39—
Death

A friend of mine died. Shortly after that, I began to lose my grip on what people around him might be thinking about his death. People came together, tears were shed, funeral arrangements were discussed, gossip was exchanged, and then a stubborn silence took over. His mother said, "Ever since my son got married, I seemed to have lost him completely." His mother-in-law remarked, "He never gave any thought to money. If only he could have been a little more concerned about his family." And a close friend of his muttered to no one in particular, "I am so very angry with him because he chose to suffer alone without ever sharing his anguish with us." Another friend declared that under the circumstances someone was needed to head a funeral committee and then went on to argue fervently about who would or would not be a good candidate for the job. I had a feeling that I was being dragged onto the stage in the middle of a play whose plot I did not know, trying in vain to search for my role among strangers. Yet the people around me at the time were all old friends or else friends of my friends. I could not expect to find a more congenial group.

The man who died—I wonder if I really knew him. When I heard he was not feeling well, I wanted to find out over the telephone what his real condition was. For one thing, we had not met for quite some time, and besides, I had not visited him for years. In those days, the many commitments I had with various journals and magazines always kept me pre-occupied. I almost felt that being busy with work was proof of my being alive.

When I asked him how he felt, he replied casually, "Oh, it's nothing," and then a little nervously, he asked, "Who told you about my condition?"

"That's not the issue," I said. "Never mind that and tell me how you feel. What is bothering you?"

"Oh, just a little stomachache, as usual. Nothing to worry about. I've had it before once in a while."

"Can I see you tomorrow at your place?"

"There is no need for that. I'll be all right."

"Why don't you let me talk to you about it?"

"It's nothing, really."

"Why don't you let me make sure everything is all right?"

"I know you're busy, and besides . . . "

"No, I'm not," I replied. "Not to the extent that I can't visit an old friend and talk about things at our leisure." I said I would come over to see him at his house the following afternoon and hung up before he could respond.

The square in front of the Central Line station seemed a little different every time I went there after varying intervals of time. New shops were now opened, construction work for large buildings had been making some headway, and the location of the bus stops had also been changed from the right to the left of the square. I stood there for a while to gather my vague recollections of the geography of the area. Walking through a narrow shopping arcade where pedestrians moved along literally shoulder to shoulder, I headed toward the residential area with rows of single-story houses, all with a similar appearance. One of them was his residence. His wife came out to greet me at the vestibule, saying, "Thank you for always being so kind to us." Come to think of it, I was ten times more indebted for what he had done for me than the other way round. But I didn't say anything.

He was wearing a dotera and his complexion was a little pale. What hadn't changed was his long hair and his characteristic smile. He didn't really want to talk about his illness, but at my insistence he started to tell me about it in a disinterested tone, as if he were talking about someone else. Just by listening to him, I could tell things were quite serious.

"No matter what I say, he just refuses to go to a doctor," his wife said as she looked at me.

"Would you get some tea for us please?" he said to her.

"A really stubborn man," she said as she rose and went to another room.

"How about it? Shall we take a look?" I tried a nonchalant tone, realizing that I was coming to the important business.

He was not the kind of man to be taken in by the tone of what people said. With a clear voice and without changing his expression, he said, "I don't think that's necessary. Let's talk about something else. After all, we haven't seen each other for quite a while." But I persisted. I told him since I already knew what he had to say about his illness, it was a good idea for me to examine him. After that, we'd decide what to do next. Otherwise, it'd just amount to making a superficial diagnosis. Meanwhile, I thought that his condition might already have deteriorated beyond treatment. After I examined him, I became all the more suspicious that this might indeed be the case.

"I don't think you need to worry," I said, "but you need to be examined at a good hospital to confirm the diagnosis. The examination isn't going to take long, so I think it's better if you check into a hospital. You can't have that kind of examination as an outpatient."

He seemed a little stunned by my obstinacy and agreed to be hospitalized. But for the moment he had a mountain of work to do; besides, he also had teaching commitments at the university. He promised me that after he had taken care of these things, by next weekend, he would do everything I said.

"No, I think the earlier you have it done the better."

"But I am not a child either, you know!" he spoke sharply as if he wanted to cut short our conversation.

"Let me decide what's good for your health!" I yelled back at him. "I'm a doctor."

"But this is my body."

"When I said the earlier the better, I'm not telling you to forget about your work and your responsibilities. What I mean is after you have given it some thought, the earlier you do that the better. If possible, tomorrow." He checked into a hospital the next day.

When I met several of his friends in the hospital corridor, one of them, a Catholic convert, suggested that should his illness prove incurable, it might be better to tell him the truth. Everybody else there opposed the idea, but I didn't have a particular opinion one way or the other. What is a friend if one cannot even trust his words unless one sees the proof? It was difficult for me to lie to his face when I knew he trusted me completely—even though the lie was in his own best interest. Moreover, we knew at that time that nothing could possibly save him. There was no reason to doubt the accuracy of the diagnosis, which meant no one could reasonably hold out any hope for him. In the patient's room,

he said, "Look how skinny I've become." His voice was weak, but as always he was more concerned about other people around him than his own well-being. "Thank you all for taking the trouble to come. I know you're all so busy. If I get better, there's work waiting to be done." I simply could not bring myself to tell him that there was no hope that he would ever get better again.

Soon after he passed away, a thought kept recurring in my mind that he himself might have wished to die. That does not mean that he wanted to commit suicide. After discussing the matter with his attending physician at the hospital, we had decided not to reveal to him what he had, a decision we kept, I believe, until the end. I thought that he, on his part, was rather high-spirited about returning to work again. But perhaps he was only saying it out of consideration for us, his friends who would like to see him live. I had a lingering suspicion that he had earlier already sensed that his illness would eventually kill him, and that he had waited quietly until his condition deteriorated beyond repair. Maybe he was not prepared to die each time the illness had assaulted his body. Maybe he was torn between his fear and his wish for death at the same time. Earlier, he had told me, "I may not have the right to do other things, but even a man like me should at least be given the right to die if I wish to." His voice struck me not so much as subdued as unrestrainedly impassioned. I wondered what he meant by doing "other things," and I did not venture to ask. If he could tell me, he would do so without my inquiring. But he didn't say another word. I had known him for twenty years, but at that time I felt that a very substantial part of him still eluded my understanding.

What does it mean when two human beings "understand" each other? I suppose it means that they can sometimes appreciate each other's "feelings." But no one can predict something as volatile as one's own "feelings." Ultimately, I wonder how much I did really understand the man beyond his persona as it is manifested in his works.

In a sense, we had traveled along the same path for twenty years. Both of us had always tried to reach a higher standard for ourselves and to understand the world and other people around us. As we broadened our perspectives, we both endeavored to explore the correlation between independent facts and experiences. Along the way, I scribbled down my thoughts, while he, for the most part, gathered his experiences and internalized them. But our differences were not significant. He had not done any work worthy of its name, and I, on my part, had not accom-

plished any either. And yet meanwhile, I must say I had an inkling within me that I was about to come to a turning point in my journey. I had begun to detect a certain correlation between a great many things, and this discovery went hand in hand with my awareness of my own position on various issues. I was coming to see that wherever I might be and whatever I might be doing, I would always be my own self. I felt that the time had come for me to start my real work. It was true for me, and I believed it was true for him as well. What could be more cruel than to succumb to illness at this juncture? I did not know what kind of work he could have accomplished in the future, but in any case, I had great faith in its quality. Here we are not talking about the death of someone who had not done any preliminary work, nor about the death of a man of accomplishment of some sort. Here was a man who had died before he could begin his work after he had finally completed all his preparations.

Once a female friend of mine remarked that he was an oddball, a very strange man. She did not elaborate, and I had not heard anything about him from her since. But on one occasion, for some reason I mentioned her to him. It was during one afternoon at a coffeeshop in Nihonbashi. Around us men and women taking a break from the office talked and laughed merrily among themselves. I had just returned from Europe, and he also must have come back recently to Japan. We talked about many things, and naturally, Europe was one of them. He remembered the time he met her there, and I suppose that was why I mentioned her. His reaction surprised me. "Let's drop the topic." His voice, almost shouting with anger, had an intensity I had never experienced. Since then, we had never talked about her. My imagination, however, helped to concoct what might have happened.

He met her in Europe and fell in love with her (if a man had never been deeply infatuated with a woman, surely he would not suddenly get so agitated at the mere mention of her name). However, he had no intention of leaving his family in Tokyo (I cannot tell why, but I would guess it was due primarily to his strong sense of responsibility). Not knowing what to do—if such were not the case, few men would act like "an oddball" and be "very strange"—he must have thought of a last resort. He would look after his family in Tokyo, and she would live alone. What happens when a man and a woman in love decide on their own to give up their hopes of living together and bear the pain of separation? The bonds between their hearts would only grow stronger with time until a consummate friendship developed between them. This friendship

would no doubt help both of them in their work and enrich each other's humanity. This must have been his impossible dream.

Perhaps the story I imagined was not what really happened. But after his death, I came close to believing that he had once loved passionately, that the love agonized him and made him concoct impossible dreams, and that the discrepancy between his dreams and reality caused him profound torment. His short life was not spent in lukewarm indifference. There was no question in my mind that he, in his own special way, lived every minute of it with all the enthusiasm and energy he could muster.

Once, after visiting him at the hospital, I headed for Hongo^[*] on some business. Overcome by the thought of death and a wretched sense of powerlessness, I walked mechanically on the quiet Hongo-dori^[*] without taking any interest in the things around me. When I reached the main entrance to the university, I suddenly encountered a group of students coming out of the main gate carrying signboards saying "Opposition to the Japan-U.S. Security Treaty!" As their loose formation quietly passed the university gate, they began to walk toward the Hongo 3-chome^[*] area. I knew where they were heading from there. However strange it might seem, they reminded me of the scene toward the end of the war during the student mobilizations. With rifles on their shoulders, they walked out the same university gate on their way to the front—young men who were about to lose their lives at sea or in some dense forests far away from home, from their lovers, and from their families. As I watched students pass the main gate, I could not bring myself to leave the scene. Perhaps a number of them—who knows how many?—were about to be butchered by the police of the Kishi government and would never return.^[1] Yet I could not join their ranks or prevent the sacrifice of their blood. What powerlessness! And what wretchedness! All I could do was to speak in a weak voice. Just as I was helpless against cancer, I was completely powerless in the past against the authority that had sent students to the battlefield and was now grinding students under the boot of brute force. Was I destined to end up a bystander just as I had grown up one? That was the gloomy feeling I had deep in my heart.^[2]

[1] Chapter 40 takes up the demonstrations against the treaty's ratification in 1960.

[2] Kato's^[*] reminiscence about this particular episode in 1960 resonates with a literary ghost of the not-so-distant past: Nagai Kafu's^[*] short piece "Hanabi"(Fireworks, 1919), in which he confesses to a debilitating powerlessness at the sight of political prisoners accused of conspiring to assassinate the Meiji emperor in the Kotoku^[*] Shusui^[*] Incident (1910–11). Beyond the superficial similarities of their reactions lie more fundamental questions about the modern Japanese literary intellectual's role in broad social and political discourse. On Kafu's^[*] piece see Moriyama Shigeo, Taigyaku jiken: Bungaku sakka ron (San'ichi shobo^[*] , 1980), 113–30, esp. 113–15; and, in English, Jay Rubin, Injurious to Public Morals: Writers and the Meiji State (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 1984), 190–93; and Kato^[*] , "Japanese Writers and Modernization," in Changing Japanese Attitudes Toward Modernization , ed. Marius B. Jansen (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1972), 425–45, esp. 430–31.

He was truly a hard worker. While teaching at a national university, he also served as a lecturer at a private university. While working as a literary critic for journals and newspapers, he also produced remarkably precise translations of difficult works. Moreover, he also read widely and meticulously on Japanese and foreign literatures. To do all that, a man would have to work ceaselessly day and night. He himself must have felt the drive to accomplish all that. But another important factor was that he was simply not the kind of man to turn down other people's requests easily. A lot of his work was done for the benefit of others, and I only wished he had lived long enough to do his work for himself. Whenever I put down my thoughts in writing, I knew I could always count on him to appreciate their worth. While others might misunderstand what I wrote, I felt certain I had at least one reader who never would. Once, for instance, I introduced the poet Gottfried Benn to Japanese readers and talked about the significance of his intellectual drama to us.^[3] A year later, he produced a scrupulous translation of Benn's Doppelleben entitled Niju^[*] seikatsu . I could not begin to imagine the amount of preparation and effort he put into that translation. Nor could I begin to articulate what a great loss his death was to me.

One time, after visiting him at the hospital, I rode in a car with two other old friends who had come to visit, a man and a woman.

"Is there any hope he could be cured?" the man asked.

"I don't think so," I replied at that time.

[3] A reference to his "Gottofurito^[*] Ben to gendai Doitsu no seishin" (Gottfried Benn and the contemporary German spirit, Sekai , July 1957), in Kato^[*] Shuichi^[*] chosakushu^[*] , 2:198–225. For English versions of Benn's works, known for their resistance to translations, see J. M. Ritchie, Gottfried Benn: The Unreconstructed Expressionist (1972) and E. B. Aston, ed., Primal Vision: Selected Writings of Gottfried Benn (1958). Doppelleben (Double life, 1950) is the title of his autobiography.

"How long will he live? I think we also need to think about what's going to happen next."

"I don't know, but probably not more than a month," I said—but couldn't bring myself to talk about "what's going to happen next."

The woman, whom I had not seen for many long years, was still every bit her old self. As I listened quietly, I was struck with the impression that her short exchanges with my other friend were filled with an undertone of utter helplessness over the imminent and irreclaimable loss of a friend. She had known him since his younger days when the world was opening up before his eyes with all kinds of possibilities, a time when he, on his part, was prepared to greet each and every one of them with ardent enthusiasm. There were no tears in her eyes, but her reminiscence of him—so I thought—brought a beautiful twinkle into them.

After his return from Europe, he must have tried as much as possible to commit himself to his wife and children. Yet his love and hate must also have been directed elsewhere. I suppose the farther away the object of his passions had moved, the more intensely personal his own internal drama became, and the more difficult it was for him to justify his own agony.

"Do you think it's good to be alive under any circumstances, no matter how much sacrifice one has to make?" he once asked me. "Now, don't get me wrong. I'm not speaking about myself, but just as a general question." But of course, I knew it was not a general question. Yet I could not come up with an answer.

I did not understand him then, and perhaps I still do not. The only thing I do understand is the bond that existed between us. This became increasingly apparent to me after his death. Our bond was as authentic and tangible as a piece of rock. What more can one expect from life? I sit writing this piece now, in a country he barely knew. My quiet little room is bright and warm, and there on the table lies a book he wrote. Outside the window is a melancholy autumn and a gray sky. How I wish he could suddenly knock at the door and come into the room, saying, "Hey! It's been a long time! Looks like you're doing all right here!" But I knew it was an impossible illusion; I could never see him again. I am deeply chagrined by the thought. I do not want to talk with him—I only want to see his long hair and his pale complexion once more. Can anything be more absurd than not being able to do even that or something as simple as give him a call? But this anything, however absurd, is possible. Not only is it possible, it is now a reality, an irrevocable, unfathomable, and totally incomprehensible reality.

Shortly after he died, I left Tokyo again. It was true that I was encouraged by the popular movement against the Japan-U.S. Security Treaty that summer. But his death had changed something in me. Until then I had been very particular about where I lived and worked, but after he died this became a secondary concern only. I realized that wherever I went, I could do whatever I was capable of doing. When a new position became available on the other side of the Pacific, I accepted it and departed from Haneda Airport alone. From the window of my plane, I looked at the lights of Tokyo as they quickly receded into the distance and soon disappeared into the deep darkness of the ocean. I wasn't the least sentimental, or the least regretful.