By Kawabata Tanako
July 1953 Edition of Kitan Club
September 14 (Sunday) Cloudy with rain. By the time I got off the train at the terminus and climbed the three-kilometer mountain path, it was already close to noon. The sky, gloomy and overcast since morning, had grown even more heavily laden with low-hanging clouds, threatening rain at any moment. Fortunately, such weather meant not a single soul passed by, but what would become of me if caught in the rain on this path, with not a single house in sight to shelter under? Cedar trees stood densely packed on both sides of the road, offering little hope of the view opening up anytime soon.
“We’ll be at the summit soon. I’ll take two or three shots, then we’ll head right back down.” Tsukamoto-san said this while lifting up his leather bag, bulging full, which threatened to slip from his shoulder. My shirt clung to my skin, sticky with sweat. I wanted to take a sip from the clear water trickling down the side of the path, but the urge to reach the summit quickly and feel the cool breeze drove me forward faster. Where the cedar grove ended lay a vast field of tall silver grass, nearly as high as a person. And a gentle slope stretched all the way to the mountain’s summit.
Strip me naked and tie me up
I couldn’t voice it, but that thought raced through my mind as I led the way through the grass. Then, drop by drop, it began. Large raindrops first hit our cheeks and arms. By the time we started running back toward the cedar forest we’d come from, the rain intensified, turning into a white spray that obscured our vision.
Tsukamoto-san shielded himself from the rain with his body while swiftly wrapping the camera in a vinyl furoshiki. I paused for a moment, taking shelter under a single pine tree, but the sideways-pounding rain offered no relief. My floral-patterned denim dress was instantly soaked as if dunked in a basin.
Though I once feared even dewdrops
True to this verse, now completely drenched like a wet rat, we had nothing left to fear from the rain. Slowly, we walked through the torrential downpour, its force strong enough to wash away cart axles, into the cedar forest. For a man, it might be bearable, but what state would a woman be in, drenched from head to toe? Yet even here, it was no paradise compared to the rain. Drops falling from the treetops came down in clumps with each gust of wind. “There should have been a hut along the way…”
“Yes, I’m sure it was on the east side,” I replied, loosening the plastic cord tied under my chin and turning back.
The road became like a river. By the time I finally reached the storage shed, the rain had eased to a drizzle, and the western sky glowed faintly, tingled with a soft red. The shed was divided into two rooms. In the back, bales of wheat straw were stacked upright. At that moment, I suddenly recalled the countryside and was overcome with a feeling of nostalgia. I stared blankly, with a strange, detached feeling, as if watching something mysterious, at the colored droplets falling one by one from the hem of my woolen coat onto the only patch of dry, white earth.
“Hmm, this shed’s kind of interesting, isn’t it? Maybe I’ll take a picture.” He immediately showed his professional instinct, not even bothering to dry his soaked clothes, and opened the zipper of his vinyl bag.
“I’m cold…” I hadn’t really felt it while walking, but no that I was standing still, the wet clothes were constantly draining my body heat, making me feel unbearably cold.
“Then get undressed. You’ll actually be warmer that way. I’ll get things ready while you do.”
Even if told to strip for a photo, I wouldn’t feel so exposed. Yet, taking off wet Western clothes felt strangely different. Hanging the dress, now a stuff, clumpy mass of fabric, over a log revealed my skin; pale, swollen, and stained.
Outside, rain as fine as silk fell silently, yet bright sunlight streamed down the opposite mountainside with almost painful intensity. Before I had even finished removing my underwear, he stood beside me with a camera fitted with a flash.
“Now, let’s tie the wet parts of your body to this pillar with this rough rope.” Still wearing my wet bloomers, I was bound behind my back with straw rope and hoisted up, then tied immovably to the rough wooden pillar dividing the two rooms. The straw rope left strange marks on my skin, still damp. My body, shivering violently from the cold, began to burn fiercely despite being naked. The bloomers clinging to my skin felt disgusting, and I desperately wanted them removed.
After finishing the binding, he replied, “Well, this is also very nice,” and slid the wet bloomers down. I bent one leg at a time, removing them from my toes, then tried hard to make a pained expression as instructed. However, I couldn’t help but break into a grin. He seemed surprised several times, but probably decided he couldn’t keep me tied up like that for long. He changed angles and fired three flashes. By the time he untied me, my skin was completely dry. But moving around inside that dusty shed had left my legs, back, and shoulders pitch black, making me look like a zebra.
(continued)
