Clothes
I had a dream.
It was sort of restaurant-like. There were a great many people sitting all over the room. They were wearing Japanese clothes or Western-style clothes as they pleased.
They were not just wearing them. Looking upon one another’s clothes, they would freely giving their appraisals. They talked thus:
“What an outdated frock that it. A relic of the era of naturalism, isn’t it?”
“That Yūki silk is a masterwork! It has a human kindness to it that leaves me speechless.”
“What? You can see emotion in the haori you’re wearing? Yeah, right.”
“Take a look at that navy suit! That’s the very essence of the petty bourgeoisie.”
“Hey, I was surprised that you’re wearing a belt like that of a rakugo storyteller.”
“When you wear that Ōshima haori you have the look of a spoiled Yamanote brat about you.”
Then at the foot of the table, I could see that there was a strange, skinny man. He was wearing a dubious yellow kimono with an old style lacquer family crest. His clothes, for quite a while, looked to have been the subject of harsh criticism. And even at this moment a young doctor with long hair exclaimed:
“Enjoying your kimono as usual, have you?”
Something had possessed this doctor to wear white robes with a hint of Dominican monk about them. It seemed as though perhaps these were the clothes Balzac wore when he worked. Naturally, his clothes was not as tall or as wide as Balzac’s, so there was a lot of room in the sleeves.
But the thin man only gave his persistent, strained smile and continued to sit stubbornly in silence.
“You’re always wearing the same clothes so you’ve got no room to talk!”
This was the remark that was tossed out by a young eccentric, as you might expect, who was wearing perhaps Meisen or Ōshima; it was hard to tell. However, it was apparent that even this eccentric had been wearing his clothes for quite some time, and crumbs were clinging to his grimy collar.
Nevertheless the thin man in the yellow kimono did not give a word of response. In this situation, he seemed all the more to be an inanimate object.
However, on this third occasion a broad-shouldered man in suit with rough stripes, smiling broadly, dropped a half-sympathetic remark.
“Why aren’t you wearing the clothes you did before? It’s not as though you’ve relapsed again, is it? However, the yellow kimono doesn’t suit you at all! Ladies and gentlemen, let us recall a time that this man has showed up in different clothes. And so therefore that he might change his clothes this time, let us bother to encourage him!”
Among the great throng there were cheers of, “Hear, hear!” as well as roars of, “Go harder on him, quit buttering each other up!”
The thin man, scratching his head, evacuated the room in a hurry. Then, he returned to a two-story house, with poor ventilation, on the outskirts of town.
In the house, both on the upper floor and on the lower floor, had been hung all sorts of clothes, as if they were being aired out. I thought there were items that glimmered like a snakes scales; they were chainmail and armor used in times of war.
The thin man assumed an arrogant cross-legged position among the clothes, and then he calmly began to smoke a cigarette.
I thought as though he said something at that time, but unfortunately I did not remember it when I opened my eyes. As I go to great trouble to write of my dreams, I have regretted forgetting those words over and over.