Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Oda Sakunosuke

Part One: Twenty Years Old

Chapter One

I

From childhood, Okimi would go barefoot at every opportunity. Even in winter she wouldn’t wear tabi socks, and in summer—of course—when doing laundry or such, she would always eagerly slip off her geta. She padded barefoot across the plaster floor of the communal water area, “Ah, feels nice.” Even as she came of age, it didn’t stop, so even her taciturn father finally— “You’ll catch cold, I’m tellin’ ya,” he scolded, but she didn’t listen. She placed a snail on her palm, let it crawl up her arm from shoulder to chest, and relished the clammy sensation. She also relished pouring water over herself at the public bathhouse. Water gushed over her steaming naked body, and as her taut limbs quivered eerily from the splattering impact, she straightened up abruptly. Sensuality throbbed within her. She poured it over herself again and again.

“Five or six times I’d pour water over myself—feels nice,” she later told her husband Karube, but the young man frowned. Okimi married Karube when she was eighteen years old. Karube was an elementary school teacher for whom advancement was an obsession; though he studied Jōruri as a young man, it was of course to curry favor with the Jōruri-obsessed principal. He became a disciple of Hirozawa Hasuke in Shimodera-cho, attached himself to the principal’s coattails, and even ordered practice books from Mouri Kinsuke, a Jōruri copyist living in the tenements behind Nihonbashi-suji Gochome.

Okimi was Kinsuke’s only daughter. Kinsuke was a listless man—quiet as an old, worn-out paper door—whose sole ability lay in hunching over and diligently copying Jōruri lines from dawn until late into the night. The wife was a woman who seemed born solely for sewing; no matter when you looked, she was always planted in the dim back room, plying her needle. She had suffered from diabetes and died when Okimi was sixteen. With the loss of female help, Okimi took on the full responsibilities of household management from an early age, as competently as any adult. She handled the cooking, sewing, turning away debt collectors, and even took on delivering manuscripts to clients. There was a young apprentice, but he was dim-witted and useless—more pitiable than a nuisance.

When Okimi went to deliver the manuscript to Karube’s lodging in Kamimachi 9-chome, the twenty-eight-year-old Karube stared wide-eyed. Okimi wore a short kimono that revealed two suns of leg from the hem, so Karube instinctively averted his gaze.

“Women are a hindrance to success.” Choking on Okimi’s feverish scent, he clung to his long-held conviction. However, when Okimi came for the third time,

“Let me just check if there are any errors in the manuscript now. Wait there,” he said, sliding the zabuton cushion toward her and opening the manuscript.

—After seeing them off, Masaoka... kept stealing furtive glances at Okimi, but gradually his voice began to tremble, and he swallowed hard, ——Tears flow like spilled water…… He suddenly grabbed her frostbitten red hand. The fact that she didn't make a sound made Karube uneasy. Later, Okimi would speak of that incident— “It was so strange—the world before my eyes would flash bright, then turn pitch black, and your face looked as big as a cow’s,” she later said, making Karube feel deeply uncomfortable.

Karube had disproportionately large facial features for his small stature—bulging eyes beneath thick eyebrows, a nose sprawling over fleshy lips—resembling a blushing Bunraku puppet, yet he prided himself on possessing a grand visage. Yet when his face was mentioned, even he couldn’t help feeling somewhat uneasy.

……At that moment, Karube was busily blowing tobacco smoke from his large nostrils while,

“Don’t you dare tell anyone about this,” he said, pressing closer. “You understand? I’ll be back.” “You get me?” “I’ll come again,” he added emphatically. Yet after that day, Okimi never returned. Karube writhed in torment. This would surely ruin his prospects for promotion. His conscience needled him too. He spent days agonizing—was she pregnant? Would Kinsuke come demanding answers? His swollen pride conjured newspaper headlines screaming “Educator’s Scandal,” until his anguish crested like a fever. After days of mental contortions came the revelation: marry her now, and even pregnancy wouldn’t matter. Relief washed through him. Why hadn’t he seen this sooner? What an imbecile. Yet he’d meant to marry into principal-class stock. The daughter of some ink-stained copyist? Preposterous. Only Okimi’s beauty offered faint consolation.

One day, a certain Usuji—claiming to be Karube’s colleague—suddenly visited Kinsuke bearing monaka sweets from Tomoedō in Sōemonchō as a gift. He chattered away about various topics to the bewildered Kinsuke before departing, leaving Kinsuke utterly unable to grasp the purpose of the visit. The only thing he dimly grasped was that this certain Usuji’s friend—a man named Karube Murahiko—was upright, well-regarded, and of good lineage.

Three days later, Karube himself came. He carried an out-of-season folding fan among other things. Rubbing his pomade-stiffened hair between two fingertips, “Actually, regarding something from your household for this humble one’s...” he formally proposed to take her as his wife. When Kinsuke asked Okimi, “You—,” she replied as if reciting a phrase ingrained since childhood, “Me?” “I don’t mind either way.” Without altering a single expression—though if pressed, one might note her beautiful eyes rolling restlessly in their sockets.

The next day, Kinsuke visited Karube, “Since it’s about my only daughter...” “If you would agree to make it an adoption...” Without letting him call it advantageous, Karube—

"That would be problematic," he said—though Kinsuke looked as if he had gone to be scolded. Eventually, Karube rented a small house in Komiyacho and brought Okimi there, but he went around proclaiming to his colleagues that he was "generally satisfied" with this young bride. Okimi had a pale, beautiful body. Moreover, she was a hard worker—the moment dawn broke, she would already be bustling about.

——“This is Hell’s Third District—easy to enter, scary to leave,” she sang at daybreak, but Karube soon prohibited it for being vulgar. “There’s not a shred of literary merit here like in Jōruri,” he lectured. He had once failed the National Classical Chinese and Japanese Secondary Teacher Certification Exam. Thus Okimi, ——“Ah, should our tryst bear fruit, let this be our final day—exchanging parting letters, steeling ourselves nightly for death, souls untethered as bodies wander lost, consumed by longing……”. and sang the climactic section from “Kamiji”. Though her performance was clumsy, Karube began to protest but ultimately chose to be content.

One day during Karube’s absence, a young man showed up at the Nihonbashi house saying he’d come to inquire about something. "Oh! Shin-chan Tanaka, isn’t it? What’ve you been up to?" He was Tanaka Shintaro—the son of a used-clothing dealer who’d formerly lived nearby—who had enlisted in a Korean regiment but been discharged and returned home just the day before, it was said. Without further ado, he stepped up into the house. "I hear you’ve become a wife now. Why’d you marry without telling me?" Tanaka Shintaro pressed. Okimi found such questioning baffling—she had no way of knowing about the resentment festering in this man who now bitterly regretted that their three stolen kisses had never progressed beyond mere lack of opportunity. Yet seeing the dejected look on his sunburned face, she couldn’t help but pity him. She served him tempura donburi to be hospitable, but he left in a huff over her supposed change of heart, muttering how could he eat this sort of thing. That evening, she told Karube about the incident over dinner. Karube listened with the newspaper spread across his lap, grunting occasionally—but when she mentioned the kisses, suddenly came the sharp rustle of newspaper, followed by clattering chopsticks and bowl, then the crack of his palm against her cheek. Okimi stared blankly at his face for a moment before bursting into tears. Fat drops plopped onto the tatami. Leaving her sobs behind, Karube went out for a gloomy stroll. As he left, the glimpse of her shoulder line he caught—now even more unsettling after that story—drove him back within half an hour, only to find her gone. Perched by the hibachi, he had been crouching there some thirty minutes when—

——Soul adrift while wandering aimlessly……, A voice was heard, and she returned, reeking of fresh bathwater. After striking that face once, Karube— “A woman’s gotta keep her body sacred before marriage, y’hear?” “At least keep it to just kisses, y’hear?...” He started to say, when a certain bitter memory abruptly came to mind. Realizing he was about to say something contradictory, he decided to keep his admonishment brief. Karube regretted marrying Okimi. However, when Okimi gave birth to a boy the following March, he counted the days and felt a chill—then was glad he had married her. The child was named Hyoichi. It was a time when songs proclaiming Japan’s victory and Russia’s defeat still swept through Osaka. That year, Karube received a five-yen raise.

At the end of the same year, the amateur Jōruri performance gathering of the Hirozawa Hachisuke group was held in the second-floor hall of the Nihonbashi Club, a billiards parlor in Futatsui—with an audience of about a hundred people, it was quite a success. Karube Murahiko, also known as Karube Hachiju, took the stage for the first time at that moment. Since it was his first time, he volunteered as the forerunner and narrated before the audience trickling in with the bamboo screen still lowered—yet even so, shouts of “Bravo!” rang out. It was such a passionate performance that cheers echoed through the hall. He received a teacup as an award for his fervent delivery. Having completed his opening duties and then working busily as the event’s attendant while still drenched in sweat may have been his undoing—he caught a cold the next day and took to bed. The illness worsened into acute pneumonia. Though examined by a competent doctor, Karube died abruptly. Okimi wept with such intensity—as if astonished by tears’ very existence—that onlookers marveled at her display of grief, deeming it essential proof of marital devotion.

However, on the 14th night after death, when a memorial Jōruri performance organized by the principal was held again in the second-floor hall of the Nihonbashi Club, Okimi appeared with her infant and applauded loudly during the climactic section of "Kamiji" performed by the portly principal. She raised her hand above her face, drawing the crowd's attention, and people furrowed their brows. Karube’s colleagues, each privately recalling their own wives' faces, showed expressions of profound helplessness. The principal seemed thoroughly pleased by Okimi’s applause.

On the night of the twenty-first day after death, a formal family meeting was convened. Karube’s father—who had come from rural Shikoku—stated his opinion with a stern expression regarding Okimi’s circumstances: how about returning her family registry to Kinsuke’s household and making Hyoichi Kinsuke’s adopted heir? Then he inquired about Okimi’s intentions.

“Me? “I don’t mind either way.” Kinsuke did not offer a single opinion. When it was finally decided she would return to her family home, Okimi took Hyoichi back to the back tenement in Nihonbashi only to find the interior appallingly filthy. Dust clung thickly to the shoji frames, cobwebs hung from multiple spots on the ceiling, and soiled laundry crammed the closet. After Okimi’s marriage, Kinsuke had hired an old woman to manage the household—who of all people turned out to have a bent back and be hard of hearing.

After handing the child to the old woman who had greeted her with “My, what a terrible misfortune this time…”, Okimi began briskly dusting all around without even removing her prized Obama crepe haori. After three days passed, the inside of the house became spotlessly clean. The old woman had no choice but to fabricate an excuse about her son in the countryside and take her leave. And, —The song ‘This is Hell’s Third District’ could be heard at dawn and dusk. She worked hard. Kinsuke was pleased about Okimi’s return, but he remained silent like a turtle. Even regarding Karube’s death, he never offered any proper words of comfort.

Tanaka Shintaro, the secondhand clothes dealer, had already taken a young bride, and when Okimi appeared at the bathhouse changing room to retrieve the child Kinsuke had taken along, his bride also came to collect her recently born baby, and the two women became friendly. When compared to that freckle-covered, low-nosed bride, Okimi’s beauty once again became a topic of discussion on the men’s side. Some bluntly proposed she become my wife, but Okimi would swirl her beautiful eyes and laugh. There were also those who brought proposals to Kinsuke. Each time Kinsuke asked Okimi’s opinion, as usual,

“I don’t mind either way…”

“It might be fine, but I don’t want it,” Kinsuke dismissed the proposal vaguely this time. In summer, on a sweltering night when sleep wouldn’t come, Karube’s rough caresses flickered heavily behind her eyelids. The apprentice disciple—now twenty-one—would watch Okimi dozing as she let the child suckle at her white breast, swallowing hard while his chest burned with futile heat.

Time flowed.

II

Five years passed, and at the end of the year when Okimi was twenty-four and the child six, Kinsuke died abruptly in an unforeseen disaster.

That day, rare flurries of powdery snow danced through Osaka’s late November air. Kinsuke—now thoroughly aged and senile as his grandson grew—had received fifty sen from Okimi and taken the boy by hand to see Tsuzuki Fumio’s chain drama at Senriganchi’s Rakutenchi. On their return, an Ebisucho-bound tram struck him at Nihonbashi 1-chome’s intersection. Hyoichi, flung into the rescue net and narrowly saved, clutched a caramel someone had given him as he wailed amid the crowd. A neighborhood youth who spotted this cried, “Ah—that’s Mouri’s delinquent!”, then pedaled frantically to deliver the news. When Okimi rushed over, trams with lit lamps stood stalled beneath the twilight snowscape, Kinsuke’s body curled like a ball beneath one carriage. She screamed—yet strangely, no tears came—and only when Hyoichi clung with caramel-smeared hands did heat surge in her throat. Then everything went dark. Soon after, the trams resumed their lively clatter.

That night, the pawnshop owner from the neighborhood came with a large cloth-wrapped bundle and offered his condolences, then—

“Actually, the other day when you were married off...” “Under the pretext of wedding expenses, I provided funds to Mr. Kinsuke.” “Those items have already been liquidated since no interest was paid, but seeing as they must be important heirlooms to your family, Ms. Okimi, I thought we might discuss arrangements.” “Once the tram company’s...” Anticipating at least a thousand yen in compensation, what he presented was a single lineage scroll and one sword. These revealed Kinsuke’s noble lineage faintly tracing back to a Warring States period castle lord—items Okimi had never seen before. Kinsuke had never once mentioned such ancestry, and Karube of course remained unaware—that Karube had died without knowing this became one of his life’s misfortunes. Kinsuke might have been Kinsuke for keeping silent, but Okimi too remained herself—

"That's very kind of you, but I've no use for such things," she declined the pawnshop owner's offer, afterward forgetting all about the family lineage entirely. Though he kept pressing her—going on about interest deadlines and clearly driven by greed—Okimi merely gazed at him with pity, "It makes no difference to me either way." "And what does any of it even matter..."

The compensation from the tram company was somehow a meager sum of barely a hundred yen, and she resolved to give most of it to the apprentice disciple who had been dismissed. The relatives from rural Yamaguchi who came for Okimi were utterly aghast; after completing their two-day duties of funeral rites and bone-gathering ceremony, they promptly withdrew. On the night when the house stood hollowed into emptiness, she suddenly awoke—

“Who’s there?” she called into the darkness, but there was no reply. Perhaps having received an unexpected fortune had driven him mad—but of all people, it turned out to be the apprentice disciple. However, when the next day came, the apprentice disciple appeared strangely crestfallen, avoiding Okimi’s gaze in an unmanly and rather pitiful manner—but when evening arrived and a man claiming to be his brother from his hometown came to collect him, he seemed relieved. After the brother said “Thank you for looking after this troublesome lad all this time,” he bowed his head deeply,

“It’s just a small token—please accept this,” he said, presenting a white paper bundle with a blank expression before slipping away furtively. When she looked, there was a clumsily scrawled message in a copyist’s hand, and inside lay every last yen Okimi had given him. Pitying his frail body and nervous demeanor as he spoke of returning home to farm, Okimi sat blankly in the emptiness of the now-deserted house for a while, but soon—

――The ship’s loaded, oh—how far will it go? Past Kizu’s bridges and Naniwa’s bends, oh―…

As if suddenly remembering, she sang a plaintive lullaby in a high voice for Hyoichi to hear.

Okimi found a single-story house with five-yen rent in the back tenements of Kamishiocho Jizo Alley and, upon moving there, promptly hung a small wooden sign from the eaves that read, “Teaches Sewing.” Written in an unusual script difficult for the tenement residents to decipher—a legacy from her father—her sewing skills, though not particularly adept with silk or Kurume fabrics, were inherited from her mother yet proved sufficient for the neighborhood girls paying fifty sen a month in tuition, and of course she took on local tailoring commissions as well.

In the hectic year-end rush, pressed by orders for New Year's garments that kept her working through the night day after day, Okimi found herself in yet another late-night session. Then one midnight, Hyoichi stirred awake to the sound of sniffling and saw her reddened hands digging through the charcoal embers in the brazier. Outside, the frost's white hue was fading……and in that moment, even his childish heart felt a pang of pity for his mother's figure, but Okimi was not a mother to entertain such sympathy or sentimentality unbefitting a child's years. "Okimi-san, you've had such wretched luck," the tenement residents would offer in consolation, but...

“It can’t be helped,” she replied with a laugh.

The tenement women, who had hoped to hear at least a complaint or share a sympathetic tear with her, found themselves somewhat unsatisfied—for Okimi wore an expression as if the successive misfortunes of Karube’s death and Kinsuke’s passing were nothing but wind blowing past. In Osaka’s alleys, stone Jizo statues were typically enshrined, and the annual Jizo Bon festival was held at the end of August each year, but given its very name, the Jizo Alley where Okimi lived could not afford to be outdone by other neighborhoods’ events. Households hung picture lanterns, and in the cramped alley, the neighborhood men and women,

They danced to a rhythmic chant of nonsensical syllables that echoed through the alley—"Totetera-chinchin, totetera-chin"—their bodies swaying in time with the folk melody. Okimi stretched her meager means to donate twenty watermelons and found herself coaxed into joining the dance troupe. Her participation proved so infectious that the police curfew meant to end festivities by two AM dissolved into dawn's first light. She continued her ritual of cold-water baths at the public bathhouse. Her skin now glowed with greater luster than in her maiden years. Neighbors inquired if she used rice bran scrubs. The tenement women—who daily choked back envious breaths at her arresting figure standing taut after ablutions—one day noticed something about her nape:

"My, Okimi-san—your nape is covered with body hair..." Taking advantage of having noticed the growth there, they made exaggerated remarks, so on her way back from the bathhouse, she stopped by a barber to have it tended to. The moment the razor chilled against her face, she shuddered violently—but as its blade began gliding smoothly across her skin with a pleasant rhythm, her body stiffened involuntarily. Each time hands steeped in soap and cosmetic scents pinched her facial muscles, her body seemed to float into air, and she recalled Karube.

To such an Okimi, Murata the barber there had to periodically check his businesslike expression in the mirror. However, Murata could no longer remain composed around Okimi, who now came without fail twice a month, and one night he arrived at the alley with a silk bolt wrapped in newspaper, “I went all out on my best outfit.” “Pardon me, but could you...” When he asked her to sew something for him, Murata lingered while making clumsy small talk, his heart screaming *Now’s the chance—now!* to make advances on Okimi. But whether she sensed his intentions or not, Okimi rolled her eyes comically and bellowed with laughter even at his dull anecdote about Chōganji Temple’s priest entering his sixty-first year in the zodiac cycle.

Hyoichi had been lying sprawled beside her when he suddenly sat bolt upright, placed both hands neatly on his knees, and fixed Murata with a glare that seemed to challenge him beyond his years—a look Murata regarded with fear. Eventually, Murata went home while mocking his own timidity. He urinated at the alley entrance. Listening to that sound, Hyoichi flopped down with an anxious look.

III

Because Hyoichi was born early in the year, he entered elementary school at seven years old. Because he had already come home crying on the first day of the opening ceremony, Okimi recalled his habitual shyness and grew concerned about his future—when she asked, she learned he had struck three classmates and been reprimanded by the teacher. During school recesses, he preferred playing with girls. With his girlish frame and fair, neatly proportioned features, female teachers would abruptly embrace him. Hyoichi fled crimson-faced, avoiding that teacher’s gaze for two or three days afterward. He felt ashamed of his threadbare appearance. Part of it stemmed from never growing accustomed to being fawned over; his skin had already numbed itself to society’s chill winds.

About five classmates would end up in tears each week after he hit them. For a child, he rarely laughed. When he cried, it was as if he were mesmerized by the sound of his own wailing. He knew full well his cries were legendary throughout the neighborhood. Once, seized by some unknown fury, he pissed on the Jizo statue by the alley's well. When he noticed someone watching, he made a show of relieving himself even slower. Okimi only bothered to scold him when it suited her mood.

When he was eight, upon returning from school, he was suddenly dressed in a newly tailored Kurume cotton-padded garment. Pressing his nose against the tubular sleeve, he inhaled the pungent indigo scent that flooded his nostrils—though this formal attire should have delighted his fastidious nature, even Hyoichi couldn’t quite work himself into ecstasy. Okimi had applied unusually heavy makeup, and through childish eyes he found her face beautiful, yet somehow couldn’t bring himself to nod in acknowledgment. As she handed him the basting thread, “Mind your manners when we get there.”

Okimi spoke in her usual tone, but Hyoichi heard it as a scolding. When three rickshaws arrived and lined up at the alley entrance, his mother’s face instantly turned mask-like—and though still a child, he saw it as the face of a twenty-six-year-old bride, leaving him despondent with no solace to grasp. She sat there with hands hovering over the extinguished brazier, her white neck—stiff as a papier-mâché tiger’s—jerked forward from her loosened collar in dowdy attire, while Hyoichi was made to stand and then bundled into a rickshaw. A stranger rode in the front vehicle, Mother in the next one, Hyoichi in the very last. Perhaps finding Hyoichi absurdly grown-up perched primly in his seat, the puller—

“Young master—hold on tight now so you don’t fall.” At the sound of his voice，Okimi glanced back briefly. The day had already darkened.

“I won’t fall!” Hyoichi retorted in deliberately playful Kansai dialect, listening pensively as his voice dissolved into the evening darkness. His body lifted weightlessly as the rickshaw jolted forward. The gloom thickened steadily. Passing through Temple Town’s silent rows of shrines, he caught a sudden blaze of osmanthus fragrance—sharp and sweet against the decaying wood. Dizziness washed over him; already the rickshaw’s sway churned his stomach. Shame prickled his skin at this weakness. Through nauseous haze, he watched lamplight from the shaft’s tip cast grotesque shadows where pulsing veins ridged the puller’s grip. Squinting with second-grader’s eyes at the lantern’s “Nose” characters, he fought suffocation’s tide—that sensation of blood draining upward from his skull. Alone that night, he lay staring at mothball-scented rafters.

The naphthalene smell clinging to the futon felt somehow different, making him acutely feel the loneliness of his mother’s absence. He couldn’t even cry. With his small eyes, he glared aimlessly at the ceiling. His mother was downstairs with a stranger. He later found out it was Nose Yasujiro. Nose Yasujiro was said to be the wealthiest man in Tanimachi Ninth District and was also called a greedy miser. He ran a usury business, changed wives three times, and Okimi was his fourth wife. This year, forty-eight-year-old Yasujiro took a liking to Okimi, and it didn’t take much effort to finalize the marriage arrangement.

“Me?” “I don’t mind either way.” However, even Okimi had set a condition: once Hyoichi graduated elementary school, he was to be sent to middle school. This condition pricked at the heart of Yasujiro the miser, yet Okimi’s shoulders looked far too supple, their fleshy softness all too inviting.

Yasujiro had no children. When his previous wife died, he promptly hired a maid to handle cooking duties and occasionally had her act as a substitute wife—but when Okimi arrived, he immediately dismissed the maid, making Okimi take her place. “Folks gotta save money—you hear me proper now?” became his catchphrase. He never let Okimi handle even a single sen freely, giving her odd sums of ten or twenty sen for daily market errands and demanding exact change upon her return. Sometimes he would go to the market himself, buy six cheap sardines, keep four for himself, then give one each to Okimi and Hyoichi. After being roughed up once while collecting debts, Yasujiro had employed a forty-year-old man named Yamaya for collections. Naturally, Yamaya brought his own lunch—Yasujiro never provided so much as a midday meal. Yamaya had the face of a disgraced monk and lived alone. One day, Yamaya told Hyoichi—with a lewd grin—an intolerable story about Okimi and Yasujiro.

“What’s wrong? Kiddo.”

When Yamaya, startled, looked at Hyoichi’s face, it was frighteningly pale, his lips oozing blood, his front teeth slightly red. His eyes glared fiercely, tears pooled within them. To put it hyperbolically, at that moment, Hyoichi’s self-esteem had been wounded. He was more easily wounded than most. He remained despondent. He felt humiliated, and a seed of aversion to sexual matters had been planted in him then. His innate antagonism festered from the wound to his self-esteem. Casting sidelong glances had become second nature to him, and the look in his eyes when he regarded Yasujiro had changed. Behind Yasujiro’s back, he swung his fist. Every night, Mother eagerly kneaded Yasujiro’s shoulders.

Hyoichi walked over one ri to the Port of Tsukishima, gazed at the dusky Osaka Bay, and found himself suddenly nostalgic for the steamship departing the harbor bathed in sunset—or cursing the sea for no reason at all.

One day, at the port’s pier, suppressing the urge to let out a whimpering sob, he instead faced the sea, “You idiot!” he bellowed. The fact that he thought no one was there—the man fishing suddenly turned around, “Hey! What’re you sayin’?” And then he was struck for the impertinence of his glaring eyes. He walked the one and a half ri home, crying all the way. Trudging along, he reached Yūnagi Bridge just as the sun sank completely, and when he broke into a trot, a tram with its lights on came chasing after him with a terrific noise, terrifying him.

When he entered the house, Yasujiro was saving on bath fees by washing himself with a basin, and Okimi had her sleeves hitched high as she scrubbed his back. When that was done, Okimi washed herself with a basin, and Yasujiro poured water over her back in manly fashion. After that, it was Hyoichi’s turn to wash up, but he played possum and didn’t get up even when called. He gradually became an increasingly gloomy boy and eventually graduated from elementary school. Once again, Okimi requested Yasujiro to enroll him in middle school, but “I ain’t got a clue.” Yasujiro played dumb. The fact that Karube had wanted to become a middle school teacher suddenly came back to her, and Okimi felt all the strength leave her body. Yasujiro taught Hyoichi the abacus and was determined to either send him into service or use him for usury calculations and collections.

At bedtime, she spread Hyoichi's certificate of merit across her lap and gazed at it endlessly; even when Yasujiro told her to sleep, she stubbornly refused. Before long, without a word, she crawled closer to the dresser on her thrust-out knees and stashed it away. When Yasujiro saw the area around her waist, he became comically flustered—he had convinced himself that Okimi would take her belongings from the dresser and leave for good. He reluctantly agreed. Eventually Hyoichi entered middle school—but Yasujiro's coffers remained untouched. Okimi took on sewing work from somewhere and used the earnings to cover Hyoichi's school expenses. Even her paid work alone wasn't enough to keep up—she pawned her own hair accessories and kimonos or borrowed small sums of one or two yen from neighbors. People remarked how odd it was for the usurer's wife to borrow money from others. But in truth, the funds required for his enrollment had been borrowed from Yasujiro—and of course, Yasujiro was determined to charge Okimi interest. Pursued by sewing work, the rims of Okimi's eyes gradually darkened.

Chapter Two

I

As a middle school student, Hyoichi went around boasting that he had a betrothed. Because of this, it took him a considerable time to realize he was actually being mocked. In the meantime, intending to gild himself, he had artlessly descended into vulgarity. He had been breeding the terror of being constantly mocked by someone across his skin like a scabies rash. He dangled his excessive self-consciousness before his restless gaze as he surveyed his surroundings. Driven by youthful vanity, he felt all the more compelled to gild himself. Moreover, during the entrance exam, there had been a failure that could be called a fatal wound to his self-esteem.

The entrance exam felt like a trial of his very fate; with a childish heart gripped by strange excitement, he entered the examination hall. But his overexcitement suddenly made him need to urinate. He hadn't finished all his answers yet. He couldn't leave now. He thought about telling the supervising teacher and asking permission to visit the restroom mid-exam, but couldn't bring himself to do it. Unlike others, he was a child who couldn't make such requests—he'd long accepted this about himself. Could he submit his half-written exam and leave? But that would mean failing. He sat rigidly still, pressing his lower abdomen as he held it in. Restlessly fidgeting, he couldn't properly focus on the questions' meanings. Clinging to his answer sheet while knocking his head—This won't do—when suddenly his attention shifted from his bladder. He surrendered to a terrifying relief—Yes, damn it all—and wet himself. After frantically scribbling the remaining answers, stacking them face-down on the desk, his papers fell when he hurriedly rose to leave. They had gotten wet.

Since they kept the children confined for three hours during exams—and since such incidents occurred frequently—the supervising teacher came to the site of the accident with an expressionless face. The teacher silently picked them up. Placed them on the desk and returned to the podium. However, Hyoichi thought that the teacher had compared my face with the exam paper’s number. The instant he did, he resigned himself to failure. However, he luckily passed. That is to say, he had effortlessly become a middle school student. Then, the memory of wetting himself began to torment him anew. At the entrance ceremony, he began casting peering glances, wondering if someone knew about that incident. Since it had been during the exam—when they still hadn’t known each other’s faces—he thought there must have been one or two who had quickly taken notice. The supervising teacher from that time was in charge of Japanese language and also came to Hyoichi’s classroom four times a week. Each time, Hyoichi would shrink into himself, dreading whether his secret would be exposed.

There was another incident like this. Among classmates, it became popular to follow each other after school, playing detective to find out what kind of houses everyone lived in. One day, Hyoichi’s turn came as well. Regardless of his house’s appearance, he hated people discovering the usury business; when he realized he was being followed, he turned pale and bolted around the corner. When he rushed into the house, he left his umbrella under the eaves. Sure enough,

“Mouri! Mouri! Come out!” a voice bellowed from outside. Hyoichi was on the second floor, holding his breath like a fugitive. He buried his face in his hands and kept his eyes shut. The nameplate reading “Nose” tormented him too.

Given such circumstances, there had indeed been ample need to gild himself. However, what had he been thinking, going around boasting of all things that he had a betrothed? By spreading word of this engagement, he had wanted to project an image of coming from a privileged household, but targeting mere first-year classmates had proven ineffective. There hadn’t even been any precocious students who envied his supposed fiancée. When he gradually became aware that they were mocking him, he realized there was no way left to preserve his self-esteem except by becoming top of the class.

Hyoichi studied until his face grew pale. Whenever he thought of his mother working late into the night at her needlework to pay his school fees, he felt no amount of studying could ever suffice. When exams drew near, Okimi would bring tea and sweets on a tray to his desk while still wearing her nightclothes. Being tended to in this way felt undeserved to Hyoichi, yet it filled him with quiet happiness. Even had it been his own mother, he had never imagined anyone would make tea for him so late at night. Somehow, Yasujiro's violent snoring rising from downstairs even helped drive his studies forward.

As he was about to go to sleep, he happened to glance out the window and saw the eastern sky lightening into purple, icicles hanging from the eaves, and frost covering the roof. Even he couldn’t help but feel somber. When he advanced to the second year, the grades were announced. He became top of the class. Hyoichi came to feel quite happy. However, to say he was entirely happy would have been an overstatement. This was because he worried it might have been some mistake. He began casting suspicious glances around his body, wondering if he was being mocked. This was because he had no confidence in his own intellect. At the very least, his classmates recognized his memorization skills and held a certain awe of them, but for Hyoichi, being respected by others was something utterly beyond his ken. The position of top student was all the more ill-suited to the fate he had resigned himself to daily.

Therefore, he himself needed to repeatedly remind himself of being top student. He went around telling everyone. Before long, "Top Student" had become his nickname. In other words, he lacked the authority befitting a top student. When he suddenly recalled his mother and the urination incident, “Who’s going to be second next time, I wonder?” he would grab his classmates and say. This grated on them terribly. The classmates grew exasperated, and since Hyoichi kept trying to burnish his top student status in that manner, they eventually came to believe it was merely a plated veneer.

“That guy’s just a point-grubbing worm.” On the day before the first term exams, Hyoichi went out to the Daiichi Asahi Theater in Shinsekai. He watched Makino Teruko’s movie and brought the program paper to the exam site to show it off. When that came to light, Hyoichi received a one-week suspension.

A week later, when he entered the classroom, the homeroom teacher arrived and, immediately after taking attendance, “This class had been a model for the entire school until now, but with just one troublemaker disrupting it, our reputation has plummeted all at once. What a shame,” he said something to that effect. Realizing the remarks were about him, Hyoichi knocked his head lightly, stuck out his tongue, and pulled in his neck. Moreover, no one even laughed. On the contrary, several piercing gazes came his way, as if reproaching Hyoichi for his antics. Hyoichi’s expectations had been completely dashed.

When break time finally came, Hyoichi was sucking on a caramel with desperate intensity. Normally, this wasn’t something a class representative would do. Sure enough, a student named Numai came to his side,

“You’re dragging the whole class down just by yourself,” he said deliberately in standard Japanese. Hyoichi retorted, “There—that’s what the teacher just said.” “I don’t need you listening to me anyway.” “And you don’t need to worry about it either.” “With a model student like you around, the class would hardly ever go bad.” Numai, perhaps emboldened by his classmates straggling in and gathering around him,

“Eating in the classroom is wrong, you,” he said. Once again, it was standard Japanese. “So you don’t eat, right?” “That’s just fine, ain’t it?” “What I eat’s my own business.” As soon as he said that, Numai’s hand suddenly grabbed Hyoichi’s arm. “Spit out the thing in your mouth.” “There’s such a thing as ‘when in Rome, do as the Romans do.’”

Before he knew it, he had been surrounded by his classmates. But just then, the bell rang. Hyoichi was sucking on a caramel even during class.

Three days later after school, surrounded by about twenty people with Numai at their center, he was given a beating with fists. Hyoichi struggled for about twenty minutes, but in the end, it proved futile. He had been guarding his nose, but before he knew it, a violent nosebleed gushed forth and his eyes rolled back. And before long, the second term exams began. The moment he saw how despicably his classmates’ faces were contorted in panic as they ferociously gnawed at their exam papers, a sudden surge of hostility reared its head and violently welled up in his chest. When he looked toward Numai, Numai too was busily sharpening his pencil lead. Numai had come to be considered a point-grubbing worm.

(However, I too had once been called a point-grubbing worm. I can’t stand being thought of the same way as Numai!) Hyoichi frantically erased his half-written exam paper. And then, stomping briskly up to the teacher’s podium, he submitted it. Because Hyoichi had submitted his paper so quickly, everyone was taken aback and looked up at his face. “What the hell is this?” The supervising teacher put on the glasses he had removed and peered closer. “It’s blank.” And then, deliberately not looking back, chest puffed out as if to say “serves you right,” he left the classroom. For the first time, he felt the gentle warmth of satisfied self-esteem. However, it took three more months for that satisfaction to become more complete. In March of the following year, it was necessary for him to demonstrate that he had achieved grades sufficient to compensate for the blank exam and advance to the next grade. That March felt interminable.

All the more for that, the joy he felt upon advancing was so intense he couldn't quietly keep it to himself.

The weather was pleasant too. The cherry blossoms had also begun to bloom, and a lukewarm wind was blowing. Hyoichi, feeling almost like whistling, recalled the blank exam paper. For some time afterward, his classmates shuddered whenever they heard his voice. Among them were those who had failed.

Because of this, Hyoichi was now thoroughly despised by his classmates. However, since his hostility had marked them as enemies from the outset, being hated left him feeling refreshingly at ease. When an upperclassman who'd noticed his looks approached with unsettling flattery, Hyoichi found himself strangely flustered, unsure how to respond to such affections. Near third year's end, a love fortune-telling game spread through the class—writing two Romanized names side by side and erasing matching letters one by one. Hyoichi watched dully from the sidelines as everyone crowded around the blackboard practicing their divinations openly, but when he realized every single person had written "Mihara Kiyoko" at least once, his eyes took on an unnatural gleam. Seizing the class's dimmest boy, Hyoichi rambled in such convoluted circles for half an hour that the boy never grasped what was being asked, yet still managed to extract a few scraps of information about Mihara Kiyoko. Learning she attended S Girls' School along the Daiki Electric Railway line, he skipped afternoon classes that very day and bolted panic-stricken to Uemhonmachi Sixth District's Daiki station grounds. But having arrived absurdly early, he waited two full hours until green-necktied S Girls' students began pouring through the ticket gates. At last he spotted her. He recognized the crimson-wrapped bundle he'd been told about and her markers—freckles paired with exceptional height and slenderness—but even without these clues, Hyoichi thought that haughtily upturned expression could belong to none other. Had she been some boisterously friendly girl, those two hours would've been wasted.

(However, what’s this about being S Girls’ School’s number one beauty? Don’t make me laugh)

However, taking into account how she was being loudly proclaimed as the object of every middle schooler’s longing across Osaka, he resolved to consider her beautiful. Though he had merely deferred to popular opinion, her clear eyes did shine coldly, and there was a beauty in her deliberate refusal to wear glasses despite being nearsighted. As these thoughts raced through his mind, Kiyoko attempted to stride briskly past him. Hyoichi turned deathly pale in an instant. It was maddening—the words he needed simply wouldn’t form.

(I can't afford to lose two hours for this single moment.) Driven by this mathematical inspiration at last, he abruptly removed his hat,

“Pardon my abruptness, but may I ask—are you Ms. Mihara Kiyoko?”

Because it was a phrase he had spent two hours devising—unconventional and deliberately pompous—even Kiyoko found herself slightly taken aback. However, for Kiyoko, this sort of thing happened all the time. Without so much as blushing, “Hmm.” Then, with a look that said if he was going to hand her a letter anyway he might as well get on with it, she gazed at Hyoichi. Being faced with such a businesslike expression, Hyoichi was thrown into complete disarray and forgot the next words he had planned to say. He suddenly bolted away—a pitiful sight even to himself.

"What a timid delinquent middle schooler he was," Kiyoko snickered, not even turning around—though his striking looks did linger in her mind for a moment. (He’s the sort of boy you’d want to take to a milk hall and treat to three five-sen taiyaki)—she fleetingly conjured up the faces of her pimply classmates. (However, I’m different.) She was set to graduate next year at eighteen and marry her cousin now studying law at Tokyo Imperial University—this older-sister act of viewing a sixteen-year-old boy as a full decade beneath her was one of her vanities.

Therefore, when Hyoichi was followed for three days straight along the paved road from Uemhonmachi 6-chome to Kobashi Nishinocho starting the very next day, half out of irritation— “Do you have some business with me?” She suddenly turned around, resolved to confront him. Hyoichi’s self-esteem—which had been tormented by his own timidity that left him capable only of stalking her for three days without speaking a word—regained its former composure when met with such an attitude from Kiyoko. “I’ve no business with someone like you.” “Don’t flatter yourself.” “I’m merely walking.”

The words came out smoothly. Those words wounded Kiyoko’s self-esteem quite deeply. “You delinquent middle schooler! Don’t loiter around—go home already.” “That’s none of your concern.” “You’re just a child, and yet…” she began, but unable to find clever words, Kiyoko— “I’ll report you to the Kyōgo Renmei.”

She invoked the fearsome institution recently established within the Osaka Prefectural Government to police middle school students outside school—it was vulgar.

“Say it. If you’d like, shall I call them here?” When it came to such defiant words, this was Hyoichi’s domain. “Stubborn, aren’t you? What’s your business anyway?” “I already told you I’ve got no business with you. You’re impossible, you know that…” The Osaka dialect softened the tension slightly. Kiyoko smiled faintly, “Tailing me without reason’s delinquent behavior." “Quit followin’ me already, okay?” “Where d’you go to school?” She had switched to Osaka dialect. “Just look at my cap and you’ll see.”

“Let me see.” Kiyoko deliberately touched his hat. Because from that close up，she could clearly see the length of Hyoichi’s eyelashes. “K Middle，huh? I know your school’s principal，you know.” “Go ahead and report me then.”

“I’ll report you.” “I really do know him, you know.” “You mean that Shibata-san, right?” “They call him Suppon.”

Before they knew it, they started walking side by side. When they neared her house, Kiyoko—

“Bye.” “If you tail me again, I won’t stand for it.”

And then, they parted. All the while, Hyoichi was thinking of nothing but this—(Had it been a success? A failure?) In the end, having been struck by her commanding tone at their parting—“I won’t stand for it”—and left without a retort, he judged it to be a complete failure. However, nothing motivated this boy as much as failure.

The next day, he lay in wait for Kiyoko’s return with tremendous determination. The moment Kiyoko saw Hyoichi, she instantly felt repulsed. Yesterday she had felt a slight fondness for Hyoichi, but now that she found herself ambushed again today, she couldn’t help thinking this boy too was just another run-of-the-mill delinquent student. Kiyoko walked past Hyoichi with a feigned look of innocence. Hyoichi rushed over, took off his hat, and bowed with a face flushed bright red. Then, Kiyoko—

(Today I'll put this boy in his place once and for all.) (Yesterday I failed, but…)

Using this as an excuse to herself, she decided to walk alongside him. The truth was, Hyoichi’s bright red face had been endearing. However, Hyoichi walked on with large strides, as if he were entirely alone. He was furious with himself for blushing so deeply. Kiyoko found herself unable to match his pace even as they walked side by side.

“Can’t you walk a little slower?” In spite of herself, Kiyoko’s voice took on a pleading tone. “You’re the one who could stand to walk faster.” (This one's a well-crafted line,) Hyoichi smiled inwardly. Kiyoko scowled, “You don’t even know how to walk with a girl, do you? "You’re such a boor.” At her mocking words, Hyoichi flushed red again - he who should have been maintaining a perfect pretense of being accustomed to walking with girls. (This boy launches charming fireworks just when my irritation threatens to become hatred,) Kiyoko mused with literary affectation. Moreover, she conceitedly believed (This boy loves me). Thinking how amusing it would be to extract a confession from him directly, Kiyoko—

“You like me, right?” Hyoichi was completely flustered. He had not prepared any words to answer such a question. Moreover, he didn’t read many novels or such, so he had no reference material for how to respond in such situations. Of course, he couldn’t say, “Yes, I like you.” First of all, he did not like Kiyoko in the slightest. To say something he didn’t truly feel was galling. He moved his mouth wordlessly for a while but finally,

Having thought up the line “If I hated you, I wouldn’t be walking with you,” he felt relieved. “What a strange way to put it. “You dislike me, then?” “Or do you like me?” “Which is it?” “You do like me, right?” By the end, her words had sped up. Hyoichi was troubled. Since he didn’t like her, he should answer that he disliked her—but that would be far too destructive a response.

“I like you,” he answered in a small voice, as though enclosing the word “like” in parentheses.

For the first time, Kiyoko permitted herself the feeling of beginning to like Hyoichi. However, because Hyoichi had said "I like you," he now found the very thought of seeing Kiyoko unbearable. The next day was Sunday, so he considered it a stroke of luck. He had been telling himself that until he won Kiyoko over, he must meet her every day.

Hyoichi went out to Sennichimae. In the basement of Rakutenchi was displayed the mummy of a nun from a certain temple in Sanuki Province—said to have died at eighty-two. “The female characteristics—breasts and other traces—remain clearly visible. Educational reference material”—lured by this advertisement, he stealthily paid the admission fee and entered. It was a reckless curiosity, paradoxically fueled by his secret disgust toward anything sexual.

The moment he emerged in a self-mocking unpleasant mood, he suddenly came face to face with Kiyoko. (She must have seen through me—that I came to see the mummy out of some morbid curiosity.) Hyoichi flushed crimson in an instant. Nearsighted Kiyoko, having noticed a figure resembling Hyoichi, narrowed her eyes and drew her brows together to confirm. To Hyoichi, it looked like she was frowning. Kiyoko—who suffered from chronic stomach troubles—had long had a habit of licking her lower lip, and even now did so while thinking, Oh, they’re setting off fireworks. When he saw that expression, Hyoichi could no longer endure it. He abruptly ran away.

(Now that she’d seen me in such a shameful state, I was sure to be hated.) Hyoichi had readily settled on that conclusion. And so he lost all courage to face Kiyoko. From the next day onward, he no longer lay in wait for her.

However, when Hyoichi didn’t show his face for two or three days, Kiyoko found herself feeling vaguely dissatisfied. Nor could she understand why Hyoichi had run off in front of Rakutenchi.

“Why did he run away?” She could think of nothing but that. In other words, it amounted to thinking of nothing but Hyoichi. (Could it be that I’ve been disliked?) For Kiyoko, with her strong self-conceit, this proved unbearable. (But we were getting along so well...)

By the time ten days had passed without seeing Hyoichi, she could no longer deny her now unmistakable feelings for him. (What... A boy like that...) Kiyoko made considerable efforts to dislike Hyoichi. She looked at her fiancé's photograph every day. Her fiancé wore his university cap and possessed features that could almost be called handsome and reliable. She gazed at it daily, convinced this would make Hyoichi's presence fade into insignificance. But having stared at it too often, even her fiancé's face began to irritate her. (This face is twisted. The beard stubble is so thick!) She forced herself to dwell on such unreasonable criticisms. Indeed, Hyoichi was a boy who timidly showed his downy hair. However, whenever letters arrived from her fiancé describing his Tokyo student life, she found them incomparably more reassuring than anything about Hyoichi.

After about two weeks had passed—on a day when her resolve to dislike Hyoichi had mostly taken shape—Kiyoko unexpectedly encountered Hyoichi within the Daiki station grounds. She involuntarily formed an “Oh!” expression and flushed crimson. She thought that Hyoichi had been waiting for her.

(So he really had been sick after all.) This notion she secretly harbored as a fragile thread of hope. She couldn’t suppress a smile. She instantly discarded the thought of coming to dislike Hyoichi.

However, Hyoichi—mentally cursing I messed up—stood half-poised to flee. In truth, he had been avoiding Daiki's premises all this time because he feared meeting Kiyoko. Though returning home from school, he took deliberate detours. Yet today, he inadvertently passed through Daiki's premises. In other words, he had nearly forgotten about Kiyoko. He suddenly tried to run away. The instant he moved to flee, his self-esteem—like a snake—raised its slithering head and coiled around his legs. If I were to run away here, I'd be tormented by shame for life. I must restore my honor—Hyoichi barely stopped himself. Yet he didn't know how to restore that honor. Challenging Kiyoko to a duel was unthinkable. Hyoichi simply fidgeted. Despite this resolve, he didn't properly look at Kiyoko's face. He turned away.

Kiyoko resented that Hyoichi wouldn’t look at her face. She abruptly drew close and,

“What’s been wrong with you?” “Why didn’t you meet me?” “Were you sick?” She uttered resentful words. But Hyoichi didn’t know how to respond. And he grew angrily resentful at himself for not knowing how to respond. When she saw that expression, Kiyoko began to feel anxious, wondering if she had truly been disliked after all. This only made her like Hyoichi all the more. As was their custom, they walked side by side, but Hyoichi was uncharacteristically awkward. At the moment of parting,

“Can’t we meet at Tennoji Park tonight at six o’clock?” It was Kiyoko who suggested it.

Around that time, a song was popular that went, "As evening falls, worries are endless." They made their promise and parted.

Hyoichi deliberately arrived half an hour later than the promised time. Kiyoko stood dejectedly before the park's main gate wearing a kimono. She had tied a green heko obi around her crimson kimono and applied rouge to her cheeks. The effect appeared both childlike and alluring.

“I’ve been waiting a whole hour,” Kiyoko said, half in tears as she drew near.

They walked side by side.

Night slipped down, sinking into the wan glow of the gas lamps and vanishing. The museum building stood black and towering on a small hill. On the grounds, a man in a running shirt moved like a shadow puppet under the faint glow of an electric light. As they passed under the wisteria trellis, the scent of plants wafted by. Kiyoko puffed out her chest. Occasionally their shoulders brushed. To Hyoichi, it was a painfully jolting sensation.

(Walking in the park at night with a woman—how disagreeable.)

He thought about sharing this impression with his pimply classmate. He walked away from Kiyoko so conspicuously that she couldn’t help but notice, abruptly putting distance between them. Such a Hyoichi was endearing to Kiyoko. This boy is so bashful and sensitive, she thought, gazing up earnestly—within Hyoichi’s childlike face there existed one feature that seemed beyond his years. On his broad forehead, a single vein stood out palely. That gave him the appearance of a boy troubled by brooding thoughts. Surely he’s worrying about me!

However, at that very moment, Hyoichi, of all things,

"(Your mother is being worked like a maid by that usurer husband of hers right now! No—worse than that, she’s being subjected to something far more terrible) he kept telling himself. When Kiyoko wore a kimono, she looked every bit the daughter of a good family. (This woman probably doesn’t know that my mother does needlework every night, borrows money from neighbors, and takes out high-interest loans from her husband to fund my education.) No, she probably doesn’t know that I had a wretched supper of just pickles and cold rice before coming here today. Of course, my mother later secretly gave me tamagoyaki, but I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that it wouldn’t go down my throat. My mouth always reeks of pickles! It still reeks! That, this woman probably doesn’t know. This woman who’s wafting perfume probably doesn’t know. (Because my mother skimps on paying for hair washing at the public bathhouse, her hair always reeks stiflingly of sweat!)"

Hyoichi suddenly felt tears welling up. But quickly rubbing his eyes, he resumed his brooding. (This woman would never walk with me if she knew about my public urination incident.) It was precisely this realization—that winning this girl would satisfy his self-esteem—that finally made Hyoichi aware of his role in walking alongside Kiyoko. (I have to say something.)

Hyoichi suddenly panicked. But he didn't know what to say. He had never read romance novels. Even if he entertained the presumptuous notion of "winning her over," he still couldn't grasp what actual words or actions that would entail. As if only now realizing his own awkward silence, Hyoichi found walking with Kiyoko had become suffocating. He wanted to say something clever—words that clearly aligned with his purpose—yet grew increasingly irritated when no such phrases surfaced. His mood grew heavier by the moment, his face settling into an utterly bored expression. (Don't you know how to talk to women?) He tried imagining how this version of himself must look through Kiyoko's eyes. He nearly began worrying she would scorn him. But seeing Kiyoko's rouged face spared him that particular anxiety. Her usually spirited features looked faintly foolish beneath the makeup today. "What a clumsy man I am," Hyoichi mocked himself, yet found unexpected solace in this self-deprecation. Still, such worries proved unnecessary. Kiyoko preferred this silently reserved Hyoichi over the one who spat arrogant, detestable words whenever he spoke. For one thing, she brimmed with happiness so intense it verged on painful—talking incessantly herself, leaving Hyoichi no opening to speak.

Kiyoko, with her literary affectations, used nothing but cloyingly saccharine words. Words that Hyoichi struggled to comprehend and names of out-of-season flowers flew from Kiyoko’s lips. Had Hyoichi not been ashamed of his inability to understand Kiyoko’s words and furious with himself—What an uneducated fool I am—he would have been on the verge of yawning. (The fact that Kiyoko, a mere girl student, knows more complex things than I—a middle school boy—is due to my school’s inferior education.)

While thinking such dry, insipid things that would have exasperated Kiyoko had she heard them, Hyoichi endured his boredom.

Kiyoko’s “clever” literary-tinged words, however, did not last long. This was because she had already exhausted every phrase she knew.

The path suddenly brightened—before they knew it, they had passed through the park and found themselves beside the radium hot spring.

It was the outskirts of Shinsekai, where garish-colored electric lights clustered haphazardly.

“How vulgar. Let’s turn back.” And she herself had fallen into an utterly prosaic mood, so Kiyoko began talking about how one of Hyoichi’s friends had sent her a clumsily written love letter. Then, suddenly, Hyoichi’s eyes glowed. “Who the hell sent it?” he asked, and once he confirmed the name, Hyoichi was no longer bored. For the first time, his self-esteem was satisfied. Hyoichi earnestly asked if he could be shown the love letter. Kiyoko immediately agreed.

“Then I’ll show it to you tomorrow.”

Thus, the arrangement for the following day was settled.

II

Such a relationship continued for three months. However, their relationship remained an innocent one. If there were anything resembling what might be called love, it was limited to Kiyoko handing Hyoichi a letter filled with her unending thoughts. In other words, Kiyoko wasn’t satisfied merely talking about her literary inclinations—she wanted to present them in written form. She had handed it over in person both because she wanted him to read it on the spot and because, being betrothed to another, she had hesitated to send it through the mail. For Hyoichi, merely conversing with Kiyoko was already taxing enough work, so he didn’t even consider attempting something like writing letters. First of all, he was cautious that it might become evidence and turn into something to be ridiculed by others. In any situation, such wariness never left him.

However, his self-esteem had been considerably satisfied by receiving a letter from Kiyoko. It was about time he freed himself from the duty he’d imposed. At least in front of the classmate who had sent love letters to Kiyoko, he could say anything outrageous. So from then on, their relationship continued half out of inertia. In truth, he was somewhat fed up. Still, meeting Kiyoko was easier on his mind than seeing his unpleasant father’s face—that was all there was to it. Moreover, Hyoichi himself had an unexpectedly timid, docile side to him, making it impossible for him to casually break their arrangement without reason.

Because of this, their relationship continued for three months, but as Kiyoko later told him herself, it was "a pure relationship where we never even held hands." There was no reason to expect anything more from Hyoichi. Kiyoko herself had no experience with love, and being of good birth, she was deeply modest. As for Hyoichi, he remained entirely a boy. Moreover, Hyoichi feared that if he were to willingly make such advances himself, he would be laughed at. There were times, however, when he reviled his own cowardice.

(It might be necessary to test what kind of face Kiyoko would make—whether she would dislike it.) However, had Hyoichi felt that necessity more acutely—being fundamentally a reckless man—he might have resorted to bolder action. Yet there was a reason why that alone remained impossible, no matter what predicament he might face. The story he had once heard from Yamaya the debt collector had taken tenacious root in his heart, so that merely entertaining such thoughts tore at his chest.

Their relationship had continued in that manner for three months when, abruptly, Kiyoko distanced herself from Hyoichi. It had happened without the slightest warning. Hyoichi couldn’t make sense of it. He wore a sullen look and pondered the matter daily. But then it suddenly struck him—this meant he was still thinking about Kiyoko after all—and he grew irritated. Hyoichi’s eyes, which had been entranced by Kiyoko’s deer-like gaze, suddenly welled up with their innate ferocity. ("What a stroke of luck!") Yet there was a reason why that alone couldn’t satisfy him. Just recently, he had gone to a taiyaki shop with Kiyoko. Kiyoko had always paid the bill, but on that day alone—due to a sudden shift in his mood—he found himself thinking, *Are you going to accept charity from this woman?* and attempted to pay himself. The moment he did, thirty-odd copper coins clattered down from his trousers onto the concrete floor. Apart from two two-sen copper coins, there were only one-sen coppers—not a single silver-white coin among them. He flushed crimson. If he hadn’t dropped them, he would have joked, “See? Nothing but coppers!” and settled the bill. That would have been just like a middle school student. However, the moment he dropped them, he had suddenly become that Okimi’s son. Kiyoko gasped and looked at Hyoichi’s face, but because she loved him, she immediately knelt down and picked up each one for him. Because of that, Hyoichi felt even more ashamed. The money that his mother had toiled to earn—how much effort she had poured into creating even a single coin—he had casually dropped at the taiyaki shop when he went there with the woman. That alone had been painful enough, but when Kiyoko treated him that way, he wanted to die from the shame.

So he had tried his best not to think about that incident. Every time he remembered, a guttural roar surged from the pit of his stomach. Yet whenever he thought Kiyoko had left him, he found himself inexorably confronted by that memory.

*It was all because of that incident that she came to hate me.*

However, in passing, Kiyoko had never found anything as endearing as Hyoichi’s face at that moment—flushed crimson and on the verge of tears. Even after marrying her cousin, it was only Hyoichi’s face from that time that she ever recalled. In other words, the day of Kiyoko’s graduation—which was to say, her wedding—was drawing near. The moment she saw the formal betrothal gifts displayed in the room, Kiyoko's heart changed completely—as easily as flipping a page. She had always felt older than her years, and among her classmates, she took pride in being the first to marry. So to speak, that was what attested to her beauty. Even Hyoichi’s charm could not overcome her restless heart as she faced marriage. Moreover, Hyoichi had always lacked one crucial charm. In other words, theirs was "a pure relationship where they never even held hands."

When he learned that Kiyoko had stopped seeing him because she was getting married, Hyoichi was struck by a strange emotion he had never experienced before. One moment he would be seized by a violent impulse to scream at the sky; the next, he would suddenly feel despondent, as though a hole had opened in his heart. It was a strange, pitiful feeling that even he couldn't comprehend. He did not yet know the word "jealousy." Had he known, he would have felt even more wretched. Even the nighttime walks with Kiyoko that he had sometimes found tedious now filled him with profound nostalgia when he thought another man might be "monopolizing" them. Not knowing his face was at least some consolation. If he had caught even a passing glimpse of him, given Hyoichi's nature, he would have been tormented by that memory for the rest of his life.

Hyoichi found slight consolation in recalling that he hadn't particularly cared for Kiyoko. Yet now Kiyoko's scent and such were strangely coming back to him.

III

From Tanimachi 9-chome to Ikutama Omotesuji lay the district where the "Enoki Night Market" was held on days ending in 3 and 9; from Ikutama Omotesuji to Kamishiocho 6-chome stretched the district where the "Komagatani Night Market" appeared on days ending in 1 and 6. Between them existed roughly seventy to eighty back alleys. There was an eighty-house nagaya alleyway that cut through from Ikutama-suji to Kamishiocho-dori in a 」 shape; another fifty-house nagaya alleyway that passed through in a U shape with seven houses sandwiched between; and even a complicated hundred-house nagaya with six entrances and exits. In the two-story buildings, four families lived together. In other words, more families lived in the back alleys than on the main streets—a chaotic town teeming with the poor.

Yet it was a town with curiously few changes, as listless as an old washcloth. The corner fruit shop had been a fruit shop for generations. The characters on its signboard had aged until they were illegible. The liquor store never moved from its spot over decades. The bathhouse too never changed ownership. Even the pharmacy—where one might expect more turnover—stayed rooted. A stooped old man still displayed his pharmacist license from decades prior in its window. Across from one greengrocer stood another greengrocer; neither ever relocated. The son at the one-sen sweetshop now had grandchildren himself—his motions behind the counter carried the settled grace of a master artisan as he sold penny candies. Even speculators didn’t flee under cover of night.

Even after a public market was built, the town's state remained unchanged. Construction work was rarely carried out. Carpenters found no livelihood in that town. Thus when the elementary school underwent expansion, people would come daily to gaze curiously at the construction site. Of three households ordered to vacate, one family—a pensioner who had sent his son out as a newspaper delivery boy—remained unmoved even when wooden planks were nailed around their house. They had a small entryway made and used it to come and go. This wasn't solely about demanding relocation fees.

Construction work was exceedingly scarce. In the back-alley row houses, many of the dwellings were half-collapsed. There were also houses with holes in their walls where passersby could peer inside. However, there were no carpenters or plasterers to be seen. Recently, when the sushi shop had suffered a blow to its business from the growing popularity of ten-sen sushi in the south, they took advantage of their son’s marriage as an occasion to hire a carpenter for a day, renovate the shop, and begin selling taiyaki alongside sushi—such instances stood out.

However, when Nose Yasujiro hired a carpenter for five whole days, people were utterly astonished that that notorious miser would go to such lengths. Given that this was Nose—a man who wouldn’t get up from a fall without pocketing something—they concluded he must be scheming some new underhanded venture. That was exactly right.

Next to Yasujiro lived a fountain pen shop owner. It was a small house with a single-room front—though it had been a kimono stain-removal shop for generations—but when the son who had graduated from middle school took over, they turned it into a fashionable fountain pen repair and retail shop, approaching Yasujiro for a loan of three hundred yen as capital. When Yasujiro confirmed the house was their own property rather than rented, he issued the loan using it as collateral. Unbeknownst to anyone, that sum had ballooned to about 2,500 yen. Declaring he wouldn’t spare even neighbors, Yasujiro dispatched a bailiff and made for the public bathhouse. The fountain pen shop owner came storming into the bathhouse shouting protests, but Yasujiro—removing the hand towel from his head, folding it into a neater square, and replacing it—said, “You think you can just borrow people’s money for free?” That very evening, the fountain pen shop owner vacated the premises. Yasujiro hired a carpenter to renovate this single-frontage house.

First, they broke through the second-floor wall to create a door, enabling passage between his house’s second floor and that four-and-a-half-tatami room via a corridor. They left the staircase untouched, arranged merely one table and two chairs in the shop’s earthen-floored area, installed a bell on the table, and pasted a slip of paper bearing an unfriendly message: “Those with business, ring this bell.” At the entrance hung a blue shop curtain bearing “Kinyū Nose Shōkai.”

They also hung a signboard. On it were written: “Military Pension/Annuity Advances” “Savings Passbooks Bought” “Pawn Tickets Bought” Setting aside advances on military pensions and annuities, the other two were novel ventures. To “buy savings passbooks” meant this: when those making monthly installments at institutions like Osaka Savings either became unable to continue payments before maturity or, having reached maturity, could no longer endure waiting out the days until they could collect their money, Yasujiro would purchase their passbooks at a reasonable price. From the installment amounts, he would of course deduct his share upfront; then later, when Yasujiro leisurely went through the procedures to collect the full sum, it became a lucrative profit—a scheme he had long had his eye on.

As for pawn tickets, he would buy them for just two or three yen. Using those pawn tickets, Yasujiro would go redeem the items and then resell them to used clothing stores and antique dealers. For a kimono with a pawn ticket face value of five yen, since it could be sold to used clothing stores for twelve or thirteen yen, fifteen yen, even up to twenty yen, even after deducting the principal and interest paid to the pawnshop and the money spent to purchase the pawn ticket, the remaining profit was enormous. In a town teeming with the poor, those who—desperately short on money and lacking collateral, hounded only by accumulating interest—found themselves overwhelmed by the growing pile of pawn tickets could hardly be just a few. So if they only considered immediate concerns, upon hearing that pawn tickets they couldn’t redeem would turn into cash, they’d surely come gratefully. Seeing their vulnerable position and buying them up for a pittance, Yasujiro had long wanted to engage in this business.

However, in his current house, he couldn't very well conduct that business. It was a business that needed to resemble a moneylender's—quietly tucked away in the depths—and one that required keeping a sharp eye on strangers' comings and goings, something that couldn't be done in a regular house. To borrow Yasujiro's words, "the neighboring house luckily became vacant."

Without hiring a town crier or distributing flyers, he abruptly opened shop without any fanfare—and yet from that very day, people came to sell pawn tickets. The bell was rigged so its sound would carry to the neighboring house. Yasujiro heavily rose to his feet, exited along the corridor to the new shop’s second floor, descended the stairs, and thrust his face—wrapped in a black scarf he never removed except during summer’s Doyo—suddenly before the customer. He glared at the customer, sat in the chair without inviting them to sit, scrutinized the pawn ticket through a magnifying glass, then asked for the pawnshop’s address and the customer’s name and residence. When finished, he brusquely said, “Come get the money in the evening,” stood up, ascended the stairs without so much as glancing at the customer sitting blankly in helpless bewilderment, and returned to his original room via the corridor.

When Hyoichi returned from school, he was made to handle customer service. In truth, the second-floor room had now become his own. While it was a relief not to hear Yasujiro’s snoring, the bell’s incessant ringing grated on him. He had to get up even in the middle of studying. And whenever he received a pawn ticket from a customer, he would have to go show it to Yasujiro. He found this unbearably detestable—precisely because it forced him to speak with Yasujiro. He had been trying his utmost to avoid exchanging words with the man whenever possible.

(It was better for both himself and others), he thought. Since he himself found it unpleasant, he told himself that Yasujiro must also find speaking with him unpleasant—a convenient excuse. However, Yasujiro thought of Hyoichi as little more than a lump Okimi had brought along, so he remained untouched by the boy’s childish resentment. At least, he hadn’t considered Hyoichi’s feelings as deeply as Hyoichi himself believed. No matter how he thought of him, as long as he didn’t eat too much, he had no complaints. No matter how he behaved in middle school, he wasn’t paying his tuition anyway. Lately, he had finally become useful enough for household tasks, making him "better than a kitten." For example, he handled customer service. He went on errands to the pawnshop.

Hyoichi had wanted to plead—if only he could be spared from those pawnshop errands. But to do that, he would have to humble himself before Yasujiro. He hated that. Hyoichi, sullen-faced, reluctantly went to the pawnshop. It was precisely when—by ill luck—he had grown utterly despondent over Kiyoko and lost all footing for his self-esteem. Even when walking down the street, he felt that everyone passing by was mocking him. When he reached the point where the pawnshop’s curtain came into view, he was already on high alert, wondering if anyone might be watching.

"(Your mother stepped through this curtain slaving for your school fees.)" By drilling this into his head, he finally pushed through the noren. Still, he fixed his face into what might pass for a pawnshop brat's expression and entered. The apprentice piped up: "Nose-san's outfit runs such a slick operation, they've left us high and dry, see? Our trade needs things flowin' free-like, but your lot's damming up the stream proper." He delivered this with precocious swagger, adding: "Like some kinda levee, I tell ya! And another thing—"

“Your place does such shabby business—for a respectable family—the young master shouldn’t have to run these errands.”

Hyoichi burned with anger. However, realizing the apprentice was mainly trying to badmouth Yasujiro, he barely stopped himself from snapping back. While waiting for the items to be brought from the storehouse, the girl there briefly showed her face, spoke in a scolding tone to the apprentice, then slipped back inside while swaying her hips. Hyoichi watched her retreating back with glittering eyes. They wrapped the prepared items in a furoshiki. "A hidden agenda in your heart, and a bundle on your back," the apprentice told him. The return journey—bearing only the furoshiki-wrapped package—proved more arduous than the way there. *You've got something hidden in your chest!* Hyoichi screamed internally, briefly conjuring the pawnshop girl's face in his mind.

(That girl came sauntering out just to mock me. No wonder a middle schooler’s pawnshop errands make such a spectacle.) As she retreated into the back, he recalled how the heko-obi sash’s knot had bobbed mockingly. What an absurd way to walk! (Kiyoko never walked like some clumsy oaf)—when suddenly, Hyoichi found himself remembering her. Then the wound in his self-esteem began to throb. (I must conquer that girl.) The resolution formed before he realized it. There was no other way—he thought—to salvage this pitiful state of mind. Yet Hyoichi managed to avoid acting on such a foolish resolve. Something far more clever had arisen—something adequate to appease his self-esteem through refined means.

One day, Hyoichi was suddenly summoned to the principal’s office.

“Thinking he was being lured into a trap,” he steeled himself but still entered pale-faced—whereupon the principal,

“I have something to discuss with you.” “Do sit down,” he said.

"The wind's changed direction," Hyoichi thought, planting his resolve into the chair—ready to refuse if this turned out to be about becoming some morals committee member— "Do you have any intention of going to high school?"

he was asked an unexpected question. Just recently, survey forms about aspirations for higher schools had been distributed in the classroom. When one became a fourth-year student, it was already necessary to have decided on one’s post-graduation aspirations. He had written to the effect that he had no intention of going to higher school. When he thought of his mother struggling just to get him through middle school, it was a path he couldn’t take even if he wanted to.

“Well… not really,” he replied. “Why not?” asked the principal, but Hyoichi couldn’t answer. He couldn’t explain his circumstances. “No reason—I just don’t want to go.” “That’s a shame,” said the principal, then began to explain: “There’s a certain philanthropist who wants to fund schooling for children from poor families in Osaka Prefecture. Of course, there are conditions. Limited to students of exemplary conduct and academic excellence who have passed higher school entrance examinations starting from their fourth year. Moreover, this applies only to First Higher School, Second Higher School, and Third Higher School—all with notoriously difficult exams—and successful candidates will board at preparatory dormitories in Tokyo or Kyoto. They’ve requested all prefectural middle schools to recommend students meeting these criteria.” Hyoichi was selected as one of the candidates.

*So I’ve been officially branded a poor man’s son,* Hyoichi thought. As he wondered how the principal knew that, something occurred to him. *So he knows I’m the reigning champion of tuition delinquency,* Hyoichi flushed crimson, so mortified he wanted to flee. At the same time, he seethed with resentment. *I refuse such charity! Limiting it to honor students who can enter First Higher or Third Higher starting in their fourth year—damn them, they might as well be raising thoroughbred dogs or racehorses.*

Hyoichi was furious, but found some consolation in the thought that being selected as a candidate meant the principal had at least acknowledged his academic excellence. As if spurring on his conflicted heart even further, the principal said: "The fact that you don’t wish to go is truly regrettable. There are other candidates, but at our school, you’re practically the only one who can reliably enter First Higher or Third Higher starting from your fourth year." Hyoichi’s self-esteem was effortlessly gratified. A smile nearly bubbled up unbidden. But flustered, he twisted his face into a scowl and—

“Who are the other candidates?” he asked. “Numai from your class and Harima from fourth-year Class F.” Hearing Numai’s name, Hyoichi could no longer keep his composure. His body shuddered violently. (So Numai’s getting charity too? If he fails and I pass—now that would be sweet.) At this thought—he whose emotions shifted as easily as windblown leaves—he suddenly felt inclined to try for higher school after all. It wouldn’t burden Mother with tuition fees anyway. Besides, even if he graduated middle school, he’d only end up being worked to death at home or becoming some department store clerk. (If I enter the dormitory, I won’t have to see Yasujiro’s face anymore.) His resolve hardened. Yet he didn’t immediately say, “Then I’ll accept.” To declare disinterest only to leap at the chance like flipping one’s palm would be disgraceful—the very image of wretched opportunism.

“Since it’s your suggestion, Principal, I’ll discuss it with my family,” he said. This was precisely the sort of thing that made Hyoichi so disliked by others. Yet he truly had an obligation to consult no one but his mother.

“I see.” “Then go ahead and discuss it.” “Do try to go if possible.” “It would be a shame to stop at just middle school.”

“I think so too.” He returned home and consulted his mother with a serious face: “Should I attend higher school by accepting someone’s charity?” “I don’t mind either way. You do as you like,” she said. “Just don’t go too far away.”

He decided to go to Third Higher School in Kyoto.

The next day, when he was summoned by the principal,

“Since it’s your suggestion, Principal, I’ll strive to pass splendidly for the honor of K Middle School.” He delivered this barbed retort. Yet on the whole, the principal found the response agreeable.

“You can’t exactly be called a model student, but I recommended you because you’re capable.” “Do your best.” Hyoichi was so preoccupied with whether Numai would take the Third Higher School or First Higher School entrance exams that, strangely enough, the principal’s words didn’t bother him. Hyoichi began studying intensely from that day onward. A resolve took hold within him. His self-esteem had found its place. (On the day I put on my Higher School cap, I might as well meet Kiyoko once,) he thought. (But Kiyoko might see through where my tuition’s coming from.)

Hyoichi entered the humanities department at Third Higher School the following April, yet he still hadn't shown his face to Kiyoko.

Four

After finishing dinner, Hyoichi casually left Shuei Juku. Upon exiting the dormitory, the road immediately led to Kagurazaka, but Hyoichi avoided Kagurazaka and veered off onto Yoshidayama's mountain path midway through. This was because the woman at the café atop Kagurazaka had looked at him with a strange gaze two or three days prior. "Oh, look—a childlike Third Higher student goes walking by."

Hyoichi was still seventeen years old. He remained acutely aware of his youthful age. While he could take pride in being among the few who entered Higher School so young, he still detested appearing childlike. Though he tried growing a beard to cultivate a grizzled look, the stubborn hairs refused to emerge. The recent appearance of two pimples brought him faint satisfaction. (Seventeen and at Third Higher School—does that make me some academic prodigy? What a joke.) He had changed considerably since his middle school days. Back then, he'd strained every nerve to become top of his class. But wasn't a prodigy just someone with slightly better memorization skills—a grade-grubbing worm?

When he saw the Third High students living in the same Shuei Juku dormitory, he could no longer place any faith in the notion of academic prodigies. There were ten dormitory students. They were all academic prodigies who had entered from the fourth year. Yet they were nothing more than diligent students with poor intellects. One might grant that their memorization skills were decent, but really—if they crammed even while eating, it would have been more surprising if they couldn't retain anything. In the classroom, they did nothing but watch the teacher's every expression. They even went so far as to transcribe the teacher's clumsy jokes into their notebooks. When teachers grew bored with lecturing in class and started chatting idly, they would ask, "Will this be on the exam?"—the very image of grade-grubbing worms. Moreover, determined not to break a single one of the dormitory's rules, they went about their every move with furtive caution. At times they broke the silence by singing dormitory songs, but that too was just petty excitement born from the sheer joy of having become Third High students.

(First of all, I hate even the name 'Shuei Juku'.) Though called a dormitory, it had no proper teachers—only Nakata, a third-year student acting as dormitory head who supervised the residents and occasionally reported their conduct to the Osaka "Financier" (as Hyoichi termed him). Apart from the students, there were just a cook couple; it differed little from old-fashioned lodging houses of yore. Yet its rules were exceptionally harsh. Dormitory students were absolutely forbidden from eating or drinking outside its premises. They couldn't even drink coffee in the school cafeteria. Lunch had to be brought from home—not individually, but through a rotation system where students carried to school a large wooden tub holding rice for ten and a pot of side dishes. Hyoichi found hauling this furoshiki-wrapped tub on his back along the route to school more humiliating than even his walks back from the pawnshop.

If rowing club members had carried it half-jokingly during their training camp, their cloying innocence might still have appeared more tolerable in others' eyes. But for scholarship students to haul it themselves was wretchedly humiliating—like dogs trotting with their own bowls clamped between their jaws. It might have been the financier's preference, but it felt like propaganda blaring "I subsist on charity." When Hyoichi realized that avoiding the hall made them seem like sanctimonious hypocrites, he resolutely drank coffee there one day.

Furthermore, the dormitory students’ after-dinner walks were limited to one hour. Therefore, outings after 7 PM were not permitted unless under special circumstances.

("I might have an obligation to break this rule!") The thought struck Hyoichi as he walked along Yoshidayama's mountain path. His body began trembling strangely then—that peculiar thrill one feels before plunging into something reckless.

(But why does such an obligation exist?) Still lacking the courage to act, he posed this sophistical question. Was it because he didn’t want to be lumped with those other dormitory students—the so-called hypocrites? Or because he hated wagging his tail for their master? Maybe he simply refused to suck up to the dormitory head? —This reasoning pleased him. At any rate, he remained an ingrate oblivious to gratitude toward the "Financier." The sole recipient of his gratitude had ever been his mother.

"That’s it!" Hyoichi suddenly muttered. (The reason I feel obligated to break these rules is because nobody else has got the guts to do it!)

The moment this thought struck him, he became resolute for the first time.

In Kyoto’s distinctive spring haze, the lights of Shijo Street—glittering with clear radiance—could be seen from the mountain above. He thought it an overstatement to imagine that bright illumination was summoning him with its warm nostalgia.

(That’s right—I should go to Shijo Street. If I went there, I couldn’t return within an hour. Breaking the rules was still—)

Hyoichi took off his white-striped cap as if to demonstrate this resolve and stuffed it into the pocket of his navy herringbone coat. (What is this? Such a cap.) He secretly despised how every dormitory student wore their regulation caps even to public bathhouses, flaunting their Third High student status like badges of pride. That Hyoichi—a man of exceptional vanity—felt no lingering attachment to such regulation caps showed just how radically he had changed. Moreover, in Kyoto, was there any group more sought-after than Third High students? He removed the hand towel that had hung at his waist.

("What kind of spell is this?! A symbol of Third High privilege?") In other words, he couldn't stand that privilege.

Hyoichi descended the long stone steps of Yoshida Shrine and arrived before the school gate. When he glanced toward the guardhouse, he found a slip of paper with his name written on it posted there. He entered and received a letter addressed to himself. The letter was from his mother; wary of the dormitory head finding out, he had always asked her to send letters addressed to the school. Sure enough, two five-yen bills were plastered onto the stationery. She did not know how to arrange a money order. When Okimi learned that Hyoichi received only one yen per month for pocket money at the dormitory, beyond tuition and book/stationery expenses, she began sending him money she earned from her side sewing work. Because of this, Hyoichi never lacked for pocket money, but each time, he felt as though his chest were being pierced.

Hyoichi stood alone on the empty school grounds, peeled the bills from the stationery, and stuffed them into his pocket. He decided to read the letter later. He was afraid to read his mother’s letter. He used the darkness that made the characters unreadable as his excuse.

The dormitory built at the edge of the school grounds was relatively quiet. Everyone seemed to have gone out for their after-dinner walk. With the school festival approaching, they all appeared restless and unsettled—under the pretext of welcoming parties for new students, they seemed to head out to Kyōgoku and Maruyama Park nearly every night, a freedom Hyoichi envied. When he suddenly turned around, the moon was rising smoothly from Higashiyama. It seemed to beckon Hyoichi’s young heart toward the bright town below. On Mount Hiei to the left, the dotted lights of cable cars sparkled more brilliantly than the university’s clock tower. The cherry trees in the schoolyard had already shed all their blossoms, leaving only the scent of young leaves lingering in the air. As he stood alone in the dark grounds, someone abruptly tapped his shoulder. When he looked, it was Akai Ryuzaemon from his class. The instant Hyoichi realized Akai Ryuzaemon was at the dormitory, he thought—

Because Akai’s name was so peculiar, he was acknowledged in class before anyone else. However, Hyoichi came to know of him through something quite different. Akai was the man who laughed loudest and boldest in the classroom. Moreover, he wouldn’t laugh along with others but instead would suddenly burst into loud laughter when no one else laughed. For instance, when he spotted a teacher secretly stifling a yawn, his laughter would startle everyone. To achieve this required neglecting proper note-taking during lectures while focusing on observing teachers’ movements—and one day, just as Hyoichi was about to laugh, Akai beat him to it, which left him utterly impressed. The previous day too, during German class, Akai had suddenly stood up and left the classroom without saying a word. That was why he remembered.

“Hey, what are you doing in a place like this—”

Akai said, his whole face creasing into a smile of wrinkles. Finding himself unexpectedly looking at Akai's face, Hyoichi became thoroughly delighted.

“I’m thinking about whether to go into town or not.”

“Shall we go to Kyogoku? Turn back to Yoshida? Ah, here we stand on the asphalt of Shijo,” Akai said in a singsong voice. “I was just thinking of heading out myself. How about it? Want to come along?”

“Let’s go.” Seeing Akai, Hyoichi felt certain he could execute tonight’s plan without difficulty. Exiting the small gate beside the dormitory and walking shoulder to shoulder along the streetcar line toward Konoe-dori Avenue, Hyoichi— “Why didn’t you go on the walk with everyone else?” he asked. Then, Akai suddenly began to walk as though he’d grown taller, “I hate the dormitory crowd!” he spat out. And after remaining silent for a while, he suddenly contorted his face into a strained smile,

“Yesterday I was beaten by the dormitory crowd.” “They said wearing a raincoat was impertinent.”

Sure enough, Akai was still wearing the purple raincoat. "There’s no law that says Third High students have to wear black mantles, dangle slightly grimy hand towels, clomp around in tall geta, shout in barbaric voices, and tarnish the elegant atmosphere of Kyoto’s streets." "So I deliberately wore the raincoat." "Their uncouth posturing isn’t genuine." "That’s all for show." "They’re merely strutting around flaunting their label as Third High students." "You’re not wearing a hat." "You have your good points, you know." "You have your good points, you know," Akai said in a strained voice, then added, "I’ll take mine off too," as he removed his hat. Having been imitated by Akai, Hyoichi’s self-esteem was easily kindled.

They turned onto the road toward Kōjingu-chi and continued on. Akai continued to speak excitedly by himself. “They spout that ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do’ crap.” “I know that too.” “However, they follow local customs out of sheer apathy.” “It’s for their self-preservation.” “Because of their cheap vanity.” “That’s the kind of stuff even pigs would puke at!” Hyoichi suddenly recalled being told those very words by Numai during his middle school days and gave a wry smile. Suddenly, he felt Akai had become as dear as his own kin. Back then, I had been beaten, but Akai had been beaten too!

However, when they came in front of the prefectural First Girls' High School dormitory, Hyoichi's complexion suddenly changed.

“Do you have any money?” Akai suddenly asked him. Hyoichi pondered whether he should take offense at this question. Could Akai have said this knowing Shuei-juku dormitory students only received one yen per month in allowance? (If you’re mocking my poverty, I won’t forgive you.) Yet when Hyoichi heard Akai’s next words, his heart lifted entirely. “Truth is, I’m broke today.” “Nothing left to pawn.” “I thought about pawning this raincoat, but I need to keep wearing it awhile longer.” “Can’t have people thinking I follow the local ways out of fear.” “If you’ve got any on you, cover me tonight?”

Hyoichi flushed slightly,

“I’ve got some,” he said, thrusting his hand into his pocket and wordlessly touching the banknote his mother had sent. “My old man goes on about how money does students no good, so he doesn’t send me a single yen—it’s a real pain,” Akai said without the slightest hint of shame.

“My father’s a strange one.” “I can just about tolerate that he had to go and name me Ryuzaemon—but back in my middle school days, he would come shuffling into our classroom to observe.” “Then the teacher would make me recite from memory.” “Whenever I thought my old man was watching from behind me—I’d get so nervous I couldn’t do it at all.” “The guys in class knew when my father was coming—they’d start snickering like damn fools.” “Then I’d get even more nervous.” “My old man would stomp over to where I was standing—and poke me right in the back!” “‘Why didn’t you prepare your recitation?’ he’d say.” “‘That’s what teachers are supposed to ask!’” “The teacher couldn’t help making these awful faces.” “If only he’d quit—but my damn father would shuffle right back into those classroom observations after just a week!” “Thanks to that—I spent every day worrying if he’d show up—couldn’t even half-listen to lectures!”

“Doesn’t he come to Third High?” Hyoichi asked in a half-consoling tone. Akai instantly made a strange face. “Because it’s far,” he flustered. Suddenly, Hyoichi wondered if that might be Akai’s father. At the entrance ceremony’s oath-taking, Professor G, the student affairs director, had delivered a lengthy cautionary lecture about students falling under communist influence, but his thick Tohoku dialect had rendered his words utterly incomprehensible. The moment Professor G’s lecture ended, a gentleman in the parents’ seating area behind them suddenly stood up and declared, “What exactly did you just say? “Since we cannot comprehend the meaning of your words at all, we parents and students alike find ourselves both anxious and inconvenienced. “Please state your main points clearly once more,” he said with veins bulging in his face. Some shouted, “Idiot! Sit down!” while others laughed, and there was applause. Hyoichi thought that gentleman might be Akai’s father. When he asked, Akai indeed responded, “Yes. He’s my father,” his eyebrows drooping in dejection. Seeing that expression, Hyoichi thought Akai’s erratic actions might also stem from this paternal relationship. Come to think of it, Akai’s father did have a reckless streak. Then Akai began to seem strangely pitiable.

(But...) Hyoichi thought. (At least Akai's father loves him in his own peculiar way.) But my current father—even now, if I got expelled from high school, he'd be ready to send me off to the pawnshop. (Who's to say which is worse?) Hyoichi weighed with adult-like seriousness whether Akai—loved by his father—or himself—hated—was happier. But when the bright lights of Teramachi Street suddenly flooded his vision, Hyoichi cut short these musings as a light kindled in his heart.

They went up to the coffeehouse on the second floor of a confectionery shop called Kagiya in Teramachi Nijo. The café—so quiet you’d think you should change into slippers, without even a phonograph—was raucously noisy with Third High students’ school festival songs and wild dancing. Hyoichi and Akai deliberately avoided that crowd and sat at a corner table where they could see the eastern mountains through the window. After ordering coffee from the waitress, Akai glanced at her retreating figure and,

“Do you know why they’re making such a racket?” Akai asked Hyoichi. “Because it’s a refined coffeehouse, they probably want to make a deliberate racket to show off.” Watching with disgust as one of the noisy group approached a child-toting couple’s table, took off his hat, and said in a voice dripping with flattery—“Ah, ganz, ganz (—extremely—) sorry!”—while bobbing his head with an obsequious bow before darting back into the clamorous crowd, Akai then remarked:

“That’s part of it. However, this coffeehouse has been a nest for Third High students for generations, and since the owner’s son is now in the Science B Division there, they’re probably thinking they’d be losing out if they don’t make some noise.” “That’s not all.” “A woman just came here.” “They call her Okoma-chan.” “Since they’re all after her, they’re making a racket on purpose.” “Those who can’t sweet-talk anyone even when quiet—as if making noise would suddenly turn them into smooth talkers.”

A sneer spread across Akai’s gaunt cheeks. Sure enough, Hyoichi could clearly see that the “Okoma-chan” Akai had mentioned had become the object of everyone’s attention as they clamorously stole glances at her face. Among them were even some who pretended drunkenness to cling to Okoma-chan. Then Okoma burst into raucous laughter, swiftly withdrew to the back, then peeked out again. Hyoichi found even Okoma’s mannerisms irritating. Yet thinking it might prove necessary someday, he committed her face firmly to memory. As he stared intently, no sooner had Okoma retreated than she returned with tea straight to Hyoichi’s table. Her face was flushed. Hyoichi was picking his nose.

After about ten minutes, they left. As they were leaving, they glanced at the pillar clock and saw that exactly three hours had passed since departing Shuei-juku Dormitory. Just as the outing time had expired, Hyoichi felt his heavy heart suddenly lift away, his footsteps growing light. He smoked the "Robin" cigarette Akai had offered him with a curt "Smoke." But choking—this being his first time smoking—

“What kind of fool chokes on such a mild cigarette?” Akai said. “Alright—I’ll get myself used to stronger cigarettes soon enough,” Hyoichi told himself, eyes darting about searching for potent brands when Akai— “Robin costs ten sen. Cherry’s ten sen too, but Robin’s better than Cherry,” he declared with practiced ease.

“Robin... like the robin?” “Hey, let’s go to Komadori.” “That place must be packed with Third High guys too.” “Masamune Hall must be packed too.” “Well, where should we go?” As they turned from Sanjo-dori toward Kyoogoku,

“Wait, wait,” Akai stopped him. When Hyoichi stopped to ask where they were headed, Akai yanked him along and declared, “Let’s go this way,” deliberately entering Sakurai-ya stationery shop from the Sanjo-dori entrance. They pushed past a crowd of schoolgirls buying stationery in the narrow store and exited through the Kyoogoku-side entrance. As Hyoichi stood dumbfounded, Akai— “This is my idea of fun. “It’s a puny youth,” he said with a flushed face, but then abruptly shifted to a tone like a leader reciting a translation,

“Sakurai-ya overflows with the spirit of travel,” he said. “There’s the scent of hometown there. Right? Don’t you agree?” Hyoichi thought Akai sounded affected and didn’t reply. Then Akai appeared to grasp at some notion,

“Actually, my sister came to Kyoto on a school trip the other day.” "But then my sister started bawling her eyes out, saying she couldn’t buy Sakurai-ya stationery anymore." Hyoichi suddenly smiled at the thought that Akai’s sister must surely be a lanky, tall girl with sunken eyes and a startled-looking face—and in that moment, his chest grew warm. It might have been what Akai had called the sentiment of travel. The fact that a sister was coming to Kyoto—where her brother resided—on a school trip had unexpectedly and sweetly stirred the heart of Hyoichi, who had no sister of his own. It resembled the feeling of gazing out a night train window. Hyoichi felt the lukewarm wind of the late spring evening against his cheeks.

“Do you know why my sister couldn’t buy those envelopes?” Akai suddenly asked with a terrifying expression. Without waiting for Hyoichi’s reply, “It’s because I swiped my sister’s money.” No sooner had he said this than Akai’s face suddenly turned severe. Then he unexpectedly flicked out his long tongue,

“Waah!” he let out an incomprehensible scream. Startled, Hyoichi looked and saw Akai moving both hands like a flapper dancer—weaving them sinuously through the air—while stomping his feet with heavy thuds and flicking his long tongue in and out. Had the ground not been dirt, he might well have thrown himself down and thrashed about in such a frenzy. The passersby stared in shock. But Akai’s fit stopped immediately. And they walked along the narrow Kyoogoku Street—cluttered with retail shops, food stalls, vaudeville theaters, and variety halls—garishly lit by red flower-viewing lanterns and lurid playhouse billboards. But then his face suddenly contorted.

“Somehow these fits keep happening every three days—it’s such a nuisance,” he said.

“Is it when you remember something embarrassing?” Hyoichi—not entirely without experience himself—said this, and

“That’s right. “It seems to be brain syphilis.” Akai tossed out casually, but his face immediately clouded with worry as he added in a despondent voice that he’d recently gone somewhere for “physical liberation,” but since the woman had been utterly filthy, the syphilis he’d likely caught might have already reached his brain— “My youth is already tainted!” he proclaimed in deliberately anguished tones. Hyoichi felt a sudden pull toward Akai’s brazen lifestyle, but finding his talk of “my youth” unbearably affected, he retorted coldly, “If you’re so worried, you shouldn’t have gone in the first place.” “Right, right,” Akai readily agreed, striking his palms together. “I’m not worried at all. Syphilis? What of it? You don’t catch it that easily! Yesterday I peeked at a medical book—apparently it takes five or ten years to reach the brain. My brain’s still sound.” He contradicted his own words.

(Akai was an impressive man, but his flaw was this tendency to exaggerate his actions and eagerly recount them to others.) In other words, he was putting on a decadent act. (If it were me, I’d go without a word.) When Hyoichi thought this, he felt he’d finally grasped how he differed from Akai. But in truth, Hyoichi was inherently the type to fret over how his own actions might be perceived. He wasn’t so different from Akai after all. That was precisely why he felt compelled to rebel against the vanity he saw in Akai. Unwittingly, Hyoichi had grown angry at his own reflection mirrored in Akai.

“Right, seems sound.” Hyoichi shot a slightly sarcastic look. Akai keenly perceived it. With exaggerated flair, “I don’t know whether my actions merit scorn, but the liberation of the body is perfectly natural.” “Better to boldly leap into nature’s embrace than creep around hiding behind unnatural acts.” “Even stained, that’s youth.” “Those lacking the courage to act resolutely like me indulge their cowardice while pretending to scorn me!”

"(He's justifying his own actions)," Hyoichi thought. But in truth, he could not articulate his reasoning this well. Therefore, he, (This guy keeps making excuses because he's weak-willed), he decided to think. He thought that by maintaining a sneering silence, he could finally escape Akai's oppressive presence.

(This guy's so obsessed with this kind of self-expression, but I haven't said a word about tonight's plans.)

By telling himself this, Hyoichi gave meaning to his silence. However, though Hyoichi himself remained unaware, his silence in that manner also stemmed from having fallen into some strange perplexity. He was compelled by Akai’s fervor yet felt too self-conscious to express any resonance. He found it shameful to clumsily join Akai’s excitement and chant about youth, youth. In other words, he had grown cautious toward his own youthful heart. In the same state of mind where one grows irritated with a beautiful view out of excessive shame at becoming intoxicated by it, he found himself irritated by Akai’s youth. Hyoichi was a man who considered confession—that rite of youth—profoundly shameful. People might find it strange that a man so easily swept up in excitement would grow irritated by others’ fervor, but Hyoichi’s own excitement held at least some measure of calculation. Therefore, he tended to immediately sniff out the transparent calculation lurking even within others’ youthful excitement.

Seeing that Hyoichi showed no resonance with him whatsoever, Akai thought it necessary to get him drunk. He had believed that Hyoichi alone was the only man who could understand his heart. They had just reached the edge of Kyogoku. Akai took the lead and turned toward Hanayū Alley, “I love how this alley feels like a toy box.” “Whenever I come to Kyogoku, I make it a habit to pass through Sakurai-ya and Hanayū Alley.”

While saying this, he exited onto Shijo Street and entered a dimly lit alley. They passed through the back alleys behind Kyogoku—where a rickshaw puller leaned against a crumbling temple wall, his gloomy face illuminated by dim lamplight as he waited for customers, and a drunkard vomited while propped against a utility pole—before entering Masamune Hall. There too, the dormitory songs of Third High students were booming resoundingly. While thinking that even *Beni Moyuru* would be ruined if sung this way, Hyoichi followed Akai and took a seat at a corner table. When the simmered river snails and sake flask arrived, Akai,

“Can you drink?” he asked, handing over the sake cup.

“Hmm,” he replied ambiguously—though this was his first time drinking in his life. Not wanting to appear unable to drink, he downed in one gulp what Akai had poured for him, but it was bitter. As he poked at the river snails with his chopsticks, Akai barked, “Hey, pour me one too.” Flustered, he clumsily obliged, whereupon Akai—with practiced ease—downed it in one smooth gulp, his face showing evident relish. As he stared dumbfounded at Akai’s face in admiration, he found his own cup had been filled again without noticing. That too was bitter. He drank seven or eight cups in quick succession like that, each time met with a bitterness that made him want to retch. No matter how many river snails he stuffed into his mouth, the bitterness wouldn’t fade. “Probably making a weird face,” Hyoichi thought, trying to mask it by—

“They’re so loud.”

As he said this, he reached out, took a cigarette from Akai, and smoked it, but this only made his nausea worse. (Even those guys can drink sake!) How can you be so pathetic? (To think I’d get queasy from this little sake…)

Tilting his dizzy head, he glanced toward the rowdy crowd—and just then, a student bellowed, “Hey! What do you mean? Senpai?” as he rose from his seat and came into view.

“Yes, I am your senpai.” A frail man in his forties wearing Western clothes said this in a timid manner. “Then what year are you?” The student declared proudly, hands thrust into his trousers all the while. The man grew utterly flustered, “I’m your senpai.” “What’s wrong with saying I’m your senpai?” “Let’s hear it—what year are you?!”

There was no answer. Hyoichi instantly concluded that the man had likely said something like “Keep it up! You lot—I’m your senpai!” to curry favor with the rowdy Third High students and thought him a fool. Rather, the timid attitude of that man—who carried himself like a low-level bureaucrat—was pitiable. But he disdained the student even more than the man. Undoubtedly, upon seeing the man’s shabby attire, the student had judged his claim of being a senpai to be false and confronted him.

(If some well-dressed man with a commanding presence had claimed to be a senpai, that guy'd probably be bowing and scraping right now to get his sake cup filled.) "Can't answer, can you? Serves you right! Keep spouting this 'Third High senpai' nonsense and you'll regret it!"

The student barked as if addressing a criminal, and applause broke out. Then, he grew even more pleased with himself, looking around the room with a scrutinizing gaze,

“I am Yamanaka Genzuke of the Sixtieth Class of the Third Higher School of the Imperial University!” After launching his final rhetorical flourish, he returned to his seat with a contemptuous glance at the utterly dejected man muttering incoherently under his breath. The moment he did, right beside Hyoichi’s ear,

“What’s so special about being a Third High student?” A voice shattered the air. It was Akai. “Who’s there? The one who yelled—” From across the room, the student from earlier barked back. “Me!” As Akai declared this and tried to rise, Hyoichi restrained him, “Let me handle this,” he said, swaying as he stood, “Got a problem? Take it outside!” With that shout, he lurched out. The ground seemed to heave beneath him as a sickening wave surged up his throat. Hyoichi braced both hands against the wall and retched. His vision whited out completely—for one breathless instant, he nearly crumpled—

*No one’s coming out,* he thought. “Cut it out! Cut it out!” “They’re Third High students too!” a voice kept insisting, trying to stop them. Inside the glass shoji screens, thick smoke billowed up as he watched people squirm like actors on a distant stage. After emptying his stomach completely and squatting against the wall for some time, he found himself growing strangely lucid.

When he realized no one was coming out, Hyoichi began to feel his actions were strangely foolish. Driven by both the frustration of being beaten to the punch by Akai and a righteous indignation toward that student’s pretentious, threatening demeanor, he had leapt into action—only to feel like he was wrestling alone in an empty ring.

(The only stroke of luck was that no one had noticed him rushing out to vomit at just the right moment.) With that resigned thought, Hyoichi slid open the glass shoji of Masamune Hall once more. His eyes met those of the student from earlier. Hyoichi deliberately walked slowly past him and returned to his original seat. Akai was exchanging sake cups with two refined-looking men sitting across from him, wearing an expression as if they’d been acquainted for some time. “I beg you to stop this quarrel.” As soon as Hyoichi took his seat, one of them said this and offered him a sake cup. He found the man’s overly large nose somewhat off-putting but thought he had a pleasant face. The other man poured him a drink. This man had a sharp chin. Yet his face didn’t give a particularly bad impression. Both had youthful faces but seemed to be over forty.

“You look pale!” Akai, now thoroughly plastered, slurred. It was because he had vomited, but Hyoichi worried others might think it came from excitement. So he downed the sake cup the stranger had offered him in one gulp.

The group that had been making noise shouted, “Third Higher School Banzai!

"Showa 6th Year Commemoration Festival Banzai!" they roared, violently sliding open the entrance shoji screens and storming out. "Those bastards probably print 'Alumnus of the Third Higher School of the Imperial University, Class of Such-and-Such' on their damn business cards." When Hyoichi said this, the man with the large nose remarked, "That's harsh. "You're higher school students too, aren't you?" He exchanged glances with the sharp-chinned man and laughed meaninglessly. Hyoichi made a sullen face. "Don't pull such a face. "You lot are far too impatient. "They may be young, but you're young too. "Though I must say—what a surprise! "No sooner does one shout than another comes rushing out. "You're quite in sync. "That's what I like about it."

Hyoichi did not like being criticized in this manner. Trying to wrap things up quickly, he shot Akai a meaningful look, but Akai responded with an expression that seemed to say, "What's the harm?" Then the man with the sharp chin spoke up. "How about it?" he offered Hyoichi some simmered river snails. When Hyoichi remained stubbornly silent, "No need to hold back. Truth be told, you can have as many helpings as you want." Hyoichi found himself somewhat taken with the man's unpretentious tone. Soon after, the man with the large nose,

“How about we take this student to Garten?” the man with the large nose said to his sharp-chinned companion. “Fine by me.” “Interesting.” “It’s cute there.” Having forcibly settled the bill for Hyoichi and the others too, “How about joining us?” he said in a relatively polite manner. “I’ll go anywhere! Damn it!” Akai shouted recklessly and moved toward Hyoichi, who sat silently making a sullen face,

“Let’s go. “It’ll be fun. “You see, ‘Garten’ refers to Gion. “Gion is Garten in German, right?” he whispered close to his ear. “I’m going back.” Hyoichi blurted out. They’re just planning to use us as drinking entertainment, aren’t they? How revolting. Who’d want to be some party jester? What’s with Akai’s fawning attitude? He guffawed meaninglessly—damn him! Damn him! He glared at Akai—who was putting on a show—with a piercing gaze. The man with the large nose,

“Why?” “What’s wrong with that?” “Or are you scared?” “I see—you’re still young after all.”

Being called young had considerably wounded Hyoichi’s pride.

“There’s nothing to fear!”

“Then come along.”

He reluctantly agreed.

After exiting Masamune Hall and passing through an alley, they walked along Shijo Street toward Maruyama Park. They turned at the corner where the famous teahouse stood on the right and entered a house with a latticed door, all four of them. Four geisha came. One of them, a large-framed woman, looked at Hyoichi and said, “My, what an adorable little darling you are! “And where might your home be, dear?” she asked. Hyoichi kept his face turned sideways, “Osaka,” he answered bitterly. Because moving his body made him feel like vomiting again.

“Oh, Osaka, you say? “Well, I was born in Osaka myself, dear. “Now then, let me sing for you.” And then the geisha sang: *“Tenamonya nai kanaika—Dotonbori yo—”* Of course, Hyoichi didn’t sing along. After about an hour, he staggered out with Akai. His mind remained so foggy he couldn’t even bid farewell to the two still inside. They entered the udon shop beside Minamiza and ate herring noodles. Somehow it made him think of tanuki. When they stepped outside, Akai—

“Lend me some money,” he said. When he pulled out a five-yen bill from his pocket and handed it over,

“Why don’t you come along?” “No!” He answered in a voice so loud it surprised even himself. He had a general idea of where Akai was going. Probably the red-light district in Miyagawacho. His refusal had been instinctual. The unsettling sensation he had abruptly experienced earlier—when, feeling nauseous at the gathering, he had been led to the restroom by a geisha to vomit—now resurfaced with a shuddering revulsion: a slimy crawl like a slug oozing over his lips, a clammy grip like biting into the charred peel of a mandarin orange.

“Well then, I’ll be going,” said Akai. “Don’t look down on me.” With those words, he spun around and was swallowed into the darkness along the river.

Hyoichi left Maruyama Park, cut through in front of Chion-in Temple, and descended a dark slope toward Heian Shrine. Then exiting from beside Okazaki’s Kōen-dō Hall toward Shōgoin, he climbed Kagurazaka Slope and returned to Shuei-juku. The university clock tower showed ten. Relieved at having fulfilled his obligation, he sighed deeply—and as fatigue washed over him, immediately laid out his bedding and burrowed into it. The dormitory students had been properly observing lights-out. But Nakata, the dormitory head keeping watch in the darkness, caught the "vile stench" emanating from Hyoichi’s mouth. Nakata naturally thought he should report Hyoichi’s rule violation to the Osaka-based dormitory financier. Yet considering the violation’s sheer audacity, he began worrying this might expose his own shortcomings as head—and thus postponed filing the report. There would be ample opportunities later. That’s the sort of man he was! Meanwhile Hyoichi had already sunk into obliviousness and lay fast asleep.

V

At last, May 1st—the day of the School Festival—arrived. From Kumano Shrine to Hyakumanben, posters were plastered everywhere along the paved road. On the wooden fences of classrooms facing the school grounds, posters bearing each class’s name and costume parade theme stood displayed. Every poster showed the school’s emblem—a cherry blossom enclosing the character '三' for Third High. When the ceremony and commemorative lecture ended at 10:30 AM, the costume parade commenced immediately. A brass band had been hired for the occasion. Rows of festival stalls operated by individual classes lined the grounds. The school authorities had initially opposed letting classes run these stalls. Yet the autonomy committee members’ arguments ultimately prevailed. These same committee members—often derided as incompetent—had unexpectedly risen to fulfill their role.

Hyoichi thought it might not be bad to once despise the dormitory decorations and leave them be. The fact that he couldn't bring himself to honestly say he wanted to go see them spoke volumes about his perverse nature. At the entrance hung tattered shoes, ragged cloths, and dusters at a height that brushed against one's head, with one red cloth bearing a wooden tag meticulously inscribed: "Loincloth Beloved by Mr. Hamaguchi Osachi During His Third High School Days." (How utterly absurd—there's no need to go touting Hamaguchi Osachi's loincloth!) The moment he passed through—CLANG!—a gong sounded. Each time someone entered, it seemed someone in the janitor's room was ringing it.

"(It’s not some failing variety hall or haunted house…)" he muttered inwardly, then made his way through each room’s decorations in the North Dormitory, Central Dormitory, and South Dormitory in turn. When he reached South Dormitory Room 5, though a poster proclaiming "Tiger Hunt" as its decorative theme was pasted up, the door stayed shut. As the door refused to open, people wandered off with bored looks, as if pondering whether this was another stroke of decorative ingenuity. The truth was, there existed a room themed "Nishida Philosophy" where upon entering you’d find nothing but a scrap of paper reading "Absolute Nothingness"—leaving it utterly barren.

Hyoichi knocked on the door,

“Akai! Akai!” he called out. “Who’s there?” It was Akai’s voice. “It’s me, Mouri,” he said, and the door opened. When he entered, Akai stood there with his naked body clad in cardboard armor and a helmet on his head—an appearance utterly befitting a tiger hunt. A bamboo thicket had been set up.

“So what—you’re the one slaying the tiger? Not going to show it off?” he asked in disbelief. “Actually, this was my idea,” said Akai. “The whole point was having someone stand here in person. We agreed to take turns, but when my shift came…” He gestured at his cardboard armor. “Couldn’t exactly back out after proposing it, could I? So I stood here but kept the door shut.” A shiver ran through him. “Freezing. Got any cigarettes?”

Hyoichi burst out laughing. The thought Could there even exist such a scrawny, spindly tiger hunt? made his morning irritability vanish in an instant. When Hyoichi handed him a cigarette, Akai— “It’s unopened, huh?”

Hyoichi felt somewhat embarrassed. He had simply been carrying them around without any particular reason, never having felt inclined to smoke. To cover his embarrassment, “What happened to the tiger?” he said.

“Because the decorations weren’t ready in time, we set it up so the person standing there would often groan ‘Ugh!’” “What a strange thing I came up with, I must say,” he forced a laugh. Since Akai said he couldn’t move until his replacement arrived, Hyoichi— “Well, see you later.”

and left there. When he left the dormitory, Hyoichi went to his classroom on the second floor of the newly built school building and watched the costume parade through the window facing the grounds. It was just before Class A of the first-year liberal arts—Hyoichi’s class—was to begin their costume parade, leaving the classroom empty. He hadn’t joined because his own parade proposal had been rejected. If each classmate contributed one yen for costumes, it would total fifty yen. He’d proposed—while fearing he might appear hypocritical—using that money to buy bread instead: they’d carry it around the grounds before donating it to a nursing home through representatives. This would make a sharper point than any shoddy costumes while being both meaningful and amusing—or so he’d dutifully suggested under the “one proposal per person” rule. The rejection itself didn’t bother him; what rankled was how Nemuro—the professor’s son and class leader—had spoken then. With eyes glinting slyly behind glasses in that distinctively Kyoto-esque way, his voice oozing insinuation: “Mouri’s proposal strikes me as ill-considered.” “I don’t know what motives Mouri might have had,” he’d continued with unwarranted fervor, “but should this draw unwanted attention from school authorities, we’ll all suffer for it.” That vehemence had grated on Hyoichi most.

(What does he mean by "targeted"?! They think I'm a dangerous character!) A considerable number of voices rose in agreement with Nemuro's opposition—all students who owned homes in Kyoto. In the end, they settled on a costume parade called "The Chief's Daughter," a meaningless nude dance. Hyoichi stood and declared he wouldn't participate. Akai too had voiced opposition—"Isn't the nude dance more improper?"—and decided to abstain.

As he gazed out the window, a man with a dark face abruptly appeared at the classroom entrance. It was Nozaki. “Aren’t you joining the costume parade?” Hyoichi said. Nozaki blinked rapidly behind his glasses, “I ain’t goin’. Didn’t practice, y’see,” he said, his Osaka accent lingering as his dark face flushed slightly. “Ah, right,” Hyoichi realized. Nozaki was an extremely forgetful man—in class he’d often leave his textbooks behind, pulling his desk over to Hyoichi’s beside him to ask, “Can I take a look?” This happened every three days. Each time, he’d say sympathetically, “You’re from Osaka too, right? If you’re headin’ back there, I’ll lend ya my commuter pass,” he’d offer. He commuted from Osaka every day.

“What’ll you do? Without a commuter pass...?” he asked. “I’ll wait here in Kyoto, so once ya get to Osaka, just send the commuter pass by express mail right away.” Hyoichi was astonished by Nozaki’s bottomless naivety—did he really intend to wait all that time? What he forgot wasn’t just his textbooks—during natural sciences class, he’d often forget to move to the merged classroom and end up sitting alone in the original room, staring blankly into space. When made to translate German texts, he’d sometimes suddenly start reading about three pages ahead, leaving everyone bewildered. He’d been in the rugby club for about a week but was thought to have intentionally skipped practice and was expelled from the club. So Hyoichi thought he must’ve carelessly forgotten the costume parade practice time too. In any case, as he was pleased that the number of non-participants had increased by one, Nozaki—

“I’m dark-skinned, right? That’s why I hate that song sayin’ even dark-skinned girls are beauties in the South Seas,” he said, stroking his chin. “Today I thought I’d try puttin’ on some makeup once, so I shaved my beard, but then I went and forgot to put somethin’ on after, so now it’s all stingin’ and hurtin’ like hell.” Hyoichi suddenly found himself liking Nozaki, who could say such things with such nonchalance. He also liked his Osaka dialect. He felt ashamed that he had been deliberately using student speech resembling standard Japanese. Listening to Nozaki’s words, he felt ashamed of himself for constantly being irritated by something, and suddenly found himself enveloped in a gentle calm.

Before long, the costume parade of "The Chief’s Daughter" began. It was a silly dance.

“That’s terrible,” Hyoichi said. Nozaki— “Yeah, that’s pretty bad.” “It’s probably the worst one of them all.” “Yeah, yeah.” “It’s the worst.”

After "The Chief’s Daughter" concluded and five or six more costume parades had passed, the dormitory students performed the Arashi dance. About a hundred dormitory students stood completely naked except for red loincloths, each holding bells, metal basins, or drums. The moment he saw the procession shuffling out of the dormitory, pushing through the crowd’s ranks, Hyoichi deliberately averted his eyes. Because he thought they were all clumsily lowering themselves to the spectators’ gaze without any artistry, calculating the effect of their uncouth posturing under the onlookers’ curious stares.

(What’s with those mask-like smiles?) (They need the audience’s applause!) Here too, Hyoichi’s criticism was harsh. And yet, was it not Hyoichi himself who had needed the audience’s applause all along? He hadn’t noticed that about himself. Dekansho, dekansho—we spent half a year—yoi yoi…

When the Arashi dance began, Akai entered the classroom. “You…?” he asked. “Didn’t you participate?” “Catching a cold would be such a drag. And besides, can I really expose this scrawny body of mine?” said Akai. Before long, all the costume parades had concluded, and the results determined by the professors’ votes were announced. "The Chief’s Daughter" ranked second from last. Serves them right, he thought. By the time the principal began his closing address, the school grounds had already fallen into dusk. After singing "Beni Moyuru" and dispersing, there was an inauguration ceremony for the cheering squad leader. They lit bonfires on the school grounds, drew sake barrels in the twilight, and bellowed cheering songs; when the new cheering squad leader stood on the podium and delivered a passionate speech urging them not to lose to First High, those with heart wept. The cheering squad committee members became frantic to gather participants. Once the school festival ended, the students would stream out toward town in high spirits—they had to intercept them for the inauguration ceremony. Lately, there were too many utilitarians who had grown indifferent to the cheering squad and pacifists who avoided trouble, which posed a problem. The cheering squad committee members’ hope—and the ones whose movements were easiest to block—were the freshmen. Because Hyoichi, Akai, and Nozaki were dawdling, they were caught at the small gate next to the dormitory. Perhaps underestimating Hyoichi’s childish demeanor and his unmistakably freshman-like appearance—with its excessively long jacket sleeves—the committee members,

“If you don’t attend the inauguration ceremony, we won’t stand for it!” they barked. The commanding attitude pierced Hyoichi's pride.

“No! You’re always going on about how Third High’s tradition is freedom, aren’t you? There’s no rule that forces people who don’t want to go to stay!” The truth was, Hyoichi himself had recently been pressed into service during baseball practice and made to beat a drum without purpose, leaving him thoroughly disillusioned with the cheering squad. However, his words showed slight disrespect toward the upperclassmen. “Keep talking back and we’ll beat you!” “Go ahead!”

He was hit. When Hyoichi later learned that the man who had hit him frequented Kagitaya repeatedly, his eyes gleamed strangely. Before long, rumors began to circulate that Hyoichi was taking walks with Kagiya Okoma.

Six

Hyoichi and Okoma’s walks, in Akai’s words, were nothing more than child’s play. In other words, Akai had simply concluded that Hyoichi was a coward. Had Hyoichi understood Akai’s true intentions, he might have taken some new course of action—but even so, he knew far too little about love. "As for Okoma’s situation being one thing, I’m an only daughter and he’s an only son," she vaguely thought. However, Hyoichi knew no model of love to emulate. Had he known one, given his show-off nature, he might have found it amusing to follow that model and act with dashing flair. However, even that—the certain loathing that had taken deep root in his memory—had surely prevented him from losing his footing and descending into chaos. In other words, he was a man out of step with the times. Whatever mundane tasks even the most inferior people could accomplish effortlessly without any real passion—he found himself incapable of such feats. That was why he needed to be driven by love. Yet he was a man who felt a strange perplexity in the face of love. He had never experienced being loved by anyone. He had convinced himself that he had never been loved by anyone.

Hyoichi didn’t understand why he was taking these walks. By nature, he was incapable of finding meaning in anything other than the satisfaction of his pride, and though his walks with Okoma had naturally arisen from that very impulse, they proved far from effective. He had thought that if someone saw them walking together, it would satisfy his pride—yet being seen only ended up wounding that pride instead.

One day, while strolling through the botanical garden, he was spotted by a classmate named Kuwabe, who commuted by bicycle from Kita-Sonocho. Hyoichi instantly tensed up and tried to gauge the impact from the look in Kuwabe's eyes. However, from atop his bicycle, Kuwabe glanced at Okoma and Hyoichi, gave a faint smirk, and rode past. There wasn't the slightest hint of envy in his expression. Because Kuwabe was on his bicycle, he could take in their faces with an unexpectedly carefree attitude. Seeing Kuwabe's retreating figure as he rang his bell and rode away, Hyoichi became convinced that Kuwabe had indeed mocked him.

(After seeing Okoma’s face—what the hell was that look he gave, like she’s some kind of woman!)

Hyoichi glared at Okoma’s profile. In such moments, any woman’s beauty would appear diminished. Okoma was beautiful, but the radiance she had when Third High students stared at her from Kagitaya’s second floor was nowhere to be seen in Hyoichi’s eyes now. Moreover, when she removed her apron, the drum-shaped obi clung flatly in an odd way, and the goldfish pattern looked somehow feeble. The blazing sun had turned the face powder beside her nose into greasy streaks. Moreover, having had her profile stared at intently by Hyoichi, she grew so flustered out of sheer delight that she turned red in a way that bordered on unsightly. Hyoichi had convinced himself that Okoma was ugly. The crucial matter that the cheering squad members were engrossed in didn’t cross his mind in that instant. He was preoccupied with nothing but Kuwabe’s gaze. Moreover, he had not received a favorable impression of Okoma’s expressions and mannerisms from that first evening when he went to Kagitaya with Akai.

(The fact that I’m walking with such an ugly woman—this is so typical of me!) When this thought struck him, Hyoichi became instantly sickened by walking with Okoma. Yet those walks dragged on and on until summer vacation approached. To his own surprise, his weak-willed nature prevented him from harshly rejecting her.

When the second term arrived and high school students began reappearing at Kagitaya in due time, Okoma found herself stunned when it finally became evident that Hyoichi alone failed to materialize. As her face gradually assumed an uglier cast, she rushed to apply makeup.

(Do men really forget someone after just two months apart?) She entertained this thought like a consolation. But for some reason, she couldn't bring herself to resent Hyoichi. (He's a high school student with a bright future—of course he wouldn't bother with someone like me.) Strangely enough, Hyoichi's status as a Third High student proved useful.

Hyoichi felt a tinge of self-reproach over having finally managed to separate himself from Okoma by making use of the two-month vacation. The fact that he had used Okoma as a means to prop up his pride left him unable to shake off a sense of remorse. Hyoichi merely,

(There's no one who can part with a woman as easily as I can. Everyone's clinging on and sniveling pathetically!) he thought as he looked around, finally consoling himself. For example, hadn't Akai been visiting the same woman for the past six months? Because of this, Akai had fallen behind on his dormitory fees, been expelled from the boarding house, and moved to a boarding house in Shishigatani. However, despite the rent being payable later, he'd grown complacent and squandered all the money sent from home on that woman. When month-end came and he could no longer bear seeing him struggle, Nozaki had delayed paying his own tuition to cover the expenses instead. Yet taking this as his opportunity, Nozaki stopped commuting from Osaka and moved into the same boarding house as Akai. To make matters worse, the good-natured Nozaki found himself unable to refuse Akai's invitation and ended up staying overnight with him in Miyagawacho one evening.

“This is youth. “Finding beauty in dirty places—that’s the true essence of youth.” After Akai had finished brandishing his half-baked theories about youth, Nozaki—whether convinced or not—responded in a timid voice, “Yeah, that’s right. That’s youth,” Nozaki nodded with his dark face. He seemed to feel guilty toward Akai for not understanding the meaning behind his impassioned words.

When Nozaki went out to Shijo Street with Akai and Hyoichi, he seemed convinced they had to head straight to Miyagawacho. When they went into Yaomasa—a drinking establishment overlooking Miyagawacho—to drink beer, his expression would harden as if this had become an irrevocable fact. He began constantly thinking about how to raise funds for these excursions. He had already borrowed so much from two relatives in Kyoto that no more loans could be taken. He had nothing left to pawn. Reaching this conclusion, he started feeling guilty toward Akai regarding matters of youth. Then too, he began feeling apologetic toward Hyoichi, who would likely turn his back on such youthful pursuits and walk home alone again tonight.

Upon exiting Yaomasa, Nozaki timidly began to speak for the first time.

“Akai, should we try to get some money?” “Yeah, I guess so. However, tonight isn’t—” When Akai said this, Nozaki found himself at a complete loss. He began to reconsider Akai’s theory of youth.

“If you don’t mind, I’ll take care of it.” “Do you have a plan?”

When told this, Nozaki finally became convinced and made a happy face. “There is!” “I see. Then where should I wait?” “Wait for me at Victor.” With a face that seemed to keenly feel the weight of responsibility, Nozaki ran around the nighttime town trying to raise funds.

One day, Nozaki suddenly disappeared. The previous night, Nozaki and Akai had stayed together in Miyagawacho, but having no money for lodging, Nozaki left Akai as collateral and went out to raise funds. But even after hours passed, he did not return to Akai. The maid from that establishment came to Hyoichi’s school to collect the money, and with that, Akai was finally released from being held as collateral—but Nozaki did not return to the boarding house for three whole days afterward. The two of them searched but found no trace.

On the morning of the third day, when they went to school, Nozaki was sitting dejectedly in the classroom. Since classes hadn’t started yet, they immediately summoned him and went into a café on Konoe Street to hear his story, which turned out to be as follows. Leaving Akai behind as collateral, Nozaki had gone out—but he had no success in raising funds. The three relatives had been borrowing money from one to repay another, then borrowing again from that one to repay yet another, so their debts had ballooned considerably. Even their scheme of repaying five yen on the spot only to immediately borrow ten more had been impossible, as long as that five yen remained out of reach. They had considered borrowing from the boarding house, but with the rent for two people already overdue and some cash still owed, it had seemed utterly impossible to carry out. To make matters worse, brazenly showing the face of someone who had stayed out overnight, he couldn’t even manage to borrow money. He thought Hyoichi might have some money, but regardless of how he looked before going, how could he possibly show his face after returning from Miyagawacho? With eyes bloodshot, his dark skin somewhat pallid and greasy with a sheen of oil, he was ashamed to present his face before Hyoichi’s beautiful one. He had nothing left to pawn. He thought about taking the Keihan line back to Osaka to get money from home and immediately return, but remembering that his father—who ran a lumber business—had been bedridden with diabetes lately, he couldn’t bring himself to go back. He worried that if he saw his father’s gaunt face, he might suddenly feel compelled to confess his recent misdeeds, or that after receiving money from his mother and crying in the toilet, he’d end up returning home late. He wandered aimlessly through Kyoogoku, darting his eyes around in hopes of spotting a familiar face. He recalled how, just the other day, he had made three futile round trips through Kyoogoku to borrow a single sen. At that time, he had fourteen sen, but he was hungry and wanted coffee. In the end, he thought that if he ate the fifteen-sen hotcake at Star Café, he’d get coffee included—killing two birds with one stone—but since he was one sen short, he wandered around hoping to bump into someone he knew. He passed by Star six times, but each time, the display window’s hotcake sample flashed before his eyes and wouldn’t leave him alone. He told himself he should either drink ten-sen coffee at Lipton in Sanjo or eat udon there, but he couldn’t shake his lingering craving for hotcakes. The sensation of that fluffy, warm piece of hotcake entering his mouth was recalled so vividly it made him salivate. After putting in his mouth those with honey, those with butter, all sorts—and then drinking bitter coffee—he couldn’t bear it any longer, imagining how good it would be.

When he passed by an unfamiliar Third High student, he asked, "Sorry, but could you lend me one sen?" but the student made a strange face and refused, saying, "I don’t have any!" "Why ain’t I got no money at all? Should I just burst into tears or what?" he thought, already halfway to crying. When you want to meet someone, you never run into anyone you know—he remembered thinking that at the time—and suddenly, he wanted to eat hotcakes. In the middle of Kyoogoku, when he opened his wallet and counted, there were thirty sen. He went into Star and ate hotcakes. Exiting there, he emerged onto Sanjo via Kyoogoku Street and turned back toward Shijo along Kawaramachi Street. He turned left into a side street just before Shijo Kawaramachi and entered Victor Café. He sat in the dimmest booth at the back and found himself absently gazing at the face of the woman they called Yaeko there. Yaeko always slipped her white arms out from her apron sleeves, and they were rawly alluring. Amid the three women there, she stood out most conspicuously with her bustling work—proof she was aware of her own beauty, as Akai had once remarked—and at that moment of recollection, Akai’s gaunt, finely drawn face floated up in his mind. "If I don’t take the money to him soon—and with it being Akai—the bill will probably balloon even more," he thought, listening with a grave expression to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony that had just begun to play. He felt unsettled, but thinking that even if he left there he had no means of raising money, with half-resigned determination he remained sitting until the symphony finished in its entirety. When he went out, there wasn’t a single sen left in his wallet. When he passed by Nagasaki-ya, he suddenly wanted to go in and eat castella. He received bancha and sat sipping it by the sunny window, gazing absently at Shijo Street when he thought, "This would be nice." The fact that he didn’t have the twelve sen needed for this was both unbelievably saddening and infuriating. He emerged from Kyoogoku once more and peered into every used bookstore along Teramachi Street. At a used bookstore called Kyo-ya, he found Cocteau’s *The Rooster and the Harlequin* that Akai had been wanting, and thinking to remember it for later, asked about the price. If he had fifteen yen here now, he thought, he could take that book to Akai, go together to Victor Café, and while looking through it listen to Akai’s music theories. He sprawled out on the lawn of the Imperial Palace grounds and pondered anew how to raise money. But before long, he drifted into a drowsy nap.

"I'm sleeping right now," he thought. Exhausted from last night's sleeplessness—grinding his teeth in his sleep yet dimly aware of this through half-conscious dreams—he spent about an hour drifting between closed eyes and startled awakenings at passing footsteps until suddenly rebuking himself for such idleness, he yawned and stood up. The grass dew had soaked through his navy serge trousers, clinging coldly to his buttocks. Slapping his damp rear, he left the Imperial Palace grounds only to find his feet naturally turning toward school. Following Marutamachi's streetcar tracks to Kumano Shrine brought the university clock tower into view. Reaching Konoe-cho revealed the clock's hands clearly—already past one in the afternoon. Three hours had passed since telling Akai he'd return immediately. The realization cut through him like a blade. Turning from Konoe Street into Yoshida Ginza's narrow maze of alleys led him to Nishikibashi Street. There stood his regular pawnshop. Its secondhand-store facade displayed in the entryway window the very shoes he'd once pawned and lost. "Mr. Nozaki! What'll you pawn today?" He searched his belongings but found nothing worth pawning. Yet they still lent him two yen fifty sen for the wool sweater he impulsively stripped off, along with his hat, fountain pen, and silver medal. Suddenly flush with cash, he rode the train from Konoe to Shijo Kawaramachi and climbed to Nagasaki-ya's second floor for castella cake. He sat blankly sipping tea until finishing the box of cherries bought during his train transfer at Gion Ishidan-shita. Two-thirty PM. He watched a movie in Kyoogoku. Emerging at five o'clock found twilight coloring the streets.

When he suddenly remembered—Akai must be waiting impatiently by now, isn't he furious?—he felt like bursting into tears. But he sternly reminded himself—you're already twenty years old—and held back his tears. And now that it was too late to bring the money, that he couldn't face meeting Akai, that even if he scraped together funds there'd be no use for them—he found some small comfort in these carefree thoughts as he pondered forlornly. Yet the oppressive feeling of being driven by something lingered heavily, never leaving him. With a gloomy face, he wandered aimlessly through the night streets. He thought he couldn't possibly go back to sleep at his Shishigatani boarding house. Could he really leave Akai behind as a hostage and nonchalantly return alone to his boarding house to sleep? He entered cafés twice, udon shops twice, and as he wandered aimlessly around the area with no particular destination, the night gradually deepened. The flow of people dwindled, and he grew uneasy. He trudged along the dark path to Shichijo Uchihama and stayed in a partitioned room at a cheap lodging house. Sometimes he thought this must be what Akai called decadence; other times he felt he'd fallen beyond redemption. Recalling Akai's face, he found himself unable to sleep. The night ended with feelings that literally soaked his pillow in tears. And when he left the cheap lodging house, he spent the entire day wandering around town like a stray dog. He had been putting on airs as a vagabond, but he realized there was no need to pretend—he had somehow grown dingy and truly come to resemble one. Akai's face floated up with a shuddering feeling, just as before. The thought that Akai might have been detained for not paying his bills made walking until exhaustion feel like an obligation. Thanks to that, he had memorized the layout of Kyoto's streets quite thoroughly. In a grimy back alley, he saw a strikingly beautiful woman with pale skin and muttered, "Ah, saw a damn fine thing—this here's my happiness for the day." When night grew late, he returned to the cheap lodging house again. That night, he slept soundly.

And when dawn came, he would wander about again. And then, three days had passed, but when he ran out of even a single sen, he felt like he wanted to die; leaving the cheap lodging house, he staggered unsteadily to school and had been sitting alone in the classroom forlornly since an hour before classes began……

Akai hadn’t known the precise details, but from Nozaki’s halting responses to the questions asked of him, he surmised it was likely something like that—and once this realization settled, Akai found himself without words to say. The memory of having searched for Nozaki all that time—worrying even as he seethed with anger—now struck him as utterly absurd.

“Your wandering truly embodies your youth,” Akai managed to force out this youthful argument, but deep down, (this guy’s just forgetful—an unreliable man) he resigned himself with strange clarity.

"(In other words, this guy’s just a forgetful, unreliable man)," he had resigned himself with odd acceptance. But with the feeling that he had touched some unfathomable charm in Nozaki, Hyoichi suddenly felt his friendship warm.

(I'm constantly searching for a place where my self-respect can settle, growing irritated, but Nozaki can sit cross-legged within a single cup of coffee. What a difference! In other words, I'm the far more wretched one.) That he had come to think this way marked considerable progress for Hyoichi. Hyoichi compared his way of living to the grotesque expression of a sprinter nearing the finish line. (Truly the same grotesque tension!)

He had already abandoned his resolve to become the top student. However, in reality, he was in such a state that even advancing to the next grade seemed precarious.

Seven

A faculty meeting to determine promotions and failures was held in Kentokukan, an old building immediately to the right after passing through the school gate. It was early March, and Kyoto still endured severe cold. Even with the stove lit, the echoing room refused to warm. Each time someone rose to relieve themselves, knife-edged gusts from Mount Hiei sliced through the space. The elderly professors kept their hands thrust into their trousers and stamped their feet restlessly. The cold proved harsher than usual—they said it was the worst since some Meiji-era year. Apparently, the stove was malfunctioning. In such frigid conditions, sitting nearly from dawn till dusk tested even the professors’ endurance. Perhaps for this reason, the meeting progressed with disappointingly brisk efficiency. There were years when settling a single student’s fate consumed half a day. But this year, no student warranted even ten minutes’ deliberation. Had they pondered each pupil’s lifelong destiny, they’d have labored without end. Even habitually skeptical professors now placed absolute faith in scores—that supremely rational arbiter.

The decisions regarding promotion or failure for Hyoichi, Akai, and Nozaki didn’t even take ten minutes. The three were deliberated on as a group, and it proved straightforward. Upon hearing that all three had exceeded the permitted number of absences, some professors even promptly excused themselves to relieve themselves. Moreover, their conduct was poor, and their academic performance unsatisfactory. In particular, their German grades were disastrously bad. "What do you think, Professor H?" Someone posed this question to Professor H of German. If Professor H were to say, “Perhaps I’ll have you listen to my lectures for another year,” that would settle the matter.

“Oh, I’ve no opinion to offer.” “Pass or fail—either suits me perfectly.” Professor H smirked as he said this. “All three have failed.”

“Yes, all three—” Professor H nodded with evident satisfaction. He felt somehow content. Professor H was briefly recalling that Mouri Hyoichi had come to visit him the previous night.

No sooner had Hyoichi been shown into the study than— “What’s your business?” “Uh...” Hyoichi squirmed with unease. Professor H found his blushing face somewhat endearing. When he had studied in Germany, there had been a middle schooler with such a face who held beer-drinking contests. This one didn’t look like he could handle much liquor. The type who’d take two or three sips from wedding cups and start weeping drunkenly. “I haven’t let go of the abacus since morning.” “Busy tallying scores.” “State your business quickly.”

“Uh... About those scores...”

“There’s nothing to be done about the scores. It’s beyond help.” “Can’t you...?” “I see.” Hyoichi nearly stood up on impulse. He hated bowing his head to others. But even so, he managed to stop himself. In truth, since morning he had been visiting professors likely to give poor grades, dividing tasks with Akai and Nozaki. Akai was usually under Professor H’s scrutiny; Nozaki’s grades looked disastrously poor; and Hyoichi, whose grades were considered relatively better among the three, had been assigned the role of visiting Professor H. Until he had fulfilled that duty, he simply couldn’t leave.

“Actually, it’s about Akai and Nozaki—it seems their grades in your German class are disastrously poor.” “Their second-term performance was relatively decent, but their first-term scores are inadequate.” “Their other subjects avoided critical deficiencies, but your marks—the German grades—are what might cause them to fail.” “Could you possibly grant them a passing score?”

After finally managing to say what he had prepared, when Hyoichi looked up at Professor H’s face, Professor H was smiling with an unsettling air. What struck him as comical was Hyoichi’s claim that their second-term grades had been good. Two or three days earlier, while grading the exams, Professor H had discovered that all three students’ answers were identical down to the last word and had been utterly appalled. He was certain Akai and Nozaki had copied Hyoichi’s answers. Among the three, Hyoichi had performed slightly better. Professor H first set Hyoichi’s score to zero. For the other two, he left their first-term grades unchanged. As a result, all three ended up with failing averages for the second term. The reason he had set Hyoichi’s score to zero was that he intended to throw him a lifeline if any issues arose during the pass/fail committee meeting.

Professor H stifled the chuckles welling up inside him, "So you're asking me to raise Akai and Nozaki's grades?" "Uh..." "What about you?" "I..." The face that declared I'm fine struck Professor H as unbearably amusing. Unable to bear it, he looked down and pretended to scrutinize the grades on his lap,

“However, your grades are poor,” he said in an intentionally somber voice, “What?!” Just as expected, he looked shocked.

“Akai has thirty-eight points, Nozaki thirty-seven, and you thirty-six. You’re the worst one.”

When he said that and left dejectedly, Professor H recalled that incident. The fact that all three names were included in the plea struck him as comical. Professor H felt a touch of warmth at the camaraderie among the three. He had felt that if he were to pass them, he’d want to pass all three—it seemed pitiful to have even one missing. He had thought it would be one or the other—either throw Hyoichi a lifeline to pass him along with the other two if his own scores looked likely to fail him, or else fail all three. However, since it had been decided that all three would fail due to excessive absences, he felt a certain sense of satisfaction.

“Mouri has some subjects he’s good at, but he’s from Shuei-juku,” someone remarked. It had been established that all students of Shuei-juku were top scholars. “Mouri must have been slacking off way too much.” Someone responded.

“So all three failed—?”

“No objections.” All the professors knew Shuei-juku’s regulation that stipends would be discontinued upon failing. But no one recalled it. And so the three students’ expulsion was easily decided.

Seeing the small notice posted on the faculty room wall and realizing they had failed, the three—prompted by Akai’s remark—immediately decided to visit their supervising professor. When they waited at the entrance of the professor’s house in Shimogamo, the professor came out still wearing his kimono and stood rigidly,

“I’m truly sorry, but what’s decided cannot be undone.” “I did try my hardest, but with that number of absences...” Yet that very professor had been one of those who insisted on failing them. It was strange enough that the homeroom professor would insist on failing his own class’s students—some professors had even frowned at the oddity. In their standing conversation at the doorway, all three of them failed to properly make the requests they should have. Feeling like utter fools, they hurriedly took their leave, and their feet naturally turned toward Kyogoku. Along the way, Akai alone was getting excited. Hyoichi remained relatively calm. Once failing was decided, expulsion from Shuei-juku had become unavoidable. With his life at Third High now ending, he had never truly intended to visit his homeroom professor in the first place. Nozaki stood despondent to an almost comical degree. He looked as though he might burst into tears at any moment.

Akai and Hyoichi clearly understood Nozaki’s state of mind. To say this failure stemmed from Nozaki wouldn’t have been entirely unfounded. Nozaki had been keeping track of their absences in a notebook. No one had doubted Nozaki’s calculations. Thus when Nozaki declared they could skip three more days, they heedlessly took those days off. Yet it turned out to be Nozaki’s miscalculation. They had exceeded precisely those three days. Beyond that, there was also this incident.

When the first day of exams ended, they headed out to Kyogoku as usual and devised strategies for the next day’s exams at "Lipton" on Sanjo Street. That day’s exam was in German; having copied Hyoichi’s answers and somehow avoided failing marks, the taste of their black tea was delightful. The lemon scent wafted a pungent wintery fragrance, and they blissfully narrowed their sleep-deprived eyes. But the next day’s exam was history. None of them had brought their notebooks. They had no way to study even if they tried. Because Akai mentioned that the history professor was notoriously harsh even in pass/fail meetings, all three became gloomy and drank three cups of black tea. However, when Nozaki came up with the good idea that there was a way to borrow last year’s notes from an upperclassman who had attended the same middle school, they went to see a movie at Shochikuza, acting as though they had already half-finished the history exam. When they left Shochikuza, Nozaki went to borrow the notes. Akai, still reluctant to leave the area, agreed on meeting times with Nozaki at “Victor” to return together to the boarding house, while Hyoichi went back ahead of them and waited at Akai’s place, kindling a fire while timing their arrival. Having decided that, they parted ways.

Hyoichi had gone to Akai’s boarding house earlier than the agreed time and kept stuffing newspaper into the brazier, but the charcoal showed no sign of glowing red. The room felt bone-chillingly cold, with smoke hanging in such embarrassingly thick clouds that it seemed to accuse him. Asking the landlord for kindling simply wasn’t something he could bring himself to do. Having burned through all the newspaper, he slumped dejectedly—*What a hopeless oaf I am*. On impulse, he tried feeding the cigarette’s waxed filter tip into the brazier, which caught surprisingly well. Seizing this chance, he blew into the flames with his face nearly inside the metal basin until they finally took hold—a process that had consumed over an hour. Yet still his companions failed to return. Leaning against the brazier with a gloomy expression as he waited aimlessly, he sank into wretched self-loathing.

About two hours had passed when, just as footsteps finally sounded, Akai returned with a bright red face.

“Are you alone?” When he asked, Akai exhaled alcohol-laden breath and said, “That Nozaki bastard’s not showing up no matter how long you wait.” “Got stuck waiting over an hour.” “Figured it was the same old story, so I gave up and drank in Kyogoku before coming back.” With exam tensions running high, Akai seethed with uncharacteristic fury. Having no notebooks left them unable to study, so they killed time with idle chatter. As night deepened and Nozaki still hadn’t returned, they worked themselves up agreeing to abandon tomorrow’s exam—when Nozaki finally slunk in dejectedly clutching the notebook. Past ten already.

“Huh? Akai, you were back already?” At Nozaki, who had said this with a peculiar look, the two could only stare in exasperation. When they asked, sure enough, Nozaki had carelessly mistaken the agreed-upon time. After Akai had left, he went in and waited for an hour and a half, thinking Akai was terribly late—or so it turned out. He had considered returning ahead of them, but partly because he worried Akai might come later and cause trouble, and partly because the thought of walking the cold night road alone back to Shishigatani felt unbearably lonely, he ended up waiting indefinitely.

“You’re such an idiot. “You could’ve just asked Yaeko-chan whether I came or not.” Akai fumed. The fact that Yaeko-chan hadn’t told Nozaki about his visit had wounded his pride too. But in truth, Nozaki—though he went there nearly every day with Akai—had faded into such obscurity that Yaeko-chan failed to acknowledge his very existence.

Hyoichi finally spread out his notebook but found himself unable to muster any motivation when he considered how four hours had been wasted because of Nozaki—it all seemed utterly idiotic. “Nozaki，don’t look so defeated，” he comforted，but Nozaki wore a vacant expression，tormented by guilt. His despondency infected them both until they ended up making a pointless trip along the canal path near Ginkaku-ji’s tram stop，sipping coffee while accomplishing little real studying. Hyoichi gave up and returned early to Shuei-juku. Nozaki and Akai prolonged their walk all the way to Demachi，downing multiple cups of coffee in preparation for an all-nighter. Yet even after returning to their boarding house，they did nothing but exchange idle chatter，leaving them bewildered about their purpose for staying up. The history exam consequently proved disastrous. To make matters worse，their demoralized state rendered their subsequent exams far from successful.

So you could certainly say that this time's failure was undeniably caused by Nozaki. But seeing Nozaki fully aware of this and utterly disheartened, they did not bring it up. When they went out to Kyogoku, they first entered "Lipton." Then they went into "Victor." When they came out, they went up to Nagasaki-ya's second floor. Each time, Hyoichi would look around the room with a deeply nostalgic gaze, wondering if this might be his last chance to take it all in. They wandered aimlessly along Kyogoku Street, and when tired, would stand vacantly at street corners wondering what to do next. After making the rounds of their usual haunts, they seemed utterly drained, and as they stood there pondering where to go next, every one of their faces looked vacant and melancholy. Even if they went to the cinema, they would list every theater's program one by one and dismissively criticize them as dull, declaring none of the shows looked interesting. In the end, when Akai shamelessly suggested going back to “Victor” again, they somehow settled on that decision and filed into the alley of Shijo Kawaramachi.

“Twice in one day is a bit unseemly.” When Akai, who had feelings for Yaeko-chan, insisted on saying this,

“Yeah, looks bad. Twice in one day.” “Twice in one day.” Nozaki said in a lifeless voice. He never denied being smitten with the ugliest girl at “Victor,” whose face was so androgynous you couldn’t tell if she was male or female. Speaking of which, it seemed Nozaki also had a soft spot for the towering girl behind Lipton’s counter who looked like some kind of monster. So it seemed. After leaving “Victor,” they therefore went to “Lipton” once more. And so, as they killed time, evening fell. After half an hour of deliberation, they had sukiyaki at a beef restaurant in the backstreets of Kyogoku.

Hyoichi, for the first time,

“I’m quitting Third High,” he said, and when asked why, he explained that Shuei-juku had a rule discontinuing stipends for those who failed.

“I guess I won’t get to see you all anymore.” As he said this, the backs of his eyes suddenly burned. In the end, his Third High life had been utterly meaningless, but knowing Akai and Nozaki was the one saving grace—this was all he had been thinking about since earlier. “I don’t think you need to quit,” said Akai. He sank into serious thought for a while, then suddenly looked up and— “I’ve got a great idea—we’ll ask the mutual aid society to find us tutoring jobs. And if the three of us room together at my place with Nozaki, we’ll save on rent. C’mon, do it! Do it!”

“Yeah, yeah,” said Nozaki. “Tutoring’s a good idea. Wouldn’t it be fun if the three of us roomed together?” Hyoichi was happy. Strangely, he found that even having his poverty discussed in this way didn’t feel shameful. However, his resolve to quit Third High remained unchanged. When they realized Hyoichi’s resolve to quit Third High wouldn’t easily waver, Akai and Nozaki drank solemnly. And as the drunkenness set in, they roundly cursed the school they were supposed to remain at for three more years. Knowing this would be their farewell, the three of them wandered Kyoto’s streets until late into the night. In the end, Akai and Nozaki decided to go to Miyagawacho, and Hyoichi turned down the dark path beside the Minamiza Theater to see them off. In front of a house where women heavily made-up with white powder sat in a row wearing gaudy kimonos, Hyoichi parted ways with the two. The woman’s eyes turned toward them with a listless smile welling up piercingly. Hyoichi took the train from in front of the Minamiza and returned to Shuei-juku.

That very night, Hyoichi packed his belongings, entrusted them to a delivery service in the morning, and met Akai and Nozaki at "Victor" around noon. Then, seen off by the two, he boarded the Keihan train from Shijo Bridge and returned to Osaka.

Chapter Three

1

When she heard that Hyoichi had quit school, "You don't need to quit, but if you're set on it, then do as you will," Okimi remained herself, yet since he'd last seen her, she had grown strikingly gaunt. The skin around her eyes had darkened conspicuously. Though still thirty-six, the wrinkles around her eyes looked beyond forty. Her hair hung dry and brittle without a trace of oil. Seeing her haggard from piecework sewing, Hyoichi found tears unexpectedly falling. That until yesterday I'd been idling through high school now struck even me as absurd. Those carefree days wandering with Akai and Nozaki seemed like some distant era. He couldn't even recall them. To remember would only deepen his guilt toward Mother. That he'd quit school now felt utterly natural—this conviction had taken root within him.

Hyoichi had thought that since Shuei-juku covered his high school tuition, his mother wouldn’t need to do sewing work anymore—but that hadn’t been the case. It wasn’t merely to send Hyoichi pocket money. When Hyoichi entered middle school, Okimi had borrowed money from Yasujiro. Though she should have repaid the full amount by now, Yasujiro— “By my count, there’s still three hundred yen left. And I’ve already slashed the interest quite a bit for your sake, I tell ya.” Then he would seize the earnings from Okimi’s sewing jobs. Okimi labored to hide the money she was saving to send to Hyoichi.

When Hyoichi learned of these circumstances, he thought, *What kind of marriage is this? Can you even call this a marriage?* and nearly persuaded his mother to leave Yasujiro then and there. Mother didn’t voice a single complaint or grumble, and her expression saying “I don’t mind either way” only made her seem more pitiable. Yet even if they had run away together, they would have had no means to survive. Every morning when the newspaper arrived, Hyoichi would pounce on it to scour the job listings. He stole moments between handling customers selling pawn tickets to write resumes. His clumsy block script meant ten sheets became waste paper for each completed application. He wrote about ten applications, yet not one interview notice came. Those who returned his resumes were considerate—most never replied at all. He felt wretched, as though his eighteen years of life had been trampled into mud. Rather than anger over wounded pride, he sank into dejection—the unshakable conviction that he simply wasn’t employable. Leaning on the parlor table while staring at Nose Shokai’s shop curtain with its white-outlined characters, stifling yawns as he waited for customers—it struck him how perfectly this usurer’s clerk existence suited him. The realization sickened him. When sending off grimy resumes to new addresses without rewriting them—too drained even for that—he couldn’t help feeling utterly base.

One day, when he saw that a pharmaceutical company was seeking an advertising copywriter—though he didn’t think he could write such copy—he went ahead and drafted three samples to send with his resume. A week later, an interview notice arrived. When he thought his copy had passed, he felt so happy—could I actually have literary talent?—and suddenly remembered how Akai had submitted a story to Third High’s Gakusui-kai Magazine only to have it rejected. Worrying that he might be rejected during the oral examination at the interview and similar concerns left Hyoichi fidgeting restlessly, unable to settle down.

On the day of the interview, he woke up early in the morning and, without eating breakfast properly, hurried to the pharmaceutical company in Tamatsukuri—only to find there was still an hour left until the appointed time. Suddenly thinking it would be galling to arrive a full half-hour early, he turned back from the gate and entered a nearby five-sen coffee shop, where he killed time by flipping through Engei Gaho magazine and copying down job listings from the newspaper. At precisely nine o’clock, he presented his postcard at reception and was led by a cute girl attendant to a shabby second-floor waiting room. After the attendant left, a man with excessively long hair immediately entered, blinking his anxious eyes as he sat down in a chair,

“You applying too?” he asked. When Hyoichi gave a vague “Hmm” in response, “Wasn’t it just you and me that got called in?”

When Hyoichi didn’t respond,

“They said there’s other waiting rooms too—must be others still waiting somewhere else.” “Well, y’know, this being such a big building and all.” “How many d’you think they’ll take on?” His tone carried presumptuous familiarity. “Hmm... How many people? Five or six, maybe—” “It did say ‘several openings,’ right?” Hyoichi found himself replying automatically. “How much d’you reckon they’ll pay us? Won’t make ends meet with less than sixty yen.”

“Let me see... About sixty yen, I suppose.” “About sixty yen, I suppose.”

Hyoichi felt pathetic about himself for giving such a listless reply. “Honestly now, sixty yen ain’t enough to get by these days,” “Got two mouths to feed already,” “Prices’re through the roof, I tell ya.” “Two kids?” “Yeah, two—soon to be three,” “Total disaster,” “But this company keeps yammerin’ ’bout bein’ family-oriented,” “So they won’t let us starve—but they’ll sure work us raw.”

“Hmm… Family-oriented policy?” Hyoichi realized his reply resembled Nozaki’s and couldn’t help but smile wryly. The long-haired man kept chattering away while nervously shaking his knees. It suddenly struck him that the man was talking this much to hide his anxiety. With a vacant expression, he waited blankly for someone to summon them, but no one came to the room. “Ain’t this some wait they’re makin’ us do.” When the long-haired man grumbled, Hyoichi finally stirred to life.

(Being made to wait this long—that’s just the sort of fate you’d end up with!)

A surge of something like antagonism—though he couldn’t tell toward what—welled up, and his drowsiness vanished. Moreover, having been made to wait a full hour beyond that, Hyoichi became thoroughly angry. The girl attendant who had come to fetch him started at his expression. (If you’re this angry, your oral examination results are bound to be poor.) Even he had managed to convince himself of that much. “I’ll go ahead.” After giving this farewell to the long-haired man, he followed the girl out into the hallway. When he entered the room at the corridor’s end, seven or eight examiners’ eyes pierced him sharply all at once.

(So many of them here.) His vision flared up, and he nearly forgot to bow. In his panic, he bowed his head and, as he took two or three steps forward, collided with a chair.

(A failure so typical of me), he thought, now angry even at himself, and plopped down onto the chair with a heavy thud. He became conscious that his face had flushed an ugly shade of red. Feeling wretched over this, he raised his face with a sullen expression. The moment he saw that face, one of the examiners jotted down “Rejection” in his notes. “Why did you come wearing a kimono?” Criticizing Hyoichi’s casual kimono attire, one of them asked. Because the pain from when he had stubbed his toe on the chair hadn’t subsided, Hyoichi grimaced and—

“Because I don’t own Western clothes,” he answered, thinking Did my casual kimono look odd? “You must have a high school uniform though.” “Well... I’m not a student anymore.” “Why did you leave school?” “Because it bored me.” “Were you failing?” “No—I actually failed.” “The reason?” “I slacked off.” By this point, none of the examiners questioned Hyoichi’s inevitable rejection. Even with decent ad copy skills and being a Third High honor student—small firms might tolerate such flaws, but a major corporation like ours couldn’t handle this sort of man. Yet Hyoichi had resigned himself to rejection before the examiners did.

“Thank you for your time. We will notify you of the results at a later date.”

Exactly at noon, the siren blared. Hyoichi realized he had been kept waiting for three hours. Escorted down the hallway by an overly ceremonious man, Hyoichi thought the long-haired applicant would probably have to wait another hour until lunch ended.

After a week passed, the rejection notice arrived. Inside the envelope was a sample packet of medicine sold by the company. Thinking that this must be their family-oriented policy, Hyoichi tossed it into the trash and wrote another resume. The next day’s newspaper carried an advertisement from that company seeking advertising copy drafts.

II

Seeing Hyoichi's frantic job search, Okimi said, "You don't have to work at all," but being told this only made Hyoichi more frantic. Every morning he woke to the sound of the newspaper arriving. He took it into his bed, stared wide-eyed like plates, and scanned the job listings section. When seemingly suitable postings appeared, he grew restless and couldn't fall asleep. He felt a shuddering thought—was finding employment really this difficult?

One day, upon seeing an advertisement that read, “Investigator Position Available. No Educational Background or Age Requirements. Seeking Active Individuals. Affiliated with a Certain Zaibatsu Company. Interviews Today at 10:00 AM in the Annex Room on the Second Floor of Nakanoshima Central Public Hall,” Hyoichi went to the Central Public Hall in Nakanoshima, only to find that “investigator” was merely a euphemistic title—they were actually recruiting life insurance solicitors. However, here too, they rejected him on the grounds that he was too young. “If only you were a bit older,” said a man who appeared to be the agency manager. “Come on back next year, and we’ll see what we can do for you.”

(They’ve decided I can’t get a job until next year, damn them.) Hyoichi raged at this, but then it struck him—given how it wasn’t uncommon for people to remain unemployed for a year or two—that perhaps he ought to receive such words with gratitude. With lifeless steps, he trudged down the dimly lit public hall staircase. The return train was packed, and he was roughly trampled upon. In the commotion, the thought (I can’t even become a life insurance solicitor) floated dejectedly through his mind. Without the energy to get angry, he furtively rubbed his trampled foot with his other one. Yet, when he returned home, a notice of employment as a reporter from Nihon Tatami Newspaper had arrived.

The next day, he went to Nihon Tatami Newspaper on Katsuyama-dori. On the train, he kept pulling out from his pocket the postcard scrawled in pale blue ink: “We wish to hire you and therefore request an interview—” Anxious about whether he would truly be employed, he remained standing throughout the ride despite empty seats being available. He got off at Katsuyama-dori 4-chome and walked along a concrete road typical of newly developed areas—cluttered on both sides with retail shops and mining offices—all the way to near Ikuno Girls’ School at Katsuyama-dori 8-chome, but found no sign of the company. The address numbers jumped erratically. Doubling back under the national railway overpass, he discovered a small sign reading “Nihon Tatami Newspaper” beneath the eaves of a grubby rented house. Those same characters adorned the awning above the lattice window.

When he opened the door, to the right of the earthen-floored entryway lay a wooden-floored room of about four-and-a-half tatami mats in size. Two desks and chairs stood lined up by the window, behind them a set of ledger shelves, and before those too were desks and chairs arranged. Thus, this wooden-floored space had barely managed to maintain the appearance of an office. Behind the earthen entryway was a lattice-patterned door through whose gaps a kitchen could be glimpsed. Stepping up one level from there, there appeared to be an inner tatami room further back. When he asked to be shown in, a plump woman around forty emerged from the rear. One of her eyes glinted sharply as it stared fixedly off to the side. It appeared to be an artificial eye. When he showed her the postcard, she had him sit on a chair in the wooden-floored room, opened the closet door, and clattered up the attached staircase. No sooner had she gone up than she came back down,

“Please do come upstairs,” she said. As he tried to remove his slippers, “Please keep them on. No need to fret about that,” she said in Kyoto dialect. When he went upstairs, a man sitting cross-legged by the window-side desk—still wearing his yukata and rapidly moving a pen—turned around, tucking the glass pen behind his ear, “Now then, come over here,” he said, gesturing to the rattan chair placed on the tatami mats.

He was a small-statured man, terribly thin, with a sallow complexion—a frail figure nearing sixty. The thin mustache he wore made him appear even more wretched. The chest exposed by his yukata was covered in wrinkles, with veins standing out prominently.

“I’m the president,” he said, perching himself on the rattan chair and fixing Hyoichi with darting eyes before immediately averting his gaze. “I know you’re busy—” Hyoichi began. “Swamped clean through, I tell ya! Gettin’ long in the tooth, see? Do a scrap of writin’ an’ my head goes all muzzy-like. Had two clerks before—one quit sick-like. T’other’s been here ten years mindin’ sales, off travelin’ now. Been editin’ solo all this while, but can’t keep up no more. That’s why I’m askin’ you—how ’bout it? You’ll lend a hand, eh?” With that, Hyoichi’s hiring was settled.

“If it’s something I can do,” “No. You’d manage just fine.” “Heard you quit Third High partway through.” “Shame that.” “Military service?” “Ah, still eighteen, aren’t you?”

After finalizing the terms—working hours from 9 a.m. to 5 p.m., a monthly salary of forty-two yen, and an annual bonus equivalent to 100% to 120% of one month’s pay—the president began droning on about Nihon Tatami Newspaper’s business performance, but Hyoichi wasn’t really listening. When he arrived at work at nine the next day, they immediately made him write addresses on mailing wrapper bands. He wrote nonstop for three hours until noon. The work dragged on endlessly—not only did he have to write addresses for subscribers, but also those of industry colleagues receiving free promotional copies. Each one... required writing “tatami shop” and the character for “tatami,” whose excessive number of strokes made it unbearable. Staring at the directory printed in dense six-point type that crammed every inch of the page, he kept sighing and glancing up at the wall clock. By the time the noon siren blared, he had written four hundred sheets.

Having written slightly more than the initially set amount, he felt a brief satisfaction, but immediately dismissed it as a meaningless pleasure and felt foolish. “Why don’t you go ahead and take your lunch now?”

When the president’s wife called out from the inner room, Hyoichi, relieved, stepped outside. He went as far as Katsuyama-dori Hatchōme, ate a twelve-sen lunch among laborers at a diner, then lay sprawled on a café bench like a dead man. When one o'clock came, he returned and began writing wrapper bands again. The western sun shone in, sweat oozing clammily across his forehead. His right hand hurt so much it no longer felt like his own. Looking at the pink callus that had formed on his middle finger with a sense of wretchedness, he thought that if he were made to write wrapper bands all year round like this, he couldn’t endure it.

Continuing the monotonous work with utter astonishment—Is working really this hard?—three o’clock arrived, and the president’s wife brought him tea. As he greedily sipped at it, the president came downstairs wearing nothing but a loincloth, “If this sun keeps shining in like this, you can’t handle it, can you, Mr. Mouri? We’ll get that screen up soon.—So, how many wrapper bands have you written?” “About six hundred.”

“That’s quick. Merchant speed, eh?” Since he thought he was being praised, he smiled and said politely, “Writing wrapper bands is quite impressive,” “Starting tomorrow, I’ll have you do other work.” “Paying you a monthly wage just to write wrapper bands would be a loss for us.” “If we commissioned merchants, they’d write a thousand sheets cheap, see?”

Hyoichi felt irritated, but at the same time, he also felt a sense of relief. After writing wrapper bands all day long, he washed his hands in the kitchen after five o'clock and said, “Then I’ll take my leave now.” He returned home utterly exhausted.

When he awoke the next morning, the thought of having to work another full day filled him with a sense of dread. He remained sitting blankly on his bed, and for some reason found himself recalling the faces of Kiyoko and Okoma of Kadoya. When he arrived at work precisely at nine o'clock, he was made to organize the ledgers. When transfer mail arrived, he would enter the amount, name, and purpose into the deposit ledger; if it was a subscription fee, he would record the subscription start and end dates in the subscriber ledger; and if it was an advertising fee, he would note that fact in a separate ledger. If it was a single-volume book order, he would prepare a parcel and take it to Nekomagawa Post Office. If a subscription fee had expired, he would send out pre-printed reminder postcards. Each time, he would enter the date and name into the reminder ledger and also record whether a response had been received. He would also enter entries like “One 1.5-sen stamp for reminder postcards” into the postage stamp ledger, and additionally record “1.5-sen reminder expense” in the expenditure ledger—each matter typically requiring entries across three or four different ledgers—and each time had to retrieve various stamps from the inkpad, becoming thoroughly flustered.

Even for using half-sen stamps, one had to make entries in various ledgers as if in a government office, making the president’s stinginess feel all too personal and wretched. While flipping through the expense ledger on some occasion, he noticed the words “employee salary payments,” and upon carefully checking found that over three years salaries had only been raised by three yen. For some reason Hyoichi’s face flushed. That afternoon when he mistakenly affixed a three-sen stamp to a postcard, the president noticed and sternly reprimanded him: “What a waste.” When he flusteredly tried to peel it off, the president snapped “Don’t go ripping it off recklessly!” Carrying the postcard to the kitchen, he soaked it in a metal basin’s water, peeled off the stamp, and returned. “You’ve got to be more careful,” he said. “You peel stamps off like this.” Hyoichi could not lift his face for some time.

One week later, one morning shortly after Hyoichi arrived at work, a man wearing what looked like a white medical coat over a crisp white shirt pushed his bicycle inside, looked up at the wall clock,

“Ah, I’m five minutes late.” “This clock’s running slow, isn’t it?” With that, he blew the dust off the desk behind Hyoichi and said, “I’m Sonoi, the sales manager. Pleased to meet you.” Hyoichi flusteredly turned around and bowed his head low. “I was away on a business trip,” “I returned last night.” Sonoi had not yet turned thirty by much, yet half his head was already bald. His egg-shaped face gleamed slickly beneath a small mustache. In a company with just one president and two employees, he seemed determined to emphasize being called “manager”—a pretension that felt written all over his face—but Hyoichi found nothing odd about it and maintained a stiff expression...

“Must’ve been brutal in this heat,” Hyoichi said. He cringed at his own obsequiousness. “Heat’s the least of it,” Sonoi replied through his nose, shoving up his glasses. “Let’s burn rubber! Work’s backed up to here.” He yanked drawers open and slapped ledgers about, manufacturing commotion like some overworked clerk in farce. “Mr. Mouri—these stamps your doing?” The postcard Sonoi thrust forward bore microscopic block letters crammed edge-to-edge. Hyoichi marveled at this testament to dogged diligence—the same diligence that had earned Sonoi three yen in raises over ten years.

Sonoi worked straight through until noon without even smoking a single cigarette—organizing ledgers, writing collection notices—and when the noon siren sounded, he rode his bicycle to his nearby home for lunch. But when Hyoichi returned from the café, he found Sonoi already back with a ruler out, busily laying out the advertisement section.

Feeling Sonoi’s gaze on his back, Hyoichi couldn’t afford to slack off carelessly. In the stifling swelter—as if time itself had stopped—Hyoichi spread out the newspaper to search for clippings, only to find himself growing drowsy. At such times, he would find himself absently skimming through sections like the family column of the newspaper, but whenever he suddenly sensed Sonoi’s presence behind him, he would flusteredly flip through the pages and half-consciously reach for the scissors. When he suddenly turned around, Sonoi was diligently blotting the smeared ink beside his ruler with blotting paper—his work ethic remained flawless, without a moment’s lapse.

The president was upstairs stripped naked, busily writing articles; his wife was in the back room doing needlework while dozing off or smoking with vacant eyes fixed on the cat in her lap. Yet even though no one was watching, Hyoichi was astonished—why was Sonoi working so earnestly? While the president and Sonoi were away at the printing office for proofreading, Hyoichi was writing wrapper bands when the president’s wife came out from the back and,

“Mr. Mouri. “I’m terribly sorry to ask, but could you write a letter for me?” she asked Hyoichi. A letter had come from her friend working at a restaurant in Otsu inquiring about her current situation; she wanted him to write a reply, “How should I write it?” When Hyoichi asked, “I want you to write down all these feelings pent up in this belly of mine—no, no—just once, put them down honest-like.” Then she began recounting her “personal history” in meticulous detail.

She had worked as a maid at a restaurant in Otsu, but the year before last, after the president’s first wife died, she stepped into the position as her replacement. Needless to say, theirs was no illicit affair. It had been a proper arranged marriage through a matchmaker’s mediation, but what made her decide to marry the president—over twenty years her senior—was hearing from that same matchmaker how he had saved fifty or sixty thousand yen during his decade running the newspaper, and moreover, that he had no children. The president was already past sixty, so his remaining years were short. Driven by greed at how soon the inheritance might come her way, she found when she came that the president remained hale and hearty, stingy and jealous. Even that she could endure, but what proved utterly unbearable was that despite their marriage, he refused to register their union, and worse still—on Sonoi’s recommendation—had taken in a twelve-year-old child as his heir. That adopted child was none other than Sonoi’s nephew. When the president died, the entire inheritance would go to this adopted son, leaving Sonoi as guardian free to manage it all as he pleased.

“Not a single penny will come our way, I tell ya." “Well, that’s all fine and good,” she said, “but I still ain’t allowed to touch a penny of the market money, I tell ya.” “And you—" The president’s wife narrowed her good eye sharply. “That Ms. Suan who stayed late helping out the other day—he drove her out saying there was something suspicious between us! Pure jealousy, I tell ya.” “I’m thinkin’ of quittin’ any day now, I tell ya.”

Compiling the president’s wife’s complaints into a coherent letter proved difficult. “I haven’t sent a reply in ages now.” “Given we’re in the word business, how can I not manage even one letter?” “Please write it for me.” “There’s no one else I can ask.” As he wrestled with her request, Hyoichi suddenly grasped why Sonoi worked with such dutiful precision. The air grew thick around him. He wanted to bolt immediately. Yet he couldn’t act on it. After finishing the letter, he resumed writing wrapper bands as before. Quitting meant no other prospects. Hyoichi burned with shame at his own subservience.

The next day when the printed newspapers arrived, they had to distribute them. Since it was an eight-page paper, they first stacked two pages at a time carefully to avoid mixing them up. Next came folding them into compact bundles. These were then wrapped with paper bands and glued shut. With four thousand copies needing mailing by evening to meet the publication deadline, the president, his wife, Sonoi, Sonoi’s wife, and Hyoichi all pitched in. Hyoichi was put on newspaper folding duty—properly creasing and compactly folding eight-page papers required a considerable amount of strength. Before he’d even folded a hundred copies, the skin on his palms had rubbed raw. Spotting a milk bottle by the window, Hyoichi began using it to press creases. This made things slightly easier. After folding a hundred copies, he’d stack them on the floor, tilt them into a slant, then stomp the creases flat with a slipper. Stepping forward and back mechanically, Hyoichi stared vacantly at the ceiling with a face threatening tears.

Since the work was divided among them, there was no chance to rest even for a moment. In the midst of such frantic busyness that he couldn’t even yawn, Hyoichi suddenly recalled Chaplin’s *Modern Times*. (I thought I was a journalist, but now I’m just a laborer.) He found meager comfort in clinging to the thought of the noon break. When the siren sounded, I would rush out to a café, drink a cold coffee, and lie still on a chair with my eyes closed. However, even when noon arrived, there was no break. He had to keep working while stuffing bread into his mouth.

“Don’t hold back... eat up.” He felt pathetic having to thank the president for every word. As always, the afternoon sunlight pressed in relentlessly. Sweat streamed from his brow and trickled down his eyelids until he thought he might be crying actual tears. At some point, Hyoichi suddenly realized he was singing loudly—a raw, animal bellow that shocked even himself. Though it was the only way he could endure the mechanical labor, he felt wretched for how beastly he sounded.

His shoulder was suddenly jabbed. The sweet sensation of his body floating through space shattered abruptly, and his vision snapped back into focus. He must have been dozing while standing. The moment he regained awareness, his hands kept mechanically folding newspapers as the president barked, "This ain't no time for napping! Pull yourself together!" With that reproof, the president jabbed Hyoichi's shoulder several more times. In that instant, Hyoichi imagined smashing the milk bottle against the desk with a crash and bolting from the room.

(Even after being insulted this much—do I still want to work here?) It wasn't simply that this was an unpleasant place. (I was insulted—you realize?) Hyoichi's eyes glinted fiercely for the first time in ages as he scanned the room. But when he suddenly noticed the president's wife diligently applying paste to wrapper bands, that fierce light vanished abruptly. The association with her disheveled hair had summoned thoughts of his mother.

(If I run away now, I’ll be unemployed again for who knows how long. Even so, can you face your mother like nothing’s wrong?) Hyoichi pressed the newspaper’s crease with the milk bottle he was gripping. (If I think about Mother, acting on selfish impulses isn’t permissible.)

This thought that had suddenly surfaced in his head was unexpected even to Hyoichi himself. He had never even dreamed that he could so easily disregard the self-esteem that should have supported his actions until now.

“I suppose I didn’t sleep well last night—” Even as he said this, Hyoichi was appalled at himself for letting out that shameless, snickering laugh. His face had indeed gone deathly pale.

III

At month’s end, he received his monthly salary calculated on a pro-rated basis. After deducting train fare and lunch expenses, what remained was a paltry sum. When the president handed him a pay envelope addressed to “Mr. Mouri” on a reused envelope with scribbled writing, even Hyoichi couldn’t help feeling a vague sense of humiliation. (Have I endured all these hardships just for this?) The thought was unbearable. (No, the salary is beside the point. Just enduring and working is my obligation.) He consoled himself with this thought. However, when he returned home and showed it to his mother, even he couldn’t help feeling that his efforts had been rewarded by the look on her face.

“Even a hot-tempered child like you—they still keep you employed.” “What a blessing this is!” Okimi said. “That’s for sure.” Hyoichi replied with a laugh in his Osaka dialect. “Since you’re getting a salary now, how about you get yourself some Western clothes?” “Nah, I don’t need it. This is fine as it is.”

Until now, he had been getting by with his high school uniform, having only changed the buttons. Since he was inherently a show-off by nature, he had keenly felt the shabbiness of his appearance, but he had been restraining himself, thinking he didn’t want to spend unnecessary money at this juncture. But in the end, since his mother had persistently recommended it, he decided to have Western clothes made on an installment plan. Fastening a plain necktie over his striped shirt and meticulously buttoning two buttons on his jacket made him look every bit the proper salaryman. When he showed up to work in that getup dripping with sweat, the president put on a surprised face and said, “Well, well.” The president was wearing nothing but a fundoshi.

Hyoichi took off his jacket, citing the heat as his reason, and slung it over his shoulder even during his commute. Only then did he escape the self-consciousness of wearing brand-new Western clothes. Yet being clumsy, he couldn't properly tie his necktie, so even while walking down the street, he kept adjusting the knot. Thus anyone who glimpsed him could instantly tell he was either a dandy or someone wearing Western attire for the first time.

(The feeling of wearing a suit for the first time was like getting a haircut on the day of a funeral.)

For some time afterward, he remained obsessively fixated on his Western-style clothing in this manner. Whether riding streetcars or walking through streets, he found himself preoccupied with others’ Western attire. To put it plainly, he scrutinized only those older than himself—and most of them were office workers at that.

(That man who looks like a company employee probably doesn't lay his trousers under the futon when sleeping at night.) And so on. Naturally，Hyoichi’s sensibilities gradually grew prudish，taking on an office worker-like quality. Not lingering before hat shop displays to browse straw hats was about all he could claim as self-restraint. When dusk fell during his trudging walks home，he developed a habit of keeping his head lowered. “I’m exhausted—physically and mentally. “I’m exhausted—physically and mentally.” Hyoichi muttered these words repeatedly as he walked. He remembered how his Chinese classics teacher at Third High had once told him，“You’re decaying both physically and morally.” The memory surfaced without particular cause. Back then，his classmates had burst into shrill laughter. None of that spirited energy remained now.

He yearned for Sundays like a drowning man swimming toward shore with desperate strokes. But sometimes Sundays coincided with mailing days. He would become completely crestfallen. Unable to rest, he’d fold newspapers late into the night, load them onto a handcart, and drag them to the post office. The next day he lacked even the courage to ask for a substitute holiday. After working two straight weeks, when he finally got time off, he went to a manzai comedy theater. How wretched he felt laughing uproariously at such trifles. Come month’s end—of all things—he’d wear an expression secretly hoping for a raise, making him seem more pitiful still. He’d even impressed himself working diligently without holding back effort, and since he wrote articles better than the president with decades of experience, he couldn’t help clinging to that sliver of hope. Yet true to form, this was the same president who’d fly into rages over half-rin stamps. Far from granting raises, the man had reached such irritation over Hyoichi’s careless waste of manuscript paper that he’d have gladly docked his pay given half an excuse.

(If they were to take pity and give me some measly one-yen raise, I’d probably make a fool of myself rejoicing over it—better they never give another raise at all.) He tried convincing himself of this, yet when he peered into his pay envelope, he couldn’t help feeling insulted and secretly seethed at the president. But then he grew even angrier at himself for feeling that way.

(You’ve become quite the vulgar human being, haven’t you?) Hyoichi was dismayed to realize he had become someone he could no longer forgive himself for being. He tried to figure out why he’d ended up like this but couldn’t understand. From the very beginning, he’d never experienced that luxury called finding enjoyment in work. They’d made him write address bands from day one. Thus every day became an unbroken chain of truly tedious, listless days. He had no choice but to dwell on raises.

The unfortunate thing for him was that he had no colleagues. There were only three people in the company—the president, Sonoi, and himself—but Sonoi had spent ten years nurturing a resolve to abandon any hope of raises and was now swollen with grander ambitions. In other words, there was no one else feverishly obsessed with getting a raise. So it was that Hyoichi alone had unwittingly ended up this way. So it was that he had, so to speak, forged his own path of independence.

Not getting even the slightest raise felt like being insulted. Had there been others around him constantly preoccupied with salary increases, he would never have given raises a second thought.

Hyoichi had been persistently expecting a salary raise for a full year and a half. ("This time for sure—if I don’t get a raise, I’ll quit this place!") Half a year had already idly slipped by since he’d convinced himself of that. By now, Hyoichi despised himself down to his very core. Because he was so utterly bored each day, he embarked on collecting articles for "The History of Tatami in Japan." Though he secretly thought serializing it might make even the president acknowledge him, he absolutely refused to let himself expect a raise through it.

Having been abandoned by himself, he became a listless, withdrawn person like an old hand towel. Yet at twenty years old, he still retained enough youth to frequently despise himself. That, at least, remained. And then, one day, he finally let that youth of his take charge.

That day was a dispatch day. Therefore, he was in a worse mood than usual. However, there was one pleasure: seeing that the first installment of *The History of Tatami in Japan*, which he had painstakingly compiled, was being published. However, when he looked at the printed version, it wasn’t anywhere to be found. "Why won’t you publish it?" Feeling ashamed at even considering protesting to the president, Hyoichi flushed and restlessly averted his eyes from the newspaper.

(Had it been rejected, or had they held it over for the next issue?) As he pondered this dejectedly, someone from the printing office arrived carrying about a hundred copies they called special printings. When he looked, "The History of Tatami in Japan" appeared under a considerably large headline. "So there's such a thing as special printings," Hyoichi casually asked the President. "Oh, there sure are." The President said in a subdued voice while vigorously kneading paste in an aluminum basin, then added conspiratorially: "Keep this under wraps—" He went on to explain how recent tightening of newspaper regulations by the authorities had made it impossible to freely increase advertising columns. They'd created these special printings with reduced ads and expanded article sections for submission to censorship departments and government offices.

“You there, I know it’s a bother, but take these two copies of the special edition newspaper to the Special Higher Police at the prefectural office.” “Right now?” He reflexively said that—though of course his voice sounded angry.

“Ah, you’ll go right now, will ya?” “No!” To put it grandly, there was a resonance to his voice that had endured through a year and a half of suppression. Hyoichi himself found it a voice that satisfied even him. At least, he thought, it was a voice befitting the moment of resignation. The anger at his article being used solely as filler for special printings spurred this feeling. When he saw the president’s thin, gaunt face, he did feel a twinge of pity—but faced with such injustice, there was no need to factor in such sympathy now.

“Why’d ya?” The president finally looked up from the paste, but upon seeing Hyoichi’s deathly pale face—whatever he thought—he clattered up to the second floor. “Mr. Mouri, what’s wrong?” “Does your stomach hurt or something?” Sonoi said in a surprised voice, though deliberately slowly. Hyoichi did not respond. For he was considering in that split second whether it was necessary to follow the president upstairs without a moment’s pause and tender his resignation.

"If I keep fumbling around and miss my chance, it'll be a disgrace," he thought—just as he was about to head upstairs, the president came down and handed Hyoichi two streetcar tickets.

“(Ridiculous! As if he thinks I’m refusing to go to the prefectural office because I’m too cheap to pay the streetcar fare!)” This only hardened his resolve further. “I must respectfully resign effective today.”

Because his voice had come out relatively polite, he felt unexpectedly pleased with himself.

“Why’d ya? Comin’ outta nowhere—” Since he couldn’t seem to explain his reasons properly and couldn’t bear to stay there a moment longer, he said nothing and suddenly bolted outside. When he closed the door, it made a rough, loud noise. He was startled to realize it had bothered him. After walking two or three ken, he turned around and caught sight of the shabby “Nihon Tatami Newspaper” sign hanging under the eaves. That it was a shabby, run-down house also somehow pained his eyes. The feeling that he had kicked it away unexpectedly tightened around his chest like a heavy weight. For a full year and a half—hadn’t it at least saved him from unemployment?—he muttered weakly to himself. After he resigned, images floated into his mind—the president’s wrinkled, sunken chest and the cracked glass pen—as the president would now have to do the editing alone while complaining again about his dizzy spells. But when he thought—though only faintly—(However, that president has saved up fifty or sixty thousand yen through those dishonest means), he felt relieved and walked toward the Kashimazudori Fourth District streetcar stop with his chest puffed out, but soon his gait became deflated. He reached the streetcar stop but found himself unable to wait for the next car. He walked aimlessly along the streetcar tracks, for no particular reason at all. He walked quickly and hurriedly because of the cold, but he couldn’t feel any of the mental resolve that comes from fighting injustice.

The thought chased after him: "I've finally become unemployed." He boarded a westbound streetcar from Tennoji Nishimon-mae at last. Yet after passing just one stop, it already reached Ebisucho terminus. Without taking a transfer ticket, he disembarked and went to Shinsekai. Watching moving pictures to kill time, night had fallen before he knew it. Boarding a streetcar from Ebisucho, he got off at the transfer point in Nipponbashi-suji 1-chome, and while waiting for the streetcar to Tanimachi 9-chome, he abruptly changed direction toward Sennichimae. Somehow he couldn't muster the will to wait for the homebound streetcar. When he entered Hozenji Temple's precincts from Sennichimae, an abrupt dimness engulfed him as if the ground had collapsed. Votive lanterns and altar lamps swayed with drowsy flickers. Hyoichi felt something dark and heavy settle in his chest.

When he exited the precincts, it was an alley behind the theater lined with rows of rented rooms. The dimness struck him as something that ached in the chest with dejection. “Hey, hey, Yō-san!” someone called out, and he hurriedly passed through. Ahead, light streamed dazzlingly—it was Ebisubashi-suji Street. The flow of light didn’t stream toward this side or the opposite alley; it was as if water running through a bamboo pipe had frozen solid. That light dazzled Hyoichi’s heart.

In that light—to be precise, a woman standing at the haberdashery’s display window, peering into it—suddenly turned around and, the moment she saw Hyoichi’s face,

“Ah—” Unintentionally, they both cried out at the same time. Whether they actually had or not was a matter of that split second—even when he later tried to recall, he had no memory of it—but Hyoichi suddenly found himself standing rooted to the spot, unable to move for some time. It was Kiyoko. To Hyoichi, who had emerged from the dimness, Kiyoko—perhaps because she stood bathed in bright light—appeared unexpectedly beautiful. That realization in Hyoichi’s head suddenly reminded him: “I’m unemployed now.” This made Hyoichi even more flustered. The fact that he had come shuffling out of the alley lined with rental houses was also in his mind in that split second.

Kiyoko immediately averted her gaze, stepped away from the display window, and began walking off. This was how he first realized she had a companion. She had feigned complete ignorance with remarkable ease. (That's her husband,) Hyoichi realized instantly. He tried to see what kind of face the man had, but found it so thoroughly ordinary that the impression refused to solidify. In other words, Kiyoko's husband possessed the utterly commonplace face of a young spouse found everywhere in society.

When they had walked two or three *ken*, Kiyoko abruptly turned around and flicked out her red tongue. Hyoichi’s self-esteem was easily wounded. Just as he had started to hesitantly follow after them, all too aware of his own shabby appearance, he was so furious he wanted to bite Kiyoko’s tongue off, but since that seemed impossible, it made his frustration all the more galling. Hyoichi furtively turned around and retreated in the opposite direction. The soles of his shoes were worn out, flapping pathetically with each step.

However, Kiyoko too was actually feeling ashamed. When Hyoichi's face suddenly appeared from the darkness, Kiyoko thought her husband's pimply face standing beside her was truly hideous. Indeed, Hyoichi still had a face like a girl’s. Because he was so dejected, he looked all the more delicate. Because his clothes were shabby, he was spared from looking smug. Kiyoko somehow felt ashamed in Hyoichi’s presence. It wasn’t just about her husband’s face. She had just been begging for a handbag, only to have her husband dismiss it with, "Our finances are a mess. It’s too extravagant." Her husband worked for a government office, but his monthly salary still wasn’t enough to easily buy a handbag. That secretly shamed Kiyoko in front of Hyoichi. Moreover, even though the handbag was only four yen and eighty sen, she had slunk away furtively—but she thought that was far too artless. She suddenly turned around. The moment she did so, she flicked out her tongue. Borrowing a schoolgirl-like innocent gesture for just a moment had been a split-second inspiration. By doing so, she thought she could somehow conceal the domestic shame she felt. Moreover, Kiyoko had calculated that this might lend a touch of coquettishness. So, to make it even more effective, she kept her tongue out for a long time. In other words, it was a vulgar expression unbecoming of her age.

However, Hyoichi did not understand Kiyoko's true feelings, and seeing her deliberate expression, he was utterly overwhelmed. (Alright, I must heal this wound to my self-esteem no matter what!) As he crossed Ebisubashi Bridge, Hyoichi tore off one of his coat buttons. His mind had been in a state easily stirred to excitement since morning. He abruptly turned back toward Namba. *(I have a duty to strike Kiyoko's face.)* He conceived such a barbaric thought. Waiting at the traffic signal along the streetcar tracks, he suddenly reasoned—(But I can't possibly hit her in this crowded street)—then as the light turned green and he strode across—(No, the crowdedness is essential! It would maximize impact while demanding extraordinary courage.)

IV

He spent about half an hour dashing around Ebisubashi Street, but Kiyoko was nowhere to be found. Thanks to this, he was relieved that he didn’t have to do the unpleasant task of striking the woman’s face in the middle of the bustling crowd. But precisely because he had been so fired up, he was left disappointed and unable to fully resign himself. Still lingering with reluctance, after wandering aimlessly about, he entered a café with a hollowed-out expression.

“Welcome.”

A harsh-shrill voice rang out, startling him into raising his face. Five or six thickly made-up women's faces—illuminated by red electric lights—turned toward him like masks. Thinking it might be a café, Hyoichi instinctively turned toward the entrance. But seeing how the counter stood right by the door and all the women rigidly upright, it didn't seem to be one after all. Yet even so, when he realized it was a coffee shop that felt exactly like a café, Hyoichi wanted to bolt. At a time like this, sitting blankly in some dreary coffee shop like the Milk Hall would have been more fitting. But having carelessly stumbled into the wrong place, he thought it would gall him if they assumed he was sneaking out to sketch caricatures or something. Listening irritably to the rumba music, he took a seat in the corner.

The women were all wearing gaudy-colored evening dresses, swaying their hips seductively to the rumba's rhythm. Seeing them all swaying without exception made one wonder if it was under the proprietor's orders. Some moved their hips like Yasugi folk dancers while others had revue girls' sophistication. But ultimately they all reached grotesque extremes. Suddenly he noticed every woman's gaze focused on him. Hyoichi flushed crimson, thinking they'd discerned where his eyes had been looking.

However, the women were looking at him precisely because he was truly peculiar in his own way. He had entered this place with the casual demeanor of someone walking into an eatery. Typically, without exception, men would enter with at least some degree of affectation. Those who deliberately composed a nonchalant expression with feigned solemnity were among the better cases; stepping in rhythm with the record's tempo while taking their seats was commonplace. About six out of ten men would touch their hats or adjust their ties. Groups of friends would either enter while conversing in an affected manner, or when one member spotted a seat beside where a woman stood, the others would follow with stifled snickers. Of those acquainted with the women, four out of ten would arrive while asking, "He ain't come yet?" Four entered silently while glaring at faces. The remaining two would not sit until told, "Please come this way."

Given that things were roughly like this, it was rare for someone like Hyoichi to stroll in without any affectation, as casually as if entering his regular eatery. In truth, even Hyoichi—who was by nature a poseur—had lost the mental resolve to put on airs the moment he entered here. Therefore, he drew considerable attention. Moreover, he was handsome. In other words, to put it in their terms, he was rather peculiar.

A narrow-eyed woman with thinly drawn eyebrows approached Hyoichi’s table,

“Your button’s come off,” she said, touching Hyoichi’s jacket. She too would not have acted so familiarly had Hyoichi not been blushing. Generally, young and handsome men had pale faces and fixed their gaze intently. In other words, they were somewhat avoided as appearing thuggish. Hyoichi was startled and looked at his jacket. Both buttons had come off. He remembered tearing off one button on Ebisubashi Bridge and throwing it away, but he had no idea where the other one had come off.

“You should have your girlfriend fix it for you. You look ridiculous.” Her eyes practically said “I’ll fix it for you,” but Hyoichi wasn’t streetwise enough to read such looks. What girlfriend? He swallowed back the words that had nearly escaped his lips—the thought of Kiyoko had fleetingly crossed his mind. The fact that he had no girlfriend now struck him as somehow shameful. Moreover, his missing buttons gave him the air of an unemployed person. For one thing, those gaping buttonholes on his jacket stood out conspicuously—clear proof he wasn’t even wearing an overcoat in this bitter cold!

(Alright, I'll make this woman my girlfriend) He abruptly resolved to do just that. Being told he looked ridiculous was unbearable. And she was even using Tokyo dialect!

"Why did it come off?" The woman kept touching his jacket. The scent of perfume struck his nostrils. Hyoichi grimaced.

(Going through my clothes like a pawnshop clerk...) Hyoichi’s resolve hardened even further. He bitterly recalled being sent to the pawnshop every day in the past. Then one humiliating memory after another came flooding into his mind—all those wretched incidents from before. (How amusing—that someone as pathetic as me could flaunt this woman as my girlfriend right under everyone’s noses.)

Even as compensation for not being able to strike Kiyoko's face, this felt sufficiently worthwhile—Hyoichi's chest burned with emotion. But what exactly did it mean to parade her as his girlfriend before everyone's eyes? He couldn't grasp it. Suddenly, a shamelessly bold idea came to him, one that would make his face flush crimson. Yet he couldn't bring himself to act on it. Worse still, when he tried to speak, his body began locking up. This won't do! he thought. Alright—I'll grab this woman's hand before I finish counting to a hundred! The very distinction between grabbing and merely taking hold epitomized Hyoichi.

“Hey? Where’s your home?” Hyoichi did not respond. Because he had started counting—one, two—and so on. (Five, six... ten, fifteen... twenty...) Suddenly, a ball made from rolled-up silver paper from a cigarette pack came flying and struck Hyoichi’s shoulder.

(Twenty-seven, twenty-eight... Who was it? Twenty-nine, thirty...) Hyoichi glared suspiciously around the room. His eyes met a young man's. Glaring back reflexively, Hyoichi— (That guy seems interested in this woman), he thought. The man too fixed his gaze intently, glaring back. The woman quickly noticed their exchange and, “Cut it out,” “He’s trouble,” she whispered near Hyoichi’s ear.

When he heard "delinquent," Hyoichi's eyes grew even fiercer. He glared so intensely that tears threatened to spill; flustered, he rubbed his eyes and glared back again.

(Alright, I'll grab this woman's hand right in front of that man! Then I'll leap at that man! Oh—I'd forgotten to keep counting. I'll jump straight to fifty... Fifty-one, fifty-two...)

Hyoichi’s face grew increasingly ashen. In time with the rumba’s fast tempo, his counting sped up. (Count to a hundred—if you can’t do this, you’re finished!) You’ll spend your whole life being despised by others. Can you live with that? Your mother was humiliated!)

When he realized there was no retreating, Hyoichi gradually grew breathless. The man who had thrown the silver paper looked ready to leap at him any moment. (Sixty-two, sixty-three… sixty-seven, sixty-eight…) Hyoichi listened fiercely to the pounding in his chest. He had never once held a woman’s hand in his life.

“Seventy, seventy-one, seventy-two… seventy-five…”

When he thought about the time he had been rejected, his courage gradually began to wane. Suddenly, Hyoichi began counting aloud.

“Seventy-six, seventy-seven, seventy-eight…”

The woman was utterly dumbfounded. Is this person a lunatic? Hyoichi didn't so much as glance at the woman's face anymore. He was just glaring fixedly at the man's face.

“Seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one,……” The rumba’s noise was nearly drowning out Hyoichi’s voice. Yet Hyoichi’s bright red ears continued grappling with his own voice.

“Eighty-one, eighty-two, eighty-three……” “Welcome!” “One coffee.” “Thank you very much.” “Tea one.”

Amidst the clamor, Hyoichi’s voice trembled eerily.

“Eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six……”

In the thick haze of cigarette smoke stained crimson by the colored bulbs' light, Hyoichi's eyes shone white.

“Eighty-seven, eighty-eight, eighty-nine…”

Part Two: The Paradox of Youth

Chapter 1 1

1 “…Ninety, ninety-one, ninety-two, ninety-three…” Raising his voice like a roll call, Hyoichi continued counting.

Hyoichi was trembling. Even his voice trembled. The usual Hyoichi would have found such a self unforgivable. Under no circumstances must his voice ever tremble again. That was Hyoichi’s rule. To display an excited state beyond one’s control was something he had long ago deemed a disgrace. To begin with, even speaking aloud in this situation was impermissible. The idea of grabbing a woman’s hand while counting to a hundred wasn’t particularly wise, but be that as it may, if one was going to count numbers, they should have done so silently. To voice aloud in such an animalistically disgraceful manner was bad enough, but for that voice to tremble on top of it was utterly unthinkable.

However, Hyoichi, being so utterly absorbed, had no capacity left to notice such things. Not even a speck of calmness remained - the kind you might scoop with an earpick. He was so agitated that he had passed beyond fearing agitation itself. "...Ninety-four, ninety-five..." Still, he was making an unpleasant voice.

“…Ninety-six, ninety-seven…” The thought that three more would make a hundred left him feeling wretched rather than triumphant. At a hundred, he would have to seize the woman’s hand. Faced with this agony worse than death, he almost wished he could endure a hundred job losses instead. To begin with, Hyoichi had never held any woman’s hand before—a man who grew flustered even shaking hands with male friends. That he now meant to abruptly grab the hand of a complete stranger made the act reckless beyond measure. His seated position compounded the difficulty—she stood upright behind the counter. No shadows offered concealment for stealthy contact. The deed must unfold before watching eyes. Even amidst commotion, at least two pairs of eyes would surely catch his movement—those challengingly glaring eyes belonging to the man who had earlier crumpled cigarette foil into a ball. Yet greater than this fear loomed the terror of rejection—should the woman recoil from his touch.

If she were to flee with a “Creep!”, he would first have to be tormented for some time by the pain of his wounded self-esteem. No—if she simply ran away, that would still be preferable. “Eek!”—if she were to let out such a scream, he wouldn’t know where to look. Moreover, that possibility seemed utterly limitless. The woman wasn’t showing any particular favor toward him, Hyoichi had thought. Not only that—there were even indications she might be looking down on him. A man who sneaked into a café so unlike himself on a winter day without even an overcoat—such a man surely deserved nothing but contempt! Moreover, the woman spoke in a crisp Tokyo dialect.

That was precisely why it would be worth grabbing—Hyoichi now deeply regretted having come up with such a strange idea. But he was in too deep now. If he couldn’t carry this out, he might as well be dead—Hyoichi steeled himself by whipping his faltering heart into action. Naturally, his voice escaped him.

“…Ninety-eight…” Two more left. “Trying to sneakily grab her hand under the pretense of reading her palm won’t work,” Hyoichi instantly told himself. “…Ninety-nine…” There was no such thing as ninety-nine point five. He became drenched in sweat. One second elapsed.

“One hundred!” Hyoichi frantically reached out his hand. And grabbed the woman’s hand. The hand tried to pull back. Hyoichi panicked and tightened his grip. The woman’s palm felt rough against her delicate face. Yet it still held the warmth of youth. In that instant, Hyoichi registered both sensations. Her hand suddenly tensed. He felt that too. But Hyoichi avoided looking at her face. Had he seen it, he would have recoiled— for she wore a thoroughly blank expression of shock. This too was Hyoichi’s doing. Grabbing abruptly was one thing, but his grip held neither finesse nor restraint— more seizure than touch. Even drunks show more regard when handling women. At least they don’t make bones crack on contact. Yet Hyoichi reveled in triumph. (I’ve claimed this woman before everyone’s eyes!)

Once he had fulfilled his obligation, Hyoichi abruptly released the woman’s hand that was no longer needed. It was a trivial matter, but for Hyoichi, the desire to possess a woman could be satisfied by something as simple as this. For a twenty-year-old, he might have shown too little desire. Having fulfilled the obligation of holding her hand, there remained no further business—they would likely never meet again—all with an insect-like abruptness. Of course, had Hyoichi seen the woman’s face then, he might have thought some duty still remained. The woman’s face had puffed out in a sulk. Because Hyoichi had released her hand too abruptly, she believed herself mocked. Seeing such displeasure—typical of him—he would have concluded she disliked him and resolved to grab her hand again. Yet by sheer luck, Hyoichi avoided such futility.

Because the man who had thrown the silver paper ball suddenly approached his side. Before the man’s hand could push her away, the woman had already moved back from beside him. At that moment, as if deliberately timed, the rumba music ceased. There was a brief pause before changing the record.

“This here’s my first meetin’ with you today...” Sure enough, he launched into an affected display of gangster etiquette. His voice carried a nasal affectation. “...Though I’m but a young punk squatting three inches under your roof, I’ll pay my ‘humble’ respects proper-like...” The man rattled on in an unfamiliar cadence, but as the electric phonograph whirred back to life, his words dissolved into the music. The song was *Akai Tsubasa*. Hyoichi felt an unexpected satisfaction at his own composure.

“Get outside!” The man spoke in an awkwardly affected Osaka accent. He didn’t miss this. To fail to hear it would mean disgrace. Hyoichi grabbed the receipts and stood up.

After paying the bill and stepping outside, the man was waiting there, sniffling repeatedly. He likely had sinusitis.

("What a pathetic excuse for a thug") Hyoichi felt like mocking the man.

The man folded the tissue he’d used to blow his nose into a small square and tucked it into his sleeve pocket. Sniffing repeatedly, he said, “Come with me.” Hyoichi silently nodded. The man started walking down Midosuji toward Namba. The man’s appearance—a casual kimono draped loosely over an intricately patterned soft sash tied at his waist—made him look every bit a shabby-looking thug, but each time he took a step, the sash’s knot swayed over his rear, and seeing this from behind, Hyoichi suddenly found it absurdly comical. His rear was as large as a woman’s.

He turned off Midosuji and headed toward Nankaidori. Walking in silence, Hyoichi found it vexing that his feelings showed not the slightest hint of aggression. The man turned around. And, “Get over here!” he barked.

They entered the narrow alley leading to the manzai theater on Nankaidori. The alley was so narrow that two people couldn’t walk side by side. When they came around to the back of the Yayoi-za theater, the man stopped. And blew his nose. When he was done, he said in a gratingly persistent tone. “Oi! “You followed me without even trying to run away.” “Got some balls on ya!” “Is that so.” Hyoichi spoke like a forty-year-old man. The man paused to think, “Don’t know if you’re brave or stupid, but pull any more smartass moves and you’re done for!” “Listen up—think you’re some hotshot messin’ with another man’s girl? Who d’ya think I am? Dotonbori no Katsu ain’t some half-assed playboy punk like you!” “Well? Whatcha gonna do? Show your face!”

However, there was a brief interval before Katsu of Dotonbori’s fist came flying. Because of this delay, Hyoichi had grown thoroughly impatient, so when the man’s fist finally came flying, he might as well have been waiting for it.

“I’ve been waiting for this!”

The moment the curtain rose on the revue "The Willow of Ginza" at Yayoi-za Theater, a shrill cry erupted from the second-floor seats.

“Go, Higashi Ginko!”

Those unaware might have thought that Higashi Ginko was the lead dancer who had slipped forward alone on stage and was performing the Charleston. But in reality, the flat-chested girl listlessly raising her slender legs amidst the many dancers in the corner of the back row was Higashi Ginko.

“Hang in there, Gin!” Looking up toward the voice, Ginko—Oh, it’s Mr. Kitayama—moved the hand resting on her waist and suddenly felt tears threatening to fall. When had he slipped in? The one calling Ginko’s name repeatedly from the second-floor seats was Kitayama from the literary club. A common occurrence among dubious revue troupes of the Showa... era—in that particular troupe, the Piero Girls, most dancers would be made into women the moment they joined. Each time this happened, Kitayama of the literary club would claim to feel a sense of pathos and drink himself into a stupor.

Higashi Ginko was seventeen years old. When she had joined the troupe a month prior, Kitayama, seeing her boyish chest, addressed all the male actors—

“Don’t lay a hand on this girl!” he growled in an uncharacteristically threatening tone. “So what’re you gettin’ at, Boss Baccus—plannin’ to gnaw raw daikon with your awamori?” Kitayama wasn’t addressed as “sensei,” but went by “Boss Baccus.” Though only in his mid-thirties, the denki bran from his Asakusa days and the awamori after he’d drifted to Sennichimae had left him completely bald, giving him the wizened look of an old man.

“You damn fools! The stench of piss in this shack is more than enough for me!” That being said, however, when the rumor soon arose that “Old Man Kitayama was harboring Platonic love for Higashi Ginko,” Kitayama himself made no effort to deny it. He had come to feel that allowing people to think this way was better for protecting Ginko—in other words, even Kitayama had gradually reached a point where he found himself unable to deny the rumors. Every night when the shack closed, he took Ginko to Kimuraya Café on Nankaidori. Ginko,

“I don’t like Mr. Kitayama because he drinks alcohol.”

[It] left Kitayama crestfallen. Rumor had it that Kitayama—a man of upright conduct who had never done such a thing with any actress before—had, driven to his limit during stage rehearsals, deliberately taken Ginko backstage and kept his hand resting on her head for a long time. It is said that Ginko had been quite resistant. Kitayama was thoroughly disgraced. However, thanks to such rumors and also thanks to him never taking his eyes off Ginko’s side, she had somehow managed to get through this month unharmed.

However, during last night’s all-night stage rehearsal, Kitayama had unfortunately been waylaid by awamori and collapsed in the precincts of Konpira Shrine at Sennichimae. In that gap, Ginko had been made a woman by someone. Upon learning this, Kitayama, in a fit of reckless despair, drank himself into a stupor with hangover-curing liquor from daybreak, then staggered into the second-floor seats and began repeatedly bellowing Ginko’s name. While raising her legs up to her head, Ginko felt her body shrinking.

“Gin, hang in there, hang in there!” Kitayama stood up and began dancing with eerie gestures that mirrored Ginko’s movements. A burst of laughter erupted. The spectators became more engrossed in the second-floor diversion than the stage performance. Dancing to jazz, drowning in liqueur, At dawn comes a dancer’s rain of tears.

Kitayama began singing in a hoarse voice. The dancers started giggling. But Ginko couldn't laugh. When the dance ended, Ginko rushed backstage and slumped dejectedly by the window. She didn't even feel like changing into the next act's costume. Pressing her face—too numb for tears—against the glass,

“Gin, what are you doing?” The dancer who had approached suddenly looked at the roadside and said,“Oh my,s omeone’s collapsed.” “Gin,l ook at this!” Ginko suddenly let out a childlike cry, “Everyone,c ome take al ook! “Someone’s collapsed!”

They swarmed noisily toward the window. "Seriously... Was it a fight?" Hyoichi stood up dejectedly and slunk off down the roadside. Katsu of Dotonbori had long since vanished.

II

Under the dim electric light, Okimi was sewing dressmaking orders. The clatter of trams ascending Shimoderamachi's slope and geta clacking past outside cut through the air with frozen sharpness, making it seem night had suddenly grown late. Threading her needle, Okimi thought about Hyoichi's lateness. There had been nights he returned late from work, but never this late. Though not deeply worried, hearing distant dog howls made her imagine the cold outside. Because Yasujiro was stingy, he'd only put a meager amount of charcoal in the brazier, yet somehow the house still held residual warmth.

Yasujiro hunched his back into a stoop and clicked his abacus incessantly. Nothing compared to the pleasure he found in working those beads. But when calculating principal and interest on loans to his own wife, the thrill verged on ecstasy. He remained oblivious to night's deepening. Yet after repeated calculations, Yasujiro gasped and stiffened. Through honest accounting—having siphoned not only Okimi's sewing income but portions of Hyoichi's monthly salary—he'd already taken more than owed. Yasujiro panicked. Taking further payments would constitute illegal gains. Though he'd imposed shamefully high rates himself, their full repayment left him aghast. How regrettable! He doubted his math. Tentatively recalculating. Same result. Whether legal or not, deception became his only recourse. Yet while Okimi might be fooled, Hyoichi's eyes stayed maddeningly sharp.

“It’s gotten terribly cold, hasn’t it? Shall I add more charcoal?” Okimi said. “What’re you on about? What a waste. You know how much a bale of charcoal costs these days?” Yasujiro suffered from hemorrhoids, so he used an electric floor cushion. The electricity cost for that was no small amount. It felt like a burning pain in his backside. When he thought of that, how could he carelessly use such expensive charcoal that would only end up as ash? (When it’s cold, she goes overboard adding charcoal, and when it’s hot, she splashes around wastefully with her ablutions—this woman’s extravagance is downright troublesome.)

When performing her ablutions, Okimi still splashed water over herself many times. As water cascaded against her steam-rising white body, her taut limbs standing erect—Yasujiro would often gaze in rapture at this alluring sight, yet the thought of water being consumed still pained his heart. Water was one thing, but charcoal might as well have been banknotes set aflame. The faint glow of warmth from Okimi’s skin alone consoled Yasujiro’s sorrowful heart. This was how he endured midwinter without a kotatsu. Advanced age left his feet prickling with cold, but wearing tabi socks to bed made it bearable.

(But that brat’s using the kotatsu so extravagantly despite his young age—) Yasujiro suddenly found himself recalling Hyoichi out of nowhere. (Even if it’s just charcoal briquette money, I won’t be made a fool of!) As he mentally calculated how much it would amount to per month and realized it was indeed no trivial sum, a brilliant idea suddenly flashed into Yasujiro’s head. He would make Hyoichi pay for the charcoal briquettes. Yasujiro cursed his own carelessness—what in the world had he been doing, obsessing only over the money spent until now while failing to think of making him pay "actual expenses"?

Yasujiro pulled out the abacus again. First, he entered the charcoal briquette cost of several tens of sen. Without a moment’s pause, he added the water bill of several tens of sen, then the electricity bill of several yen and tens of sen... Yasujiro smirked. There was no shortage of actual expenses to collect. Food expenses of so many yen and so many sen, room rent of so many yen and so many sen—starting this month, he would make Hyoichi pay the total of such-and-such yen and such-and-such sen, and the abacus beads clattered with vigor. The amount was so exorbitant that even he himself was dazzled by it—Yasujiro found it utterly regrettable to start collecting from this month. After much deliberation, he concluded he should instead demand reimbursement for child-rearing expenses dating back to Hyoichi’s youth. However, even Yasujiro thought this was excessively cruel. He decided to concede by taking only the portion accrued since Hyoichi began receiving his salary, ultimately resolving to "come to an agreement" on those terms. It was a small measure of consideration. In exchange, he decided to add interest to the amount accrued thus far.

Yasujiro was so overcome with delight that he was beside himself,

“Okimi!” he blurted out, involuntarily calling his wife’s name. However, since there was nothing particular he needed to say anew, he quickly thought of an errand to assign her. “Did you unplug the electric floor cushion’s cord?” If he stood up to unplug it himself, he would have to separate his buttocks from the cushion’s warmth during that time. That would be wasteful. “That’s fine.” Okimi stood up and unplugged the cord. The cushion’s warmth gradually faded away. When it had turned completely cold, Yasujiro finally lifted his hips. The instant he did, his hemorrhoid pain flared.

“Ah, ow, ow, ah, oww!”

With his buttocks thrust out in a musty half-crouch, Yasujiro walked toward the bedding while—

("No matter what anyone says, I'll make sure to get that boarding fee from Hyoichi,") he vowed through clenched teeth. "I won't let anyone say I ain't got the right to take it! That's it. I'm his parent. ("A parent's got every right there is, ain't they?") Yasujiro had until now considered Hyoichi solely as a debtor; it turned out he'd carelessly overlooked the fact that Hyoichi was actually his son. (A parent takin' their son's earnings—that's only natural, ain't it? Ah, ow, ow! He's a full-fledged salaried worker now, ain't he? So he's obliged to pay boardin' fees to his father. That much even he oughta know, ain't it? (He went all the way through high school, and if he don't even know that, then their educational policy must be rotten to the core, ain't it?))

Yasujiro beamed with fatherly pride at Hyoichi now being a full-fledged salaried worker. Just then, dejected footsteps sounded outside, and Hyoichi, who had just lost his job that day, came home. Overwhelmed by the humiliation of being knocked down by Katsu in Dotonbori, he wandered aimlessly through the late-night streets; it was already nearly twelve o'clock. Hyoichi saw Yasujiro in his nightclothes and suddenly felt his chest constrict. The sight of his mother folding Yasujiro’s kimono was painful to watch.

“What’s wrong? You were awfully late, weren’t you?” Okimi said, but Hyoichi offered no reply and swept upstairs. Of course, he didn’t offer a single greeting to Yasujiro either. Okimi felt a sudden pang of helplessness toward Hyoichi—as though she had found no foothold for her concern—but she did not dwell on it, simply thinking What a quiet boy you’ve become before letting it go. However, seeing Hyoichi’s chilled-looking retreating figure, (I’ll have to buy him an overcoat)

Okimi now slightly regretted having obediently handed over her sewing earnings to Yasujiro as instructed these past days. (I'll have to secretly save up money) Swirling beautiful eyes behind long eyelashes, she pictured one-yen bills and fifty-sen coins she ought to hide in the sewing box's drawer. (How much does an overcoat cost?) However, because Yasujiro called out to her, Okimi had to abandon that line of thought. And then the kotatsu turned white.

Hyoichi was letting out a long yawn on the second floor. Finding himself pitiable as he vacantly exhaled this spiritless yawn, he roughly tore off his Western clothes. Then he burrowed into the futon. The kotatsu had been placed inside. A sudden warmth traveled from his feet to his eyes. At that instant, regret began smoldering through him for having offered not a single word in reply to his mother. The excuse that he'd kept silent deliberately to avoid appearing pathetic in unemployment now rang hollow. In truth, he'd simply felt no desire to speak—for no particular reason at all. This wasn't something that had started today. For some time now, Hyoichi had made a point of not speaking to his mother whenever Yasujiro was present. Though he secretly regretted having formed this habit, there was nothing he could do about it. Each time it happened, he'd think I've done something unforgivable—unforgivable—but never before had it gripped his chest so tightly as tonight. Was his resolve weakening? Tears pooled stiflingly in Hyoichi's nose.

Reflecting on it now, Hyoichi that day had truly been wretched enough to make him weep. Yet even so, secretly shedding tears went against his usual disciplined principles - it felt shamefully slovenly. Such weakness of spirit was something he should never have allowed himself from the start. But the moment he saw his mother's face, even Hyoichi found every shred of his resolve vanishing completely, his unemployment stinging like a needle thrust through his flesh. What had seemed like defiant liberation to both himself and others that morning now suddenly felt wretched beyond measure.

When he thought that his mother had prepared it, the kotatsu’s warmth felt so painfully intense that Hyoichi involuntarily—

“I’ve done something terrible... I’ve lost my job... I’m so terribly sorry,” he muttered under his breath. Utterly disheartened and certain no one was watching, Hyoichi let his tears flow with reckless abandon until his remorse took on an animalistic quality and he began banging his head against the floorboards. Yet this very motion suddenly made him recall being knocked down by Katsu in Dotonbori. Then—for the first time—Hyoichi grew resolute. When he hastily wiped away his tears, his face twisted into a ferocious expression as he remembered his own pitiful figure collapsed in the back alley behind Yayoi Theater.

In the morning，Yasujiro waited for Hyoichi to wake up and come.

“Hey, Hyoichi.” He had initiated the conversation himself—unusually.

“So, uh…”

There was no need to transcribe what followed. Hyoichi’s response had been brutally simple. “Very well. Take whatever you want. If you insist, I’ll even send you an invoice at month’s end.” His voice trembled despite himself. But coining that apt word “invoice” steadied his frayed nerves. Yasujiro nearly leapt for joy at hearing “invoice.” He’d never imagined settling things so smoothly—the very ease of it made him vaguely uneasy.

When the "business discussion" concluded, Hyoichi left the house briskly wearing his usual mask of heading to Tatami Newspaper Company for work. Yet when evening came and Hyoichi returned home, he remained precisely the same unemployed man he had been the day before.

3

A cold wind swept across the frozen road. Hunched against the cold in dejected posture, Hyoichi wandered through the streets, vainly searching for employment. From the perspective of Showa 16 [1941] sensibilities, this might seem unimaginable, but at that time it was truly an age of unemployment—so much so that university-educated young men driven to hardship would open wastepaper shops, their plights documented in newspaper photographs. For instance, one day,

"Society Section Trainee Reporter Wanted: One Position," "Applicants must bring resumes to main office reception by 9 a.m. today. Pencils required. [Toyo Shimpo]" On the morning such a three-line ad appeared in the paper, when Hyoichi arrived at Toyo Shimpo's red brick building in Kita-Hama Third District an hour early, he found what looked like a crowd gathered for some calamity already forming a line stretching an entire block. Though they were hiring just one person - what was this mob of unemployed men doing here? Before Hyoichi could properly contemplate this social reality as something that concerned him personally, he already felt the shame and humiliation of joining such a queue. He seriously considered turning back, but if he let this opportunity pass, there would probably be no other job openings for the foreseeable future. Seizing the chaotic moment, he dejectedly took his place at the end of the line.

Made to wait meaninglessly, the line didn’t budge for about an hour. Unable to endure the cold and anxiety, people kept stamping their feet. After nine o'clock came and went, it finally began moving at a crawl that forced them to shuffle-step. According to "intelligence" passed forward from those ahead, they were apparently first having their resumes checked one by one—only those who passed this screening would immediately take a written exam. Some spread word that applicants with education at or below middle school graduation level would get rejected outright. _Then I guess I really should've finished middle school after all,_ Hyoichi muttered with no particular conviction.

Those remaining for the written exam numbered about a hundred. Hyoichi was also one of them. When they were herded into the third-floor auditorium, Hyoichi deliberately took a seat in the rearmost row near the exit. When he grew fed up, this preparation to bolt mid-exam was quite well-considered—a strategic move indeed. After taking his seat, he had been made to wait for half an hour. Hyoichi grew increasingly irritated. *They’re bound to ask something like how many steps were on the staircase we just climbed.* Having already given up entirely on the exam’s outcome beforehand, Hyoichi—in his irritation—found himself thinking such things and grew even more aggravated. Maybe I should write "just the number of steps" as my answer. Though given there were sections where we’d taken two steps at a time, expecting precise accuracy might be futile—or would it? (Tsk, tsk, tsk!) That gave him some small comfort.

Before long, a tall, thin man entered while tousling his long hair and stood on the platform.

“I’m terribly sorry for keeping you waiting.” “Well, you see—the man in charge of today’s written exam has suddenly vanished. We thought perhaps he’d gone out for tea or something and have been searching all likely spots, but we’re completely at a loss as to where he’s run off. So for now, I’ll be standing in as his replacement.” Laughter erupted but quickly died down. “Well, that being the case, we’ve kept you waiting so long—we deeply apologize.”

At that moment, the attendant hurried in and whispered something to the man on the platform. “Well—it seems we’ve just received a call from that man. It appears he went out for a meal at a very time-consuming establishment and won’t be able to return anytime soon, so he’s asking someone to take over for him. In any case, there’s no difference if I’m the one substituting.” Hyoichi briefly considered whether he ought to be angered by this absurd “speech.” However, since the impression of that man squinting behind glasses that threatened to slip off wasn’t particularly bad, Hyoichi didn’t go out of his way to leave his seat.

“The attendant will now distribute the exam questions.” “Please write your answers in the blank space.” “There is no time limit.” “However, if it takes until evening, I will be greatly inconvenienced.” “When you’ve finished your answer sheets, please bring them here.” “And then you may go home—that’s perfectly acceptable.” “The results will be announced later—” He started to say, then shouted loudly, “Hey, that’s right, isn’t it?” and asked the attendant. The attendant nodded. “—The results will be notified at a later date.” “And... uh... feel free to smoke.”

Hyoichi was smoking his third cigarette.

The exam papers were distributed.

1. Essay: "On the Mission of Newspapers" 2. Explain the following terms. Lumpen Chamber music A la mode Platon Those were the questions. The sound of exam papers being turned sideways to read the Western script rustled softly. The man who had been endlessly sharpening his pencil in the seat next to Hyoichi stared at the questions for a while, then abruptly stood up, “You’d do better going home. “They’re only taking one person anyway—no sense sitting through a test you can’t pass.” He said this just loud enough for Hyoichi to hear before slipping out furtively. Then, as if taking their cue, three others followed suit and left.

Hyoichi found himself fixated on staying to write his answers. He somehow felt he owed an apology to those who had left. But leaving now would risk being seen as incapable by that departing man, so he forced himself to remain seated. As he wrote, the faces of Kagiya’s Okoma, Kiyoko, and the café girl unexpectedly surfaced in his mind with saccharine clarity. The lecture hall’s air felt thick enough to choke him. Unable to endure another moment of stillness, Hyoichi scrawled his answers like a bolting horse and thrust them forward almost immediately. Naturally, he didn’t review a word. Even if they hired one candidate from two, he’d already resigned himself to rejection—his journalist aspirations thoroughly abandoned. Yet this very haste would prove Hyoichi’s unlikely salvation.

It was quite unfortunate for the exam proctor on the platform who had patiently waited until all submissions were in, but according to the Editor-in-Chief’s policy, only the first ten answer sheets submitted were to be graded—this had been decided in advance. Those submitted afterward were bundled up and tossed into the wastebasket. No matter how well-written an answer might be, anyone who took too long to write it was disqualified as a newspaper reporter—such was the Editor-in-Chief’s opinion. The foremost qualification for a newspaper reporter was writing quickly; those who sullenly obsessed over their prose or were slowpokes were deemed unfit—that was the reasoning.

Now, the majority of those ten answer sheets were poorly done. The Editor-in-Chief kept bursting into laughter as he checked the papers. The Deputy Editor-in-Chief was specially summoned to his office. "Here's a masterpiece—get a load of this! They translated 'Lumpen' as 'alloy pen' here!" "They must've racked their brains over that one."

“Here’s another one from the same guy. He’s claiming ‘Platon’ is the name of an ink here, see?” “The part where he worked in stationery terms is rather elaborate. Any more masterpieces—?” “They’re equating chamber music with mahjong here.” “Now that’s clever. Well, if it’s mahjong, that certainly does make noise indoors.” “They must’ve thought it meant indoor entertainment.” “There must be a gem in ‘A la mode’ too, right?” “There sure is. There’s something called a menu here. Oh right—what do you make of this one? ‘Mōde’s Prayer’—how about this?”

“It’s a waste to make him a newspaper reporter.” “We should’ve had Yoshimoto Kogyo take him in instead.”

In the end, Hyoichi's exam answers proved superior. For example, he wrote: "Lumpen derives from German meaning 'scraps' or 'rags,' now signifying wanderers swarming in society's lowest depths. In Japan it denotes the unemployed. But since Lumpen properly applies to those lacking work motivation, these unemployed gathered in our lecture hall aren't Lumpen"—an answer so impressive even the Editor-in-Chief couldn't have composed it. It also revealed ironic wit. His submission had been first. An interview notice arrived at Hyoichi's by express delivery that very day.

IV

Hyoichi had no confidence whatsoever in the impression he made on others, so even when the interview notice arrived, he couldn't bring himself to celebrate wholeheartedly. He despaired at the thought that his demeanor during the interview might cost him the position. This self-awareness marked him as someone who knew his own nature. In truth, during his school days, the professors had unanimously criticized Hyoichi for his "insolent attitude." Yet in his own defense, he didn't recall ever personally showing disrespect toward any professor. Rather, it was the classroom itself he despised. He had dropped out midway through his studies without a trace of regret. Ultimately, this amounted to "scorning our school's glorious traditions." Still, for a certain professor to exclaim "Mouri Hyoichi is making a fool of me!" seemed—if one were to phrase it thus—all too characteristic of Hyoichi himself, and perhaps rather unbecoming of an adult. Hyoichi had simply lacked proper deference. His refusal to flatter others only magnified his apparent insolence.

However, while banks and trading companies might demand such courtesy, in a newspaper office, a courteous attitude was hardly necessary. At least, it wasn't necessary for reporters in the Social Affairs Department on field assignments. To be sure, those eyeing favorable positions within the company would do well to remain thoroughly deferential before the Editor-in-Chief, but such considerations were irrelevant to a new trainee reporter. How he would bow his head when coming for the interview—such matters were not at all on the Editor-in-Chief's mind.

“What a lively one!”—but that didn’t matter. If anything, this spiritedness made him ideal reporter material. Watching Hyoichi’s eyes that restlessly darted about with nervous energy, the Editor-in-Chief took an immediate liking to him. This one’s got sharp instincts, he thought. Wouldn’t hurt if he stirred up some trouble with the office typist either. That handsome face could prove useful. “So what kinda work you aiming to take on? Spit it out. How’s café rounds sound? Or maybe dance halls?” This was a paper that had built its readership on café reviews and dance hall gossip. But Hyoichi’s response left the Editor-in-Chief thoroughly deflated.

“Given my nature, I don’t think it’s suitable for me to be out among people too much, so I’d prefer work that can be done within the company as much as possible.” It was an honest statement. “Indoor work?” The Editor-in-Chief pursed his lips in displeasure. “Indoor positions are all filled up now. If you want proofreading, there’s one vacancy—” At “proofreading,” Hyoichi shuddered. The hardship of proofreading he’d endured daily for two years at Tatami Newspaper came rushing back. Hyoichi said in a panic.

"I'll take fieldwork then." “I see.” “Then give it your best shot.—Well then, you can go on home today.” “Come by tomorrow at nine sharp.” “Since everyone’s out right now, I’ll introduce you to them all tomorrow.”

Hyoichi was startled. In truth, the interview had been scheduled for nine o'clock, but due to his usual habit, he had arrived over an hour late. Hyoichi felt goodwill toward the Editor-in-Chief who hadn't reprimanded him at all about it.

“I'll come tomorrow then.” “Nine o’clock, right?” “That’s right.”

The moment he left the chief’s office, Hyoichi was greeted with a “Hey.” He was the man who had given that peculiar speech on the platform during the written exam. “Did you get hired?”

“Uh-huh.”

“You don’t have any plans today, do you?” “Uh-huh.” “Even if you do, it doesn’t matter.” “Let’s go for tea.” The man briskly descended the stairs. Hyoichi also followed from behind.

At the front of the company, a man stood gazing up at the sky. "How's the weather today?" The man accompanying Hyoichi called out.

“Well, snow, I guess.” The man who had been staring at the sky said. “Will it snow?” “It won’t snow.” When they settled into a café near the company, the man continued, “That’s the Sales Department Head. Claims to be a weather prophet, though he’s not entirely useless. Every day he stares at the sky to decide our print run—that’s his whole job. Rain cuts street sales by thirty percent—gives even him headaches. Snow?” He tapped his chin. “Snow’d slash forty percent.—You got an umbrella?” He muttered to himself, “...Need an umbrella.” Then abruptly asked, “What’ll you drink?”

“Coffee will be fine.” “Don’t hold back—it’s not like I’m making you pay or anything.” He smirked and ordered, “Hey, two coffees and two toast breads!” When the coffee and bread arrived, the man,

"Dig in." As Hyoichi sat dumbfounded sipping his coffee, the man continued: "Awful stuff, isn't it? Just like the women's faces here." Nearly buckling under the man's forceful manner, Hyoichi deliberately adopted a brazen attitude, boldly scanning the women's faces with an expression that said I see. Then abruptly— "Quit staring like that." The man's voice cut through. Hyoichi flushed crimson before realizing the rebuke wasn't meant for him.

“Hey, Mine-chan, quit staring at my face like that!”

“Well, how rude!” “No need to keep watch. This person’ll pay the bill. We ain’t gonna dine and dash. Not like usual…” Then he turned to Hyoichi. “I’m mighty obliged havin’ you cover this,” he said without a shred of actual remorse, smirking as he stroked his chin—then abruptly demanded, “Lend me money.” The razor-sharp tone—utterly incongruous with his squinting eyes behind slipping glasses—made Hyoichi startle. But ever quick, he shot back, “How much?”

“Fifty sen will do.” However, upon seeing Hyoichi open his wallet, [he said,] “Maybe I’ll have you make it one yen.”

In the end, after taking three yen, the man,

“It’s not because I borrowed money from you, but anyhow, let me properly introduce myself."

"I'm Tsuchikado from the Social Affairs Department." "Written with 'earth' and 'gate'." "The proper reading is Tsuchikado, though people usually call me Domon." "So you see, it's not actually 'Domon' after all." He'd delivered the pun with clumsy insistence. Hyoichi wedged himself into the pauses between Tsuchikado's words,

"I'm Mouri. Pleased to meet you," he interjected softly. "Ah! You're Mr.Mouri?" "I'll pay you back, Mr.Mouri—this money..." "However, within one year..." "Do remind me occasionally." Tsuchikado stated without smiling. Hyoichi bristled at feeling mocked, yet the man gazed at him like an endearing young warrior while remarking, "I've taken to you—your lending manner shows real promise." This only aggravated Hyoichi further. "Truthfully, nothing feels better than having someone cheerfully fork over cash when borrowing." "Even fifty sen handed over with a 'Here you go' carries the worth of ninety-eight yen frittered away in revelry."

“Let’s drop the money talk.” Hyoichi said abruptly. Partly because the image of Yasujiro, who worked as a usurer, had surfaced in his mind.

“Oh, right.” Tsuchikado said plainly, “Well then, let’s talk about work.” “You’re in the Social Affairs Department, right?” “Then you’re the same as me.” “After all, I’ll probably be overseeing your work for the time being—I am, after all, a veteran in the Social Affairs Department.” “I’ve been here longer than the department head.” “In other words, this would mean I lacked the qualifications to become department head—but in truth, I simply had no desire to.” “By the way, I’m treated as deputy department head.” “You’re okay with that?” “When I say ‘treatment’—” “Isn’t this delightful?” “Heh heh heh.” “So then.” “The first thing I need to teach you is to get business cards made.” “A journalist without business cards is either an utter slacker—like yours truly here—or exceptionally skilled. Well, either way, a newspaperman needs his cards.” “That said, it’s not like newspapermen have any right to act all high and mighty.” “Newspapermen can only throw their weight around at fire scenes.” “If you keep that in mind, you can’t go wrong.”

"I think so too." Hyoichi said with a look of satisfaction. "Now that's a fine phenomenon. However, arrogant newspaper reporters are as plentiful as tsukudani stew ingredients. Indeed, if they want to act high and mighty, they certainly can. But there's absolutely no justification for such arrogance. Take the common example - an unemployed newspaperman becomes as wretched as a fish out of water. Which shows your lot could swagger about not through your own—for want of better words—personal merit, but actually through the newspaper backing you. To put it tritely - borrowing authority from the tiger. You see? Ultimately you're misusing the privilege of being a pressman."

The mention of the word "privilege" made Hyoichi completely resonate with Tsuchikado's ideas. However, as Tsuchikado spoke those words, he popped a pimple. No—he pretended to pop it. "My throat’s dry," he said. "Let me have another coffee." When the new coffee arrived, Tsuchikado continued talking. "But anyway—first things first—you need to get business cards made. Even if a pretty-faced man like you rushes to a fire when the alarm bell rings, they won’t let you through without one. They’d think Yaoya Oshichi had disguised herself to meet Yoshizō—my bad, my bad! Don’t look so scary. Well, actually, you do have a cute face. If I had any perverse inclinations, I’d proposition you. Honestly, you’re irritatingly good-looking for a pretty boy. I recall my boyhood days—I was the spitting image of you."

Hyoichi nearly burst out laughing. It wasn’t that Hyoichi considered himself a pretty boy, but faced with such words from Tsuchikado—who could only be described as unattractive—he couldn’t help but be appalled. Tsuchikado continued his grating banter.

“You should be careful.” “A pretty boy like you is dangerous.” “If it’s women chasing you, indulge all you want—but men taking notice? Unbearable. Downright creepy.” “This trend’s faded now, but it thrived back in the day.” “Truth be told—Plato or Socrates, one of those Greeks said it—the male body’s more beautiful than the female.” “Just look at classical sculptures.” “So it’s no wonder aesthetes like our Editor-in-Chief here appreciate that particular taste.” “You watch yourself around him.” “Pure speculation, mind you.” “But that editor reeks of suspicion.” “See, he shows zero interest in women.” “That’s what’s odd.” “Back when the company started—summer it was—the man would dash about in just a loincloth. Strange, eh?” “Outdoors he’d wear proper clothes, but writing articles at the office? Loincloth only.” “Worked like a demon, they say.” “Now there was this secretary—the president’s personal aide.” “Proper beauty she was, from a good family too. Spoke that fancy honorific lingo.” “Married, but when her husband messed with the maid, she walked out—became some trailblazing career woman.” “This Ms. Secretary shared an office with the Editor-in-Chief. Then one day—get this—she up and resigns to the president.” “Guess why?”

“Heh heh.” Tsuchikado laughed happily. “The reason—you see, it’s that. “Heh heh heh….” “Could you do something about the Editor-in-Chief’s loincloth—? Not that she would’ve put it that way, but anyway, she more or less hinted around that meaning to the President.” Even the President was at a loss and ultimately summoned the Editor-in-Chief, declaring: “You—the loincloth is a problem. “Could you at least wear one that doesn’t get dirty?” “—Ahahaha!” Tsuchikado was practically rolling around. “So that settled the matter, but given how he could nonchalantly sit there in a dirty loincloth in front of that beautiful secretary, don’t you think it’s safe to assume the guy has absolutely no interest in women? “If he had even the slightest interest in women, he would’ve at least worn underwear. “Well, putting it that way—if he has no interest in women, what’s left is pretty boys. “How about it—my reasoning…? “Doesn’t it hold together reasonably well? “So you’d better watch yourself around the Editor-in-Chief. Hey, I’m counting on you here. Heh, heh, heh.” Tsuchikado laughed, gnashing the foam at his mouth.

Generally speaking, it was probably safe to assume that men with disordered speech—those who mixed standard language with Osaka dialect—lacked soundness of mind, and a man like Tsuchikado was a prime example of this. Not only was Tsuchikado’s speech disordered, but his manner of speaking oscillated between seeming serious and unserious—in other words, he was utterly frivolous, exuding a thick air of decadence.

Men of this sort tended to infuriate earnest types, but since Hyoichi wasn’t perceived as being nearly as serious as he imagined himself to be, though he felt somewhat mocked, he never quite reached the point of full-blown anger. Moreover, the way Osaka dialect would suddenly pop out in the most unexpected places revealed a surprisingly unpretentious side to Tsuchikado’s demeanor that he found somewhat appealing.

Another reason was that Hyoichi had become so completely preoccupied with Tsuchikado’s cigarette-smoking mannerisms that he had no room left to feel angry. Tsuchikado’s way of smoking was astoundingly fast. After hurriedly smoking about a third of a cigarette, he would already be lighting a new one. This left no time for rest. Seeming impatient with lighting matches, he transferred the ember from cigarette to cigarette. At the speed with which he polished off an entire pack in the blink of an eye, Hyoichi—who could barely finish a pack in an entire day—could only stare in astonishment. However, what had drawn Hyoichi’s attention wasn’t limited to that alone. Upon closer inspection, Tsuchikado would invariably drench the tip of his cigarette. Then he would frantically rub the wet part with his hand. In the end, he would tear off that portion and spit out the tobacco leaves with a ptui, ptui. Then, as if he had grown tired of smoking it, he would take out a new cigarette with his tar-stained fingertips and transfer the flame. Unbefitting his carefree manner of speaking, a certain irritated impatience manifested in his way of smoking. Upon closer inspection, Tsuchikado, while talking, kept tearing apart the cigarette box. In the blink of an eye, the tabletop became covered in paper scraps. It wasn’t just cigarette boxes he tore apart. Matches, menus—whatever came to hand.

To dismiss both his manner of speaking and his actions as ill-mannered would have been the simplest way to understand it. Yet somehow, Hyoichi found himself sensing something oddly peculiar in Tsuchikado's irritated demeanor. Tsuchikado kept right on talking.

However, given that Tsuchikado's enthusiasm here seemed to be idling away time by skipping work hours, it was best to stop depicting it at this point.

After all, Tsuchikado and Hyoichi were supposed to meet again that night.

“How about it? Feel like keeping me company tonight?” Persuaded by Tsuchikado, Hyoichi found himself unable to refuse. “There’s no escaping a creditor like me!” When he tentatively refused, Tsuchikado shot back. Hyoichi didn’t want to let a man like Tsuchikado see him falter. Even if it meant being dragged to hell together... And anyway, Tsuchikado would never suggest going to heaven. That’s exactly why he refused to back down.

V

That day, Hyoichi was supposed to meet Tsuchikado in front of Yayoi-za Theater at six in the evening.

Hyoichi was standing in front of Yayoi-za Theater a little earlier than the promised time. The winter day hurriedly drew to a close. Even after six o'clock passed, Tsuchikado did not appear. As he stood dejectedly, carefully scanning the commotion of Sennichimae, a chill reminiscent of the wretchedness unique to a new employee washed over him. The Red Ball Moulin Rouge in Dotonbori finally began to spin, dyeing the surrounding sky red. As he vacantly gazed up at the red sky, restless from being kept waiting, a young woman’s body odor suddenly brushed past his nose. Three revue girls passed by Hyoichi, who stood there dumbly. Watching the retreating figures enter Yayoi-za, Hyoichi was suddenly struck by one of them—her feet, bare without even socks, reddened from the cold—and found himself drawn to her.

Tsuchikado did not appear for quite some time. It was an unfortunate situation for Hyoichi, but Tsuchikado had a well-established reputation for not keeping appointments on time. There were times he arrived late, and times he showed up absurdly early. When he arrived early, he would grow impatient waiting for the other party and leave, which ended up being the same as not coming at all. Today he intended to come late—no, does Tsuchikado even have "intentions"? At any rate, it seemed he would be late. For the time being, Hyoichi had to wait.

Before Tsuchikado arrived, I needed to hurriedly set down a description of him.

Tsuchikado went around claiming he was fifty years old, though his true age was thirty-six. Yet capturing Tsuchikado's impression proved difficult despite his face looking every bit its thirty-six years. He could appear startlingly aged one moment and improbably youthful the next. There were signs he made concerted efforts to manipulate his own image. What Hyoichi witnessed was him with unkempt long hair and glasses - though after a month passed, there was no guarantee he hadn't shaved his head bald and discarded the spectacles. He'd show up at theaters wearing ski caps in midsummer. Every year on the day after his salary raise, he'd invariably arrive at work in a different suit - deliberately donning winter attire during summer's peak while declaring "Thanks to this raise, I could pawn it off!" Then he'd borrow money from colleagues right after such antics.

“Your salary went up, didn’t it! Lend it here!” Previously, such things had not occurred. He had never cracked even a single pointless joke. Though taciturn, in editorial meetings he would engage in dead-serious discussions. He used to hold radical debates—idealistic, dialectical, utterly uncompromising arguments. Apparently having been involved in some social movement since his student days, there was indeed such an argumentative tone to his speech.

However, he suddenly began to change. He had truly become a ridiculous man. One day, when six o'clock—the end of the workday—arrived, an alarm clock suddenly began ringing. When the employees looked toward the sound while laughing in surprise, they saw Tsuchikado calmly silence the alarm clock on his desk and briskly leave. From that day onward, people regarded Tsuchikado as changed.

First and foremost, it was rumored that Tsuchikado harbored grievances against the company. The act of setting off an alarm clock at quitting time was concluded to be some sort of sarcastic jab. This observation wasn’t unreasonable, as it coincided precisely with the timing of Tsuchikado’s junior being promoted to department head—a development that had everyone sympathizing with Tsuchikado, a veteran employee since the company’s founding, for his unfortunate situation. Around that time, Tsuchikado kept declaring, “I’m fifty years old. I’m already a relic.” If he were fifty, that would mean Tsuchikado had been working at the Tōyō Shinpō for twenty years—but in reality, the newspaper had only been in existence for ten years since its founding. From this perspective, by going around declaring himself fifty years old, Tsuchikado was deliberately self-deprecating about his veteran status. There were even those who made the cynical observation that he was, so to speak, a desperate, devil-may-care fifty-year-old. In more extreme cases, some went so far as to claim that Tsuchikado’s so-called progressive opinions at every past editorial meeting had been nothing but self-assertion driven solely by his desire to become a department head. However, that was a bit harsh. To claim that someone became a completely different person simply because they failed to become a department head—wasn’t that far too shallow a perspective? But then, what was the cause of Tsuchikado’s change—not only others but even Tsuchikado himself did not clearly understand it.

In any case, Tsuchikado had changed. Though the so-called radical debates from his early days at the company had long since subsided, he would still occasionally say things like, "Human happiness lies in social progress," or "It's through cultural advancement that we can attain happiness." But now he not only stopped saying such things—he went further, declaring, "Adding three hairs to a monkey won't make it any happier!" "Even if culture progresses that way, thinking humans can become happy is a grave mistake." He denied his past opinions, and what's more adopted a mocking tone: "Want to become cultured?" "Alright, fork over fifty sen!" "I'll make you cultured!" Whenever he saw young reporters earnestly discussing film theory, he'd invariably toss out some harassing remark along those lines.

Tsuchikado handled movie reviews alongside special assignments for the social affairs section, though he exclusively praised absurd films like King Kong. According to his critiques, any film lacking airplanes or machine guns was dismissed as tedious. With Japanese cinema, he lavished praise on Daiei productions. He adored revues and religiously followed Yayoi-za Theater's Pierrot Girls troupe. Indeed, Tsuchikado's reason for arranging to meet Hyoichi before Yayoi-za that day was specifically to watch these Pierrot Girls.

It was past seven o'clock when Tsuchikado finally appeared in his lanky figure.

“Come on, let’s go in, let’s go in.” Without even apologizing for making him wait, he briskly walked into Yayoi-za. Hyoichi hesitated for a moment about what to do with the tickets but followed Tsuchikado as he was. “Your tickets…?” At the entrance, Hyoichi was asked this. He blushed. “Are you trying to take money?! “If you’re taking it, take it! “But children are half price, right?” Tsuchikado said to the entrance girl with a composed face.

“Ah—is this your companion?”

When the girl realized Hyoichi was with Tsuchikado, she announced in an intentionally loud voice, “Second floor, please!” “No—the lower floor will do just fine. The lower floor just seems to have a better view somehow.”

With that, Tsuchikado entered through the black curtain. On stage, the period comedy "Rōnin Nagaya" had begun. When Tsuchikado took his seat beside Hyoichi, he bellowed, "Ichi-chan!" Then a ronin with a dreadfully long face peered restlessly around the audience from the stage. And when he spotted Tsuchikado's face, he suddenly put a hand to his head and swiftly removed his wig. The audience roared with laughter. The ronin put on his wig with a composed face and continued the play.

"That's Nakai Hajime." "His face is long, right?" "That's why some people call him Nagai Hajime." "He's my close friend." Tsuchikado explained this to Hyoichi. And then, he shouted again. "Moribon!"

A small-statured ronin with a terribly dejected face looked sideways toward Tsuchikado and winked. When Hyoichi glanced at Tsuchikado's profile, he found him wearing a dead-serious expression. "He's my close friend."

When the band struck up a tango tune, Nakai Hajime and Moribon began to slowly circle each other in mock combat. Suddenly, laughter erupted from the audience. When Hyoichi paid closer attention, he realized the ronin were performing their swordplay while dancing a tango step. "This is the end! Fare thee well!" Nakai Hajime declared before darting offstage. Moribon, who had fallen during their duel, clumsily heaved himself up while shouting "Follow me!" and hiked up his kimono hem. A flash of red underkimono became visible beneath. "Oh, my apologies!" he exclaimed, quickly lowering the hem again. At that very moment, the curtain fell.

Hyoichi forgot himself and guffawed uncontrollably. His stomach ached from laughing so hard. When he suddenly glanced sideways at Tsuchikado's face, Tsuchikado looked unexpectedly unamused. Hyoichi felt strangely deflated. (Wasn't it funny?) But Tsuchikado was a true Osaka native through and through - even if he hadn't known before, there was no way he couldn't grasp this comedy's uproarious humor. The truth was, Tsuchikado had already endured watching this act for nearly ten days straight. He was being forced to watch it regardless of his feelings. Tsuchikado's real interest lay in the revue coming next.

Eventually, the curtain rose on the revue "Ginza no Yanagi". Tsuchikado had deliberately crossed his arms, but he seemed somehow restless and unable to settle. “Don’t go falling for the second girl from the right in the back row.” Tsuchikado whispered to Hyoichi.

Hyoichi casually looked at the second dancer from the right in the back row. The moment he did, his heart jolted. He recognized the feet.

There was no mistaking her—she was the same girl who had left a vivid impression in the wind as she swiftly passed by while he waited for Tsuchikado in front of Yayoi-za earlier. He hadn't clearly recognized her face, but those painfully thin legs had stayed with him. There had been three of them at the time, but only this girl wore no socks, her bare feet red from the cold. "What's the name of that girl?" Hyoichi blurted out. Tsuchikado answered. "Higashi Ginko." Because they were mixed among stout, thick legs, those slender, delicate legs stood out all the more. Her chest was as flat as a sickly boy's. Her face, with its sharply carved features, bore rouge that painted an unnatural roundness on her cheeks. The flesh of her ears looked so thin they seemed almost translucent. Her long-lashed eyes were striking.

Without so much as a smile, she danced with a rigid expression. What slightly softened her aloof demeanor was the cute pout of her small lips. One might have assumed she was dancing composedly, but Hyoichi suddenly thought he glimpsed an expression on Ginko's face that seemed about to burst into tears. With a harsh sweetness that shook his heart, Hyoichi found it impossible to tear his eyes from Ginko's face.

When Hyoichi glanced at Tsuchikado beside him, he found Tsuchikado looking somewhat flustered. “This is strange. This is really strange!” Tsuchikado groaned. The area around his jaw had turned pale. Tsuchikado had been restlessly watching Higashi Ginko’s face when, apparently having thought of something,

"Let's go," Tsuchikado said, abruptly standing up and briskly walking toward the exit. Hyoichi chased after him.

Tsuchikado stopped at the exit. Then he turned back and glanced briefly at the stage. A sound like a sigh escaped from Tsuchikado’s mouth. “No good!” Then he pulled Hyoichi’s hand and left Yayoi-za.

VI

When they exited Yayoi-za, it was snowing. A dazzling light coldly illuminated the large peony snowflakes falling softly. The depths of night sank heavily as a white wind raced through. "Cold, cold!" Tsuchikado let out an animal-like cry and dashed into the café across from the theater. Hyoichi followed him in.

The heavy, humid air from the stove suddenly enveloped their bodies. Tsuchikado removed his fogged glasses. Then, his swollen eyelids made Tsuchikado’s face look strangely young.

Tsuchikado took a sip of coffee, stood up, went over to the counter, and borrowed the telephone. “Hello? Yayoi-za…?”

Just as he was wondering where Tsuchikado could be calling, it turned out to be Yayoi-za—right under their noses, the very place they had just left. That was so typical of Tsuchikado, Hyoichi thought. “Call Mr. Kitayama from the literary department. …It’s Tsuchikado.” “Tsu-chi-ka-do… From Tōyō Shinpō…” “Ah, right.”

The café stood adjacent to a public bathhouse. A woman emerged through the noren curtain, her bathing supplies wrapped in an apron and a snake-eye patterned umbrella in hand. Hyoichi wiped condensation from the windowpane with his hand and watched her retreating figure grow hazy and distant as she walked away.

Once again, Tsuchikado's loud voice could be heard. The person on the other end had apparently picked up the phone.

“Skip the pleasantries. “You call this a snowstorm?!” “This is outrageous!” “You bastard—why’d you lay hands on that girl without telling me?” “What do you mean ‘who’?!” “Needless to say... That’s right—Higashi Ginko!” “Don’t make me repeat myself!” “That’s right—Higashi Ginko!” “What?” “Say that again!” “What hell do you mean you ‘understand’?!” “Others might not know, but when it comes to that girl, I’ve got a better eye than any two-bit connoisseur.” “One look’s all it takes.” “I ain’t some bathhouse lackey... but I know what’s what. Ah, just like you said—I’m crazy about her.” “What’s wrong with that?” “If you’re fifty, then I’m fifty too!” “Not exactly short on years.” “But I don’t paw at fresh young maidens like you do.” “What?” “You saying there’s someone else to blame?”

“Don’t play innocent!” “Hey!” “Pierrot Girls has villains as plentiful as a rickety pirate ship—but when it comes to devouring a tender, delicate flower like Higashi Ginko, even in that whole wretched crew, there’s only one dirty old lecher like you!” “Don’t you dare play innocent with me!” “Hey!” “She was dancing while crying!” “You cold-blooded bastard!” “The reason I called is because I didn’t want to see your goddamn senile face!” “Be grateful!” “If I see your face, I’ll bite you to death!” “Listen up! Prepare yourself!” “What?” “You want to see me?” “Fine, I’ll meet you.—Just figure out where I am right now.” “Find out where I am within half an hour!” “If you don’t show your filthy face by then, I’ll burn Yayoi-za to the ground!” “—Indeed, I am Sakazaki Dewa-no-kami!” “Princess Sen—I’ll be the one to save her.” “I won’t let a bastard like you lay a single finger on her!” “Heh, heh, heh!”

Tsuchikado had been bellowing heedlessly across the café, but finally hung up with an odd laugh and returned to Hyoichi's seat muttering, "Made me talk on that damn phone forever." The shop girls stifled giggles behind their hands. Glaring around as though demanding what they found so amusing, Tsuchikado drained his coffee in one scalding gulp. "Snap out of it!" he barked at the air between them. Hyoichi started as if personally addressed. Tsuchikado's phone tirade had left him thoroughly dispirited.

Yet why had he become so dispirited? Hyoichi had resolved not to pay close attention to the words of a man like Tsuchikado who spouted nonsense, so at first he had been listening absentmindedly—but the moment the name Higashi Ginko leapt from Tsuchikado’s mouth, his heart jolted. And when he realized that Tsuchikado seemed to be protesting how Higashi Ginko had been "taken advantage of" by Kitayama of the literary club, his heart clouded over abruptly. He hurriedly tried to dismiss it, thinking that since it was Tsuchikado talking, it must surely be nonsense—but then again, when he considered how Tsuchikado had restlessly left the backstage earlier, it seemed plausible that he had noticed something about Ginko’s performance. Moreover, though his tone had been flippant, there did seem to be a ring of truth to Tsuchikado’s phone protest. Moreover, even if he could forcibly convince himself that it was nothing but a completely groundless fact, now that he had heard it, the cloudiness in his heart had grown so deep that it could not be dispelled. In other words, could this be an unexpected affection toward Ginko? That was strange to Hyoichi.

That a twenty-year-old youth might feel affection for a dancer on stage could perhaps be considered an utterly commonplace matter; yet whether due to Hyoichi's unexpectedly strong-willed nature, he had not felt even a fragment of such sentiment when strolling through Tennoji Park at night with Kiyoko the schoolgirl during his middle school years, nor when walking closely alongside Komura's Okoma through Maruyama Park during his high school days. And now, to his shame, he had come to feel this affection for Ginko through some strange twist—what could possibly account for it?

But if he were to clearly realize it, regarding this affection that must surely be detestable to Hyoichi himself, it might be wiser not to explain in detail. Therefore, he would hurriedly explain—wasn’t it because the memory of Ginko’s painfully thin legs, which Hyoichi had glimpsed earlier, had suddenly and vividly revived in his mind during Tsuchikado’s phone call? And to put it another way, at the very core of Hyoichi’s heart, that prickling, chest-piercing feeling he experienced when associating his mother with Yasujiro had tenaciously taken root.

Hyoichi pressed his face against the windowpane with a heavy heart and gazed outside. Snow was falling softly. In the moment his vision blurred, he abruptly grew sentimental. Tsuchikado was tearing at the end of his cigarette with his usual irritated gestures when he suddenly spoke. “Hey! Don’t make such a solemn face.” He peered into Hyoichi’s face with apparent delight.

“I’m looking at the snow.” As he spoke, he suddenly felt as though hearing a distant harmonica. The time of summer twilight flowed through Hyoichi’s heart as he watched the snow. “Ahahaha…” “Looking at the snow, you say?” “I see—you’ve fallen for Higashi Ginko, haven’t you?”

Hyoichi flushed, thinking he’d been seen through after all. However, Tsuchikado had originally been a sensitive man, but now he no longer bothered with such troublesome matters as gauging others’ hearts. The reason Tsuchikado had said such a thing was in fact nothing more than a lead-in for his next words. “Even if you fall for her, it’s no use. Did you hear my phone call just now? Higashi Ginko’s done for. One look with this eye of mine and you’d know. The moment I saw how Higashi Ginko was dancing today, I gave up. Ah… So Higashi Ginko’s been lost too, I suppose. Heh, heh, heh.” Tsuchikado’s laughter made Hyoichi’s heart grow even heavier.

“Let’s have another cup of coffee!”

“Ah, let’s drink. Well said. The fact that you understand life’s impermanence shows you have some redeeming qualities. How old are you?” “Twenty years old,” Tsuchikado replied. Hyoichi snapped, “Then there’s a thirty-year difference between us. I’m fifty.” Hyoichi burst out laughing. Tsuchikado, who had removed his glasses, looked no older than thirty-two or thirty-three by any measure. However, Hyoichi’s laughter stopped immediately. At that moment, a man came rushing in with snow piled atop his balding head—the instant Hyoichi saw his face, he intuited: That’s Kitayama from the literary club. Hyoichi tensed up. The thought that this man had laid hands on Ginko—he could no longer laugh. He glared with cold eyes. But the man paid no attention to Hyoichi; sitting down beside him facing Tsuchikado, he said, “You’re wrong! It’s a misunderstanding!” Tsuchikado did not respond to this,

“You figured out I was here pretty well.” “I just figured you were nearby anyway.” “You figured it out from how loud I was on the phone, I suppose? So you came to hear an even louder voice, is that it?” With that, Tsuchikado let out a loud laugh. Hyoichi found the sight of the two men laughing in such a manner frivolous and held his breath rigidly. The more they laughed, the fiercer Hyoichi’s expression became. Tsuchikado eventually stopped laughing and,

“ ‘Misunderstanding,’ you spouted?”

“It’s a misunderstanding. "It’s a complete and utter misunderstanding! “Don’t go saying such sad things like I’m the culprit.” Kitayama produced a voice filled with genuine sorrow. But that sounded like nothing but a resident playwright feeding lines to an actor. “Is that true?” “Regrettably, it’s true.”

"I see—'regrettably,' you say? Then who is it?" "I don’t know. I don’t intend to try to understand. Knowing would only make it more painful. All I know is the tragic fact that Ginko has been lost." “……”

Tsuchikado let out an incomprehensible groan, then suddenly—

“Let’s shake hands,” he said and grasped Kitayama’s hand. “The culprit must be that long-sideburned Valentino-type anyway. I’d much rather have had you be the culprit.” Tsuchikado deliberately adopted a solemn voice. “I also really wanted you to be the culprit, boss,” Kitayama said. “Serves you right!” said Tsuchikado.

“Serves you right!” said Kitayama. “Feeling good, are we? You shochu-bald bastard, getting all moony-eyed over some chorus girl… Ahaha… Not ashamed?” “Well, you said it.” “How about it—not ashamed?” “Hmm…”

“Come on, answer me! Answer me!” “Well, that’s…” “What’s your answer? What?” “The shame’s mutual. How old d’you think you are anyway?” “Oh, you actually asked! Fifty. Not hiding it.”

“Like you could ever hide it!” “What the hell, you drunkard!” “What the hell—I’ve lent you five yen!” No sooner had Kitayama said this than he turned toward Hyoichi, whose presence he had completely ignored until now, and asked, “You—how much have you borrowed from this guy?”

Hyoichi had grown thoroughly irritated by their absurd exchange, so he offered no reply. Tsuchikado answered instead.

“Three yen.” So saying, Tsuchikado declared, “Let me introduce you,” and presented Hyoichi to Kitayama. “This is Mr. Mouri. A fresh-faced newspaper reporter.” “And this,” he continued, “is the venerable Mr. Kitayama—resident playwright for the Piero Girls.” When Hyoichi bowed with a polite “Pleased to meet you,” Kitayama momentarily revealed an expression as though he’d become another person entirely and offered an antiquated greeting: “Well, well... Whatever circumstances may bring us together...” Eventually the three left the café and walked toward Kabukiza Theatre. Sennichimae-dori Street, which normally glowed with garish crimson-black brilliance, lay submerged tonight in a hushed twilight—perhaps softened by snow. The foot traffic hung strangely sparse. Following behind Tsuchikado and Kitayama, Hyoichi thought how cold the snow felt against his face.

Chapter Two

I

The editor-in-chief of the Tōyō Shinpō was in an unusually foul mood.

This man had ten children already, and despite being fifty-six years old, had recently fathered twins with his wife. His face—jowly like a flatfish and reminiscent of Nidaime Harudanji—suited his deadpan Osaka dialect perfectly. He rarely scolded his staff; even when a typist made some serious mistake at work, he'd just say, "Don't make such blunders anymore. What can I say? I've got your back, see? Want to scold you but just can't bring myself to—can you tell?" he'd joke, and that was about the extent of it. Loved by everyone, most employees had never seen this man's angry face. Imagining an angry or displeased expression on this man's face was extremely difficult.

At first today, no one noticed that the Editor-in-chief was in a bad mood. Through the glass door, they could see him pacing around the editor-in-chief's office, pursing his lips and muttering incessantly to himself, but no one realized this was a desperate effort to keep his anger from erupting. The flustered ones even thought the Editor-in-chief was practicing his whistling.

It was only when the Deputy Editor and Social Affairs Director were summoned to the Editor-in-chief’s office and emerged that people finally noticed something was amiss. Both men were deathly pale. “Did something happen?” The loose-lipped staff members asked that, but both men gave no reply. They could hardly believe it—just now, the Editor-in-chief had told them: “At your age, what’re you dawdling around for? If things’ve gotten this bad, quit being reporters already.” Yet even men with “chief” in their titles couldn’t bring themselves to admit they’d been told that. The two men, seemingly vexed, bit their lips as they muttered, “That bastard Tsuchikado!”

In fact, of all newspapers, it was the Tōyō Shinpō alone that had let slip the story which all the Osaka papers were blaring out in bold headlines that day. The article about film actress Muraguchi Tazuko becoming a round girl at the cabaret "Olympia"—the kind of story that today would either be ignored entirely or timidly buried in small print—was in those days treated as sensational material, splashed vibrantly across the third pages of every newspaper. It may be an odd expression, but cabaret was in its heyday. Moreover, Muraguchi Tazuko was precisely what the newspaper headlines called "the beautiful actress at the center of controversy"—her scandalous affair with a director had culminated in criminal charges under the Penal Code. The manager of "Olympia" had not been without reason in taking notice of her name value. The newspapers’ reports that her earnings for merely providing round service amounted to hundreds of yen per night could not be entirely dismissed as an exaggeration. She was that famous. That the Tōyō Shinpō alone had ignored it—what on earth was this? The Tōyō Shinpō had long made its name with this sort of article, and moreover, "Olympia" was one of its major advertisers. "Please handle this properly," and there had even been a specific request from the Sales Department.

It was only natural that the Editor-in-chief was in a foul mood. However, the Tōyō Shinpō had by no means deliberately suppressed that sensational article. The Social Affairs Director had indeed dispatched a competent reporter to Olympia. There should have been no oversight on the part of the Social Affairs Director. When he reported this to the Editor-in-chief, “Just who on earth did you send?” “Tsuchikado.” “Summon Mr. Tsuchikado here.”

However, Tsuchikado had not yet come to work. The truth was that Tsuchikado had indeed gone to Olympia with the photography team the previous night, but when the manager treated the reporters to drinks as part of their service, he had—though he should have known better—called over Kitayama from the Piero Girls by telephone. Once the two began drinking, they couldn't stop, completely neglecting the crucial interview until they ended up completely drunk, which was why he was absent today with a hangover. Since Tsuchikado wasn't there, the Editor-in-chief had no choice but to take his anger out on both the Deputy Editor and the Social Affairs Director. To begin with, the Editor-in-chief had never wanted to scold Tsuchikado. More than Tsuchikado being someone who offered no satisfaction when reprimanded, it was that the Editor-in-chief simply couldn't bring himself to berate a reporter he'd nurtured himself—one he'd ultimately failed to promote to bureau chief—out of sheer sentimentality. Moreover, with such a major issue at hand, wouldn't it be wiser to shift responsibility onto the Deputy Editor and Social Affairs Director? Both men were thoroughly put out. What's more, even the Editor-in-chief's deadpan Osaka dialect—though the phrase "quit being a reporter" had been said in jest—produced an unexpected effect. They waited with bated breath for Tsuchikado's arrival. Tsuchikado had a knack for taking days off at precisely the worst times.

Once the Editor-in-chief had fully vented his anger, he began considering countermeasures. Given that there had been a protest from the Sales Department, it was necessary at any rate to run that article for Olympia. But starting now would be too late. In the end, they would have to adopt a completely different approach from the other newspapers. Every newspaper had interviewed her at Olympia, but since that would now be secondhand news, they would craft a follow-up story about her from after Olympia had become its marquee attraction. Wondering who to assign to the task, the Editor-in-chief scanned the editorial room through the glass door.

Some were writing manuscripts for the evening edition at their desks. Some were making phone calls. Some were examining newspaper inserts. Those without tasks had gathered around the stove, chatting boisterously. He scanned each face in turn but found none suitable for the task. Suddenly his gaze caught on Hyoichi standing rigidly alone in a corner, excluded from the group. The young man's posture—agitated, as though bracing against some invisible foe—inevitably drew the Editor-in-chief's eye. There was something about his striking beauty that commanded attention.

(Who was that man again?) The Editor-in-chief, with his forgetful nature, couldn't recall it at that moment. Two weeks had passed since Hyoichi joined the company, but as a mere trainee reporter he'd been given no substantial work, merely showing up each day with no real purpose. This was why the Editor-in-chief had carelessly forgotten about Hyoichi's very existence. Yet now, upon closer inspection, Hyoichi made an extraordinarily striking impression. Standing isolated like this—alone and apart from others with keen eyes gleaming—Hyoichi was utterly singular. There was a peculiar vitality about him.

The truth was that having been given no real work to speak of and receiving attention from no one except when occasionally borrowing money from Tsuchikado, Hyoichi had grown weary and felt a certain humiliation. The wretched burden of being a new employee clung to his skin, and every glance from others felt exaggeratedly tinged with scorn, so naturally Hyoichi's demeanor within the company became awkward to the point of ugliness. He would constantly clench his muscles as if bracing for some damn fight while standing rigidly in a corner somewhere, eyes gleaming fiercely. One reason was simply the lack of desks - there remained no proper place for Hyoichi to sit.

Anyway, the Editor-in-chief noticed Hyoichi for the first time. It took him a little time to remember. Ah, that one? The moment he realized Hyoichi was the newly joined trainee reporter, the Editor-in-chief felt a certain satisfaction. The fact that the entrance exam results had been unusually good came back to him. Up close, he was a beautiful boy. Maybe I'll try using that fellow—the Editor-in-chief's spur-of-the-moment idea that this beautiful boy would be perfect for stakeouts on café waitresses was an utterly simplistic notion. Yet ultimately, this facile formulaic approach to assigning personnel might indeed be the safest method.

Summoned by the office boy, Hyoichi entered the Editor-in-chief’s office. “Are you free right now?” This was always the Editor-in-chief’s line when assigning tasks. It demonstrated his skill at handling subordinates. But Hyoichi found this phrasing particularly grating. There had never been a single moment since joining the company when he’d actually been busy. “Uh, not really...” Hyoichi flushed. “In that case, how about handling something for me?” The Editor-in-chief began explaining Hyoichi’s assignment,

“Now this here’s a big responsibility, so put your back into it,” he emphasized.

At this point, Hyoichi would have perked up at even the most menial job—there was no doubt about that. So, the Editor-in-chief’s declaration that this was a major responsibility sent Hyoichi’s head spinning completely. "I’ll get right on it." Hyoichi said, satisfied at having been able to use such a quintessentially reporter-like phrase as “I’ll get right on it.”

“Even if I send you there now, the café won’t be open till evening.”

When told this by the Editor-in-chief, Hyoichi—feeling as though his initial momentum had been thwarted—grew flustered, "Uh, then in the evening..." he said. This was another line that even I found lacking in artistry. Growing even more disconcerted, Hyoichi blurted out another odd remark. "Will I be writing the article?" Of course, he had not the slightest intention of asking such an obvious question. Rather, he had deliberately phrased it that way to convey his determination to write an excellent article. However, to the Editor-in-chief, it sounded exactly as though he were saying, "If possible, I’d rather have someone else write it. I still don’t have confidence in writing good articles yet..." The Editor-in-chief was disappointed but wrote out the voucher anyway, saying, “You’ll need money, right?”

Hyoichi took it, went down to the accounting department, and received the money. Then he reappeared in the second-floor editorial room, took the overcoat hanging on the wall, put it on, and went out. Catching a glimpse of his retreating figure, the Editor-in-chief grew even more disappointed. Hyoichi’s overcoat—something his mother had scraped together money to buy—was what they called a "noose collar" model. It was a ready-made item dangling in the storefront of a Nihonbashi tailor shop. Perhaps the measurements were miscalculated, for the hem hung absurdly long. Hyoichi’s retreating figure—dragging that coat along with stiff posture—looked precisely like a Takarazuka Revue male-role actress, utterly failing to resemble a proper newspaper reporter.

Unaware of the Editor-in-chief's profound disappointment, Hyoichi—absurd as it was—found himself utterly exhilarated by the joy of being assigned work and walked toward Yodoyabashi. Considering the rather foolish things he had said in front of the Editor-in-chief, he absolutely had to fulfill this "important task" no matter what. Hyoichi was terribly unsettled. He had reached Yodoyabashi, but his feet kept moving, and he ended up reaching Higobashi in one go.

While waiting for the signal at the intersection, Hyoichi suddenly hit upon the idea of buying a newspaper to read Muraguchi Tazuko’s article. He bought a full set of newspapers in front of the Asahi Building. And he entered the building's fruit parlor and began reading through them one after another. Unversed in worldly matters, Hyoichi could be said to be completely ignorant regarding Muraguchi Tazuko. He had only learned her name when the Editor-in-chief mentioned it. He couldn’t understand at all the meaning behind newspaper headlines using phrases like "Sinful Actress" or "Mourning Actress." The newspapers also did not write in detail about that. By now, it had already been reported to exhaustion, and was a fact known to everyone—even those who weren’t movie fans—so there was no need to go out of their way to explain why Muraguchi Tazuko was called the "Sinful Actress."

Hyoichi looked through all the newspapers he had bought, but ultimately found nothing about Muraguchi Tazuko's supposed sins or sorrows. "What 'sin'?" Hyoichi muttered recklessly. The face of Muraguchi Tazuko in the newspapers showed no trace of anything resembling sin or sorrow. "Speaking Before Reporters" - or perhaps "Swimming Between Tables" - showed her face flamboyantly adorned with what could only be called a bewitching smile. It seemed laughter might actually emanate from the photograph. The flower pinned near her décolletage on the evening dress made that smile appear even more brilliant. Hyoichi couldn't reconcile himself with labels like "Sinful Actress" or "Mourning Actress" printed beneath.

(What's with the flower on her chest?) To put it bluntly, Hyoichi had gotten angry at that photograph. It should have been obvious that the photography team had forced her to smile, but Hyoichi lacked such thoughtfulness. Therefore, he recklessly ended up getting excessively angry even over something as trivial as a single flower. But why was he so angry? By nature a man of strong vanity—or perhaps because of it—Hyoichi had a bad habit of picking fights with those who dangled flashy names or social status before his eyes. Naturally, he was fundamentally drawn to those who were weak and downtrodden. However, to dismiss this as a sense of justice would be rash. Was this not perhaps an impatient spirit that could no longer endure, forcing its arbitrary likes and dislikes through sheer obstinacy? In other words, he had not been born with what one might call a generous disposition. In part, he felt bitter toward the newspaper articles that were making such a fuss over this insignificant woman (—he thought—), forgetting that he himself was a reporter. And when he came to think of himself as a newspaper reporter being forced into such things, his bitterness only deepened. ("Is this really my role—to be forced to do such things?") And incidentally ("I could write it a bit better myself"), it should be added that the reason he harbored such an unpleasant feeling toward Muraguchi Tazuko, despite having no grudge against her, was partly due to the fact that he had to meet her that very night.

Given his age and temperament, Hyoichi had always been ill at ease with women in general, but a woman like Muraguchi Tazuko—who seemed not only arrogant (and beautiful to boot) but precisely the type to make his body tremble with discomfort—was particularly daunting to him. (This woman would look down on me.) To his shame, Hyoichi had become aware of his own timidity. Then he grew angry with himself. Hyoichi suddenly stood up defiantly, as if dismissing any fear.

I'll muster my courage and go meet her! What's the big deal? She's just a woman like this... Like a man heading out to a fight, he rushed out of there with tremendous force. But there was still far too much time before he would meet Muraguchi Tazuko.

II

The "Manager" of the Cabaret "Olympia" Sako Goro had been ostentatiously dressed in a tailcoat since the previous day, scurrying around busily like a rat. It was because of Muraguchi Tazuko that he styled himself as "Manager," though in truth he functioned more like a publicity director. Having originally worked as an electrical contractor who frequently visited Olympia for installations—a connection that led to his employment as the cabaret's electrician just two or three years prior—he had now unashamedly risen to a position where he could call himself "Manager." Even industry insiders remarked that he was no ordinary rat after all.

In fact, he may have been a man of talent. His utter lack of cultivation, among other things, was perfectly suited to his role as publicity director. To adopt such underhanded advertising methods that ordinary shy people couldn’t even imagine was a feat only someone like him—who had risen from being an electrician—could accomplish. For example, his "recruitment" of Muraguchi Tazuko was one such instance. While recruiting celebrities like poets or fallen actresses into cabarets had become common sense for publicity by then, in Muraguchi Tazuko’s case alone, even industry people were taken aback. That was Sako for you—people were no match for his sheer audacity.

When they considered the poster value of advertising her as the scandalous actress, it wasn't entirely unimaginable—but precisely for that reason, it felt all the more untouchable. To condemn Sako's underhanded methods now was ultimately just hindsight lamentation. Had it been purely about hundreds of yen per day, they wouldn't have hesitated at such a lucrative deal—but this was a woman who'd committed crimes serious enough to stand trial and abandon acting altogether. The cover-up of her sordid affair with the director might have been buried in shadows, but its stench of scandal still lingered fresh in public memory. Though acquitted, she remained someone who ought to avoid public appearances indefinitely. In fact, even the most opportunistic film studios had thought to recruit her only after more time passed. That's why even the shrewdest industry professionals had balked at dredging up someone like Muraguchi Tazuko. Yet Sako had done it without blinking. Given his infuriatingly brazen audacity, no wonder even veterans were left speechless.

It wasn’t just brazen nerve. He also possessed relentless persistence. He also possessed a keen intellect. Otherwise, there would have been no way he could have made Muraguchi Tazuko agree under any circumstances. Even without such an incident occurring, she was precisely the type of woman for whom appearing in a cabaret would have been unimaginable—both to herself and others. Though superficial, she had been called an educated actress. She had been hailed as an intellectual actress. This popularity meant the scandal surrounding her was blown even further out of proportion. After the incident, she had taken to composing songs. Therefore, this proposal could never have originated from her. The truth was obvious. It was Sako who had brought the offer. Naturally, she rejected it. With tearful, resentful eyes, she glared fixedly at Sako. Any man with ordinary sensibilities would have given up then and there. But Sako lacked such sensibilities.

“Isn’t this about keeping your popularity alive? And if you hide away now, you’ll never make it as an actress again.” “I’m not asking you to stay forever.” “Between us—our higher-ups have plans to buy out △△ Kinema.” “Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone, got it? When the time comes, we’ll need you front and center as our star.” “Since we’re doing artistic films now, we absolutely require someone of your caliber.” “Look—if you’d just imagine it as making a grand comeback at △△ Kinema’s premiere, that’d do nicely.”

Sako had gradually explained these brazen lies to her over four or five sessions. The way he kindled hope in her dream of returning to the film industry was truly cunning. Sako employed every possible means to break her resistance. Her elderly mother found herself invited to Shirahama Hot Springs for reasons she couldn't fathom. Luxury goods far beyond her station arrived at the maid's quarters from department stores. The living expenses for her three-person household with her mother and maid—though recently pared down—still remained substantial. The former star actress's financial struggles were pitiful to behold, yet even these had been thrust into her hands over two months through Olympia's accounting department. The sum—calculated by the maid's estimation—proved neither excessive nor insufficient, but chillingly exact.

Having been pressed to that point, even she could no longer refuse. Of course she had kept refusing hysterically—no, rather insisting she couldn't accept such unwarranted money when she hadn't even asked—but with them forcing it on her while placatingly saying "now now," she grew angry. However, had such methods been used by an educated person, the education within her would have rebelled against them; but since it was done by someone like Sako, her blushing shame remained minimal. Before such vulgar men, do women perhaps forget some measure of shame as one might before foreigners? At any rate, she gradually grew accustomed to Sako's methods and stopped getting so angry. Rather than anger, she came to listen to Sako's persuasive words with a smile of contempt. Sako had finally succeeded.

His two-month-long effort to win her over had finally been rewarded, and even Sako must have been exceptionally pleased—whether in self-congratulation or otherwise—for on the evening when Tazuko was finally to appear at Olympia (which was last night), he wore a tailcoat. Moreover, as if that weren’t enough, Sako had even pinned a crimson rose matching Tazuko’s to the chest of his tailcoat. However, no one thought this was ridiculous. No, they didn’t even notice. People were utterly captivated by the beautiful Muraguchi Tazuko; some grew peculiarly excited in their admiration, leaving them with no capacity whatsoever to spare even a glance for someone like Sako.

It was a great success. The managers who had persistently complained about the lavish secret funds Sako spent to recruit her forgot all about greed and profit the moment they saw Muraguchi Tazuko—resplendent in her pure-white evening gown, its hem fluttering with effortless grace. Even had they remembered, seeing the bustling crowd that required turning customers away would have left them no room for complaint. "You got us a fine woman there." The manager gave Sako but a single word of thanks.

However, this single remark caused Sako to jolt. The manager’s eyes were persistently fixed on Tazuko’s chest down to her waist. His gaze was practically audible. (Leering) Sako was utterly flustered.

In truth, Sako Goro's tear-inducing efforts to recruit Muraguchi Tazuko to Olympia stemmed from motives divorced from personal gain. When he had worked as an electrician, there had been times when Muraguchi Tazuko's promenade photo lay in the pocket of his workman's overalls. That said, initially he hadn't specifically yearned for her alone. Most beautiful actresses would have stirred his heart similarly. Of course, it likely wasn't limited to actresses. It was simply that he had chanced upon her promenade photo. But when he took it from his pocket and studied it closely, he thought her a beautiful woman. He began secretly fantasizing about this woman, growing tormented by desire. Hearing her voice in talkies captivated him further. The voice—hoarse and tormenting, sounding forcibly produced—whispered of a mature woman's profound depth who seemed to know everything, stimulating Sako's curiosity.

That was why he had been able to devote himself with such unexpected fervor to recruiting her. Seeing the manager’s ambition toward her in his gleaming eyes, it was no wonder he had been flustered. It amounted to nothing more than efforts made to satisfy the manager’s curiosity—a realization that left Sako utterly disappointed. Despite the tremendous success of tripling their usual sales, Sako found no enjoyment in last night’s triumph. (It’s not like I get a single yen from this.) When he thought about all that money flowing into the manager’s pockets, it felt utterly idiotic. To make matters worse, Muraguchi Tazuko would end up becoming the manager’s woman. The thought infuriated him.

Others might be one thing, but against the manager alone, even Sako was no match. He couldn't muster any will to compete. Poor Sako had suffered through a night of listless jealousy, unable to sleep at all. But tonight's Sako had changed somewhat from last night's. He thought it was still too early to give up on Muraguchi Tazuko. There was no way he could give up. The urge to compete with the manager had begun to stir within him, however faintly. It was, in essence, a secret rebellion against the manager. This rebellious spirit had suddenly surged the moment he came to the club today and caught sight of Tazuko.

(The manager's just a piece of shit! Go ahead and fire me if you're gonna! Even if they kick me outta here, I'm a man who can make his way in the water trade. Plus, if I make that woman mine, I could make a living off her, couldn't I?) As soon as this thought crossed his mind, Sako's legs began moving on their own, carrying him toward the seats where Tazuko was. "Welcome."

Sako first greeted the customers, then released his clasped hands from their rubbing gesture, gave Tazuko's shoulder a light tap, and called out "Hey" to summon her behind a pillar.

“……? ……”

With a stiff expression, Tazuko approached. The strong perfume scent made Sako's nostril hairs quiver. Completely worked up and losing all self-control, Sako leaned his body forcefully against Tazuko's and brought his mouth so close to her ear that she could barely endure the ticklish sensation, "There's something I gotta warn you about." "I been worried about it, see." "Listen—ya better watch out for the old man. I'm tellin' ya this for yer own good, so get it through yer skull."

“Thank you.” Tazuko spun lightly and returned to her seat. For Tazuko, who Sako meant by “the old man” hadn’t been immediately clear. But she had made no attempt to understand. The one to be wary of wasn’t just “the old man.” Every man was the same. She’d been made to experience enough in just one night last night to feel utterly disgusted. It wasn’t impossible to say that even Sako—who had gone out of his way to call her over and offer such advice under the guise of kindness—was someone to be cautious of. Being told such things was perhaps part of her duties—Tazuko suppressed her sorrowful heart and responded in an utterly businesslike manner.

However, Sako was completely flushed with excitement at Tazuko's words of "Thank you." (That woman's thanking me. That woman's relying on me, the manager.) Thinking this, he smirked. Even a shrewd man like Sako became utterly undisciplined once smitten with a woman. (Serves you right! Drop dead!) Sako mentally stuck out his tongue at the manager.

Just at that moment, a waiter came over and informed them of the newspaper reporter's visit.

“A newspaper reporter?” Sako furrowed his brows.

He had sent invitations to all the newspaper reporters yesterday and wined and dined them lavishly. Thanks to that, today's morning edition had carried a splashy article on Muraguchi Tazuko complete with photographs. Sako felt tentatively pleased with this publicity success. Yet now he wanted to keep Tazuko hidden away from prying eyes. He feared she'd become overexposed. Every customer coming to court Tazuko these days was another romantic rival. Newspaper reporters had outlived their usefulness. Sako clicked his tongue in irritation.

“Which newspaper’s reporter?” While saying this, he looked at the business card the waiter had brought. Tōyō Shinpō Reporter Mouri Hyoichi The name Mouri Hyoichi meant nothing to him, but seeing the four characters for Tōyō Shinpō jogged Sako’s memory. That morning, Sako had combed through every Osaka newspaper to read articles about Tazuko. Only one paper had written nothing about Tazuko. When he discovered this was the Tōyō Shinpō—the very paper that ran weekly ads for Olympia—Sako, who still clung to his passion for promoting Tazuko back then, flew into a rage and immediately called the Tōyō Shinpō’s advertising department to protest.

That anger still remained in Sako’s heart. Sako, still clutching the business card, rushed toward the entrance. The waiter followed after him,

“This way.” He pointed toward the service entrance used by vendors and employees.

Three

Deliberately around closing time, past eleven at night, Hyoichi appeared before the Olympia wearing a long overcoat that dragged behind him, both hands shoved deep into its pockets. The jazz band's sound surged out as if to physically push aside the timid Hyoichi, leaving the asphalt of Dotonbori cold and parched. For reasons even he couldn't explain, after several false starts toward the main entrance where waiters and hostesses stood lined up, Hyoichi instead slipped through the service entrance where wind-tattered notices flapped - *"Male Waiters Wanted," "Laborers Wanted," "Ladies Sought."*

There was a waiter there who gave him a sharp look and asked, “What’s your business?” Perhaps, seeing young Hyoichi, he thought he might have come seeking employment as a waiter. A young man like Hyoichi—somewhat pale, with well-formed features—was perfectly suited to be a waiter.

“I’m with the newspaper…” Flustered, Hyoichi blurted out, “From the newspaper office…”—botching what should have been a simple introduction. “Got a business card?” So this was why Tsuchikado had said reporters needed cards first—Hyoichi produced the small, foolish card he’d honestly prepared. The waiter glanced at it, “Ah, is that so? “I’ll fetch someone in charge now, so kindly wait…” “Now then, please take a seat.”

The effect of the business card was immediate. The waiter abruptly adjusted his tone and offered a chair. Then he pushed open the gloomy waiting room door and left. As the door swung open, the dazzling interior of the cabaret suddenly came into view. Hyoichi felt strangely tense. After waiting awhile, a man in a tailcoat with a rose pinned to his chest suddenly thrust out his vulgar-looking face. “I’m Sako.” No sooner had he said this than he barked, “You’re from the Tōyō Shinpō?”

“Uh, yes.” Hyoichi replied while studying the man's face intently. “Your place is outrageous.” No matter how he looked at him, Sako could only see Hyoichi as a rookie reporter who still seemed like a child. Perhaps underestimating him, Sako started off confrontational from the very beginning. “Why ain’t you writin’ about our place?” “The other papers are all writin’ about us.” “That’s downright outrageous!” “The only one not writin’ is your place.” “What the hell you gonna do about it?”

Hyoichi scowled. "That’s why I’ve specifically come here today, isn’t that right?" Hyoichi stressed the word "specifically" as he spoke. The sharpness in his tone contained something utterly unimaginable from Hyoichi’s outward appearance, making even Sako bite back his retort of "Too late to come now." (The damn rookie’s putting on airs.) (Maybe this type’s actually more trouble)—Sako instantly calculated that carelessly provoking him might bring worse consequences. (These greenhorn rookies tend to spew reckless gossip without weighing risks or gains.)

Sako’s face suddenly broke into a smile. "Well now, thank ya for comin’." “Now then, this way!” Sako, now completely transformed into a limp figure, said that and led Hyoichi out the door. A social hall where light bright enough to hurt the eyes swayed red and blue to the clamor of jazz spread out dazzlingly before them. Hyoichi, now in such an excited state that nothing else could enter his eyes, was led to a window-side table facing Dotonbori.

“Now then, please!” Sako extended his palm toward the sofa. Putting on a bold front, Hyoichi suddenly plopped down heavily onto the seat, but the sofa’s springs nearly made him tumble over. Since he had been putting on quite a composed front, it must have looked utterly awkward. In that instant, Hyoichi thought Sako’s eyes were laughing. After confirming that Hyoichi had finally settled deep into the sofa, Sako said, “Please make yourself comfortable...” and departed, leaving behind Hyoichi—whose eyes alone darted restlessly in the light.

Before long, a waiter appeared, placed a tiny glass resembling a toothpick holder on the table, poured Western liquor into it, and left. Had there been beer bottles or cups present, that might have been acceptable, but the sight of such a tiny glass sitting solitary on the vast table was undeniably forlorn. Staring fixedly at it, Hyoichi began to feel inexplicably ashamed. To hide his embarrassment, he grabbed the glass and poured its contents down his throat in one gulp.

“Ah!” It was gin. The searing burn stabbing through his tongue and throat made Hyoichi feel like his eyeballs were burning. Startled, he looked down and was secretly spitting it out onto the floor when suddenly there came the rustle of fabric, and a lukewarm woman’s scent wafted through the air. When he raised his face, a woman in a white evening dress stood gracefully beside the table. (Is that Muraguchi Tazuko?) Hyoichi wondered. “Ah, sorry to keep you waiting—this is Ms. Muraguchi. And this gentleman is from the newspaper...” Sako, standing nearby, skillfully gestured with his hands as he made the introduction.

"Pleased to meet you," Muraguchi Tazuko greeted in a strangely weighty, hoarse voice, her smile fixed like a mask. “Uh...” Hyoichi managed only a pitifully faint murmur, acutely aware of his own awkwardness. His heart pounded wildly. The shame of having been caught spitting out liquor burned through him until his vision blurred. “Excuse me,” Tazuko said, settling into the seat across from him. Her frozen smile clearly demanded that he begin questioning.

(Now he really had to speak!) Hyoichi picked up the empty glass on the table and began fidgeting with it nervously.

Seeing this, Sako misinterpreted it as Hyoichi asking for a refill and left to fetch more alcohol. Left behind pointlessly, Hyoichi and Tazuko faced each other without saying a word. Dizzyingly crisscrossing red and blue light rays colored Tazuko’s boldly exposed white chest. Since he couldn't look directly at Tazuko's face, Hyoichi found himself staring at her chest—when suddenly the red-stained vein there gave a sharp twitch. Then, Tazuko suddenly removed her mask of a smile and frowned. Hyoichi remained silent for so long that Tazuko grew irritated. However, Hyoichi still could not speak. He had no idea what sort of questions to ask—or rather, he was simply too intimidated.

Tazuko felt as though she were being made a fool of. She even thought being subjected to rude questions might have been preferable. Tazuko abruptly turned her face away and looked out the window. In the dark flow of the Dōtonbori River, the light reflections of the "Olympia" neon sign warped and flickered incessantly. It was a bleak view. (Why did I ever decide to work in a place like this?) The thought renewed her regret. Since the previous night, she had been on the verge of tears. If she had possessed any confidence in her popularity or regard for it, wouldn't such an artificial smile be utterly miserable? She felt keenly that she had carelessly fallen for Sako's sweet talk. Her education harshly criticized her current appearance in this "gentlemen's social hall." What would her teacher say if he saw her flitting between tables like some butterfly? Though she had dropped out, she had once attended a girls' school in Hiroshima Prefecture where a teacher fond of her belonged to the Araragi school of poetry. Incidentally, she had once answered in a movie magazine questionnaire that André Gide was her favorite author.

She seriously considered getting up from her seat. What slightly held her back was Hyoichi’s beautiful face with its long, girlish eyelashes. When she imagined the slender, not-quite-adult body hidden beneath that bulky overcoat, she found herself unable to muster genuine anger. Seeing him flushed red down to his roots and straining to say something, she suddenly found it comical. “Um, which newspaper are you from?” She showed considerable goodwill.

Yet at that moment, to escape his pathetic inability to speak, Hyoichi—after much agonizing—forcibly summoned the irrational anger he had felt toward her while reading the newspaper that afternoon: (You’re contemptible for being unable to speak to this woman! What’s the matter? She’s just some middle-aged hag when you look close!) Secretly adopting a confrontational stance, he flared his eyes defiantly. Thus when Tazuko spoke first, Hyoichi—prone to obsessive fixation—felt increasingly humiliated at having been preempted. Naturally, his response to her question became something that could no longer be settled with an ordinary half-hearted answer.

However, luckily Sako appeared there with a bottle of Western liquor, so Hyoichi managed to avoid forcing himself through his painful feelings and saying something rude. "How's it goin'? Tōyō Shinpō-san. Get your scoop?"

Since Sako had addressed him as “Tōyō Shinpō,” Hyoichi felt relieved that he no longer needed to respond to Tazuko. “Ah, got it,” he blurted out without thinking. Tazuko was appalled by those words. When he saw her expression, even Hyoichi—(Stop lying!)—felt tormented.

“Then it’s all right for you to get drunk now.” “Let’s have one!” “Hey now—this here’s secret hooch I ain’t lettin’ nobody else nor any bottle touch—so you better savor it nice an’ slow, y’hear?”

With a look emphasizing he'd brought it himself without any waiter's help, Sako poured into Hyoichi's glass while signaling Tazuko. Understanding his cue perfectly well now she rose.

“If you’ll excuse me,” she said, leaving her seat. Hyoichi panicked and— “Haah!” With an incomprehensible shout that served as a farewell, he bellowed and watched Tazuko’s retreating figure.

“Come on, let’s drink up!” Sako urged him to drink. Hyoichi closed his eyes, gritted his teeth, downed it in one gulp, and handed the glass back to Sako. “Terrific! Terrific! “Terrific! Water…?” “No thank you.” Though he actually wanted it, being explicitly offered made him refuse out of stubborn pride. The gin must have been particularly bad quality—the effects hit violently. Hyoichi resolved to leave before disgracing himself,

“Thank you for your time despite being busy—”

Dangling his head, he said this in a manner that was somewhat fitting for a newspaper reporter, then staggered out of "Olympia".

As he stepped out, a cold wind swept over him. The moment he hunched his shoulders, swaying dizziness overtook him, and Dotonbori's lights abruptly blurred into a stark white that flooded his vision. Just as suddenly, they receded, and a streak of red flashed through his mind.

In a frantic daze, he pushed through the cramped alleyways of Shokushō Yokochō and suddenly emerged into the precincts of Hōzenji Temple. Seeing a lone bench placed on the frozen stone pavement, Hyoichi crawled over and sat down on it. The moment he did, he was overcome by a violent wave of nausea. An animalistic sensation welled up, and Hyoichi, unable to endure it any longer, retched— He retched—"Blargh!" As he watched the faint steam rising from the vomit splattered on the cobblestones, Hyoichi suddenly remembered he still had work left to do tonight. The red lanterns of Kotohira Tenman'ō swayed quietly.

IV

When midnight passed, eager scavengers appeared on Dotonbori Street's asphalt, creaking handcarts as their dingy forms materialized. Around the same time, countless automobiles—their origin unclear—lined up like a midnight funeral procession. The café lights winked out one by one until a hurried darkness permeated the area, the asphalt suddenly taking on a frosty white sheen. The lights of *Olympia*, last bastion against the gloom, soon faded too. From its dim entrance emerged shawl-wrapped hostesses trooping out in line, shoulders hunched against the cold. A woman in a fur coat—willowy and tall—darted out and hurried toward the foremost of five or six parked cars.

The door opened. “Come on, after you!” The speaker was Sako, his fedora tilted back like Amida’s halo. “Let me see you off!” At these words, the woman stepped down from the running board. “Oh, that’s quite unnecessary.” It was Muraguchi Tazuko. “Now now, let me escort you just this little way.” As he said this, Sako abruptly brought his face close to Tazuko’s ear, “If we don’t hurry, the manager will come,” he whispered meaningfully. Propelled by these words and Sako’s palm at her back, Tazuko slipped swiftly into the car. Sako followed, closing the door while half-crouched. “To Tezukayama,” he instructed the driver in tones meant partly for Tazuko’s ears. Reassured by the named destination, Tazuko finally settled deep into the seat cushions. As the car began moving, she automatically glanced at her compact. The wrinkles at her eyes’ corners testified to the late hour. (Today’s duties are finally done!)

However, there remained those who had not yet finished. Sako and one other person: Hyoichi.

Hyoichi waited beneath the biting wind, his expression clouded, watching for Tazuko to emerge from Olympia. Mingling with men who appeared to lie in wait for departing hostesses—What sort of job is this?—he felt bile rise in his throat. Yet when Tazuko finally appeared, even Hyoichi caught his breath and tensed. He ducked behind the rear line of parked cars to avoid her notice, though Tazuko naturally paid no attention to that direction and briskly entered the foremost vehicle. “Follow that woman’s car!” Hyoichi shouted as he scrambled inside without awaiting the driver’s reply. The overcoat’s long hem tripped him mid-leap—he literally stumbled—yet his gaze remained locked on Tazuko’s retreating car.

“Hurry up!” Because Tazuko’s car had begun moving, Hyoichi was frantic with anxiety.

However, the driver was slowly closing the door while—

“Where to?” “How many times do I have to tell you? “Follow that car! “That woman’s car!” Hyoichi decided to suppress his rising anger by convincing himself that the man was hard of hearing. “Hurry up!” “Even if you rush me like that, the way ahead’s blocked.” “Why don’t you just back up?” Hyoichi finally lost his temper. “If we back up, we’ll end up all the way at Futatsui. “Or maybe we should just go all the way to Takatsu-san?”

Realizing that if they kept arguing here they would lose sight of Tazuko’s car, Hyoichi—

“Please, just hurry up!” he pleaded. It was this “Please” that finally got the car moving. And skillfully it wove through the other vehicles. “I’ll pay any amount!” He should have said those words much sooner. The car suddenly accelerated. And gradually closed the distance to the vehicle ahead. Hyoichi felt relieved. But Sako remained half-crouched as ever.

Tazuko’s car went straight down Dotonbori Street, emerged onto Midosuji, then turned toward Nanba. As the car rounded the curve, Tazuko briefly looked up to confirm their direction before immediately returning to inspecting her compact. By maintaining this pretense, she could avoid engaging with Sako. The vehicle continued along the tram line before turning toward Nipponbashi-suji 1-chome. Soon after, it turned at the Nipponbashi-suji 1-chome intersection toward Kasumicho. Hyoichi’s car kept trailing behind.

As Tazuko's car climbed the slope beside Tennoji Park from Kasumicho, Sako said, "It's cold, so cold! A draft's getting in here." To steady himself against the swaying while ascending the slope, he leaned halfway toward the driver's seat—then suddenly barked "Close that!" while pantomiming closing the window beside the driver's seat. He pretended to do this because it had been shut from the start. In that same motion, Sako dropped a five-yen bill onto the driver's lap and whispered something.

Tazuko thought something was wrong. At that moment, the car reached Abeno Bridge but unexpectedly swerved left instead of turning right toward Tezukayama where her residence was. She initially thought it might be taking a detour, but the vehicle kept heading straight toward Tennoji. Listening uneasily to the faint, ominous creak of the tires, "You're going the wrong way! Driver! Turn us around!" she cried out involuntarily. However, the driver—who understood Sako's intentions—merely smiled wryly as if this were routine and refused to listen.

“Mr. Sako!” Tazuko glared fixedly at Sako’s face. “Turn the car around!” “Now that’s just unreasonable.” “I ain’t the driver here.” “Even if I wanted to turn back, I ain’t the one drivin’ here.” After saying this with feigned innocence, he let out an “Ahaha” and smothered Tazuko’s glaring white eyes with his laughter. Tazuko nearly cried out, but after all, she had once been a popular actress. Finally enduring it, she kept a thoroughly cautious expression and stared fixedly ahead at the moving car.

About two blocks past Abeno Bridge, the car suddenly stopped. The driver swiftly got out and headed into a tenement-like house with a gate lantern labeled "Kiyokawa." Tazuko immediately understood what kind of business that house was involved in. Though old, houses exactly like this one appear in movie sets. Until the driver came out, Sako smoked with a nervousness in his movements that seemed out of character for him. From the pulsating anticipation that he could finally free this beautiful actress he had admired since his days as an electrician, even he began to tremble uncontrollably. Tazuko pictured in her head a cinematic scene of waiting for Sako’s moment of distraction to escape.

The driver came out immediately. Then, signaling to Sako with a glance, he opened the door. Sako got out first and, with mock politeness, stood by the driver. "After you," he urged Tazuko.

To remain huddled still in the cushion's corner was something Tazuko's pride would not permit. Tazuko nodded silently and extended her slender legs—encased in chocolate-colored socks—out of the car. Sako shuddered. Tazuko's pallid face appeared terrifyingly beautiful even through Sako's eyes. Sako felt as though he were perpetrating some monumental transgression.

At that moment, Hyoichi’s car creaked with a dull groan and slid in. And then it came to a stop.

“Ah, no! You can’t stop here!” Hyoichi had shouted reflexively, but the dimwitted driver—wholly focused on closing in on Tazuko’s car—had already slammed on the brakes as naturally as breathing by the time he cried out. (He chose the worst possible spot to stop!) Fearing this would blatantly expose their tailing mission, Hyoichi jerked up his overcoat collar to conceal his face—but Tazuko instantly spotted him and emitted a faint “Ah!”

(Ah, this man...) The mere fact that he had come to conduct the interview without uttering a single word was enough to leave a lasting impression. ("That journalist!") The moment she remembered, Tazuko had no time to consider why Hyoichi had appeared there; she suddenly whirled around and dashed toward Hyoichi’s car. “Won’t you let me ride?” And without waiting for a reply, she leaped into the car beside Hyoichi as if tumbling in.

The softness of her waist suddenly struck Hyoichi’s body. As he reflexively recoiled, a strong feminine fragrance wafted sharply into his nostrils. Hyoichi became even more flustered and, in that moment, found himself unable to speak. “Hey! Stop right there!” “What the hell are you waiting for?!” As the startled Sako delivered this theatrical line in a tone that laid bare his vulgar true nature, Hyoichi’s car—still carrying Tazuko—had already sped off into the late-night streets once more. Neither Hyoichi nor Tazuko had ordered the driver to flee. It was simply that the driver had exercised split-second judgment. From Hyoichi’s expression alone, he had quickly concluded the young man must be Tazuko’s lover. Thus, even without explicit instructions, he’d understood exactly what needed doing.

V “Ah, please stop there.” When they arrived in front of a small, neat Western-style house, Tazuko stopped the car.

“This is... “...my home.” As she said this, Tazuko lifted her hips from the cushion and added, “Thank you very much.” Just as she turned to thank Hyoichi—Ah!—the idea struck her abruptly: she should invite him inside. From the standpoint of gratitude alone, she thought it necessary. Tazuko told herself it would be rude to send away someone who had gone out of their way to bring her, though in truth there was another reason she couldn’t let them leave yet. The matter of asking him not to publish anything in tonight’s paper still remained.

“I know it’s an inconvenience, but would you mind stopping in for a moment? It’s late at night, so I can’t offer you any proper hospitality, though…” Tazuko said. Having never imagined being addressed this way, Hyoichi flushed crimson as if ambushed. “No, I’ll take my leave here,” he replied honestly. In truth, even sharing the car this far had felt unbearably constricting to him. The prospect of entering her home and enduring that suffocating atmosphere seemed utterly intolerable. What the driver had considered an enviable ride had been an endless ordeal for Hyoichi. The car had finally stopped—just when he’d thought, At last, I can breathe! If not for needing to pay the driver, he’d have bolted midway through the journey.

However, Tazuko swiftly handed that money to the driver as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The driver had actually wanted to receive payment from Hyoichi—who had declared "I'll pay any amount"—but upon seeing the money handed over by Tazuko, he became thoroughly satisfied. A man probably wouldn’t give this much. Now that he’d received the money, the driver thought it would be a loss to drive Hyoichi alone again. It was such a substantial amount that it precluded any attempt at double-charging. Moreover, even if he wanted to double-charge, there’d be no paying. When they arrived, Hyoichi would definitely say, "You already got it from the woman earlier." Because he had thought this, the driver refused to drive no matter what Hyoichi said.

“The gas’s already run dry. Where you headed?” “Shimotera-machi.” “Garage ain’t that way. Can’t do it—get out.” In the end, Hyoichi had no choice but to get out. The car began lumbering backward, its engine roaring through the late-night air as it awkwardly swung around. Hyoichi—who’d been standing there gaping—jerked back in panic. Naturally, this left him edging toward Tazuko’s front entrance. “Come in!” Tazuko said.

Hyoichi had no choice but to do as Tazuko said. In such a late-night residential area, he resigned himself to the fact that finding a taxi home would no longer be easy. Yet Hyoichi too fixated on the lateness of the hour. "It's late at night..."—Tazuko had naturally said this earlier. But Hyoichi could barely use work as an excuse for himself. If becoming aware of his journalist identity in such an unexpected situation meant anything, Hyoichi was still no proper journalist.

The entrance light came on, apparently having noticed the sound of the car. “I’m home!” When Tazuko announced her return, “Welcome home, madam,” a maid’s voice responded from within as the door opened.

“Please! After you…”

Told to do so, when Hyoichi entered the entranceway, the maid bowed her head. Seeing her hands neatly held together, Hyoichi was startled. They were painfully red and swollen, with what looked like blood oozing here and there. Hyoichi abruptly remembered his mother. His chest tightened painfully.

After ordering the maid to guide Hyoichi to the reception room, Tazuko went to see her mother in the Japanese-style room downstairs.

“Welcome back.” Her mother sat hunched before the long hearth, her back curved into a stoop. “You’re still up?” “No. “I was just about to go to sleep…” Her mother flustered, “...The kotatsu was too hot—I thought I’d take it out to cool before sleeping...” Rather than finding her mother’s excuses odd, Tazuko felt a stabbing ache in her chest. The night before too, she hadn’t tried to sleep until Tazuko returned. Had she been sitting motionless before the hearth all that time, waiting without even a yawn? Tazuko had told her repeatedly—that such worry only pained her, that there was no need, that she should just go to bed first. Yet tonight again, she’d stayed awake waiting. She was using the kotatsu as pretext to hide how worry kept her from sleeping. It hadn’t always been this way. When filming delays made late returns routine, when unexpected all-night shoots kept her away entirely—her mother had slept soundly then without needing phone calls.

Even when she had been a dancer before becoming an actress, it was the same way. When she first became a dancer, there was a time when she left home without permission. While having a long talk at her female friend’s boarding house, she missed the last train and ended up staying over—but then a public phone call came through late at night. It was her mother calling. Upon understanding what happened, her mother felt relieved yet remained visibly flustered—so much so that she left behind both wallet and money meant for buying her daughter shoes inside the phone booth. That remained her only moment of worry; afterward, even when her daughter returned late, she could sleep peacefully. She trusted her completely.

After that incident, she had become unbearably anxious about her daughter’s circumstances. This had been especially true these past few days since Tazuko began appearing at Olympia. No sooner had the incident settled down and she sighed in relief—rubbing her gaunt shoulders worn to the bone—than it was already over. Now her daughter had reached the point of needing to make appearances at men’s pleasure haunts. “Don’t you dare repeat that mistake”—she couldn’t leave the long hearth’s side until hearing Tazuko’s “I’m home.”

When Tazuko realized her mother was worrying about her like that, she found it somehow unbearable. Moreover, precisely because she understood her mother’s attempt to conceal her worried expression, it became all the more unbearable.

“Don’t be silly. Go to bed now.” However, the mother did not try to get up immediately. She fidgeted restlessly, scrutinizing Tazuko’s expression.

Her mother had been keenly aware there would be a male guest tonight. Her ears instinctively pricked toward the second floor. It was only natural. At such a late hour, male visitors had been nonexistent here for nearly two years. There had been one two years prior. He had suddenly come late at night and been introduced to Tazuko. That was Director Yano. When she bowed repeatedly, murmuring "Thank you for always looking after Tazuko," he nodded magnanimously with vague "Ah, ah"s—but this magnanimity stemmed not from his role as the director who'd made Tazuko a star, rather from the confidence that he'd already secured complete dominion over her body and mind. With cruel arrogance, Yano had remarked, "You've raised quite a daughter," then stayed the night without another word. After that he came frequently. Though Yano had a wife and children—something Tazuko later learned—he'd furtively pressured her while claiming it was inexcusable toward them too, to which Tazuko retorted, "What nonsense!" Even as she spoke these words, he suddenly noticed something amiss with Tazuko's body. She could no longer speak, gazing at her daughter with mournful eyes until realizing it had been a misunderstanding—only to have her relief shattered when the police summoned Tazuko. Later understanding the reason, she regretted not having made Tazuko quit acting to bear and raise the child instead, but it was too late—she bitterly resented Yano, suspecting his meddling. She could never forget Yano's arrogant demeanor from that first visit. Even now the mother recalled that night, suddenly turning anxious eyes toward the second floor. But,

She couldn’t bring herself to ask, “Who is the guest…?” Tazuko keenly sensed her mother’s feelings. “There’s a guest…” Having brought it up herself,

“It’s someone from the newspaper. “He says he wants to write about tailing me.” “They’re so bothersome.” “Journalists…” "But it’d be rude not to go, so I’ll just make a quick appearance and come back.” And as Tazuko, having entered the next room and changed from her evening gown into a kimono while telling her mother to go to bed first, the young journalist felt somewhat guilty about how she had spoken. Therefore, driven by the instinct unique to a beautiful woman, she meticulously reapplied her makeup.

“Thank you for waiting—and thank you very much for earlier.” When they sat facing each other, she quickly noticed Hyoichi hadn’t touched the coffee served to him. “Please go ahead—before it gets cold…” But during his prolonged wait, she realized it had already turned completely cold,

“Oh dear, it’s already gone cold.” “I’m sorry.” She said with an upward inflection and pressed the bell to summon the maid. Her charm was utterly impeccable.

The young maid took a liking to Hyoichi the moment she laid eyes on him. Having been employed as a maid for a movie actress, she was deeply immersed in film culture—so much so that when she saw Hyoichi, this beautiful youth awkwardly clad in a puffy overcoat late at night, she nearly thought he might be one of those "male-impersonating beauties" from the silver screen. The maid, who had abruptly conceived this improper affection, appeared timidly in the parlor with pitiable nervousness. Handing over the coffee cup was unbearably embarrassing. It was because she had to show her dirty hands.

However, if there was anything at all that might have drawn Hyoichi to this maid, it would not have been the tip of her nose, hastily daubed with makeup, but rather her reddened, dirty hands that she was reluctant to reveal. For Hyoichi, even seeing those hands isolated in such a manner was enough to strike at his heart. It was because they reminded him of his mother’s hands. Yet Hyoichi saw those hands within a parlor gleaming with opulent decorations. Struck even more deeply, he suddenly recalled Higashi Ginko’s reddened feet dancing on the Yayoi-za stage. Hyoichi flusteredly wiped away the tears that had nearly fallen, using his revulsion toward the room to steady himself as he stood up.

“I’ll take my leave now.”

Of all times, just as the fresh coffee had arrived, Tazuko was shocked when Hyoichi abruptly announced he was leaving. “Oh, there’s no need to leave so soon. Please stay a little longer… If you leave so soon, I’ll be cross with you.”

She had truly become angry. And now—if he left at this point—it would spell trouble; Tazuko desperately tried to restrain Hyoichi. She found herself despicable to the point of thinking how wretched she was being. Hyoichi too was utterly puzzled as to why he was being so persistently detained. Having been earnestly detained, Hyoichi felt a slight satisfaction in breaking free to leave. “It’s already gotten so late…” With those brusque words, he pushed open the door. And then he went down the stairs.

“Oh, are you leaving already?” The maid appeared at the entrance. Hyoichi didn’t answer. Thrusting his feet into his dirty shoes, he hurried out. While listening to the distant howl of a dog, Hyoichi went as far as the Himematsu stop on the Sumiyoshi Line, where he finally managed to hail a car. The pleading expression Tazuko had worn as he left somehow refused to leave his mind. After seeing Hyoichi off, the maid entered the parlor with the look of someone about to tidy up. She was dissatisfied about something. She hadn’t expected him to leave so soon. She had decided he would stay the night. She couldn’t begin to guess what kind of relationship this man had with her mistress, but regardless, she had wanted him to stay the night. He had left without even exchanging a word. She felt lonely. (It’s only natural that he wouldn’t even exchange a word with someone like me—a mere maid.)

However, it wasn’t limited to just the maid. Though somewhat different, her mistress too had been made to taste a similar feeling. When the maid entered, Tazuko remained sitting on the sofa, motionless and dazed. “He didn’t stay over after all, did he?” When the maid said this, Tazuko finally regained her senses. “You know full well. Who’d let him stay? A journalist like that!” Tazuko snapped reproachfully.

In truth, when she had detained Hyoichi, given the lateness of the hour, she had thought she ought to let him stay. Yet when confronted by the maid's remark, she found herself feeling that such thoughts of hers were somehow indecent. The words Hyoichi had uttered upon leaving—"It's grown so late now..."—now resurfaced in her mind with a strangely sardonic ring. For the first time, Tazuko regretted having brought Hyoichi home at such an unseemly hour, recognizing it as an act of recklessness.

The maid suddenly felt saddened, for the man she secretly harbored feelings for had been spoken of in such a manner. But, sensitive as she was, she perceived Tazuko’s anger and conformed to it. “That’s absolutely true. A journalist like that! And there’s more. He’s far too impertinent! He left without even saying goodbye…” The maid didn’t know whether Hyoichi had bid Tazuko farewell before leaving or had departed without a word. Therefore, this remark was merely referring to her own situation. However, for Tazuko, Hyoichi had indeed “left without even saying goodbye.” No, far from that—he had broken free from her attempts to stop him and left. (Could there have been something that made him angry?)

When she thought about it, there was nothing. She had no inkling that seeing the maid's red hands could have been the cause. If there had been no reason at all, then nothing could have wounded Tazuko's self-esteem more profoundly than this. What's more, his leaving without ever broaching the crucial newspaper article left her utterly unable to save face. The maid's words therefore cut Tazuko deeply. But then she suddenly remembered how the maid had been gazing at Hyoichi with that peculiar, enraptured look. And so Tazuko found herself somewhat comforted.

(This girl is lying. Even though she's in love with that journalist, she's saying such things! ……That’s right. That journalist is exactly the sort of man suited to be this girl’s lover!) Tazuko convinced herself of this and resolved to scorn Hyoichi. (Getting angry at a man like that is downright shameful!)

(In other words, that man’s partner being just the maid was perfectly fine.) The very fact that she needed to force those words into her mind only showed how stubbornly Hyoichi clung to her thoughts, refusing to leave.

She decided she couldn't leave things as they were. So she ended up doing something entirely unexpected and rash the very next day—calling Hyoichi's office.

Six

The deadline for the evening paper’s first edition manuscript was noon.

Hyoichi, who had completely overslept due to exhaustion from the previous night, arrived at work just before eleven o'clock. Hyoichi was hurriedly scrawling with a 4B pencil to meet the deadline for his tailing report manuscript.

The pencil lead broke. "Office boy! A pencil!" Under normal circumstances, he wouldn't have been able to order the office boy around, but in his haste, he imitated his seniors' tone and barked like that. But sadly, he was still seen as a novice. On top of that, he was young. No one brought a pencil. Hyoichi flushed. Just then, "Hey, here's a pencil!" A man came to Hyoichi's desk with a pencil. When he looked, it was Tsuchikado.

“Ah, thank you!” Hyoichi was happy.

“Lend me some money! Fifty sen will do.” With a forced wry smile at their usual transaction, Tsuchikado placed a fifty-sen silver coin on the desk. Hyoichi resumed scrawling his surveillance report across the coarse paper.

Tsuchikado slipped the silver coin into his trouser pocket while, "You're quite the diligent one, aren't ya? What’s this article even about?" he began to ask, but before Hyoichi could answer, he continued, "Ah, I see. Muraguchi Tazuko's... Must be tough filling in as a substitute, huh? Ahaha." He laughed. Hyoichi suddenly raised his face and, "What kind of actress is Muraguchi Tazuko anyway? What did she do? What does 'The Sinful Actress' mean?" Since there was no one else he could ask, he thought this chance encounter with Tsuchikado was a good opportunity and decided to inquire.

“Oh? You don’t know?” Tsuchikado laughed, his voice tingling with glee. “This is rich! A newspaper journalist writing surveillance reports who doesn’t know about the Muraguchi Tazuko scandal? Ahaha, I can’t stomach this! Got me shivering with delight first thing in the morning—quit it now, will ya? Heh heh heh...” His mirth vanished abruptly as he leaned closer. “You really don’t know?” “No.” “Right then, listen up. That Muraguchi Tazuko’s a real snooze. Wanted better roles so bad she bedded the director—swelled up like a charcoal-grilled pork belly, then snapped her fingers and had it all sliced off to get her figure back. Could’ve stayed in hiding and kept some dignity, but no—had to come prancing into ‘Olympia’ like she’s still hot stuff. Not that I couldn’t write her puff piece drunk off my ass—just ain’t worth my time.” He barked a laugh before rattling on: “But it’s your job, kid. Give it hell—first article and all. See ya...” With a wave, he disappeared into the newsroom haze.

So that’s how it was—Hyoichi no longer wanted to keep writing. The truth was, he had been composing a flattering puff piece all along. Hyoichi suddenly tore up the manuscript paper he’d filled until now. Then he numbered a fresh sheet of rough paper with a “1.” Before long, Hyoichi began writing in a caustic style spurred by Tsuchikado’s provocation. It was nearly noon when he marked “End” with a period. Hyoichi read through the manuscript while crossing the editorial room to deliver it to the editor-in-chief. When he emerged, the attendant approached and,

“Did you go to ‘Olympia’ last night?” the attendant asked. When he nodded yes, “Then there’s a call for you,” she said in a patronizing tone that treated him like a fool. Since she hadn’t known Hyoichi’s name, Muraguchi Tazuko had called asking to speak to whoever had visited ‘Olympia’ the previous night. When Hyoichi picked up the phone and realized who it was, he panicked. Even ordinarily, Hyoichi had scant experience using telephones—let alone at the company, where this was his first time. Hyoichi turned crimson, panting “Uh-huh” in clumsy replies.

“Last night, I was terribly rude to you.” When she recognized Hyoichi by his voice, Tazuko said those words. “Uh-huh.” Hyoichi suddenly wondered if it hadn’t been him who was rude, recalling the pleading expression he had seen on Tazuko’s face just as he was leaving the night before. “Um, there’s something I’d like to discuss. Are you free right now?” “Uh-huh.” “Then, would you meet with me?” “Uh-huh.” “I’ll be waiting at Fujiya in Shinsaibashi.” “Uh-huh.”

“Could you come right away?”

“Uh-huh. Fujiya, right?” Hyoichi was drenched in sweat. He couldn’t bring himself to refuse.

Hadn't he just written an article thoroughly trashing her? Hyoichi was thoroughly embarrassed. He should have held animosity toward her from the start. Especially after hearing Tsuchikado’s account, that animosity should have been further stoked. It was strange to feel unduly apologetic, but now that he had fully vented that animosity in writing, trying to forcibly rely on it now proved ineffective. Since it wasn’t a face-to-face conversation, under normal circumstances he wouldn’t have felt any resentment toward the coldness emanating from her beautiful face. For one thing, Tazuko’s voice over the phone lacked its usual weighty, hoarse resonance and instead conveyed an unexpectedly clear, gentle tone.

When he hung up the phone, Hyoichi threw on his overcoat and rushed out of the office.

When Hyoichi entered Fujiya, Tazuko—who had arrived first—raised a gloved finger to signal him. "I’ve gone and called you out… Well, please, have a seat!" At Tazuko’s urging, Hyoichi blushed and took the seat across from her.

When he placed both hands on the table, Hyoichi started. There was something black like ink on his palms. When he jerked his hands back in surprise, he thought, (It must be from pencil lead dust.) In other words, it was evidence that he had been engrossed in writing Tazuko’s surveillance report. Hyoichi kept rubbing his palms against his trouser knees with painful intensity, not even raising his face. When asked what he would like to drink, Hyoichi answered coffee. Tazuko called the waiter,

“Coffee and sweets… and then… I’ll have ice cream… What flavors…?” “We only have vanilla.” The waiter said.

“That’s fine.”

When she finished ordering, Tazuko observed Hyoichi slowly for the first time. And she was surprised. Unlike when he had entered with his face absurdly flushed, Hyoichi now wore a somewhat pale countenance with a sullen expression. He glared up at Tazuko. Even a faint hostility tinged his eyes' color. (What a man with such changeable expressions!) Tazuko was astonished. In truth—though it was utterly foolish—Hyoichi’s troublesome mind, which habitually sought to find fault in everything, was at that very moment indignant over Tazuko’s order of ice cream. According to Hyoichi, eating ice cream in midwinter was pretentious. In particular, for a young woman like Tazuko to eat it in front of others was pretentious, he asserted.

One late night during his school days, Hyoichi went to the Star Cafeteria in Kiyamachi along with his friends Akai and Nozaki. It was midwinter—Kyoto’s cold seeped deep into bones—and they huddled their chairs around the stove. When deciding what to eat, Nozaki—utterly gluttonous when food was involved—declared he wanted ice cream for once; he hadn’t had any since last summer. Akai immediately chimed in: “Yeah! I’ve been wanting that too!” When asked “How ’bout you?” Hyoichi ordered coffee instead—a mundane choice—and smirked while watching them shiver violently at their shoulders as they gulped down ice cream like gnawing animals. Then Akai ground his teeth and spat: “Country bumpkin! You don’t even know winter ice cream’s real taste!”

Hyoichi was remembering that incident. However, though he had been called a country bumpkin at the time, Hyoichi hadn’t felt particularly angry. Because Akai and Nozaki's brand of affectation was the sort that seemed to frolic wildly in their bellies—in other words, it wasn't the stiffly refined and composed affectation like Tazuko's. In that tendency to nitpick like this—in other words, wasn’t this a sign of Hyoichi’s narrow-mindedness? That was probably the case. This was unavoidable given his inherent disposition, but it was also due in part to his lack of clear opinions about things—that is to say, any sort of worldview or ideology. That’s why he was only doling out these petty opinions in such a stingy way. He could only think of things impulsively and consequently couldn’t act; the fluctuations of his self-esteem drove him.

When Tazuko saw Hyoichi's expression, she abruptly recalled his rudeness from the previous night. And the reason she had gone to the trouble of summoning him by phone became clear to her. She truly couldn't grasp why she had decided to meet Hyoichi again. Of course, there had secretly been a feeling that she couldn't let last night's treatment go unanswered. But wasn't meeting him for that reason alone too undignified an act? After all, he was nothing but some insignificant rookie reporter. As this thought struck her, her regret over having made the call so rashly intensified. When she saw Hyoichi enter with his face suddenly flushing crimson, this feeling grew even stronger. In other words, she found it unbearably shameful that she felt somehow drawn to Hyoichi.

Therefore, Hyoichi’s current display of such an unappealing expression felt oddly refreshing to her. (That’s right! I couldn’t just let last night’s rudeness slide—that’s why I went through the trouble of meeting him!) Once she anchored her actions to this justification, her regrets about impropriety or rashness dissolved. She fixed her long-lashed eyes intently on Hyoichi and deliberated what reproaches to unleash upon him.

Suddenly, with feminine perceptiveness, she noticed the weariness of Hyoichi’s overcoat. It was creased pitifully. What’s more, clearly off-the-rack, it bulged loosely on his frame. Moreover, upon closer inspection, his suit did not seem meant for winter. Even his necktie was a miserable thing. Though the same pattern as last night’s, it bore more wrinkles now. "Who picked out that overcoat…?" Should I ask him outright? Tazuko wondered. But in that instant, Hyoichi’s gaunt cheek jabbed painfully at her eyes.

Then she found herself unable to voice it. Just thinking such things made her feel sorry for him. (Oh, I mustn't!) Tazuko cried out inwardly. (I'm pitying this man.) Which meant she had indeed been drawn to Hyoichi—that was why she'd gone to the trouble of meeting him again. Flustered, she looked away from Hyoichi. In that motion—(Ah! That's it!)—she smiled.

(I had forgotten something important—I had something to ask this person.) After taking a roundabout mental path, she finally reached that conclusion—that she had gone out of her way to meet him specifically to request his help regarding the tailing article. Tazuko opened her mouth in relief.

“Um, actually, I have a request...” “Would you listen?” “…About that tailing article you mentioned last night…”

Hyoichi startled. “……It’s an unreasonable request, but could you please refrain from writing it?” Having no other strategy to employ, Tazuko decided to ask him directly in that manner.

Hyoichi had no way to reply. Had he not just finished writing it? When he thought that by now it must have been typeset and loaded onto the printing press, "Wh-why... why would that be?" he managed in a voice that felt leaden around his chest. But the next moment, Hyoichi's tone had already turned thoroughly spiteful, "Does it cause you trouble if it's written?" He was recalling Domon's words. (They're saying that if it gets written, it'll damage her popularity.) This woman values her popularity above all else. (Even the issue with the director—it's all just a calculated move to boost her popularity.)

Even after having written so scathingly about the woman, Hyoichi continued lashing himself mentally in this manner—partly to steel his own timidity toward Tazuko, which made him feel apologetic—but in truth, it was precisely because the ice cream had just then been brought over.

"It's not that it's a problem..." Tazuko began, but Hyoichi pressed on— "You're saying it'll hurt your popularity, aren't you?!"

Tazuko abruptly lowered her eyes. “Popularity…?” Her voice trailed off. “Am I wrong?”

“That’s not true!”

Suddenly, the gleam in Tazuko’s eyes lifted her eyelashes. “'Popularity, popularity'—that’s all anyone ever says about me, but…” Tazuko’s voice took on a theatrical cadence. “...Do I truly think about my own popularity that much?” “Take Mr. Yano’s case—people say such awful things, like ‘Muraguchi sold her virtue to Yano for better roles,’ but do you imagine I associated with Mr. Yano out of calculation?” “For popularity’s sake—my own popularity’s sake—would I have ruined myself?” “That isn’t true!” “Yes, Mr. Yano was my benefactor.” “But love and patronage are different matters.” “Even if he were my benefactor, I wouldn’t have kept company with him that way unless I loved him.” “I simply loved Mr. Yano.” “That’s all.” “That’s precisely why, when he told me to do that thing, I obeyed.” “Because it was what the man I loved asked of me.” “Yet you all reduce everything to popularity.” “You view me through distorting lenses.” “You must see me that way too, don’t you?”

With that, she suddenly wore a "forlorn smile". The moment she realized this smile was deliberate, she felt repulsed. Habits are terrifying things, she thought. She had unconsciously assumed a close-up expression. (But what I'm saying isn't a lie) she thought. (At least I loved Mr. Yano more than my own popularity.) In that split second, she could believe it. Because she had told herself this for so long, she could no longer conceive of any alternative. It had become her fixed idea.

However, this was the first time she had clearly voiced this fixed idea before others. She thought she didn't want to say such things in a place like this. She hadn't wanted to make her first protest against "society's gaze" within some café. Even considering he was a journalist, her opponent was after all a man so young he might as well be a child.

However, when Tazuko saw that Hyoichi seemed to be listening intently with a startled expression, she felt there was some worth in continuing. Hyoichi was indeed captivated by Tazuko’s words. Precisely because his own "critique" had been so scathing, his inclination to believe her words grew even stronger. (How could Domon’s words be reliable!) he thought. Tazuko had to lower her voice, considering they were in public. The necessity of suppressing her voice despite surging emotions made her feel her sorrow deepening all the more, and before she knew it, her eyes had grown moist. Seeing this, Hyoichi felt his heart stirred even more profoundly. Hyoichi, ever prone to extremes, suddenly stood up.

“I see. I understand. However, I’ve already written the tailing report. I don’t know if it’ll be in time, but I’ll call the office and have them hold off on publishing it.”

With that, Hyoichi hurried off to borrow a telephone without even considering whether such a thing was permitted.

Seven The Editor-in-Chief was exasperated by Hyoichi's atrocious handwriting and crude manuscript, but skimmed through it nonetheless. And having read through it, he was glad he had.

(If I hadn't read it myself and just passed it to the Social Affairs Editor, that would've been catastrophic.) Because with the Social Affairs Editor, he'd send it straight to print without even checking what came before or after.

Not only did it slander Muraguchi Tazuko, but it had even exposed the misconduct of Olympia’s publicity manager. If published, this was exactly the kind of article that would have inevitably drawn protests from Olympia. Precisely for that reason, it held sufficient value as a special feature—but that would have caused trouble for the sales department. From the editorial department’s standpoint, they would have preferred to run it if possible, but ultimately they wanted to avoid friction with sales. For one thing, the sentimentally soft-hearted Editor-in-Chief had wanted to shield Muraguchi Tazuko.

The Editor-in-Chief rejected Hyoichi’s manuscript. But he felt somewhat sorry for Hyoichi. Though Hyoichi had been fortunate in stumbling upon the opportunity, to have scooped that much material must have required considerable effort. (After all, that guy had potential. Despite the cold, he’d worked diligently until midnight. He’d be devastated when he found out it was rejected.) Just as he was thinking this, a call came in from Hyoichi.

“This is Mouri.”

The Editor-in-Chief couldn't immediately recognize who the caller was. Since it was a young voice, he assumed it couldn't be anyone important, "Mouri? Who the hell is that?"

“Uh... It’s Mouri Hyoichi, the society department trainee.” “Oh, it’s you? What’s the matter?”

“Um, uh, has that manuscript been sent to print yet?” “Not yet. What’s happenin’ with it?” “It hasn’t been sent yet?” “I see.” “Then—though this is terribly forward of me—could you please kill it?” “Why’s that?” “Uh… “Well, there are certain circumstances…” “Got it. “Alright then, I’ll do as ya say.” The Editor-in-Chief smiled. “So where’re ya at now?” “Uh... “At Fujiya in Shinsaibashi...”

“Who’re you with?” “A lover or something?” The Editor-in-Chief, thoroughly cheered up by Hyoichi’s unexpected request, cracked such a joke, “Then I earnestly ask for your cooperation.” With Hyoichi’s sweat-drenched plea still ringing in his ears, he hung up the phone.

The moment he hung up, (That guy must've been asked by Muraguchi Tazuko. He must be meeting her now.) Imagining his young subordinate's vigorous activities, he became thoroughly cheerful. Just then, Domon came to request approval for an advance payment, so he carelessly stamped the seal without looking. After finishing the call, Hyoichi returned to Tazuko and told her he had decided to withhold publication of the article. "Thank you. Even though you went to all that trouble..."

As she said this, Tazuko suddenly thought: So in the end, this man had gone to all that trouble last night to save me. Tazuko abruptly stood up, “Shall we leave here?” she said in a bright voice, imbuing her words with the desire for them to walk together. More than anything, Tazuko was happy that Hyoichi had been moved by her words. And through her inherently vain eyes, Hyoichi—who had immediately taken measures beyond her hopes—appeared just like a knight.

Now that she thought about it, even Hyoichi's actions from last night—which should have considerably wounded her self-esteem—could be considered to have stemmed from a commendable shyness fixated intensely on the lateness of the hour. And the swiftness akin to a departing wind at their leave-taking had a gallant quality like a knight's, thought this former actress.

Avoiding the bustle of Shinsaibashi, they walked side by side along the tree-lined avenue of Midosuji toward Daimaru. Soft sunlight poured directly onto their faces. To Hyoichi's sleep-deprived eyes, the sunlight was dazzling. He drew his eyebrows together at the base. Having grown accustomed to the intense stimulation of stage lights, Muraguchi Tazuko remained unaffected; when she saw Hyoichi's expression, she misinterpreted it as him frowning in displeasure. In other words, she thought he was displeased.

Given her vanity, this was utterly unthinkable. She instinctively endeavored to captivate Hyoichi's heart. When they reached Shinsaibashi, Tazuko “Shall we turn back?” she proposed, even adding, “Do you dislike walking with me?” By any measure, Hyoichi was being shown exceptional favor by Tazuko. Even merely walking side by side warranted envy. Indeed, Hyoichi read this truth in the lingering gazes of passersby who scrutinized them as they walked past.

(I'm walking side by side with a popular actress!)

He didn’t mind it. Yet Hyoichi had long professed to despise notions like "popularity," so taking such pleasure in it now could be called a contradiction—or perhaps his youth. At any rate, whenever he perceived others harboring such thoughts about him, a surge of contempt welled up within him. However, as might be expected, Hyoichi was not entirely lost in delight—whether because he had noticed this contradiction or because he was embarrassed.

Therefore, when questioned in that manner, he didn’t do anything as idiotic as saying, "No, it’s an honor," even if he were to say it while laughing. But even so, he couldn’t come up with a good response on the spot.

“Well... but...” In the end, he muttered something like that under his breath. Tazuko had been offended. Because Hyoichi had grown sensitive to Tazuko’s emotional shifts, he immediately realized he’d said something clumsy, “I’m skipping out on my work hours right now. It’s not so bad to skip out once in a while.” It was a strained excuse.

However, depending on interpretation, these words could be seen as answering Tazuko's question: "Do you dislike walking with me?" At the very least, Tazuko wanted to believe Hyoichi was pleased to walk with her. She interpreted it that way.

In other words, that strained excuse was somewhat successful. Tazuko was satisfied, and Hyoichi too found satisfaction. This was because it had been a remark that wouldn’t be embarrassing if overheard by anyone.

This caution of Hyoichi's produced a noteworthy effect. He remained vigilant against using suggestive phrases like those employed by brazen men or sentimental lovers— "What do you suppose people would think if they saw us walking together like this?"

He remained thoroughly vigilant against using such suggestive phrases. In other words, he didn’t get carried away and carelessly utter the sort of remarks that would instantly repel a cultured woman. Therefore, Tazuko was spared from becoming overly conscious of the fact that she was deliberately walking back and forth along Midosuji’s pavement side by side with the young newspaper journalist. Naturally, the unconscious charm meant to captivate Hyoichi’s heart flowed forth effortlessly. Hyoichi had every reason to be conceited indeed. However, due to an unexpected incident, Hyoichi ended up feeling completely the opposite.

It was when they arrived in front of Daimaru.

"If you had a sister, Mr.Mouri, I think she'd surely be a beautiful person."

Tazuko, who had been about to utter words that would have pleased him, suddenly changed her expression and swallowed them. A deathly pallor swept across Tazuko's profile. The figure of a man pushing through Daimaru's door froze in Hyoichi's widening field of vision. He wore a belted leather overcoat cut short, revealing golf trousers beneath. From behind rimless glasses, the man glared sharply at Hyoichi. Yet moments earlier, that same man had been staring at Tazuko's face. Standing frozen with a startled expression, he soon approached with rigid steps,

“Well... “How have you been?” he addressed Tazuko. “……” Tazuko snapped her handbag clasp shut again. Her hands were trembling slightly. “I saw it in the paper—you’re working at ‘Olympia’ now? “Oh well, keep at it then.” After glaring sharply at Hyoichi, he looked at Tazuko’s face once more. Tazuko,

“Thank you,” she said softly. The man raised his hand, “Well then,” he left.

“Ah,”

Tazuko moved the heel of her shoe slightly but stopped herself from giving chase. Then, after standing frozen for a while, she started walking without saying a word. “Who was that?” Hyoichi finally asked.

“Mr. Yano.” After that, Tazuko said nothing more, so Hyoichi found himself helplessly recalling her words from earlier at Fujiya—“I used to like Mr. Yano”—with a sense of having nowhere to anchor his thoughts. Moreover, he remembered the contemptuous glance Mr. Yano had left behind just now (—Hyoichi thought—). Hyoichi struggled to manage his own expression. Though he considered it fortunate that Tazuko’s sudden quickened pace prevented her from noticing what must have been at least a momentarily distorted look on his face, the very fact her steps had hastened served as proof of her inner turmoil—and that turmoil now transferred itself directly to him. After all, there could be no peace of mind.

The very fact that he was beginning to feel somewhat conceited made Tazuko's turmoil all the more painful. And to his chagrin, from Hyoichi's perspective, Yano appeared more impressive than he had imagined. Hadn't the man walked away with a face impervious to the cold wind? Hyoichi thought he had cut a very poor figure before Yano.

Since Tazuko remained silent, Hyoichi found himself lost in such solitary musings.

(Yano must have seen me beside this woman and thought it utterly absurd.)

In this way, feelings of jealousy gradually crept into Hyoichi’s heart. Tazuko’s unconscious efforts since earlier to captivate Hyoichi’s heart bore fruit for the first time precisely through her silence.

But even Hyoichi, being too silent, thought that continuing to follow her forever would be a wretched thing. Hyoichi, while consciously aware that Tazuko’s face was extremely beautiful, said, “I’ll take my leave here.” And then he abruptly left her side. Seeing Hyoichi suddenly start to leave in such a manner, Tazuko finally regained her composure.

“Ah, Mr. Mouri,” she called out to stop him, “won’t you come to ‘Olympia’ tonight?”

And then she took two or three steps toward Hyoichi. A cold wind blew across the paved street where daylight had faded. Hyoichi, "Yes," he said aloud. And then they parted.

Chapter Three

I

When she thought about having to see Sako's face, Tazuko no longer felt like going to Olympia. However, though it wasn't explicitly called by that name, since she had received money akin to an advance or contract fee, she couldn't abruptly quit. Having been in a profession dependent on public favor, she knew all too well the importance of honoring contracts. Tazuko had been deliberating since morning about what she should do.

Yet the moment she said to Hyoichi, "Won't you come to 'Olympia' tonight?" her resolve had crystallized. If she were to suddenly quit, it would cause friction. Deciding that she need only feign ignorance about last night’s incident with Sako, Tazuko left for "Olympia" at the usual time.

However, why on earth had she told Hyoichi to come to "Olympia"? Even if one were to say it was out of business-mindedness to attract more customers, given that the person in question was Hyoichi, Sako wouldn't be pleased no matter how much he was part of the promotion team. Of course, it hadn't been out of such motives. To put it another way—though Tazuko herself hadn't clearly realized it—she had nonetheless been unable to keep from seeing Hyoichi again that night. That said, it wasn't out of some frivolous impulse. It would be absurd to consider someone as boyish as Hyoichi as a lover; in other words, the emotional turmoil from unexpectedly encountering Yano that day had necessitated a crutch like Hyoichi—one not particularly imbued with masculinity.

It had been five months since she had last met Yano. It had been ever since the incident occurred. She had wanted to see him but couldn't. It was society that wouldn't let them meet, Tazuko had thought. She had wanted to think that. She hadn't wanted to think Yano had used the incident as a convenient opportunity to flee from her. She had believed he too must want to meet her. But the moment she saw Yano's face, that belief was betrayed. Had their meeting after five months—following such an incident—truly happened, more heartache should have welled up between them. At the very least, Tazuko had been so anguished she couldn't speak. Yet Yano had shown nothing but brazen indifference. That was how it had appeared to her. The instant she saw him, Tazuko realized she herself had wanted to flee. She understood the reluctance to exchange even passing words. Still—she thought in that fleeting moment of resentment as she pursued him—he might have shown some scrap of lingering affection. In the end, recognizing there'd been no love from the start, she lost all desire to chase him. When she accepted Yano's lack of love, Tazuko felt for the first time how clearly she herself had loved him. "It wasn't for popularity but because I like you"—those words she'd said to Hyoichi weren't entirely false when weighed against this realization. Hadn't this proven she needed to sever thoughts of Yano now? At that moment, Hyoichi should have seemed far less substantial than Yano no matter how one looked at him.

At the same time, no matter how much of an ugly man he might have been, he should have appeared somewhat more presentable. It was not unreasonable that Tazuko had said, “Come to ‘Olympia’ tonight.” Incidentally, it was also Yano’s retreating figure that had made Tazuko resolve to go to "Olympia." When women experience heartbreak, they never remain alone. Even if they travel to forget their heartache, it is customary to inform someone of their intention beforehand.

In any case, Tazuko appeared at "Olympia" at the usual time. Sako had intended to feign complete ignorance of last night’s events even when seeing Tazuko’s face, but when she appeared,

“Oh, you made it,” he blurted out. It sounded like a remark meant for an unexpected visitor. In other words, he had carelessly revealed his underlying worry that Tazuko might not show up at all. Around ten o’clock, Hyoichi arrived. Tazuko greeted him with a look that suggested she had naturally been expecting his arrival—had Hyoichi realized this perception existed, it would have been deeply unpleasant to him. He hadn’t come here eagerly, indeed.

It was truly a troublesome matter, but Hyoichi found himself fixated—as usual—on having meekly trotted over at Tazuko’s every beck and call. He could find no reason whatsoever why he had to go—none at all. This troubled him deeply. People remained unaware of his secret feelings for Tazuko, but for this proud man, such vulnerability felt unforgivable. If no reason could be found, it would be better to abandon going altogether—so he commanded himself, though the order rang utterly listless. Yet even after issuing this decree, he still racked his brains for justification. Suddenly, Yano’s face surfaced in his mind—those eyes glaring scornfully from behind rimless glasses, that unmistakable raw vigor stretching from eyelids to brows like dampened muscle.

Hyoichi finally discovered the reason (That's it. I won’t lose to a man like that! I’ll make that woman mine!)

Hyoichi’s way of thinking was always like this. However, this time, his way of thinking was tinged with a measure of jealousy. Precisely because of that, his resolve was all the stronger. Hyoichi decided to follow this line of thought that had abruptly flooded into his mind. This became the pretext for going to "Olympia".

If Tazuko had known of such thoughts of Hyoichi’s, she would have shuddered. Or would she have thought it strange? However, Hyoichi did not come before Tazuko brandishing those strange thoughts at the tip of his nose.

Though he was relieved to have finally found a pretext, the self-imposed obligation to make Tazuko his own weighed heavily on twenty-year-old Hyoichi. He appeared before Tazuko trembling violently. To Tazuko, he looked like a child who had come to receive a snack exactly as instructed. Therefore, Tazuko found him quite agreeable and did not treat him carelessly.

Due to the nature of her duties, Tazuko had to go around greeting patrons at various tables, but each time, she would say to Hyoichi, “Wait here a moment, okay?” she said. And she would immediately return and sit down beside Hyoichi. Since he was the only customer treated in such a manner, Hyoichi had every reason to be quite pleased. However, he wasn’t happy in the least. It was because he was recalling that self-imposed obligation.

(I have to do something!) he thought, but he couldn’t figure out what exactly he should do. The idea of trying to make a pass at her didn’t even cross his mind. After racking his brain, the best he could manage was recalling how he had once held her hand at a café. In the end, he abruptly resolved to go through with it. Hyoichi began fidgeting nervously.

But at that very moment, Tazuko's hands were not free. Tazuko took the apple that the waiter had deliberately brought unpeeled and, with deft hands, began peeling it. Of course, it was for Hyoichi. The clumsy Hyoichi couldn't even manage to peel a single apple, but as he watched Tazuko, he suddenly felt a warmth in his heart. In that instant, he forgot about his obligation and became entranced by the beauty of Tazuko's delicate fingers.

Such nights continued for four or five days. Because he had taken no action satisfying his "obligation" during those three days, Hyoichi felt somewhat dispirited—though perhaps this had been for the best. Were he to roughly seize her hand at obligation's command, nothing could have been more mutually disagreeable. In truth, Hyoichi might have been completely disarmed by a single affectionate glance. But since this never occurred, Tazuko—to borrow her own expression—found in her interactions with Hyoichi "a sensation like a clear brook's flow." That is to say, contact with this timid youth proved the most effective method for forgetting Yano's overbearing masculinity.

If one were to set aside Hyoichi’s peculiar “obligation,” their relationship was entirely like child’s play. No one should have had reason to suspect a thing. Yet this pair—matched in beauty—proved startling enough to make onlookers stare. Sako found it most unbearable of all. Having personally witnessed Hyoichi and Tazuko’s “special relationship” that previous night, Sako burned with raging jealousy. The sting of having his weakness exposed by Hyoichi only sharpened his irritation. What galled him beyond measure was how Hyoichi stubbornly lingered each night until closing time to leave in the same car as Tazuko. Because of this, even his brazen schemes found themselves utterly paralyzed.

(He’s interfering with my plans! Insolent brat!) However, this didn’t originate from Hyoichi’s own volition—he had merely been complying with Tazuko’s request to escort her partway home in the same car. Yet had that been true, Sako might have grown even more incensed. (That guy’s got her smitten. That cocky punk…) remained unchanged. (I gotta smash him good so he can’t ever come back to Olympia!) He thought, but hesitated at how petty it seemed. Then it struck him—(That brat’s messing with our business!)

When he hit upon that idea, he finally had a pretext. With this, even if someone were to question him, there’d be no shame in it. At the very least, Sako could avoid being seen as having beaten up the young man out of jealousy.

True to his former self as an electrician, Sako thrilled at imagining the visceral pleasure of pummeling others. But when he reconsidered, he remembered Hyoichi held leverage over him. (If I show my face here, it'll backfire. They'll splash it across the papers and make a proper mess.) With this rationale, Sako resolved to enlist Katsu of Dotonbori—a man long connected to Olympia—for the task. Katsu handled the request with practiced ease. No need to manufacture pretexts for confrontation. He'd stationed himself outside Olympia at closing time, waiting for Hyoichi to emerge a step ahead of Tazuko. But the moment Katsu called out "Hey" and moved closer, Hyoichi lunged first. How could he forget the man he'd knocked down in Yayoi-za's back alley? Hyoichi charged recklessly—

“If you dare show your face at this club again, I ain’t gonna let it slide!”

The moment he heard Katsu of Dotonbori's snarling voice, he lost consciousness.

When he came to his senses, he was in the car. Tazuko sat beside him. They had long passed Nihonbashi-suji 1-chome, where Hyoichi always got off. The humiliation of being easily knocked down and witnessed made him wish he had died right there. Though no one else knew, remembering this had happened once before made him shrink further into dejection, certain Tazuko too had grown weary of him—but when the car reached Tezukayama, Tazuko unexpectedly said, "Stay the night."

“But…” Even Tazuko hesitated, “In that condition, you can’t go home alone.” As if embracing Hyoichi’s entire body, she helped him out of the car. Hyoichi could no longer even manage to voice a refusal. It wasn’t solely due to the faint sensations of Tazuko’s hands, shoulders, and chest coming into direct contact. It was because being treated like an invalid in that manner was so mortifying he wished to vanish. When he fell, he had struck his head slightly—partly due to his heightened agitation causing him to lose consciousness so easily—but there wasn’t a single scratch on him. The fact that Hyoichi had collapsed so dramatically yet emerged without a single scratch made him grow increasingly dejected and pathetic—a state Tazuko found both reassuring and somewhat comical.

Tazuko had "nursed" Hyoichi nearly all night through. In truth, she had heard the circumstances from the en-taku driver. According to the driver's account, the man who attacked Hyoichi had told him, "If you ever show your face at 'Olympia' again—" ...and so on, he'd reportedly said. Thus, by the driver's conjecture, the assailant had either acted because Hyoichi had stolen his kept woman or because Olympia had put him up to it—it must have been one or the other. Hearing this, Tazuko felt something akin to personal responsibility. Therefore, she concluded there existed an obligation to "nurse" him. For one thing, since the maid had displayed abnormal zeal in tending to Hyoichi, Tazuko found her dignity somewhat wounded and couldn't bring herself to leave everything in the maid's hands.

Pitifully, Hyoichi was given an ice pillow. The cold was so intense it made him jolt up, and combined with the shame of being treated like an invalid, Hyoichi finally developed a fever. Tazuko’s nursing had proven worthwhile after all. She was utterly exhausted. The maid, unable to tend to him herself, grew thoroughly jealous of Tazuko. The maid fell asleep while harboring a vague anxiety. This anxiety proved justified. Hyoichi—who had become so enraged from humiliation he was nearly beside himself—and Tazuko—whose exhaustion left her with less than half her usual rationality—fell into a commonplace relationship.

Outside, a light snow was falling.

II

In days of old—say, the Heian period—depicting a relationship between a beautiful man and woman wouldn’t have required even a single page. But for these two in modern times—both of them so exceedingly self-important—the aforementioned series of coincidences were necessary.

Given that even the maid could imagine it, it must have been an utterly commonplace affair—though had it not been for those coincidences, no matter how much they might have cared for each other, they would rarely have fallen into such a relationship. Even after there was nothing left for her to refuse, Tazuko would still, as if suddenly remembering, act as though to push Hyoichi away. But if it came to pushing away, Hyoichi was no different.

Even in his most frenzied states, Hyoichi's mental condition retained a peculiar quality—it never fully clouded over. A certain disgust he secretly nurtured like an obstinate pastor still reared its hood like a sensitive cobra in that moment. His mother's face, Higashi Ginko's flat chest and slender legs—these images would appear and disappear, disappear and reappear. As a result, even at what should have been his most blissful moment, Hyoichi wore an expression as fierce as if he'd just committed some brutal crime. That reckless curiosity—being drawn to what he loathed—drove him to the brink of wailing.

The satisfaction of self-respect that came from fulfilling his duty was utterly useless at this time. For the mere act of recalling Yano's face had shattered his self-respect into dust—there wasn't a shred of triumphant feeling left.

(That guy had his way with this woman!) To reduce himself to such a pitiful state, merely thinking of that was enough. (This woman had been delighted to become that guy’s plaything too!) (Exactly like this……) Upon sensually imagining that, his anguish reached its peak. Even setting aside self-respect, there could be nothing as painful as one’s first love that began with sensual jealousy. The more a woman’s charm grows, the greater the torment of jealousy becomes.

Pitifully, Hyoichi continued to agonize through the night. What proved most unbearable was that he had always assumed the things he detested were forced upon women against their will—only to discover this had been a grave miscalculation all along. He had despaired at women’s physiological fragility. No wonder he had suddenly shoved Tazuko away. (Women are worthless!) He wanted to strike her. “Swear nothing happened with Yano!” he demanded in a half-sobbing voice—but no sooner had he made this unreasonable plea than—

“Do you still love Yano?” He snarled and slapped Tazuko’s cheek with a sharp crack. Tazuko, who had until now only seen Hyoichi acting shyly nervous, stiffly aloof, and thoroughly awkward, couldn’t help but let a smile rise to the corner of her lips upon witnessing such passion in him. And then, likely without even realizing it, she blurted out something that would torment him even more. “When I was a dancer, so many people tried to court me it was a bother—there was even an Italian.”

It was a casual anecdote from the past, delivered in a dismissible tone, but Hyoichi's face immediately clouded over. "Did you fall for someone...?" "Well... a little..." "But nothing came of it." "What sort of men?" "They were skilled dancers, naturally." "If they led well during a dance, I'd feel slightly swayed just while moving with them."

Hyoichi's face suddenly twisted. The mere thought that she had danced while embraced by countless men was unbearable enough, but imagining there might have been some secret mutual enjoyment through dancing—Hyoichi's jealousy knew no bounds.

Seeing Hyoichi like this, Tazuko felt she no longer needed to worry about her age. In truth, though she had kept it hidden, Tazuko had felt a womanly sense of guilt over being six years older than Hyoichi. Moreover, she found herself moved by Hyoichi’s violent jealousy. Yano was so seasoned that he never showed even a hint of jealousy. At times, he was such a gentleman that it could be considered hateful. In comparison, each and every one of Hyoichi’s expressions was unmistakably that of a man in love.

_I’ve never seen someone so passionate,_ Tazuko thought.

If Hyoichi had been a forty-year-old man, even Tazuko would likely have grown weary of his jealous antics, but in that regard, his youth saved him. (He's so inexperienced.) Deeply moved, she turned to Hyoichi and—

“There has never been anyone I’ve loved as much as you,” she said. For someone with her strong self-respect, this was an extraordinary thing to say. They were words she could never have spoken to other men—to someone like Yano, for instance. It was because the other party was Hyoichi that she had been able to say it. Therefore, Hyoichi could have been happy. However, Hyoichi disliked the way she had said “until now...”

(How many men had she fallen for until now?)

Even the slightest hint in her words would catch on his jealousy. Moreover, having her state so plainly that she "had fallen in love" in that manner was also agonizing. He would have felt unburdened had she simply said she hated him instead. Whenever he felt loved, the torment of his jealousy only intensified. Hyoichi kept a fierce expression until morning. And when morning came, that expression grew even more intense. The morning paper had reported that there had been an assault incident in front of Olympia the previous night.

Tōyō Shinpō Journalist Beaten Cause: Woman Trouble?

Such were the headlines. The story hadn’t appeared in every paper—only *Chuo Shinbun* carried it. But *Chuo Shinbun* shared the same political leanings as *Toyo Shinpo*, making them literal business rivals. Consequently, a sarcastic tone had permeated the article. It was precisely because he had uncharacteristically sat on the parlor sofa drinking morning coffee while reading the newspaper that he ended up subjected to that very article. Hyoichi silently handed it to Tazuko.

When Tazuko found her name in the article, she suddenly thought: _(Ah—Sako made them write this.)_ Given her relationship with Hyoichi, it was natural to initially suspect Sako’s jealousy at work, but in reality, the article had been written by a journalist friend of Katsu from Dotonbori—the one who’d been beaten. To clarify for Sako’s sake—this was something Sako knew nothing about. There was no reason for Sako to do something that would stir up trouble. Moreover, wasn’t the name “Olympia”—which would be damaging to publicize—clearly printed there?

However, since Chuo Shinbun also ran weekly advertisements for Olympia, they hadn't published the article to give the cabaret negative publicity. It was completely the opposite. "In front of 'Olympia,' packed every day with patrons coming to see Muraguchi Tazuko," The article merely stated that a certain Toyo Shinpo reporter had been struck after an argument—effectively serving as free publicity for Olympia. But with her name appearing in print and considering Hyoichi had been assaulted the previous night, Tazuko couldn't help but find deeper significance in it. She no longer felt any desire to go to Olympia. One reason was that she disliked taking time away from being with Hyoichi.

"I'll stop going to the cabaret." Tazuko put down the newspaper and said.

But before that, Hyoichi had already resolved to quit the Tōyō Shinpō. Since such an article had been published, he had caused trouble for the company. "I'm quitting the company too." Hyoichi said this in a strong tone, though he fleetingly recalled the editor-in-chief’s words: "You don’t have to quit." “Oh? “Well then, let’s spend the day together today, shall we?” When Tazuko said this, Hyoichi— “…………” He blushed. That morning, Tazuko found Hyoichi unbearably adorable, but in truth, Hyoichi had been stirred to bitter jealousy by her coquettish words of "Let’s spend the day together."

Because Tazuko hadn’t shown up, Sako panicked and rushed over to her house. Tazuko had gone to see a play with Hyoichi and was not home. Sako waited patiently due to his role. Late at night, when he finally caught her returning home, Sako— “If y’gonna take time off, y’gotta tell me beforehand. I’m in a bind here. Even if y’runnin’ off to plays, your role ain’t one any substitute can cover,” he said. “Oh, I’m sorry.” “Well now—if y’just say ‘Oh sorry’ all casual-like like that, it puts me in a real bind here. So which is it—y’comin’ in or not?”

“I must apologize, but I’ll be resigning.” “What?” Sako made a choking noise like “Gah!” “I’ve endured more than enough as it is.” “Truthfully, I wanted to quit after that very first night.” To Sako’s face—which seemed to protest this breach of their agreement—Tazuko flashed a smirk and amended, “...No—after the first two nights...” Sako stiffened. Tazuko pressed on, “After what transpired that evening… I’d nearly resolved to leave the cabaret for good right then and there...”

While staring unblinkingly at Sako’s face, she gradually brought up the night he had tried to take her to the inn. Sako had no choice but to retreat. After seeing him out to the entrance, “It’s cold tonight—thank you for troubling yourself to come,” Tazuko said before slipping back inside like a shadow. Sako seethed, feeling utterly mocked. The way Tazuko had scurried into the back—he was certain someone waited there—only stoked his fury further. His suspicion proved right. Hyoichi had been waiting all along.

When Tazuko re-entered the parlor after driving Sako away, Hyoichi was sitting in the chair Sako had been using earlier, munching on the chocolate she had left uneaten. Hyoichi had turned bright red, feeling as though he’d been caught in the act, but Tazuko— “Oh!” Tazuko wore an expression like a mother who had discovered her child sneaking a snack. Even if Hyoichi hadn’t looked like a child then, and even if he had been doing something he shouldn’t have been caught doing, Tazuko would have taken a liking to him as he was then. It was because she’d just seen Sako’s unpleasant face. “There… Now I’ve gotten rid of that nuisance. “Now it’s just the two of us, isn’t it?”

Tazuko sat down with her body pressed tightly against Hyoichi’s side and said. Her mother, who had been oddly restless since the night before, had also been reluctantly persuaded by Tazuko to go to the hot springs. The only one left was the maid. When the maid—who had secretly been in love with Hyoichi—clearly realized that his relationship with Tazuko had developed exactly as she had feared, she became utterly dejected and did nothing but sigh. She even teared up at times.

Tazuko finally noticed this and remarked jokingly to Hyoichi about it. “You’re such a heartbreaker.” Wondering if falling in love made one’s tone turn slightly vulgar, Tazuko said this in her coquettish way and pinched Hyoichi’s knee.

“Ouch!” Hyoichi felt wretched for letting out such a cry, then suddenly recalled he hadn’t returned to his Tanimachi Kyu-chome home since the night before. “You’re back late—how very late you are,” came his mother’s usual voice pricking at his heart from afar like needle jabs. “Hurry up and go to bed—I’ve lit the kotatsu.” But for Hyoichi—now gripped by jealousy that only deepened his obsession with Tazuko—leaving her side to return home seemed utterly impossible.

To borrow the expression that had fleetingly occurred to Hyoichi in a self-mocking moment, two weeks had now passed since he had become Tazuko's "live-in dependent" in this manner. As proof of being in love, Hyoichi could no longer muster interest in anyone but Tazuko. While he had never shown much curiosity about worldly matters to begin with, he had at least maintained a passionate interest in anything that could stimulate his self-esteem. Yet now even that self-esteem remained scarcely any within him. Since he loved Tazuko while tormented by jealousy, he had doffed his armor of self-esteem from the very outset.

However, on Tazuko’s part—if only because this was not her first experience—she maintained somewhat more composure than Hyoichi. Moreover, she had no need for jealousy. Therefore, she still possessed room for interests beyond Hyoichi alone. “Popularity” became that outlet. She had gradually begun chafing at a life consisting solely of her romance with Hyoichi. Had she been frequenting “Olympia” nightly amidst worthless men, she might have found relief in being with him and never tired of such an existence. But confined solely to Hyoichi’s company, even his once-cherished appeal began waning. To truly savor Hyoichi’s charm, mingling with “philistines” remained essential for her. She contemplated staging a comeback. Of course, this stemed not from vanity alone—it also served as means to secure her livelihood.

However, in any case, that she was gradually showing a longing for "popularity" was a bitter thing for Hyoichi. Bitter as it was in light of his own arguments, there was also a sense of unease.

The truth was, Hyoichi could not bear that Tazuko had loved Yano. After much effort, he had forced her to say that her relationship with Yano had been solely to gain popularity and that she had never felt any love for him at all. Then he had forced himself to believe this, finding meager comfort in the notion. Therefore, her renewed display of allure toward "popularity" ended up imposing on Hyoichi a vague anxiety—for what she might do to achieve it, who could say?

And this anxiety did not remain mere groundless fear.

Three

One day, Tazuko went out alone, claiming she had business to attend to. As for "what business"—Hyoichi couldn’t bring himself to ask. And so, he ended up staying behind with the maid. From the moment he saw Tazuko’s retreating figure—after she had applied her makeup meticulously and restlessly headed out—Hyoichi’s heart grew oppressively agitated. As he watched the maid tidying up the cluttered vanity, he recalled the beauty of Tazuko’s face that had been reflected in that mirror until just moments ago. When he thought about who might be meeting with that beautiful face, a fierce jealousy suddenly flared around his brows.

The last light of the setting sun departed from the windowpane. When the surroundings sank into a pale purple hue, the time spent separated from Tazuko pressed in relentlessly, crushing Hyoichi’s spirit.

The lights came on.

Tazuko had still not returned. Hyoichi decided to go out into town.

He took the Nankai Electric Railway to Namba. From there, he walked northward through the bustle of Shinsaibashi-suji. It was something that had never happened before, but tonight Hyoichi couldn't help noticing the faces of every man he passed. What an innumerable multitude of men! Among them must be those who had danced with Tazuko. There were likely others too—men who had watched Tazuko's films while nursing illicit fantasies. I am Muraguchi Tazuko's lover! Yet this pride brought him no satisfaction. On the contrary, whenever he spotted men dressed in gaudy outfits that screamed "dancer," he flinched and shook his head.

On Ebisubashi Bridge, Hyoichi suddenly stopped. From the cabaret "Ginza Kaikan" on the opposite shore came the clamor of a jazz band. On the paper doors of the brothels in Sōemonchō, shadowy figures squirmed. Upon closer inspection, geisha were dancing with customers. The frivolous swaying of hips constricted Hyoichi's heart. A cold river wind gusted upward. As he started walking again, seeing a woman's coat pass by his side, Hyoichi involuntarily thought Ah—he had forgotten the cold. It was Tazuko.

Before he recognized what was happening, Hyoichi had already noticed that the man walking beside Tazuko was Yano. …… He tried to call out, but his voice failed him; his lips turned deathly pale. The thought flashed through his mind—to rush over and strike Tazuko’s face—but he couldn’t act. With great effort, as if prying his feet loose from mud, he hurried past them and could only muster an air of nonchalance as he began walking away slowly. That he could manage nothing but this clumsy pretense struck him as pitiful, but having feigned ignorance, he had no choice but to keep walking. When he imagined them approaching from behind, his back burned as if scorched.

All he could do was savor the passive cruelty of imagining Tazuko's startled face. However, when he reached Yakura Sushi, Hyoichi could no longer maintain this pretense of indifference and whirled around abruptly. Tazuko and Yano stood at the corner of Sōemonchō hailing a car to board. For an instant, Tazuko revealed a troubled expression as she turned toward him. In truth, Hyoichi had long understood this inevitability in his heart.

“Wait! You mustn’t get in!” Whether he had actually uttered those words clearly or not, Hyoichi retained no memory of it. But seeing her attempt to enter the car after Yano regardless, he let out a bestial cry and charged forward. At that instant, the vehicle began moving. Tazuko kept staring rigidly ahead without so much as glancing back. Confronted with that expression offering no emotional harbor, Hyoichi felt some abhorrent vision blaze vividly through his mind.

“A woman’s heart is truly unfathomable.” Without even the composure to think it was a clichéd expression, Hyoichi blurted out. When leaving the house, seeing Tazuko acting strangely restless had suddenly made him uneasy—perhaps that had indeed been a premonition—and Hyoichi found himself harboring an involuntary, superstitious thought.

(She must have arranged to meet Yano)—that was exactly what had happened.

Tazuko had not met Yano by chance. A letter had come from Yano specifying the place and time, saying he wanted to meet because there was something to discuss. The moment she saw the letter, Tazuko resolved to go out. Whether she felt any guilt toward Hyoichi was not something needing elaboration here. Yano had not after all been fleeing from her—in any case, Tazuko's cheeks burned. Though eager to head out, she felt no particular guilt toward Hyoichi. To put it plainly, most working women—unless they particularly disliked the man—would go out when told there was something to discuss. The more virtuous the woman, the more this held true.

The matter was, as Tazuko had thought, about work. "How about becoming a recording artist?" As soon as they met, Yano began in a businesslike tone. Returning to the film industry would be difficult for the time being, and starting over at a cabaret now was out of the question. "I think your voice could be unexpectedly well-suited for blues recordings..." "But..." "But I have absolutely no experience..." Tazuko began to say,

“No, it’s fine,” Yano interrupted. “As long as you’re willing…” “Would the record company employ me?” “Yeah. The general arrangements are already in place.” “How about it?” “Let’s go meet the company people now.” “Yes.” They left the oyster boat and hailed a car. And then they went to meet the people from the record company—or so it was said, though that’s beyond our explanation. At least for Hyoichi, it mattered little. By now, even if he realized Tazuko had met Yano for work or to maintain her popularity, it would bring no comfort. Rather, knowing this for certain might make him feel unbearable sorrow for Tazuko’s plight. It was better relief that she met Yano out of mere flirtatiousness.

Hyoichi watched the car drive away with an anguished expression, then trudged back toward the bridge with a soul-sapped gait.

Once he crossed the bridge, the surroundings suddenly brightened. By that light, Hyoichi checked inside his wallet. Then he drank a cocktail at a random stand bar he happened upon. Suddenly the intoxication hit him - his legs, head, and entire body began swaying.

He hailed a car on Midosuji Avenue. He drooped his head dejectedly while, “Next to the Shinsekai Radium Hot Spring!” As he uttered those words, he collapsed onto the seat and vomited. Ah, I made a mess, he regretted, but his consciousness had grown so numb from animalistic sensations that he couldn’t muster the will to apologize to the driver. After getting out of the car next to the Radium Hot Spring and staggering unsteadily into Gunkan Alley, a vaguely familiar voice suddenly came to his ears.

(That's Tomon's voice.)

When he passed through the noren curtain of the shop they had once visited together, sure enough, Tomon and Kitayama were there. Judging by how he had been shouting loudly enough to be heard from the street—it seemed he had indeed been holding Kitayama and arguing—but when Tomon caught sight of Hyoichi, he abruptly stopped speaking and— "Well, look who's here! Look who's here! What’s happened to you? Really, you should at least show your face now and then! No, not here. It’s company business.—Anyway, let’s have a drink!" He showed a cheerful face.

Feeling vaguely grateful for this unexpected encounter with Tomon at such a time, Hyoichi drank four or five cups in quick succession as urged. “Well done, well done! So your complexion’s improved a bit now!” When Tomon said this, Kitayama—who had forced chopsticks between his collar and back while scritch-scratching an itchy spot—said defiantly to Tomon, likely in retaliation for their earlier argument: “No, it hasn’t improved one bit.”

“What’s wrong? You look pale.”

Hyoichi at first became somewhat flushed, "I vomited in the car earlier." he said with a bitter smile. "That won't do at all. Alcohol is poison. It's still too early for you to be drinking. You should stop."

Kitayama said in an uncharacteristically somber tone. Hyoichi felt a warm sensation rise in his chest and replied obediently, "Oh." Then Tomon suddenly burst into laughter. “Stop mocking Kitayama! You think you’re in any position to give such opinions? Ah, ha, ha...” He glared at the bastard’s face. Kitayama glared back slightly, suppressing a snicker that threatened to burst out as he maintained his composure.

Hyoichi realized for the first time that Kitayama had been mocking him and took offense. The moment he did, memories of Tazuko pierced him like a needle, and his mood sank. "Hey, snap out of it!" Suddenly, Tomon knocked his shoulder. "I don't see any reason to be moping around like this." "To a humble monk like me, I just don't get why you're making such an unhappy face." "You've got yourself a good lover, and you're still complaining? Huh?" "Hey, what now?" "Want me to set you up again?"

“I don’t have any lover.” “You’re lying through your teeth. What about Muraguchi Tazuko? Quit making that face—I’ve got reliable sources. Are you chasing her or being chased? Can’t say I know the details.” “I’m not chasing anyone.” “So she’s chasing you? Disgraceful!” No sooner had he said this than Tomon slapped his knee. “Ah! Now I see!” “It’s a lovers’ spat, isn’t it? Admit it!”

Hyoichi silently shifted his body. “Don't mope over some petty lovers' quarrel! What's that? That woman—she's just Muraguchi Tazuko!” Being told by Tomon，Hyoichi，

"Exactly! That woman!" he said, putting the konnyaku in his mouth without any real intention. Munching away, he dejectedly chewed over his wretched feelings.

“Speaking of actresses,” Kitayama cut in. “I’ve got a friend who makes his living taking portrait photos of actresses. “Heard this story from him.” “Guy ended up doing promotional shots for yukata.” “Not exactly winter wear, yukata.” “But get this—they actually schedule those shoots around May!” “Anyway, forget the details.” “So come May, this photographer shows up at some actress’s place with promotional yukata.” “He hands her the robe saying ‘Put this on,’ expecting her to change in another room—but damn if she doesn’t start stripping right there! I mean, yukata go straight over bare skin and all, but hell—I wouldn’t blink at that.” “Poor bastard got flustered stiff.” “Ahaha… Now that’s what I call an actress!”

“Impressed, were you?” Tomon interjected.

“I’m a resident of the revue theater, see? What about you? Weren’t you impressed?”

“I wouldn’t bat an eye even if I saw a rokurokubi. Though mind you, I’ve never actually laid eyes on one.” “If anyone ought to be impressed here, it’s this gentleman.” Tomon pointed at Hyoichi.

Hyoichi didn't even have room to feel angry about being teased. The effect Kitayama's story had on Hyoichi's heart was far too lurid for there to be any space left for such composure.

That night, Hyoichi was invited by the two and spent the night at the Tobita red-light district.

Even Hyoichi, who during his high school days had stubbornly refused whenever Akai or Nozaki invited him, now followed them out of self-destructive impulses.

The woman said she was from Goto in Matsuura District, Nagasaki Prefecture. While writing letters for the woman to send to her parents, he heard various stories about her personal circumstances.

“What do you think of this kind of life?” “I’ve gotten used to it.” “But at first, you hated it, didn’t you?” “Didn’t you feel sad?” Hyoichi’s face twisted into a cruel glare.

However, when Hyoichi realized the woman had resigned herself to viewing this as merely another form of labor ultimately convertible into money, his heart abruptly felt lighter. What he had persistently detested until now was here being transacted as an everyday matter.

"I'm fine! I'm fine!" Hyoichi muttered aloud, his pallid face reflected in the washroom mirror. (What's the difference between Tazuko and that woman!) Yet when he saw car headlights passing beneath his window momentarily illuminate the darkened ceiling, amplified by the late-night melancholy, thoughts of Tazuko surged through him with a wail of grief.

IV

In the morning, Hyoichi felt as if his soul had been drained, but his heart had finally settled temporarily. The color of night gradually faded into lavender hues until the eastern sky blazed orange—and with it vanished all tormenting hours spent apart from Tazuko—leaving even his thrashing, restless heart to sink into resignation.

After parting with Tomon and Kitayama, Hyoichi entered the Radium hot spring. Leaning against the tiles of the wide bathtub, he poured water over himself again and again in a hollow daze—when suddenly he found himself wanting to hear Tazuko’s husky voice once more. When he exited the Radium hot spring, he dove into a public telephone booth. He inserted a 5-sen white copper coin, and in that moment of waiting, his chest fluttered with anxiety. He recalled how beautiful Tazuko’s voice had sounded over the telephone. “You’re through. Please go ahead.” At the operator’s voice, he felt as if he could see the interior of Tazuko’s house. The maid had answered the phone. When he asked if Tazuko was there,

“She is not in at present…”

So she indeed hadn't returned since last night—this realization renewed his loneliness, "Ah, I see. Excuse me," he said and was about to hang up when the maid seemed to recognize Hyoichi's voice, "Is that you, Mr. Mouri? Why didn't you come back last night? Weren't you with the Professor? Oh? Is that so? Where are you now? Please come back soon. I'm all alone here... I'm so lonely." "As if I'd go back," Hyoichi snapped as he hung up. Yet if he wouldn't return to Tezukayama, the only place left was the house in Tanimachi 9-chome.

Having quit the newspaper company and moreover been living like a freeloader at Tazuko’s house, he had—though it weighed on his mind—kept drifting further away without being able to face his mother, and now half a month had already passed.

Hyoichi burned with shame at the thought of returning now, yet more than having nowhere else to go—when he imagined his mother’s haggard face, surely racked with anguish over him vanishing without warning like some sudden apparition—his feet naturally turned toward Tanimachi. True to form, he did not enter through the usual doorway; instead, with the demeanor of a man coming to sell pawn tickets, he sneaked in from the side where the noren curtain bearing “Nose Shokai” hung.

There was no one in the shop. Leaning against the small table where he had occasionally been made to mind the shop and handle customers coming to sell pawn tickets, he hesitated for a while, but eventually pressed the bell brusquely labeled "For inquiries, please ring this bell." “Yeees—” A drawn-out voice came from within—“Come in, come in!”—and soon his mother appeared. She had come out with a customer-service smile plastered on her face, but the moment she saw Hyoichi’s face, that smile crumbled away—then immediately overflowed with such joy it seemed about to spill over, her lips quivering uncontrollably and tears welling in her eyes. And with a strained expression,

“Oh! You startled me. “Was it you?” “What’ve you been up to?” “You fool.” “Who in the world enters through a place like this?” “Now, why don’t you come in through the proper entrance?” she said reproachfully.

“This entrance works too, doesn’t it?” Hyoichi muttered curtly. Thus began the exchange between mother and son. It was a moment untouched by outsiders.

“What on earth have you been up to? Were you working for the company? A child who can write any number of characters—you couldn’t even send a letter?” Hiding her embarrassment at her own joy, she scolded him this way before retreating into the back room and announcing, “Hyoichi’s come home,” to Yasujiro. Yasujiro’s voice—hoarse with suppressed shouting—came through along with a cough. Hyoichi flinched slightly. At that instant, Tazuko’s face abruptly flashed through his mind. Then his vision burned red, and when Hyoichi stood before Yasujiro, his face regained its vitality for the first time that day—a look that seemed to say, “Go ahead and shout if you want.”

Even without seeing that expression, Yasujiro of course wanted to shout at him. However, Yasujiro silently restrained himself.

To Yasujiro, it didn't matter in the slightest whether Hyoichi had left the house empty for half a month or even a full month. However, that Hyoichi had been absent three days prior on the settlement date was deeply regrettable. He had been unable to collect the lodging fees owed to him. That alone rankled him. So the moment he saw his face, he wanted to shout at him—but indeed, Yasujiro remained cautious. Having fully grasped Hyoichi's temperament—that careless shouting might provoke his anger and risk him fleeing again—he softened his tone so thoroughly that Okimi shed tears of joy.

“I don’t mind you being away from home,” he said, “but I’ll have you properly settle the formalities. The settlement day’s already passed, ze.” That was all Nose Yasujiro said. Having braced himself for being shouted at from the outset, Hyoichi felt let down.

(So he had to go and bring up money.) Hyoichi involuntarily smiled wryly.

At first glance, it was a perfectly harmonious scene. "I'll add interest when handing it over." "When will you hand it over?" "I’ll hand it over tonight." "Oh yeah? No mistake?" Yasujiro briefly showed a pleased expression. Even upon seeing Okimi preparing a meal for Hyoichi, he resolved not to show any displeasure on this occasion. As he ate the ochazuke served by his mother, Hyoichi felt a deep, resonant numbness so intense it felt like he might lose consciousness—the very depths of his mind growing calm, enveloped in a pleasant lethargy as if in a daze. The familiar taste of the pickles he was accustomed to eating was also nostalgic. When he finished eating, Hyoichi put on his overcoat again.

“Where are you off to?” “I’m goin’ to the company to get the money.” “Go straight home now.” “I’ll be fine.” With that, he left the house.

After alighting from the train at Kitahama 2-chome and starting to walk toward the Tōyō Shinpō building, Hyoichi couldn't help but feel wretched. Had there been no need to hand it over to Yasujiro, he thought, he likely wouldn't have gone to collect that humiliatingly prorated salary.

The evening edition had been posted on the bulletin board in front of the building. When he glanced at it, Hyoichi became acutely aware he was no longer an employee here and slipped furtively through the entrance. He went to accounting and—speaking rapidly with tearful eyes—explained that though he'd resigned around mid-last month, he had indeed worked half a month; if regulations permitted a prorated payment for those days, he'd like to collect it now. The clerk asked his name.

"Oh, your salary was still here. Did you quit?" As he said this, he handed over a brown pay envelope. Looking at the envelope addressed to *Hyoichi Mōri, Esquire*—written with an almost surreal formality—with a strange sense of being treated respectfully, he exited the entrance. When he tore it open, a full month’s salary lay inside intact. Hyoichi returned to the accounting department and asked if there had been some mistake.

“Well. “I don’t know—isn’t that right? You still hadn’t submitted your resignation notice.” “If no notice was submitted, we have to consider you’re still employed, see.” “We can’t withhold a full month’s portion.” “But hey—it’s more than expected. You won’t complain about that, right?” “Then… does that mean I haven’t been fired yet?” “But I’ve already been absent without leave for half a month now...” As he was asking this, suddenly from behind—

“You’re such a spineless fellow.” A voice sounded. When he turned around, Tomon was standing there holding advance slips. “Do you think you can keep working as a newspaper reporter with that attitude? Even if you took half a month off, what’s there to get fired over? You were beaten and passed out, right? You were hospitalized for about a month—that’s just how it goes.” So Tomon said. "But…" When he said, “But because of that article in Chuo Shinbun, I caused trouble for the company…” Tomon, while haggling with the accounting clerk over the advance,

“Our company isn’t some stingy outfit that fires people over trivial matters like that. “It’s only accounting that’s stingy here.” He said this over his shoulder, “Now go pay your respects to the Editor-in-Chief. “He’s been miserably lonely since he hasn’t seen hide nor hair of you. “The old man’s got a soft spot for you. Watch yourself,” he added, then resumed his grumbling haggling with the accounting clerk.

However, Hyoichi did not even try to move. For some reason, he felt he couldn't face the Editor-in-Chief.

“Go on, hurry up! Go!” “If you’re going, better make it quick.” “Keeping him waiting’s no good.” “Your stench’s already reached the second floor.” “The old man’s chewing his nails raw.” “Keep fussing over every damn thing like this, you’ll go bald as Kitayama.” Prodded by Tomon’s words, Hyoichi realized—that’s right. Slipping away without seeing the Editor-in-Chief would only compound the rudeness. Even if he meant to quit, basic decency demanded a proper resignation. With this resolve, he finally started up the stairs to the second floor.

Judging from Hyoichi’s state of mind—where timidity and its flip side existed within a razor-thin margin—under normal circumstances, he would have remained silent. They would have ended up feeling awkward toward each other, overthinking that the other must be angry, until they even developed unwarranted antagonism where none was needed. So being able to meet the Editor-in-Chief in that manner was a relief to Hyoichi. Indeed, the outcome proved favorable.

The Editor-in-Chief, as soon as he saw Hyoichi’s face,

“What’ve you been up to? “Was damn worried about ya.” “They say you stirred up one hell of a fight, eh?” he said with a laugh.

“Oh... “I’d like to apologize for that—” Hyoichi began, but the Editor-in-Chief cut him off. “Don’t ya worry. “Don’t worry.” “Quit frettin’.” “No sense gettin’ worked up over some rag’s scribblin’s.” “But if they wrote it like that,……” “What’s it matter how they scrawl it?” “You ain’t actually ownin’ up to that Chuo Shinbun tripe?” “Cowerin’ before their big-shot reputation?” “You’re no Chuo Shinbun stooge—ain’t that right?” “Right?” “Then why not bury that trash where it belongs?” “Better yet—how ’bout ya cook up one decent piece for our own pages?”

With those words, it became clear he hadn't been fired after all. Until now, Hyoichi had viewed every person through a lens of hostility. He saw thieves in all who crossed his path, convinced anyone who met his gaze would assail his self-respect - burning with more antagonism than circumstances warranted. Yet encountering the Editor-in-Chief's artless Kansai dialect and feigned obliviousness, he found himself sweetly enveloped in a profoundly tender atmosphere. This laid bare the ugliness of his habitual hostility-filled existence, filling him with shame. Nearly tearful from this unexpected sweetness, Hyoichi left the editorial room.

Tomon was waiting outside. “How did it go?” “I wasn’t fired.” Having said that, Tomon, “Right? No mistakes in what I say, right? Impressed, aren’t you?” “Well, I suppose I am.” “Lend me two yen.” At this moment, even being able to lend money in this manner felt somehow gratifying. “Ah,” he answered lightly. Taking out his pay envelope as his heart grew completely unburdened, Hyoichi found himself wanting to crack an uncharacteristic joke.

“You know, Mr. Tomon. “I’ll lend it to you, but...” “About that previous debt—how many years from now do you think you could repay it?” While handing the money to Tomon, he made such an awkward joke. At Hyoichi’s unexpected quip, Tomon momentarily showed a look of astonishment, but true to form, “Well then, I’ll put this down as an advance payment.” “Here—returning your two yen.” “Kindly deduct it from the ledger.” He handed back the very money he’d just received from Hyoichi. “Now then—shall we use this cash to get some food?”

“Let’s eat.” “That’s Tomon for you!” Hyoichi said with a guffaw.

As they stepped out of the Chinese restaurant, everything around them had been completely dyed in twilight hues. For Hyoichi, it was less about regretting parting with Tomon and going home like this than fearing being alone and shutting himself away within his lonely feelings.

“How about it? How about going to see a movie?” Hyoichi invited Tomon. “Alright, let’s go!”

They emerged into Sennichimae. As they walked along looking up at the signs of the makeshift theaters, Tomon trashed every show one after another. When they came to the front of Yayoi-za, Tomon asked, "Do you know what happened to Higashi Ginko?"

When he answered that he didn’t know, Tomon,

“She’s disappeared. “She’s missing. “They treated her so damn badly that she finally ran away from the troupe. “What a tragedy.—Now then, who do you suppose is the most broken up about this?” “Mr. Kitayama, right?” “Half right. “Actually, I’m one of them. “Nah, who knows—maybe you’re in on it too!” “Ah, ha, ha…” Hyoichi listened dejectedly as Tomon’s laughter echoed through the cold sky.

When they came to a third-rate theater, Hyoichi suddenly averted his face. An old photograph of Muraguchi Tazuko in the lead role was hanging in the second-run theater. In the painted billboard, Tazuko's face—colored in garish hues—grinned sharply. As he tried to sneak past, Tomon— "Hey, your lover's photo is up here! Let’s take a look," he said, stopping him.

Hyoichi approached the ticket booth with a grim expression. “We don’t need tickets.” Tomon’s voice was barely audible as he spoke. Lifting the black curtain and entering, they were abruptly confronted by Tazuko’s voice. Her face. Her posture. Her broad yet gaunt shoulders slightly hunched, neck arched backward, entranced eyes clinging to a man— "..." Whatever she was saying, Hyoichi couldn’t discern. His heart brimmed with tears. The visceral memory of Tazuko’s pose tightened around his chest. Aching jealousy tangled with pity for even the solitary mole on her pale breast—Hyoichi sat motionless, gaze locked on the screen.

He was growing increasingly overwhelmed. In the film, Tazuko gripped a pistol and advanced toward the man. “Well, well. Splendid.” When Tomon suddenly turned sideways to whisper to Hyoichi, he found that Hyoichi’s figure had already vanished without a trace.

Five

When he stepped out of the theater shack, night had fully fallen. The lights of the entertainment district were piercingly cold, shining brightly.

Hyoichi walked along the dimly lit streetcar route, heading back toward Tanimachi 9-chome.

When he reached the foot of Shimoderamachi slope, everything abruptly brightened. The neon sign of the café in front of the tram stop was flickering. He raised his downcast face and glanced that way—his gaze locked with that of a woman standing at the café entrance, her face thickly coated in white powder.

“Big brother. “Won’t you come in?” The woman crinkled the corners of her eyes and laughed. Her laughter turned red, then blue, stained by the neon lights. Hyoichi hurriedly averted his gaze and started to climb the slope with a chill in his heart, but suddenly— He hit upon a strange idea: he would try to seduce that woman.

Hyoichi turned back and went into the café. The woman who had been standing at the entrance came to his side.

Hyoichi’s face flushed bright red in an instant, and when he tried to speak, his body trembled. Alternating between an absurdly timid, cowering expression devoid of confidence and a menacing look filled with loathing and vengeful intent toward all women, Hyoichi stared fixedly at the woman. That night, the woman became Hyoichi’s. Having seduced her himself, "You’re a foolish woman," he told her, and as he savored a cruel sense of pleasure, he stared fixedly at the woman’s appearance—ugly and rigid. And then he scorned the woman and scorned himself. The woman was named Tomoko and was nineteen years old, one year younger than Hyoichi. She was naive but an ugly woman.

“Now that it’s come to this, I can’t part from you anymore,” she said in a dry voice. There was something pitiful about it. Hyoichi suddenly wondered if Tazuko had ever shown such a pitiful state to Yano, watching with a bitter heart. “Don’t abandon me, okay?” Tomoko repeated it over and over. She kept her head pressed against Hyoichi’s knee and wouldn’t let go. His knee grew warm. Hyoichi touched Tomoko’s hair—lifeless as a corpse—then suddenly shoved her away.

After that, he never saw Tomoko again.

Three months passed.

One day, as Hyoichi was crossing the intersection at Nihonbashi-suji 1-chome, a woman’s voice called out to him from behind. When he turned around, Tomoko was chasing after him, her kimono hem disheveled in an unsightly manner. Hyoichi came to an abrupt stop, but as the signal had turned yellow, he hurried across without any real intention. He felt as though he were running away.

Tomoko crossed the street without heeding the signal.

“I’ve been looking for you.” When she reached his side, Tomoko was already on the verge of tears.

They entered the nearby Kimuraya coffee shop. While chewing the straw of her soda water to pieces, Tomoko told Hyoichi that she was pregnant. Hyoichi was startled. Tomoko was without face powder, her bluish-black skin looking painfully exposed. Her lips were coated in bright red lipstick, but this only made her look even more shabby. She had slung a small muffler in poor taste beneath the cords of her haori. Hyoichi suddenly, He thought he would buy her a shawl. Hyoichi married Tomoko.

In a back alley of Tanimachi 9-chome, Hyoichi rented a second-floor room and left for the newspaper company every morning.

That autumn, Hyoichi was promoted from trainee reporter to full-fledged reporter. Accordingly, his salary increased by five yen. Seizing this opportunity, Tomoko urged Hyoichi to grow out his hair. Around the time Hyoichi’s hair had finally grown long enough for a seven-three part, Tomoko bore a son. The news of her labor pains reached the newspaper office through a telephone call in her mother’s voice. Hyoichi raced home as if dashing to a burning building. The midwife had already arrived. The mother—who had been borrowing the downstairs kitchen to boil water—the instant she saw Hyoichi’s face,

“Hurry up and get upstairs! Hold both her shoulders tight now, you hear?” she said. Hyoichi sat at Tomoko’s bedside and grabbed her shoulders. Tomoko moaned painfully—“Ugh… ugh…”—but when she could bear it no longer, she bit down hard on the checkered hand towel. The labor pains began now. Tomoko’s eye rims were uncannily dark. Hyoichi stared fixedly at that spot. “Just a little longer now. Push harder! You—hold her shoulders tight! Just a bit more.”

As he listened to the midwife’s voice, Hyoichi felt Tomoko’s agony pierce his heart directly, and he could no longer bear to look her in the face. (Will she die like this?) The thought struck him suddenly, and he shuddered. “Namu Amida Butsu, Namu Amida Butsu!” Without him noticing when she had come up, his mother now sat primly beside the midwife, chanting a Buddhist prayer in a low voice, over and over.

Hyoichi closed his eyes. “Push!” At the midwife’s shout, Hyoichi opened his eyes. Tomoko’s flat nose flared wide. At that moment, the newborn’s dark head entered Hyoichi’s field of vision. Then the rounded body slid smoothly out. A cry rang out. Hyoichi teared up. As he realized everything he had detested until now might have existed solely for this moment of childbirth, his revulsion toward female physiology dissipated instantly. He felt somehow redeemed.

“Good. Good,” he muttered, pacing restlessly around the room. “Will you stay still already!” The mother scolded him. Hyoichi suddenly felt a pain around his knee. There were scissors lying beside the pillow—he had knelt down on them.

That day had been a crisp Indian summer day that seemed to echo with the newborn's cry, but from the next day onward, a steady drizzle continued to fall. The four-and-a-half-mat room was filled with diapers hung like festival bunting. Okimi began stealing moments from her schedule to visit Hyoichi's place with increasing frequency. Holding opposite ends of diapers draped over the brazier to dry, Hyoichi and Okimi, "We'll need to get a baby carriage." "Yeah." "Isn't it still too early for a baby carriage?" They discussed such matters in this way.

Before long, Okimi,

“If I don’t hurry back now, I’ll get scolded—so I’m off home,” she said, standing up. She furtively pulled out the baby toys she’d bought, placed them by Tomoko’s pillow, and added, “I’ll come again—so long!”

She walked back through the rain.

Each shower drawing winter nearer, the autumn rain lightly tapped on top of Okimi’s umbrella.