our aimed-for boiler after another half-day in the clouds, only to have the red blanket and the boy suddenly disappear into nothingness. At this rate, my book will never turn into a novel. Life is full of such events that seem as though they ought to fall into place but never do—events, I might add, that are like episodes from a badly written novel. Looking back across the years, it seems to me that the most interesting experiences are precisely the ones with long, floppy tails that disappear somewhere into the vastness of the sky. All past events worth recalling are dreams, and it is in their dream-like quality that the nostalgia lies, which is why there has to be something vague and unfocused in the past facts themselves for them to contribute to the mood of fantasy. Far more interesting than fully developed events that satisfy our expectations of cause and effect are pictures such as a night and a day in the life of the red blanket, only the middle part of which floats before our eyes, the head and hindquarters lost in secrecy. It seems like something that could turn into a novel, yet it never does. There’s something pure about that, something free of the stench of everyday life that I find refreshing. And it’s true not only of the red blanket. It’s the same with the boy. And Chōzō. And the woman in the pine-grove tea stand. On a larger scale, it’s true of this whole book. All I’m doing here is recording facts that don’t fall together. There’s no novelistic fabrication involved, so it’s not interesting the way a novel is. But it’s a lot more mysterious than a novel. Natural facts, which have been dramatized by fate, are freer of laws than a novel devised by human design. Which is why they’re mysterious. Or so I’ve always thought.
The disappearance of the red blanket and the boy was something that occurred later, of course; they were still part of the group when we arrived at the boiler. It was at this point that Chōzō began his negotiations in support of my application to become a miner. Putting it this way makes it sound as if he went to a great deal of trouble, but in fact his “negotiations” were simplicity itself: “This fellow says he wants to become a miner. How about hiring him?” That was all. He spoke not a word about my name, place of birth, family background, personal history, or anything else. Of course, knowing nothing about such things, he couldn’t have discussed them even if he’d wanted to, but I never imagined he planned to settle the matter with such dispatch. The experience of entering middle school had led me to believe that you couldn’t be hired—even as a miner—without following the appropriate procedures. I had been assuming that some personal referee or guarantor or somebody would have to place his seal on some kind of document and that, when the time came, I would ask Chōzō to do it for me. But no sooner had Chōzō begun his “negotiations” than, much to my surprise, the boss of the boiler (of course, at the time, I didn’t know that this was the “boss”; he was just a sturdily built man in his early forties with thick eyebrows and the blue traces of a heavy beard) said, “He wants a job? Sure, leave him here with me.”
That was all there was to it, like the delivery man plopping a bale of charcoal down in the kitchen. There was no appreciation that a human being had trudged long miles across the mountains for the express purpose of becoming a miner, and I found myself resenting the boiler boss somewhat. This was a mistake on my part, the reasons for which will become clear soon enough.
A boiler boss is a kind of captain among miners. He is in charge of one boiler and he controls everything in the lives of his miners, which means he is very powerful.13
Having completed his minute-long “negotiations” with this parti
cular boss, Chōzō said, “Well, then, I leave him in your care,” and he went out with the red blanket and the boy. I figured he’d be back, but I never saw him again, and eventually I realized that I had been dumped. What an awful man! He sounded so concerned for my welfare while he was dragging me out there, but once he was through with me, he couldn’t spare a simple goodbye! Still, I must say I have no idea when or where he received his procurer’s fee.
Perceived by the boss as a bale of charcoal, tossed in by Chōzō like some kind of parcel, I was not feeling much like a human being, which was getting me down, when suddenly the boss, who had watched the three others leave, looked my way. His face was different from the others’. It could never have been taken as the face of a man who would treat someone as a bale of charcoal. He was someone you might encounter any morning or evening on the streets of Tokyo, a man whose bitter experience of life had taught him much.
“Unless I’m mistaken, son, I’d guess you haven’t been a laborer all your life … “
Even before he had finished speaking, the boss’s words made me want to cry. On the point of resigning myself, thanks to Chōzō, to a life in which I would never again rise above being anything but “kid,” I was suddenly “son” again. The joy of having my individuality recognized in a totally unexpected place, the warm familiarity, the memories of the past (I had not become “kid” until the day before yesterday, after all)—a crowd of emotions welled up inside me, in addition to which the man’s tone was so polite and kindly! Since that day, I have encountered many different situations in which I wanted to cry, and I can see from my present jaded state that most of them were not worth the tears. But the tears that welled up inside me at that moment—oh, yes, they might just come gushing out even today if I were to find myself in the same situation. Tears of pain, of hardship, of regret, of defeat: these can be overcome with experience. Even tears of gratitude need not always be shed. But the tears of joy felt when someone recognizes one’s old self in spite of the intervening degeneration, these must stay with one until death, so strong is the human sense of self! Mistaking such tears for tears of gratitude and priding oneself on having shed them may be the same thing as hiring a student houseboy mainly to do chores for you while telling yourself that you’re doing it primarily to help him out.
This, then, is how I came to feel like crying when the boss began to speak, but in fact I did not cry. True, I was feeling down, but I was still in control. A desire to stand my ground had materialized out of nowhere. The only problem was that my mouth wouldn’t work. I just listened in silence to what he had to say. In tones so kind that they filled me with happiness, the boss went on:
“I have a fair idea how a young lad like you might end up in a place like this—especially since that man brought you here. Come, though, think it over one more time. I’m sure he fed you a line about how you could become a miner right away and make lots of money. In fact, you’ll never make a tenth of what he promised you. Becoming a miner sounds easy, but it’s not the kind of work that just anyone can do. Especially someone educated like yourself. There’s no way you can make a go of it here.”
Having said this much, the boss looked straight at me. I had to say something. Fortunately, by this time, I had passed through the feeling of wanting to cry, and my mouth was working again.
“I … I’m not looking for money,” I said. “I didn’t come here to get rich. I know what you’re telling me. I know about that.”
I remember quite clearly repeating myself at the time. “I know,” I said, “I know,” which was a most presumptuous, even defiant way to speak to the man. While you’re young, you can go straight from dejection to impudence depending on the other person’s attitude. I blush to admit it now. And my claims to know what he was talking about meant only that I was fully aware of the fact that Chōzō, the man who had brought me here, was a kind of agent working on commission, and that he partook of the gift of exaggeration shared by all such agents, which “knowledge” was not worth boasting about. There was nothing to be gained at this point by explaining that I had not been deceived, that I knew precisely what I was doing in asking to be made a miner. When you’re young, though, the need to defend your vanity is strong (not that it’s exactly weak even now). I still break out in a cold sweat to recall the stupid insistence with which I sought to justify myself. Fortunately, though, I was dealing with a man whose kindness and sincerity far outshone the needs of his profession. Through an excess of pity for my lack of experience, he chose to overlook my impudence, and I escaped without a beating. For this I am truly grateful. After I came to live in the boiler, I saw with a shock what broad powers the boss wields over his men, and I would blush to recall my “I know, I know.” I might mention here that the boss’s name was Hara Komakichi. I still think it’s a nice name.
Mr. Hara gave no sign of displeasure as he quietly listened to me make excuses for myself, but then he shook his head. It was a big, round head bristling with close-cropped hair, which was receding at the forehead much as if it had been rubbed off by a fencer’s face mask.
“This is just a whim,” he said. “So what if you dragged yourself all the way up here? You didn’t leave home with your mind made up to work in the mines. It’s just some bright idea you hatched along the way. And I know what’s going to happen: you’ll get in there, and you’ll get fed up with it right away. So don’t even start. I’ve never had a student last ten days in the mine. What’s that? Of course they come. Lots of ’em. And they all cut and run when they get a taste of the work. It’s not something that just anybody can do. So take my advice and go home now. It’s not hard to make a living if that’s all you want. You don’t have to be a miner.”
At this point, Mr. Hara, who had been sitting cross-legged on the floor, began to unfold his legs and lift himself from the mats. I was obviously going to fail the test. This came as a great blow—as a result of which I stopped thinking about becoming a miner and began examining myself apart from that question. Suddenly I felt cold. My kimono had become soaked in the rain. My legs were bare. In these mountains, May was like February or March in Tokyo. It hadn’t bothered me as long as I was hot with the climb, and excitement had kept me going until the moment Mr. Hara rejected me. But when I stopped to rest at the boiler and, in addition, my hopes of becoming a miner were suddenly dashed, I began to shiver with the combined impact of the disappointment and the cold. The look on my face at that moment must have been unbearably ugly. Though he had abandoned me shortly before and had gone off without so much as a goodbye, I began to wish I had Chōzō with me again. If Chōzō were here, he’d do his best to see they hired me as a miner. Or if he couldn’t make me a miner, he’d work something out. He paid my fare for me, didn’t he? He’d at least lead me to someplace where I could find my own way. He got whatever money I had when he took my wallet. How am I supposed to “go home” if all I can do is die of hunger on the way? Maybe I should go running after Chōzō right now. If I look in every boiler, I might run across him. If I explain the situation to him and throw myself on his mercy, he can’t just ignore what we’ve been through together. He’ll come up with something clever to help me out, won’t he? On the other hand, a man who would go off like that without a nod in my direction … I stood before Mr. Hara with these time-consuming thoughts racing through my head. How could that be? How could I carry on such a fevered mental dialogue with Chōzō, who wouldn’t give me the time of day and had disappeared from my life, while standing in front of Mr. Hara, whom I liked? Things like this happen all the time. It’s important in times of crisis not to fall into the habit of assuming an enemy’s an enemy and a friend’s a friend but to keep a free and open mind, searching for friends among your enemies and detecting enemies among your friends.
Young and inexperienced, I couldn’t grasp such a state of mind. I stood before Mr. Hara, trembling and uncertain. I guess he felt sorry for me and made an offer: “If you want to go home, I’ll do what little I can to help.”
; His words took me off guard and filled me with gratitude. Which would have been the obvious reaction, but there was more. I suddenly realized that, apart from this man who had just rejected my hopes, there was no one I could turn to for help. The moment I experienced this realization, my mouth stopped working again. Once again, I could only stand there, incapable either of pleading to be made a miner or of asking for the fare to return home. This realization, however, led nowhere. I seem to recall that what I did then was ball my right hand into a fist and rub my cold upper lip. I had often been to the variety halls and seen storytellers perform this conventional struggle against tears, but this was the first time I had ever done it myself.
When he saw this, Mr. Hara said, “I don’t mean to sound presumptuous, but if you’re worried about the fare, you needn’t. I’ll take care of it.”
I didn’t have the fare, needless to say. The taint of money was nowhere to be found on my body. Even somebody prepared to die by the roadside feels more secure if he has money—especially someone like me who could be satisfied with a nice, slow wasting away. I wouldn’t have sneezed at a single five-sen coin. Had it been decided that I was going to go home, I would have begged Mr. Hara for the fare if it had meant rubbing my face in the dirt. I would have accepted the money in any manner required, however unseemly. Pride and dignity can go to hell when you’re actually in a scrape like this. I’m sure most people would do the same. And they should. Not that there’s anything admirable in such behavior. I openly set this down merely to write the truth of human nature as it is in actual fact, and not because I think it’s anything to boast about. Some people will tell you that man is by nature so-and-so, as if that makes the so-and-so all right, but this is like concluding that because sweet bean paste is made from beans, you might just as well chew the raw beans as eat the paste. Whenever I recall this scene in the boiler, I feel disgusted with my own shabbiness. Anyone who can live his life without ever entering into such a sordid state of mind may be short on experience, but he is nonetheless fortunate. And he is far nobler than anyone like me. He is a lucky person who spends his life enjoying sweet bean paste without ever knowing how bad raw beans can taste.