Pathway to Japanese Literature

Part One: Twenty Years Old

Chapter One:

I

Okiyo had persistently wanted to go barefoot ever since she was a child. Even in winter she didn’t wear tabi socks, and in summer—of course—when doing laundry or such tasks, she would always eagerly kick off her geta sandals. Slapping her bare feet against the plaster floor of the communal water station, “Ahh, feels so good.”

When this habit showed no sign of stopping even as she came of age, even her normally silent father finally “You’ll catch cold, I tell ya,” he scolded, but she paid no heed. She placed a snail on her palm, let it crawl up her arm—from shoulder to chest—relishing its clammy texture. She also liked to pour water over herself at the public bathhouse. Steam billowed around her naked form as water cascaded down—the taut body quivered unnervingly from the shock before snapping upright. Sensuality throbbed. She poured it over herself again and again.

“I pour water over myself as many as five or six times. Feels so good,” she later told her husband Keibe, whereupon the young Keibe frowned.

Okiyo married Keibe when she was eighteen. Keibe was an elementary school teacher for whom career advancement had become an obsession; as a young man he took up jōruri puppet theater—of course, to curry favor with a principal obsessed with the art form. He enrolled under Hirozawa Hachisuke in Shimotera-machi, attached himself to the principal’s coattails, and placed orders for practice manuscripts with Mōri Kinsuke—a jōruri manuscript copyist living in a tenement behind Nipponbashi-suji Fifth Block.

Okiyo was Kinsuke’s only daughter. Kinsuke was a listless man as quiet as old shoji screens—whose sole skill lay in hunching over and copying Jōruri lines from dawn till late into night. His wife seemed born to sew; no matter when one looked, she sat planted in the dim back room with her needle ever moving. Her mother—who had suffered from diabetes—died when Okiyo was sixteen. With no woman’s hand left in the house, Okiyo took on full adult responsibilities for managing the household while still young. She handled cooking and sewing duties, turned away debt collectors, and delivered copied manuscripts to clients. There was one young apprentice about, but he proved so vague and useless that he inspired pity more than annoyance.

When Okiyo went to deliver the manuscripts to Keibe’s boarding house in Kamimachi Ninth Block, the twenty-eight-year-old Keibe goggled his bulging eyes. Okiyo wore a short kimono that showed two inches of her legs from the hem, so Keibe inadvertently averted his eyes.

*Women are a hindrance to advancement.* While choking on Okiyo’s feverish smell, he clung to his usual argument. However, when Okiyo came for the third time, “Let me just check if there are any mistakes in the manuscript. You wait there.” He slid the zabuton toward her and opened the practice manuscript,

"—After seeing off Masacka..." While stealing furtive glances at Okiyo, his voice gradually began trembling, and he gulped down dry saliva, *—spilling tears like water…* Suddenly he grabbed her chilblained red hand. That she didn’t make a sound unnerved Keibe. Later, when Okiyo would speak of that incident, "I don’t know what happened—my vision kept flickering bright then going pitch black, and your face looked huge as a cow’s," she would say, making Keibe feel distinctly unpleasant. Keibe had disproportionately large facial features for his small frame—bulging eyes beneath thick eyebrows, a nose sprawling atop fleshy lips—giving him the look of a blushing Bunraku puppet. Yet he prided himself on possessing a grand visage. But even he couldn’t help feeling somewhat unpleasant when his face was mentioned.

...At that moment, Keibe was busily blowing tobacco smoke from his large nostrils while,

“You mustn’t tell anyone about this. “You understand?” “And you’ll come again.” He pressed. Yet after that, Okiyo never came again. Keibe agonized. This would surely hinder his advancement, he thought. His conscience pricked at him too. All day he fretted—was she pregnant? Would Kinsuke come demanding answers? The self-important man even imagined headlines screaming “Educator Scandal,” his anguish peaking. After endless deliberation, he grasped it—marrying Okiyo now would nullify any pregnancy—and sighed in relief. Why hadn’t he realized sooner? What a fool, he mocked himself. Yet his marriage was meant for a headmaster’s daughter. Had he ever dreamed of wedding some copyist’s girl? Only Okiyo’s beauty offered slight comfort.

One day, a certain Usuji—claiming to be Keibe’s colleague—suddenly visited Kinsuke bearing monaka from Tomoedo in Sōemonchō as a gift, chattered away about this and that to a dumbfounded Kinsuke before departing, leaving Kinsuke utterly unable to grasp the purpose of it all. Only one thing dimly penetrated his understanding: that this Usuji’s friend, a man named Keibe Murahiko, was of upright conduct, highly reputable, and of proper lineage.

Three days later, Keibe himself arrived. He carried an out-of-season folding fan. With two or three fingertips he kneaded his pomade-slicked hair while, “The truth is—regarding your household—I...” “I wish to humbly take her as my wife,” he proposed.

When Kinsuke asked Okiyo, “You—,” Okiyo, who had likely made this phrase a habit since first becoming aware of the world around her, “Me? “I don’t mind either way.” Not a single expression changed on her face—if pressed to describe it, she was rolling her beautiful eyes round and round.

The next day, Kinsuke visited Keibe, “It’s about my only daughter, you see.” “If you’d agree to make it an adoption...” Without letting him finish saying this was convenient, Keibe— “That’s out of the question,” he declared, as though Kinsuke had come to receive a scolding. Soon after, Keibe rented a small house in Komiya-cho and took Okiyo there as his wife, though he boasted to colleagues about being “broadly satisfied” with this young bride. Okiyo possessed a pale, lovely body. What’s more, she proved industrious—the moment dawn broke, she’d already be bustling about.

“Here we are in Hell’s Third Ward—easy to enter, hard to leave!” she would sing from dawn onward; however, Keibe soon forbade it on grounds of vulgarity. “There’s not a single literary element like in Jōruri,” he declared. He had once taken the National Classical Chinese and Japanese Language Secondary Teacher Certification Exam and failed. So Okiyo, —Alas, should their tryst succeed, they would mark it as their final day—exchanging farewell letters, steeling themselves night after night for death, their souls adrift in limbo as they burn with longing……. sang the climactic passages from *Kamiji* and such. Because her singing was so poor, Keibe started to say something but resolved to be satisfied.

One day during Keibe’s absence, a young man showed up at the Nihonbashi house saying he’d come to inquire about something. “Well if it ain’t Shin-chan from the Tanakas! What’ve you been up to?” He was Tanaka Shintarō—the son of a used-clothes dealer who’d lived nearby before—who’d enlisted in a Korean regiment but been discharged and just returned home yesterday. Without further ado he stepped inside, “So you’re a wife now, eh? Why’d you go marry without tellin’ me?” Tanaka Shintarō demanded. Okiyo couldn’t fathom the inner workings of this man now bitterly regretting that their three stolen kisses had never gone further for lack of opportunity—such interrogations made no sense to her. Yet seeing his sunburnt face clouded with dejection stirred pity nonetheless. She went through the motions of serving tempura rice bowls, but he stormed off shouting “You think I can eat this shit?!” furious at her changed heart. That evening she told Keibe about it over dinner. Keibe listened with his newspaper spread across his knees, grunting intermittently—until mention of lips made the paper rustle sharply, followed by clattering chopsticks and bowl before Okiyo’s cheek cracked under his slap. Okiyo stared blankly at his face before suddenly sobbing. Fat tears plopped onto tatami. Leaving her weeping behind, Keibe went out brooding. As he left, the line of her shoulder he’d glimpsed grew more disquieting after that talk—returning within thirty minutes to find her gone. After perching lightly by the brazier and crouching there half an hour—

—Souls adrift, trudging aimlessly……,

A voice sounded, and she came back reeking of bathwater freshness. After slapping her face once, Keibe began— “A woman’s gotta keep her body sacred before marriage, y’know.” “Should’ve stuck to just kissin’, at least…”

He started to say—then a bitter recollection from some time ago suddenly came to mind. Because it seemed he might say something contradictory, he settled on delivering a simple rebuke instead. Keibe regretted marrying Okiyo. Yet when Okiyo bore a boy the following March, he looked back over those days and felt a chill, thinking it fortunate he had married her after all. The child was named Hyōichi.

It was at a time when songs proclaiming Japan’s victory and Roshia’s defeat still swept through Osaka. That year, Keibe received a five-yen raise.

In the winter of that same year, an amateur Jōruri performance by the Hirozawa Hasuke group was held in the second-floor hall of the Futatsui Billiards Parlor’s Nihonbashi Club, drawing a crowd of approximately one hundred people—a truly bustling success.

Keibe Murahiko, also known as Keibe Hasuju, ascended the stage for the first time then. Having volunteered to serve as the opening act for this debut occasion, he narrated with the curtain still lowered before the gradually gathering audience—yet even so, voices cried out “Bravo! (Sawamasa!)” It was such an impassioned performance that shouts of “Sawamasa!” erupted in response. He received a teacup as the Best Performance Award. After completing his opening duties and laboring diligently as the event’s attendant while still sweat-drenched—perhaps this overexertion proved fateful—he caught cold the next day and took to bed. The illness worsened into acute pneumonia. Though examined by a competent physician, Keibe abruptly died. Okiyo wept copiously, almost marveling at tears’ relentless flow; people watched her grieving display transfixed, murmuring that a marriage held no worth without such demonstrations.

However, on the fourteenth-night memorial, when a memorial Jōruri performance was convened at the same Nihonbashi Club’s second floor under the principal’s direction, Okiyo appeared with her infant and—during the principal’s drawn-out rendition of *Kamiji*’s climactic passage—clapped loudly with ringing slaps. She raised her hands above her face, drawing people’s attention as they frowned. Keibe’s colleagues, each privately picturing their own wives’ faces within their hearts, wore expressions of considerable unease. The principal appeared thoroughly satisfied with Okiyo’s applause.

On the night of the twenty-first-day memorial, a formal family meeting was convened. Keibe’s father, who had come from rural Shikoku, spoke with a grim expression about Okiyo’s circumstances—proposing that her family registry be returned to Kinsuke and Hyōichi be made Kinsuke’s adopted son—then asked what she thought of this arrangement.

“Me? I don’t mind either way.” “I don’t mind either way.” Kinsuke did not utter a single word resembling an opinion.

When it was finally decided she would return to her family home, and Okiyo took Hyōichi back to the back tenements of Nihonbashi, the inside of the house was appallingly dirty. Dust clung thickly to the shoji slats, cobwebs hung in several places on the ceiling, and the closet was stuffed with soiled laundry. After Okiyo married, Kinsuke had hired an old woman to manage the household, but of all people, she was bent over and hard of hearing. After entrusting the child to the old woman who had greeted her with "What terrible misfortune this time...", Okiyo set to work briskly dusting every corner without even removing her prized Obama chirimen coat—her one good garment.

Three days passed, and the house became unrecognizably clean. The old woman had no choice but to invent an excuse about her son in the countryside and resign of her own accord. And then— The song “Here Lies Hell’s Third Ward” could be heard morning and evening. She worked hard. Kinsuke was glad Okiyo had returned, but this father remained as silent as a turtle. Not once did he offer a coherent word of comfort regarding Keibe’s death.

Tanaka Shintarō, the secondhand clothes dealer, had already taken a young bride, and when Okiyo appeared at the bathhouse’s changing area to retrieve the child Kinsuke had taken along, that bride had also come to fetch her recently born baby, and they became friendly. When compared to that flat-nosed, freckle-covered bride, Okiyo’s beauty once again became the talk of the men’s bath. There were even those who boldly proposed, “Become my wife,” but Okiyo would swirl her beautiful eyes round and round and laugh. There were also those who took the matter to Kinsuke. Each time Kinsuke asked Okiyo’s opinion as usual,

“I don’t mind…” “It’s fine, but ‘I don’t like it’”—this time Kinsuke dismissed the proposals with vague refusal.

On a sweltering summer night, Keibe’s rough caresses loomed heavily behind her eyelids. The apprentice disciple, now twenty-one, would watch Okiyo dozing as her child suckled at her breast, swallowing hard, his chest burning futilely.

Time flowed.

II

Five years passed. Okiyo turned twenty-four, the child six. At the year’s end, Kinsuke met an abrupt end in an unforeseen disaster.

That day saw an unusual sight in late November Osaka: fine snowflakes fluttering through the air. Kinsuke—now fully aged and senile alongside his grandson’s growth—had received fifty sen from Okiyo and taken the boy by hand to see Tsuzuki Fumio’s troupe perform chain-plays at Senrichi’s Rakutenchi theater. On their return through Nihonbashi’s first-block intersection, an Ebisucho-bound tram struck him. Hyōichi—flung into the safety net and narrowly saved—clutched a caramel someone had given him as he wailed amid the crowd. A neighborhood youth spotted this and cried “That’s Mōri’s brat!”, pedaling off urgently to alert others. When Okiyo rushed over, multiple trams with lit lamps stood stalled beneath the twilight snowscape, their carriages looming above Kinsuke’s body curled beneath one. She shrieked yet shed no tears—only when Hyōichi clung with caramel-smeared hands did heat rise in her throat. Then sight left her.

Before long, the lively sound of trams could be heard.

That night, the pawnshop owner from the neighborhood came with a large cloth-wrapped bundle and, after offering his condolences,

“Actually, I provided a loan to Mr. Kinsuke at the time of your marriage, Ms. Okiyo.” “What you might call your wedding expenses—I advanced funds to Mr. Kinsuke then.” “The items from that time—since no interest’s been paid—they’ve already defaulted, but thinking they must be important heirlooms for Ms. Okiyo’s family here, there’s nothing we can’t settle through discussion. That’s what I thought, you know.” “Sooner or later, the tram company’s...” When he presented them expecting at least 1,000 yen in compensation—what emerged was a lineage scroll and a longsword. Kinsuke’s distinguished lineage—faintly tracing back to a Sengoku-era castle lord—became evident through these items, though Okiyo was seeing them for the first time. Okiyo had never once heard Kinsuke mention such lineage; Keibe of course hadn’t known either—Keibe dying unaware of it counted among his misfortunes. Kinsuke had been Kinsuke in keeping silent, and Okiyo remained Okiyo—

“I appreciate the trouble, but I’ve no use for such things,” she refused the pawnshop owner’s offer and afterward forgot all about the lineage. He persistently urged her—of course driven by greed, going on about interest deadlines—but Okiyo merely looked pityingly, “It makes no difference to me, ’cause...” “And what’s it even matter…”

For some reason, the tram company’s compensation amounted to a paltry lump sum of around 100 yen, and she had resolved to give most of it to the apprentice disciple now leaving her service. The relatives from Yamaguchi’s countryside who had come were utterly appalled by such Okiyo, and after completing their two days of duties—the funeral and bone-picking—they promptly withdrew. On the night when the house had become hollow and empty, she suddenly awoke,

“Who’s there?” she called into the darkness, but there was no reply. Perhaps having received an unexpected windfall had addled his mind—of all people, it turned out to be the apprentice disciple. However, the next day, the apprentice disciple became utterly dejected, avoiding Okiyo’s gaze—unmanly, even pitiable—but when a man claiming to be his brother came from their hometown that evening, he seemed relieved. After the brother said, “We’ve troubled you for so long looking after this troublesome lad,” he bowed his head deeply,

“It’s just a token of gratitude—please accept this,” he said, holding out a white paper bundle. With a face as if nothing had happened, he slipped away furtively. When she looked, there was a clumsily written note in the style of practice manuscripts, and the money Okiyo had given him lay inside exactly as it had been. Pitying his frail body and timid demeanor as he spoke of returning home to farm, Okiyo sat dazedly in the emptiness of the now-deserted house for some time—until eventually,

――The cargo loaded on the ship—ah, how far will it go? Past Kizu and Naniwa’s bridges—ah… As if suddenly remembering, she sang out a mournful lullaby in a high-pitched voice for Hyōichi.

Okiyo found a single-story house with five-yen rent in the back tenements of Kamishiochō Jizō Alley and, upon moving there, promptly hung a small wooden sign from the eaves that read, “Sewing Lessons Offered.” The sign bore an unusual calligraphy difficult for the tenement dwellers to decipher—a trait inherited from her father. Her sewing, while not skilled enough for silks or Kurume fabrics—this being her mother’s legacy—sufficed for the neighborhood girls paying fifty sen per month, and of course she took on local mending jobs too.

The hectic year-end found her occupied with sewing commissioned New Year’s garments, days spent working through the night—but one late evening, when Hyōichi stirred awake, he heard the sound of sniffling and found Okiyo poking at the charcoal in the brazier with reddened hands. Outside, the frost’s hue was fading… Even in his childish heart, Hyōichi felt a sudden pang of pity at the sight of his mother like that—but Okiyo remained a mother who knew nothing of sympathy or sentimentality unbefitting a child’s years.

“You’ve had such hard luck, Ms. Okiyo,” the tenement dwellers tried to console her, but— “Can’t be helped,” she said with a laugh. Because she acted as if the successive misfortunes—Keibe’s death, Kinsuke’s death—were nothing more than wind blowing past, the tenement women who had expected to at least hear her complain or share tears found themselves oddly unsatisfied. In Osaka’s back alleys, stone Jizō statues were typically enshrined, and the annual Jizō Bon festival was held at each August’s end. But given its very name, the Jizō Alley where Okiyo lived couldn’t afford to be outdone by other neighborhoods’ festivities. Hanging picture lanterns at every door, in the cramped alleyway, the neighborhood men and women,

...danced to a rhythmic chant of nonsensical syllables. Okiyo strained herself to contribute twenty watermelons and, urged by others, joined the dance troupe. Because Okiyo had joined the dance, the police’s curfew requiring festivities to end by 2 a.m. was forgotten until dawn. As usual, she poured cold water over herself at the public bath. Her skin glowed with more luster than it had in her girlhood. Someone asked if she used a bran scrub. The tenement women—who had been holding their breath in jealousy at her striking figure as she stood tall after bathing—noticed Okiyo’s nape one day and—

“My, Okiyo-san, you’ve got so much downy hair on your nape…” Taking advantage of having noticed the growth, they made exaggerated remarks, so on her way back from the bathhouse, she stopped by a barber and had it tended to. The moment the cold razor touched her face, she shuddered violently. But as it soon began gliding smoothly across her skin with a pleasant sensation, her body stiffened involuntarily. Each time those hands steeped in soap and cosmetic scents pinched her facial muscles, she felt herself soaring through the air and remembered Keibe.

To such an Okiyo, Murata the craftsman there had to occasionally check his professional facade in the mirror—the one he wore for business purposes. However, Murata couldn’t maintain composure around Okiyo, who thereafter began visiting twice monthly without fail. One night, he came to the alley clutching a bolt of silk fabric wrapped in newspaper and— “I finally mustered up the courage to wear my finest outfit.” “Apologies for the bother, but there’s just one thing…” When he asked her to sew it for him, he lingered making stilted small talk, his heart screaming *Now’s your chance! Now!* But whether she sensed his intentions or not, Okiyo whirled her eyes around and burst into raucous laughter even at his tedious remark about the priest of Chōganji Temple reaching his sixtieth year.

Hyōichi had been lying sprawled beside them but suddenly sat bolt upright, placed both hands neatly on his knees, and fixed Murata with a gaze that seemed to challenge him with a maturity beyond his years—a look Murata observed with trepidation. Eventually Murata left while mocking his own timidity. He urinated at the entrance to the alley. Listening to the sound, Hyōichi flopped down with an uneasy face.

III Because Hyōichi was born early in the year, he entered elementary first grade at seven years old. When he came home crying on opening ceremony day already, Okiyo—remembering Hyōichi’s habitual shyness—grew anxious about his future prospects. Upon asking, she learned he had been scolded by the teacher for striking three male classmates. During school breaks, he preferred playing with girls. With his girlish physique and fair-skinned, neatly proportioned face, female teachers would suddenly try to embrace him. Hyōichi fled red-faced and barely looked at that teacher for two or three days afterward. He felt ashamed of his shabby appearance. One reason was that being fawned over never felt natural—his skin had already grown calloused against society’s chilly winds.

About five boys in his class were hit by him and cried each week. For a child, he didn't laugh much. When he cried, he did so as though entranced by the sound of his own weeping. He himself knew his crying's volume was notorious in the neighborhood. One time, for reasons even he couldn't name, he pissed on the Jizō statue by the alley's well. Because there was someone watching, he pissed even more slowly. Okiyo scolded him when she felt like it.

When he was eight, upon returning from school one day, he was suddenly made to wear a newly tailored Kurume cotton-padded garment. When he pressed his nose to the straight-cut sleeve, the pungent scent of indigo rushed into his nostrils—finery that should have delighted the fastidious Hyōichi, yet even he couldn’t bring himself to be elated. Okiyo had applied unusually heavy makeup, and though through a child’s eyes he saw her face as beautiful, for some reason he couldn’t bring himself to acknowledge it. While handling the basting thread for him,

“When we get over there, mind your manners, ya hear?”

Okiyo spoke in her usual tone, but Hyōichi heard it as scolding. When three rickshaws came to line up at the alley entrance, his mother’s face instantly turned mask-like. Though still a child with limited understanding, he saw it as the face of a twenty-six-year-old bride—leaving him utterly desolate, adrift without an island to cling to. With hands held over the extinguished charcoal brazier, her white neck exposed like a papier-mâché tiger’s thrust forward as she sat there in shabby attire—Hyōichi was made to stand and placed into a rickshaw. The stranger rode in the front rickshaw, Mother in the next, and Hyōichi in the very last one. Perhaps thinking the figure sitting properly upright on the seat was being obstinate, the rickshaw driver—

“Little master. Hold on tight now so you don’t fall off.” At the voice, Okiyo glanced back. It was already dark. “I ain’t gonna fall,” Hyōichi said in a deliberately playful tone, then listened pensively as his words faded into the twilight.

His body lifted lightly as the rickshaw began to move. The darkness gradually grew deeper. As they passed through the temple district where several quiet temples stood in a row, the scent of osmanthus wafted through the air. Hyōichi felt dizzy; partly, he was already sick from the rickshaw's motion. He felt ashamed and wretched. The lantern flame attached to the end of the shaft made the rickshaw driver's hand vein stand out prominently. With his second-grade eyes, he tried to decipher the two characters “Nozoe” written on the lantern, but the suffocating feeling as blood drained from his head made it difficult.

That night, he slept alone.

The smell of naphthalene clinging to the futon felt somehow different, making him keenly aware of the loneliness of his mother’s absence. He couldn’t even cry. With his small eyes, he stared aimlessly at the ceiling. Mother was downstairs with a stranger. It was Nozoe Yasujirō, he later found out. Nozoe Yasujirō was said to be the wealthiest man in Tanimachi Ninth District and was also called a greedy miser. He worked as a moneylender, had changed wives three times, and Okiyo was his fourth. This year, forty-eight-year-old Yasujirō took a liking to Okiyo, and settling the marriage proposal required no great effort.

“Me?” “I’m fine either way.” However, even Okiyo set a condition: once Hyōichi graduated from elementary school, he was to be sent to middle school. This condition pricked like needles in the chest of Yasujirō the miser, yet Okiyo’s shoulders looked far too soft and plumply fleshed. Yasujirō had no children. After his previous wife died, he promptly hired a maid to handle cooking and sometimes serve as a substitute wife. But when Okiyo came, he abruptly dismissed the maid—this time making Okiyo the replacement.

He would habitually say, “People gotta save money, y’hear? Better listen up good,” never letting even a single sen be at Okiyo’s discretion. Each day for market errands he’d hand her ten or twenty sen in odd coins, and upon her return made her produce every bit of change. Sometimes he would go to the market himself, buy about six cheap sardines, and bring them back—taking four for himself and giving one each to Okiyo and Hyōichi. Ever since someone once went to collect payments and got roughed up, he had hired a forty-year-old man named Yamaya to handle collections—though of course Yamaya worked without pay, and Yasujirō didn’t even provide him lunch. Yamaya had the face of a disgraced monk and was unmarried. One day, he told Hyōichi with a lewd expression an unbearably vulgar story about Okiyo and Yasujirō.

“What’s wrong? Little master.” When Yamaya, startled, looked at Hyōichi’s face, he was frighteningly pale, blood oozing from his lips, his front teeth slightly stained red. His eyes glared fiercely, tears pooling in them.

To put it hyperbolically, Hyōichi’s self-respect had been wounded in that moment. He was more easily wounded than most. And he sank deeper into gloom. Feeling humiliated, a seed of disgust toward anything sexual was planted in him then. His inherent antagonism festered from this wound to his self-respect. He mastered sidelong glances, his gaze when regarding Yasujirō now altered. Behind Yasujirō’s back, he swung a fist. Each night, Mother eagerly massaged Yasujirō’s shoulders.

Hyōichi walked over four kilometers to the port, gazed at the dusk-cloaked Osaka Bay, felt sudden nostalgia for the steamships departing the harbor bathed in sunset, and at times cursed the sea for no reason.

One day, at the port's pier, he suppressed the urge to let out a whimpering sob and instead directed it toward the sea,

“You idiot!” he bellowed. The moment he thought no one was around, the man who had been fishing suddenly turned around— “Hey, what’re you blurtin’?” Then—judging his contemptuous glare impertinent—the man struck him. He walked home nearly six kilometers while crying. He trudged along until dusk fell completely on Yūnagi Bridge, and when he broke into a trot, a tram with blazing electric lights came roaring up behind him with a terrifying clamor, frightening him. When he entered the house, Yasujirō was washing himself with a basin to save bathhouse fees, while Okiyo had hitched up her sleeves and was scrubbing her back. Once finished, Okiyo performed her basin wash, and Yasujirō scrubbed her back with exaggerated masculine vigor. After that came Hyōichi’s turn to wash, but he pretended to be asleep and didn’t stir even when called.

He gradually became a melancholy boy and eventually graduated from elementary school. Okiyo once again asked Yasujirō to enroll him in middle school, but “Ain’t my problem.” Yasujirō pretended not to understand. Suddenly recalling how Keibe had wanted to become a middle school teacher, Okiyo felt all the strength leave her body. Yasujirō taught Hyōichi the abacus, seemingly intending to either send him into service or use him for moneylending calculations and collections. At bedtime each night, she would spread out Hyōichi’s honors certificate on her lap and gaze at it endlessly; even when Yasujirō told her to sleep, she refused to go to bed. Without uttering a word, she crawled closer to the chest of drawers on her knees and tucked it away. When Yasujirō saw the movement around her waist, he panicked in an almost comical manner. He had convinced himself that Okiyo would take her belongings from the chest of drawers and leave for good. He reluctantly agreed.

Eventually, Hyōichi entered middle school, but Yasujirō did not open his purse. Okiyo took on sewing commissions from somewhere and used those earnings to cover Hyōichi’s school fees. The piecework alone wasn’t enough; she pawned her hair ornaments and kimonos, borrowing small sums—one yen here, two yen there—from neighbors. She was told, “Ain’t it odd for the moneylender’s own wife to be borrowin’ from others?” But in truth, the enrollment funds had been borrowed from Yasujirō himself—who naturally planned to charge Okiyo interest. Hounded by sewing orders, the skin around Okiyo’s eyes gradually darkened.

Chapter Two

1 Hyōichi, now a middle school student, went around telling everyone he had a fiancée. It took him a considerable amount of time to realize this had instead made him an object of ridicule. All the while, believing he was enhancing his status, he had clumsily played along without any finesse. He cultivated the fear of being mocked by someone at any moment like scabies festering across his skin. He dangled an excessive sense of inferiority from the corners of his eyes as they darted restlessly around his surroundings. Driven by youthful vanity, he needed to add more luster to himself than anyone else. Moreover, during the entrance exam, there had been a failure that was a fatal blow to his self-respect.

The entrance exam felt like a trial of his very destiny; with an unusual excitement that even his child's mind couldn't contain, he stepped into the examination hall. But having become too excited, he suddenly felt the urge to relieve himself. He still hadn't finished all his answers. He couldn't simply leave. He considered telling the proctor about this and asking permission to visit the restroom midway through, but found himself unable to act. He had long resigned himself to being a child who couldn't make such requests—unlike others. He could no longer endure it—should he submit his half-finished exam and abandon the hall? Yet doing so would mean failure. He sat still pressing his lower abdomen. Restless, he barely comprehended the questions' meanings. "This won't do," he thought, tapping his head while clinging to the answer sheet when suddenly his focus shifted from his bladder. He surrendered to terrifying relief—yes, let everything be damned. He wet himself. After frantically scribbling answers, he stacked them face-down on the desk and scrambled to leave—in that instant, the papers slipped to the floor. They were damp.

Since exams confined the children for three hours at a time, such incidents were a common occurrence. The supervising teacher came to the spot where he had wet himself with an expressionless face. The teacher silently picked it up. The teacher placed it on the desk and returned to the podium. However, Hyōichi thought that the teacher had compared my face with the exam paper’s number. The instant he thought that, he resigned himself to failure.

However, he luckily passed. In other words, he became a middle school student without difficulty. Then, the memory of wetting himself during the exam began to torment him anew. At the entrance ceremony, his gaze began darting about, wondering if someone knew about that incident. Since it had been during the exam when they hadn’t yet known each other’s faces, he thought there must have been one or two who had quickly recognized some. The supervising teacher at that time was in charge of Japanese language and also came to Hyōichi’s classroom four times a week. Each time this happened, Hyōichi would shrink into himself, terrified that his secret would be exposed.

There was another incident like this. Among classmates, it became popular to play detective after school, tailing each other in an attempt to see what kind of homes they lived in. One day, Hyōichi’s turn came. Regardless of his house’s appearance, he hated anyone knowing about the moneylending business; when he realized he was being followed, he turned pale and fled around the corner. When he rushed into the house, he forgot his umbrella at the eaves. Sure enough,

“Mōri-kun! “Mōri-kun!” “Come out!” A voice bellowed outside.

Hyōichi was on the second floor, holding his breath like a criminal trying not to be heard. He buried his face in his hands and shut his eyes tight. The “Nozoe” nameplate by the entrance tormented him anew. Given all that had transpired, he’d had every reason to burnish his reputation. Yet what a blunder it had been—of all possible strategies—to start boasting about having a fiancée. By spreading rumors of an engagement, he’d hoped to feign coming from a stable household, but targeting first-year classmates yielded no advantage. Not a single precocious boy envied his imaginary betrothed. When he finally recognized their mockery for what it was, he saw no path to salvaging his self-respect except through academic supremacy.

Hyōichi studied until his complexion paled. If he thought of his mother doing needlework late into the night to fund his schooling, he felt no amount of studying could ever suffice. When exams neared, Okiyo would bring tea and snacks on a tray to his desk while still in her nightclothes. Being tended to like this felt unbearably precious to Hyōichi. Even had it been his own mother, he’d never imagined someone might boil tea for him so late. The rough snoring of Yasujirō drifting up from below somehow drove his studies harder. About to sleep, he glanced outside to see the eastern sky fading violet, icicles clinging to eaves, frost whitening rooftops. Against his nature, a solemn mood settled over him.

When he advanced to the second year, the grades were announced. He had taken first place. Hyōichi felt rather happy. However, to say he was completely happy would be an overstatement. This was because he worried it might have been some kind of mistake. He began casting glances over his body, wondering if they were making fun of him. This was because he had absolutely no confidence in his own intellect. His classmates had at least acknowledged and feared his exceptional memorization skills, but Hyōichi had no inkling that people might respect him. Moreover, the position of top student was ill-suited to the fate he had long resigned himself to.

Therefore, he himself needed to repeatedly confirm the fact that he was indeed the top student. He proclaimed it far and wide. Eventually, "top student" became his nickname. Put simply, he lacked the dignity befitting a top student. When he suddenly remembered his mother and the bed-wetting incident, he would grab his classmates and say, “I wonder who’ll end up second this time around.” This became quite grating. The classmates grew weary, and because Hyōichi kept trying to add luster to his position as top student, they eventually came to regard it as mere plating.

“He’s just a grade-grubbing worm.”

On the day before the first term exams, Hyōichi went to the Daiichi Asahi Theater in Shinsekai. He watched Makino Teruko’s movie and brought its program paper to the exam site to show it off.

When this came to light, Hyōichi received a one-week suspension. After a week had passed, when he went to the classroom, the homeroom teacher came in, and as soon as the attendance roll call was completed, “This class had been a model for the entire school until now, but because of just one troublemaker disrupting it, its reputation has plummeted all at once.” “It’s truly regrettable,” he said something to that effect.

Realizing the remarks were about him, Hyōichi gave his head a light tap, stuck out his tongue, and hunched his shoulders. Moreover, no one even laughed. On the contrary, several piercing gazes came his way as if reproaching him for those antics. Hyōichi’s expectations were utterly dashed. When break time finally came, Hyōichi was frantically sucking on a caramel. Normally, this was something the class representative wouldn’t do. Sure enough, a student named Numai came to his side,

“Because of you alone, the whole class suffers,” he deliberately said in standard Japanese. Hyōichi,

“See? That’s exactly what the teacher just said.” “I don’t need to hear it from you.” “And you don’t need to worry about that either.” “With a model student like you around, the class can hardly ever go bad.”

Numai, perhaps emboldened by his classmates streaming in to gather around him, “It’s wrong to eat in the classroom,” he said. Once again using standard Japanese. “So you don’t eat anything, right? Then that’s fine. Me eatin’s my own damn business.” As he spoke, Numai’s hand shot out to grab Hyōichi’s arm. “Spit it out. There’s a saying—when in Rome.” Before he knew it, classmates had closed in around him. But then the bell rang.

Hyōichi was sucking on a caramel during class as well.

Three days later after school, he was surrounded by about twenty people centered around Numai and subjected to physical punishment with fists. Hyōichi struggled for about twenty minutes, but in the end, it proved futile. He had been wary of his nose, but before he knew it, a violent nosebleed burst forth as he rolled his eyes white. Then shortly after, the second term exams began. The moment he saw how despicable his classmates looked—frantically gnawing at their exam papers like starved lions—a sudden hostility welled up in his head and tightened his chest. When he looked toward Numai, Numai too was busily sharpening his pencil lead. Numai had come to be regarded as a grade-grubbing worm.

(However, I too had once been called a grade-grubbing worm. There's no way I'd let them think I'm the same as Numai!) Hyōichi hastily erased his half-written exam paper. And stomped up to the teacher’s podium to submit it. Because Hyōichi had submitted his paper so quickly, everyone was taken aback and looked up at his face. “What’s this?” The supervising teacher put on the glasses he had taken off and peered closely. “It’s blank.” And then, deliberately not looking back, he puffed out his chest as if to say “Serves you right” and exited the classroom. For the first time, a faint flicker of self-respect had been satisfied. However, it took another three months for that satisfaction to become more complete. In March of the following year, it was necessary for him to demonstrate that he would advance to the next grade by achieving grades sufficient to compensate for that blank exam. That March was interminable. Because of that, the joy he felt upon advancing was so overwhelming he couldn’t keep it locked away in his own chest. The weather was pleasant as well. Cherry blossoms had begun to bloom, and a tepid wind was blowing. Hyōichi recalled the blank exam paper with a feeling as if he wanted to whistle. For some time afterward, his classmates shuddered whenever they heard his voice. Among them were indeed some who had failed.

Because of this, Hyōichi had now become completely hated by his classmates. However, since his hostility had from the start marked them as enemies, being hated instead left him feeling unburdened. When an upperclassman who had noticed his beauty approached with eerie coquetry, he found himself plunged into strange perplexity, at a loss for how to return such affection. Toward the end of third year, a love divination game spread where you wrote two names in Roman letters, aligned them, and erased matching characters one by one. Hyōichi the outcast watched listlessly as everyone openly used the classroom blackboard for these readings—but when he suddenly noticed every person had written "Kiyoko Mihara" at least once, his eyes began gleaming with uncanny intensity. Hyōichi grabbed the class's worst student and, in a roundabout tone that left the boy utterly confused about what was being asked, talked at him for half an hour—finally extracting a few facts about Kiyoko Mihara. Learning she attended S Girls' School along the Dai-ki Railway line, he skipped afternoon classes that very day and rushed frantically to Dai-ki's Uemachi 6-chome station. But having arrived far too early, he waited two hours until green-necktiated S School students came streaming through the ticket gates. At last he spotted Kiyoko. He recognized her by the described crimson furoshiki bundle and markers—her being exceptionally tall and slim despite freckles—but even without those signs, Hyōichi thought that aloofly upturned expression could belong to no one else. Had she been some giggling, affable girl, those two hours of waiting would have been wasted.

(But what’s this about being S Girls’ School’s top beauty? What a joke.) However, considering how extravagantly she was being touted as the object of all Osaka middle schoolers’ admiration, he decided to regard her as beautiful. He had merely deferred to popular opinion, yet her perfectly clear eyes shone coldly, and there was a certain beauty in her deliberate refusal to wear glasses despite being nearsighted. As these thoughts flashed through his mind, Kiyoko tried to briskly pass by his side. Hyōichi instantly turned pale. It was the vexation of being unable, for some reason, to summon the words to speak.

(I can’t let these two hours go to waste just for this single moment.)

Finally spurred on by this mathematical notion, he suddenly took off the hat,

“Pardon my abruptness, but may I ask—are you Miss Kiyoko Mihara?” It was a line he had spent two hours devising—an unconventional, pretentious phrasing—and even Kiyoko was momentarily taken aback. However, from Kiyoko’s perspective, such encounters were commonplace. Without so much as a blush, “Yes?” she replied, staring at Hyōichi with a look that said if he meant to hand over a letter he should hurry up about it. Faced with such businesslike detachment, Hyōichi became utterly flustered and forgot every word he had prepared. He suddenly turned and fled, struck by his own wretchedness.

“What a shy delinquent middle schooler he is,” Kiyoko snickered without even turning around, though his beauty alone had briefly caught her attention. (Now that’s the kind of boy you’d want to take to a milk hall and treat to three five-sen fish-shaped cakes.) She fleetingly recalled the faces of classmates riddled with pimples. (However, I’m different.) She was set to graduate next year at eighteen and marry her cousin currently in Tokyo Imperial University’s law department—this older-sister air of looking down on a sixteen-year-old boy as ten years her junior being one of her vanities.

Therefore, when Kiyoko found herself being tailed by Hyōichi for three consecutive days starting the very next day—from Uemachi 6-chome to Kobashi Nishinochō along the paved road—partly out of annoyance,

“Do you have some business?” She suddenly turned around, intent on cornering him. Hyōichi’s self-respect, which had been tormented by the timidity of being unable to utter a single word beyond three days of tailing, regained its original dignity when confronted by Kiyoko’s attitude.

“I’ve got no business with the likes of you.” “Don’t get full of yourself.” “Just walking here.”

The words spilled forth effortlessly. Those words wounded Kiyoko’s self-respect quite deeply.

“Delinquent middle schooler!” “Don’t loiter around—go home already.” “That’s none of your business.”

"For a child..." she began—but unable to find a clever retort—Kiyoko

“I’ll report you to the Educational Protection League.” She had invoked that sinister bureau recently established within the Osaka Prefectural Government to police middle school students outside school grounds—a vulgar maneuver.

“Say it—if you want, shall I call them here?” When it came to such recalcitrant words, this was Hyōichi’s natural element.

“You’re stubborn. What’s your business anyway?” “I told you I don’t have any business with you.” “You’re impossible to figure out…” The Osaka dialect surfacing softened the tension slightly. Kiyoko smiled faintly, “You’re such a delinquent, following me around for no reason.” “Don’t follow me anymore, you hear?” “Which school do you go to?” It was Osaka dialect. “You can tell by looking at the hat.”

“Let me see.” Kiyoko deliberately reached for the hat. It was because from that close, the length of Hyōichi’s eyelashes could be clearly seen.

“K Middle School, huh?” “I know your school’s principal.” “Go ahead and report me then.” “I will report you.” “I really do know.” “It’s Mr. Shibata, right?” “They call him Suppon.” Before they knew it, they started walking side by side. When they neared her house, Kiyoko— “Bye now.” “If you tail me again, I won’t let it slide.”

And then, they parted ways. All the while, Hyōichi had been thinking of nothing but that matter—(Success? Or failure?)—the entire time. In the end—judging from how she’d snapped “I won’t let it slide” in that commanding tone at their parting, and how he’d walked away without a retort—he concluded it was a complete failure. Yet nothing spurred this boy into action quite like failure. The next day, he lay in wait for Kiyoko’s return with tremendous resolve. When Kiyoko saw Hyōichi, she instantly felt a pang of displeasure. Yesterday, she had felt a slight fondness for Hyōichi, but finding herself ambushed again today like this, she came to think this boy too was just another run-of-the-mill delinquent student.

Kiyoko passed by Hyōichi’s side with an expression of feigned ignorance.

Hyōichi dashed over, his face beet red, removed his hat, and bowed. Then, Kiyoko—

(Today I'll properly put this boy in his place.) (Yesterday was my failure...)

Using this as an excuse for herself, she decided to walk alongside him. In truth, Hyōichi’s beet-red face was cute. However, Hyōichi walked with large strides as if he were walking alone. He was angry at himself for turning beet red. Kiyoko found no way to walk alongside him. “Can’t you walk a bit slower?” Unintentionally, Kiyoko’s tone became pleading.

“Then you should walk faster yourself,” Hyōichi smiled, thinking this was a masterful retort. Kiyoko scowled,

“You don’t even know how to walk with a girl, do ya?” “You’re such a boor.” When she said mockingly, Hyōichi blushed again. He should’ve been putting on a thorough act of being accustomed to walking with girls.

(This boy often ignites cute fireworks to keep my resentment from escalating into outright hatred.) Kiyoko, with her literary bent, thought. Moreover, she conceitedly believed (This boy is in love with me). Finding it amusing to draw this confession from the boy’s own lips, Kiyoko—

“You like me, don’tcha?” Hyōichi was thoroughly flustered. He had not prepared any words to answer such a question. Moreover, he didn’t read many novels or such, so he had nothing to reference for how to answer in such a situation. Of course, he couldn’t say, “Yes, I like you.” First of all, he did not like Kiyoko in the least. Lying stuck in his craw. For a while, he moved his mouth wordlessly, but finally—

He concocted the line “If I hated ya, I wouldn’t be walkin’ with ya,” and felt relief wash over him. “What a strange way to put it.” “So ya hate me then.” “Or d’ya like me?” “Which is it?” “You like me, don’tcha?” Her words came tumbling out faster by the end. Hyōichi floundered. Since he didn’t care for her, he ought to say he hated her—but that would’ve been too harsh.

“I like you,” he answered in a small voice, mentally bracketing the word “like” as he spoke. For the first time, Kiyoko allowed herself to feel affection toward Hyōichi.

However, because Hyōichi had said "I like you," he now found the very thought of meeting Kiyoko utterly galling. Since the next day was Sunday, he considered it a godsend. He had been telling himself that he must meet Kiyoko every day until he won her over. Hyōichi went to Senba-chō. In the basement of Rakutenchi was displayed a mummy said to have died at eighty-two years of age from a certain nun’s temple in Sanuki Province. "The breasts characteristic of a female and other such traces were clearly evident. Educational reference material"—drawn in by this advertisement, he furtively paid the admission fee and entered. It stemmed from a reckless curiosity paradoxically fueled by his secretly harbored disgust toward anything sexual.

The moment he emerged steeped in self-reproach, he unexpectedly came face to face with Kiyoko. (She must have seen through my morbid curiosity about the mummy.) Hyōichi flushed crimson. Nearsighted Kiyoko, having noticed a figure resembling Hyōichi, narrowed her eyes and knit her brows to confirm. To him, it looked like she was frowning. Kiyoko—whose stomach troubles gave her a perpetual habit of licking her lower lip—did so now while thinking, “Oh, fireworks are going off.” When he saw that expression, Hyōichi could bear it no longer. He bolted.

(Now that she'd seen that shameful part of me, she must despise me for sure.) Hyōichi had easily reached this conclusion. With that, he lost all courage to meet Kiyoko. From the very next day, he stopped lying in wait for her. Yet when Hyōichi didn't show his face for two or three days, Kiyoko found herself oddly dissatisfied. She still didn't understand why he'd run off in front of Rakutenchi. "Why did he run away?" She could think of nothing else. Which meant she could think of nothing but Hyōichi. (Could he have started hating me?) For Kiyoko—so full of self-conceit—this thought became unbearable. (But we were getting along so well...)

When she hadn’t seen Hyōichi for ten whole days, Kiyoko could no longer deny that she clearly held feelings for him. (What the...! That boy...) Kiyoko made considerable efforts to come to dislike Hyōichi. She looked at her fiancé’s photograph every day. Her fiancé wore his university student cap and had a dignified, handsome appearance that one could even call a fine gentleman. When she looked at it, she would gaze at it daily, thinking that Hyōichi’s presence would surely fade into the background. But having looked at it too often, even the fiancé’s face began to grate on her. (This face is unattractive. His beard stubble is so thick!) She forced herself to think such unreasonable things. Indeed, Hyōichi was a boy who timidly revealed his downy hair. However, when she read the accounts of Tokyo student life in the frequent letters from her fiancé, there was an air of dependability that put Hyōichi in a different league entirely.

About two weeks had passed, and on a day when her resolve to dislike Hyōichi had mostly solidified, Kiyoko unexpectedly encountered him within the Daiki station grounds. She involuntarily made an “Oh!” face and blushed. She thought that Hyōichi had been waiting for her.

(He was sick after all.) She had clung to this notion as a fragile thread of hope. She could not suppress a smile. She impulsively discarded the thought of disliking Hyōichi. However, Hyōichi, thinking 'Oh no,' was halfway poised to flee. In truth, he had been avoiding the Daiki station grounds because he was afraid of meeting Kiyoko. He had been on his way home from school but had deliberately taken such a roundabout route. However, today he inadvertently passed through the Daiki station grounds. In other words, it was because he had already half-forgotten about Kiyoko.

He suddenly tried to flee. At that very moment, his self-respect—like a snake—sinuously raised its head and coiled around his legs. (If I run away here, I’d be tormented by shame forever. I must restore my honor.) Hyōichi barely managed to stop himself. Yet he couldn’t fathom how to regain his dignity. Challenging Kiyoko to a duel was out of the question. He simply fumbled about helplessly. Despite his resolve, he avoided properly looking at her face. He turned away.

Kiyoko resented that Hyōichi wouldn’t look at her face. Abruptly drawing close,

“Where have you been?” “Why didn’t you meet me?” “Were you sick?” She said resentfully. But Hyōichi did not know how to answer. And he grew irritated at himself for not knowing how to respond. When she saw that face, Kiyoko grew anxious, wondering if she had been disliked after all. Because of that, she ended up liking Hyōichi even more. As usual, they walked side by side, but Hyōichi was uncharacteristically awkward. As they were about to part,

“Won’t you meet me at Tennōji Park tonight at six?” It was Kiyoko who proposed it. Around that time, a song was popular that went, “When evening falls, worries are endless.” They made their promise and parted.

Hyōichi deliberately arrived half an hour late to the appointed time. Kiyoko stood forlornly before the park’s main gate, wearing a kimono. She wore a crimson kimono with a green heko obi and applied rouge to her cheeks. That appeared both childlike and alluring at once.

“I’ve been waiting a whole hour,” Kiyoko said, half-crying as she drew close.

They walked side by side. Night slipped down and sank into the wan light of the gas lamps before vanishing. The art museum building loomed darkly atop a small hill. On the grounds, a man in a running shirt bathed in the faint light of an electric lamp ran like a shadow puppet. When they passed under the wisteria trellis, there was a plant-like smell. Kiyoko puffed out her chest. Their shoulders occasionally brushed. To Hyōichi, it was a jolting, painful sensation.

(Walking through a park at night with a woman—how revolting.) He considered telling this impression to his pimply classmate. So blatantly that Kiyoko would notice, he abruptly distanced himself as they walked. This Hyōichi pleased Kiyoko. (This boy’s so bashful and sensitive.) When she earnestly looked up, one feature on Hyōichi’s childish face betrayed maturity. A single vein stood pale across his broad forehead. It made him look like a boy tormented by brooding thoughts. He must be agonizing over me!

However, at that very moment—of all things—Hyōichi, (Your mother’s being worked like a maid by that moneylender husband of hers right now! No—rather, something even worse is being done to her!) he kept telling himself. When Kiyoko wore a kimono, she looked every bit the well-bred young lady. (This woman probably doesn’t know that my mother does needlework every night, borrows money from neighbors, and takes high-interest loans from her husband just to fund my education. No—she probably doesn’t know I had a pitiful supper of just pickles and cold rice before coming here today. Of course, my mother later secretly gave me a rolled omelet, but I was so overwhelmed with gratitude that I couldn’t swallow it. My mouth always smells like pickles! It still stinks now. This woman probably doesn't know that. This woman reeking of perfume probably doesn’t know. My mother skimps on paying for hair washing at the public bathhouse, so her hair’s always stuffy and reeks of sweat!)

Hyōichi suddenly felt tears well up. But after swiftly wiping his eyes, he resumed his brooding. (If this woman knew I’d squatted to piss, she’d never walk with me again.) It was precisely because of this—because securing this girl would satisfy his self-respect—that Hyōichi finally became aware of his role as he walked beside Kiyoko.

(I have to say something.)

Hyōichi suddenly became flustered. But he didn't know what to say. He had never read romance novels or anything of the sort. Even when he tried to think of something as grand as 'winning her,' he couldn't grasp what actual words or actions that would entail. When he belatedly noticed how awkwardly silent he had become—even to himself—Hyōichi already found walking with Kiyoko suffocating. Trying to say something clever, trying to speak words that clearly suited his purpose, he grew irritated with himself for not having a single such phrase surface in his mind. He gradually grew heavier in mood and wore a thoroughly dispirited expression. (Don't you know how to talk to women?) He tried imagining how such a version of himself must appear in Kiyoko's eyes. He was on the verge of worrying that Kiyoko would scorn him. But when he saw her rouged face, he was spared at least that particular worry. Kiyoko's usually spirited face looked somewhat foolish today because of the rouge she'd applied. (What an unskillful man I am.) Hyōichi mocked himself, but finding some solace in this very word 'unskillful,' he felt slightly redeemed. However, he needn't have worried about such things. Kiyoko preferred the Hyōichi who remained timidly silent over the one who, whenever he opened his mouth, would invariably say something arrogant and hateful. For one thing, she was so overwhelmed with what could almost be called painfully intense happiness that she began talking on her own to such an extent that she gave Hyōichi no opportunity to speak.

Kiyoko, with her literary tastes, used nothing but cloyingly sweet words. Words that Hyōichi struggled to comprehend and the names of out-of-season flowers spilled from Kiyoko’s lips. If Hyōichi hadn’t felt ashamed at failing to understand Kiyoko’s words and hadn’t grown angry with himself—What an ignoramus I am!—he would have nearly yawned. (The reason a girl student like Kiyoko knows more difficult things than me, a middle schooler, is because our middle school education is deficient.)

While thinking such dull, dry thoughts that would have disgusted Kiyoko had she heard them, Hyōichi bore his boredom. Kiyoko’s "clever" literary-tinged words, however, did not last long. for she had exhausted every phrase she knew.

The road suddenly brightened; before they knew it, they had passed through the park and arrived 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 having herself fallen into a terribly prosaic mood, Kiyoko began telling stories about how Hyōichi’s friends had sent her awkwardly phrased love letters. Then suddenly, Hyōichi’s eyes lit up. “Who sent those?” he asked, and upon confirming the names, he was no longer bored. For the first time, his self-respect felt satisfied. Hyōichi eagerly begged if she might show him the letters. Kiyoko agreed at once.

“Then I’ll show you tomorrow.” And so they found themselves with an appointment for the next day.

II Their relationship continued for three months. But their bond remained innocent. If anything could remotely resemble what might be called love, it was only that Kiyoko handed Hyōichi a letter laying out her endless thoughts. In other words, Kiyoko wasn't satisfied merely voicing her literary tastes—she wanted to present them in written form. She handed it over personally both because she wanted him to read it immediately and because, being betrothed to another, she couldn't bring herself to mail it. For Hyōichi, even conversing with Kiyoko required such effort that he never considered writing letters himself. Above all, he remained vigilant that such correspondence might become evidence—material for others to mock him. No matter the circumstance, this wariness never left him.

However, his self-respect had been considerably satisfied by receiving a letter from Kiyoko. It was about time he was released from his own self-imposed duty. At least in front of the classmates who had sent love letters to Kiyoko, he could say anything reckless. And so what followed was a relationship sustained half by inertia. In truth, he had grown a bit weary of it all. It was simply that meeting Kiyoko felt easier on his nerves than looking at his unpleasant father’s face. And there was another reason: Hyōichi, surprisingly, had a timid and meek side to him, and he found it unconscionable to break promises without reason.

That being the case, their relationship lasted three months—though as Kiyoko later told him herself, it was "a pure relationship where we never even held hands." There had been no reason to seek anything more from Hyōichi. Kiyoko herself had no experience with romance; moreover, being well-bred, she was naturally reserved. Speaking of Hyōichi, he was entirely a boy. Moreover, Hyōichi worried that if he were to willingly engage in such antics himself, he’d be ridiculed. There were times, however, when he reviled his cowardly self.

(He might need to test what kind of face Kiyoko would make—whether she would dislike it or not.) However, had Hyōichi felt that necessity more acutely—being by nature a reckless man—he might have resorted to bolder actions. Yet there was a reason he couldn’t do that—no matter what predicament he might find himself in. Because the story he had once heard from Yamaya the debt collector had taken tenacious root in the depths of his heart, merely contemplating such things clawed at his chest.

Such a relationship had continued for three months when Kiyoko abruptly distanced herself from Hyōichi. There had been no forewarning whatsoever. Hyōichi was at a loss. He wore a vacant expression and thought about it daily. But then it struck him—wait, didn’t this mean he was still dwelling on Kiyoko?—and irritation surged through him. Hyōichi’s eyes, which had been softened by Kiyoko’s doe-like gaze, abruptly hardened into their usual severity. (What luck!) Yet this alone couldn’t satisfy him. Just days earlier, he’d visited a taiyaki shop with Kiyoko. Though she always paid, on that day—driven by some peevish impulse—he’d thought (You’ll accept this woman’s charity?) and reached for his wallet. Copper coins cascaded from his trouser pocket onto the tamped-earth floor—thirty coins clattering, two worth two sen each among twenty-eight single-sen pieces, not one silver coin among them. His face burned crimson. Had they stayed in his pocket, he’d have joked “See? Nothing but coppers” like any middleschooler would, but scattering them transformed him instantly into Okiyo’s son. Kiyoko gasped and met his eyes before kneeling to gather each coin—because she loved him. This made his shame unbearable. That money—each sen his mother had labored to earn—he’d spilled carelessly at some sweetshop with this girl. The humiliation alone would have sufficed, but Kiyoko’s kindness made him wish to die.

So he tried his best not to recall that incident. Every time he recalled it, a guttural groan would rise from the pit of his stomach. However, whenever he thought that Kiyoko had left him, he was forced to confront it whether he liked it or not.

(Because of that, I was hated.)

However, to digress—Kiyoko had never found anything as endearing as Hyōichi’s face in that moment: flushed crimson and wearing a half-tearful expression. Even after marrying her cousin, the only thing she ever recalled was Hyōichi’s face from that time.

In other words, Kiyoko’s graduation day—that is, her wedding day—was approaching. The moment she saw the formal betrothal gifts displayed in the room, Kiyoko’s heart changed completely, as if effortlessly. From the start, she had possessed a mentality older than her years and took pride in being the first among her classmates to marry. In a sense, this served as proof of her beauty. Even with Hyōichi’s charm, it could not overcome her restless heart as she approached marriage. Moreover, Hyōichi inherently lacked a single charm. In other words, theirs was "a pure relationship where they never even held hands."

When Hyōichi learned Kiyoko had stopped seeing him to get married, he was overcome by a strange emotion never before experienced. No sooner had he been seized by the impulse to scream violently at the sky than he suddenly sank into dejection as if a hole had opened in his heart. It was a strange, pathetic feeling that bewildered even himself. He didn't yet know the word "jealousy." Had he known it, he would have felt still more wretched. Even their sometimes-tedious nighttime walks filled him with poignant nostalgia when imagining another man now "monopolizing" her. Not knowing that face provided meager consolation. Had he glimpsed it even fleetingly—being Hyōichi—the memory would have tormented him lifelong.

Hyōichi found slight consolation in recalling that he hadn't actually cared much for Kiyoko. Yet now, Kiyoko's body odor and such were being strangely recalled.

III

In the neighborhoods stretching from Tanimachi 9-chome to Ikutama Omotesuji—where the Enoki Night Market emerged on days ending in 3 or 9—and from Ikutama Omotesuji to Kamishiocho 6-chome—where the Komagaiike Night Market appeared on days ending in 1 or 6—there existed roughly seventy to eighty back alleys. From Ikutama-suji to Kamishiochō-dōri ran a backwards-J-shaped alley serving an eighty-household nagaya; sandwiched between seven central tenements lay a U-shaped alley for a fifty-household nagaya; and there was even a convoluted hundred-household nagaya with six entrances and exits. In the two-story buildings, four families cohabited. In other words, more families lived in the back alleys than along the main streets—a chaotic town teeming with poor people.

Yet it was a town strangely lacking in change, as listless as a faded washcloth. The corner fruit shop had been a fruit shop for generations. The characters on the sign had become so weathered they were already illegible. The liquor store had never moved from that spot for decades. The bathhouses never changed hands either. Even the pharmacies, which one would expect to see more changes relatively speaking, never moved. The tottering old man still displayed his pharmacist’s license from decades ago in the shop. There was a greengrocer across from another greengrocer, and neither of them ever relocated. The son of Ichimon Confectionery now had a grandchild, and even the way he sat planted in the shop selling one-mon sweets carried the composed air of a master artisan. Even the speculators didn’t flee in the night.

Even when a public market was built, the state of the town didn’t change. Construction work seldom occurred. Carpenters couldn’t make ends meet in that town. When the elementary school underwent expansion, people came daily to watch the construction site like it was some novelty. Of the three households ordered to vacate, one—retirees living on pensions who’d sent their son off as a paperboy—stayed put even after their house got boarded up with planks. They had a makeshift entryway cut through and kept using it. This wasn’t just about demanding relocation fees.

Construction work was truly scarce. In the alley tenements, many houses were half-collapsed. There were also houses with holes in their walls where passersby could peer inside. However, there were no signs of carpenters or plasterers either. Lately, with the recent popularity of 10-sen sushi in southern areas dealing a blow to their business, one sushi shop had become notable for seizing their son’s marriage as an opportunity—hiring carpenters for a day to renovate their shop and deciding to sell taiyaki alongside sushi.

However, when Nozoe Yasujirō went so far as to hire carpenters for five whole days, people were utterly astonished that that miserly Nozoe would go and get such an idea. Since it was Nozoe—someone who wouldn’t get up without grabbing something even if he fell—they concluded he must be hatching some shady scheme again. That was exactly right. A pen shop owner lived next door to Yasujirō. It was a small house with a one-ken frontage that had been a family-run kimono stain-removal business for generations, but when the son who had graduated from middle school took over, they decided to modernize their trade by switching to a fountain pen repair and retail shop, and approached Yasujirō for a loan of three hundred yen as capital. When Yasujirō confirmed that the house was not a rental but actual real estate, he lent money against it as collateral. That money had, before anyone knew it, grown to around two thousand five hundred yen. Declaring he would show no mercy even to neighbors, Yasujirō dispatched bailiffs and headed to the bathhouse. The pen shop owner stormed into the bathhouse shouting, but Yasujirō removed the hand towel he had on his head, folded it into an even smaller square, and placed it back as he said, “You think you can just borrow someone’s money for free?” That evening, the pen shop owner vacated. Yasujirō hired carpenters to renovate this house with its one-ken frontage.

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 connecting corridors. They left the staircase intact, positioned just one table and two chairs on the earthen floor of the shop area, fitted the table with a bell, and affixed a slip of paper bearing the brusque instruction: “Press this bell for service.” At the entrance, they hung a blue noren curtain emblazoned with “Nozoe Financial Company.”

They also hung a separate sign. On it were written: "Pensions/Annuities Advance Payments: Savings passbooks purchased Pawn tickets purchased" Setting aside pensions and annuities advance payments, the other two were novel ventures. To purchase savings passbooks meant that when those enrolled in monthly savings plans with institutions like Osaka Savings either became unable to continue payments before maturity or, having reached maturity, could no longer endure waiting for the withdrawal period, Yasujirō would buy them out at what passed for a reasonable price. Of course he would neatly deduct his cut from the installment amounts upfront; this was a venture he had long had his eye on, knowing that when Yasujirō later processed the paperwork at his leisure to collect the money, it would yield an easy profit.

As for pawn tickets, he would buy them for just two or three yen. Using those pawn tickets, Yasujirō would go redeem the items and sell them anew to used clothing stores and antique shops. 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 up to fifteen or even twenty yen, even after deducting both the principal and interest paid to the pawnshop and the money spent acquiring the pawn ticket, the remaining profit was enormous. In a town teeming with poor people, there must have been no small number of those utterly strapped for cash—without pawnable items, overwhelmed by nothing but mounting pawn tickets they could barely keep up with the interest on. So if they only thought about the immediate present, when they heard that even pawn tickets they couldn’t redeem could be turned into cash, they’d come running gratefully. By sizing up their desperation and buying them out for a pittance—this was a business Yasujirō had wanted to get into for quite some time now.

However, in his current premises, he simply couldn’t run that business. Resembling a moneylender’s den—quiet and tucked away deep inside—it wasn’t the sort of venture you could operate from a pawnshop where you had to keep a sharp eye on every stranger coming and going. To borrow Yasujirō’s phrasing, it was all thanks to “the neighboring house luckily becoming vacant.”

Without hiring a traditional advertiser or distributing flyers, he opened shop abruptly with no ceremony whatsoever—yet from that very day, people came to sell their pawn tickets. The bell was rigged to ring through to the neighboring house. Yasujirō heaved himself up and lumbered along the corridor to emerge onto the second floor of the new shop, descended the stairs, and thrust his face—wrapped in the black scarf he never removed except during midsummer’s peak heat—abruptly before the customer. He scrutinized the customer’s face, sat down in the chair, and—without even telling them to sit—examined the pawn tickets through his magnifying glass with meticulous care before demanding the pawnshop’s address and the customer’s name and residence. When finished, he brusquely said, “Come back in the evening for the money,” then stood up and climbed the stairs without so much as glancing at the customer left bewildered and anchorless, before retreating down the corridor to his original room.

When Hyōichi returned from school, he was made to handle customer service. In truth, the second-floor room had now become Hyōichi’s. Not hearing Nozoe’s snoring was a relief, but the bell’s ringing proved a nuisance. He had to stand up even mid-study. And when receiving pawn tickets from customers, he would go show them to Yasujirō. He found it unbearably unpleasant. It was because he absolutely had to speak with Yasujirō. He tried as much as possible not to speak with Yasujirō.

(It was better for both of us this way) he thought. Since he found it unpleasant himself, he reasoned that Yasujirō must find talking to him just as disagreeable—using this as his excuse. However, Yasujirō regarded Hyōichi as little more than a wart Okiyo had dragged along, remaining utterly untouched by the boy's childish resentment. At least not to the extent Hyōichi imagined, he hadn't deeply considered the boy's feelings. Whatever they thought of him didn't matter, as long as they didn't eat too much rice—he had no complaints on that front. It wasn't like he was paying the middle school tuition anyway. Lately, Hyōichi had finally become useful enough for household tasks—at least more so than a stray kitten. For instance, he handled customer service. He ran pawnshop errands.

Hyōichi wanted to plead that they at least spare him those pawnshop runs. But to do that, he needed to bow his head to Yasujirō. He hated that. Hyōichi reluctantly went to the pawnshop with a sullen face. It was precisely when, as misfortune would have it, he had become utterly disheartened over Kiyoko and his self-respect was left adrift. Even when walking down the street, every person he passed seemed to be mocking him. When he came within sight of the pawnshop’s curtain, his eyes were already sharp with vigilance, wondering if anyone might be watching.

"(Your mother passed through this noren to endure hardships for your school fees,") he told himself, and only then was he able to step through the curtain. Even so, he arranged his face into something resembling a pawnshop boy’s and went in. The pawnshop apprentice said: “Since Mr. Nozoe’s place runs such a shrewd business, our side’s thriving.” “We can’t keep our business flowing unless we let things run their course, yet your place goes and dams up the current.” “Just like a dam,” he said with precocious flair. “Your Mr. Nozoe’s place pulls such shabby tricks—even though you’re a proper family, a young master like you shouldn’t have to run these errands.”

“Your Mr. Nozoe’s place is up to such shabby tricks—even though you’re from a proper family, a young master like you shouldn’t have to run these errands.”

Hyōichi grew sullenly angry. However, recognizing that the apprentice was primarily badmouthing Yasujirō, he barely managed to check himself from snapping back. While waiting for the items to be brought out from the storehouse, the girl briefly showed her face, spoke in a tone that seemed to scold the apprentice, and slipped away inside while swaying her hips. Hyōichi watched her retreating back with glittering eyes. Wrapping the items in the furoshiki he had prepared, “A scheme in your heart, a bundle on your back,” the apprentice told him, and the return journey—burdened only by the furoshiki package—proved more painful than the trip there. (You’ve got a scheme brewing!) Hyōichi shouted inwardly, briefly picturing the pawnshop girl’s face in his mind.

(That girl showed her face all nonchalantly just to mock me. No wonder a middle schooler running pawnshop errands must be quite a spectacle.) As she slipped away into the back, he remembered how the knot of her heko obi had mockingly bounced. (What a way to walk! Kiyoko never walked in such a clumsy manner)—in that odd moment, Hyōichi remembered Kiyoko. Then the wound to his self-respect began to prickle with pain. (I need to win that girl over.) Before he knew it, he had resolved to do just that. He thought there was no other way to rescue his current pitiful state of mind. However, Hyōichi managed to avoid acting on such an absurd resolution. Something had occurred that could satisfy his self-respect through more clever means.

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

Resolving himself that he was probably “being reeled in like an octopus,” yet still going with a pale face, the principal said: “I have something to discuss with you. “Take a seat.” The winds were shifting, Hyōichi thought as he planted his resolve into the chair—prepared to refuse if this turned out to be a proposal about joining the morals committee— “Have you no intention of attending higher school?”

He was asked an unexpected question. Just recently, survey forms about higher school aspirations had been distributed in class. By fourth year, one needed to have decided on post-graduation plans. He had written that he had no intention of attending higher school. When he thought of his mother—who could barely manage his middle school graduation—wanting to go meant nothing when actually going proved impossible.

“Not particularly…” he answered. “Why do you ask?” the principal inquired, but Hyōichi found himself unable to respond. He couldn’t bring himself to explain his circumstances. “It’s not like there’s any reason. I just don’t want to go.”

“That’s a shame,” said the principal. His explanation—“Actually…”—went like this: There was a philanthropist wanting to provide school expenses for children from poor families in Osaka Prefecture. Of course, there were conditions. The scholarship was limited to academically outstanding students of upright conduct who had passed the higher school entrance exams starting from their fourth year. Moreover, this applied only to First Higher School, Second Higher School, and Third Higher School—institutions known for their rigorous entrance examinations—with successful candidates being housed in preparatory dormitories in Tokyo and Kyoto respectively. They had petitioned middle schools across the prefecture to recommend any students meeting these criteria. Hyōichi had been selected as one such candidate.

So I've been officially branded a pauper's brat, Hyōichi thought. He wondered how the principal could know—then it hit him. They know I'm the reigning champion of tuition delinquency. His face burned crimson, shame coursing through him so intensely he wanted to bolt. Simultaneously, anger flared. I won't take their damned charity! Limiting it to fourth-years who test into First Higher or Third Higher—they're treating us like prize stallions at some breeding farm!

Hyōichi was furious, but that he had been selected as a candidate meant at least the principal had recognized his academic excellence—a thought that brought him some consolation. As if spurring on Hyōichi’s heart even further, the principal,

“The fact that you don’t wish to go is truly regrettable. There are other candidates, but in our school, you’re about the only one we can confidently expect to enter First Higher or Third Higher from their fourth year,” he said. Hyōichi’s self-respect was effortlessly gratified. He nearly let an unconscious smile surface. But Hyōichi, flustered, made a sullen face and— “Who are the candidates?” he asked. “Numai from your class and Harima from fourth-year Class F.”

Once he heard Numai’s name, Hyōichi could no longer remain calm. His body suddenly shuddered. (Oh. So Numai’s getting charity for his schooling too? If Numai failed and I passed, nothing could feel better.) Once this thought struck him—he who was so sensitive to shifting moods—he found himself considering higher school after all. It wasn’t like I’d be forcing Mother to scrounge up tuition. And anyway, even if he graduated middle school, he’d just get worked raw at home or end up a department store clerk. (If I enter the dormitory, I won’t have to see Yasujirō’s face.) With that, his resolve hardened. Yet he didn’t immediately say, “Then I’ll accept.” To declare he didn’t want to go only to flip-flop instantly with a “Please let me attend” would be shamelessly tactless.

“Since it’s your suggestion, Principal, I’ll discuss it with my family once,” he said. Herein lay a reason why Hyōichi wasn’t much liked by others. However, he truly did have an obligation to consult only his mother.

“I see.” “Then go ahead and discuss it with them.” “Do try to go if you can.” “It’d be a shame to stop at just middle school.”

"I think so too." He returned home and consulted his mother with a serious face, asking, "Should I accept someone's charity to attend higher school?" Okiyo said, "I don't mind either way. Do as you please." But then added, "Just don't go too far away." He decided to attend Third Higher School in Kyoto.

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

“Since it’s your suggestion, Principal, and for the honor of K Middle School, I intend to achieve a splendid pass.” He gave such a disagreeably flavored reply. However, those words generally pleased the principal. “You’re not exactly upright in conduct, but I recommended you because you’re capable.” “I trust you’ll apply yourself thoroughly.” Hyōichi was so preoccupied with whether Numai would take the Third Higher or First Higher exam that the principal’s words strangely didn’t weigh on him.

Hyōichi studied intensely from that day onward. A resolve took hold in his heart. His self-respect found its secure footing. On the day I don the higher school cap, it might be fine to meet Kiyoko once, he thought. But Kiyoko might see through the source of my school expenses. Hyōichi entered the humanities department at Third Higher School in April of the following year, but for that very reason, he still hadn’t shown his face to Kiyoko alone.

IV

When he finished dinner, Hyōichi casually left Shuei Dormitory. When he left the dormitory, the road led straight to Kagurazaka, but Hyōichi avoided Kagurazaka and veered off onto Yoshidayama’s mountain path partway. This was because the café woman atop Kagurazaka had given him a strange look a couple of days before.

“Well, look at that—a childlike Third Higher student is heading that way.”

Hyōichi was still seventeen years old. He was self-conscious about his youthful age. He could take pride in being among the few who entered Higher School at such a young age, but he still disliked appearing childlike. Even though he thought about growing a beard to look much older and grizzled, it just wouldn’t come in. Recently, a couple of pimples had appeared, which made him a bit happy. (Seventeen and at Third Higher—so does that make me a genius? What a drag.) He had changed quite a bit since his middle school days. I had once worked so hard to be top of the class. But wasn’t a genius just someone with slightly better memorization skills—a grade-grubbing worm? Whenever he saw the Third Higher students who lived and studied at Shuei Dormitory, he could no longer place any trust in so-called geniuses. There were ten dormitory students. They were all top students who had entered from the fourth year. However, they were nothing more than diligent students with poor intellects. It might be said their memorization skills were decent, but given how they crammed even while eating, it was no wonder they could memorize things. In the classroom, they did nothing but watch the teacher’s every expression. They even went so far as to copy the teacher’s poor jokes into their notebooks. When teachers grew bored with lectures and started chatting in class, they would ask in that grade-grubbing way, "Will this be on the exam?" Moreover, determined not to break a single one of the dormitory’s rules, their every move was furtive. At times they would break the silence to sing dormitory songs, but even that was just petty excitement spilling over from the joy of having become Third Higher students.

(For starters, even the name "Shuei Dormitory" was repulsive.) Though it was called a dormitory, there were no teachers—only Nakata, a third-year student acting as dorm head to supervise the residents, occasionally reporting on their conduct to the Osaka "investors" (—as Hyōichi called them—). Apart from the dormitory students, there was only the cook couple, making it not much different from old-style lodgings of the past. But the only thing strict was the rules. For example, dormitory students were absolutely prohibited from eating or drinking outside the dormitory. They couldn’t even drink coffee in the school hall. Of course, their lunch was brought lunch boxes. Moreover, instead of each person bringing their own, they took turns carrying a large wooden tub containing rice for ten people and a pot of side dishes when commuting to school. For Hyōichi, the path to school where he carried the cloth-wrapped container on his back was more painful than that walk back from the pawnshop.

If, say, the rowing club’s boarding students had carried them on a lark—or rather, with that ironically innocent air—it would still have been less humiliating in others’ eyes. However, for the dormitory students receiving stipends to carry it themselves was utterly humiliating, like a dog walking with its own dish clamped in its mouth. It might have been the investors’ preference, but it was practically a public declaration of “I’m living off charity.” When Hyōichi realized that by not showing their faces in the hall, the dormitory students were being viewed as sanctimonious hypocrites, he resolutely drank coffee in the hall one day.

Moreover, the dormitory students’ after-dinner walks were limited to one hour. Therefore, outings after seven o'clock in the evening were not permitted unless under special circumstances.

(I might have an obligation to break these rules!) Walking along Yoshida Mountain’s path, Hyōichi suddenly thought. Then his body began trembling strangely—that peculiar excitement preceding decisive action. (But why would I have such an obligation?) Lacking courage to act, he posed this sophistical question. (Was it to avoid being lumped with those hypocrite dormitory students?) (Or hating to wag his tail for masters?) (Or refusing to flatter the dorm head?) This notion pleased him. At any rate, he remained an ingrate oblivious to "investor" gratitude—having only ever thanked his mother.

"(That's it!)" Hyōichi suddenly muttered. (The reason I feel obligated to break the rules is because there's no one with the courage to break them!) When he thought of that, he became resolute for the first time.

In Kyoto's distinctive spring haze, the lights of Shijō Street sparkled with crystalline clarity as they were glimpsed from the mountaintop. The luminous glow seemed to beckon him with a nostalgic warmth—though he immediately dismissed this as melodramatic fancy.

(That's it—I'll go to Shijō Street.) If I went there, I probably wouldn't make it back within an hour. (Breaking the rules was still—) Hyōichi took off his hat with the white line—as if to demonstrate this resolve—and stuffed it into the pocket of his navy-blue herringbone coat. (What the... Such a hat.) He secretly looked down on how every one of the dormitory students took pride in being Third Higher School students, never even removing their regulation caps when going to public bathhouses. That Hyōichi—twice as vain as others—felt no lingering attachment to that regulation cap showed just how much he had changed. Moreover, in Kyoto, might there be no group as popular as Third Higher School students? He removed the hand towel that had been hanging at his waist.

(What kind of charm is this?! Is this supposed to be a symbol of Third Higher School students' privilege?) In other words, he found that privilege utterly repugnant. Hyōichi descended the long stone steps of Yoshida Shrine and arrived before the school gate. When he glanced toward the gatekeeper's lodge, there was a slip of paper with his own name written on it posted there. He entered and received a letter addressed to himself. The letter was from his mother; wary of the dorm head finding out, he had always had her send letters addressed to the school. Sure enough, two five-yen bills were stuck firmly to the letter paper. She did not know how to arrange a money order. When Okiyo learned that Hyōichi received only a monthly allowance of one yen at the dormitory, aside from tuition and expenses for books and stationery, she began sending him money she earned from her side work sewing. Because of this, Hyōichi never wanted for pocket money, but each time, he felt as though his heart were being pierced.

Hyōichi stood alone on the deserted playground, 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 as an excuse for being unable to read.

The dormitory at the edge of the playground stood relatively quiet. Everyone seemed to have gone out for their post-dinner stroll. With the Anniversary Festival nearing, all grew restless and unsettled, using new student welcome parties as pretexts to visit places like Kyōgoku and Maruyama Park nightly—a freedom Hyōichi envied. When he suddenly turned around, the moon climbed smoothly from Higashiyama. Its light seemed to beckon his youthful heart toward the bright town. To his left on Mount Hiei, cable car lights glittered more brilliantly than the university clocktower's glow. Cherry blossoms had long since fallen from schoolyard trees, leaving only young leaves' scent lingering. As he stood in the dark playground, someone abruptly tapped his shoulder. Looking back revealed his classmate Akai Ryūzaemon. The instant he recognized Akai Ryūzaemon was in the dormitory, Hyōichi thought.

Because of his unusual name, Akai was the first in the class to have his presence acknowledged. But Hyōichi came to know of his existence through something quite different. Akai was the man who laughed most boldly and loudly in the classroom. Moreover, he wouldn't laugh along with others; instead, he would suddenly burst out laughing when no one else was laughing. For instance, when he found a teacher secretly stifling a yawn, his laughter would startle everyone. To do this required not properly taking notes on the teacher's lectures but instead paying close attention to their movements—and one day, just as Hyōichi was about to laugh, Akai beat him to it, leaving him completely impressed. The day before that as well, during German class, Akai suddenly stood up and left the classroom without saying a word. That was how he remembered him.

“Hey, what are you doing? In a place like this—” Akai said, creasing his entire face in a smile. Seeing Akai’s face unexpectedly filled Hyōichi with delight. “I’m trying to decide whether to go into town or not.” “Shall we go to Kyōgoku, or head back to Yoshida? Ah, here we are on Shijō’s asphalt,” Akai said in a singsong voice. “I was just thinking of going myself. How about it—want to come along?”

“Let’s go.”

When he saw Akai, Hyōichi thought tonight’s plan could be easily executed. Exiting through the small gate beside the dormitory and walking side by side along the tram tracks toward Konoe Street, Hyōichi asked, “Why on earth didn’t you go for a walk with everyone else?” Then Akai suddenly began walking as if stretching his spine taut and spat out, “I hate those bastards in the dormitory!” After remaining silent for a while, he suddenly twisted his face into a strained smile,

“Yesterday I was beaten up by the guys in the dormitory.” “Because I was wearing a raincoat—said I was being impudent, that’s why.” Indeed, Akai was still wearing the purple raincoat. “There’s no rule saying Third Higher students have to wear black mantles, dangle grimy hand towels, clomp around in tall wooden clogs, and bellow in barbaric voices that ruin Kyoto’s elegant atmosphere.” “So I deliberately wore the raincoat.” “Their barbaric posturing isn’t genuine.” “That’s just vanity.” “They’re just flaunting their status as Third Higher students.” “You aren’t wearing a hat.” “You’ve got your strengths.” Akai said this in a high-pitched voice and, declaring “I’ll take mine off too,” removed his hat. Because Akai had imitated him, Hyōichi’s self-respect was easily kindled.

They turned toward Kōjingū Gate and walked on. Akai, still excited, kept talking to himself. “They go around spouting ‘When in Rome, do as the Romans do.’” “I know that too.” “But they only follow customs because they’re spineless.” “It’s pure self-preservation.” “Petty vanity.” “Even pigs would puke at this garbage!” Hyōichi suddenly remembered being told those same words by Numai in middle school and smiled bitterly. Akai abruptly felt as familiar as blood kin. Back then, I got beaten—but Akai did too!

However, when they came in front of the prefectural First Girls’ School dormitory, Hyōichi’s complexion suddenly changed.

“Do you have any money?” Akai suddenly asked him. Hyōichi briefly pondered whether he should take offense at these words. Was it because Akai knew that students at Shuei Dormitory were only given one yen per month as their allowance that he had said this? (If you’re trying to mock my poverty, I won’t stand for it.) However, upon hearing Akai’s next words, Hyōichi’s heart brightened completely. “The truth is, I don’t have any money today.” “I don’t have anything to pawn.” “I was thinking of pawning this raincoat, but I need to keep wearing it for a while.” “I’d hate for anyone to think I followed their customs just because I’m scared of them.” “If you’ve got any on you, could you lend me some for tonight?”

Hyōichi flushed slightly. "I have some," he said, thrusting his hand into his pocket and wordlessly feeling for the banknote his mother had sent. "My old man goes on about how it’s no good for students to have money, so he doesn’t send me a single yen—I’m in a real bind here," said Akai without the slightest hint of embarrassment.

“My old man’s a weird guy. “I could just about stomach him going and naming me Ryūzaemon, but then during my middle school days, he’d always come shuffling into my classroom to observe. “Then the teacher would make me recite from memory. “Whenever I thought my old man was watching from behind, I’d get so nervous I couldn’t perform. “Because the guys in class know my old man is there, they start snickering. “Then I get even more nervous. “The old man stomped over to where I was standing and started poking my back. “‘Why aren’t you reciting?!’ “That’s the teacher’s line, isn’t it? “The teachers can’t help but look uncomfortable too. “If he’d just stop, but no—the old man comes shuffling back to observe again after just a week. “Thanks to that, I spent every day on edge wondering if the old man would show up today, and couldn’t properly listen to a single one of the teachers’ lectures.”

“Aren’t you coming to Third Higher?” Hyōichi asked in a half-comforting tone, whereupon Akai instantly made a strange face. “It’s too far,” he panicked. Suddenly, Hyōichi wondered—could that be Akai’s father? During the entrance ceremony’s oath-taking, Student Affairs Officer Professor G had delivered a lengthy, cautionary lecture about students’ communist leanings, but his thick Tohoku dialect had made it impossible to understand a single word. The moment Professor G’s lecture ended, a gentleman in the parents’ seats behind them suddenly stood up and said, “What did you just say? “Since we couldn’t understand a word of what you said, we parents and students are both anxious and troubled.” “I must ask you to clearly restate the main points once more,” he declared, veins bulging in his face. Someone shouted “Idiot! Sit down!”, others laughed, and there was applause. It occurred to Hyōichi that the gentleman might be Akai’s father. When he asked, Akai indeed responded, “That’s right. It’s my old man,” his face wretched with drooping eyebrows. Seeing that expression, Hyōichi thought Akai’s eccentric behavior might stem from this father. Now that he mentioned it, Akai’s father did have a reckless streak. Then he began feeling strangely sorry for Akai.

"But..." Hyōichi thought. (At any rate, Akai’s father loved him in his own peculiar way.) But when it came to my current father—even now, were I to be expelled from Higher School—he’s got it in his head to send me off to work at a pawnshop. (Who can say which is more unfortunate?) Hyōichi pondered with a maturity beyond his years—which was happier: Akai, loved by his father, or himself, hated by his own? But when the bright lights of Teramachi Street suddenly flared into view, Hyōichi abandoned such musings and lit a lamp in his heart with a soft poof.

They went up to the coffee room on the second floor of a confectionery shop called Kagiya in Teramachi Nijo. The coffee room—quiet in its lack of a phonograph, where patrons would change into slippers—was violently clamorous with Third Higher students’ Anniversary Festival songs and wild dancing. Hyōichi and Akai deliberately avoided the group and took seats at a corner table by the window overlooking the Higashiyama Mountains. After ordering coffee from the waitress, Akai glanced at her retreating figure out of the corner of his eye,

“Do you know why they’re making such a racket?” Akai asked Hyōichi. “Because it’s a classy café, they probably want to make a show of being rowdy on purpose.” Watching with disgust as one of the noisy group approached a couple with a child, removed his hat, and—bobbing his head obsequiously—said in an ingratiating voice, “Oh, *ganz*, *ganz* (—extremely—) sorry!” before darting back into the clamorous crowd, Akai then...

“That’s part of it.” “But this café’s been a Third Higher nest for generations—and since the owner’s son’s in Science B now, they figure they’d lose face if they didn’t make some noise.” “That’s not all.” “A woman just came in here, right?” “They call her Okoma-chan.” “They’re all after her, so they’re hollering on purpose.” “Guys who can’t flirt when they’re quiet—like making a racket’ll help.” Akai’s sneer crept across his gaunt cheeks. True enough—Hyōichi saw how every glance snuck toward Okoma-chan even amid the din. Some louts feigned drunkenness to paw at her. Okoma-chan cackled, ducked behind the counter, then peeked out again. Hyōichi bristled at her every mannerism. Still, he burned her face into memory—might need it later. While he gawked, she vanished backstage only to reappear instantly at his table with tea, cheeks flushed. Hyōichi dug at his nose.

After about ten minutes, he left the café. When he glanced at the pillar clock on his way out, exactly three hours had passed since leaving Shuei Dormitory. When he realized the curfew had just ended, Hyōichi’s heavy heart suddenly lifted, and his footsteps lightened. He smoked a Robin cigarette that Akai had offered with a “Here.” However, since it was his first time smoking, when he choked,

“Would you choke on such a weak cigarette?” Akai said. "Alright," he told himself, "I’ll be smoking strong cigarettes without batting an eye soon enough." As he glanced about wondering which brands were potent, Akai— “Robin costs ten sen. Cherry’s the same price, but Robin’s better,” he declared with affected expertise. “Is Robin... like the bird?” “Hey, shall we try Komadori?” “That place’ll be swarming with Third Higher brats too.” “Masamune Hall’s probably jam-packed.” “So where then?”

As they tried to turn from Sanjō Street toward Kyōgoku, “Wait, wait,” Akai said, stopping him. When he stopped to ask where they were heading, Akai yanked Hyōichi along, declared “Let’s go this way,” and purposefully entered Sakuraiya from the Sanjō Street entrance. Shoving past a crowd of school-trip girls buying envelopes and stationery in the cramped shop, they emerged through the Kyōgoku-side exit. As Hyōichi stood bewildered, Akai—

“This is my little pleasure,” he said with flushed cheeks, his tone suddenly shifting to that of a recitation leader. “What they call... paltry youth.” “Sakuraiya brims with travel sentiment,” he continued in that same lecturing voice. “You can smell home there. Right? Don’t you think?” Hyōichi thought Akai sounded unbearably pretentious and stayed silent. Then Akai seemed to remember something. “Actually, my sister came to Kyoto on her school trip recently too,” he said. “But the brat started wailing when she couldn’t buy Sakuraiya envelopes anymore.”

If Akai had a sister, she must be a lanky girl with a tall frame, sunken eyes, and a startled-looking face—Hyōichi suddenly smiled at the thought, and his chest warmed. It might have been what Akai had called "travel nostalgia." The fact that a sister was coming to Kyoto on a school trip where her brother lived had unexpectedly stirred Hyōichi’s heart—he who had no sister—with a distant sweetness. It resembled gazing out a night train window. Hyōichi felt the unseasonably warm breeze of late spring evening against his cheeks.

“Do you know why my sister couldn’t buy those envelopes?” Akai suddenly demanded with a terrifying expression. Without waiting for Hyōichi’s reply, “Because I swiped my sister’s money,” he declared. No sooner had Akai’s face twisted fiercely than he abruptly flicked out his long tongue, letting out an incoherent scream—“Waaah!” When Hyōichi turned in alarm, he saw Akai waving both hands like a flapper dancer casting sinister spells, pounding his feet thunderously against the ground while incessantly darting his tongue. Had they been on anything but bare earth, he might have thrown himself down in a wild tantrum—such was his frenzy. Passersby shot startled looks their way. But Akai’s fit ended as abruptly as it began. They continued along cramped Kyōgoku Street—a jumble of sundry shops, food stalls, movie theaters, and vaudeville halls gaudily lit by cherry-blossom lanterns and lurid cinema billboards—when suddenly Akai’s face twitched into a grimace.

"It's really a problem—these fits keep happening every three days," he said. "Is it when you remember something embarrassing?" Hyōichi asked—not entirely without experience himself. "That's right." "It must be neurosyphilis." Akai declared casually before his face clouded over. In a dejected voice he added that he'd recently visited a place for "physical liberation," but the woman had been so filthy he might've contracted syphilis—maybe it had already reached his brain—and then—

"My youth is already tainted!" he said, deliberately adopting a tragic tone. Hyōichi felt a sudden attraction to Akai’s brazen way of living, but finding all this talk about “my youth” oddly pretentious, he retorted coldly, “If you’re so worried, you shouldn’t have gone in the first place.” “That’s right. That’s right,” Akai readily chimed in. “I’m not worried at all.” “Syphilis? What of it?” “As if you’d catch it that easily!” “Yesterday I peeked at some medical books—seems it takes five or ten years to reach the brain.” “My head is still sound.” He contradicted his own words.

(Akai was a remarkable man, but his flaw was his tendency to exaggerate his own actions and boast about them to others.) In other words, he was putting on decadent airs. (If it were me, I’d go without a word.) When Hyōichi thought this, he felt for the first time that he understood the difference between himself and Akai. But in truth, Hyōichi had always been the type to be concerned about the impact of his own actions. There wasn’t much difference between him and Akai. Precisely because of this, he felt compelled to rebel against the vanity within Akai. Hyōichi found himself growing angry, unknowingly, at the reflection of himself he saw in Akai—a mirror of sorts.

“That’s right—seems sound.” Hyōichi gave a sarcastic look. Akai keenly noticed it. With exaggerated flair, “I don’t know if my actions deserve contempt, but the liberation of the flesh is perfectly natural.” “Better to plunge boldly into nature’s embrace than skulk behind unnatural acts.” “Even tainted, that’s what youth is!” “Those bastards who lack the courage to act decisively like me—they coddle their cowardice by pretending to despise me!”

(He’s just making excuses for himself), Hyōichi thought. But truthfully, he couldn’t have laid out a rationale so neatly himself. So he settled on believing this guy kept apologizing because of some inherent weakness. By maintaining a sneering silence, he figured he might finally shake off Akai’s oppressive presence. (This bastard’s all worked up over self-expression—meanwhile I haven’t breathed a word about tonight’s plans.)

By convincing himself of this, Hyōichi gave meaning to his silence. However, though Hyōichi himself had not noticed it, his silence stemmed from having fallen into some strange perplexity. Compelled by Akai’s fervor yet too self-conscious to express any resonance with it, he felt ashamed to get swept up in such artless excitement and shout about youth—youth!—like that. In short, he was being cautious with his own young heart. Much like one who grows irritated by a beautiful scene out of shame for becoming intoxicated by it, he found himself irritated by Akai’s youthfulness. Hyōichi was a man who considered confession—that hallmark of youth—profoundly shameful. People might have found it strange that someone as easily excited as he was would resent others’ fervor, but Hyōichi’s own excitement always carried a tinge of calculation. Thus he tended to quickly sniff out the transparent calculation lurking even within others’ youthful enthusiasm.

Seeing that Hyōichi showed not the slightest resonance with him, Akai thought it necessary to get him drunk. He had believed that Hyōichi was the only man who could understand his heart. They had just reached the edge of Kyōgoku. Akai took the lead, turning toward Hanayū Alley and proceeding,

“I love how this alley feels like a toy box,” he said. “Whenever I come to Kyōgoku, I always make sure to go through Sakurai-ya and cut across Hanayū Alley.”

As he said this, they emerged onto Shijō Street and entered a dimly lit alley. They reached Masamune Hall after passing through a Kyōgoku back alley where a rickshaw driver leaned against a crumbling temple wall—his sullen face illuminated by a dim streetlight as he waited for customers—and a drunk retched while leaning against a utility pole. There too, the Third Higher School students’ dormitory song resounded thunderously. Thinking that even "Crimson Flames" would be ruined if sung this way, Hyōichi followed Akai and sat down 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 evasively—though this was actually his first time drinking alcohol in his life. Not wanting Akai to think him incapable, he gulped down what Akai had poured in one go, but it tasted bitter. As he prodded at the simmered river snails with his chopsticks, Akai said, “Hey, pour me some too,” making him startle. With clumsy movements, Hyōichi obliged, whereupon Akai drained his cup in a practiced motion that suggested relish. Staring blankly at Akai’s face in admiration, he realized his own cup had been refilled without his noticing. This too was bitter. He drank seven or eight cups in quick succession, each time fighting the urge to spit out the acrid taste. No amount of river snails stuffed into his mouth could neutralize the bitterness. Certain his face must be contorting strangely, Hyōichi tried to disguise this by—

“What a rowdy bunch,” he said while reaching out to take one of Akai’s cigarettes. He smoked it, but that only made his chest feel worse. (Even those guys can hold their liquor! Then why are you so pathetic? To think this little alcohol would make my chest ache...) Tilting his dizzy head, he glanced at the boisterous crowd—just as a student rose from his seat bellowing: “Hey! What’d you say? Calling yourself a senior?!”

“That’s right—I am your senior!” A frail man in his forties wearing a Western suit said timidly.

“So, what class are you?” The student thrust his hands into his trousers and declared with swagger. The man was thoroughly flustered, “I am your senior! What’s wrong with calling myself your senior?!” “Then tell us what class you belong to!” There was no reply. Hyōichi instantly concluded the man had likely tried ingratiating himself with phrases like “Hang in there! Gentlemen, I’m your senior”—what a fool. Rather than anger, it was the man’s timid demeanor—reminiscent of some low-ranking clerk—that struck him as pitiable. Yet he despised the student even more than this pathetic figure. No doubt that student had seen the man’s shabby clothes, judged his seniority claim fraudulent, and pounced.

(If someone had been called “senior” by a man in fine clothes with an imposing presence, they’d probably be bowing obsequiously and going to receive a sake cup right about now.) “Can’t say it, can you? Serves you right! If you dare keep spouting this nonsense about being a Third Higher School senior, I won’t let that slide!” As if addressing a criminal, when that student bellowed, applause broke out. Then he grew even more pleased with himself and, while staring around the room,

“I am Yamanaka Genzuke of the Sixtieth Class of the government-established Third Higher School!” After launching this final verbal salvo, he returned to his seat while casting a scornful backward glance at the man—now thoroughly deflated and muttering incoherently under his breath. At that instant, right beside Hyōichi’s ear rang out: “So what if he’s a Third Higher student?”

A voice rang out like shattering glass. It was Akai. “Who do you think you are?” “The one who shouted...” From across the room, the student from earlier bellowed back. “It’s me!” As Akai tried to stand up after his declaration, Hyōichi stopped him,

“Leave it to me,” he said unsteadily, standing up. “Anyone with complaints—step outside!” Shouting this, he went outside. At that moment, a dizziness as if the ground were shaking came over him, and something strange surged up in his chest with a retch. Hyōichi pressed both hands against the wall and vomited. His vision went white for an instant, and in the moment he was about to collapse—

He thought no one was coming out. “Stop it! Stop it!” A voice could be heard repeatedly trying to stop them, saying, “He’s also a Third Higher student!” Inside the glass-paneled doors, thick smoke billowed, and he gazed at the people squirming within as if observing a distant stage. After vomiting everything up and squatting against the wall for a while, he began to feel strangely clear-headed. When he realized no one was coming out, Hyōichi began to feel his actions were strangely foolish. Driven by the frustration of having been beaten to the punch by Akai and partly by righteous indignation toward that student’s pretentious, intimidating demeanor—as if playing the hero—he had charged out, but it felt like a solo sumo match with no opponent.

(The only saving grace was that no one had noticed him slipping out to vomit at just the right moment.) Resigned to this, Hyōichi opened the glass door of Masamune Hall once more. His eyes met those of the student from earlier. Hyōichi deliberately walked slowly past him and returned to his seat. Akai was exchanging sake cups with two refined-looking men sitting across from him, wearing an expression as if they were old acquaintances. “Kindly refrain from fighting.” As soon as Hyōichi sat down, one of them said that and turned a sake cup toward him. He found the nose overly large but thought it was a pleasant face overall. The other man poured him a drink. The man had a pointed jaw, but it wasn’t an unpleasant-looking face. Both had youthful faces but seemed to be already past forty.

“You—your face is pale!” Already limp and thoroughly drunk, Akai said. It was because he had vomited, but Hyōichi worried people might think it was due to excitement. So he downed the sake cup that the unfamiliar man had passed him in one gulp. The rowdy crowd shouted, “Long live Third Higher School! Long live the Showa 6 Anniversary Festival!” and violently slid open the entrance shoji to storm out. “They probably go so far as to print ‘Government-Established Third Higher School, Such-and-Such Class’ on their business cards.”

When Hyōichi said this, the man with the large nose, “That’s harsh. “Aren’t you students from Higher School as well?” He exchanged glances with the man with the pointed jaw and laughed for no reason. Hyōichi scowled.

“Don’t make such a face now. You’re all too quick-tempered. They’re young too, but so are all of you. That was surprising—one person shouts, and another rushes out. You’re quite in sync. That’s what I liked about it!”

Hyōichi disliked being criticized like this. Trying to hurry things along, he caught Akai's eye, but Akai gave him a look that seemed to say this was fine as it was. Then the man with the pointed jaw spoke: "How about it? Care to try some?" he suggested, offering Hyōichi simmered river snails. When Hyōichi stubbornly kept silent, "No need to hold back," he said. "Truth is, you can get all the refills you want here." Hyōichi found himself somewhat taken with that unaffected manner. Before long, the man with the large nose spoke up.

“How about it—shall we go to Gartengasse with this student?” the man with the large nose said to the man with the pointed jaw. “Splendid idea.” “That sounds fun.” “They’re cute there, you know.”

And then, after they forcibly settled the bill even for Hyōichi and the others' share, "How about it? Would you care to join us?" he said in a relatively polite manner. "We'll go anywhere!" "Damn it!" Akai shouted in desperation and approached Hyōichi, who remained silent with a troubled expression. "Let's go." "It'll be fun!" "Gartengasse means Gion." "The 'en' is 'Garten' in German, right?" He whispered close to his ear.

“I’m going home.” Hyōichi blurted out.

(They’re just planning to use us as drinking entertainment, aren’t they?) How revolting. Who’d want to be someone’s jester? What was Akai’s fawning attitude about?) He guffawed meaninglessly. “Damn it! Damn it!” Hyōichi fixed a stern gaze on Akai, who was straining to act tough. The man with the large nose,

“Why not? What’s the harm? Or are you scared? Well, you’re still young after all.” Being called young wounded Hyōichi’s self-respect considerably. “I’m not scared!” “Well then, come along now.”

He reluctantly agreed. Exiting Masamune Hall, they passed through an alley and walked along Shijō 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 arrived.

One of them, a large-built woman, looked at Hyōichi and said, “My, what a sweet little lad you are! Where’re you from?” Hyōichi turned his face away,“Osaka,” he answered bitterly—moving his body would make him feel like vomiting again.“Oh, Osaka or wherever,” she said.“I was born there myself, you know.Come on now,give us a song!”And the geisha sang a boisterous Osaka tune about Dōtonbori—of course Hyōichi did not sing.

After about an hour, they left there unsteadily—Hyōichi and Akai. His consciousness was so hazy he couldn’t even bid farewell to the two who remained. They entered the udon shop next to the Minamiza and ate herring udon. Somehow, he found himself thinking of raccoon dogs. When they exited, Akai,

“Lend me money,” said Akai. When he grabbed a five-yen bill from his pocket and handed it over, “Won’t you come along too?” “No!” Hyōichi answered in a voice so loud it startled even himself. He knew roughly where Akai was headed. Probably Miyagawachō’s pleasure quarters. His refusal had been instinctive. That repulsive sensation—suddenly experienced earlier when he’d felt nauseous at their table and been led by a geisha to vomit in the washroom—now resurfaced with shuddering disgust: a slimy feeling like slugs crawling over his lips, an uncanny texture like clamping his mouth around burnt mandarin peel.

Akai—

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

Hyōichi made his way from Maruyama Park past Chion-in Temple, descending a dark slope toward Heian Shrine. Then, cutting alongside Okazaki’s Kōendō to Shōgoin, he ascended Kagurazaka and returned to Shūeijuku Dormitory. The university clocktower showed ten o'clock. Relieved at having discharged his duty, he let out a breath—only for fatigue to crash over him—and immediately spread his bedding to crawl inside. The dorm students were properly keeping lights-out hours. But Dorm Head Nakata kept watchful eyes in the darkness, catching the "vile stench" wafting from Hyōichi’s mouth. Nakata naturally believed he ought to report Hyōichi’s rule-breaking to the Osaka dormitory head. Yet considering how brazen the violation had been, he worried this might reflect poorly on himself as dorm head—and so resolved to delay the report. There would be ample opportunities later. That man!

Hyōichi was already fast asleep, oblivious to his surroundings.

5

At last, May 1st arrived—the day of the Anniversary Festival. Posters had been plastered everywhere along the paved road from Kumano Shrine to Hyakumanben. On the wooden fences of classrooms facing the schoolyard as well, posters were displayed—each bearing their class name and Costume Parade theme. Every poster depicted the school’s mark—a numeral '3' nestled within cherry blossoms. When the ceremony and commemorative lecture ended at 10:30 a.m., the Costume Parade immediately began. A band had been hired. Mock shops operated by each class were lined up in rows. Regarding the classes operating mock shops, the school authorities had initially been opposed. But the autonomy committee’s argument had finally been accepted. Even the autonomy committee—often dismissed as incompetent—had surprisingly managed to fulfill their role there.

Hyōichi thought it wouldn't be a bad idea to once scornfully dismiss the dormitory decorations. That he couldn't honestly say he wanted to go see them was the trouble with his mind. At the entrance, tattered shoes, ragged cloths, and worn-out dust cloths hung at a height that brushed against one's head; on one of the red cloths was a wooden tag politely inscribed with "Fundoshi Beloved by Mr. Hamaguchi Osachi During His Third Higher School Days."

(How absurd! There’s no need to enshrine Hamaguchi Osachi’s fundoshi like some sacred relic.) The moment he passed through, a gong clanged violently. Each time someone entered, what sounded like someone in the janitor’s room would strike it anew. "This isn’t some failing vaudeville house or haunted attraction..." Hyōichi muttered inwardly as he systematically inspected each dormitory’s decorations—North, Middle, then South Dormitory in strict order. When he arrived at South Dormitory Room Five, a poster proclaiming "Tiger Slaying" as its theme clung to the door—which itself remained firmly shut. Visitors wore expressions of bored suspicion as they walked away from the unyielding door, perhaps wondering if this obstinacy constituted some meta-commentary on decorative wit. Truth be told, another room themed "Nishida Philosophy" contained nothing but a scrap of paper reading "Absolute Nothingness"—its barrenness echoing the concept all too literally. Hyōichi knocked on the door—

“Akai! Akai!” Hyōichi called out. “Who is it?” The voice belonged to Akai. “It’s me—Mōri,” he said, prompting the door to open. Inside, Akai stood wearing cardboard armor over his naked body and a helmet—a costume befitting a tiger slayer. A bamboo thicket had been arranged. “So you’re slaying the tiger?” Hyōichi asked incredulously. “Aren’t you going to show it?” Akai replied, “This was my idea. The whole point was having someone stand here in costume—we were taking turns. But when my turn came, I couldn’t bear to be seen like this.” He gave a pained smile. “Still, since it was my plan, I had to go through with it. So I stood here but kept the door shut.” “I’m freezing,” he added. “Got any cigarettes?”

Hyōichi burst out laughing. The thought of such a scrawny, lanky tiger-slaying setup made his morning’s ill humor vanish completely. When he handed Akai a cigarette, Akai remarked, “It’s unopened.” Hyōichi felt somewhat ashamed—he’d simply been carrying them around without any intention to smoke. To mask his embarrassment, he asked, “What about the tiger?” “The decorations weren’t ready in time,” Akai explained, “so we rigged it so whoever’s standing there lets out a loud ‘Uwoh!’ now and then.” He gave a pained laugh. “I sure came up with a bizarre idea.” Since Akai couldn’t move until his replacement arrived, Hyōichi—

“See you later.” With that, he left. When he left the dormitory, Hyōichi went to his classroom on the second floor of the new school building and watched the costume parade through the window facing the grounds. Just before First Year Liberal Arts Class A’s parade began—Hyōichi’s class—the classroom stood empty. He hadn’t joined in because his proposal for the event had been rejected. He had calculated that if each classmate contributed one yen for costumes, it would total fifty yen. As his obligatory idea submission, he had suggested using that money to buy bread instead—carrying it around the grounds in procession before donating it to a nursing home. This would make a sharper point than shoddy costumes while being both meaningful and amusing, though he worried it might come off as hypocritical. The rejection itself didn’t bother him—what rankled was how Nemuro, the class leader and a professor’s son, had narrowed his Kyoto-cunning eyes behind glasses and droned, “Mr. Mōri’s proposal strikes me as ill-considered.” “I don’t know what Mr. Mōri intended,” he had added with undue fervor, “but if it draws official scrutiny to our class, we’ll all suffer for it.” That sanctimonious tone still grated.

(What the hell does 'targeted' even mean?!) (They damn well think I'm a dangerous person!)

A considerable number of voices arose in agreement with Nemuro’s opposing opinion—all of them students who had homes in Kyoto. In the end, the costume parade was decided to be a meaningless nude dance titled “The Chief’s Daughter.” Hyōichi stood up and declared he would not participate. Akai, too, voiced his opposition by saying, “Isn’t a nude dance more inappropriate?” and thus decided not to participate.

As he looked out the window, a man abruptly thrust his dark face into the classroom. It was Nozaki. Hyōichi asked, “Aren’t you joining the costume parade?” Nozaki blinked rapidly behind his glasses, “I ain’t participatin’. Forgot ’bout practice,” he said in his lingering Osaka accent, his dark face flushing slightly. “Ah, that’s it,” Hyōichi realized. Nozaki was a terribly forgetful man; he often forgot his textbooks in class and would push his desk over to Hyōichi’s beside him, saying, “Lemme see yours”—a scene that played out every three days. Each time, he would say sympathetically, “You’re from Osaka too, right? If you’re goin’ back to Osaka, I’ll lend ya my commuter pass.” He commuted daily from Osaka.

“What’re you gonna do? Without a commuter pass…?” he asked. “I’ll be waitin’ in Kyoto, so once ya get to Osaka, just send the commuter pass by express mail and we’re golden.” Hyōichi was astonished by Nozaki’s utterly guileless nature—was he really planning to wait all that time? What he forgot wasn’t limited to textbooks; during natural science class, for instance, he would often neglect to move to the combined classroom and end up sitting alone in a daze in his own classroom. When made to do German translation readings, he would suddenly start reading about three pages ahead, bewildering everyone. He had joined the rugby club for about a week but was thought to be intentionally skipping practice sessions and was expelled from the club. So Hyōichi thought he must have carelessly forgotten about the Costume Parade practice time as well. Anyway, as Hyōichi was pleased that the number of non-participants had increased by one, Nozaki—

“Y’see, I’m dark-skinned.” “So I hate that song sayin’ even dark-skinned folks get called beauties in the South Seas,” he said, stroking his chin, “Thought I’d try puttin’ on some grooming today—shaved my beard proper—but then forgot to slap somethin’ soothing after. Now it’s stingin’ like fire,” he said. Hyōichi suddenly found himself liking Nozaki, who could say such things so casually. He also liked his Osaka dialect. He felt ashamed of himself for deliberately using that affected student lingo. Whenever he listened to Nozaki’s words, he’d grow ashamed of his own constant irritation and find himself slipping into this gentle calm instead.

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

“That’s terrible,” Hyōichi said. Nozaki— “Yeah, real bad.” “Probably the worst one here.” “Right, right.” “The absolute worst.” After “The Chief’s Daughter” ended and five or six more parades passed by, the dormitory students performed their storm dance. About a hundred residents stood nearly naked in red loincloths, clutching bells, metal washbasins, and drums. The moment Hyōichi saw their procession shambling out of the dormitory—shoving through the crowd’s barrier—he pointedly looked away. Because he believed they all descended without artistry under the spectators’ gaze, crudely gauging the impact of their barbaric posturing through the onlookers’ curious stares.

(What’s with those mask-like smiles? They need the audience’s applause!) Here too, Hyōichi’s criticism was merciless. And yet—hadn’t he himself been the one craving that applause all along? He remained blind to this truth within himself. —Dekansho, Dekansho—six months we spend with you, yo iyo i…

When the storm dance began, Akai entered the classroom. When he asked “You…?”—inquiring whether he hadn’t participated— “Catching a cold would be such a drag; besides, could I really expose this scrawny body of mine?” Akai said.

At last, the costume parade concluded, and the professors announced the voting results. "The Chief’s Daughter" was second from last in the rankings. He thought with vindictive satisfaction. By the time the principal began his closing address, the schoolyard was already bathed in dusk. After singing “Beni Moyuru” and dispersing, there was an inauguration ceremony for the new cheer squad captain. They lit bonfires in the schoolyard, tapped sake barrels in the twilight, and bellowed cheer songs. When the new cheer squad captain stood on the podium and delivered an impassioned speech—“Don’t lose to First Higher!”—those with heart wept. The cheer squad committee became desperate to round up participants. When the anniversary festival ended, the students would stream out excitedly toward town; they had to intercept those departing feet for the inauguration ceremony. Lately, they were troubled by the increasing number of utilitarians who had grown indifferent to the cheer squad and peace-at-any-price types. The cheer squad committee’s hope—and those whose feet were easiest to intercept—were the freshmen. Because Hyōichi, Akai, and Nozaki were dawdling, they were caught at the small gate beside the dormitory. Perhaps looking down on Hyōichi’s childish demeanor and his unmistakably freshman-like attire with its excessively long sleeves, the committee members—

“If you don’t attend the inauguration ceremony, we won’t have it!” he threatened. The authoritative tone pierced Hyōichi’s pride.

“No way! You’re the ones who always say Third Higher’s tradition is freedom, aren’t you? Is there any law forcing those who don’t want to attend to stay?”

In fact, Hyōichi had recently been recruited and made to beat a drum without reason during baseball practice time, which was why he had grown thoroughly disgusted with the cheer squad. However, those words were somewhat discourteous toward the upperclassmen. "If you talk back, I'll beat you!" a committee member threatened. "Hit me!" He was beaten. When Hyōichi later learned that the man who had beaten him was frequently visiting Kagitaya, his eyes gleamed strangely.

Before long, rumors began to circulate that Hyōichi was taking walks with Okoma of Kagitaya.

Six

Hyōichi and Okoma’s walks were, according to Akai, nothing more than a trivial dalliance. In other words, Akai dismissively concluded that Hyōichi was simply a coward. Had Hyōichi grasped Akai’s true motives, he might have taken some new action—but even so, he knew far too little about love. Okoma’s circumstances were one thing—but being an only daughter myself and him an only son too... Such thoughts drifted vaguely through my mind. Yet Hyōichi knew no model of love to emulate. If he had known one, given his vanity, he might have found it amusing to act dashingly according to that template. Still, the deep-seated disgust rooted in his memory must have at least kept him from stumbling into disarray. In short, he was a man out of step with his times. What even the most foolish could accomplish without passion or effort was beyond him. Thus he needed to be driven by love. Yet he remained a man who felt strange perplexity before love’s face. He had never experienced being loved by anyone. He had convinced himself no one ever had.

Hyōichi didn't understand why he was taking these walks. Fundamentally, he was incapable of finding meaning in anything beyond satisfying his pride—and while his walks with Okoma had naturally sprung from that very impulse, they produced little effect. He had thought that if someone saw them walking together, his self-esteem would be satisfied; yet when they were seen, his self-esteem was wounded instead.

One day, while taking a walk in the botanical garden, he was spotted by a classmate named Kuwabe, who commuted by bicycle from Kita-Sonocho. Hyōichi tensed up instantly and tried to gauge the impact through Kuwabe's gaze. However, from atop his bicycle, Kuwabe glanced briefly at Okoma and Hyōichi, flashed a faint smirk, and rode past them. There was not a trace of envy in his expression. Because Kuwabe was on his bicycle, he could observe their faces with a surprisingly carefree attitude. Seeing Kuwabe's retreating figure ringing his bell as he rode off, Hyōichi became convinced that Kuwabe had mocked him.

(He looked at Okoma’s face—what kind of look was that to give a woman!) Hyōichi 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 Higher students stared at her from Kagitaya’s second floor was nowhere to be seen by Hyōichi now. Moreover, when she removed her apron, the drum-shaped obi lay flat in an oddly unflattering way, and the goldfish pattern looked somehow meager. The blazing sun had turned the powder by her nose into greasy streaks. Moreover, because Hyōichi had been staring intently at her profile, she became so flustered with delight that she turned an unsightly red. Hyōichi became convinced that Okoma was ugly. The crucial fact that the cheer squad members were so engrossed didn’t cross his mind in that instant. All he could think about was Kuwabe’s gaze. Moreover, he had not received a favorable impression of Okoma’s expressions and mannerisms from that first night he went to Kagitaya with Akai.

(To think that walking with such an ugly woman is apparently me!) When this thought struck him, Hyōichi suddenly loathed walking with Okoma. Yet those walks dragged on listlessly until summer vacation approached. For he was—contrary to expectations—a man of feeble resolve, unable to bring himself to outright reject her.

When the second term arrived and even as Higher School students began gradually showing their faces at Kagitaya again, Okoma finally realized that Hyōichi alone was not appearing—and she could only stare blankly. As her face gradually took on an ugly expression, she hurriedly applied makeup. (Do men forget someone after just two months apart?) She thought this as if to console herself. But for some reason, she couldn’t bring herself to resent Hyōichi. He’s a Higher School student with a promising future, after all—it’s only natural he wouldn’t bother with people like me.

In an odd way, Hyōichi found his status as a Third Higher School student coming in handy. He had used the two-month vacation to finally break away from Okoma, yet felt a pang of self-reproach about it. That he had exploited Okoma to prop up his self-esteem left him remorseful.

Hyōichi merely— No one else could break up with a woman as cleanly as I could! Everyone else clung pathetically—sniveling like fools! He looked around him at their weakness and finally found consolation.

For instance—hadn’t Akai been visiting the same woman for the past six months? As a result, he fell behind on his dormitory fees, was expelled from the dormitory, and moved to a boarding house in Shishigatani; but even though the rent was payable later, he carelessly poured all the money sent from home into that woman. When Nozaki saw him struggling at month’s end, he delayed paying his own tuition to cover Akai’s payments. Yet taking this as an opportunity, Nozaki stopped commuting from Osaka and moved into the same boarding house as Akai. What’s more, being good-natured, he couldn’t refuse Akai’s invitation and ended up spending a night with him in Miyagawacho.

“This is youth.” “Finding beauty in dirty places—that’s true youth!” As Akai brandished his half-baked theory of youth, Nozaki—whether convinced or not—responded in a timid voice, “Yeah, s’pose that’s youth,” he nodded with a somber face. He seemed to feel apologetic toward Akai for not grasping the earnest words being spouted. When Nozaki went out to Shijō Street with Akai and Hyōichi, he appeared convinced they now had to visit Miyagawacho. If they entered Yaomasa—where Miyagawacho was visible—to drink beer, he’d adopt an expression as though the matter were irrevocably decided. And he kept pondering how to raise the necessary funds. He had already borrowed so much from two relatives in Kyoto that further loans were impossible. He had nothing left to pawn. Reaching this conclusion, he began feeling guilty toward Akai’s youth. He also felt remorse toward Hyōichi, who would likely turn his back on such youth and walk home alone again tonight. When they left Yaomasa, Nozaki timidly broke the silence for the first time.

“Akai, should we do something about the money?” “Hmm... Yeah.” “But tonight’s not really—” When Akai said this, Nozaki grew utterly bewildered. He began rethinking Akai’s whole theory of youth. “If you don’t mind, I’ll handle it.” “There’s really a way?” Hearing this, Nozaki finally seemed relieved and broke into a happy expression. “There is.”

“I see.” “Then where should I wait?” “Wait for me at Viktor.” Nozaki, with a face that seemed to keenly feel the weight of responsibility, dashed through the night streets in search of funds.

One day, Nozaki suddenly disappeared. The night before, Nozaki and Akai had stayed in Miyagawacho, but having no money to pay, Nozaki left Akai as collateral and went out to raise funds. Yet no matter how many hours passed, he never returned to Akai. The maid from that establishment came to Hyōichi's school for money, brought it back, and thus Akai was finally released from being held as collateral—but Nozaki didn't return to the boarding house for three full days afterward. The two searched together but found no leads. On the third morning when he went to school, Nozaki sat dejectedly in the classroom. Since classes hadn't begun yet, he immediately summoned him and entered a café along Konoe Street; upon hearing the circumstances, this is what had transpired.

Though he had left Akai as collateral and gone out, Nozaki found no leads for raising money. 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 snowballed considerably. Even their scheme of repaying five yen on the spot only to borrow ten right there was impossible as long as they couldn’t get their hands on that five yen. They had even considered borrowing from their boarding house, but with two months’ rent already overdue and some cash still owed there, it seemed utterly impossible. Moreover, brazenly showing the face of someone who had stayed out all night, he couldn’t even borrow money. He thought Hyōichi might have some money, but regardless of how he looked before going out, how could he bring himself to meet him with the face he had upon returning from Miyagawacho? His eyes were bloodshot, his dark skin somewhat pallid, and his face glistened with an oily sheen—to present such a visage before Hyōichi’s handsome face filled him with shame. He had no collateral left. He thought about taking the Keihan line back to Osaka, getting money from home, and immediately returning, but when he remembered that his father, who ran a lumberyard, had been bedridden with diabetes lately, he couldn’t bring himself to go back. Perhaps if he saw his father’s gaunt face and suddenly felt compelled to confess his usual conduct, or received money from his mother and ended up crying in the toilet, his return would be delayed—or so he thought. He wandered aimlessly through Kyoogoku, darting his eyes around in hopes of spotting a familiar face. He recalled making three futile round trips through Kyoogoku the previous time just to borrow a single sen. At the time he’d had fourteen sen, but he was hungry and wanted coffee too. In the end, he calculated that eating fifteen-sen hotcakes at Star Café would kill two birds with one stone since coffee was included—but being one sen short, he wandered around hoping to bump into someone he knew. He passed by Star Café six times, each time haunted by the hotcake display flashing in the window. He tried convincing himself to either drink ten-sen coffee at Lipton on Sanjō or eat udon instead, but couldn’t shake his craving for hotcakes. The sensation of that fluffy warm piece entering his mouth came back so vividly it made his saliva surge—after tasting ones with honey or butter and chasing them with bitter coffee, how good would that be? He could no longer resist wondering. As he passed an unfamiliar Third Higher student, he asked “Sorry—could you lend me one sen?” only to get a strange look and a curt “Ain’t got any.” Why am I so broke? Should I just burst into tears? He hovered on the edge of crying—When you want to see someone you know, you never run into them—and recalling that time suddenly made him crave hotcakes again.

In the middle of Kyōgoku, when he opened his wallet and counted, there were thirty sen. He entered Star and ate hotcakes. He left there, emerged onto Kyōgoku Street at Sanjō, and turned back toward Shijō along Kawaramachi Street. He turned left into a side street just before Shijō Kawaramachi and entered Viktor Café. He sat in the dimly lit booth at the very back and absently gazed at the face of the woman they called Yae-chan. Yae-chan always slipped her white arm out from the apron sleeve—a vivid allure. As he suddenly remembered Akai once saying that her bustling prominence among the three women proved her awareness of being the prettiest, Akai’s gaunt face surfaced in his mind. "If I don’t get money to him soon—with Akai being Akai—the bill’ll balloon even more," he thought, listening gravely to Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony now swelling through the café. He felt restless but stayed seated with half-desperate resolve until the symphony ended—knowing no funds awaited outside. When he stepped out, his wallet held not a single sen. Passing Nagasaki-ya, he abruptly craved castella. Sipping coarse tea by the sunlit window while blankly watching Shijō Street, he imagined how pleasant it would be. The lack of twelve sen needed for this struck him as cruelly absurd. He exited Kyōgoku again and combed Teramachi’s used bookstores. At Kyōya Booksellers, he found Cocteau’s *Le Coq et l’Arlequin* that Akai had wanted and inquired about prices. If fifteen yen materialized here now, he mused, he could bring Akai this book to Viktor Café and hear his music theories while perusing it. He flopped onto the Imperial Palace lawn to devise money-making schemes. But soon drowsed off. I’m asleep now. Exhaustion from last night’s sleep deprivation made him grind his teeth—aware even in half-dreams of this pathetic state—until footstep sounds startled him awake repeatedly over an hour before he yawned upright.

The dew from the grass soaked through his navy serge trousers and clung stickily to his buttocks, making him uncomfortable. Slapping his rear, he left the Imperial Palace grounds as his feet instinctively turned toward school. When he reached Kumano Shrine along Marutamachi’s tram line, the university clock tower came into view. By the time he arrived at Konoe-cho, the clock face showed clearly that it was already past one o’clock. He had promised Akai he’d return immediately, yet three hours had slipped by. The guilt cut through him like a blade. Turning from Konoe Street into Yoshida Ginza, he entered a narrow cluttered alley leading to Nishikibashi Street where his regular pawnshop stood. Resembling a secondhand clothing store, its display window showcased shoes once pawned and put up for sale.

“Mr. Nozaki, what’ll you be pawning today?” When asked, he thought about it but came up empty. But they ended up lending him two yen and fifty sen for the woolen shirt he’d hastily stripped off, along with his hat, fountain pen, and silver medal. Unexpectedly flush with cash and overjoyed, he rode the train from Konoe Street to Shijō Kawaramachi, climbed to Nagasaki-ya’s second floor, and ate castella. He drank his tea and sat vacantly by the sunlit window until the box of Cherry cigarettes he’d bought when transferring trains at Gion’s stone steps lay empty. It became 2:30 p.m. He caught a picture show in Kyōgoku. When he emerged, it was five in the afternoon. The surroundings had taken on twilight’s hues. When he suddenly imagined Akai waiting with neck craned—probably not even angry anymore—he nearly burst into tears. But you’re twenty years old now, he sternly reminded himself, keeping the tears dammed behind his eyes. And now even if I took money there, it’d be too late—couldn’t face meeting Akai anyway—no use scraping funds together—he listlessly turned these carefree thoughts over, finding meager solace. Yet that oppressive sense of being hounded clung heavily to him. With a sullen face, he wandered night’s streets. He couldn’t possibly return to sleep at Shikagaya’s boarding house. Could I really leave Akai stranded like some hostage while I saunter back alone to bed? He ducked into cafés twice, udon shops twice, meandering aimlessly as night deepened. The foot traffic thinned, leaving him forlorn. He trudged down dark roads to Shichijō Uchihama and bunked in a cheap lodging house’s partitioned room. This must be what Akai calls decadence—or maybe I’m just irredeemably depraved—Akai’s face kept surfacing—sleep stayed stubbornly beyond reach.

The night ended with his pillow literally soaked through with tears. When he left the cheap lodging, he spent the entire day wandering through the town like a stray dog again. He had been putting on airs as a wanderer, but without even trying, he found himself having taken on the strangely dingy appearance of an actual vagrant. As ever, Akai’s face floated into his mind with a shuddering feeling. What if Akai had been detained for non-payment at a brothel? The thought made him feel obligated to keep walking until he was utterly exhausted. Thanks to that, he thoroughly learned the geography of the city of Kyoto. In a grubby back alley, he saw a beautiful woman with astonishingly fair skin and muttered, “Ah, I saw something really good—this is my happiness for today.”

When night deepened, he returned to the cheap lodging again. That night, he slept soundly. And when dawn came, he would start wandering again. And when three days had passed—with his money completely gone, leaving him in a state of wanting to die—he staggered to school on legs that had carried him from the cheap lodging, and from an hour before classes began, sat alone dejectedly in the classroom……

Though he didn't know the precise details, once Akai pieced together from Nozaki's faltering responses to the questions asked that it must have been something like that, he found himself without words to say. The memory of how he'd searched for Nozaki in fretful anger now struck him as utterly absurd.

“Your wandering truly embodies your idea of youth,” Akai managed to voice his theory on youth, though deep down, “(In other words, he’s just a forgetful, unreliable man),” he found himself resigned with odd clarity.

But Hyōichi, feeling he had touched upon some unfathomable charm in Nozaki, suddenly found his friendship warming.

(I'm constantly searching for a foothold for my pride, getting all worked up, while Nozaki can just sprawl out comfortably in a single cup of coffee.) What a difference! (In other words, I'm the one who's a far more wretched existence.) That he had come to think this way marked considerable progress for Hyōichi. Hyōichi compared his way of living to the grimace of a sprinter just before the finish line. (It's truly the same ugly tension!) He had given up his resolve to become the top student. However, the truth was that in his current state, he was in danger of not even advancing to the next grade.

Seven

Inside the old building called Kentokukan, immediately to the right after entering the school gate, a faculty meeting to determine pass/fail outcomes was convened. It was early March, and Kyoto still endured bitter cold. Even with the stove lit, the cavernous room refused to warm properly—every time someone rose to relieve themselves, a bone-cutting Hiei-oroshi wind would slice through the space. The elderly professors kept their hands jammed in trouser pockets while shuffling restlessly. The cold proved unusually severe that year, rumored to be the worst since some unspecified Meiji-era winter. The stove itself appeared defective. In that glacial chamber, professors endured hours of motionless sitting from dawn till dusk—no small feat of endurance. Perhaps this discomfort explained why deliberations progressed with startling rapidity. Previous years had seen half-day marathons debating single students' fates. This year required less than ten minutes per case. Considering each pupil's lifelong destiny would have meant endless deliberation. Even habitually skeptical professors now placed absolute faith in the merciless rationality of point-based judgments.

The decisions regarding Hyōichi, Akai, and Nozaki’s pass/fail status didn’t even take ten minutes. The three of them were deliberated together in one bundle, making it simple. 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 grades were failing. In particular, their German grades were abysmal. “What do you think, Professor H?” Someone posed that question to Professor H of German. When Professor H said, “I might let them attend my lectures for another year,” that concluded the matter.

“Well, I have no opinion.” “Either pass or fail would be acceptable.” With that, Professor H smirked slyly. “All three are failing, I suppose.” “Yes, all three—” Professor H nodded happily. He felt somehow completely satisfied. Professor H had briefly recalled that Mōri Hyōichi had visited him the previous night. As soon as he showed him into the study, “You, what’s your business?” “Uh…” Even Hyōichi was squirming. Professor H found that blushing face somewhat endearing. When he had been studying in Germany, there was a middle school student with a face like this who held a beer-drinking contest. This one didn’t look like he could drink much. He’d probably be the type to take a couple sips from ceremonial sake cups at his sister’s wedding and end up staggering around in tears.

“I haven’t let go of my abacus since morning. I’m busy tallying scores. Out with your business.” “Well… it’s about those scores.” “Scores can’t be helped. Nothing to be done.” “No way? I see.” Hyōichi nearly shot to his feet. He loathed bowing to others. Yet he forced himself still. The truth was, since dawn he’d been making rounds with Akai and Nozaki to professors likely to give failing marks. With Akai perpetually in Professor H’s disfavor and Nozaki’s grades disastrously low, Hyōichi—deemed relatively passable among the trio—drew the lot to approach Professor H. He couldn’t return without fulfilling this duty.

“Actually, it’s about Akai and Nozaki—it seems their German grades are terribly bad.” “Their second-term grades were fairly good, but their first-term scores were poor.” “They managed to avoid critical marks in other subjects, but your grades—the German scores—are likely to make them fail.” “Is there any way you could give them a passing grade?” After mustering the courage to say what he had prepared, when Hyōichi looked up at Professor H’s face, the professor was smiling unnervingly. Hyōichi’s claim about their second-term grades being good struck him as absurd. When Professor H had been grading the answer sheets two or three days prior, he discovered that all three students’ answers were identical down to every word and character—leaving him aghast. He became convinced Akai and Nozaki had copied Hyōichi’s work. Among the three, Hyōichi was marginally more competent. Professor H first set Hyōichi’s score to zero. For the other two, he kept their first-term scores unchanged. This resulted in all three averaging failing grades for the second term. He had given Hyōichi a zero with the intention of offering him an escape route should it become contentious during the pass/fail meeting.

Professor H stifled the chuckles welling up inside him, “So you’re asking me to raise Akai and Nozaki’s grades, eh?” “Uh…” “What about you?” “I…” The face declaring everything was fine struck Professor H as unbearably absurd. Unable to endure further, he looked down and feigned scrutiny of the scores on his lap,

“However, your score is poor,” he said in a deliberately gruff voice. “What?!” Hyōichi made a surprised face as expected. “Akai has thirty-eight points, Nozaki thirty-seven, and you thirty-six.” “You’re the worst.” When he delivered this verdict and watched Hyōichi leave dejectedly, Professor H recalled that very incident. The inclusion of all three names as a peculiar memento struck him as amusing. Professor H felt a faint warmth at their camaraderie. If he were to pass them, he wanted all three to pass together—the thought of leaving even one behind seemed too pitiful. He had resolved that if Hyōichi’s own scores risked failure, he’d either extend a lifeline to pass him with the others or fail all three—it had to be one or the other. But with their excessive absences settling their collective failure, he felt an odd sense of completion.

"Mōri has some competent subjects, but he belongs to Shuei Dormitory," someone remarked. It had been understood that all students of Shuei Dormitory were academic prodigies.

“Mōri slacked off far too much.” Someone responded.

“So all three failed—?”

“No objections.”

All the professors knew of the Shuei Dormitory regulation that stipend payments would be discontinued upon failing a grade. But none of them recalled it. And so, the three's failure was easily decided.

Upon 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 homeroom professors. When they waited at the entrance of the professor’s house in Shimogamo, the professor came out still wearing a kimono and stood rigidly,

“I’m truly sorry, but what’s decided cannot be helped.” “I did try my best, but with the number of absences being what it was...” Yet that very professor had been one of those who insisted on their failing. That a homeroom professor would insist on his own class’s students failing was so odd that there were even professors who frowned at it. In their conversation at the entrance, all three of them couldn’t properly bring themselves to make the requests they should have. With a foolish feeling, they hastily took their leave, and their feet naturally turned toward Kyōgoku. Along the way, Akai alone grew excited. Hyōichi was in a relatively calm state of mind. Once failing was decided, expulsion from Shuei Dormitory was unavoidable. With his life at Third Higher School now over, he had never intended to visit his homeroom professor in the first place. Nozaki was absurdly dejected. He looked as if he was about to burst into tears.

Akai and Hyōichi clearly understood Nozaki’s feelings. It wasn’t entirely incorrect to say that this failure was due to Nozaki. Nozaki had been keeping track of their absences in his notebook. Everyone had trusted Nozaki’s calculations. So when Nozaki said they could take three more days off, they carelessly did just that. However, it turned out to be Nozaki’s miscalculation. They had exceeded the limit by exactly those three days. Moreover, there was still another such incident.

When the first day’s exams ended, they went out to Kyōgoku as usual and devised strategies for the next day’s exams at “Lipton” on Sanjō Street. That day’s exam had been in German, and by copying Hyōichi’s answers, they managed to avoid failing grades, so the black tea tasted particularly satisfying. The lemony fragrance pierced through the wintry air, making their sleep-deprived eyes droop contentedly. But the next day’s exam was history. None of them possessed notebooks. They found themselves with no means to study. When Akai mentioned how harshly the history professor graded during pass/fail meetings, all three sank into gloom and drank three cups of tea. However, Nozaki proposed borrowing last year’s notes from an upperclassman who’d attended their middle school—a stroke of genius that made them feel half the exam was already conquered—so they went to watch a movie at Shochikuza. Upon leaving Shochikuza, Nozaki set off to borrow the notebooks. Akai, still reluctant to leave the area lingeringly, arranged to meet Nozaki at “Victor” before returning together to their boarding house, while Hyōichi went ahead first to wait at Akai’s place, timing his arrival to start a fire in the brazier. Having settled on this plan, they parted ways.

Hyōichi went to Akai’s boarding house earlier than the agreed time and kept stuffing newspaper into the brazier, but the charcoals wouldn’t turn red at all. The room was bitterly cold, and smoke hung thickly, almost embarrassingly. Asking the boarding house residents for embers was not in his nature. Having used up all the newspaper as well, he slumped in dismay, thinking, What a clumsy man I am. Suddenly thinking the cigarette’s mouthpiece might work, he tried putting it in, and due to the wax, it burned well. Seizing the moment, he kept sticking his face into the brazier and blowing until at last the fire caught. It had taken roughly an hour. But the two of them didn’t come back for quite some time. As he leaned on the brazier with a sullen face waiting listlessly, a wretched feeling welled up within him.

About two hours had passed when footsteps finally sounded—Akai returned with a crimson face. “Are you alone?” he asked. Akai exhaled liquor-tinged breath and said, “That Nozaki won’t show up no matter how long you wait.” “I was kept waiting over an hour.” “Figured it was his usual act, so I gave up and drank in Kyōgoku before coming back.” With exams putting everyone on edge, Akai seethed more intensely than ever. Having no notebooks to study with, they idly chatted. As night deepened and they heatedly debated abandoning tomorrow’s exam, Nozaki returned dejectedly clutching the notebook. It was past ten already.

“What? Akai, you were back already?” The two of them stared aghast at Nozaki’s strange expression as he uttered this. When questioned—as they had anticipated—it turned out Nozaki had carelessly mixed up the meeting time. After Akai left, he had gone into Victor and waited an hour and a half while thinking how late Akai was running. He had considered leaving first but worried about causing trouble if Akai arrived afterward—and partly because walking alone along the cold night road back to Shishigatani seemed too lonely—so he kept waiting indefinitely.

“You idiot.” “Whether I came or not, you could’ve just asked Yaeko-chan and found out.”

Akai fumed. That Yaeko-chan hadn't told Nozaki about his visit had left him feeling his pride had been wounded. But in truth, though Nozaki accompanied Akai nearly every day, he remained so indistinct that Yaeko-chan failed to acknowledge his existence.

He finally spread out the notebook, but when he thought of the four hours wasted because of Nozaki, it all seemed so foolish that he couldn't muster any enthusiasm.

“Nozaki, don’t look so down,” Hyōichi consoled him, but Nozaki wore a vacant expression, tormented by his sense of responsibility. Nozaki’s mood spread to the other two, and they ended up going all the way along the canal to the area near Ginkaku-ji’s tram stop to drink coffee, accomplishing little studying. Hyōichi gave up and returned to Shuei Dormitory ahead of the others.

Nozaki and Akai ventured out to Demachi and drank several cups of coffee to steel themselves for an all-nighter. Even when they returned to the boarding house, it was nothing but idle chatter—a situation where they couldn't fathom what purpose the all-nighter served. As a result, the history exam proved disastrous. To make matters worse, disheartened by this failure, they couldn't claim the subsequent exams were successes either.

So ultimately, it could indeed be said that this academic failure was time and again due to Nozaki. But when they saw Nozaki—fully aware of this fact and utterly disheartened—the two of them did not bring it up.

When they went out to Kyōgoku, they first entered "Lipton". Then they went into "Victor". When they exited, they went up to Nagasaki-ya’s second floor. Each time, Hyōichi would look around the room with a deeply nostalgic gaze, wondering if this too might be the last time he would see it. Aimlessly wandering around Kyōgoku-dōri, when they grew tired and wondered what to do next, they would stand blankly on street corners. After making the rounds of their usual haunts and becoming utterly deflated, the faces of them standing there pondering their next move all looked vacant and melancholy. Even if they were to go to a movie theater, they listed each one and trashed them as uninteresting. In the end, when Akai shamelessly suggested going back to "Victor" one more time, they somehow settled on that idea and trudged into the alleyways of Shijō Kawaramachi in a disheveled line.

“Visiting twice in one day does look a bit unseemly.” When Akai—who nursed feelings for Yaeko-chan—persisted with this fastidious remark, “Yeah, looks bad,” “Twice in one day,” Nozaki replied in a listless voice. He had never denied being plagued by his fixation on the girl at Victor’s with that face—the most unsightly there, so ambiguously gendered you couldn’t tell if she was male or female. Come to think of it, he also seemed partial to the monstrously tall girl behind Lipton’s counter, the one resembling some creature. When they left Victor’s, they consequently returned to Lipton again. As they whiled away the hours like this, dusk fell. After half an hour of deliberation, they wound up eating sukiyaki at a beef restaurant behind Kyōgoku. Hyōichi—for the first time—

“I’m quitting Third Higher,” he said, and when asked why, he explained that Shuei Dormitory had a rule cutting off stipends for those who failed.

“Guess I won’t be seeing you all anymore either.” As he said it, the backs of his eyes suddenly burned. His entire Third Higher life had ultimately meant nothing, but at least he’d come to know Akai and Nozaki—that single thought had consumed him since earlier. “I don’t think you need to quit,” said Akai, wearing a grave expression as he pondered briefly before looking up abruptly. “Got a genius plan—we’ll get the Mutual Aid Society to land you a tutoring gig. If all three of us room together at Nozaki’s and my place, we’ll save on boarding fees. C’mon, do it! Do it!”

“Yeah, yeah. Tutoring’s a good idea. If the three of us room together, it’ll be fun, won’t it?” Nozaki said. Hyōichi was happy. Strangely, he didn’t feel ashamed that his own poverty was being discussed like this. However, his resolve to leave Third Higher remained unchanged.

When they realized Hyōichi’s resolve to leave Third Higher School wasn’t going to waver easily, Akai and Nozaki drank with somber resignation. As intoxication set in, they roundly cursed the institution where they were supposed to remain for three more years. Knowing this marked their farewell, the three wandered Kyoto’s streets until deep into the night. In the end, Akai and Nozaki resolved to visit Miyagawachō, while Hyōichi turned onto the dim alley beside Minamiza Theater to see them off part of the way. Before a house where women sat in rows wearing gaudy kimonos and ghostly white makeup, Hyōichi bid his friends goodbye. The women’s eyes turned toward him with listless smiles, their gazes sharp and piercing. Hyōichi boarded a streetcar before Minamiza and returned to Shuei Dormitory.

Hyōichi packed his belongings that same night and entrusted them to a transport service in the morning, then met Akai and Nozaki at Victor around noon. Then, seen off by the two, he boarded the Keihan Electric Railway from Shijō Bridge and returned to Osaka.

Chapter Three

I

When she heard that Hyōichi had left school, “You don’t have to quit, but if you’re set on leavin’, then do as you like,” said Okiyo, still unmistakably herself. Yet in the time since he’d last seen her, she had grown haggard. The area around her eyes had darkened noticeably. She was still thirty-six, but the wrinkles around her eyes had surpassed forty. Her hair was devoid of oil, dry and brittle. Realizing she had been driven by her sewing piecework, Hyōichi found tears unexpectedly falling the moment he saw her. The fact that until just yesterday I had been carelessly going about as a Higher School student now struck even me as strange. The carefree days I had spent gallivanting around with Akai and Nozaki now seemed like a distant past. They were not even recalled. If he were to recall them, he would have felt guilty toward his mother. That he had left Higher School now felt utterly inevitable—the conviction had become ingrained in him.

Since the funds for Higher School had been coming from Shuei Dormitory, Hyōichi had thought his mother no longer needed to do sewing work—but things hadn’t turned out that way. It wasn’t just to send Hyōichi pocket money. When Hyōichi entered middle school, Okiyo had borrowed money from Yasujirō. Even though she should have already repaid the full amount she borrowed, Yasujirō— “According t’my calculations, there’s still three hundred yen left.” “Even so, I’m slashin’ the interest way down for yer sake, see?” And so he kept confiscating the wages Okiyo earned from her sewing work. Okiyo struggled to hide the money she was saving to send to Hyōichi.

When Hyōichi came to understand these circumstances, he thought, *What kind of marriage is this? Can this even be called a marriage?* and was on the verge of persuading his mother to leave Yasujirō. The fact that his mother didn’t utter a single complaint and wore an expression that said “I don’t mind a bit” only made her seem all the more pitiable. But even if they fled together with his mother, there was no prospect of making a living. Every morning when the newspaper arrived, Hyōichi would pounce on it to check the job listings. In between dealing with customers who came to sell their pawn tickets, he stole moments to write resumes. Because his block script was clumsy, it took ten sheets of waste paper to write a single letter. He wrote about ten applications, but not a single interview notice arrived. Those who returned the resumes were the better ones; most of the time there was no response at all. He felt as if half his life up to eighteen had been trampled underfoot, leaving him utterly wretched. Rather than growing angry at his wounded pride, he sank into despondency with a lack of confidence, dejectedly convinced he wasn’t fit for employment. Leaning his elbows on the table in the shop’s back room, staring at the *noren* curtain bearing the white-outlined characters of Nozoe Shōkai while stifling yawns as he waited for customers, it struck him how being reduced to a moneylender’s clerk suited him all too well. He detested it unbearably. He lacked the energy to rewrite the returned resumes, and when sending them elsewhere still stained with grime, even he couldn’t help but feel wretched.

One day, after seeing that a pharmaceutical company was seeking an ad copywriter—though he had no confidence he could create such copy—he nonetheless wrote three drafts and sent them with his resume. About a week later, an interview notice arrived. When he was thrilled at what seemed like his ad copy passing muster and wondered if he might actually have literary talent after all, he suddenly recalled how Akai had submitted a novel to Third Higher’s Gakusui Society magazine only for it to be rejected. Hyōichi fidgeted restlessly, worrying that he might get rejected during the oral examination at the interview.

On the day of the interview, he rose early in the morning and rushed to the pharmaceutical company in Tamatsukuri without eating a proper breakfast, only to find there was still an hour left until the appointed time. Thinking it irksome to arrive half an hour early, he turned back from the gate and entered a nearby five-sen coffee shop. There he killed time flipping through an entertainment magazine and copying job listings from the newspaper. At exactly nine o'clock, he reported to reception, showed his postcard, and was led by a young waitress to a shabby second-floor parlor. After the waitress left, a man with absurdly long hair immediately entered, blinking anxious eyes as he settled into a chair.

“You here for the job too?” he asked. Hyōichi replied vaguely with a “Hah.” “Are you and I the only ones who got interview notices?” When Hyōichi didn’t respond, “There’s other reception rooms, see—must be more guys waiting around out there. Place is a big building after all... How many d’you think they’ll take?” His tone was presumptuously familiar. “Five or six maybe—” “Said they’re hiring several people, right?” Hyōichi had inadvertently given such a response.

“How much d’you think they’ll give us? Sixty yen—can’t live on less’n that, right?” “That’s right.” “About sixty yen, I suppose.” Hyōichi felt pathetic about himself for giving such a listless reply. “To tell the truth, you can’t manage on sixty yen less’n you’re real careful.” “I’ve got two kids already.” “Prices ain’t what they used to be these days, y’know.” “Two of them?” “Yeah, two of ’em.” “We’re gonna have three soon.” “It’s a complete disaster.” “But this here company goes on and on about their ‘familism,’ so I’m sure they ain’t gonna let their employees starve.” “But then again, they’re gonna work us to the bone for it, ain’t they?”

“Hah, familism?” Hyōichi thought his reply resembled Nozaki’s and couldn’t help but smile wryly. The long-haired man chattered away nonstop while nervously shaking his knees. He suddenly realized—this man was talking so much to mask his anxious feelings. With a vacant expression, he sat blankly waiting to be summoned—but no one came to the room. “They’re makin’ us wait like hell, ain’t they?” When the long-haired man grumbled, Hyōichi finally stirred with vitality.

Being made to wait this long—that’s just your fate! A surge of something like hostile resolve—he couldn’t tell what it was directed at—welled up within him, and his drowsiness vanished. Moreover, having been made to wait yet another hour beyond that, Hyōichi became completely furious. The young waitress who had come to call him was so startled by Hyōichi’s expression. (If you remained this angry, your oral examination results were sure 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 far end of the corridor, the eyes of seven or eight examiners all turned sharply toward him. (A whole crowd of them!) His vision flared white, and he nearly forgot to bow. In his fluster, he lowered his head and took two or three steps forward—only to crash into a chair. "A classic me move," he thought, now furious with himself as he dropped onto the seat with a thud. He became acutely aware that his face had flushed an unsightly crimson. Overcome with shame, he jerked his head up defiantly. The instant they saw that expression, one examiner scribbled "Rejected" in his notes.

“Why did you come wearing a kimono?” One examiner reproached Hyōichi’s kimono-clad appearance and asked. The pain from when he had struck his toes against the chair hadn’t subsided, so Hyōichi grimaced as he— “I didn’t have any Western clothes,” he answered, thinking Did my kimono look ridiculous? “You should have a high school uniform.” “But I’m no longer a student.” “Why did you drop out?”

“Because it was boring.” “Weren’t you a Red?” “No—I failed.” “Why?” “Because I was lazy.”

By now, none of the examiners doubted that Hyōichi would be rejected. Even if his ad copy was excellent, even if he was a top student who had entered Third Higher School from middle school—a small company might overlook such things, but a large corporation like ours couldn't handle a man like this. However, even before the examiners had made their decision, Hyōichi had already resigned himself to rejection. “You’ve done your part.” “We will notify you of the results in due course.” The noon siren was blaring. Hyōichi realized he’d been kept waiting for three hours. Escorted by an excessively polite man as he walked down the hallway, Hyōichi thought that the long-haired man would likely be kept waiting another hour until lunchtime ended.

A week later, the rejection notice arrived. Inside the envelope was a sample bag of medicine sold by that company. While thinking So this is their familism, Hyōichi threw it into the wastebasket and wrote more resumes. The next day’s newspaper carried an advertisement from that company calling for ad copy submissions.

II Seeing Hyōichi’s desperation to find work, Okiyo said, “You don’t have to work at all,” but being told this only made Hyōichi more frantic. Every morning, he woke to the sound of the newspaper being delivered. Taking it into his futon, he stared wide-eyed at the job listings section. When postings that seemed suitable appeared, he would grow restless and be unable to sleep. Was finding employment really this arduous? He was struck by a shuddering sensation.

One day, he saw an advertisement reading: “Investigation Staff Wanted. No academic background or age restrictions. Seeking active individuals. A certain zaibatsu-affiliated company. Interviews today at 10:00 AM in Private Room, Second Floor of Chuo Public Hall.” When he went to Chuo Public Hall in Nakanoshima, he discovered that “investigation staff” was just a euphemism—it actually meant life insurance salesperson. However, there too he was rejected on the grounds of being too young. “If only you were a bit older,” said a man who seemed to be the agency manager. “Come back next year, why don’t ya? We’ll see what we can do then.”

(They’ve already decided I won’t find work until next year, damn them.) Hyōichi seethed with anger, but then—suddenly recalling how many people remained unemployed for years—he descended the dim public hall stairs with lifeless steps, wondering if he should perhaps feel grateful for even that dismissive remark. The return train was overcrowded; he got jostled and trampled. Amid the commotion, the thought (I can’t even become a life insurance salesman) drifted into his dejected mind. Too drained for outrage, he furtively rubbed his stepped-on foot with the other. Yet when he returned home, a notice of reporter employment from the Japan Tatami Newspaper had arrived.

The next day, Hyōichi went to the Japan Tatami Newspaper company on Katsuyama-dori. In the train, he repeatedly took out from his pocket the postcard scrawled in pale blue ink that read, “We would like to formally offer you employment, and accordingly request your attendance for an interview—”. Anxious about whether he was truly being hired, he remained standing the entire time despite there being empty seats. He got off at Katsuyama-dori 4-chome and walked along a concrete road typical of a newly developed area, lined haphazardly with retail shops and mining offices on both sides, all the way to the vicinity of Ikuno Girls’ School at Katsuyama-dori 8-chome—but he couldn’t find anything resembling the company. The address numbers were scattered. When he turned back and went under the government railway overpass, there was a small sign reading "Japan Tatami Newspaper" beneath the eaves of a ramshackle house. The same characters were also on the sunshade hanging above the latticed window.

When he opened the door, to the right of the doma lay a wooden-floored area roughly four-and-a-half tatami mats in size. Two desks and chairs were lined up by the window; behind them stood ledger shelves, and in front of those was another desk and chair. Thus, the wooden-floored room barely maintained the semblance of an office. Behind the doma was a lattice door, and through its gaps, the kitchen could be seen. From the wooden-floored area, ascending one step, there appeared to be a tatami room in the back. When he requested to be shown in, a plump woman around forty emerged from the back. One eye glittered fiercely, staring fixedly off to the side. It appeared to be a glass eye. When he showed the postcard, she had him sit on a chair in the wooden-floored area, then opened the closet door and clattered up the staircase attached to it. No sooner had she gone up than she immediately came back down,

“Please go up to the second floor,” she said. As he tried to remove his slippers,

“Please keep them on. Take care of those feet now, you hear?” she said in a Kyoto accent. When he went up to the second floor, a man sitting cross-legged by the window-side desk—still wearing his yukata and scrawling with his pen—turned around and tucked the glass pen beside his ear. “Come over here, why don’t ya,” he said, gesturing to the wicker chair placed on the tatami. He was a small-statured man, terribly emaciated with a sickly pallor—a frail figure nearing sixty. The mustache he sported only accentuated his wretched appearance. His yukata hung open at the chest, revealing wrinkled skin where veins stood out prominently.

“I am the President,” he said, perching himself on the wicker chair and looking at Hyōichi with darting eyes. But he immediately averted his gaze. Hyōichi said, “I’m sorry to trouble you while you’re busy—” “Ach, I’m swamped enough as it is—downright troublesome,” replied the President. “Age catches up with ya, see? Just a bit o’ writin’ makes my head foggy an’ dizzy-like.” He wiped his brow with a stained sleeve. “Had two employees before—one quit ’cause of illness. The other’s been here ten years, out on sales now. Been editin’ all alone, but can’t keep up no more without help. That’s why I’m askin’ you. Whaddya say? You’ll do it for me, won’tcha?” His hiring might as well have been settled then.

“If it’s something I can manage…” “Nah—someone like you could handle it no problem.” “I hear you left Third Higher partway through?” “What a waste.” “Military service?” “Ah right—still eighteen, then?” After establishing work hours from nine to five, a monthly wage of forty-two yen, and an annual bonus equal to one month’s pay plus up to twenty percent extra, the President began expounding on the Japan Tatami Newspaper’s business achievements—but Hyōichi barely registered a word.

The next day at nine o’clock when he reported to work, he was abruptly made to write addresses on mailing bands. He wrote non-stop for three hours until noon. Not only did he have to write addresses for subscribers, but also those of competitors receiving free promotional copies, so the work progressed slowly. Each one...he had to include both "tatami shop" and "tatami"—the latter character’s many strokes made it excruciating. Gazing at the competitor directory printed densely in six-point type, he sighed repeatedly and glanced up at the wall clock again and again. By the time the noon siren sounded, he had written four hundred sheets.

Having written slightly more than his initial quota gave him a fleeting sense of accomplishment, but he immediately dismissed it as meaningless and felt disgusted with himself. "Why don’t you go have your lunch now?" When the president’s wife called from the inner room, Hyōichi stepped outside in relief. He walked to Katsuyama-dori 8-chome, ate a twelve-sen lunch among laborers at a diner, then collapsed like a corpse on a café bench. At one o’clock, he returned and resumed writing addresses on mailing bands. The afternoon sun beat through the window until sweat glistened on his forehead. His right hand throbbed as if it no longer belonged to him. Staring at the pink callus forming on his middle finger, he thought enduring this drudgery year-round would be unbearable.

(Is work really this painful?) he wondered in complete astonishment, continuing the monotonous task until three o'clock arrived and the president’s wife brought him tea. While greedily gulping it down, the President came downstairs from the second floor wearing nothing but a loincloth. “If this sun keeps blazing in like this, you won’t last, Mr. Mōri. I’ll put up a bamboo screen soon.—So how many address bands’ve you written?” “About six hundred sheets, I suppose.”

“My, you’re fast!” “Good as any seasoned merchant!” Thinking he was being praised, Hyōichi said with an ingratiating smile, “Writing address bands is no small feat, is it?”— “Starting tomorrow, I’ll have you do other work.” “Paying monthly wages just for address bands’d ruin us.” “Hire proper tradesmen, they’d do a thousand sheets cheap, y’know?”

Hyōichi felt sullen yet simultaneously relieved. After writing address bands all day until past five o'clock, he washed his hands in the kitchen and said, “Then I’ll take my leave.” He dragged himself home utterly spent.

When he awoke the next morning, the thought of having to work another full day filled him with dread. He remained sitting dazedly on his bed, and for some reason found himself recalling the faces of Kiyoko and Kaginoya’s Koma. When he arrived at work precisely at nine o'clock, he was made to organize the ledgers. When postal transfers arrived, he recorded the amount, name, and purpose in the deposit ledger; if it was a subscription fee, he noted the start date in the subscriber ledger; and if it was an advertisement fee, he entered that detail into a separate ledger. If it was an order for a single-volume book, they would prepare a parcel and take it to Nekomagawa Post Office. If a subscription had expired, they sent out a pre-printed reminder postcard. Each time, he entered the date and name into the reminder ledger along with whether there had been a response. He also had to write entries like “One one-and-a-half-sen stamp for reminder postcards” in the postage ledger and record “One-and-a-half-sen expenditure for reminders” in the expenditure ledger—each task requiring entries in three or four separate ledgers. Every time, he had to retrieve various stamps from the ink pad, leaving him flustered and overwhelmed.

Even for using a half-sen stamp, he had to make entries in various ledgers as if it were a government office, making the President’s miserly nature feel painfully personal and filling him with wretchedness. Once while flipping through the expenditure ledger, he noticed the words “employee salary payments.” When he checked carefully, he found that over three years, there had been only a three-yen raise. For some reason, Hyōichi’s face flushed red. That afternoon, when he mistakenly affixed a three-sen stamp to a postcard, the President spotted it and scolded him sharply: “What a blasted waste!” As he panicked and tried to peel it off, the President snapped, “Don’t go tearin’ it up now,” then carried the postcard to the kitchen, soaked it in a metal basin to loosen the stamp, returned, and growled, “Ya gotta be more careful.” “This here’s how ya peel stamps proper,” he said. Hyōichi couldn’t lift his head for a long while.

One morning, a week later, shortly after Hyōichi arrived at work, a man wearing something like a white medical coat over a white crepe shirt came in pushing a bicycle and looked up at the wall clock. “Ah, I’m five minutes late.” “This clock is slow, isn’t it?” As he said this, he puffed the dust off the desk behind Hyōichi and greeted him: “I’m Sonai, the sales manager. Pleased to meet you.” Hyōichi, flustered, turned around and bobbed his head in a bow. “I’ve been away on a business trip.” “I got back last night.”

Sonai was not yet past thirty, yet half of his head was bald. His egg-shaped face gleamed greasily, and he sported a small mustache. In a company with just a president and two employees, Hyōichi thought Sonai’s eagerness to flaunt the title of manager was written all over his face, but he didn’t find it particularly odd and maintained a stern expression, “It must have been tough with the heat.” He couldn’t help but think how servile he was being. “Nah—whether it was hot or not, it was truly unbearable,” he said in a nasal voice, pushing up his glasses. “Let’s give it all we’ve got. A ton of work’s piled up. Too damn busy to handle.”

He clattered open the desk drawers, flipped through ledgers, and made all manner of busy noises. “Mr. Mōri, are you putting stamps here?” When Hyōichi looked at the postcard Sonai had produced with those words, it was densely covered in small block-script characters. It looked so much like the work of a dutiful person; Hyōichi found himself impressed, marveling at how anyone could write with such patient diligence. Hyōichi recalled that Sonai had already been working there for over ten years and had only received a three-yen raise over three years.

Sonai worked continuously until noon without smoking a single cigarette, organizing ledgers and writing collection notices. When the noon siren sounded, he rode his bicycle to his nearby home for lunch, but when Hyōichi returned from the coffee shop, Sonai was already laying out the advertisement section with a ruler. Feeling Sonai’s gaze on his back, Hyōichi couldn’t allow himself to slack off. In the sweltering heat that seemed to stop time itself, as he spread out newspapers searching for clippings, drowsiness crept over him. At such moments he would find himself blankly staring at sections like the home and lifestyle pages, but upon suddenly sensing Sonai’s presence, he would hurriedly flip through the pages and instinctively grab the scissors. When he glanced back, Sonai was diligently using blotting paper to wipe away ink that had smudged next to the ruler—his work routine left no room for lapses.

The President was upstairs writing articles naked with brisk efficiency; his wife was in the back room doing needlework while dozing off or smoking, her vacant eyes fixed on the cat in her lap. Despite no one actually watching, Hyōichi was astonished that Sonai worked with such earnest dedication.

While the President and Sonai were away at the printing office for proofreading duties, Hyōichi was writing address bands when the President’s wife came out from the back room,

“Mr. Mōri,” she said. “I’m sorry to trouble you, but would you be so kind as to write this letter for me?” She explained that a letter had come from her friend working at a restaurant in Ōtsu asking about her recent circumstances and requested that he write a reply.

“How should I write it?” When Hyōichi asked, “I want ya to write down all these feelin’s that’ve been buildin’ up in my gut here—no, no, not just any old way—write ’em honest-like, just once.” And then she began recounting her life story in exhaustive detail. She had worked as a maid at a restaurant in Ōtsu but stepped into her position after the President’s former wife died two years prior. Of course theirs was no affair. It had been a proper arranged marriage through a matchmaker—what swayed her to marry this man over twenty years her senior was hearing how he’d saved fifty or sixty thousand yen running his newspaper these ten years, plus him having no children. The President was already past sixty—his remaining years would be few. But when she came expecting quick inheritance through greed’s lens, she found him still hale and hearty—stingy and jealous as ever. “Even if I could stomach that,” she said through gritted teeth not made of glass, “what I can’t abide is him refusing to register our marriage after all this time—and on Sonai’s say-so adopting some twelve-year-old brat as his own!” “That adopted child just happens to be Sonai’s nephew—once that old man kicks off, every yen’ll go straight to that boy with Sonai pulling strings as guardian!”

“We don’t get a single penny comin’ our way, I tell ya.” “Well now, I suppose that’s all well an’ good, but he still won’t let me handle a single penny o’ the household money as I please, I tell ya.” “An’ you—” The President’s wife narrowed her natural eye and said, “That Mr. Suga who stayed late t’other day—he drove ’im out claimin’ I was actin’ shady with ’im, but that ain’t nothin’ but pure green-eyed spite, I tell ya.” “I’m ready t’quit any day now, I tell ya.”

It was difficult to shape the President’s wife’s litany of grievances into a coherent letter. “I haven’t sent a reply for ages now, I tell ya.” “What’s the point of us bein’ in the word business if I can’t even write a single letter myself? It just won’t do.” “Please write it for me, will ya?” “Can’t ask anyone else, see?” As he wrestled with this request, Hyōichi suddenly grasped why Sonai worked with such dutifulness. The air grew oppressively heavy around him. He wanted to bolt immediately. Yet he couldn’t bring himself to act. After finishing the letter draft, he resumed writing address bands as before. Quitting meant having nowhere else to work. Hyōichi burned with shame at his own servility.

The next day’s newspaper had been printed, so they had to handle its distribution. Since it was an eight-page newspaper, first they stacked two sheets at a time to avoid mixing up the pages. Next, they folded them into a compact size. Then they would wrap address bands around them and apply glue. With four thousand copies needing to be dispatched by evening to meet the publication deadline, the president, his wife, Sonai, Sonai’s wife, and Hyōichi all pitched in. Hyōichi was tasked with folding newspapers, but creasing eight-page sheets precisely into compact sizes required considerable strength. Before he had folded even a hundred copies, the skin on his palms had rubbed raw. Hyōichi noticed the milk bottle placed by the window and decided to use it for making creases. This made things slightly easier. After folding a hundred copies, he would stack them on the floor, tilt them diagonally, and press the creases with a slipper. Stepping forward and back, Hyōichi stared vacantly up at the ceiling, his face contorted as if about to burst into tears.

Because it was division of labor, they couldn’t take even a moment’s rest. In the frantic busyness that left no room even for a yawn, Hyōichi—overwhelmed—suddenly recalled Chaplin’s *Modern Times*. (I thought I was a journalist, but this makes me no better than a laborer.) He barely consoled himself by clinging to the thought of the noon break. When the siren sounded, he would bolt to a coffee shop, gulp down cold coffee, and lie motionless on a chair with eyes shut tight. Yet when noon arrived, there was no respite. Stuffing bread into his mouth, he had to keep working.

“Go on, eat up.” Having to thank the president for every word made Hyōichi feel wretched. As always, the afternoon sun kept relentlessly streaming in. When sweat trickling from his brow ran along his eyelids, it almost seemed like tears were flowing. Hyōichi suddenly realized he’d been bellowing songs at the top of his lungs. He likely couldn’t have endured that mechanical labor otherwise—yet even so, he found his own animalistic shouting utterly contemptible.

His shoulder was abruptly jabbed. The sweet euphoria—as if his body were floating through the air—shattered abruptly, and suddenly everything before his eyes grew bright. While standing, he had apparently been dozing off. As his eyes snapped open, his hands reflexively kept folding the newspaper, but—“This ain’t no time for dozin’ off! Pull yourself together now!” With that, the President jabbed Hyōichi’s shoulder two or three more times. In an instant, Hyōichi’s mind thought of clattering the milk bottle down onto the desk, smashing it, and darting out of there.

(Even after being insulted like this—do I still want to work here?) It wasn’t simply that this was an unpleasant place to work. (I’ve been insulted here!) Hyōichi’s eyes glared fiercely for the first time in ages as he scanned the room. But the moment he suddenly noticed the president’s wife diligently applying glue to the address bands, that light vanished abruptly. It was because the association with the president’s wife’s disheveled hair brought his mother to mind. ("If I bolt from here now, I'll be unemployed again—and even then, could you really face Mother like nothing's wrong?") Hyōichi pressed down on the newspaper's crease with the milk bottle he was gripping. (If I think about Mother, I can’t just act on selfish whims.)

This thought that had suddenly surfaced in his mind was unexpected even to Hyōichi himself. He had never dreamed he could so easily dismiss the self-respect that should have supported his actions until now. “Well, I didn’t get much sleep last night—” Saying this, he was shocked to find himself laughing carelessly—heh-heh—at his own behavior. Even so, his face turned pale.

III

At the end of the month, he received his prorated monthly salary. When train fare and lunch expenses were deducted, hardly any amount remained. When the president handed him the pay envelope—a reused one labeled “Mr. Mōri” on the front—Hyōichi couldn’t help but feel a pang of humiliation. (Was this what I’d endured all that hardship for?) The thought overwhelmed him. (No—the salary was beside the point. Enduring and working—that’s my obligation now.) He comforted himself with that thought. However, when he returned home and showed it to his mother, the look on her face made him feel that all his efforts had finally been rewarded.

“Even a hot-tempered child like you—they still put up with you.” “That’s a blessin’.” Okiyo said that.

“Ain’t that the truth.” Hyōichi also said with a laugh in that Osaka dialect.

“Since you’re getting a salary now, how about having a suit made?” “Nah, don’t need to. This’ll do just fine.” Until now, he had been getting by with his higher school uniform, replacing only the buttons. By nature a man of vanity, he had keenly felt the shabbiness of his appearance, but he steeled himself against spending any unnecessary money at this juncture. But in the end, because his mother had persistently recommended it, he decided to have a suit made on an installment plan. When he fastened a subdued tie over his striped shirt and meticulously buttoned two of his jacket’s buttons, he looked every bit the proper salaryman. When he arrived at work drenched in sweat in that outfit, the president put on a surprised face and said, “Well, well.” The president was wearing only a loincloth.

Citing the heat, Hyōichi took off his jacket and slung it over his shoulder even during his commute. Only then was he spared the embarrassment of wearing the new suit. However, being clumsy, he couldn’t tie his necktie properly, so even while walking down the street, he kept fumbling with the knot. Therefore, anyone who took one look at him could easily tell he was either a fashionable man or someone wearing a suit 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 fixated on his suit in this manner. Whether riding trains or walking streets, his attention kept being drawn to people’s Western-style clothing. That is to say, he found himself scrutinizing only those older than himself—and even then, mostly just salarymen. (That man who looks like an office worker probably doesn’t lay his trousers under the futon when sleeping at night) and so on. Naturally, Hyōichi’s sensibilities gradually took on a prudent air befitting a company man. One could say it was just as well he didn’t linger before hatters’ display windows eyeing straw hats and such.

As dusk fell on his trudging walk home, he developed the habit of keeping his head lowered. "I'm exhausted—mentally and physically. "I'm exhausted—mentally and physically." Hyōichi muttered these words repeatedly as he walked. During his time at Third Higher School, his Chinese classics teacher had once told him, "You're degenerating both mentally and physically." He found himself recalling this statement without particular reason. Back then, they had been snickering in the classroom. That vitality no longer existed now.

He waited for Sundays with the desperation of someone swimming against a current. But there were times when Sundays coincided with shipping days. He would grow utterly despondent. Unable to take time off, he spent late nights folding newspapers before hauling them to the post office on a handcart. The next day, he lacked even the courage to ask for compensatory leave. After working fourteen days straight, when his day off finally came, he went to a manzai theater. Laughing uproariously at trifles only deepened his wretchedness. Come month's end—of all things—he'd wear an expression of furtive hope for a raise, making him more pitiful still. He'd even felt self-satisfaction at working diligently without complaint, and since his articles surpassed those of the president—a man with decades of experience—he couldn't help nursing fragile hopes. Yet this remained the same president who'd fly into fits over misplaced half-sen stamps. Far from granting raises, the man had reached such irritation over Hyōichi's wasteful use of manuscript paper that he now sought excuses to dock his pay instead.

(If I were to receive a measly one-yen raise out of pity and act foolishly happy about it, I’d rather never get a raise at all.) Though he told himself this, when he actually looked inside the pay envelope, he still felt somehow insulted and secretly seethed at the president. But what infuriated him even more was his own self for being this way. (Have you not become quite the vulgar person?)

Hyōichi was disappointed that he had become someone he could no longer forgive himself for being. He tried to think about why he had ended up this way, but couldn’t figure it out. From the very beginning, he had never experienced such a luxury as finding work interesting. It had been address band writing from the start. Therefore, every day became a succession of truly boring, listless days. There was nothing left for him to do but think about getting a raise. The unfortunate thing was that he had no colleagues. The company consisted of only three members—the president, Sonai, and himself—but Sonai had long since abandoned any hope of raises over ten years and now swelled with grander ambitions. In other words, no one else grew frantic over salary raises. Thus Hyōichi alone had unwittingly ended up that way. In a way, he had carved out his own path of independence.

(Not receiving even the slightest salary raise felt like being insulted.) If there had been someone around him who constantly thought about salary raises, he would not have made an issue of them at all.

Hyōichi had spent a full year and a half undeterred in his expectation of a salary raise. (If there’s no raise this time, I’ll quit here for sure)—after convincing himself of this, another half a year slipped by unnoticed. By now, Hyōichi utterly despised himself. Because every day was so unbearably dull, he began gathering articles for "A History of Japanese Tatami." Though he secretly thought that serializing it might even make the president acknowledge him, he at least refrained from allowing himself to expect a salary raise through such means.

Having been cast aside by his very self, he had become utterly like an old hand towel—a listless, withdrawn man. However, at twenty years old, he still retained enough youth to frequently despise himself. That was his sole remaining virtue. And then, one day, he finally let his youth have its say.

That day was a shipping day. Therefore, he was in a worse mood than usual. However, there was one pleasure: seeing the first installment of *A History of Japanese Tatami*, which he had painstakingly compiled, published in the paper. However, when he saw the printed version, it was nowhere to be found.

"Why won't you publish it?" Hyōichi felt too ashamed to actually voice this protest to the president. His face flushed as he restlessly looked away from the newspaper. (Was it rejected? Or held over for the next issue?) He was gloomily pondering this when someone from the printing office arrived carrying about a hundred copies they called "special editions." Looking through them, he found *A History of Japanese Tatami* printed under a conspicuously large headline. "So these 'special editions' exist," Hyōichi casually remarked to the president.

“Oh, we do.” The president said in a muttered voice while vigorously kneading paste in an aluminum basin, “Now this here’s a secret—” He explained that due to recent stricter press control regulations by the authorities—which made it impossible to arbitrarily increase advertisement columns—they had prepared special edition newspapers with reduced ads and expanded article columns for submission to censorship offices and government agencies. “You’ve done well, but could you take two copies of the special edition to the Tokkōka at the prefectural office?”

“Right now?” He reflexively said it—though his voice unmistakably carried anger. “Ah, yer goin’ right now?” “I refuse!” To put it grandly, his voice resonated with eighteen months of pent-up restraint. Hyōichi himself found it a voice he could be satisfied with. At least, he thought, it was a voice worthy of this resignation moment. The anger at his article being reduced to special edition filler further fueled his resolve. When he saw the president’s gaunt, wretched face, he did feel a twinge of pity—but faced with such injustice, there was no room for such sympathy now.

“Why’s that now?”

The president finally looked away from the paste, but upon seeing Hyōichi’s deathly pale face, he dashed upstairs with hurried footsteps. “Mr. Mōri, what’s wrong? Is your stomach hurting or something?” Sonai said in a startled voice but with deliberate slowness. Hyōichi did not respond. Because he was instantly considering whether he needed to immediately chase after the president upstairs and submit his resignation.

(If I dawdle and miss the timing, it'll be a disgrace.) Thinking this, Hyōichi was about to head upstairs when the president came down and handed him two tram tickets. (Absurd. Utterly absurd. That bastard actually thinks I'm refusing to go to the prefectural office to save on tram fare.) Thus, his resolve hardened further. "I must respectfully resign effective today." A relatively polite tone had emerged, and he felt pleased with himself.

“Why’s that?” “Out of nowhere—”

He couldn’t properly explain his reasons, and since he no longer wanted to stay there for even a moment more, he suddenly bolted outside without another word. When he closed the door, it made a rough, loud noise. He was suddenly struck by this. After walking two or three ken, when he turned around, he saw the shabby Nihon Tatami Newspaper signboard hanging under the eaves. That it was a grimy tenement house somehow pained his eyes. The unexpected feeling that he had trampled something underfoot tightened around his chest like a heavy weight. "For a full year and a half—hadn’t this at least saved me from unemployment?" he muttered weakly. After he resigned, images floated into his mind—the president’s wrinkled, thin chest and chipped glass pen—as the president would now have to edit alone while complaining of dizziness. For just an instant—(but that president had stockpiled fifty or sixty thousand yen through those dishonest means)—this thought made him feel lighter, and he walked toward the Katsuyama-dori 4-chome tram stop with chest puffed out, but soon his stride became deflated. He reached the tram stop but found himself unable to wait for the tram. With no particular purpose, he wandered aimlessly along the tram tracks. Though he walked briskly against the cold with hurried steps, he felt none of the taut resolve that should accompany having fought injustice.

The thought *I've finally become unemployed!* came chasing after him. Hyōichi finally boarded a westbound tram from Tennōji Nishimon-mae. But after passing just one stop, he had already reached the Ebisu-chō terminus. He got off without taking a transfer ticket and went to Shinsekai. While killing time watching moving pictures, night fell. After boarding the tram from Ebisuchō, getting off at the transfer point in Nipponbashi-suji 1-chome, and waiting for the tram to Tanimachi 9-chome, he suddenly changed his mind and turned his feet toward Sennichimae. Somehow, he didn't feel like waiting for the tram that would take him home. When he entered the grounds of Hōzenji Temple from Sennichimae, there was an abrupt dimness as if the ground had given way. The light from votive lanterns and oil lamps swayed as if drowsy. Hyōichi felt a darkly gloomy mood come over him.

When he exited the temple grounds, he found himself in an alley behind the theater district lined with rental halls. The dimness seemed to carry a forlorn ache in his chest. “Hey, hey, Mr. Yō!” someone called out, and he hurriedly passed through.

Ahead flowed a dazzling stream of light—Ebisubashi Street. The luminous current didn’t pour into this alley or the opposite one, like water frozen mid-course through a bamboo pipe. This brilliance seared Hyōichi’s heart. Within that radiance—more precisely, a woman standing before a haberdashery’s display window who had been peering inside—suddenly turned and met Hyōichi’s gaze. “Ah—” Voices escaped them simultaneously. Whether they truly cried out remained uncertain even in later recollection—a split-second event—but Hyōichi found himself rooted there, momentarily paralyzed. It was Kiyoko. To Hyōichi emerging from shadows, Kiyoko bathed in this luminous pool appeared unexpectedly beautiful. This realization struck his mind—

*(I'm unemployed now)*—the realization struck him abruptly. Because of this, Hyōichi became even more flustered. The fact that he had emerged from the alley lined with rental halls also flashed through his mind in an instant. Kiyoko immediately averted her gaze, stepped away from the display window, and began walking. That was when he first realized she had a companion. She had effortlessly adopted a completely clueless expression. (That's her husband,) Hyōichi realized instantly. He tried to get a look at what kind of face [the man] had, but since it was utterly ordinary, the impression remained unclear. In other words, Kiyoko's husband had the face of any commonplace young husband.

After walking two or three *ken*, Kiyoko suddenly turned around and stuck out her red tongue. Hyōichi’s self-respect was easily wounded. Just as he was about to timidly start following her—all too conscious of his own shabby appearance—he felt so infuriatingly vexed that he wanted to bite down on Kiyoko’s tongue; but since there seemed no way to actually do it, his frustration only grew more bitter. Hyōichi sneakily turned around and headed off in the opposite direction. The soles of his shoes were worn through, making a pitiable flapping sound.

However, Kiyoko herself was actually feeling ashamed. When Hyōichi’s face suddenly emerged from the shadows, Kiyoko found the pimply face of her husband standing beside her truly ugly. Indeed, Hyōichi still had a face like a girl’s. Because he looked so dejected, he appeared all the more lovely. Because his clothes were shabby, he was spared from appearing lecherous. Kiyoko somehow felt ashamed in front of Hyōichi. It wasn’t just her husband’s face. She had just been begging for a handbag when her husband rebuffed her with, "Our household is in disarray. It’s wasteful." Her husband worked at a government office, but his monthly salary still wasn’t enough to easily afford a handbag. That made Kiyoko secretly ashamed before Hyōichi. Moreover, that handbag cost a mere four yen and eighty sen—and yet she had sneaked away like a fugitive, but she thought that made her performance far too artless. She suddenly turned around. The moment she turned around, she stuck out her tongue. Borrowing a schoolgirl-like innocent gesture for an instant had been a spur-of-the-moment stroke of cleverness. That way, she thought she could somehow conceal the domestic shame. Moreover, Kiyoko had calculated that it would add a touch of coquetry. Therefore, to make it even more effective, she kept her tongue out for a long time. In other words, it was a wanton expression unbefitting her age.

However, Hyōichi could not comprehend such feelings of Kiyoko’s, and seeing her meticulously crafted expression, he found himself utterly overwhelmed. (Alright, no matter what happens, I must restore my wounded pride!) As he crossed Ebisubashi Bridge, Hyōichi tore off one of his jacket buttons. His mind had been in a state primed for agitation since morning. He abruptly turned back toward Namba. (I have a duty to strike Kiyoko’s face.) He entertained this barbaric thought. While waiting at the traffic signal along the tram route—(But surely I can’t hit her amid this crowd)—the light turned green. Striding across the intersection, he countered himself—(No—the commotion is precisely what’s necessary! It would make an impact—and require extraordinary courage.)

4 He dashed around Ebisubashi-suji for about half an hour but could not find Kiyoko. Because of that, he was relieved to have avoided the unpleasant task of striking the woman’s face in the crowd. But precisely because he had been so intensely worked up, a feeling of disappointment lingered—an inability to fully resign himself. Still clinging with futile attachment as he wandered around, he ended up entering a café with a vacant expression.

“Welcome.”

Startled by the harsh and shrill voice, he looked up to find five or six thickly made-up women’s faces turned toward him like masks under red electric lamps. "Could this be a café?" Hyōichi instinctively turned toward the entrance, but seeing the counter positioned at the doorway and all the women standing rigidly, it didn’t seem to be one. Yet even so, when he realized it was a coffee shop that felt just like a café, Hyōichi wanted to flee. At a time like this, sitting blankly in a dreary milk hall-style coffee shop would have been more fitting. But having carelessly stumbled into this place, he couldn’t very well slink away now—if they thought he was sketching caricatures or something, that would be intolerable. Listening irritably to the rumba, he took a seat in the corner.

The women were all wearing garish-colored evening dresses and, keeping time with the rumba, were sinuously shaking their hips. Seeing how they all moved without exception, he couldn’t tell whether it was under the manager’s orders. Some swayed with the clumsy hip motions of Yasugi-bushi folk dances, while others moved as artfully as revue girls. But in any case, their movements were utterly grotesque. Suddenly, he noticed all the women’s eyes fixed on him. Hyōichi, thinking they had detected where his own gaze had been directed, flushed crimson in an instant.

However, the women were looking at him precisely because he stood out so distinctly. He had entered in a manner one might walk into a casual eatery. Without exception, ordinary men would always enter with some affectation. Those who deliberately composed a soberly nonchalant expression were among the more restrained; it was common to see others stepping in rhythm with the record as they took their seats. About six out of ten men would touch their hats or adjust their neckties. Groups of friends typically entered while carrying on conspicuously loud conversations, or when one spotted seats near where the women stood, the others would follow with stifled snickers. Out of ten men, four who knew the women would enter while asking, "Hasn't that guy arrived yet?" Four others entered in silence, fixing intense glares on faces as they came in. The remaining two wouldn't sit until told, "Please take this seat."

Given that things were generally like this, it was rare for someone like Hyōichi to wander in without any pretense, as casually as entering his regular diner. In truth, even Hyōichi—who was by nature a poseur—had lost the mental resolve to put on airs the moment he entered there. So, he attracted considerable attention. Moreover, he was handsome. In other words, to put it in their terms, he was peculiar in his own way.

A woman with penciled-in eyebrows and slender eyes approached Hyōichi’s table. “Your button’s come off,” she said, touching Hyōichi’s jacket. She too wouldn’t have been so forward had Hyōichi not blushed. Generally, young and handsome men are pale-faced, fixing their gaze intently. In other words, if they had even a hint of thuggishness about them, they would generally be avoided. Hyōichi was surprised and looked at his jacket. Both buttons had come off. He remembered tearing off one on Ebisubashi Bridge and throwing it away, but couldn’t recall where the other had been lost.

“You should have your lover fix it. How unsightly.” She seemed on the verge of adding “I’ll do it for you,” but Hyōichi wasn’t worldly enough to recognize such a look. “As if I have a lover.” He nearly spat the words out before swallowing them hard. The thought of Kiyoko had flickered through his mind. Not having a lover felt shameful in this moment. The missing buttons made him look like some unemployed drifter. Worse still—those gaping buttonholes proved he couldn’t even afford an overcoat in this bitter cold!

(Alright, I'll make this woman my lover.) He abruptly resolved to do just that. He couldn't stand being told he was unsightly. And she was using Tokyo dialect! "How did they come off?" The woman kept touching his jacket. The perfume smell stung his nose. Hyōichi grimaced. "(Going over my clothes like some pawnshop lackey...)" Hyōichi's resolve grew even firmer. He resentfully recalled being forced to go to the pawnshop every day. Following that, various miserable events from the past came flooding into his head one after another.

(How amusing—for someone as wretched as me to make this woman my lover before everyone's eyes.) As compensation for not being able to strike Kiyoko's face, this would be more than worthwhile—Hyōichi felt conviction burning in his chest. But what exactly constituted demonstrating her as his lover before everyone's eyes? Hyōichi had no idea. Suddenly, a brazen notion came to him—something that would make his own face flush crimson. Yet try as he might, he couldn't bring himself to act on it. Far from taking action, his body began stiffening when he merely attempted to speak.

(This won't do!) (Alright, I'll seize this woman's hand before I finish counting to a hundred) he told himself. The fact that he thought "seize" rather than "grasp" was quintessentially Hyōichi.

“Hey?” “Where do you live?”

Hyōichi did not respond. It was because he had started counting: one, two… (Five, six... ten, fifteen... twenty...) Suddenly, a ball made of crumpled cigarette foil came flying and struck Hyōichi’s shoulder. (Twenty-seven, twenty-eight... Who did that?) (Twenty-nine, thirty...) Hyōichi glared sharply around the room. He locked eyes with a young man. Instinctively glaring back, Hyōichi,

He thought, That guy seems interested in this woman. The man also fixed his gaze intently and glared back. The woman quickly noticed the state of the two men and, “Cut it out. That guy’s a delinquent.” She said close to Hyōichi’s ear. Upon hearing “delinquent,” Hyōichi’s eyes took on an even fiercer intensity. He had glared too intensely, tears threatening to spill, so he hurriedly rubbed his eyes and glared back once more. (Alright, I’ll seize this woman’s hand right in front of that man!) Then I’ll jump at that man! Oh, I forgot to keep counting. I’ll jump straight to fifty... Fifty-one, fifty-two...

Hyōichi’s face grew increasingly pale. In time with the rumba’s brisk tempo, his counting grew faster. (Count to a hundred—if you can’t do this now, you’re finished! You'll spend your entire life being scorned by others! Is that still acceptable? Your mother was humiliated!) When he realized there was no turning back, Hyōichi gradually began to feel suffocated. The man who had thrown the cigarette foil looked as if he was about to lunge.

(Sixty-two... sixty-three... sixty-seven... sixty-eight...) Hyōichi listened fiercely to the pounding in his chest． He had never held a woman’s hand before． (Seventy... seventy-one... seventy-two... seventy-five...) As he thought about being rebuffed before，his courage gradually began crumbling． Abruptly，Hyōichi started counting aloud． (Seventy-six... seventy-seven... seventy-eight...) The woman stared aghast． (Is this man deranged？)

Hyōichi no longer even glanced at that woman’s face. He was now only glaring fixedly at the man’s face. “Seventy-nine, eighty, eighty-one...” The rumba’s clamor nearly drowned out Hyōichi’s voice. But Hyōichi’s crimson ears continued to grapple with his own voice. “Eighty-one… eighty-two… eighty-three…” “Welcome.” “One coffee.” “Thank you very much.” “One tea.” Amid the din, Hyōichi’s voice trembled eerily.

"Eighty-four, eighty-five, eighty-six…" In the thick cigarette smoke stained red by colored bulbs' light, Hyōichi's eyes shone white. "Eighty-seven… eighty-eight… eighty-nine…"

Part Two: The Paradox of Youth

Chapter 1

I

“…Ninety… ninety-one… ninety-two… ninety-three…” Calling out numbers like a roll-call official, Hyōichi kept counting. He trembled. His voice trembled too. The usual Hyōichi would have found this version of himself utterly unforgivable. Never under any circumstances should one’s voice quiver. That was his code. Displaying uncontrolled excitement had always been classified as disgraceful behavior. First of all, even speaking aloud in this situation violated protocol. The idea of holding a woman’s hand while counting to a hundred wasn’t particularly brilliant—but regardless, if one must count numbers, they should do so silently. To vocalize like some base animal was bad enough; for that voice to tremble defied all propriety.

However, Hyōichi, swept up in his frenzy, had no capacity left to notice such things. Not so much as a shred of composure remained—the kind you might scoop up with an earpick. He had become so agitated that he no longer feared his own agitation.

“…ninety-four… ninety-five…” He was still emitting that repulsive voice.

“…ninety-six… ninety-seven…” When he thought three more would make a hundred, he felt nothing but pathetic. When he reached a hundred, he would have to grab the woman’s hand. Compared to this deathly torment, being unemployed a hundred times over seemed preferable. First of all, Hyōichi had never once held any woman’s hand. He was a man who grew flustered even shaking hands with friends. To abruptly seize the hand of a woman he’d just met—by any measure, this was recklessness. Moreover, Hyōichi sat while the woman stood. He couldn’t stealthily grasp it from the shadows. This unfolded before everyone’s eyes. Even if he grabbed her hand amid the commotion, at least those two eyes wouldn’t miss it. Two eyes glaring fixedly this way as if challenging—the man who had crumpled and tossed a cigarette’s silver wrapper. But what Hyōichi feared more than anything was her rejecting him if he tried to take her hand.

"If she were to cry 'Disgusting man!' and flee," he thought, "he would first have to endure the torment of wounded pride for some time." No—being fled from would have been better. If she were to let out an 'Eek!' or something like that, he wouldn't be able to face it at all. Moreover, that possibility seemed utterly boundless. Hyōichi believed the woman wasn't showing him any particular favor. If anything, there were signs she despised him. A man who'd slipped into a café unbefitting his station without even an overcoat in the winter sky surely deserved nothing but contempt! To make matters worse, she spoke in crisp Tokyo dialect.

That was precisely why there was value in gripping it—Hyōichi now thoroughly regretted the self that had come up with such an odd notion. But he was in too deep now. If he couldn’t carry this out, he’d be better off dead—Hyōichi roused himself with a feeling of lashing his quailing heart into submission. Naturally, his voice escaped him.

“…ninety-eight…” Two more. “Trying to furtively grasp it under some pretense like ‘Let me read your palm’ won’t do,” Hyōichi urgently told himself. “…ninety-nine…”

There’s no such thing as ninety-nine point five. He was drenched in sweat. It was one second.

"A hundred!"

Hyōichi reached out his hand in a frenzy. And he grabbed the woman’s hand. Her hand tried to pull back. Hyōichi panicked and tightened his grip. The woman’s palm, unlike her face, was rough. Yet it still held the warmth characteristic of a young woman. In that instant, Hyōichi felt it. The woman’s hand suddenly tensed with force. He felt that too. Yet Hyōichi hadn’t properly looked at the woman’s face. Had he looked, he would have found it tiresome. For the woman wore quite a blank expression from sheer surprise. But this too was Hyōichi’s doing. Even if abruptly grabbing her hand was permissible—his execution resembled crude grasping rather than any delicate hold. Even a drunk would factor in his target being female. At least when seizing it initially, no ominous bone-cracking sounds emerged. But Hyōichi grew intoxicated with triumph. (I’ve claimed this woman before everyone’s eyes!)

Once he fulfilled his obligation, Hyōichi abruptly released the woman’s hand—now that it served no further purpose. Though trivial, Hyōichi found his desire to possess a woman satisfied through this simple act. For a twenty-year-old, it suggested an unusual lack of appetite. Having discharged the duty of hand-holding, there remained nothing more to do—no reason to meet again—all ending with the abrupt finality of insects mating. Of course, had Hyōichi seen her face then, he might have realized unfinished business lingered. ——The woman’s cheeks puffed out in a pout. By releasing her hand too quickly, he’d made her feel mocked. Had he witnessed that dissatisfied expression—true to form—Hyōichi would have misread it as rejection and resolved to seize her hand anew. ——Yet through fortuitous oversight, he avoided such futility.

Because the man who had thrown the silver paper ball suddenly came up beside them. Before the man’s hand could push her away, the woman had already stepped away from his side. At that moment, as if on purpose, the rumba music stopped. There was a brief interval before the record was changed.

“This here’s our first meetin’ today, I do declare...” Sure enough, he came at me with an affected gangster’s greeting full of bluster. It was a nasal voice. “Though I’m but a young punk borrowin’ a sliver o’ shade ’neath your eaves, I’ll trouble ya for a gangster’s greetin’—beggin’ your pardon for the imposition...” And so the man rattled on in an unfamiliar cadence, but when the electric phonograph started up again, his words became indistinct. The song was “Red Wings.”

Hyōichi felt pleased at his unexpected composure. “Get outside!” The man spoke in an unpleasant, peculiar Osaka accent. This command Hyōichi didn’t fail to hear. To have missed it would mean disgrace. He seized the bill and rose to his feet.

When he paid the bill and stepped outside, the man was waiting, sniffling incessantly. He seemed to have sinusitis. (What a listless hoodlum you are.) Hyōichi felt like mocking him. The man folded the tissue he’d used to blow his nose into a small square and tucked it into his sleeve. Sniffling repeatedly, he said, “Follow me.” Hyōichi nodded silently.

The man started walking down Mido-suji toward Namba. The man’s outfit—a sloppily draped kimono with a vividly tie-dyed heko obi sash tied loosely over it—gave him the air of a cheap hoodlum, but with each step he took, the knot swaying above his buttocks made Hyōichi, watching from behind, suddenly find the sight absurdly comical. His buttocks were as large as a woman’s.

The man turned from Mido-suji toward Nankai-dori and walked on. Walking in silence, Hyōichi was frustrated that, for some reason, he didn’t feel the least bit tense.

The man turned around. And then, “Get over here!” the man spat out.

They went into the narrow alley alongside the manzai theater on Nankai-dori. It was too narrow for two people to walk abreast. When they reached behind Yayoi-za, the man halted. He blew his nose. Having finished that, he spoke in a wheedling tone.

“Hey! You didn’t even try to run off and followed me all proper-like, huh? Got some nerve there.” “Is that so?” Hyōichi spoke with the affectation of a middle-aged man. The man paused briefly before continuing: “Don’t know if it’s guts or what, but keep actin’ cocky like that and I ain’t havin’ it! Listen up—you think ’cause you fancy yourself some ladies’ man, you can paw at another’s daughter and walk away? Who d’you think I am? When they say ‘Katsu of Dōtonbori,’ I ain’t some half-baked skirt-chaser like you! Well? What’s your move? Show me your face!”

However, there was a momentary pause before Katsu of Dōtonbori's hand shot out. Because of this delay, Hyōichi had grown thoroughly impatient, so when Katsu of Dōtonbori's fist finally came flying at him, he felt like he'd been waiting for it all along.

“I’ve been waiting for this!”

The moment the curtain rose for the revue "The Willow of Ginza" on Yayoi-za's stage, shrill voices 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 to perform the Charleston at the front of the stage. But in reality, Higashi Ginko was the flat-chested girl listlessly lifting her slender legs among the numerous dancers crowded in the back row's corner. “Hang in there, Gin-chan!”

Looking up toward the voice, Ginko—ah, it's Mr. Kitayama—shifted her hand on her hip as tears suddenly threatened to fall. When had he slipped in? The one calling Ginko’s name repeatedly from the second-floor seats was none other than Kitayama from the literary department. It was a common occurrence among dubious revue troupes around Showa …; in the Piero Girls troupe, most dancers were made into women the moment they joined. Each time this happened, Kitayama from the literary department would claim to feel the pathos of things and proceed to get dead drunk.

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

“Don’t you dare lay hands on this girl!” he barked in an uncharacteristically threatening tone. “So old Bacchus here plans to munch raw radish with his awamori now?” Kitayama wasn’t called “sensei” by anyone—they all knew him as “Bacchus’s master.” Though only thirty-five or thirty-six, his hair had gone completely bald from years of drinking Denki Bran in Asakusa and awamori after drifting to Sennichimae, making him look decades older. “Bastards! This shack reeks enough of piss without you adding to it!”

Even so, when rumors soon arose that "Old Man Kitayama was devoting himself to a Platonic love with Higashi Ginko," Kitayama himself made no effort to deny them. He had come to believe that letting people think this way would help protect Ginko—in other words, even Kitayama had reached a point where he found himself unable to refute those rumors. Every night when the theater closed, he would take Ginko to the Kimuraya café on Nankai-dori. Ginko, "I don’t like Mr. Kitayama because he drinks alcohol."

Her words left Kitayama crestfallen. According to rumors, Kitayama—a man of upright character who had never done such a thing with any actress before—had apparently been unable to bear it during a stage rehearsal and deliberately taken Ginko backstage, where he kept his hand on her head for a long time. Ginko apparently disliked this a great deal. Kitayama had completely lost face. However, thanks to such rumors and also thanks to his never taking his eyes off Ginko’s surroundings, she had somehow managed to remain unharmed this past month.

However, during last night’s all-night stage rehearsal, Kitayama had uncharacteristically succumbed to awamori and collapsed in the precincts of Konpira Shrine in Sennichimae. In that moment of opportunity, Ginko was made a woman by someone. Upon learning this, Kitayama became reckless, drank himself into a stupor starting first thing in the morning, then staggered into the second-floor seats where he began bellowing Ginko’s name repeatedly. While raising her legs up to her head, Ginko felt as if her body were shrinking.

“Gin-chan, hang in there! Hang in there!” Kitayama stood up and began dancing in time with Ginko’s movements, his gestures growing peculiar. A roar of laughter erupted. The spectators became more engrossed in the second-floor spectacle than the stage performance. Dancing to jazz, indulging in liqueur, At dawn falls the dancer’s rain of tears. Kitayama started singing in a hoarse voice. The dancers burst into giggles. Yet Ginko couldn’t bring herself to laugh. When the dance ended, she rushed backstage and slumped by the window. She lacked even the will to change into her next costume. Pressing her tearless face against the glass,

“Gin-chan, what are you doing?” The dancer who had approached suddenly looked toward the roadside and said, “Oh, someone’s collapsed over there.” “Gin-chan, look at that!”

Ginko suddenly let out a cry like a child, “Everyone, come look!” “Someone’s collapsed over there!”

They crowded noisily toward the window. “Honestly... You think it’s a fight?”

Hyōichi dejectedly stood up and slunk away from the roadside. Masaru of Dōtonbori had long since vanished from sight.

II

Under the dim electric light, Okiyo was sewing. The sounds of the tram climbing Shimoderamachi’s slope and geta clattering past outside grew sharp with frosty clarity, making the night suddenly feel deeper. As she threaded her needle, Okiyo thought about how late Hyōichi was returning. He sometimes came home late from night work, but never this late before. She hadn’t been particularly worried, yet hearing a dog’s distant howl made her picture the cold outside. Nozoe’s stinginess meant only a meager amount of charcoal burned in the brazier, but even so, the house retained some residual warmth.

Yasujirō hunched his back into a stoop, busily clicking the abacus. Nothing was as joyful to him as when he clicked the abacus. But when it came to calculating the principal and interest on the money he had lent his wife, he felt an almost unbearable thrill. He hadn’t noticed the night deepening. However, after calculating repeatedly, Yasujirō went "Huh?" and grew uneasy. Yasujirō had been siphoning off not only Okiyo’s sewing wages but also a portion of the monthly salary Hyōichi gave her. According to an honest calculation, he had not only taken everything he was entitled to, but had actually overcharged. Yasujirō panicked. Taking anything more from Okiyo’s hands now would be ill-gotten gains. Even I myself had imposed such shamelessly high interest rates, yet to think it had already been fully repaid—what was this? It was endlessly regrettable. Yasujirō doubted his own calculations. Once again, he timidly tried calculating. It came out the same. In the end, whether it was ill-gotten gains or not, Yasujirō resolved that he had no choice but to deceive and take. However, even if he could deceive Okiyo, Hyōichi’s eyes were maddeningly sharp.

“It’s gotten bitterly cold, hasn’t it? Should I add more charcoal?” Okiyo said. “What’re you talkin’ about? Wasteful! You got any idea what a bale o’ charcoal costs nowadays?” Nozoe used an electric kotatsu due to his hemorrhoids. The electricity bills alone were no trifle. A burning pain gnawed at his backside when he considered it—how could anyone casually burn through pricey charcoal that’d just turn to ash? When it’s cold she piles on charcoal like mad, when it’s hot she splashes about bathing like mad—to begin with, this woman’s damn extravagance is beyond belief.

When taking her traditional cold bath, Okiyo still splashed water over herself multiple times. When water splashed over her pale body steaming from the bath, her taut form would stand erect—Yasujirō had often been enraptured by that alluring sight, yet when he thought of the water being consumed, his heart ached. Water was one thing, but when it came to charcoal, it was like burning banknotes. The faint, flushed warmth of Okiyo’s skin provided some solace to Yasujirō’s despondent heart. It was because he could somehow endure the winter cold without a kotatsu. With age, his feet prickled with cold, but wearing tabi socks to bed made it somewhat bearable.

(But that brat’s young body could indulge in the luxury of a kotatsu!) Nozoe abruptly remembered Hyōichi out of nowhere. (It’s only charcoal briquette money—but I won’t be made a fool of!) After mentally calculating how much it would amount to each month and thinking “This was no trivial amount,” suddenly a brilliant idea flashed into Yasujirō’s head. He would make Hyōichi pay for the charcoal briquettes. Yasujirō cursed his own carelessness for having been so preoccupied with the money spent thus far that he hadn’t thought to charge them the “actual costs.”

Yasujirō pulled out the abacus once more. First, he entered the charcoal briquette costs as several tens of sen. Without a moment’s pause came the water bill at several tens of sen, then the electricity bill as so many yen and tens of sen... Yasujirō grinned slyly. There were endless actual costs he could charge. Food expenses amounted to so many yen and tens of sen, room fees to so many yen and tens of sen—beginning this month, he would make Hyōichi pay so many tens of yen and tens of sen, the abacus beads clattering with vigor. The sum was so exorbitant it dazzled even him. Finding it unbearable to start collecting from this month alone, Yasujirō concluded after much deliberation that he should demand child-rearing costs dating back to Hyōichi’s infancy. Yet even Yasujirō thought this too cruel. He decided to concede—collecting only from when Hyōichi began receiving his salary—ultimately settling on this “compromise.” It was a meager concession. Instead, he resolved to apply interest to all arrears.

Yasujirō was so overwhelmed by his own happiness that he lost all sense of self,

“Okiyo!” he called out involuntarily to his wife. But having nothing new to say, he quickly devised a task to give her. “Did you unplug the electric kotatsu?” If he stood to unplug it himself, he’d have to move his buttocks from the zabuton’s warmth. That was too precious to lose. “All done.” Okiyo rose and unplugged the cord. Gradually, the zabuton’s warmth faded. When it turned completely cold, Yasujirō finally lifted his hips. The moment he did, his hemorrhoid pain flared.

“Ah, ow, ow, ah, OW!” Walking toward the bedding in a musty half-crouch with his buttocks thrust out, Yasujirō—

"(No matter what anyone says, I'll make Hyōichi pay the boarding fees!)" he resolved with determination. "I won’t let anyone say I don’t have the right! That’s right. I’m his parent. As a parent, I have every right!" Yasujirō had always considered Hyōichi purely as a debtor, having in fact carelessly overlooked that Hyōichi was his son. "If you’re a parent, taking your son’s earnings is only natural. Ow, ow! That guy’s a full salaried worker now—he’s gotta pay boarding fees to his father. He should at least know that much. He went all the way to high school—if he doesn’t know even that, then the school’s policies must be rotten!"

Yasujirō swelled with paternal pride at Hyōichi now being a full-fledged salaried worker. Just then, dejected footsteps sounded outside as Hyōichi—who had lost his job that very day—returned home. Tormented by the humiliation of being knocked down by Katsu in Dotonbori, he wandered aimlessly through the late-night streets until the hour neared midnight.

Hyōichi saw Yasujirō in his nightclothes and suddenly felt his chest tighten. The sight of his mother folding Yasujirō’s kimono pained his eyes.

“What’s wrong? You’re awfully late.” “You’re awfully late, aren’t you?” Okiyo had spoken, but Hyōichi offered no reply and briskly went up to the second floor. Of course, he didn’t offer even a single greeting to Yasujirō either. Okiyo suddenly felt adrift toward this version of Hyōichi, but she didn’t dwell on it—merely thinking to herself, *What a quiet boy he’s become*—and let it pass. Yet seeing his hunched back retreating into the cold, (I’ve gotta get him an overcoat.)

Okiyo felt a slight regret for having handed over her sewing wages exactly as Yasujirō had demanded these past days. (I need to secretly save up money.) Rolling her beautiful eyes behind long eyelashes, she pictured the one-yen bills and fifty-sen coins she would hide in the sewing box drawer. (How much does an overcoat cost, I wonder?) However, because Yasujirō called out to her, Okiyo had to abandon that train of thought. And the kotatsu turned white.

Hyōichi was letting out a long yawn upstairs. Even he felt pathetic seeing himself emit a hollow, listless yawn, and he roughly tore off his Western clothes. Then he burrowed into the futon. The kotatsu had been prepared. Suddenly warmth traveled from his feet to his eyes. At that instant, regret smoldered through him for not uttering a single word in reply to his mother. The excuse that he'd kept silent deliberately to avoid appearing unemployed now rang hollow. In truth, he simply hadn't felt like speaking without reason. This wasn't new. Hyōichi had long cultivated this habit of avoiding speech around Yasujirō when near his mother—a behavior he secretly regretted yet found himself powerless to change. Each time he'd think how inexcusable it was, how inexcusable—but never before had it gripped his chest so tightly as tonight. Was his resolve weakening? Hyōichi felt tears sting and pool in his nostrils.

Looking back, Hyōichi had truly been miserable enough to weep today. However, even so, shedding tears in secret was—by Hyōichi’s usual principles—an act of utter lack of discipline. Such faltering of spirit was something he should have long forbidden himself from allowing. However, even Hyōichi completely lost his mental fortitude the moment he saw his mother’s face, and the reality of his unemployment pierced him like a needle. The unemployment that should have been a spirited act in both his own and others’ eyes had suddenly turned wretched.

When he realized it was his mother who had set it up, the kotatsu’s warmth felt painfully intense, and Hyōichi involuntarily— “I’ve really gone and done it now. I’ve gone and lost my job. I’m so terribly sorry.” He muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. Utterly dejected and seeing that no one was watching, Hyōichi carelessly let his tears flow until his remorse took on a strangely animalistic quality, and he began rhythmically knocking his head. However, that motion suddenly made him recall being struck down by Katsu in Dotonbori. Then, for the first time, Hyōichi became resolute. When he hurriedly wiped his tears, he suddenly took on a ferocious expression as he remembered his own pitiful figure collapsed in the back alley behind Yayoi-za.

In the morning, Yasujirō waited for Hyōichi to get up and come down,

“So, Hyōichi.” Unusually, he initiated the conversation himself.

“Well, y’see…”

There was no need to transcribe what followed here. Hyōichi's response had been brutally simple.

“Fine. Take as much as you want. If you prefer, I’ll have you send an invoice at month’s end.” Still, his voice trembled. But having landed on the apt term “invoice,” Hyōichi’s agitation subsided somewhat. Yet Yasujirō looked ready to leap for joy at hearing “invoice.” Having never expected the matter to settle so simply without conflict, he even felt a twinge of unease at how smoothly it had gone.

When the "business discussion" concluded, Hyōichi left the house briskly with his usual pretense of heading off to Nihon Tatami Newspaper. However, when Hyōichi returned in the evening, he remained nothing more than the same unemployed man as the day before.

III

A bitter wind swept across the frozen road. Hyōichi wandered vainly from town to town searching for work, shivering and hunched over in dejection. From the perspective of 1941 common sense, this would have been unthinkable, but at that time it was truly an age of unemployment—so much so that newspapers ran photo spreads about university graduates reduced to opening wastepaper shops when they couldn't make ends meet. Take for instance one day when "Society Section Trainee Reporter: One Position Open," "Applicants must bring resumes to main office reception by 9:00 a.m. today." "Pencils required. Tōyō Shinpō"

On the morning such a three-line advertisement appeared in the newspaper, when Hyōichi arrived at Tōyō Shinpō’s red brick building in Kitahama 3-chōme an hour earlier than the appointed time, he found a crowd already forming a line stretching an entire block—as if some calamity had occurred. They were hiring just one person, yet this crowd of unemployed—what a sight it was. But before Hyōichi could engage in any profound reflection on the state of society as if it were his own concern, he felt something shameful and humiliating about joining that line. He seriously considered turning back, but if he let this opportunity slip, there likely wouldn’t be any job openings for some time. Amidst the confusion, he dejectedly lined up at the back of the queue.

Made to wait meaninglessly, the line remained completely still for about an hour. Unable to endure the cold and anxiety, people kept stomping their feet incessantly. Finally past nine o'clock it began moving, but progressed so slowly one could only take shuffling steps. According to the "information" being relayed from the front, they were first inspecting each resume individually, and only those who passed would immediately take a written exam afterward. Some were spreading word that those with academic backgrounds at or below middle school graduation level were apparently being rejected outright. "So I should've at least graduated middle school after all," Hyōichi muttered in a tone that was hardly admirable.

About a hundred people remained for the written exam. Hyōichi was one of them. When they were herded into the third-floor lecture hall, Hyōichi purposely took a seat in the very back row near the exit—an efficient arrangement allowing him to bolt mid-exam when irritation overwhelmed him. After taking his seat, he waited thirty minutes with growing agitation. ("They’re definitely going to ask how many steps were on that staircase we climbed.") Having already abandoned hope for success, Hyōichi dwelled on this notion out of sheer frustration, which only intensified his irritation. ("Maybe I’ll just write 'step count' as my answer.") But since he’d taken two steps at a time in places, expecting accuracy seemed futile—right? (Heh, heh!) This petty defiance offered slight comfort.

Before long, a tall gaunt man entered while running his hands through his long disheveled hair and stood on the platform.

“I’m terribly sorry to have kept you waiting. “Ahem—you see, the man in charge of today’s written exam has suddenly vanished. We thought maybe he went out for tea or something and have been searching all the likely places, but we’re completely at a loss as to where he’s run off to. Therefore, I’ve taken it upon myself to act as his substitute for the time being.” Laughter arose, but soon ceased. “Well—given the circumstances, we’ve kept you waiting so long, and for that I’m deeply sorry.”

At that moment, the attendant hurriedly entered and whispered something to the man on the platform. “Ahem—it seems we’ve received a call from the man just now.” “It appears he has gone out for a meal at what seems to be a rather time-consuming establishment, so he won’t be returning anytime soon—he’s asking someone to take over for him.” “In any case, there’s no problem with me serving as substitute.”

Hyōichi briefly considered whether he should be angry at this farcical "speech." However, since the man’s impression—squinting behind glasses that seemed about to slip off—wasn’t all that bad, Hyōichi didn’t bother getting up from his seat.

“The attendant will now distribute the exam papers. “Please write your answers in the blank space. “There’s no time limit. “But if you lot take till evening, I’ll be in a real bind. “Once you’re done, bring your answers here. “Then you can go home. “Results will follow—” He cut himself off and barked at the attendant, “Hey, that’s right yeah?” The attendant nodded. “—Results will be sent out later. “Ahem—and feel free to smoke.”

Hyōichi was smoking his third cigarette. The exam papers were distributed. 1. Essay: "On the Mission of Newspapers" 2. Explain the terms on the left. Lumpen Chamber music A la mode Platon

Such were the questions. The sound of exam papers being turned sideways to read the Western text rustled softly. The man sitting next to Hyōichi, who had been continuously sharpening his pencil, stared at the questions for a while before suddenly standing up,

“Hey, you’d be better off going home.” “Even if they’re only hiring one person, there’s no point taking a test you can’t even pass.” He said it loud enough for Hyōichi to hear, then slipped out furtively. Then, as if following his example, three more left.

Hyōichi found himself oddly fixated on staying to write his answers. He felt vaguely apologetic toward those who had left. But if he left now, he feared being seen as someone incapable of writing answers, so he barely managed to keep his seat. As he wrote, the faces of Kagome from Kaginoya, Kiyoko, and the coffee shop woman unexpectedly flooded his mind with sweet tenderness. The lecture hall air felt that suffocating to him. Unable to sit still another moment, Hyōichi scrawled his answers like a runaway horse and submitted them in an instant. Of course he didn’t reread them. Even if they hired one of two candidates, he knew he’d be rejected—he’d completely abandoned any hope of becoming a journalist. Yet submitting so quickly would ironically prove advantageous for Hyōichi.

It was rather pitiable for the exam proctor on the platform who had patiently waited until all submissions were made, but according to the Editor-in-Chief’s policy, only the first ten submitted answers had been predetermined for grading. The exam papers submitted afterward were all thrown into the wastebasket as a single stack. No matter how well-crafted an answer might be, the Editor-in-Chief maintained that anyone taking too long to write it was disqualified as a newspaper journalist. The first requirement for a newspaper journalist, he argued, was writing speed—those who laboriously obsessed over their prose or moved too slowly were deemed unfit.

Now, as for those ten exam papers, the majority were poorly done.

The Editor-in-Chief kept bursting into laughter as he reviewed the exam papers. The Deputy Editor-in-Chief had been specially summoned to his superior's office. "Here's a masterpiece—listen to this! "They've gone and translated 'Lumpen' as 'alloy pen'!" "They must've put considerable thought into that one."

“Here’s another one. Still the same guy. Platon’s the name of an ink brand, he claims!” “The part where they used stationery terms to explain it shows real effort. Any more? Here’s another gem—” “They’re saying chamber music means mahjong!” “Now that’s rich! Well, mahjong does make noise indoors!” “They must’ve thought it meant indoor entertainment.” “There must be a gem in ‘A la mode’ too, eh?”

“There’s another gem here. This one translates it as ‘menu’.” “Ah yes, yes—what do you make of this? ‘Mōde’s Prayer’?” “It’d be a shame to make him a newspaper reporter.” “We ought to have Yoshimoto Kogyo take him on instead. That’d be better.”

In the end, Hyōichi's exam paper proved to be the best. For instance, his explanation of "Lumpen" read: "'Lumpen' in German denotes 'scraps' or 'rags,' extending metaphorically to vagrants squirming at society's lowest stratum. In Japan it refers to the unemployed. However, since 'Lumpen' properly applies only to those lacking work ethic, the unemployed gathered in this lecture hall cannot be called Lumpen"—an exemplary answer even the Editor-in-Chief himself couldn't have composed. Moreover, it carried a sardonic wit. His submission had also been first. An interview notice was promptly express-delivered to Hyōichi.

IV

Hyōichi had no confidence whatsoever in the impression he gave others, so even when the interview notice arrived, he couldn’t fully rejoice. He thought quite despairingly that if his impression during the interview was poor, he might not be hired after all. He was, so to speak, one who knew himself.

In truth, when Hyōichi had been at school, the professors’ criticism of him had unanimously centered on his "insolent attitude." However, to defend Hyōichi here, he himself maintained no recollection of ever showing personal disrespect toward any professor. What he had despised was the classroom itself. Then he had dropped out midway through his studies without leaving a trace of regret. Ultimately, this came to be seen as "disdaining our school’s glorious traditions." Yet even so, for a certain professor to flare up and declare, “Hyōichi Mōri is making a fool of me,” was—if one might say—all too characteristic of Hyōichi himself, and thus somewhat unbecoming of an adult. Hyōichi simply lacked a courteous demeanor. The spirit that disdained groveling before others was precisely what rendered him more insolent-seeming than most.

However, banks and trading companies might be another matter, but in newspaper companies, a courteous attitude was hardly required. At least for field reporters in the social affairs department, it was unnecessary. Of course, those who were ambitiously vying for good positions within the company would need to remain utterly deferential in front of the Editor-in-Chief, but such considerations were entirely irrelevant to a new trainee reporter. What kind of bow Hyōichi would perform when coming for the interview—such considerations never crossed the Editor-in-Chief’s mind.

“What a spirited fellow you are!”—but he didn’t mind in the least. On the contrary, such spiritedness was ideal for a newspaper reporter. Seeing Hyōichi’s eyes darting about irritably and keenly, the Editor-in-Chief—(This guy’s got some sharpness to him)—took a complete liking to him. (Even if he causes a bit of trouble with the company typist, it wouldn’t be a problem—this handsome fellow could be quite useful.) So thought the Editor-in-Chief. “What kind of work d’you want? Go on—café rounds? Or dance halls?” It was a newspaper that had gained considerable readership through its café and dance hall reviews. Yet Hyōichi’s words ended up disappointing the Editor-in-Chief.

“Given my nature, I don’t believe it’s appropriate for me to be out among people much, so I would prefer work that can be done within the office as much as possible.” It was an honest statement. “Internal work?” The Editor-in-Chief pursed his lips in displeasure. “Internal positions are all filled up right now. “If it’s proofreading, there’s one vacancy, but—” At the mention of proofreading, Hyōichi shuddered. The harshness of the proofreading he had done daily for two years at the Tatami Newspaper Company came to mind. Hyōichi said hurriedly.

“Field work will be acceptable.”

“I see.” “Then put your back into it, got it? —Well then, you can go home today.” “Come by tomorrow morning at nine, got it?” “Since everyone’s out right now, I’ll introduce you to them all tomorrow.” Hyōichi was startled. In truth, the interview had been scheduled for nine o’clock, but due to his usual habit, he had ended up being over an hour late. Hyōichi felt goodwill toward the Editor-in-Chief, who hadn’t reproached him a single word for it. “Well then, I’ll come tomorrow.” “Nine o’clock, right?”

“That’s right.” The moment he left the chief editor’s office, Hyōichi heard someone call out, “Hey.” It was the man who had delivered that peculiar speech during the written exam. “Did you join the company?” “Uh-huh.”

“You don’t have any plans today, right?” “Uh-huh.” “Doesn’t matter if you do. Let’s go have some tea.” The man briskly descended the stairs. Hyōichi followed behind.

At the front of the company, a man stood motionless, looking up at the sky. “What’s the weather like today?” Hyōichi’s companion called out. “Well, looks like snow.” The man who had been looking up at the sky said. “Do you think it’ll snow?” “It won’t snow.”

When they settled into a café near the company, the man began: “That’s the Sales Manager. Claims to be some weather prophet—not that he’s entirely wrong.” “Every day he stares at the sky to decide how many papers we’ll print.” “Rain cuts street sales by thirty percent—gives the old man headaches.” “Snow?” “Snow’d knock off forty.—You got an umbrella?” He muttered to himself, “...Gonna need one.” “What’ll you drink?”

“Coffee will be fine.”

“Don’t hold back—it’s not like I’m expecting you to pay or anything.” With a sly grin, he called out, “Hey, two coffees and two toast breads!” When the coffee and bread arrived, the man— “Serve it up.” Taken aback, Hyōichi was sipping his coffee when Tsuchimon remarked, “It’s terrible, isn’t it? “The women’s faces here are the same way, you know.” Feeling nearly overwhelmed by the man’s demeanor, Hyōichi deliberately adopted a brash manner, stared brazenly at the women’s faces, and put on an expression that said, *Ah, I see what you mean.* Then, suddenly,

“Don’t stare so hard.” A man’s voice called out. Hyōichi flushed in surprise, but in fact, the remark hadn’t been meant for him.

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

“Well, how rude!” “No need to keep watch over me.” “This person’ll take care of the bill.” “I won’t dine and dash...” “Not like usual...”

Then, turning to Hyōichi, he said, “I’m terribly sorry to have you pay the bill, but…” However, showing not the slightest hint of remorse, he grinned and stroked his chin—then suddenly said, “Lend me some money.” The request—delivered in a tone as sharp as a sword slash, utterly incongruous with his appearance of bleary-eyed frailty behind glasses slipping down his nose—startled Hyōichi into a gasp. Yet he swiftly recovered his voice: “How much?” he asked.

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

After ultimately taking three yen, the man— “Not that this is because I borrowed money, but anyway, I should introduce myself.” “I’m Tsuchimon from the Social Affairs Department.” “It’s written with the characters for ‘earth’ and ‘gate.’” “The correct reading is *Tsuchikado*, but it’s usually called *Domon*.” “So you see, it just doesn’t stick.” He tried too hard to sound witty. Hyōichi, into the gaps in Tsuchimon’s words— “I’m Mōri.” “Pleased to meet you,” he quietly interjected. “Ah, you’re Mr. Mōri, right?” “I’ll pay you back, Mr. Mōri—this money…” “However, within one year...” “Please remind me from time to time.” Without so much as a smile, Tsuchimon said. Hyōichi felt irritated, as if being mocked, yet the other man—gazing at him with an expression that seemed to find him an adorable young samurai—said, “I’ve taken a liking to you. Your lending style has quite some merit.” This only angered Hyōichi further. “Well, to tell the truth, there’s nothing more gratifying than having someone generously hand you money when you’re borrowing it.” “Even if it’s just fifty sen, you know—fifty sen that someone hands over with a cheerful ‘Here you go’—that’s worth about ninety-eight yen’s worth of fun, I tell you.”

“Let’s drop the money talk,” Hyōichi blurted out—partly because the thought of Yasujirō, who worked as a moneylender, had floated into his mind. “Oh, right,” Tsuchimon brushed it off with ease. “Well then, shall we discuss work? You’re in the Social Affairs Department, right? Then we’re in the same department. Anyway, I suppose I’ll be showing you the ropes for the time being—after all, I’m an old-timer in Social Affairs. I’ve been here longer than the department head.” “In other words,” he continued, “this means I lacked the qualifications to become department head—but the truth is, I never had any intention of doing so. By the way”—he leaned forward—“I’m officially recognized as a deputy department head. You get that, right? ‘Treatment’ as in… Isn’t that delightful?” He chuckled dryly. “Heh-heh-heh.” “So here’s the thing,” he resumed. “The first thing I’ll teach you is this: start by getting business cards made. A newspaper reporter without business cards is either an utter slacker—like yours truly here—or else exceptionally skilled. Well, either way”—he spread his hands—“us reporters need business cards, you see.” “That being said,” he added sharply, “it’s not like us reporters have any right to act high and mighty. The only place reporters can act high and mighty is at the scene of a fire.”

“If you keep that in mind, you can’t go wrong.” “I think so too.” Hyōichi said with a look of agreement. “Now that’s a fine state of affairs. But I tell ya, there’s enough arrogant reporters to make into tsukudani. Oh sure, you can act high and mighty if you want. But there’s no good reason for it. Take that tired old example—unemployed newspapermen are as miserable as fish out of water. Which shows your high-and-mighty act ain’t about your own personalities—weird way to put it—but the paper backing you. To use a cliché—you’re just borrowing authority from the tiger. You know how it is—in the end, you’re abusing that reporter’s privilege.”

When the word “privilege” came up, Hyōichi found himself completely resonating with Tsuchimon’s ideas. However, when Tsuchimon said those words, he was popping a pimple. No—he had only been pretending to pop it. “My throat’s dry.” “Get me another coffee.” When the new coffee arrived, Tsuchimon resumed his talking. “But anyway, you need to get business cards made.” “Even if a pretty-faced guy like you rushes to a fire when the alarm bell rings, they won’t let you through without a business card.” “They’ll think Yaoya Oshichi has come disguised to meet Kichisaburō.—My bad, my bad! Don’t make such a scary face.” “But really—your face *is* cute.” “If I had a perverse inclination, I’d make a pass at you.” “Truly, you’re a detestably handsome youth.” “I recall my own boyhood, you know.” “I was the spitting image of you.”

Hyōichi nearly burst out laughing. It wasn’t that Hyōichi thought of himself as some beautiful youth, but even he was taken aback by Tsuchimon’s words—words that could only be described as calling him unattractive. Tsuchimon continued his theatrics unabated. “You’d better watch yourself.” “A pretty boy like you is dangerous.” “If it’s women you’re dealing with, go ahead and flirt all you want—but getting noticed by men? Too ghastly for words. Downright eerie, I tell you.” “This trend’s mostly died out now, but it was all the rage back in the day.” “Truth be told—whether it was Plato or Socrates who said it—a man’s body’s more beautiful than a woman’s.” “Just look at any sculpture if you don’t believe me.” “So naturally, someone with an overdeveloped aesthetic sense—like our esteemed editor-in-chief—would take quite a shine to that particular taste.” “You mark my words—keep your guard up around the editor-in-chief.” “Not that I’ve got any proof, mind you.” “But there’s something fishy about that man.” “The fact is, he doesn’t seem to have the slightest interest in women.” “Suspicious, wouldn’t you say?” “Back when the company was first starting out—summer it was—the man would dash about wearing nothing but a loincloth. Odd, no?” “Oh, he wore proper clothes when running errands outside, but at the office? Just that loincloth while writing articles.” “Worked like a man possessed, I tell you—truly remarkable.” “Now here’s the kicker—the president had this female secretary back then.” “A real looker she was, and from a good family to boot—used that refined ‘playing-house’ language of hers like it was second nature.”

“Actually, she was married, but when her husband started fooling around with the maid, she walked out and became one of those career women who’d shed their naivety—that’s the sort she was.” “This lady secretary shared a room with the editor-in-chief, but then one day she suddenly announced her resignation to the president—just imagine that.” “What do you think the reason was…?” “Heh heh.” Tsuchimon laughed happily. “The reason for that—well, you see—” “Heh heh heh…” “Could you please do something about the Editor-in-Chief’s loincloth? Not that she’d have put it that way—but she more or less hinted as much to the president.” “Even the President was stumped and called in the Editor-in-Chief: ‘You—this loincloth business is problematic.’” “‘At least wear a clean one.’” “—Ah ha ha!” Tsuchimon doubled over laughing. “So that settled it! But seeing him nonchalantly flaunt his grimy loincloth before a beautiful secretary—safe to assume he’s got zero interest in women, eh?” “Had even a shred of interest, he’d have worn underpants at least.” “Well then! If not women—what remains but beautiful youths?” “So? How’s my deduction…” “Holds up logically enough?” “Hence! You’d best watch yourself around our Editor-in-Chief! Mark my words now—heh! Heh! Heh!” Tsuchimon cackled through foamy lips.

Generally speaking, men with disordered speech—for example, those who jumbled standard Japanese and Osaka dialect—likely lacked sound minds, and a man like Tsuchimon was a prime example of this. Moreover, Tsuchimon not only had disordered speech, but his manner of speaking oscillated between earnestness and insincerity—in other words, he was utterly frivolous, exuding what one might call a thick stench of decadence.

Such men tended to infuriate earnest types, but Hyōichi—not perceived as nearly as serious-minded as he imagined himself to be—though feeling somewhat mocked, never quite reached the point of full-blown anger. Moreover, with the Osaka dialect suddenly blurted out in the most unexpected places, Tsuchimon’s attitude had an unexpectedly unpretentious quality that he found somewhat appealing. Another reason was that Hyōichi had become so completely preoccupied with Tsuchimon’s manner of smoking cigarettes rather than his words that he had no room left for anger. Tsuchimon smoked with astonishing speed. After hurriedly smoking a third of the way down, he would already be lighting a new cigarette. There was no pause in between. Finding matches too bothersome, he transferred the flame directly from cigarette to cigarette. At this rate—devouring an entire pack in moments—Hyōichi, who could barely finish one cigarette a day, stared in disbelief. Yet what truly captured his attention lay elsewhere. Upon closer inspection, Tsuchimon would invariably dampen the tip of each cigarette. He then compulsively crumpled the moistened portion between his fingers. Finally, he would tear off the soggy end and spit out the tobacco with sharp “ptui, ptui” sounds. As if repulsed by his own creation, he would retrieve a fresh cigarette with nicotine-stained fingers and pass the flame along again. This methodical destruction clashed starkly with his carefree speech, betraying an undercurrent of restless agitation. Looking even closer, Hyōichi noticed Tsuchimon shredding the cigarette box as he talked. Within moments, the table became littered with paper scraps. But it wasn’t just cigarette boxes—matches, menus, anything within reach fell victim to his restless hands.

To say that both his manner of speaking and his actions were ill-mannered would have been the simplest way to put it, but for some reason, Hyōichi couldn't help sensing something peculiar in Tsuchimon's irritated demeanor.

Tsuchimon continued talking.

However, given that Tsuchimon's vigor seemed to spring from shirking work hours, we shall refrain from depicting it further here. At any rate, Tsuchimon and Hyōichi were set to meet again that night. "So, how 'bout keepin' me company tonight?" Pressed by Tsuchimon, Hyōichi couldn't bring himself to refuse.

“There’s no escaping creditors!” When Hyōichi tentatively refused, Tsuchimon said this. Hyōichi didn’t want to show a cowering demeanor to a man like Tsuchimon. Even if it meant going to hell together... Moreover, there was no reason to think Tsuchimon would ever suggest going to heaven. That is precisely why he had no desire to hold back even more.

V

That day, Hyōichi was supposed to meet Tsuchimon in front of the Mayuza Theater at six o'clock in the evening.

Hyōichi was standing in front of the Mayuza Theater a little earlier than the appointed time. The winter day hurriedly drew to a close. Even after six o'clock had passed, Tsuchimon did not appear. As he stood dejectedly, his eyes carefully scanning the commotion of Sennichimae, a chill resembling the misery of a new employee crept over him. The Red Ball Moulin Rouge in Dōtonbori finally began to rotate, dyeing the surrounding sky red. As he stood there waiting aimlessly, vacantly gazing up at the reddened sky, the body odor of a young woman suddenly brushed past his nose. Three Revue girls passed by Hyōichi, who stood vacantly rooted to the spot. Watching their retreating figures enter the Mayuza Theater, Hyōichi found himself unexpectedly drawn to one girl among them, her bare feet reddened as if chilled by the cold.

Tsuchimon did not appear for quite some time. It was a pitiable situation for Hyōichi, but Tsuchimon had a well-established reputation for failing to keep appointments. There were times he arrived late, and other times he showed up absurdly early. When arriving early, he would grow impatient and leave before the other party came, ultimately achieving the same result as not coming at all. Today he intended to come late—no, did Tsuchimon even have "intentions"? At any rate, he seemed likely to arrive late. For the time being, Hyōichi had to wait.

Before Tsuchimon arrived, let us hurriedly set down some words about him.

Tsuchimon went around proclaiming himself to be fifty years old, but his true age was thirty-six. However, capturing the impression of Tsuchimon—whose face looked every bit thirty-six years old—proved no easy task. That is to say, he sometimes appeared extremely aged and at other times surprisingly youthful. There seemed indications that Tsuchimon exerted considerable effort to alter his own image. For example, what Hyōichi had witnessed was Tsuchimon with wildly grown-out hair and glasses, but after a month passed, one couldn’t guarantee he hadn’t shaved his head completely and discarded the spectacles. He would don a ski cap in summer when appearing at theaters. The day after his annual salary increase, he invariably changed into a suit to report for work, declaring “Thanks to this I can now pawn things” while deliberately wearing winter clothes in midsummer. And following such antics, he would borrow money from his colleagues.

“Your salary went up, didn’t it! Lend us some!”

Previously, such things had not occurred. He never cracked a single idle joke. Though taciturn, he would engage in dead-serious debates during editorial meetings. He argued radically without compromise—whether idealistic, dialectical, or otherwise. It was said he had participated in some social movement since his student days, and indeed, his speech carried that logical edge.

However, he suddenly began to change. He had truly become an utterly absurd man.

One day, when six o'clock—quitting time—arrived, an alarm clock suddenly began ringing. As the employees looked toward the sound in surprise and laughter, Tsuchimon calmly silenced the alarm clock on his desk and briskly left for the day. From that day onward, Tsuchimon was perceived as having changed. First and foremost, rumors spread that Tsuchimon bore some grudge against the company. The act of sounding an alarm at quitting time came to be regarded as a form of sarcastic protest. This interpretation gained traction precisely when Tsuchimon's junior had been promoted to department head, eliciting widespread sympathy for him—a veteran employee since the company's founding—as being unfairly treated. Around this time, Tsuchimon persistently proclaimed, "I'm fifty years old. I'm already obsolete." If he were truly fifty, this would mean he had worked at Tōyō Shimpō for twenty years—yet the newspaper itself had only existed for a decade since its founding. Thus, by declaring himself fifty, Tsuchimon appeared to be deliberately self-deprecating about his seniority. Some astute observers remarked he was essentially "a fifty-year-old acting out of reckless desperation." More harsh critics claimed his past progressive arguments during editorial meetings had merely been self-serving attempts to secure a department head position. However, this seems unduly severe. To assert that someone's entire personality transformed solely due to failing promotion strikes one as a shallow interpretation. Yet what then caused Tsuchimon's change?—Neither others nor even Tsuchimon himself could clearly discern the reason.

In any case, Tsuchimon had changed. Though the so-called radical debates from his early days at the company had long since subsided, he still used to make statements like “human happiness lies in social progress” or “it’s through cultural advancement that we find happiness.” But now he not only stopped saying such things—he began sneering, “What’s three extra hairs to a monkey? You think that’ll make it happy? Even if culture progresses with all that nonsense, believing humans can become happy is pure delusion.” He disavowed his past convictions entirely, adopting a jeering tone: “Wanna be a cultured person? Fine—hand over fifty sen! I’ll make you cultured!” Whenever he caught young journalists earnestly debating film theory, he’d inevitably lob these taunts.

Tsuchimon handled film criticism alongside special features for the social affairs section, though he exclusively praised absurd films like King Kong. According to his reviews, any movie lacking airplanes or machine guns was inherently dull. Among Japanese productions, he persistently lauded Daito Films. He adored revues and had become an ardent fan of Yayoi-za Theater's Pierrot Girls—indeed, this very obsession explained why he'd arranged to meet Hyōichi before Yayoi-za that day.

Finally, past seven o'clock, Tsuchimon appeared in his lanky figure.

“Come on, let’s go in, let’s go!” Without even apologizing for keeping him waiting, he briskly walked into Yayoi-za Theater. Hyōichi hesitated briefly about handling the tickets but followed right behind him. “Your ticket…?” Hyōichi was asked this at the entrance. He flushed.

“Are you trying to charge me?! If you’re going to charge me, then charge me! But children are half price, right?” Tsuchimon said to the girl at the entrance with a composed look. “Ah, is this your companion?” When the girl realized Hyōichi was with Tsuchimon, she announced in an exaggeratedly loud voice, “Escort to the second floor!”

“No. Downstairs will do. You can see better from downstairs somehow, you know.” Tsuchimon said this and entered through the black curtain. On stage, a period comedy titled “Rōnin Nagaya” had begun.

Tsuchimon sat down next to Hyōichi and bellowed, “Hajime-chan!” A ronin with an astonishingly long face peered restlessly across the audience from the stage. When he spotted Tsuchimon, he suddenly clapped a hand to his head and whipped off his wig in one swift motion. The audience erupted in laughter. With practiced composure, the ronin replaced his wig and resumed the performance. “That’s Nakai Hajime,” Tsuchimon explained to Hyōichi. “Notice his long face? Some even call him Nagai Hajime.” He added affectionately, “He’s my dear friend.” Then he roared again: “Mori Bon!”

A small-statured ronin with a dejected-looking face glanced sideways at Tsuchimon and winked. When Hyōichi looked at Tsuchimon’s profile, Tsuchimon wore an earnest expression. "He's a close friend." When the band began accompanying a tango piece, Nakai Hajime and Mori Bon slowly began their sword fight. Suddenly, laughter erupted, and when they paid attention to see what was amusing, those ronin were performing their swordplay while stepping to a tango rhythm. "This is the end! Farewell, then!" Nakai Hajime scampered off in a hurry. Mori Bon, who had been lying down, lumbered to his feet and, while saying “Follow me!”, tucked up the hem of his kimono. A red loincloth came into view. "This is improper." Mori Bon lowered the hem. The instant he did so, the curtain fell.

Hyōichi forgot himself and burst into uproarious laughter. It hurt his stomach. When he suddenly glanced sideways at Tsuchimon’s face, Tsuchimon wore an unexpectedly bored expression. Hyōichi felt as though he had been let down. (Is he not amused?) Yet for Tsuchimon—a true Osaka native through and through—there should have been no reason he couldn’t grasp the sheer uproariousness of this comedy, unless he’d seen it before. But in truth, Tsuchimon had already been watching this act nearly ten days straight. He was being made to watch it whether he liked it or not. Tsuchimon’s objective lay in the next act’s revue.

Eventually, the curtain rose on the revue *Ginza no Yanagi*. Tsuchimon had deliberately crossed his arms, but he was somehow restless and unable to settle. “Don’t fall for the girl second from the right in the back row.” Tsuchimon whispered to Hyōichi. Hyōichi casually looked at the dancer second from the right in the back row. The instant he did, his heart jolted. He recognized the legs.

There was no mistaking her—she was the girl who had passed by in a flash, leaving a vivid impression in the wind when he had been waiting for Tsuchimon in front of the Yayoi-za earlier. He hadn’t clearly recognized her face, but those painfully thin legs had lingered in his mind. At that time there had been three people, but only that girl hadn’t worn socks, her exposed feet red as if from the cold. “What’s her name?” Hyōichi asked involuntarily. Tsuchimon answered. “Higashi Ginko.” Because they were mixed among stout, thick legs, her delicate slender legs stood out even more. Her chest was as thin as a sickly boy’s. Her face, with its sharply carved contours, had rouge adding an unnatural roundness to her cheeks. The flesh of her ears seemed nearly transparent. Her long-lashed eyes were striking.

Without so much as a smile, she danced with a rigid expression. The only thing that slightly softened her aloof demeanor was her cute pouty lips. Though one might have thought she was dancing with composure, Hyōichi believed he caught a glimpse of something tearful in Ginko’s expression. With his heart shaken by an austere sweetness, Hyōichi found it hard to look away from her face. When he suddenly glanced at Tsuchimon beside him, he saw signs of agitation in his companion’s demeanor. “This is strange,” Tsuchimon growled under his breath. “Something’s off!” The area around his jaw had paled noticeably. Restlessly studying Higashi Ginko’s face for some time, he seemed struck by an idea—

“Let’s go,” he said, suddenly standing up and walking briskly toward the exit. Hyōichi chased after him.

Tsuchimon stopped at the exit. And turning around, he glanced at the stage. A sigh-like sound escaped Tsuchimon’s lips. “It’s no good!” Then pulling Hyōichi’s hand, he left the Yayoi-za.

VI

When they left Yayoi-za, it was snowing. A dazzling light coldly illuminated the large, wet snowflakes falling steadily. The depths of night sank heavily down, and a white wind raced through.

“Cold, so cold!” Tsuchimon let out an animalistic cry and dashed into the café across from the shack. Hyōichi followed him inside. The heavy, humid air from the stove suddenly enveloped their bodies. Tsuchimon removed his fogged glasses. Then his swollen eyelids made his face look strangely young. After taking a sip of coffee, Tsuchimon stood up, went to the counter, and borrowed the telephone. “Hello? Yayoi-za…?” Just as Hyōichi wondered where he could be calling, it turned out to be the Yayoi-za theater right under their noses—the very place they had just exited. That was so like Tsuchimon, Hyōichi thought.

“Call Mr. Kitayama from the Literary Department... It’s Tsuchimon.” “Tsu-chi-ka-do... of Tōyō Shinpō...” “Ah, right.”

Next to the café was a public bathhouse. A woman emerged through the noren curtain, her bath utensils wrapped in a front apron and holding a snake-eye-patterned umbrella. Hyōichi wiped the fog from the windowpane with his hand and watched the woman’s retreating figure blur into mist as it faded into the distance. Once again, Tsuchimon’s loud voice could be heard. The person on the other end had apparently answered the phone.

“Skip the formalities! You think this snowstorm excuses you?! Disgraceful! Why’d you lay hands on that girl without telling me?!” “Who the hell you talking about?!” “Who else?! Higashi Ginko!” “Don’t make me say it twice!” “Exactly—Higashi Ginko!” “What?!” “Say that again!” “Oh, you’ve got it all figured out?! What’s that supposed to mean?!” “Others might not know, but when it comes to that girl, I’ve got sharper eyes than any two-bit matchmaker!” “One look tells me everything.” “I ain’t some bathhouse lackey…but I can tell. Ah, just like you said—I’m completely smitten.” “What’s wrong with that?!” “If you’re fifty, then I’m fifty too!” “Not exactly short on years here.” “Difference is—unlike you—I don’t paw at fresh young maidens!” “What?!” “You think there’s another culprit?!”

“Don’t act innocent!” “Hey!” “There’s no shortage of scoundrels among the Pierrot Girls—enough to crew a rickety pirate ship—but the only one who’d gobble up a tender, delicate flower like Higashi Ginko, even with all those Pierrot Girls around, is a lecherous old coot like you!” “Quit playing dumb with me!” “Hey!” “She was dancing through tears!” “You heartless bastard!” “I called ’cause I can’t stand the sight of your saggy mug!” “You should thank me!” “Show your face and I’ll rip your throat out!” “Mark my words—get ready!” “—What?” “Wanna meet?” “Fine, I’ll see you. —A smart guy like you oughta figure out where I am.” “Find me within thirty minutes!” “No sign of your ugly mug by then, I’ll torch Yayoi-za!” “That’s right—I’m Sakazaki Dewanokami!” “Princess Sen—I’m her savior!” “I won’t let scum like you lay a finger on her!” “Tch! Tch! Tch!”

Tsuchimon had been shouting loudly without regard for those around him; when he finally hung up with a strange laugh at the end of it all, he said, “Made me have such a long call,” and returned to Hyōichi’s seat. The shop girls were giggling. Tsuchimon glared around as if demanding to know what was so funny, gulped down his coffee in one go, and said, “Cheer up!” to no one in particular. Hyōichi listened to this as if it were about himself and jolted. This was because Tsuchimon’s phone conversation had left him utterly dispirited.

However, why had he become so dispirited? Hyōichi had resolved not to pay close attention to the ramblings of a man like Tsuchimon, so at first he listened absentmindedly. But the moment the name Higashi Ginko flew from Tsuchimon’s lips, his heart jolted. And when he realized Tsuchimon seemed to be protesting that Ginko had been “taken advantage of” by Kitayama of the literary department, his heart suddenly clouded over. Hyōichi hurriedly tried to dismiss it all as Tsuchimon’s usual nonsense, yet he couldn’t help thinking Tsuchimon’s earlier fidgety exit from backstage must have been prompted by something he noticed about Ginko onstage. Moreover, despite the jesting tone, there had been an air of sincerity in how Tsuchimon protested over the phone. Even if he could force himself to believe it was entirely baseless—a fact without any root—once heard, the cloudiness in his heart had grown too deep to dispel. In other words—could this be unexpected affection for Ginko? That was strange to Hyōichi.

For a twenty-year-old youth to feel affection for a dancer onstage might be an utterly commonplace occurrence, but Hyōichi—perhaps due to his unexpectedly resilient heart—had not felt even a shred of such emotion when strolling through Tennōji Park at night with Kiyoko, a schoolgirl during his middle school years, nor when walking side by side with Okoma of Kaneya through Maruyama Park in his high school days. And now, to his dismay, that he had come to feel affection for Ginko in such an unexpected manner—what could possibly be the reason?

But if he were to clearly recognize it—this affection that must surely be vexing to Hyōichi himself—it might be wiser not to explain it in detail. Therefore, to hasten to explain: could it not be that the memory of Ginko’s painfully thin legs, which Hyōichi had glimpsed earlier, had suddenly and vividly revived in his mind while Tsuchimon was on the phone? And so, to put it another way, deep within Hyōichi’s heart, that stabbing, heart-wrenching feeling he experienced when associating his mother with Yasujirō had tenaciously taken root.

Hyōichi pressed his face against the windowpane with a heavy heart and gazed outside. Snow was falling softly. As his vision blurred, he abruptly grew sentimental.

Tsuchimon was tearing the end of his cigarette with his usual irritated gestures when he suddenly spoke. “Hey! Don’t make such a solemn face.” He peered gleefully into Hyōichi’s face. “I’m watching the snow.” As he spoke, he suddenly felt as though hearing a distant harmonica’s sound. The hours of summer twilight flowed through Hyōichi’s heart as he watched the snow.

“Ahahaha… Or should I say you’re looking at the snow? Ah, so you’ve fallen for Higashi Ginko!” Hyōichi flushed, thinking he had indeed been seen through. However, though Tsuchimon had originally been a sensitive man, he no longer bothered with such troublesome things as gauging others’ hearts. Tsuchimon had said this merely as a prelude to his next words. “Even if you fall for her, it’s no use. Did you hear my call just now? Higashi Ginko’s a lost cause. One glance with these eyes and I can tell. The moment I saw how Higashi Ginko danced today, I gave up. Ah—so Higashi Ginko’s been lost too, I see. Heh, heh, heh.” Tsuchimon’s laughter made Hyōichi’s heart grow even heavier.

“Let’s have another cup of coffee!”

“Ah, let’s drink.” “Well said.” “To understand life’s impermanence—you’ve got some redeeming qualities, I’ll give you that.” “How old are you?” “I’m twenty years old.” Hyōichi snapped. “Then there’s a thirty-year difference between us.” “I’m fifty.” Hyōichi burst out laughing with a pfft. Tsuchimon, who had removed his glasses, looked no older than thirty-two or three. However, Hyōichi’s laughter soon stopped. At that moment, a man with a snow-dusted balding head burst in, and the instant Hyōichi saw his face, he intuited—*(That’s Kitayama from the literary department)*. Hyōichi suddenly tensed up. Whether this man had laid hands on Ginko—he could no longer laugh. He glared with cold eyes. But the man paid no attention to Hyōichi and, sitting down beside him facing Tsuchimon, said: “That’s not it. “It’s a misunderstanding!” he said. Tsuchimon did not respond,

“You figured out I was here pretty well.” “I just guessed you were somewhere nearby.” “You must’ve known from how loud I was on the phone. So you came to hear an even bigger voice, eh?” Tsuchimon said this and laughed boisterously. Hyōichi thought their laughing figures utterly frivolous and held his breath motionless. The harder they laughed, the fiercer his expression grew. Tsuchimon eventually stopped laughing and,

“You dismissed it as a misunderstanding,” he said.

“It’s a misunderstanding.” “Not just a misunderstanding—a colossal misunderstanding!” “Calling me the culprit? That’s cruel.” Kitayama’s voice dripped with sorrow. Yet it rang as hollow as a staff playwright feeding lines to some third-rate actor. “True?” “Regrettably true.” “‘Regrettably,’ eh?” “Then who?” “Don’t know.” “Don’t wanna know.” “Knowing’d hurt worse.” “All I know’s the painful fact—Ginko’s lost.”

“…………”

Tsuchimon let out an incomprehensible groan but, abruptly—

“Let’s shake hands,” Tsuchimon said and grabbed Kitayama’s hand. “Anyway, the culprit must be that Valentino with the long sideburns.” “I’d have rather had you be the culprit.” Tsuchimon deliberately adopted a solemn tone. “I still wanted you to be the culprit after all,” Kitayama said. “Serves you right!” said Tsuchimon.

“Serves you right!” said Kitayama.

“Feels good,” Tsuchimon sneered. “A shochu-guzzling baldy like you still chasing after dancers… Ha! No shame at all?” “Hmm, you’re one to talk,” Kitayama retorted. “Well? Doesn’t it shame you?” “Hmm...” “Answer me! Out with it!” “Well, that’s—” “What’s your answer? Speak!” “The shame’s mutual,” Kitayama shot back. “How old you pretending to be anyway?” “Ah! Finally asked!” Tsuchimon crowed. “Fifty. Not hiding it.”

“As if you could hide it!” “What the hell, you drunkard!” “What the hell! I lent you five yen!” No sooner had Kitayama said this than he turned toward Hyōichi—whom he had completely ignored until now—and demanded, “You—how much did you borrow from this guy?” Hyōichi, thoroughly irritated by their ridiculous banter, did not respond. Tsuchimon answered instead.

“Three yen.” With that, Tsuchimon said, “Let me introduce,” and presented Hyōichi to Kitayama. “This is Mr. Mōri.” “A fresh-faced newspaper reporter.” “And this is Old Man Kitayama—the esteemed resident playwright of Piero Girls.”

When Hyōichi bowed with a polite greeting, Kitayama momentarily showed a completely different expression—as if he had become another person—and offered an old-fashioned salutation: "Why... This is... We must both..."

Eventually, the three left the café and walked toward Kabukiza. Sennichimae-dori, which usually glowed with a garish crimson-black luster, was now subdued in a soft, dim light tonight, perhaps due to the snow. The foot traffic was strangely sparse. Hyōichi followed behind Tsuchimon and Kitayama, thinking the snow falling on his face was cold.

Chapter Two

I

The editor-in-chief of the Toyo Shimpo was in an unusually bad mood.

This man already had ten children, and despite being fifty-six years of age, his wife had recently given birth to twins. This man’s face—resembling Harudanji II with its flounder-like jowls—was perfectly suited to his deadpan Osaka dialect. He rarely ever scolded his staff; even when typists made terrible blunders in their work, he would just joke, “Oh, you’ve gone and made such a mess now.” “Well, I’m on your side, see? Even if I wanted to scold you, I couldn’t bring myself to do it,” he’d joke. He was well-liked by everyone, and many employees had never even seen this man’s angry face. It was exceedingly difficult to imagine an ill-humored expression on this man’s face.

Today too, initially no one noticed that the editor-in-chief was in a bad mood. He could be seen through the glass door pacing around his office with pursed lips while muttering incessantly, yet none recognized this as a desperate effort to contain his anger. Some flustered staff members even thought he might be practicing whistling.

The deputy editor-in-chief and the social affairs department head were summoned to the editor-in-chief’s office, and it was only when people saw their faces upon emerging that they finally realized, *Hmm, something’s wrong*. Both of them had deathly pale faces. “Did something happen?” The loose-lipped colleagues asked that, but neither of the two answered. “No way… Did you really just get told off by the Editor-in-chief—‘What are you dawdling around for at your age? If you’re this incompetent, then quit being a newspaper reporter already’”—but given their positions as department heads, they couldn’t bring themselves to admit they’d been told this. Both men bit their lips in frustration, muttering, “That bastard Tsuchimon!”

The fact was that of all newspapers in Osaka that day, only the Toyo Shimpo had failed to cover the story every other paper was splashing across their pages in bold headlines. The article about movie actress Muraguchi Tazuko becoming a round girl at the cabaret "Olympia"—the kind of piece that today would likely be ignored or relegated to a small mention if covered at all—was in those days treated as sensational news, splashed across the third pages of every newspaper with great fanfare. It may sound like an odd turn of phrase, but this was during the heyday of cabarets. Moreover, Muraguchi Tazuko was precisely what the newspaper headlines called “the problematic beauty actress”—her unsavory romantic affair with a director had culminated in a criminal issue. The manager of "Olympia" had indeed recognized her name value. The fact that newspapers reported her compensation for merely providing round service as hundreds of yen per night couldn’t be dismissed as entirely exaggerated. She was that famous. What on earth had Toyo Shimpo been thinking, being the only one to ignore this? The Toyo Shimpo had long built its reputation on this kind of article, and to make matters worse, "Olympia" was one of its major advertisers. Saying, “We ask for your cooperation,” there had even been a specific request from the business department.

It was no wonder the editor-in-chief was in a bad mood. However, the Toyo Shimpo had by no means deliberately suppressed that sensational story. The Social Affairs Department Head had indeed dispatched a competent reporter to "Olympia." The Social Affairs Department Head could not have been at fault. When he informed the editor-in-chief of this,

“Just who on earth did you send?” “Tsuchimon.”

“Have Mr. Tsuchimon come here.”

However, Tsuchimon had not yet come to work. The truth was that Tsuchimon had indeed gone to “Olympia” with the photography team the previous night. However, since the manager of “Olympia” had treated the newspaper reporters to hospitality involving endless rounds of drinks, Tsuchimon—who should have known better—ended up calling over Kitayama from Piero Girls by telephone. Once the two began drinking, they couldn’t stop, completely neglecting the crucial interview. In the end, Tsuchimon became dead drunk and was now resting at home with a hangover. With Tsuchimon absent, the editor-in-chief had no choice but to vent his anger on both the deputy editor-in-chief and the social affairs department head. Even without this incident, the editor-in-chief had no desire to scold Tsuchimon. More than Tsuchimon being someone who wouldn’t respond meaningfully to reprimands, it was that the editor-in-chief couldn’t bring himself to chastise a reporter he had personally nurtured yet ultimately failed to promote to department head—a matter of personal sentiment, so to speak. Moreover, with such a major issue at hand, wouldn’t it be more appropriate to shift responsibility onto the deputy editor-in-chief and social affairs department head? Both men were thoroughly inconvenienced by this situation. What’s more, even the editor-in-chief’s deadpan Osaka dialect—when delivering phrases like “You should quit being a newspaper reporter,” which had originally been said in jest—produced an unexpectedly harsh effect. They lay in wait for Tsuchimon’s arrival, sharpening their metaphorical claws. Tsuchimon had a habit of taking days off precisely when his presence was most needed.

The Editor-in-Chief, having fully vented his anger, began considering countermeasures. Given that there had been a protest from the business department, they needed to run that article for "Olympia" at any cost. But it was already too late to do anything now. In the end, they would have to take a completely different approach from the other newspapers. Every newspaper had interviewed her at “Olympia,” but since that would now be old news, they would produce a follow-up story about her since “Olympia” became its main attraction. Wondering who to assign to the task, the Editor-in-Chief scanned the editorial office through the glass door.

Some were at their desks writing articles for the evening edition. Others were making phone calls. Some were looking at newspaper inserts. Those with nothing to do had gathered around the stove and were chattering noisily. He looked at each of those faces one by one, but none seemed like suitable candidates. Suddenly, his gaze caught Hyōichi’s figure standing rigidly alone in a corner, excluded from the group. His posture—agitated, as if bracing against some unseen force—inevitably drew the editor-in-chief’s attention. There was something about his beauty that also drew attention.

Who was that man? The forgetful editor-in-chief could not recall it in that moment. Half a month had passed since he joined the company, but Hyōichi—still merely a trainee reporter—had not been given any real work and was simply showing up to the office every day without purpose. Therefore, the Editor-in-Chief had inadvertently forgotten about Hyōichi’s existence. However, now that he looked closely, Hyōichi’s presence stood out as strikingly unusual. Standing alone in such a manner, apart from the others with sharp eyes gleaming, it was Hyōichi who stood rigidly apart. There was an odd vitality about him.

The truth was that Hyōichi, given no real work and receiving not even a glance from anyone except when Tsuchimon occasionally borrowed money from him, had grown weary and felt a deep humiliation. The wretched burden of being a new employee clung to his skin, and since every gaze struck him as exaggeratedly scornful, his attitude within the company naturally became so awkward it bordered on grotesque. Constantly clenching his teeth in frustration, he would stand rigidly in some corner with eyes gleaming fiercely. For one thing, there were not enough desks—Hyōichi had no place to sit.

In any case, the Editor-in-Chief noticed Hyōichi for the first time. It took him a little while to remember. ("Ah, that one?") The moment he realized Hyōichi was the newly joined trainee reporter, the Editor-in-Chief felt a certain satisfaction. He recalled that the entrance exam results had been strangely excellent. He was a beautiful youth. ("Maybe I'll try using that man.") The idea that this beautiful youth would be suitable for tailing a café waitress was an exceedingly facile notion born of the Editor-in-Chief's spur-of-the-moment idea. Yet in the end, such an easy, formulaic method might well be the safest way to assign people.

Summoned by the office boy, Hyōichi entered the Editor-in-Chief’s office. “Are you free right now?”

When assigning tasks, the Editor-in-Chief’s line was always this. In other words, it meant he was skilled at handling people. However, these words were not at all amusing to Hyōichi. There had absolutely never been a time when he wasn’t free since joining the company. “Well, not particularly…” Hyōichi flushed. “In that case, why don’t you handle this for me?” The Editor-in-Chief explained the task Hyōichi was to perform, “Now this here’s a big job, so put your back into it,” he emphasized.

Under these circumstances, no matter how trivial the job, Hyōichi would undoubtedly have been able to rouse himself with vigor. So the Editor-in-Chief’s words declaring it a major responsibility had left Hyōichi utterly carried away. “I’ll get right on it.” Hyōichi said, satisfied at having been able to use the phrase “I’ll get right on it”—just the sort of thing a newspaper reporter would say. “Even if I tell you to go right now, the café won’t open until evening.” Having been told this by the Editor-in-Chief, Hyōichi felt as though his initial momentum had been crushed and became flustered,

“Oh…… Then in the evening……” he said. Even to himself, this was an excruciatingly trite line. Now thoroughly flustered, Hyōichi compounded it by blurting out something absurd.

“Am I the one to write the manuscript?” Hyōichi had not the slightest intention of asking such an obvious question. Rather, he had deliberately phrased it that way to convey his determination to produce an excellent article. Yet to the Editor-in-Chief, it sounded as if he were saying, “If possible, I’d rather have someone else write it... I still lack confidence in writing good articles...” Disappointed but pragmatic, the Editor-in-Chief wrote out a voucher anyway. “You’ll need money, right?”

Hyōichi took it to the accounting department downstairs and received the money. Then he returned to the second-floor editorial room, took down the overcoat hanging on the wall, put it on, and left. Catching a glimpse of his retreating figure, the Editor-in-Chief grew even more disappointed. Hyōichi’s overcoat—something his mother had scraped together money to buy—was what people called a “hangman’s coat.” It was a ready-made garment from a Nihonbashi clothing store’s display rack. Perhaps they had mismeasured, for the hem hung absurdly long. Dragging the coat behind him as he walked away stiffly, Hyōichi’s receding figure resembled nothing so much as a male-role actor from the Takarazuka Revue; try as one might, he simply couldn’t be taken for a proper newspaper reporter.

Unaware that the Editor-in-Chief had felt such disappointment, Hyōichi—comically enough—walked toward Yodoyabashi, thoroughly excited at having been given work. Considering the foolish things he had said in front of the Editor-in-Chief, he absolutely had to fulfill this "great task" no matter what. Hyōichi was terribly restless. He reached Yodoyabashi but didn’t stop, continuing all the way to Higobashi in one go. While waiting at the intersection for the signal, Hyōichi abruptly hit upon the idea of buying a newspaper to read the article about Muraguchi Tazuko. He bought a full set of newspapers in front of the Asahi Building. Then he entered the building’s fruit parlor and proceeded to read through them one after another.

Unversed in worldly matters, Hyōichi could be said to be completely ignorant regarding Muraguchi Tazuko. He had only learned her name for the first time when the Editor-in-Chief mentioned it. He couldn’t make any sense of what phrases like “The Sinful Actress” or “The Sorrowful Actress”—used in the newspaper headlines—were supposed to mean. The newspapers also did not elaborate on this matter. The facts had already been exhaustively reported and were known to anyone, even those who weren't movie fans, so there was no need to explain why Muraguchi Tazuko was called the "Sinful Actress."

He looked through all the newspapers he had bought, but in the end, Hyōichi found nothing about Muraguchi Tazuko’s supposed sins or sorrows. What 'sin'? Hyōichi muttered recklessly. In Muraguchi Tazuko’s face as seen in the newspapers, there was absolutely no impression of sin or sorrow whatsoever. “Speaking Before Reporters”—or perhaps “Gliding Between Tables”—her face bore a uniformly alluring smile, ostentatiously displayed. It seemed laughter itself might pour from those photographs. The flower adorning the chest of her evening dress made that smile all the more resplendent. Hyōichi simply couldn’t accept labels like “Sinful Actress” or “Sorrowful Actress” written about her.

*What's with that flower on her chest?* To put it bluntly, Hyōichi got angry at that photograph. One would think it obvious that the photography team had forced her to smile, but Hyōichi lacked such thoughtfulness. So he ended up getting recklessly angry over something as trivial as a single flower. But why was he so angry? Though inherently vain—or rather because of it—Hyōichi had a bad habit of picking quarrels with those who dangled glamorous names or social status before their noses. Naturally, he found himself drawn to weak and forlorn things. Yet to call this a sense of justice would be rash. Could it not be that an impatient spirit was forcing through its capricious likes and dislikes? Put simply, he had never been born with magnanimity. For one thing—he thought—he bitterly resented these newspaper articles making such a fuss over this insignificant woman, forgetting he himself was a reporter. And realizing he was being forced into such work as a journalist made his resentment grow stronger. "Is this my role—to endure such things?" Then, almost as an afterthought—(I could write better than this)—he added mentally that his obligation to meet Muraguchi Tazuko tonight surely colored his unwarranted dislike.

Given both his age and disposition, Hyōichi found all women difficult to handle, but a woman like Muraguchi Tazuko—who seemed rather haughty (and on top of that, beautiful)—was so daunting it made his body tremble. *This woman will look down on me.* To his dismay, Hyōichi became aware of his own timidity. Then he himself grew angry. Hyōichi suddenly stood up, thinking, *What’s there to be afraid of?*,

*I'll muster my courage and go meet her!* *What's the big deal? It's just some woman…*

Like a man heading out to a brawl, Hyōichi burst out of there with tremendous force. However, there was still far too much time before he would meet Muraguchi Tazuko.

II

The "Manager" of Cabaret "Olympia"

Sako Gorō had been bustling about since the previous day in an ostentatious tailcoat, scurrying around like a rat. He styled himself as “manager” on account of Muraguchi Tazuko, though his actual role was closer to publicity director. Having originally worked as an electrical contractor who frequently visited “Olympia” for installations—a connection that led to his employment handling electrical maintenance at the establishment two or three years prior—he had now shamelessly risen to a position where he could call himself “manager.” Even among industry insiders, it was said he was no mere rat after all.

In fact, he may well have been a man of talent. His utter lack of education made him perfectly suited as a publicity director. Adopting unscrupulous advertising methods that would be unimaginable to ordinary timid people was precisely the sort of feat only possible for someone like him—an electrical worker by trade. His “recruitment” of Muraguchi Tazuko exemplified this. While hiring celebrities like poets or washed-up actresses for cabarets had become standard publicity practice, Muraguchi Tazuko’s case alone left even industry professionals gasping in astonishment. Indeed—this was Sako—one could only stand dumbfounded before his sheer audacity.

Considering the poster value of the actress in question—indeed, one might have thought of it—but precisely for that reason, it felt all the more unapproachable. As for that damn Sako’s scheming—in the end, it was nothing but a lament after the fact. If it were a matter of hundreds of yen per day—if it had been purely about money—they wouldn’t have hesitated. But wasn’t this a woman who had committed a crime grave enough to stand trial and abandon her acting career? The cover-up of her sordid affair with the director had been buried in darkness, yet its memory still reeked of fresh blood in the public mind. Even though she had been acquitted, she was still in a position where she ought to avoid appearing in public for the time being. In fact, even the most agile film companies had only considered poaching her a bit later. That even the most shrewd industry professionals hesitated to bring out someone like Muraguchi Tazuko. And Sako had done it nonchalantly. It was no wonder that even industry insiders were astonished by his exasperating audacity.

It wasn’t just audacity. He also had relentless persistence. He also possessed meticulous cunning. Otherwise, no matter how you looked at it, he would never have been able to make Muraguchi Tazuko agree. Even without such a scandal, she was precisely the type of woman for whom appearing in a cabaret would have been unimaginable—both to herself and others. Even if superficially polished, she had been called a cultured actress. She had been hailed as an intellectual actress. It was precisely this reputation that had brought her popularity and made the scandal explode all the more sensationally. After the incident, she had even composed poetry. Therefore, this proposal had absolutely not originated from her. It was perfectly obvious. It was Sako who had brought the offer. Naturally, she rejected it. With tearful, resentful eyes, she glared fixedly at Sako.

For a man with ordinary sensibilities, that would have been the end of it. However, Sako lacked such qualms. “Isn’t this about preserving your reputation? If you disappear now, you’ll never regain your standing as an actress.” “I’m not asking you to stay here indefinitely.” “Just between us—our owner’s hatched a plan to acquire △△ Kinema.” “Don’t breathe a word of this to anyone. When the time comes, we’ll need you as our marquee attraction.” “Since we’re focusing on artistic films here, we absolutely require someone of your caliber.” “In other words, just think of it as making a stage appearance for △△ Kinema—that’s all it’d be.”

Sako had gradually explained these brazen lies to her over four or five occasions. The way he kindled hope in her dream of returning to the film world was truly masterful. Sako employed every conceivable method to wear down her resistance. Her elderly mother found herself invited to Shirahama Hot Springs for reasons she couldn't fathom. Luxury goods far beyond a maid's station arrived from department stores. The living expenses for maintaining three people—herself, her mother, and the maid—remained substantial despite recent austerity measures. The financial struggles of this former star actress were pitiful to behold, yet even these had been thrust into her hands over two months through forceful accounting maneuvers by Olympia. The sums transferred matched exactly—neither excessive nor insufficient—calculated with chilling precision based on the maid's estimates.

When things had gone that far, even she could no longer refuse. Of course, she had been hysterically refusing this money she never asked for—no, more precisely, money that had no justification to be accepted—but when they forced it on her with placating "there, there"s, she grew furious. However, had such methods been employed by a cultured person, the cultured sensibility within her would surely have rebelled—but since it was someone like Sako who did this, she found herself only needing to blush slightly. In the presence of such vulgar men, do women perhaps forget their sense of shame, much as they might in front of foreigners? In any case, she gradually grew accustomed to Sako’s methods and stopped getting so angry. Rather, she came to look down on Sako and listen to his coaxing words with a smile. Sako had finally succeeded.

His two months of persistent wooing had finally borne fruit, and even Sako seemed genuinely overjoyed—whether in self-congratulation or not—donning a tailcoat on the evening Tazuko was to make her debut at "Olympia," which had been last night. To compound matters, Sako went so far as to dangle a crimson rose—matching Tazuko's—from his tailcoat's breast. Yet no one found this ridiculous. No—they didn't even notice. The crowd became utterly captivated by the beautiful Muraguchi Tazuko; some grew abnormally excited in their admiration, leaving no room at all to spare even a moment's attention for someone like Sako.

It was a great success. The owner, who had initially complained nonstop about the exorbitant amount of confidential funds Sako had lavishly spent to recruit her, forgot all about profit and desire the moment he laid eyes on Muraguchi Tazuko—her pure white evening dress swaying gracefully, radiating allure. No—even if he had recalled that, seeing the packed crowd before him, there would have been no room for complaint. “You brought in a fine woman.” The owner gave Sako a single word of thanks.

This single word, however, made Sako flinch. The owner's eyes remained persistently fixed on Tazuko from her chest down to her waist. His gaze practically resonated audibly. (Leering) Sako became utterly flustered.

The truth was that Sako Gorō's painstaking efforts to recruit Muraguchi Tazuko to "Olympia" had stemmed from motives divorced from personal gain. Back when he had been an electrician, there had been times when promenade photos of Muraguchi Tazuko were tucked in the pocket of his workman's jacket. That said, he hadn't specifically admired her alone from the start. Most beautiful actresses would have equally captivated his heart. Of course, this wasn't limited to actresses alone. It was merely that he had happened to pick up her promenade photo by chance. But when he took it out of his pocket and looked closely, he thought she was a beautiful woman. He began to secretly fantasize about this woman and torment himself with longing. Hearing her voice in talkies captivated him even more. The voice—hoarse and alluring, sounding as though she were forcing it out—whispered of the profound depths of a woman who seemed to know everything, stimulating Sako's curiosity.

Therefore, in his efforts to recruit her, he had become enthusiastic to a degree that even he himself found strange. Seeing the owner’s covetous ambition toward her in his eyes, it was no wonder Sako had been flustered. It amounted to nothing more than this—realizing he had merely been striving to satisfy the owner’s curiosity, Sako sank into bitter disappointment.

Despite tripling the usual sales figures in what should have been a triumphant success, Sako found no joy in last night's events. (It's not like I'm seeing any of this profit)—when he considered how all that money flowed straight into the owner's pockets, it all felt so idiotic. What's more, Muraguchi Tazuko would inevitably become the owner's woman. The thought enraged him. With others, he might have stood his ground, but against the owner alone, even Sako couldn't raise his head in defiance. He couldn't begin to imagine competing. All through last night, he'd wallowed in impotent jealousy—so consumed he couldn't sleep a wink. Yet tonight's Sako differed subtly from yesterday's. Giving up on Tazuko now would be premature, he decided. Surrender wasn't an option. A faint determination to challenge the owner had taken root within him. This quiet insurrection against management suddenly ballooned into full rebellion the moment he entered the club today and glimpsed Tazuko.

(“What does the owner matter? To hell with him! If he wants to fire me, let him! Even if they kick me out of here, I’m a man who can hold his own in the nightlife trade. And if I made that woman mine, couldn’t I live off her?”) With this thought, Sako’s legs began moving of their own accord, carrying him toward the seating area where Tazuko was. “Welcome.” Sako first greeted the customers, then unclasped his hands, lightly tapped Tazuko’s shoulder, and called out “Hey” to summon her to the shadow of a pillar.

“......?......” With a stiff expression, Tazuko approached. The strong scent of perfume made the hairs in Sako’s nostrils quiver. Completely worked up, Sako lost all restraint. Leaning his body heavily against Tazuko’s, he brought his mouth so close to her ear that the tickling sensation became unbearable for her— “There’s somethin’ I gotta warn ya ’bout.” “It’s been weighin’ on my mind.” “Look, ya gotta watch out for the old man. I’m tellin’ ya this for yer own good, so make sure ya remember it.”

“Thank you.” Tazuko nimbly turned and returned to her seat. For Tazuko, who exactly Sako meant by “old man” wasn’t immediately clear. But she made no effort to find out. It wasn’t just the “old man” she needed to be wary of. All men were like that. In just one night, she had been made to experience enough to sicken her. 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 pretense of kindness—was one she ought to be wary of. Being told such things was perhaps one part of the job—or so Tazuko told herself as she suppressed her sorrow and asked in an extremely businesslike manner.

However, Sako was completely carried away by Tazuko’s words of “Thank you.” (That woman’s grateful to me. That woman’s relying on me, the manager.) Thinking this, he grinned to himself. Even a shrewd man like Sako became utterly undisciplined once he fell for a woman. ("Serves you right!") Sako secretly stuck out his tongue at the owner in his mind. At that exact moment, a waiter came and informed him of the newspaper reporter’s visit.

“Newspaper reporter?” Sako frowned. He had sent out invitations to the newspaper reporters yesterday and entertained them quite lavishly. Thanks to that, today’s morning edition featured a prominently displayed article on Muraguchi Tazuko, complete with photographs. Although it had served as publicity, Sako was tentatively pleased with the effect. However, as Sako was now, he felt a desire to leave Tazuko undisturbed in some place unnoticed by human eyes. He was afraid she would be made into a spectacle. Every customer coming to court Tazuko now was a romantic rival. He had no more use for newspaper reporters now. Sako clicked his tongue.

“What paper’s reporter?” As he said this, he looked at the business card the waiter had brought. Toyo Shinpo Reporter: Mori Hyoichi He had no memory whatsoever of a business card bearing the name Mori Hyōichi, but when he saw the four-character name Toyo Shinpo, something came back to Sako. That morning, Sako had combed through every Osaka newspaper to read articles about Tazuko. There was only one paper that hadn’t written a single word about her. When he learned it was Toyo Shinpo—the very paper that ran weekly ads for Olympia—Sako, who still clung to his passion for promoting Tazuko at the time, had flown into such indignation that he immediately called Toyo Shinpo’s advertising department to protest.

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

“This way.” He pointed toward the staff entrance used by tradesmen and employees.

III

Deliberately choosing a time near closing, past eleven o'clock at night, Hyōichi appeared before the "Olympia," his hands thrust into the pockets of the long overcoat he wore dragged around him. The sound of the jazz band came surging out as if to push aside the hesitant Hyōichi, coldly parching the asphalt of Dōtonbori. For some reason, after hesitating several times, Hyōichi found himself unable to muster the resolve to enter through the front entrance where waiters and hostesses stood lined up. Instead, he darted into the staff entrance, where wind-fluttered notices reading "Male Waiters Wanted," "Laborers Needed," and "Ladies Wanted" were pasted.

There was a waiter there who glared at him and said, “What business you got here?” Perhaps, seeing young Hyōichi, he thought he’d come looking to be hired as a waiter. A young man like Hyōichi—somewhat pale, with well-formed features—was perfectly suited to be a waiter.

“I’m with the newspaper reporter…” Flustered, Hyōichi blurted out this blunder instead of saying “from the newspaper company…” “You got a business card?” Hyōichi took out the small business card he had honestly—and perhaps foolishly—prepared upon realizing that this must be what Tsuchimon had meant when he said reporters first needed business cards. The waiter glanced at it briefly,

“Ah, is that so? I’ll have someone from management come now, so please wait here for a moment… Well then, have a seat.” The business card’s effect was immediate. The waiter abruptly changed his tone and offered a chair. Then he pushed open the door to the gloomy waiting room and left. As it swung open, the vibrant interior of the cabaret flashed into view. Hyōichi grew 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,” he said, then immediately barked, “You’re from Toyo Shinpo, ain’t ya?!” “Yes?” Hyōichi answered while scrutinizing the man’s face. “Your rag’s a disgrace!” Sako launched into confrontation from the outset, likely underestimating Hyōichi—who appeared to him as nothing but a greenhorn reporter with childish features. “Why ain’tcha writin’ squat ’bout us? Every other paper’s doin’ it! Downright shameless! Yours is the only one holdin’ out! What’re ya gonna do ’bout it?”

Hyōichi bristled. “That’s precisely why I’ve gone out of my way to come here today, isn’t it?” Hyōichi stressed *“gone out of my way”* as he said this. The sharpness in his tone held an edge unimaginable from Hyōichi’s outward appearance—so much so that even Sako couldn’t voice the “Coming today’s too late anyway” lingering on his tongue. (High and mighty for a greenhorn.) (These types might prove more troublesome.) If provoked carelessly now, the backlash could be severe—Sako calculated in that instant. (These raw rookies tend to spew reckless gossip without self-interest or foresight.)

Sako’s face suddenly broke into a smile. “Well now, you’ve gone and come all this way for us.” “Well then, please!” Sako, who had done a complete about-face and gone all floppy, said this and led Hyōichi out the door. A social hall where light so bright it hurt the eyes swayed red and blue to the clamor of jazz spread out dazzlingly before them. Hyōichi, now in a state of excitement where nothing else seemed to enter his vision, was led to a window-side table facing Dōtonbori.

“Well then, please!” Sako extended his palm toward the sofa.

Hyōichi, putting on a bold front, suddenly plopped down onto the sofa, but nearly toppled over when the springs gave way beneath him. His carefully maintained composure made the awkwardness all the more glaring. He instantly sensed amusement flickering in Sako's eyes. After ensuring Hyōichi had finally sunk deep into the sofa's cushions, Sako said, "Do take your time now..." and departed, leaving behind the young man whose eyes darted about restlessly like trapped fireflies.

Before long, a waiter appeared, placed a tiny glass like a toothpick holder on the table, poured Western liquor into it, and left. Had there been beer jugs or cups present, it might have been different, but the sight of such a tiny glass placed all alone on the large table was undeniably forlorn. As he stared fixedly at it, Hyōichi began to feel strangely ashamed. Hyōichi grabbed the glass to hide his embarrassment and downed its contents in one gulp.

“Ah!” It was gin. The intense sting searing his tongue and throat made Hyōichi feel his eye sockets might burn out. Startled, he bent down to secretly spit it on the floor when a rustle of silk whispered through the air, followed by a lukewarm feminine scent wafting past. Looking up, he saw a woman in white evening dress standing slenderly beside the table. That must be Muraguchi Tazuko, Hyōichi intuited. “Apologies for the wait—this is Ms. Muraguchi... And our newspaper colleague here...” Sako, standing nearby, introduced them with practiced hand gestures.

“Pleased to meet you,” Muraguchi Tazuko greeted with a smile fixed like a mask, her unnaturally weighty, husky voice cutting through the clamor. “Uh...” Hyōichi managed only to let out a pitifully faint, ambiguous sound, feeling awkward even to himself. His heart pounded inexplicably. To think she’d witnessed his disgraceful act of spitting out the liquor—he flushed so violently his vision blurred.

"Excuse me," said Muraguchi Tazuko as she sat down opposite Hyōichi. Her face, with its fixed smile, was clearly prompting Hyōichi to begin his questions. *I have to speak now!* Hyōichi picked up the empty glass on the table and nervously fiddled with it.

When Sako saw this, he misinterpreted it as Hyōichi asking for a refill and left to fetch more alcohol. Afterwards, Hyōichi and Tazuko were left behind without purpose, facing each other in silence. Dazzlingly crisscrossing red and blue lights adorned Muraguchi Tazuko’s boldly exposed white chest. Unable to meet Tazuko’s gaze, Hyōichi found himself staring at her chest—then a red-dyed vein there suddenly twitched. Then, Muraguchi Tazuko abruptly shed her mask of a smile and furrowed her brow. Because Hyōichi remained stubbornly silent for so long, Tazuko grew irritated. However, Hyōichi still couldn’t speak. He had no idea what kind of questions to ask—or rather, he was feeling too intimidated.

Tazuko felt as though she were being made a fool of. To think that being asked questions rudely would have been preferable—she felt this to such an extent. Tazuko abruptly turned her face away and looked out the window. In the dark flow of the Dōtonbori River, the light reflections of Olympia’s neon sign distorted and flickered incessantly. It was a bleak view. Why did I ever decide to work in a place like this? The thought was regretted anew. Since the previous night, she had been in a state where she felt like crying. If she had possessed no confidence in her own popularity or regard for it, then such a forced smile would have been nothing but sheer wretchedness. The feeling that she had carelessly fallen for Sako’s honeyed words weighed heavily on her. Her education was harshly criticizing her own appearance in this “gentlemen’s social hall.” What would the teacher say if he saw her own figure flitting like a butterfly from seat to seat? Although she had dropped out, she had attended a girls’ school in Hiroshima Prefecture, and the teacher who had doted on her at the time was a poet of the Araragi school. Incidentally, she had once answered in a film magazine’s postcard Q&A column that André Gide was her favorite author.

She seriously considered getting up and leaving. What slightly held her back was Hyōichi’s beautiful face with long, girlish eyelashes. When she thought about the delicate body that hadn’t fully matured into adulthood hidden beneath that puffy overcoat, she found she couldn’t genuinely get angry. Seeing him red down to his very roots, straining to say something, she suddenly found it comical, “Um, which newspaper are you from?” She showed him considerable goodwill.

But at that moment, Hyōichi—to escape the pathetic state of being unable to speak—after much agonizing, forced himself to summon the feelings of irrational anger he had felt toward her earlier that day when reading the newspaper: (You’re not even speaking to this woman? You deserve contempt!) (What’s the big deal? She’s just some woman… If you look close, she’s past her prime, isn’t she?) he secretly adopted a combative stance, his eyes blazing. So when Tazuko was the first to speak, Hyōichi—prone to fixating on things—felt all the more humiliated, as though she had beaten him to it. Naturally, Hyōichi’s response to Tazuko’s question had become a matter that could not be settled with an ordinary, half-hearted answer.

However, luckily Sako appeared there with a bottle of Western liquor, so Hyōichi managed to avoid saying anything rude without having to suppress his painful feelings. “How’s it goin’? “Mr. Toyo Shimpo.” “Did you get your story, Mr. Toyo Shimpo?” Since Sako had addressed him as “Mr. Toyo Shimpo,” Hyōichi felt relieved that he no longer needed to answer Tazuko.

“Ah, I got it,” he blurted out. Tazuko stared at him in disbelief. When he saw her expression, even Hyōichi—(Stop lying!)—felt sick with guilt. “Well then, no harm in getting properly soused now.” “Let’s do this!” “This here’s my secret hooch—ain’t nobody touched this demijohn ’cept me! So take your time savorin’ every drop, got it?” Sako poured into Hyōichi’s glass with a look that said he’d personally fetched the liquor without any waiters meddling, all while shooting Tazuko a meaningful glance. Understanding the signal, Tazuko rose from her seat,

"Please excuse me," said Muraguchi Tazuko as she left her seat. Hyōichi flusteredly,

With a “Haaah!”, he roared out an incomprehensible cry in place of proper farewell and watched Tazuko’s retreating figure. “C’mon, drink up now!” Sako pressed him to drink. Hyōichi closed his eyes, bit down as if tearing through something, drained the glass in one gulp, and thrust it back at Sako. “Damn! Wouldja look at that!” “Damn! Damn!” “Want some water…?” “No need.” In truth he’d wanted it desperately, but when explicitly offered, his stubborn pride forced this refusal.

It must have been extremely poor-quality gin, for its effects came on rapidly. Hyōichi, thinking he should leave before making a spectacle of himself,

“Thank you for your time despite being busy...” With a careless bow of his head—uttered in a surprisingly reporter-like manner—he staggered unsteadily out of Olympia.

When he stepped out, a cold wind rushed in. As he hunched his shoulders, a dizzying vertigo struck—the lights of Dōtonbori suddenly blurred into pure white, cascading into his field of vision. Then in an instant everything receded, and crimson streaked through his mind.

In a frantic daze, he passed through the cramped alley of Shokushō Yokochō and emerged suddenly into the grounds of Hōzenji Temple. Seeing a lone bench placed on the frozen stone pavement, Hyōichi crawled over and sat down on it. The moment he did, he gagged with nausea. An animalistic sensation welled up, and Hyōichi—unable to endure it—retched violently. Blargh! As he watched faint steam rise from the vomit expelled onto the stone pavement, Hyōichi suddenly remembered that tonight’s work still remained. The red lantern of Kotohira Ten'ō swayed faintly.

IV

When the first hour of the night had passed, eager scavengers appeared along Dōtonbori Street's asphalt, creaking handcarts behind them as they revealed their grimy forms. Around that time, countless automobiles lined up like a midnight funeral procession, though none could tell from where they had gathered. The café lights winked out one by one until a restless darkness drifted through the area, whereupon the asphalt suddenly gleamed with frozen whiteness. Even Olympia's lights—last to remain in that gloom—were extinguished in turn, and from its dimmed entrance emerged hostesses wrapped in shawls, filing out in a line as they hunched their cold shoulders. A lone woman in a fur coat—tall and slender—came flying out and rushed up to the foremost of five or six parked cars.

The door opened.

“Come on, get in!” The one who said this was Sako, wearing a Homburg hat pulled down low like Amida’s halo. “Let me take ya!” At these words, the woman lowered her foot from the step. “Oh, that’s quite all right.” It was Muraguchi Tazuko. “Come on now, let me at least take you around there.” Having said this, Sako abruptly brought his face close to Tazuko’s ear,

“Hurry up, or the owner’s gonna show up!” He whispered insinuatingly. Propelled by those words and the push of Sako’s hand against her back, Tazuko swiftly slipped into the car. Sako followed, half-crouching as he shut the door, and ordered the driver in a tone meant partly for Tazuko’s ears: “Tezukayama...” Reassured by the stated destination, Tazuko finally settled deeper into the cushion. As the car began moving, she automatically glanced at her compact mirror. The wrinkles at her eyes’ corners testified to the late hour. (Finally—today’s duties are done!)

However, there were still those who hadn't finished. Sako and another—Hyōichi.

Hyōichi waited in the cold wind, his face grim as he watched for Tazuko to emerge from Olympia. Mingling with men who seemed to be lying in wait for departing hostesses—What kind of job is this?—he felt bile rise in his throat. But when Tazuko finally appeared, even Hyōichi tensed up in surprise. He hid behind cars parked at the rear to avoid her notice, though Tazuko naturally paid no glance toward that direction and briskly boarded the foremost vehicle instead. “Follow that woman’s car!” Hyōichi shouted frantically, leaping into his taxi without waiting for the driver’s response. The long hem of his overcoat tangled around his legs—he literally stumbled—but his eyes never strayed from Tazuko’s car.

“Hurry up!” As Tazuko’s car began moving, Hyōichi grew frantic with anxiety. The driver, however, kept leisurely closing the door while—

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

Realizing that if they kept arguing here they would lose sight of Tazuko’s car, Hyōichi— “I’m begging you—hurry up!” he pleaded. It was this “I’m begging you” that finally made the driver start moving, and skillfully slip through gaps between other cars. “I’ll pay any amount!” I should have said those words sooner. Suddenly the car accelerated, and gradually began closing the distance to the vehicle ahead. Hyōichi let out a sigh of relief. But he remained half-crouched as ever.

Tazuko’s car emerged straight onto Midosuji from Dōtonbori Street and turned toward Namba. As the car rounded the curve, Tazuko briefly raised her eyes to check their direction, but immediately returned to peering into her compact. In other words, as long as she kept doing that, she could avoid dealing with Sako. The car turned and headed toward Nipponbashi-suji 1-chōme, running alongside Denshadōri Street.

Before long, the car turned at the intersection of Nipponbashi-suji 1-chōme and headed toward Kasumichō. Hyōichi’s car followed close behind. As Tazuko’s car climbed the slope alongside Tennōji Park from Kasumichō, Sako— “Freezin’, freezin’! This damn draft’s comin’ right in!” he complained. Then, bracing himself against the driver’s seat to steady against the slope’s sway, he suddenly barked, “Close that!” while pantomiming shutting the window beside the driver. He made this show precisely because it had been closed all along. In that same motion, Sako dropped a five-yen bill onto the driver’s lap and whispered something.

Tazuko thought Oh! At that moment, the car had reached Abeno Bridge, but instead of turning right toward Tezukayama where her residence was, it suddenly veered left. She thought it might be taking a detour, but the car continued straight toward Tennōji. Hearing the faint creak of tires, Tazuko felt an eerie sensation as she listened, “The direction’s wrong. Driver! Turn around!” “Driver!” “Turn around, please!” She cried out involuntarily. However, the driver, who understood Sako’s intentions, merely smiled wryly as if this were routine and made no attempt to listen.

“Mr. Sako!”

Tazuko glared fixedly at Sako’s face. “Please turn the car around!” “That’s just unreasonable,” Sako retorted in his thick Kansai dialect. “I ain’t the driver here! Even if we were to turn back, I can’t be the one drivin’, now can I?” Feigning innocence, he let out a “Ha ha!” and smothered her pale glare with his laughter. Tazuko nearly cried out, but she was—after all—a former star actress. Finally managing to restrain herself, she maintained a thoroughly cautious expression and kept her gaze fixed on the direction the car was heading.

About two blocks past Abeno Bridge, the car suddenly stopped. The driver quickly got out and entered the merchant-style house with a gate light labeled "Kiyokawa." Tazuko immediately realized what kind of establishment this house was. Though old and worn, houses exactly like this appeared in movie sets. Until the driver came out, Sako smoked with nervous gestures unbecoming of this man. From the searing anticipation that he could now have this beautiful actress—whom he had yearned for since his days as an electrician—at his mercy, even Sako couldn’t suppress the violent tremors that wracked his body. Tazuko pictured in her head a cinematic scene of seizing an opening in Sako’s guard to escape.

The driver came out immediately. And signaling Sako with a glance, he opened the door. Sako got out first and, with mock politeness, stood beside the driver. "Please," he urged Tazuko. Staying huddled in the corner of the cushion was something Tazuko's pride would not permit. Tazuko silently nodded and extended her slim legs—wrapped in chocolate-colored stockings—out of the car. Sako shuddered. Tazuko's ashen face looked terrifyingly beautiful even to Sako's eyes. Sako felt as if he were doing something outrageously audacious.

At that moment, Hyōichi’s car slid in with a grating creak and a dull thud. And stopped. “No! Don’t stop here!” Hyōichi cried out instinctively, but the dimwitted driver—solely focused on catching Tazuko’s car—had already slammed on the brakes as if it were perfectly natural by the time he shouted. (He stopped at the worst possible spot!) Thinking this practically broadcast his tailing mission, Hyōichi suddenly flipped up his overcoat collar to hide his face—but Tazuko swiftly spotted the movement and let out a faint “Ah!”

(Oh, this person...) The mere fact that he had come to take the interview yet hadn't spoken a word was enough to remain in her memory. ("That newspaper reporter!") When she recalled this, Tazuko had no time to consider why Hyōichi had appeared there; she whirled around abruptly and dashed toward Hyōichi's car. "Won't you let me ride?" And without waiting for a response, she threw herself into the seat beside Hyōichi as if tumbling in.

The sensation of her soft waist abruptly struck Hyōichi’s body. As he reflexively jerked back, a strong feminine scent sharply hit his nose. Hyōichi grew all the more flustered and couldn’t utter a word in that instant. “Hey, wait! Quit keepin’ me waitin’, damn it!” As the startled Sako uttered that theatrical line in his gratingly crude tone—betraying his true nature—Hyōichi’s car, still carrying Tazuko, sped off once more into the late-night streets. Neither Hyōichi nor Tazuko had ordered the driver to “Go!” It was simply that the driver had used his quick wit in that critical moment. He had simply decided, judging from Hyōichi’s face, that Hyōichi was Tazuko’s lover. Therefore, even without being ordered, he had fully understood what to do.

Five “Ah, please stop right there!”

When they arrived in front of a tidy little Western-style house, Tazuko had the car stopped.

“This is it... my house.” “My house...” With that, Tazuko lifted herself from the cushion and said, “Thank you very much.” Just as she was about to thank Hyōichi—That’s it! I should invite him inside—the idea struck her abruptly. From a standpoint of gratitude, 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 home, but in truth, there was another reason she couldn’t let them leave just yet. The matter of asking that it not appear in tonight’s newspaper still remained.

"I know this is an imposition, but would you please come inside? It’s late at night, so I can’t offer you proper hospitality, but..." Tazuko said. Having never imagined being addressed this way, Hyōichi flushed crimson as if ambushed. "No, I’ll take my leave here." It was an honest response. The truth was, Hyōichi had found even sharing the car ride this far to be unbearably stifling. The prospect of entering the house and enduring that suffocating atmosphere seemed utterly intolerable to him. What the driver had considered an enviable journey felt like an endless ordeal to Hyōichi. The car had finally stopped—wasn’t this precisely when he should have felt relieved? If not for needing to pay the driver, he would have bolted midway through the trip.

However, Tazuko had already swiftly handed over the money to the driver as a matter of course. The driver had actually wanted to receive payment from Hyōichi, who had said “I’ll pay any amount,” but upon seeing the money handed over by Tazuko, he was thoroughly satisfied. ("A man wouldn’t fork over this much,") the driver thought. Having taken the payment, he figured driving again with just Hyōichi aboard would be a losing proposition. It was enough cash to rule out any chance of double-dipping. Even if he tried charging twice, they’d refuse to pay. They’d surely say when they arrived: “You already took money from the lady back there!” With that calculation made, the driver refused to drive no matter how much Hyōichi protested.

“We’re plumb outta gas, see.” “Where’s’t you headed?” “Shitaderamachi.” “That’s t’other way from th’ garage.” “No can do. Out with ya now.” In the end, Hyōichi had no choice but to disembark.

The car began awkwardly maneuvering to turn back, roaring its engine into the late-night air. Hyōichi, who had been standing there blankly, jumped back in alarm. Naturally, this left him approaching the entrance of Tazuko’s house. “Please come in!” Tazuko said.

Hyōichi had no choice but to comply with Tazuko's request. In that late-night residential area, he resigned himself to the difficulty of finding another cab. Yet he too fixated on the lateness of the hour itself. Tazuko must have said earlier, "Given the late hour..." But Hyōichi managed to use his work—if only marginally—as a personal justification. Judging by how he'd only now become conscious of being a journalist in such an absurd situation, he remained far from a true newspaperman.

Apparently alerted by the sound of the car, the entrance light was turned on.

“I’m home!” When Tazuko called out, “Welcome home, my lady.” A maid’s voice sounded from within, and she opened the door.

“Please, come in!” “After you…” When told to do so, Hyōichi stepped into the entranceway, where the maid bowed her head. Looking at the hands neatly pressed together, Hyōichi started. They appeared painfully red and chapped, with what looked like blood seeping in places. Hyōichi abruptly remembered his mother. A constricting sensation gripped his chest. Tazuko instructed the maid to show Hyōichi to the parlor, then went downstairs to see her mother in the Japanese-style room.

“Welcome back.” Her mother sat hunched before the long charcoal brazier, her back curled into a stoop.

“You’re still up?” “No... I was just about to go to bed...” Mother flustered and said, “...The kotatsu was too hot, so I thought I’d put it outside to cool down before sleeping...” Rather than finding her mother’s excuses amusing, Tazuko felt a piercing sadness strike her chest. Last night too, she hadn’t gone to sleep until Tazuko returned. Tazuko felt pierced by sadness at her mother’s anxious vigil—had she remained sitting motionless before the long charcoal brazier, waiting without even a yawn?—when she had told her so emphatically not to worry, that she was fine, that she should just go to bed first. However, she had been awake and waiting yet again tonight. To cover up her inability to sleep from excessive worry, she was dragging out the kotatsu as an excuse. Things hadn’t been like this before. It wasn’t unusual for her to come home late due to filming schedules, and there were even unexpected all-night shoots that kept her away from home, but without needing to bother calling to explain, her mother would sleep soundly.

Even when she had been a dancer before becoming an actress, things were no different.When first starting out as a dancer, she once left home without notice.During an extended chat at a female friend’s boarding house, she missed the last train and stayed overnight—only for a public phone call to ring late at night.It was her mother who had called.Upon grasping the situation,the mother felt relief yet remained visibly agitated—she’d forgotten inside the phone booth both wallet and money meant for buying her daughter shoes.That instance alone marked her sole moment of worry; thereafter,the mother stayed unworried even when her daughter returned late.She had trusted completely.

But ever since that incident occurred, she had become so worried about her daughter’s circumstances she could hardly bear it. This was especially true these past few days since Tazuko had begun appearing at Olympia. With the incident having settled down, she had finally stroked her shoulders—worn to the bone and narrowed from strain—but that relief lasted only a moment. She had now reached the point where she had to show her face at men’s entertainment venues. “Don’t you dare make that mistake again”—until she heard Tazuko’s voice call “I’m home,” she couldn’t bring herself to leave the side of the long charcoal brazier.

When she realized she was being worried about in such a way, Tazuko found it unbearably painful. And precisely because she understood her mother’s feelings of trying to hide that worried face, it became even more unbearable. “Don’t be silly. You should get to bed already.” However, Mother did not try to get up immediately. She seemed flustered as she tried to gauge Tazuko’s expression.

Mother was keenly aware that there was a male guest tonight. Her ears instinctively pricked up toward the second floor. It was only natural—male guests visiting at such a late hour had been absent from there for about two years now. They had come two years ago: sudden late-night visitors introduced to Tazuko. That had been Director Yano. When Mother bowed deeply, murmuring "Thank you for always looking after Tazuko," he nodded magnanimously with an "Ah, yes"—but that magnanimity stemmed not from a director's pride in shaping Tazuko into a star, but from the leverage of having already claimed control over her body and mind. With cruel arrogance, Yano had said "You've raised quite a fine daughter," then stayed the night without ceremony. After that he came frequently—Yano, who turned out to have a wife and children back home, who would whisper to Tazuko about how wrong this was toward them even as he pressed closer. Mid-protest he suddenly noticed something amiss with Tazuko's physique. Mother could only watch her daughter with sorrowful eyes, speechless—then just as she relaxed, thinking it a false alarm, came the police summons. Later understanding the reason, she regretted not making Tazuko quit acting to raise the child instead—too late now—and resented Yano, suspecting his scheming hand. The memory of Yano's arrogant demeanor during that first visit kept haunting her. Even now Mother recalled that night's events and abruptly turned anxious eyes toward the second floor.

But,

“Who’s the guest…?” she couldn’t bring herself to ask. Tazuko keenly perceived her mother’s feelings. “There’s a guest, you know…” Having broached the subject herself, “It’s someone from the newspaper. He says he wants to write about my stalking incident. How tiresome. Journalists… But it would be rude not to go—I’ll just make a brief appearance and return.” As Tazuko spoke these words while changing from an evening dress into a kimono in the adjoining room—urging her mother to go to bed first—the young newspaper journalist felt a pang of guilt. Therefore, driven by that instinct particular to beautiful women, she meticulously reapplied her makeup.

“Thank you for waiting.” “—Thank you for earlier.”

And when they sat facing each other, she quickly noticed that Hyōichi hadn’t touched the coffee that had been served to him, “Here, please drink it while it’s still hot…” “...before it gets cold.” However, while he had been kept waiting, she noticed that it had become completely cold, “Oh dear, it’s already gone cold, hasn’t it.” “I’m terribly sorry.” She said with a lilting tone and pressed the bell to summon the maid. Her amiable expression was utterly flawless.

The young maid took a liking to Hyōichi the moment she saw him. Given her employment under a film actress, she had developed such a keen interest in cinema that when she saw Hyōichi—clumsily clad in a bulky overcoat—the lateness of the hour made her wonder if this beautiful youth might not be a male-attired beauty. The maid, who had abruptly developed an unseemly infatuation, appeared timidly in the parlor, looking utterly pitiful. She found offering the coffee cup unbearably embarrassing. It was because she had to show her dirty hands.

However, if there was any part of Hyōichi that felt drawn to this maid, it might not have been the tip of her nose—hastily smeared with makeup—but rather her reddened, dirty hands, the ones she was reluctant to show. For Hyōichi, even seeing those hands isolated like that was enough to pierce his heart. It was because they reminded him of his mother's hands. Yet he saw those hands in a parlor glittering with luxurious decorations. Struck all the more deeply, Hyōichi suddenly recalled Higashi Ginko's red feet as she danced on the Yayoi-za stage. Nearly letting tears fall, he wiped them away in his fluster through resentment toward the room and stood up.

“I must take my leave now.” Of all times—just as fresh coffee had arrived—Hyōichi declared his departure. Tazuko stood astonished.

“Oh, it’s perfectly all right.” “Do stay a little longer...” “If you leave so soon, I shall be cross with you.” She truly grew angry. Now that he meant to leave—an unacceptable outcome—Tazuko desperately tried to detain Hyōichi. She found herself despicable for behaving this way. Hyōichi too felt unbearable wonder at why she detained him so persistently. Having been detained with such fervor, Hyōichi felt a small satisfaction in wrenching free to depart.

“It’s already gotten so late...” Having said that abruptly, he pushed open the door. And then he descended the stairs. “Oh, are you leaving already?”

The maid appeared at the entrance. Hyōichi did not answer and, stuffing his feet into his dirty shoes, hurried out. Listening to the distant howling of dogs, Hyōichi walked to the Himematsu stop on the Sumiyoshi Line and finally managed to hail a car. The pleading expression he had seen on Tazuko’s face as he was leaving somehow wouldn’t leave his mind. After seeing Hyōichi off, the maid entered the parlor with a look of someone about to tidy up. She was dissatisfied with something. She hadn’t expected him to leave so soon. She had assumed he would be staying over. She couldn’t fathom what kind of relationship this man had with her mistress, but regardless, she wanted him to stay the night. He had left without saying a word. She was lonely. (Of course someone like me—a mere maid—wasn’t even worth speaking to.)

However, it wasn’t limited to just the maid. Though somewhat different, even her mistress had been made to experience a similar feeling. When the maid entered, Tazuko remained seated on the sofa, motionless and in a daze. “He didn’t end up staying over after all, did he?” When the maid said that, Tazuko finally came to herself. “You know that already.” “Who would let him stay?!” “A reporter like that!” Tazuko said scoldingly.

In truth, when she had stopped Hyōichi—given how late it was—she had thought she ought to let him stay. Yet when confronted by the maid’s words, that very notion now struck her as somehow vulgar. The phrase Hyōichi had uttered upon leaving—“It’s already gotten so late…”—returned to her with an oddly ironic ring. For the first time, Tazuko regretted having brought Hyōichi to her home at such an hour, realizing how rash it had been.

The maid grew suddenly saddened that the man she secretly cherished had been spoken of in such terms. Yet with her characteristic sensitivity, she detected Tazuko's anger and conformed to it.

"You're absolutely right." "A reporter like that!" "And what's more." "He's far too impertinent." "...and then he just leaves without even saying goodbye!" The maid hadn't known whether Hyōichi had bid Tazuko farewell before leaving or departed without a word. Thus her remark had really been about herself. Yet for Tazuko, Hyōichi had indeed "left without even saying goodbye." No—more accurately, he'd shaken off her attempts to detain him and fled. (Had something upset him?)

When she thought about it, there was none. She had no way of knowing the cause had been his seeing the maid's red hands. With no apparent reason, Tazuko's self-esteem couldn't have been wounded more thoroughly. Worse still, the fact that he'd left without mentioning the crucial newspaper article left her with no dignity at all. The maid's words cut Tazuko deeply. But then she suddenly remembered how the maid had gazed at Hyōichi with that strange, entranced look. This brought her a sliver of consolation.

This girl was lying. She was clearly in love with that reporter yet saying such things! ...That's it. That reporter was exactly the sort of man suited to become this girl's lover! With this thought, Tazuko resolved to scorn Hyōichi. Getting angry at such a man was downright shameful! In other words, that man's company being limited to the maid was perfectly adequate. The very fact she needed to force these words upon herself revealed how stubbornly Hyōichi clung to her mind, refusing to fade away.

She thought she couldn't let things end like this. Therefore, she ended up doing something completely unexpected and reckless the next day—calling Hyōichi's office.

VI

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

Hyōichi, who had completely overslept due to exhaustion from the previous night, arrived at the office when it was already nearly eleven o'clock. Hyōichi was hurriedly scrawling his surveillance report with a 4B pencil to meet the manuscript deadline.

The pencil lead broke. “Attendant! A pencil!”

Under normal circumstances, he wouldn’t have been able to order the attendant around, but being in a hurry, he barked like that, mimicking his seniors’ tone. But to his chagrin, he was still seen as a novice. Moreover, he was young. No one brought a pencil. Hyōichi flushed with embarrassment. Then,

“Hey, here’s a pencil!” A man came to Hyōichi’s desk with a pencil. When he looked, it was Tsuchimon.

“Oh, thank you.” Hyōichi was relieved. “Lend me money! Fifty sen’ll do!” With a wry smile at their usual routine, he placed a fifty-sen coin on the desk before Hyōichi resumed scrawling his surveillance report on the coarse paper. Tsuchimon pocketed the silver coin while remarking, “Mighty eager today, ain’t ya? What’s this article about anyway?” He started asking, then cut himself off—“Ah, got it. Muraguchi Tazuko’s... What an honor standin’ for ya. Ha!”—before bursting into laughter. Hyōichi abruptly looked up,

“What kind of actress is Muraguchi Tazuko anyway? What did she do? What does ‘The Sinful Actress’ mean?” Having no one else to ask, Hyōichi seized this chance encounter with Tsuchimon to inquire. “Oh? You don’t know?” Tsuchimon’s lips twisted in amusement. “This is rich! A newspaper reporter who doesn’t know about the Muraguchi Tazuko incident? And here you are writing her surveillance report—ha! I can’t stomach it!” He shuddered dramatically. “Don’t go making me this giddy first thing in the morning now. Heh heh heh…” His mocking laughter trailed off as his expression abruptly hardened.

“You really don’t know?”

“Yeah.” “Alright then, I’ll tell you. Muraguchi Tazuko—she’s a real piece of work, you know. Hooked up with the director to get better roles and ended up with a belly swollen like a lime burn. Then had it reshaped back to her original figure quick as you please—all for that little show. ‘Step right up,’ they say—that’s her for you.” “If she’d laid low in seclusion, she might’ve stayed decent enough. But seems she couldn’t quit the fame game—now she’s parading into the Olympia all prim and proper. That’s what we’re dealing with.” “Not that I was too soused to write or nothin’, but churnin’ out some fluff piece for that dame? No thank you.” “Ha ha!” Tsuchimon rattled it all off in one breath. “But since it’s your job, give it your best shot—first article, right? Write it proper.” “Well, see ya…” he said, walking off.

So that’s how it was, Hyōichi thought, and he no longer wanted to continue writing. In truth, he had been writing a puff piece all along. Hyōichi abruptly tore up the manuscript paper he had been writing on. Then he numbered it "1" on a new sheet of rough paper. Eventually, Hyōichi began writing in scathing prose spurred by Tsuchimon. It was nearly noon when he wrote the stop mark ‘止’ as a period. Hyōichi read through the manuscript while crossing the editorial office and took it to the editor-in-chief. And when he came out, the waiter approached and,

“Did you go to Olympia last night?” he asked. When he nodded yes, the waiter, “Then there’s a call for you,” he said in a derisive tone. Since she didn’t know Hyōichi’s name, it was Muraguchi Tazuko who had called asking them to summon whoever had come to Olympia the previous night. Upon answering the phone and realizing who it was, Hyōichi panicked. To begin with, he had little experience using telephones—this being his first time at the company. Hyōichi turned bright red, his replies reduced to nothing but awkward “Haa... haa...” sounds.

“I must apologize for my behavior last night.” When she recognized Hyōichi’s voice, Tazuko offered this greeting. “Haa...” Hyōichi suddenly recalled the pleading expression he had seen on Tazuko’s face as he left the previous night, wondering if he hadn’t been the rude one instead. “There’s... something I wish to speak with you about.” “Are you available now?” “Haa...” “Then might we meet?” “Haa...”

“I’ll be waiting at Fujiya in Shinsaibashi.”

“Haa...” “Could you come right away?”

“Haa.” “Fujiya, right?” Hyōichi was drenched in sweat. He couldn’t refuse. Hadn’t he just written an article thoroughly lambasting her? Hyōichi was thoroughly mortified. He should have originally held antipathy toward her. Especially since he had heard Tsuchimon’s account, that antipathy should have been further fueled. So it was strange that he felt so needlessly mortified, but now that he had fully expressed that resentment in writing, trying to forcibly rely on it proved ineffective. Moreover, since this 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 weight and hoarseness, instead conveying an unexpectedly clear, gentle tone.

After hanging up the phone, Hyōichi threw on his overcoat and rushed out of the office.

When he entered Fujiya, Tazuko had arrived first and raised a single gloved finger to signal Hyōichi. “I’ve gone and summoned you here… Well then, please…!” At Tazuko’s words, Hyōichi flushed and sat down in the seat across from her. When he placed both hands on the table, Hyōichi started. Black ink-like stains marked his palms. He jerked his hands back, thinking it must have been pencil lead dust—evidence of how absorbed he’d been writing that account of tailing Tazuko. Keeping his face lowered, he frantically rubbed his palms against his trouser knees with painful intensity.

When asked what he would drink, Hyōichi answered coffee. Tazuko called the waiter, “Coffee and sweets... And then, I’ll have cream... What kind of cream...?” “We only have vanilla, madam.”

The waiter said. “That’s fine.”

When she finished ordering, Tazuko observed Hyōichi slowly for the first time.

And she was taken aback. Unlike when he had entered with his face absurdly flushed, Hyōichi now wore an ashen face with a sullen look. He glared up at Tazuko sharply. Those eyes held even a faint hint of hostility. (What a man with such mercurial expressions.) Tazuko was completely taken aback. The truth was—absurd as it seemed—Hyōichi’s nitpicking mind, which found fault in everything, had taken offense at Tazuko ordering ice cream this time too. By Hyōichi’s logic, eating ice cream midwinter was pure affectation. For a young woman like Tazuko to eat it publicly? That was downright pretentious—or so he insisted.

During his school days, one late night, Hyōichi went with his friends Akai and Nozaki to the Star Diner behind Kyōgoku. It was midwinter, and Kyoto’s bone-chilling cold was particularly severe; they pulled their chairs close to the stove and settled in. When it came to deciding what to eat, Nozaki—who was utterly gluttonous when it came to food—spoke up, saying he wanted to try ice cream once, since he hadn’t had any since last summer. Then, Akai immediately responded, “Yeah, I’ve been thinking I want to eat that too.” When asked “Mōri, what about you?” Hyōichi—rather than objecting—simply ordered coffee, an utterly ordinary choice, and smirked as he watched them shivering around their shoulders while gulping down their ice cream as if gnawing on it. Then, Akai clicked his tongue and said,“You don’t even know what ice cream tastes like in midwinter? You’re such a country bumpkin.”

Hyōichi was recalling that incident. However, though he had been called a country bumpkin back then, Hyōichi hadn’t felt particularly angry. Because Akai and Nozaki’s brand of pretentiousness was the sort that seemed to frolic wildly in their guts—unlike Tazuko’s variety, which sat stiffly composed with affected refinement. Such nitpicking tendencies—in other words, wasn’t this proof of Hyōichi’s narrow-mindedness? There could be no doubt about it. This stemmed from his inherent nature, but also from his lack of clear opinions on matters—any proper philosophy of life or ideology. Thus, he ended up doling out only these petty criticisms. He could think only in impulsive bursts, rendering him incapable of sustained action; it was the oscillations of his self-esteem that drove him.

When Tazuko saw Hyōichi’s expression, she suddenly remembered his rudeness from the previous night. And now the reason she had gone out of her way to summon him by phone became clear. Truly, she couldn’t clearly understand why she had decided to meet Hyōichi again. Of course, she secretly felt that she couldn’t let things remain as they were after being treated that way last night. But meeting him for that reason alone—wouldn’t that be rather improper? After all, he was just some insignificant fledgling reporter, wasn’t he? When she thought this, her regret over having called him so recklessly grew stronger. When she saw Hyōichi enter with his face suddenly flushing red, her feelings grew even stronger. In other words, she found it unbearably shameful that she felt drawn to Hyōichi in some way.

Therefore, that Hyōichi now showed such an unlovely expression was, for her, rather refreshing.

(That's it! I couldn't remain silent about this man's rudeness last night—that's why I deliberately decided to meet him!) With this meaning clarified, her regrets about being improper or reckless vanished. She fixed her long-lashed eyes intently on Hyōichi. And she pondered what kind of remarks to hurl at him.

Suddenly, with a woman’s sensitivity, she noticed how worn Hyōichi’s overcoat looked. It was creased pitifully with wrinkles. Moreover, clearly off-the-rack, it hung ill-fitting and baggy on his frame. Upon closer inspection, his suit didn’t even appear to be winter-weight. The necktie too was wretched— the same pattern as last night’s but more crumpled now. “Who on earth picked out that overcoat…?” Tazuko considered asking him outright. But in that instant, Hyōichi’s gaunt cheeks struck her eyes with painful clarity.

But then, she found herself unable to voice it. The mere thought of such words somehow made her feel sorry for him. (Oh no!) Tazuko couldn't help but cry out inwardly. (I'm sympathizing with this person.)

In other words, that would mean she had indeed been drawn to Hyōichi and gone out of her way to meet him.

She flusteredly averted her eyes from Hyōichi. In that moment—(Ah, that's right!)—she smiled. (I’d forgotten something crucial.) (I had something to ask this person.)

After taking such a roundabout route in her mind, she had finally arrived at this conclusion: that the reason she had gone out of her way to meet him was to ask about the tailing article. Tazuko let out a breath of relief and parted her lips. “Um, there’s something I’d like to ask…” “Could you please listen?” “…About that tailing article you mentioned last night…”

Hyōichi startled. “...It’s an unreasonable request, but could you refrain from writing it?” Since she could find no other strategy to employ, Tazuko made the request directly like that.

Hyōichi had no way to reply. Hadn't he just finished writing it? When he imagined it already typeset and likely loaded onto the rotary press by now— "Why...?" he asked with a weight pressing against his chest. But in the next instant his voice turned thoroughly spiteful, "Would publishing it cause you trouble?" He remembered Tsuchimon's words. (If printed, this would damage her popularity—that's what she fears. This woman cares about nothing but public image. Even that director scandal—just another calculated move to stay relevant.)

Even after having written such scathing things about the woman, Hyōichi kept mentally flogging himself like this—partly to fortify against his own guilt-ridden weakness toward Tazuko—but in truth, it was because the ice cream had arrived just then. "It's not that I'm troubled—" As Tazuko began to say, Hyōichi pressed on over her:

“You’re saying it’s about your popularity, aren’t you!” Tazuko abruptly lowered her eyes. “Popularity…?” Her voice trailed off. “Isn’t that right?” “That’s wrong!” Suddenly, the gleam in her eyes lifted her eyelashes. “Everyone keeps harping on ‘popularity, popularity,’ but…” Her voice took on a theatrical cadence. “...Do you truly believe I think about my own popularity that much?” “...Take Mr. Yano’s case—everyone claims ‘Muraguchi traded her virtue to Yano for better roles,’ but could I have possibly approached him with such calculations?” “Would I have destroyed myself—for popularity’s sake? For my own fleeting fame?” “...That’s not true.” “Yes, Mr. Yano was my benefactor.” “But love exists apart from such transactions.” “No matter his patronage—had I not loved him, I’d never have engaged in that relationship.” “I simply loved Mr. Yano.” “Nothing more.” “That’s precisely why when he told me to do it—that thing—I complied.” “Because when someone you love asks, you obey.”

“And yet everyone dismisses all of that as being for popularity’s sake.” “You’re viewing things through tinted lenses.” “You must certainly be like that too, don’t you?” Having said that, she flashed a lonely smile. The moment she realized that smile was deliberate, she became disgusted. She thought about how frightening the power of habit could be. She had unconsciously adopted 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 moment, she could believe it. Having told herself this for so long, she could no longer conceive of any alternative. It had become, so to speak, a fixed obsession of hers. Yet this was the first time she had ever voiced this fixation before others. She didn't want to speak of such things in a place like this. She refused to make her first protest against society's gaze within some café. Even considering his status as a newspaperman, the man before her remained absurdly young - practically a child.

However, seeing that Hyōichi appeared to be listening intently with a startled expression, Tazuko felt somewhat encouraged. Indeed, Hyōichi had been captivated by Tazuko's words. Precisely because his own "critique" had been so harsh, his desire to believe her words grew even stronger. "How could anything Tsuchimon says be reliable?!" he thought. Tazuko had to lower her voice since they were in public. Though her emotions were heightened, having to suppress her voice only deepened her own sorrow, she felt, and before she knew it her eyes grew moist. Seeing this, Hyōichi became even more deeply moved. Hyōichi, who tended toward extremes, abruptly stood up.

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

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

VII

The Editor-in-chief was exasperated by Hyōichi’s sloppy handwriting and crude content, but skimmed through the manuscript nonetheless. He thought it fortunate that he had reviewed it. (If I hadn't read this and passed it to the social affairs department head, what a disaster that would've been.) (The social affairs head's exactly the type who'd send it straight to print without checking.) Not only did it slander Muraguchi Tazuko, but it even exposed misconduct by Olympia's publicity manager. Publishing it would naturally draw protests from Olympia. While this gave it value as an exclusive, the sales department would surely face complications. From editorial's perspective, they wanted to run it if possible—yet wished to avoid clashes with sales. For one thing, the sentimental Editor-in-chief wanted to protect Muraguchi Tazuko.

The Editor-in-chief rejected Hyōichi’s manuscript. Yet he felt somewhat sorry for Hyōichi. Though it had been a stroke of luck, gathering that much material for a scoop must have required tremendous effort. (That boy’s got potential after all.) (Toiling away until midnight in this cold...) (He’ll be crushed when he finds out it got scrapped.) Just as these thoughts crossed his mind, Hyōichi called. “This is Mōri.” The Editor-in-chief couldn’t immediately place the voice. Judging by its youthful tone, he assumed it wasn’t anyone consequential,

“Who the hell’s ‘Mōri’?” “Yes... It’s Mōri Hyōichi, the society department trainee.” “Oh, you? What d’you want?”

“Uh, well… Has the manuscript from earlier already been sent to print?”

“Not yet, see.” “What’s up with that?” “It hasn’t been sent yet?” “I see.” “In that case, I know this is terribly forward of me, but could you please reject that piece?” “Why’s that?” “Well…” “You see, there’s a certain situation…” “I see.” “In that case, I’ll do as you say.” The Editor-in-chief smiled. “So where are you now?” “Well…” “I’m at Fujiya in Shinsaibashi…” “Who’re you with? “A lover or something?” The Editor-in-chief, thoroughly cheered by Hyōichi’s unexpected request, made such a joke,

“In that case, I earnestly beg your favor.” With Hyōichi’s sweat-drenched words still ringing in his ears, he hung up the phone. The moment he hung up, the Editor-in-chief—

(That kid got asked by Muraguchi Tazuko, didn't he? They're meeting right now, aren't they?) Imagining his young subordinate's lively endeavors, the Editor-in-chief found himself in excellent spirits. Just then Tsuchimon came requesting approval for an advance payment seal - all he did was mechanically stamp it without looking. After hanging up, Hyōichi returned to where Tazuko waited and told her he'd decided to hold back publishing the article.

“Thank you… Even after all your considerable efforts…”

As she said this, Tazuko suddenly thought: So in the end, this person had gone through all that trouble last night to save me. Tazuko abruptly stood up and, “Shall we leave here?” she said in a bright voice, her words carrying an implied invitation to walk together. More than anything, Tazuko felt glad that Hyōichi had been moved by her words. And through her innate vanity’s lens, Hyōichi—who had taken measures exceeding her hopes—appeared as nothing less than a knight.

Hyōichi’s actions from the previous night—which should have wounded her self-esteem—now seemed to her, upon reflection, to have stemmed from an endearing shyness that fixated intensely on the lateness of the hour. The swiftness of their parting like a sudden gust had been gallant as a knight’s departure, this former actress thought. Avoiding Shinsaibashi’s bustle, they walked side by side along Midosuji’s tree-lined avenue toward Daimaru. Gentle sunlight streamed directly onto their faces. To Hyōichi’s sleep-deprived eyes, this light felt painfully bright. He knit his brows tightly together. Accustomed to harsh stage lighting, Tazuko remained unaffected—but seeing his expression, she misinterpreted his squint as a frown of displeasure.

This was unthinkable even from the perspective of her vanity. She instinctively made efforts to captivate Hyōichi’s heart. When they reached Shinsaibashi, Tazuko— “Let’s turn back,” she said, and even went so far as to ask, “Do you dislike walking with me?” No matter who considered it, Hyōichi was receiving favorable treatment from Tazuko. The mere act of walking side by side was worthy of envy. Even Hyōichi could read it in the eyes of the people who looked at them intently as they passed by.

(I’m walking side by side with a popular actress!) He didn’t feel bad about it. Yet Hyōichi had long professed to despise notions like “popularity”—so was this joy he now felt a contradiction, or merely a symptom of his youth? Whatever the case, whenever he imagined others harboring such thoughts, a nauseating contempt welled up within him. However, whether Hyōichi noticed this contradiction or was simply embarrassed, he wasn’t yet completely self-satisfied.

So when questioned like that, he didn't do anything as foolish as saying something like "No—it's an honor," even if laughing while saying it. That said, 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 took offense. Hyōichi had become sensitive to Tazuko's emotional shifts, so he immediately realized—(That was a clumsy thing to say)—and,

"I'm currently skipping work hours. It’s nice to skip work once in a while." It was a strained excuse. However, depending on interpretation, these words could be taken as answering Tazuko’s question of “Do you dislike walking with me?” At the very least, Tazuko wanted to believe that Hyōichi was pleased to be walking with her. That’s how she interpreted it.

In other words, that strained excuse was somewhat successful. Tazuko was satisfied, and Hyōichi too could be satisfied. It was because they were words that wouldn’t be embarrassing no matter who overheard them. This prudence of Hyōichi’s achieved an even more notable effect. He remained thoroughly on guard against the suggestive remarks often used by brazen men or lyrical lovers, “What do you think people would say if they saw us walking together like this?” keeping vigilant against such insinuating phrases. In other words, he refrained from getting carried away and thoughtlessly uttering the kind of words that would instantly disgust a cultured woman. As a result, Tazuko managed to avoid becoming overly conscious of deliberately walking back and forth along Midosuji’s paved sidewalk side by side with the young newspaper reporter. Naturally, the unconscious coquetry meant to captivate Hyōichi’s heart flowed forth effortlessly. Hyōichi could have grown self-satisfied. However, due to an unexpected incident, he found himself feeling completely the opposite.

It was when they reached the front of Daimaru.

"If Mr. Mōri had a sister, I'm sure she'd be beautiful." Tazuko, who had been about to utter words meant to delight him, suddenly paled and swallowed her speech. A deathly pallor seized Tazuko's profile. In Hyōichi's eyes—which had registered surprise—the figure of a man emerging from Daimaru's doorway froze mid-step for no apparent reason.

He wore a short leather coat with a belt, revealing golf slacks beneath. From behind rimless glasses, he glared sharply at Hyōichi. But before that, that man had been looking at Tazuko’s face. Then, with a startled expression, he stood frozen for a moment, but soon approached with a stiff gait,

“Long time… How’ve you been?” he said to Tazuko. “…………”

Tazuko refastened her handbag’s clasp with a snap. Her hands were trembling slightly.

“I saw it in the newspaper—you’re working at ‘Olympia,’ I hear?” “Well, keep at it.” After giving Hyōichi a sharp look, he turned his gaze back to Tazuko’s face. Tazuko, “Thank you,” she said softly. The man raised his hand, “Well then,” he walked away. “Ah.”

Tazuko shifted her shoe's heel slightly but stopped herself from giving chase. She stood frozen for a while, but eventually started walking without saying a word.

"Who was that?" Hyōichi finally asked. "Mr. Yano." Since Tazuko said nothing more after that, Hyōichi found himself helplessly recalling her words from earlier at Fujiya—"I used to love Mr. Yano"—with no refuge from the memory. He also remembered the dismissive glance (or so Hyōichi thought) that Mr. Yano had left behind. Hyōichi struggled to control his expression. Though he considered it fortunate that Tazuko's sudden quickened pace might hide his momentarily distorted features from notice, this very hastening of her steps—proof of her inner turmoil—caused that same agitation to transfer directly to him. After all, there was no way his heart could stay calm.

Just as he was beginning to feel somewhat self-important, Tazuko's agitation became all the more painful. And to his chagrin, from Hyōichi's perspective, Yano appeared more impressive than he had imagined. Hadn't he walked away with a face as if the cold wind didn't touch him? Hyōichi thought that he himself had been quite overshadowed in Yano's presence. Since Tazuko remained silent, Hyōichi found himself lost in such solitary reflections. (Yano must have found it utterly ridiculous seeing me next to this woman.)

Feelings of jealousy had thus gradually crept into Hyōichi’s heart. Tazuko’s unconscious efforts since earlier to captivate Hyōichi’s heart had instead borne fruit precisely through her silence.

But even Hyōichi, having remained silent for so long, thought it would be pathetic to keep trailing after her indefinitely. While acutely aware of Tazuko's extraordinary beauty, "I'll take my leave here," he said. Then he abruptly stepped away from her side. Seeing Hyōichi suddenly try to depart in this manner, Tazuko finally regained her composure.

“Ah, Mr. Mōri,” she called out to stop him, “won’t you come to the ‘Olympia’ tonight?” And then she took two or three quick steps toward Hyōichi.

A cold wind blew across the pavement shaded from the sun.

Hyōichi "Yes," he said aloud. And they parted.

Chapter Three 1

1

The thought of having to see Sako’s face made Tazuko no longer want to go to the "Olympia". However, though not explicitly labeled as such, since she had accepted money akin to an advance or contractual payment, she couldn’t just abruptly quit. Having worked in show business, she understood all too keenly how seriously contracts must be regarded. Since morning, Tazuko had been weighing her options.

However, the moment she said to Hyōichi, "Won’t you come to the ‘Olympia’ tonight?" her mind had been made up. If she suddenly quit, it would cause friction. Tazuko left for the "Olympia" at her usual time, deciding it would be best to act as if she knew nothing about last night’s incident with Sako. But why had she asked Hyōichi to come to the "Olympia"? Even if one claimed it stemmed from professional duty to attract more customers—given that the guest was Hyōichi—Sako wouldn’t be pleased despite being publicity manager. Of course, that hadn’t been her motivation. To articulate it—though Tazuko herself hadn’t fully recognized it—she found herself compelled to meet Hyōichi again that night. Not that her feelings were flighty. It would be absurd to consider someone as boyish as Hyōichi a lover; rather, the emotional shock of unexpectedly encountering Yano that day had driven her to seek solace in Hyōichi’s unthreatening presence—a crutch devoid of conventional masculine intensity.

It had been five months since she last met Yano—since the incident occurred. She had wanted to meet him but couldn’t. Tazuko told herself society wouldn’t allow it. She wanted to believe that. She refused to think Yano had seized the incident as an excuse to flee from her. She clung to the belief he must want to meet too. But seeing Yano’s face shattered that illusion. After five months apart—after such an incident—their reunion should have brimmed with mutual anguish. At the very least, Tazuko felt too heartsick to speak. Yet Yano displayed brazen indifference—or so it seemed to her. In that instant, she wanted to flee herself. She understood avoiding even brief conversation. Still, couldn’t he have shown a shred of lingering affection? The bitter thought flashed through her mind as she pursued him. Ultimately realizing there’d been no love from the start, she abandoned the chase. When she grasped Yano’s lack of affection, Tazuko finally recognized her own love for him. “It wasn’t for popularity—I genuinely liked him.” Considering her feelings then, even these words spoken to Hyōichi weren’t entirely false. As proof—hadn’t she resolved to give up on Yano? In that moment, any measure would find Hyōichi paling beside Yano’s shadow.

And at the same time，even had he been an ugly man，he must have seemed somewhat preferable. That Tazuko had told him to "Come to the 'Olympia' tonight" was only natural. Incidentally，it must be noted that what made Tazuko resolve to go to the "Olympia" was also the sight of Yano’s retreating figure. When women are heartbroken，they never remain alone. Even if they travel to forget their anguish，it’s customary for them to inform someone of their intent beforehand.

In any case, Tazuko appeared at the “Olympia” at her usual time. Sako had intended to feign complete ignorance of the previous night’s events even upon seeing Tazuko’s face, but when she appeared, “Well, look who’s here!” he blurted out involuntarily. It was the sort of greeting one might give to an entirely unexpected visitor. In other words, he had carelessly revealed his anxiety—the worry that Tazuko might not show up after all.

Around ten o'clock, Hyōichi arrived. Tazuko greeted him with a face that suggested she had naturally been expecting his arrival, but had Hyōichi known she thought of it that way, it would have been most disagreeable for him. He hadn’t come bustling out in eager anticipation, after all. It was truly an irksome matter, but Hyōichi was, as usual, terribly fixated on having trailed along obediently at Tazuko’s every beckoning. He could find no compelling reason why he needed to go. This left Hyōichi thoroughly vexed. That he secretly harbored feelings for Tazuko—something unknown to others—was intolerable to this prideful man. Having failed to find a reason, he commanded himself to abandon the idea of going—a pathetically feeble order indeed. As proof of this weakness, even after issuing this self-admonishment, he agonized over discovering a justifiable pretext. Suddenly, he recalled Yano’s face. Eyes glaring contemptuously from behind rimless glasses. The raw, visceral intensity stretching from eyelids to brows.

Hyōichi had finally found his reason (That's it. I won't lose to a man like him! I'll make that woman mine!). This was always Hyōichi's way of thinking. Yet this time, his rationale carried a tinge of jealousy. Which only made it more intense.

Hyōichi decided to follow this line of thinking that had suddenly surged into his mind. This became his pretext for going to the "Olympia". Had Tazuko known of Hyōichi’s thoughts, she would have shuddered. Or perhaps would she have found it strange? Yet Hyōichi had not appeared before Tazuko with those strange thoughts dangling from the tip of his nose. Though relieved to have finally found a pretext, the duty he had imposed on himself—to make Tazuko his own—weighed heavily on twenty-year-old Hyōichi. He appeared before Tazuko trembling violently. To her eyes, he looked like a child who had come to collect a promised treat. Therefore Tazuko found him rather endearing and refrained from treating him harshly.

Due to her duties, Tazuko had to make rounds greeting various tables, but each time she would tell Hyōichi, “Wait here for me, okay.” She would then immediately return and sit down beside him. Since he was the only customer receiving such treatment, Hyōichi really ought to have been delighted. Yet he felt no happiness at all—he had remembered that self-imposed duty. (I have to do something!) he thought, but couldn’t fathom what exactly. The notion of seducing her never even flickered through his mind. After agonizing over possibilities, the pinnacle of his brainstorming was to hold her hand like he’d once done at the café. He abruptly resolved to execute this plan. Hyōichi started fidgeting.

But coincidentally, Tazuko’s hands were occupied at that very moment. Tazuko took the apple that the waiter had brought without properly facing her and, with deft movements, began peeling it. Of course, it was for Hyōichi. Clumsy Hyōichi couldn’t even handle a single apple, but seeing Tazuko like that, he suddenly felt his heart warm. In that instant, he forgot his self-imposed duty and became entranced by the beauty of Tazuko’s delicate fingers. Such nights continued for four or five days. Because he hadn’t taken a single action that satisfied his self-imposed “duty” over those three days, Hyōichi had grown somewhat fed up—though perhaps this had been for the best after all. If he were to roughly grab her hand as his self-imposed “duty” dictated, nothing could be more unpleasant for them both. To tell the truth, Hyōichi might well have been seized by a loving countenance all at once. However, because that was not the case, Tazuko—to borrow her own expression—enjoyed "a feeling akin to a clear mountain stream" when spending time with Hyōichi. In other words, to forget Yano’s overbearing masculinity, interacting with a timid boy like Hyōichi was the most effective method.

If one were to set aside Hyōichi's peculiar "duty," their relationship was entirely like a child's game. No one should have found anything suspicious about it. Yet the pairing of these two—who matched each other in beauty—was indeed something that made people's eyes widen. Above all, it grated on Sako's eyes.

Sako, having personally witnessed Hyōichi and Tazuko’s “special relationship” that recent evening, burned with immense jealousy. The sting of Hyōichi holding his weakness gnawed at him even more bitterly. What particularly infuriated him was how Hyōichi stubbornly lingered until closing time each night to ride home in the same car as Tazuko. This left even his brazen plan utterly powerless.

(That bastard's messing with my plans.) (Impudent brat!) However, this hadn't stemmed from Hyōichi's own volition—he'd simply been following Tazuko's request to accompany her partway in the same car. If anything, this realization might have made Sako even angrier. (He's getting liked.) (That cocky bastard...) remained unchanged. (I oughta whack him good so he can't show his face at Olympia again!) he thought, but hesitated at how petty it seemed. Then it struck him—(That bastard's bad for business!)

When he thought of this, he finally had a pretext. With this, even if someone were to ask about it, there’d be no reason to feel ashamed. At the very least, Sako could avoid being thought of as having beaten up a young man out of jealousy. Like the electrician he once was, Sako shuddered with excitement as he recalled the thrill of beating others. But when it occurred to him, Sako was in fact the one whose weakness had been grasped by Hyōichi. (It'd be bad if I show up. If this gets written up in the papers later, it’d turn into a complete mess!) So Sako decided to enlist the help of Dōtonbori no Katsu, who had long been connected to Olympia.

Dōtonbori no Katsu easily accomplished what he had been asked to do. There had been no need to go out of his way to find a pretext to provoke a fight. Dōtonbori no Katsu had been lying in wait for Hyōichi to emerge from Olympia just after closing—a step ahead of Tazuko—but no sooner had he called out “Hey!” and started to approach than Hyōichi came charging at him. Hyōichi had not forgotten the man who had beaten him down in the alley behind the Yayoi-za Theater. Hyōichi charged forward without any regard for what was before or after him, but

“If you show your face here again, I won’t stand for it!” The moment Hyōichi heard Dōtonbori no Katsu’s nasal snarl, he blacked out. When he regained consciousness, he was riding in a car. Tazuko sat beside him. They had long passed Nihonbashi-suji 1-chome, where Hyōichi always disembarked. The humiliation of being effortlessly overpowered—and having Tazuko witness it—made him wish he’d died then and there. Though no one else knew, recalling that this had happened once before made him shrink further; convinced he’d exhausted her goodwill, he slumped in despair—until the car reached Tezukayama and Tazuko unexpectedly said, “Stay the night.”

"But…" When he faltered, Tazuko— "You can’t go home alone in that state." She practically lifted Hyōichi from the car as if cradling his entire body. He could no longer form words of protest. This wasn’t solely due to the faint pressure of Tazuko’s hands on his shoulders and chest. The humiliation of being handled like an invalid made him wish to dissolve into nothingness. Though he’d struck his head during the collapse—a fall hastened by his own agitation—not a single scratch marred his skin. That this dramatic faint left him utterly unharmed only deepened Hyōichi’s wretched despondency—a state Tazuko observed with equal parts relief and private amusement.

Tazuko spent nearly the entire night "nursing" Hyōichi. In truth, she had heard the details of the incident from the one-yen taxi driver. According to the driver's account, the man who attacked Hyōichi had said to him, "Never come back to 'Olympia' again..." and so on, he reportedly said. Therefore, according to the driver’s speculation, the man had either done so because Hyōichi took his woman or because he had been commissioned by "Olympia". Upon hearing that, Tazuko felt a certain sense of responsibility. Therefore, she felt there was an obligation to "nurse" him. For one thing, because the maid had shown abnormal passion in nursing Hyōichi, Tazuko felt somewhat offended and couldn’t bring herself to leave everything entirely to the maid.

Poor Hyōichi was given an ice pillow. The cold was sharp enough to make him jump, and combined with the shame of being treated like an invalid in such a manner, Hyōichi finally developed a fever. Tazuko’s nursing efforts had proven worthwhile. She was utterly exhausted. The maid, unable to tend to him herself, grew thoroughly jealous of Tazuko. The maid slept while harboring a vague unease. This anxiety proved justified. Hyōichi—who had become so enraged with shame he could barely contain his anger—and Tazuko—whose exhaustion left her with less than half her usual rationality—fell into an ordinary relationship.

Outside, it was lightly snowing.

II

In the past—say, during the Heian period—describing the relationship between a beautiful man and woman would not have required a single page, but for these two modern individuals with their considerable self-regard, the aforementioned series of coincidences were necessary.

Given that even the maid could imagine it, it must have been an utterly commonplace occurrence—yet without those coincidences, no matter how deeply they might have cared for each other, they would scarcely have fallen into such a relationship.

Even after there was nothing left to refuse, Tazuko—as if suddenly remembering—nearly shoved Hyōichi away. Yet if Tazuko had pushed him aside, Hyōichi had done the same. What made his mental state peculiar was that no matter how enraged he became, none of it ever grew fully hazy. A certain disgust he had secretly harbored like an obstinate pastor still raised its hood then like a vigilant snake. His mother’s face, Higashi Ginko’s flat chest and slender legs—they surfaced and faded, faded and surfaced. Thus even at what should have been his most blissful moment, Hyōichi wore the fierce expression of one who had just committed a brutal crime. That reckless curiosity—being drawn against his will to what he loathed—left him awash in anguished weeping.

The satisfaction of self-respect that came from having fulfilled his duty proved utterly useless at this moment. For his self-respect—upon recalling Yano’s face—far from granting him any sense of victory, had been utterly shattered into pieces. (That bastard had his way with this woman!) To reduce himself to such a pathetic state, merely thinking of that was enough. (This woman had also delighted in being at that bastard’s mercy!) (Exactly like this…)—and when he came to imagine it viscerally, his anguish reached its peak.

Even if one were to disregard self-respect as irrelevant, there could be nothing as agonizing as a first love that began with visceral jealousy. The more the woman’s charm grew, the greater the agony of jealousy became. Poor Hyōichi continued to agonize all night long. What made it especially unbearable was that he had always believed the things he detested were done against the woman’s will, yet to his surprise, this turned out to be a misunderstanding. He despaired at the fragility of women’s physiology. It was no wonder he had suddenly shoved Tazuko.

*(Women are hopeless!)* He felt like lashing out. “Swear nothing happened between you and Yano!” No sooner had he made this unreasonable demand in a half-sobbing voice than— “You still like Yano even now, don’t you?” Snarling the words, he slapped Tazuko’s cheek with a sharp crack. Tazuko—who until now had only seen Hyōichi timidly fidgeting, stiffly composed, and thoroughly awkward—couldn’t help letting a faint smile touch the corner of her lips at this passionate version of him. Then, likely without realizing it herself, she let slip something that would torment him further.

“When I was a dancer, all sorts of people chased after me—even Italians,” she said casually. Though it could have been dismissed as a lighthearted anecdote told in passing, Hyōichi’s expression darkened at once. “You fell for some of them?” “A few...” “Well... maybe a little.” “But none of it meant anything.” “What were they like?”

“They were people who were good at dancing after all. If they were skilled at leading, I’d get a little swept along just while we were dancing.” Hyōichi’s face suddenly contorted. The mere thought that she had danced while held in the arms of countless men was unbearable enough, but when he considered whether there had been some secret mutual pleasure in the dancing itself, Hyōichi’s jealousy became boundless. Seeing Hyōichi like this, Tazuko thought she no longer needed to worry about her age. In truth—though she had hidden it—Tazuko had felt a feminine guilt over being six years older than Hyōichi. Moreover, she found herself struck by his violent jealousy. Yano had been so seasoned that he never showed even a hint of jealousy. At times, he had been such a gentleman it bordered on being hateful. In contrast, each of Hyōichi’s expressions was unmistakably that of a man in love.

Tazuko thought, I’ve never seen someone so passionate. If Hyōichi had been a forty-year-old man, even Tazuko would have grown thoroughly weary of his jealous antics, but his youth redeemed it all. (He’s so inexperienced…) Deeply moved, she turned to Hyōichi and— “There’s never been anyone I’ve loved as much as you,” she said. For someone as prideful as her, it was a statement of utmost sincerity. It was something she had never been able to say to other men—to someone like Yano, for instance. It was because the other party was Hyōichi that she had been able to say it. Therefore, Hyōichi should have been happy. However, Hyōichi disliked the way she had phrased "There’s never been..."

(How many men has she fallen for until now?)

Even in the slightest fragments of her words, jealousy would snag and take hold. Moreover, being told so plainly that she "had fallen in love" was painful. He would have felt more unburdened had she simply said she hated him. When he thought he was loved, the agony of jealousy only intensified.

Hyōichi kept a grim expression until morning. And when morning came, that expression only intensified. The morning paper had reported an assault occurring outside the Olympia the previous night.

Toyo Shimpō Reporter Assaulted Cause: Woman Trouble? Such were the headlines. It wasn’t that every paper carried the story—only the *Chuo Shimbun* had published it—but since the *Chuo Shimbun* shared the same political leanings as the *Toyo Shimpō*, they were direct business rivals. Thus, the article dripped with irony. Hyōichi had only ended up reading it because he’d done something utterly out of character—sitting on the parlor sofa sipping morning coffee while perusing the paper. Without a word, he handed it to Tazuko.

When Tazuko found her name in the article, she suddenly thought, *Oh, Sako had them write this.* Given that she had become involved with Hyōichi in that manner, it was natural enough to think Sako’s jealousy was behind it, but in reality, the article had been written by a reporter friend of Dōtonbori no Katsu—the very man who had assaulted him. To clarify for Sako’s sake—it was something entirely beyond his knowledge. There was no reason for Sako to do something that would stir up a hornet’s nest. Moreover, wasn’t the name ‘Olympia’—which would be disadvantageous to have published—clearly printed there as well?

However, given that the *Chuo Shimbun* also ran weekly advertisements for the *Olympia*, they had not published the article in order to give the cabaret bad publicity. It was exactly the opposite.

"In front of *Olympia*, packed every day with patrons coming to see Muraguchi Tazuko," "The article—merely reporting that a certain *Toyo Shimpō* reporter had been struck after an argument—might as well have been free advertising for *Olympia*. But with her name appearing in print and last night’s assault on Hyōichi fresh in mind, Tazuko felt compelled to find some deeper significance in it all. She no longer wanted to go to *Olympia*." "One reason was that she disliked cutting into the time she spent with Hyōichi."

“I’ll stop going to the club.” Tazuko set the newspaper down and said that.

But before that, Hyōichi had resolved to quit the Toyo Shimpō. With such an article having been published, he had caused trouble for the company.

“I’m quitting the company too.” Hyōichi said in a firm tone, with a fleeting recollection of the editor-in-chief’s words—“There’s no need to quit”—yet voiced his decision resolutely.

“Oh? “Then, let’s spend today together, just the two of us.” When Tazuko said this, Hyōichi—

………… He made a bashful face. Tazuko found Hyōichi irresistibly endearing that morning, though in truth her coquettish suggestion to "spend the day together" had painfully stoked his jealousy. When Tazuko failed to appear, Sako rushed to her house in panic. She had gone to see a play with Hyōichi and was out. Sako waited with job-related patience. Having finally caught her returning late at night, Sako—

“If you’re gonna take time off, you gotta tell me beforehand. Can’t have you leavin’ me hangin’.” “There ain’t no understudy who can fill your role if you mess up the show.” “Oh, I do apologize.” “Now don’t go tossin’ out some half-assed ‘sorry’ like that.” “Just spit it out—you comin’ back or not? Which is it?” “My apologies, but I must tender my resignation.”

“What?” Sako let out an audible “Guh.” “I’ve put up with quite a lot as it is.” “Truthfully, I wanted to resign after the very first night.” To Sako’s face—which seemed to protest this breached their agreement—Tazuko cast a sly smile and said, “...No, after the first two nights...” Sako stiffened. Tazuko pressed on, “After that night’s... incident... I seriously considered quitting the club for good then and there...”

Staring unblinkingly at Sako’s face, she gradually began recounting that night he had tried to take her to the teahouse. Sako had no choice but to withdraw. She escorted him to the entrance, “How cold it is tonight—thank you for troubling yourself to come.” With those words, Tazuko vanished inside.

Sako seethed with the feeling of having been made a fool of. The fact that Tazuko had hurried inside in such a flustered manner made him grow even angrier at the thought that someone must be waiting for her. It was exactly as Sako had imagined. Hyōichi had been waiting. When Tazuko reentered the parlor after driving Sako away, Hyōichi was sitting in the chair where Sako had been seated, munching on Tazuko's leftover chocolate.

Hyōichi turned deep red, having been caught in the act, but Tazuko— "Oh my!" Tazuko assumed the expression of a mother who had caught her child stealing food. Even if Hyōichi hadn't appeared childlike at that moment, and even if he'd been caught doing something truly shameful, Tazuko would still have taken a liking to him then—precisely because she had just seen Sako's unpleasant face. It was because she had just seen Sako's unpleasant face. "Well, I've chased away that unpleasant man. Now it's just the two of us, isn't it?"

Tazuko sat down pressed snugly against Hyōichi’s side and spoke. Even the mother, who had been oddly fidgety and unable to settle down since the previous night, had been forcibly persuaded by Tazuko and left for the hot springs. Only the maid remained. When it became clear that Hyōichi and Tazuko’s relationship had developed exactly as she had feared, the maid, who was secretly in love with Hyōichi, became utterly dejected and did nothing but sigh. She even teared up at times.

When Tazuko finally noticed this, she remarked jokingly to Hyōichi.

“You’re such a troublemaker.” Tazuko said this in a coquettish tone—as if falling in love had made her slightly vulgar—and pinched Hyōichi’s knee. “Ouch!” Hyōichi felt wretched for making such a noise. Suddenly remembering he hadn’t returned home to Tanimachi Ninth District since last night, his mother’s usual words—“You’re back late again” and “Go to bed already—I’ve warmed the kotatsu”—pricked at his chest from afar. But for Hyōichi, whose jealousy had only deepened his obsession with Tazuko, leaving her side to go home now seemed utterly impossible.

To borrow the expression Hyōichi had self-deprecatingly conjured up in an unguarded moment, two weeks had now passed in such a manner as Tazuko’s “dependent.” As proof that he was in love, Hyōichi could no longer feel any interest in anything other than Tazuko. Though he had never been one to take much interest in worldly matters to begin with, he was at least passionately invested in anything that pricked at his self-respect. However, even that self-respect was now nearly gone for him. Given that he loved Tazuko even while tormented by jealousy, he had doffed his helmet of self-respect from the very start.

However, on Tazuko’s part, if nothing else, the fact that this was not her first experience afforded her a degree of composure surpassing Hyōichi’s. Moreover, she had no need to be jealous. Therefore, she still had the composure to maintain interests beyond Hyōichi. “Popularity” was it. She finally began to grow impatient with a life that consisted of nothing but her romance with Hyōichi. Had she gone to “Olympia” every night and let herself be surrounded by frivolous men, she might have found relief in being with Hyōichi and never grown weary of such a life—but in a life spent foolishly with Hyōichi alone, even his once-captivating appeal began fading. To truly savor Hyōichi’s charm, she still needed to mingle with “philistines.” She thought about making a comeback once more. Of course, that was not solely due to her vanity. One reason was that it was also a means to secure her livelihood.

However, the fact that she gradually began showing a longing for "popularity" was bitter for Hyōichi. From his own theories alone this would have been bitter enough, but there was also a certain anxiousness to it. The truth was, Hyōichi could not bear that Tazuko had loved Yano. After great effort, he forced her to say her relationship with Yano had been solely to gain popularity—that she had never loved him at all—then forced himself to believe it, finding only meager comfort in this. Therefore, her showing renewed allure toward "popularity" now meant his heart was filled with vague anxiety over what she might do to achieve it.

And this anxiety did not remain mere groundless fear.

III One day, Tazuko went out alone, claiming she had business to attend to. For some reason, Hyōichi couldn’t bring himself to ask, "What kind of business?"

And so he ended up staying behind with the maid to look after the house. From the moment Hyōichi saw Tazuko's retreating figure—her makeup meticulously applied as she left in restless haste—his heart began churning with suffocating intensity. As he watched the maid tidying up the disheveled dressing table, he recalled the beauty of Tazuko's face that had been reflected in that mirror until just moments earlier. The thought of who might be meeting that beautiful face now sent a sudden surge of fierce jealousy gathering around his brows.

The last light of the setting sun departed from the windowpane. As the surroundings sank into a pale purple, the time spent apart from Tazuko pressed in relentlessly, weighing down Hyōichi’s heart. The electric light came on. Tazuko still had not returned.

Hyōichi decided to go out into town.

He took the Nankai Line to Namba. From there, he walked northward through the bustle of Shinsaibashi-suji. It was something that had never happened before, but tonight Hyōichi found himself unable to avoid noticing the faces of the men passing by. What an overwhelming number of men there were. Among them were undoubtedly some who had danced with Tazuko. And there were likely others who had watched Tazuko's films while secretly entertaining improper imaginings.

"(I am Muraguchi Tazuko's lover!)" he declared to himself, yet this self-important pride brought him no satisfaction whatsoever. On the contrary, whenever he spotted men dressed in those pretentious outfits fit for dancing, Hyōichi would fluster and shake his head. On Ebisubashi Bridge, Hyōichi abruptly stopped. From the cabaret "Ginza Kaikan" across the river came the clamor of a jazz band. On the shoji screens of Sōemonchō's brothels, shadowy figures squirmed. Looking closer, he saw geishas dancing with customers. The frivolous swaying of their hips tightened around Hyōichi's heart. A cold river wind swept upward.

The moment he started walking again, upon seeing the coat of a woman passing by his side, Hyōichi inadvertently—ah—forgot the cold. It was Tazuko. Before he noticed that, he had already realized that the man walking beside Tazuko was Yano. “……”

He tried to call out, but no sound came; Hyōichi’s lips turned deathly pale. The thought flashed through his mind—to rush over and strike Tazuko across the face—but he couldn’t bring himself to act on it. With great effort, he wrenched himself away and hurried past them, putting on an air of nonchalance as he began to walk slowly—that was the best he could manage. He couldn’t help but feel wretched at being only capable of such a clumsy pretense, but once he had feigned ignorance, there was nothing to do but keep walking that way. When he thought the two were coming from behind, his back felt as though it were being seared.

All he could do was taste the passive cruelty of imagining Tazuko's startled face. However, when he reached the front of Yagura Sushi, Hyōichi could no longer maintain such an affected attitude and suddenly turned around.

Tazuko and Yano had hailed a car at the corner of Sōemonchō and were about to get in. Tazuko briefly showed a perplexed expression and turned toward him. She had long since discerned what lay in Hyōichi's heart. "Ah, wait—don't get in!" Whether he had actually uttered those words clearly, Hyōichi couldn't recall. But seeing her attempt to enter the car after Yano regardless, he let out an animalistic cry and rushed forward. At that moment, the car began moving. Tazuko kept staring straight ahead without turning around.

Confronted by that expression offering no emotional foothold, Hyōichi found himself gripped by a vivid flash of disturbing imagination. "Women’s hearts are impossible to fathom." Without even leisure to recognize it as trite phrasing, Hyōichi let the words slip out. That sudden unease he’d felt when leaving home—at Tazuko’s strangely agitated manner—now made him entertain an almost superstitious notion: had it been some visceral premonition after all? (She must have arranged this meeting with Yano.) Exactly so it proved.

Tazuko had not met Yano by chance. Yano had sent her a letter specifying the place and time, saying he wanted to meet because he had something to discuss. The moment she saw the letter, Tazuko resolved to go out. Whether she felt any guilt toward Hyōichi was not a matter requiring explanation here. That Yano hadn't actually been avoiding her after all—this realization made Tazuko's cheeks burn. Even as she grew eager to go out, she couldn't help feeling some remorse toward Hyōichi. To put it plainly, most women with professions will agree to meet a man who requests discussion—provided they don't actively dislike him. The more virtuous the woman, the truer this holds.

The matter was, as Tazuko had thought, about work. “How about it? How about you become a record singer?” As soon as they met, Yano began in a businesslike tone. Returning to the film industry would be difficult for the time being, and yet starting over at a cabaret now was out of the question. “With your voice, I think you could surprisingly make a hit with blues numbers…” “But…” “Since I have no experience at all…” Tazuko began to say,

“No—it’s fine,” Yano interjected. “If you’re willing…” “Would the record company take me on?” “Yeah. The rough arrangements are already in place.” “What do you say?” “Let’s go meet them now.” “Yes.” The two left the oyster boat and hailed a car. And so they went to meet the record company people—or so it was claimed, though that lay beyond our account’s concern. To Hyōichi, it mattered not at all. By now, even had he learned Tazuko met Yano for professional reasons or to sustain her fame, it would have brought him no solace. Rather, knowing this for certain might have made him unable to bear the sorrow etched into Tazuko’s very flesh. Better by far had she been meeting Yano out of faithless impulse.

Hyōichi watched the departing car with a pained expression for a while, then turned back toward the bridge, walking with a soul-drained gait. Once he crossed the bridge, the surroundings suddenly brightened. By that light, Hyōichi checked inside his wallet. Then, on a sudden impulse, he drank a cocktail at a stand-up bar. Abruptly overcome by drunkenness, his legs and head—his entire body—began to sway unsteadily.

He hailed a car on Midosuji. While hanging his head dejectedly, “Shinsekai Radium Hot Springs next door!”

At those words, he collapsed onto the seat and vomited. "Oh, I've made a mess," he regretted, but his consciousness had grown so numb with animalistic sensations that he couldn't muster the will to apologize to the driver. After getting out of the car next to Radium Hot Springs and staggering into Gunkan Yokocho, a familiar voice suddenly reached his ears. (That’s Tsuchimon’s voice.) When he passed through the curtain of the shop they had once visited together, there indeed were Tsuchimon and Kitayama. Judging by how he had been shouting so loudly that it could be heard all the way to the street—it seemed Tsuchimon had been gripping Kitayama and arguing with him—but when he caught sight of Hyōichi, he abruptly stopped speaking and—

“Oh, an unexpected guest! An unexpected guest! What in the world’s happened to ya? Honestly, you should show your face around once in a while! No—not here. At the office, you see—anyway, let’s have a drink!” Tsuchimon put on a cheerful face. In such circumstances, unexpectedly running into Tsuchimon felt somehow fortuitous, and Hyōichi, urged on, downed four or five glasses in quick succession. “Bravo, bravo! So your complexion’s looking a bit better now, eh?”

As Tsuchimon spoke, Kitayama—who had been jamming chopsticks down his collar to vigorously scratch an itchy spot on his back— “No—it hasn’t improved one bit.” Perhaps retaliating for their earlier argument, he said in opposition to Tsuchimon,

“What’s wrong? You look pale.” Hyōichi initially flushed slightly, “I threw up in the car earlier,” he said with a wry smile. “That’s no good. Alcohol’s poison. You lot shouldn’t be drinking yet. You should quit while you’re ahead,” Kitayama said in an uncharacteristically solemn tone.

Hyōichi felt something warm drop through his chest and meekly murmured “Hah.” Tsuchimon suddenly roared with laughter. “Quit mockin’ him, Kitayama! Since when’re you qualified to give advice? Ah-ha-ha!...” He glared at Kitayama like he wanted to say “You bastard.” Kitayama shot back a half-suppressed glare while fighting to keep from laughing out loud. Hyōichi finally realized he’d been made fun of and grew irritated. At once came the stabbing memory of Tazuko, sinking his spirits.

“Hey, get it together.” Suddenly, Tsuchimon knocked his shoulder. “There’s no point moping around like this.” “A fool like me can’t figure out why you’re making such a sour face.” “You’ve got yourself a decent girlfriend—still not satisfied?” “Hey! You listening?” “Want me to knock some sense into you again?” “I don’t have any girlfriend.” “Cut the crap!” “What about Muraguchi Tazuko?” “Quit pulling that face, will ya?” “I’ve got solid intel here.” “Are you chasing her or being chased? Can’t tell which.”

“I’m not in love.” “So you’re being loved then?” “Now that’s truly scandalous!” With this retort, Tsuchimon suddenly boomed, “Ah! Now I get it!” “A lovers’ spat, isn’t it?” “Am I right?”

Hyōichi silently shifted his body. “Don’t mope over some lovers' quarrel! What is she? Just some woman! She's just Muraguchi Tazuko—what's the big deal?” When Tsuchimon said this, Hyōichi—

“Exactly! A woman like that!” he said, absentmindedly putting a piece of konnyaku into his mouth. He moved his mouth munching away as he dejectedly chewed on his wretched feelings.

“Speaking of actresses,” Kitayama cut in. “A buddy of mine makes his living snapping glamour shots of actresses.” “This story comes straight from him.” “So this fella gets hired to take promo shots for yukata.” “Now yukata ain’t exactly winter wear, mind you.” “But get this—they schedule these summer robe photoshoots for May, of all months!” “Ah, but that’s neither here nor there.” “Anyway, come May, this guy shows up at some actress’s place lugging promotional yukata.” “He hands her the robe saying ‘Slip into this,’ expecting her to change in another room—but damn if she doesn’t start stripping right there in front of him! Well, you know how yukata go straight on bare skin… Not that it’d faze me any.” “Poor sod got himself all flustered though.” “Ah ha ha… Some actresses really are something else, eh?”

“So? Impressed?” Tsuchimon interjected. “I’m part of the revue house crowd. What about you? Impressed yet?” “Wouldn’t bat an eye even if I saw a rokurokubi,” “Though mind you, never actually seen one.” “If anyone’s impressed here, it’d be this gentleman.”

Tsuchimon pointed at Hyōichi.

Hyōichi didn’t even have the energy to get angry at being mocked. The effect that Kitayama’s story had on Hyōichi’s heart was far too harsh for there to be any such leeway.

That night, Hyōichi was invited by the two men and spent the night in Tobita Yukaku.

During his high school days, Hyōichi had stubbornly refused even when Akai and Nozaki invited him, but now, driven by self-destructive urges, he followed along after the two.

The woman said she was from the Gotō Islands in Matsuura District, Nagasaki Prefecture. While writing letters to her parents for the woman, he listened to various stories about her life.

“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?” Hyōichi’s face was contorted with cruel intensity. Yet when he realized the woman had resigned herself to it being merely a form of labor convertible into money, Hyōichi’s heart suddenly felt lighter. What he had persistently detested was now being traded there as a matter of everyday occurrence. “I’m fine! I’m fine!”

Hyōichi muttered aloud while his pale face was reflected in the washroom mirror. What's the difference between Tazuko and this woman?! But even so, when he saw the headlights of a car passing beneath the window momentarily illuminate the dark ceiling as he remained in his room—the poignant late-night atmosphere compounding it—thoughts of Tazuko far away came to his mind with a wailing intensity.

IV

In the morning, Hyōichi felt as if his soul had been drained, but his mind had finally settled into temporary calm. The color of the night gradually faded into lavender, and as the eastern sky began to burn orange, even the tormenting hours spent apart from Tazuko now seemed to have vanished somewhere, and his restlessly thrashing heart sank into resignation.

However, after parting ways with Tsuchimon and Kitayama and entering the radium hot spring, as he leaned against the tiles of the wide bathtub and listlessly poured water over his body again and again in a hollow state of mind, he suddenly found himself wanting to hear Tazuko’s husky voice once more. When he left the radium hot spring, he dashed into a public telephone booth. He inserted a five-sen white copper coin, and in that moment of waiting, his heart raced. He remembered that Tazuko’s voice on the telephone had been beautiful. “The line is connected. Please go ahead.” At the telephone operator’s voice, he felt as if he could see the interior of Tazuko’s house. The maid answered the phone. When he asked if Tazuko was there,

“She is not home at the moment…” Realizing she indeed hadn’t returned since last night after all, he felt lonely anew, “Oh, I see.” “Excuse me,” he said, about to hang up when the maid seemed to recognize Hyōichi’s voice. “Is that you, Mr. Mōri? Why didn’t you come back last night? Weren’t you with the gentleman? —Oh? Where are you now? Please come back soon. I’m all alone here—it’s so lonely.”

"As if I'd go back," Hyōichi hung up the phone. However, if he wasn't returning to Tezukayama, the only place left for Hyōichi was the house in Tanimachi 9-chōme. Having quit the newspaper company and moreover been living like a parasite at Tazuko's house, he had let half a month slip by without being able to face his mother, though the matter weighed on his conscience. The thought that he couldn't return now seared Hyōichi's back like flames, but more than there being nowhere else to go—when he imagined his mother's haggard face worrying about him, her son who had vanished without warning, with a pain that felt like being flayed alive—his feet naturally turned toward Tanimachi.

Hyōichi, unable to bring himself to enter through the usual doorway, instead sneaked in from the side with the curtained entrance marked "Nozoe Shōkai," acting for all the world like a man coming to sell pawn tickets.

There was no one in the shop. He leaned against the small table where he had occasionally been made to mind the shop and attend to customers coming to sell pawn tickets, hesitating for a while, but eventually pressed the bell labeled with the brusque instruction, “Those with business, ring this bell.”

“Coming!”

A drawn-out voice called out in Kansai dialect, "Come on in," and soon his mother appeared. She had come out wearing a customer-service smile plastered to her face, but the moment she saw Hyōichi, that smile instantly crumbled away. Then an expression of joy brimming to the point of spilling over welled up instead, her lips quivering violently as tears sprang to her eyes. With a pinched face, "Oh my, you gave me such a fright! Was it you? Where've you been? You fool. Who'd ever come in through a place like this? Come on now, can't ya use the proper entrance?" she said scoldingly.

“This way’s good enough, ain’t it?” Hyōichi muttered curtly. And so mother and son exchanged greetings. It was a moment just between them. “What on earth have you been up to? Was it company work you were doin’? Since you can write as much as you want, how could there be a kid who don’t even send a letter?” Though she’d been scolding him like that to mask her bashful joy, she soon withdrew to the back room and announced, “Hyōichi’s come back, y’know.” She had told Yasujijrō.

Yasujirō’s voice, sounding like a bellow, came through along with a cough. Hyōichi flinched slightly. At that moment, Tazuko’s face abruptly flashed through his mind. Then his vision burned crimson, and when Hyōichi stood before Yasujirō, his face regained its vitality for the first time that day. It was a face that declared: if you want to shout, then shout all you like.

Even without seeing that expression, Yasujirō naturally wanted to yell. However, Yasujirō endured silently. To Yasujirō, it didn’t matter at all whether Hyōichi was away from home for half a month or a full month. However, it was deeply regrettable that Hyōichi had not been present for the settlement day three days prior. He hadn’t been able to collect the lodging fees he should have received. That was what really grated on him. So the moment he saw his face, he wanted to yell, but Yasujirō was, after all, cautious. If he carelessly shouted and provoked him, there was a risk he might run away again; having gauged Hyōichi’s temperament, he softened his tone to the extent that Okiyo shed tears of joy.

“I don’t give a damn if you leave the house, but I expect you to settle things proper-like.” “The settlement day’s already past!” He said only that. Having braced himself for being hollered at from the start, Hyōichi felt deflated.

(So he did bring up money after all,) Hyōichi couldn't help smirking.

At first glance, it was a deceptively harmonious scene. "I'll return it with interest added."

“When you gonna hand it over?” “I’ll hand it over tonight.” “Is that so? No mistake ’bout that?” Yasujirō briefly showed a pleased expression. Even when he saw Okiyo serving Hyōichi a meal, he resolved not to show displeasure at this juncture. As he ate the ochazuke served by his mother, Hyōichi felt a deep, almost dizzying calm settle in his mind’s depths—a pleasant lethargy like dissociation. The familiar taste of pickles brought nostalgia. When the meal ended, Hyōichi put his overcoat back on.

“Where ya off to?”

“I’m headin’ to the office to collect the money.” “Head straight home now, y’hear?” “I’ll be fine.” Having said that, he left the house.

After getting off the train at Kita-Hama 2-chome and starting to walk toward the Toyo Shimpo building, Hyōichi couldn't help but feel despicable. If he hadn't needed to hand it over to Yasujirō, he probably wouldn't be going to collect his prorated salary so shamefacedly—he thought. On the bulletin board in front of the building, that day's evening edition had been posted. After glancing at it, Hyōichi became acutely aware that he was no longer an employee of this company and slipped furtively through the entrance.

Appearing before accounting, Hyōichi explained through tearful rapid speech that though he had resigned around mid-last month, since he had indeed worked half a month, he wished to collect any prorated payment due per company regulations now. The clerk asked his name, “Oh, your salary was still unpaid.” “Did you quit?” As he spoke, he handed over a brown salary envelope. Gazing pleasantly at “Mōri Hyōichi-dono” written on the front with inexplicably respectful treatment, Hyōichi left the entrance. When he tore it open after exiting, he found a full month’s salary entirely intact.

Hyōichi returned to the accounting department and said it must be some mistake.

“Well, “I don’t know—isn’t it that you still hadn’t turned in your resignation notice?” “If no notice was turned in, we gotta treat ya as still employed, see?” “We’re obliged to hand over a full month’s pay.” “But hey, it’s more than ya expected—ain’t gonna hear any complaints from ya, right?”

“So does that mean I haven’t been fired yet? I’ve already been absent without leave for half a month though.” As he asked this, a voice suddenly came from behind— “What a spineless bastard you are.” When he turned around, Tsuchimon stood there holding a pay advance slip. “You think you can hack it as a newspaper reporter like this? Taking half a month off doesn’t mean getting canned. You got beaten unconscious, right? Being hospitalized for a month’s only natural.” That’s what Tsuchimon said.

"But..." When Hyōichi began to say, "Because of that article in Chūō Shinbun, I've caused trouble for the company, so...", Tsuchimon—while haggling with the accounting clerk over an advance— "Our company ain't some penny-ante outfit that fires folks over trifles like that. The only tightwads here are accounting." He threw this over his shoulder while adding, "Now go pay your respects to the editor-in-chief. The old man's been mopin' somethin' fierce without seein' your mug around. That geezer's got a soft spot for you. Watch yourself," he said before diving back into his muttered negotiations with the clerk.

However, Hyōichi made no move to go. For some reason, he felt he couldn't bear to face the editor-in-chief. "Go on, hurry up and go. If you're goin', better make it quick. Don't keep 'im waitin'. Your stink's already waftin' up to the second floor, I tell ya. The boss is gettin' antsy, I tell ya. Keep fussin' over every little thing like this, you'll end up bald as Kitayama." Prodded by Tsuchimon, Hyōichi thought: He's right. Leaving without seein' the editor-in-chief would actually be ruder. (Even if I quit, proper manners demand givin' notice first.) With this thought, he finally began climbing the stairs to the second floor.

From Hyōichi’s timidity—so fragile it was separated by a paper-thin line from his weakness—one could infer that under normal circumstances, he would have remained silent. They both felt awkward, and in the end—overthinking that the other must be angry—they were on the verge of developing unwarranted animosity where none was needed. Therefore, the fact that he had managed to work up the resolve to meet the editor-in-chief in that manner was a relief to Hyōichi.

Indeed, the result turned out well. The editor-in-chief, upon seeing Hyōichi's face, "Where've you been? I've been right worried about you. Heard you put up one helluva fight," he said with a laugh. "Uh... About that matter, I apolo—" Hyōichi began to say, but [the editor-in-chief] didn't let him finish, "Never you mind. Never you mind. Don't go frettin'. Ain't no cause to fuss over what some other rag writes." "But if they write about it like that, then..."

“What does it matter how they scribble about it?” “You tryin’ to validate that Chūō Shinbun piece or somethin’?” “Quakin’ in your boots over their big-shot influence?” “You ain’t some Chūō Shinbun spy planted here, are ya?” “Eh?” “Then why’n’t ya just bury that story?” “Better get crackin’ on writin’ us one decent article for our rag instead.” With those words, Hyōichi might as well have heard “You’re keepin’ your job” spelled out plain. Hyōichi had made every soul he crossed paths with a target for his spite. See a face? Assume a thief. Catch someone’s eye? Brace for a pride-piercing jab. He’d stoked his grudges hotter than any fire needed burning.

However, as he encountered the editor-in-chief's unvarnished Osaka dialect and feigned obliviousness, he felt himself sweetly swayed by a deeply melancholic atmosphere and grew ashamed of his usual self—of the ugliness of his festering animosity that constantly irritated him. Hyōichi left the editorial room with a sweet emotion so poignant it nearly brought him to tears.

Tsuchimon was waiting outside.

“How did it go?” “I wasn’t fired.” Having said that, Tsuchimon— “Right? “Wasn’t I spot-on about what I said?” “Impressed now, eh?” “Ah... I was impressed.” “Lend me two yen.”

At this moment, there was something strangely satisfying about being asked to lend money like this. "Ah," he replied lightly while taking out his pay envelope. With his spirits now completely lifted, Hyōichi felt an uncharacteristic urge to crack a joke. "Say, Mr. Tsuchimon. "I'll lend it to you, but... "How many years later do you plan to repay that previous debt?" As he handed the money to Tsuchimon, he made that clumsy joke. At Hyōichi's unexpected quip, Tsuchimon momentarily showed a stunned look, but then, true to form,

“Well then, let’s just put this down as an advance payment. “Here’s your two yen back. “Make sure to deduct it from the ledger.” He handed Hyōichi the very money he had just received. “Now then, why don’t we use that cash to grab a bite?” “Let’s eat.” Hyōichi laughed uproariously. “That’s Tsuchimon for you!”

When they stepped out of the Chinese restaurant, the surroundings were completely bathed in twilight hues. For Hyōichi, parting ways with Tsuchimon and heading home wasn’t so much a matter of reluctance as it was a fear of being alone and shutting himself away in loneliness. “How about it? Care to catch a movie?” Hyōichi invited Tsuchimon. “Alright, let’s go.”

They came out to Sennichimae. As they walked along looking up at the signs of the small theaters, Tsuchimon proceeded to harshly criticize every single show they passed. When they came in front of Yayoi-za, Tsuchimon— “Do you know what happened to Higashi Ginko?” he asked.

When Hyōichi answered that he didn’t know, Tsuchimon—

“She disappeared.” “She’s gone missing.” “Everyone treated her so rotten she finally ran off from the troupe.” “Sad business.—Now then, who’d you figure’s taking it hardest?” “Mr. Kitayama, I suppose?” “Half right.” “Truth is, I’m on that list too.” “Hell—might be you’re part of that gang yourself!” “Ah-ha-ha—…”

Hyōichi listened to Tsuchimon’s laughter echoing through the cold sky with a dejected heart. When they came before a third-rate theater, Hyōichi abruptly turned his face away. An old photo featuring Muraguchi Tazuko in the lead role hung as the second feature. Within the painted billboard, Tazuko’s face—daubed in lurid colors—snapped into a shrill laugh. As he tried to slink past, Tsuchimon— “Hey! Your lover’s picture’s playing here! “Let’s have a look,” he said, grabbing Hyōichi’s arm to stop him.

Hyōichi approached the ticket booth with a frightening expression. “No need for tickets.” Tsuchimon’s voice was barely audible. When they raised the black curtain and stepped inside, Tazuko’s voice suddenly greeted them. Her face. Her pose. Her broad yet slender shoulders slightly tensed, neck arched back, with enraptured eyes clinging to the man, “…………”

What was being said, Hyōichi couldn't make out. His heart brimmed with tears. The raw vividness of Tazuko's pose in his memory tightened around his chest. Aching jealousy tangled with this heartache that pitied even a single mole on Tazuko's white breast until Hyōichi sat motionless, staring fixedly at the screen. It grew gradually unbearable. In the film, Tazuko gripped a pistol and advanced on the man.

“Well now.” “Not bad.” When Tsuchimon turned sideways to whisper to Hyōichi，he found that Hyōichi’s figure had already vanished.

Five

When he left the theater, night had fully fallen. The lights of the entertainment district flickered coldly and glittered.

Hyōichi walked back toward Tanimachi 9-chōme along the dimly lit streetcar-lined street. When he reached the foot of Shimoderamachi slope, the area suddenly brightened. The neon sign of the café before the bus stop flickered.

When he raised his downcast face and glanced that way unexpectedly, his gaze collided with that of a woman standing at the café entrance, her face thickly powdered white.

“Big brother. Why don’t you come on in?” The woman creased the corners of her eyes and laughed. Her laughter blushed red, then washed blue in the neon glow. Hyōichi hurriedly averted his gaze and began climbing the slope with chilly desolation, when abruptly— A strange idea struck him—he would try to pick up that woman. Hyōichi turned back and entered the café. The woman who had been standing at the entrance came to his side. Hyōichi’s face flushed crimson, his body trembling as he tried to speak. With expressions of cringing insecurity—enough to exasperate—and ones twisted with loathing and vengeful fury toward all women alternating across his youthfully handsome face, Hyōichi stared fixedly at the woman.

That night, the woman became Hyōichi’s.

Having lured her in himself, “You’re a foolish woman,” he told her, savoring cruel gratification as he stared at her form—now rigid and twisted in grotesque contortion. Then he scorned the woman and scorned himself. The woman was called Tomoko, nineteen years old and one year younger than Hyōichi. Inexperienced but ugly. “Now that it’s come to this, I can’t leave you anymore,” she said in a parched voice. There was something pitiful about it.

Hyōichi suddenly wondered if Tazuko had ever shown such a pitiful state to Yano, watching with a pained heart. “Don’t leave me behind, okay?” Tomoko said it over and over. And then, with her head pressed against Hyōichi’s knee, she did not let go. His knee grew warm. Hyōichi touched the hair—lifeless as death—then suddenly pushed Tomoko away.

After that, he never saw Tomoko again.

Three months passed.

One day, as Hyōichi was crossing the intersection at Nipponbashi-suji 1-chōme, a woman's voice called out to him from behind. When he turned around, Tomoko was chasing after him, her kimono hem in disarray. He stopped short, but since the traffic signal had turned yellow, Hyōichi kept walking straight across without hesitation. He felt like he was fleeing something.

Tomoko ignored the traffic signal and crossed over. “I’ve been lookin’ for you.” When she came close, Tomoko was already on the verge of tears. They entered the nearby Kimuraya Coffee Shop. While chewing the soda water’s straw into fragments, Tomoko told Hyōichi she was pregnant.

Hyōichi was startled. Tomoko’s face was bare of powder, her bluish-black skin looking painfully exposed. Her lips were smeared with vivid red lipstick, but this only made her look even more disheveled. She had threaded a small, tacky muffler under the cord of her haori and draped it there. Hyōichi suddenly— He thought he should buy her a shawl. Hyōichi married Tomoko. In the back alley of Tanimachi 9-chōme, Hyōichi rented a second-floor apartment and set out for the newspaper office every morning. That autumn, Hyōichi was promoted from a trainee reporter to a full-fledged reporter. Accordingly, his salary was increased by five yen. Taking that opportunity, Tomoko suggested that Hyōichi grow out his hair.

Around the time Hyōichi's hair had finally grown long enough to be parted in a seven-three style, Tomoko gave birth to a boy. The onset of her labor was reported through a telephone call made in his mother's voice to the newspaper office.

Hyōichi dashed back as if rushing to a fire. The midwife had arrived.

The mother, who had borrowed the kitchen downstairs to boil water, upon seeing Hyōichi’s face, “Hurry up and get upstairs now! Hold both shoulders firmly now!” she said. Hyōichi sat at Tomoko’s bedside and grabbed her shoulders. Tomoko moaned painfully—Unh... unh...—but when she could bear it no longer, she bit down hard on the tie-dyed hand towel between her teeth. The labor pains began. The rims of Tomoko’s eyes darkened to an eerie degree. Hyōichi stared fixedly at that area.

“Come on—just hang in there a bit longer.” “Push hard now!” “You there—keep holding her shoulders down tight!” “Almost done now.”

As he listened to the midwife’s voice, Hyōichi felt Tomoko’s pain strike directly at his chest, and he could no longer bring himself to look at her face. (Is she going to die like this?) The thought struck him suddenly, and he shuddered. “Namu Amida Butsu! Namu Amida Butsu!” When had she come upstairs? His mother was now sitting primly beside the midwife, quietly chanting Buddhist prayers over and over. Hyōichi closed his eyes.

“Push!” At the midwife’s shout, Hyōichi opened his eyes. Tomoko’s flat nostrils flared wide. At that moment, the baby’s black head entered Hyōichi’s sight. And the rounded body slid smoothly out. A cry rang out. Hyōichi teared up. The things he had detested until now—were they meant for this single moment of childbirth?—and his disgust toward female biology vanished in an instant. He felt as if he’d been granted salvation.

“Thank goodness. Thank goodness,” he muttered, pacing restlessly around the room. “Sit still, will ya!” The mother scolded him. Hyōichi suddenly felt a pain around his knee. Scissors had fallen by the pillow, and he’d been kneeling on them.

The day had been a crisp Indian summer day, the newborn’s first cry seeming to echo through the sky, but from the next day onward, a steady drizzle set in and continued. The four-and-a-half-mat room was filled with swaddling clothes hung like international flags. Okiyo would steal moments of free time to visit Hyōichi frequently. Holding both ends of the swaddling clothes they had spread over the brazier, Hyōichi and Okiyo—

“We’d need to get a baby carriage.” “Yeah.” “Though maybe it’s still too soon for one?” They exchanged these mundane concerns. Soon, Okiyo—

“I’d better get back now before I get scolded.” With that, she stood up, furtively took out the baby toys she’d bought, placed them by Tomoko’s pillow, said “I’ll come again then—goodbye,” and left. She walked home through the rain. Each shower of autumn rain drawing closer to winter tapped lightly against Okiyo’s umbrella.