Pathway to Japanese Literature

Okesa Maru.
Gross tonnage: 488 tons.
Passenger capacity: first class, 20 people.
Second class: 77 people.
Third class: 302 people.
Fare: first class, 3 yen 50 sen.
Second class: 2 yen 50 sen.
Third class: 1 yen 50 sen.
Distance: 63 kilometers.
Departure from Niigata: 2:00 PM.
Arrival at Sado (Ebisu): 4:45 PM scheduled.
Speed: 15 knots.

What on earth possessed me to go to a place like Sado?
November 17th.
A fine rain was falling.
I stood on the stern deck clad in an indigo-dyed kimono and hakama, wearing cheap wooden geta with straight-grained soles.
I wasn't wearing an overcoat either.
I wasn't wearing a hat either.

The ship was moving. It was descending the Shinano River. Sliding smoothly, it glided along. The warehouses lining the riverbank saw me off one after another before gradually receding into the distance. A blackened breakwater slick with rain came into view. At its tip stood a white lighthouse. We had reached the estuary. The ship was now about to enter the Sea of Japan. With a heavy lurch, it staggered violently. We were out on open water. The engine roared as if seizing its moment, pouring on full power. It meant business now. Speed: fifteen knots. Cold. I abandoned Niigata's port and retreated to the cabin. In the dim corner of second class, wrapped in a white blanket borrowed from Boi, I fell asleep. I prayed not to get seasick. I had no faith in ships whatsoever. Utterly desolate, I resolved to play dead amid the swaying motion. I shut my eyes and kept perfectly still.

I closed my eyes and kept perfectly still.

What on earth was I going to Sado for?
I myself didn't understand.
On the 16th, I had given a clumsy lecture at a high school in Niigata.
The next day, I boarded this ship.
Sado was a desolate place, I had heard.
I had heard it was a place so desolate it could kill you.
It had been weighing on my mind for some time.
For me, hell held more sway than heaven.
Though I'd hear about Kansai's opulent beauty and the Seto Inland Sea's radiant charm and feel some semblance of longing, I never felt compelled to visit them outright.
I'd been as far as Sagami and Suruga, but beyond those regions, I had yet to venture even once.
I wanted to wait until I was much older before going.
Once I cultivated some leisure in my heart, I wanted to tour Kansai at my ease.
For now, only hell's compass point concerned me.
If I was going all the way to Niigata, I might as well stop by Sado.
I simply had to stop by.
As though drawn by death god's beckoning hand, I found myself inexplicably pulled toward Sado without reason.
I must be terribly sentimental.
A place so desolate it could kill you.
That was precisely what appealed to me.
What a disgraceful thing this was.

Yet there I lay in the corner of the ship cabin, feigning death, thoroughly regretting my decision.
What on earth was I going to Sado for?
What madness possessed me to choose this freezing season - putting on a solemn face, wearing hakama trousers - venturing alone to such desolation when I knew full well there was nothing there?
I might get seasick before long.
No one would commend this.
I thought myself a fool.
Why did I keep doing such foolish things no matter how old I grew?
I wasn't in any position to undertake such a wasteful trip.
Given my household finances, I shouldn't have been able to spare a single penny - yet through some fleeting impulse I'd planned this trivial journey.
Even when wholly disinclined, once words escaped me I'd stubbornly force myself through with them.
Otherwise I felt like a liar - unbearable.
Like admitting defeat - intolerable.
Knowing full well it was foolish yet proceeding anyway, only to writhe later in regret's violent throes.
Utterly pointless.
No matter my age, repeating the same mistakes endlessly.
This trip too - what foolishness.
Why did I have to visit Sado of all places?
What meaning could there possibly be?

While wrapped in a blanket and lying in the corner of the ship cabin, I felt utterly wretched. I seethed with self-directed fury. Nothing good could possibly come of visiting Sado, I was certain. Keeping my eyes tightly shut, I berated myself as an idiot and dullard until abruptly sitting upright. This wasn't due to seasick nausea—quite the contrary. Having lain motionless for nearly an hour playing dead, I found no trace of queasiness remained. Convinced I'd weathered the danger, the absurdity of continuing to feign sleep overwhelmed me. When I stood, the floor lurched beneath my feet—the ship pitched violently now. Bracing against walls and clutching pillars with theatrical staggers, I emerged onto the side deck. My eyes flew open, darting about frantically. There lay Sado already within sight, its autumn-tinted entirety looming close while waves slapped rhythmically against crimson clay cliffs. It had arrived too soon—barely an hour into the voyage. All other passengers kept calmly sprawled in their cabins still.

On the deck as well, two or three middle-aged men emerged, all uniformly gazing leisurely at the island ahead while smoking their cigarettes.
No one was excited.
I was the only one excited.
A lighthouse stood on the island's cape.
It was already here.
But no one made a fuss.
The sky hung low and gray.
The rain already stopped.
The island was no more than a hundred meters from the deck.
The ship proceeded calmly along the island's shore.
I too started to understand.
In other words, I thought the ship would circle around to the back side of this island and then drop anchor.
When I thought that, I felt somewhat relieved.
I staggered toward the stern to have a look.
Niigata—no, mainland Japan—could no longer be seen.
It was a gloomy, cold sea.
The water appeared jet-black.
The tumultuous splashes churned up by the screw—boiling and scattering—were perceived as vividly as an eagle’s strike within the black seawater, while the broad channel spread layer upon layer of delicate, supple wave lines, like a great spiral bursting apart.
"The Sea of Japan is an ink-wash painting," I pronounced this foolish conclusion and felt somewhat pleased with myself.
My face resembled a duckling that had peered into the water’s depths—or so I fancied myself—but when I staggered back to the ship’s deck and confronted this silent island before me, even that smug little duckling had to tilt its head in bewilderment.

The ship and the island maintained complete indifference toward each other.
The island showed no sign of welcoming the ship.
It simply watched in silence.
The ship too made no attempt to greet the island.
Both continued at the same pace with feigned nonchalance, attempting to pass each other by.
The lighthouse on the island's cape rapidly receded into the distance.
The ship proceeded calmly.
I had felt somewhat relieved thinking we would circle to the back of the island, but apparently that wasn't the case.
The island was about to be left behind.
This might not be Sado Island after all.
The little duckling was greatly flustered.
What I had sighted from Niigata's coast yesterday was this very island.

“That is Sado, isn’t it?”

“Yes.”
The high school students answered.

“Can you see the lighthouse? Since ‘If Sado sleeps, no light is seen’ is a rhetorical expression meaning that if it’s awake, the light should be visible, then we ought to see it, shouldn’t we?” I spouted some trivial logic.

“It isn’t visible.”

“Is that so? Then that song must be a lie.”

The students laughed.
That's the island.
No mistake about it.
This was indeed the island, yet now the steamship was trying to pass by while feigning ignorance.
It utterly disregarded it.
This might not be Sado Island after all.
Even considering the time, if this were Sado, our arrival would be far too early.
This wasn't Sado at all.
I writhed with humiliation.
At Niigata's sand dunes yesterday—when I'd pompously pointed while declaring "That must be Sado"—the students had likely known it was an outrageous error all along. Yet seeing me make such solemn pronouncements in that overly dignified tone, they'd taken pity and answered "Yes" rather than mockingly correcting me.
When I imagined them afterward whispering about what a fool of a teacher I was, giggling while mimicking my earnest queries about lighthouses, I suddenly wanted to tear off my hakama and fling it into the sea.
But wait—no.
Even consulting maps showed only one Sado Island near Niigata.
Yesterday's students had seemed sincere enough.
I tried convincing myself this must be Sado regardless, but certainty eluded me.
The steamship pressed forward ruthlessly.
Passengers kept silent.
Alone on deck, I paced like a caged animal.
My nerves frayed completely.
Countless times I nearly asked someone—but if this were truly Sado Island, nothing could be more absurd than inquiring "What's that island called?" aboard a Sado-bound vessel.

I might be thought a madman.
I simply could not bring myself to ask that particular question.
It would be as absurd as walking through Ginza and asking, "Is this Osaka?"
I felt not amusement but true anguish and impatience.
I wanted to know.
Among the many people aboard this steamship, there was a strange fact that only I remained unaware of.
It certainly existed.
The sea surface gradually began to darken, the silent island in question also turned uniformly black, and steadily grew more distant from the ship.
Anyway, this was Sado.
Other than this, there should have been absolutely no such island in Niigata’s sea.
It must be Sado.
The plan must be to make a grand detour around this island and arrive at a hidden port on its backside.
Having no other recourse but to accept this conclusion, I tried to resign myself to it, yet still I could not shake off my unease.
Casually peering at the dim sea surface ahead, I was astonished.
Truly, I had made an unexpected discovery.
It was no exaggeration—I even felt a sense of terror.
I shuddered.
In the direction the steamship was heading straight, far ahead, faintly blue, the shadow of a mainland could be seen.
I felt as though I had seen something unpleasant.
I pretended not to see it.

But the shadow of the mainland could indisputably be seen faintly blue on the horizon.
I thought it might be Manchuria.
"No way," I immediately dismissed.
My confusion reached its climax.
I thought it might be Japan's mainland.
That would mean the directions were completely reversed.
Korea.
"No way," I hurriedly dismissed.
I was utterly bewildered.
Noto Peninsula.
Just as I thought that might be the case, the ship cabin behind me began to stir.

“Well, it’s coming into view now.” These words reached my ears.

I was sick of it all.
That continent was Sado.
It was too big.
It’s not so different from Hokkaido after all, I thought.
I even earnestly wondered if it might be Taiwan.
If that shadow of a continent were Sado, then all my painstaking observations until now would have been completely wrong.
The high school students had lied to me.
Then, this black, trivial island before my eyes—what in the world could it be?
It was a trivial island.
It's a thing that deceives people.
Such islands might have existed between Niigata and Sado from long ago.
From my middle school days, I had never liked the subject of geography.
I knew nothing.
Thoroughly losing confidence, I abandoned my observations and retreated to the cabin.
If that hazy, mist-wreathed continent were indeed Sado, then a considerable time still remained until arrival.
I’d made a fuss from the start for nothing.
Fed up once more, I pulled the blanket over myself and ended up sleeping in a corner of the cabin.

But the other passengers, contrary to me, began stirring awake—some starting their preparations while the young wife threw on her husband’s overcoat and eagerly hurried out to the deck—the commotion growing steadily louder.
I woke up again.
Even to myself, I thought I was being a fool.
The Boat Attendant came to collect the blanket rental fee.

“Is it soon now?”
I asked in an intentionally groggy voice.
The Boat Attendant glanced at his wristwatch and,

“It will be very shortly,” he replied.

I panicked.
I couldn’t make heads or tails of anything.
I took out a woolen scarf from my suitcase, wound it round and round my neck, and went out to the deck.
The ship was no longer rocking at all.
The engine hummed gently, quietly.
Both sky and sea had turned utterly dark, with a light rain falling.
Peering into the darkness ahead, I saw twenty or thirty harbor lights scattered sparsely about.
This had to be Ebisu Port.

A great many passengers came out onto the deck properly dressed and ready.

“Papa, what about that island we saw earlier?”
A girl of about ten years old wearing a red overcoat was asking the gentleman beside her.
I secretly focused all my attention on that conversation.
This family seemed to be city people.
They must be people who, like me, had come to Sado for the first time.

“That’s Sado,” the father answered.

“Ah,” I nodded in agreement along with the girl. Thinking to hear the father’s explanation even better, I quietly edged closer to the family.

“Papa doesn’t really understand either,” the gentleman uneasily added. “In other words, the island’s shape is like this,” he said, forming its outline with both hands, “and being shaped this way, with the steamship sailing through here, it must have appeared as two islands.”

I stretched up slightly, peeked at the shape of the father’s hands, and with an “Ah,” fully grasped it.
It was all thanks to the girl.
In other words, Sado Island was shaped like the kanji “工” turned sideways, with two parallel mountain ranges connected by a low plain that tied them together like a thin string.
The larger mountain range was none other than that mist-wreathed continent.
The earlier silent island was none other than the smaller mountain range.
The plain was too low to be seen at all.
And so, the ship arrived at the plain’s harbor.
That was all there was to it.
I thought it was ingeniously structured.

I landed on Sado.
It was no different from the mainland in any particular way.
About ten years prior, I had crossed over to Hokkaido, but from the very first step ashore, I was excited.
The feel of the ground underfoot was completely different.
The soil’s roots felt absurdly large.
I thought it was an entirely different type from the mainland’s soil and its underground structure.
I concluded that it must certainly be a continuation of the continent.
Later, when I told this to a friend born in Hokkaido, he admired my intuition and explained in detail with various examples: “You’re absolutely right—Hokkaido is geologically separated from the mainland by the Tsugaru Strait and is in fact of the same geological type as the Asian continent.”
Even upon first setting foot on Sado, I surreptitiously tested the feel of the soil underfoot, but there was nothing noteworthy.
It was the same as that of the mainland.

"This must be an extension of Niigata," I concluded swiftly.
It was raining.
I had neither umbrella nor cloak.
The geologist—all five foot six and a half of him—stood perplexed.
My passion for Sado had nearly evaporated.
Perhaps I should simply turn back now.
I wavered indecisively.
Clutching my bag, I wandered through the port's shadowy square.

“Sir.”
He was an inn solicitor.

“Alright, let’s go.”

“Where to, sir?”
The elderly clerk became flustered.
My tone may have been too forceful.

“That’s where I’m going.”
I pointed at the lantern the clerk was holding.
It read “Fukuda Inn.”

“Heh heh.”
The elderly clerk laughed.

After having someone call a car, I got in together with the elderly clerk.

It was a dark town.
It had the atmosphere of a fishing town in the Bōshū area.

"Do you get many guests?"

“No, it’s no use anymore.
Once September passes, it’s completely hopeless.”

“Are you from Tokyo?”

“Heh heh.”
The elderly clerk with a square face and white hair gave a faint smile.

“Is Fukuda Inn considered one of the better ones here?”
It wasn’t entirely a shot in the dark.
The truth was, back in Niigata, I had gotten the names of two or three good inns from the students.
I seemed to recall that Fukuda Inn had indeed been listed at the top.
Earlier, in the port square, when called out to as “sir” and catching a glimpse of a lantern inscribed with “Fukuda,” I suddenly made up my mind.
Anyway, I decided to spend one night in this backwater.
“I had even considered heading straight to Aikawa tonight, but with the rain and me feeling uneasy, you called out to me.”
“When I saw the lantern with ‘Fukuda Inn’ written on it, I decided to stay here for the night.”
“I heard from people in Niigata.”
Seeing the lantern, I suddenly remembered.
“Everyone was saying your place is the best inn.”

“You honor us.”
The clerk, looking perplexed, put a hand to his head and quipped, “It’s just a humble shack.”

I arrived at the inn.
It was no shack.
Though small, the inn held an old quiet composure.
I later heard from the maid it had once lodged royalty.
The room they showed me wasn't bad.
A small hearth had been built into the floor.
After bathing and shaving my beard, I sat rigidly upright before the hearth.
The day spent lecturing Niigata's high school students had left me absurdly formal.
Even with the maid, I kept rod-straight posture and spoke in clipped tones.
I found myself ridiculous yet couldn't slacken.
Through dinner I maintained kneeling discipline.
I drank one beer.
It didn't touch me.

“What’s this island’s specialty?”
“We have most kinds of seafood here in abundance.”
“Is that so.”

The conversation broke off.
After a while, I posed a question with deliberate formality.
“Were you born on Sado?”

"Yes."

"Do you ever think of going to see the mainland?"

"No."

"I suppose so." Though what exactly that "suppose" referred to, even I myself didn't know.
I was simply putting on airs.
Once again, the conversation lapsed into silence.
I ate four bowls of rice.
I had never eaten this much before.

"The white rice is delicious, isn't it?"
It was white rice.
I realized I had eaten a bit too much and voiced such sentimental thoughts to mask my embarrassment.

“Is that so?”
The maid had seemed ill at ease for some time now.

“Shall I bring tea?”

“It was a meager meal.”

“Not at all.”

I was like a samurai.
After finishing my meal and sitting alone in proper posture, the samurai found himself assailed by drowsiness.
He felt terribly sleepy.
Using the desk telephone, he inquired about the time at the front desk downstairs.
The samurai owned no watch.
6:40.
If I went to bed now, I felt the inn staff would scorn me.
The samurai stood up, threw a navy-striped haori over his padded robe, took out his wallet from the bag, briefly checked its contents, then stepped into the hallway with exaggerated solemnity.
Thudding down the stairs, he planted himself in the entranceway and ordered the clerk to bring his geta and umbrella,

"I'll go look at the town," he declared in a decisive tone and left the inn.

When I had taken a few steps out of the inn, I suddenly began glancing about restlessly as though transformed into another person.
I walked exclusively through back alleys.
The rain had nearly ceased.
The road was poor.
Moreover, it was dark.
The sound of waves reached me.
Yet it wasn't particularly lonely.
There was no sense of isolation one expects from a remote island.
It still felt exactly like walking through some fishing village in Bōshū.

I finally found it.
On the eaves light was written "Yoshitsune."
It didn't matter whether it was Yoshitsune or Benkei.
I merely wanted to study the human sentiments of Sado.
I entered there.

"I've come to drink sake."
I had softened my voice slightly.
I was no samurai.

I shall not speak ill of this restaurant.
The fool here was none other than myself who had walked in.
Sado's traveler's melancholy was nowhere to be found there.
There were only dishes.
I grew sick and tired of this mountain of food.
Crabs, abalones, oysters—they kept bringing them one after another.
At first I endured in silence, but when I could bear it no longer, I spoke to the maid.

"I don't need any more food. I just ate at the inn. The crabs, abalones, oysters—I'd already had all of them back at the inn. I'm not saying this because I'm worried about paying. Well, that's part of it too, but more than anything, it's wasteful. It's pure waste. I won't eat a thing. I'll just drink two or three bottles of sake—that's all I need." I had stated this clearly, but the bespectacled maid merely laughed and—

"But since we went through all this trouble preparing them," said the maid with professional cheerfulness that somehow managed to sound both deferential and faintly mocking.

“Go on and eat it.”
I persisted stubbornly.
“If you’re embarrassed to eat in front of a guest, I can leave.”
“Please have everyone eat it later.”
“What a waste, you know.”

“I humbly receive.” The woman snickered as if pityingly laughing at my boorishness and bowed with foolish deference.
Yet she did not take up her chopsticks.

It all felt like Tokyo's backstreets.

“I’m getting sleepy.”
“I’m leaving.”
There was no atmosphere whatsoever.

It was past eight when I returned to the inn.
I once again assumed a samurai-like posture, had the maid lay out the futon, and went straight to sleep.

Tomorrow morning, I intended to go to Aikawa.
In the middle of the night, I suddenly awoke.
Ah, this is Sado, I thought.
The waves boomed heavily.
The realization struck me clearly that I now lay in a remote island inn.
My eyes had grown alert, and sleep would not come.
At last, I had grasped the brutal loneliness of this "place so desolate it could kill you."
It held no sweetness.
It was unbearable.
Yet hadn't this been precisely what I'd come to Sado seeking?
Savor it fully.
Savor it deeper.
In bed, I stared wide-eyed into the dark, pondering many things.
I resolved there was nothing for it but to nurture my ugliness rather than cast it aside.
I remained awake until the shoji screens turned ashen with dawn.

The next morning, while eating breakfast, I confessed to the maid.

“Last night I went to a restaurant called Yoshitsune, but it was dull. The building may be large, but it’s rather vulgar.”

“Mm,” replied the maid, relaxing her posture. “It’s a newly built place. They say established houses like Teradaya have proper dignity.”

“Exactly. Nothing but properly dignified establishments will do. I should have gone to Teradaya instead.”

The maid began laughing violently for some reason, her shoulders shaking in silent mirth with her face bowed. Though I didn’t understand the joke, I too laughed with an awkward “Haha.”

“I thought you disliked restaurants and such.”

“I don’t dislike them.”
I had stopped putting on airs.
I thought the inn’s maid was the best.

When I settled the bill and was about to depart, the maid said, “Take care, sir.”
I thought it was a fine farewell.

I boarded the Aikawa-bound bus.
The bus passengers were almost entirely people from this area.
There were many people with skin diseases.
In fishing villages—for some reason—skin diseases seem to be common.

It was a clear autumn day.
The scenery outside the window was no different from that of the Niigata region.
The green of plants was pale.
The mountains were low.
The trees were small and gnarled.
A chilly country road.
The young women were walking in long bell-shaped mantles.
The villages carried on shrewdly with their lives, feigning ignorance.
They utterly ignored travelers and the like.
Sado was living its life.
To put it in a single phrase—that was it.
There was nothing of interest.

After being jostled on the bus for nearly two hours, I arrived in Aikawa.
Here too, it still resembled a fishing village from the Bōsō Peninsula area.
The road lay pale and parched.
And thus they carried on with their lives, feigning ignorance.
They showed no hospitality whatsoever to travelers.
Carrying my suitcase and wandering about felt almost shameful.
Why had I come to Sado at all?
That question welled up in my chest anew.
I knew there was nothing here.
Hadn't I understood this from the very beginning?
And yet I had finally reached Aikawa.
This was no time for Japan to be indulging in leisure.
That too, I understood.
What exactly constitutes the psychology of sightseeing?
In Wassermann's novel The Forty-Year-Old Man that I'd read recently, there was a passage: "Though his decision to travel hadn't been for any fixed purpose, it had nevertheless been an inner compulsion.
When he suppressed that impulse and stayed home, he felt he'd betrayed himself.
I felt I'd deceived myself.
The thought of unseen beautiful landscapes and lost possibilities tormented him.
However great one's present happiness might be,' it continued, 'this irreparable sense of loss would inflict eternal unease.' Perhaps I'd dragged myself all the way to Sado simply to avoid gnawing on regrets for journeys never taken.
There was nothing in Sado.

That there was no reason for anything to be here—even someone as foolish as I understood that.
But until I came and saw for myself, it preyed on my mind.
Is this not the psychology of sightseeing?
If I were to make an exaggerated leap, I might even say that this very life is no different.
The emptiness I’ve seen, the anxious impatience over what I haven’t—is life not just an endless cycle of these, where I scurry about with all my might through my thirties, forties, fifties, only to die?

I had just about given up on Sado.
I decided to return on tomorrow morning’s departing ship.
While pondering this and that, I walked through Aikawa's pale, dried-out streets with suitcase in hand, yet I couldn’t quite grasp my own shape.
In broad daylight, the streets of Aikawa saw not a soul pass through.
The town was feigning ignorance.
The town wore a look that asked, "What are you even doing here?"
It didn’t even have a sense of desolation.
It was hollow.
This is not a place one comes to see the sights.
The town paid me no mind, briskly carrying on with its own life.
I felt increasingly ashamed of myself shuffling along.

If possible, I wanted to return to Tokyo that very day. But the steamship schedule was inconvenient. Tomorrow morning at eight, the Okesa Maru would depart from Ebisu Port. I had no choice but to wait until then. In Sado, there was supposed to be another town called Ogi as well. But getting to Ogi would apparently take nearly three hours by bus again. I no longer wanted to go anywhere. One shouldn't travel without a purpose. I decided to stay overnight in this Aikawa. I had heard from students in Niigata that an inn called Hamanoya here was supposed to be first-rate. I wanted to stay at least at a clean inn. Hamanoya was found immediately. It was a fairly large inn. It was still hollow. I was guided to a third-floor room. When I opened the shoji screens, the Sea of Japan came into view. The water was slightly murky.

“I would like to take a bath.”

“Well, the bath is from 4:30, though.”

This maid seemed to be a realist.
She was terribly aloof.

"Is there any famous spot around here?"

“Well,” the maid said while folding my hakama, “it’s gotten so cold now.”

“There’s the gold mine, right?”

"Yes, since this September they’ve decided not to show the inside to anyone.
What would you like for lunch?”

“I won’t have any.
Please serve dinner early.”

I changed into a padded robe, left the inn, and then simply walked.
I went to see the coast.
I felt nothing.
I climbed a mountain.
A portion of the gold mine came into view.
I felt it was terribly small-scale.
I walked further along the mountain path, occasionally stopping to gaze out at the Sea of Japan.
I climbed relentlessly.
It was getting cold.
I hurried down the mountain.
Again, I walked through the town.
I compulsively bought souvenirs.
Not a bit did my spirits lift.

This might be good enough.
I had finally seen Sado.
The next morning, I woke at five o'clock and ate breakfast under the electric light.
I had to catch the six o'clock bus.
On the meal tray were four or five dishes.
I ate rice with only miso soup and pickles.
I didn’t touch a single bite of the other dishes.

“That’s chawanmushi. Eat it before you go.”
The realist maid said in a motherly tone.

“Oh.”
I removed the lid of the chawanmushi.

Outside was still dim.
I stood in front of the inn and waited for the bus.
A straggling procession of men and women wrapped in black blankets passed by.
All silent, they trudged industriously past before me.

"They must be the miners."
I whispered to the maid standing beside me.

The maid silently nodded.

(Author’s Afterword.
The names of inns and traditional Japanese restaurants have all been replaced with pseudonyms.)