A Blue Cat
by Hagiwara Sakutaro (1923)
Translation by Nick Bradley
To be in love with this city is a good thing
To love the city’s buildings, a good thing
And all those kind women
All those noble lives
Passing through these busy streets
Lined with cherry trees on either side
From whose branches countless sparrows chirp.
Ah! The only thing that can sleep in this vast city night
Is the shadow of a single blue cat
The shadow of a cat that tells the sad history of humanity
The blue shade of happiness I long for.
Forever I chase any shadow,
I thought I wanted Tokyo even on a snowy day
But look there – that cold ragged beggar in the alleyway
Leaning against a wall – what dream is he dreaming?
Tattoo
Kentaro held the hot cup of coffee to his lips and blew at the rising steam. The back office of his tattoo parlour was dimly lit, and the light from his laptop screen gave his dirty white stubble a blueish hue. Reflected in his glasses, a long list of links on an open webpage scrolled up slowly. His hand gripped a Bluetooth mouse, the buttons covered with greasy finger marks. His coffee was still too hot to drink. He put it down, just to the right of a coaster on his desk, and idly scratched his crotch.
He clicked on a link and was faced with a loading bar.
A short pause, then a webcam live stream loaded. The screen showed the interior of someone’s bedroom. A small apartment, with lots of legal textbooks on a shelf – perhaps a university student. On the bed a couple was kissing. Naked. Oblivious.
Kentaro sat and watched. Then he unzipped his trousers and reached inside.
The shop’s doorbell sounded. Kentaro froze.
‘Hello?’ a girl’s voice called out from the waiting area.
‘Sorry, just a minute.’ He shut the laptop quickly, composed himself and walked out to greet the customer.
Standing at the doorway was a high-school girl. At first glance there was nothing remarkable about her. She was wearing the typical sailor-style uniform with the standard bobbed haircut and baggy socks. She’d dyed her hair blonde to stand out, but that’s what they all did these days. She looked to be in her final year. Probably made some kind of mistake coming in here.
‘How may I help you, miss?’ Kentaro did his best to put on his customer-care voice.
‘I’d like a tattoo, please,’ she said, her chin raised high.
‘Ah, miss. Excuse me, but how did you find this parlour?’
‘A friend recommended it.’
‘And your friend is . . . ?’
‘That doesn’t matter. I want a tattoo.’ She made to walk into the rear of the parlour.
Kentaro placed a hand on the wall to stop her. ‘Miss, don’t be silly. You’re too young.’
She looked at his arm. ‘I’m eighteen. And don’t call me miss.’
He lowered his arm awkwardly. ‘Have you thought about this properly?’
‘Yes, I have.’ She looked him in the eye. ‘I want a tattoo.’
‘Maybe you should go away and give it a few days’ thought.’
‘I’ve already thought long and hard about it. I want a tattoo.’
‘But maybe there are some things you haven’t thought about. You won’t be able to go to onsen.’
‘I don’t like hot springs.’
‘People will think you’re yakuza. Could be a bit scary for a nice young girl like you.’
She rolled her eyes. ‘I don’t care what people think. I want a tattoo.’
‘It’s expensive – can cost as much as three million yen.’
‘I have money.’
‘Listen, I do it the traditional way here – tebori – all of it’s done by hand. I’m not one of these upstarts you find in Shibuya with their cheating methods. Even the gangsters I tattoo can’t handle this kind of pain.’
‘Pain, I can handle.’ She looked directly at Kentaro, and he saw then something in her eyes, a soft brightness, a light green colour – almost transparent – that he had never seen before in a Japanese person.
‘I wonder.’ He flipped the sign on the front door over to CLOSED, then gestured for the girl to follow him. ‘Come through to the back room and we’ll have a chat.’
He flicked on the top lights as they entered the back room, and now the bed-like table his customers lay on was visible, as well as the photos of the various clients he’d had over the years – hissing dragons, gawping koi carp, topless women, Shinto gods and elaborate kanji sprawling across the naked backs, buttocks and arms of his customers. Most of whom were yakuza.
Kentaro had learnt his trade from one of the old masters of Asakusa, and was famous for his skill and dedication to his art. He loved nothing better than to tattoo a fresh piece of skin, elaborating scenes from ink onto small spaces of bare flesh. The only thing that came close to the satisfaction of creating a masterpiece on another human was the feeling of dominance over the gangsters he worked on.
‘This might hurt a bit,’ he’d tell them.
‘I can take it,’ they would reply.
That’s what they all say.
And then he would begin work on them, and he’d feel the pain in their movements, in the subtle shift of their muscles and bodies, in the sound of their gritted teeth, as he gouged away gently at their bodies with his metal needles in the traditional style he had learnt from his old master, leaving his mark on them indefinitely. It gave him great pleasure to think of his mastery over these kings of men, these lords of the criminal underworld. His creative control was supreme; he alone decided the images and stories that would be a part of his client forever – sometimes even after death. If the client donated their skin to the Museum of Pathology it would be cut from their cadaver before cremation, then treated correctly and stored. Many pieces of Kentaro’s work were on display behind glass at the museum.
He knew he was the best – as did the yakuza who respected him greatly as an artist. But he’d never had many female customers – not even the female yakuza came to him for their tattoos. They all went elsewhere.
But here was a female customer now, standing right in front of him.
‘Where shall I sit?’ she asked.
‘Oh! Hold on.’ He pulled a chair from the corner closer to his own. ‘Here, take a seat.’
She sat down gingerly and put her hands in her lap.
‘So, what would you like a tattoo of ?’
‘The city.’
‘The city?’
‘Tokyo.’
‘That’s not very . . . conventional.’
‘So what?’ Her eyes flashed again.
‘Where do you want it?’
‘My back.’
‘That’s going to be tricky . . .’
‘Look, mister. Can you do it or not?’
‘Sure. I can. No need to be sassy. I just need to figure out how.’ He put his chin on his hand, looked at his closed laptop, then it hit him. ‘Oh! Just a minute.’
He opened his laptop and tapped his fingers on the keyboard, impatient for it to come to life again. It did, just in time to depict a girl facing the webcam, bent over, getting pounded hard from behind. The speakers of his laptop let out a low moaning sound.