Windows

From Hell of Solitude: Selected Writings of Ryūnosuke Akutagawa, trans. Ryan Choi, available from Prototype Publishing.
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For Mr. Kozue Sawaki

The second-floor window of my home was perfectly aligned with that of the house next door. On the sill of this neighbouring window, there used to be several pots of roses and lilies neatly arranged in a row and behind them hung a dense yellow curtain that blocked the view inside. For the longest time, I had never seen this neighbour who tended the flowers–not even a shadow or an outline.

There was an old armchair I had positioned in front of my second-floor window, where I would sit each day and listen absentmindedly to the sounds of people passing outside. Though it scarcely happened, I always–no matter the hour–somehow expected a visitor to arrive. I had even had a doorbell installed on my front door for this very reason. If I were to hear its cheery ring suddenly echo through the house, I would have leapt from my chair and gone down to greet my guest with open arms. 

Sometimes, during these idle moments, listening to the sounds outside, I would indulge in elaborate fantasies of people visiting me out of nowhere. But no matter how long I sat there, the doorbell never rang. Inside my room, my only constant companion was my reflection in the mirror.

For a long time, these little rituals were the fixtures of my days, with almost no change.

But then, early one evening, my eyes were drawn to the window across the way, and I was stunned to see a woman standing there, the yellow curtain fluttering behind her. She was dressed in a silk kimono, with thin gold earrings hooked through her ears. Her cheeks were coated in rouge, and her eyes were outlined boldly in black. She had the sultry look of a courtesan and seemed to be of mixed race. When she noticed me, the distant expression in her eyes shifted to one of coquettish fascination, and she bowed delicately.

At this point in my life, I had not made a new acquaintance in years. As I said, because every day it was only me and my reflection in my room, when I saw this intriguing, foreign-looking woman bowing my way, I could not help but feel excited, smiling back and bowing too, before I could judge her in any way.

From that day forth, at the same hour every evening, as if emerging out of thin air, this mixed-race woman would stand at her window, bowing delicately and even flirting with me. Sometimes, for instance, she would pick roses or lilies from the pots on her sill and, giggling away, toss them into the air towards me with no regard for the people passing below.

Before long, I found that sitting in my old armchair, idly listening to the sounds of people outside while waiting for these dream guests to arrive, had grown depressing and tedious. I was merely wasting time in the company of my reflection. I told myself I could wait a lifetime, and no one would come. It was time to quit this nonsense and focus on more concrete matters.

Therefore, I began looking forward to my exchanges with my mixed-race neighbour who may or may not have been a prostitute. Like clockwork she would appear, bow, and I would bow back and stare.

This, too, went on for a long, long time…

But then one morning, I received a letter in the post, from someone who claimed they had tried to visit me at my home many times, but every time they had pressed the doorbell no one had come to greet them. As a result, with great reluctance, they gave up calling on me.

Remembering then how the evening before the woman next door had thrown a bunch of roses and lilies at my front door, I hurried down to the entrance of my home and, treading atop the flowers, found that the doorbell was broken. Whether from rust, wear, or deliberate tampering, the doorbell wire had been severed in two. My heart sank into my chest. Had I not been so fixated on the woman who lived behind the yellow curtain, I was certain I would have heard the cheery sounds of the doorbell announcing the arrival of my longed-for guests.

Solemnly, I returned indoors and went upstairs. I sat again in my armchair by the window.

Sometime after sundown, the woman appeared again at her window, in her luminous silk kimono, the dense yellow curtain fluttering behind her. As before, when she noticed me, she bowed and began flirting. But this time, I did not respond to her, instead gazing at the poorly lit, lifeless street below, waiting once again for that visitor to arrive at my front door. Just as lonely as before.

February 1920

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Ryūnosuke Akutagawa (1892–1927), born in Tokyo, Japan, was the author of more than 350 works of fiction and non-fiction, including Rashōmon, The Spider’s Thread, Hell Screen, Kappa, and In a Grove. Japan’s premier literary award for emerging writers, the Akutagawa Prize, is named after him.

Ryan Choi’s books include In Dreams: The Very Short Stories of Ryūnosuke Akutagawa and Three Demons: A Study on Sanki Saitō’s Haiku. He is an editor at AGNI. His writings and translations have appeared in Harper’s Magazine, The New Criterion, Poetry, The Times Literary Supplement, and elsewhere. He lives in Honolulu, Hawaii, where he was born and raised.