The Enlightenment of Katzuo Nakamatsu

Contents Cover Title Page Copyright Contents Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4 Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8 Chapter 9 Afterword Landmarks Cover Cover Title Page Table of Contents Start Copyright Print Page List i ii iii iv v 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11 12 13 14 15 16 17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35 36 37 38 39 40 41 42 43 44 45 46 47 48 49 50 51 52 53 54 55 56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63 64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72 73 74 75 76 77 78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85 86 87 88 89 90 91 92 93 94 95 96 97 98 99 100 101 102 103 104 105 106 107 108 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 
 Copyright © Augusto Higa Oshiro, 2005
 English language translation © Jennifer Shyue, 2023
 First Archipelago Books Edition, 2023
 All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form without the prior written permission of the publisher.
 ISBN 9781953861528
 Ebook ISBN 9781953861535
 Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available upon request.
 Archipelago Books
 232 3rd Street #A111
 Brooklyn, NY 11215
 www.archipelagobooks.org
 Distributed by Penguin Random House
 www.penguinrandomhouse.com
 cover photo: Shomei Tomatsu
 This work is made possible by the New York State Council on the Arts with the support of the Office of the Governor and the New York State Legislature. This publication was made possible with support from Lannan Foundation, the Carl Lesnor Family Foundation, the National Endowment for the Arts, and the New York City Department of Cultural Affairs.
 
 
 
 
 
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 CONTENTS
 
 Cover
 Title Page
 Copyright
 
 
 Chapter 1
 Chapter 2
 Chapter 3
 Chapter 4
 Chapter 5
 Chapter 6
 Chapter 7
 Chapter 8
 Chapter 9
 Afterword
 
 
 
 1
 STANDING ON A pebbled path in the Parque de la Exposición one August evening, Katzuo Nakamatsu looked on at the sakuras blossoms. The branches of the small trees, which were scattered around the park and laden with rosy flowers, glowed in the leaden light, filling him with a private joy and, he believed, a secret spirituality. Children played on the green lawn, couples chatted on wooden benches, pedestrians and families walked among the ancient fig trees and ceibos. He took a deep contented breath, yes, the flowers were graceful and lovely; then he walked toward the carp pond, shifting the angle of his gaze, and still, the opaque light stayed the same, and the sakura branches continued gleaming exquisitely. He smoked a cigarette, contemplating his perspective on the composite, the pond with green water there, the perfumed sage here, surrounded by grass, creepers, and the flushed sakuras, there was nothing to probe, no forehead wrinkles, no gesture of delight. Indeed, nothing foretold anything, not the lowery sky, not the people walking in the gardens, not the humdrum cooing of the pigeons, not the frogs moaning in the cisterns, until the strange moment when Nakamatsu began to feel burdened, the weight of consciousness, unseeing affliction. In the eternity of the instant, in a manner of speaking, the green of the afternoon flickered out, the park’s babbling was erased, as if the world had taken flight, the pebbled paths disappeared, no serene gardens, or laughing families, or murmuring young couples, or ponds full of fish: the only thing in the air now was the sakura tree, its branches and its luminous flowers. And in that fragment of afternoon, from that imperturbable beauty, Nakamatsu noticed, sprang a death drive, a vicious feeling, like the sakura were transmitting extinction, a shattering, destruction. Facing this unusual, abnormal reflex, Katzuo managed to close his eyes, as if invaded by exhaustion, it all seemed like a dreadful illusion, abhorrent, and without knowing why he began to tremble, sweating, pallid, shaken to the core, unable to dislodge that feeling of death. He stood paralyzed on that pebbled path, face drained of color, eyes clouded over, breathing slowly, he focused inward, his hands wavered, and nevertheless, the horrendous feeling remained in his consciousness. He waited a moment, a sensible length of time, before opening his eyes, and this time he could make out, real and tangible, a crew of ekeko faces, marching through the grass under the sakuras, colorful chullos on their heads and leather pouches at their backs. Their hunchbacked figures bundled into suits and ties, they let out grunts and babbled in Quechua, their little mustaches accentuating their wax faces, they were like rag dolls, cartwheeling, tripping over each other, while the festive onlookers applauded, and cheered, and tossed coins. Uncouth, brutish, crude. He couldn’t stand it. Aghast, Katzuo Nakamatsu fled, making his way on a paved path toward the gate that opened onto Avenida Garcilaso de la Vega, looking at no one, face forward, his head trembling, eyes wet with tears, alien to the street vendors selling ham sandwiches and ladling emollient as he plunged in among the vehicles and buildings on that central artery. He came to a stop on Paseo Colón, faltering, bewildered, unsure whether to cross the road full of minibuses and blaring horns, his body was dazed, in any case, the sensation of death had stayed in his consciousness, and an animal fear was hollowing out his belly, which was beset by a violent churning, his throat was parched, he felt faint. Now, aimlessly, he moved through the dissolute streets, unrecognizable roads, past suffocating houses, impregnable stairways and doors, closed-up offices, and dark corridors, he had enough restraint left to keep himself from breaking into a run, and howling on all fours like a dog. His heart lashed. It was hard to breathe. There was a prickling in his legs. A blazing anguish, a brutal sun seemed to be burning