At Kinosaki: Morimi Tomihiko (Part 1)

Onsen novelist Arima Otohiko threw himself down on the tatami, stretching like a cat.

It was an evening early in November. The four middle-aged men lolled around in their room at the Kawaguchiya Kinosaki Riverside Hotel, each of them wearing a heavy tanzen over his yukata. There was a ruddy glow on their faces from their tour of their outdoor baths, which had only been enhanced by the delicious feast of crab which they had subsequently enjoyed.

The hotel was removed from the heart of the onsen district, and outside the window all was dark, shrouding the Ōtani River depicted in Shiga Naoya’s At Kinosaki from view. But so content were they that they scarcely noticed.

“I haven’t had so much crab in such a long time.”

There was boiled snow crab, crab sashimi, crab hotpot, crab tōbanyaki, crab tempura, crab porridge: all in all, a dazzling array of crab. Aonimaru Satoshi, the youngest of the group by far, was making a cheerful commotion, while Kamibayashi Hankotsu, who was constantly on the verge of a nervous breakdown, was shoveling sashimi into his mouth in willful disregard of his delicate constitution. Even Fuwaku Yonjūrō was licking the last few drops of porridge from the pot.

“I never knew that you were such a crab-lover, Fuwaku!”

“Actually, I’ve probably overdone it,” replied Fuwaku, leaning back in his zaisu and rubbing his belly, singlemindedly digesting the crab contained within. His was the countenance of a courtier from olden times, from his plump cheeks to his narrow, inscrutable eyes. Onsen mysteries were his particular specialty, and he and Arima were heated rivals in the battle to secure hegemony over the exceedingly narrow world of onsen novels.

“Sometimes I wonder how crab can possibly be so delicious.”

“Too true, too true.”

“Being succulent must be a disadvantage in the struggle for existence,” mused Arima thoughtfully. “Otherwise they wouldn’t be so hunted by humans.”

“If they weren’t so difficult to get at they would have gone extinct long ago.” This from Kamibayashi, a publisher, sitting on the other side of the table. He was lean, and with old-fashioned black-framed glasses and long bangs which draped his forehead, could easily have passed as one of the post-war Buraiha literary clique. He had been the architect of the onsen novel revival, and was so close with Arima Otohiko and Fuwaku Yonjūrō that they were practically brothers. His love for onsens was true, and several years ago he had given up employment at a major publisher to go solo, setting up the Yukemurisha publishing house to distribute onsen-related works.

An onsen novel craze had swept the nation twelve years prior. In those heady times a book merely needed the word “Onsen” on its cover to sell like hotcakes; everyone and their mother was snapping them up. Both Arima and Fuwaku had made their names riding the crest of that wave. But sic transit gloria mundi: the tide had ebbed as quickly as it had come in, and nowadays you could hardly find anyone who still raised the banner of the onsen novel. Kamibayashi Hankotsu was keenly aware that the genre was in danger of fading away, and thus he had issued the call: onsen novelists of Japan, assemble!

Three had answered:

Arima Otohiko

Fuwaku Yonjūrō

Aonimaru Satoshi

Lo, the three onsen novelists.

The foursome had stepped off the train at the JR Kinosaki Onsen Station just past noon earlier that day. But what could this paltry group of three accomplish? After paying their respects at the Kinosaki Onsen Heritage Museum, that hallowed ground of the onsen novel, and availing themselves of several of the outdoor baths, they checked in at the onsen hotel; that night the air was filled with the sound of smacking lips as they feasted upon crab. As far as Arima was concerned, his duty was fulfilled. Tomorrow they would ride the ropeway up to visit Onsen-ji, and gaze down upon the onsen district from the observation platform. And after a meal of Tajima beef curry, they would purchase some straw craft souvenirs before enjoying a leisurely ride home on the Kinosaki limited express.

“What now?” said Aonimaru, rousing himself from the floor. “Shall we visit another outdoor bath?”

At thirty years of age he was the rising star of the onsen novel scene; his debut novel, an onsen comedy, had been published the previous year. He did not write full time; his day job was in municipal government.

“Let’s bask in the glow of all that crab a little while longer,” said Fuwaku.

“You’re still young, Aonimaru,” remarked Arima. “But the rest of us are too tired and stuffed to move.”

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Arima Otohiko forgot how the topic of kokkuri-san came up. Out of nowhere Kamibayashi Hankotsu started showing off his vast knowledge of minutiae, going on about how in the Meiji period kokkuri-san was played using a rice chest lid mounted upon a tripod of three bamboo rods tied together, or Mishima Yukio and his clique had used kokkuri-san during literary magazine meetings, and so forth. Arima had tried it himself as a young grade schooler―certainly not with a rice chest lid, but on a paper containing characters and numbers using a ten-yen coin.

“Want to give it a go?” asked Kamibayashi.

Arima sat up in surprise.

“Here? Now?”

“I’m not too fond of the occult,” said Fuwaku. “And kokkuri-san is mostly a phenomenon of reflexive muscle movement, anyways.”

But Aonimaru was raring to go. He looked up “kokkuri-san” on his phone and ripped out a page from a sketchbook, onto which began to write the characters of the Japanese syllabary. Kamibayashi dug out a ten-yen coin from his wallet.

“Why don’t we try calling on the spirit of Shiga Naoya?”

“You think the ghost of a dead writer is just going to pop in for a chat?”

“Well, Kinosaki Onsen was one of his favourite haunts, after all.”

Shiga Naoya’s At Kinosaki is lauded as a classic of modern literature. Kamibayashi was always going on about how Shiga was the original modern onsen novelist; in so doing he meant to appropriate the lineage of the God of Fiction for the benefit of Arima and his fellow onsen novelists, and consequently elevate the prestige of the onsen novel genre. That was his publishing strategy.

Aonimaru slid his completed kokkuri-san paper into the middle of the low table. Arima rested his elbows on the table and looked at the paper beneath the glow of the fluorescent light. At the top of the paper was a torii (which Aonimaru had conscientiously drawn in red ink), flanked by a Yes and a No. Beneath it was the hiragana syllabary, and the numbers 0 through 9. Perhaps it was only because his mind had been primed that it looked so sinister. He had always scoffed at the existence of ghosts, but now another part of him was whispering, we shouldn’t do this. Even Fuwaku was meekly sitting in silence.

Kamibayashi placed the coin on top of the torii.

“Place your index fingers on the coin.”

Each of the men gathered around the table did as he said.

“Kokkuri-san, kokkuri-san,” intoned Kamibayashi, “Grace us with your presence.”

They did not have to wait long. Arima let out a yelp when the coin began to slide beneath their fingertips. It was the unconscious movement of their fingers that was causing it, he knew that―and yet it felt as though someone was pulling the coin along. His suspicions turned immediately to Fukuwa, who was sitting beside him.

“Fuwaku, stop messing around.”

“It’s not me, I’m not even pressing on it!”

What about you two?”

Kamibayashi and Aonimaru shook their heads vigorously.

Arima inhaled deeply, and tried to relax his fingertip. Yet the coin continued its slow skate over the paper. As if it had a will of its own.

“Are you Shiga Naoya?” asked Kamibayashi.

The coin came to a stop over Yes.

“Look like it’s him.”

“No way!”

“That was too easy.”

“Let’s test it some more,” said Kamibayashi, and continued with his questioning.

“In life, did you ever visit Kinosaki Onsen?”

Yes.

“Are you an American?”

No.

“Is your only long-form novel A Dark Night’s Passing?”

Yes.

The four men exchanged glances. Thus far the answers were correct.

“Do you believe At Kinosaki is a masterpiece?” asked Arima. This time the coin vacillated between Yes and No as if it were trying to decide.

“Maybe that’s how the author would feel,” remarked Aonimaru. “That’s a question for other people to decide. I doubt that he ever expected At Kinosaki to become so well-known…”

“That makes sense. Pretty believable reaction.”

“Let’s keep asking,” said Kamibayashi, leaning forward intently. “Shiga-san, you are the father of the onsen novel. Please, would you share some words of encouragement with us?”

The coin wandered into the syllabary.

To. Ha. U. Tsu.

“What does that mean?” Fuwaku muttered.

The four of them considered amongst themselves, but a reasonable interpretation failed to present itself. The questioning continued: What is it like on the other side? What do you think of your status as a literary giant? Is there an edge to outer space? And so on and so forth.

Some of those questions “Shiga Naoya” answered, some he did not. Yes or no questions excluded, he would not answer in words. The coin just meandered across the syllabary without settling on a character, producing what appeared to be a string of meaningless gobbledygook.

“Maybe Shiga Naoya isn’t interested in answering.”

Arima was starting to feel a little silly. Is this what he’d come all the way to Kinosaki Onsen for? To sit in a circle with three other middle-aged men and stare at a coin?

As if to mock them, the coin decided to speed up. But just as it did, Fuwaku asked with some concern, “Are you all right, Kamibayashi?”

Kamibayashi face had turned pale.

“He’s not possessed by a kitsune, is he?” said Arima.

“Stomach’s giving me some trouble,” answered Kamibayashi, looking strained.

“I told you, you shouldn’t have gotten carried away!”

“But it was just so good…”

“Let’s wrap this up, I’ve had enough, “said Fuwaku, taking his finger off the coin. Aonimaru gasped.

“You’re not supposed to take your finger off yet, Fuwaku. If you do it before you send kokkuri-san home, they say the spirit might possess you.”

“Why didn’t you say that before?” said Fuwaku, quickly putting his finger back on the coin.

“Ha! So you do believe in it!” chortled Arima.

“No I don’t!” scowled Fuwaku. “Better safe than sorry, that’s all.”

The proper way to end the game was to beseech the spirit to return and move the coin to the torii. The groaning Kamibayashi had broken out in a cold sweat, so Aonimaru took over in his stead.

“Kokkuri-san, kokkuri-san,” he prayed, “We beseech you, return whence you came. Return the coin to the torii.”

Arima put some pressure into his fingertip, trying to move the coin upward towards the torii. But after some dithering, the coin instead went back to No. It was as though one of the four was desperately trying to keep the game from ending.

“Kokkuri-san, kokkuri-san. Please, go in peace,” repeated Aonimaru anxiously.

　　　　　　　◯

Arima Otohiko took the elevator down to the first floor of the hotel.

It was around 8 in the evening, and the lobby was quiet. The guests were probably all resting in their rooms, or out for a round of the outdoor baths. The spacious room was occupied by a row of black leather sofas on a carpet of plum blossom pink. The peacock feather pattern on the coffered ceiling, the relaxed bar sequestered at the back of the lobby: all so emblematic of the classic onsen hotel of days of yore.

Arima crossed the lobby into the smoking room. It reminded him of a waiting room in a train station. He sat on a bench and looked at the poster hanging on the wall across from him: Discover Kinosaki. It depicted two young women in yukata standing at the ropeway summit station, smiling at the camera. Whatever travel fair this poster had been advertising had long since ended. Arima smiled whenever he saw old posters left up.

As he lit up a smoke, Aonimaru Satoshi poked his head in.

“Well hello there.”

“Hey. How’s Kamibayashi doing?”

“He’s resting in his futon. Face white as the sheets.”

Aonimaru came in and sat down next to Arima.

“That gave me a scare. I thought he’d been possessed by kokkuri-san.”

“Not a chance,” chuckled Arima. “He’s just overworked. Setting up Yukemurisha was a superhuman effort. It must’ve all just hit him at once.”

“You’ve known him for a while, right?”

Back when he was still working for one of the major publishers, Kamibayashi Hankotsu had sent more than a few fledgling onsen novelists out into the world, among them Arima Otohiko and Fuwaku Yonjūrō, in that unprecedented onsen novel craze. Waves are fickle things: hit one just right, and it will carry you to heights far above your station. But one false move, and it can all come crashing down in an instant. Tossed around in this turbulent sea, Arima could only keep writing as frantically as he could; he supposed his rival Fuwaku had done the same.

At the height of the craze, Aonimaru had only been in middle school.

“You inspired me to become an onsen novelist,” said Aonimaru. “Being here at Kinosaki Onsen with you is such an honour. I’m so grateful to Kamibayashi for extending this invitation.”

“I’d watch my step around him if I were you.”

“Why’s that?”

“He’s the Mephistopheles of onsen novels,” answered Arima. “Be careful you don’t end up selling him your soul.”

He had had many lively discussions concerning the future of onsen novels with Kamibayashi. In those days Kamibayashi had a strange charisma, and a great enthusiasm for exhorting to greater fledgling onsen novelists toward greater heights. This enthusiasm stemmed from a deep-held, magnificent dream: The Complete Onsen Literature Anthology.

It was intended to be an all-encompassing collection of onsen literature, spanning works from the Manyōshū to the modern age, and in fact had originated with his father, Kamibayashi Tetsuzō, a singular individual, and a critic not only of literature but of the onsen as well. “The soul of the Japanese lies in the onsen,” he had been fond of saying, and in his later years he had turned to a peculiar right-wing mysticism. He passed away of a heart attack during a stay at Gero Onsen, but at the last he had supposedly still been revising on his plan for the anthology. Thus Kamibayashi had taken it upon himself to fulfill his father’s dream.

This dream was the font of Kamibayashi zeal, and like a virus it had spread across the onsen novel world, producing the impetus for the onsen novel boom. With each new revision the project became ever more grandiose; at the height of the boom it had swollen to over 50 volumes. Obviously such a project was unworkable, and eventually the onsen novel bubble deflated.

By now most people had forgotten that the onsen novel genre had ever existed. The tide which had lifted Arima to such heights had gone out, leaving him high and dry. One by one the colleagues who had been cajoled by Kamibayashi into the onsen novel world drifted away. Fuwaku Yonjūrō was just about the only other one left, and even he was being drawn further into working on comics and games, with precious little time to work on onsen novels.

Arima alone remained. He had more copies in print now than he had during the boom. But that was just to make up for the shortfall in demand: maintaining momentum through sheer mass. Onsen novels no longer excited him, but after twenty years that was only to be expected. As long as he kept up a regular routine, writer’s block would not trouble him. And yet he had little desire to make the leap out into other genres.

Do you think the onsen novel is finished?

Maybe he should have asked that question to Shiga Naoya. Then again, maybe it didn’t matter much to Shiga. He was the God of Fiction, after all, not the God of Onsen Fiction. The idea that he was the father of the modern onsen novel was really just a publicity gimmick that Kamibayashi had come up with.

Arima snuffed out his cigarette despairingly.

“I was thinking about the game earlier,” murmured Aonimaru. “You weren’t messing with it, were you?”

“Of course I wasn’t. It must’ve been Fuwaku playing a prank.”

“But he said he wasn’t. And Kamibayashi was too preoccupied with his stomach to have done anything. It obviously wasn’t me, and it wasn’t you. So who was keeping the game from ending?”

“Beats me. Probably the ghost of Shiga Naoya.”

No sooner had the joke left his lips than a figure appeared on the other side of the door. It was Fuwaku Yonjūrō, his chest exposed beneath his yukata, looking rather put out. He pressed his forehead to the glass window and knocked on the door.

“What’s going on?” asked Arima.

“I need your help,” answered Fuwaku Yonjūrō. “Something’s wrong with Kamibayashi.”