“Hearing his loathsome, grating voice on the radio has put the professor in a most unpleasant mood, and he gulps down a beer. Never having been one to hold his liquor very well, he grows tipsy almost at once. A young girl selling fortunes enters the beer hall. The professor calls her over and in a soft, familiar tone of voice says: ‘How old are you, dear? Thirteen? You don’t say. That means that in another five years... no, four years... no, no, in another three years, you can get married. Now listen carefully. How much is thirteen plus three? H’mm?’ And so on. Even a respected professor of mathematics can behave rather inappropriately when drunk. Now, however, having been somewhat overly persistent in teasing the girl, he realizes he has little choice but to buy one of her fortunes. The professor is not a superstitious man, but tonight, partially because of the radio broadcast, he feels somewhat vulnerable and has a sudden urge to consult the fortune as to what will become of his research, and where his destiny will lead him. When one’s life begins to unravel, one is tempted, sadly enough, to cling to the thread of prophecy.
“The fortune is of the invisible ink variety. The professor heats the paper with the flame of a match, opening his bleary eyes wide in an attempt to focus on the words as they appear. At first he’s uncertain what he’s seeing—it merely looks like some sort of design—but gradually the lines resolve into clear-cut characters written in a flowing, old-fashioned style:
JUST AS YOU WISH
“Seeing this, the professor beams. Well, no, ‘beams’ is hardly the word. Our noble professor erupts with a vulgar-sounding chuckle—‘Er, her, her, her’—then thrusts out his chin and looks about at the other drunken customers. None of them take any particular notice of the professor, but that doesn’t stop him from nodding to each of them and producing a series of silly laughs—‘Ha, ha. Just as you wish! Hee, hee, hee. Excuse me. Ho, ho!’—as he strolls serenely out of the beer hall, his self-confidence thoroughly restored.
“Outside, a slow-moving river of people flows over the street. It’s quite a crush. People jostling and shoving, all of them dripping with sweat but trying to look composed and indifferent as they shuffle along. They’re walking with no goal or destination in mind, to be sure, but precisely because their daily lives are so dreary they are harboring, all of them, some faint flicker of hope that compels them to stroll through the Shinjuku night with looks of cool composure on their faces. Walk up and down those streets all you like, not a single good thing will come of it. This much is certain. But happiness is being able to hope, however faintly, for happiness. So, at least, we must believe if we are to live in the world of today. Discharged from the beer hall’s revolving door, the professor totters and dives into the city’s sad current of migrant souls and is at once jostled and swept downstream, floundering and flailing as if he were drowning. Tonight, however, of all the members of this vast throng, the professor is quite possibly the one with the greatest confidence. The odds of his obtaining happiness are better than anyone else’s. Recalling his good fortune from time to time as he walks along, he smiles or nods to himself, or raises his eyebrows to give his expression a grave and dignified aspect, or makes inept and rather uncouth attempts at whistling.
“Then, suddenly, he collides head-on with a young student. This, however, is only to be expected. In a crowd this size, it’s natural that one will bump into someone else occasionally. Nothing comes of the encounter; the student merely walks on. But a short while later the professor collides with a beautiful young lady. Nothing comes of this either, though: she merely continues along the street. It is not yet time for happiness to arrive. The new development is to come from behind him. Someone taps the professor lightly on the back. This time it’s no accident.”
The elder daughter stopped there. She’d been speaking all this time with downcast eyes. Now she snatched off her glasses and began vigorously polishing the lenses with her handkerchief—something she always did when self-conscious.
The second son continued.
“I’m afraid I’m not very good at doing descriptive passages. Or, rather, it’s not that I’m not good at it, it’s just that it seems like too much trouble today. So I’ll keep this brief and to the point.” Such cheek.
“The professor turns to see a plump woman of about forty. She’s holding a small dog with a remarkably ugly face. The two of them have the following conversation.
“‘Happy?’ she says.
“‘Sure, I’m happy. Since you’ve been gone, everything’s fine. Everything’s, well, just as I wish.’
“‘H’mph. I suppose you’ve got yourself some young thing?’
“‘Something wrong with that?’
“‘Yes, there is something wrong with that. Didn’t you promise me that if I only gave up dogs I could return to you any time I pleased?’
“‘That’s not likely to happen, though, is it? God, this one’s a real horror. Just horrible. It looks like a creature that eats larvae or something. What a monstrosity. Ugh. It’s nauseating.’
“‘You don’t have to go all pale in the face for my benefit. Isn’t that right, Pro? Is the bad man making fun of you? Bark at him. Go on. Woof! Woof!’
“‘Stop that. You’re as contrary as ever, aren’t you. You know, just talking to you sends chills down my spine. “Pro”? What the hell is that? Can’t you come up with a name with a bit more class? Idiot.’
“‘What’s wrong with “Pro”? It’s short for “Professor.” I named him in honor of you. Isn’t he sweet?’
“‘I can’t stand this.’
“‘My! You still perspire as much as ever, don’t you? Goodness! Don’t wipe it off with your sleeve. How do you think that looks? Don’t you have a handkerchief? Your new wife must be an awfully careless person. I never once forgot to see that you had three handkerchiefs and a fan whenever you went out in summer.’
“‘I won’t have you finding fault with my hallowed home. It’s most unpleasant.’
“‘Well, excuse me. Here. Take this handkerchief.’
“‘Thanks. I’ll just borrow it for the time being.’
“‘You’ve become a complete stranger, haven’t you?’
“‘When two people separate, they become strangers. That’s just the way it... Wait... This handkerchief Sure enough, it has the same old... No. No, it smells of dogs.’
“‘What a thing to say. The fragrance brings back memories, doesn’t it?’
“‘Don’t be stupid. You know what your problem is? Ill breeding.’
“‘Me? What about yourself? Do you insist on your new wife babying you too? You mustn’t, you know, at your age. How do you think it looks? She’ll grow to hate you. Having her put your socks on you wh
ile you’re still in bed, and—’