Pathway to Japanese Literature

Change of Heart (Part 1)

In the literary world, a certain veteran master had passed away, and around the end of his farewell ceremony, the rain began to fall. It was early spring rain.

On the way back, two men were walking under a shared umbrella. In both cases, their conversation about women—an extremely improper topic—amounted to nothing more than a token obligation toward the deceased literary master. The middle-aged giant in a crested formal kimono was a literary figure. The much younger handsome man in round-framed glasses and striped trousers was an editor. "That guy too," said the writer. "He seems to have liked women. “Ain’t it about time you settled your debts?” “Look at you—worn to the bone.” “I intend to quit all of it.”

The editor blushed and answered. This writer spoke with such vulgar bluntness that the handsome editor had long kept his distance, but having brought no umbrella himself today, he reluctantly shared the writer’s janome-gasa umbrella—and thus found himself being pressed like oil from sesame seeds. He intended to quit everything. Yet this wasn’t entirely false. Something had shifted—indefinably. Three years since war’s end had passed, and somewhere things had altered.

Thirty-four years old, editor-in-chief of the magazine Obelisk, Tajima Shuji—though his speech carried a faint Kansai accent, he rarely spoke of his origins. He was inherently a shrewd man—while his editing of Obelisk served as a respectable front for society, his real earnings came from assisting with black-market dealings, through which he consistently raked in substantial profits. However, as the saying goes that ill-gotten gains never stay with one, it was rumored he drank enough alcohol to bathe in and kept nearly ten lovers.

He was, however, not single. Far from being single, his current wife was in fact his second. His first wife had died of pneumonia, leaving behind a mentally disabled daughter, after which he sold his Tokyo home, evacuated to a friend’s house in Saitama Prefecture, and during this evacuation period won over and married his current wife. As for his current wife, this was of course her first marriage, and her family home was a fairly well-off farming household. When the war ended, he entrusted his wife and daughter to her family home, went alone to Tokyo, rented a single room in a suburban apartment that was just a place to sleep, and then shrewdly hustled in every direction to make a killing.

However, three years had passed since then, and somehow his feelings began to change. Whether it was because society had changed in some subtle way, or his body had grown alarmingly thin from recent excesses, or—no, no—simply because of "age"—thoughts now frequently flashed through his mind: Form is emptiness; liquor held no pleasure—buy a small house, summon his wife and children from the countryside... Something resembling homesickness increasingly brushed past his heart.

It’s time to wash my hands of this black-market life and devote myself fully to editing the magazine. As for that...

Regarding that—the immediate obstacle. First, he must skillfully part ways with the women. When his thoughts reached that point, even he—shrewd as he was—found himself at a loss and let out a sigh. “I intend to quit all…” The giant writer twisted his mouth into a wry smile. “That’s admirable, but just how many women do you have?”

Change of Heart (Part 2) Tajima’s face took on a tearful pout. The more he thought about it, the clearer it became that he had absolutely no means of handling it alone. If it could be settled with money, it would be simple, but I don’t think the women would back down just because of that.

“When I think about it now, it’s as if I’d gone completely mad.” “I’d unbelievably overextended myself, and…”

I suddenly thought: Perhaps I should confess everything to this middle-aged rogue writer and consult him. “Well, well,” he said, “you’re saying something surprisingly decent for once. Though come to think of it, it’s precisely those philanderers who cower before morality to a bizarrely repulsive degree—and that’s exactly why women take a liking to them, you know. If you’re handsome, and rich, and young, and on top of that morally upright and kind—of course you’d be popular. That’s only to be expected. Even if you intend to quit on your end, the other party won’t go along with it.”

“That’s exactly it.”

He wiped his face with a handkerchief. “You’re not crying, are you?” “No—the rain fogged up my glasses…” “No—that voice of yours is the voice of someone crying.” “What a ladies’ man you are!” Though assisting in black-market dealings made him far from moral, as the writer had pointed out, Tajima was a man who—for all his philandering—also possessed an oddly dutiful side toward women, and because of this, the women seemed to rely deeply on him without the slightest worry.

“Isn’t there some clever plan?”

“There isn’t, you know.” “You could go abroad for five or six years or something, but it’s not so simple to make a foreign trip these days.” “Why not gather all those women in one room—have them sing ‘Auld Lang Syne,’ no—better yet ‘Hail to Thee’—then you present each one with a graduation certificate! After that you pretend to go mad and dash outside stark naked to escape.” “This way, it’s foolproof.” “The women will no doubt be so appalled they’ll give up, I bet.”

This consultation was proving utterly useless.

“Excuse me.” “I—uh—need to take the train from here…” “Ah, don’t be like that.” “Let’s walk to the next bus stop.” “After all, this is a serious problem for you.” “Let’s work out some countermeasures together, shall we?”

The writer, appearing bored that day, would not let Tajima go.

“No, I’ll manage on my own…” “No, no—you can’t resolve this alone.” “You’re not actually thinking of killing yourself, are you?” “I’m getting genuinely concerned here.” “A man dying because women are in love with him—that’s not a tragedy, it’s a comedy.” “No—it’s what you call a farce.” “It’s the height of absurdity, isn’t it?” “No one will sympathize.” “You’d better give up on dying.” “Well, a brilliant plan.” “Find yourself some stunning beauty from somewhere, explain the situation to her, have her pose as your wife, then take her around to visit each of those women one by one.” “It’ll work like a charm.” “The women will all silently withdraw.” “How about it? Why not give it a shot?”

A drowning man clutches at straws. Tajima was slightly tempted.

Procession (1)

Tajima decided to give it a try. However, here too lay an obstacle.

A stunning beauty. If we're talking about strikingly ugly women, you could find thirty of them just walking one stretch between tram stops, but whether a woman so stunningly beautiful as to be called legendary even exists outside of myths was doubtful. From the start, Tajima prided himself on his handsome appearance—fashionable and deeply vain—so whenever he walked with an unattractive woman, he would suddenly claim stomach pains to avoid it; his current so-called lovers were each quite beautiful in their own right, but none could be considered stunningly beautiful.

On that rainy day, he had been given this offhanded “secret” from the middle-aged dissolute writer; though he had initially rebelled against its absurdity in his heart, no brilliant plan of his own would come to mind.

First, he would try. Perhaps in some forgotten corner of life lay such a stunning beauty. Behind his glasses, his eyes began darting about restlessly in an unpleasant manner. Dance halls. Cafés. Waiting rooms. Not here. Ugly grotesques everywhere. Offices. Department stores. Factories. Movie theaters. Naked revues. No trace of her. He peered over fences into women’s college courtyards. Rushed to Miss Something-or-Other pageants. Slipped into film auditions under pretense of observation. Wandered relentlessly—but she wasn’t there.

The prey appeared on the homeward path.

He was on the verge of despair, walking through the dusk-cloaked black market behind Shinjuku Station with an exceedingly gloomy expression. He had no desire to visit his so-called lovers. The mere thought made him shudder. He had to break up with them. “Mr. Tajima!” Startled by the sudden call from behind, he nearly leapt out of his skin. “Hmm, now who might this be?” “Oh, how awful!” The voice was harsh—what you’d call a crow’s voice.

“Huh?” He looked again. He had indeed been utterly mistaken. He knew that woman. A black-market dealer—no, a carrier. He had only engaged in black-market transactions with this woman two or three times, but it was her crow-like voice and astonishing physical strength that made him remember her. Though she was a slender woman, she could easily carry thirty-seven and a half kilograms. Filthy and reeking, clad in grimy garments with mompe work pants and rubber boots—so androgynous as to be indistinguishable from a beggar—the fastidious Tajima had even hurried to wash his hands after conducting business with her.

An outrageous Cinderella Princess. Her taste in Western attire was refined. Her body was slender, her hands and feet delicately small; twenty-three or four—no, twenty-five or six—her face bore a sorrowful expression, faintly bluish as pear blossoms, truly noble—a stunning beauty. This was the very same carrier who could effortlessly shoulder thirty-seven and a half kilograms? Her raspy voice was a flaw, but that could be managed by keeping her strictly silent. She would do.

Procession (2)

They say clothes make the man, but with women especially, a single change of attire can transform them beyond all recognition. Perhaps they were monsters to begin with. However, a woman capable of such splendid transformation as this one—Nagai Kinuko—is rare indeed. “So, you’ve saved up quite a bit. You’re looking awfully prosperous, aren’t you?” “Oh, how awful!” Her voice really was terrible. Any sense of nobility—everything—was blown away in an instant. “I have something I’d like to ask of you.”

“You’re so stingy, always haggling over prices—” “No—this isn’t about business. I’ve already made up my mind to wash my hands of this life soon. Are you still hauling loads as usual?” “Of course. I have to carry loads or I can’t eat.” Every word out of her mouth reeked of vulgarity. “But your outfit isn’t half bad.”

“Well, I am a woman, after all. “Occasionally, I want to dress up and go see a movie too.” “So—movies today?” “Yes. I’ve already seen it. What was it called… Ashi Kuri Ge…” “I’ve already seen it.” “What was it called… Ashi Kuri Ge…” “Shank’s Mare, isn’t it?” “Did you go alone?”

“Oh, how awful! Men are just so ridiculous.” “That’s precisely why I have a request. One hour—no, thirty minutes will do. Lend me your time.” “A good offer?” “I won’t put you at a loss.” When the two of them walked side by side, eight out of ten people they passed turned to look. It wasn’t Tajima they were looking at—it was Kinuko. Even Tajima, that handsome man, overwhelmed by Kinuko’s astonishing dignity, appeared grubby and insignificant.

Tajima guided Kinuko to a familiar black-market eatery. “Is there some signature dish here?”

“Well, their tonkatsu is apparently their specialty.” “I’ll have it.” “I’m hungry.” “And what else can they make?” “They can probably make most things, but what on earth do you want to eat?” “What’s the specialty here?” “Isn’t there anything besides tonkatsu?”

“The tonkatsu here is big.” “Stingy.” “You’re hopeless.” “I’ll go ask them in the back.”

Superhuman strength. A prodigious appetite. And yet, this woman possessed an utterly stunning beauty. He couldn’t let her slip away. Tajima drank whiskey and watched Kinuko eat with unflappable composure—growing more exasperated with every bite—as he laid out his so-called request. Kinuko kept eating, showing almost no interest in his story, whether she was listening or not. “You’ll take it on, right?”

“You’re such an idiot.” “You haven’t changed one bit, have you?”

Procession (III)

Tajima flinched at the enemy’s unexpectedly sharp attack but, “Exactly. Precisely because I haven’t changed at all that I’m asking you like this.” “I’m at my wit’s end here.” “There’s no need to go through all that trouble. If you get tired of them, just cut them off completely.” “I can’t do something so crude.” “Those women might get married from now on, or they might take on new lovers.” “Making sure those women can properly decide their feelings is a man’s responsibility.”

“Pfft! That’s some responsibility! You’re just using all this breakup talk as an excuse to mess around with me again, aren’t you? You really do have such a lecherous face.”

“Hey now, if you keep saying such rude things, I’ll get mad. There’s a limit to rudeness. You’re doing nothing but eating.” “Can’t you make Kinton?” “You still want to eat something? Isn’t that stomach dilation? You’re sick. Why don’t you have a doctor look at you once? You’ve eaten an awful lot since earlier. Enough already.”

“You’re so stingy.” “For women, eating about this much is typically normal.” “Those young ladies who say ‘No more, thank you’ and such—that’s just them putting on airs because they want to seem alluring.” “If it were me, I could eat any amount.” “Enough already.” “This place isn’t exactly cheap, you know.” “Do you always eat this much?” “Don’t be ridiculous.” “Only when someone else is treating me.”

“Alright then, from now on I’ll let you eat as much as you want, so do me this favor.”

“But since I have to take time off from my work, it’s a loss.”

“I’ll cover that separately.” “I’ll pay you properly each time for what you’d normally earn through your usual business.” “So I just have to follow you around?”

“Well yes—however there are two conditions．Don’t say a single word before other women．I’m counting on this．Laughing，nodding，shaking your head—keep strictly to that．Second—no eating before others．When we’re alone，eat what you will—but publicly，limit yourself to tea．”

“And you’ll give me extra money too, right? You’re stingy and full of tricks.” “Don’t worry. I’m giving this my all right now. If this fails, it means my total ruin.”

“The *Fukusui* Formation or something like that.”

“Fukusui? You idiot—it’s Haisui (back-to-the-water formation)!”

“Oh, really?” She remained completely unfazed. Tajima grew increasingly bitter. Yet she was beautiful. Poised with an unearthly dignity that seemed not of this world.

Breaded pork cutlet. Chicken croquette. Tuna sashimi. Squid sashimi. Shina soba. Eel. Hotpot. Beef skewer. Assorted nigiri sushi. Shrimp salad. Strawberry milk. On top of that, she wanted sweet chestnut paste too? Surely no woman ate this much. No—or rather…?

Procession (IV)

Kinuko’s apartment was in the Setagaya area; since she went out in the mornings for her usual black-market work, she was usually free after two in the afternoon. Tajima made an arrangement with Kinuko: he would call her about once a week on a day convenient for everyone, meet up somewhere, and then the two of them would proceed in procession toward the women he was parting with.

And so, a few days later, their procession began heading toward a beauty salon inside a department store in Nihonbashi. The fashionable Tajima had once dropped into this beauty salon on a whim two winters prior and had a permanent wave done. The "master" stylist there was a woman called Aoki-san—a so-called war widow in her early thirties. It hadn’t been that he picked her up; rather, it had taken on the form of the woman following Tajima of her own accord. Aoki-san commuted from the Tsukiji dormitory of that department store to her shop in Nihonbashi, but her income was barely enough for a woman living alone. As a result, Tajima ended up providing financial support for her living expenses, and now even at the Tsukiji dormitory, Tajima and Aoki-san’s relationship had come to be officially recognized.

However, Tajima rarely showed his face at Ms. Aoki’s shop in Nihonbashi where she worked. Tajima himself believed that the presence of a stylish, handsome man like him must indeed be hindering her business. He abruptly appeared at her shop, bringing along a stunning beauty. “Hello,” he said with cold formality, “I’ve brought my wife today. I called her over from the evacuation site this time.”

That alone was sufficient. Ms. Aoki herself had cool eyes, soft white skin, and was quite a beauty without any foolish aspects, but when placed next to Kinuko, the difference seemed as stark as that between silver shoes and military boots. The two beauties exchanged greetings in silence. Ms. Aoki already had a servile face like a tearful pout. The outcome was already clear. As mentioned before, Tajima also had a dutiful side when it came to women and had never yet lied to any of them about being single. The fact that he had evacuated his wife and children to the countryside was something he had been upfront about with everyone from the start. She had finally returned to her husband. Moreover, this wife was young, noble, cultured, and a peerless beauty.

Even Ms. Aoki had no recourse but a tearful pout. “Please do one little thing with my wife’s hair,” Tajima pressed on, riding high and seeking to deliver the final blow. “They say there’s no one in Ginza—or anywhere else—with your level of skill.” That, however, wasn’t entirely flattery. In fact, she was an exceptionally skilled beautician.

Kinuko sat down facing the mirror.

Ms. Aoki placed a white shoulder cover on Kinuko and began to comb her hair, her eyes filled with tears on the verge of overflowing. Kinuko remained composed. Instead, Tajima left his seat.

Procession (V) When the styling was finished, Tajima quietly re-entered the beauty salon, slipped a bundle of bills about an inch thick into the beautician’s white coat pocket, and with a feeling almost like prayer,

“Good-bye.” he whispered in a voice that even he himself found surprisingly tender, apologetic, gentle, and tinged with something resembling sorrow.

Kinuko stood up silently. Ms. Aoki also wordlessly adjusted Kinuko’s skirt for her. Tajima darted outside a step ahead.

Ah, parting is painful.

Kinuko, expressionless, came up behind him. “Not so well done, is it?” “What isn’t?” “The perm.”

He wanted to yell "You idiot!" at Kinuko but restrained himself since they were inside the department store. The woman called Aoki never spoke ill of others. She never asked for money and often did the laundry. “So, is this all?” “Yes.”

Tajima was simply, unreasonably desolate. “That she’d break up over something like that—that girl’s got no spine. “Not bad-looking though, is she? “With those looks, she could’ve—” “Stop! “Quit calling her ‘that girl’—show some respect. “She’s a decent person, that one. “Nothing like you. “Just shut your mouth! “Hearing that crow-caw voice of yours is driving me mad.”

“Oh my, Madame Oblige-a-lot.” Ugh! What a lowbrow, vulgar pun. Tajima was truly going out of his mind. Out of some peculiar vanity, whenever Tajima walked with a woman, he would hand her his wallet beforehand, have her handle all payments, and affect a carefree attitude as if he were utterly indifferent to matters of accounting. However, until now, none of the women had ever made arbitrary purchases without his permission.

However, Madame Oblige-a-lot nonchalantly went ahead and did just that. The department store was filled with any number of expensive things. Boldly and without hesitation, she selected so-called high-class items—and what’s more, they were all strangely elegant and tasteful. “Can’t you just knock it off already?” “You’re so stingy.” “Are you going to eat something else again now?”

“Well then, I’ll hold back today—just for you.” “Give me back my wallet.” “From now on, you mustn’t spend over five thousand yen.” Now was no time for vanity or shit.

“I don’t use that much.” “No, you did use it. You’ll see when I check the remaining funds later. You definitely spent over ten thousand yen. That meal we had wasn’t cheap either, I tell you.”

“Then why don’t you just quit?” “It’s not like I’m tagging along with you for fun or anything.”

It was practically blackmail.

Tajima could only sigh.

Superhuman Strength (1)

However, Tajima was no ordinary man to begin with. He was a shrewd operator who could effortlessly make hundreds of thousands by assisting in black-market dealings—a man of such sharp acumen you could say it went from his eyes straight through his nose. Having been made to waste so much by Kinuko, he was not at all the type who could silently demonstrate the virtue of forbearance. Unless he received some equivalent repayment in return, he simply couldn’t rest easy. Damn it! Insolent. I'll make her mine.

The farewell processions would come after that. First, he would completely conquer her, transform her into a reserved, obedient, frugal, and light-eating woman, and only then resume the processions. As things stood now, it would cost too much, making it impossible to continue the processions.

The secret to victory. Do not let the enemy approach; approach the enemy yourself. He looked up Kinuko’s apartment address using the telephone directory, bought just one bottle of whiskey and two bags of peanuts, harboring the ulterior motive of making Kinuko treat him to food once he got hungry—then guzzled the whiskey, feigned drunken collapse, and assumed everything after would go his way. For one thing, it was dirt cheap. No room fee was needed.

That Tajima—always so supremely confident with women—would devise such a brutally shameless, vulgar strategy meant he was truly losing his grip. Perhaps having been made to waste too much by Kinuko, he felt himself going mad. While it went without saying that one ought to restrain lust, when humans became too stingily obsessed with money and single-mindedly rushed to recoup their losses, this too seemed to yield rather poor results.

Tajima, in his excessive hatred of Kinuko, devised an almost inhumanly stingy and base plan, and indeed ended up encountering a calamity severe enough to kill him.

In the evening, Tajima located Kinuko’s apartment in Setagaya. It was an old wooden two-story apartment with a gloomy air. Kinuko's room was at the very end immediately upon climbing the stairs.

He knocked.

“Who is it?” From inside came her usual crow-like voice. Tajima opened the door and froze in shock.

Disarray. Stench.

Ah, desolate. Four-and-a-half-mat room. The surface of the tatami mats glistened jet-black, undulated like waves, their edges retaining no trace of their original form. The entire room was crammed with what appeared to be Kinuko's usual porter's tools—oil cans, apple crates, one-shō bottles, cloth-wrapped bundles, birdcage-like objects, scraps of paper—all greasily scattered about with barely space to step. "Oh, it's you." "Why did you come?"

As for Kinuko’s attire—that beggarly look from years past, wearing monpe work pants caked with grime—she appeared utterly indistinguishable from man or woman. On the wall of the room hung a single advertisement poster for Mujin Company; nowhere else could one see anything resembling decoration. There weren’t even curtains. Was this the room of a twenty-five- or twenty-six-year-old young woman? A single small light bulb burned dimly; it was utterly desolate.

Superhuman Strength (2) “I came to visit,” said Tajima, now overcome by fear and adopting a crow-like voice like Kinuko’s, “but I could always come back another time.” “There’s some scheme here,” she said. “You never do anything without a reason.”

“No—today—I really…” “Be more straightforward.” “You’re smirking way too much.” Even so—it was a terrible room. Did he really have to drink that whiskey here? Ah—he should have bought cheaper whiskey. “I’m not smirking.” “It’s called being presentable.” “You’re way too filthy today.” he said bitterly.

“Today I carried something heavy, so I got tired and had been napping until now. Oh right—I’ve got something good.” “Why don’t you come up to the room?” “It’s reasonably cheap.” This seemed to be business talk. If there was profit involved, the room’s filth didn’t matter. Tajima removed his shoes, selected a relatively intact spot on the tatami, and sat cross-legged still wearing his overcoat. “You like karasumi salted roe, don’t you?” “Since you’re a drinker.”

“It’s my favorite.” “Is it here?” “Let’s have a treat.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” “Hand it over.”

Kinuko unabashedly thrust her right palm in front of Tajima’s nose.

Tajima twisted his mouth in a fed-up manner, “When I see everything you do, life feels utterly fleeting." “Put that hand away.” “I don’t need any salted mullet roe.” “That’s what horses eat.” “I said I’ll give you a discount—don’t be stupid.” “It’s delicious—the real thing from Nagasaki.” “Stop squirming and hand it over.” She shook herself, showing no sign of retracting her palm. Unfortunately for him, Tajima truly adored salted mullet roe—when he had that as a whiskey snack, he needed nothing else.

“I’ll take a little, then.” Tajima resentfully placed three large bills onto Kinuko’s palm.

“Four more.”

Kinuko said calmly. Tajima was startled,

“You idiot, enough already!” “Quit being cheap—buy one portion properly.” “It’s like buying half a slab of dried bonito.” “Quit being cheap.” “Fine, I’ll buy one portion.” Even Tajima the smirker had, by this point, become genuinely enraged,

“There. One, two, three, four.” “This should be enough.” “Put that hand away.” “I’d love to see the faces of the parents who raised a shameless brat like you.”

“I’d love to see them too,” “And then I’d love to smack them.” “If you throw it away, even a green onion will wither and die, they say.” “What’s this? Sob stories are boring.” “Lend me a cup.” “Now for whiskey and salted mullet roe.” “Yeah, there’s peanuts too.” “This one’s for you.”

Superhuman Strength (3)

Tajima drank down the whiskey in two big gulps from a large cup. He had come today with the ulterior motive of somehow making Kinuko treat him, yet ended up being forced to buy what’s called a “genuine product from the source”—terrifyingly expensive salted mullet roe—and moreover, Kinuko unsparingly chopped up the entire portion in an instant, piled it high on a grimy donburi bowl, and liberally sprinkled substitute seasoning over it,

“Bon appétit.” “The Ajinomoto is complimentary.” “Don’t even worry about it.” The salted mullet roe—this quantity was impossible to consume. What’s more, sprinkling Ajinomoto over it was sheer madness. Tajima’s face twisted in anguish. Even burning seven bills with candleflame wouldn’t have brought this acute sense of loss. It was pure waste. Utterly meaningless.

Tajima picked up and ate a piece of salted mullet roe from the bottom of the heaped pile—one not sprinkled with substitute seasoning—with a feeling of wanting to cry while...

“Have you ever cooked for yourself?”

he now asked timidly.

“If I do it, I can.” “I just don’t because it’s a hassle.” “What about laundry?” “Don’t make fun of me.” “If anything, I’m actually rather particular about cleanliness.”

“Particular about cleanliness?” Tajima dazedly surveyed the desolate, stench-filled room. “This room was filthy from the start—it’s beyond saving.” “Plus, given the nature of my business, the room’s bound to get cluttered.” “Shall I show you the inside of the closet?”

She stood up and swiftly opened the closet to show him. Tajima widened his eyes. Clean and orderly; it gleamed with a golden light as if exuding a rich fragrance. On top of the chest of drawers, dressing table, trunk, and geta box were three pairs of dainty little shoes—in other words, this closet was none other than the secret dressing room of the Crow-Voiced Cinderella Princess.

Immediately snapping the closet shut again, Kinuko sat down slovenly a short distance from Tajima,

“Dressing up once a week is more than enough.” “It’s not like I want men to like me anyway—everyday clothes like these suit me just fine.”

“But aren’t those work pants a bit too awful?” “Unhygienic.”

“Why?” “They stink.” “Putting on airs won’t help. You always smell like alcohol anyway. Disgusting.” “A stinking pair we make.” As his drunkenness deepened, both the desolate room and Kinuko’s beggar-like appearance bothered him less. That original plan—the malicious urge to try executing it—began seething within him. “They say fighting couples are the closest.” What a clumsy approach. Yet men in such situations—even those hailed as great figures or scholars—often resort to these idiotic seduction methods and surprisingly succeed.

Superhuman Strength (4)

“I can hear the piano.”

He grew increasingly affected. He narrowed his eyes and listened attentively to the distant radio. “You can understand music too? Though you look like someone tone-deaf.”

“Fool, you don’t know about my musical expertise.” “If it’s a masterpiece, I’d want to listen to it all day long.”

“What’s that piece?” “Chopin.”

Nonsense. “Oh? I thought it was Echigo Lion Dance.” A nonsensical conversation between two tone-deaf individuals. Somehow, his mood wasn’t lifting, so Tajima quickly changed the subject. “But you must have had someone you were in love with before, right?” “Ridiculous. I’m not some lecher like you.” “How about you watch your language? You’re such a lowlife.”

Suddenly becoming uncomfortable，he gulped down more whiskey. This might already be hopeless. However，if he were to retreat here，it would compromise his honor as a ladies' man. No matter what，he had to persevere and succeed. “Love and lewdness are fundamentally different，you know.” “You don’t seem to know anything at all.” “Should I enlighten you，hmm?”

He himself had said it, and shuddered at his own repulsive tone. This wouldn't do. Though still early, he decided to feign drunken collapse and sleep. "Ah, I'm drunk," he said. Having drunk on an empty stomach, he was terribly intoxicated. "Let me lie down here a moment." "No!"

The crow-like voice shifted into a barbaric roar. “Don’t mock me! “You’re being obvious.” “If you want to stay over, five hundred thousand—no, a million yen.”

Everything was a failure. “There’s no need for you to get so angry.” “Because I was drunk, I just wanted to... here...”

“No, no—go home.”

Kinuko stood up and opened the door wide. Tajima, cornered, resorted to the clumsiest and most inept of methods—standing up and suddenly trying to embrace Kinuko. With a thud, Tajima was struck on the cheek by a fist, and he let out a bizarre squawk of a scream. In that instant, Tajima recalled Kinuko’s superhuman strength—the ease with which she hoisted thirty-seven and a half kilograms—and shuddered, “Forgive me...” “Thief!”

Shouting something incomprehensible, he dashed out into the hallway barefoot.

Kinuko calmly closed the door.

After a while, outside the door, “Excuse me—about my shoes. Sorry to trouble you.” “...And if you have something like string, please.” “The temples of my glasses broke.” While his guts churned with unprecedented humiliation in his history as a ladies’ man, he repaired his glasses with the red tape Kinuko had given him and draped it over both ears,

“Thank you!”

He shouted wildly, descended the stairs, missed a step partway down, and let out another yelp.

Cold War (1) Tajima could not bear losing the capital he had invested in Nagai Kinuko. He had never made such an unfavorable deal before. Somehow he had to exploit her fully and recoup his investment—it was all lies. Yet that superhuman strength—that gluttony—that greed.

The weather grew warm and various flowers began to bloom, but Tajima alone remained deeply gloomy. After four or five days had passed since that night of great failure—once he had gotten new glasses and the swelling in his cheek subsided—he finally called Kinuko’s apartment. He had decided to try resorting to ideological warfare.

“Hello, hello?” “This is Tajima. The other day, I got carried away drinking—ahahaha.”

“When a woman lives alone, all sorts of things happen.” “I don’t give a damn.” “Well, I’ve given it a lot of deep thought since then, but in the end—if I break up with those women, buy a small house, bring my wife and children here from the countryside, and create a happy family—is that really such a bad thing morally?” “I can’t make sense of what you’re saying, but I hear all men start thinking such stingy things once they’ve piled up heaps of money.”

“Then, is that such a bad thing?” “That’s a fine thing, isn’t it? Really, you’ve saved up quite a lot, haven’t you?” “Don’t just talk about money—…morally, that is, ideologically speaking—what do you think about that issue?” “I don’t think anything.” “Not a thought about you.”

“That may well be how it is—and of course I don’t deny that—but I, you see, believe this is a good thing.” “Then isn’t that fine? I’m hanging up. Enough of this nonsense.” “But for me, this is truly a matter of life and death. I believe morality must still be respected. Help me—please help me. I want to do good.”

“Weird... You’re not pretending to be drunk again and trying some foolish act, are you? I’ll pass on that.” “Don’t mock me. All humans have an instinct to do good deeds.”

“Can I just hang up already?” “You don’t have any other business, do you?” “I’ve been needing to pee and stomping my feet this whole time.”

“Wait, just a moment—wait.” “How about three thousand yen a day?” The ideological battle abruptly shifted to a discussion of money. “Does that include meals?” “No, that’s exactly where I need your help.” “I’ve been rather short on income myself lately.” “No—unless it’s one stick (ten thousand yen).” “Then, five thousand yen.” “Please do that.” “This is a matter of morality, you see.” “I need to pee.” “Enough already.”

“I’ll settle for five thousand yen.” “What an idiot you are.” A stifled chuckle could be heard. There was an air of assent.

Cold War (II)

In that case, he resolved to exploit Kinuko to the maximum—beyond giving her five thousand yen a day, he wouldn’t offer so much as a crumb of bread or a glass of water, working her to the bone. Compassion is strictly forbidden—it would spell my own ruin. Even after being struck by Kinuko and letting out a bizarre shriek, Tajima nevertheless discovered a way to turn her superhuman strength to his advantage. Among his so-called lovers was one Mizuhara Keiko, a Western-style painter still in her late twenties and not particularly skilled. Having rented a two-room apartment in Denenchofu—using one as a living room and the other as a studio—she had approached Tajima with a letter of introduction from a certain painter, her face flushed and her manner timid as she pleaded to be allowed to draw anything for *Obelisk*, be it illustrations or vignettes. Finding her endearing, he resolved to support her livelihood little by little. She was gentle in manner, quiet, and an incurable crybaby. However, she never resorted to howling or vulgar displays of tears. Her childlike, charming way of crying wasn’t entirely unpleasant.

However, there was one significant drawback. She had an older brother. Having spent many years in military life in Manchuria—known as a troublemaker since childhood with a notably sturdy frame typical of a large man—he felt a truly unpleasant sensation when first hearing this story from Keiko. It seemed these lovers' brothers—whether sergeants or corporals or what have you—had been considered most ill-omened presences for ladykillers since Faust's time.

That brother had recently been repatriated from Siberia and seemed to have dug himself into Keiko’s living room. Because Tajima disliked meeting her brother, he tried to lure Keiko out by calling her apartment, but—

“I am Keiko’s older brother.” A powerfully strong voice came from a man who seemed undeniably capable—he was indeed there. “I’m from the magazine, but I need to consult Ms. Mizuhara about some illustrations...” His voice quivered at the edges. “It’s no good. “She’s caught a cold and is in bed. “She won’t be able to work for the time being.”

He was out of luck. It seemed practically impossible to extract Keiko.

However, if he kept hesitating to part with Keiko out of mere fear of her brother, it would almost feel disrespectful to Keiko herself. Moreover, with Keiko bedridden from a cold and her repatriated brother staying there, she must be struggling financially. On the contrary, now might be the perfect opportunity. He would speak gentle words of concern to the sick person and then quietly hand over the money. The soldier brother probably wouldn’t actually resort to hitting. Or perhaps he would be even more appreciative than Keiko and ask for a handshake. If by some chance he were to become violent toward me... that would be the perfect time to take shelter behind Nagai Kinuko’s superhuman strength.

It was 100 percent utilization and exploitation. “Listen here.” “I think it’ll probably be fine, but there’s this rough man there, you see. If he raises his arm, just lightly restrain him like this, please.” “Oh well, he seems to be a weakling, you know.”

He had markedly begun speaking to Kinuko in polite language. (Unfinished)