Pathway to Japanese Literature

Mother

I

In the full-length mirror placed in the corner of the room—with its Western-style painted walls yet Japanese-style tatami mats—a portion of the second floor of a Shanghai-style inn was clearly reflected.
First, a sky-blue wall at the far end; next, several new tatami mats; finally, a woman with Western-style hair turned away—all were reflected in that cold light with painful clarity.
The woman had apparently been sitting there for some time, engaged in sewing or some similar task.

However, since she was turned away, on the shoulder of her plain figured-silk haori—at the edge of her disheveled bangs—a pale profile was faintly visible.
Of course, one could also see the faint light shining through her thin earlobe.
The slightly long sideburns could also be seen faintly blurring the base of her ear.

In this room with the full-length mirror, nothing broke the silence except the cries of the infant in the neighboring room.
Even the sound of the rain that had yet to cease merely added a monotonous sentiment to that silence there.

“You.”

After several such minutes had passed, the woman continued her work while suddenly—though with apparent hesitation—calling out to someone.

Someone—but besides the woman in the room, there was a man wearing a tanzen coat lying prone on the tatami some distance away, an English newspaper spread out before him.
Whether he hadn't heard her voice or not, the man merely tapped cigarette ash into the nearby ashtray without lifting his eyes from the newspaper.

“You.”

The woman called out again.
Yet her own eyes remained fixed intently on the needle.
“What is it?”

The husband lifted his head—plump, round, with a short mustache, looking somewhat annoyed—in a manner befitting an activist.

“About this room—we can’t change this one either?”

“Change rooms?
“But we just moved into this room last night, didn’t we?”

The husband’s face looked puzzled.

“Even though we just moved in.
“If it’s the previous room, then it should still be vacant, shouldn’t it?”

The man had a sudden vision of their former third-floor room—that cramped space with poor sunlight they’d endured for nearly two weeks. Peeling walls by the window revealed a chintz curtain hanging over discolored tatami mats.
The geraniums in that window, their blooms sparse and leaves coated in dust, made one wonder when they’d last been watered.
Moreover, looking outside revealed straw-hatted Chinese rickshaw pullers wandering aimlessly through the perpetually cluttered alley.....

"But didn't you keep saying you hated being in that room?"

"Yes.
Even so, when I came here, I suddenly started hating this room again."

When the woman stopped her needlework, she wearily raised her face.
Her features showed close-set eyebrows, long narrow eyes, and a sharp countenance.
Yet seeing the shadows around her eyes, one couldn't help imagining she bore some unspoken hardship.
Indeed, veins stood out at her jawline with an almost pathological prominence.

“Wouldn’t it be better? …Can’t we change?”

“But compared to the previous room, this one’s more spacious and comfortable—there’s no reason for complaint. Unless there’s something you dislike about it?”

“It’s not that there’s anything specific...”

The woman hesitated briefly but offered no further explanation.
Yet she pressed again, repeating the same plea:

“Is it truly impossible? No matter what?”

This time, the husband merely blew cigarette smoke onto the newspaper and gave no answer either way.

The room fell silent once more.
Outside, only the unceasing sound of rain continued.

“Spring rain, or—”

After some time had passed, the husband rolled onto his back and muttered this as if talking to himself.

“Maybe I’ll start composing haiku or two once we settle in Wuhu.”

The woman made no reply and continued sewing.

“Wuhu isn’t such a bad place, you know.
“First, the company housing is spacious, and the garden’s quite large—perfect for growing flowers and such.
“It was originally called Yongjia Garden or something like that, you know—”

The husband suddenly fell silent.

In the now-hushed room, there lingered the faintest suggestion of someone crying.

“Hey.”

The sound of crying abruptly ceased.
No sooner had this registered than it started up again intermittently.

“Hey. Toshiko.”

The husband, half-sitting up with one elbow propped on the tatami, showed a perplexed look.

“Didn’t you promise me?”
“You wouldn’t complain anymore.”
“You wouldn’t show any more tears.”
“That’s enough—”

The man slightly raised his eyelids.

“Or is there something else making you sad besides that matter?”
“Like wanting to return to Japan or not wanting to go to the countryside even in China—”

“No.—No.”
“It’s not that kind of thing.”

Toshiko shed tears as she denied with unexpected vehemence.

“I’m willing to go anywhere you are.”
“But—”

Toshiko lowered her eyes and bit her thin lower lip firmly, perhaps trying to suppress the welling tears.
Beneath her pale cheeks burned something urgent and intense—like an invisible flame.
Trembling shoulders, wet eyelashes—the husband watched these while feeling his wife's beauty in a moment disconnected from his present mood.

"But... I can't stand this room."

"So I'm telling you—didn't I say that earlier? If you'd just clearly tell me why you hate this room so much—"

The husband had gotten this far when he noticed Toshiko's eyes fixed unwaveringly on his face.
In those eyes, beneath drifting tears, flickered a sorrowful light that verged on hostility.
Why had she grown to detest this room?
This was not merely the husband's own question.
Simultaneously, it formed a silent counterquestion Toshiko had thrust at him.
Meeting her gaze, the husband faltered in continuing his words.

However, the lapse in his speech lasted mere seconds.
Understanding rapidly welled up across the husband’s face.

“That?”

The husband uttered in an oddly curt voice, as if to hide his emotion.

“That was something I’d been concerned about too.”

When her husband said this, Toshiko’s tears streamed down onto her lap.

Outside the window, twilight had already begun shrouding the rain in mist.
As if repelling the sound of rain, on the other side of the sky-blue wall, the infant still continued crying.
……

II

The morning sunlight shone vividly on the second-floor bay window.
Beyond it stood a three-story red brick house with faint moss growth, its silhouette sharp against the backlighting.
When standing in this dim corridor, the bay window appeared like a large painting framed by the backdrop of that house.
The massive oak window frame looked exactly as if a picture frame had been fitted around it.
In the center of this painting-like scene, a woman sat facing sideways toward this side, knitting small tabi boots.

The woman appeared younger than Toshiko.
The morning sunlight, washed clean by rain, flowed clearly and broadly across her fleshy, ample shoulders—the shoulders of her gaudy Oshima-patterned haori.
It reflected on her slightly bowed, healthy-hued cheeks.
It reflected on the faint down above her somewhat full lips.

Between 10 and 11 AM—in the inn, this was now the quietest hour of the entire day.
Whether they had come for business or sightseeing, most of the guests staying at the inn had gone out.
The lodging office workers too, of course, would not return until afternoon.
All that remained in the long corridor was the occasional sound of the maid’s footsteps echoing in her clattering slippers.

At this moment too, as it gradually approached from afar, a fortyish maid passed by like a silhouette through the corridor facing the bay window, carrying a tea set.
Had no one addressed her, the maid might have passed by without noticing the woman’s presence.
But when the woman saw the maid, she called out with apparent relief.

“Osei.”

The maid gave a slight nod before approaching the bay window.

“My, you’re working so hard! What happened to the little one?”

“Our young master? The young master is resting now.”

The woman kept her knitting needles still and smiled like a child.

“By the way, Osei.”

“What is it?” she asked seriously.

The maid too—her apron sharply illuminated by sunlight from the bay window—revealed a smile in her dusky eyes.

“The neighbor—Mrs. Nomura, right? That lady is Mrs. Nomura?”

“Yes, Mrs. Nomura Toshiko.”

“Toshiko?”
“So we share the same name.”
“Has that lady already left?”

“No, she should still be staying five or six days.”
“And then they’re going to Wuhu or—”

“But when I passed by earlier, there was no one in the neighboring room.”
“Yes, last night their room was suddenly moved to the third floor again—”

“I see.”

The woman tilted her round face as if pondering something.

"That lady over there? When she first arrived here, was it on that very day her child passed away?"

"Yes."
"How dreadful."
"They rushed him to the hospital immediately too, but..."

"So he died at the hospital?"
"No wonder I hadn't heard a thing about it."

The woman wore a faint shadow of melancholy across her forehead where her bangs parted. But she immediately regained her usual cheerful smile, her eyes taking on a mischievous look.

"That will be all. Please go over there."

"My, how abrupt!"

The maid couldn’t help but laugh.

“If you say such stingy things, even if a call comes from the Ivy House, I’ll pass it on privately to Master.”

“Fine then.”
“Do hurry over here already!”
“The tea will get cold!”

When the maid disappeared from the bay window, the woman took up her knitting again and began to sing softly.

Between 10 and 11 AM—in the inn, this was now the quietest hour of the entire day.
The withered flowers in each room’s vases—during this time, the maids would come to clear them away.
The second- and third-floor brass handrails—during this time, the manservant seemed to polish them.
Amidst this spreading silence, only the hubbub of the street entered through the opened glass-paned windows from all directions along with the sunlight.

Then suddenly from the woman’s lap, the yarn ball rolled off.
The ball bounced once and began rolling toward the corridor, trailing a line of red yarn—when suddenly someone who had just arrived there quietly picked it up.

“Thank you very much.”

The woman rose from the rattan chair and made a bashful bow.
Upon looking, she saw that the person who had picked up the ball was the slender lady from the neighboring room, who had just been gossiping with the maid.

“No.”

The yarn ball passed from slender fingers to plump white ones.

“It’s quite warm here.”

Toshiko walked out to the bay window and narrowed her eyes slightly as if dazzled.

“Yes, even remaining here like this makes one rather drowsy.”

The two mothers stood motionless, exchanging smiles that feigned happiness.

“My, how utterly adorable your little one is!”

Toshiko’s tone carried deliberate nonchalance.
Yet at those words, the woman reflexively shifted her gaze away.

“It’s been two years since I last held knitting needles.”
“—It’s just that I have too much time on my hands.”

“Someone like me does nothing but idle away her time, no matter how free she might be.”

The woman tossed her knitting onto the rattan chair and smiled helplessly.
Toshiko’s words had struck her anew, quite without meaning to.

“Your little one—he was a boy, wasn’t he?”
“When was your child born?”

Toshiko ran her fingers through her hair while stealing a glance at the woman’s face.
The infant next door whose cries had been unbearable yesterday—that very child now captivated Toshiko’s interest above all else.
Yet she knew full well that indulging this curiosity would only deepen her anguish.
Was this the result of her heart becoming ensnared by suffering’s hypnotic pull—like some small creature frozen before a cobra’s gaze?
Or did it exemplify that morbid psychology where a wounded soldier must aggravate his injury to savor fleeting relief—doomed to ever-intensifying torment?

“It was during the New Year.”

After answering this way, the woman showed a flicker of hesitation.
But upon raising her eyes at once, she added with apparent sympathy.

“I hear such a terrible thing happened in your household.”

Toshiko floated a strained smile through moistened eyes.

“Yes, because he developed pneumonia—it truly felt like a dream.”

“And he didn’t even get to stay out long—your little one.”
“I don’t know what words could suffice.”

Tears had begun glistening faintly in the woman’s eyes without her noticing.

“What ever would someone like me do if I were to go through such an ordeal?”

“I was terribly sad for a time—but I’ve already resigned myself.”

The two mothers remained standing there, gazing at the desolate morning sunlight.

"Bad colds spread so easily here."

The woman pensively picked up their interrupted conversation.

"The home islands have such favorable conditions, don't they?
The climate isn't nearly as unstable as here—"

"Though I haven't been here long enough to say for certain, it does seem an exceptionally rainy place."

"This year it's particularly—oh listen, he's crying now."

The woman stood with her ear cocked, an alien smile forming on her lips.

“Excuse me for just a moment.”

But before she could finish speaking, that same maid came clattering up in her indoor clogs, arriving with the wailing infant.
The infant—the one wrapped in beautiful merino cloth showing only its scrunched face—the sturdy infant with a well-defined chin that Toshiko had been trying not to look upon in her heart!

“Whenever I come to wipe the windows, he wakes right up.”

“Much obliged.”

The woman, still seeming unaccustomed to this, gently gathered the infant against her chest.

“My, how utterly adorable your little one is!”

Toshiko leaned her face closer, sensing the sharp smell of breast milk.

"Oh my, how plump your little one is!"

The woman's slightly flushed face brimmed with an unceasing smile.
She wasn't incapable of sympathizing with Toshiko's feelings.
But—but from beneath those breasts—from beneath the taut breasts of motherhood—the triumphant emotion welling up uncontrollably was something she simply couldn't suppress.

III

The pagoda trees and willows of Yongjia Garden quivered in the afternoon breeze, scattering sunlight and shadows across the garden, grass, and soil.
No—not just the grass and soil.
They scattered them too over the pale blue hammock stretched between the pagoda trees—a hammock ill-suited to this garden.
They scattered them too over the slightly plump man lying on his back in the hammock, wearing only summer trousers and a sleeveless jacket.

The husband kept his cigar lit while gazing at the Chinese-style birdcage hanging from a pagoda tree branch. The bird appeared to be a Java sparrow or something of the sort. It too moved along the perch amidst dappled patches of light and shadow, occasionally gazing rather curiously at the man beneath the cage. Each time this happened, the husband smiled and sometimes brought the cigar to his lips. At times, as if conversing with a person, he would say things like “Hey” or “What’s wrong?”

The garden trees quivered around them, steeping the air in a faint grassy fragrance. Once, a steamship whistle had sounded in the distant sky, and now there was no sound of people or anything else. That steamship had probably long since departed. Having drawn a dazzling wake in the Yangtze's red-muddied waters, it likely headed west or east. On the pier overlooking that water, a beggar as bare as his surroundings sat alone gnawing on a watermelon rind. There might also have been a group of piglets there, jostling at the teats of their mother sow stretched out at length—the man, having grown tired of watching the bird and lost in such imaginings, soon began to doze off.

“You.”

The husband opened his large eyes.
Standing beside the hammock was Toshiko, her complexion slightly healthier than during their time at the Shanghai inn.
Toshiko stood without powder, her hair, summer obi, and medium-patterned yukatabira all dappled with patches of light and shadow.
While looking at his wife's face, the husband let out an unceremoniously large yawn.
Then, as if performing some great labor, he raised himself up on the hammock.

"The mail."

Toshiko smiled only with her eyes as she handed several letters to her husband.
At the same moment, she pulled out a small letter from within her yukatabira's breast - enclosed in a peach-colored envelope - and held it up.

“Today I’ve received some too.”

The husband remained seated in the hammock, chewing on his short cigar, and carelessly began reading the letters.
Toshiko also remained standing there, staring fixedly at the peach-colored paper that matched the envelope.

The pagoda trees and willows of Yongjia Garden quivered in the afternoon breeze, scattering sunlight and shadows over this peaceful pair.
The Java sparrow hardly sang.
A droning insect alighted on the husband’s shoulder, but immediately flew off again.
………

After this prolonged silence, Toshiko suddenly let out a faint cry without raising her downcast eyes.

“Oh, they say the little one next door has died too.”

“Next door?”

The husband pricked up his ears.

“Where exactly is ‘next door’?”

“Next door.”
“You know, that XX Hall in Shanghai—”

“Ah, that child?”
“That’s a shame.”

“That little one who seemed so healthy...”

“What was the illness?”

“It was a cold after all, they say.”
“At first, they thought it was just a chill from sleeping—so they say.”

Toshiko continued reading the letter rapidly, with a touch of excitement.

“By the time they admitted the infant to the hospital, it was already too late—you see? Doesn’t this sound just like ours?”
“Administering injections, performing oxygen inhalation—they tried everything they could—but... What does this part say now?”
“The cries.”
“The cries only grew fainter and fainter, until finally, just before 11:05 that night, it drew its last breath.”
“‘My sorrow at that time—I earnestly beg you to understand…’”

“That’s a shame.”

The husband lay back once more in the hammock, swaying gently as he repeated the same words.
In some corner of his mind lingered a dying infant’s faint gasps—no sooner had he registered them than they transformed back into cries.
The healthy infant’s cries threading through rain’s patter.

Even amidst such illusions, the husband listened intently to the letter his wife was reading.

"I earnestly beg your understanding—and when I recall that time I had the honor of meeting Madam, how Madam must have also—ah, no—no."
"The world truly becomes unbearable."

Toshiko raised her melancholy eyes and nervously furrowed her thick brows. But after a moment of silence, no sooner had she seen the Java sparrow in its cage than she clapped her slender hands joyfully.

“Ah, I’ve thought of a wonderful idea! Let’s release that Java sparrow!”

“Release it? That precious bird of yours?”

“Yes, yes, I don’t mind even if it’s my precious bird. It’s for the little one next door’s memorial service, you see. You know how they perform bird-releasing rituals? I’m going to do that for them. The sparrow would surely be delighted too.—Can I even reach it? If I can’t reach it, you get it down for me.”

Toshiko ran to the base of the pagoda tree and, standing on tiptoe in her wooden sandals, stretched her arm as far as she could.
But even her fingers would not easily reach the branch from which the cage hung.
The Java sparrow flapped its small wings wildly, as if it had gone mad.
In that commotion, the millet in the feeder scattered outside the cage once more.
But the husband watched Toshiko with apparent amusement, doing nothing more.
Her arched throat, heaving chest, feet supporting their weight on tiptoes—he gazed at his wife’s figure thus.

“Can I not reach it?—I can’t.”

Toshiko, still standing on tiptoe, turned sharply toward her husband.

“Get it for me, please. I mean it.”

“How could I reach it? If you used a stepping stool, that would be one thing—but there’s no need to release it right this instant, is there?”

“But I want to release it right now, I mean it.”
“Get it for me this instant.”
“If you don’t get it down, I’ll torment you.”
“Do you think that’s acceptable?”
“I’ll undo the hammock then.—”

Toshiko glared at her husband.
Yet what filled her eyes and lips was a smile.
And not just any smile—a fierce smile of happiness that had nearly shed all restraint.
At that moment, the husband detected something almost cruel in his wife's smile.
Something resembling that eerie force lurking deep within sun-hazed foliage—that perpetual watcher of humankind.

"Don't be absurd—"

While tossing aside his cigar, the husband scolded his wife in a joking tone.

“For one thing, wouldn’t it be rude to what’s-her-name—the lady next door? Over there a child has died, yet here you are laughing and making a fuss…”

Then Toshiko’s face suddenly turned pale. Like a sulking child, she lowered her long-lashed eyes and began tearing the pink letter without another word. The husband made a slightly bitter face. But perhaps to dispel the awkwardness, he abruptly resumed speaking cheerfully.

“But still, being able to stay like this must count as fortunate after all.”
“We had such difficulties back in Shanghai.”
“If you went to the hospital you’d just fret more, and if you didn’t go you’d worry—”

The husband abruptly fell silent.
Toshiko kept her eyes lowered to her feet, tears now glistening on her shadowed cheeks.
Yet the husband merely tugged at his short mustache with an awkward air and said nothing.

“You.”

After the oppressive silence had persisted, even when this voice was heard, Toshiko still kept her pallid face turned away from her husband.

“What?”

“I—am I wrong?!”
“That the little one passed away—”

Toshiko suddenly directed her strangely feverish eyes at her husband’s face.

“I’m glad that baby died.
“I do think it’s a terrible shame—but even so, I’m glad.
“Is it wrong to feel glad?
“Is it wrong?
“You.”

Toshiko’s voice held a rough force never before present.
The husband, while gilding his white shirt’s shoulders and vest now fully bathed in dazzling sunlight, gave no answer whatsoever to her question.
As though something beyond human power had solemnly blocked their path.

(Taisho 10 [August 1921])