Pathway to Japanese Literature

The prologue records the period before actress Takano Sachiyo became an actress.

It was a story from the past.
Sutezuki Otohiko entered a secondhand store and said, "Do you have a black, plain haori?"

“If it’s serge, we do have one.”

October 20, 1930. The leaves of Tokyo's street trees were beginning to scatter in the wind.

"Wouldn't a serge one still be inappropriate?"

"Even once it grows much colder, a black plain one would not be inappropriate."

"Alright. Show me."

“Would this be for your own wear, sir?”
He wore his square cap tilted back at a rakish angle and a student uniform with frayed cuffs.

"That's right."
Slipping the offered serge haori over his student uniform, he asked, "Isn't it too short?"
He was a lanky, slender university student of about five feet seven inches.

“A serge haori should actually be a bit on the shorter side.”

“Chic?”
“How much?”

He bought the haori.
With this, all preparations were complete.

A few hours later, Sutezuki Otohiko stood before the Imperial Hotel in Uchisaiwaicho.
He stood wearing a mouse-gray lined kimono with fine stripes and the black plain serge haori.
He pushed open the door and entered inside,
“Could I rent a room?”
“Ah, would you be staying with us?”
“That’s right.”

He decided to rent a single-bed room with a bathroom for two nights. His belongings consisted of a single rattan walking stick. He was led to the room. Upon entering, he immediately opened the window. It was a backyard. A large chimney, like those of crematoriums, stood there. The sky was overcast. He could see the government railway overpass.

With his back turned to the bellboy, he continued gazing out the window,

“Coffee, and then—”
He started to speak, then remained silent for a while.
Whirling around to face the bellboy, he said, “Well, never mind.”
“I’ll go out and eat.”

“Ah, you.”
Otohiko called out to stop him. “I’ll be in your care for two nights.”
He took out a ten-yen note and pressed it into his hand.

“Huh?”
The bellboy, nearing forty, was slightly stooped yet carried an air of refinement.

Otohiko laughed. "I'll be in your care."

"Thank you."
The bellboy flashed a perfunctory smile across his refined, mask-like face and bowed.

Just like that, Otohiko went out. He swung his walking stick and strolled aimlessly toward Hibiya. It was twilight. It was chilly. In unfamiliar felt zori, he seemed to walk with difficulty. Hibiya. Sukiyabashi. Owaricho.

This time, he dragged his walking stick along as he walked through Ginza. He saw nothing. With a vacant gaze as if staring at the horizon, he strolled aimlessly. Like a leaf snatched by the wind, he staggered and entered Shiseido Parlor. Inside Shiseido Parlor, the lights were already lit, and it was faintly warm. He drank the hot coffee slowly. He ate two pieces of sandwich and stopped. He exited Shiseido Parlor.

The day grew dark.

This time, he shouldered his walking stick and strolled aimlessly.
He abruptly stopped by a bar.

“Welcome.”

He sat down on the sofa in the corner. He let out a deep sigh, then covered his face with both hands, but suddenly regained his composure and raised his face properly,

“Whisky,” he murmured softly, then gave a faint smile.

“About the whisky—”

“Anything’s fine. The regular kind is fine.”

He drank six glasses in succession.

“You’re quite the drinker, aren’t you.”

Women were sitting on both sides.

“I see.”

Otohiko turned slightly pale and then said nothing.

The women looked at a loss for something to do.

“I’m leaving. How much?”

“Wait.”
The bob-haired woman who had been sitting on the left lightly pressed Otohiko’s knee.
“This is troublesome. It’s raining.”

“Rain.”

“Yes.”

There exists in this world that strange moment when men and women who have just met—complete strangers—transcend all wariness, shyness, and poses to engage in vague conversation.

“Oh dear. Whenever I put on this half-collar and come to work, it always rains.”

A glance revealed an old-fashioned half-collar of pale yellow crepe, embroidered with silver-threaded miscanthus arranged like a formation of wild geese.

“I wish it would clear up.”
Gradually, their poses began to return.

“Yeah. Those zori must be difficult.”

“Alright. Let’s drink.”

That night, the two of them stayed at the Imperial Hotel.

In the morning, the middle-aged bellboy quietly entered the room, halted abruptly, then smiled serenely.

Otohiko also smiled,

“The bath—”

“Please feel free.”

After exiting the bath, Takano Sachiyo had healthy, wheat-colored cheeks.
Otohiko made a phone call somewhere.
It was a phone call telling him to come immediately.

At last, the door swung open forcefully, and a young man in a suit appeared with a smile like a flower—one that seemed to suddenly brighten the entire room.

“Oto-chan, you’re such a fool.”
He looked at Sachiyo and said, “Hello there.”

“That—”

“Ah.
“I’ve brought it.”
He took out a black box from his inner pocket and said, “If you all drink this, you’ll die.”

“I can’t sleep, you see.”
Otohiko smiled hideously.

“There are better drugs available, though.”

“Take today off.”
The young man worked at a certain university’s medical department research laboratory.
“Shall we go out?”

The young man exchanged glances with Sachiyo and laughed.

“I did take the day off after all.”

The three of them left the hotel, hailed a car, and went to Asakusa.
They watched a revue.
Otohiko sat slightly apart.

“Hey,” Sachiyo whispered to the young man.
“Is that person always so quiet?”

The young man laughed cheerfully.
"Well, today seems to be special."
"But I like him."

The young man blushed.

“Are you a novelist?”

“No.”

“Painter?”

“No.”

“I see.”
Sachiyo nodded to herself.
Adjusting her red scarf, she buried her chin.

They watched the revue, then walked outside, and the three of them entered a bar.
In the quiet tatami room, they gathered around the table and drank sake.
The three of them were like blood siblings.

“I’ll be going away on a trip for a while,”
Otohiko said to the young man in a tone so gentle it made Sachiyo think, Oh?
“You mustn’t cling to me anymore.
“You are a man who must rise in the world.
“Filial piety alone can be a noble purpose for living.
“People can’t possibly manage so many things—this and that.
“Endure, endure—if you live modestly enough, there are no demons in the world you pass through.
“You must believe that.”

“Today is…”
The young man’s beautiful face twisted into a tearful pout. “It’s strange.”

“No.”
Otohiko also shook his head childishly. “That’s how it should be.
Don’t you dare imitate someone like me.
You’re the kind of person who should hold your own pride much higher.
You’re worthy of that.”

Nineteen-year-old Sachiyo respectfully filled the young man’s cup to the brim with sake.

“Well, let’s go.
This is goodbye.”

They parted in front of that traditional Japanese restaurant.
The young man stood forlornly in the autumn wind with his hands thrust into his trousers, watching the two of them depart.

When they were finally alone,

“You’re going to die, aren’t you.”

“You knew?”
Otohiko smiled faintly.

“Yes. I’m so unfortunate.”
Just when I thought I’d finally found him, this person was already no longer of this world.

“Can I say something foolish?”

“What is it?”

“Won’t you stay alive?”
“I’ll do anything.”
“I’ll endure any hardship.”

“It can’t be done.”

“I see.”
I’ll die with this person.
I had tasted happiness for one night.
“I said something foolish, didn’t I.”
“Do you despise me?”

“I respect you.” He answered slowly, tears glistening in Otohiko’s eyes.

That night, the two of them took poison in their room at the Imperial Hotel.
The two of them remained sitting neatly side by side on the sofa and grew cold.
Late at night, a middle-aged bellboy discovered them.
He had anticipated it.

Calmly slipping out of the room, he roused the manager with a gentle shake.
All was handled with solemn discretion.
The hotel lay hushed in slumber until dawn.
Sutezuki Otohiko had ceased to breathe.

The woman lived.

☆

Takano Sachiyo was born in the mountains of Ōu.
The good blood of her ancestors flowed.
Her great-grandfather had been a doctor.
Her grandfather was one of the Byakkotai who died young.
That younger sister had inherited the family headship.
She was Sachiyo’s mother.
She was a dignified woman without expression.
She had adopted an heir.
He had been an art teacher at a girls' school.
He was the second son of a sake brewer from the neighboring town twenty miles beyond the mountain pass.
He was weak in both body and spirit.
The Takano family had owned some land.
Even after quitting his position at the girls' school, they had managed their livelihood.
He would wander the mountains with a dog and shouldered gun.
He wanted to paint well.
He wanted to become a proper painter.
That craving scorched the lining of his chest, yet timidly he remained silent.

Takano Sachiyo grew up in the mountain mist and echoes of trees.
She liked walking through the depths of the valley mist.
The depths of the ocean floor must surely be like this, she thought.

The year Sachiyo graduated from elementary school, her father resumed his position at the girls' school in the neighboring town.
It was to obtain Sachiyo's tuition.
Sachiyo took the entrance exam for the girls' school where her father worked and passed.
At first, Sachiyo and her father lodged at his family home and commuted to school together every morning, but when his relatives proposed that this arrangement might appear unbecoming for an educator, her timid father readily agreed without protest, and Sachiyo was placed in the girls' school dormitory.
Her mother remained alone in the mountain house and lived there.
By the girl students, Sachiyo's father was called Uri and was not particularly respected.
Sachiyo was called Eggplant.
Thus Eggplant had become grafted to Gourd's vine, as it were.
In truth, Sachiyo was dark-skinned.
Even she herself believed she was horribly plain.
Because I'm ugly, I thought desperately, I must at least cultivate good character.
She always served as class president.
All her scores were ninety or above except in art.
In art she scored sixty points, occasionally seventy-three.
These were the marks given by her timid father.

In the autumn of her fourth year, her father gave her an "Excellent" grade for her cosmos sketch—a rare occurrence.
Sachiyo was puzzled.
When she turned over the charcoal paper, she found his small handwriting in the corner: "A woman must be gentle. Human beings must not torment the weak."
She gasped.

And then Father vanished as if disappearing into thin air.
Some said he had fled to Tokyo to study art; others claimed something had happened between him and Mother—no, between her family and Mother—no, that the teacher had taken up with another woman; all manner of whispers slithered into Sachiyo’s ears.
Soon Mother killed herself.
She fired Father’s hunting rifle into her throat and died instantly.
The wound gaped like a split pomegranate.

Sachiyo was left alone.
Her father’s family home took on the protection of Sachiyo’s person and property.
The moment she left the girls' school dormitory and returned to her father's family home, Sachiyo transformed completely.

It was the mystery unique to seventeen-year-olds.

On her way home from school, she stopped by the station on a whim, bought a ticket to Ueno, and boarded the train still in her sailor uniform.
Tokyo lay in wait for Sachiyo.
No sooner had Tokyo taken Sachiyo in than it sneered and crushed her.
Like a discarded tissue, Sachiyo drifted about and grew exhausted.
Two years she lived.
She was exhausted.
Resolved to meet her end, she had become so utterly desperate that she would go out to work at the shop wearing her mother’s sole memento—an old, old half-collar—without a trace of shame, when Sutezuki Otohiko appeared there.

When she first swam back to consciousness, she seemed to have been cradled tightly in a man’s arms. She felt she had clung desperately to those arms and wailed at the top of her lungs—great heaving sobs that shook her body. The man too had unmistakably wept with her, his breath hitching in shared anguish. “You must live on strongly,” he said. His identity remained unclear. Surely it couldn’t have been Father. Could it have been that young man she’d parted from in Asakusa? Either way, it was no more than a memory shrouded in mist.

When she fully regained consciousness, she found herself in a hospital.
"You at least must live strongly!"
The voice suddenly resurfaced in her ears—ah—she coldly nodded in solitary agreement: he was dead.
Witnessing the misfortune of my entire life still stuck as clumsily as iron—I would always settle into an eerie calm, thinking to myself, "This is how it is."

Eventually, she learned that two uniformed policemen were standing guard outside the door.
“What were they planning to do?”
Just as she felt an ominous premonition with a chill, six gentlemen in suits clattered into Sachiyo’s hospital room.

“I hear Sutezuki made a call from the hotel.”

“Yes.”
She answered with a piteous smile.

“You know who he called, don’t you?”

She nodded.

“Who was it?”

“He was a young person.”

“The name.”

“I don’t know.”

The gentlemen’s hushed whispers filled the room.

“Well, fine. You’ll need to come with us to the Metropolitan Police Headquarters right away. It’s not as though you can’t walk.”

When she was put into the car and looked out the window at the streets, people were walking with shoulders hunched against the cold, seeming busy.
Ah, there are so many people alive, she thought.

After being put into the detention cell, she was left alone for three days.
On the morning of the fourth day, she was summoned to an interrogation room,

“Well, you really don’t know anything at all.”
“Ridiculous.”
“You may go home.”

“Ah.”

“You may go home now.”
“From now on, be careful.”
“Live properly.”

When she staggered out of the interrogation room, that young man was standing in the dark hallway.

Sachiyo started to smile slightly, burst into tears, and threw herself into the young man’s chest.

“Let’s go home.”
“I have no idea what any of this is about.”

This was the person.
The dim memories from that time of coma had come flooding back.
At that time, I had been held firmly by this person.
She nodded and abruptly pulled away from the young man’s chest.

They went outside, and the sunlight was blinding.
The two of them walked silently along the moat.

“I don’t know how to say it,”
The young man lit a cigarette.
He shook his head lightly and said, “Anyway, I was shocked.”
He was clearly agitated.

“I’m sorry.”

“No—it’s not about that.”
"No—well, that was hard enough, but more than that—Oto-chan—no, Mr. Sutezuki—you don’t know anything about him either, do you?"

“I know.”

“Hm?”

“About his passing,”
She started to speak, but tears streamed down her cheeks.

“That’s not what this is about.”
The young man solemnly tightened his lips and stared straight ahead.
"That would be a terrible blow for me—no, for you as well—but—"
He discarded the cigarette.
“Rather than that, there’s something else—Mr. Sutezuki, you know, seems to have done something terrible."
"The matter involving you hasn’t been published in the newspapers yet."
“It’s apparently what they call a press injunction."
"They investigated you and me quite thoroughly at the police station."
“I really went through hell."
“That was thoroughly investigated."
“After all, I hear you only met him for the first time two days before that, and as for me, I’m related to Mr. Sutezuki—we played together since we were little, and I loved Oto-chan—”
He trailed off for a moment.
He barely managed to suppress the sob that welled up like a gust of wind.
“Finally, they’ve realized we truly knew nothing at all, so we’re being released for now."
"For now, that’s how it stands."
“From now on, it seems they’ll summon us whenever anything happens, so please be prepared for that.”
“Your body hasn’t fully recovered yet, and I’ve taken responsibility for your custody.”

“I’m sorry.”
She apologized again in a voice that seemed ready to vanish.

“No.
“As for me, it doesn’t matter at all, but—”
As he went on talking, the young man vividly recalled the anguish he had endured over the past week and, despite himself, grew somewhat sullen. “What will you do now? Will you come to my boarding house?
“Or else——”

The two of them had already reached the front of the Imperial Theatre.

“I’ll return to Irifunecho.”
In a back alley of Irifunecho, Sachiyo had rented a room on the second floor of the hairdresser’s.

“Ah, I see,” the young man said in a businesslike manner.
He was growing increasingly sullen.
“I’ll see you home.”

They hailed a taxi and got in.

“Can you stay alone?”

Sachiyo did not answer.

At the young man’s carefree question, she felt an uncanny humiliation, and a different kind of tears—tears of frustration—welled up fiercely, yet she composed herself and smiled mournfully.
This person knew nothing at all.
He had no idea how miserable and painful our lives were—this young master didn’t understand a thing.
When she thought this, her smile froze in place and twisted into a demon’s grin in moments.

☆

Men are a dime a dozen.
I wanted to snap back like that.
A woman who feels ashamed of her ugliness yet gets called beautiful—that’s a wretched being.
Frightened by the wind’s howl and cranes’ cries, threatened by them, she’d have to keep fighting this absurd guilt her whole life.
Takano Sachiyo wasn’t beautiful.
Yet men grew frenzied.
The devil’s whisper—that one could control even spiritual women, even women who were religions incarnate, through their flesh—often turned men into fools.
In those days Tokyo harbored a weary lechery among certain men: undressing the Mona Lisa, pondering Masaoka’s husband, reducing Jeanne d’Arc and Ichiyo to mere female flesh.
Wasn’t such polar lust what they called nihility?
And in nihility, there’s neither shallow nor deep.
That much was certain.
It was shallow.
Around Sachiyo swarmed countless men.
That this solitary woman at the center of their pallid cockroach ring should live stubbornly dreaming of some midday flame’s realization—this was wretchedness itself.

“What do you think?”
“Are all people just the same, I wonder?”
After some consideration, she ventured.
“I think each and every person is different, though.”

“Psychological?”
“Physical constitution?”
The young medical researcher countered with a solemn expression, as if facing a school examination.

“No．I’m not putting on airs．I just tried acting a bit fancy．” She laughed shrilly，so unlike someone who had been crying just moments before．Her teeth shone like ice and were beautiful．

Crossing that bridge would bring one to Irifunecho.

“Won’t you come in?”
I’m a bar hostess.

When she entered the room, Zenkōji Sukehachi was sitting cross-legged in the middle of it.
Exchanging glances with the young man, Zenkōji instantly smiled obsequiously and—

“You must’ve been shocked too, eh?
“I’d just about had my legs give out from shock.
“Miss Sachiyo here, see, she’s always pulling off these stunts without batting an eye—no wonder I’m worn to the bone.
“When word reached our office and they dashed to the hospital, this doctor here was bawling his eyes out, right?
“Makes no damn sense.
“Then bam—a suppression order from the Metropolitan Police, killing the article.
“You knew, didn’tcha?
“Sutezuki Otohiko—he ain’t just some rat, see?
“Black Terror.
“They went and hit a bank.”

The young man who had been standing despondently in the corner of the room asked, “Are you certain?” He turned pale.

“I imagine the article will be cleared for publication in five or six days,” replied Zenkōji, who worked at a newspaper company.

Sachiyo quietly opened the window curtains.
In the hospital, I had wept in Zenkōji Sukehachi’s arms.

“When did you arrive?”
Her tone was cold.

“Me?”
His round face—the spitting image of the late Baron Ōkura Kihachirō—flushed and blushed like a child’s.
“Just a short while ago.
When I called the Metropolitan Police early this morning, they informed me you’d be released, so I just came here to check on you.
The landlady downstairs was worried about you, y’know.
While you were out, detectives came again and again, ransacking this room, I hear.
I smoothed things over with the landlady for you.
Oh, do sit down.”
With a smile, he gently looked up at Sachiyo’s face. “That’s good. You’re safe after all—” his voice choked with tears.

Sachiyo placed one hand on the desk and sank into a seat,

“I’m not fine.”
“Don’t you have any cigarettes?”
“Well, well, I suddenly want a cigarette when I see your face, don’t I?”

“That’s your idea of a greeting?”
Still, Sukehachi looked absurdly pleased.

“I’ll take my leave.”
The young man had been leaning lightly against the sliding door since earlier and remained standing rigidly.

“Oh?” Sachiyo looked up at the young man with a blank expression and softly exhaled cigarette smoke.

“Take care of yourself.”
“I’ve taken responsibility for you.”
“For Mr. Sutezuki’s sake too, stay strong.”
“I believe in Oto-chan.”
“No matter what happens, I’ll support Oto-chan.”
“I’ll come again soon.”

“Thank you for today.”
She said in a frivolous tone, lowered face and gently bit lower lip.

She did not even attempt to stand to see the young man off, keeping face lowered and remaining still.

After the sound of the young man’s footsteps descending the stairs had faded away, she abruptly raised her face,

“Sukehachi.”
“I am with you.”
“I won’t leave you. No matter what happens.”

“Cut it out.”
Sukehachi said with an uncharacteristically stern expression.
“I’m not that much of a fool.”
He abruptly stood up and went after the young man.

“You, you there.”
In front of the Shintomiza, he finally caught up.
“There’s something I need to talk about, you see.”

The young man turned around,

"I do not hate you."
"I like you."

"Oh, don't say that."
He said with a smirk, but upon seeing the young man's slender, picture-perfect figure standing beneath the street trees, even he grew genuinely serious.
He's a fine man, he thought.

“There’s something I want to talk to you about—nothing major, just a small thing.”
“Would you keep me company?”
“Even I—”
He stammered, “I like you.”

They entered Miyoshino.

"Sutezuki Otohiko—is it true he's your relative?"
Sukehachi alternated between formal "anata" and casual "kimi," his speech disordered.

"He is my cousin."
The young man sipped hot milk.
He had eaten nothing since morning.

"What kind of man is he?"
Sukehachi pressed earnestly.

"My... our—"
The young man faltered.

"A hero?"
Sukehachi smiled bitterly.

"No. He is my lover."
"He is the nourishment sustaining my life."

Those words struck Sukehachi.

“Ah, that’s good.”
Having pulled himself up from poverty, he had never in ten years heard words with such a pure ring.
“I’m twenty-eight this year.
I’ve worked as a waiter since seventeen and learned nothing but to doubt people.
You all are so lucky.”
He fell speechless.

“We are a pose,”
the young man said.
His left eye burned red from sleeplessness.
“But even within the pose, life exists.
A cold affectation is love’s highest form.
Whenever I watched Mr. Sutezuki, I always sensed this.”

“I too have my life’s nourishment.”

He said in a low voice, peering intently at the young man’s face with an oddly familiar manner.

“I know.”

“Not a word—I’ve always been lowborn. Just a single body, nothing but this body—” He began before suddenly falling silent, then thrust his upper body forward. “What do you think of her?”

“I consider her pitiable.”
He answered with such cool composure it seemed rehearsed.

“Is that all?”
“Now, this stays between us, but… don’t you find something… strange?”

The young man’s face flushed.

“Look at that.”
Sukehachi thrust out his lower lip and grinned slyly.
“I knew it.”
“But you’re still fine.”
“It’s only been a day.”
“For me, it’s been about a year.”
“Three hundred sixty-five days.”
“That’s right.”
“I’ve been tormented by that woman three hundred sixty-five times more than you have.”
“No—that woman bears no blame.”
“That is something that person doesn’t know.”
“The guilt lies in my base blood.”
“Laugh for me.”
“I want to beat that woman.”
“I want her body completely.”
“That’s all it is.”
“I’ve been utterly despised by that woman all this time.”
“I’ve been hated.”
“But I—I have my own cherished wish.”

“I’ll make that woman bear my child.”
“I’ll make her bear a jewel-like girl.”
“How’s that?”
“It’s not revenge or anything.”
“I’m not scheming anything that petty.”
“That’s my love.”
“That right there is love’s highest expression.”
Ah, just thinking about it tore my chest apart.
I felt myself going mad.
“You get it?”
“The things we lowborn say?”
As he kept ranting, his lips turned pale, white foam gathering at their corners until his face took on a vicious cast.
“I’ll forgive this Sutezuki Otohiko business.”
“This once, I’ll forgive it.”
“Right now I’m getting royally played for a fool.”
“Don’t think I don’t know it myself.”
“When they say ‘my guts are boiling’—this is exactly that feeling.”
“But I—I can’t stop loving this woman who looks down on me, this vain arrogant creature.”
“Beautiful as a butterfly.”
“Karma, eh?”

“Let her grow utterly vain and arrogant.”
“How about it—won’t you keep spending time with that woman for me from now on?”
“That’s what I’m asking of you.”
“It’s not out of servility.”
“I’ve always liked noble people.”
“I admire them.”
“You’re really good.”
“Splendid.”
“This isn’t sarcasm, or spite, or anything like that.”
“If she quietly keeps company with a decent person like you, she’ll be fine—she’ll grow even more delicate and beautiful.”
“That’s certain.” Drool dripped onto the table, and Sukehachi hastily wiped it away with his palm. “Make her beautiful.”
“Turn her into a woman so magnificent she’s completely beyond my grasp.”
“Hey, I’m begging you.”
“She absolutely needs you.”
“My intuition never misses.”
“Damn it all!”
“I’ve got my pride too!”
“I won’t eat some rotten persimmon that’s fallen in the dirt.”

The young man could no longer endure the gloom.

☆

Sachiyo boarded a train again.
When news of Sutezuki Otohiko appeared in the newspapers and Sachiyo too had her photograph published as his mistress, her uncle from her hometown finally came to Tokyo, the police intervened, and Sachiyo was forced to return home with her uncle.
She was, so to speak, a ruined remnant of a person.
The mountains and rivers of her hometown, seen again after three years, cut her to the bone.

“Hey, Uncle, please.”
“I’ll be good from now on—I have to be good—so please don’t scold me too much.”
“I don’t want to meet with friends from town or with anyone.”
“Hide me somewhere, okay?”
“I’ll behave as long as you want.”

Like a girl of twelve or thirteen, Sachiyo pleaded again and again inside the train. Among all their relatives, only this uncle had ever shown Sachiyo any pity. The uncle had given his consent. At the station two stops before their hometown town, the uncle and Sachiyo secretly disembarked. From that small mountain station, jostled along the winding mountain path in a carriage for some twenty minutes, they arrived at a hot spring resort in the valley.

“Listen.
“Stay here for now.
“I’ll say no more.
“I’ll handle explaining things to our household.
“You’ll be twenty next year.
“Take your time recuperating here and think hard about your future.
“Have you ever considered your ancestors?
“It’s a lineage far superior to mine.
“If you were to act rashly, the Takano house would end here.
“The sole inheritor of Takano blood—mark this—is you alone.
“Family lineage—this must be cherished.
“When resignation comes to you too, when you grow humbler, you’ll understand how lineage gives purpose to living.
“Let us restore the Takano house. Let us be prudent.
“This is my entreaty.
“And isn’t this your sacred duty?
“The means aren’t ample, but I’ve properly safeguarded enough at my place for you to start a family.
“Those two Tokyo years may yet prove medicinal for your life henceforth.
“Forget what’s past.
“Even so—though it may be impossible—don’t humans bear some untouchable wound deep within, enduring while feigning ignorance? Isn’t that how we live?
“That’s what I believe.”

“Well, stay quiet for the time being.”
“You must not try to heal pain through artificial means.”
“It will take many days, but natural therapy is best.”
“Be patient and stay here for a while.”
“I must now return home and report to everyone.”
“I won’t treat you badly.”
“That is nothing to worry about.”
“I won’t leave a single sen.”
“If there’s something you want to buy, you should tell the inn.”
“I’ll arrange it with the inn people.”

Sachiyo was left alone.
She took a lantern and descended several hundred stone steps, counting softly—“one, two, three”—until she reached the open-air bath at the valley’s base. When she set the lantern down, she saw the white surges of a mountain stream flowing torrentially nearby, and an old waterwheel floated hazily before her eyes.
She was tired.
When she soaked quietly in the bath, the pain, humiliation, and restlessness all blurred into a hazy mist, leaving her staring vacantly like an idiot.
Though I’ve somehow ended up in this shameful situation, the fact that I’m still so foolishly entranced—this might be my defeat—but isn’t it all right for people to occasionally let themselves be entranced even in the depths of pain?
The waterwheel moved its heavy-looking body little by little, and a cluster of wild chrysanthemums trembled beside the lantern.

So utterly exhausted she wanted to melt away right there, she took the lantern and climbed back up each stone step one by one to return to the room.

The inn was quite large.
A long pitch-dark corridor lined with over a dozen rooms; here and there the shoji screens of certain rooms were dimly bright, making it clear that only those rooms had guests.
The first room was dark, the second room was also dark, the third room was bright—and its shoji screens slid open,

“Satchan.”

“Who... is it?”
She had even lost the strength to be surprised.

“Ah, just as I thought.”
“It’s me.”
“Miki, Asatarō.”

“Historic.”

“That’s right.”
“You remember well.”
“Well, do come in.”

Miki Asatarō was thirty-one; though his hair was thinning, he had a flamboyant career.
He was a playwright.
He had some name recognition.
“What a surprise!”

“Historic?”

Miki Asatarō gave a wry smile.
The phrase “historic” was his habitual saying when drunk, and he was called “Mr. Historic” by the women at Ginza bars.

“Truly historic.”
“Well, do have a seat.”
“Care for a beer?”
“It’s a bit cold, but you—after your bath, a drink… Well, it should be fine.”

In Mr. Historic’s room, sheets of manuscript paper lay scattered everywhere, with five or six beer bottles lined up beside the table.

“I drink alone like this and work little by little, but it’s no good. No matter who it is, they all seem better than me. I’m done for—I really am. Ruined, I tell you. If I don’t finish this work, I can’t return to Tokyo either; I’ve already shut myself up in this mountain inn for over ten days, tumbling through hell—a complete mess. Earlier—I heard from the maid that you’d come. Dumbfounded, I was. My heart stopped dead—stopped dead, I tell you. It isn’t a dream, is it?”

Gazing gently at Sachiyo’s small figure sitting quietly across the table,

“I’m saying nothing but foolish things, aren’t I?”
“That itself is historic.”
“It’s mortifying.”
“My body just keeps quivering, and I can’t do a thing about it.”
He suddenly lowered his eyes, poured beer by himself, and drank alone.

“You should have confidence.”
“I’m happy. So happy I could cry.”
She wasn’t lying.

“I understand.”
“I understand.”
Mr. Historic flustered. “But it’s fine.
“That must have been hard for you.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay.”
“I know all about it.”
“They all know.”
“Even this time—with that matter—I wasn’t surprised in the least.”
“You’re the sort who’d go that far once.”
“You’re the sort who has to push through that.”
“Your love is bottomless.”
“No—it’s your sensibility.”
“That’s rather a marvel.”
“I respond to almost any woman with perfunctory greetings—that works just fine—but with you alone, I can’t do that.”
“Because you understand.”
“You’re not someone I can let my guard down around.”
Why is that?

"I shouldn’t have any such exceptions."

“No,” she said. “Women—” Urged on, she drank beer from a teacup. “Women are clever. That’s exactly why we know everything. Know full well.” She set down the cup with a clink. “We know when we’re being casually dismissed—know every last bit of it.” Her voice sharpened like broken glass. “We know everything yet play ignorant, putting on airs like children—like vixens preening.” A bitter laugh escaped her lips. “Because it’s better that way, isn’t it? Men are honest creatures at heart.” She leaned forward, strands of hair catching the lamplight. “Even when everything’s laid bare before us, they still fancy they’ve pulled wool over our eyes.” Her fingers traced the cup’s rim absently. “Dogs can’t hide their claws—did you know? Once at Shinbashi Station—late autumn night—waiting for the last train...” Her gaze drifted to some middle distance between them. “A smart little dog trotted past—Fox Terrier perhaps—click-clack-click-clack—nails tapping the platform like typewriter keys.” She closed her eyes, transported. “I watched it vanish into the dark and wept—wept for their honest claws they couldn’t retract.” Her shoulders trembled with remembered sorrow. “Men are just like that—all click-clack posturing and exposed vulnerabilities.” She drained her cup in one gulp. “I’m drunk,” she declared unnecessarily. “What a fool I am.” Her palm pressed against her forehead as if containing seismic thoughts. “Why do I champion them so? Men—” Her voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper—“Men are weak.” She spread her arms wide as if embracing ghosts. “If I could—make myself a hundred bodies—a thousand—I’d shield every last one.” Her hands fell limp in her lap. “Pitiful things—always posturing.”

“True femininity, I think, lies rather in the strength to protect men.”
“My father taught me that women should be gentle before he disappeared, but a woman’s gentleness is—”
Mid-sentence, like a deer startled by something, she suddenly raised her head and pricked up her ears,

“Someone’s coming.”
“Hide me.”
“Just for a little while.” With a quick laugh, she opened the sliding door of the closet behind her and, while sitting down, slid her body smoothly inside,

“Now then, you must attend to your work.”

“Very well.”
“Is that also a woman’s mimicry?”
Historic wore a sagacious smile, as expected.
“It’s not footsteps coming to this room.”
“Well, never mind that—stop this unsightly charade.”
“Why don’t we take our time and talk?”
He himself straightened his posture properly and said that.
He was a thin, small-statured man, but his large eyes behind iron-rimmed glasses and his high nose lent an elegant shading to his face, imbuing him with an air of cultured refinement.

“Do you have any money?”
Standing vacantly before the closet, Sachiyo muttered those words.

“I’ve had enough. Talking to you in a place like this makes me miss Tokyo so much I could die. It’s your fault. Because my love kept putting on airs over every little thing and twisting me around, I’d managed to forget it all quite neatly. My misfortune, my filthiness, my powerlessness—I remembered them all at once. Tokyo is nice, isn’t it? There are people more unfortunate than I am, people more ashamed—living without lecturing each other, laughing all the while. I’m still nineteen. In this utterly resigned ego of mine, I can’t live coldly.”

"You're planning to desert."

"But I don't have any money."

Miki sneered contemptuously before bowing his head in thought.
It was an absurdly exaggerated pantomime of prolonged deliberation.
Suddenly raising his face,

"I'll give you ten yen."
In an almost angry tone: "You're a fool.
"I've loved you nobly all this time—you don't realize that.
"I can't bear watching you cower at every footstep and slink into closets like some wretched creature.
"If I give you money now,I may become a magnificent villain.
"But this is my purest impulse.
"I shall obey it.
"I don't know what consequences will follow.
"That—only God knows.
"The living hold rights.
"Do as you wish.
"The sin isn't ours."

“Thank you.”
With a stifled laugh: “You’re such a liar.
“That’s so very Historic of you.”
“Forgive me.”
“Well then—later, yes?”

Miki Asatarō laughed with a pained expression.

☆

In Tokyo, snow fell on New Year’s Day of 1931.
From before dawn, it began fluttering down and continued until around noon.
A little past noon, in the shade of a mixed grove in Toyama Field, there was a man pacing irritably while puffing on a cigarette, his overcoat collar turned up and hatless.
This, apparently, was Zenkōji Sukehachi.

Suddenly, from the shadow of the trees, another small-statured man wearing a double-layered kimono appeared.
It was Miki Asatarō.

“You fool.”
“Came crawling after all.”
Miki appeared to be drunk.
“Are you truly serious about this?”

Sukehachi did not answer, discarded his cigarette, and took off his overcoat.

“Wait.
“Wait.”
Miki scowled.
“You filthy bastard.”
“What on earth do you intend to do with Sachiyo?”
“If all you have to say is ‘I’ll take her by force,’ ‘Come to Toyama Field,’ ‘I’ll cripple you,’ then I can’t play along with this.”

Without saying a word, Sukehachi lunged at him.

“Stop it!”
Miki leaped back.
“You’re losing your head.
“Listen here.”
“Listen well to what I have to say.”
“Last night, I too went too far.”
“I said unnecessary things.”

Last night, they drank together at a Shinjuku bar.
They had been acquainted for some time.
Suddenly, Miki let slip something about the mountain inn in Tohoku.
Miki briefly mentioned Sachiyo’s body.
Then, “Hey! Where’s Sachiyo?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar! You hid her!”
“Cut it out! You’re making a scene, you indecisive fool!”
And so it was decided: “Alright—we’ll take her by force. Come to Toyama Field—I’ll cripple you.”
Miki too turned pale and agreed.
On New Year’s Day, they agreed to meet at noon, and parted the previous evening.

“I know where Sachiyo is.”
Perhaps to show composure, Miki took out a cigarette and struck a match.
The soft breeze caressing the snowy field blew out the match flame two or three times before he finally lit his cigarette. “But between us—there’s nothing.”
“That person is studying intensely now.”
“Pursuing scholarly work.”
“I believe that’s beneficial for her.”
“What she possesses is nothing but an unchecked flood of sensitivity.”
“To systematize that, unify it, and convert it into action—I maintain cultivation remains essential.”
“Wisdom is required.”
“A single point of wisdom—cold and cloudless like a mountain lake.”
“She lacks this—hence her perpetual disarray.”
“For example, being validated by a man like you leaves her paralyzed—”

“Aren’t you ashamed?”
Sukehachi sneered.
“Don’t spout lines you’ve been stewing over since morning.”
“Scholarship?”
“Cultivation?”
“Aren’t you ashamed?”

Miki was startled. Before he knew it, his cheeks flushed. This guy knows everything. “You’re an unpleasant bastard,” he said. “Alright, I’ll take you on. I instinctively detest the likes of you. We’re fated to repel each other. But one last thing—what do you intend to do with Sachiyo?”

The cigarette’s flame had gone out.
Sucking noisily on the extinguished cigarette, his fingers quivered uncontrollably.

“There’s nothing to do either way.”
This time, it was Sukehachi who had calmed down instead.
“I’ll track down where she is, and I’ll take care of her in my own way.”
“Listen here.”
“That woman can’t make it without me.”
“Only I know.”
“You’re over there at that mountain inn, squawking your damn head off about that single night like it’s some grand achievement.”
“After this, she won’t even spare a glance at the likes of you.”
“That’s the kind of woman she is.”

Miki involuntarily nodded.
It was precisely as he had said.

"But hey."
Sukehachi took an even more vigorous step forward. "I won't forgive you even for that single night."
"I can't stand it!"
"How dare you! How dare you!"

“I see. Understood.”
“I’ll take you on.”
“I can’t stand you either.”
“You’re one utterly conceited bastard.”
He tossed his cigarette aside abruptly, removed his double-layered underbelt, took off his haori, and after a moment’s consideration, unwound his hyogo obi in loose coils before slipping out of his kimono entirely—until he stood in nothing but his shirt and saruwata socks.

“To think of women only as physical bodies—how pitiable.”
“The stench of your squalor doesn’t even reach this far.”
“If I were to grapple with someone like you and soil my kimono, no amount of washing would remove the stains.”
“What a nuisance.”
As he spoke, he removed his tabi socks, kicked off his high geta sandals, finally took off his glasses, and shouted, “Come at me!”

With a sharp slap echoing across the snowfield, it was Sukehachi whose right cheek was struck. Without a moment’s pause came another smack—this time to the left. Sukehachi staggered. The assault had been unexpected. Grunting, he planted his feet, sank into a stance, and spread both arms wide to brace himself. If it came to grappling, this would be his domain—Sukehachi still clung to that confidence.

“What’s this—
“This isn’t some backwater sumo match.”
Miki said this, kicked the snow to swiftly circle around to Sukehachi’s left flank, and landed a solid blow to his jaw.
But that was a mistake.
Sukehachi swiftly snatched Miki’s fist and instantly executed a shoulder throw—decisively completing it.
Miki’s light body rotated once in the snowy sky and fell with a thud.

“Damn it!”
“Classy move.”
While falling on his buttocks, Miki kicked up with all his might at Sukehachi’s lower abdomen.

“Oof.”
Sukehachi clutched his lower abdomen.

Miki staggered to his feet and, this time aiming straight at Sukehachi's glabella from directly in front, slammed his own head into it with a dull thud.
The outcome was decided.
Sukehachi lay sprawled almost spread-eagle on the snow and made no attempt to move for some time.
From his nostrils, blood gushed out thickly, and both eye sockets rapidly swelled to a purple hue.

Far in the distance, hiding behind the trunk of an oak tree, wearing a bright red coat that trailed along the ground and clutching a snake-eye umbrella tightly to her chest, the woman watching this scene with trepidation was Sachiyo.

Sachiyo left the capital the very next day and did not engage in any particular studies or academic pursuits.
There was a friend who had previously worked at the same bar in Ginza and was now employed at a dance hall in Kanda; Sachiyo moved into that friend’s Yotsuya apartment and spent her days knitting, doing laundry, helping with meals—passing her time with such things every day.
She made no particular effort to hurry and find work.
Even for her, returning to work as a bar hostess again seemed unappealing.
Before long, Miki Asatarō returned from the mountain inn and—having somehow tracked down Sachiyo’s whereabouts—grinned while suggesting, “How about becoming an actress?” But Sachiyo merely laughed it off with an “Oh my, what a handful.”
Miki nevertheless persisted, occasionally dropping by the apartment to leave behind a volume or two of plays by Strindberg and Chekhov.

Early this morning, after hearing from Miki over the phone about Toyama Field and complaining to her dancer friend about how “men are such a pain,” Sachiyo struggled through the muddy snowmelt and finally reached the field by noon—only to find Miki Asatarō, clad in nothing but a shirt, caught in Zenkōji’s incredible strength and revolving midair in a full revolution.
Sachiyo burst into laughter all by herself.
As she watched, it seemed as if two small puppies were tumbling over each other in play across the snowy field, and the duel she had anticipated bore none of that ferocity.
The two men also seemed to be laughing for some reason, and Sachiyo felt oddly deflated.
Before long, Zenkōji fell over, and Miki lumbered on top of him, straddling his body as he pummeled Zenkōji’s face.
Instantly, Sukehachi’s cuckoo-like scream pierced the air.
Sachiyo leaped out from the tree shade in a flash, darted up to Miki’s backside, hurled her umbrella aside, and struck his cheek with a sharp smack.

Miki turned around.

“Oh, it’s you.”
He smiled gently.
He stood up, briskly began putting on the kimono, and said, “Do you love this man?”

Sachiyo shook her head vehemently.

“Then abandon such sentimental notions of justice.”
“Listen.”
“Pity and love are different things.”
“Understanding and love are different things.”
As he spoke, he adjusted his attire and reverted to his usual slightly pretentious “Mr. Historic” persona. “Now, let’s go home.”
“You can afford to be more self-indulgent about your preferences.”
“When it comes to those you dislike—it’s hopeless.”
“No matter how much you interact with them, you’ll never grow fond.”

Zenkōji Sukehachi lay on his back, both hands covering his face, and groaned grotesquely as he wept.

Clinging tightly to Miki’s double-layered kimono as if to hide within its folds, she walked a short distance before glancing back and froze in shock.
Zenkōji Sukehachi sat cross-legged in the snow, using Sachiyo’s forgotten blue snake-eye umbrella with willow patterns as a makeshift bonfire, its flames roaring as he warmed himself.
The crackling sound of the umbrella’s ribs burning reached her ears with startling clarity, and Sachiyo felt as though her own body were being cremated there and then.

The main text chronicled the life of Takano Sachiyo as an actress.

If Takano Sachiyo were a wild rose, then Yaeta Kazue would be a thistle.
Born in Osaka, she had been a girl from poor beginnings.
The elderly parents running a confectionery shop remained in good health.
There were many younger siblings, and Kazue stood as eldest daughter.
Having only finished elementary school, she became involved at nineteen with a confectioner who frequented their wholesaler, and together they came to Tokyo.
The parents had half-approved through silent consent.
The confectioner was twenty-three.
Upon reaching the capital, he found immediate employment at Ginza's Beekarii.
The wages proved meager.
They couldn't afford housing, so Kazue too worked in Ginza.
It was no refined bar.
They drifted apart gradually before separating completely with sudden finality.
That confectioner now keeps both wife and children.
Kazue became an ordinary waitress.
Life stood thus.
People proved unreliable.
Taught this from childhood, she had ingrained it as truth.
At twenty-four she quit Ginza's bars to become a dancer.
This way brought slightly better earnings.

When she awoke one morning in late November of that year, Takano Sachiyo—who had previously worked at the same bar in Ginza—was sitting dejectedly by her pillow.

“There’s nowhere else.”
Sachiyo clamped her cold hands firmly on either side of the sleeping Kazue’s face.

Kazue understood everything.

“You’re always doing foolish things.”
With those words, she sat up and tightly hugged the petite Sachiyo.
As if nothing had happened, she quickly pulled away,

“What about the side dish?”
“Natto again, I suppose.”

Sachiyo also eagerly removed the scarf and,

“I’ll go buy it. Kazue, it was tsukudani, right? I’ll get shrimp tsukudani for you.”

After seeing Sachiyo off, Kazue turned the gas valve, placed the rice pot on the stove, and burrowed back into the futon.

And so, from that day on, Sachiyo's parasitic existence began.
The year-end and New Year passed by uneventfully without any particularly good occurrences.

On a night when sleet fell, the two of them turned off the lights and talked while lying in the pitch-dark room.

“But Sachiyo’s uncle is a good person, I think.”
“Forget the past. Just forget it.”
“Everyone’s carrying deep wounds while pretending not to notice.”
“How nice.”
“He’s quite an understanding man, isn’t he?”
“I’ve fallen for him, huh?”
In a sleepy voice, Kazue said this and quietly turned over.

“Are you telling me to go back?”
Sachiyo huddled small under the futon and timidly countered.

“Well, yeah.”
Kazue said in a grown-up tone, “First of all, that ‘Historic’ is an idiot.
“He’s a genuine eccentric.”
“No—he’s even worse.”
“Abduction of women.”
“He’s a criminal, that one.”
“He never does anything decent.”
“He instigates unnecessary troubles, then comes waltzing back here without a care, acting like some savior with that affected way of speaking.”
“Who knows how far he’s going to carry this?”
“Idiot.”
“Look at that gaze.”
“No matter what, he’s just not normal, you see.”

Sachiyo giggled quietly.

Kazue also ended up unable to hold back her laughter, and even so,

“What a jerk.”
“It’s no laughing matter.”
“So to speak, he’s the enemy of women.”

“But I know. Kazue had liked Mr. Historic from the start.”

“This one.”

The two women, holding their stomachs, rolled with laughter.

“Those bygone days,” Kazue said to hide her embarrassment, deliberately adopting crude speech: “Somehow we’ve got terrible luck with men.”

“No,”
At times Sachiyo would suddenly revert to a tone cold as water.
Even after laughing uproariously, she would—disregarding the atmosphere—begin speaking in an instant-quiet voice.
It was a strange habit.

“I don’t think so. I respect any man.”

Kazue finally grew uncomfortable. Unintentionally adopting a forced solemn tone,

“You’re still young.”

Having said that, she thought it was truly a mistake.
No matter how she looked at it, she was utterly awkward.
At her wit’s end, she finally stiffened in exasperation and snapped, “You mustn’t say such foolish things.”
“Gangsters, dim-witted reporters—there’s nothing decent.”
“There isn’t a single man who’s made you even slightly happy.”
“To call that respect—what an affected thing to say.”

“That’s a bit different, don’t you think?”
This time, Sachiyo switched to a playful tone. “Expecting to lean on men and have them make you happy—that’s the fundamental mistake.”
“You’re being too self-serving.”
“Men have their own distinct work to do in this world, so we must respect their lifelong endeavors.”
“Do you understand now?”

Kazue, uncomfortable, remained silent.

Sachiyo, getting carried away,

“Using men just for one woman’s happiness is such a waste.”
“Women may be weak, but men are even weaker.”
“They’re barely holding themselves together and somehow keeping up their efforts.”
“I can’t help but see it that way.”
“If a woman were to plop her heavy body down right there like that, any man would be flustered.”
“How pitiful.”

Kazue, aghast, let out a rough voice.

“The Byakkotai were different, you know.”
Kazue had learned from Sachiyo that her grandfather had been one of the Byakkotai.

“That’s not it.”
In the darkness, Sachiyo smiled tenderly.
“I’m no Tomoe Gozen.
Fighting with a naginata? What a pain.”

“It suits you.”

“No way. I’m a shrimp—I’d get beaten by a *naginata*.”

“Fufu,” Kazue laughed.
Since Kazue’s mood seemed to have improved, Sachiyo was glad,

“Hey. Could you listen quietly to what I’m saying for a little longer?”
“Just for your reference.”

“Every single thing you say is so pretentious.”
“It’s the bad influence of Mr. Historic.”
Kazue was in good spirits.

“I, you know, like everyone—whether it’s Mr. Historic, Sukehachi, or anyone else.”
“There’s no such thing as a bad person—I’ve never met one.”
“Whether mother or father—everyone was kind and good.”
“Even uncle, even aunt—they’re all so respectable.”
“I can’t hold my head up in their presence.”
“It’s been that way from the start.”
“I’m the only one who’s inferior.”
“If a child born so innately inferior could be warmly loved by everyone and left blissfully thriving all alone—I’d rather die than live like that.”
“I want to be useful.”
“It doesn’t matter what—I want to be of use to people and die.”
“I want to let men dress splendidly, spread roses—no, even modest violets will do—carpeting every path they tread, and have them stride proudly over those blossoms.”
“And then, the man doesn’t feel the slightest bit indebted for it.”
“If men were to walk about composedly from the very start, nonchalantly returning leisurely greetings to everyone they meet—oh, how splendid they would be.”
How splendid they would be.
That sight—I would hide in the shadows, unknown to anyone, and quietly admire it. How happy that would make me.
A woman’s deepest joy—isn’t that precisely where it lies?
I can’t help but think that way.

“Not bad.”
Kazue, too, lent an ear.
“Helpful.”

Sachiyo took a breath,

“When it comes to that—men, really—they’re such kind souls.
Every last one of them—they’re all spoiled brats.
Where did they get the idea that money and flesh alone are women’s joys? They’ve gone and decided it all by themselves—so thanks to that, they’re straining themselves needlessly, while we women feel too sorry to shatter their self-made delusions—overwhelmed by their pitiable earnestness.
We quietly pretend to care only about vanity and physical instincts—but then they go and settle on that with their enlightened looks, so it’s all a bit amusing.
All women respect men and are desperately determined to do something for them, yet men don’t notice this in the slightest—they just go on about whether they can make you happy or not, pretending to be wealthy or—it’s absurd—doing strange things with such confidence.
Who on earth taught men such foolishness—that women are merely flesh?
If one naturally seeks love, they should simply follow it—but to suddenly change their expressions or put on all sorts of garish acts over it—it’s absurd.
Women don’t think physical matters are all that important.
Hey, Kazue—you’re no different, right?
No matter how much they save up money on their own or play around with men, don’t they always seem lonely?
I want to tell all men.
If you truly want to be liked by women—if you truly love them—then please give them some task, even if it’s just something small around you.
With authority—please command them, I want to say.
Even without gaining status or fame, even without becoming wealthy—since men themselves are splendidly noble, if only they would have proper confidence in their very selves, just as they are—how overjoyed women would be.
With just a slight misunderstanding between each other, both men and women have gone quite mad, haven’t they?
It’s so frustrating—I can’t stand it.
If they could just realize that about each other, laugh together, and start over—they’d be happy…
The world would surely become a better place to live.”

“Ah, what an education.”
Kazue made a show of yawning extravagantly.
“So tell me—was Sutezuki Otohiko really such a prize?”

Paying no mind to Kazue’s rudeness,

“That person—you know—is truly peculiar.”
“With such a childlike, odd face, he said, ‘I thought breasts were something only mothers had,’ you see.”
“Not the slightest bit affected.”
“He looked thoroughly ashamed.”
Ah—this person has lived such an unfortunate life—I thought, and then my chest swelled with joy, gratitude, and tenderness until I burst into tears.
I resolved to stay by this person’s side forever.
Is this what they mean by eternal motherhood?
Even I became suffused with such noble, beautiful feelings—that person was truly good.
I know nothing of his ideologies or such.
It doesn’t matter if I never know.
That person gave me confidence.
I too can be of use.
If I could truly warm the depths of someone’s heart—I wanted to die right then, bathed in that joy.
Yet here I am, revived all plump and round—how disgraceful.
Returned to life only to repeat identical days—wondering if this suffices—there are moments when the loneliness becomes unbearable.
There are times I want to shriek at the top of my lungs.
Since I’m already a corpse once over—it matters not—if I can be of service to anyone, I’ll gladly serve.
“No matter how agonizing, no matter how excruciating—I’ll endure.”
Gently lifting her head: “Hey, Kazue. Are you listening?”

“Mr. Historic—you know—I don’t think he’s such a bad man.”
“He’s so determined to make me an actress, but really… Kazue, wouldn’t you feel weighed down too if I kept mooching here forever without lifting a finger?”
“And if me becoming an actress could let Mr. Historic do work that truly matters to him—well, I think I might become one after all.”
“He said once I commit to it, all the arrangements are already in place.”

“Do whatever you like.”
“You’ll make a great actress.”
Kazue was sullen again.

“Well, you know, even I get fed up sometimes.”
“There are times I resent Sachiyo’s audacity—wondering what this kid even plans to do, staying here forever.”
“But I decided long ago not to think about one thing for more than three minutes.”
“It’s a hassle.”
“No matter how long you think about it, in the end, it amounts to nothing.”
“It’s all things you can’t know without trying them out.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Even I have plenty of things to worry about.”
“So I think about one thing for just three minutes—without worrying about solving it or anything—then immediately move on to the next, think about that for three minutes, then the next thing for three. I’ve gotten quite used to that part.”
“I open each drawer of worries one by one, take a quick glance inside, snap it shut right away, and then go to sleep.”
“This is actually quite good for your health, you know.”
“What do you think? Even I have a proper philosophy, don’t I?”

“Thank you, Kazue.”
“You’re a good person.”

Kazue, flushing with embarrassment, deliberately brought up something else.

“The sleet stopped, hasn’t it.”

“Yes.”
Sachiyo said all she wanted to say and was then free of thought.
“I hope tomorrow’s good weather.”

“Yeah.
When I wake up to find it crisp and clear—it’s such a joy.”
Kazue too absentmindedly chimed in, and thinking of the morning’s blue sky, she still felt buoyant—yet even something so simple made her cherish this self that went to bed looking forward to it. But then, though it had cleared up, there was nothing particular in it for her, she thought, wanting to laugh alone—pulling the futon over her head, tears suddenly overflowed from the corners of her eyes and fell. Oh—tears from a yawn? Am I crying? she finally panicked. At any rate, since this girl was going to become an actress, she really had to organize a support group or something.

☆

It was a success.

The troupe was “Ōza.”
The theater was the Tsukiji Little Theatre.
The play was Chekhov’s Three Sisters.
The actress Takano Sachiyo brilliantly played Olga, the eldest daughter.

In late March of Showa 6, it was a seven-day performance.

The young man, Takasa Takuya, went to see it on the third day.

The curtain rose.
Olga, Masha, and Irina—the three sisters—were on stage.
Before long, Olga’s monologue began.
At first it was too quiet to hear.
The young man strained his ears in a dark corner of the auditorium.
It came through in fragments.

“That day was cold, wasn’t it?
It was snowing, you know—I felt like I couldn’t go on living—But now that a year has passed since then, even we’ve come to remember that time with ease—” (The clock struck twelve.)

As he listened to the slow striking of the stage clock, the young man suddenly began glancing about restlessly, clicked his tongue sharply twice—tsk, tch—then abruptly stood and exited into the corridor.

I can't stand women like that.
I don't like that kind of woman.
That one is ultimately Narcissus.
That woman has no humility.
She thinks she can do anything if she sets her mind to it.
Why did she flee her hometown to become some actress?
From how she acts now, she doesn't care one bit about Sutezuki Otohiko anymore.
A demon—if not an idiot.
No no—women might all be that way.
Joy, faith, gratitude, suffering, frenzy, hatred, caresses—all are fleeting.
They're only for the moment.
Once time passes, they're completely over it.
They should feel ashamed.
That's pure humanity—or so I too once thought.
I am a scientist.
I know every facet of human sensuality.
But I am absolutely no advocate of fleshly supremacy.
Bazarov? Sentimental drivel.
Spirit—faith—they decide all human affairs.
I even believe straightforwardly in the Immaculate Conception itself.

For that reason, even if I go bankrupt as a scientist, I don't care.
If only I remain a pure human, a true human—

As he began hardening such groundless resolve, his whole body shook with bizarre fury; pacing the frigid corridor in great strides, seized by a sense of enduring terrible humiliation now—as if the whole world scorned him—a restlessness leaving no peace, thinking *if only Oto-chan were alive at a time like this*, now belatedly yearning for the deceased Sutezuki Otohiko, his agitation flipped inside out into gut-wrenching grief until tears nearly fell—and then,

“Hey,” said Sukehachi, tapping his shoulder.
“You didn’t catch the opening night, did you?”

“I understand your feelings so well, Masha.”
The way Sachiyo’s Olga delivered that line in a tearful voice carried even to the corridor.

“It’s wonderful.”
Sukehachi narrowed his eyes. “Didn’t you see the opening night reviews in the papers?”
“Sensation.”
“Major sensation.”
“A genius actress is born.”
“Ah, don’t laugh.”
“It’s true.”
“We had Mr. Kajiwara Tsuyoshi write the theater review for us—would you believe that old man nearly wept? ‘Through this actress,’ he wrote, ‘I’ve finally grasped Olga’s suffering.’ Even that hardened critic—true to form—was utterly conquered.”
“Here, look.”
He quietly cracked open the door behind him and peered through at the stage. “There’s something... an air of authority about her.”
“Like she’s become someone else entirely.”
“Ah—she’s offstage now.”
He snapped the door shut, shot a glance at the young man’s face, and grinned fiercely. “Brilliant!”
“Cool as ice, that one.”
“She’ll go far yet.”
“Got her right where I want her.”
“After all, she’s a woman who fears nothing.”

“Do you come to watch every day?”

“Yeah.”

At the young man’s expressionless question, Zenkōji Sukehachi seemed to take offense and changed his tone.
“I’m not putting on this lively act just to hide my embarrassment.”
“Unlike you lot, I’m honest.”
“I can’t fake my feelings.”
“I’m happy.”
“Truly happy.”
“I could dance for joy.”
“Since I can easily fudge company business, I come here every day to listen to the talk in the corridor.”
“Don’t look down on me.”

“That must make you happy, I suppose.”
Takasa gave a slight nod, his expression remaining impassive as ever. “She’s becoming more splendid by the day.”

“Eh-heh-heh.”
Sukehachi suddenly broke into a grin.
“You damn well know.”
“Say that and I’ve got no comeback.”
“You haven’t forgotten.”
“You haven’t forgotten how I begged you to make her into some grand noblewoman.”
“Man, I’m beat.”
“No—thank you, thank you.”
“Stick with me from here on out, yeah?”
As he spoke, he pressed his ear to the door. “Oh hell.”
“Vershinin’s entrance.”
“I can’t stomach that Vershinin character.”
“Gives me the shivers.”
“What a repulsive bastard.”
He threw an arm around the young man’s shoulders. “Hey, let’s move.”
“Wanna go poke around the dressing rooms?”
Walking away: “Vershinin.
“Makes me wanna puke.”

“I’ve even ended up memorizing the lines!”
Clearing his throat lightly with an “Ahem,” he continued, “—That’s right. We’ll end up forgotten.”
“That is our fate, after all.”
“There’s simply nothing to be done about it.”
“Even things we consider solemn, deeply meaningful, and of utmost importance—with time’s passage—will either be forgotten or cease to matter.”
“—Tch. You’re the spittin’ image of Miki Asatarō, ain’t ya?”
“—And this life we’re enduring so submissively now—before long, people might come to see it as something bizarre, filthy, ignorant, absurd… hell, maybe even downright sinful.”
“—Now it’s Miki.”
“Makes me want to puke.”

“Hello? Hello?”
The young man was called to a halt in a low voice by a girl in a sailor uniform.

“Um, this is from Ms. Takano.” It was a small folded piece of paper.

“What’s this?”
Sukehachi extended his large right hand.

“No.”
The pale-faced girl with large eyes drew herself up with the dignity of a renowned actress and declared, “It is not for you.”

“It’s me.”
Takasa snatched it from the side, took it, frowned, and opened it to look.
On a paper napkin, it had been inscribed clearly and vividly with colored pencils.

“—Earlier I saw you click your tongue sharply at my performance and stride briskly into the corridor.”
“Your attitude was most proper.”
“Your way of feeling was most proper.”
“I understand your sentiments through and through.”
“On stage I came to know my true measure.”
“What on earth am I?”
“I found myself like some shapeless gelatinous monster—filthy and untouchable—weeping pitifully.”
“There on stage I felt such unbearable anxiety I wanted to tear my blue costume to tatters.”
“I’m not thick-skinned at all.”
“A living corpse—that affected phrase alone can express it.”
“I’m not elated in the slightest.”
“Only you know this.”
“Please don’t destroy me.”
“Please.”
“Keep pretending not to see.”
“I’m exerting myself utterly.”
“I must go on living.”
“Who taught me that?”
“It wasn’t Mr Chekhov.”
“It was your Oto-chan.”

“Mr. Sutezuki taught me that.”
“But you must teach me too.”
“Just one thing—please teach me.”
“Am I wrong?”
“Tell me.”
“Am I just a woman living to seek sweet water?”
“Please despise me.”
“Ah—I’ve become a complete wreck.”
“They’re calling me.”
“I must go onstage.”
“At ten—”

She had started writing "At ten o'clock—" and left it hanging there.

Takasa turned pale, smiled faintly, and tore the paper in two.

“Show me.”
“A secret rendezvous arrangement, eh?”

“You have no right to read this,” he declared in a clear tone and tore the paper into four pieces.
“Your favorite actress, Takano Sachiyo—quite the accomplished performer, isn’t she?”
“Not satisfied with just the stage, she’s staging dramas all the way into the corridors.”

“You shouldn’t say such things.”
Zenkōji crossed his hands behind his head with a perplexed air. “Nah—it’s got bite. Sachiyo must’ve poured her heart into writin’ that, yeah? Go meet her. She’ll be thrilled.”

Pushed hard on the back by Zenkōji, the youth staggered, felt something like genuine human warmth through that contact, and walked unsteadily alone around to the theater's rear.
The first dressing room he had ever seen in his life.

☆

Takano Sachiyo had begun living with Miki about a month earlier.
She left behind words tinged with near-delirium—Kazue you’re a good person—I’ll never forget you even when I die—if I don’t work—I’ll die—can’t say anything—the seagull—that’s a mute bird—and vanished from Yaeta Kazue’s apartment.
Sachiyo visited Miki’s house in Yodobashi at around eight o’clock that night.
Miki was not there, but there was a small, plump elderly woman.
It was a still-new two-story house with rent around thirty yen.
When Sachiyo stated her name, the small elderly woman let out an “Oh,” nodded with classical grace, and gently invited her in, saying, “I’ve heard about you from Asatarō—he’s been out since noon for some sort of gathering, but he should be returning soon—please come inside.”
Her face and hands were glossy; she was an elegant old woman.
Sachiyo felt the tension within her relax; as if returning to her own home, she briskly entered the downstairs tea room ahead of the guiding elderly woman, and like a goldfish brought back to life fluttering free, slipped off her bright red coat,

“Are you Mother? This is my first time meeting you,” she said with a bow, then found herself overwhelmed by an almost childishly dependent feeling; bringing both hands together in another bow, she ended up letting out a pfft of laughter.

The old mother calmly,

“Good evening. Thank you for looking after Asatarō,” she returned the greeting with an equally cheerful smile.

It was a strange scene of resurrection.

Separated by the long brazier, the old mother sat neatly like a Seto ceramic figurine, her eyes cast downward, and soon began to narrate: “That one is my only son—a monster-like man—but still, I believe in him.” His father died seven years ago this year. “Well, it may be pitiful to boast of the past, but when my father was in his prime, in Maebashi—yes, our home province was Jōshū—we had one of the very finest restaurants in all of Maebashi.” “Whether ministers, division commanders, or governors—whenever they came to Maebashi for leisure, they would always visit our house.” “Those were good days.” “Every single day I competed and worked myself to the bone.” “But then his father picked up a bad habit at fifty—speculation.” “Once things started collapsing, it happened quickly.” “One morning we suddenly realized—everything was gone.” “Clean, neat, and utterly absurd.” “Father must be a disgrace to everyone.” Even then he kept up appearances—“What? I’ve got a secret mountain stashed away.” “He started spouting this outrageous lie—that he had a mountain producing gold—like a child. Men have it hard, don’t they? Even after all these years with his old wife, he still had to put on such painful airs. To us he would explain every detail about that gold mountain with perfect seriousness.” “Precisely because I knew it was a lie, listening made me feel pathetic and wretched and pitiful all at once—tears welled up helplessly.” “Father sensed we weren’t paying proper attention and grew increasingly earnest—pulling out maps and documents to explain meticulously with an air of authenticity—until he declared we should all go investigate that mountain together. This left me utterly bewildered.” “He’d grab anyone he met in town to tell them about that gold mine—I wanted to die from shame.”

“We became the town’s laughingstock, and though Asatarō had only just entered Tokyo University at the time, I was so distraught that I ended up writing him a letter explaining everything.”
“At that time, Asatarō was admirable.”
He immediately rushed from Tokyo, pretended to be overjoyed, and said, “Father, why have you kept such a wonderful mountain hidden from me until now? If there’s something this good, school is absurd—please let me quit school. Let’s sell off this house and go investigate that gold mine right away,” urging him on as if pulling his father by the hand. Then he secretly called me aside and scolded me sternly: “Mother, listen. Father doesn’t have much longer. We mustn’t shame a fallen man.”
“When he said that, I realized for the first time—oh, of course—and felt so ashamed that, even though he was my own child, I wanted to press my hands together in reverence.”
“Knowing full well it was a lie, we rode trains, took carriages, trudged through snowy roads—the three of us, parent and child—all the way to the depths of Shinano.”
“Even now, when I remember it, my heart aches.”
They took lodging at a hot spring deep in the mountains of Shinano, and for a full year after that, rain or shine, the boy accompanied his father walking through the mountains; when night fell and they returned to the inn, he would listen with such fervor to his father’s words—so earnest it seemed no act—and the two would study and discuss all manner of things, encouraging one another with “Tomorrow will be fine, tomorrow will be fine,” then sleep only to set out again at dawn, dragged around every which way by his father and forced to endure nonsensical explanations until utterly exhausted—yet still nodding deeply at each word—before returning.
“Everything is thanks to Asatarō.”
“Father was able to spend a year at the mountain lodge living purposeful days, maintaining his dignity splendidly before his wife and child, and passed away peacefully without disgrace.”
“Yes, he died at that mountain lodge in Shinano.”
“He went to his death boasting, ‘My mountain has prospects—how about that? It’ll make my fortune twenty times over!’”
“His heart had been terribly weak for years.”
“It was a morning of terrifyingly strong wintry winds.”
“That’s a pitiful story, isn’t it.”
“But that boy has potential.”
“After that, the two of us—mother and child—came to Tokyo and struggled.”
“What I found most painful was carrying a bowl to buy a block of tofu.”
“Now, somehow—thanks to everyone—Asatarō has come to earn money through his writing, and I believe in him no matter what foolish things he may do.”
“When I think of how he protected his father so devotedly in the past, that child becomes so precious to me—so precious that no matter what happens, even if he were to commit murder, I would still believe in him.”
“He is a child of deep compassion.”

“I sincerely ask for your continued support.”

After saying this, she bowed lightly. Sachiyo, without thinking, returned a soft bow. Their eyes met unexpectedly, then at the same moment they burst into bright laughter—and then the two of them wept freely.

At ten o'clock, Miki returned drunk.
He wore a Kurume kasuri garment with whitish, stiff hakama that gave him the air of a Meiji Restoration scholar.
He lumbered into the tea room and, without a word, drove out the old mother sitting by the long brazier as if kicking her aside. Plopping down in her vacated spot, he began undoing his hakama cords while,

“What’d you come here for?” Still seated, he took off his hakama and tossed it to the old mother. “Ah, Mother. You go upstairs for a bit. I have something to discuss with this girl.”

When they were alone, Sachiyo,
"You mustn't get conceited."
"I came to discuss work."

“Get out.”
When at home, Mr. Historic carried an air of melancholy and severity.

“You’re in a foul mood.”
Sachiyo remained composed.
“I fled Kazue’s apartment.”

“Oh?”
Miki remained coldly detached.
He noisily gulped his bancha tea.

“I’ll work.”
As she said this, unexpected tears welled up and spilled over—before she knew it, she was sniveling.

“I’ve already given up on you.”
Miki grimaced with genuine irritation. “You’ve got an incorrigible streak of shameless laziness.”
“Aren’t you getting a bit too self-absorbed with your own suffering?”
“It seems I overestimated you.”
“Your pain is like jabbing a needle into your palm—agonizing enough to make you leap up, no question. But if you howl and thrash about over it, people will mock you.”
“At first they might humor you out of pity, but soon they’ll stop indulging you altogether.”
“The cruel truth is, nobody in this world has the luxury to coddle such theatrics.”
“I know.”
“You think I can’t see right through your little act?”
“I’m vermin.”
“I’ve given everything.”
“I’d lay down my life.”
_Ah—won’t anyone believe me?_
_Isn’t that how it goes?_
_In the end, this is all there is._
“But listen—truth isn’t some noble sentiment you cradle in your heart. However profound your resolve, however unshakable your conviction—left unacted, it’s just delusion.”
“Fraud.”
“Even if you harbor love so pure you’d tear open your chest to prove it—keeping silent makes you nothing but an arrogant fool wallowing in self-righteousness.”
“Truth demands action.”
“Love demands action.”

“There’s no such thing as truth without expression.”
“The notion that love dwells in the heart before words—isn’t that just rhetoric in the end?”
“Stay silent and no one will understand. Even if you’re cast aside for it, that’s simply how it must be.”
“Truth isn’t something to be felt.”
“Truth demands expression.”
“Something forged through time and effort.”
“Love follows the same principle.”
“True love lies in enduring your own insincerity and emptiness to offer a kind greeting.”
“Love is supreme service.”
“You mustn’t entertain even a speck of personal satisfaction.”
He gulped more bancha noisily. “What exactly have you accomplished? Reflect on that. You can’t answer.”
“Of course you can’t.”
“You’ve done nothing.”
“I’d placed some trust in you.”
“When we fled that mountain inn, I didn’t assist you on a whim.”
“I genuinely believed your move to Tokyo stemmed from clear purpose—irrepressible longing paired with sound, concrete plans.”
“Yet here you are, holed up at Yaeta Kazue’s place doing absolutely nothing.”
“That good-natured Yaeta Kazue might’ve seemed unbothered while quietly caring for you, but make no mistake—it burdened her greatly.”
“If you claim to be giving your all, know that Kazue herself barely scrapes by just sustaining her own existence.”
“Show some regard for human frailty.”

“Your arrogance is monstrous.”
“You’ve humiliated me countless times.”
“You made me brawl with that filthy reporter and watched like it was entertainment—I can’t stand breathing the same air as his sort.”
“I’m a man of dignity.”
“Even if some venerable elder addresses me familiarly, it rankles.”
“I’ve earned my position through proper work.”
“You’ll never comprehend the shame I endured after that farcical duel.”
“Never in my life had I debased myself so grotesquely.”
“What manner of fool do you take me for?”
“First you overstay your welcome at Yaeta Kazue’s, then come crashing into my home spouting nonsense about ‘consulting work’ while telling me not to preen—any other day, I’d have struck that smug face thrice over by now.”

Even Miki turned pale.

Sachiyo vaguely raised her face.

“Aren’t you going to hit me?”

“Don’t spout that half-awake nonsense.”
He smiled wryly and slowly exhaled cigarette smoke.
“Be gone.”
“I’ve said everything I wanted to say.”
“From now on, I’m strictly avoiding you.”
“You’d better start thinking for yourself at least a little.”
“Leave.”
“Even if you end up destitute, it’s none of my concern.”

Fidgeting,

“The roadside is cold—no.”

Miki nearly burst out laughing,

“Even if you try to make me laugh, it’s no good.”
As he said this, he became acutely aware of his defeat.

“Sachiyo, are you here?”

“I’m here.”

“Will you become an actress?”

“I will.”

“Will you put in the work?”

“I will.”

In Miki’s arms, Sachiyo answered quietly.

In Miki’s arms, Sachiyo answered in a small voice.

“You fool.”
Miki moved away from Sachiyo’s body. “What were you talking about with Mom?”
He had returned to his usual gentle Mr. Historic.

“I like your mom.”
Sachiyo swept back her hair. “From now on, I’ll be really devoted to her.”

And so began her cohabitation with Miki.

Miki held a peculiar influence in the theater world.
With the staunch backing of elder statesman Tsurugaya Hokusui behind him, his idiosyncratic style was regarded by people in the theater world with a sense of awe that bordered on avoidance.
Sachiyo’s workplace was quickly decided.
It was Ōmuza.
At that time, Ōmuza was splendid.
Japanese intellectuals uniformly respected Ōmuza’s efforts.
The leader of the troupe was Onuma Eizō, a noble of distinguished lineage.
The actors too—with leading actors vying to participate—boldly adopted foreign classics and even plays by unknown Japanese writers, staged monthly week-long performances, and undeniably elevated Japanese culture.
Thanks to the recommendation of elder statesman Tsurugaya Hokusui and Miki Asatarō’s tireless efforts, Sachiyo was suddenly given a major role.
Namely, Olga, the eldest sister in *Three Sisters*.
“Listen—Olga must suppress her sentiment, suppress it, suppress it until she can no longer hold it back, then let it burst forth at the curtain’s close. Focus solely on that. Afterward, revere Mr. Onuma’s words—he is a great man.”
“And then, make sure not to get in the way of the other actors.”
Miki said that much and then taught her nothing more.
Miki had his own work to attend to.
He shut himself in the six-tatami room on the second floor, starting to write on manuscript paper only to crumple it into balls and hurl them at the wall, lying down to smoke cigarettes, then rising again to write diligently, staying awake late into the night every night.
It seemed he had embarked on some grand project.
Sachiyo was not idle either.
Every day, she went to Onuma Eizō’s salon for rehearsals, enduring peculiar hacking coughs until her once-plump cheeks grew gaunt from unrelenting stress.

The opening day approached.
Miki secretly went to Onuma Eizō to inquire about Sachiyo's condition.
After returning, he told Sachiyo, "It's not that you're skilled—the other actors are just terrible." That was what Mr. Onuma had said.
"You'll surely gain acclaim in this production, but that isn't because you're skilled—it shows how far behind Japanese actors are," he had continued.
"Listen—this doesn't mean you're superior at all. You must never take people's praises seriously."
He admonished her in a scolding tone, yet that night drank copious amounts of sake with his elderly mother and Sachiyo in the parlor—an unusual occurrence.

The opening day was indeed a success.
On the second day, Takano Sachiyo had already become a Japanese-style actress.
On the third day, she stumbled.
The young man Takasu Takaya’s click of his tongue inflicted a small yet profound disruption upon Takano Sachiyo’s flawless performance.

When Takasu Takaya visited the dressing room, the first act had just ended, and Sachiyo was sitting surrounded by a crowd of people in the dressing room, laughing with her mouth wide open.
Tobacco smoke hung thickly in the room, and whenever someone spoke up, a great wave of laughter would rise from the crowd, creating a scene of warm camaraderie.
Takasu stood at the entrance.

Sachiyo, unaware of Takasu’s presence and still not fully emerged from her post-performance exhilaration, threw back her head to gaze at the ceiling and laughed with hysterical shrieks.

“Excuse me—I’m sorry.”

A whisper at his ear. A large black swallowtail butterfly pressed itself over Takasu’s entire body, swept him soundlessly from the entrance, rushed him down to the hallway’s farthest corner, and—

“Oh my. I’m sorry.”
She was a slender woman.
Her face—with its large eyes and straight nose—held a lonely beauty, and the black dress suited her.
“I didn’t want to let you meet Sachiyo.”
“That girl is very concerned about you.”
“Since her reputation is finally in a good place—please—I’m begging you—leave her alone.”
“That girl is working so hard right now.”
“It’s agonizing.”
“I understand that.”
“Oh, you don’t know me.”
Her face reddening, “I’m sorry. You’re Mr. Takasu, aren’t you?”
“Right?”
“The moment I saw you, it hit me.”
“Truly, even though it was my first time, I knew right away.”
“Your relative—Sutezuki Otohiko’s.”
“How about that?”
“I know everything, don’t I?”
That was Kazue.
Since the play began, these past two or three days she had been worrying about various things, and today she had taken a break from Hōru to come to the dressing room.

☆

That night—ah—had anyone who knew seen it—they would surely have been startled.
Sutezuki Otohiko was living.
He was living and drinking whiskey.
Late autumn last year—Sutezuki Otohiko had drifted into this Ginza back-alley bar.
There he had settled onto this same sofa—speaking of rain with nineteen-year-old Sachiyo.

In the same posture as that time—slightly hunched forward—Takasu Takaya now sat deeply into the sofa, drinking whiskey with Yaeta Kazue as they exchanged whispers.
Beside the sofa sat a potted fatsia plant, its leaves spread broadly just as in days past, even the marks where Otohiko had absentmindedly torn them with his nails still remaining on its leaves.
The dull indoor light, filtered through the fatsia leaves, left Takasu’s face faintly outlined as if lit by a crescent moon. Jet-black shadows pooled beneath his eyes and across both cheeks, his emaciated features appearing shockingly aged. Even as Kazue spoke, she kept stealing sidelong glances at his face—fully aware this was a different person altogether—yet still felt an inexplicable unease.
They resembled each other.
Kazue, too, had known Otohiko, having drunk together with him there that night.
Otohiko had rough skin, and his face had a somewhat misshapen quality; he was by no means a handsome man like Takasu.
But now, in the dim light of this bar, when glimpsed suddenly, they still resembled each other.
To Kazue, blood ties seemed profoundly obscene and unnerving.

Takasu had not yet noticed.
Dragged out of the theater by Kazue against his will, then brought here through her well-meaning yet whimsical idea—this dimly lit bar where Otohiko and Sachiyo had once shared their strange encounter; this gray sofa he now sat upon, which Otohiko—driven to the brink, again and again—had finally discovered as his sole refuge in all creation: a bird’s nest, a fox’s den, a chair for a single night’s respite—Takasu knew none of this.

He was quietly drunk.

"If we send her back, that would be best."
"We mustn't let her do something as garish as becoming an actress."
"We must send her back to her hometown."

"But—" she faltered, then continued firmly, "No—I'm not drunkenly picking a fight."
"My apologies."
"But why must all you men grow so oddly eager to claim responsibility when it comes to women?"
"Why does everyone insist on lecturing about what's already plain?"
"Do you have any notion of how much suffering Sachiyo has waded through and clawed past just to stay alive this long?"
"Sachiyo's grown now."
"She's no child."
"She'll manage fine even if left be."
"I too was furious with that girl at first."
"I thought becoming an actress was preposterous."
"Like you—yes—I believed returning home would be safest."
"But I erred."
"For if Sachiyo goes back—it's we who benefit."
"That girl finds no happiness there."
"You're no different."
"You're still scheming somehow."

“Stingy, stingy—selfishness is lurking somewhere in your heart. You take on responsibility all by yourself, then get flustered and suffer—only to try passing off that burden onto someone far away this time, just so you can keep your own face unruffled. That’s what’s in your heart.”
“That’s how it is.”
Even as she spoke, she timidly grasped Takasu’s hand and studied his expression. “I’m sorry. I’ve been saying nothing but rude things.”
She quickly gulped her whiskey. “But listen… Sending her back to the countryside now—it’s cruel. How can you say such things? You mustn’t send that girl back to her hometown. You know what she did last year, don’t you? You know how they laughed at her? Tokyo’s too busy to remember such things—puts on a face like it’s forgotten—but the countryside never forgets. That girl’ll end up locked in a back room. A laughingstock for life. Country folk never forget—they’ll still hold grudges over a chicken stolen three generations back.”

“No.”
Takasu calmly denied.
“A hometown isn’t like that.
Blood relatives aren’t like that.
I know the tragedy of those who’ve lost their hometown.
Oto-chan had no hometown.
You likely know this already—Oto-chan was my uncle’s mistress’s child.
He drifted from place to place with his birth mother.
It was a hard life.
I know.
He strove to become great.
He wanted to make his abandoning father regret it.
He was exceptionally brilliant.
Truly splendid.
He studied relentlessly.
He believed he had to achieve greatness.
He aimed to leave his name in history.
But when his arrows were spent and sword broken—the day before he died—he told me: ‘Honor your parents.’
‘Endure,’ he said. ‘Endure and live modestly.’
At first I thought it might be a joke.”

"But lately—ah... ah...—bit by bit, I began to understand."

“No, that’s not it.”
Kazue refused to yield.
Her cheeks flushed crimson from alcohol and agitation: “You’re perfectly fine as you are. Raised in your magnificent household without a single deprivation, blessed with proper education and both parents present—even if it weren’t Sutezuki Otohiko, anyone would sincerely urge you to practice filial piety and cherish your family home.”
“But we’re different.”
“That’s not how it works.”
“Day after day, we’re hounded just to eat and survive, hounded to repay debts. We glimpse what’s right from the corners of our eyes—we’re fully aware—yet get swept further away. Before we know it, society’s seared its cruel brand into us.”
“Sachiyo’s situation is worse.”
“That girl’s already been cast out by society once.”
“She’s dregs.”
“Filial piety—such noble conduct—we’ve become completely, completely incapable of it.”
“Even if we desired it, we’re denied.”
Restoring honor.
“Does that phrase sound odd?”
“Pathetic words, aren’t they?”
“But we—people who’ve erred even once—how fiercely we crave that.”
“For that, we’d sacrifice our very lives.”
“We’d do anything.”
Her voice suddenly dropped: “Poor Sachiyo’s striving desperately right now—I can tell.”
“I want to elevate that girl even slightly.”

“Wait.”

The young man had been waiting for those words. Slowly lighting a cigarette, he said, “You said you want to make that girl great now, didn’t you? That’s a mistake—like a clerical error, unmistakably wrong. People cannot make others great. Today’s society is harsh. Restoring honor overnight to universal applause—that’s ignorant romanticism. A bygone dream. Even Sutezuki Otohiko couldn’t achieve it and died. In this age, merely keeping oneself in check without burdening others—that alone is a monumental task. If one could manage even that, they’d be a new kind of hero. A splendid thing. Doesn’t true confidence only emerge after developing clear social responsibility? First cultivate yourself and your surroundings free from instability—become a steadfast foot soldier for your humble hometown and impoverished family. Only through such striving will reality permit even modest ambitions. I’d wager my life on it. Takano Sachiyo will fail. If she continues like this, she’ll be cast into the abyss. Clearer than seeing flames. Society is cruel. It is harsh.” Day by day, the brutality of this world seeped into his bones.

It did not tolerate even an iota of nonsense.
We were both watching each other like hawks.
It was unpleasant.
Unpleasant as it was, there was no helping it.

“You lost.”
“You’re the one who lost.”
Her shrill cry came slightly slurred.
Staggering as she covered her ears—“No! I won’t listen! I won’t listen!
“Even you’d spout such pathetic nonsense.”
“Unfair! Unfair!”
“Spineless!”
“Coward!”
“Sore loser’s excuses!”
“Enough! No more logic!”
“People in this world are kind.”
“They all help each other.”
“Only you people are cold and cruel.”
“You’re the ones kicking others to the depths.”
“Even in defeat—only men who lie and posture would mock others’ hard work and trample them down.”
“You mustn’t.”
“From now on—don’t lay a hand on Sachiyo.”
“Not one finger.”
“What lies!”
“I’m a realist through and through.”

“I know.”
“I understand what you’re saying.”
“Even knowing all that, I still want to cling to that sliver of ‘what if.’”
“I want to keep clinging to it.”
“Don’t laugh.”
“We’ll never amount to anything.”
“We’ll only keep getting worse.”
“I know.”
“Oh no—don’t say it so definitively, okay?”
“It makes me want to die.”
“But Sachiyo—ah, I want to make her magnificent. Magnificent!”
“That girl’s clever.”
“That girl’s lovely.”
“That poor girl.”
“You know what?”
“Sachiyo’s become some playwright’s kept woman now.”
“Become great! Become great!”
“So she won’t have to be anyone’s mistress—”

The young man had stood up.

“Who is it?
“Where is he from?”
“Guide me.”
He quickly settled the bill, hoisted the drunken Kazue’s body with one arm, and commanded, “Stand up.”
I had always known it would come to this.
“What a spectacular ascent. Now—guide me.”
“Which man?”
“We cannot let Sachiyo do such things.”

They hailed a taxi.
They had it driven to Yodobashi.

In the taxi,

“You idiot.”

“Idiot and idiot and a huge idiot.”
“I must thank you.”
“Thank you for informing me so thoroughly.”
Kazue felt her head spin with ominous foreboding.
“I love Sachiyo.
"I love her, I love her, I love her."
"I love her more than anyone else."
I had never forgotten.
No one knew her suffering like I did.
I knew everything.
That person was a good person.
I must not let that person decay.
Idiot! Idiot!
Becoming someone’s mistress.
Idiot.
Die!
"I'll kill her myself."

“Firebird Unfinished”