Ten Nights Dreaming Page 2

  Some time later the crimson orb slowly rose again. Then it silently sank. Two, I counted again.

  I do not know how many such suns I counted. I counted and counted, but more passed overhead than I could possibly count. And yet a hundred years had still not passed. Finally, staring at the round stone, which was by now covered with moss, I began to wonder if the woman had not deceived me.

  At that moment a green shoot appeared from under the stone, stretching up towards me at an angle as it grew. The shoot grew longer as I watched, stopping just as it reached my chest. Then, as the shoot swayed from side to side, the single long, thin bud at its drooping tip softly opened its petals. It was a pure white lily 2 right under my nose, so fragrant that I felt it in my bones. A single dewdrop fell onto it from far above, making the lily rock back and forth under its own weight. I leaned forward and kissed its cold, white, dew-moistened petals. As I straightened up again, I happened to see the dawn star twinkling all alone in the distant sky.

  I realized then for the first time that a hundred years had passed.

  * * *

  1. Red sun: Traditionally, in Japan the sun is described as red rather than yellow.

  2. Lily: The Japanese word for “lily” is written with two characters that mean “hundred” and “meet.”

  The Second Night

  The Second Night

  In the second dream, the narrator finds himself a samurai in a Zen temple. Perhaps drawing on his own experiences at Engaku-ji temple in the 1890s, Sōseki distorts the imagery and rhetoric of Zen to portray a fundamental misapprehension of the nature of Zen practice.

  This is what I dreamed.

  Leaving the oshō’s1 room, I followed the corridor back to my own and found the andō2 burning dully. When I half-knelt on a cushion to adjust the wick, the charred tip broke off and tumbled like a flower to the red lacquered stand below. At the same time, the room brightened.

  The picture on the fusuma3 was a Buson.4 Black willows were drawn densely here and sparsely there below a shivering fisherman traversing an embankment, woven kasa5 askew. The alcove was hung with a scroll depicting Mañjuśrī crossing the sea.6 The fragrance of incense lingered in the room’s dimmer reaches. The temple was so large and still that it felt deserted. When I glanced up at the black ceiling, for a moment the pool of shadow cast there by the round andō looked like a living thing.

  Still on one knee, I turned up a corner of the cushion with my left hand and reached underneath with my right. There it was, just as it should be. Thus reassured, I let the corner fall back into place and sat down on the cushion heavily.

  ——You are a samurai, the oshō had said. As a samurai, satori7 should not be beyond you. Watching you sit there, day after day, with no satori to show for it — well, perhaps you are no samurai after all. Human garbage would be more like it! Oho, now you are angry, he had continued with a laugh. If what I say upsets you, then find satori and bring me proof. With that, he had turned his face away. The insolence!

  I would show him. I would reach satori before the clock in the alcove one room over struck the next hour. Having done so, I would return for a second interview with him that very night. And at that interview I would exchange my satori for his head. I could not take his life without achieving satori first. There was no option but to succeed. I was a samurai.

  If satori proved beyond me, I would turn my blade on myself. No samurai can live in humiliation. I would die quickly and cleanly.

  At this thought, I found my hand slipping under the cushion again. When it came out, it was holding a tantō8 in a red lacquered scabbard. I grasped the sword by the hilt. The cold blade gleamed once in the dark room as I cast the scabbard aside. Something terrible seemed to stream from my hand, gathering to a single point of murderous intent at the tip of the blade. Seeing the wicked blade mercilessly reduced to a pinprick, driven to a sharpening point at the end of its full nine and a half inches, I felt a sudden urge to drive it deep. All the blood in my body flowed towards my right wrist, and the hilt felt sticky in my grip. My lips trembled.

  Returned the tantō to its scabbard and placing it close to me on my right, I crossed my legs into the full lotus position. Jōshū said, “mu.” 9 But what was “mu” supposed to mean? Pious jackass! I gritted my teeth.

  My back teeth ground together so fiercely that my breath came hot and ragged through my nose. There was a painful tightness at my temples. I forced my eyes open twice as wide as usual.

  I saw the scroll. I saw the andō. I saw the tatami.10 I saw the oshō’s great bald kettle of a head as clearly if it were right in front of me. I even heard the mocking laugh from his crocodilian mouth. Insolent, bald-headed fool! There was no way around it: that kettle had to come off his shoulders. I would attain this satori of his. Mu, mu! I strained at the word from the root of my tongue. But for all my mus, I still smelled incense. How dare mere incense interfere!

  I suddenly clenched my fists and battered my head until it hurt. I ground my teeth back and forth. Sweat ran down my sides. My back was stiff as a wooden pole. My knee joints flared with pain. Let them break, then, I thought, but it still hurt. It was excruciating. Mu was yet to make its appearance. Every time it seemed on the verge of appearing, the pain returned. It was enraging. It was mortifying. I was humiliated beyond belief. Tears rolled down my cheeks. I longed for some great boulder I could hurl myself against, dashing body and bone alike to pieces.

  And yet I endured, seated and still. An unbearable despair swelled in my breast. It seized me bodily from below and rushed through me, desperately seeking escape through my pores, but every surface was blocked; it was trapped with no exit in the cruelest of circumstances.

  My mind began to warp. The andō and the Buson, the tatami mats and the overlapping shelves — all were there and not there, not there yet there. But still there was no sign of mu. It seemed that I had just been sitting around to no particular purpose And then, without warning, the clock in the next room began to chime.

  I started. My right hand went straight to the tantō. The clock chimed a second time.

  * * *

  1. Oshō: The head priest of a Zen temple.

  2. Andō: A wooden-framed paper lamp.

  3. Fusuma: Sliding rectangular room dividers.

  4. Buson: Yosa Buson (1716–1783), one of Japan’s greatest haiku poets and artists.

  5. Kasa: A conical woven hat worn to keep off the sun and rain.

  6. Mañjuśrī crossing the sea: A depiction of Mañjuśrī, bodhisattva of wisdom in East Asian Buddhism, crossing the ocean with his attendants to arrive in Japan.

  7. Satori: A technical term in Zen Buddhism often translated “enlightenment” or “realization.”

  8. Tantō: A short, dagger-like sword, usually less than a foot in length.

  9. Jōshū said, “mu.”: A reference to “Jōshū’s dog,” the first kōan in the thirteenth-century collection known in Japanese as Mumonkan (often translated as “The Gateless Gate” in English). The full kōan as given in the Mumonkan is: “A monk asked Jōshū, ‘Does a dog have Buddha-nature?’ Jōshū replied, ‘Mu.’” Jōshū was a Chinese Zen master, and mu is the Japanese pronunciation of a Chinese word whose meaning here has been interpreted as everything from an inexpressible nothingness to a simple “No.” Mumon Ekai, compiler of the Mumonkan, called Jōshū’s “Mu” the gate through which all those seeking enlightenment must pass.

  10. Tatami: Woven, stuffed mats used for flooring.

  The Third Night

  The Third Night

  In the third dream, the series takes a turn for the sinister. Some see a connection between the events of this dream and Sōseki’s own unhappy childhood.

  This is what I dreamed.

  I was carrying a child of almost six on my back. It was clear to me that he was my son. Mysteriously, however, he had gone blind at some point, and his head was shaved blue. ——When did you go blind? I asked him, and he replied, ——What? I’ve been blind forever. His voice was unmistaka
bly a child’s, but he spoke just like an adult. As an equal, in fact.

  Green rice paddies lay to the left and right. The path was narrow. From time to time a heron’s form flashed in the gloom.

  “We’ve reached the paddies, then,” the child on my back said.

  “How did you know?” I asked, twisting around to see him.

  “The herons — can’t you hear them calling?” he asked.

  At this a heron did indeed let out two short cries.

  I was beginning to fear this child, son of mine though he be. Who knew what lay in store for me, carrying something like him on my back? Wondering if there was somewhere I could dump him, I saw a large forest in the darkness that lay ahead. No sooner had I thought That might do it than I heard a chuckle from my back.

  “What’s so funny?” I asked.

  The child did not answer me. “Am I heavy, Father?” he asked.

  “No,” I replied. “You’re not heavy.”

  “I will be,” he said.

  Keeping the forest in sight, I walked on in silence. The path through the paddies was irregular and winding, never quite leading where I wanted to go. Finally we arrived at a fork in the road. I paused for a moment right where the roads parted to catch my breath.

  “There should be a stone marker,” the boy said.

  Just as he said, a small pillar of stone stood nearby, eight inches square and as tall as my waist. According to the pillar, the left fork led to Higakubo and the right to Hottahara.1 Dark as it had gotten, the red lettering was clearly visible. The characters were the same red as a newt’s belly.

  “You’ll want to go left,” the boy ordered. Looking left I saw the forest from before rising into the sky, casting its dark shadow down over our heads. I hesitated.

  “Don’t hold back on my account,” the boy said. Seeing nothing else for it, I began walking towards the forest. There were no more forks in the path now. Sure knows a lot for a blind kid, I thought to myself as we drew near the forest, and then heard the voice from my back again: “I know it makes things difficult, my being blind.”

  “I’m carrying you, aren’t I? What’s the problem?”

  “I appreciate that, but I won’t put up with mockery. Especially from my own father.”

  I couldn’t stand any more of this. I quickened my pace to get to the forest and dump him as soon as I could.

  “You’ll understand a little further on,” the boy said from my back. Then he spoke again, as if talking to himself. “It was an evening just like this, come to think of it.”

  “What was?” I asked, strain in my voice.

  “’What was’!” the child sneered. “As if you didn’t know!” And with this I began to feel as if I did know, somehow. I couldn’t quite put my finger on what had happened, but I was sure it had been an evening just like this one. I also felt that I would, indeed, understand a little further on — and that this understanding would be a terrible thing, so it was imperative that I dump the boy, quickly, before it could arrive. I walked even faster.

  It had been raining for a while now. The path grew darker by degrees. But the little boy clinging to my back shone like a mirror from which nothing escaped, casting a merciless light on every part of my past, present and future. What’s more, this boy was my own son. And blind, at that. It was unbearable.

  “This is the place, right here. Right at the root of that cedar.”

  I heard the boy’s voice clearly through the rain. Before I knew what I was doing, I had stopped. We had entered the forest at some point. The black thing a few paces ahead, I had to admit, looked like a cedar tree, just as the boy said.

  “It was at the root of that cedar, wasn’t it, Father?”

  “Yes,” I replied, without thinking. “It was.”

  “The fifth year of Bunka — the Year of the Dragon.”2

  Fifth year of Bunka, Year of the Dragon: this sounded right to me.

  “It was exactly a hundred years ago that you killed me.”

  As soon as I heard these words, the knowledge burst into my head: one hundred years ago, in the fifth year of Bunka — the year of the dragon — on a dark evening just like this, I had killed a blind man at the root of this very cedar tree. I’m a murderer, I realized at last, and as it hit me the child on my back was suddenly as heavy as a roadside statue of Jizō.3

  * * *

  1. Higakubo and … Hottahara: Actual place names in the Tokyo of Sōseki’s day.

  2. Fifth year of Bunka–Year of the Dragon: This corresponds to 1808 on the Gregorian calendar, precisely 100 years before the publication of Ten Nights Dreaming.

  3. Roadside statue of Jizō: “Jizō” is the Sino-Japanese name for the bodhisattva Kitigarbha. In Japan, Jizō is revered as a guardian of children, particularly those who die before their parents, and statues of Jizō can commonly be found by the roadside and in cemeteries.

  The Fourth Night

  The Fourth Night

  The central figure of the fourth dream, as Sasabuchi Tomoichi points out, appears to be a cross between a Taoist immortal and a Meiji street peddler.

  In the middle of a large room with a floor of pounded earth stood something like a bench surrounded by little folding stools. The bench was a glossy black in color. An old man sat drinking by himself in the corner at a square zen tray1 with a small dish of nishime stew2 on it.

  The old man was already quite ruddy with drink. Beyond that, his face positively shone with vitality, without even a wrinkle. The only thing that revealed his age was his long white beard. Still a child myself, I wondered just how old he might be. Then the proprietress came in, wiping her hands on her apron and carrying a small wooden bucket which she must have just filled with water at the bamboo kakei3 out back.

  “How old are you, ojii-san?”4 she asked.

  The old man’s cheeks were bulging with food, and he had to swallow before he could reply. “I can’t remember,” he said at last.

  The proprietress tucked her hands into her narrow obi5 and stood where she was, looking across at the old man’s face. The old man threw back a mouthful of sake from a large cup that looked like a rice bowl and then let out a long, audible exhalation through his white beard. As he did, the proprietress spoke again. “Where do you live?” she asked.

  The old man cut his exhalation short. “Inside my navel,” he said.

  “And where are you headed?” asked the proprietress, hands still in her narrow obi.

  The old man drained his cup again and let out another long breath before replying. “I’m going away,” he said.

  “Straight ahead?” asked the proprietress. As she spoke, the old man’s breath went through the shōji,6 passed under the willow, and continued straight on towards the riverbed.

  The old man went outside. I followed him out. A small gourd hung from his waist, and he had a square box slung over one shoulder and tucked under his arm. He wore pale yellow momohiki trousers7 and a pale yellow sleeveless tunic. Only the tabi8 on his feet were a brighter yellow. Something about them made me think they were made of leather.

  The old man went straight to the willow. Three or four children were already there. The old man beamed jovially as he pulled a pale yellow tenugui9 from his waist. Twisting the tenugui into a sort of thin rope, he placed it in the middle of the clearing and then drew a circle around it. Finally, he pulled a candy peddler’s brass flute from the box slung over his shoulder.

  “Any moment now, that tenugui’s going to turn into a snake!” he said. “Keep watching, keep watching!”

  The children watched the tenugui intently. I watched too.

  “Keep watching, keep watching!” he repeated. “Ready?” Then, playing his flute as he went, he began to circle the tenugui along the ring he had drawn around it. I kept my eyes fixed on the tenugui. It did not move a bit.

  Around and around the old man went, tootling away on his flute. He walked carefully, tiptoeing in his straw waraji10 sandals as if trying not to disturb the tenugui. The look on his face mig
ht have been fear. There also seemed to be enjoyment there.

  After a time, the old man’s flute fell silent. Opening the box slung over his shoulder again, he gingerly picked up the tenugui by its head and tossed it in.

  “Now it’ll turn into a snake inside the box,” he said. “I’ll show you any moment now — any moment now!” He began to walk straight ahead. Passing under the willow, he went straight on down a narrow path. Hoping to see the snake, I followed him down the road as far as he went. Every so often he would say, “Any moment now!” or “A snake, it’ll turn into a snake!” as he walked. Finally, as we arrived at the banks of the river, he broke into song:

  Now, any moment now, a snake it’ll become,

  Yes, it’s sure to happen now, hear the flute’s song.

  Seeing neither bridge nor boat, I thought the old man would stop here and show us the snake in his box, but he plunged forward into the river. At first the water only came up to his knees, but before long it was at his waist, and soon he had disappeared up to his chest.

  Still he sang:

  Now, getting deeper now, turning into night,

  Yes, going straight ahead——

  He showed no sign of stopping. His beard disappeared from view, then his face, then the top of his head, until finally even the little cap he wore was gone.

  I was sure that he would show me the snake when he came out on the other side, and so I stood alone where the rushes rustled, waiting and waiting. But the old man never came back up.

  * * *

  1. Zen tray: A lacquered square tray on legs used for serving food.

  2. Nishime stew: A dish of stewed vegetables, usually including sweet potato, carrot, and other root vegetables along with shiitake mushrooms, konnyaku (yam cake) and kombu kelp.