The Man Who Did Not Applaud
by
Seikichi Fujimori
The Man Who Did Not Applaud
I suddenly noticed him.
A peculiar type indeed—why doesn’t he join in the applause?
The whole assembly greeted the speakers’ burning words with rounds of hearty applause. The sound of clapping as it filled the hall was like a storm. Many cried aloud in their excitement.
“Right for you!”
“Quite true!”
“The police arrested all the comrades!”
“They’re increasing armaments, but as for unemployment insurance…!”
At this moment the police, who formed a cordon round the hall, brandished their swords menacingly. This had no effect on the meeting. The revelations of the speakers, their description of the colossal growth of armaments and the astronomical figures for expenditure on the war industry proved too convincing. Then they went on to expose the preparations being made for fresh bloodshed—all carried on under the cover of pacifist phrases and paper pacts. This meeting of protest against the threatened war had turned into a trial of its instigators, with the crowded audience as jury. The heated addresses of the prosecutors, eagerly seized upon by the jury, left no doubt concerning the crushing verdict. For defendants there were these gendarmes encircling the hall, visible representatives of the criminal system on trial. Should the gendarmes resort to force, they would find themselves up against a huge agitated mass of workers, silently clenching their fists and ready to defy provocation. This, the defendants—the gendarmes—understood perfectly, and so they contented themselves with malicious glances and the brandishing of swords.
The trial of the war-makers continued in full swing.
But why is this one man so indifferent? He sat next to me. His pale face was distorted by a huge scar. And under his right eye there was a deed wrinkled cavity instead of a cheek bone. Apparently some shrapnel had smashed the bone. The right eye, above the cavity, had an uncanny stare. He wore the rough khaki clothes of a labourer, and in every respect looked like an elderly workman. His lips were pressed tightly and he stared at the speaker fixedly.
The scoundrel! Why does he stare so? Why does he glare at the speaker’s face as if he were noting every detail?
It’s plain, the last war did not decorate him enough! Just look at that mark, the mercenary dog! What more does he want? I am only sorry that the gun which sent millions of honest workers to their grave didn’t consign the whole of your ugly mug to hell!
I looked at him challengingly and stubbornly. He didn’t clap once the whole time, nor make a single exclamation. It seemed as if the orator’s words had no effect on him.
A strange feeling came over me.
Either he is a novice in the spy business or else a hardened old wolf.
“Look here,” I shouted aloud, unable to hold myself and paying no attention to the speaker.
Just then a strange light seemed to shine in his eyes.
Funny! Surely the cur can feel something.
The man lifted his arm as if with the intention of clapping but it fell heavily on to his knees.
His eyes glared in the gathering twilight. In an instant the very blood froze in my veins.
On his knees were two artificial arms.
The man had no hands.