Yimamura Eiji, "The Crossings." -- 今村栄治「同行者」　(1938)

The Crossings

By Imamura Eiji

First published in Manshū Gyōsei, 1938.6.

Translated by Lehyla G. Heward and Emma Y. Cool

Our hero in this novella, Shin Chong-chin, has fallen into a desperate situation in life—of that he himself is undoubtedly convinced. It would be fortunate if you, dear reader, could understand this when reading the story. Some may complain, “I just cannot comprehend it!” However, because our lead character is so committed to his predicament, he must, indeed, be at his wit’s end. Even I, the author, am in no position to hazard any explanation from my standpoint.

“It might as well just happen already.”

At a Korean inn, Shin Chong-chin lay sprawled on a straw mat dressed in a Japanese kimono, arms crossed under his head, muttering in irritation.

It was the end of August. The “Manchurian Incident” was about to break out and, as the newspapers put it, relations between Japan and China were “growing tense by the minute.” The Nakamura and Wanbaoshan incidents had occurred one after another, and around Changchun, Japanese deterrent drills were staged on the streets day and night. People were often awakened by late night gunfire. Exclaiming things like, “War’s begun!” they’d prepare to evacuate in a panic. If two people ran into each other while out and about, their talk would inevitably turn to events between Japan and China. The faces of people running through the streets flashed with anticipation and unease.

Even the weather that morning happened to be gloomy and depressing. Not a drop of rain came, nor did the clouds clear. The stifling heat weighed heavily on people’s chests.

Shin Chong-chin sat up sharply to look out the window and then lay down again. “Might as well just happen already,” he muttered repeatedly, scratching his head. Shin’s restlessness was not due to his concern for the Chinese and Japanese problems but, rather, because his personal life had hit a dead end.

As if to prove that his irritations were not a result of the trouble between the two countries, Shin had not once contemplated the conflict until now. Take the murder of Captain Nakamura by a Chinese official, for example. Or the dozens of Korean ditch-diggers in Wanbaoshan who had suffered at the hands of the Chinese tenant farmers. And how many Chinese had been killed in Pyongyang afterwards? Shin had always remained aloof to these day-to-day incidents. Perhaps he would have given it more attention if he hadn’t been so hard-pressed. As such, his agitated “It might as well just start already” sounded the same as someone utterly discontent or dying of boredom muttering “if only a fire would start nearby.”

As if to add fuel to Shin Chong-chin’s irritation, the innkeeper sauntered in, holding a long pipe and large wooden ashtray. His wide Korean pants gleamed with a filthy sheen.

Whenever he saw this old man, Shin Chong-chin felt an inexplicable disgust. The man made him feel sick to the stomach. Notwithstanding the proprietor’s pretentious swagger, Shin did not get up from his mat. He merely glanced up without saying a word.

The innkeeper, however, stared straight at Shin and, as if to reproach him for his unseemly behavior, deliberately cleared his throat while stroking his long, half-white beard. He sat down cross-legged in the characteristic manner of elderly Koreans, then knocked the head of his pipe on the ashtray with a thwack and began to speak.

“Mr. Shin, I have found you a fellow traveler.”

“A fellow traveler?”

“Eh? So, what you said before…were you toying with me, an old man?”

Shin Chong-chin finally remembered. “No, I didn’t mean it as a joke at all. Are you saying that you found someone willing to travel with me?”

“That’s right. I heard that there’s a rather large Japanese-run farm in the exact place you’re headed. There’s a Japanese man who’s going back there alone. For some reason, he seems to be looking for a Korean to go with him.” He paused for a moment and then added, “Even though you’re Korean, you often pose as a Japanese—fitting, isn’t it?”

The innkeeper finished and, like a one-man mob, looked at Shin Chong-chin scornfully. He coughed again.

The old man’s remark made Shin Chong-chin feel as if he had been stabbed by a needle, pricking the essence of why Shin’s life had fallen apart. The words echoed painfully in Shin’s chest, evoking a strong sense of indignation.

“Hmph!” With a muffled grunt, he made up his mind. Shin perked up and seated himself upright on the hard, straw mat.

It had been fifteen years since Shin Chong-chin’s eldest brother, along with his wife and children, had moved to the county of ××, about two days away by wagon. He would send a letter about once every two years, but Shin had never sent one back. Should I go to my brother’s place or not? Shin Chong-chin was very torn these days.

Shin Chong-chin was so accustomed to urban culture that it seemed absurd for him to set out for a remote area of Manchuria, where there was no other means of transportation besides wagons, to live a farmer’s life with his eldest brother. Moreover, in the ten years since he had left his hometown and gone to Dalian, he had not even spoken Korean. He had been working with Japanese people, having fun with Japanese people, and living with Japanese people, without a single friend from his hometown. Shin Chong-chin himself had become a bona fide Japanese person in every respect.

With his finances wearing thin, Shin had been going home more frequently in the past couple of months. Or, like now, he would come to Changchun to stay at a Korean inn for a few days. Although his mother tongue had more or less come back to him, he still did not speak Korean as fluently as Japanese. He did not hate the Korean language, but speaking it felt somehow unnatural—as if he was speaking in a foreign tongue. It gave him a sense of failure.

But Shin Chong-chin despised the customs of Korea.

Imagining the lives of farmers in the distant countryside put Shin ill at ease. Language aside, even the shadow of a Japanese person probably could not be found in those parts. When it came to lodging, the uncleanliness of the inn and the straw mat were already hard to bear. Out there, it might not be possible to lay a mat; he would have to sleep on scraps of straw or something. And the windows would probably just be small holes bored into the earthen walls.

If he went to live there, Shin Chong-chin would have to take up the plow and hoe, which he had never touched before. He was physically strong enough to do the rough work of farmers, but on second thought, he wasn’t sure he could endure such a primitive and barbaric life.

Now, he could not free himself from his predicament either mentally or practically. Under such a strain, Shin had the vague thought that if he leapt into that kind of place and endured it for a while, perhaps a different path would open up for him. He mentioned this to the innkeeper in passing and asked if he knew anyone who could accompany him. But after everything, he hadn’t made a concrete decision.

Upon hearing that the companion was Japanese, however, his unrelenting irritation disappeared, replaced by a kind of sorrow.

>> Download full story here <<