Japanese Tales of Mystery & Imagination - Edogawa Rampo [58]
Shortly after Tanaka and the waitress bade us goodnight, we held a special meeting. This time, no stories were told. Instead, we unanimously agreed to disband.
CRIPPLED
MEN
A FTER EMERGING FROM A STEAM-ing hot bath the two men settled down to a quiet game of Japanese chess, but after they had completed one long-drawn-out session they shoved aside the chessboard and drifted into conversation. Soft winter sunlight warmed the eight-mat room, lighting up its luxurious paper screens. In the large charcoal brazier, carved out of paulownia wood, before which the two men sat cross-legged on silk cushions, a silver kettle sang cheerfully, the mellow notes drifting out into the landscape garden like a lullaby intended for the baby sparrows dozing on the pine branches.
It was an utterly calm afternoon—monotonous, with nothing happening, but completely restful—and the men's wandering conversation gradually turned to memories of the past. Saito—who was the guest—began by launching into an account of his harrowing experiences in the Battle of Tsingtao during World War I. While his voice droned on and on like the humming of insects, Ihara—the host —listened attentively, from time to time rubbing his hands above the fire in the brazier. During brief lulls in the story the distant song of a nightingale was heard faintly, like musical interludes specially provided to bridge the silences.
When he spoke Saito's badly disfigured face was horrible to look at; and yet, as he unfolded his thrilling tale of bravery, his grotesque features strangely suited him. He suddenly pointed to a twitch on the right side of his face and explained that it had been caused by splinters from an enemy shell.
"But," he said, "this is not my only reminder of those hectic days. Look! Just look at the rest of my carcass!" With these words, he stripped to the waist and displayed his old scars.
"And to think," he sighed, concluding his tale, "that in my youth I was quite a handsome lad, with a heart overflowing with romantic ambitions. Today, alas, it is all over with me!"
For a few moments Ihara made no comment Instead, he raised his teacup to his lips two or three times in succession, the deep furrows on his brow indicating that he was lost in thought. The Battle of Tsingtao! Ah, what bloody, tragic times. . . . But he too had been crippled like the other—for the remainder of his life, never more to walk erect, never more to be loved except out of pity! Comparing himself with the other, his friend, Ihara was filled with envy. For one thing, the other had won his scars with honor! As for himself. . .the very thought of his own history sent cold shivers running up and down his spine. Suddenly he looked up and met Saito's eyes gazing intently into his own.
"Well, Ihara," Saito remarked, "now it's your turn. I don't believe you've ever told me the story of your past."
Ihara moistened his lips with green tea; then he cleared his throat.
"I would hardly call it a story," he began. "Rather, it is more of a confession. However, compared to your exploits, I fear my words will prove exceedingly dull."
"Nevertheless, I insist on hearing them," Saito said, his eyes lighting up with keen interest.
Ihara caught the gleam in the other's eyes, and for a split second he was startled. He fancied that somewhere, at some time in the past, he had caught that same look, that same flicker of the eyelashes. They had met only ten days ago. Could it have been since then, or wasn't it much, much further in the past?
Ihara was truly mystified. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he suspected some supernatural reason for his having met the other at this inn ten days ago, for their having immediately struck up so close a friendship. He just