セロ弾きのゴーシュ English

Gauche was the cellist at the town's cinema hall.

But he had a reputation for not being very good.

Not merely not very good — in truth he was the least skilled among his fellow musicians, so he was always being bullied by the conductor.

Past midday, everyone had gathered in a circle in the greenroom to rehearse the Sixth Symphony that they were to perform at the town's upcoming concert.

The trumpet was playing with all its might.

The two violins were ringing out like the wind.

The clarinet was joining in with its low, droning tones.

Gauche too, lips pressed tight, eyes wide as saucers, was staring at his score and playing with total concentration.

Suddenly the conductor clapped both hands together with a sharp crack.

Everyone stopped the piece all at once and fell silent.

The conductor shouted.

"The cello is behind. Toh-te-te, te-te-tei — from that passage again. Ready!"

Everyone started over from a little before where they had been.

His face turning bright red, sweat beading on his forehead, Gauche somehow managed to get through the passage he had just been told about.

He breathed a sigh of relief and went on playing, but then the conductor clapped his hands together again with a snap.

"Cello! The string is out of tune. This is a problem. I don't have time to teach you do-re-mi-fa, you know."

The others looked on with sympathy, pointedly peering at their own scores or plucking at their own instruments.

Gauche frantically adjusted his string.

In truth, part of this was Gauche's fault, but the cello itself was also quite faulty.

"From the measure before that. Ready!"

Everyone started again.

Gauche too, his mouth set to one side, was playing with all his effort.

This time they made considerable progress.

Just as he was thinking things were going well, the conductor made a threatening gesture and clapped his hands sharply again.

Gauche's heart lurched — not again — but thankfully this time it was someone else.

So Gauche did just as the others had done when it was his turn: he pointedly leaned his face close to his own score and pretended to be thinking something over.

"Now, right from there. Ready!"

Just as he thought he'd better get to it and started to play, the conductor suddenly stamped his foot and began to yell.

"No good. This is completely hopeless. This passage is the heart of the piece. And it sounds like this scratching mess. Gentlemen, we have only ten days left before the performance. If we professionals — people who have devoted our lives to music — lose out to some gathering of blacksmiths or apprentices at a sweet shop, what on earth becomes of our dignity? And you, Gauche — you're a real problem. You have absolutely no expression. Whether anger or joy, you show not a trace of feeling. And no matter what, you can't quite fall in line with the other instruments. It's always as if you alone are trailing after everyone else with your shoelace undone. This won't do — you need to pull yourself together. If our illustrious Venus Music Ensemble earns a bad reputation because of one person, it would truly be unfair to the others. That's all for today's rehearsal. Rest up and be in the box sharp at six."

Everyone bowed, then put cigarettes in their mouths and struck matches, or wandered off somewhere.

Gauche, clutching his battered box of a cello, turned toward the wall, his mouth set crooked, and shed a few silent tears, but then he gathered himself and, all alone, quietly began to play again from the beginning of the passage they had just practiced.

Late that night, Gauche came home carrying something big and black on his back.

Home, if it could be called that, was a crumbling water mill on the bank of a river at the edge of town, where Gauche lived entirely alone; each morning he would prune the tomato plants in the small field around the shed or pick off the cabbage worms, and every afternoon he would head out.

When Gauche came inside and turned on the light, he unwrapped the black bundle he had brought.

It was nothing remarkable.

It was the same rough-hewn cello from that evening.

Gauche set it gently on the floor, then suddenly grabbed a cup from the shelf and gulped down a long drink of water from the bucket.

Then he shook his head once, sat down in his chair, and began to play the afternoon's score with the ferocity of a tiger.

Flipping through the pages, he played and pondered, pondered and played, pushing all the way to the end, then starting from the beginning again and again, playing on and on with a roaring, thunderous sound.

Long past midnight, he had lost track of whether he was playing or not, his face had gone bright red and his eyes were completely bloodshot, giving him a truly terrifying look, and it seemed as if he might collapse at any moment.

Just then, someone knocked at the door behind him — tap, tap, tap.

"Gauche?"

Gauche called out as if half asleep.

But the door slid silently open and in walked a large calico cat that he had seen perhaps five or six times before.

It was carrying a half-ripe tomato from Gauche's garden, lugging it as if it were very heavy, and set it down in front of Gauche, saying:

"Ah, I'm exhausted. Hauling things is really quite a strain."

"What did you say?"

Gauche asked.

"This is a gift for you. Please eat it."

The calico cat said.

Gauche let loose all the frustration he had been nursing since that afternoon.

"Who told you to bring me tomatoes? First of all, do you think I'd eat something brought by the likes of you? And those tomatoes — they're from my garden. What's the meaning of this, picking them before they're even red? You're the one who's been gnawing on the tomato stems and knocking things over before now, aren't you? Get out of here. You wretched cat."

The cat hunched its shoulders and narrowed its eyes, but then smirked a little around its mouth and said:

"Now, Sensei, getting so angry is bad for your health. Instead, why don't you play Schumann's Träumerei for me? I'll be your audience."

"Don't be so impudent. You're just a cat."

The cellist was irritated and spent a moment thinking about what he should do with this cat.

"Oh, please don't hold back on my account. Go right ahead. I simply cannot sleep without hearing your music, Sensei."

"Insolent! Insolent! Insolent!"

Gauche went completely red and stamped his feet and yelled just as the conductor had done that afternoon, but then he abruptly changed his mind and said:

"Very well. I'll play."

For reasons of his own, Gauche locked the door, shut all the windows, then took out his cello and put out the light.

Moonlight from past the twentieth of the month came in through the window and filled half the room.

"What do you want me to play?"

"Träumerei — Romantic, by Schumann."

The cat wiped its mouth and answered calmly.

"I see. So Träumerei is something like this, is it?"

For his own reasons, the cellist first tore a handkerchief into strips and stuffed them tightly into his ears.

Then, with the force of a storm, he launched into "Tiger Hunt in India"

— and began to play.

The cat tilted its head and listened for a moment, then suddenly its eyes went snap-snap-snap, and it leaped toward the door.

It threw its body against the door with a crash, but the door would not open.

The cat, in the manner of one who has committed the greatest blunder of its life, began to panic, and sparks flew from its eyes and forehead with a crackling sound.

Then sparks came from its whiskers and nose as well, and the cat, feeling ticklish, made a face as if about to sneeze, and then, as if to say it couldn't just stand there, began to run around frantically.

Gauche, thoroughly delighted, played with even greater vigor.

"Sensei, please, enough! Enough! This is life or death — please stop! I swear I won't come to take your baton anymore!"

"Silence. I'm just getting to the part where I catch the tiger."

The cat writhed and leaped and spun about and pressed its body against the wall, but the spots where it had touched the wall glowed faintly blue for a while afterward.

Finally the cat began spinning around and around Gauche like a pinwheel.

Gauche was starting to feel a little dizzy himself, so

"All right, I'll let you off now,"

he said, and stopped at last.

The cat immediately regained its composure and said,

"Sensei, tonight's performance is really something, isn't it."

the cat said.

The cellist was irritated again, but he casually pulled out a rolled cigarette, put it in his mouth, and took out a match,

"Are you feeling ill? Stick out your tongue and let me see."

The cat contemptuously stuck out its long, pointed tongue with a great loll.

"Hmm, looks a little raw."

The cellist said this and promptly struck the match on the tongue with a hiss and lit his cigarette.

Now the cat was startled beyond all measure, and spinning its tongue like a pinwheel, it went to the entrance door and crashed its head into it, then staggered back, then crashed into it again, then staggered back, then crashed again and staggered and tried desperately to find a way out.

Gauche watched for a while with an amused look, then said,

"I'll let you out. Don't come back. Fool."

The cellist opened the door and gave a little laugh as he watched the cat race away through the reed grass like the wind.

After that, feeling at last relieved, he sank into a deep sleep.

The following evening, Gauche again came home carrying his black cello case on his back.

He gulped down his water and then, exactly as the night before, began to drive through the cello piece with full force.

Midnight came and passed, then one o'clock, then two o'clock, and still Gauche had not stopped.

After that, no longer aware of what time it was or whether he was even playing, he was roaring away when someone began to tap at the roof above.

"Cat — have you still not learned your lesson?"

Gauche shouted, and then suddenly a grey bird tumbled down through a hole in the ceiling with a plop.

He looked at it perched on the floor and saw it was a cuckoo.

"Even a bird. What do you want?"

Gauche said.

"I want to be taught music."

The cuckoo said serenely.

Gauche laughed and said,

"Music? Your song is nothing but 'cuckoo, cuckoo,' isn't it?"

Whereupon the cuckoo said, very earnestly,

"Yes, that's precisely it. But it's quite difficult, you know."

the cuckoo said.

"Difficult? The only hard thing about what you do is that you cry a lot of times — the way you cry itself is nothing at all."

"But that's exactly what's so difficult. For example, calling 'cuckoo' this way and calling 'cuckoo' that way — even listening to them, there's quite a difference, isn't there?"

"I don't hear any difference."

"Then you simply can't tell. Among our kind, if someone says 'cuckoo' ten thousand times, every single one is different."

"Suit yourself. If you already understand it so well, there's no need to come to me at all."

"But you see, I want to do the do-re-mi scale precisely."

"What good is do-re-mi to anyone?"

"Oh, I absolutely must have it before I go abroad."

"What good is abroad to anyone?"

"Sensei, please teach me do-re-mi. I'll sing along with you."

"What a nuisance. All right, I'll play it three times for you, and when I'm done, you go straight home."

Gauche picked up his cello, tuned the strings with a borrn-borrn, and played do-re-mi-fa-sol-la-si-do.

The cuckoo flapped its wings in agitation.

"That's wrong, that's wrong. That's not it at all."

"What a bother. Then you try it."

"Like this."

The cuckoo bent its body forward, held the position for a moment, then

"Cuckoo,"

called out once.

"What's that? That's supposed to be do-re-mi-fa? For you, do-re-mi-fa and the Sixth Symphony are the same thing, are they?"

"They are not the same."

"How are they different?"

"The difficult part is that there's a long string of these in a row."

"Like this, you mean."

The cellist picked up his cello again and played: cuckoo-cuckoo-cuckoo-cuckoo-cuckoo in a continuous run.

Whereupon the cuckoo was overjoyed and, joining in partway through, cried out cuckoo-cuckoo-cuckoo-cuckoo in kind.

And it called and called with all its might, bending its body, on and on without stopping.

Gauche's hand finally started to ache, so

"Hey, that's quite enough now."

he said and stopped.

Then the cuckoo, looking disappointed, eyes raised, kept calling for a while longer, but finally

"...cuckoo-ka-koo-ka-ka-ka-ka-ka"

and stopped.

Gauche was now thoroughly angry, and

"Hey, bird — when you're done you go home."

he said.

"Please play it just once more. Yours seems right in a way, but it's a little different."

"What's that? I'm not the one taking lessons from you here. Go home."

"Please, just one more time. Please."

The cuckoo bowed its head again and again.

"This is the last time then."

Gauche raised his bow.

The cuckoo drew a breath with a small "ku"

and then

"Please play as long as you possibly can."

it said, and made one more bow.

"This is becoming unbearable."

Gauche gave a weary smile and began to play.

Thereupon the cuckoo was completely in earnest again and cried "cuckoo-cuckoo-cuckoo"

bending its body, calling with absolute devotion.

Gauche was annoyed at first, but as he played on and on, the thought suddenly came to him that perhaps it was the bird that was truly hitting the correct pitch of do-re-mi.

The more he played, the more the cuckoo seemed to be in the right.

"Good grief, if I keep up this foolishness I'll end up turning into a bird."

And Gauche abruptly stopped the cello dead.

The cuckoo then swayed as if struck on the head and staggered, and then, as before,

"cuckoo-cuckoo-cuckoo-cuck-cuck-cuck-cuck-cuck"

and stopped.

Then it looked at Gauche with a resentful expression and said,

"Why did you stop? Among us, even the most timid would cry until the blood came from their throat."

the cuckoo said.

"Don't be impertinent. How long do you expect me to keep up this nonsense? Now get out. Look — isn't it getting light?"

Gauche pointed at the window.

The sky to the east had gone a hazy silver, and jet-black clouds were racing toward the north.

"Then please, until the sun comes up. Just once more. It will only take a moment."

The cuckoo bowed its head again.

"Silence! Getting too comfortable. You foolish bird. If you don't leave at once, I'll pluck you and have you for breakfast."

Gauche stamped on the floor.

The cuckoo then gave a sudden start and flew straight toward the window.

It struck its head hard against the glass and fell to the floor below.

"What a fool — flying into glass like that."

Gauche hurried to his feet and tried to open the window, but this window was not the sort that ever slid open readily.

While Gauche was rattling the window frame repeatedly, the cuckoo flew up and crashed into it again and fell to the floor.

Looking closely, there was a little blood coming from the base of its beak.

"I'm opening it right now, just wait."

When Gauche had at last managed to open the window by two inches or so, the cuckoo got up, fixed its gaze on the eastern sky beyond the window with a look of absolute determination, and launched itself into the air with every ounce of strength it had.

Of course, this time it struck the glass even harder than before, and the cuckoo lay on the floor and did not stir for some time.

Gauche reached down to pick it up and release it through the door, but the cuckoo suddenly opened its eyes and leaped back.

And it looked about to fly at the glass again.

Gauche involuntarily raised his foot and kicked the window with a crash.

Two or three panes of glass shattered with a tremendous sound, and the window fell outward, frame and all.

Through the gaping hole where the window had been, the cuckoo shot outside like an arrow.

And it flew on and on, perfectly straight, until at last it vanished from sight.

Gauche stared outside for a while as if dumbstruck, then toppled over just as he was into the corner of the room and fell asleep.

The following evening again, Gauche played the cello past midnight and was tired and drinking a glass of water when something again knocked at the door with a tap-tap-tap.

He thought to himself that whatever came tonight he would frighten it off from the start, just as he had done with the cuckoo the night before; holding his cup he waited, and the door opened a little and in came a young raccoon dog.

Gauche opened the door a little wider, stamped his foot,

"Hey there, raccoon — do you know what raccoon stew is?"

and shouted.

The young raccoon dog sat quietly on the floor with a blank expression, tilting its head as if it couldn't quite understand, but after a moment said,

"Raccoon stew? I don't know what that is."

it said.

Gauche looked at its face and almost burst out laughing, but he kept forcing a stern expression and said,

"Then I'll explain. Raccoon stew, you see, is when you take a raccoon just like you, mix it with cabbage and salt, simmer it until it falls apart, and make it into something for me to eat."

Gauche said.

But the young raccoon dog looked puzzled again and said,

"But my father said that Mr. Gauche is a very kind person and not scary at all, so I should go to him and learn."

it said.

At that, Gauche finally burst out laughing.

"Learn what? I'm busy, you know. And I'm sleepy too."

The young raccoon dog took a sudden step forward as if emboldened.

"I'm the one in charge of the snare drum, you see. I was told to come and play along with the cello."

"But you don't have a snare drum anywhere."

"Right here, look."

The young raccoon dog produced two sticks from behind its back.

"And what do you do with those?"

"Well, please play 'The Merry Coachman' for me."

"What's the Merry Coachman — is that a jazz tune?"

"Ah, this score here."

The young raccoon dog produced one more sheet of music from behind its back.

Gauche took it and began to laugh.

"Hmm, what a strange piece. All right, I'll play it. You'll be beating the snare drum, will you?"

Gauche began to play, glancing over at the raccoon dog now and then to see what it would do.

Then the young raccoon dog took its sticks and began tapping the area below the bridge of the cello in rhythm — pon, pon.

This was quite skillful, and as they went on Gauche thought this was rather good.

When they had finished to the end, the young raccoon dog tilted its head and thought for a moment.

Then it spoke as if it had finally worked something out.

"Mr. Gauche, when you play on the second string, you fall behind in a strange way. It makes me feel like I'm stumbling."

Gauche was startled.

In fact, he had been feeling since the night before that no matter how quickly he played, the sound on that string seemed to come out a little late.

"Yes, that may be so. This cello is a poor instrument."

Gauche said, sounding forlorn.

The raccoon dog looked sympathetic and thought for a while longer, then said,

"I wonder what's wrong with it. Could you play it once more?"

"Of course, I'll play."

Gauche began again.

The young raccoon dog tapped along as before, sometimes tilting its head to press its ear close against the cello.

And when they came to the end, once again the east had grown faintly bright.

"Ah, daybreak. Thank you very much."

The young raccoon dog hurriedly strapped its scores and sticks to its back, fastened them with a rubber band with a snap, gave two or three bows, and rushed outside.

Gauche stood vacantly for a while, breathing in the wind coming through the broken glass from the night before, then quickly burrowed into bed to sleep and recover his strength before heading back to town.

The following evening again, Gauche played the cello through the night, and near dawn he drowsed off unawares, still holding his score, when again someone knocked at the door, tap tap tap.

It was barely audible, but since it happened every night now, Gauche heard it at once and called "Come in."

he said.

In through the gap in the door came a field mouse.

It was bringing along a very small child, and they came trotting up before Gauche.

The field mouse's child was no bigger than an eraser, and Gauche couldn't help laughing.

The field mouse, darting its eyes this way and that as if wondering what Gauche was laughing at, came before him, placed a single green chestnut on the floor, bowed properly, and said:

"Sensei, this child has fallen ill and is near death. Sensei, please have mercy and cure it for us."

"Do you think I could practice medicine?"

Gauche said, a little peevishly.

The mother field mouse looked down and was quiet for a moment, but then spoke with a kind of desperate resolve:

"Sensei, that isn't true. Every day you cure everyone's illnesses so skillfully, don't you?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"But Sensei — thanks to you, the rabbit's grandmother was cured too, and the raccoon's father was cured too, and even that spiteful owl was cured — and yet you won't help this child? It's too heartless."

"Now, now, that must be some kind of mistake. I've never cured an owl's illness. Though the raccoon's child did come by last night and play at being in an orchestra. Hmm, I see."

Gauche looked down at the little mouse in astonishment and laughed.

Then the mother field mouse began to cry.

"Oh, if this child was going to fall ill, it would have been better to fall ill sooner. You were playing so loudly until just a moment ago, and the moment it fell ill the sound stopped all at once, and no matter how much we plead, you won't play again. What an unlucky child."

Gauche cried out in surprise.

"What's that? You mean if I play the cello, the owls and rabbits get cured? How does that work?"

The field mouse rubbed its eyes with one paw and said,

"Yes, everyone around here, when they fall ill, comes and crawls under the floorboards of your house to get better."

"And they do get better?"

"Yes. The circulation in their whole body improves greatly and it feels very good — some recover right there, and some recover after returning home."

"I see. So when my cello reverberates with that roaring sound, it works like a massage and cures your ailments? Right. I understand. I'll do it."

Gauche quickly tuned the strings with a squeak and creak, then suddenly scooped up the young field mouse and pushed it in through the hole in the cello.

"I'll come along too. That's what they do at every hospital."

The mother field mouse flew at the cello as if she had gone out of her mind.

"Would you like to go in as well?"

The cellist tried to thread the mother field mouse through the hole in the cello, but only half her face could fit.

The field mouse flailed and called out to the child inside.

"Are you all right in there? Did you land properly with your feet together the way I always tell you when you're falling?"

"Yes. I landed properly."

The young mouse answered from the bottom of the cello in a voice as tiny as a mosquito's.

"Good. So stop your crying."

Gauche set the mother mouse down and took up his bow and played what he thought was something called a Rhapsody, roaring and grinding away.

The mother mouse listened to the sound with a very anxious expression, but finally, looking as if she could bear it no longer, said,

"That's quite enough. Please let it out now."

she said.

"Already? Is that all it takes?"

Gauche tilted the cello and held his hand over the hole to wait, and before long the young mouse came out.

Gauche silently set it down.

He looked, and it was trembling all over with its eyes tightly shut.

"How was it? Are you feeling all right?"

The young mouse made no reply at all and continued for a while to tremble all over with its eyes shut, but then suddenly it got up and began to run.

"Oh, it's better. Thank you so much. Thank you so much."

The mother mouse ran alongside it, then came before Gauche and bowed again and again, saying,

"Thank you, thank you,"

about ten times over.

Gauche felt something like tenderness and said,

"Hey, do you eat bread?"

and asked.

The field mouse looked startled and glanced around nervously, then said,

"No, well, bread, as I understand it, is made by kneading wheat flour and steaming it, and it puffs up and is said to be delicious — but even so, we have never been to the pantry in anyone's house, to say nothing of repaying your kindness with a delivery of it."

she said.

"No, that's not what I mean. I was simply asking whether you eat it. So you do eat it. Wait a moment. I'll give some to the child with the upset stomach."

Gauche set his cello on the floor, went to the pantry, tore off a pinch of bread, and placed it in front of the field mice.

The field mouse, looking now like a creature quite undone, alternately wept and laughed and bowed, then carefully took the bread in her mouth and, with her child ahead of her, went out.

"Ahh. Talking with mice is quite tiring, too."

Gauche dropped heavily into his bed and fell fast asleep at once.

Then came the sixth evening.

The members of the Venus Music Ensemble, their faces all flushed and bright, each carrying their instrument, filed off the stage of the town hall and streamed into the backstage waiting room.

They had brought the Sixth Symphony to a successful conclusion.

In the hall, the sound of applause was still raging like a storm.

The conductor walked slowly among them with his hands stuffed in his pockets, as if the applause were all perfectly ordinary, but in truth he was filled to bursting with joy.

Everyone put cigarettes in their mouths and struck matches, or stowed their instruments in their cases.

The hall was still ringing with clapping.

More than that — it was growing louder still, becoming something fierce and uncontrollable.

The master of ceremonies, a large white ribbon pinned to his chest, came in.

"They're calling for an encore — could you not play something short for them?"

The conductor answered firmly.

"Out of the question. After something of this magnitude, nothing you put up afterward can ever fully satisfy."

"Then at least go out and say a few words, conductor."

"No. Hey, Gauche — go out there and play something for them."

"Me?"

Gauche was dumbfounded.

"Yes, you. You."

The principal violinist suddenly looked up and said.

"Now go on out there."

The conductor said.

They all pressed the cello into Gauche's hands, threw open the door, and pushed him out onto the stage at once.

Gauche went out onto the stage in a state of genuine distress, clutching the cello with the hole in it, and the audience, as if to say "look at this," clapped even more fiercely than before.

Some seemed to have cried out.

"How far do they mean to make a fool of me? Fine, watch. I'll play Tiger Hunt in India."

Gauche was now completely calm and stepped out to the center of the stage.

Then, just as he had when the cat came, with the ferocity of an enraged elephant, he played Tiger Hunt.

But the audience fell completely silent and listened with great intensity.

Gauche played on.

He passed the part where the cat had writhed and sparks flew from it.

He passed the part where it had thrown itself against the door again and again.

When the piece ended, Gauche, without so much as glancing at the audience, grabbed his cello and slipped swiftly backstage, just as the cat had done.

Backstage, the conductor and all the musicians were sitting in hushed stillness, their eyes fixed, as if dazed by a fire.

Gauche, thinking it was no use worrying about any of it, walked briskly through them and dropped himself heavily onto a long bench at the far side, crossing his legs.

Then everyone at once turned their faces toward him and looked at him, but they were solemn and not particularly smiling.

"What a strange night this is."

Gauche thought.

But then the conductor stood up and said,

"Gauche — you were wonderful. It's a rough-and-ready piece, but everyone in there was listening in real earnest. You've made great strides in a week or ten days. Compared to ten days ago, it's the difference between an infant and a soldier. I suppose you could have done it all along, if only you had tried, couldn't you?"

The others all came over as well, saying "That was something"

to Gauche.

"Oh, it's only because I have a strong constitution that I can manage such things. An ordinary person would die from it."

The conductor was saying from somewhere across the room.

Late that night, Gauche returned home.

And once more he drank great gulps of water.

Then he opened the window and gazed at the distant sky where he thought the cuckoo had once flown away, and

"Ah, cuckoo. I'm sorry about that time. I wasn't angry with you."

he said.