Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Oren was kept in Yokoami, Honjo, in the early winter of Meiji 28 (1895).

The mistress's house was an exceedingly cramped single-story building facing the river at Okura Bridge. Yet when looking across the water from the garden, the groves and woods around Otakekura—now replaced by Ryogoku Station—blocked the drizzle-heavy sky, offering a relatively serene view uncommon in the town center. Yet for that very reason, nights without the master often felt unbearably lonely.

“Old woman, what’s that sound?”

“Is that what it is? That is a night heron.”

Oren would sometimes exchange such uneasy conversations while keeping watch over the lamp’s flame with the elderly maid who had poor eyesight.

Makino, her master, would frequently come—even during the day on his way back from the office—bringing his robust figure clad in the uniform of an Army First-Class Paymaster. Of course, it was not uncommon for him to come through from the main house beyond Umayabashi after night had fallen. Makino not only had a wife but also two children—a boy and a girl.

Around this time, Oren—her hair arranged in the traditional married woman’s style—would almost every evening sit across the long charcoal brazier and keep Makino company as he drank. Between the two of them on the tea table, salted mullet roe and sea cucumber entrails were usually arranged on neat little plates and bowls.

At such times, her past life would often come vividly to Oren’s mind. When she recalled that bustling house and the faces of her companions, she felt her own desolation—having drifted to this distant foreign land—pierce her heart all the more. Moreover, there were times when Makino’s body—which had grown increasingly corpulent compared to before—would suddenly ignite a peculiar hatred within her.

Makino seemed cheerful as he sipped his cup in small increments. After cracking some joke and peering into Oren’s face, he would suddenly burst into loud laughter—one of this man’s characteristic drinking habits.

“Well now? Tokyo isn’t entirely disagreeable to you anymore, is it—Oren?”

Even when addressed like this by Makino, Oren would typically respond with nothing more than a faint smile while attending to tasks like warming the sake.

Makino, who held a government post, seldom stayed overnight.
When he saw the clock hands by the pillow nearing twelve, he would immediately begin working his thick arms into his knit undershirt.
Oren remained in her slovenly raised-knee posture, perpetually gazing vacantly with languid sidelong glances at Makino’s seemingly hurried departure preparations.

“Hey—hand me my haori.”

Makino’s greasy face illuminated by the midnight lamplight would sometimes emit this impatient utterance.

When Oren saw him off, she couldn't help but feel mentally exhausted, even though it happened nearly every night. At the same time, she found herself feeling somewhat sorrowful at being left alone again.

Whether rain fell or wind blew, the thickets and woods across the river were apt to produce a lonesome sound.
Oren buried her cold cheek into the sake-smelling collar of her nightgown and listened intently to that sound.
As she did so, her eyes would sometimes fill with tears.
Yet the usual oppressive sleep—a sleep itself like a nightmare—would soon descend thickly and heavily upon her.

II

“What happened? That scar…”

One quiet rainy night, as Oren poured drinks for Makino, she turned her eyes to his right cheek. There, within the blue shaven area, a large earthworm-like swelling had formed.

“This?”
“This here was scratched by the bitch.”

Makino’s complexion and voice were so composed one might have thought it a joke.

“Oh, what a horrible Madam you have. Why did she do such a thing again?”

“What can you do? She went and sprouted her usual horns. If even I’ve gotten this much, just imagine what’d happen if you met her. She’d bite your throat out in an instant. To put it simply—a Manchurian dog.”

Oren giggled.

"This isn't a laughing matter.
If it gets out you're here, she'll come barging in tomorrow without fail."

In Makino’s words there was unexpectedly mixed what seemed an earnest tone.

“Then we’ll deal with that when it happens.”

“Well now—you’ve got quite some nerve.”

“It’s not that I have nerve. The people of my country—”

Oren looked thoughtful as she lowered her eyes to the charcoal fire in the long brazier.

“The people of my country are all quite resigned.”

“So you’re saying you won’t ‘burn’?”

A seemingly cunning expression floated in Makino’s eyes for a brief moment.

“The people of my country all burn. Especially someone like me—”

At that moment, the old woman came bringing the custom-ordered grilled eel from the kitchen.

That night, Makino ended up staying over at the mistress’s house after a long time.

The rain, after they had gone to bed, began turning into the sound of sleet.
Oren found herself unable to sleep no matter how long she lay there after Makino had fallen asleep.
In the depths of her clear eyes appeared various forms of Makino’s wife—whom she had never seen.
Yet she felt neither sympathy, nor hatred, nor jealousy.
All that accompanied these imaginings was but a faint curiosity.
What kind of marital fights do they have?—Oren listened to the thickets and woods outside rustling in the sleet while earnestly pondering such things.

Even so, when she heard the clock strike two, sleepiness finally began to stir.
—Before she knew it, Oren found herself aboard a dimly lit ship’s cabin with a crowd of passengers.
When she looked out from the round window, beyond the overlapping black waves was a sphere emitting a strange red light—whether it was the moon or the sun, she couldn’t tell.
For some reason, all the passengers remained seated in the shadows, not a single one opening their mouths.
Oren gradually began to feel that this silence was terrifying.
Gradually, she became aware of someone approaching from behind.
She involuntarily turned around.
Then behind her stood the man she had parted from, wearing a sorrowful smile as he stared down at her.………

“Mr. Kin.”

Oren was roused from her dawn sleep by her own voice. Makino still lay beside her, his breathing quiet, but whether he—his back turned to her—had truly fallen asleep was something Oren could not discern.

Three

The fact that Oren had been involved with a man was something Makino too seemed to have noticed.
Yet he showed no sign of concern over such matters.
Moreover, since in reality the man had abruptly distanced himself just as Makino grew infatuated with her, his lack of jealousy was only natural—if one could call it that.

But in Oren’s mind, thoughts of the man lingered always.
It was less longing than a crueler emotion.
Why had he suddenly ceased visiting her?—This reason she could not grasp.
Of course, Oren had tried time and again to attribute it all to men’s fickle hearts.
Yet when she considered the circumstances surrounding his disappearance, she found herself unable to accept this explanation fully.
Even had some unavoidable circumstance arisen on his part—for two so intimately acquainted to part without her knowing defied belief.
Had some unforeseen calamity befallen him?—This imagining terrified yet tempted her.
………

Two or three days after dreaming of the man, on her way back from the public bathhouse, Oren suddenly caught sight of a banner reading "Life Consultations by Diviner Gen Shou" displayed at a house with lattice doors.
The banner showed red holed coins instead of painted divining rods—an unusual design.
But as Oren passed by, she abruptly decided to have this Diviner Gen Shou tell her how the man had been doing recently.

She was shown to a sunlit tatami room. Moreover, whether due to the master’s refined taste, the presence of Chinese bookshelves, orchid pots, and Sencha tea master-style decorations also contributed to creating a comfortable atmosphere.

Diviner Gen Shou was a well-built old man with a shaved head. However, his gold teeth and the way he kept puffing on cigarettes gave him a vulgar air entirely unbefitting a diviner. Oren, before this old man, said that she had a relative who had gone missing last year and that she wished to have their whereabouts divined.

Then the old man promptly brought out a small rosewood table from the corner of the tatami room and placed it between them. Then he reverently arranged a celadon incense burner and a brocade pouch on the table.

“How old is your relative?”

Oren answered the man’s age.

“Hmm, still young. The young are always prone to errors."
“Once one becomes an old man like myself—”

Diviner Gen Shou glared sharply at Oren, then let out two or three low chuckles.

“Do you know his year of birth?
No, never mind. It’s the Hare’s First White.”

The old man took out three holed coins from the brocade pouch.
Each coin was wrapped in pale red silk.

“My divination is called coin divination.
Coin divination was first practiced by Jing Fang of Han in antiquity as a substitute for milfoil divination, as records show.
As you may know, milfoil divination requires three transformations per line and eighteen transformations per hexagram, making it difficult to readily discern auspicious or inauspicious signs.
That is where coin divination’s advantage lies…”

While he spoke, smoke from the incense the diviner had lit began to rise into the bright tatami room.

Four

Diviner Gen Shou unwrapped the pale red silk and fumigated each holed coin in the incense burner’s smoke one by one. Then he respectfully bowed his round head before the scroll hanging in the alcove.
The scroll appeared to have been painted by the Kano school—a depiction of the Four Great Sages: Fuxi, King Wen, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius.

“O August Supreme Deity, divine spirits of the cosmos—hearing this sacred incense, deign to descend. As our hesitation remains unresolved, we humbly inquire of the divine spirits—”
“We beseech that Your August Compassion deign to descend and swiftly reveal the auspices of fortune and calamity.”

When these ritual incantations concluded, Diviner Gen Shou scattered three holed coins with a clatter onto the small rosewood table.
One coin landed characters-side up, while the remaining two showed waves.
Diviner Gen Shou immediately took up a brush and transcribed the sequence onto the scroll.

He would throw the coins and determine their yin and yang—and this repeated exactly six times.
Oren gazed with anxious eyes at the sequence of holed coins.

"Well then—"

When the coin throwing ended, the old man gazed at the scroll and simply thought for a while.

"This is the Thunder Water Solution hexagram. It signifies that nothing will go as one wishes—"

Oren timidly shifted her gaze from the three coins to the old man’s face.

"First off, it seems you’ll never meet that young relative of yours again."

Diviner Gen Shou began wrapping the holed coins one by one in pale red silk as he said this.

“Then he isn’t alive anymore?”

Oren felt her voice trembling.
The feelings of "So it's true" and "That can't be" escaped her lips together involuntarily.

"Whether he lives or dies is rather difficult to determine—but in any case, you must resign yourself to never meeting him."

"Is there truly no way I can meet him?"

Pressed by Oren, Diviner Gen Shou closed the brocade pouch's mouth, a sardonic expression flickering across his greasy cheeks.

“There is also what we call the vicissitudes of time,”
“Should Tokyo ever turn into forests or groves, you might yet meet him.”
“In any case—the hexagram shows it clearly. The hexagram shows it plain.”

Oren left feeling more desolate than when she had arrived. After paying the exorbitant fee, she hastened back home.

That evening, she sat absently before the long charcoal brazier, cheek propped on her hand, listening to the iron kettle’s simmering hum.
Diviner Gen Shou’s divination had ultimately been no different from providing no interpretation at all.
No—rather, it had actively shattered the hope she had secretly harbored—that fragile yet undeniable hope, that heart clinging to the slimmest possibility—just as surely as it had offered no answers.
Was the man truly not alive, as the diviner had implied?
Come to think of it, the town where she had lived had also been engulfed in turmoil at that time.
The man might have met with some mishap on his way to Oren’s house—the house he still frequented.
Or else he had simply stopped coming altogether, as if he had forgotten—and Oren, feeling the charcoal fire’s heat against her powdered cheek, suddenly found herself idly toying with the fire tongs.

“Kin, Kin, Kin—”

On the ash, such characters were written and erased countless times.

Five

“Kin, Kin, Kin,”

As Oren continued writing, the elderly maid in the kitchen suddenly let out a faint cry.
In this house, even if you called it a kitchen, all it took was opening a single sliding paper door to find yourself in the wooden-floored room.

“What?”
“Old woman.”

“Oh Madam.”
“Do come and see.”
“When I thought it was really something—”

Oren went out to the kitchen to see.

In the wooden-floored room where the stove took up space, lamplight filtering through paper doors created a quiet dimness. In that quiet dimness, the old woman, bending at the waist in her hanten, was just now lifting something—a white beast.

“A cat?”

“No, it is a dog.”

Oren, both sleeves pressed to her chest, stared intently at the dog.
The dog, held in the old woman’s arms, moved its dewy eyes about and kept sniffling frequently.

“This is the dog that was crying at Gomitame earlier this morning.—How ever did it get in here?”

“Did you not know anything about it?”

“No—though I’ve been here washing the bowls all this time—I suppose poor human eyesight is an unavoidable thing.”

The old woman opened the lattice door by the drain and tried to toss the puppy out into the dark.

“Wait—let me hold it too for a moment—”

“Please don’t do that.
You mustn’t let your fine clothes get soiled.”

Oren ignored the old woman’s attempts to stop her and grabbed the dog with both hands.
The dog trembled violently in her grasp.
For an instant, this carried her heart back to the world of the past.
When Oren had lived in that bustling house, she had kept a white puppy that slept with her on nights when no customers came.

“How pitiful—should I take care of it?”

The old woman gave a strange blink.

“Hey, old woman.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
“I won’t cause you any trouble—”

Oren set the dog down on the wooden floor, then—with an innocent smile—reached for the kitchen cupboard; perhaps already intent on finding it a morsel to eat.

From the next day onward, a dog adorned with a red collar appeared on the tatami mats of the mistress’s house.

The fastidious old woman naturally disapproved of this change.
There were days when she would seethe with anger all day long—especially when the dog went down to the garden and tracked mud back inside.
But Oren, having no other occupation, pampered the dog like a child.
At mealtimes, the dog invariably stationed itself beside her tray.
Night after night, without fail, she would find it curled up asleep at the hem of her nightgown.

“From that time on, I thought it was terrible. After all, there were times when that white dog would stare intently at Madam’s sleeping face in the dim lamplight—”

About a year later, the old woman was said to have related such matters to my friend Dr. K.

Six

The ones troubled by this puppy were not limited to the elderly maid alone.
When Makino saw the dog lying sprawled on the tatami mats, he furrowed his thick brows in displeasure.

“What the hell are you? Damn it.
Get lost.”

Makino, wearing the uniform of an army paymaster, spitefully kicked the dog.
The dog, as he passed through to the sitting room, began barking furiously while bristling the white fur on its back.

“I’m appalled by your dog obsession.”

Even after settling at his evening drinking tray, Makino kept glaring resentfully at the dog with unblinking intensity.

“Didn’t you have one this size before?”

“Yes, that was also a white dog.”

“Come to think of it, when you insisted on clinging to that mutt like your shadow, I had hell’s own time prying you apart.”

Oren stroked the puppy on her lap while letting slip a smile of resignation.
She knew full well what a nuisance it’d be dragging a dog through endless steamship voyages and train journeys.
But now that she’d parted with him too—leaving this white creature behind to venture into some foreign nowhere—the loneliness clawed at her throat no matter how she reasoned.
So on that final night before departure, she’d lift the dog again and again, pressing her cheek to its nose as she gulped down sob after endless sob………

“That dog was quite clever, but this one seems rather stupid.
First off, its face—no, not a human face.
As for its canine features—those features are utterly ordinary.”

Makino, now thoroughly drunk as if having forgotten his initial displeasure, threw some sashimi to the dog.

“Oh, doesn’t it look just like that dog?”
“The only difference is the color of its nose.”

“What? The color of its nose is different?”
“Even the strange parts are different after all.”

“This dog has a black nose, you see.
That dog’s nose was reddish.”

While pouring drinks for Makino, Oren felt as if the nose of the dog she had kept before was clearly visible before her eyes.
It was a muzzle constantly wet with drool, speckled with brownish patches like the breast of a nursing mother.

"Hmm, come to think of it," he said, "a reddish nose might be a mark of beauty in dogs."

"That dog was handsome."
"This one has a black nose - an ugly boy, isn't he?"

"Males, huh? Both of them."
"I thought I was the only man coming to this house - this ain't proper."

Makino poked Oren’s hand as he burst into laughter in high spirits—his alone.

Yet Makino could not maintain that cheer forever.
When they went to bed, the dog—on the other side of a single aged sliding door—repeatedly let out mournful cries.
Not only that, but it finally began frantically clawing at the door with its front paws.
In the lamplight’s late-night glow, wearing a strange twisted smile, Makino at last spoke to Oren.

“Hey—open that up for it.”

Yet when she opened the sliding door, the dog entered surprisingly slowly to their pillowside. Then, like a white shadow, it settled its belly there and began staring intently at them. Oren couldn’t help but feel there was something human about its gaze.

Seven

Then, two or three days later one evening, Oren went out to a nearby vaudeville theater with Makino, who had slipped away from the main residence.

The theater was packed to suffocation with magic tricks, sword dances, magic lantern shows, and sacred music performances—nothing but such diversions on offer. After being kept waiting for some time, they finally managed to squeeze into cramped seats far from the stage. When they settled there, the surrounding patrons turned coordinated curious stares toward Oren’s figure with its traditional marumage hairstyle. To her, this attention felt both flauntingly conspicuous and inexplicably lonely all at once.

On the stage, under the bright hanging lamp, a man with a white headband was swinging a long unsheathed blade. And from the dressing room resounded a sonorous voice singing a poem—something about “trampling through a thousand mountains and ten thousand peaks, the smoke.” For Oren, the sword dance was of course tedious, and even the poetry recital was nothing but dull. But Makino, while lighting a cigarette, watched it with apparent interest.

After the sword dance came the magic lantern show.
On the curtain lowered over the stage, scenes from the Sino-Japanese War flickered into view and vanished one after another.
There was also the scene of the Dingyuan sinking while sending up a great column of water.
There was also a scene where Captain Higuchi, holding an enemy infant, commanded the charge.
Whenever the Japanese flag made an appearance in those images, the crowd invariably erupted into enthusiastic cheers.
Among them were even those who let out shrill cries of "Long live the Empire!"
However, Makino, who had faced real combat, simply smirked aloofly at that crowd.

“If war’s all like that, it’d be easy—but”

While looking at the painting of the fierce battle at Niuzhuang, he spoke to Oren in a voice loud enough for those nearby to hear.
But she, as ever, kept her eyes fixed intently on the curtain and merely gave a faint nod.
Of course, any image must have held interest for her—given how novel magic lantern shows were.
Yet the other scenes on the screen—the snow-covered roofs of castle towers, a donkey tied to a withered willow, Chinese soldiers with queues hanging down—held particular power to stir her.

The vaudeville ended at ten.

The two of them walked through the deserted town, side by side, along a street lined only with dilapidated houses.
Above the town, a half-moon streamed cold light onto the frost-covered roofs of the houses.
Makino would occasionally blow smoke from his rolled cigarette into that light, perhaps still thinking of the earlier sword dance,

“The crack of whips solemnly crosses the night river.”
and softly hummed lines from old-fashioned poems.

However, when they turned a corner into a side street, suddenly Oren, as if startled, tugged at Makino’s coat sleeve.

“You startled me!”
“What?”

Without stopping, he turned to look back at Oren.

“It seems like someone’s calling.”

Oren clung to him with a creepy look in her eyes.

“Calling?”

Makino involuntarily stopped in his tracks and strained his ears to listen.
But in the lonely street, not even the sound of a dog barking could be heard.

“It’s just your imagination. What could possibly be calling out?”
“Is it just my imagination?”
“Couldn’t it be from watching that magic lantern show?”

Eight

It was the morning after the vaudeville.
Oren went to the engawa to wash her face, a twig toothbrush clenched between her teeth.
On the engawa, as usual, a copper washbasin filled with hot water had been placed before the brazier.

The winter-withered garden was desolate.
The view extending beyond the garden, along with the river water reflecting the cloudy sky, was utterly desolate.
But when that scenery entered her eyes, Oren, while rinsing her mouth, recalled the dream from the previous night that she had completely forgotten until now.

That was a dream in which she wandered alone through a dark place—whether thicket or grove.
She followed a narrow path while thinking: Finally my psychic power has reached its target.
Tokyo had already transformed into an uninhabited forest as far as the eye could see.
Surely before long I'll be able to meet Mr. Kin—she kept thinking such things.
Then after walking for some time, the sounds of cannons and rifles began to be heard from somewhere unknown.
At the same time the sky between the trees began taking on a reddish murkiness, as if reflecting fire.
It's war.
It's war—thinking this, she desperately tried to run.
But no matter how hard she strained herself, for some reason she couldn't run at all........

After washing her face, Oren removed her undergarments to use the wash water.
At that moment, something cold plastered itself against her back.

“Shh!”

She showed no particular surprise and cast her lustrous eyes back. There, a small dog wagged its tail while incessantly licking its black nose.

Nine

A few days later, Makino came to the mistress’s house earlier than usual accompanied by a man named Tamiya.
Tamiya—who worked as a clerk at a famous purveyor’s shop—was also the person who had assisted in various ways when Oren became Makino’s mistress.

“Isn’t it strange? When she has her hair done up in a traditional married woman’s hairstyle like this, she simply doesn’t resemble the Ms. Oren of old.”

Tamiya, his faintly pockmarked face flushed in the bright lamplight, offered a cup to Makino, who sat across from him.

“Hey, Mr. Makino. If she’d kept her hair in a Shimada updo or a red wig like before, she wouldn’t look so different now—but then again, that was all in the past—”

“Hey, hey—the old woman here may have poor eyesight, but her ears aren’t deaf.”

Even as he gave that warning, Makino was grinning happily.

“Don’t worry. How could anyone tell what they heard?—Hey, Ms. Oren. When I think about those days, doesn’t it all seem like a dream?”

Oren kept her eyes averted as she teased the small dog on her lap.

“I only took on the job because Mr. Makino asked me to, but I was really worried—if we’d been found out before safely reaching Kobe, it would’ve been a disaster.”

“Hmph, if it’s such risky business, you’d be used to crossing it by now—”

“Don’t joke about such things. Human smuggling—I’ve only done it once.”

Tamiya downed a cup in one gulp while feigning an exaggerated pained expression.

“But the fact that Oren is where she is today is actually thanks to you.”

Makino extended his thick arm and thrust the sake cup toward Tamiya.

"I'm obliged by your words, but truthfully, I was hard-pressed back then. What's more, when our ship reached the Genkai Sea, we got caught in a fearsome storm.—Don't you think so, Ms. Oren?"

"Yes, I truly believed the ship and all would sink."

While pouring drinks for Tamiya, Oren finally attuned herself to the conversation's flow.
Yet if that ship had sunk, it might have proved more advantageous than now—such a thought briefly crossed her mind.

“Well, since we’re both managing like this, we’re fortunate enough.”
“But say, Mr. Makino.”
“Once Ms. Oren starts suiting a marumage hairstyle, don’t you feel like making her return to her old ways?”

“Even if I’d wanted to make her go back, there’s nothing to be done now.”

“Well no—but speaking of not bringing things over, didn’t she bring even one of her old kimonos here?”

“Not just kimonos—she brought every comb and hairpin too. No matter how much I told her to leave them behind—”

Makino cast a fleeting glance across the long charcoal brazier at Oren’s face.
Oren, as if not hearing those words, was concerned about the iron kettle having cooled.

“That makes it even more convenient—what do you say, Ms. Oren? Why don’t you change into one of your old outfits one of these days and pour us drinks?”

“And in passing, you might recall an old acquaintance or two.”

“Well, if that old acquaintance of yours is as lovely as Ms. Oren here, then I suppose they’d be worth remembering—”

Tamiya, a teasing smile on his faintly pockmarked face, was gripping grated yam with his chopsticks.……

That evening after Tamiya had left, Makino told Oren—who knew nothing of his plans—that he intended to become a merchant as soon as he resigned from the army. If only his resignation were approved, a certain famous purveyor—the very one Tamiya was currently employed by—would immediately hire him at a high salary. At least, that was the story.

“If that’s the case, then we won’t need to stay here—why don’t we move to a more spacious house somewhere?”

Makino, as if thoroughly exhausted, lay sprawled before the charcoal brazier, smoking the Manila cigars Tamiya had brought as a gift.

“This house is more than enough.
“It’s just the old woman and me here, you see.”

Oren was busy doling out leftovers to the spiteful dog.

“If that happens, I’ll be there too.”

“But you have your wife, don’t you?”

“The hag?”
“I’ll be parting ways with the hag soon enough.”

From Makino’s tone and expression, this unexpected news could not be entirely dismissed as a joke.

“Please don’t do anything too wicked.”

“What do I care? I’ll break free from myself and return.”
“It’s not just my fault.”

Makino, with a fierce look in his eyes, puffed vigorously on his cigar.
Oren wore a lonely expression and, for a time, offered no reply whatsoever.

Ten

“That white dog fell ill—oh yes, it was the very next day after Mr. Tamiya came to visit.”

The elderly maid employed by Oren recounted the circumstances of that time to a doctor named K, a friend of mine.

"It was probably food poisoning or something like that.
At first it would just lie listlessly in front of the long charcoal brazier every day, but before long started occasionally soiling the tatami mats.
Since Madam doted on the dog like a child, she went out of her way to fetch milk for it, place Hōtan pills in its mouth, and care for it with great devotion.
There was nothing strange about that.
There's nothing strange about it, but isn't it unpleasant?
As the dog's illness worsened, Madam conversing with it gradually ceased to be an unusual sight."

“When I say she spoke to it, what I mean is Madam would hold these long, one-sided conversations with the dog. But if you’d heard her voice late at night—”
“Somehow it felt like the dog was speaking back like a human too, and I couldn’t help but feel uneasy about it.”
“Even without that, there was this one time—on a day when the wind was howling something fierce—when I went out on an errand and came back—that errand being to take the dog to a fortune-teller about its illness—when I returned to the parlor with its rattling shoji screens, I could hear Madam’s voice.”
“Thinking maybe even Master had come calling, I peeked through a gap in the screens—but there was only Madam sitting there alone.”
“And what’s more, with wind-tossed clouds racing past the sun, Madam’s figure—there she sat with the dog on her lap—kept flickering between light and shadow, didn’t it?”
“I’ve never come across anything so eerie again in all my born days—not once since.”

“So when the dog died—well, that was certainly unfortunate for Madam—but I privately felt relieved.”
“Of course, it wasn’t only me—the one who had to clean up every time the dog made a mess—who was gladdened by that.”
“When Master heard about it, he appeared with a smirk, as though he’d shaken off some nuisance.”
“The dog?”
“The dog—Madam was still asleep, and I hadn’t yet risen either—had collapsed before the mirror stand, vomiting something blue, and died.”
“It had been nearly half a month since it had started lying listlessly in front of the long charcoal brazier, doing nothing but sleep, I suppose.…”

On the day Yagenbori’s market was held, Oren discovered the breathless dog before her large mirror stand.
The dog lay its cold body in a stream of blue vomit, just as the old woman had described.
This was something she had long since resigned herself to.
From her previous dog she had parted in life; with this one she had parted in death.
After all, being unable to keep dogs might have been the karmic fate she was born with.
Such things had merely cast a stillness of despair upon her heart.

Oren sat there motionless, staring blankly at the dog’s corpse. Then she lifted her languid eyes to gaze at the cold surface of the mirror. In the mirror lay the dog that had collapsed on the tatami, reflected alongside her. When she fixed her eyes on the dog’s reflection, Oren suddenly covered her face with both hands as if struck by vertigo. A faint cry escaped her lips.

In the mirror, the tip of the corpse’s nose—which should have been black—had turned a reddish-brown color.

Eleven

The New Year at the mistress’s house was lonely.
Even though bamboo had been erected at the gate and auspicious pine decorations arranged in the parlor, Oren sat alone before the long charcoal brazier, her cheek listlessly propped in hand, fixing her languid gaze only on the fading daylight through the shoji screens.

Since the dog’s death at dusk, her already gloomy heart had become prone to sudden bouts of melancholy.
She found herself tormented not only by thoughts of the dog, but also by the man whose whereabouts remained unknown and even by the circumstances of Makino’s wife—a woman whose face she had never seen.
At the same time, around that period, she began to be troubled by occasional strange hallucinations.—

One time, when she had gone to bed and was finally about to fall asleep, something seemed to press down suddenly, and the hem of her night robe grew steadily heavier.
When the small dog was still alive, it would come onto her futon and often lie down.—Just like that, a soft weight settled upon her.
Oren immediately lifted her head slightly from the pillow to look.
But there was nothing there except the lattice pattern of the kakimaki quilted jacket cast in the lamplight………

Another time, when Oren was fixing her hair before the mirror stand, something white darted past behind her reflection in the mirror. Even so, she paid no attention and continued brushing up her glossy sidelocks. Then, the white object passed by once more, this time in the opposite direction from before, in an instant. Oren, still holding the comb, finally turned to look behind her. However, within the bright tatami room, there was no sign of any living presence. Was it really just my eyes playing tricks?—With that thought, she turned back to the mirror—and moments later, the white thing passed behind her a third time.…

Another time, when Oren sat alone before the long charcoal brazier, she heard a voice calling her name from the distant street outside. It was heard just once, mingled with the rustling of bamboo leaves at the gate. But that voice was unmistakably the man's—the one who had occupied her thoughts ever since coming to Tokyo. Oren held her breath and strained her ears intently. Then from the street came again the voice of that longed-for man—closer now than before—only to transform into the bark of a dog carried away by the wind.……

Another time, when she awoke abruptly, there lay a man who should not have been there sleeping in her bed. A receding hairline, long eyelashes—every detail remained precisely as she remembered under the midnight lamplight. Though she inspected even the mole at his left eyelid’s corner—still it was undeniably a man. More thrilled than bewildered, Oren clung to his neck as though her body might dissolve into air. Yet when the roused man muttered irritably, his voice proved unexpectedly to be Makino’s. Not only that—in that very instant—she discovered herself gripping Makino’s liquor-reeking neck with both hands.

However, aside from such hallucinations, events that disturbed Oren's mind also began occurring in the real world. Namely, before the pine decorations were taken down, Makino's wife—whom she had heard of only through rumors—suddenly came to visit.

Twelve

Makino’s wife’s visit came at an inopportune time—the usual elderly maid had gone out on an errand.
Startled by a voice requesting entry, Oren had no choice but to rouse her listless body and make her way to the dim entrance.
There stood the north-facing lattice door, visible through the eaves’ ornaments—and there, a woman with an extremely pale complexion and glasses wore a not-very-new shoulder wrap while standing with her head slightly bowed.

“May I ask who you are?”

Oren asked this while intuitively knowing the visitor’s true identity.
And she stared fixedly at the woman’s somewhat indistinct face—framed by a traditional married woman’s hairstyle coming undone at the roots and a fine-patterned haori with sleeves properly aligned.
“I—”

After hesitating briefly, she continued speaking with her head still slightly bowed.

“I am Makino’s wife.”
“My name is Taki.”

This time, Oren faltered.

“Is that so?
I—”

“No, I am already well aware of that.
I hear you have been looking after Makino all this time. I too wish to express my gratitude.”

The woman’s words were calm.
Not a trace of sarcasm colored her tone—strangely enough.
This only made Oren more acutely aware of her inability to find suitable words—indeed, she struggled terribly with how to respond.

“Therefore, on this occasion of my New Year’s visit, I have come humbly bearing a small request—"

“What might it be? If there’s anything I could do—”

Still on her guard, Oren felt she could almost grasp what this "request" entailed. At the same time, if it were broached, she felt she would have many responses to make. However, when she heard the words that the downcast-eyed Makino’s wife began to speak calmly, it became clear that her expectations had been fundamentally mistaken.

“No, though I called it a request, it’s nothing of great importance—the truth is, they say all of Tokyo will soon become a forest, so when that time comes, I humbly ask that you take me in as well, just as you do Makino.”
“That is all I humbly ask.”

The woman slowly spoke these words.
Her demeanor suggested she remained utterly oblivious to how unhinged her own words sounded.
Oren stood transfixed, left with no choice but to gaze at this gloomy figure silhouetted against the outdoor light.

“What do you think?”
“Might I trouble you to take me in?”

Oren’s tongue lay leaden in her mouth, rendering her incapable of reply.
When at length the woman raised her face—narrow eyes glinting cold behind spectacles as she fixed Oren with their stare—everything coalesced into an oppressive nightmare that chilled Oren to her core.

“As for myself, I am prepared for whatever may become of me, but should I ever find myself lost on the streets, my two children would be pitiable. No matter how troublesome it may be, please take me in at your residence.”

When Makino’s wife said this, hiding her face in a faded shawl, she suddenly began to sob. Then, for some reason, Oren—who had remained silent—suddenly felt a surge of sadness. The time has finally come when I can meet Mr. Kin too—I’m so happy. Happy—even as she thought this, she found herself still shedding tears onto the lap of her spring kimono.

However, after some minutes passed, when Oren suddenly noticed and looked around, no one could be seen in the dimly lit north-facing entrance—the visitor had already departed at some unknown time.

Thirteen

On the Night of the Seven Herbs, when Makino came to the mistress’s house, Oren promptly told him about his wife’s visit and its circumstances.
Yet Makino remained unexpectedly composed, lending her his ear while doing nothing but smoke Manila cigars.

“Your wife has gone mad.”

Eventually growing agitated, Oren continued stubbornly, her brow furrowed with irritation.

“If you don’t do something about her now, it’ll become irreparable.”

“Well, if it happens, we’ll deal with it then.”

Makino watched her through the haze of cigar smoke, his eyes narrowed.

“Rather than worrying about that woman, you should take care of yourself.”
“Lately, whenever I come by, you’re always moping around, aren’t you?”

“I don’t care what becomes of me, but—”

“That’s no good.”

Oren’s face clouded, and she remained silent for some time.
But suddenly raising her tear-filled eyes,

“I beg you—by all that’s holy—don’t cast Madam aside.”

Makino seemed stunned into silence, offering no reply.

“I beg you, please, you—”

Oren buried her chin into the black silk crepe collar as if to hide her tears.

“Madam considers you the most important person in the world. If I don’t make sure you consider that, it would be too heartless of a thing. In my country too, women are—”

“Enough. Enough. I’ve heard enough of what you have to say, so you’d do well not to fret over such things.”

Makino, who had even forgotten to smoke his cigar, said as if deceiving a child.

“It’s because this house is gloomy—oh right, the other day your dog died too.”
“That’s why you get so gloomy.”
“Once we find a better place, why don’t we move right away?”
“Then we’ll live cheerfully—well, once just ten more days pass I’ll quit being an official—”

Oren did not alter her somber countenance throughout nearly the entire night, no matter how much Makino tried to console her.……

“Regarding Madam, even Master was deeply concerned, but—”

When Dr. K pressed her with various questions, the elderly maid had apparently described the situation at that time in this way.

“After all, the seeds of her present illness were already taking root back then, so I suppose Master and everyone else had no choice but to resign themselves.”
“Indeed, even when Madam Taki from the main house suddenly came to Yokoami—when I returned from an errand—there was Madam Oren sitting blankly at the entrance... All while glaring through those spectacles, Madam Taki wouldn’t even step inside, ending up spewing every last bit of crude sarcasm she could muster before leaving.”

“When Master curses like that, it doesn’t sit well with me either—listening from the shadows.”
“But if I were to step in, it would only complicate matters further. You see, since I was employed at the main house four or five years ago—if the Madam there were to spot me now—it might provoke Master’s anger all the more.”
“Since such a situation would be disastrous, I never once showed my face from behind the entrance’s sliding door until after Madam from the main house had finished hurling every bit of abuse and finally left.”

“However,” she continued, “when Madam here saw my face—‘Old woman, Madam has just arrived,’ she said. ‘Even when she comes to my place, she doesn’t utter a single spiteful word—so she must be a truly good person, don’t you think?’ Then she’d laugh and say, ‘They say all of Tokyo will soon become a forest. Poor thing—that person’s mind has gone a bit strange,’ she even said such things.…”

Fourteen

However, Oren’s melancholy showed no signs of lifting even after she moved into a spacious two-story house in Matsui-cho, Honjo, shortly after February began.
She did not speak even with the old woman, mostly spending her days alone in the tearoom, listening to the iron kettle boil.

Then, not even a week after moving there, one night, Tamiya—already having drunk somewhere—casually dropped by the mistress’s house.
Just as Makino had begun his first drink, upon seeing this drinking companion’s face, he promptly offered a sake cup that was at hand.
Before receiving that sake cup, Tamiya took out a red can from his breast pocket—revealing his undershirt as he did so.
And so, while receiving a drink poured by Oren,

“This is a little gift.
“Madam Oren.”
“This is a gift for you,” he said.

“What’s this?”

While Oren was expressing her thanks, Makino took up the can to examine it.

“Look at the label.”
“It’s a fur seal.”
“Canned fur seal—since you say gloominess is an illness, I’m presenting this one to you.”
“Effective for prenatal care, postnatal care, all gynecological disorders.”
“—This is the spiel I heard from my friend. That guy’s the one who started canning these.”

Tamiya licked his lips and looked back and forth between the two of them.

“Can you even eat something like fur seal?”

Even when told this by Makino, Oren only managed to force a slight smile at the corner of her mouth.
But Tamiya, waving his hand, promptly took on that response.

“It’s fine—absolutely fine.
“Hey, Ms. Oren.
“With these fur seals—where there’s one male, a hundred females cling to him.
“Well, in human terms, that’s what you’d call Mr. Makino.
“Now that you mention it, its face does resemble him.
“That’s why.
“So just think of it as Mr. Makino—think of it as dear Mr. Makino and have at it.”

“What are you saying?”

Makino forced a strained smile.

“Where there’s one male—hey, Mr. Makino, doesn’t it look just like you?”

Tamiya, his faintly pockmarked face wearing a full smile, continued talking without regard for decorum.

“Today I asked my friend—this canned goods dealer—that when male fur seals fight over females—but enough about fur seals—tonight I’d like Ms. Oren to show us her former self.”
“How about it?”
“Ms. Oren.”
“Right now I’m calling you Ms. Oren, but Ms. Oren is just an assumed name to hide your true identity in this world.”
“Here, let’s go all out in the Otowaya style.”
“Ms. Oren is—”

“Hey, hey—what happens when they fight over females?”
“I’d like to hear about that part first.”

Makino, who had made a troubled face, finally managed to shift the dangerous topic back to the matter of fur seals once more.
However, the result did not seem to be as convenient as he had hoped.

“Fight over females, you say?”
“When they fight over females, they have a huge brawl, I hear.”
“But in return—in return, they do it fair and square.”
“They won’t stand for underhanded tricks like yours.”
“Oh no—that was rude of me.”
“Taboo, taboo! That’s Kin Kanban no Jinkurō, was it?”
―Ms. Oren.
“Let me offer you one.”

When Tamiya was briefly glared at by Makino—whose expression had darkened—he offered the sake cup to Oren to hide his embarrassment.
However, Oren continued to stare at him eerily and did not even reach out her hand.

15

It was past three o’clock that night when Oren slipped out of bed.
Leaving the second-floor bedroom behind, she quietly descended the dark ladder and groped her way to the vanity.
And from that drawer, she took out a razor box.

“Makino, you fiend.”
“Makino, you brute.”

Oren muttered these words as she quietly pulled the object from the box.
In that motion, the razor’s edge—the edge of polished steel—lightly struck her nose.

At some point, a savage ferocity had begun to stir within her heart.
That was the wildness she had left unchecked—born from her struggles with a cruel stepmother—until the day she sold herself.
Just as white powder concealed her bare skin, these past few years of life had suppressed that wildness…

Makino, you fiend.
You demon.
I won’t let you see the light of day again—

Oren covered a single razor in the sleeve of the gaudy underrobe and stood before the vanity.

Then suddenly, a faint voice entered her ear from somewhere.

“Please stop.”
“Please stop.”

She involuntarily held her breath.
But what she had thought was a voice was likely the sound of the clock’s pendulum marking the seconds in the darkness.

“Please stop.”
“Please stop.”
“Please stop.”

However, when she began climbing the ladder, the voice caught Oren once more.
She stopped there and peered into the darkness of the tea room.

“Who’s there?”

“I.”
“It’s me.”
“Me.”

The voice had been on good terms with her—it was undoubtedly one of her former companions.

“Ms. Ichiyo? Is that you?”

“Ah, me.”

“It’s been so long.
Where are you now?”

Oren was sitting before the long charcoal brazier just as she did during the day.

“Please stop.”
“You must stop.”

The voice did not answer her question, merely repeating the same thing over and over.

“Why’re even you trying to stop me now? What’s wrong with killing him?”

“Please stop.”
“He’s alive.”
“He’s alive.”

“Alive?
Who?”

There was a long silence there.
Even within that silence, the clock’s pendulum continued its ceaseless ticking.

“Who’s alive?”

After a period of silence, when Oren pressed her question like this, the voice at last whispered a nostalgic name into her ear.

“Kin—Mr. Kin.”
“Mr. Kin.”

“Is that true?”
“If it’s true, I’d be happy—”

Oren leaned on her cheek, her eyes taking on a pensive look.

“But if Mr. Kin is alive, wouldn’t he come to see me?”

“He’ll come.”
“He’ll come, I tell you.”

“He’ll come?”
“When?”

“Tomorrow.”
“He’ll come to meet you at Mirokuji, I tell you.”
“To Mirokuji.”
“Tomorrow night.”

“Mirokuji… you mean Mirokuji Bridge, right?”

“To Mirokuji Bridge now.”
“Night comes.”
“He’ll come, I tell you.”

After that, the voice was heard no more.

But Oren, wearing only a single underrobe, remained sitting motionless for a long time as if unaware of the pre-dawn cold.

Sixteen

Oren did not leave her second-floor bedroom until past noon the following day.
But when she finally rose around four o'clock, she applied her makeup with unusual care.
Then, as though dressing for the theater, she began putting on her very best underrobes and outer garments.

“Hey, hey, why’re you getting all dolled up like that again?”

Makino, who had spent the day idling at the mistress’s house instead of going to his shop, spread open a copy of *Fūzoku Gahō* and addressed her suspiciously.

“I have somewhere to go—”

Oren was coldly fastening her speckled obi cord before the mirror stand.

“Where to?”

“If I get to Mirokuji Bridge, that’s all I need.”

“Mirokuji Bridge?”

Rather than growing suspicious, Makino was beginning to feel uneasy.
It stirred in Oren an indescribably pleasant feeling.

“What business do you have at Mirokuji Bridge?”

“What business is it of yours?—”

She cast a fleeting glance of contempt at Makino’s face while quietly fastening the metal clasp of her obi.

“Even so, please rest assured.
“I won’t throw myself in, so—”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

Makino flung down the *Fūzoku Gahō* onto the tatami with a thud, then clicked his tongue in irritation…

“It was around seven o’clock that evening, they say.—”

After recounting the circumstances up to that point, my friend Dr. K calmly continued as follows.

Oren left the house alone, paying no heed to Makino’s attempts to stop her.
For though the old woman fretted and pleaded to accompany her, there was no helping it—the mistress herself threw a tantrum like a child, wailing she would die if not left alone.
But naturally, they could not simply let Oren wander off by herself, so Makino resolved to follow at a distance while remaining unseen.

However, when they went outside, that night there happened to be a Yakushi festival market set up near Mirokuji Bridge. Therefore, even in the cold season, the second main street was thronged with people so crowded they were almost pushing against one another. This must have been convenient for tracking Oren’s movements. The fact that Makino, walking right behind her, ultimately went unnoticed was also thanks to the festival crowds.

Along the main street, festival vendors were lined up on both sides as far as one could see. In the light of oil lamps and lanterns, spiral signs of candy shops and red parasols of bean shops flickered on both sides. But Oren seemed to pay no attention whatsoever to such things. She kept her head slightly bowed and briskly wove her way through the crowd. Keeping up with her pace was apparently strenuous even for Makino, so she must have been in quite a hurry.

When they eventually reached the foot of Mirokuji Bridge, it’s said Oren finally came to a stop and blankly surveyed her surroundings. There, where the riverbank curved, nurseries lined the street. Being festival goods after all, there were no particularly impressive plants, but pine and cypress trees nonetheless flourished with fresh foliage along this stretch—the only place with sparse foot traffic.

“She’s come to this place, but what on earth does she mean to do?—” Makino wondered while watching his mistress’s condition from behind a utility pole at the bridge’s end for some time. But Oren remained standing there vacantly, gazing at the row of nurseries. Stealthily, Makino crept up behind her and peered. And then—they say—didn’t she murmur this soliloquy joyfully again and again?
“It’s become a forest, hasn’t it?”
“Finally, Tokyo has become a forest, hasn’t it?”………

Seventeen

“If that were all, it would still be fine, but—”

K continued his account.

“Just then, a puppy white as snow happened to emerge from the crowd, whereupon Oren suddenly reached out both hands and lifted up the white dog, they say. And then—what do you think she said? ‘You came too, did you? It must have been such a long way for you to come here. After all, there are mountains along the path, and a great sea too. Truly, since I parted from you, there hasn’t been a single day I didn’t cry. And then the dog I kept in your place ended up dying on me,’ she began murmuring such dreamlike things. But since the puppy was friendly, it neither barked nor bit. It merely snuffled with its nose, licking all over Oren’s hands and cheeks.”

"When it came to this and he could no longer stand by watching, Makino finally showed himself."
But no matter what was said, Oren declared she would absolutely not return home until Mr. Kin came there.
Since it was a festival day, a crowd quickly gathered around them.
Among them were even those who shouted things like, “Hey, it’s the pretty madwoman!” at the top of their voices.
However, for Oren who loved dogs, holding one after so long must have provided some small comfort.
After some back-and-forth arguing, they finally agreed to return home temporarily as Makino insisted.
Even when it came time to leave, the crowd of onlookers showed no sign of dispersing easily.
Oren too kept trying every now and then to turn back toward Mirokuji Bridge.
While alternately soothing and coaxing her along, by the time they brought her back to the house in Matsui-cho, even Makino’s coat was apparently soaked through with sweat underneath.…"

When Oren returned home, she ascended to the second-floor bedroom still clutching the white puppy.
Then she gently released this pitiful creature into the pitch-dark parlor.
The dog wagged its tiny tail and trotted about cheerfully.
Its jaunty gait matched how it used to leap from her bed onto the stone pavement when she had kept it before.

“Oh—”

Recalling the dark room, Oren looked around quizzically.
Then from the ceiling, a single lit lapis lazuli lantern hung directly above her.

“My, how lovely!”
“It’s exactly like returning to the past.”

For a while, she gazed enraptured at the brilliant lamplight.
But when she eventually saw her own figure in that light, she shook her head sadly two or three times.

“I am not the Huilian of old.”
“Now I’m a Japanese woman called Oren.”
Mr.Kin probably won’t come to visit either.
But if only he would come—

Oren, who had suddenly raised her head, let out another cry of surprise.
When she looked, in the spot where the puppy had been lay a Chinese man, his elbow propped on a square pillow while leisurely smoking opium!
A receding hairline, long eyelashes, and a mole at the corner of the left eye.
――Everything was undoubtedly Kin.
Moreover, when he saw Oren, didn’t he―still with the pipe in his mouth―flash a faint smile with the same cool eyes as before?

“Look. Tokyo’s already like that—wherever you look, it’s nothing but forest.”

Sure enough, beyond the second-floor A-shaped balustrade stretched unfamiliar trees whose branches spread wide, above which several birds with embroidery-like patterns chirped cheerfully—gazing at this scene, Oren sat entranced all night by her beloved Kin’s side………

After a day or two, Oren—her real name being Meng Huilian—had already become one of the patients at this K Neuropsychiatric Hospital. They say she was a woman who took clients at a brothel in Weihaiwei during the First Sino-Japanese War—what kind of woman was she?

“Wait.”
“Wait—I have a photograph here.”

In the old photograph K showed, a woman in Chinese clothing sat alone with a white dog.

“When she first came to this hospital, no matter what anyone said, she refused to take off her Chinese clothes.”
“And if that dog wasn’t by her side, she’d start shrieking ‘Kin-san! Kin-san!’ wouldn’t she?”
“Come to think of it, Makino was rather pitiable too.”
“Even if he did take Huilian as his mistress—a washed-up imperial soldier trying to bring an enemy national into the homeland right after the war—he must’ve faced untold hardships.—Eh? What about money?”
“Asking that’s just crass.”
“I even suspect whether that dog really died of illness.”

(Taisho 9, December)