Japanese Tales of Mystery & Imagination - Edogawa Rampo [59]
"I'm still waiting to hear your story," Saito suddenly broke in.
"I was merely trying to arrange all the data in my mind before beginning. You must remember that this is the first time I've ever attempted to tell my story to any living soul." Thus Ihara began his strange narrative, while the other leaned forward in the attitude of one anxious not to miss even a single word.
I was born [Ihara recalled] the eldest son of a shop keeper in the town of Onuki. From the very start my parents indulged me too much, and I think this is why I acquired such a weak character in my childhood. In primary school my failings were quickly recognized, and before long I found myself two classes behind my original classmates. Gradually, however, I seemed to recover from my lethargy.
Thus the years sped by, and I eventually came to Tokyo to enter Waseda University. Blessed with fairly good health, and eager to succeed in my studies, I found life in the big city far more pleasant than I had originally anticipated. True, I experienced many inconveniences living in cheap lodgings, but taking all daily vicissitudes gaily, I enjoyed rather than brooded over my lot as a struggling student.
Looking back on those early days, I realize now that they were actually the best years of my life. At any rate, I had hardly been in Tokyo for a full year when a most disturbing incident look place.
[At this point Ihara shivered slightly, but it was not from cold. Saito dropped a half-smoked cigarette into the brazier, his eyes not once leaving the face of the narrator.]
One morning [Ihara continued] I was getting ready to go to school when a friend who lived in the same lodging house entered my room. To my surprise, he slapped me on the shoulder and complimented me on my "eloquent oration of the night before."
Deeply puzzled by his words, I said: "What do you mean by my 'eloquent oration? I don't know what you're talking about!"
My friend put his hands on his hips and roared with boisterous laughter. "Come now, don't be so modest," he shot back. "Don't you remember last night? You burst into my room long after I had gone to bed, woke me up roughly, and engaged me in a complicated argument. Surely you remember. I don't think you were drunk."
"Surely you must be mistaken," I quickly replied. "As far as I know, I didn't even go near your room last night, much less engage you in any debate."
"Oh, stop pulling my leg," the other answered. "You know perfectly well that you came to my room last night to argue, even quoting freely from the philosophies of Plato and Aristotle. In any event, I didn't come here to complain of your conduct, but to tell you that your argument impressed me deeply. In fact, after you left, some of the statements you made lingered so long in my mind that I couldn't go back to sleep. As a result, I sat up reading and then wrote this postcard." My fellow-lodger waved a written postcard in my face, asking if he could possibly have written it unless someone had awakened him after he had gone to sleep.
I agreed that he couldn't, but after he left I felt confused and unhappy. This was indeed a disturbing turn of events if ever there was one, for as sure as I sit here now, sane and human, I had not the slightest recollection of having made any oration the night before. A few minutes later I went to the university, still deeply perplexed.
In the lecture hall, we were waiting for the professor to arrive, when somebody suddenly tapped me on the shoulder. Wheeling around, I saw my fellow-lodger.
"Do you happen to have the habit of talking in your sleep? he asked casually. This remark of his startled me, because during my