Red Roofs and Other Stories (Michigan Monograph Series in Japanese Studies) by Jun'ichiro Tanizaki

Author:Jun'ichiro Tanizaki [Tanizaki, Jun'ichiro]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: University of Michigan Press
Published: 2016-09-22T07:00:00+00:00

A Night in Qinhuai

Translated by Anthony H. Chambers

At five-thirty in the afternoon I returned briefly to my inn, south of the Stone Slab Bridge, but it seemed a shame to stay holed up on the second floor when the night promised a splendid moon. Impatient to see the riverfront road at Qinhuai one more time, I took a quick bath, arranged for a guide, and called for two rickshaws.

“But your dinner is ready, sir. Why don’t you wait until you’ve eaten?” The maid looked at me in surprise, as if she wondered where on earth I might be going.

“That’s all right, I’ll eat outside. I’m going to have Chinese food tonight.”

With no hesitation I changed into Western clothes and went downstairs.

“Chinese food tonight, sir?” The guide grinned when he saw me. He was an attractive Chinese man of thirty-seven or -eight and spoke Japanese well. A bright fellow, he had learned Japanese ways; apparently he planned to go to Japan soon and start a ceramics business. During this trip to China, I had been offended by the unhelpfulness and laziness of my guides, but this fellow was an exception. He was well educated and, as a native of the place, was familiar with local legends and folklore, making him incomparably superior to an uninformed Japanese guide. It is also true that the traveler is free to indulge in foolish pleasures when his companion is Chinese because he need not feel any silly constraints. If you can get your inn to find someone reliable—for not all Chinese people are dishonest—a Chinese guide is best.

“Where shall we go for Chinese food, sir? There are some places in this neighborhood, but . . .”

“There’s nothing of interest in this neighborhood. Let’s go to Qinhuai again.”

Presently our two rickshaws, with my guide in the lead, headed due south along the avenue that runs in front of the inn.

The sun had set. Unlike cities in Japan, Chinese cities, whether Beijing or Nanjing, are deserted once night falls. With no trams running and no streetlights burning, the roads are utterly silent, and not a glimmer of light escapes from the houses, enclosed as they are behind thick walls of plaster or stone, with no windows visible and their narrow, wooden doors firmly shut. Even in lively areas, comparable to the Ginza in Tokyo, most businesses close at six or seven o’clock; and in the neighborhood around the inn, consisting entirely of residences, the empty streets were as hushed as in the dead of night, even at a few minutes past six. Apparently the moon had not yet risen, but, unfortunately, scattered rain clouds drifting across the sky suggested that the view would not be what I hoped for. Aside from the dull rumble of our rickshaws (Chinese models almost never have rubber wheels), nothing disturbed the solitude of the surroundings except the rare clip-clop of a one-horse carriage. The lamps on these carriages only illuminated about one foot of the ground, and the interior of the cabs was pitch dark.

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