A chamber play by Midori Osaki,
translated by Hitomi Yoshio

Apple Pie Afternoon
A play by Midori Osaki,
translated by Hitomi Yoshio

A lazy Sunday afternoon.

Brother (older)
Sister (younger)
Friend (Matsumura)

Brother, reading at his desk.
Sister, writing at her desk, facing her brother.  

BROTHER        (Throwing aside the magazine he’d been reading, he suddenly reaches out and smacks his sister on the top of the head.) 

SISTER             What?

BROTHER         Silly girl.

SISTER             What was that for?

BROTHER         You’re such an embarrassment.

SISTER             I said, tell me what that was for!

BROTHER         (Rolls up the magazine and hits the desk with it.) What do you think this is?

SISTER             I have no idea. It’s none of my business what you read. Why are you hitting me because of something you read? Tell me!

BROTHER         I have good reason. (Tosses the magazine at her.) Look at this. What you write here is disgraceful.

SISTER             What is it? Oh, it’s my school magazine. (Changes her tone.) Ah, you must have seen Miss Yukiko’s masterpiece. Congratulations.

BROTHER         Masterpiece? That’s not what I’m talking about.

SISTER             Oh, no? (Puts the magazine in a drawer.) But how marvelous it is! “Sighs on a Moonlit Night.”

BROTHER         Sighs on a moonlit night? What’s that all about?

SISTER             Haven’t you read it? Legs drenched in night dew—four legs—around which the crickets are having a rendezvous. Above the crickets, the shoulders of two melt into one—elegantly enlarged by the magic of the moonlight. While in the faraway hills, lights emanate from the modern houses[1] built on the slope—the lights at the top held in the moonlight’s embrace, the lowest lights kissed by the dew. That’s how the four legs become sighs on a moonlit night. 

BROTHER         (Embarrassed.) Silly girl. Learn to speak more normally, won’t you? You’re always speaking in metaphors and riddles.

SISTER             All I did was repeat Miss Yukiko’s words. If you don’t understand, I’ll solve the riddle for you. A man, who behaves toward his sister like a soda pop infused with chili peppers, is taking a walk—in the night—with a woman. When the man walks with a woman, especially under the moonlight, he becomes an extremely sugary chocolate, releasing sighs that smell like overripe apricots. I really shouldn’t have to spell this out for you.

BROTHER         Silly girl. Let me see that again.

SISTER             (Holds the drawer closed.) You’ll just bop me on the head with the magazine again. No way!

BROTHER         Come on, show it to me. I promise not to hit you with it.

SISTER             Well, explain to me why you hit me earlier then.

BROTHER         (Grabs the magazine from the drawer and begins reading it intensely.)

SISTER             (Snatches back the magazine.) What a total chocolate you are. Why are you so upset over “Sighs on a Moonlit Night”? Tell me why you hit me on the head! I’m going to get to the bottom of this. I can play nice for only so long. How many times do you think you’ve struck me with no reason? It’s all written down in my diary, and I intend to settle accounts one day.

BROTHER         (Snatches back the magazine.) Look at this. (Reads aloud.)

“It is my utter misfortune that I have an older brother who is like a soda pop infused with chili peppers. I have had to live with this soda pop since last April. In this regard, it has been a great misfortune that I have entered our school. My brother’s temper requires the presence of a head nearby. That temper can be assuaged in only two ways—by hitting the said head or by grabbing the ponytail and turning it into two braids. At first I tried using a hairnet to resist the schoolgirl braids. But a hairnet is ultimately powerless against such violence, and it doesn’t last more than three days. My reference books were soon overrun by torn hairnets. And so I cut off my hair. It is only after my ponytail was cut off that books began to pile up on my desk—books with titles like Experimental Psychology, the Annotated New National Reader, and Introduction to Linguistics.[2] Thus, my bobbed hair is not a fashion statement, but the result of my desperate circumstances.” Silly girl! Why don’t you write truthfully: “My bobbed hair is the result of my perverse taste”?

SISTER             Perverse taste? What’s that supposed to mean?

BROTHER         Well, think about it. It’s not just your taste—the word “perverse” suits you in every aspect. Perverse emotions, perverse senses, perverse nature . . .[3]

SISTER             What are you talking about—perverse emotions? You’re just stringing words together. Why don’t you explain what you mean?

BROTHER         Instead of explaining, I’ll read you this. It’s the best proof. “Alas, it would require another month for me to catch up on my studies in linguistics. Linguistics is a discipline that is totally lacking in both sugar and salt. If a poet, lost in thought, walks into a brick wall and shatters his pince-nez, he will no doubt blame the brick wall rather than himself for working his legs and brain simultaneously.” Humph! If I were a composition teacher, I would shove this back in your face with the comment, “The worst poet on the planet Mars wouldn’t write this badly.” How does linguistics have anything to do with a poet and a brick wall?

SISTER             And I would respond as the teacher of that composition teacher, “Death to those who know not the flights of the imagination.”

BROTHER         You already write stuff like that. (Reads.) “As I cannot yet afford to buy books such as Dr. Kuwaki’s Introduction to Philosophy, I am setting aside some money for a trip to the used bookstores in Kanda. Philosophy has a surprisingly charming profile, and secretly applies a touch of sugar and salt. Those fine grains of pepper on the surface are just face powder. The poet, whose glasses were shattered by the brick wall, squints through his brand-new pince-nez and finds the profile unexpectedly striking, even if it’s just an illusion. But I remain, as ever, miserable. My old and dusty reference books—who knows when I’ll have a full collection?—contain so many pages that it requires four full Sundays to air them out in the sun. And oh, my bobbed hair proves to be no protection against getting struck in the head. My brother has such a temper that he strikes my head even when I don’t have a ponytail . . .” Do you see that? You’re a disgrace. What about my honor?

SISTER             Barbarians have no honor.

BROTHER         Who’s the barbarian? Someone who publishes essays exposing their family members by using words like “I” and “my brother,” or someone who chastises them for their indiscretions?

SISTER             Someone who hits another person is the barbarian, of course. Plus, I only wrote the truth. My essay is the direct result of your poor behavior.

BROTHER         It’s your fault I’m driven to hit you. Why would I want to hit a younger sister if she behaved as a younger sister should? And plus, why should you be writing about philosophy’s makeup when you don’t know a single brand of face powder?

SISTER             Of course I know them. I even know how Nachtigall moisturizing lotion smells.

BROTHER         That’s what I mean by your perverse senses. You pretend to be a poet without having fallen in love, and sneak a peek at philosophy’s profile from your desk. What’s important is experience, you silly girl.

SISTER             Here we go again. How many times do we have to go through this? I write down all your preaching about experience in my diary too.

BROTHER         Write it a thousand times, for all I care.

SISTER             What do you think I write everything down for? It’s to show Father the next time we go home.

BROTHER         Go ahead and show him your diary. You can show it off along with your bobbed hair.

SISTER             Don’t forget about “Sighs on a Moonlit Night.” (Starts writing at her desk.)

BROTHER         What did you come to Tokyo for anyway?

SISTER             I came here to study. Certainly not to be hit by you, Brother!

BROTHER         (Snatches her pen.) Silly girl. You call this studying? All you do is rebel against your brother. No young woman looks more like a man than you do. Cutting off your hair, wearing blue stockings.[4] The nape of your neck is coarse from shaving, and the skin is rough like millet. Your neck is encircled by a collar that doesn’t crack a smile. Your Adam’s apple sticks out. Your shoulders are all bones. And look what’s underneath the blue stockings. Where are the feminine curves? Even burdock stalks are more supple than your legs.

SISTER             And even a thistle flower is four times more feminine than I am . . . Would you stop stating the obvious?

BROTHER         The world would come to an end if a woman had to get her hair cut every three weeks.

SISTER             Who tore my hairnet, huh? I record the number of hairnets in my diary too.

BROTHER         Write it down a thousand times. If it weren’t for the hairnets, you’d never go to the shop.

SISTER             (Imitates her brother’s tone.) Even I go to the shop at least once a week. (In her own voice.) Miss Yukiko keeps all her empty bottles of lilac water. Every week she has a new one, and she records the date on each new one. She says she has so many that they don’t fit inside her vanity table anymore. And apparently, last week’s Nachtigall lotion smelled like sighs on a moonlit night, much more so than the lilacs. All the more profound, being German. In the next issue, she’s going to write an article titled “The Stoutness of Werner Krauss[5] and the Perfume of Nachtigall Lotion.” (Begins writing with a different pen.)

BROTHER         Ah, how my life has fallen into chaos because of this sister of mine. I must write a letter. I must convince Father to take her back home. There’s no other solution. 

SISTER             Go ahead, write it. I’ll be glad to see Father. I’m fed up with you hitting me all the time—for my lack of grace in serving tea, for the dust on the lampshades. Why should I put up with it? I should have arranged my own lodgings to begin with. I should have known better than to move in with you, knowing from experience what a barbarian you can be.

BROTHER         I’m only putting up with you because Father demanded I make you more ladylike. No way I’d choose to live with you. Look at you—you chop off your hair as you please, get calluses on your fingers from writing . . . How am I supposed to deal with you? (Shoves a pen at her.) Look at this fountain pen. Even my hands would get tired after five minutes of writing with such a manly pen. You’re like a good-for-nothing banker! And this is what you call fine taste? It’s ugly and base, not sweet at all, just like your neck. No wonder you ramble on about philosophy and face powder.

SISTER             Why don’t you try actually weighing the two—this pen and a pen decorated with silver pampas grass? See which is heavier.

BROTHER         If you have something as feminine as that, show it to me. I’ll weigh them right now.

SISTER             Why don’t you go look in the room with the empty bottles of lilac water? And take this gentleman’s pen with you. Why on earth are you being so slow today? It’s Sunday, you know. (Looks at her watch.) It’s time you started your day.

BROTHER         Why do you care? (Looks at his watch, walks around the room impatiently.)

SISTER             Just go already. How can I study with you in the room? My one quiet afternoon in the week will be ruined.

BROTHER         I’m not letting you off the hook so easily. I have things to talk to you about today.

SISTER             I can’t stand this any longer. I’ll ask Father to come immediately and find me other lodgings.

BROTHER         Not so fast. Father will take you home once and for all. You’ll grow out your hair and be married off. Why do you always have to break the mold! Is there any other young woman in our family who hasn’t married by the age of twenty? Aunt Hana got married at sixteen and was already a mother by seventeen.

SISTER             (Imitates her brother’s tone.) Sadako became a dutiful wife at eighteen.

BROTHER         Chūta, who was twenty-three, got engaged to Yoshiko when she was nineteen. Who wants to be an old maid? In our family the women marry before they’re twenty, and we’re proud of it. Your legs are so bony, from running around town. Not even Kuniko has a neck with skin as rough as yours, and she’s only fifteen.

SISTER             That’s right. Kuniko’s neck is plastered with makeup.

BROTHER         You should go back home and learn a thing or two about makeup.

SISTER             (Takes a telegram form from her desk drawer and writes something.)

BROTHER         (Walks around impatiently, looking at his watch.)

SISTER             (Tries to leave the room with the form in her hand.)

BROTHER         Where do you think you’re going? I’m not done with you yet. (Notices the telegram form.) Hey, who are you sending a telegram to?

SISTER             It’s none of your business.

BROTHER         You’re trying to outsmart me, huh? (Snatches the form from her hands.) What! You idiot! What’s this? You write that I’m crazy! When did I go insane?

SISTER             It’s true—you’re absolutely bonkers.

BROTHER         You’re the one headed for the insane asylum. (Grabs the form and tosses it into the wastebasket.) I’m not putting up with this anymore. I’m going to do it. (Jots down something on a new telegram form, tries to leave.) 

SISTER             (Snatches the form from his hands.) What! When did I go insane?

BROTHER         Right here, right now. You dried-up anemic hysteric.[6]

SISTER             (Throws the form into the wastebasket.) Anemic hys– I don’t even want to say it aloud. How awful.

BROTHER         Anemic hysteric. I’ll say it over and over until you understand.

SISTER             On what basis are you calling me such a thing? You owe me an explanation.

BROTHER         Put your hand to your heart and ask yourself—but no, you can’t, can you? Your heart is completely dried up, it doesn’t have any blood running through it, not even water! Tell me, in your twenty years have you ever fallen in love? Any woman who isn’t married by the age of twenty must have at least two or three holes in her heart. That’s what you call a real woman. But you—you don’t even have a single scratch. That’s why your Adam’s apple sticks out like that. A man and a woman. A man and a woman. A man and a woman. That’s how a normal, healthy society should look. You’re a freak with no place in this world.

SISTER             And you’re a male hysteric who is spiraling out of control. (Starts writing at her desk.)

BROTHER         I don’t care what you say—you’re a freak. (Paces around the room.) What gives any man and woman their place in the world is love. Liebe, love, amour. Every language has a beautiful word for it. A beautiful word—the polar opposite of your blue stockings. (Walks slowly looking down at his feet, his speech turning into a monologue.) Instead of writing poetry, one must fall in love. Instead of gazing at the profile of philosophy, one must be intoxicated by the music of liebe. Love. Amour. Liebe… (Suddenly notices his sister writing.) Hey, are you writing a telegram again? I won’t allow it.

SISTER             Would you leave me alone? I thought you were talking to yourself. (Throws all the telegram forms in the air.) Write as many as you like! (Continues writing.)

BROTHER         (Pacing.) What I’m saying is that in order for you to exist as a human being, you need to fall in love. Are you listening? (Approaches her desk.) What’s that you’re scribbling? I’m giving you advice: You must fall in love.

SISTER             (Puts the paper face down.) Giving advice? To whom?

BROTHER         You, of course. FALL IN LOVE.

SISTER             There’ll be plenty of time for me to sigh on a moonlit night. Please get out of my way—I’m busy. Why don’t you leave the house? It’s already three o’clock. Do you want Miss Yukiko to lose her place in the world? I’m not the one you should be worried about. (Writes.)

BROTHER         (Paces around the room in frustration, looking at his watch.) Father and Mother are eagerly waiting for you to get over your anemic hysteria. If you start falling in love now, I bet Mother won’t be so upset about you chopping off your hair. It’s not too late. (Looks at his watch, visibly frustrated.) Are you listening? (Comes to his sister’s side.) What on earth are you writing?

SISTER             (Turns the paper face down.) I’m busy, I said.

BROTHER         It’s a manuscript. Trying to humiliate me again in your school magazine, are you? Show me.

SISTER             (Covers the paper.) No, it’s not that.

BROTHER         Show me. I’m going to review every word you write from now on.

SISTER             It’s not a manuscript, I said.

BROTHER         Whatever it is, it needs to be censored to protect my honor. (Snatches the paper.) “But I was so flustered. Please, darling, don’t be angry with me.” What is this? It sounds much too sweet to be your writing.

SISTER             Give it back.

BROTHER         (Reads in silence.) Hmm. Whose work is this?

SISTER             I’m copying from The Complete Works of Ichiyō.[7] Please give it back—I’m in a hurry.

BROTHER         (Interrupts her.) Hmm, this is interesting. It’s so feminine. “Is it because you’re angry with me that you haven’t come to see me today? It’s already past one o’clock. I’ve been so anxious since morning that I could only eat a small bowl of rice for lunch. And as I was nervously writing this letter to you, soda pop came in and hit me on the head. My head, which was already so full of grief . . .” How about that—it’s a record of your day.

SISTER             That’s right. It’s a letter I wrote.

BROTHER         A letter you wrote? Could it be that you’re in love? Who’s the recipient of this letter? This makes me very happy. You must tell me everything.

SISTER             Oh, there’s no recipient.

BROTHER         You don’t need to hide it from me. I may have a bad temper, but I can be a good listener in times like this.

SISTER             It’s just that I don’t know how to be ladylike, I wanted to see what it felt like to write a letter like this.

BROTHER         I see. Well, it’s not a bad start. If you put your mind to it, you’ll find someone to send it to. And in no time at all, your neck will be pretty to look at, I’m sure. It’s all dry and rough now, but that’s your doing. Actually it’s not so ugly looking.

SISTER             I was working hard at it when you came and bopped me on the head.

BROTHER         My apologies. It’s a bad habit of mine. (Skims through the letter.) “It breaks my heart to think that I may never see an apple pie again, only because I was so flustered the other day.” This sounds really convincing. See, you can write like this if you try. What a shame there’s no recipient for this letter. Say, why don’t you send it to Matsumura? He’d be perfect for the role. He looks just like Miss Yukiko in profile, since they’re brother and sister. When I sit next to him during lecture, looking at his face from the side, I sometimes forget that I’m in a lecture hall.

SISTER             You’re right. When I’m sitting next to Miss Yukiko during class, I forget that I’m in a lecture hall too . . . I mean, so I would imagine, in the future, that is.

BROTHER         That’s the way it should be. And speaking of apple pie—Matsumura likes apple pie too, just like you. Especially with a strong cup of tea.

SISTER             Is that so? (Folds the letter.) Anyway, I’ll keep practicing. (Looks at her watch.)

BROTHER         That’s the spirit. (Looks at his watch.)

 Matsumura enters carrying a pastry box. Brother starts to say something to his friend, then falters, turning pale.

SISTER             Ah, I knew you’d come. (Takes his hand, brings him to her desk.) So you’re not angry? (Accepts the box from him.) Apple pie! You’re not angry with me after all.

FRIEND             (Glances at the brother.) Why should I be angry? What about apple pie? I have some business with your brother Ono . . .

BROTHER         What did Miss Yukiko say? Tell me immediately. I’m ready to accept my fate . . .

SISTER             It’s not like that, Brother. It’s just practice. (Gives the letter to Matsumura.) It’s okay, this is only practice. My brother was just telling me to practice falling in love, and here you are. Read the letter, please. I was just about to send it off to you by express mail.

FRIEND             (Still glancing at the brother.)

BROTHER         So which is it? What did Miss Yukiko say?

SISTER             (To her brother.) It’s only practice. (To Matsumura.) Go ahead and read it.

FRIEND             (Starts reading.)

BROTHER         So what did Miss Yukiko say?

FRIEND             (His eyes are glued to the letter.)

SISTER             I’m beginning to feel hungry. (Opens the package.) I knew it would be a apple pie. I knew it! (To her brother.) It’s only practice, Brother.

BROTHER         Practice all you want. (To Matsumura.) So which is it?

FRIEND             (Finally taking his eyes from the letter.) Ah, I almost forgot. My sister says she’ll be waiting for you.

BROTHER         She’s waiting for me? Miss Yukiko said she wants me to come?

FRIEND             She said, “I’ll be waiting for you.”

BROTHER         You’re sure? “I’ll be waiting for you” were her exact words?

FRIEND             I’m sure.

BROTHER         I see. “I’ll be waiting for you.” I . . . need to send a telegram. (Picks up a form, writes something, and reads aloud carefully.) AM ENGAGED COME IMMEDIATELY. Listen carefully so there’s no mistake. One writes silly things when one is so happy. AM ENGAGED COME IMMEDIATELY.

FRIEND             What’s this all about?

BROTHER         I’m engaged to Miss Yukiko. And you are the messenger of her answer.

FRIEND             All she said was “I’ll be waiting for you.”

BROTHER         That’s our code! I proposed to Miss Yukiko exactly one week ago today. “I’ll be waiting for you” means yes. “The sun has set” means no. You were to come today bearing the answer. Our arrangement was simple. This whole week, until just a moment ago, I’ve been floundering, caught between happiness and disappointment. (Gets up suddenly, goes to the door.)

SISTER             Wait. Why send a telegram so soon?

BROTHER         I’m going to tell Father to come, so we can get married.

SISTER             That’s a shame. There’ll be one less sigh on a moonlit night.

BROTHER        You can fill in the gaps with Matsumura. Not just as practice, but for real. Matsumura, please rescue my sister from the land of old maids. Cover her mannish neck with your kisses. Not just as practice, but for real. (Exits room.)

SISTER             (Goes in and out of the room to prepare tea.) Oops. All the hot water has boiled away. The kettle’s been on since noon. Won’t you wait just a little while?

FRIEND             Let’s not worry about the tea. Why don’t you sit down?

SISTER             But the stronger the tea, the sweeter you become. (Cuts the apple pie into slices.)

FRIEND             (Tastes the pie.) The pie is better on its own. If I become drunk with tea, I’m afraid I’ll want to taste your lips again.

SISTER             (Tastes the pie.) You’re still angry with me? After everything I wrote in my letter?

FRIEND             “But I was so flustered” . . . well, if that’s the case, don’t bother making tea.

SISTER             That was a week ago. (Gets up.) The kettle will boil dry again.

FRIEND             Who cares about the hot water. I already feel as if I’m drunk on strong tea.

SISTER             (Reflexively wipes her mouth with a handkerchief.)

FRIEND             (In haste.) Stop. Why waste it? The sweeter it is, the better.

Note from the Translator: “Apple Pie Afternoon” (アップルパイの午後) was published in 1929. It is written in the genre of Lesedrama, which is a play not intended to be performed on stage, and which became popular in the 1920s in Japan.

Translator: Hitomi Yoshio

HITOMI YOSHIO (b. 1979) is associate professor of Global Japanese Literary and Cultural Studies at Waseda University. Her main area of research is modern and contemporary Japanese literature with a focus on women’s writing and literary communities. During 2022–2024, she has been a visiting scholar at Harvard University. She is the translator of Natsuko Imamura’s This Is Amiko, Do You Copy? (Pushkin Press, 2023) and is the co-translator of Mieko Kawakami’s two forthcoming short story collections. Her translations of Mieko Kawakami’s work are featured in every issue of MONKEY; vol. 4 includes her translation of “The Music of the Koto” by Ichiyō Higuchi.

Author: Midori Osaki

MIDORI OSAKI (1896–1971) was a modernist writer and poet. Born in Tottori prefecture, she was most active in the 1920s and 1930s. Her best-known work, “Wandering in the Realm of the Seventh Sense,” was translated by Kyoko Selden and Alisa Freedman. “Walking,” translated by Asa Yoneda and David Boyd, appears in vol. 3 of MONKEY, and “Cricket Girl” appears in vol. 4. Her life was the subject of the 1998 film Wandering in the Realm of the Seventh Sense: In Search of Midori Osaki by pink film director Sachi Hamano.

More stories by Midori Osaki