“Before the photograph was sent to you, my colleagues in the Caveman Group hung it on the wall of our headquarters for a day,” she said. “It seemed to be common knowledge that you have what they called a ‘pubic-hair fetish,’ so I guess they thought it would be a witty gift. Anyway, this photograph was taken five years ago during a public performance, without my knowledge. I don’t think the motivation behind their sending it to you now was anything more sinister than a desire to tease Old Man Choko a little bit, but I wouldn’t want you to think of me as belonging to a group that would joke around about someone’s, um, private predilections. Backstory aside, though, I gather you’ve taken a liking to the picture?”
“Yes, I like it very much,” I said. After a moment I added, “Since this was a gift to me, I think I’d better keep it in my study, just to be safe.” Akari had been a step or two behind Unaiko when she came down from the second floor, and he had passed by on his way to the restroom. I was hoping he hadn’t seen the framed photograph I was holding, since it was the kind of thing he always found upsetting, but when he stormed into the washroom, slamming the door behind him, I knew he must have caught a glimpse of the photo and formed an impression of the subject matter, if not the subject.
Even before we had fallen into the current deplorable state of affairs, it had been clear that Akari felt particularly ill at ease whenever I was conversing with visitors on topics with the slightest hint of a sexual connotation, even though he probably didn’t understand what was being discussed with any degree of clarity. Unaiko had evidently intuited the reason behind Akari’s door-slamming discomfiture, because she redirected our playful conversation about the photograph into a more serious channel.
“From this angle I appear to be standing on the stage stark-naked, like a fool, but there’s actually a military formation downstage from me, waving an assortment of flags,” she explained. “The naked woman is meant to be confronting that group, although there’s some doubt as to whether it poses any actual threat, and she is seen by the audience for only a split second before the stage is plunged into total darkness. Masao is a big proponent of deliberate ambiguity in his theater work, so while the naked woman was supposed to be standing there openly and proudly, the original plan was for her torso to be covered by a nude-colored tank top that came down to the tops of her thighs. I was actually the one who insisted full-frontal nudity was the only honest way to go. The next day we gave my ‘little striptease’ (as Masao insisted on calling it) a trial run at the first performance, to see how it would play onstage, and someone who was there returned the next night and took a surreptitious photo, and then sold it to a photography magazine. That photo created quite a sensation, and it’s one of the reasons the Caveman Group got a reputation for doing outrageous things, even before we started throwing ‘dead dogs’ around. Masao was so incensed that he threatened legal action, but the other party had proof the photo had been taken legitimately at a public performance, so that was the end of it.
“Getting back to the gift, I can’t help speculating about the motivation. I know that certain members of our troupe decided to send you this photo on the pretext of indulging your supposed pubic-hair fetish, but I can’t help wondering whether they might also have had a hidden agenda. I think this bizarre gesture might have been rooted in their apprehensions about our next big public-performance project — you know, the one Ricchan and I have been trying to put together, with Asa’s help. I know there’s a faction in the Caveman Group that isn’t completely thrilled with what I’ve been doing, and these members also voiced concern that my projects could end up overshadowing their own work. As I’m sure you’re aware, even in a theater group that appears to be made up of forward-looking artists there can still be a strong undertone of sexist discrimination directed toward ‘uppity females,’ especially in the more rural parts of this country.”
4
Later that morning, toward the end of the breakfast hour, Daio stopped by to relay an important message: Akari’s custom-made plaster cast had been delivered to the clinic in Honmachi.
“The cast is removable, so it will need to be taken off every night at bedtime and put back on first thing in the morning. Once you get the hang of it, Akari, you should be able to handle both those tasks by yourself,” Daio explained. “During the early stages, though, would you be able to take on that responsibility, Kogito? If so, I’d like to take you and Akari down to the clinic to get some pointers about how to deal with the cast.”
“I’ve been getting Akari’s bed ready every evening for the past forty-some years, except when I’ve been away from home, so I don’t think dealing with a cast will be excessively challenging,” I said drily.
“I’m making my bed all by myself now,” Akari muttered, looking down at his plate.
“Yesterday evening I was sticking special tape on the most painful places for you, isn’t that right, Akari?” I said. “I was being very careful not to touch your crushed vertebra, but …”
“It never hurt when Unaiko and Ricchan did it, either,” Akari retorted.
“Then would you rather have those two help you with the cast during the early stages, while you’re getting used to it?” I asked, unable to keep the despondency out of my voice. “If they have time, of course.”
“We were planning to ride along to the clinic in any case — that is, either Ricchan or me,” Unaiko said. “Since all we’re doing right now is outlining our next big production, we would be happy to help Akari in any way we can. Akari, would you like me to drive you today?”
“That sounds great!” Akari exclaimed.
“Thanks, Unaiko. I’ll leave it to you then,” Daio said. He, too, kept his face averted so he wouldn’t have to meet my eyes.
After Akari and Unaiko had set off in the van I went back to work unpacking the rest of the books Asa had sent. Daio sat on the sofa, reaching out from time to time to pick up a book and leaf idly through it. After a moment, I began to reminisce aloud.
“As you mentioned the other day, when Goro and I were still in high school, during the Occupation, we paid a visit to your training camp and we brought along an American officer who was a language expert,” I said. “His name was Peter, and your students hatched a plan to use him as a conduit to get their hands on some automatic pistols, rifles, and so on that the Americans had scrapped after the Korean War. Goro and I somehow got dragged into it, and we ended up overreacting just a bit.”
“Yes, I remember,” Daio said, and chuckled. “You put all the lurid details into one of your recent novels. Someone told me about the book, and when I read it I thought, Ah, so this is what was going on in Kogito’s head that weekend.
“As you say, Peter sold us some old army-surplus guns, which we thought we could turn around and sell to a scrap-iron dealer to raise a few bucks. However, when you wrote about that transaction in your novel, you added an imaginary scene in which Peter’s own pistol is forcibly confiscated by the guys from my training camp. You left it ambiguous, as you tend to do, but the implication was that Peter might have met with foul play at the hands of my followers. One of the local policemen happened to read the book and he came snooping around the camp, asking questions. This was a long time ago, of course. The truth was, we had kept a few of the surplus guns to use for target practice and that kind of thing, but everything was perfectly innocent and above board, and no harm came to Peter at all.”