Pathway to Japanese Literature

At the beginning of the Showa era, a disturbing incident occurred in a Tokyo household.

In Yotsuya Ward, at a certain address in a certain neighborhood, there lived a somewhat renowned Western-style painter named Tsurumi Senosuke.
At that time, he was already over fifty.
He was the son of a Tokyo doctor but went to France in his youth, studied Western-style painting under the master Renoir, and upon returning to Japan attained a considerable position in the Japanese art world.
His wife was from Mutsu Province.
Born into an educator’s family, each time her father was ordered to transfer posts, the entire household would relocate together, moving from place to place.
It was in the spring when she was seventeen that her father came to Tokyo promoted to principal of the German Language School.
Soon after, someone arranged matters, and she married Mr. Senosuke, who had newly returned from abroad.
They had a son and a daughter.
They were Takuji and Setsuko.
The incident occurred in midsummer when Takuji was twenty-three and Setsuko nineteen.

The incident had already been germinating three years prior—a clash between Mr. Senosuke and Takuji. Mr. Senosuke was a small-statured, refined gentleman. Though apparently quite sharp-tongued in his youth, he now maintained utter silence. He hardly spoke with family members in daily life, using his low voice only when necessary and always quietly. He seemed to dislike both speaking and hearing idle talk. He smoked cigarettes but abstained from alcohol. Atelier and travel—these alone appeared to constitute Mr. Senosuke’s spheres of existence.

Yet within certain art circles, strange whispers circulated: that Tsurumi always lived beside a safe, thereby adding a third domain to his existence. Such rumors seemed prevalent only among impoverished, dissolute painters—hysterical sneers tinged with vengeful envy—and thus could not be taken at face value. Society at large, however, held Mr. Senosuke in considerable esteem.

Takuji, unlike his father, had a large build and heavy features that gave an impression of dullness; he was excessively quick-tempered and possessed not a shred of what might be called artistic talent—from early childhood he adored dogs so intensely that during middle school he kept two fighting dogs.
He liked strong dogs.
When he grew tired of dogs, he threw himself into boxing.
After failing twice in middle school and finally graduating that spring, he violently clashed with his father.
Until then, his father had seemed almost entirely hands-off regarding Takuji.
Only Mother appeared worried about Takuji’s future.
However, this time—with Takuji’s graduation as occasion—what life course his father had hoped for him became fully exposed.
An ordinary life.
Yet one demanding excessive rigidity.
He insisted on medical school.
No other path would be permitted.
It must be medicine.
“Choose whichever medical school has lax admissions standards,” came his father’s decree through Mother’s mediation. “Take their exams twice—three times if needed—until you pass! That’s your only proper course! I won’t explain why now; you’ll understand later.”
Against this edifice stood Takuji’s own aspirations—wildly divergent.

Takuji wanted to go to Tibet.
Why he had conceived such an adventure—whether he had read something in a boy’s aviation magazine and been profoundly stirred—remained unclear, but regardless, his hope of going to Tibet had taken root as something unshakable.
The chasm between their intentions was too vast, so Mother was flustered.
Tibet was simply too abrupt a proposition.
Mother first pleaded with Takuji to abandon his thoughtless hope.
He remained unyielding.
“Going to Tibet has been my lifelong ideal—even in middle school, I focused more on physical training than studies precisely to prepare for this journey. If a man doesn’t soar down the path he believes is his highest calling, he’s no better than a corpse while alive. Mother, everyone dies someday. If I advance down the path I love, strive with all my might, and collapse halfway—that’s my true wish.” The large man trembled, hot tears streaming as he insisted. In that moment, even the boy’s pure, single-minded passion felt palpable—almost pitiable in its intensity.
Mother could only be perplexed.
By now, she felt she might as well be the one to go off to that so-called Tibet and its hundred million realms.
No matter how they tried to persuade him, Takuji would not waver from his original resolve—on the contrary, he only grew more resolute in his tragically earnest determination.
Mother was at her wit’s end.
In utter despair, she reported to Father.
But even so, she couldn’t bring herself to say “Tibet.”
“It seems he wants to go to Manchuria,” she informed Father.
Father, without changing his expression, thought for a moment.
The answer was truly unexpected.

“He should go then.”

With that, he readjusted his grip on the palette,

“Manchuria has medical schools too.”

This only made the problem more tangled and achieved nothing. Mother could no longer bring herself to correct it to Tibet. She retreated as things stood, turned to Takuji, and tried desperately to persuade him to give up Tibet and at least settle for a medical school in Manchuria—but Takuji was worlds apart. He snorted: “Manchuria? That’s where weaklings like Sōma from my class and Tatsuchan are going. Manchuria’s perfect for those losers—no mystery at all! I’m going to Tibet no matter what. I’ll be Japan’s first pioneer there—raise ten thousand sheep, and then…” He rambled on with childish fantasies. Mother cried.

Finally, it reached Father’s ears.
Father smirked and quietly declared before Takuji’s eyes.

“You’re an imbecile.”

“I don’t care what you say—I’m going.”

“Then go.”
“On foot?”

“Don’t mock me!”
Takuji lunged at his father.
This marked the beginning of filial impiety.

The Tibet expedition faded into ambiguity, but from that point onward, Takuji gradually began to reveal his fearsome qualities as a family destroyer, his sinister bearing coming to the fore.
Whether he had taken the medical school entrance exams or not—(Takuji claimed he had taken them)—and whether he was studying for the next round of exams—(Takuji insisted he was studying)—it was all utterly unreliable.
Unable to fully believe Takuji’s claims, Mother inadvertently let slip a “Really?” during dinner—only to be doused with miso soup over her head.

“That’s awful…”
It was younger sister Setsuko who laughed brightly and said this, swiftly wiping her mother’s hair with an apron and smoothing over the scene as though nothing had happened.
She was still a schoolgirl.
From around this time, Setsuko’s singular nature began to emerge.

Takuji’s monthly allowance was thirty yen, Setsuko’s fifteen—a fixed sum provided by their mother each month.
For Takuji, it could never be enough.
There were times when it vanished in a single day.
What he used it for would gradually become clear later, but initially Takuji would say, “You know damn well—there’s books I need!”
On the very day his allowance was disbursed, Takuji abruptly thrust his right hand toward Setsuko.
Setsuko nodded and placed her own ten-yen note onto her brother’s large palm.
Sometimes that alone would make him withdraw his hand, but there were times when he would still silently keep it extended.
Setsuko’s face twisted in a near-cry for an instant, but forcing a smile, she placed the remaining five-yen note onto Takuji’s palm.

“Thaaanks!”
Takuji said that.
Setsuko’s allowance left not a single sen remaining.
From that day onward, Setsuko had to manage her finances.
When she absolutely couldn’t make ends meet, there was nothing to be done—she would ask her mother, her face burning crimson.
Mother said:
“Not only Takuji, but even you—such reckless spending.”

Setsuko did not offer excuses.

“It’s all right. Next month will be fine,” she said in an innocent tone.

Back then, things were still manageable.
Setsuko’s kimonos began to disappear.
Before she knew it, they had vanished swiftly from the wardrobe.
When Setsuko first noticed that the visiting kimono—which had never once been worn—had vanished swiftly from the wardrobe, even she paled.
She asked her mother.
Mother calmly said that kimonos didn’t walk off on their own and told her to go look for them.
Setsuko started to say “But...” but fell silent.
She had seen Takuji standing in the hallway.
Her brother shot a glance at Setsuko.
It was an unpleasant feeling.
Setsuko searched the wardrobe again,

“Oh, here it is,” she said.

When they were alone, Setsuko asked her brother in a whisper.

“Did you sell them?”

“I don’t know.”
Tat-tat, ta, tat-tat-tat—he practiced tap-dance steps in the hallway. “I ain’t some guy who won’t pay you back. Just be patient. It’s only for a little while.”

“You promise?”

“Don’t make that pathetic face.”
“If you tattle, I’ll beat you up.”

He showed no sign of remorse.
Setsuko believed her brother.
The visiting kimono never returned.
Not just that kimono—two or three more vanished from the wardrobe afterward.
Setsuko was a girl.
She cherished kimonos like skin.
Each time she found another swiftly gone, she felt unbearable loneliness—as though losing a rib.
Life seemed not worth living.
But now she could only wait and believe.
She resolved to keep believing till the end.

“I don’t want you selling them.”
Even so, at times, overwhelmed by desolation, she would whisper this softly to Takuji.

“You idiot! Don’t you trust me?”

“I trust you.”

She had no choice but to trust.
For Setsuko, beyond the loneliness of losing her kimonos lay the terrifying fear of her mother discovering this truth.
There had been two or three times when she made agonizing excuses to her mother.

“There was that arrow-patterned meisen, wasn’t there? How about wearing that one?”

“It’s fine, it’s fine.”
“This will do.”
Her heart straddled life and death.
A hair’s breadth from disaster.

Setsuko was gradually coming to understand what kind of places her vanished kimonos were being taken to.
She had come to understand the existence and workings of pawnshops.
When she found herself in the predicament of absolutely having to show the kimono to her mother, she would painstakingly procure the money and hand it over to her brother.
Takuji said something like “Alright” and lumbered out of the house.
There were times when he would return immediately with kimonos in hand, and other times when he would come home drunk late at night, mutter something like “My bad,” and act completely unperturbed.
Later, Setsuko even came to go alone to pawnshops to retrieve kimonos, having learned how from her brother.
When she couldn’t procure the money no matter what, she even learned techniques like wrapping other kimonos in a cloth bundle to take there and exchange them for the necessary kimono stored in the pawnshop’s warehouse.

Takuji stole his father’s painting.
That was clearly Takuji’s doing.
The painting was a small sketch board, but it was one of Father’s recent fine works.
It was the fruit of Father’s Hokkaido trip.
He had painted approximately twenty pieces during his trip, but Mr. Senosuke had taken a particular liking to just this small snowscape among them; while he promptly handed over the other twenty or so paintings to the art dealer, he kept that single piece for himself, hanging it on the wall of his atelier.
Takuji calmly took it out.
Even at a bargain price, it should have sold for over 100 yen.

“Takuji, what happened to the painting?”

Two or three days had passed. At dinner, Father said abruptly.
He seemed to have known.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He retorted calmly.
There was not a shadow of panic in him.

“Where did you sell it? I’ll forgive you just this once.”

“Thanks for the meal.”
Takuji placed his chopsticks with a snap and bowed.
He stood up, went to the adjacent room, and sang “tochi-tiri-chin.”
Father’s face changed color as he started to rise.

“Father!”
Setsuko restrained him.
“It’s a misunderstanding! A misunderstanding!”

“A misunderstanding?”
Father looked at Setsuko.
“You knew about this?”

“Oh, no.”
She didn’t understand the specifics.
But she had pieced together the gist.
“I gave it to a friend.”
“That friend has been ill for ages.”
“So, you see…”
Her words dissolved into incoherence.

“I see.”
Of course Father recognized the lie.
Yet he relented before her desperate tone.
“Wretched boy,” he muttered to the air, resuming his meal.
Setsuko wept.
Mother kept her head bowed.

Setsuko came to understand almost everything about her brother’s lifestyle.
The brother had bad companions.
Among the many companions, there were three with whom he was particularly close.

Kazama Shichiro.

This man was a major figure.
During his exam preparation period, Takuji had been nominally enrolled in T University’s preparatory department, but Kazama Shichiro was what one might call its de facto leader.
He was already nearing thirty.
He wore suits more often than not.
With his narrow forehead, sunken eyes, and large mouth, he bore a face that radiated vigor.
Though rumored to be nephew to a Privy Councillor named Kazama, this held little credibility.
He amounted to a professional villain.
His words flowed smooth.

“Chiruchiru (Takuji Tsurumi’s nickname), why don’t you clean up your act soon?”
“It’s downright pitiful seeing Painter Tsurumi’s young master in such a state—can’t let this go on.”
“No need to hold back with us, I tell ya.”
He said pensively, with grave deliberation.

Chiruchiru could not help being stirred up.
"How cold you act! The old man stays the old man, and I stay myself—Zama-chan (Kazama Shichiro's nickname), I won't let you die alone!" he declared with such foolish bravado, swearing ever-deeper loyalty to Kazama and his gang.

Kazama barged into Takuji's home wearing a solemn expression.
He was excessively polite.
His true target was Setsuko.
Though still a schoolgirl, Setsuko stood tall with a refined beauty that contrasted sharply with her brother's features.
She brought tea to her brother's room.
Kazama flashed his snow-white teeth in a laugh and greeted her with a casual "Konchiwa."
The moment carried an oddly refreshing quality.

“You’ve got such a fine family,” he said in a voice loud enough for Setsuko retreating to the adjacent room to hear， “there’s no excuse not to study.”
“This time I’ll arrange notes for you，so you must study，” he said.
Takuji was smirking.
“I mean it!”
Kazama said sharply.

Takuji flustered,

"Yeah, well... Yeah, I'll do it," he said.

Even the obtuse Takuji was starting to catch on.
He began to display a dangerous attitude of acting as go-between for Setsuko and Kazama.
It seemed to be his idea to offer her up as tribute.
When Kazama came over, he would call Setsuko into his room without any reason and quietly slip away.
It was absurd.
He would have her send Kazama to the tram stop late at night or deliver unnecessary textbooks to Kazama’s apartment in Shinjuku.
Setsuko always obeyed her brother’s commands.
According to her brother’s account, Kazama was a wealthy young master, an academic prodigy, and a person of noble character.
She had no choice but to believe her brother’s words.
In fact, Setsuko had come to rely on Kazama.

When she went to deliver textbooks to the apartment,

“Oh, thank you.”
“Please come in and rest.”
“Let me make some coffee.”
It was an easygoing exchange.

Setsuko remained standing outside the door,

“Mr. Kazama, please help us.”
Her face had taken on a prayerful expression verging on wretchedness.

Kazama lost interest.
He decided to stop.

Another one.

Sugiura Tōma.
This was Takuji’s most troublesome friend.
However, he simply could not bring himself to break away.
Such friendships are common in life.
But few friendships are as comical and meaningless as that between Sugiura and Takuji.
Sugiura Tōma was a poor student.
He attended T University’s night school.
He was a Marxist.
Whether it was true or not remained unclear, but in any case, he himself was making some rather extraordinary claims.
It was thus that Takuji came to be marked by this Sugiura Tōma.

Takuji, who by nature was inept at theory, could only be at a loss.
But Takuji simply could not bring himself to reject Sugiura Tōma.
In the form of a frog marked by a snake, he could only lie prostrate, utterly unable to move.
It was not a very good sight.
Three causes could be considered for this matter.
A young man raised in abundance without want instinctively fears one born into extreme poverty who has stood on his own feet to handle everything.
The second factor was that Sugiura Tōma abstained completely from both alcohol and tobacco.
Takuji had, of course, indulged in alcohol and tobacco—and had already even lost his virginity.
Those who lead dissolute lives inevitably yearn for stoic ones.
And so, while resenting those leading stoic lives, they cannot refuse them; timidly and excessively belittling themselves, they drag out these listless associations.
Thirdly, he took pride in having been recognized by Sugiura Tōma.
Even though flustered and overwhelmed at having been recognized, when a noble fighter like Sugiura said to him, “Tsurumi-kun shows promise,” he couldn’t help feeling somewhat pleased inwardly.
What exactly made him promising, Takuji couldn’t comprehend, but in any case, the only friend who would seriously praise him now was this Sugiura Tōma.
If even Sugiura were to abandon him, he thought, things would become desolate indeed—and so he found himself all the more unable to break away.
Sugiura was indeed an eloquent man.
Carrying a trunk, he appeared at the entrance of Takuji’s house late at night and whispered, “It seems my circumstances have grown dangerous again. I feel someone’s tailing me—could you check around the house?”
Takuji, tense, slipped out through the garden and scanned the perimeter before whispering his report: “No signs of anything unusual.”
“I see. Thank you.
“I too may not meet you after tonight, but for me, propaganda matters more than personal danger.
“Until the very moment I’m arrested, I can’t neglect propaganda.”

He began to speak again in that low voice, without a single moment’s hesitation, his words flowing ceaselessly.
Takuji was dying for a drink.
But Sugiura’s serious attitude was somehow frightening.
He stifled a yawn and said, “Indeed, indeed.”
Sugiura sometimes stayed over.
Since he insisted that going out was dangerous, there was nothing to be done.
When leaving, he would demand ten or twenty yen, claiming it was for party funds.
When Takuji tearfully handed over the money, Sugiura would say “Danke” and leave.

There was yet another truly peculiar friend.

Arihara Shūsaku.
He was slightly over thirty years old.
He was said to be an up-and-coming writer.
It wasn’t a name one heard often, but in any case, he was said to be an up-and-coming writer.
Takuji called this Arihara “Sir.”
He had come to know him through an introduction from Kazama Shichiro.
Because Kazama and the others had been calling Arihara “Sir,” Takuji had simply followed suit and done the same.
To Takuji, matters of the literary world were utterly incomprehensible.
Since Kazama and the others seemed to regard Arihara as a genius worthy of respect, Takuji too treated Arihara as a special being from an entirely different class.
Arihara had an unnervingly beautiful face.
His physique was also slender and dignified.
There were times when he wore light makeup.
He would drink any amount of alcohol yet feigned indifference toward women.
What kind of life he led remained unclear; his address seemed to change constantly, never settling in one place.
This man, for some reason, kept Takuji tethered to his side and would not let go.
It bore a striking resemblance to the image of a king keeping a black sumo wrestler as a diversion for his idle moments.

“Chiruchiru, do you know the Pythagorean theorem?”

“I don’t know.”
Takuji looked slightly dejected.

“You do know it. It’s just that you can’t put it into words.”

“That’s right.”
Takuji felt relieved.

“Right? All theorems are like that.”

“Is that so?”
He laughed obsequiously and gazed up admiringly at Arihara’s beautiful face.

It was also this guy who issued an overwhelming command to Takuji and made him steal Mr. Senosuke’s paintings.
It was also this guy who took Takuji to Honmoku and left him stranded.
While Takuji was sound asleep, Arihara promptly went home alone.

The next day, Takuji had great difficulty settling the bill. To make matters worse, from that single night he contracted a persistent illness. Try as he might to forget it, he couldn't. Yet Takuji couldn't bring himself to break away from Arihara. Arihara harbored a peculiar sort of pride and never visited other people's homes. He would usually summon Takuji by phone.

“I’ll be waiting at Shinjuku Station.”

“Yes.”
“I’ll come right away.”
He ended up going out after all.

Takuji’s expenses kept mounting.
Finally, he even resorted to stealing the savings of Matsuya, the housemaid.
In a corner of the kitchen, Matsuya reported this to Miss Setsuko.
Setsuko doubted her own ears.

“What are you saying?”
Instead, she wanted to strike Matsuya.
“My brother isn’t that kind of person.”

“Yes.”
Matsuya wore a strange smile.
She was over twenty.

“The money doesn’t matter, but the promise—”

“Promise?”
For some reason, her body began to tremble.

“Yes.”
She whispered and lowered her eyes.

She shuddered.

“Matsuya, I’m scared.”
Setsuko stood trembling and burst into tears.

Matsuya gazed at her with pity,
“There’s nothing to worry about.”
“Matsuya won’t tell the master or mistress.”
“Please keep this to yourself, Miss.”

Matsuya too had been a victim.
What had been stolen wasn’t just savings.

Even Takuji must have been suffering.
But this little tyrant knew nothing of apology.
To apologize, he seemed to think, was rather an act of great cowardice.
Whenever he messed up himself, he would instead fly into a rage.
And thus, it was always Setsuko who bore the brunt of his anger.

One day, Takuji was summoned to his father’s atelier.

“I beg you!”
Mr. Senosuke was breathing roughly. “Don’t take my paintings!”

From among the failed paintings piled high in the corner of the atelier, Takuji had been selecting those that were relatively complete and taking out two or three at a time.

“Do you know what kind of person I am?”
Lately, Father had begun speaking to his own son Takuji in an oddly formal manner.
“I regard myself as a first-rate artist.
“Do you know what would happen if even one of those failed paintings were to reach the market?
“I am an artist.
“My name is precious to me.
“I beg you.
“Enough already! Stop this!”
Mr. Senosuke’s face, as he spoke with a trembling voice, looked like a cold blue demon.
Even Takuji’s body froze.

“I won’t do it again.”
He hung his head and let tears fall.

“There are things I don’t wish to say, but I must.”
Father returned to a quiet tone, stood up gently, and opened the large window of the atelier.

It was already early summer.
“What will you do about Matsuya?”

Takuji was astonished.
He could only stare at his father with his small eyes wide open, and no words came out.

“Return the money,”
“I will dismiss her,” Father said while gazing at the fresh greenery in the garden.
“I hear you’ve made a marriage promise,”
He smiled faintly and said, “Surely you didn’t seriously intend to keep that promise?”

“Who said it!”
“Who!”
Abruptly, Takuji let out a voice like a rasping metal file.
“Damn it!”
He kicked the floor with a thud and said, “Setsuko, right?
“That traitor! Damn her!”

When shame reached its peak, Takuji would always fly into a rage as if gone mad.
The one who ended up being scolded was invariably Setsuko.
He flew out of the atelier like the wind—damn it!
Damn it!
He kept cursing “Damn it!” as he searched for Setsuko, found her in the tearoom, and savagely beat her.

“I’m sorry, Brother. I’m sorry.”
It was not Setsuko who had informed on him.
Father had uncovered everything himself.

“You’re mocking me with that contempt!”
“Goddamn you!”
He dragged her about, kicked her to the floor, then began sniveling himself. “Don’t look down on me!”
“Don’t you dare look down on me!”
“Even if I look like this—not once have I let anyone treat me!”
He spat out this bizarre boast.
That never having made others pay for his revelries constituted this man’s sole desperate pride—a wretched truth indeed.

Matsuya was dismissed.
Takuji’s position became increasingly precarious.
Takuji was almost never at home.
It was no longer unusual for him not to return home even for two or three nights.
He was detained by the police twice for mahjong gambling.
He would occasionally get into fights and return home with his clothes stained with blood.
As soon as he saw that there were no notable kimonos left in Setsuko’s chest of drawers, he proceeded to sell off every last one of Mother’s small accessories.
He had taken Father’s seal and, before anyone knew it, borrowed money using the house telephone as collateral.
At the end of each month, rather high bills from nearby soba shops, sushi restaurants, and small eateries would arrive.
The family atmosphere grew increasingly hostile.
There was no way this family could return to peace as things were.
An incident had become unavoidable.

In midsummer, in Tokyo’s suburbs, at Inokashira Park, it occurred.
The events of that day must be recorded in some detail.

Early in the morning, a call came to Setsuko.
Setsuko felt a flicker of foreboding.

“Is this Miss Setsuko?”
It was a woman’s voice.

“Yes.”
She let out a slight sigh of relief.

“Please wait a moment.”

“Ah.”
She grew anxious again.

After a while,

“Setsuko?” came a man’s gruff voice.

It was indeed Takuji.
Takuji had left home about three days prior and had not returned since.

“Is it okay if Brother goes to jail?”
He suddenly said such a thing.
“Five years in prison.”
“I’m really in a bind this time.”
“Please.”
“If I had two hundred yen, I’d be saved.”
“I’ll explain the reason later.”
“Brother has reformed too.”
“It’s true.”
“Brother’s reformed! Brother’s reformed!”
“This is my final wish.”
“This is the wish of a lifetime.”
“If I had two hundred yen, I’d be saved.”
“Do whatever it takes to bring it to me today.”
“I’m at a place called Hotei in Gotenyama—um—in Inokashira Park.”
“You’ll find it right away.”
“If you can’t get two hundred yen—a hundred yen—no—seventy yen—just get it by today. Please.”
“I’ll be waiting.”

“Brother might die.”
He seemed drunk, yet his voice carried desperate sincerity.
Setsuko shuddered.

Two hundred yen.
There was no way she could manage it.
But she wanted to somehow come up with it.
She wanted to trust her brother one more time.
Brother had said this would be the last time.
Brother might die.
Brother was a pitiable person.
He was not evil to the core.
He was being dragged down by bad companions.
I want to believe in Brother once more.

She checked the dresser, stuck her head into the closet and searched, but there was not a single item left that could be turned into money.
Driven to desperation, she confided in Mother and pleaded.

Mother was astonished.
Pushing aside Setsuko who tried to restrain her, like one who had lost all reason, she screamed "Ahhh!" while rushing into Father's atelier and dropped heavily onto the wooden floor.
Father, the painter, threw down his brush and rose.

“What is it?”

Though stuttering, Mother conveyed every detail of the phone call.
Having finished listening, Father squatted down, picked up his paintbrush, and sat back down before the canvas,

“You’re all fools too.
“That man’s affairs should be left for that man alone to deal with.
“A prison sentence? That’s a lie.”

Mother exited with her face lowered.

An oppressive silence filled the house until evening.
The phone never rang again after that.
For Setsuko, this only deepened her anxiety.
Unable to bear it any longer, she spoke to her mother.

“Mother!”
Though it was a small voice, that call pierced Mother’s chest.

Mother began to pace restlessly.

“He said he’d reformed, didn’t he?”
“He did say he’d reform, didn’t he?”

Mother handed Setsuko a neatly folded hundred-yen bill.

“Go.”

Setsuko nodded and began preparing.
Setsuko had graduated from girls’ school that spring.
She put on a plain dress, applied a little makeup, and slipped out of the house.

Inokashira.
The sun was already beginning to set.
Upon entering the park, the drone of cicadas fell like rain.
Gotenyama.
Hotei was immediately apparent.
It was a house that combined a restaurant and an inn, surrounded by old cedars, with an aged yet imposing structure.
To the maid who emerged, she said without faltering, “Is Tsurumi here? Please inform him that his sister has come.”
Soon, clattering footsteps sounded in the corridor,

“Ah, bullseye indeed, bullseye indeed.”
Takuji’s loud voice could be heard.
He seemed terribly drunk.
“If I must confess, she’s no sister.”
“She’s a lover.”
It was a tasteless joke.

Setsuko found it despicable.
She considered going home right then.

Dressed in a tank top and underwear and leaning on the maid’s shoulder, Takuji appeared at the entrance.

“Hey there, my lover.”
“I’ve missed you.”
“Come on, now.”
“Come on, already.”

What a clumsy, overbearing act this was.
Setsuko flushed red and laughed in spite of herself.
As she removed her shoes, she felt overwhelmed with sadness.
It suddenly occurred to her that she might have been deceived by her brother yet again.

But while walking side by side down the corridor,

“Did you bring it?” he whispered, and she immediately handed over the usual bill.
“Just one?”
His expression turned ferocious.
“Yes.”
She wanted to cry out loud.

“Can’t be helped.”
Letting out a deep sigh, he said, “Well, we’ll manage something.”
“Setsuko, take your time today.”
“You can stay over if you want.”
“I’m lonely.”

Takuji’s room was utter chaos.
In the corner was a single man.
Setsuko froze.

“A young lady’s come calling. My beloved,” Takuji told the man.

“That’s your sister, isn’t it?”
The man had sharp instincts.
It was Arihara.
“I should take my leave.”

“What’s the problem? Have another beer.”
“Have another beer.”
“What’s the problem?”
“We’re flush with funds.”
“Ah, pardon me a moment.”
Takuji vanished while still clutching the usual banknote in his right hand.

Setsuko sat rigidly against the wall.
She needed to know.
She’d resolved not to leave until hearing exactly what dangerous situation her brother had gotten himself into.
Arihara kept ignoring Setsuko as he drank his beer in silence.

“Something...”
Setsuko steeled herself and asked.
“Has something happened?”

“Huh?”
He turned around and said, “I don’t know.”
He remained composed.

After a while,

“Oh, is that so?”
Nodding, he said, “Come to think of it, Chiruchiru seems a bit off today.
“I truly don’t understand anything.”
“This house is a place we often come to hang out, but when I happened to stop by here earlier, he was already alone and completely drunk.”
“It seems he’s been staying here since two or three days ago.”
“My being here today was entirely coincidental.”
“I truly know nothing at all.”
“But there seems to be something.”
Without so much as a smile, he spoke with such calm composure that his words carried no trace of falsehood.

“Hey, my apologies, my apologies.”
Takuji returned.
Seeing the customary bill was no longer in his right hand, Setsuko felt she had grasped something.

“Brother!”
She couldn’t muster a composed expression.
“I’m leaving.”

“Shall we go for a walk?”
Arihara stood up with a composed face.

It was a moonlit night.
A half-waned moon hung in the eastern sky.
A thin mist filled the cedar forest.
The three of them walked, threading their way beneath it.
Takuji, still clad in nothing but a tank top and shorts, muttered about how moonlit nights were boring—whether it was dawn, evening, or midnight, he couldn’t tell—and then bellowed out *The Willows of Ginza Long Ago* in a ragged shout.
Arihara and Setsuko silently followed along.
Arihara, too, that night did not mock Takuji as he usually would and walked along lost in thought.

From behind an old cedar, a small figure clad in a white summer kimono abruptly appeared.

“Ah, Father!”
Setsuko trembled.

“Huh.”
Takuji growled.

“Just taking a walk.”
Father said with a slight smile.
Then, nodding slightly toward Arihara, he continued, “We used to come here often to play in the old days. I came for a walk after a long time, but it doesn’t seem to have changed much from then.”

Yet the air remained strained.
Without further words, the four began wandering aimlessly at a sluggish pace.
They reached the pond’s edge.
The water level had risen from rains days before.
The surface shone black like coal tar, not a single ripple disturbing its perfect stillness.
A lone boat lay abandoned on the shore.

“Let’s get in!”
Takuji shouted.
It resembled a facade of bravado.
“Sir, let’s get in!”

“No thanks.”
Arihara refused in a subdued voice.

“All right then, I’ll go alone,” he said with unsteady steps as he climbed into the boat. “There are oars here too.”
“I’ll circle around the pond and come right back.”
There was no turning back now.

“I’ll get in too.”
Onto the boat that had begun to move, Father leapt nimbly.

“It’s an honor,” Takuji said, striking the water’s surface with his oar in a wet slap.
The boat slipped cleanly away from shore.
Another splash of wood against water.
The skiff slid silkily forward, disappearing into the shadowed darkness behind the islet.
“Daddy’s safe ’n sound, eh? Mama too-ooh!”
Takuji’s drunken warble carried across the water.

Setsuko and Arihara stood side by side, staring at the water’s surface.

“Once again, I feel as though Brother has deceived me.”
“If we speak of seven times seventy—”

“Four hundred and ninety times.”
Arihara abruptly continued.
“First comes five hundred.”
“I must offer apologies.”
“We too were wrong.”
“We treated Tsurumi-kun as our plaything.”
“Friendship without mutual respect is criminal.”
“I believe I can make this vow.”
“I will remake Tsurumi-kun into a proper brother and restore him to you.”

It was permissible to believe him; his tone had been deathly earnest.

With a splash of an oar, the boat emerged from behind the small island.
In the boat was Father alone; it slid smoothly over the water’s surface and thudded against the shore.

“Brother?”

“He got off at the bridge.”
“Seems dreadfully drunk.”
Father said quietly and stepped ashore.
“Let’s go home.”

Setsuko nodded.

The next morning, Takuji’s corpse was discovered between the bridge’s stakes.

Takuji’s father, mother, and sister all underwent questioning.
Arihara was also summoned as a witness.
Whether Takuji’s death was due to a drunken fall or suicide—in any case—the incident appeared headed for an easy resolution.
But just as matters seemed settled, the insurance company thrust in a spear.
They applied for a reinvestigation of the case.
Two years prior, Takuji had taken out a life insurance policy.
The beneficiary was Mr. Senosuke—and the amount exceeded twenty thousand yen.
This fact rendered Mr. Senosuke’s position gravely disadvantageous.

The Public Prosecutor’s Office commenced a reinvestigation.
The public uniformly believed in Mr. Senosuke’s innocence, and the authorities themselves seemed unable to conceive that a man of Mr. Tsurumi Senosuke’s stature would commit such a foolish, lawless crime. Yet due to the insurance company’s exceptionally unyielding stance, they nevertheless launched another meticulous investigation.

Father, Mother, sister, and Arihara were all summoned again and this time detained by the police.
As the investigation progressed, Matsuya was also summoned.
Kazama Shichiro was arrested along with his numerous underlings.
Sugiura Tōma was also arrested in front of T University’s main gate.
Mr. Senosuke’s testimony began to falter.
The incident had grown unexpectedly complex and dreadful.
However, recounting this unpleasant incident’s entire course was not the author’s original intent.
The author had only wanted to convey to readers the following mysterious words of a certain girl.

Setsuko was released first, before anyone else.
The prosecutor said in a somber tone upon parting.

“Take care of yourself.”
“Even a bad brother—when he dies like that, familial bonds still matter. You must be grieving too, but take heart.”

The girl looked up and answered.
Those words must have made even Jehovah pause in contemplation.
Of course, even in world literature, it was an utterance of a kind that had never before appeared.

“No,” answered the girl, lifting her gaze.
“Because Brother died, we became happy.”