LITMIR.BIZ

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it such a rare sight, a horse's shoes being changed?"

      "It's not that it's so rare, but I looked on. How many instruments would you say one needed for that?"

      "Well, how many?"

      "Have a guess."

      "We're not going to play guessing games. Tell me, how many?"

      "Just imagine, it can't be done with fewer than seven."

      "As many as that? What, for instance?"

      "What, for instance? Well, at all events, I'm certain of it. First of all, you need a chisel to get rid of the callus. Then a hammer to drive in the chisel. And then a little knife to file off the callus. And a funny gadget for hollowing out the horseshoe. And then...."

      "Then what?"

      "Then, there are a number of curious things. First of all, I was surprised to see that the horse was so quiet. No matter how one filed away and hollowed out the shoes he remained calm."

      "It's only hard skin. Human beings remain placid when they cut their nails."

      "Human beings, perhaps. But this was a horse."

      "Man or horse, we're just talking about a nail. You certainly seem to have ample time on your hands."

      "It's precisely because I have time to spare that I watched. But it's most enjoyable watching red-hot iron being beaten in the half-light. It gives off sparks in all directions."

      "Oh yes—even in the very center of Tokyo it makes sparks."

      "It may perhaps make sparks in the center of Tokyo, but it's different. First of all, with a farrier up in the mountains, like here, the sound is not the same. And you can hear it from here."

      The early autumn sun is sinking behind distant landscapes, the cool of evening is at hand, and while the air of the desolate mountain village brings a melancholy dusk in its wake, a constant clash of iron on iron can be heard.

      "You can hear it, can't you?" Kei asks.

      "Yes," Roku replies in laconic tones before lapsing into silence.

      In the next room two people are conducting a lively conversation.

      "And then the other combatant dropped his bamboo saber and was struck on his forearm."

      "Oh, I see: he finally suffered a hit on his forearm?"

      "Yes a 'touch' on his forearm. But you see, as he had dropped his saber there was nothing more he could do."

      "Oh—he dropped his saber?"

      "But he had dropped it already."

      "If he had dropped it and then received a hit on his forearm, he was in serious trouble."

      "He was certainly in trouble. Since he lost his saber and suffered a hit on his arm."

      The two men's conversation might go on and on, coming back again and again to the saber and the forearm. Kei and Roku, seated face to face, glance at each other with a smile.

      The constant sound of iron being beaten—a piercing and somewhat disturbing note—pervaded the tranquil village.

      "A horse is still being shod. It's turned rather cold, don't you think?" Kei enquired, growing stiff under his white yukata.¹ Roku refastens the collar of his unlined kimono, also white, and moves his casually parted knees properly together. Then Kei declares:

      "In the very middle of the district where I lived in my childhood there was a tofu² seller."

      "A tofu seller—so what about it?"

      "Well, past the corner of the shop at this tofu seller, a hundred meters further on, was the temple of Kankei."

      "The temple of Kankei?"

      "Yes. It should still be there. From the door of the temple there was only a bamboo grove to be seen, and it looked as if there was neither a central pavilion nor a priest's residence. In this temple, somebody came to ring the bell towards four o'clock every morning."

      "How do you mean, 'somebody'? It was a bonze surely?"

      "I do not know whether it was a bonze or not.

      At any rate, one could make out a faint 'ding-dong' from among the bamboos. On winter mornings, when a thick layer of frost had formed, while I was avoiding the general cold under my futon, the few centimeters of fabric of which gave some protection, I heard this 'ding-dong' echoing from the bamboo grove. I could not make out who was striking the bell. Each time I passed in front of the temple I saw the long paved roadway, the dilapidated door and the big bamboo grove which dominated the scene, but I never once looked inside the temple. I was content to listen to the echo of the bells which were being sounded from beyond the bamboo grove, and I huddled under my quilt like a shrimp."

      "Like a shrimp?"

      "Yes, like a shrimp—and I was murmuring under my breath 'ding dong!'"

      "That's strange."

      "Then, the tofu seller near the temple suddenly woke up and opened the shutters, and I heard the noise made by the mortar as he was washing the soya. And the rushing of the rinsing water for the tofu."

      'Where was your house situated, by the way?"

      "Well—where I could hear these noises."

      "But where, exactly?"

      "Right next to him."

      "Facing the tofu seller or to one side of him?"

      "Well—on the first floor."

      "The first floor of what?"

      "The tofu shop."

      "You don't say! Fancy that!" Roku exclaims in stupefaction.

      "I am the tofu seller's son."

      "No, really? The tofu seller's son?" Roku repeated in ever-growing astonishment.

      "Then, in the season when the convolvulus was fading and turning brown on the hedge, rustling when one tried to pull their interwoven tendrils apart, and when a white sheet of mist came down everywhere and the street lamps began to gleam, the bell sounded once again. Ding-dong! The clear echo rose from the bamboos. And then the tofu seller near the temple, on hearing the sound of the bell, closed the sliding doors."

      "You say 'the tofu seller near the temple'—but you are referring to your own house?"

      "Yes—that is to say, at the tofu seller's near the temple they were closing the sliding doors. And you could hear the ding-dong! I went up to the first floor to lay out my futon and lie down. The yoshiwarage³ we had was very good. The people in our district appreciated it."

      The "forearm" and the "saber" of the next room have calmed down; on the veranda on the other side a heavily built old man of about sixty years of age, resting his bent back against a pillar and seated like a tailor, is pulling out the hairs on his chin with a pair of tweezers. He seizes the root of each hair firmly and gives it a sharp pull, the tweezers moving apart towards the bottom and his chin moves convulsively as in a somersault. It is like a machine.

      "How many days does it take him to get rid of all the hairs?" That is the question that Roku asks Kei.

      "If he makes an effort, he can do it in half a day."

      "I don't believe it!" Roku protests.

      "Don't you? Well, let's say a day."

      "It would be too simple to be able to finish in one or two days."

      "True enough. Perhaps he will need a week. Look how carefully he feels his chin while pulling out the hairs."

      "If he goes no faster than that, he won't have had time to pull out the hairs before others have grown in their place."

      "Well, anyway, it is bound to be hurting him," says Kei, by way of changing the subject.

      "It certainly must hurt him. Should we not give him a piece

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