Dazai Osamu -Oblique Sun 1-1

　In the morning, in the dining room, you take a spoonful of swoop, and your mother says.
"Ah!
"Hair?
　I wondered if there was something in the soup that she didn't like.
No.
　As if nothing had happened, she flicked another spoonful into her mouth, turned her face to the side, looked out the kitchen window at the mountain cherry blossoms in full bloom, and then, with her face turned to the side, slipped another spoonful between her small lips. The word "flutter" is not an exaggeration in your mother's case. The way she eats is completely different from the way you see in women's magazines. My younger brother, Naoharu, once said to me over a drink, "You have a title, so you must be a good person.
He said, "You can't be a noble just because you have a title. There are some noblemen who have no title but have the title of "tennkoku," and there are others like me who have only a title but are not noblemen but rather lowborn people. Iwashima (referring to the name of Naoji's schoolmate, the Count) is even more depressing than the touts at the brothel Yukaku in Shinjuku, isn't he? The other day, he wore a tuxedo to the wedding of his brother Yanai (also a schoolmate of his brother's, the second son of the Viscount). I was shocked to hear that he used the strange word "gosaimasuru" in his table speech. Pretentiousness is an abusive pretense that has nothing to do with elegance. There used to be a signboard around Hongo that said, "High class boarding house," but in reality, most of the nobility are high class beggars. The nobility of today would never have such a pretentious attitude as that of the Iwashima. Even in our family, the only real nobleman would be Mama. That's the real deal. I'm no match for her.
　When it came to the way we were supposed to eat the soup, we would have turned our heads slightly over the plate, held the spoon to the side, scooped up the soup, and brought it to our mouths with the spoon still lying on its side, but your mother lightly ran the fingers of her left hand over the edge of the table and raised her face without bending over. Then, like a swallow, she lightly and brilliantly carried the spoon so that it was perpendicular to her mouth and poured the spoon between her lips from the tip of the spoon. He would then look around absent-mindedly, handling the spoon as if it were a small wing, never spilling a drop of spoon, and never making a sound, not even a sucking sound or the sound of a plate. This may not be the so-called formal way of eating, but to my eyes, it is very cute and looks like a real thing. In addition, it is true that drinks taste strangely better when they are poured into the mouth. However, since I am a high level beggar like Naoji said, I can't handle the spoon as lightly and carelessly as my mother did, so I give up and slump down on the plate and eat the food in a gloomy way as per the so-called formal etiquette.
　Not only the soup, but also the way her mother served the meal was extremely unmannerly. When the meat was served, she would quickly cut it all into small pieces with a knife and a fluke, then throw away the knife, hold the fluke in her right hand, stick each piece in the fluke, and eat it slowly and happily. For example, when we were struggling to remove the meat from the bones of a chicken on the bone without rattling the plate, her mother would nonchalantly pick up the bone with her fingertips, lift it up, and separate the meat from the bone with her mouth. Such a savage gesture looks not only cute but even erotic when she does it. Not only with chicken on the bone, but she sometimes even picks up the ham and sausage from the lunch dishes with her fingertips.
Do you know why omusubi is so delicious? Do you know why omusubi tastes so good?" He once told me, "It is because it is made by grasping it with human fingers.
　He once told me, "You know why omusubi tastes so good?
　I sometimes think that if I ate them with my hands, they would be delicious, but if a high level beggar like me tried to imitate him, I would end up looking like a real beggar, so I held back.
　Even my younger brother, Naoharu, says that he is no match for my mother, but I, too, find it difficult to imitate my mother, and sometimes I even feel despair. One day, in the back garden of our house in Nishikatamachi, on a moonlit night at the beginning of autumn, my mother and I were sitting in the azumaya at the edge of the pond, watching the moon, laughing and talking about the differences in the preparation of a bride between a fox bride and a mouse bride. As we were laughing and talking about how the bride's preparations differed from those of a mouse bride, the mother stood up and walked into the shadows of the bush clover near the pavilion, then peeked out from between the white bush clover flowers with a more vivid white face, smiled a little, and said
He smiled a little and said, "Kazuko, guess what your mother is doing now.
　He said, "Kazuko, guess what your mother is doing right now.
"She's folding flowers," I said.
　He laughed out loud and said, "I have to pee.
He laughed out loud and said, "I have to pee.
　I said, "You are folding flowers.
　I was surprised that she didn't squat down at all, but she seemed to be very cute from the start, which I couldn't imitate.
　I've digressed a lot from this morning's swoop, but I read in a book the other day that noblewomen in the days of the Louis dynasty peed in the gardens of their palaces and in the corners of the corridors without a care in the world, and I found their absent-mindedness really cute, and I wondered if my mother was one of the last of such real noblewomen.
　Now, this morning, she took a spoonful of swoop and said, "Oh," in a small voice.　I asked him if it was his hair, and he said no. "Was it salty?
I asked him if it was his hair, and he said no. "Was it too salty?
　I made this morning's soup like a potage by back-pulling the grimpice from the canned clams that had been rationed from the U.S. I'm not a confident cook, so even though her mother said no, I still asked her with some trepidation.
I asked her with some trepidation, even though she said no. "You did very well.
　She said seriously, finished her soup, then picked up a handful of omusubi wrapped in nori seaweed and left.
　I have not enjoyed breakfast since I was a little girl, and I don't get hungry until around ten o'clock, so even then I managed to finish the soup, but I was too eager to eat. She then picks up a piece of it with her chopsticks and pushes it into her mouth with her chopsticks at right angles to her mouth, as if she were feeding it to a small bird. She leaned her back against the wall where the morning sun was shining and watched me eat in silence for a while.
He watched me eat for a while in silence, then said, "Kazuko, you're still not good enough. She said, "Kazuko is still not good enough, she needs to learn to make her breakfast taste the best.
　He said.
"What about you, mother?　Is it good?
"Oh, yes. I'm not an invalid.
Kazuko's not sick either.
No, no.
　Your mother smiled sadly and shook her head.
　Five years ago, I was diagnosed with lung disease and fell asleep, but I know that was a selfish illness. I know that it was a selfish illness, but your mother's illness the other day was a very worrying and sad illness. I know that it was a selfish disease.
Oh," I said.
　I said.
What?
　This time, she asked me.
　We looked at each other, and I felt that we understood each other completely, so I smiled, and she smiled back.
　That strange, ethereal cry of "Ah" comes out when I'm struck by an irresistible feeling of embarrassment. I couldn't help but let out an involuntary "ah" as a vivid memory of my divorce six years ago flashed through my mind. I couldn't help but say, "Oh…" But what about your mother? I don't think she has an embarrassing past like mine.
"You remembered something just now, didn't you?　What was it?
I forgot.
About me?
No.
About Naoharu?
Yes.
　And then he tilted his head and said.
"Maybe.
　He said, "Maybe.
　My younger brother, Naoji, was drafted into the army midway through college and went to an island in the south, but he disappeared, and even after the war, his destination was unknown.
I think I've given up, but I couldn't stop thinking about Naoji when I had a delicious soup. I should have been better to Naoharu.
　When Naoji entered high school, he became obsessed with literature and started living like a juvenile delinquent, and I don't know how much trouble he caused his mother. And yet, she would take a spoonful of soup, think of Naoji, and say, "Oh. I shoved the rice into my mouth and my eyes burned.
It's okay," she said. Naoji is fine. It's not easy for a villain like Naoji to die. People who die are usually quiet, clean and gentle. Even if you hit him with a stick, he won't die.
　Your mother laughed.
Your mother laughed and teased me, "Well, then, Kazuko-san, I guess you'll die young.
　She teased me.
"Oh, why?　I'm just a bad deco man, I'll be fine until I'm eighty.
"Really?　Then your mother will be fine until she's 90.
"Yes.
　I was about to say, "Yes," but I was a little troubled. Evil men live longer. Beautiful people die early. Your mother is beautiful. However, I want her to live a long life. I was extremely puzzled.
"You're so mean!
　I said, my lower lip began to quiver and tears began to fall from my eyes.