The grandfather, at that time, spent each day at his leisure. If it is true that an uncommon romanticism flowed through the veins of the Irie family, it most likely originated with this elderly gentleman. In the prime of his life he had managed a rather successful trading operation in Yokohama, but far from opposing the decision of Shinnosuke, his late son and only heir, to enter the Art Academy rather than study business, the old man actually boasted about it to those around him. That’s the sort of man the grandfather was. Even now that he was advanced in years and retired from business, he refused to confine himself to sitting around the Irie house in Kojimachi. He was past eighty, and yet after dressing immaculately each morning as if he had some important affair to attend to, he would make his escape the moment no one was watching, slipping out though the back gate with astonishing speed. After walking at a brisk pace for two or three blocks, he would glance back to make sure he wasn’t being followed, then pull a hunting cap from his pocket. The cap was a gaudy checkered specimen that he’d worn lovingly for forty years. It had always been an eyesore, and was now crumpled with age, but without it a walk simply wasn’t a walk.
With this cap set jauntily on the back of his head, then, he would set out for the Ginza. There he’d enter Shiseido and order hot chocolate, a single cup of which he’d sit over and sip at for as long as an hour or two. He’d survey the entire room, and if he happened to see one of his old business acquaintances with a young geisha or some other companion of that sort, he would immediately call the man over in a loud voice, insist that the couple join him in his booth, and proceed to hold them captive as he drawled out a series of caustic remarks. He derived unspeakable pleasure from this.
On the way home from these excursions, the grandfather would often buy a meager gift for someone in the family. He was, apparently, plagued by a certain sense of guilt over his unorthodox behavior, and recently he’d been making a concerted effort to get on the good side of everyone else in the house. To this end he’d come up with the idea of conferring a medal of honor upon the family member who performed the most meritorious service each week. The medal was one he’d devised himself by passing a red silk cord through a hole punched in a silver Mexican coin. Unfortunately, no one wanted this prize very badly. It was a matter of consternation to all of them that the person who received the medal was obliged to wear it, whenever at home, for the entire week.
The mother, being a model of filial piety toward her father-in-law, would express gratitude whenever she received the award and promptly attach it to her sash, albeit in as inconspicuous a location as possible. Each time she allotted the grandfather an extra bottle of beer for his nightcap she was awarded the medal then and there, like it or not. When the eldest son blundered, on occasion, into having the medal bestowed upon him for such services as accompanying the grandfather to a music hall, he accepted his fate with the good grace one would expect of a man of his staid and serious nature, and would wear it prominently around his neck for the entire week. The elder daughter and second son avoided being put into that position. The elder daughter’s clever ruse was to proclaim herself quite unworthy of the honor and positively decline to accept. The second son, for his part, had gone so far as to stuff the medal in his dresser drawer and claim to have lost it, although the grandfather had seen through this bit of subterfuge at once and sent the younger daughter to search his room. She was unfortunate enough to find the prize, as a result of which she was designated the next recipient. The grandfather was clearly partial to the younger daughter. Though she was the most self-centered member of the family and devoid of any special merit whatsoever, he was forever looking for an excuse to confer his award upon her. When this happened, she generally put the medal away in her purse and left it there the entire week. She alone was permitted such exceptional behavior.
The youngest son was the only one who had the slightest desire to be awarded the prize. Even he felt somehow awkward and embarrassed when obliged to wear it around his neck, yet he always experienced a certain sense of loss the moment it was taken away from him and given to someone else; and occasionally, when the younger daughter was out, he would sneak into her room, open her purse, and gaze nostalgically at the medal inside. The grandmother had never once been awarded the medal, for the simple reason that from the very beginning she had emphatically refused to have anything to do with it. Being a plain-spoken woman, she had descr
ibed the entire idea as “imbecilic.”
It would be difficult to give a clear picture of the grandmother without touching upon her affection for the youngest son, who was quite simply the apple of her eye. He once took up the study of hypnotism and attempted, without the least success, to mesmerize his grandfather, mother, and brothers and sisters. One by one they returned his gaze, peering at him curiously as he tried to put them to sleep. Everyone enjoyed a good laugh over this except the youngest son himself, who was on the verge of tears and sweating profusely by the time he turned to his last subject, the grandmother. She fell into a deep sleep almost immediately, nodding in her chair, and innocently answered the hypnotist’s solemn questions.
“Grandmother, you can see a flower, can’t you?”
“Yes. It’s very pretty.”
“What sort of flower is it?”
“It’s a lotus.”
“Grandmother, what do you love most?”
“You.”
This reply gave the hypnotist pause.
“Who is ‘you’?”
“Why, it’s you. Kazuo [the youngest son].”
The rest of the family burst into laughter, which snapped the grandmother out of her trance, but the hypnotist had at least managed to save face. Later, however, when the ever-serious eldest son worriedly asked the grandmother if she’d really been in a trance, she chuckled and muttered: “What do you think?”
I could go on and on about the Irie family, but for now I’d prefer to present you with a rather long story constructed by the family members themselves. As anyone familiar with them knows, the Irie brothers and sisters all have a certain fondness for the literary arts, and from time to time they gather to tell a story by turns. This often takes place, at the urging of the eldest son, when they’ve assembled in the drawing room on a cloudy Sunday and find that boredom has begun to weigh upon them. The game begins with one of them describing whatever sort of character might pop into his or her mind, and the others take turns concocting that character’s destiny. Simpler tales they do on an impromptu basis, each delivering his or her portion orally, but when the story offers interesting possibilities they take the precaution of writing their episodes out and passing the manuscript around. They presumably have a number of these co-authored narratives stashed away somewhere. Occasionally the grandfather, grandmother, and mother help out, and this appears to have been the case with the rather long story we’re concerned with today.
— II —
The youngest son, though not very accomplished at this sort of endeavor, was generally the one who started off, and he generally made a mess of things. But this time he really intended to put his heart into it. When, with the five days of New Year’s vacation before them, the brothers and sisters grew bored and decided to engage in the usual storytelling pastime, the youngest son once again expressed a desire to take the lead. “Let me start,” he said. “I’ll go first.” It was always the same, and as usual his elder brothers and sisters just smiled ruefully and let him have his way. This being the first story of the year, they decided to take special care and write it out by turns. The deadline for each contributor was to be the morning of the day after receiving the manuscript. Each therefore had one entire day to conceive and write his or her portion, and the story would be complete by the fifth night or the sixth morning. During these five days, all of the brothers and sisters would be slightly on edge and aware of having a certain rare sense of purpose in their lives.
The youngest son, then, had once again expressed a desire to go first, and since his wish had been granted he was to begin the story, but unfortunately he had no idea what to write. He appeared to be suffering a block. He wished he hadn’t volunteered to start. On New Year’s Day, the other brothers and sisters all went out to enjoy themselves, and the grandfather too had disappeared early in the morning, decked out in tails. The only ones left in the house were the mother, the grandmother, and the youngest son, who sat in his room sharpening and resharpening a pencil. After some hours had gone by, he could feel tears welling up, and at last, utterly desperate, he abandoned himself to a sinister plot. Plagiarism. He felt he had no choice. His heart pounding, he leafed through various books from his shelf—a copy of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, a volume of stories by Hans Christian Andersen, The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes, and so on. Stealing a little bit from here, a little bit from there, he somehow managed to throw something together.
Once upon a time, in the middle of a forest in the north country, there lived a horrible, ugly old witch. Though a truly vile old hag in every way, she was kind to one person—her only daughter, Rapunzel. The witch was absolutely devoted to Rapunzel, and every day she combed out her hair with a golden comb. Rapunzel was a beautiful girl. She was also a spirited, sassy child, and by the time she turned fourteen she had ceased to listen to anyone. There were times, in fact, when she went so far as to scold her own mother. But the witch so doted on her daughter that she would merely smile and beg forgiveness.
It was the time of year when cold north winds blow through the forest, leaving the trees more scantily clad with each passing day, and preparations for winter had begun at the witch’s house. One evening a wonderful prize wandered into the enchanted forest. A handsome young prince, mounted on horseback, had lost his way in the gathering darkness. He was the sixteen-year-old son of the king of this land. Engrossed in the chase during a hunting expedition, he’d lost contact with his servants and was unable to find the path back home. With his golden armor shining like a torch in the dim light, there was small chance that the witch would fail to notice him. She flew out of her house with the speed of the wind and in no time at all had pulled the prince down from his saddle.
“How nice and plump this boy is!” she gurgled. “Just look at that tender white flesh... Fattened on walnuts, no doubt.” The old witch had long, sparse whiskers, and eyebrows that hung down over her eyes. “He’s like a fat little lamb! I wonder how he tastes. Pickled in brine, he ought to be just the thing for the long winter nights!”
Grinning with delight, she unsheathed her dagger and had laid its edge on the prince’s white throat when, suddenly, she let out a cry of pain. She’d just been bitten on the left ear by her own daughter, who’d jumped on her back and refused to let go.
The old witch, who loved and pampered Rapunzel so, did not lose her temper but forced a smile and cried: “Rapunzel! Forgive me!”
Rapunzel shook her by the shoulders. “I want to play with this pretty boy,” she whined. “Give him to me.” Having grown up spoiled and selfish, she was an obstinate child, and once she’d made a demand she never gave in. Knowing this, the old witch agreed to put off killing and salting the prince for just one night.
“Very well, very well, you can have him. He’ll be your guest tonight, and we’ll treat him to a splendid feast. But you must give him back to me tomorrow. All right, dear?”
Rapunzel nodded.
That night, the prince was shown the utmost in witch hospitality but was nonetheless frightened out of his wits, not knowing if he was to live or die. Dinner consisted of frogs grilled on skewers; the skin of a pit viper stuffed with the fingers of little children; a salad of death cups, wet mouse noses, and the innards of green caterpillars; swamp-scum liqueur; and a nitric acid wine, fresh from the grave it was brewed in. This was all topped off with a confection of rusty nails and fragments of church-window glass. The prince felt sick just looking at it all and didn’t touch a thing, but the old witch and Rapunzel gobbled and guzzled and raved about how delicious it all was. Every dish was a delicacy they’d set aside for a special occasion.