Beautiful Town: Stories and Essays

Beautiful Town

Beautiful Town Utsukushii Machi, 1919 I give this story to my dear child Masaya.1 It was written by your father when he was still young, some twelve or thirteen years before you were born. Satò Haruo, summer 1947 We are such stuff as dreams are made on . . . Shakespeare My close friend O spoke to me one day about the painter E. . . . Mr. O had recently had an opportunity to meet this good friend, and E had inquired about me. (I wonder if O hadn’t been speaking about me with too much interest.) E had borrowed from O’s bookshelves a book of mine that I had given to O. On reading and returning the book he was reported to have said to O, “I’ve got a story that I’d really like the author of The Fingerprint to hear. . . .” Speaking frankly, I have seldom been satisfied with a story that some kind person has told me I might like to use in my writing. Only in the case of the artist E did I foresee that I would surely be interested. Though I did not know him, I had seen E’s work at exhibitions now 32 Stories and then. I would usually linger in front of his work, finding there a certain concurrence of artistic sympathy. The fact that E found my books interesting was not just flattery, I was conceited enough to think. E felt we had something we could mutually agree on, a joint work of art, and he had a story that he wanted me to hear. Thus it happened that one winter’s night, escorted by O, I called on E in his studio. As he stoked the fire and I urged him on, this is the story we heard. As I write this, I express my deep gratitude to both E and O. THE STORY TOLD ME BY ARTIST E When you think of it, there was something extraordinary about this story from the beginning. It was eight or nine years ago. I was twentyone or twenty-two at the time. I received a letter one day. It made me suspicious; the sender had a foreign name. Since I had neglected language study in my school days, I was prone to avoid being spoken to by foreigners and of course I had never been familiar enough with a foreigner to receive a letter from one. The letter was written in good simple Japanese, unduly familiar in tone, and in a clumsy hand on letter paper from the S Hotel in Tsukiji. . . . “Rather than my writing at length, you’ll understand everything at once. I want you to come to my hotel at six this evening. The talk will be interesting. I want you to hear a discussion that may please you. . . .” That’s all the letter said. Just think of it. I get a letter from someone I don’t know. It’s uncanny. I get it in the morning when I’m still in bed. All day long it worries me. I wonder if it isn’t a stupid petty prank by one of my associates. Students of painting since Buffalmacco in the Decameron have diverted themselves by pestering people. Sensing this possibility, I asked someone to call the S Hotel and inquire whether there was anyone there by the name of Theodore Brentano, and if there really was, whether that person had mistaken my identity in asking me to come. To my surprise, I got the answer that there was no mistake. The call was for me. By five it was already dark. The streets were lit with the lights of night. All because it was October. In rather dirty attire, affecting a Beautiful Town 33 bohemian look, I stood timidly before the entrance to the elegant hotel. To my wonder, far from being rejected I was received politely by a bellhop in a uniform of gold braid and gold buttons who seemed to be expecting me and who led me through brightly lit halls to a room where he left me, asking me to wait briefly. Whoever the unknown person was who had invited me, he did not for some reason appear right away. I sat down at a table where a lot of large books had been tossed. As I glanced restlessly around the room, I was startled by a sight on one wall. An...