Pathway to Japanese Literature

Change of Heart (1)

In the literary world, a certain veteran figure passed away, and toward the end of the funeral service, the rain began to fall. It was an early spring rain.

On their way back, two men were walking under a shared umbrella. Both had paid their respects to the deceased literary veteran out of social obligation, but their conversation turned to matters concerning women in a highly indiscreet manner. The large middle-aged man in a crested kimono was a literary figure. The much younger man in Lloyd glasses and striped trousers—a handsome figure—was the editor.

"That guy too," said the literary figure. "Seems he liked women. Isn't it about damn time you paid your dues? You've gone haggard." "I intend to quit all of it."

That editor answered, his face turning red. This literary figure spoke with such vulgar bluntness that the handsome editor had long avoided him. But having come without an umbrella today, he reluctantly shared the man’s snake-eye parasol—a choice that left him thoroughly wrung dry.

He intended to quit it all. However, it was not entirely a lie.

Something had indeed changed. Three years had passed since the end of the war, and something shifted.

Thirty-four years old, editor-in-chief of the magazine Obelisk, Tajima Shuji—his speech carried a faint Kansai accent, though he rarely spoke of his origins. He was fundamentally a shrewd man; while the editing of Obelisk served as his respectable public front, in reality he assisted with black market dealings and always profited hand over fist. However, true to the adage that ill-gotten gains never prosper, he was said to drink as if bathing in alcohol and kept nearly ten lovers.

He was, however, not single. Far from being single, his current wife was actually his second. His first wife had died of pneumonia, leaving behind a daughter with intellectual disabilities, after which he sold his Tokyo home, evacuated to a friend's house in Saitama Prefecture, and during this evacuation period married his current wife. As for his wife, this was of course her first marriage, and her family home belonged to a fairly well-off farming family.

When the war ended, he left his wife and daughter at her family home, headed alone to Tokyo, rented a room in a suburban apartment—a place meant solely for sleeping—then shrewdly hustled in every direction to amass a fortune.

However, three years had passed since then, and somehow his feelings had begun to change. Whether it was due to society having changed in some subtle way, or his body growing emaciated from recent overindulgence, or—no, no—simply the toll of age; whether from realizing the emptiness of worldly desires, finding drink unsatisfying, imagining buying a small house and summoning his wife and children from the countryside... something resembling a homesick longing now flitted through his chest with increasing frequency.

I should wash my hands of the black market dealings here and now and devote myself to editing the magazine. And regarding that...

And regarding that—the immediate obstacle. First came the necessity of skillfully parting 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 it all…" The large literary figure twisted his mouth into a bitter smile. “That’s admirable, but just how many women do you have, anyway?”

Change of Heart (2) Tajima’s face twisted into a tearful pout. The more he thought about it, the more he realized there was simply no way he could handle it all on his own. If it were a matter that could be settled with money, it would be simple enough—but he couldn’t imagine the women backing down just because of that. “Now that I think about it, it’s as if I were completely out of my mind... I’ve overextended myself outrageously...” I suddenly wonder if I should confess everything to this middle-aged rogue literary figure and consult him.

“Well look who’s talking all virtuous-like.” “Though truth be told, it’s always those skirt-chasing bastards who get all weirdly hung up on morality—and that’s exactly why women eat ’em up, eh?” “A man who’s got looks, cash, youth—then tops it off with morals and kindness? Christ alive, no wonder he’s popular.” “Goes without saying.” “Even if you wanna quit on your end, those broads won’t let you off easy, I’m telling ya.” “That’s precisely the problem.”

He wiped his face with a handkerchief. “You’re not crying, are you?” “No, the rain fogged up my lenses, so…” “No, that’s your crying voice. What a pathetic ladies’ man.” While assisting with black market dealings—hardly a moral pursuit—as the literary figure had pointed out, the man called Tajima possessed a contradictory nature: philandering yet oddly scrupulous in his dealings with women. Consequently, they seemed to rely deeply on him without the slightest concern.

“Isn’t there some good scheme?”

"There isn't one. "You could go abroad for five or six years or something, but these days you can’t just take off on some overseas trip." “Why not just gather all those women in one room, have them sing ‘Hotaru no Hikari’—no, wait, ‘Aogeba Tōtoshi’ would be better—then you present each one with a graduation certificate. After that, pretend to go mad, dash outside stark naked, and make your escape.” "This would be certain." “Even the women would surely be appalled and give up, I tell you.”

This consultation was utterly getting them nowhere.

“Excuse me.” “I was, um, taking the train from here...” “Ah, what’s the harm?” “Let’s walk to the next stop.” “After all, this is one hell of a problem for you, ain’t it?” “Let’s have us two study up on some countermeasures.”

The Literary Figure, seeming to have been bored that day, refused to let Tajima go.

"No, I'll manage on my own somehow…"

“No, no—you can’t solve this alone. “Don’t tell me you’re actually thinking of dying.” “I’ve truly become concerned.” “A man dying because women are in love with him—that’s not a tragedy, it’s a comedy.” “No—it’s what you’d call a farce (茶番).” “It’s the height of absurdity, isn’t it?” “No one will sympathize.” “You’d better quit this dying business.” “Hmm, brilliant plan.” “Find yourself some stunning beauty out there somewhere, explain the situation to her, have her pose as your wife, then take her around to visit each and every one of your women.” "It works like a charm." “The women would all back down without a word.” “How about it? Give it a shot.”

A drowning man’s straw. Tajima felt his resolve waver.

Procession (1)

Tajima decided to give it a try.

However, here too lay a hurdle.

A stunning beauty. If it were ugly yet formidable women you wanted, you could find thirty of them just walking a single block between tram stops. But whether any woman so stunningly beautiful as to be called "legendary" existed outside of fables was doubtful. From the beginning, Tajima had prided himself on his looks, been fashion-conscious, and harbored strong vanity—so much so that whenever forced to walk with an unattractive woman, he would suddenly develop stomach pains to avoid it. While his current so-called lovers were each reasonably beautiful in their own way, none could truly be counted among those legendary beauties.

On that rainy day, he had been granted that spur-of-the-moment "secret method" from the middle-aged dissolute literary figure’s lips, and though he’d inwardly rebelled at its utter absurdity, he himself couldn’t come up with anything resembling a decent plan. First, try it. Perhaps somewhere in the forgotten corners of life, such a stunning beauty might be lying around. Behind his glasses, his eyes began to shift restlessly with an unpleasant gleam. Dance hall. Coffee shop. Assignation house. Not here, not here. Nothing but hideously ugly ones. Office. Department store. Factory. Movie theater. Nude revues. There was no way she could exist. He peered shamefully over women’s university fences, rushed to Miss Something-or-Other beauty pageants, sneaked into new actress auditions under the guise of observation, and wandered about recklessly—but she wasn’t there.

The prey appeared on the homeward path.

He was already on the verge of despair, walking through the twilight black market behind Shinjuku Station with a deeply melancholic expression. He felt no desire whatsoever to visit his so-called lovers. The mere thought sent shivers down his spine. He had to part ways.

“Mr. Tajima!”

Startled by the sudden call from behind, he nearly leapt into the air. “Hmm, now who might you be?” “Oh, how rude!” Her voice was unpleasant. It was what they called a crow’s voice. “Huh?” He took another look. He had indeed failed to recognize her.

He knew that woman. A black market dealer—no, a porter. He had only engaged in black market dealings with her two or three times, but it was through her crow-like voice and astonishing superhuman strength that he remembered her. Though she was a thin woman, she could easily carry thirty-seven and a half kilograms. She reeked of fish and wore muddy clothes—monpe work pants and rubber boots—looking so indiscernibly genderless and beggarly that the stylish Tajima had hurriedly washed his hands after their transaction.

An outrageous Cinderella princess. Her taste in Western clothing was equally refined. Her body was slender, her limbs delicately small; her face—twenty-three or four—no, twenty-five or six—tinged with sorrow, pale as pear blossoms, truly noble—a stunning beauty. Was this really that porter who could effortlessly carry thirty-seven and a half kilograms?

Her unpleasant voice was a flaw, but he could have her keep strictly silent. She’d do.

Procession (2) They say even a packhorse driver needs proper clothes, but with women especially, a single change of attire transforms them beyond recognition. Perhaps they were fundamentally monsters. Yet a woman capable of such splendid transformation as Nagai Kinuko remained rare. "So you've been stashing away profits," he said. "Looking rather sleek these days." "Oh, how crude!"

Her voice was unpleasant. All her nobility—everything—was blown away in an instant.

“There’s something I’d like to ask of you.” “You’re so stingy, always haggling over prices…” “No, this isn’t about business.” “I’m planning to clean up my act soon.” “You’re still working as a porter?” “Of course I am.” “I gotta carry stuff to put food on the table.” Every single thing she said reeked of vulgarity. “But you’re not dressed so poorly now, are you?”

“Well, I am a woman after all. Even I want to dress up and go see a movie sometimes.”

“Going to the movies today?” “Yes. “I’ve already seen it. “Hmm, what was it called... ‘Ashikurige’...” “Shank’s Mare, I suppose? “By yourself?” “Oh, how rude! “Men are so ridiculous.” “Counting on that, I have a favor to ask. “An hour—no, thirty minutes will do. Lend me your face.” “Is it profitable?” “I won’t make you take a loss.”

When the two walked side by side, eight out of ten passersby would turn to look. They weren’t looking at Tajima—they were looking at Kinuko. Even Tajima, that paragon of male beauty, found himself utterly eclipsed by Kinuko’s astonishing dignity, reduced to looking grubby and pitiful in comparison.

Tajima led Kinuko to a familiar black market eatery. “Is there anything here that’s supposed to be a specialty dish?” “Well, their tonkatsu’s supposed to be the specialty here.” “I’ll have that. I’m hungry. And what else do they have?” “They can probably make most things, but what exactly do you want to eat?” “The specialty here. Is there anything else besides the tonkatsu?” “The tonkatsu here is big, you know.” “You’re so stingy. You’re hopeless. I’ll go ask them in the back.”

Superhuman strength, a prodigious appetite—and yet she was an utterly stunning beauty. He couldn’t let her slip away. Tajima drank whiskey and watched Kinuko eat with unflappable composure—devouring portion after portion—as he explained his so-called request through gritted teeth. Kinuko kept eating all the while, showing not the slightest interest in his story—it was impossible to tell whether she was listening at all. “You’ll take it on, then?”

“You’re such an idiot.” “It isn’t getting through at all, is it?”

Procession (3) Tajima flinched at the enemy’s unexpected sharpness yet—

“Right, it’s not working at all—that’s why I’m asking you like this. I’m at my wit’s end here.”

“You don’t have to go through all that troublesome rigmarole. If you get sick of them, just stop seeing them altogether—poof!” “I can’t do something so crude. Those women might get married someday, or maybe find new lovers. It’s a man’s responsibility to make sure their feelings are properly settled.” “Pfft! Some responsibility that is. You’re just using all this breakup talk as an excuse to fool around again, aren’t you? You really do have that lecherous look on your face.”

“Hey now, if you keep saying such rude things I’ll get angry. There’s a limit to rudeness. You’re doing nothing but eating all the time!” “I wonder if they can make Kinton.” “What? You’re still planning to eat something? Isn’t that stomach dilation? You’re sick I tell you. Why don’t you go see a doctor? You’ve eaten enough since we got here. Cut it out already.” “You’re so stingy. For women, eating this much is normal. Those girls who say ‘I couldn’t eat another bite’ are just putting on airs to look desirable. If it were me, I could eat any amount.”

“No, that should be enough.” “This place isn’t exactly cheap, you know.” “Do you always eat this much?” “Don’t be ridiculous.” “Only when someone else is footing the bill.” “Alright then, from now on I’ll let you eat as much as you want, so hear me out on my request.”

“But I’ll have to take time off from work, so that’s a loss for me.” “I’ll pay that separately. As for the profits from your usual line of work, I’ll pay that properly each time.” “So all I have to do is follow you around?”

“Well, that’s right. However, there are two conditions. Don’t utter a single word in front of other women. I’m counting on you, okay? Laughing, nodding, shaking your head—well, let’s keep it to that at most. The second is not to eat anything in front of others. When it’s just the two of us, go ahead and eat as much as you like, but in front of others, I’d like you to stick to just a cup of tea at most.”

“Besides that, you’ll give me money too, right? You’re stingy and try to weasel out of things.” “Don’t worry. I’m trying my hardest right now. If this fails, it’ll be my ruin.” “The Fukusui Formation, I suppose.” “Fukusui? You idiot, it’s Haisui (Last Stand) Formation.”

“Oh, is that so?”

She remained unfazed. Tajima was growing more and more bitterly irritated. Yet she was beautiful. She stood poised with unearthly dignity. Pork cutlet. Chicken croquette. Tuna sashimi. Squid sashimi. Chinese noodles. Eel. Hot pot. Beef skewers. Assorted nigiri sushi. Shrimp salad. Strawberry milk.

On top of that, she wanted kinton? He couldn’t believe every woman ate that much. Or was that not the case?

Procession (4)

Kinuko’s apartment was in the Setagaya area. Since she went out in the mornings for her porter work, she was said to be usually free after two in the afternoon. Tajima agreed with Kinuko that he would call her about once a week on mutually convenient days, contact her, meet up somewhere, and then march together to the residence of whichever woman they were parting ways with.

And so, several days later, their procession commenced toward the beauty salon within a Nihonbashi department store.

The dapper Tajima had once dropped by this beauty salon on a whim two winters prior and gotten a permanent wave. The “madame” there was a woman called Aoki-san—a so-called war widow in her early thirties. It wasn’t so much that he had ensnared her as that the woman had attached herself to 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 single woman’s living expenses. As a result, Tajima ended up supplementing her living expenses, and now even at the Tsukiji dormitory, his relationship with Ms. Aoki was officially recognized.

However, Tajima rarely showed his face at Ms. Aoki’s shop in Nihonbashi. Tajima himself believed that the frequent appearances of a dashing man like him would undoubtedly hinder her business.

Then he suddenly appeared at her shop with a stunning beauty in tow.

“Hello,” he said stiffly, “today I’ve brought my wife. I’ve called her back from the evacuation site this time.”

That alone was sufficient. Aoki-san herself was quite a beauty with cool eyes, fair soft skin, and not a trace of foolishness, but when placed next to Kinuko, the difference between them seemed as stark as that between silver slippers and army boots.

The two beauties exchanged silent greetings. Aoki-san’s face had already taken on a servile, tearful look. The outcome of their contest was already clear. As mentioned before, Tajima also had a dutiful side when it came to women and had never once 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 disclosed to everyone from the start. She had finally returned to her husband’s side. Moreover, this wife was a young, noble, and seemingly cultured woman of peerless beauty.

Even the formidable Aoki-san could do nothing but put on a tearful pout. “Could you style my wife’s hair?” Tajima pressed his advantage, aiming to deliver the final blow. “They say there’s no one in Ginza—or anywhere else—with skills like yours.” That wasn’t entirely an empty compliment. In fact, she was an exceptionally skilled beautician.

Kinuko sat down facing the mirror.

Aoki-san placed a white shoulder cloth on Kinuko and began combing her hair, her eyes brimming with tears that threatened to spill over at any moment. Kinuko remained composed. Instead, Tajima left his seat.

Procession (5) When the set was finished, Tajima quietly re-entered the beauty salon and slipped a bundle of bills about an inch thick into the beautician’s white coat pocket, his heart nearly praying as he did so,

“Good-bye.”

he whispered, his voice tinged with a soothing, apologetic gentleness that even he himself found surprising—a near-melancholic undertone. Kinuko stood up silently. Aoki-san also wordlessly adjusted Kinuko’s skirt for her. Tajima was the first to dart outside.

Ah, parting is painful.

Kinuko, her face expressionless, came up behind him. “It isn’t that well done, you know.” “What?” “The perm.” He wanted to yell “You idiot!” at Kinuko, but since they were inside a department store, he restrained himself. The woman called Aoki never spoke ill of others. She never asked for money and often did his laundry.

“So, is this the end now?” “Yes.”

Tajima was simply unbearably forlorn. “To break up over something like that—that girl’s got no spine.” “She’s quite the looker, isn’t she?” “With those looks of hers…”

“Stop it! Stop calling her ‘that girl’ in such a disrespectful way. She’s a gentle person. She’s different from someone like you. Anyway, just shut up. Listening to that crow-like voice of yours makes me feel like I’m going insane.” “My, my, how very polite of you.” Ugh! What a vulgar, tasteless joke. Truly, Tajima was going mad. Out of a peculiar vanity, Tajima would hand over his wallet to a woman beforehand when walking with her, having her handle all payments while he himself adopted an utterly nonchalant attitude, as if completely indifferent to matters of billing. However, until now, none of the women had ever made arbitrary purchases without his permission.

However, the ever-polite Ms. Nagai did so without batting an eye. The department store contained any number of high-priced goods. Boldly and without hesitation, she selected what were considered high-end goods—and moreover, they were all strangely elegant and tasteful items. “Would you just cut it out already?” “Cheapskate.” “Are you planning to gobble up something else now?”

“Well then, I suppose I’ll restrain myself today—for your sake.”

“Give me back the wallet.” “From now on, don’t spend over five thousand yen.” Now was no time for vanity or any such nonsense.

“I don’t spend that much.” “No, you did spend it. If I check what’s left later, you’ll see. You definitely spent over ten thousand yen. Even that meal the other day wasn’t cheap, I tell you.” “If that’s how you feel, why don’t you just quit then? It’s not like I’m following you around out of some fondness, you know.”

Bordering on extortion. Tajima could do nothing but sigh.

Superhuman Strength (Part 1) However, Tajima himself was no ordinary man to begin with. He was a man who assisted in black market dealings and could effortlessly make hundreds of thousands in one fell swoop—in short, an exceptionally shrewd operator. Having endured Kinuko's profligate spending, he wasn't the sort to quietly display such magnanimous virtue. Unless he exacted proper compensation, he simply couldn't rest satisfied.

Damn you! She's got some nerve! I'll make her mine.

The procession of farewells would come after that. First, he would completely conquer her, transform her into a reserved, obedient, frugal, and light-eating woman, and then resume the procession. As things stood now, it simply cost too much money, making the continuation of the procession impossible.

The secret of strategy. Do not let the enemy draw near; you must approach the enemy.

Using the telephone directory, he looked up the address of Kinuko’s apartment, purchased just one bottle of whiskey and two bags of peanuts while harboring the ulterior motive of making Kinuko treat him to something once he grew hungry; then guzzling the whiskey, feigning drunken collapse and falling asleep—after that, everything would be in his hands. First of all, it was dirt cheap. No room fee was necessary. That Tajima—a man always brimming with confidence around women—should devise such a crude, shameless, and downright vile strategy meant he was truly losing his grip. Perhaps having been made to waste too much on Kinuko, he was feeling driven to madness. While it goes without saying that one ought to restrain lust, when humans become too stingily obsessed with money and single-mindedly rush to recover their investments, this too seems to yield rather poor results in the end.

Tajima, in his excessive hatred of Kinuko, devised an inhumanly miserly and despicable plan, and indeed ended up meeting with a calamity that was nearly fatal.

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

He knocked. “Who is it?” From within came her customary crow-like rasp.

Opening the door, Tajima froze in shock.

Disarray. Stench.

Oh, desolation. Four-and-a-half-mat room. The tatami surface gleamed jet black, undulating like waves, with not even a trace of edging remaining. The entire space overflowed with Kinuko’s porter tools—oil cans, apple crates, one-shō bottles, cloth-wrapped bundles, cage-like objects, paper scraps—all scattered in a greasy sprawl that left no footing.

“Oh, it’s you.” “Why’d you come?” Kinuko’s attire was that same beggarly look from years past—dirt-caked monpe work pants so grimy they made it impossible to tell whether she was a man or a woman.

On the wall hung a single advertising poster from Mujin Company; everywhere else one looked, there was nothing resembling decoration. Not even curtains. Was this the room of a twenty-five- or twenty-six-year-old girl? A single small bulb glowed dimly, leaving only desolation.

Superhuman Strength (Part 2)

“I came to visit, but…” Tajima said, his voice turning as raspy as Kinuko’s from terror, “I can always come back another time.” “You’ve got some scheme brewing. “You’re not one to move without reason.” “No, today I really…” “Quit dodging. “You’re grinning far too much.”

Even so, it was a terrible room.

Do I really have to drink that whiskey here? Ah, I should have bought cheaper whiskey. “You’re the one smirking,” he said bitterly. “This is supposed to be clean? You’re way too filthy today.” “Today, you see, I carried something heavy and got a bit tired, so I was napping until now. Oh, right—there’s something good. Why don’t you come in? It’s relatively cheap, you know.”

It seemed to be about business. If it was a money-making opportunity, the room's filthiness wasn't a problem. Tajima took off his shoes, selected a relatively safe spot on the tatami, and sat cross-legged still wearing his overcoat.

“You like salted mullet roe and such things, don’t you? You being a drinker and all.” “It’s my favorite. Is it here? I’ll take some then.” “Don’t be ridiculous. Hand it over.” Kinuko, without any reserve, thrust her right palm into Tajima’s face. Tajima twisted his mouth in disgust,

“Watching everything you do makes life feel downright fleeting,” he said bitterly. “Put that hand away. I don’t need any damn salted mullet roe. That’s horse feed.” “Told you I’d make it cheap, dumbass,” she countered, palm still thrust forward. “It’s the real stuff from Nagasaki. Stop wriggling and pay up.” She gave her whole body a shake; that demanding hand wasn’t budging an inch. The cruel irony was how Tajima actually worshipped karasumi—with that briny delicacy by his whiskey glass, he’d want for nothing else.

“I’ll take some then.”

With a look of annoyance, Tajima placed three large bills onto Kinuko’s palm. “Four more.”

Kinuko said nonchalantly. Tajima was startled, “You bastard, cut it out.” “Don’t be stingy—buy a whole bundle like you mean it.” “You’re acting like someone buying bonito flakes cut in half.” “Stingy.”

“Fine, I’ll buy a whole bundle.” Even Tajima, the smirking man, having reached this point, was genuinely enraged,

“There—one, two, three, four. This should do. Take your hand away. I’d love to see the faces of the parents who raised a shameless brat like you.” “I’d like to see them too. And then I’d give them a good smack. If you abandon them, even leeks will wilt and die, they say.” “What the hell—your life story’s boring. Lend me a glass. Now, whiskey and salted mullet roe. Yeah, there’s pine nuts too. Here, this is for you.”

Superhuman Strength (3)

Tajima gulped down the whiskey in two quick swigs from a large cup. Today of all days—having come with the ulterior motive of making Kinuko treat him—Tajima found himself instead forced to buy exorbitantly priced so-called “authentic” salted mullet roe, and what’s more, Kinuko callously chopped up the entire bundle in the blink of an eye, piled it into a mountain in a grimy bowl, then liberally doused it with substitute MSG,

“Please partake.” “The MSG is complimentary.” “Don’t trouble yourself about it.” The mountain of salted mullet roe stretched beyond edible limits. Sprinkling MSG atop it defied all culinary reason. Tajima’s face twisted in anguish. Burning seven banknotes in candleflame might’ve stung less than this piercing financial hemorrhage. Pure waste. Utter meaninglessness. With tears prickling his eyes, Tajima plucked a lone unsullied roe morsel from beneath the MSG-caked heap and nibbled it while—

“Have you ever cooked for yourself?”

he now asked timidly.

“If I tried, I could do it,” she said. “I just don’t because it’s too much trouble.” “What about laundry?” “Don’t look down on me.” She sniffed. “If anything, I’m actually a bit of a neat freak.” “A neat freak?” Tajima dazedly surveyed the desolate, stench-filled room.

“This room was filthy from the start—there’s nothing I can do about it. Plus with my line of work being what it is, there’s just no helping how cluttered it gets. Want me to show you the closet?” She stood and threw open the closet doors.

Tajima stared wide-eyed. Cleanliness and order reigned—a golden light seemed to emanate from within, accompanied by an almost tangible richness of fragrance. A chest of drawers, dressing table, trunk; atop the geta box sat three pairs of dainty little shoes—in short, this closet revealed itself as none other than the secret dressing room of the Crow-voiced Cinderella Princess.

Immediately snapping the closet shut again, Kinuko sat down a short distance from Tajima in her filthy manner, “Dressing up once a week is plenty. I don’t care about pleasing men anyway—these everyday clothes suit me just fine.” “But those work pants are excessive, aren’t they? It’s unhygienic.” “Why?” “Stinky.”

“Stinky.”

“Putting on airs won’t help.” “You always reek of booze yourself.” “A nasty smell.” “A smelly pair, I suppose.”

As he grew drunker, both the desolate state of the room and Kinuko’s beggar-like appearance ceased to bother him much, and a wicked notion began to stir—perhaps he should try executing that original plan after all. “They say couples who fight are close, huh?”

What a clumsy attempt at seduction. Yet men in such situations—even those deemed great figures or eminent scholars—employed such idiotic methods of seduction and yet often found unexpected success.

Superhuman Strength (4)

“You can hear the piano, can’t you?” He grew increasingly pretentious. Narrowing his eyes, he listened attentively to the distant radio. “You can understand music too? Though you’ve got the face of someone tone-deaf.” “You fool—you don’t know about my expertise in music.” “If it’s a masterpiece, I’d want to listen to it even once a day.”

“What’s that song?” “Chopin.” Bullshit. “Oh really? I thought it was Echigo Jishi.”

A nonsensical exchange between two tone-deaf individuals. Finding his mood stubbornly failing to improve, Tajima swiftly shifted topics. "But surely you've been in love with someone before now?" "Absurd!" "I'm not some loose woman like you." "Mind your language." "You're absolute trash."

Suddenly irritated, he gulped down more whiskey. This might already be a lost cause. But if he were to retreat now, it would compromise his honor as a ladies’ man. By all means, he had to persist and succeed. “Love and promiscuity are fundamentally different. You seem to know nothing at all. Shall I enlighten you?” He said it himself, and shuddered at his own repulsive tone. This won’t do. It’s still a bit early, but I should just pretend to be passed out drunk and go to sleep.

“Ah, I’m drunk. Drinking on an empty stomach made him terribly drunk. Mind if I crash here for a bit?”

“No way!” Her cawing voice turned into a savage roar. “Don’t mock me!” “You’re being obvious.” “If you want to stay overnight, pay ¥500,000—no, ¥1,000,000.”

Everything had failed. “There’s no reason for you to get so angry.” “I’m drunk—just thought I’d… stay here a bit…” “No. No. Get out.”

Kinuko stood up and swung the door wide open.

Driven into a corner, Tajima resorted to the clumsiest and most inept means—standing up suddenly and attempting to embrace Kinuko.

Thud! Struck on the cheek by a fist, Tajima let out a bizarre, yowling shriek. In that instant, Tajima recalled Kinuko’s superhuman strength—how she effortlessly hoisted thirty-seven and a half kilograms—and shuddered, “Forgive me! Thief!” shouting something incomprehensible, he rushed out into the hallway barefoot.

Kinuko calmly closed the door.

After a while, outside the door, “Um, about my shoes—sorry about this. ...And if you have something like a string, please. Because the temples of my glasses broke.” While his guts churned with the greatest humiliation in his history as a ladies’ man, he repaired his glasses with the red tape provided by Kinuko and looped that red tape over both ears,

“Thank you!” He shouted like a madman, descended the stairs, missed a step midway, and let out another yelp.

Cold War (1) Tajima, however, couldn’t help begrudging the capital he’d sunk into Nagai Kinuko. I’ve never made such a lousy deal. I’ve got to find some way to use her, exploit her—otherwise this whole thing’s a sham. But that freakish strength of hers, that bottomless stomach, that insatiable greed.

Spring grew warm, and various flowers began to bloom, but Tajima alone remained profoundly gloomy. After four or five days had passed since that disastrous night—once he had replaced his glasses and the swelling in his cheek subsided—he finally called Kinuko’s apartment. He had thought to try resorting to ideological warfare.

“Hello? This is Tajima. The other day, I overdid it with the drinking—ahahaha!”

“When a woman’s living alone, all sorts of things happen.” “I don’t give a damn.”

“No, I’ve given it a lot of deep thought since then, and ultimately, you see—if I break up with those women, buy a small house, bring my wife and children here from the countryside, and build a happy family—is that such a bad thing morally?”

"I can't make heads or tails of what you're saying, but seems like every man starts thinking such cheap thoughts once he's piled up enough cash." "So does that make it wrong?"

“That’s just dandy, isn’t it? You must’ve saved up a hell of a lot, huh?” “Stop going on about money all the time... It’s about morals, you see—that is, ideological matters—this issue here. What do you think?”

“I don’t think about anything.” “Not a thing about you.” “Well, that may certainly be the case, but I—this—I think it’s a good thing.” “Then that’s just fine, ain’t it?” “I’m hanging up.” “Enough of this nonsense.” “But for me, this is truly a matter of life and death.” “I believe morals must be respected after all.” “Please help me—me—please help me.” “I want to do good things.”

“No way. “You’re not thinking of pretending to be drunk again and pulling some stupid stunt, are you?” “That’s a hard pass.” “You mustn’t mock me.” “All humans have an instinct to do good deeds.” “Can I hang up now?” “You don’t have any other business, do you?” “I’ve been needing to pee this whole time—been stomping my feet here.” “Wait a moment, just a moment. “How about 3,000 yen a day?”

The ideological war abruptly transformed into a discussion of money.

“Will there be a feast?” “No, please show some mercy there.” “My income’s been rather meager lately, you see.” “Not unless it’s one stick (ten thousand yen).”

“In that case, 5,000 yen.” “Please agree to that.” “This is a matter of morals, you see.”

“I need to pee. Have some mercy already.” “Five thousand yen. I’m begging you.”

“You’re such an idiot.” A muffled chuckle could be heard. There was a sign of consent.

Cold War (II)

In that case, he resolved to exploit Kinuko to the maximum—giving her five thousand yen a day but not offering her even a crumb of bread or sip of water—working her to the bone, or it’d be a loss. Compassion was strictly forbidden—the road to his own ruin. Even after being punched by Kinuko and letting out a strange yelp, Tajima nevertheless discovered a way to turn her superhuman strength to his advantage.

Among his so-called lovers was one named Mizuhara Keiko, a Western-style painter not yet thirty and not very skilled. Having rented a two-room apartment in Denenchofu—using one as a living room and the other as a studio—Tajima found it endearing when Ms. Mizuhara, blushing and timidly requested through a painter’s referral letter that Obelisk let her draw illustrations or spot drawings or anything at all, and thus decided to gradually support her livelihood. She was gentle in manner, quiet, and a terrible crybaby. But she never resorted to vulgar, howling fits of tears. Her weeping possessed a maidenly charm that wasn’t entirely disagreeable.

However, there was just one significant drawback. She had an older brother. Having spent many years in military service in Manchuria and known as a troublemaker since childhood—a large man with a notably sturdy frame—he had felt truly disgusted when first hearing about him from Keiko. Somehow, it had been established since Faustian times that these sergeants or corporals—older brothers of lovers—were exceedingly ill-omened presences for handsome men.

The brother had recently returned from Siberia and seemed to be stubbornly entrenched in Keiko’s living room. Since Tajima hated meeting that brother, he tried to drag Keiko out somewhere—but when he called the apartment, disaster struck, “I am Keiko’s brother.”

came the forceful voice of a man who seemed brimming with strength. He was indeed there. "I'm from the magazine, but regarding Ms. Mizuhara—a brief consultation about some artwork..." His voice trembled at the edges.

“Not allowed.” “She’s caught a cold and is in bed.” “Work will be out of the question for the time being.” Bad luck. Extracting Keiko now seemed practically impossible.

However, merely fearing her brother and hesitating indefinitely to part with Keiko seemed disrespectful even to her. Moreover, with Keiko bedridden from a cold and her repatriated brother lodging there on top of that, they must surely have been struggling financially. On the contrary, now might actually be the chance. He would offer kind words of concern to the sick woman and then quietly hand over the money. The soldier brother probably wouldn’t resort to hitting me. Or perhaps he might be even more moved than Keiko and ask for a handshake or something. If by some chance he were to become violent toward me… that would be the time to take shelter behind Nagai Kinuko’s superhuman strength.

This was truly one hundred percent utilization and exploitation. “Now then, you following? I think it’ll probably be fine, but there’s this rough guy there, you see. If he raises his arm, just lightly restrain him like this. Ah, he seems like a weak guy, but...” He had come to speak to Kinuko in increasingly polite terms. (Unfinished)