Pathway to Japanese Literature

Let me teach you this life.
If you want to know, you should come to the drying area of my house.
There, I’ll secretly teach you.

Don’t you think the view from my drying area is splendid?
The suburban air feels dense yet weightless, wouldn’t you agree?
Houses stand scattered.
Mind yourself.
That floorboard beneath you appears half-rotted.
You’d do better to step this way.
A spring wind stirred.
Such was the south wind’s way—slipping past with whispers that tickled the ears, its defining trait.

When you looked around, didn’t you think the suburban roofs were all uneven? You must surely have leaned against the wooden railing of a rooftop garden at a department store in Ginza or Shinjuku, rested your chin in your hands, and gazed blankly down at the million overlapping roofs of the city below. Those countless city roofs were all the same size, same shape, same hue—jostling and overlapping until their edges submerged into the faintly reddened haze of the metropolis, clouded by bacteria and vehicle dust. You must have imagined the million uniform lives beneath those roofs, closed your eyes, and let out a deep sigh. As you could see, the suburban roofs were different from those. Each one seemed to assert, with leisurely composure, its very reason for existence—didn’t you think? That slender chimney belonged to a bathhouse called Peach Hot Spring, obediently letting its blue smoke drift northward with the wind. The red Western-style tile roof directly beneath it belonged to a certain famous general, and every night, the strains of Noh chants could be heard from that area. From the red tile roof, a row of chinquapin trees snaked southward. At the end of the row, a white wall glistened dully—the pawnshop’s storehouse. A petite and intelligent mistress, just over thirty, managed it. Even when she and I passed each other on the road, she pretended not to see me. She was considering the honor of whoever had greeted her. Behind the storehouse, five or six unkempt trees spread their leaves like skeletal wings. Those were palm trees. The low corrugated iron roof hidden beneath them belonged to the plasterer. The plasterer was now in prison—he had beaten his wife to death. It was because she had wounded his daily morning pride.

Even though the plasterer had enjoyed the luxurious pleasure of drinking half a *gō* [~90ml] of milk every morning, that morning his wife accidentally broke the milk bottle.
And she had not considered that to be any great mistake.
The plasterer had seethed with resentment over that.
The wife died on the spot, the plasterer went to prison, and the plasterer’s son, about ten years old, had been buying and reading a newspaper in front of the station kiosk the other day.
I saw that figure.
However, the life I am trying to inform you of is not such a commonplace thing.

Come over here.
The view of this eastern area was even more splendid.
The houses were even sparser.
That small black forest blocked our field of vision.
That was a cedar forest.
Inside that was a shrine dedicated to Inari.
The sudden bright patch at the edge of the forest was a rapeseed field, and beyond that, an empty lot of about 330 square meters could be seen in the foreground.
A paper kite with the green character for "dragon" written on it hovered quietly in the air.
Take a look at the long tail hanging from that paper kite.
If you drew a line straight down from the end of the tail, wouldn’t it land precisely at the northeastern corner of the empty lot?
You were already staring at the well in that spot.
No—you were staring at a young woman drawing water from the well with a suction pump.
That’s right.
From the very beginning, I had wanted to show you that woman.

She was wearing a pure white apron. That was Madam. Having finished drawing water and holding the bucket in her right hand, she started walking unsteadily. Which house would she enter? On the eastern side of the vacant lot grew twenty to thirty thick Moso bamboo stalks clustered together. "Watch closely," I said. The woman passed through those Moso bamboo stalks and then abruptly vanished from sight. "There," I said. "Just as I told you, right?" She had disappeared from view. But there was no need to worry—I knew where that woman was headed. Behind the Moso bamboo lay a vague redness. There were two red plum trees. Their buds must have begun to swell. Beneath that pale crimson haze stood a black Japanese tile roof. "That's the roof," I said. Under that roof lived and slept both that woman and her husband—a life beneath an unremarkable roof that I wanted to tell you about. "Let's sit here," I said.

That house had always been mine.
There were three rooms: a three-tatami room, a four-and-a-half-tatami room, and a six-tatami room.
The layout was good and it got decent sunlight.
The backyard spanned thirteen tsubo [~43m²], with those two red plum trees planted there along with a fairly large crepe myrtle and about five clumps of Kirishima azaleas.
Last summer I had planted a heavenly bamboo by the entrance.
Thus the rent was eighteen yen.
I did not think it too high.
I would have wanted to charge twenty-four or twenty-five yen, but given its distance from the station, that seemed impossible.
I did not think it too high.
Still it had gone unpaid for a year.
That rent money was meant entirely for my personal expenses, yet because of its lack I'd spent these twelve months feeling constrained in all social dealings.

I rented it to the current man last March.
It was around the time when the Kirishima azaleas in the backyard were finally beginning to sprout young buds.
Before that, a bank clerk who had once been famous as a swimmer had lived there alone with his young wife.
The bank clerk was a timid-looking man who didn’t drink alcohol or smoke, yet seemed to have a fondness for women.
Because of that, they often had marital quarrels.
But since he paid the rent properly every time, I can’t speak too ill of him.
The bank clerk stayed as a tenant for nearly three years.
He had been transferred to the Nagoya branch.
This year’s New Year’s card had three names written side by side: that of a girl called Yuri, followed by those of the couple.
Before the bank clerk, I had rented it to an engineer from a beer company, around thirty years old.
He lived with his mother and sister—a household of three—and all together they were an unfriendly bunch.
The engineer was a man indifferent to his attire, always wearing indigo work clothes, and yet seemed to be a model citizen.
The mother had her white hair cropped short in a boxy cut and carried an air of dignity.
The younger sister was a petite, slender woman around twenty years old who preferred wearing arrow-feather patterned meisen silk.
Would one call such a household modest?
They lived there for about half a year before moving to Shinagawa, but I don’t know what became of them afterward.
At the time, I certainly had my share of grievances, but looking back now, both that engineer and the swimmer were decent tenants.
It was what you might call good tenant luck.
That has now been completely negated by the current third-generation tenant.

Right about now, he must be under that roof, slowly smoking a Hope cigarette while burrowing into his futon.

That's right.
He smokes Hope.
It wasn't that he lacked money.
Even so, he wouldn't pay the rent.

It was a mistake from the start.

At dusk, a man who introduced himself as Kinoshita came to my house; remaining planted in the entranceway, he said—in an oddly ingratiating and convoluted tone—something to the effect of “I teach calligraphy and would like to rent your vacant house,” as if that alone sufficed. He was a slim, extremely short young man with a narrow face. He wore a brand-new Kurume kasuri lined kimono with sharp creases running from shoulders to cuffs. He certainly looked like a youth. I later learned he claimed to be forty-two—ten years my senior. Now that I mention it, that man had sagging wrinkles around his mouth and eyes that belied any youthful appearance, yet I still think his stated age was a lie. No—such falsehoods were commonplace for him. From his very first visit, he had already been spewing grand fabrications. To his proposal I replied, “If it suits your liking…” I had never pried deeply into tenants’ backgrounds up to then. I consider such inquiries impolite.

Regarding the security deposit, he said the following.

“Is the security deposit two months’ worth?”
“I see.”
“No, if you’ll pardon my impertinence, I’ll just pay fifty yen for now.”
“No.”
“Even if we had it, we would end up using it.”
“Well, it’s like savings, you see. Heh heh.”
“I’ll move in first thing tomorrow morning.”
“As for the security deposit, I’ll bring it up when the time comes—along with my greetings.”
“Would that be all right?”

This is how it went.
I couldn’t very well say it was unacceptable.
Moreover, I adhere to the principle of taking people’s words at face value.
If you’re deceived, it’s the deceiver’s fault.
I answered that it was fine—tomorrow or the day after.
The man smiled coquettishly, bowed politely, and quietly left.
The business card he left behind had no address—only “Seien Kinoshita” printed in plain characters—with “Freestyle Genius School Calligraphy Instructor” messily scrawled in pen at the top right corner.
I chuckled involuntarily, without malice.
The next morning, the Seien couple moved in after having a truck transport their numerous household items twice, but the fifty-yen security deposit ultimately remained unpaid.
As if he would pay it.

On the afternoon of that same day after moving in, Seien came to my house with his wife to pay a visit. He was wearing a yellow woolen jacket, had gaiters ostentatiously strapped on, and was clomping around in lacquered geta that looked like women’s footwear. When I went out to the entrance, he immediately said, “Ah. The move has finally ended.” “Don’t I look ridiculous dressed like this?” Then he peered into my face and grinned. I somehow felt awkward and replied half-heartedly with “Must’ve been quite an ordeal,” yet still managed to return a smile.

“This is my wife.
“Please treat her well.”

Seien ostentatiously jerked his chin toward the somewhat large-framed woman who had been standing quietly behind him.
We exchanged bows.
She wore a bluish-green meisen silk undergarment with a hemp leaf pattern, layered with a vermillion tie-dyed haori that was likewise characteristic of meisen.
I caught a glimpse of Madam’s soft, puffy lower face and flinched.
Though I had never seen her face before, I was struck—powerfully—in the chest.
Her face was deathly pale, one eyebrow arched sharply while the other remained perfectly composed.
Her eyes seemed somewhat narrow, and she was lightly biting her thin lower lip.
At first, I thought she was angry.
But I immediately knew that was not the case.
Madam bowed, then quietly placed a large ceremonial envelope on the entrance platform—concealing it from Seien—and declared in a low but firm tone, “As a token.”
Then she bowed once more, slowly and deeply.
Even as she bowed, she still raised one eyebrow and bit her lower lip.
I thought this must be her usual habit.
The Seien couple left just like that, but I remained standing there in a daze for some time.
Then a sickening irritation welled up within me.
There was the matter of the security deposit, but more than anything, I could no longer endure this vexing sense of having been outmaneuvered.
I squatted down on the entrance platform, picked up that embarrassingly large ceremonial envelope, and peered inside.
A five-yen stamp from a soba shop was inside.

For a moment, I couldn’t make sense of anything.
A five-yen stamp was an absurd thing.
Suddenly, I was seized by an ominous suspicion.
Could it be that he considered this as the security deposit?
That was what I thought.
Then I must send this back immediately.
I felt an unbearable nausea, tucked that ceremonial envelope into my breast pocket, and left the house as if chasing after the Seien couple.

Neither Seien nor Madam had yet returned to their new home.
Thinking they must have detoured for shopping on their way back, I ended up entering the house through the entrance that had been carelessly left wide open.
I decided to lie in wait there.
Under normal circumstances, even I wouldn’t resort to such a crude scheme, but it seemed the five-yen stamp in my breast pocket had thrown me off my rhythm.
I passed through the three-tatami-mat room at the entrance and entered the six-tatami living room.
This couple seemed quite accustomed to moving; already most of their belongings were put away, and in the tokonoma was displayed an unglazed pottery pot with two or three pale red blossoms of flowering quince.
The hanging scroll bore a temporarily mounted four-character inscription: “Big Dipper.”
The phrasing was bad enough, but the calligraphic style was even more comical.
It appeared to have been written with a paste brush or similar tool—the characters exaggeratedly thick and fleshy, then messily smudged on top of that.
Though there was nothing resembling a signature, I concluded at a glance that it was Seien’s work.
In other words, this must be the Freestyle Genius School.
I entered the back four-and-a-half tatami mat room.
The chests of drawers and dressing table were neatly placed in their assigned spots.
A single sketch of a massive nude woman with a slender neck and legs was housed in a round glass-covered frame and hung on the wall right beside the dressing table.
This must be Madam’s room.
A still-new mulberry long hibachi and what appeared to be a matching small, neat mulberry tea cabinet were lined up along the wall.
An iron kettle was hung over the long hibachi, and a fire had been lit.
I first settled down beside the long hibachi and smoked a cigarette.
A newly moved-into home, it seems, makes people sentimental.
I too, imagining the couple’s consultations over that framed painting and their arguments about the placement of this long hibachi, felt that earnest zeal characteristic of life taking a new turn.

After smoking just one cigarette, I rose to my feet.
When May came, I would replace the tatami mats.
Thinking such thoughts, I stepped out through the entrance, circled around to the garden via the lattice door beside the entranceway, and sat down on the veranda of the six-tatami room to wait for the Seien couple.

The Seien couple finally returned home when the trunks of the crepe myrtles in the garden began to turn red in the evening sun.
As might be expected from their shopping trip, Seien carried a broom over his shoulder while Madam held a bucket heavy with various purchases in her right hand.
They opened the lattice door and entered, immediately noticing my presence yet showing little surprise.

“Well, Landlord.”
“Welcome.”

Seien smiled while still carrying the broom and bowed lightly.

“Welcome.”

Madam too raised her trademark eyebrow yet showed white teeth up close in a somewhat more relaxed manner than before as she laughed and greeted him.

I was inwardly troubled.
I wouldn’t bring up the security deposit today.
I resolved only to admonish him about the soba shop stamp.
But that too ended in failure.
Instead I ended up shaking hands with Seien and—shamefully enough—even shouted banzai for our mutual benefit.

Following Seien’s prompting, I stepped up from the veranda into the six-tatami living room. I sat facing Seien, thinking only about how to broach the conversation. As I took a sip of the tea Madam had prepared, Seien quietly stood up and brought a shogi board from the neighboring room. As you know, I am good at shogi. I thought it would be all right to play at least one game. To bring out a shogi board in silence without even properly conversing with one’s guest—this was precisely the manner favored by self-styled shogi prodigies. In that case, I’ll start by making him cry uncle. I too smiled and silently arranged the pieces. Seien’s shogi style was peculiar—alarmingly quick. If lured into matching his pace, one would find their king captured before realizing it. Such was his playing style: a blitzkrieg approach. I lost game after game, growing increasingly feverish as we played. When the room dimmed, we moved out to the veranda and continued. In the end, I lost ten games to six, leaving both Seien and myself utterly spent.

Seien was completely silent during the match. He sat firmly cross-legged, adopting a diagonal posture.

“About the same, I suppose.” He muttered earnestly while putting the pieces into the box. “Won’t you lie down? Ahhh. We’re tired, aren’t we?”

I stretched out my legs without ceremony. The back of my head throbbed sharply. Seien pushed the shogi board aside and sprawled out at full length on the veranda, resting his chin in his hand and gazing at the garden beginning to be enveloped in evening dusk.

“Oh. Heat shimmer!” he called out in a low voice. “How strange.” “Look here.” “Right now—the heat shimmer!”

I too crawled onto the veranda and peered at the damp black soil of the garden. I suddenly realized. Before I had even mentioned a single word of my business, I realized my own foolishness in playing shogi and searching for heat shimmer instead. I hurriedly straightened my posture.

“Mr. Kinoshita. You’re making this difficult.”
Having said that, I took out the aforementioned noshi bag from my pocket.
“I cannot accept this.”

Seien, for some reason, seemed startled, changed his expression, and stood up.
I also braced myself.

“It’s nothing special, but…”

Madam came out to the veranda and peered at my face.
In the room, the electric light was dimly lit.

“I see.”
“I see.”

Seien nodded repeatedly in a hurried manner while frowning, as though looking at something far away.
“Then let’s have dinner first.”
“We’ll discuss it properly afterward.”

I had no desire to be treated to another meal, but wanting at least to settle this matter of the noshi bag, I followed Madam into the room.
That was a mistake.
I drank.
When Madam offered me a drink, I thought this had become a problem.
However, as I drank two or three cups, I gradually began to calm down.

At first, intending to mock Seien’s Free Genius Style, I had looked back at the hanging scroll in the alcove and asked, "So this is the Free Genius Style?"
Then Seien, his eyes already slightly reddened from drink, flushed even redder around the edges and began laughing with a pained expression.

“Free Genius Style?”
“Ah.”
“That’s a lie, you know.”
“I heard that if you don’t have some sort of occupation, landlords these days won’t rent to you, so, well, I came up with that nonsense.”
“Don’t go getting angry now.”
After saying that, he laughed again in a fit, as though choking.
“I found this at an antique shop.”
“I was astonished that such a ridiculous calligrapher could exist and bought it for thirty sen or so.”
“The text was just the Big Dipper over and over, utterly meaningless, so I took a liking to it.”
“I have a fondness for the bizarre, I tell you.”

I thought Seien must be an extraordinarily arrogant man.
The more arrogant a man becomes, the more he feels driven to contrive his own peculiar tastes.

“Forgive my rudeness, but are you currently unemployed?”

The five-yen stamp started to bother me again.
I thought there must surely be some ill-conceived trick at play.

“That’s right.”
While holding his cup, he continued smirking.
“But there’s no need for concern.”

“No.”
I made every effort to maintain an aloof demeanor toward him.
“To be frank, this five-yen stamp troubles me most of all.”

Madam spoke up while refilling my drink.

“Truly.”
Adjusting her collar with plump little hands, she smiled.
“Kinoshita’s to blame.”
“He kept saying how you seemed young and kindhearted—such presumptuous remarks—and forced us to have that ridiculous stamp made.”
“Truly.”

“I see.”
I involuntarily began to laugh.
“I see.”
I had been surprised too.
“The security deposit—”
I started to let it slip but bit my tongue.

“I see.”
Seien mimicked me.
“Understood.”
“I’ll bring it up tomorrow.”
“The bank is closed today.”

Now that he mentioned it, today was Sunday.
For no reason at all, we burst out laughing in unison.

Since my student days, I had loved the word “genius.”
Having read Lombroso’s and Schopenhauer’s theories on genius, I had secretly searched for people who might correspond to such geniuses, but they proved exceedingly hard to find.
When I was in high school, there was a young history professor there with a shaved head who had a reputation for memorizing every single student’s name and their respective junior high schools; I thought he might be a genius and paid close attention to him, but for all that, his lectures were disorganized.
I later learned that memorizing the students’ names and each of their respective junior high schools was this professor’s sole point of pride—and that he had endured hardship severe enough to warp his very bones, flesh, and innards to retain those memories.
Now, as I sat facing Seien and conversed with him like this—whether it was his skeletal structure, the shape of his head, the color of his eyes, or the tone of his voice—they all bore an uncanny resemblance to the characteristics of genius as defined by Lombroso and Schopenhauer.
Indeed, I did think so at the time.
Pallid and gaunt.
Short stature, boar neck.
A theatrical nasal voice.

When the alcohol had properly taken hold, I asked Seien.

"You mentioned something about not having an occupation earlier—does that mean you're conducting some sort of research?"

“Research?”
Seien hunched his neck like a mischievous child and rolled his large eyes in a circle.
“What would I be researching?”
“I detest research.”
“Wouldn’t that just amount to slapping on some half-baked, self-satisfied annotations?”
“I refuse.”
“I create.”

“What do you create?”
“An invention, perhaps?”

Seien chuckled quietly.
He took off his yellow jacket and was down to just his white dress shirt.

“This is getting interesting, isn’t it?”
“That’s right.”
“It’s an invention.”
“It’s the invention of a wireless electric lamp!”
“What a refreshing thing it would be if there were not a single utility pole left in the entire world.”
“For one thing, your sword-fighting film location shoots have been a tremendous help.”
“I’m an actor.”

Madam narrowed eyes as if they were stinging from smoke and absently gazed up at Seien’s face, which had begun to glisten greasily.

“That won’t do.”
“He’s drunk, I tell you.”
“He’s always spouting such nonsense—it’s so vexing.”
“Please don’t concern yourself.”

“What nonsense!”
“Shut up!”
“Landlord, I truly am an inventor!”
“How can humans become famous? I’ve invented this.”
“Look at this.”
“Didn’t I lean right in?”
“This is it.”
“Today’s young people—every last one of them—are afflicted with this thing called the fame disease, you see.”
“A slightly reckless-yet-cringing fame disease, you see.”
“You—no, rather, you—become an aviator.”
“A record-breaking quick around-the-world trip.”
“What do you think?”
“Close your eyes with the resolve to die and fly west, ever westward.”
“When you open your eyes—a mountain of people.”
“You’d be the darling of the Earth.”
“Just three days of endurance.”

“What do you think?”
“No motivation, eh?”
“What a spineless wretch.”
“Hohoho.”
“Ah, my apologies—”
“Otherwise, it’s a crime.”
“Ah, it’ll work out.”
“If you just hold yourself together, it’s nothing at all.”
“Killing people is fine, stealing things is fine—the more elaborate the crime, the better.”
“It’s fine.”
“They’d never catch you.”
“Once the statute’s run out, you come forward and make a grand declaration.”
“You’d be quite the catch.”
“But compared to three days in an airplane, this would require about ten years of patience—a bit too much for you modern folks, I suppose.”
“Alright.”
“Well then, I’ll teach you a modest method that’s just right for someone like you.”
“For lecherous scoundrels like you—timid cowards, weak-willed and ineffectual—there’s a perfect method called scandal.”
“Well, first off—you could become famous in this neighborhood.”
“Run off with someone’s wife. Hm?”

I didn't care at all.
Seien's face when he was drunk seemed beautiful to me.
This face was not commonplace.
I suddenly remembered Pushkin.
I had thought it was a face I'd seen somewhere before, but this was indeed the face of Pushkin I had seen displayed at the front of a postcard shop.
Above dewy eyebrows, deep wrinkles worn with age were carved in several lines—that was the death mask of Pushkin.

I, too, seemed to be thoroughly drunk.
Finally, I took out the stamps from my pocket and used them to have the soba shop deliver sake.
And so we drank more and more.
That excitement resembling the flirtation of first acquaintance made the two of us tense up, and we seemed to mutually feel a restless urge—through foolish eloquence—to make ourselves known to each other more and more.
We experienced many counterfeit emotions and exchanged cups countless times.
By the time I noticed, Madam was already gone.
She must have gone to sleep.
"I supposed I ought to head back," I thought.
As I was leaving, we shook hands.

“I love you.”
I said that.

“I love you too.”
Seien also seemed to answer in kind.

“Alright! Banzai!”

“Banzai.”

It certainly seemed to have been that way.
I have a bad habit of shouting “Banzai!” when I get drunk.

The alcohol wasn't good.
No—it must have been because I was the one getting carried away.
And so, just like that, our strange relationship began to drag on.

The entire day after being dead drunk, I wandered in a daze as if bewitched by a fox or raccoon dog. Seien was fundamentally unordinary. Even at my age, remaining unmarried and idling through each day had led my relatives to treat me as an eccentric worthy of contempt—yet my mind remained resolutely conventional. I compromised. I had lived by common morality. In a manner of speaking, I was even healthy. By contrast, Seien seemed to have derailed completely. He decidedly did not appear to be a proper citizen. As Seien’s landlord, it struck me that maintaining distance until his true nature revealed itself might prove more convenient—and so for four or five days afterward, I feigned ignorance of his existence.

However, about a week after moving in, I ended up encountering Seien again. This happened inside the bathtub at the public bathhouse. The moment I stepped into the washing area, someone shouted “Hey!” There was no one else in the afternoon bathhouse—Seien sat alone soaking in the tub. Flustered, I squatted before the hot water tap and lathered soap between my palms until countless bubbles formed. I must have appeared thoroughly rattled. Though suddenly aware of my panic, I deliberately took my time—turning on the tap to rinse away the bubbles before finally entering the tub.

“Thanks for the other night.”
Even I felt ashamed.

“No.”
Seien was feigning innocence.
“You see, this is the upper reaches of the Kiso River.”

I realized, based on the direction of Seien’s gaze, that he was referring to the painted mural above the bathtub.

“The painted mural is better, you know.”
“Better than the real Kiso River.”
“No.”
“It must be because it’s a painted mural.”
He smiled as he turned to look at me while saying this.

“Yes.”
I also smiled.
I didn’t understand the meaning of his words.

“This was no easy task, you know.”
“It’s a painting with conscience.”
“The painter who did this—he’d never set foot in this bathhouse.”

“Don’t you think he might come?”
“While gazing at his own painting and quietly soaking in the hot water—that might not be so bad, don’t you think?”

My words of that sort seemed to have earned Seien’s contempt, for he merely said, “Well,” then neatly aligned the backs of both his hands and gazed at his ten fingernails.

Seien left the bath first.
While soaking in the tub water, I discreetly watched Seien in the changing room.
That day he wore a mouse-gray tsumugi lined kimono.
I was taken aback by how long he scrutinized his own reflection in the mirror.
Eventually I too emerged from the bath, only to find Seien quietly sitting in a corner chair of the changing room, idly smoking a cigarette while waiting for me.
I felt an inexplicable tightness in my chest.
After we both left the bathhouse together, he muttered these words as we walked.

“I can’t let my guard down until I’ve seen you naked.”
“No.”
“It’s a matter between men.”

That day, I visited Seien again at his invitation.
On the way, I parted with Seien, stopped by my house to groom my hair, then—as agreed—immediately headed to Seien’s place.

But Seien was not there.
Madam was there alone.
She was reading the evening paper on the sunlit engawa at sunset.
I opened the lattice door beside the entrance, crossed the small garden, and stood at the edge of the engawa.
When I asked, “Is he not here?”

“Yes.”
She answered without taking her eyes off the newspaper.
She bit her lower lip hard, in a foul mood.

“Hasn’t he come back from the bath yet?”

“Yes.”

“Hmm.”
“He and I happened to bathe together, you see.”
“Since he told me to come over.”

“He cannot be relied upon.”
She laughed bashfully and turned the evening paper’s page.

“Well then, I’ll take my leave.”

“Oh. Why don’t you wait a little while? Why don’t you have some tea or something?” Madam folded the evening paper and spread it out toward me.

I sat down on the engawa.
The clusters of buds on the garden’s red plum were swelling.

“You’d do well not to trust Kinoshita.”

Being suddenly whispered to like that right by my ear, I started. Madam offered me tea.

“Why?”
I maintained a serious demeanor.

“It’s no good.”
She sharply raised one eyebrow and let out a small sigh.

I nearly burst out laughing. This woman must be imitating Seien’s usual indulgence in that peculiar self-important indolence of his, I thought—subtly flaunting the hardships of serving a husband endowed with some singular talent. What a refreshing lie, I mused inwardly. But when it came to such petty falsehoods, I was hardly outdone myself.

“It’s said that nonsense is one of genius’s traits,” I continued, “but he only speaks each moment’s truth. There’s a word for such capriciousness—if we’re being unkind, we might call him an opportunist.”

“A genius? Don’t be absurd,” Madam retorted, discarding my half-drunk tea into the garden before refilling the cup.

My throat burned from the bathhouse steam. Sipping the fresh coarse tea, I pressed her: “How can you be so certain he isn’t?” From our first meeting, I’d sought any glimpse of Seien’s true nature beneath his performances.

“He acts all high and mighty.”
That was her reply.

“Is that so?”
I burst out laughing.

This woman, like Seien, must be either extraordinarily clever or extraordinarily foolish.
At any rate, I decided this conversation was getting nowhere.
Yet I felt I’d at least grasped that Madam seemed rather fond of Seien.
Gazing at the garden blurring into the twilight mist, I suggested a small compromise to Madam.

“Even so, Mr. Kinoshita must still be contemplating something.”
“In that case, there can be no true respite for him.”
“He isn’t being idle.”
“Not even when bathing or trimming his nails.”

“My.”
“Are you suggesting I should coddle him then?”

To my ears, her tone carried distinct provocation. With a hint of mocking laughter, I countered: “Have you quarreled?”

“No.”
Madam looked amused.

They must have had a quarrel.
Moreover, she must now be longing for Seien.

“I’ll take my leave now.”
“Ah.”
“I shall call again.”

Dusk was drawing near, and only the trunk of the crepe myrtle stood out softly outlined. I placed my hand on the garden gate, turned around, and greeted Madam once more. Madam stood alone, pale on the engawa, but politely returned the bow. To myself I muttered wistfully that this couple must love each other.

Though I had come to understand their mutual affection, what Seien truly was still eluded me. Was he what they call a fashionable nihilist? Or perhaps one of those Reds? No—more likely just some pretentious idler playing at being wealthy? Whatever the case, I was beginning to regret having carelessly rented my house to such a man.

Before long, my ominous premonition began steadily coming true.
March passed, April passed, and still there was no word from Seien.
Not a single lease-related document had been exchanged, and of course, the security deposit remained untouched.
However, I was the type who disliked getting fussily involved with documents like other landlords, and even when it came to the security deposit, I hated moving it elsewhere to gain interest or such—since, as Seien had said, it was like savings—so that was, well, whatever.
But when it came to him not paying the rent, I was at a loss.
Even so, I turned a blind eye and let things slide until May.
I would like to explain that this stemmed from my carelessness and generosity, but to tell the truth, I was afraid of Seien.
When I thought of Seien, I felt an indescribable irritation.
I didn’t want to see him.
I knew full well that I would eventually have to meet him and settle matters, but even so, I kept putting it off day by day with trivial excuses.
In other words, it must be due to my weak-willed nature.

At the end of May, I finally resolved to visit Seien’s house.
I left early in the morning.
I was always like this—once I resolved to do something, I could not rest until I had settled the matter as quickly as possible.
When I went there, the front door was still shut.
They seemed to be asleep.
Because I found it distasteful to intrude upon a young couple’s slumber, I simply turned back.
While irritably tending to the garden trees and such, I finally set out again around noon.
It was still closed.

This time, I circled around to the garden. The flowers of the five clumps of Kirishima azaleas in the garden each bloomed densely like beehives. The red plum had shed all its blossoms and spread out bluish-green leaves, while the crepe myrtle sprouted spindly young leaves like splinters from the crooks of its branches. The storm shutters were also closed. I lightly knocked on the door a few times and called out in a low voice, “Mr. Kinoshita, Mr. Kinoshita.” It was utterly silent. I surreptitiously peeked inside through a gap in the storm shutters. No matter how old one gets, humans retain some voyeuristic curiosity. It was pitch black, and I couldn’t see a thing. But I could at least sense that someone was sleeping in the six-tatami living room. I stepped away from the storm shutters and considered calling out again, but in the end, I simply turned around and returned to my house. The hesitation born of regret over having peeked seemed to make me turn back dejectedly. When I returned home, there happened to be a visitor, and by the time I had settled a few matters with them, the day had grown dark. After seeing off the guest, I set out to make a third visit. Surely he couldn’t still be asleep, I thought.

There was a light on at Seien’s house, and the front door was open.
When I called out—“Who’s there?”
Seien’s hoarse reply came.

“It’s me.”

“Ah.
Landlord.
Come in.”
He seemed to be in the six-tatami living room.

The air in the house felt somehow gloomy.
Standing at the entrance, I tilted my head to peer into the six-tatami room and saw Seien, dressed in a padded robe, hurriedly putting away his bedding.
Under the dim lamplight, Seien’s face looked startlingly aged—enough to make me think, Oh.

“Are you going to bed already?”

“Huh.”
“No.”
“It’s fine.”
“I’ve been sleeping the entire day.”
“Truly.”
“Because sleeping like this costs the least money.”
While saying such things, he seemed to have finished tidying up the room and came hurrying out to the entrance.
“Long time no see.”

Without properly looking at my face, he immediately averted his eyes.

“The rent won’t be possible for the time being,” he said abruptly.

I finally grew irritated.
I deliberately withheld my response.

“Madam ran away.”
He quietly squatted down, leaning against the entrance’s shoji.
Because the light from the lamp was coming from behind, Seien’s face appeared completely black.

“Why?”
I was startled.

“She grew to hate me.”
“She must have found another man.”
“She’s that kind of woman.”
His tone was uncharacteristically brisk.

“When was that?”
I sat down on the genkan step.

“Let me see—around the middle of last month, I suppose?”
“Aren’t you coming in?”

“No.
“I have other things to do today as well.”
I felt slightly uneasy.

“Though it’s shameful to admit, I was living off remittances from the woman’s family home.”
“That’s how it’s ended up like this.”

In Seien’s hurried speaking manner, I discerned an eagerness to send his guest away as soon as possible.
I deliberately took out a cigarette from my sleeve. “Do you have a match?”
I said.
Seien silently stood and went toward the kitchen area, then brought back a large box of economy matches.

“Why don’t you work?”
I let my cigarette smoke drift, secretly resolved to now engage him in a lengthy talk.

“Because I can’t work.”
“It’s probably because I have no talent.”
His tone remained brisk.

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

“No.
If only I could work…”

I realized Seien had an unexpectedly honest disposition.
My chest constricted, but if I kept sympathizing with him this way, the rent issue would never be settled.
I hardened my determination.

“This won’t do, will it? I’m in a bind too—you can’t possibly keep this up forever.” I threw my half-smoked cigarette onto the earthen floor. Red sparks scattered across the cement paving before vanishing.

“Yes.”
“I’ll manage that.”
“I have prospects.”
“I’m grateful to you.”
“Could you wait just a bit longer?”
“Just a bit more.”

I put the second cigarette between my lips and struck another match.
By the match's light, I managed to catch a brief glimpse of Seien's face that had been worrying me since earlier.
I let the burning match slip from my fingers.
It was because I had seen the visage of a demon.

“In that case, I shall take my leave for now. I won’t accept what isn’t there.”

I wanted to get away from here right now.

“I see.”
“Thank you for going out of your way.”
Seien said solemnly and stood up.
Then he muttered as if to himself:
“Forty-two, First White Water Star.”
“My fickle mind and these circumstances wear me down.”

I stumbled out of Seien’s house and frantically hurried homeward. But as I gradually calmed down, a feeling as though I’d been made a fool of began to well up within me. I’d been tricked again. Seien’s earnest, clear tone of voice and his casual mention of being forty-two all began to seem unbearably affected and contrived. I must be a bit too lenient. With such a lax disposition, I thought being a landlord was utterly impossible.

For the next two or three days, I did nothing but think about Seien. Thanks to my father’s inheritance, I too was idling away each day like this, with no inclination to seek employment, and I couldn’t claim not to understand Seien’s lament of “If only I could work…”—but if Seien truly had not a single sen of income to rely on while living as he did, that alone would already mark him as possessing no ordinary spirit. No—calling it “spirit” makes it sound noble, but anyway, it’s really just an exceptionally thick-skinned disposition. Now that things had come to this, I thought I must somehow uncover something like his true nature to put my mind at ease.

May passed and June arrived, yet still there was no word from Seien.
I had to go to his house once again.

That day, Seien emerged dressed like a sportsman in a collared dress shirt and white trousers, wearing an awkwardly bashful expression. The entire house felt brighter somehow. When shown into the six-tatami room, I noticed an old sofa upholstered in mouse-gray velvet near the alcove—when had they acquired it?—with a pale green rug spread over the tatami mats. The room’s atmosphere had undergone a complete transformation. Seien seated me on the sofa.

The crepe myrtle in the garden was beginning to bloom with scarlet flowers.

“I’m truly sorry for always causing trouble.”
“This time it’ll be fine.”
“I found work.”
“Hey, Tei-chan.”
Seien sat down on the sofa next to me and then called out to the next room.

A petite woman in a sailor suit popped out from the direction of the four-and-a-half-tatami room. She was a girl with a round face and healthy-looking cheeks. Her eyes were clear and blankly innocent, as if unaware of fear.

“It’s the Landlord,” he said. “Greet the Landlord. This is my wife.”

I thought, Oh dear. The meaning of Seien’s earlier smile—the one tinged with bashfulness—had finally become clear.

“What kind of work is it?”

After the girl withdrew to the adjacent room again, I deliberately feigned ignorance and asked about the work. Today of all days, I was determined not to be taken in and kept my guard up.

“I write novels.”

“What?”

“No,”
“I’ve been studying literature since long ago.”
“A sprout has finally appeared these days.”
“I’m writing true stories.”
He put on an air of solemn composure.

“When you say ‘true stories’…?”
I persistently pressed him.

“In other words, I report things that didn’t happen as if they were facts.”
“It’s nothing at all.”
“I make sure to include phrases like ‘which prefecture, which village, which address,’ ‘which year, month, and day of Taisho,’ or ‘as you’d know from the newspapers of that time,’ and after that, I always write things that don’t exist.”
“In other words, it’s a novel then.”

Seien, perhaps finally feeling somewhat self-conscious about his new wife, avoided my gaze as he brushed back the dandruff from his long hair and crossed and recrossed his knees, all while delivering a somewhat eloquent speech.

“Is this really acceptable?”
“This is problematic.”

“It’s fine.
“It’s fine.”
“Yeah.”
Cutting off my words, he repeated “It’s fine” and laughed cheerfully.
I believed.

At that moment, the girl from before came in carrying a silver tray with black tea.

“Take a look.”
Seien received the teacup of black tea and handed it to me, then took his own cup as he said this and turned to look behind him.
In the alcove, the Big Dipper hanging scroll had disappeared, replaced by a plaster bust about one foot tall.
Cockscomb flowers bloomed beside the bust.
The girl hid half her face—flushed red to the tips of her ears—behind a tarnished silver tray and glared at him with widened brown eyes.
Seien waved away that gaze with one hand as if brushing it off,

“Please look at the bust’s forehead. It’s dirty, don’t you think? It can’t be helped.”

The girl darted out of the room in a blur.

“What’s wrong?”

I had no idea what was going on.

“Oh, it’s nothing. It’s supposedly a bust of Teiko’s... from her past.”
“It’s the only dowry item.”
“You kiss it.”
He laughed nonchalantly.

I felt disgusted.

“You seem displeased.”
“But this is how the world’s made.”
“Nothing to be done.”
“Watch her—she changes the flowers every day with such care.”
“Yesterday dahlias.”
“Day before that, dayflowers.”
“Wait—amaryllis, maybe?”
“Or cosmos?”

This was his trick.
If I carelessly fell for this act again, I'd be left with nothing but empty hands like before.
Having realized this, I took up a spiteful stance and refused to play along.

“Well．Have you started the work yet？”

“Ah, that…”
He took a sip of black tea.
“I’ve started getting into it gradually, but it’s fine.”
“You see, I’m actually a literary student at heart.”

I was looking for somewhere to set down the black teacup while saying,

“But your ‘truly’ can’t be relied upon.”
“When you say ‘truly,’ it feels like you’re just slathering on another layer of lies.”

“Oh, that stings.”
“You shouldn’t keep poking at facts like that.”
“You know, I once studied under Mori Ōgai—you’re familiar with him?”
“I studied under that very teacher, you see.”
“The protagonist of that novel called *The Youth* is me, you see.”

This came as a surprise even to me.
I had read that novel once long ago myself, and its tenuous romanticism had long held my heart captive—but I never knew that its protagonist, so excessively pristine in every way, had been modeled after anyone real.
Because he was a youth fabricated in an old man’s mind, he must have been too pristine.
Real youths are far more suspicious and calculating—far more stifling—and yet that lotus-like youth I found so dissatisfying... was he actually this Seien?
I had almost gotten excited, but immediately caught myself—no, no—and grew cautious.

“This is the first I’ve heard of it. But that one—if I may say so—seemed more like an easygoing young master.”

“This is terrible.”
Seien quietly took the black tea cup I had been holding awkwardly and placed them under the sofa alongside his own.
“In that era, that was acceptable.”
“But now even that youth has ended up like this.”
“Though I don’t think I’m the only one.”

I took another look at Seien’s face.

“Is that an abstract way of putting it?”

“No.”
Seien Kinoshita peered dubiously into my eyes.
“Are you talking about me?”
Once again, I felt a pang of something resembling pity.

“Well, I’ll take my leave for today.”
“Please be sure to start your work.”
Having said that, I left Seien’s house—but on my way home, I found myself unable to refrain from praying for his success.
This was partly because Seien’s words about the youth had somehow seeped into my body, leaving me wilted to an almost comical degree even to myself, and partly because his new marriage had stirred in me a desire to pray for his happiness.
All along the way, I pondered.
Even if I didn’t press for that rent, it didn’t mean I was facing financial hardship.
It was merely a minor inconvenience with petty cash.
For once, I would endure this minor inconvenience of mine for the sake of that unfortunate aged youth.

I seem to have this flaw of being somehow drawn to artists.
Especially when that man was not being properly acknowledged by society, my heart stirred all the more.
If Seien truly was on the verge of sprouting now, then muddying his state of mind with matters like rent would have been inexcusable.
This should have been left undisturbed a little longer.
I would take pleasure in his success.
I felt immensely pleased with the words He is not what he was that had suddenly slipped from my lips at that moment.

When I was in middle school, I discovered this phrase in an English grammar textbook that stirred my heart, and this phrase remains the sole piece of knowledge from my five years of secondary education that I still cannot forget; yet each time I visited, juxtaposing Seien—who never failed to renew some sense of wonder and emotion in me—with that sentence recorded as a grammatical example, I began to harbor an unusual expectation toward him.

Yet I hesitated to inform Seien of this resolution of mine.
That must be what one might call landlord mentality.
Perhaps Seien might just bring all the back rent in full even tomorrow.
Such secret expectations being another reason, I refrained from proactively telling Seien that I didn’t need the rent from my side.
If that also served to encourage Seien, then I thought it would be a good thing for both of us.

At the end of July, I visited Seien again—this time, surely there would be some improvement, some progress or change.
While looking forward to it, I set out.
I went and found myself dumbfounded.
Far from having changed, it remained exactly as it had been.

I circled from the garden to the six-mat veranda that day to find Seien sitting cross-legged on the veranda wearing nothing but a loincloth, a large bowl nestled between his thighs as he earnestly stirred its contents with a short stick resembling a taro root.
"What are you doing?" I called out.

“Ah.”
“This is light tea, sir.”
“I’m whisking tea.”
“When it’s this hot, there’s nothing better than this.”
“Would you care for a cup?”

I noticed that Seien’s way of speaking was somehow different.
But this was no time to be questioning it.
I had to drink that tea.
Seien forced the teacup into my hands, then swiftly put on the stylish Benkei-checkered yukata that had been discarded beside him—all without rising from his seated position.
I sat down on the veranda and reluctantly sipped the tea.
When I drank it, there was a pleasant bitterness, and indeed, it was delicious.

“Why on earth...”
“How elegant.”

“No.”
“I drink it because it’s delicious.”
“I’ve grown tired of writing true stories, you see.”

“Huh.”

“I’m writing it.”
Seien shuffled closer to the alcove while tying his obi.

In the alcove, the plaster statue from before was gone, and in its place stood what appeared to be a shamisen propped up inside a peony-patterned cloth bag.
Seien rummaged through a bamboo hand chest in the alcove's corner until he plucked out a small folded paper scrap and brought it over.

“I want to write something like this, so I’m collecting reference materials.”

I set down the light tea bowl and accepted those two or three paper scraps.
It seemed to be a clipping from a women’s magazine or similar publication, bearing the printed title *Seasonal Migratory Birds*.

“Hey. Isn’t this photo splendid? This shows migratory birds caught in thick fog over the ocean—losing their bearings, flying headlong toward the light as punishment—colliding with a lighthouse and flapping to their deaths. Tens of millions of corpses. Migratory birds are such tragic creatures. For their journey is their very life. They’re burdened with a fate that won’t let them stay put. I think I’ll tackle this through single-perspective description. The theme is me—a young migratory bird—growing old just wandering east to west and back again. My companions gradually die off, you see. Shot by rifles, swallowed by waves, starving, falling ill—the sorrow of never having time to warm their nests. You. There’s that song—‘If you ask the seagull offshore about the tide time…’ Remember? I once told you about fame sickness, but listen—there’s an easier way than killing people or boarding planes. And it comes with posthumous fame attached. To write one masterpiece. That’s it.”

Beneath his eloquence, I detected yet another attempt to mask his embarrassment.
Sure enough, from the kitchen entrance—not that girl—a slender unfamiliar woman with sallow skin and hair done in a traditional Japanese style was secretly peering toward us, and I caught a fleeting glimpse of her.

“Well then, go ahead and write that masterpiece.”

“Are you leaving? Another cup of light tea?”

“No.”

I found myself troubled by thoughts again on my way home. This was becoming a true calamity. Could such utter nonsense exist in this world? By now I had moved beyond reproach into pure astonishment. Suddenly I recalled his story about migratory birds. All at once, I sensed a resemblance between us. Not in any specific aspect—there was simply this shared essence I detected. It felt as though you were declaring we both were migratory birds, filling me with disquiet. Was he influencing me, or I him? One of us had to be the vampire. Could it be that either of us was gradually feeding on the other's emotions without realizing it? Had he perceived my anticipation for his mercurial transformations whenever I visited—my very expectations shackling him, forcing him to consciously maintain this parade of changes? The more I dwelled on these thoughts, the more our essences seemed intertwined in mutual reflection, until with gathering momentum I began fixating on him. Would Seien ever write that masterpiece? I started developing profound interest in his migratory bird novel. It was around that time I instructed the gardener to plant a nandina by his entrance.

In August, I spent roughly two months along the coast of Boso.
I stayed until the end of September.
Immediately upon returning home that very afternoon, I visited Seien with a small amount of souvenir dried flounder.
In this way, I felt an extraordinary camaraderie with him and even put my all into it.

When I entered from the garden, Seien greeted me with evident delight.
Having cut his hair short, he looked even younger.
But his complexion seemed to have taken on a certain harshness somewhere.
He wore a dark blue checkered summer kimono.
I, too, felt somehow nostalgic and entered the room as if leaning against his thin shoulders.
In the center of the room was set a low dining table, and on its surface were placed about a dozen beer bottles and two glasses.

“It’s strange.”
“I was certain you would come today.”
“No—it’s strange.”
“That’s why I prepared like this since morning and have been waiting for you.”
“How strange.”
“Well, please.”

Eventually, we began leisurely drinking our beer.

“How about it?”
“Were you able to get your work done?”

“That didn’t work out.”
“Brown cicadas had swarmed all over this crepe myrtle, and their incessant shrill chirping from dawn till dusk nearly drove me mad.”

I was made to laugh involuntarily.

“No—it’s true. Since I couldn’t endure it, I went through all sorts of hardships with this—cutting my hair short and such. But thank you for coming today.” Puckering his darkened lips slightly like a clown, he downed the glass of beer in nearly one gulp.

“Have you been here the whole time?” I set down the beer glass I had pressed to my lips. Inside the glass floated a small gnat-like insect, frantically struggling atop the foam.

“Yes.”
Seien rested both elbows on the table, lifted his glass to eye level, and while vacantly watching the rising beer foam, spoke nonchalantly.
“After all, there’s nowhere else for me to go.”

“Ah.”
“I brought a souvenir.”

“Thank you.”

He seemed deep in thought, paying no attention to the dried fish I offered as he continued peering through his own glass.
His eyes grew glassy.
He already seemed drunk.
After scooping up the insect on the foam with the tip of my little finger, I silently gulped it down.

“There’s a saying that poverty breeds greed, you know.”
Seien began speaking in a persistent, grating tone.
“I think that’s absolutely right.
“Noble poverty? There’s no such thing!
“If I had money…”

“What’s gotten into you?
“Don’t cling so strangely.”

I slumped my knees and deliberately gazed at the garden. I decided there was no use engaging with every little thing.

“The crepe myrtle is still blooming, isn’t it? What an unpleasant flower. It’s already March and yet it’s blooming. Even if it wants to fall, it can’t—what an unimaginative tree.”

I pretended not to hear, picked up the fan under the table, and began flapping it noisily.

“You.”
“I’m alone again.”

I turned around.
Seien was pouring beer by himself and drinking it alone.

“I’ve been meaning to ask for a while—what happened? Aren’t you just being foolishly unfaithful?”

“No. They all run away, you see. There’s just nothing to be done.”

“Could it be because you squeeze them dry? We had that conversation once before, didn’t we? Excuse me for asking, but weren’t you living off women’s money?”

“That’s a lie.” He picked out a cigarette from the nickel case under the table and calmly began smoking. “The truth is, I receive an allowance from my hometown. No. I think changing wives now and then is the real thing. You. From the dresser to the vanity—everything is mine. My wives come to my place with nothing but the clothes on their backs, and then they can leave just as they are whenever they want. It’s my invention.”

“That’s foolish.”
I gulped down the beer with a heavy heart.

“If only I had money…”
“I want money, you know.”
“My body is rotting.”
“I want to be purified under a fifty-foot waterfall.”
“Then I could interact with someone as good as you without any reservations.”

“You don’t need to worry about that.”

I thought about saying I wasn’t counting on the rent but couldn’t bring myself to say it. It was also because I’d suddenly noticed the cigarette he was smoking was a Hope. It’s not like there’s absolutely no money at all, I thought.

Seien seemed to realize my gaze had fixed on his cigarette and immediately discerned what lay behind my stare.

“Hope is good. Neither sweet nor bitter—I like it precisely because it tastes so utterly ordinary.”
“First off, the name’s perfect, don’t you think?”
After this solitary defense of his choice, he abruptly changed his tone.
“I wrote a novel.”
“About ten pages.”
“The rest simply refuses to come together.”
With the cigarette still pinched between his fingers, he slowly wiped the oil from both wings of his nose with his palm.
“I thought maybe I lacked stimulation—that’s why I tried such an experiment.”
“Worked desperately to save up twelve or thirteen yen, then took it all to a café and squandered it in the most idiotic way imaginable.”
“Was counting on remorse to fuel me, you see.”

“So were you able to write it then?”
“It didn’t work.”

I burst out laughing.
Seien also burst into laughter and flicked the Hope cigarette into the garden.

“Novels are such dull things, aren’t they? No matter how fine a work you write, a hundred years ago someone already created a more splendid one somewhere, you see. Even newer, even more forward-looking works—they were already created a hundred years ago, you know. At best, you can only imitate.”

“That can’t be right.”
“Don’t assume those who come later are more skilled.”

“Where do you get such outrageous confidence?”
“You shouldn’t speak so carelessly.”
“Where do you get such confidence?”
“Isn’t a good writer someone with superior and unique individuality?”
“They must forge lofty individuality.”
“Migratory birds cannot achieve that.”

The day was growing dark.
Seien kept swatting at the mosquitoes on his calves with a round fan.
Because there was a thicket right nearby, mosquitoes were plentiful.

“But they say characterlessness is a trait of genius.”

When I tentatively said that, Seien pouted his lips in dissatisfaction, but somewhere on his face, he definitely smirked.
I noticed it.
The moment I noticed it, my drunkenness vanished.
So it was true.
This was surely an imitation of me.
There was a time when I had taught the first Madam there some nonsense about genius, and Seien must have heard it.
Could it be that this had served as a suggestion, constantly working upon Seien’s mind and restraining his actions all this time?
Seien’s hitherto somewhat unordinary attitudes all seemed to be attempts to avoid betraying the expectations of the words I had casually spoken to him.
Wasn’t this man, without even realizing it, acting dependent on me and serving as my yes-man?

“You’re not a child either, so why don’t you put an end to this foolishness? I’m not just keeping this house idle for no reason, you know. The land tax went up again last month, and on top of that, taxes, insurance premiums, repair costs—they’re taking quite a toll. To burden others while playing innocent—that’s either otherworldly arrogance or a beggar’s mentality. Enough of this spoiled behavior—put an end to it.” Having said that, I stood up.

“Ahh.”
“If only I could play the flute on a night like this.”

Seien muttered as if to himself while escorting me out to the veranda.

When I stepped down into the garden, I couldn’t tell where my geta were in the darkness.

“Landlord.”
“The lights have been cut off.”

Finally finding my geta and slipping them on, I stole a glance at Seien’s face.
He stood at the veranda’s edge, gazing vacantly at a section of the clear night sky that glowed like wildfire from Shinjuku’s electric lights.
I remembered.
From the start, I’d been nagged by the sense that I’d seen Seien’s face somewhere before—now it finally came to me.
Not Pushkin.
His features bore an uncanny likeness to those of an old woman who’d once rented from me: a beer company engineer with cropped white hair in a square-cut style.

October, November, December—I did not visit Seien during those three months.
Seien, of course, did not come to my place either.
We only once crossed paths at a public bathhouse.
It was nearly midnight, and the bathhouse was on the verge of closing.
Seien was sitting sprawled out completely naked on the tatami in the changing room, cutting his toenails.
He appeared to have just gotten out of the bath, steam still rising freshly from his emaciated shoulders.
Even when he saw my face, he didn’t show much surprise,

“They say cutting your nails at night makes a corpse appear.”
“Someone died in this bathhouse.”
“Landlord.”
“Lately, it’s just my nails and hair that keep growing.”

He smirked faintly, muttering such things between sharp snips of his nail clippers, but once finished, he suddenly scrambled to throw on his robe and hurried off without even glancing at the mirror.
To me, this too felt wretched—it only deepened my contempt.

This New Year's, while making my rounds of visits through the neighborhood, I decided to drop by Seien's place as well.
When I opened the front door at that moment, I was startled as a long-bodied dog with a faded reddish-brown coat abruptly barked at me.
Seien emerged looking oddly youthful, wearing something like an egg-colored blouse and a nightcap, but he immediately restrained the dog by its neck and launched into a pointless explanation without even a greeting: this dog had wandered in from somewhere at year's end, he said, and after feeding it for two or three days, it was already putting on airs of loyalty by barking at strangers—he intended to abandon it somewhere soon.
Assuming that yet another embarrassing incident had occurred, I shook off Seien's attempts to stop me and quickly took my leave.
But Seien came chasing after me.

“Landlord.”
“Though it’s hardly the time to bring this up so soon after New Year’s, I’m truly on the verge of losing my mind.”
“In my parlor, small spiders have been coming out in swarms, and it’s been troubling me.”
“The other day, trying to straighten a bent fire iron out of boredom, I was clanging it against the edge of the brazier when—you see—my wife stopped her laundry, changed her expression, and came rushing into my room. She said she thought I’d gone mad for sure.”
“On the contrary, I was the one startled.”
“Do you have any money?”
“No—never mind.”
“And so, having completely rotted away these past two or three days, even for New Year’s, we’re deliberately not making any preparations at home.”
“You really went out of your way to come here, though.”
“We haven’t been able to offer you any proper hospitality.”

“Did you take a new wife?”
I said in as spiteful a tone as I could muster.

“Ah.”
He looked bashful, like a child.

I thought he had probably started living with some hysterical woman.

It was just the other day, around the beginning of February. I received an unexpected visit from a woman late at night. When I went out to the entrance, it was Seien’s first Madam. She was wrapped in a black fur shawl and wore a coarse splashed-pattern coat. Her white cheeks seemed to have grown even paler and more translucent. She said there was something she wanted to discuss and asked me to accompany her around there. I didn’t even put on a coat and went outside with her just as I was. Frost had formed, and a cold full moon with a distinct outline was out. We walked in silence for a while.

“I have been back here since the end of last year, you see.”
She said with an angry look in her eyes, staring straight ahead.

“That.”
I had no other way to put it.

“Because I missed this place.”
She whispered this nonchalantly.

I remained stubbornly silent.
We were slowly making our way toward the cedar grove.

“How is Mr. Kinoshita doing?”

“He remains unchanged as ever.”
“I’m truly sorry about this.”
She lowered both hands clad in blue woolen gloves to rest near her knees.

“This is troubling.”
“I ended up quarreling with him the other day.”
“What on earth is he doing?”

“He is hopeless. He’s completely mad, you know.”

I smiled. I had recalled the story of the bent fire iron. So that nervous wife must have been this Madam after all.

"But he must be thinking something through it all."
I found myself wanting to offer at least some rebuttal.

Madam replied with a stifled giggle.

"Yes."
"He says he'll become an aristocrat first, then get rich."

I was slightly cold.
I quickened my pace a little.
With each step I took, the frost-swollen soil would emit a peculiar low tone—like the whispers of quails or owls—as it crumbled.

“Oh.”
I laughed deliberately.
“Setting that aside, has he started any actual work?”

“He’s lazy to the very marrow.”
She answered tersely.

“What’s wrong with him? Excuse me for asking—how old is he? He said he was forty-two or something, but...”

“Well.” This time, she did not laugh. “I wonder if he’s not even thirty yet. He’s quite young, you see. Since it’s always changing, even I can’t say for certain, I’m afraid.”

“What does he plan to do, I wonder. He doesn’t seem to be studying or anything. Does he even read books?”

“No—just newspapers. He impressively subscribes to three different newspapers, you see. He reads them carefully, you know. He reads the political section over and over again.”

We arrived at that vacant lot.
The frost on the vacant lot was pure.
Because of the moonlight, the pebbles, bamboo leaves, stakes, and even the trash heap were glowing white.

“It seems he has no friends either.”

“Yes. Because he’s been doing bad things to everyone, they say they can’t associate with him anymore.”

“What kind of bad things?”
I was thinking about money matters.

“But those are trivial matters, you see.”
“They’re utterly trivial matters.”
“Even so, they say it’s bad.”
“That person doesn’t understand right from wrong, you see.”

“That’s right.”
“That’s correct.”
“Good and evil are inverted.”

“No.” She buried her chin deep into her shawl and shook her head slightly. “If things were clearly inverted, that would still be manageable.” “It’s utter chaos, that’s what it is.” “That’s why I feel so uneasy.” “He’ll be abandoned if this keeps up.” “He does try to humor them, but...” “I hear two more came after me.” “Yes.” I hadn’t been listening much to the conversation.

“It’s the sort of thing you change with each season.”
“He imitated them, didn’t he?”

“What do you mean?”
I couldn’t immediately grasp it.

“He imitates people, I tell you.”
“That person doesn’t have a single original thought.”
“It’s all influence from women.”
“When it was a literary girl—literature.”
“When it was someone from the downtown area—stylishly.”
“I know.”

“No way.”
“Like some Chekhov character.”

I said that and laughed, but still my chest tightened. If Seien were here now, I thought I might even tightly hug those thin shoulders of his.

“So then, the fact that Mr. Kinoshita is now mired in bone-deep indolence means he’s imitating you, I take it?”
I said that and staggered unsteadily.

“Yes.”

“I like that sort of man. If only you had realized it a little sooner.”
“But it’s too late now.”
“It’s your punishment for not believing me.”
She declared with a light laugh.

I kicked a clod of earth at my feet, and when I suddenly looked up, there was a man standing quietly under the thicket.
He wore a padded kimono, his hair grown long as it used to be.
We both recognized that figure simultaneously.
Stealthily untangling their clasped hands, they quietly separated.

“I’ve come to fetch you.”

Seien had said this in a low voice, but whether due to the surrounding stillness, it struck me as piercingly sharp and strange. He seemed to find even the moonlight dazzling, and with a furrowed brow, was watching us nervously.

I greeted him with a “Good evening.”

“Good evening.
Landlord.”
He responded amiably.

I took two or three steps closer to him and ventured a question.

“Are you working on anything?”

“Please, just leave me be.
It’s not as if we’ve nothing else to discuss.”
Having replied with uncharacteristic severity, he suddenly reverted to his usual ingratiating tone.
“I’ve taken up palmistry lately, you know.
Look—the sun line has emerged on my palm.
See?
There, there.
Proof my fortunes are about to change.”

As he said this, he raised his left hand high into the moonlight and gazed admiringly at that so-called sun line on his palm.

Fortune—as if it could ever turn around.
Since then, I never saw Seien again.
Whether he went mad or killed himself—that was his own business.
I too found that over this past year, Seien had thoroughly churned up whatever peace of mind I possessed.
Though I managed a comfortable life thanks to my meager inheritance, having no real financial cushion meant Seien’s antics left me genuinely strapped.
Looking back now, it all seemed to culminate in something utterly devoid of interest—a result even more suffocating than before.
Had I merely been sustaining myself by assigning grand meanings to ordinary fools, viewing them as dream incarnations?
Was there no Ryushun?
No prodigy?
I’d had more than enough of such expectations.
Every last one remained their same old selves; they only appeared slightly different in hue depending on how the day’s wind blew.

Hey.
Behold.

Seien’s stroll.
That vacant lot where the paper kite was flying.
He wore a striped workman’s coat and walked slowly, slowly.
Why do you laugh so endlessly?
Is that so?
Are we alike?

—Alright.
Then I'll ask you.
Is there even a single difference between that man—wandering sluggishly as he gazes at the sky, shrugs his shoulders, hangs his head, or plucks leaves from branches—and me here?