Wednesday, December 30, 2009

Murakami Through Lacan

This just in from Sally Suzuki, Beholdmyswarthyface Media Director:

I thought our readers might be interested in this illuminating essay by Jonathan Dil, titled "Woman as Symptom and the Void at the Heart of Subjectivity: A Lacanian Reading of Murakami Haruki's 'The Wind-up Bird Chronicle.'" They also might want to check out Professor Dil's recent doctoral dissertation, available here in full. That is all for today. -Sally Suzuki

James Cameron's "Avatar" and Its Public Reception

This just in from Lucy Tucker, American exile living in Holland:

I just saw James Cameron’s Avatar. I give it four stars, despite its obvious flaws. (The story is a rather cliched “going native” romance, a sort of recycled Lawrence of Arabia or Dances With Wolves, and the depiction of the natives is predictably Orientalist.)
But I don't fault James Cameron for these flaws. The film, set on a fictional planet in the future, is effective precisely because it is so didactic. Furthermore, its broad critique of American imperialism is so potently effective because the “Na’vi” do not correspond to any one specific group, but are rather an amalgamation of the various indigenous peoples Americans have encountered through history, from North America and the Philippines to Vietnam, Iraq, and Afghanistan.

But more importantly, I am amazed at how such an unambiguously anti-imperialist film can be so popular within the imperium. Has the public, during my long absence, been radicalized? Have they been reading Lenin? Or have they swung to the Lindbergh Right and gone isolationist?

Or, is this an example of what Marxists call “recuperation” (or “incorporation”), whereby a dissenting discourse is adopted and reconfigured by the dominant ideology for safe public consumption?

Or does the film serve as a kind of a Bakhtinian carnival where the repressed fears of the tribe are given cathartic release through the temporary reversal of the usual moral coordinates?

Or is it that the public is just too dumb to see beyond the special effects to the film’s exceedingly obvious political message? (You’ll note that even many of the major movie critics missed the point, evaluating the film in the tired discourse of race.)

Also, I wonder if there are any historical precedents for this. Did Germans in the early 1940s gather en masse to watch plays or films in which they were the bad guys, and Jews and Communists were the heroes? Did the ancient Romans have such a custom? Did the Imperial Japanese? The British? The Umayyad Caliphate?

Collective self-flagellation usually comes after the collapse—but can it happen while things are still going relatively well?

Please look into this for me.

Lucy Tucker

PS Oh, and for the blind:

Monday, December 28, 2009


This just in from Sally Suzuki:
Bethany Doublename,,

Although your panel topic sounds fascinating, I'm afraid you've been misinformed. Beholdmyswarthyface and I are not holding a Japan Studies Conference next month; in fact, this is the first I'd even heard about it. But good luck finding a conference to host your panel!

Sally Suzuki, Beholdmyswarthyface Media Director

"Widening the Discourse of the Shishōsetsu in Modern Japanese Literature"

This just in from Bethany Doublename:

Dear Beholdmyswarthyface,

My people have informed me that you and Sally Suzuki are holding the first annual Beholdmyswarthyface Japan Studies Conference sometime next month. Corbin Clausewitz,
Cresti Yerfi, and I, Bethany Doublename, would love to participate, so please take a look at our panel proposal and get back to us. Thanks.
Broadly defined, the shishōsetsu (or "I-novel") has been and continues to be the predominant mode of narration in modern Japanese literature. Even writers who assume an oppositional stance toward the form often end up employing—perhaps unconsciously—the very literary methods of the I-novelists. Our panel will focus on five modern writers—Iwano Hōmei, Tayama Katai, Shimazaki Tōson, Ishikawa Jun, and Takahashi Gen'ichirō—the last two of whom are generally not regarded as part of the "I-novel" tradition yet who can still be historically situated within its discourse. In the first paper, Bethany Doublename will examine the interwar theoretical works of Ishikawa Jun in relation to the I-novel problematic. In the second paper, Corbin Clausewitz will explore late Meiji-era readers' reception of three works by Tayama Katai, Shimazaki Tōson, and Iwano Hōmei. And in the third paper, Ian Hogarth III will look at postmodern Japanese fiction in terms of this problematic, focusing on Takahashi Gen'ichirō.
1. First Paper (Bethany Doublename)

"Ishikawa Jun as Theorist: His Interwar Writings"
Like Natsume Sōseki, Ishikawa Jun (1899-1987) was endowed with a highly theoretical mind, and his fiction might be said to be an extension of his theoretical writings. Yet little attention has been paid to these important works. In this paper, I will show how Ishikawa Jun's interwar critical works such as "Edojin no hassohō ni tsuite," "Mori Ōgai," and "Bungaku taigai" are key to understanding his fiction and, more broadly, his theory of literature. Focusing specifically on issues related to the I-novel problematic (i.e., questions of subjectivity, author, persona, voice, and author-reader contract), I will show how his penetrating readings of Mori Ōgai, Edo poetry, and French modernist novelists provided him with a perspective (both aesthetic and political) that set him apart from writers of his day. Yet despite his professed preference for self-mystification, intertextuality, and parody and his distrust of "realism," confession, and the supposed "transparency" of language, Ishikawa's writings still share much with I-novelists in terms of narrative practices, and it is this apparent contradiction which I also plan to explore.
2. Second Paper (Corbin Clausewitz)
"The Ignoble I: Authors, Authenticity and Immorality in Shishōsetsu"
Shishōsetsu, often translated into English as "I-novel," is a literary style that encourages readers to blur the lines that divide reality and fiction, novelists and narrators. Indeed, we know that many of the events upon which the important late Meiji-era shishōsetsu (Tayama Katai's Futon, Shimazaki Tōson's Hansei and Iwano Hōmei's Tandeki, to name three) are based actually took place. But there is one more feature shared by these three notorious novels that is worthy of discussion: their conspicuous depictions of various forms of transgression. Katai's work is a confession of lust for his young pupil; Tōson describes his affair with his niece; and Hōmei writes unabashedly of his dalliance with a local geisha. But what did contemporary readers make of these scandalous episodes? What did they make of these authors? In my presentation, I will examine public responses to these three sensational novels, and, in doing so, will attempt to highlight how private scandal was channeled into the public discourse in each case.

3. Third Paper
(Ian Hogarth III)

"Postmodernism, Takahashi Gen'ichirō's John Lennon Versus the Martians, and the Legacy of Shishōsetsu"
My paper will explore the state of shishōsetsu in contemporary Japanese literature, focusing on Takahashi Gen'ichirō's John Lennon Versus the Martians. While it is often stated that shishōsetsu died out with the rise of proletarian literature in early Shōwa period, certain aspects of the genre have continued into the present. Takahashi Gen'ichirō's John Lennon Versus the Martians is a quintessential postmodern work that at first glance seems to bear little resemblance to the earlier shishōsetsu of Tayama Katai or Shimazaki Tōson. Yet its first-person mode of narrationwhich fuses together author and narratoris undoubtedly a technique borrowed, perhaps unwittingly, from the shishōsetsu tradition. I will examine the significance of the author and narrator's unification in this postmodern age in which the author's subjectivity—even existence—has been radically discarded, and how this relates to the tradition of the shishōsetsu in Japan. I also think it will be useful to expand our analysis to include a comparison with Richard Brautigan and other late 20th-century American writers who have had a major influence on Takahashi.

[And, in Japanese . . .]
本 発表は高橋源一郎の『ジョン・レノン対火星人』を中心に、「現代文学における私小説」という問題を考察する。「私小説」という概念は、狭義においては昭和 初期、プロレタリア文学の隆盛とともに衰退していった一ジャンルといわれるが、日本文学におけるその影響は現代文学に至るまで連綿と続いていると見ること もできる。高橋源一郎の『ジョン・レノン対火星人』は日本におけるポストモダン文学の代表的作品であり、「私小説」というジャンルからは一見最も遠いよう に思われるが、一人称で、作家高橋と語り手が同一に見えるように書くその語り方は、私小説の伝統の影響下にある語り方である。本発表においては、作者の主 体性を積極的に放棄するものであるとされるポストモダン文学において、作者と語り手の同一視をうながすような私小説の語りが持ち込まれることにはどのよう な意味があり、それは日本文学における私小説の伝統とどのように関わっているのかを考察する。その際、高橋が影響を受けたとされるブローティガンなどアメ リカのポストモダン作家との比較を行うことがより広い視座をもたらし、有効であると考える。

Tuesday, December 22, 2009

A History of Modern Japanese Literary Criticism: Act One, Scene 2

W. David Marx, editor of the popular online journal Neojaponisme, has kindly invited me to post on his site the second scene of my short reference play, A History of Modern Japanese Literary Criticism. The remaining two scenes should be finished by the end of January.

Wednesday, December 16, 2009

Russian Literature In Japan

This just in from Molly Cessess:
Hey, Beholdmyswarthyface. Here is my translation that was presented at a Yale lecture last week. The author of the piece wishes to have it published in some literary journal, but before doing so, I was hoping you could help me polish it up. Please compare my translation with the original, which is included at the bottom.

Molly Cessess

And, for the blind:

Monday, December 7, 2009

"The Schoolgirl" by Dazai Osamu

This just in from Josh Assimilated:
Hello, Beholdmyswarthyface. My name is Josh, Josh Assimilated, and I have been a fan of your web journal for many years.

I think you're on to something with this Aozora Bunko translation project, and I wish you luck in getting that million-dollar grant.

Though I have no family, education, money, or credentials to speak of, I would like to participate in the
project. Please take a look at this sample translation, and let me know if you think I am qualified. It is the first section of my translation of Dazai Osamu's short story "Joseito" (1939). You can compare my translation with the original text, which I've included at the bottom of the document. I'll post the rest of my translation after hearing from you.

Best regards,
Josh Assimilated

P.S. Oh, and this for the blind:

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Aozora Bunko Translation Project: The Ken'yūsha Writers

This just in from Burt "JLANDER" Haliscaster:
Mabel is right, this will be a huge project and we need to strategize. But I think it would be a mistake to limit ourselves to criticism. I say we break up into several groups: Mabel can be in charge of criticism, and I'll oversee the translations of the Ken'yūsha writers. Here's the first batch of stories (and one essay) we should translate:

1. Yamada Bimy
ō, Musashino (1887)
2. Ozaki Kōyō, Kenyūsha no enkaku (1901)
3. Iwaya Sazanami, Koganemaru (1891)
4. Hirotsu Ryūrō, Imado shinjū (1896)
5. Izumi Kyōka, Giketsu kyōketsu (1894)
6. Miyazawa Kenji, Yamaotoko no shigatsu (first published in 1924)
7. Hori Tatsuo, Arano (first published in 1977)
8. Oguri F
ūyō, Arakawa nyōbō (1905)
9. Yanagawa Shunyō, Seidōki (1909)

-Burt "JLANDER" Haliscaster

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

Aozora Bunko Translation Project: The First Thirteen (Works of Criticism)

This just in from Mabel of Dublin:

Hello. Sorry for not writing these past few months. Things have been pretty hectic here in Dublin. Anyway, I saw your recent post about translating everything available on Aozora Bunko. Great idea. But you're going to need a strategy, because there's soooo much there. I say start with works of criticism. I've made a list of the first 13. You and Sally can figure out who gets what. Maybe you can get Boyd to help. I'd be happy to help if you need me (although my Japanese is still not that great.) Here's the list:

1. Futabatei Shimei, "Shōsetsu sōron" (1886)

2. Yamaji Aizan, "Rai Noboru o ronzu" (1893)

3. Kitamura Tōkoku, "Jinsei ni aiwataru to wa nan no ii zo" (1893)

4. Masaoka Shiki, "Utayomi ni atauru sho" (1898)

5. Takayama Chogyū, "Biteki seikatsu o ronzu" (1901)

6. Tsunashima Ryōsen, "Yo ga kenshin no jikken" (1905)

7. Natsume Sōseki, "Izumu no kōka" (1910)

8. Ishikawa Takuboku, "Jidai heisa no genjō" (1910)

9. Uchida Roan, "Nijūgo nenkan no bunjin no shakaiteki chii no shinpo" (1912)

10. Ōsugi Sakae, "Sei no kakujū" (1913)

11. Yosano Akiko, "Bosei henchō o haisu" (1916)

12. Arishima Takeo, "Sengen hitotsu" (1916)

13. Miyazawa Kenji, "Nōmin geijutsuron kōyō" (1926)

Best regards,

Mabel Callahan

"A History of Modern Japanese Literary Criticism," Act One, Scene 2

This just in from Sally Suzuki:


I finished editing the next installment of your play, and sent it to the boys at Neojaponisme. As you know, they have a rule against double-postings, so I can't post it here. What I can do, however, is post the I-speech version of the play, as a sample.

-Sally Suzuki, Beholdmyswarthyface Media Director

Tuesday, November 24, 2009

Newsflash: Beholdmyswarthyface Banned from Mixi

"Behold This Swarthy Face"

This just in from Joey Stromberg:


Thought I should let you know you're mentioned in this dude's recent blog post. The dude also translates Walt Whitman's "Behold This Swarthy Face" into Japanese.

Whitman's original (1900):

Behold this swarthy face, these gray eyes,
This beard, the white wool unclipt upon my neck,
My brown hands and the silent manner of me without charm;
Yet comes one a Manhattanese and ever at parting kisses me lightly
on the lips with robust love,
And I on the crossing of the street or on the ship's deck give a
kiss in return,
We observe that salute of American comrades land and sea,
We are those two natural and nonchalant persons.

The dude's translation (2009):

Not half bad. I did, however, take the liberty of replacing his 「無関心」 with 「ノ ンシャラン」, which seems closer to the original "nonchalant." (If you're thinking, "duh," I should remind you of the fallacy of translingual homographic equivalency). I hope the dude doesn't mind.

-Joey Stromberg

P.S. Oh, and this for the blind:

Friday, November 20, 2009

Udpate on The Beholdmyswarthyface Encyclopedia of Modern Japan

This just in from Sally Suzuki:
I've spent the last two nights updating the encyclopedia, so have a look. I've also added a new feature: links to online texts of those writers included in Aozora Bunko. Now our viewers can start getting used to reading the texts in the original. As for our Aozora Bunko English translation project, I'll send you an update next week.
Also, I was hoping our readers could send some suggestions for items to add. David Boyd suggested last night that we add the famous Kokoro ronsō between Komori Yōichi and Nakamura Miharu to our list of major literary ronsō. Thanks for the suggestion, Boyd. If anyone else has something they'd like us to add, please send. Again, here's the table of contents:
  • I. People (Pre- and Early Modern; Meiji/Taishō; Shōwa/Heisei) [arranged chronologically by date of birth]
  • II. Publsihing Companies・Newspapers・Journals and Magazines [arranged chronologically by date of first publication]
  • III. Types of Shōsetsu [arranged alphabetically]
  • IV. Major Literary Ronsō [arranged alphabetically]
  • V. Literary Awards [arranged chronologically by year of first issue]
  • VI. Literary Groups and Terms [arranged alphabetically]

  • VII. Political Groups and Movements [arranged chronologically]
  • VIII. Incidents (Jiken/Jihen) [arranged chronologically]
  • IX. Organizations and Institutions [arranged chronologically]
Oh, and someone was handing out this JASSO newsletter yesterday in front of the embassy. Isn't that you in the first two pictures?
Sally Suzuki, Beholdmyswarthyface Media Director
P.S. And, for the blind:

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Aozora Bunko English Translation Project

This just in from Sally Suzuki:


I'm currently lobbying several government ministries and private foundations in both the U.S. and Japan for a multi-million dollar grant to translate into English the copyright-expired works available on Aozora Bunko. As you know, Aozora Bunko has several thousand works by over 500 Japanese authors, so I need you to round up 15-20 (at least!) of the best translators/bungaku specialists you can find. This is an enormous project which will likely take several years to complete.

I also need you to write a letter explaining the project's importance—how the vast diffusion of knowledge is now possible through the internet; how the project will increase the world's awareness of Japanese culture, history, and literature; how we hope eventually to post the texts on Project Gutenberg; etc.

We have little time to waste. Get on this immediately. I beseech you.

-Sally Suzuki, Beholdmyswarthyface Media Director

And, for the blind:

Thursday, November 12, 2009

A History of Modern Japanese Literary Criticism: Act One, Scene 1

W. David Marx, editor of the popular online journal Neojaponisme, has kindly invited me to post on his site the first scene of my short reference play, A History of Modern Japanese Literary Criticism. The remaining three scenes should be finished by year's end.

And, for the blind:

Wednesday, November 4, 2009

Urashima, The Unofficial Version

Here is Beholdmyswarthyface's translation of "Urashima, The Unofficial Version," a 20-line tanka sequence by contemporary poet Ishikawa Mina 石川美南 (b. 1980). The poem is loosely based on the story of Urashima Tarō. For Ishikawa's original, click here.

(I, gray with years, close my eyes and open the box. In the box is an ancient sea.)
Rocks crumbling from the bluff, the cape grumbled on and on

Drawing on memory unfurl the neatly folded sea


Catch and release
, midday break lingering in the mouth is salt-breeze

Wielded by an invisible hand an angling rod snags a bale of turtles

Mulling on the soul
foot tramples a shellfish graveyard

(Tuesday. Order in for boxes. Inquiry for four payments.)

Fingering a hole in the conference room we'll leave the emergency light on

I paste in the margins, but can't seem to stick with anyone

Finished with the manual I shoo away the sea anemone behind the copier

Falsetto voices call gaily from afar
Marco . . . Polo . . . here where the sea laps

(Friday. After work, the sea.)

Beckoned, sinking quietly into the seagardenlove's recognition comes too late

Sighs seep from the raft, they say there's a city too at dusky sea's bottom

Into one another we swim and give, roughly 300 years in human time

(A late-night magic show on TV. On the count of three, the boxes are shred to bits, but no trace of anyone inside.)

Words of reproach no longer in stock, the flowerbed that no longer blooms

(Monday. Took the day off to visit a far-away place.)

To each mourner in the procession waves come and go: Sadness. Mirth. Grief. Confusion.

And so young, younger even than me
the faint coffin slides through midday

Falling behind I suck at the shellfish miso soup, shuru-shuru

By foot they come offering me a lovely container
fill it with whatever you like

Determined to outlive them all, my fingers dismantle the dice-caramels

Peeping into the jeweled comb box
the passing years of my age and youth


The sea-mess, no longer contractible, waves beat the edges
of a disheveled mind

Portrait by Sky

This just in from Sky Milner, artist, architect, and founder of the SAO Institute:

Here is a portrait I did of you, Beholdmyswarthyface, in the style of legendary artist Giacometti.

Monday, November 2, 2009

Mother as Sally Suzuki

This just in from Mother:
Hi honey. Here is the Halloween picture of me dressed up as Sally Suzuki, Beholdmyswarthyface Media Director. Dad was Reginald Denny again. Nothing big this year, just dressed up and walked to Postinos for dinner.

Be good,

P.S. I'm looking forward to the completion of your Beholdmyswarthyface Encyclopedia of Modern Japan. It's really coming along nicely.

Tuesday, October 20, 2009

The Cult of Sincerity (Text to Speech)

As Sally mentioned in an earlier post, 『Behold My Swarthy Face。』 now services the blind. Here is the most recent post, read by "Free English Female" at (0%) Normal Speed:

Monday, October 19, 2009

The Cult of Sincerity

This just in from first-time contributor Hachig ("Mike") Hagopian, SDHP volunteer, Melbourne office:
Until recently, I was never able to understand the Japanese obsession with makoto (authenticity, truth or genuineness) in the arts. You see, I come from a culture where the concept of sincerity is derided as artless and naive, while its opposites-- irony and artifice-- are regarded as requisites for high art.

However, recently I've come to realize that my prejudice toward makoto was the result of a failure to see how the binary relation between "art" and "life" functions differently in Japan. In Japan, life is what is artificial. It seems, no doubt, that there is at least some truth to the stereotype that Japanese social behavior is ritualistic, and that, in many cases, one's pre-written life-script is simply handed to him. One's social interactions, career choice, political affiliations, even personal relationships seem to involve very little of what we in the western liberal democracies like to call "choice." (Whether our "choices" are any "realer" or more available is, of course, debatable.)

At the risk of overgeneralization, there seems to be a common understanding among the Japanese that life itself is false, or at the very least, a performance; and thus it was perhaps inevitable that art would become a kind of refuge into life's opposite, makoto. This is the exact inversion of our (mis?)perception in the west that lived experience is what is natural and real, and art is what is, by definition, artificial.

Sunday, October 18, 2009

Prefatory Remarks on Matayoshi Eiki's “The Carnival Bullfight”

This just in from Mother:
I read the short story you posted below, but I’m afraid I don’t know enough about Okinawan history to understand it. Can either you or Tom Kain explain it to me?
Mother, I forwarded your message to Tom, and this is what he sent:
In the years leading up to World War II, the Japanese government made concerted efforts to reinforce national solidarity in hopes of achieving swift and effective mobilization for war. Okinawans, who had only lived under Japanese rule since its annexation in 1879, were eager to prove their worth to Japan, which had by that time become the preeminent power in the Pacific. Mainland Japanese, however, continued to think of the islanders as essentially “backward children” of the empire. When the Battle of Okinawa began in 1945, Japanese military officials conscripted “backward” teenage girls to work as battle nurses on the front lines. Of the 297 who were enlisted, 211 died, many by suicide. Girls were given grenades for this purpose because the soldiers had warned them that should they be captured by Americans, they would be raped. During the battle many civilians hid in tombs, choosing to commit mass suicide to avoid being captured. Near the end of the fighting, Okinawans willing to surrender to the Allies were shot by Japanese soldiers. After the Americans won the battle and the occupation began in August, Okinawa found itself in a quandary: they certainly did not trust the Japanese, by whom many felt used, and it was naturally quite difficult for citizens to immediately open their arms to their occupiers. Nor could they accept that they, too, had somehow willingly participated in their own destruction. In short, postwar Okinawa did not know what to believe, who to trust, or even if assumptions about their circumstances could ever again be sure.

The story I translated below, “The Carnival Bullfight,” was published in 1976 and written by Matayoshi Eiki, an Okinawan writer. Matayoshi was born in Okinawa in 1949, and is, as author Steve Rabson argues, the “most prolific and successful Okinawan writer of his generation” (Rabson 286). He has won the Ryukyu Shinpo Short Story prize (awarded for “The Carnival Bullfight), the Kyushu Arts Festival prize, and the prestigious Akutagawa prize. The story to be examined in this essay emerges from the postwar context and speaks to the insecurity of presumptions and expectations and the loss of innocence one experiences when such assumptions do not reflect reality. In this essay, I would like to show that the story illustrates a dramatic process of disillusionment in which supposed heroic defenders of honor are absent, other assumed heroes are inadequate, and the world sheds its black-and-white simplicity to assume much more ambiguous tones.
Absent Heroes

The central figure in the work, from whose point of view the story is told, is an unnamed Okinawan boy. He finds himself one hot July day in 1958 at a festival at an American base, where he is excited about attending the day’s main attraction: a bullfight. Having never set foot inside the base, the boy is overwhelmed by how alien the grounds seem – there are no trees, the clean grass shimmers in the sun, and items he had previously only seen from outside the fence look completely new; essentially, life on the base bears absolutely no resemblance to life in the countryside. The observations the boy makes in the initial stages of the story establish a common framework that colors the entire narrative: a kind of binary perception of the world in which old and new, familiar and unfamiliar, coexist mutually exclusive of each other, the division of which is symbolized by the chicken wire fence that separates civilian Okinawa from the base world.

The effects of this sort of binary world-view become especially evident in cases where the boy must make value judgments about the main conflict in the story, a disagreement between an American and a bullfight bridle-holder about damage to the American's car. In these scenes, the reader is provided opportunities to witness the boy’s way of thinking at work, as well as its disastrous consequences.

The American suspects a bull of attacking his car. The vehicle bears a large dent in its side, and from what the boy can gather, the man is convinced that the bull had rammed the door and that someone, perhaps its bridle-holder, perhaps its owner, perhaps the bull itself, deserves to be punished. This scene at the center of the bullfighting ring – the car, the bull, the American, and the bridler – becomes the canvas for the boy's black-and-white palette of reasoning. First, as the American launches an attack at the bridler, the boy feels the urge to seek a resolution: “What's wrong? the boy thought, looking around. One of our people is getting laid into out there! Alone! Why don't we do something? he thought” (Matayoshi 3). He then determines that for the crisis to find a solution, something would have to be done to eliminate the foreigner from the scene, be it by physical means or by negotiation. Because the American is small (in the Japanese, he is consistently referred to as chibi gaijin, which I have translated as “little foreigner”), the boy figures that the quickest means of resolution would likely be by force, and he actively seeks out tougher members of the crowd that might contribute to a solution. His first candidates are two Okinawan men, one a carpenter and the other a military employee:
These men, with their protruding cheekbones and jaws and the marks of razor blades still evident on their tanned faces, their big shining eyes and their fat lips and big, tall noses, were countless times more imposing than the little foreigner in the middle of the ring. And you didn't need to think twice about which side was better built. There was no way the men would lose to the little guy. Even though they were strong, the boy wondered, why wouldn't they fight? Even though they had more than 100 allies behind them. (Matayoshi 5)

Though to the boy these men present an almost surefire, might-is-right solution to the problem, they remain inactive throughout the story, fading quietly into the swarm of people surrounding the ring. Their inefficacy brings the boy to two realizations: first, that the foreigner's small size belies the evident control he exerts over the situation; second, that regardless of the size and strength of a given onlooker, disparity in power does not alone generate automatic action. For the boy, this is the beginning of the failure of his dichotomous naiveté. He begins to see that the model hero he has constructed in his mind does not behave so heroically in real life.

Disappointed, he then moves on to alternatives, this time privately imploring those with more refined skills to act. The most obvious target for the boy is the bridler himself, whom the boy respects for being able to maneuver the bull so deftly. As the boy knows that the well-trained bull will remain essentially motionless unless his bridler instructs him to move, the boy realizes that the bridler’s skilled hand is the key to producing the most effective solution: a violent, reckless outburst that would scare the foreigner away: Like the burly carpenter and military employee, though, the bridler cannot be coaxed into action - he remains fixed in place, motionless, and the bull does, too. The boy gradually gives up on the bridler and later perceives another skill that may bring an end to the fight: English. As the onlookers stand mystified by the unintelligible ranting of the American, the boy thinks that if he could find someone who could speak English to the foreigner, at least some means of communication might be secured and a solution might be reached. He finds Mr. Miyahira, a taxi driver for Americans, who even makes trips to and from the base facilities. Still, Mr. Miyahira does nothing, choosing just to stand with his arms folded. As the boy's simplistic construction of heroic traits continues to tumble, the image of a man with his arms crossed becomes a persistent reminder of the fractured equation that favors power over weakness and equates skill with decisive action. The boy, however, seems most disillusioned by the third group of possible agents, the bull-raising cattle men.
Many of the people surrounding the ring are bullfighting enthusiasts, several of whom are invested in the business, whether by operating bull stables or trading cattle. The breakdown of the boy’s assumptions about motivation and action is in this case actually a twofold process. First, the boy projects onto the cattle men the motivation of love, as he cannot comprehend any other reasons for raising bulls:
He couldn't understand how an owner, who raised his precious bull, tending to it day and night, could turn it into beef just because it lost or got hurt. Didn't the owner have any second thoughts? The sheen of that hair, the warmth of that body. How could he forget about that? Bulls aren't toys. They aren't machines. Not fashioned by human hands. At times, a bull might be the only creature to which an owner could express his deepest feelings. (Matayoshi 4)

Having convinced himself that the bull raisers are committed emotionally to their stock (maybe most effectively by the story of the man who essentially filled the void caused by the loss of his wife and child with care for his precious cattle), the boy creates another doomed binary value judgment: love, he feels, must be able to neutralize the foreigner, who continues to rant and rave at the bridle boy. Again, this equation fails to produce a solution, as the men's arms stay permanently crossed. It is through the uselessness of this group of people - the men who, to the boy, are driven by love - that the boy most painfully confronts the uselessness and naiveté of his own innocent view of the world. If simple devotion could not impel these men to act, it seems, nothing could.

By looking at the boy’s views of and assumptions about the predicament at the center of the bullfighting ring, his approach to conflict resolution is clear: first, determine the basic characteristics of the actors. Then, establish a cleanly two-sided power structure based on who holds – and often who lacks – these characteristics. Finally, let the strong simply defeat the weak, the skilled defeat the unskilled, devotion defeat indifference, and the conflict is resolved.

When these three binary arrangements of the boy’s world-view collapse, he is left surrounded by a cast of characters completely devoid of a hero. In fact, not only are the heroes absent, but they are replaced by a host of rather horrifying villains: “[the men in the crowd had] sunburned faces, faces hidden by the thick shadows of straw hats, all faces with unclear expressions. The coarse tracks of razor blades on their cheeks and necks looked savage. The men's oily eyes, like those of cats, glowing in the darkness – what were they staring at, the boy wondered; what were they thinking about” (Matayoshi 7)? Perhaps even more telling of the boy’s resentment towards his imagined heroes is the fact that the boy considers the onlookers not only to have fallen to the little American, but have also sunk beneath the boy himself. In his eyes, the “powerlessness of the crowd paled even in comparison to a bunch of children. The only one the boy could place any hope in was the bull” (Matayoshi 9), which, of course, can only be brought into action by the powerless bridler. The absence of the heroic characters that the boy had formed with his youthful logic marks the first stage in his gradual loss of innocence.

Two important questions to ask are first, why the boy needed to enter the conflict with such simplistic assumptions, and second, why his naive view needed to have such catastrophic effects. The answer to the first question can be attributed to the boy’s youth. As Matayoshi notes in an introduction to one of his short story collections, he writes fiction, but his works are largely autobiographical. Should this story too be part of his own recollections, the boy (Matayoshi) would be about 11 at the time of the bullfight. Boys of this age, especially those unaccustomed to the physical and ideological landscape of the American base, are probably in no position to make subtle assessments of motivation, action, and inaction. More important, however, is the question of why the boy's judgments are so traumatically affected by the events of the day. In my opinion, Matayoshi’s upbringing as a child of the American occupation, which began two years before his birth in 1947, sets up an unusually wide gulf between innocent views of life and, as mentioned earlier in this essay, the extraordinarily intricate workings of history, politics, and economics in which postwar Okinawa was couched. In this kind of environment, no young boy, I believe, would be ready to understand Okinawa's delicate position in a world at that time dominated by Cold War rhetoric. These unfortunate circumstances explain the boy’s extreme frustration at the onlookers and may also suggest the writer, and perhaps others of his generation, became so disillusioned with the idea of a kind of autonomous justice, as he especially resents the inability of the Okinawan people themselves to act on their own behalf against oppression.
Inadequate Heroes

As explained above, the spectators surrounding the bullfighting ring trigger the first phase in the boy’s transformation. The second stage is prompted by the two Americans in the story: the little foreigner and Mr. Mansfield. Through the little foreigner the boy begins to notice a sharp disconnect in his surroundings. Mr. Mansfield causes the boy disenchantment not unlike that brought on by the onlookers, but even more agonizing; the boy’s image of Mr. Mansfield had been formed not by hearsay but by much more personal, friendlier bonding.

The figure of the little foreigner, like most of the boy’s surroundings at the base, is unusual. Of course the man’s English is a mystery, but his visual appearance also strikes an unnerving chord with the boy. First of all, the foreigner does not look foreign: the boy almost thinks he is Okinawan (Matayoshi 2). The man’s open, gaudy Hawaiian shirt reveals his sunburned chest and bony ribs, surrounded by “sparse patches of hair.” As the white heat of the sun mixes with the onlookers’ white shirts and the black shadows cast by the bull and "the people's eyes," the foreigner’s shirt and red skin become all the more incongruous (Matayoshi 3). This passage fits well into the narrative, fusing the boy’s “black and white” judgment patterns with visual imagery: the boy's customary surroundings, represented by the onlookers, the hot Okinawa sun, and shadows, stand in sharp contrast with the red, flowery, and unfamiliar, represented by the little foreigner. Matayoshi thus uses the foreigner as a channel for intensifying the boy’s mental changes. Overwhelmed by the foreigner’s strangeness, for most of the story the boy considers the man a vile, selfish weakling.

Unlike the little foreigner, however, the boy sees Mr. Mansfield, the American who eventually emerges from the crowd to resolve the conflict, as a trustworthy and gentle sort of father figure. The boy devotes a great deal of time to describing the Mr. Mansfield of old. Images of the big man putting boys atop his shoulders and letting others dangle from his hulking biceps; his wide, gentle face; his incomparable comic timing; his habit of handing out exotic candies to young Okinawan boys; all of these helped foster in the boy feelings of awe and trust towards Mr. Mansfield, essentially making him larger than life. This glowing perception of Mr. Mansfield allows the boy to forgive the man’s poor Japanese ability and praise him for his excellent voice and command of English (Matayoshi 10). Essentially, Mr. Mansfield could do no wrong. But things do not go as planned.

Mr. Mansfield’s sudden tumble from the lofty reaches of the boy’s imagination and assumptions comes in the very last scene of the story, in which Mr. Mansfield eventually convinces the little foreigner to stop ranting. I will comment on the conversation between Mr. Mansfield and the little foreigner in the next section, but what I will devote my attention to here is another example of the disconnect between assumptions and reality that plagues the boy’s understanding of the world around him. When Mansfield enters the ring, the boy immediately recalls another bullfight at which a bull lost its horn, causing blood to flow profusely from the wound. At that time, the boy's idolization of Mr. Mansfield had gained a new element:
Sitting close to the boy, Mr. Mansfield distorted his face and dumbly cried “No, stop it, look at him!” With a sound like a mother cooing her baby child, he sunk his face into his hands, grabbed his trusty folding chair, and disappeared quietly into the crowd behind him. The boy knew that there were still several bouts on the card and was consumed by the current match, but the image of a teary-eyed Mr. Mansfield lodged itself into his memory. Although he realized that the fight was not an ordinary one, the boy, who had always been awed by Mr. Mansfield’s giant body, now thought of the man as a bit of a coward – perhaps his toughness was just a guise. The boy felt that that experience made him even fonder of Mr. Mansfield. (Matayoshi 11)

In this passage the boy convinces himself that Mr. Mansfield, like the cattle men in the previous section, has an emotional attachment to bulls, one strong enough to move him to tears. Not only, then, is Mr. Mansfield's body a looming example of his outer strength, his actions at the previous bullfight make his heart a looming symbol of his human decency and sensitivity to injustice. This event serves to so dramatically inflate Mr. Mansfield’s personality in the boy’s eyes that any behavior short of godliness would seem basically incomprehensible. When Mr. Mansfield strides into the ring to confront the little foreigner, we do not know exactly what the boy expects or wants him to do, but when the big man becomes irate at his counterpart, the boy is thrown for a loop, thinking that “today, Mr. Mansfield was an entirely different person. It couldn’t be the same man” (Matayoshi 10).

Before I look at the actual conclusion of the tale later in this section and in the next, it is important to look at the progression of the boy’s expectations of conflict resolution. For the boy, the silent onlookers create a yawning heroic void which by the end of the story was impossible for anyone to fill, even the mighty Mr. Mansfield. In the opening parts of the story, as the boy seeks in vain possible solutions to the conflict at the center of the ring, he initially desires thugs - the carpenter and military employee - to charge into the ring and intimidate the foreigner. When this plan fails, the boy becomes more desperate, hoping that Ichirō, a hotheaded young man that has a history of acting quickly against injustice, might enter the ring – even though Ichirō is not even present at the bullfight (Matayoshi 6). When that plan too fails to come to fruition, the boy resorts to even more desperate dreaming and tries to force the bridler, through some sort of telepathic communication, to kick the bull and somehow spur it into a violent frenzy. (Matayoshi 9). With all alternatives gone, the boy dreams of a mass riot in which he would gladly participate: “The boy wanted everyone to just go crazy. If they did, he would too. He wanted to whip a big rock into the foreigner's flapping mouth. Right, he thought, he could just throw a rock at the bull to rile it and get it to destroy that black car. If he could get it to thrash the car to bits, the foreigner wouldn't have anything to complain about anymore" (Matayoshi 9).

As explained above, the anticipations of action get more desperate and more violent, and at their peak, Mr. Mansfield, with his giant frame and dedication to poor bulls, comes in at just the right time for the boy to place perhaps his most desperate hopes in the giant. That is why, I think, the boy and the rest of the onlookers feel strangely disappointed at the conclusion of the story – the last chance hero, when everyone else had given up, does not deliver the decisive cathartic blow that had been boiling in the collective mind of the bullfight spectators. This disappointment, then, despite the conflict having come to a peaceful end, recasts the figure of Mr. Mansfield not as a benevolent hero, but as a nasty enigma that has betrayed everything the boy thought he was and should be: "Mr. Mansfield and his usual exaggerated shoulder-shrugging and hand-waving seemed like a fraud. Something seemed off. His small reddish lips began to seem venomous… the boy thought that surely this massive audience, too, found Mr. Mansfield a bit eerie, somewhat ominous” (Matayoshi 12). With the boy's image of Mr. Mansfield thoroughly soiled, the boy projects onto the man the same kind of incongruity that so permeated the character of the little foreigner: in the last paragraph of the story, Mr. Mansfield furiously wipes the sweat from his body (Matayoshi 12), a practice which the boy notes in the middle of the narrative as particularly counterproductive, something that real Okinawans know never to do. At the same time he is reimagined as an unfulfilling hero, Mr. Mansfield, in the boy’s mind, might even become a traitor against Okinawa itself, as “the boy started to think about Mr. Mansfield's beloved palm-leaf summer cap, which was currently perched atop his head, and how bad it looked. It didn’t seem made in Okinawa anymore” (Matayoshi 12).

While it is difficult to say that the story presents as unified the boy’s perceptions of Americans or that through these characters Matayoshi is attempting to make a political commentary on Okinawa-U.S. relations, it is clear that Matayoshi uses the little foreigner and Mr. Mansfield to expose the boy to a different dimension of disillusionment. The little foreigner personifies the disruption of the boy's dichotomous black/white, good/evil mindset. The wounds Mr. Mansfield unwittingly inflicts on the boy, however, cut deeper than the damage done by either the onlookers or the little foreigner because the boy respects the man and thinks he knows him well. The boy could write off the immobility of the spectators because he had very little emotional investment in the thugs, the cattle men, and the bridle boy. The fiercest attacks on the boy’s innocent assumptions come from the beloved Mr. Mansfield, for whom the forsaken boy reserves his final bitterest, most incendiary barbs.
Ambiguous Scenery

With the boy’s assumptions devastated by both absent and unexpectedly disappointing heroes, he is relegated to a sort of limbo of belief where nothing behaves as he was convinced it would. Matayoshi masterfully complements the boy’s ideological defeat by surrounding him at all times with ambiguous imagery.

There are numerous examples of this imagery, and they begin early in the story. The boy, walking on a large paved street, notices a series of giant boxes on the side of the road. He had seen them before from outside the base, but now, they assume a much different character: “Until now, they had just been part of the scenery. The boy was surprised that these boxes that had once looked so small from outside the chicken wire fence were really this big” (Matayoshi 1). The passage is especially jarring as it appears in the narrative quite abruptly, and the boxes do not return again. I think that Matayoshi uses this incident chiefly to delineate the differences between life outside the base and the world inside it, but it also helps establish a sense of foreboding ambiguity; even though the boy discovers the boxes anew, he still has no idea what they contain. This is the first in a series of symbolic question marks that the boy encounters. He then comes across the gymnasium, a setting Matayoshi uses to highlight another ambiguity. The building, as it roasts in the oppressive, bright heat, appears initially as a mirage to the boy (Matayoshi 2). However, interestingly, the boy claims to be sitting in the only spot from which the building can be seen normally. It is in this scene, as the boy hunkers in the shadows of the gymnasium, that I believe Matayoshi isolates the boy's confidence in his abilities to perceive things honestly and correctly, an assurance that upon meeting the uproar in the bullfighting ring is systematically obliterated.

Once the boy finds his way to the bullfighting ring, images of ambiguity become much less obvious, but more numerous and confusing. The boy comments regularly on the size and shape of shadows produced by the onlookers, their oversized sunglasses and their hats; as the bystanders become less dependable, actually, they assume an increasingly ominous collective darkness. Also common are images of clouds of dust that billow around the action at the ring. The sole occasion the onlookers show any sign of action - a man's "let's kill that American" rally cry - is muffled. No one can really make the words out exactly, nor can they identify the source. Thus at the bullfight, Matayoshi again expands the story's ambiguity with hazy imagery.

One of the largest clouds of vagueness is produced by the boy’s inability to grasp the English spoken by the Americans. The words of the little foreigner at the center of the ring come in unintelligible streams, like the words of “a live news reporter, the way his words coursed forth” (Matayoshi 3) and the boy can only make out simple phrases such as “Hey! Come on" (Matayoshi 3). Near the end of the story the boy chooses to characterize the little foreigner's ranting and raving in terms of its changing pitch (Matayoshi 9). More importantly, the boy cannot understand the words of Mr. Mansfield which eventually bring a semblance of conclusion to the conflict, able only to guess at the eloquence of Mansfield's speech by the “power and fluidity of the big man’s delivery” (Matayoshi 10). More than just to demonstrate the difficulties a young boy faces in a multilingual situation, Matayoshi here uses the language barrier to set even higher the precipice from which the boy’s assumptions eventually fall. Not knowing English means the boy's take on the situation is left entirely to speculation, speculation rooted firmly in his assumptions. His assumption that the little foreigner is weak leads the boy to mentally emasculate him to the point at which he is reduced to a “squealing,” pitiful figure. His assumptions of Mr. Mansfield’s innate heroism, too, are exaggerated by the fact that the boy cannot understand him. When Mansfield comes to the ring to negotiate with the foreigner, the boy, guessing at the words of the conversation, puts glowing words into Mr. Mansfield’s mouth:
Mr. Mansfield had most likely made this mistake clear to the foreigner: you should know, he probably said, that fighting bulls want to fight so bad that they are itching to get going; these animals come all the way here to do battle. It’s your fault for putting your car here. A bull wouldn’t give two hoots about a car, no matter if it was an American’s, no matter whose it was. Maybe the bull did it on purpose just because it was an American’s. They’re pretty smart, you know. It might have even been acting on someone else’s behalf – maybe its owner hates Americans. That had to be it. It must have been trained, Mr. Mansfield had probably said. (Matayoshi 10)

Imagining the conversation by both drawing on Mr. Mansfield's history of sympathizing with bulls and by also inserting bits of his own feeling, the boy simply sets himself up for a more dramatic fall. In other words, when Mr. Mansfield finally persuades the little foreigner to abandon his protests and the crowd seems unsatisfied with the conclusion, the boy encounters even more confusion. English, then, gives Matayoshi another ingredient for the swirl of ambiguity surrounding the boy.

As explained above, the narrative contains several individual examples of ambiguity, but maybe the most impressive of all uncertainties is the story as a whole. One could say that “The Carnival Bullfight” itself walks a tightrope of ambiguity – on one hand, it can be read as a simple childhood narrative about tense events at a bullfight, filled with colorful characters. The boy's transformation can be interpreted as a powerful right of passage from childhood to young adulthood; the little foreigner can be read as a mysterious villain, and the figure of the bull as the helpless victim in need of salvation. At the same time, the story can resonate as a historical allegory. Upon my first reading, in fact, I took the story as a commentary on postwar Okinawa, with the onlookers as the civilian Okinawans who acted as complicit agents in Japan’s efforts to repel the allied forces' invasion of the mainland, the bridle boy as those mainland Japanese who earned a reputation of forcing others to fight against their will, and Mr. Mansfield as America, apparently coming to liberate Okinawa but in the end leaving its people wanting more. Just like the tale’s imagery, the line dividing narrative and allegory hovers in an indeterminate state, and Matayoshi works masterfully to keep it that way. By refusing to draw naked comparisons between characters and historical forces (such as the bridle boy and the mainland Japanese) and at the same time conducting the entirety of the storytelling within the mind of a small boy (without speaking moralistically from above), the author preserves another kind of ambiguity, this time an interpretive one.

People’s assumptions regularly fall victim to contradictory realities. For the boy in “The Carnival Bullfight,” postwar Okinawa was a place conducive to a wholly different pattern of redefinition. Fellow Okinawans, strong, accomplished people motivated by love and devotion, transformed before his eyes into helpless children. The Americans he had idealized as righteous, sensitive heroes also betrayed his assumptions. In the end, the boy inhabits a vague and unsure world. For him, maturation becomes synonymous with a debilitating vacuum of faith populated simultaneously by native Okinawans, American occupiers and the lingering vestiges of Japanese imperialism. Matayoshi Eiki skillfully constructs this ambiguous world as both an attempt to exorcise his personal childhood trauma and also to brush away the thin layer of dust that had settled over the inescapable, confusing realities of postwar Okinawa.

Mad in Translation: A Thousand Years of Kyoka, Comic Japanese Poetry in the Classic Waka Mode

This just in from Robin D. Gill:
Just thought I'd let you know that you are quoted here in my new book, Mad in Translation. Hope you don't mind.

Wednesday, October 14, 2009

“The Carnival Bullfight” by Matayoshi Eiki

This just in! Tom Kain's original translation of "The Carnival Bullfight" (カーニバル闘牛大会) (1976) by Okinawan writer Matayoshi Eiki (b. 1947):

At the U.S. military carnival, the American bases that covered the entire island opened their many heavy gates to the Okinawan people.

After two or three hours the boy was already tired of looking at and touching all the cannons, fighters and tanks. But that wasn’t anything out of the ordinary. He wasn’t that interested in them anyway, and, most of all, he didn’t feel like going to the trouble of waiting in those long lines.

Hideo, a friend the boy had come with, eventually pushed himself into the line for American-made ice cream, so the boy left. He had stayed up all night for the obon[1] ceremony, and with the rice cakes, fish paste, meat and sweet sugarcane sitting heavy in his stomach, he didn’t really feel like waiting in a line with hundreds of people in front of him.

The boy walked on an endless, wide paved street that cut through a grassy plain, putting on and taking off his canvas shoes all the while. The ground was baked. Walking barefoot got his tired feet going. The boy was thirsty. His spit was white; he pursed his lips, but nothing would come out. He wanted water. Out in the boondocks there were wells all over the place, but zilch here. All of a sudden he started to feel lonely. By the time Hideo made it to the front of the line, the ice cream would be sold out. That kind of thing happened a lot, the boy thought to himself.

Thick wooden boxes, rectangular boxes that you could fit a whole truck into, were lined up, stacked on top of each other, and no matter how far the boy walked, there they were, left and right. They were made sturdy, with big nails. He wondered what was inside. Today was the first time he had ever really thought about them. Until now, they had just been part of the scenery. The boy was surprised that these boxes that had once looked so small from outside the chicken wire fence were really this big.

This year, 1958, there was a special bullfighting competition next to the Zukeran gymnasium in Kitanakagusuku village[2]. The noon siren had just sounded, and there was still a little bit of time before the festivities were scheduled to begin. The boy pressed his nose up against the glass of the gym window, and, after watching twenty or so American kids playing basketball for a while, sat on the grass under the window and looked blankly forward. The grass, which the boy had always dreamed of looking at, laying down and rolling around in, running through and doing headstands on, was thick as a blanket and stuck into his rump. Without making a shadow, the grass rolled in rich waves, spreading all the way to the distant chicken wire. From the bottom of the fence running the length of the hill a giant column of clouds climbed and set itself in the sky. The noisy cries of the cicada out in the countryside were nowhere to be heard. No trees. The grass, cut beautifully, sparkled a whitish green in the sun. The pain in his rear wasn’t going away, so the boy spread his straw hat underneath him. And here stood the biggest gymnasium in Okinawa. It cast a three foot shadow. The boy was barely safe from the direct rays of the tropical sun; when he looked up even for one moment into the stark, empty blue sky, the white light burned. Roasting in the heat, the surface of the gymnasium blurred like a mirage. The only spot that was completely dark, where one could see normally, was the little corner of the shadow where the boy was sitting. It was really clear from there. It was the kind of day where the heat gradually crawled up from the ground and sizzled in the sky, then sank; a silent day, but strangely loud.

The bullfighting ring was set up in the area the soldiers used for football and soccer. In the dirt, which had been trampled on, kicked and scraped up by feet, they had sunken some logs as stakes and wound a metal rope around them to form a circle. There were also about a hundred simple chairs placed around the ring to form a spectator area. The bulls weren't there yet. There were a few of them tied up to a thrown-together bunch of timber about a hundred feet away.

There was a hum of voices, and suddenly, there was shouting, and the boy watched as the men rushed together, bunched up and made a circle. The boy stood up, putting on his hat, and ran to where the log stakes were. A crowd of fifty had already formed. A short, fat, middle-aged dark-skinned woman was standing on her tiptoes and peering between the heads of the people in front of her. Five elementary school runts were staring at the same spot, laughing in an oddly soundless way. At the woman's feet there was an old aluminum basin in which a bunch of Cokes were chilling. The boy looked at the Cokes, then the elementary school boys, then the woman. He repeated this process countless times. His sweat was running. The spit dried small on his tongue. When the woman's eyes happened to meet his, he panicked, and, diverting his eyes, squeezed his way into the middle of the throng.

There was a little Hispanic-looking man going off at a young Okinawan man who was holding the bull's bridle. If you didn't notice the man's nose, which was a little on the big side, you'd mistake him for an Okinawan. The bridle boy had his head down and wasn't saying a word – he was just keeping the bull quiet with a few deft pulls of the reins. Keeping a bit of distance between themselves and the commotion, men young and old alike were looking at each other and nodding, muttering to themselves, and keeping an eye on the foreigner, the Okinawan, and a big black foreign car. The boy finally figured out what was going on by listening to the people's chatter. He looked at the car, which was about ten feet behind the bull. There was one heck of a dent in the passenger door and a whitish scratch a few inches long that the bull must have made with his horn. The boy figured that the bull must have headbutted the door. But why hadn't the bull's short, straight horns made two holes in the door? That was puzzling. The boy turned his head in the bull’s direction. The bull had been born with that pair of horns, which shone dull in the hot glare, seemingly aiming for something deep in the sky. The boy saw something above the animal's eyes, on top of those wet black eyes – a big bump. So maybe the bull had hit the car with that knot. It sure had a big head – probably as heavy as a boulder. One might think the car had made it out of the fight in pretty good shape, actually.

The foreign man, brandishing his black eyes, was shouting words the boy couldn't understand; he sounded like a live news reporter, the way his words coursed forth. Because it was hot, or maybe because he was trying to look threatening, the man slowly unbuttoned his flowery Hawaiian shirt. There was no wind, so the shirt simply hung there, open. He wasn't wearing anything under it. You could see his ribs in between sparse patches of chest hair. As the white of the sun blurred with the white shirts and hats of the onlookers, and as the black - of the shadows, of people's eyes, the bull – intensified, the foreigner's colorful shirt and reddened chest stuck out, incompatible with their surroundings. The crowd, about one hundred strong, stood. There was hardly any movement. What's wrong? the boy thought, looking around. One of our people is getting laid into out there! Alone! Why don't we do something? he thought. The foreigner was saying “Hey, come on! Hey, come on!” to the young man holding the bridle. He stepped over to the car and, shouting something, slammed his right fist into the dent. Three or four chips of paint peeled off and fell to the ground. Beneath the car's well-polished black coat shone several silver pockmarks. Seeing this sent the foreigner off the deep end, and in his heated rage, the man kicked the car repeatedly. The chipping and peeling got worse. The onlookers did not disperse. No sign of any commotion. The people were thinking that damaging that car was quite a thing to do. But, of course, they thought, the bull was the one that did it. It had nothing to do with us...

The boy started to fear that the man might pull out a gun, and he pulled up the brim of his adult-size straw hat to get a better look at the scene. Surrounded by this huge mass of people, he felt pretty safe. As far as he could see, there was no pistol. He looked at the young man who was holding the bull's bridle. The bridle boy's head was still bent slightly downwards, and his eyes did not move from the foreigner’s feet. The sun beat down on his head towel, and sweat ran down from the base of his ear. This bridle boy, a bit over twenty years-old, was from the neighboring village. Whenever the boy smiled and said hello to this bridle boy, the young man responded with a rude glare – the boy did not like him. That strangely murky gaze the bridle boy had when he would stick his chin up in the air, as if he was scowling at something, was nowhere in sight today. His eyes, cast continually downward, did not even blink. For an instant the boy felt like taunting the bridle boy, but he didn't. The spirit with which the bridle boy normally made the bull fight seemed like a lie now. Even though he would usually stomp around, screaming “Git! Woo! Git! Woo!,” give the bull hell, whip it and force it to fight, now, he himself refused to fight. What had happened to him? How could this bridle boy, who would always divert his opponent's gaze, throw sand in the other bull's eyes, and slap bulls with his rope, become this docile? The only one not fixed in place was the bull, not knowing what to do with its bulking body. Its face was as composed as always. It wagged its tail at the foreigner as if to say “Get the hell outta here, you pesky fly!” This battle-worn bull was calm anywhere, anytime. But now, it seemed like it wanted to make something happen. You could tell by the way it shook its big black body that the bull wouldn't back down from a fight with the foreigner. His black eyes were clear, wet. The eyes of a victor. Eyes with confidence behind them. The kind, big eyes of a true hero. And the horns: symbols of invincibility. These were the hard, rust-white horns with which the bull faced all the foes in this world. That's what the boy thought when he looked at the bull. The flock of people gathering around looked helpless as babies. Inferior, powerless.

Behind the bridle boy, there were several other bridlers wearing blue happi coats bearing brewery logos and others wearing green ones with soft drink logos. They folded their arms and kept their eyes fixed on the foreigner, sometimes turning their glances to the bull, and sometimes to the bridle boy. In that crowd also stood a small, middle-aged man who appeared to be the bull's owner; he, too, had his arms folded. Keeping his eye on the foreigner, the man whispered a word or two to the man next to him.

Many times the boy had seen and heard of bull owners wasting no time in killing and eating bulls who had lost in fights or been injured. As today's poor bull stood in the sun, the boy looked at the man who seemed to be its owner. Concerned, the boy compared the bull and its owner countless times. He couldn't understand how an owner, who raised his precious bull, tending to it day and night, could turn it into beef just because it lost or got hurt. Didn't the owner have any second thoughts? The sheen of that hair, the warmth of that body. How could he forget about that? Bulls aren't toys. They aren't machines. Not fashioned by human hands. At times, a bull might be the only creature to which an owner could express his deepest feelings. The boy sensed that. One year earlier, a man from Onaha in Nishihara village[3] had come to the Naha beef center to sell that very bull that now stood next to the big black car. A Mr. Yamashiro, who came from Ginowan[4], just happened to be there when the bull was brought in. He fell in love with the bull's fine horns and fierce grunt and bought it on the spot. The boy had no idea that the bull had been about to die.

Every time the boy looked around, the crowd seemed to be swelling. However, at the center of it all, it was still the foreigner’s one man show – a stage for the little guy who almost looked Okinawan. The boy sliced up the crowd with his eyes in search of anyone who was getting riled up. He found two young men across the ring, standing in the front row with arms folded. The boy knew them: a carpenter and a military employee. Short and muscle-bound, both had jaws that jutted out and both walked in the same way, with their feet pointed unnaturally outward. Both also had pretty bad reputations. The boy saw toughness in them. These men, with their protruding cheekbones and jaws and the marks of razor blades still evident on their tanned faces, their big shining eyes and their fat lips and big, tall noses, were countless times more imposing than the little foreigner in the middle of the ring. And you didn't need to think twice about which side was better built. There was no way the men would lose to the little guy. Even though they were strong, the boy wondered, why wouldn't they fight? Even though they had more than 100 allies behind them.

The boy’s eyes naturally started looking for others. There was old man Tōma, who liked to get the village boys together and show off his supposedly excellent karate skills. Maybe, after all, the boy thought, it was all for show. But he did strike an imposing stance, his arms folded, staring at the little foreigner. It looked as though at any moment he might take a step forward. Still, that stance remained just a stance. Mr. Tōma wouldn't do. Old man Iha was also standing with his arms crossed. The boy had heard that Mr. Iha had lost his wife and only child in the war, and to distract himself from the pain had devoted his days and nights to training bulls. He fed his stock rice and tofu you would be hard pressed to find on normal dinner tables, not to mention egg, winter melon and chicken scrap stew. Because of all this extravagance, the story goes, he had been forced to sell off most of his land. Mr. Iha's bulls were mighty, but he wouldn't move an inch.

Nobuhiko, a young man the boy knew, was so tall that the boy was still able to spot him in the middle of the throng. The boy wondered if Nobuhiko, a fisherman, had taken the boat out today, and remembered one time he had held his big, tough hands. Nobuhiko, whose veins carved out deep blue ridges in the muscles of his arms, had a mighty grip, but now, clad in iron-pressed slacks, a crisp, open-collared white shirt and polished leather shoes, he was a different person altogether. He didn't have an ounce of his normal toughness.

Bald, big-headed Mr. Yoshimura was a former vice-principal with a fine command of standard Japanese and an excellent reputation on the islands, where he held powerful sway in various negotiations and elections. However, he wouldn’t come forward. He was holding his straw hat over his hairless head, so his face and neck stood out and made him look suddenly older. For a while the boy did not take his eyes off of Mr. Yoshimura, and even when he looked away momentarily, his eyes darted right back to the man. Next to Mr. Yoshimura was Mr. Higa, who made his living in the slaughterhouse business. This plumpish, fiery-eyed middle-aged man who seldom smiled was now strangely silent. They say he wrote off women as good-for-nothings, refused to get married, and woke up every day with his cattle, whose care consumed his every waking moment. There was also an older, slightly hunchbacked man. This fellow had supposedly once stayed awake day and night for three days tending to a dying bull. After the bull finally drew its last breath, for three months the old man hit the bottle hard and cried his nights away praying to god or something of that sort. He was a remarkable cattle man. However, perhaps because the little foreigner had yet to lay a hand on the bull, he was content just to stand, expressionless and indifferent.

Right, the boy thought. Ichirō. His heartbeat quickened. Searching desperately, the boy could not find him; he canvassed the crowd slowly, carefully, but still no sign. He even tried scanning in the opposite direction. No luck. While the boy was disappointed, he was also a bit relieved. Ichirō, the boy thought, would jump headfirst into that ring without a second’s hesitation. It had not even been two months since that fateful bullfight at Ōyama. There, the bulls locked their horns and drove their noses into the ground. They wouldn't budge. Losing his patience, a big, young, shirtless military-looking man hurled himself into the ring. The bulls, drained of their body's moisture and energy in the sweltering afternoon sun, crusty white saliva dripping from their mouths, dug their hooves into the soft, dry earth. Yawning, the boy wondered why the bulls kept on fighting.

A combination of the relentless sun and several bottles of beer had turned the man's naturally ruddy face even redder. He scurried around the bulls kicking their rumps and pulling their tails, yanking them and shaking them recklessly around. Ichirō, who had been holding the bull's ropes from the edge of the ring, shouted something, dashed into the ring, and twisted the man's fat arm behind his back, and began forcing him out of the ring. At only about 5 feet 6 inches, Ichiro was dwarfed by the big man and had to struggle awkwardly out of the ring, as if on his tiptoes, but really, the boy had thought, he was quite a guy. That the big man had refused to let go of the bottle of beer in his right hand was pretty amusing, too. At that Ōyama bullfight, just like today, the crowd had not done a thing – the people had chosen to simply talk busily amongst themselves. If only Ichirō were here now, the boy thought. Ichirō wouldn't hesitate. He would throw this little wimp right out of the ring. Still, that little foreigner didn't know the terror of the bull.

The boy scanned the crowd again. There were many people wearing American-made dark green sunglasses. The boy didn't think they looked right. Big sunglasses on wide, angular faces. Oversized sunglasses on small, delicate faces. Giant sunglasses ready to fall off flat noses. Sunglasses paired with face towels – plainly ridiculous. There was also something odd about people who wore shady straw hats and sunglasses. A bald, plump, tight-lipped Okinawan man wearing American leather shoes two times too big for him was standing about ten feet away from the little foreigner. It was the boy's uncle. Two or three years earlier, he had been vilified by the boy's parents, grandparents, and other uncles for accepting lump payments for land to be used by the American military. Rumors that he would emigrate to South America had been spreading. With the money he received, this bald old man had apparently purchased two fighting bulls and three dairy cattle. The boy feared that the old man might be getting too close to the foreigner – that the man would get caught up in all the ruckus and get hurt. The boy, however, turned his gaze elsewhere. Mr. Miyahira also looked a bit odd, but quickly the boy realized that because hardly anyone in the crowd understood English, Mr. Miyahara might be able to step in and be of some assistance. Mr. Miyahara was a taxi driver for Americans, and he was constantly making trips to and from the military facilities, so the boy thought that he ought to be able to understand and speak enough of the language. But even though the boy concentrated on the man for a while, his expression remained very uncertain, and his crossed arms didn't even flinch. Suddenly the boy thought that if Mr. Miyahara couldn't use English to level with the foreigner, he might as well use Okinawan dialect[5]. The boy continued to look around, but he soon tired of all the searching.

“Kill that fucking American!”

There was a wild cry. It sounded like a young person. The words came fast, from way in the back of the crowd, and the boy couldn't hear them well. He strained his ears. Since that first volley, though, there hadn't been any other shouts. The crowd sparked with murmurs. Most people were turning their heads around in search of the voice. It seemed to the boy that the throng was trying to elicit another exclamation. Then, another voice rang out from the opposite direction.

“Yeah! Get 'im!” It was piercing, but still far away and practically unintelligible. The crowd turned in the direction of the second voice and, for a moment, fell silent. There were no more words from the voice. Again the buzz arose, spreading gradually and growing increasingly animated. The people couldn't find the source of the shout if it was so far away. Although the boy doubted that these screamers were really serious about attacking the little foreigner, he was also rather excited. He felt that someone, at least someone, might emerge from the crowd to make something happen.

The boy looked again at the men standing around the ring. Sunburned faces, faces hidden by the thick shadows of straw hats, all faces with unclear expressions. The coarse tracks of razor blades on their cheeks and necks looked savage. The men's oily eyes, like those of cats, glowing in the darkness – what were they staring at, the boy wondered; what were they thinking about? Many of the onlookers pulled the brims of their straw hats down and covered their faces. They gathered in groups of three or four and began speaking to each other in quiet, unclear words, which the boy finally realized was Okinawan dialect. The boy felt as if everyone was petrified. When the people spoke they didn't take their eyes off the foreigner, the bull, or the bridle boy, and didn't even move around or adjust their stances. In this field of indolence, the little foreigner's behavior looked even more exaggerated. Every time the screaming man pointed alternately at the bull and the car, his large ring twinkled brilliantly in the sunlight. The image of that sparkling ring etched itself into the boy's memory.

To the boy, the crowd seemed to have grown a bit. They might have been fearing that the foreigner had finally snapped. He wasn't wearing his hat, and you could see the traces of comb lines in the tight curls of his short black hair. The sun did not let up for one second. Heat filled the infinite white space. The foreigner's cranium was left almost unprotected against the sun's oppressive rays. His brains must have been boiling. Boiled numb. That's what the boy suspected. The man was too persistent. It wasn’t normal anger. His hair wasn't wet because of pomade[6], it was sweat seeping out of his scalp. The sweat trailed down his face and neck and flowed down his back, which was now so wet that his loose Hawaiian shirt clung to his skin. His head wasn't right. It was the heat. This place was too hot, unsuitable for foreigners. The best way to defend yourself against the heat was to pull your hat low and fasten all your shirt buttons. The man didn't get it. To prove it to him, the boy looked around the crowd again, looking for examples of this wisdom. Look around, the boy thought. Only the people who were born and brought up here understood. They didn't blink an eye at this heat. They didn't even go about wiping the sweat off their arms. They didn't care. Not one bit. They could just stand there, not minding, for hours. See, I'm fine, too, the boy thought. The heat didn't get to me, here in my sleeveless shirt and running shorts. But the members of the crowd were not simply spectators. Looking so calm, peering with unblinking, glossy black eyes from under their straw hats, they sent their silent support to the bridle boy. The people knew well that if they held their tongues and kept their hands to themselves, everything would work out peacefully. This was absolute confidence. They knew if they could withstand the ordeal, everything would be fine. The bridle boy, too, persevered. The people around him as well. There would be no pain. The crowd did not pity the bridle boy. He would keep his head down from start to finish, even when the little foreigner raised his voice louder. With gentle pulls of the reins, he would continue to control the bull – the mighty bull which, desperate to fight, shook its hulking head and lifted its face, rustled its body and waved its tail, stirring up clouds of dry dirt with its hooves.

The bull was restless. The boy wanted it to fight. Don't take these insults from this puny foreigner, he thought. The man didn't know the quickness, the force of the bull's dagger horns. The bull would terrorize that foreigner if he kept on storming around. If the bull went off, that car wouldn't do you any good, the boy thought. The boy didn't know how highly-ranked the bull was, but no matter the skill, no human would match up to it. Something told the boy the bull wasn't a gentle one. He knew that the man had no idea of the long tradition of bullfighting. If that was indeed the case, something would have to give him a taste. Then the boy realized – if the bull's owner told it to stand, it would stand; if he told it to sit, the bull knew to sit.

The boy looked hard at Kiyo, the bridle boy, as if to tell him to "accidentally" kick the bull and send it into a panic. The puny man would foam at the mouth and run away like a scared little rabbit. But the bridle boy kept his head down. The boy thought about shouting instructions at him – if he used dialect, the little foreigner would have no way of understanding. However, the boy couldn't force any words out. He looked repeatedly at the foreigner, the bridle boy, and the bull, tried countless times to open his mouth, but every time he swallowed his saliva and held his tongue. The spit gradually dried up and went away. The people around him could sense that the bridle boy was toughing it out. A wordless communication. Mutual understanding. The boy wanted everyone to just go crazy. If they did, he would too. He wanted to whip a big rock into the foreigner's flapping mouth. Right, he thought, he could just throw a rock at the bull to rile it and get it to destroy that black car. If he could get it to thrash the car to bits, the foreigner wouldn't have anything to complain about anymore. He looked for a rock. There were none. Although he was naturally disappointed, he also felt a little relieved. He didn't feel like launching another careful search. The boy thought that the powerlessness of the crowd paled even in comparison to a bunch of children. The only one the boy could place any hope in was the bull. For an instant, he began to envy this little foreigner, who refused to shrink before the stares of the throng. The midday sun was directly overhead, and the crowd was silent as it cast a short, thick shadow on the dry, rusty dirt.

This puny foreigner would just not let up. He continued to point at the bull and the car and repeat the same things over and over. The boy thought the man was clearly different from other Americans. In situations like this, Americans would normally fly into an uncontrollable rage. However, they would quickly give up when they considered the annoying paperwork one would have to dredge through if they caused any damage. It seemed that this foreigner just wanted to be mad. It wasn't real anger. Perhaps, the boy thought, the little guy had always been picked on. Maybe he was just blowing off years of bottled-in steam.

At some point, big Mr. Mansfield had shoved his way through the crowd and into the ring. The boy had carefully surveyed the faces of the surrounding onlookers several times, but when the boy had been searching earlier, maybe he had been unconsciously concentrating on finding "Okinawans." Still, he thought he would have spotted Mr. Mansfield's overwhelming frame: six foot five, 280 pounds. Maybe the boy hadn't noticed him because the giant was simply too unlike an Okinawan. That, or because the man had passed too swiftly, without hesitation, through the mass of people. The boy felt he had been tricked.

Mr. Mansfield stuck his bulge of a belly into the little man’s face and said something in English. He had a low, mighty, clear voice. The bit foreigner’s English, with its high-pitched squeal, now seemed suddenly weak. Looking straight up at Mr. Mansfield’s face, he carried on the same routine he had done well over a hundred times: point at the car, the bull, and the bridle boy. His words didn’t slow down, either. However, the boy felt that his shrill chirps had subsided and he now cut an altogether sorry figure. The more he ranted, the more he resembled a frightened weakling making excuses and begging for his life, a helpless fish out of water flopping around on the dock, its mouth gasping desperately for air.

Suddenly, Mr. Mansfield blurted “Holy cow!” in clumsy, odd Okinawan dialect, and the bystanders erupted in laughter. The boy, startled, smiled and opened his mouth, but he didn’t laugh. When the roar of the crowd finally fell to a silence, a slim man in his mid-20s took several determined steps into the ring, bent down, ran his finger along the scratch in the car, and said something to Mr. Mansfield, who had been taking a look at the bull’s horns. After listening to the man and nodding in understanding, Mr. Mansfield turned to the little foreigner and said something in fluent English. He spoke for a long time; it was as if he was trying to persuade him. When he spoke Japanese, Mr. Mansfield normally stumbled over his words, so the boy was amazed at the power and fluidity of the big man’s English delivery. The slim man had probably whispered to Mr. Mansfield that the whole matter was the small foreigner’s fault, having put his car right where the bulls were supposed to enter the ring. You could have parked a car anywhere in this massive lot. Why, the boy thought, would the little guy park his car right there? Mr. Mansfield had most likely made this mistake clear to the foreigner: you should know, he probably said, that fighting bulls want to fight so bad that they are itching to get going; these animals come all the way here to do battle. It’s your fault for putting your car here. A bull wouldn’t give two hoots about a car, no matter if it was an American’s, no matter whose it was. Maybe the bull did it on purpose just because it was an American’s. They’re pretty smart, you know. It might have even been acting on someone else’s behalf – maybe its owner hates Americans. That had to be it. It must have been trained, Mr. Mansfield had probably said. The boy began to feel a pounding in his chest as he began to sense something out of the ordinary. Something was different about Mr. Mansfield. It wasn’t because he was talking so deftly in English, no; it was because he was angry. He was livid. He was fuming, with sunny beads of sweat trickling down his face. It was hard for the boy to believe.

Mr. Mansfield was different now from the man the boy knew, a man who before and after the bullfights in neighboring villages would always gather all the boys together, hoist them high up in the air, set them upon his broad shoulders, hang them from his thick arms, and dole out candy and toys the boys had never even laid eyes on. There was no trace of his gentle, fleshy face, with its small eyes and toothy grin. The boy strained to recall that face. At bullfights, Mr. Mansfield would always dig rare, delicious snacks out of his large pockets or from a paper bag and give them to the boys, so the children were always swarming around him. And, with shy smiles, the boys would always ask for more.

He was good with faces, so if a boy had already received one piece of candy but tried to trick Mr. Mansfield into giving him another, the big man would strike an exaggerated frown, saying “Hey, boy, you already got one,” and shake a big finger at the culprit. But that was a charming, likable face, and the boys would get carried away and hold out their hands three, four, or five times.

The boy thought that today, Mr. Mansfield was an entirely different person. It couldn’t be the same man.

Mr. Mansfield’s sense of humor, too, had made a big impression on the boy. He remembered the scene at an earlier bullfight. Two bulls of almost exactly equal strength locked their horns together and remained essentially still, their hooves digging deep into the earth, neither one able to drive forward. The bridle boys lifted up the bulls’ dominant legs, hit the ground with their whips, lifted the legs and hit the ground, wound up the ropes of the bridle and jerked the bulls to and fro, all the while whooping and hollering in hopes of tipping the fight one way or the other. Meanwhile Mr. Mansfield, smoking a cigar or something of the sort, started to interject his own shouts into the bridle boys’ ongoing chorus. He had marvelous timing, and what’s more, did hilarious, albeit mistaken, imitations of the boys. If the bridlers yelled “Scat!” Mr. Mansfield shouted “Cat!” If someone shouted “Git!” Mr. Mansfield echoed with “Guy!” To “Come on, now!” he yelled “Don’t know how!” in a funny voice. The boy, who didn’t laugh often, laughed so hard he cried. The substitute bridle boys sitting in the corner drinking Coca-Cola couldn’t hold in their laughter, either. The two boys in the middle of the ring, with their stoic expressions, seemed out of place.

The boy remembered another scene. It was last summer’s bullfighting tournament in Agena[7]. A bull called “Feisty Iso Number 1,” which had suffered a barrage of attacks on its left horn, now loose in its socket, rushed his opponent from several feet away. When he made contact, there was a sound like the collision of two giant hammers, and Feisty’s horn fell right off. Blood gushed from the hole, drenching the bull’s forehead and face, soaking the base of its ear and neck crimson. Then, the bulls, even more riled up, trying to crush their opponent’s – or their own – head, whacked their skulls violently together; there was no end to the blood that flowed seemingly everywhere. Before long the bright, fresh blood turned dark, stained the ground black, and hardened. Sitting close to the boy, Mr. Mansfield distorted his face and dumbly cried “No, stop it, look at him!” With a sound like a mother cooing her baby child, he sunk his face into his hands, grabbed his trusty folding chair, and disappeared quietly into the crowd behind him. The boy knew that there were still several bouts on the card and was consumed by the current match, but the image of a teary-eyed Mr. Mansfield lodged itself into his memory. Although he realized that the fight was not an ordinary one, the boy, who had always been awed by Mr. Mansfield’s giant body, now thought of the man as a bit of a coward – perhaps his toughness was just a guise. The boy felt that that experience made him even fonder of Mr. Mansfield.

The boy thought that Mr. Mansfield should have been mad at the Agena bullfight. Mad at the bridle boys and owners who drove their stock into bloodstained battle, mad at the organizers of the tournament, mad at the crowd who reveled in the carnage, even mad at the bulls themselves. Getting mad then would have been much more natural than getting mad at the little foreigner. And getting mad at foreign people – the Okinawans at Agena – made much more sense than getting mad at one of your own countrymen. Famed bulls, silhouetted by the glowing sun, step firmly on the ground, roll like big black boulders, roar with the thunder of spirit, make the spectators feel that mighty power, and then, at that second, concentrate all of their muscles, all of their power, and with no hesitation tear their opponent apart blow by blow. Then, after driving themselves to the very end, they are slaughtered that same evening. When the butcher takes a swing into the space between the dead bull's eyes, the hammer sinks gently into the bull's head, all the way up to the handle.

The little foreigner, who had begun to calm down, suddenly gave two or three large nods, laughed, and extended his hand. It was a soundless laugh. His teeth were big and light yellow. The boy felt odd. Mr. Mansfield, saying something, shook the foreigner’s hand with his big paw. The little foreigner opened his mouth wide and let out a raw, throaty laugh. Again, the boy sensed something unnatural.

The little foreigner looked briefly at the bridle boy out of the corner of his eye and got into the car. He turned his back on Mr. Mansfield and faced the boy, and though the boy was uncertain whether or not his foot could reach the pedal, he slammed on the accelerator, gunned the engine, and sped off in a cloud of dust and exhaust.

The boy thought that his eyes had met the foreigner’s. He saw a gloomy face. He didn't know why, but he guessed the man would have trouble sleeping that night. Why, the boy wondered, hadn't the man demanded to have his way? All of a sudden, the little foreigner seemed rather pitiable. Mr. Mansfield and his usual exaggerated shoulder-shrugging and hand-waving seemed like a fraud. Something seemed off. His small reddish lips began to seem venomous. The boy noticed three or four young men speaking to Mr. Mansfield in fluent English. The crowd, however, was not shrinking. The people kept a fixed distance between themselves and Mr. Mansfield. They huddled together in small groups and spoke to one another in low, hushed voices. The boy sensed from the crowd's chatter, which, caked in thick Okinawan dialect, was a murmur that the boy could at last decode, that things had finally settled down, but there remained a kind of a coldness, a feeling that the conclusion of it all was nothing to rejoice about. Then, the boy thought that surely this massive audience, too, found Mr. Mansfield a bit eerie, somewhat ominous. They couldn't be truly happy. Normally people would crowd around Mr. Mansfield, praise him for a job well done, give him a pat on the back and shake his hand, hoist him into the air (in a good, celebratory sense); at the very least, they would say thank you. There was none of that today.

The bridle boy, however, was the opposite. Right after the black car made its exit, the boy, without taking off his head towel, made a silent bow to Mr. Mansfield, and took a few steps with the bull, whose entire body, save those two horns, shone in the sun like an immaculate black velvet coat. Then he stopped, turned around, and bowed again. Even when the throng concealed him from view, he could still see Mr. Mansfield's face, so he continued this process until he became a faint blur in the distance. Stopping, turning, and bowing, over and over and over again.

The boy started to think about Mr. Mansfield's beloved palm-leaf summer cap, which was currently perched atop his head, and how bad it looked. It didn’t seem made in Okinawa anymore. Mr. Mansfield used a blue towel to wipe the sweat from his face and neck and armpits and forearms, but he didn't touch the chinstrap of his hat.

[1] Obon is a Japanese Buddhist holiday to remember the spirits of one’s ancestors. On the Japanese mainland, most areas celebrate obon in August, but Okinawa celebrates the festival in July to correspond with the lunar calendar that is used there.

[2] Kitanakagusuku village (北中城村) is located about 16 kilometers northeast of Naha, the capital of Okinawa prefecture, and currently has a population of roughly 16,000.

[3] Nishihara village (西原村) has a population of over 30,000 and lies just south of Kitanakagusuku village. The University of the Ryukyus and Okinawa Christian Junior College are located in Nishihara.

[4] Ginowan (宜野湾) lies to the west of Nishihara village, and has a population of 88,000. One-fourth of the city’s area is occupied by the Futenma air base, a United States Marine Corps military installation.

[5] “Okinawan dialect,” called Okinawa hōgen in Japanese, actually consists of six groups of Ryukyu island chain languages, and many linguists prefer to consider them altogether different languages from Japanese. Debate over whether the languages should be considered Japanese dialects continues to this day. Matayoshi employs “dialect” at certain points in this story. As the narrative takes place on Okinawa Island, the main island of Okinawa prefecture, the author uses words from uchinaaguchi, the language associated with the island.

[6] Pomade (also called pomatum) is a greasy or waxy substance that is used to style hair. It was popular in the early- to mid-20th century.

[7] Agena (安慶名) is an area in Uruma city (うるま市), which lies in the center of Okinawa Island, northeast of Kitanagakusuku. Uruma city has a population over 110,000.