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「ツァラトゥストラかく語りき」

クリスマスの夜、嗣夫はひとりキッチンに立ち、缶ビールを片手に6Pチーズをつまんでいた。テレビはつけっぱなしだが音は消してある。画面にはサンタの格好をしたタレントたちが笑顔を振りまいているが、それを見て嗣夫は思う。

「こっちはそんな気分じゃないんだよな」

嗣夫は3年前に離婚した。理由は単純、性格の不一致だ。とはいえ、嗣夫はこう信じている。

「いや、俺のせいじゃない。向こうが勝手に愛想を尽かしただけだろ？」

それからというもの、嗣夫は自由を満喫している――つもりだ。家飲みが習慣になり、外に出るのは面倒くさい。今日も、ラーメン屋やフィリピンパブという選択肢はあったが、どれも結局「つまらない」に違いないと決めつけ、冷蔵庫から切り餅を取り出した。

餅をトースターに放り込む。

「お手軽さが命だな」と独りごちる。何か特別な味付けを試す気もなく、しょっつるとバターという奇妙な組み合わせに手を伸ばす。だが、この奇妙なレシピにも、嗣夫なりの美学がある。

「こういうのが通なんだよ。大衆の味覚とは一線を画す。」

餅が焼ける音を聞きながら、スマートフォンが鳴った。銀座のママからだった。嗣夫は少し眉をひそめる。彼女とのやり取りも義務感に近いものがあるが、断る理由もない。電話を取る。

「嗣夫さーん、クリスマスどうしてるの？」

「ああ、家で飲んでるよ。チーズと餅のコラボでね。」

ママの声はどこか上ずっている。店の暇さ加減や、女の子たちの愚痴が延々と続く。嗣夫は適当に相づちを打ちながら、餅を一口噛む。バターが溶けた部分が歯に絡む感触がたまらない。

「それでさ、オーナーが怒るわけよ。私、女の子たちに水を買ってあげただけなのに！」

ママがそう言った瞬間、嗣夫は鼻で笑いながら答える。

「それはね、ママさん。完全にアウトだよ。経費を勝手に使うのはね、詐欺の初歩だ。」

「え、詐欺？」と戸惑うママに、嗣夫は続けた。

「自分の金でやるなら美徳だ。でも人の金でやるのは、ただのパフォーマンスさ。それで感謝されると思ってるなら、浅い。どこかで自分が崇められたいって欲が透けてるんだよね。」

ママは沈黙した。その沈黙が気に入った嗣夫は、さらに畳みかける。

「正直、今のママの立場じゃ先がない。オーナーに嫌われて、女の子たちにも距離を取られてるんじゃない？転職とか、考えたほうがいいよ。というか、そもそもママって柄じゃないんだよ。」

「そ、そんなこと…」

嗣夫はママの言葉を遮り、言葉を重ねる。

「まぁまぁ、そんなに深刻にならないで。気分転換に一緒に温泉でも行こうか？熱海とかどう？俺、案外、相談相手には向いてるんだ。」

ママが困惑する声を背に、嗣夫は缶ビールを一気に飲み干した。そして最後にこう言った。

「じゃあね、ママさん。メリークリスマス！」

電話を切ると、嗣夫は笑いながら餅の残りを口に放り込んだ。電話の向こうの相手がどう思ったかなんて知ったことではない。ただ、自分が正論を言い切ったという快感だけが残った。

嗣夫はふと、天井を見上げた。

「俺って、本当に正直者だよな。」

トースターにはもう一つの餅が焼けていた。バターを塗ろうと手を伸ばしながら、嗣夫は満足げに呟いた。

「さて、もうひとつの真実を味わうとするか。」

💕

Thus Spoke Zarathustra

It was Christmas night, and Tsuguo stood alone in his kitchen, holding a can of beer in one hand and nibbling on a wedge of 6P cheese. The TV was on but muted, its screen filled with cheerful Santa-clad celebrities. He snorted, taking another sip of beer.

“Cheer up, huh? Yeah, right,” he muttered under his breath.

Tsuguo had been divorced for three years. Officially, the reason was “irreconcilable differences.” Unofficially, he believed it was his ex-wife’s fault.

“She just gave up on me. I didn’t change,” he often told himself, conveniently forgetting the long list of grievances she’d left behind.

Since the divorce, Tsuguo had embraced his newfound freedom—or so he claimed. Nights out had quickly lost their appeal. By now, his life revolved around staying home, drinking cheap beer, and eating whatever was easy to prepare. Tonight was no different. Sure, he could have gone to a ramen shop or hit up a Filipino pub. But why bother? He reached into the fridge and grabbed a pack of pre-cut mochi.

He threw a piece into the toaster oven.

“Convenience is king,” he muttered. Experimenting with flavors was beneath him. Instead, he went with his usual odd combination: a splash of fish sauce and a generous slab of butter.

“Refined taste isn’t for everyone,” he thought smugly.

As the mochi began to sizzle, his phone buzzed. The screen showed a familiar number: the manager of a Ginza hostess club he’d frequented a few times. He sighed but answered anyway.

“Tsuguo-san! Merry Christmas! How are you spending the evening?”

“At home, with cheese and mochi. A pairing only true connoisseurs would understand,” he replied, smirking.

The manager, or “mama” as she styled herself, sounded tipsy. Her chatter meandered from the club’s poor turnout that night to complaints about the staff. Tsuguo nodded along, taking a bite of his buttered mochi. The salty richness spread across his tongue as her voice droned on.

“And get this—I bought bottled water for the girls out of my own pocket, and the owner got mad at me! Can you believe it?”

Tsuguo chuckled, setting down his beer.

“Let me stop you right there, Mama. Did you really pay out of your own pocket? Or did you charge it to the club’s account?”

There was a brief silence. Then she laughed awkwardly.

“Well, it was just water. It’s not like—”

“Not like what? Stealing?” Tsuguo cut her off, his tone laced with mock sympathy. “Look, the gesture’s nice, but it reeks of self-serving charity. People can smell that a mile away. If you want to impress, use your own money and go big. Otherwise, it’s just petty theft with a smile.”

Her laughter faltered, and he pressed on, savoring her discomfort.

“Here’s the thing, Mama. You’re stuck. The owner doesn’t trust you, and the girls don’t respect you. Maybe it’s time to face the facts. You’re not cut out for this job. Have you considered… I don’t know, a career change?”

“I-I hadn’t thought about—”

“Well, now you are,” Tsuguo interrupted again. He leaned back, grinning. “But hey, don’t worry too much. How about this? We take a trip to Atami. A little hot spring getaway. Nothing like a fresh start, right?”

Her reply was drowned out by his laughter. He drained the rest of his beer, his voice turning jovial.

“Anyway, Merry Christmas, Mama. And good luck with… whatever it is you do.”

Before she could respond, he hung up, tossing the phone onto the counter. He let out a deep sigh of satisfaction. Her awkward silence, her flustered laughter—it was all just the icing on the cake. He’d said his piece, and that was enough.

Tsuguo glanced at the toaster oven, where another piece of mochi puffed up and browned. He reached for the fish sauce and butter, muttering to himself.

“Life’s like this mochi. Burn it, and it’s useless. Underdo it, and it’s inedible. But just the right amount of heat…”

He trailed off, pulling the mochi out and slathering it with butter. He bit into it, smirking at his own private wisdom.

“Just the right amount of heat,” he repeated.

And so, Tsuguo spent Christmas night, alone with his beer, his cheese, and his mochi. He was satisfied, and in his own twisted way, he believed he was right.

Notes

Tsuguo’s arrogance and self-absorption are emphasized, particularly in his conversation with the “Mama.”

The title “Thus Spoke Zarathustra” fits the tone, highlighting Tsuguo’s self-perceived wisdom, which is clearly ironic.

His final reflection ties the mundane act of eating mochi to his inflated sense of philosophical insight, underscoring the humor and irony.