The way things are going, it looks as if Unaiko’s trademark dramatic style may end up being incorporated into a major production at a big theater in Tokyo. Ricchan is actively involved, of course, and she has been doing a lot of work behind the scenes to help advance Unaiko’s career. For me, having a chance to chat at length with Ricchan during this time has been very fruitful, and she also found time to talk to Maki and Chikashi about managing Akari’s health situation. It’s a great relief to me to know someone so conscientious is looking after you and Akari while you’re down on Shikoku.
On the days when Maki took over for me at the hospital and I went back to your house in Seijo to get some rest, Unaiko and Ricchan would always be there waiting up for me, no matter how late the hour, and the three of us would help ourselves to the contents of your liquor cabinet and talk until the wee hours. I suspect the discussions we had about a certain Kogito Choko may have broken some new ground, and I’ll reconstruct one of the conversations here, just for fun.
Unaiko started things off, holding forth about you and your work in general terms. (I’ll skip over that part, since it’s nothing you haven’t heard before.) After a while Ricchan joined in and then — uncharacteristically for her — she took the lead. In keeping with the basic precepts of the dog-tossing method, there was a tape recorder rolling the entire time, even on an informal occasion like this, so I’m able to give a verbatim account of what was said.
“The truth is,” Ricchan began, “ten years ago I hardly knew anything about Mr. Choko’s work. During the time when I was still bouncing around Tokyo doing various sound-related jobs, I booked a one-off assignment for a performance by an up-and-coming theater group. That night I happened to meet one of the group’s volunteer actresses, who was still working an outside job of her own, and I was captivated by her charisma. Needless to say, I’m talking about Unaiko. Before long we were both invited to join the troupe, and working with the Caveman Group became our full-time jobs. Of course, Masao Anai was the group’s leader. At some point he fixed on the idea of turning Kogito Choko’s novels into stage plays, and that became the guiding principle behind his work. So I ended up being in contact with Mr. Choko’s books on a regular basis, but they never really drew me in, personally. Unaiko felt the same way. By the time we were born, of course, Mr. Choko’s best years as a writer were already behind him. I figure kids like us would probably start exploring Japanese literature on our own (that is, outside of school) when we were eighteen or nineteen, maybe later, and even then we would mostly stick with writers of our own generation, so it would never have occurred to us to read Mr. Choko’s work — at least not voluntarily.
“When I first met Masao and the rest of the group, they were focusing on books by contemporary novelists. They didn’t seem to think Mr. Choko fell into that category, although at the same time they saw something interesting in the slightly retro, nostalgic feeling that infuses so much of his work — what you might call a divergence from the now. Still, it wasn’t until several years later that Unaiko really immersed herself in Mr. Choko’s work. It happened when we were doing the adaptation of The Day He Himself Shall Wipe My Tears Away, and as we all know, she was exceedingly critical of that book. But now look at her; she’s turned into a full-on Choko freak, even more fanatical than Masao Anai! When I stop to think about it, I realize I’m always a few steps behind Unaiko in everything we do, but at any rate, I’ve finally started reading and appreciating Mr. Choko’s work, too.”
“It was pretty much the same for me, only I was trying to catch up with Masao,” Unaiko acknowledged. “I guess I’m what they call a late adopter.”
Kogii, I was surprised to hear that Unaiko and Ricchan had only recently become acquainted with your work. I told them about an article I’d seen in a theater magazine — you know, “meet the new drama groups” sort of thing — in which a certain critic wrote that while Masao Anai had begun adapting your works into theater pieces early in his career, the group only started having major success with those plays after Unaiko joined the creative team.
Ricchan nodded and said, “I think that’s true, but while Unaiko’s dramatic method may differ from Masao’s style as a director, it’s absolutely consistent within those differences, if that makes sense.”
“It makes perfect sense to me,” Unaiko said with a smile. “Ricchan’s on a roll tonight, so I’ll let her explain how I ended up getting converted.”
“Actually, as I understand it, the thing that transformed Unaiko into a card-carrying Choko devotee wasn’t reading his novels per se,” Ricchan said. “One day she happened to come across something Mr. Choko had written regarding Edward W. Said’s definition of ‘late style,’ and that catalyzed her conversion. She made a photocopy of the page and pinned it above her desk at work, and then she said to me, all excited, ‘This quote from Said is so amazing!’ Said’s basic premise seems to be that when a true artist starts getting on in years, the sort of philosophical mellowness that comes with age can also backfire, and may sometimes even end up having catastrophic consequences.”
“Yes,” Unaiko interrupted excitedly. “Professor Said was riffing on the statement by Adorno that in the history of art, ‘late works are the catastrophes,’ and Said added that work created late in life is not always as serene and transcendent as you might expect. It’s been a while since I looked at those quotes, but as I recall Said was talking about Beethoven.”
“To me,” Ricchan went on, “it seems as if it would be beneficial for an aging author to weather that kind of stormy situation alone, and if such adversity ended up being the crucible in which his later work was forged, well, wouldn’t it be a good thing? I mean, isn’t the freedom to charge blindly ahead into the uncharted realm of one’s own late work one of the perks of being old? Even so, I couldn’t help feeling it just wasn’t right, somehow, for a thirtysomething woman like Unaiko to be sitting sit around hoping that an older person would go galloping headlong into catastrophe! But since Mr. Choko has abandoned the drowning novel, and he and Akari are living at the Forest House, it’s making me very happy to see how easy it seems to be for Unaiko to hang out with both of them, and vice versa. And when Akari had his seizure and I saw how flustered Unaiko was, I couldn’t help thinking, Wow, she’s really changed a lot. That is to say, I feel as though she’s become more human and more compassionate than when we first met.”
“When you say something like that it really makes me realize how selfishly I must have behaved toward you, Ricchan,” Unaiko said solemnly, with a self-effacing modesty that was very different from her usual confident, assertive personality.
“No, no, not at all!” Ricchan protested. “I’ve always depended on you for everything, Unaiko, and I have every intention of continuing to do so going forward. I really can’t imagine living any other way.” She was unmistakably sincere but I sensed an undertone of affectionate teasing beneath her words.
Somehow, hearing Unaiko apologize for her past behavior confirmed my sense that joining forces with her, and with Ricchan, for my own late work (so to speak) had been the right decision, without a doubt. At the same time I got the heartening feeling that Unaiko was no longer just the ambitious, talented girl-genius dramatist, but was also — and this was more important to me and, clearly, to Ricchan as well — developing into a more complete and empathetic human being.