Imamura Eiji (今村荣治) was a Korean writer who lived in the capital of Manchukuo and wrote in Japanese. Originally published in 1938, this story takes place in the weeks leading up to the Manchurian Incident on September 18, 1931. The protagonist, a Korean man who has lived in Dalian for the last 15 years and is more comfortable speaking and acting Japanese, decides to return to his brother’s home in Manchuria’s northern countryside due to his dire finances. He looks for a Japanese companion to travel with him, but the story takes a turn when both men decide to disguise themselves: the Japanese man dresses as a Korean, while the protagonist dresses in Chinese garments. Despite the comical interactions that the disguises facilitate, the two men face a grave situation wherein their prejudices and preconceived notions about the other come to a head. Responding to the racial tensions inherent in the establishment of Manchukuo, Imamura Eiji creates a psychologically nuanced and well-staged portrayal of a Korean man caught between the Japanese and Chinese worlds of Manchuria. The excerpt is from my translation of the story, which I title “Parallel Lives.”

Excerpt

Our hero in this novella, Shin Chong-chin, has fallen into a desperate situation in life—of that he’s undoubtedly convinced. This is something I would be very grateful, dear reader, if you could understand when reading this story. Some may complain, “I just cannot comprehend it!” However, our lead character is so committed to his predicament that he must indeed be at his wit’s end. Likewise, being the author, I cannot possibly hazard any explanation from my standpoint.

“Why not just go earlier?”

At a Korean inn, Shin Chong-chin, dressed in a Japanese kimono, lay on a straw mat with arms crossed under his head, tossing and turning and muttering in a restless voice.

It was the end of August. The “Manchurian Incident” was about to break out and, according to the newspapers, relations between Japan and China were changing by the minute. The Nakamura and Wanbaoshan incidents had occurred one after another earlier that summer and, around Changchun, Japanese deterrent drills were staged on the streets day and night. People were often awakened by late night gunfire. Exclaiming things like “war’s begun,” they’d dazedly prepare to evacuate. If two people ran into each other while out and about, their talk would inevitably turn to events between Japan and China. The faces of people running through the streets shone with distracted anticipation and unease.

It happened that even the weather that morning was gloomy and depressing. Not a drop of rain came, nor did the clouds clear. Perhaps because of the stifling heat that prevented the rain from falling, people felt as if something weighed heavily on their chests.

Shin Chong-chin sat up sharply to look out the window and then lay down again. “Might as well go earlier.” He muttered repeatedly, scratching his ears. Shin’s restlessness was not due to his concern for the so-called Sino-Japanese problem but, rather, because he had hit a dead end.

There had been indications of trouble between the two countries, yet his anxiety came from never having thought carefully about the matter until now. Take the murder of Lieutenant Nakamura by a Chinese official, for example. Or the dozens of Korean ditch-diggers in Wanbaoshan who had suffered at the hands of the Chinese tenant farmers. And how many Chinese had been killed in Pyongyang afterwards? Shin had always remained aloof to these day-to-day conflicts. Perhaps he could have given it more attention if he hadn’t been so hard-pressed. As such, his agitated “Why not just go earlier?” sounded the same as someone who was utterly discontent and dying of boredom muttering “If only a fire would start nearby.”

As if to add fuel to Shin Chong-chin’s irritation, the innkeeper sauntered in holding a long pipe and large wooden ashtray. His wide Korean pants gleamed with a filthy sheen.

Whenever he saw this old man, Shin Chong-chin felt an inexplicable disgust. He was like a reptile. Notwithstanding the proprietor’s pretentious swagger, Shin did not get up from his mat. He merely glanced up without saying a word.

The innkeeper, however, stared straight at Shin as if to lecture him on his unseemly behavior, stroking his long, half-white beard and deliberately clearing his throat. He sat down cross-legged in the characteristic manner of elderly Koreans, then knocked the head of his pipe on the ashtray with a thwack and began to speak.

“Mr. Shin, I have found you a fellow traveler.”

“What fellow traveler?”

“Eh? So, what you said before…were you toying with me, an old man?”

Shin Chong-chin finally remembered. “No, I didn’t mean it as a joke at all. Are you saying that you found someone willing to travel with me?”

“That’s right. I heard that there’s a rather large Japanese-run farm in the exact place you’re headed. There’s a Japanese man who’s going back there alone. For some reason, he seems to be looking for a Korean to go with him.” He paused for a moment and then added, “Even though you’re Korean, you often pose as a Japanese—fitting, isn’t it?”

The innkeeper finished and, as if representing a crowd, looked at Shin Chong-chin with scorn. He coughed again.

The old man’s remark made Shin Chong-chin feel as if he had been stabbed by a needle. This feeling, it could be said, caused Shin Chong-chin’s dilemma. The words echoed painfully in his chest, along with a hint of indignation.

“Hmph!” With a muffled grunt, he made up his mind. He arose as if he had just woken up and squatted on the hard, straw mat.

It had been fifteen years since Shin Chong-chin’s eldest brother, along with his wife and children, had moved to the county of ××, about two days away by wagon. He would send a letter about once every two years, but Shin had never sent one back. Should I go to my brother’s place or not? Shin Chong-chin was very torn these days.

Setting out for a remote area of Manchuria, where there was no other means of transportation besides wagons, to live an ordinary life with his eldest brother was beyond absurd for Shin Chong-chin, who had become completely accustomed to urban culture. Moreover, in the ten years since he had left his hometown and gone to Dalian, he hadn’t spoken Korean, not even once. He had been working with Japanese people, having fun with Japanese people, and living with Japanese people, without a single friend from his hometown. Shin Chong-chin himself had become a bona fide Japanese person in every respect.

With his finances wearing thin, Shin had been going home more frequently in the past couple of months. Or, like now, he would come to Changchun to stay at a Korean inn for a few days. Although his mother tongue had more or less returned to its original state, he still did not speak Korean as fluently as Japanese. He had no reason to hate Korean but, for whatever reason, he found it discomfiting to speak the language of another country. It gave him a sense of failure.

Actually, he despised the customs of Korea.

Imagining the lives of the people in the distant countryside put Shin ill at ease. He didn’t dwell on the language; it was safe to say that even the shadow of a Japanese person could not be found in those parts. As for accommodation, the inn was a bit unclean and he couldn’t bear the straw mat, but out there, you practically had to sleep on the grass. And the windows were just small holes bored into the earthen walls.

If he went to live there, Shin Chong-chin would have to take up the plow and hoe, which he had never touched until now. He was physically strong enough to do the rough work of peasants, but on second thought, he wasn’t sure he could endure such a primitive and barbaric life.

Now, he could not free himself from his predicament either mentally or practically. Under such a strain, he had the vague thought that it would be better to run away to that kind of place and endure it for a while. Maybe it would be enriching. So, he had asked the innkeeper if he knew anyone who could accompany him. After all, he hadn’t made a specific decision.

Upon hearing that the companion was Japanese, however, his unrelenting anxiety disappeared, replaced by a kind of sorrow. […]