japanese tales of mystery and imagination by edogawa rampo

TWO CRIPPLED MEN

AFTER EMERGING FROM A STEAM-ing hot bath the two men settleddown to a quiet game of Japanese chess, but after they hadcompleted one long-drawn-out session they shoved aside thechessboard and drifted into conversation. Soft winter sunlight warmed theeight-mat room, lighting up its luxurious paper screens. In the large charcoalbrazier, carved out of paulownia wood, before which the two men sat crosslegged on silk cushions, a silver kettle sang cheerfully, the mellow notesdrifting out into the landscape garden like a lullaby intended for the babysparrows dozing on the pine branches.

It was an utterly calm afternoon-monotonous, with nothing happening,but completely restful-and the men's wandering conversation graduallyturned to memories of the past. Saito-who was the guest-began bylaunching into an account of his harrowing experiences in the Battle ofTsingtao during World War I. While his voice droned on and on like thehumming of insects, Ihara-the host -listened attentively, from time to timerubbing his hands above the fire in the brazier. During brief lulls in the storythe distant song of a nightingale was heard faintly, like musical interludesspecially provided to bridge the silences.

When he spoke Saito's badly disfigured face was horrible to look at; andyet, as he unfolded his thrilling tale of bravery, his grotesque featuresstrangely suited him. He suddenly pointed to a twitch on the right side of hisface and explained that it had been caused by splinters from an enemy shell.

"But," he said, "this is not my only reminder of those hectic days. Look!Just look at the rest of my carcass!" With these words, he stripped to the waistand displayed his old scars.

"And to think," he sighed, concluding his tale, "that in my youth I wasquite a handsome lad, with a heart overflowing with romantic ambitions.Today, alas, it is all over with me!"

For a few moments Ihara made no comment Instead, he raised his teacupto his lips two or three times in succession, the deep furrows on his browindicating that he was lost in thought. The Battle of Tsingtao! Ah, whatbloody, tragic times. . . . But he too had been crippled like the other-for theremainder of his life, never more to walk erect, never more to be loved exceptout of pity! Comparing himself with the other, his friend, Ihara was filled withenvy. For one thing, the other had won his scars with honor! As for himself. ..the very thought of his own history sent cold shivers running up and downhis spine. Suddenly he looked up and met Saito's eyes gazing intently into hisown.

"Well, Ihara," Saito remarked, "now it's your turn. I don't believe you'veever told me the story of your past."

Ihara moistened his lips with green tea; then he cleared his throat

"I would hardly call it a story," he began. "Rather, it is more of aconfession. However, compared to your exploits, I fear my words will proveexceedingly dull."

"Nevertheless, I insist on hearing them," Saito said, his eyes lighting upwith keen interest.

Ihara caught the gleam in the other's eyes, and for a split second he wasstartled. He fancied that somewhere, at some time in the past, he had caughtthat same look, that same flicker of the eyelashes. They had met only ten daysago. Could it have been since then, or wasn't it much, much further in thepast?

Ihara was truly mystified. Somewhere in the back of his mind, hesuspected some supernatural reason for his having met the other at this inn tendays ago, for their having immediately struck up so close a friendship. He justcouldn't seem to convince himself that their chance meeting was merely acoincidence. . .that two crippled birds should just happen to come together.There was, however, one thing of which he was absolutely certain: he had metthe other somewhere before. But exactly where. . .and under whatcircumstances? This nagging feeling of vague recognition puzzled him.Possibly they had played together as children. . .or possibly. . .