Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“It’s quite far, isn’t it? Where are we even supposed to start climbing from in the first place?”

One person stopped, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. "I’m not entirely sure myself." "No matter where you start climbing, it’s all the same." "The mountain’s right there in plain sight."

The square-faced, square-built man replied casually. From beneath the tea-brown brim of his dented bowler hat—deep eyebrows shifting as he gazed upward—Mount Hiei towered over his craning head: stubbornly rooted in a spring sky so faintly azure it seemed dyed through to its depths; so soft one might suspect it would sway at a breath; yet unyielding as if demanding what he intended to do about it. “What a stubborn mountain this is,” he said, thrusting out his square-built chest and leaning briefly against his cherrywood cane—but

“Since it’s so clearly visible, there’s nothing to it,” he said, this time with a tone that seemed to scorn Mount Hiei.

“You say it’s clearly visible—it’s been visible since we left the inn this morning. If we came all the way to Kyoto and couldn’t even see Mount Hiei, that’d be a real problem.” “So since it’s visible, isn’t that fine? If you just walk without talking nonsense, you’ll reach the summit naturally.”

The lanky man offered no reply, removing his hat and fanning around his chest. Shaded by the hat’s brim he always wore, only the broad forehead—untouched by the strong spring sun that dyes the rape flowers—stood out starkly pale. “Hey, if we rest now it’ll be trouble. Come on, let’s hurry.” The other man let his sweaty forehead bask freely in the spring breeze, then gripped his handkerchief in one hand and scrubbed vigorously—not just his forehead or face, but all the way down to the hollow of his neck—as if resenting how his clinging black hair refused to be tousled backward. Showing no sign of heeding the urging,

“You called that mountain stubborn, didn’t you?” he asked. “Hmm, isn’t this precisely the arrangement that declares ‘If it would but move’?” "In this way," he said, squaring his already square shoulders even more as he formed something akin to a turban shell with his free hand, adopting a posture that seemed to say, “If I would but move...”

“When one says ‘If it would but move,’ that refers to when something can move but chooses not to, I suppose,” he said, looking askance at his companion from the corners of his narrow eyes.

“That’s right.” “Can that mountain even move?” “Ahahaha, here we go again. You’re a man born to spout nonsense. Come on, let’s go!” With his thick cherrywood cane raised as if about to whistle through the air to shoulder height, he set off walking the moment he lifted it. The thin man too tucked his handkerchief into his sleeve and began walking.

“Today would’ve been better spent at Heihachi Teahouse by the mountain’s edge.” “Even if we climb now, we’ll only get halfway.” “How many miles is it to the summit anyway?”

“It’s a mile and a half to the summit.” “Where from?” “How should I know where from? It’s just a mountain in Kyoto.” The thin man said nothing, only offering a sly grin. The square-built man continued chattering energetically. “Traveling with a man like you who only makes plans and never acts means missing out on everything everywhere.” “You’re the real nuisance here.” “When you charge ahead recklessly like this, it’s the one left dealing with it who suffers.” “First of all, you drag someone out here while having no idea where to climb, what to see, or where to descend!”

“What’s the need for plans or anything with such a trivial matter? It’s just that mountain over there.” “That mountain would do, but do you know how many thousand shaku high it is?” “Do I look like I know?” “Such nonsense.” “Do you even know?” “I don’t know either.” “There, you see?”

“There’s no need to act so high and mighty.” “You don’t know either.” “Even if neither of us knows the mountain’s height, unless you had at least roughly checked what there is to see up there and how many hours it would take, the schedule wouldn’t proceed as planned.” “If it doesn’t proceed, we’ll simply redo it.” “With you overthinking like this, we could redo things as many times as needed,” he continued briskly onward. The thin man fell silent and lagged behind.

Spring turned Kyoto—a city where every sight begged to be versified—into a canvas pierced horizontally from Shichijo to Ichijo. Through haze-draped willows, past white cloths beaten in warm water and counted exhaustively along Takano River's gravel shoals, they traveled the road winding northward for over two ri until mountains pressed in from both sides. Streams gurgled beneath their feet, their murmurs bending with every twist of the path—now here, now there—as if snapping under the strain of such contortions. Having entered the mountains where spring had deepened, they imagined reaching the summit would find spring still cold with lingering snow. Skirting the base of peaks overhead along a single trail running through dark shadows, an Ohara woman approached from the steep ascent ahead. A cow came. Kyoto’s spring remains as long and tranquil as a cow’s endless stream of urine.

“Hey,” called the man who had lagged behind as he came to a stop, hailing his friend ahead. The voice’s “Hey” traveled the white-glowing road, carried by the spring breeze as it lumbered quietly onward until colliding with the mountain walled with miscanthus—at which moment the square-built figure moving a hundred meters ahead halted abruptly. The thin man stretched his long arm higher than his shoulder and waved it twice. No sooner had the cherrywood cane caught the warm sunlight and glinted once more at his shoulder’s edge than he returned.

“What?” “Don’t ‘What?’ me.” “We’re climbing from here.” “We’re climbing from here?” “This feels a bit odd.” “It’s odd to cross such a log bridge.” “If you keep walking recklessly like this, you’ll end up in Wakasa Province.” “I don’t mind ending up in Wakasa, but do you actually know the geography?” “I just asked the Ohara woman.” “Cross this bridge, head up that narrow path straight ahead for a mile, and apparently you’ll come out.”

“Come out where?” “To the top of Mount Hiei.”

“To where on Mount Hiei’s summit will this lead us, I wonder?”

“I don’t know about that.” “You won’t know unless you climb up and see.” “Ha ha ha! Even a planner like you didn’t think to ask that far.” “An oversight despite all your scheming?” “Well then, we’ll cross as you say.” “You’re finally starting to climb properly now.” “How’s that—can you manage?” “Even if I can’t walk, there’s no alternative.” “Now that’s what I’d expect from a philosopher.” “Once things clarify a bit more, you’ll be almost qualified.” “Just go on ahead.”

“You coming after me?” “Just go ahead already.” “If you’re planning to follow, I’ll go.”

The two shadows—having crossed a single log bridge that perilously spanned the mountain stream—disappeared into a narrow path within the grassy mountain’s thick growth, a path that clung to the mountainside with threadlike tenacity as it wound toward the summit. The grasses, having endured last year’s frost in their withered state, were now steamed anew by sunlight filtering through thinly dissolved clouds from directly overhead—warm enough to set both cheeks aflame. “Hey, you—Mr. Kōno!” he called over his shoulder. Mr. Kōno, his slender frame suited to the slender mountain path, stood perfectly straight and looked down.

“Yeah,” he answered.

“You’re about to give up, aren’t you? Weakling. Look down there,” he said, sweeping his cherrywood cane in a single arc from left to right. Where the tip of his swung cane pointed, far ahead flashed the Kamo River—a silver streak stinging the eyes—while to either side, rapeseed flowers bloomed so thickly they seemed ready to combust, their vividness smeared across a backdrop where pale purple distant mountains floated hazily in the ethereal beyond.

“It truly is a splendid view,” remarked Mr. Kōno as he twisted his lanky frame around, precariously maintaining his balance on the sixty-degree slope without slipping. “When did we manage to climb so high?” “Time flies,” said Mr. Munekata. Mr. Munekata was a square-built man. “It’s much like how one might degenerate without realizing it or attain enlightenment without knowing—the same sort of thing, I suppose.”

“Day turns to night, spring to summer, the young grow old—it’s all the same kind of thing, I suppose.” “In that case, I’ve understood that since long ago!”

“Ha ha ha! So how old were you again?” “Rather than my age—how old are *you*?” “I know that much.” “I know that too.” “Ha ha ha! So you really do intend to keep hiding it, I see.” “Do you think I’d hide it? I know perfectly well.” “So, how old are you anyway?”

“You go first,” said Mr. Munekata, not budging an inch. “I’m twenty-seven,” said Mr. Kōno dismissively, without hesitation. “I see. In that case, I’m twenty-eight too.” “We’ve gotten quite old, haven’t we?” “Don’t joke around.” “There’s only a one-year difference!”

“That’s why I say it’s mutual between us.” “Meaning we’ve both aged together.” “Well, if it’s mutual—mutual I can tolerate—but if it’s just me alone…” “Can’t you overlook it? “The way you fuss over such things shows there’s still youth lingering in you.” “Don’t ridicule a man midway up a slope!” “See there—you’re blocking the path halfway up. “Move aside.”

Down a slope that twisted a hundredfold, a thousandfold—a slope that refused to run straight even five ken—a woman with a carefree face descended, murmuring “Excuse me.” A bundle of brushwood too large for her stature, pressed upon hair thick enough to let green show through, she carried it without using her hands as she brushed past Mr. Munekata. What caught the eye in the retreating figure that rustled through the thick-grown withered miscanthus was a red sash diagonally crossing through the black of her dark-striped robe. Even a ri away, at the tip of one’s pointing finger, a thatched roof clung so near it seemed touchable—this must be the woman’s home. Just as in the ancient era when Emperor Tenmu had fallen, the lingering mist had eternally sealed Yase’s mountain village in tranquility.

“The women around here are all quite pretty.” “I’m impressed.” “It’s like a painting somehow,” said Mr. Munekata. “That must be an Ohara woman.” “What do you mean, ‘Yase woman’?” “I’ve never heard of ‘Yase women’.” “Even without that, she’s undoubtedly a Yase woman.” “If you think I’m lying, let’s ask her next time we meet.” “No one said it was a lie.” “But wouldn’t we collectively call women like that ‘Ohara women’?”

“Is that truly certain? Will you stake your word on it?”

“It’s more poetic that way.” “It carries an elegant grace.” “Then I’ll temporarily adopt it as my artistic sobriquet.”

“Artistic aliases are fine by me.” “The world has all sorts of artistic aliases.” “Constitutional governance, universal theism, loyalty, trust, filial piety, fraternal duty—there’s all manner of those things out there.”

“Ah, I see—so it’s in the same vein as soba shops sprouting thickets of aliases and beef shops all turning into their ABCs.” “Exactly. Us both calling ourselves graduates amounts to the same thing.”

“How trivial.” “If that’s where this leads, then we might as well have scrapped artistic aliases altogether.”

“From now on, you’ll be adopting the artistic alias of diplomat, I suppose.” “Ha ha ha ha! That artistic alias remains stubbornly out of reach.” “A lamentable dearth of examiners with artistic discernment, you see.” “How many failures does this make now?” “Three?” “Don’t spout nonsense!” “Then two?” “Come now—you knew perfectly well all along.” “Though it pains me to confess, this marks but a single failure.”

“Since you took it once and failed once, from here on out...” “If I don’t know how many times I’ll have to take it, even I’m starting to feel a bit uneasy.” “Ha ha ha ha!” “As for my artistic alias, that’s fine—but what exactly are you going to do?” “I?” “I’m climbing Mount Hiei.—Hey you, don’t go kicking rocks back with your feet like that.” “It’s dangerous having someone trailing behind.” Ah, I’m utterly exhausted. “I’ll rest here,” said Mr. Kōno, then fell backward into the dry grass with a rustling crash.

“Oh, failed already? For all your fancy talk about artistic aliases with that mouth of yours, you’re utterly hopeless at mountain climbing,” said Mr. Munekata, tapping the crown of Mr. Kōno’s reclining head with his usual cherrywood cane. With each tap, the tip of his cane swished through the withered grass, producing a dry rustling sound.

“Come on, get up.” “We’re almost at the summit.” “If we’re going to rest anyway, let’s do it after passing and take our time.” “Get up.” “Yeah.”

“Yeah? Well, well…”

“I feel like vomiting.” “So you’ll vomit and flunk out? Well, well.” “Can’t be helped then.” “Guess I’ll take a breather too.”

Mr. Kōno pressed his black-haired head into the yellowed grass, leaving both his hat and umbrella scattered on the slope as he lay on his back gazing at the sky. Between his pale, sculpted face—lofty and angular—and the boundless heavenly realm where thin clouds emerged and vanished serenely into infinity, not a speck obstructed the eye. Vomit is meant to be expelled onto the ground. In his eyes turned toward the vast sky there existed only the endless heavens—free from earth, free from worldly concerns, free from all ages past and present.

Mr. Munekata took off his Yonezawa-patterned haori, folded the sleeves, and momentarily placed it on his shoulders, but then reconsidered. This time, he forcefully pulled both hands out from inside his garment and in an instant removed all his underclothes. From below, a sleeveless undergarment became visible. From the lining of the sleeveless undergarment protruded a shaggy fox pelt. This was the sleeveless undergarment he treasured as a gift from a friend who had gone to China. They say a thousand sheepskins cannot match the underarm fur of a single fox, yet he always wore this one sleeveless undergarment. Yet despite this, the fox pelt sewn into its lining was mottled and frayed, and judging by how excessively it shed, it must surely have come from some ill-natured wild fox.

“Are you honorable climbers ascending Mount Hiei? Shall I guide you? Ho ho ho—my, what an odd place to be lying!” The woman in striped clothing approached again. “Hey, Mr. Kōno.” “She says you’re lying in such a strange place.” “You’ll get mocked even by women.” “Get up already and let’s move.” “Women exist to make fools of people.” And Mr. Kōno continued gazing at the sky. “You can’t just plant yourself there so calmly.” “Still about to vomit?”

“If I move, I’ll vomit.” “What a nuisance.” “All vomiting occurs because you move.” “The vomit of the secular world—all ten thousandfold of it—springs from the single character for ‘movement.’”

“So you’re not actually going to vomit after all?” “How tedious.” “I was inwardly rather exasperated, thinking I might have to carry you down to the foot of the mountain if it really came to it.” “That’s unnecessary meddling. “No one asked you to.” “You’re such a charmless man, you know.”

“Do you know the definition of charm?” “So all your talk comes down to scheming not to move an inch more than necessary. You’re an outrageous man.” “Charm, you see—is a soft weapon that defeats those stronger than oneself.” “Then charmlessness must be a sharp weapon to wield over those weaker than oneself.”

“Does such logic even exist? It’s precisely when you try to move that charm becomes necessary. How could charm take root in someone who knows that moving makes them vomit?” “You’re awfully fond of sophistry. Then I’ll take my leave ahead of you. You got that?” “Do as you please,” said Mr. Kōno, still gazing at the sky. Mr. Munekata swiftly wound both sleeves he had removed around his waist and, at the same time, forcefully tucked up the vertical-striped hem clinging to his hairy shins, folding it into the surrounding white crepe. No sooner had he hooked the haori—its sleeves folded earlier—onto the tip of his cherrywood cane than he vanished, declaring in an unabashed voice, “With a single sword, I shall traverse the realm!”, as he drifted ethereally leftward down the rugged path that ended in ten paces.

After that came quietness. When quietness settled and—within that stillness—I knew I had entrusted my tenuous thread of life, my blood coursing through this vast cosmos moved solemnly yet soundlessly; in serene composure my form became as earth and wood while retaining faint vitality. To discard life’s ambiguous burdens—borne with awareness of mere existence—was vitality transcending all fixation, like clouds emerging from mountain hollows or skies shifting between dawn and dusk. Only by emptying time’s flow—past and present—and setting one foot beyond this realm exhausting east and west—only then—otherwise I wished to become fossil. A jet-black fossil having sucked dry red and blue,yellow and purple,yet knowing not how to restore its primal hues. Otherwise I desired death. Death ends all things. Death begins all things. Whether moments pile into days or days into months or months into years—in end they accumulate into grave. All trivialities this side of grave form farce where—separated by flesh-wall from causality—they pour needless oil of pity on withered bones,making useless corpses dance through endless night. Those possessing distant hearts must yearn for distant lands.

Having thought without thinking, Mr. Kōno finally raised himself. He had to walk again. Having seen Mount Hiei—which he had no desire to see—and acquired this unwanted multitude of blisters, he would have to leave behind the useless traces of his climb as a painful memento for two or three days. If painful mementos were needed, there were enough to last until one’s hair turned white. Split to the marrow, they remained inexhaustible. The ten or twenty blisters swelling uselessly on his soles—the moment he looked down at his laced-up heel half-resting on the sharp-edged cut stone, the stone abruptly shifted its surface, causing the poised foot to slide nearly two feet in an instant. Mr. Kōno

“Not gazing upon the endless path”

While reciting in a low voice and using his umbrella as a staff, he climbed the rugged path to its end, where a steep slope abruptly curved before him, looming imposingly against his hat with an air of beckoning those ascending from below toward the heavens. Mr. Kōno tilted his hat brim and looked straight up from the base of the slope to the summit where it ended. From the summit where the slope ended, he looked up at the endless sky—its pale expanse brimming with boundless hues of spring. Mr. Kōno, at this moment, Just gaze at the endless sky. And he recited the second line in the same low voice.

After climbing up the grassy mountain and ascending four or five tiers through mixed trees, darkness suddenly enveloped him from the shoulders upward, and the soles of his stepping shoes felt damp. The path traversed the mountain's spine from west to east; in an instant shedding its grassy mantle, it transformed into forest. This woods that deeply stains Ōmi's sky appeared—when undisturbed—to have its upper trunks and branches stretching in layer upon layer, mile upon mile, their primordial verdure accumulating darker hues with each passing year. Having buried two hundred valleys, three hundred mikoshi, and three thousand wicked monks—then filling even the abundant leaf-undersides with Buddhas of perfect enlightenment until none remained—the cedars planted since Dengyō Daishi's era stood densely towering halfway to heaven. Mr. Kōno passed alone beneath these cedars.

The cedar roots, extending from right and left to block travelers’ way like two hands, not only pierced soil and split rocks to burrow deep into bedrock but also—with their surplus strength—sprang back to cross the dark path in stepped tiers two inches high. Upon the rocky ladder he sought to climb, natural crossbeams were laid, and Mr. Kōno ascended these comfortable steps—a gift from mountain spirits—panting heavily. Pressed by cedars crowding the path, pallid vines crawled forth as though oozing from gloom; when he passed through their dense entanglement around his legs and traced the stretched length of tendrils, beyond reach, decaying ferns swayed listlessly in the windless noon.

“Here, here!” Suddenly, Mr. Munekata emitted a tengu-like voice from above. Upon ground so ancient it had decayed into soil of withered grass—where each step sank deep enough to swallow his boots without resistance—Mr. Kōno, with final resolve, used his umbrella as a staff to climb toward the tengu’s seat.

“Well done, well done! I’ve been waiting here for you far too long.” “What were you dawdling about?”

Mr. Kōno merely said “Ah,” then abruptly threw down his umbrella and plopped his backside onto it. “Going to vomit again? Before you vomit, take a look at that scenery. If you look at that, all that precious vomit of yours will regrettably subside.” With that cherrywood cane, he pointed through the cedars. In the gaps between the venerable trunks that sealed the heavens and stood in orderly rows, Lake Ōmi glistened brightly.

“Indeed,” said Mr. Kōno, fixing his gaze. To liken it merely to a mirror laid flat would not suffice. As though spurning a mirror engraved with “Biwa” for its lucidity, the tengu of Mount Hiei—emboldened by sacred sake pilfered in twilight’s depths—had breathed their murky exhalations across its face… And above what sank beneath that glimmering plane, spring’s resplendent hues—as if a giant had gathered every heat-haze rippling over field and mountain onto a palette and daubed them in one sweep—hung blurred beyond ten leagues, veiled in mist.

“Indeed,” Mr. Kōno repeated again.

“Just ‘Indeed,’ huh? You’re the sort who never shows excitement no matter what I point out.” “As if you’re doing me a favor—it’s not like you created any of this scenery.” “That ingratitude—exactly the kind of thing you find in philosophers.” “Pursuing unfilial studies while neglecting human connections day after day…” “My deepest apologies.—‘Unfilial studies,’ you call them? Ha ha ha ha ha.” “Look—a white sail’s visible.” “There—with that island’s blue mountain behind it—it doesn’t budge an inch.” “However long you watch it—not a hint of movement.”

“What a tedious sail.” “The part that’s unclear does resemble you.” “But it’s beautiful.” “Oh, there’s one here too!” “Over there, far off toward the purple shore, there are some too.”

“Yeah, there are, there are.” “Nothing but tedium.” “A uniform spread.”

“It’s just like a dream.” “What is?” “What do you mean ‘what’? It’s the scenery right before us.” “Hmm, I see. I thought you’d remembered something again. When it comes to things, you should settle them promptly. If you keep sitting around with your hands in your sleeves saying it’s like a dream, that won’t do.” “What are you talking about?” “What I say must also be like a dream. Ah ha ha ha! Now whereabouts did Masakado let out his bluster?” “Anyway, it’s on the other side. Since we’re overlooking Kyoto. Not this side. That guy’s such an idiot.”

“Masakado, huh? Hmm—rather than spouting bluster, vomiting would be more fitting for a philosopher.” “Since when do philosophers spew such things?”

“When one becomes a true philosopher, they become all head—just thinking—or rather, they turn into Daruma.” “What could that mist-shrouded island be?” “That island? It looks unusually ethereal.” “It’s probably Chikubu Island.”

“Really?”

“Oh, it’s just an offhand estimate.” “As for pen names—my policy cares nothing for their form so long as their essence rings true.” “Does such truth even exist in this world? That’s precisely why we require pen names.”

“All human affairs are but a dream.” “Good grief.” “Only death is real.”

“No way.” “Unless you confront death, human fickleness won’t ever stop.” “Let it never stop—I want no part of confronting it.” “You’ll be crying ‘no thanks’ soon enough.” “When it comes, you’ll snap to—‘Ah! So that’s it!’”

“Who would?” “Someone partial to meticulous knife-work.”

When they descended the mountain and entered Ōmi's fields, it became Mr. Munekata's domain. From a high, sunless place of shadows, gazing upon spring's radiant world across an impassable void—this was Mr. Kōno's realm.

II

She was like a vivid droplet—a single dense point of purple that distilled spring itself—dripping brightly into the slumbering world where midday enveloped crimson in the third month's embrace. Her black hair—rendering the dream world more alluring than any dream—was kept orderly at the temples; above them gleamed a jewel beetle carved into vivid violet, its slender golden clasps driven in with decisive force. In the stillness of noon, when one’s heart was nearly stolen away to distant realms, the sudden movement of those black eyes returned the beholder to themselves with a start. In the spread of a half-drop, stealing a fleeting instant to conjure the might of a gale—these were the profound eyes that commanded spring while dwelling within it. When one traced back these pupils to fathom the boundary of their enchantment, whitening bones in the Peach Blossom Spring, they could never return to the mortal world. It was no ordinary dream.

Within the vast haze of a dream, a single dazzling demon star—purple and pressing close to one’s brow—commanded, "Gaze upon me until death." The woman wore a purple kimono. In the quiet noon, quietly pulling out a bookmark, she read upon her lap a volume heavy with gilding. "Kneeling before the grave, he said:" "With this hand—with this hand I buried you—yet now even this hand lies bound." "Captured in a distant land, unable to journey there—know that all seasons when these hands should sweep your grave and burn incense have ended forever." "In life, not even Mo Ye could sunder us—yet death proves cruel." "You of Rome rest buried in Egypt; I of Egypt face interment in your Rome." "Your Rome—denying this wretched soul the grace I crave—your Rome remains your heartless Rome." "But should mercy exist at all—would Rome’s gods truly watch from clouds above?" "Me—who adorns your enemy’s triumph." "Me—abandoned by Egypt’s gods." "This life you left as half yourself—it stands my foe." "I pray to Rome’s merciful gods—hide me." "Hide you and me for eternity in tomb depths where shame cannot reach."

The woman raised her face. Her pale cheeks drawn taut, bearing a faint application of makeup that seemed to conceal something surplus beneath their single-layered surface—every man who grew desperate to discern what lay hidden would become her captive. The man’s lips twitched halfway in a daze. When the composure of his mouth crumbled, this person’s will must already have become the other’s prey. At the moment when his lower lip quivered with affected color yet failed to clearly part, the one who struck was certain to miss their mark.

The woman merely darted her eyes like a falcon striking the sky. The man grinned slyly. The contest was already decided. To fling one’s tongue against the palate and pit a bubble-blowing crab against crow and egret ranked among the most inept of strategies. To rouse winds and beat drums compelling pledges beneath castle walls stood as the most mediocre of strategies. To coat honey on needles and force poisoned wine counted as strategy still unperfected. The supreme battle permitted not a single exchanged word. The flower-plucking gesture—though not eight thousand ri removed—remained ultimately wordless. In hesitation’s fleeting moment,the demon striking void wrote "delusion", wrote "bewilderment", wrote "lost child of man" precisely as intended before withdrawing instantly. Characters drawn with acrid blue phosphorescence blown onto brush tips amid ten-thousand-fathom hellfires could not be scrubbed away even with white-haired whisks. Once laughter escaped him,the man could never reclaim that smile.

“Mr. Ono,” the woman called out. The man who immediately responded “Huh?” had no time to recompose his crumbling mouth. The smile that had risen to his lips was merely the idle transcribing of a half-unconscious mental wave into cursive script—and at the very moment this scribbled impulse neared its end, vexed by the absence of a second wave to dissolve next, the timely “Huh?” slipped effortlessly from his throat. The woman was inherently a schemer. Having drawn a “Huh?” from him, she said nothing for a while.

“What is it?” the man pressed on. If he didn’t continue, their carefully aligned timing would be lost. If their timing didn’t align, he felt uneasy. Those who kept their opponent in their sights—even kings and princes—would invariably experience this sensation. How much more so now—to eyes that reflected nothing but the woman in purple, the second phrase was utterly foolish.

The woman still said nothing. In Yōsai’s work hung on the alcove wall—the child’s topknot mingling with young pines—the sword-bearer alone remained serene since antiquity. The master of the bay horse, clad in hunting robes—perhaps as was customary for courtiers long accustomed to uneventful times—did not see the shifting scenery.

Only the man was restless. The first arrow had fallen in vain; where the second struck remained unclear. If this missed, he would have to continue. The man held his breath and stared at the woman’s face. Her slender face, lacking fullness in its contours, swelled with anticipated emotion; though doubting whether the movement of those overly heavy lips was intentional or accidental, he appeared to be willing some response into existence. “Are you still there?” the woman said in a calm tone. This was an unexpected response. It was like a bow bent toward the heavens, its gourd plume nearly dancing back onto my head. While the man, losing himself, watched over her intently, it appeared the woman had from the very beginning lost sight of the person seated before her within the pages of a book spread open on her lap. Yet when she deemed the book’s gilded beauty worthy, she began reading it as though wrenching it from the hands of the man who now carried it.

The man could only say, “Yes.”

“Is this woman intending to go to Rome?”

The woman looked at the man’s face with a displeased expression that suggested things weren’t sitting right with her. Mr. Ono had to take responsibility for Cleopatra’s actions. “She won’t go. She won’t go.” “She won’t go.” He spoke as though defending a queen with whom he had no connection. “She isn’t going?” “I wouldn’t go either,” the woman finally conceded. Mr. Ono barely managed to emerge from the dark tunnel. “When you look at what Shakespeare wrote, that woman’s character comes through remarkably well.”

As soon as Mr. Ono exited the tunnel, he tried to immediately mount his bicycle and ride off. Fish leap in the depths; kites soar in the sky. Mr. Ono was a man who dwelled in the realm of poetry. The places where pyramids scorch the sky, where the sphinx embraces the sand, where the great river harbors crocodiles, where two thousand years ago the enchantress Cleopatra clasped Antony and lightly brushed her jade-like skin with an ostrich-feather fan—these were splendid subjects for painting and fine material for poetry. This was Mr. Ono’s true forte. “When I look at Shakespeare’s Cleopatra, I feel a peculiar sensation.”

“What kind of sensation?” “As I’m dragged into an ancient hole, unable to escape, a purple Cleopatra appears vividly before my eyes while I linger there dazed.” “From within the fading brocade painting, a solitary figure suddenly blazes forth in purple.” “Purple?” “You do keep saying ‘purple,’ don’t you?” “Why purple?” “Why? Because that’s how it feels.”

“Then, is it this color?” the woman said, swiftly sweeping aside her long sleeve—half-spread across the blue tatami—and fluttering it before Mr. Ono’s nose. In the depths of Mr. Ono’s brow, the scent of Cleopatra suddenly wafted pungently.

“Huh?” Mr. Ono snapped back to himself abruptly. The strange hue that had flickered like a cuckoo skimming the heavens—swifter than a team of four horses piercing through the rain below—settled swiftly, and her beautiful hand came to rest upon her knee. It rested so quietly one could not sense even a pulse. The pungent scent of Cleopatra gradually escaped from the depths of his nose. Chasing after the lingeringly receding shadow—summoned abruptly from two thousand years past—Mr. Ono’s heart was lured into a realm of profound mystery, drawn two thousand years into antiquity.

“It’s not the love of whispering breezes, nor tears, nor sighs.” “The love of tempests, the love of great storms unrecorded in any calendar.” “It’s a nine-and-a-half-inch love,” said Mr. Ono.

“Is a nine-and-a-half-inch love purple?” “It’s not that a nine-and-a-half-inch love is purple—it’s that a purple love measures nine and a half inches.” “Are you saying that if you cut love, purple blood flows?” “When love grows angry, nine and a half inches flashes purple—or so they say.” “Did Shakespeare write such a thing?” “It is I who commented on what Shakespeare depicted—when Antony married Octavia in Rome—when the messenger brought news of the marriage—Cleopatra’s…”

“Purple must have been dyed darkly with jealousy.” “When purple is scorched by Egypt’s sun, a cold dagger gleams.” “Is this level of intensity acceptable?” No sooner had she spoken than the long sleeve flashed again. Mr. Ono found himself slightly interrupted. Even when she had demands to make of others, she was a woman who would not consent unless she interrupted. The woman who had neutralized the venom gazed triumphantly at the man’s face. “So what did Cleopatra do then?” The woman, having suppressed her tone, loosened the reins once more. Mr. Ono had to dash off.

“She thoroughly questions the messenger about Octavia.” “The way she questions, the way she presses—it’s fascinating because it brings her character to life.” “She relentlessly grills the messenger—whether she’s as tall as herself, what color her hair is, whether her face is round, whether her voice is low, how old she is—pursuing every detail.…”

“How old is this interrogator, anyway?”

“Cleopatra would be around thirty, I suppose.” “Then she’s quite the old woman like me, hmm?” The woman tilted her head and giggled softly. The man, still ensnared within her enigmatic dimple, found himself momentarily at a loss. To affirm would be a lie. To merely deny would be too commonplace. Until the moment a streak of gold intermingled with white teeth flickered and vanished, the man gave no response. The woman was twenty-four years old. Mr. Ono had long known she was three years older than himself.

It was strange that a beautiful woman over twenty, idly counting one-two-three, remained unmarried even today at twenty-four. As the spring garden deepened idly, with flower shadows reaching their peak along the veranda, she perceived the lingering day’s hastening demise; holding a koto with a resentful countenance—a demeanor typical of women left behind in marriage—yet in the empty sounds of the Buddhist whisk she occasionally swept, she heard biwa-like resonances in the koto’s bridges, finding curious delight in tones not their own—this grew ever more perplexing. The details were naturally unclear. From the shadows of this man and woman’s exchanged words, one occasionally peered in, secretly divining unnecessary conjectures into ambiguous romantic gossip—nothing more.

“Does jealousy increase as one grows older?” the woman asked solemnly, addressing Mr. Ono.

Mr. Ono was taken aback again. A poet had to know humanity. One was naturally obliged to answer a woman’s question. But what he did not know could not be answered. A man who had never witnessed the jealousy of middle-aged people could not be helped, no matter how much of a poet or literary figure he might be. Mr. Ono was a literary scholar proficient in letters.

“Well... it still depends on the person, I suppose.” Instead of being confrontational, his response was evasive. She was not a woman who would settle for that.

“If I were to become such an old woman—though wait, am I already one now? Hohoho—but once I reach that age, what then?” “As for you—being jealous of you… such a thing, even now…”

“There is.” The woman’s voice sliced piercingly through the quiet spring breeze. The man who had been wandering in the land of poetry suddenly lost his footing and fell into the world below. When he landed and looked around, he was merely a man. The other gazed down from an unapproachable high cliff. He had no time to consider who had kicked him down to such a place.

“At what age did Kiyohime become a serpent?” “Precisely so—she must remain in her teens for the drama to succeed.” “Likely eighteen or nineteen.” “And Anchin?” “Wouldn’t twenty-five suit Anchin best?”

“Mr. Ono.”

“Yes…” “How old may I ask are you?” “Me? I’m…” “Do you have to think about it to know?” “No, well—I believe I’m the same age as Mr. Kōno.” “Ah, right—you’re the same age as my brother.” “But my brother looks far older than you do.”

“Oh, it’s not quite like that.”

“It’s true.”

“Shall I treat you to something?” “Yes, do treat me.” “But it’s not your face that’s young.” “It’s your spirit that’s youthful.”

“Do I really appear that way?” “You’re exactly like a spoiled young master.” “Poor you.” “You’re adorable.” A woman’s twenty-four corresponded to a man’s thirty. They knew neither reason nor wrong; of course knew not why the world spun or settled. Amid the boundless unfolding of the vast stage spanning past and present, one naturally knew not what position one occupied nor what role one played. Only in speech were they adept. Women could not confront the world, steer the affairs of state, or manage a crowd before their eyes. Women had mastered the art of dealing with just one person. When one person fought another, the winner was always a woman. Men would always lose. Women were those kept in the cage of the concrete world, pecking at their own grains and flapping their wings in delight. Those who competed with women in the sound of their cries within the small world of the cage would inevitably perish. Mr. Ono was a poet. Because he was a poet, he had half his head thrust into this cage. Mr. Ono utterly failed to sing.

“You’re adorable.” “Just like Anchin.” “Anchin was cruel.”

As if pleading for forgiveness without uttering the words, this time he accepted it.

“Are you dissatisfied?” The woman smiled with only her eyes.

“But…” “But what is it you dislike?”

“I won’t run away like Anchin.” This was what they called a counterstrike when one failed to flee. The young master did not know how to withdraw gracefully when the moment arose.

“Ohoho, I’ll chase after you like Kiyohime.”

The man remained silent.

“To become a serpent, am I perhaps a bit too old?”

The untimely spring lightning, having emerged from the woman, slipped smoothly through the man’s chest. The color is purple.

“Miss Fujio.” “What is it?”

The man who called and the woman who was called sat facing each other. The six-mat room, separated by dense greenery, was so secluded that even the sound of carriages passing in the street outside seemed faint. In the desolate fleeting world, only two people were alive. When they faced each other across two feet of tea-brown-edged tatami, society retreated far from their side. The Salvation Army was at this moment beating drums and parading through the city. At the hospital, a patient with peritonitis was drawing their last breath like an insect. In Russia, the Nihilists were hurling bombs. At the station, a pickpocket was caught. A fire broke out. A baby was about to be born. At the drill ground, new soldiers were being scolded. Someone was jumping to their death. Someone was killing a person. Fujio’s brother and Mr. Munekata were climbing Mount Hiei.

In deep alleyways where even the fragrance of flowers grew oppressive, the figures of a man and woman who had called to each other leaped vividly upward upon spring’s shadow sinking into death’s depths. The universe was a universe of two. Surpassing three thousand pulsating blood vessels, the surging heart’s door of youthful blood—opening with love, closing with love—vividly depicted the motionless man and woman against the vast sky. The fate of the two was decided in this precarious instant. East or west—if they so much as stirred a muscle, that was all it would take. To call was no trivial matter; to be called was no trivial matter either. With a trial surpassing life and death looming between them—whether a concealed explosive device would be thrown at them or they would throw it—the motionless bodies of the two were two masses of flame.

“Welcome back!” A voice rang out in the entranceway as wheels grinding against gravel came to an abrupt halt. There was a sound of a sliding door opening. There was a sound of quick footsteps hurrying down the hallway. Their strained postures collapsed.

“Mother has returned,” the woman said nonchalantly, remaining seated.

“Oh, is that so?” the man also answered nonchalantly.

As long as one does not clearly reveal one's heart to the outside world, it does not constitute a sin. A mystery that can be undone makes for weak evidence in court. The two, casually engaging with each other while silently acknowledging what had passed between them, were nonchalantly at ease.

The world was at peace. No one could point fingers behind their backs. If possible, the fault lay with the other party. The world remained stubbornly at peace.

“Where did Mother go?” “Yes, Mother went out shopping for a bit.”

“I’ve intruded rather long,” he said, smoothing his appearance slightly before beginning to rise. He was a man who normally sat as comfortably as possible, ever mindful of creases forming in his Western trousers. When he made to rise—hands planted on knees to push himself up—snowy cuffs covered his knuckles completely, while beneath sleeves of muted mouse-gray stripes, cloisonné couple-buttons glinted momentarily into view.

“Oh, do take your time.” “Even if Mother has returned, there’s no particular need,” the woman said without any sign of going to greet the returned person. The man, of course, detested the act of rising. “However,” he said as he rummaged through his inner pocket and pulled out a thick hand-rolled cigarette. The smoke of a cigarette could distract from most things. Not to mention, this was an Egyptian-made cigarette with a gold mouthpiece. In the deep hues that swirled around wheels, mountains, and clouds, as he settled back into his half-risen posture, there might yet arise an opportunity to narrow the distance between Cleopatra and himself.

When the pale smoke flowed abundantly past the black mustache, Cleopatra indeed—

“Oh, do take your seat,” she issued a courteous command. The man wordlessly relaxed his knees once more. For both of them, the spring day is long.

“Lately it’s all women around—I simply can’t bear this loneliness.” “When does Mr. Kōno plan to return?” “When does he return? I haven’t the faintest idea.”

“Have you received any correspondence?”

“No.”

“Since the season is pleasant, Kyoto must be delightful.”

“If only you had gone along as well.” “I…” Mr. Ono trailed off, blurring the rest.

“Why didn’t you go?”

“There’s no particular reason.” “But isn’t she an old acquaintance?”

“What?” Mr. Ono carelessly flicked cigarette ash onto the tatami mat. “Huh?” he said, his hand moving inadvertently. “Were you not in Kyoto for quite some time?” “So she’s an acquaintance of yours?” “Yes.”

“Because she’s such an old acquaintance, I no longer feel like going.” “How heartless of you.” “No, that’s not the case,” Mr. Ono replied with uncharacteristic seriousness, drawing the Egyptian cigarette smoke deep into his lungs. “Fujio, Fujio,” came a voice calling from the room across the way.

“Is that your mother?” Mr. Ono asked. “Yes.” “I should be going now.”

“Why?”

“But you must have some business to attend to.” “Even if there is, what does it matter? Aren’t you the teacher? Since you’ve come here to teach me, what does it matter who’s returned?” “But I hardly teach you anything.” “Indeed I am learning! What you’ve taught me so far is more than enough.” “Do you think so?” “Haven’t you taught me plenty about Cleopatra and such?”

“If Cleopatra suffices, there are plenty more.”

“Fujio, Fujio,” Mother kept calling from across the room. “Forgive me, but I must take my leave for a moment—though there are still matters I wish to inquire about. Please wait.”

Fujio stood. The man was left behind in the six-mat room. In the old Satsuma incense burner placed on the flat floor—whether from smoke left unburned at some time—spilled ashes remained as they were, not crumbling; Fujio’s room stayed as quiet today as it had been yesterday. The lingering warmth from waiting for its owner on the carelessly spread eight-mat zabuton was quietly, serenely swept away by the lightly brushing spring breeze. Mr. Ono wordlessly looked at the incense burner, then wordlessly looked at the zabuton. In the corner of the distorted latticework lifting away from the tatami, something glinted faintly, caught deep within. Mr. Ono tilted his head slightly, searching for the glittering object as he pondered. It must be a watch. Until now, he hadn’t noticed it at all. When Fujio stood up, the supple silk screen might have caused the zabuton to shift, dislodging whatever had been concealed. However, there was no need to hide a watch under the zabuton. Mr. Ono peered under the zabuton once more. The chain, linked in a pine-needle shape and bent—its outward-facing side reflecting thin shafts of light—revealed in its depths the faint outline of the raised nanako-patterned edge. It was indeed a watch. Mr. Ono tilted his head.

Gold is a color of purity and richness. Those who love wealth and honor invariably favor this color. Those who seek honor invariably choose this color. Those who achieve renown invariably adorn themselves with this color. Like a magnet draws iron, this color attracts all dark-haired heads. Those who do not prostrate themselves before this color are rubber devoid of elasticity. One cannot function in society as an individual. Mr. Ono thought it was a good color.

Just then, from the direction of the far room came the rustling of silk along the winding veranda. Mr. Ono jerked his peering eyes away and, feigning ignorance, was staring straight at Yōsai’s hanging scroll when two figures appeared in the doorway. She wore a black crepe kimono bearing three family crests on sloping shoulders, its muted half-collar contrasting with an old-fashioned chignon polished to a glossy sheen. “Oh, you’re here,” Mother said with a slight bow, settling herself near the veranda. Where bush warblers ought to sing stretched a garden swept free of visible dust—too immaculate—hosting a single pine tree absurdly overlong, standing as though it owned the grounds. One felt this pine and Mother shared an uncanny unity of being.

“Fujio has been causing you so much trouble—I’m sure she’s been nothing but selfish. She’s practically a child—do make yourself comfortable—though I ought to always offer proper greetings, having grown old as I have, I must beg your pardon.—She’s truly an infant, utterly impossible—nothing but tantrums—but thanks to you, she’s grown quite fond of English—lately she can apparently read rather difficult material, and she alone takes considerable pride in it.—Well, since she has her brother here, he could teach her—but—well—it seems siblings don’t quite harmonize—”

Mother’s eloquence flowed effortlessly and impressively. Mr. Ono had no time to interject even a single word—swept along by her eloquence, he raced onward. Their destination was never clear to begin with. Fujio silently opened the book she had borrowed earlier from Mr. Ono and continued reading. "The queen who kissed flowers to the tomb, kissed her lips to the tomb, and lamented her wretched self did indeed summon her bath." Having bathed, she did indeed summon her evening repast. At this moment, a lowly latrine attendant appeared, bearing a small basket heaped with figs. In the letter sent by the queen to Cæsar, it says: "I pray you bury me in the same tomb as Antony." Beneath the lush blue shade of fig leaves, they had stealthily concealed a venomous serpent that cooled its fiery tongue in the Nile’s muddy flames. Cæsar’s envoy ran. When they thrust open the door and their eyes met—there upon a golden bed, adorned today in regal attire, the queen’s corpse lay inescapably. Iris—so called—did not abandon this world near the queen’s feet. Charmion—so called—feebly supported, near the queen’s head, a crown cast with a thousand pearls gathered like dew from a moonless night, now on the verge of falling. Caesar’s envoy, having thrust open the door, exclaimed, “What manner of thing is this?” “Thus should meet her end one who reigns over Egypt,” declared Charmion; having spoken these final words, she closed her eyes as she collapsed.

The final line—"Thus should meet her end one who reigns over Egypt"—lingered like the faint tail of refined incense burning within its censer, trailing into the void as its last embers neared exhaustion, leaving the entire page appearing veiled in a pale haze.

Mother, unaware, called out "Fujio."

The man finally directed his gaze toward the one who had been called, his demeanor tolerant. The one who had been called remained facing downward.

Mother called out “Fujio” once more.

The woman’s eyes finally left the page. From beneath wavy sidelocks grazing a pale forehead—down to a slender nose devoid of angularity—to lips threaded with crimson—gliding outward to meet the jawline’s harmonious curve at the cheek’s edge—leaving behind the jaw to retreat softly into a delicate throat—each feature gradually emerged into the realm of reality.

“What?” Fujio answered. It was a reply poised between day and night, from one who stood in that very liminal space.

“My, how carefree you are! Is that book truly so fascinating?—You ought to take a look at it later. How rude—this self-absorbed child who knows nothing of the world—utterly impossible.—Did you borrow that book from Mr. Ono? It’s quite beautiful—mind you don’t soil it. Books must be treated with care, or else—”

“I’m taking good care of them.” “That’s all well and good—but don’t go repeating that business from last time…” “Well that’s because Brother was being impossible.” “Did something happen to Mr. Kōno?” Mr. Ono finally interjected. “Oh no—you see we’re simply a houseful of spoiled children here—always squabbling over trifles… Why just yesterday she threw her brother’s book—” Mother glanced sideways at Fujio, her words trailing into calculated silence. Sympathetic blackmail remained the favored sport of elders when dealing with youth.

“What happened to Mr. Kōno’s book?” Mr. Ono tentatively inquired.

“Shall I tell you?” Mother asked with a half-smile, holding back. Her demeanor carried the intensity of one thrusting forward a nine-and-a-half-inch toy dagger.

"I threw Brother's book into the garden," Fujio declared, cutting in before her mother could respond as she hurled the sharp retort at Mr. Ono's brow. Mother forced a wry smile. Mr. Ono opened his mouth. "As you know, her brother is quite the eccentric," Mother said, obliquely attempting to placate her disheartened daughter.

“Mr. Kōno has not yet returned, has he?” said Mr. Ono, deftly steering the conversation elsewhere. “You’re just like a bullet yourself—and he too keeps lamenting his poor health and dillydallying endlessly, so I suggested a brief trip might settle matters—but he still made excuses over some trifle and wouldn’t budge. Finally, I had to beg Munekata to coax him out.” “But he’s precisely like a bullet—” “Young people these days ought to be…”

“Even though he’s young, Brother is special—he’s special because he transcends through philosophy.”

“Well, I can’t quite grasp it myself—and you see, that Munekata is an utterly carefree soul. Why, he’s the true loose cannon here—quite the troublesome one.” “Ahahaha! He’s such a lively and amusing person!”

“Speaking of Munekata—where did you put that thing earlier?” Mother raised her sharpened gaze and swept it across the room. “Here it is,” said Fujio, tilting both knees lightly askew as she slid an eight-tan silk cushion smoothly over the blue tatami. The hue of opulence coiled thrice like a snail’s spiral within its chain, heaping high a lid crowned with seven beads. Her right hand reached to clang the gleaming object—but in that instant, the chain slipped from her palm and began its descent toward the tatami. Arrested a foot above the mat, its residual force veered sideways, setting the length swaying languidly two or three times, the garnet ornament trembling at its end. The first undulation struck the crimson bead against her pale arm. The second undulation shifted toward Kanze and grazed the sleeve cuff. Just as the third undulation began to subside, the woman abruptly stood.

Fujio, who abruptly sat down before Mr. Ono as he was vacantly watching the swiftly shifting scene of beautiful colors—two, three hues intermingling—

“Mother,” she said, glancing back over her shoulder. “This way it stands out more,” she said as she returned to her original seat. Across Mr. Ono’s vest-front glittered a pine-needle-shaped gold chain, threaded through buttonholes left and right, its brilliance stark against the darkened melton fabric.

“How is this?” Fujio said. “Indeed, it suits you quite well,” said Mother. “What’s the matter?” Mr. Ono asked, bewildered. Mother laughed softly. “Shall I raise it?” Fujio asked with a sidelong glance. Mr. Ono remained silent.

“Well then, let’s stop here,” said Fujio as she stood up once more and removed the gold pocket watch from Mr. Ono’s chest.

III

It was a day of rain where willows drooped and strands of smoke were blown into the railing. Beneath the navy suit hanging darkly from the clothes rack crouched a pair of black tabi boots, one-third turned inside out in a rounded shape. On the narrow staggered shelf sat a grand monk’s bag, its untied cords limply dangling beside tooth powder and white willow toothpicks that greeted the morning. Through the glass of the tightly closed shoji glimmered slender streaks of white rain threads.

“Kyoto is an unnervingly cold place,” said Mr. Munekata, layering a Meisen silk tanzen over his rented yukata as he leaned against the tokonoma’s pine pillar, sitting with legs insolently splayed, peering outside while addressing Mr. Kōno. Mr. Kōno had draped a camel-hair lap blanket from his waist downward and was listlessly bobbing his dark head on the air pillow, but

“It’s more a place for sleep than cold,” he said while turning his face slightly, his freshly combed wet head—buoyed by the air pillow’s elasticity—lolling against the discarded tabi boots. “You’re always sleeping, aren’t you? It’s like you came all the way to Kyoto just to sleep.” “Yeah. It’s truly such a carefree place.” “If you’ve become carefree, well, that’s fine. Mother was worried about you, y’know.” “Hmph.” “That’s some greeting, your ‘Hmph.’ Even so, I’ve been working hard behind the scenes to put you at ease.”

“Can you read the characters on that plaque?” “That’s odd, isn’t it? ※（にんべん＋孱）雨※（にんべん＋愁）風? Never seen these before. Since they’ve got the human radical, must involve people somehow. Who the hell writes such useless characters? What’re they even supposed to be?” “Can’t make sense of them.”

“It doesn’t matter if I don’t understand—this sliding door is far more interesting.” “The gold paper pasted across it looks lavish enough, but I’m appalled at how wrinkled it’s become in places.” “Exactly like stage props viewed through a theater curtain.” “And then they go and boldly paint three bamboo shoots here—what on earth were they thinking?” “I say, Mr. Kōno—this is a riddle!” “What sort of riddle?” “I couldn’t tell you.” “But since there’s something nonsensical drawn here, it must be a riddle.”

“If something has no meaning, doesn’t that mean it can’t be a riddle? It’s because there’s meaning that it becomes a riddle.” “But philosophers take things that have no meaning and treat them as riddles, racking their brains over them. It’s like studying a madman’s invented shogi endgame problems with veins bulging in their foreheads.”

“Then this bamboo shoot must also have been drawn by a mad painter.”

“Ha ha ha ha! If you understood reason that well, you wouldn’t be tormented.” “How can you equate the world with bamboo shoots?” “You know, there’s that old story about the Gordian Knot.” “Do you know it?” “You think I’m a middle school student?”

“Even if you don’t think so, just go ahead and ask.” “If you know, then say it!” “Quit nagging—I know.” “Then go ahead and say it.” “Philosophers are such fudgers—tenacious people who can’t admit ignorance no matter what you ask them, so…”

“Who knows which of us is more tenacious?”

“Either way—just say it.” “The Gordian Knot refers to a story from Alexander’s time.” “Yeah, I know.” “So?” “A peasant named Gordias dedicated a chariot to Jupiter, and…” “Oh ho, wait a moment.” “Does such a thing even exist?” “And then?”

“You’re asking if such a thing exists—and you don’t even know that?” “I didn’t know that part.”

“What? You’re the one who doesn’t even know it yourself!” “Ha ha ha ha! When we learned it in school, the teacher didn’t cover that part. That teacher probably didn’t know that part either, I bet.” “However, no one could undo the knot that peasant had tied with a vine between the chariot’s pole and crossbeam.” “Ah, right—so that’s what they call the Gordian Knot.” “Right.” “Alexander found that knot too troublesome, drew his sword, and went and cut it through, huh?” “Yeah, that’s right.”

“Alexander didn’t call it troublesome or anything else.” “That doesn’t matter.” “When Alexander heard the oracle stating that whoever untied this knot would become emperor of the East, he said, ‘In that case, there’s only one way to do this…’” “I know that part.” “I learned that part from my school teacher.” “Then that should be fine, shouldn’t it?” “Well, I think humans must have the resolve to say, ‘If that’s how it is, then this is the only way to do it.’”

“That would also be acceptable.” “That would also be acceptable—but then there’s no contest. The Gordian Knot can’t be untied no matter how much you think about it, you know.” “So if you cut it, does that solve it?” “If you cut it—well, even if it doesn’t come undone, I suppose that’s convenient enough.”

“Convenience? There’s nothing in the world as cowardly as convenience.” “Then Alexander becomes a terribly cowardly man, I suppose.” “Do you really think Alexander is that great?”

The conversation lapsed for a moment. Mr. Kōno turned over. Mr. Munekata sat cross-legged and spread out a travel guide. The rain fell diagonally.

When the misty rain falling upon the ancient capital with ever-increasing desolation grew so dense that it matched the swallows darting through the sky—their red bellies exposed—both Lower and Upper Kyoto lay hushed and drenched. Beneath the emerald depths of the thirty-six peaks, sound dissolved like Yuzen crimson into streams that poured through fields of rapeseed blossoms. “You upstream, I’m downstream…” At the gateway where parsley was washed, when the weight of the towel veiling brows was removed, Daimonji came into view. The pine crickets and bell crickets—moss-covered through generations of spring—left only graves in the thicket where nightingales should have sung. After demons ceased coming to Rashōmon Gate—where demons once emerged—the gate too was torn down in some forgotten era. What became of the arm torn away by the rope remained unknown to all. The time-honored spring rain fell. In Teramachi it fell on temples; in Sanjō, on bridges; in Gion, on cherry blossoms; at Kinkaku-ji Temple, on pines. On the inn’s second floor, it fell upon Mr. Kōno and Mr. Munekata.

Mr. Kōno began writing his diary while lying down. He bent back the slightly sweat-stained corner of the horizontally bound tea-colored cover and flipped through two or three pages until a blank space spanning about a third of a page appeared. Mr. Kōno began writing from here. He took up the pencil vigorously,

“Rain on Yilian Tower’s eaves; idleness stifles ancients and moderns alike.” Having written this, he thought for a while. He appeared intent on adding a development and conclusion to complete it as a quatrain. Mr. Munekata threw down the travel guide and stomped heavily on the tatami mats as he stepped out to the veranda. On the veranda sat a single custom-made rattan chair, damp and expectant. Through sparse lotus blooms, the neighbor’s tatami room showed itself. The shoji screens stood fully closed. Within came the sound of a koto. “Suddenly, the koto’s notes resound; weeping willows stir fresh sorrow.”

Mr. Kōno wrote a cross in a separate line but, seeming dissatisfied, immediately drew a line through it. The rest became regular prose.

“The universe is a mystery.” Solving mysteries is people’s prerogative. Those who solve mysteries as they please and settle them as they please are fortunate. If one doubts, even parents become a mystery. Even siblings become a mystery. Even one’s wife and children—even this very self that perceives them thus—become mysteries. One is born into this world precisely to have unsolvable mysteries thrust upon them—to wander white-haired and agonize at midnight. To solve parents’ mysteries requires becoming one flesh with them. To solve a wife’s mystery requires becoming of one heart with her; solving the universe’s mystery demands becoming one heart and flesh with it. Failing this makes parents,wife,and universe all remain suspect. An unsolvable mystery—agony. To willingly take a new mystery called “wife” while already burdened by insoluble parental mysteries resembles accepting custody of others’ money when unable to manage one’s own estate. Not only taking this new spousal mystery,but suffering as it spawns further mysteries parallels handling accrued interest on entrusted funds as if managing another’s income. …All doubts can only be resolved through self-abandonment. The sole problem lies in how to abandon oneself. Death? “Death proves far too incompetent.”

Mr. Munekata sat squarely in the rattan chair, listening to the koto next door. In the spring chill of Omuro Gosho, the inscribed lute’s refined elegance could not fathom such poetic austerity. The thirteen strings were strung in Nambu’s iris-shaped style, yet there existed no aesthete to find nobility in the makie-adorned tongue resting upon ivory. Mr. Munekata was merely listening absentmindedly.

Beyond the yellowing lotus leaves that dripped and covered the fence lay a cluster of Narihira bamboo, accompanied by moss-covered granite stones jutting through creeping growth—in this small garden of less than three tsubo, Mount Hiei moss crawled across every inch. The sound of the koto came from this garden.

The rain is one. In winter, raincoats freeze. In autumn, the lamp wick thins. In summer, loincloths are washed. In spring—a flat silver hairpin left fallen on the tatami, beside shells from a matching game gleaming crimson, gold, and azure on their undersides—someone plucks a plinking melody, then plinks again to scatter the notes. The sound Mr. Munekata was listening to was none other than this plinking melody.

“What the eye sees is form,” Mr. Kōno wrote on a new line. "What the ear hears is sound. Form and sound are not the essence of things. For those who do not apprehend the essence of things, form and sound are meaningless. When one seizes something in this depth, all forms and sounds become new forms and sounds. This is symbolism. Symbolism is originally an expedient means to see with the eyes and hear with the ears the unfathomable void.……" The koto’s playing gradually grew more intricate. Threading through the pauses between raindrops, white plectra seemed to dance several times over the bridges, while the rich melody twined together the sounds of thick and thin strings, appearing to strike alternately in a disordered rhythm. When Mr. Kōno finished writing, "Only by listening to a stringless koto does one first grasp the significance of jo-ha-kyū," Mr. Munekata, leaning back in his chair, had been gazing down at the neighboring house.

“Hey, Mr. Kōno—instead of just spouting logic, why not listen to that koto for a bit. It’s damn good!” he called out from the veranda into the room.

“Yeah, I’ve been listening,” Mr. Kōno said and snapped his diary shut. “There’s no proper way to listen while lying down.” “I’m ordering you to come out to the veranda for a moment—get out here.” “Nah, I’m fine here.” “Don’t bother me,” Mr. Kōno said, tilting his air pillow with no sign of rising. “Hey, Higashiyama really looks beautiful!” “I see.”

“Oh, there’s someone crossing the Kamogawa River.” “That’s truly poetic.” “Hey, there’s a guy crossing the river!” “They can go ahead and cross.” “You talk about ‘lying there wrapped in a futon’ or whatever, but where exactly are you wearing that futon?” “Why don’t you come over here and show me?” “Nope.” “Hey, you! While you’re dawdling like this, the Kamogawa’s water level’s rising!” “Oh no! This is bad!” “The bridge is about to collapse!” “Hey, the bridge’s going to collapse!” “Even if it collapses, there’s no problem.”

“So it’s fine even if it collapses?” “Even if we end up unable to see the Miyako Odori tonight, would that be no problem at all?” “No, no,” Mr. Kōno replied, seemingly annoyed, as he rolled over and began gazing sideways at the golden-bamboo-patterned screen. “If you stay this composed, there’s no point.” “I suppose there’s no better plan than for me to surrender here,” said Mr. Munekata, finally yielding as he came into the room. “Hey, hey.” “What a noisy man you are.”

“Did you hear that koto?” “Didn’t I tell you I heard it?” “Hey now—it’s a woman!” “Obviously.” “How old would you say she is?” “How old could she be?” “Being this frosty takes all the sport out of it.” “If you mean to tell me, then tell me properly.” “Who says I would?” “You won’t? Then I’ll just say it myself.” “That’s a Shimada chignon!”

“Is there a party going on in the parlor or something?”

“Nah—the parlor’s shut tight.” “Then it must be another one of those half-hearted artistic names you always come up with.” “It’s an artistic name that’s also her real one, isn’t it? I did see that woman!” “How?” “There—you want to hear it now.” “I don’t need to hear anything. Studying this bamboo shoot is far more interesting than listening to such things. When I lie down and look at this bamboo shoot sideways, it appears shorter—I wonder why that is.” “It’s probably because your eyes are positioned sideways.”

“What’s the reason they painted three stalks across two sheets of karakami paper?” “They probably gave up on one stalk because they were so bad at it.” “Why is the bamboo shoot such a deep green?” “It’s probably some mystery about how eating it makes you sick.”

“So it remains a mystery after all.” “You too solve mysteries, do you not?” “Ha ha ha!” “I do attempt solutions now and then.” “Yet here I’ve been trying since earlier to unravel this Shimada puzzle for you, but your utter refusal to let me proceed strikes me as most unbecoming enthusiasm for a philosopher.”

“If you want to solve it, solve it. Even if you put on such airs, I’m not the kind of philosopher who’ll bow his head.” “Then let’s solve it cheaply for now and have you apologize later. — You see, that koto player—” “Mm.” “I saw her.” “That’s what I just heard.” “Is that so. Then there’s nothing more to say.”

“Then there’s no need.”

“No—that’s no good.” “Fine—I’ll tell you.” “Yesterday, when I got out of the bath and was cooling off on the engawa, stripped to the waist—you want to hear this, don’t you?—I casually looked around at the Kamogawa East scenery, thinking how pleasant it felt, and when I happened to glance down at the neighboring house, that girl had slid open a shoji halfway and was leaning against the open screen, gazing into the garden.”

“Was she a beauty?” “Ah, she was a beauty. Worse than Miss Fujio but seems better than Itoko.” “Is that so.” “If we leave it at that, it’s far too insubstantial. That’s a shame—you should at least say you wish I’d seen her too out of courtesy.” “That was a regrettable thing to do—I should have seen her too.” “Ha ha ha! That’s why I’m telling you to come out to the engawa so I can show you!” “But the shoji’s shut tight, isn’t it?”

“It might open up eventually.” “Ha ha ha! Ono might be waiting until the shoji opens.”

“Yeah, you’re right.” “I should’ve brought Ono here to show him.” “Kyoto suits that type of person.” “Exactly like Ono.” “We told the General to come, but he kept making excuses and never showed up.”

“He claims he’s going to study during spring break, I suppose.” “How could he possibly study during spring break?” “In that state, he could never get any studying done.” “The problem with literary scholars is that they’re too frivolous.” “That stings a little.” “I’m not exactly the heavy type either.” “No, mere literary scholars are too busy being intoxicated by the haze and dazed to even try parting it to find the essence—they lack backbone.” “A haze-drunkard.” “Philosophers overthink unnecessary things and make bitter faces—they must be saltwater drunks.”

“A man who’d try to thrust through to Wakasa even as he climbs Mount Hiei—now that’s a sunshower drunkard!” “Ha ha ha! It’s strange because we’re all drunk in our own ways.”

Mr. Kōno’s black head finally left the pillow at this moment. The air that had been damply compressed by glossy hair rebounded elastically, causing the pillow’s position to shift slightly on the tatami mat. Simultaneously, the camel-hair lap blanket slipped down, turning inside out and folding in half. From below, a flat-quilted narrow sash carelessly wrapped around the waist came into view.

“Indeed, you must be drunk,” said Mr. Munekata, who had been sitting formally at the bedside, promptly adding his critique. The other man extended the elbows that had lifted his thin frame in two stages and, while supporting his torso with his palms, was glaring around his own waist area— “I must indeed be drunk. And you’re sitting there all proper for once,” he said, fixing a piercing gaze on Mr. Munekata from between his long, single-lidded eyes.

“I’m perfectly sane like this, you know.” “Only your posture is sane.” “My mind’s sane too, you know.” “Sitting there in your dotera coat and kneeling formally—even though you’re drunk, acting like nothing’s wrong and feeling proud of it.” “That’s even more absurd.” “A drunkard ought to act like a drunkard.”

“In that case, I’ll beg your pardon,” said Mr. Munekata, promptly sitting cross-legged.

“You’re commendable for not clinging to folly. There’s nothing more absurd than those who fancy themselves wise despite their folly.” “The adage ‘to accept admonitions like flowing water’ was coined for me.” “Then you’ll manage even drunk.”

“What about you—spouting such impertinence?” “You’re precisely the sort who knows he’s drunk yet can’t sit cross-legged or kneel properly.”

“Well, you’re quite the aloof one,” Mr. Kōno laughed with lonely mirth. Mr. Munekata, who had arrived chattering animatedly, suddenly grew solemn. When Mr. Munekata saw this particular smile of Mr. Kōno’s, he had no choice but to turn grave. Among myriad faces and myriad expressions exist those that pierce straight to the viscera. Not because facial muscles contort in frenzy. Not because each strand of hair crackles with lightning. Not because tear ducts burst open in torrential display. Excessive vehemence resembles a hotblooded youth pointlessly dancing his sword across floorboards. It moves because it lacks depth. It was Hongō-za theater.

Mr. Kōno’s laughter was not the kind performed on stage. Through a tube as fine as a hair’s breadth, a wave of elusive emotion—welling up with difficulty from the heart’s depths—cast a fleeting shadow upon the mortal world. It differed from the expressions littering the streets. If one stuck their head out and recognized this as the mundane world, they would immediately retreat to the inner sanctum. Before retreating, whoever caught it would prevail. Those who failed to catch it would never truly know Mr. Kōno in their lifetime. Mr. Kōno’s smile was faint, soft, and rather detached. In its quietness, in its swiftness, in its vanishing—Mr. Kōno’s entire life lay plainly revealed. Those who grasped the significance of this moment with an “Ah, I see” were Mr. Kōno’s true intimates. To place Mr. Kōno at some boundary of clashing swords and declare “So this is the man!”—even parent and child would fall short of understanding. Even brothers remain strangers. A crude novel would first attempt to portray Mr. Kōno’s character by placing him at such violent crossroads. In the twentieth century, such slash-and-burn dramatics do not recklessly emerge.

A spring journey was tranquil. The inn in Kyoto was quiet. The two of them were safe. They were fooling around. In the meantime, Mr. Munekata came to know Mr. Kōno, and Mr. Kōno came to know Mr. Munekata. This is the world. “Standoffish one, are you?” said Mr. Munekata as he began fiddling with the tassel of the camel-hair lap blanket, but soon— “Are you going to remain a standoffish one forever?” Without looking at the other’s face—as if posing a question, as if soliloquizing, as if addressing the camel-hair lap blanket—he repeated “standoffish one.”

“Even a standoffish one has his resolve in order,” said Mr. Kōno, now for the first time half-rising and turning to face his companion. “If only Uncle were still alive.” “Well, if Grandfather were alive, it might only cause more trouble.” “Well, I suppose...” Mr. Munekata drew out the “naa” interjection. “Essentially, if I just give the house to Fujio, that settles everything.”

“So what will you do?” “I am the standoffish one.” “So you’re truly becoming the standoffish one?” “Yeah, whether I inherit the house or not, I’m still the standoffish one, so it doesn’t matter either way.”

“But that’s no good. First Aunt would be troubled.”

“Mother?”

Mr. Kōno looked at Mr. Munekata with a strange expression. To doubt is to be deceived even by oneself. Moreover, the audacity of others—at the crossroads of profit and loss, draped in loss’s dust-catcher—was not easily measured. When a close friend evaluated my mother thus, was he judging from within or merely voicing surface observations? One could not escape the sense that even within oneself lurked a demon of self-deception; though he was my closest friend, though bound by paternal ties, I found it hard to carelessly divulge secrets. Was Munekata’s remark a sickle to probe my heart regarding my stepmother? If he remained unchanged after seeing [my reaction], so be it—but were he the sort to wield such a sickle, no guarantee existed he wouldn’t overturn everything after extracting his desires. Could his words simply echo his guileless nature—blind to duplicity—wholeheartedly trusting Mother’s recited verses? Judging from his usual conduct, likely so. Surely he wouldn’t stoop to casting an inquisitive plumb-line into this clouded heart’s abyss—terrifying even to me—at Mother’s behest. Yet the more honest one is, the more others exploit them. Even knowing it base, though refusing to become her pawn, he might still—out of goodwill toward me—act on my misjudged mother’s wishes and prematurely force open an unpleasant outcome destined for our family. In any case, I would not broach what ought stay unspoken.

The two of them fell silent for a while. In the neighboring house, the koto was still being played.

“Is that koto from the Ikuta school?” Mr. Kōno asked an unexpected question.

“It’s gotten cold—I should put on a sleeveless fox-fur robe or something,” Mr. Munekata remarked unexpectedly. The two of them spoke at cross purposes.

Opening the front of his tanzen robe, Mr. Kōno took down that peculiar vest from the staggered shelf and angled his body to slip his arm through before asking. “Is that sleeveless robe handmade?” “Yeah, the leather came from a friend who went to China,” replied Mr. Munekata. “Miss Ito sewed on the outer fabric.” “Authentic craftsmanship.” “Fine work indeed.” “Miss Ito’s practical nature makes her valuable—unlike someone like Fujio.” “Hmph, I suppose.” “Though it’d complicate things if she married.” “Don’t you know any suitable matches?”

“Marriage prospects?” Mr. Munekata glanced briefly at Mr. Kōno before replying in an unenthusiastic tone, “There might be some...” and let his words trail off limply. Mr. Kōno shifted the topic.

“If Miss Ito gets married, Uncle will be troubled too, you know.”

“There’s no use worrying—it’ll trouble us sooner or later anyway.—More importantly, won’t you take a wife?” “Me?—But—I couldn’t provide for one.” “So if you’d just inherit the house as your mother says—” “That won’t do. No matter what my mother says, I can’t abide it.” “Strange, really. It’s because you’re so indecisive that Miss Fujio can’t marry either, I suppose.”

“It’s not that she *can’t* go—she *won’t* go.”

Mr. Munekata silently twitched his nose. “Don’t make me eat hagfish again.” “I’ve been eating nothing but hagfish every day—my stomach’s full of small bones.” “Kyoto is truly a foolish place.” “Let’s just go home already.” “It’s fine to go back.” “If it’s just hagfish, we don’t have to go back.” “But your sense of smell is remarkably sharp.” “Do you smell hagfish?” “I do!” “They’re busily grilling it in the kitchen, aren’t they?” “If he’d had even that much foresight, grandfather might not have had to die abroad.” “Grandfather seems to have had a dull sense of smell.”

“Ha ha ha ha. By the way—I wonder if your uncle’s effects have arrived yet.” “It must have arrived by now, I suppose. Saeki from the legation should be bringing them.—There’s probably nothing of note—maybe a few books.” “I wonder what happened to that pocket watch.”

“Ah, right. “The pocket watch he proudly bought in London? It should probably come. It’s the watch that became Fujio’s toy when she was a child. Once she got hold of it, she’d never let go. She was fond of the garnet attached to that chain.”

“When you think about it, it’s an old watch.”

“That’s right—Grandfather bought it when he first went abroad.” “Give me that as part of your uncle’s belongings.”

“I was thinking the same thing.” “When Uncle went abroad this time, he promised to give this to you as a graduation gift upon his return.” “I remember too—perhaps Fujio has taken it by now and is using it as a toy again…” “Is Miss Fujio truly inseparable from that watch?” “Ha ha ha ha! Never mind—I’ll take it regardless.”

Mr. Kōno silently gazed at the space between Mr. Munekata’s eyebrows for a long time. On the lunch tray, as Mr. Munekata had predicted, lay hagfish.

IV

A line in Mr. Kōno’s diary stated.

“Those who see color do not see form; those who see form do not see substance.” Mr. Ono was a man who lived by observing colors.

A line in Mr. Kōno’s diary also states. "The karmic cycle of life and death knows no end; the world of form and appearance reveals madness and folly."

Mr. Ono was a man who dwelled in the world of form and appearance.

Mr. Ono was born in a dark place. Some even said he was an illegitimate child. From the time he wore a straight-sleeved kimono to school, he was bullied by his friends. Wherever he went, dogs barked at him. His father died. Mr. Ono, who had faced hardships outside, lost his home to return to. He had no choice but to rely on others for support. The algae at the water’s bottom drifted in darkness, unaware of sunlit shores where white sails passed. Whether it swayed right or bent left, it was the waves that toyed with it. All it had to do was not resist each moment. Once accustomed, even the waves no longer concerned it. It had no time to ponder what the waves were. Why the waves harshly struck oneself was naturally not a question that arose. Even if it were to rise, there could be no improvement. It simply said that fate grew in dark places. It grew there. Fate said to move day in and day out. Therefore, it moved. ――Mr. Ono was algae at the water’s bottom.

In Kyoto, Mr. Ono was taken care of by Professor Kodō. He had a kasuri-patterned kimono made through Professor Kodō’s arrangements. He received a monthly allowance of twenty yen per year. He was occasionally given book lessons. He learned to wander through Gion’s cherry blossom lanes. Gazing up at the imperial plaque at Chion-in Temple, he understood its imposing height. He began eating full meals. The algae at the water’s bottom broke free from the soil and rose to the surface.

Tokyo was a place that dazzled the eyes. Those who maintained century-long lifespans in the Genroku era were shorter-lived than those who dwelled for three days in the Meiji era. Elsewhere, people walked on the soles of their feet. In Tokyo, they walked on tiptoes. They did handstands. They moved sideways. The impatient ones came flying. Mr. Ono whirled dizzily through Tokyo. After whirling dizzily, when he opened his eyes, the world had changed. Even when he rubbed his eyes, it had changed. To think something was strange was when it had changed for the worse. Mr. Ono proceeded without thinking. Friends said he was a genius. The professor was promising, they said. At the boarding house, they called out “Mr. Ono, Mr. Ono.” Mr. Ono proceeded without thinking. When he proceeded, he was granted a silver pocket watch by His Majesty. The surfaced algae sported white flowers upon the water. They did not notice they had no roots.

The world is a world of color. If one savors this color, one has savored the world. The colors of the world appear ever more vividly to the eye as one’s own success progresses. When one’s brilliance becomes so vivid it outshines brocade, a life worth living is called noble. Mr. Ono’s handkerchief sometimes carries the scent of heliotrope.

The world is a world of color; form is the remnant of color. One who debates remnants without grasping the deliciousness within is a man who fusses over square and round vessels, clueless how to handle the frothing sake foam. No matter how closely you examine it, a plate cannot be eaten. Sake untouched by lips goes flat. The formalist embraces a bottomless chalice of morality, huddled at the wayside.

The world was a world of color. They idly spoke of phantom blossoms and mirror flowers. The true aspect of Suchness was a delusion conjured by those deformed souls whom the world rejected, through which they vented their unaccepted resentments in the shadowed alleys of Kokutan Village. A blind man stroked a tripod. Precisely because one could not see color did the desire to investigate form arise. A blind man without hands did not even dare to stroke. To seek the essence of things beyond the senses was the act of a blind man without hands.

On Mr.Onō’s desk were arranged flowers. Outside the window swayed a willow bearing green. Upon a nose’s tip hung gold-rimmed spectacles.

To transcend the realm of the ornate and enter into plainness is the natural order. We were once called babies and dressed in red swaddling clothes. Most beings are born within painting, grow from the pale hues of the Shijō school to age in the ink monochromes of the Unkoku tradition, and finally grow intimate with the transience of coffins. When he looked back—a mother existed; a sister existed; sweets existed; carp streamers existed. The more he reflected, the more resplendent it became. Mr. Ono had a different quality. Reversing nature’s ordained path, tearing free from roots in dark soil, he drifted to bright shores where sunlit waves filtered through. Born at the bottom of a pit, it had taken twenty-seven years to draw closer, step by step, to that beautiful world. When he peered through the knothole of the past at his twenty-seven years of history, the farther back he looked, the darker it grew. Yet in that darkness swayed a faint red spot. When he had first come to Tokyo, he had longed for that red spot; undeterred by revisiting cold memories, he would often peer through the knothole of the past and live through long nights, endless days, or drizzly intervals with quiet fascination. Now—the red spot had receded quite far. Moreover, its color had faded considerably. Mr. Ono had grown negligent in peering through knotholes.

Those who had begun to close the knothole of the past were satisfied with the present. When the present grew gloomy, they fabricated the future. Mr. Ono’s present was a rose. It was a rosebud. Mr. Ono had no need to manufacture the future. Were the budding roses all allowed to bloom, that would naturally become his future. When he peered through the future’s knothole using his trusted lens, the roses had already bloomed. If he reached out his hand, it seemed he could grasp them. “Hurry and grasp them,” someone whispered by his ear. Mr. Ono resolved to write his doctoral thesis.

Is it that one becomes a doctor because the thesis is completed, or does the thesis come into being for the sake of becoming a doctor? One would have to ask a doctor to know, but in any case, the thesis had to be written. It could not be an ordinary thesis—it absolutely had to be a doctoral thesis. A doctor was the most splendid hue among scholars. Every time he peered through the tube of the future, the two characters for 'doctor' blazed in gold. Beside the doctor hung a gold pocket watch from the sky. Beneath the watch swayed a red garnet like a heart’s flame. Beside it extended Miss Fujio’s slender black-eyed arm in beckoning. Everything formed a beautiful painting. The poet’s ideal lay in becoming a figure within this painting.

Long ago there was a man called Tantalus. It was written that he suffered harsh trials as punishment for wrongdoing. His body stood submerged in water up to his shoulders. Above his head hung delicious-looking fruits in heavy clusters, their branches sagging under bountiful yield. Tantalus's throat was parched. When he tried to drink, the water receded. Tantalus grew hungry. When he attempted to eat the fruits, they retreated. When Tantalus's mouth moved one shaku forward, they too moved one shaku. If he advanced two shaku, they advanced two shaku. Whether three shaku or four—let alone a thousand leagues—no matter how far Tantalus journeyed, his hunger remained unrelieved and his thirst unquenched. He was likely still chasing water and fruit even now.—Every time Mr. Ono peered through the future's lens, he somehow felt like Tantalus's underling. That was not all. At times Miss Fujio would adopt a stiffly composed air. There were moments when she pressed down her long eyebrows to shorten them and glared fiercely. The garnet would flare suddenly, its flames engulfing a woman's figure as she vanished. The two characters for "doctor" sometimes faded and darkened while peeling away. The pocket watch occasionally fell from distant heavens like a meteorite and shattered. At such moments came a sharp snapping sound. Being a poet, Mr. Ono conjured various futures.

With his cheek propped on his hand at the desk, beyond the camellia flower that suddenly obscured the colored glass vase, Mr. Ono was, as usual, peering into his own future. Among the many possible futures, today’s visions were of even poorer quality.

“I want to give you this pocket watch, but…” the woman said. Mr. Ono reached out his hand as if to say, “Please give it to me.” The woman slapped his hand sharply with her palm and said, “I’m terribly sorry, but it’s already been promised.” “Then the pocket watch won’t fit—but when you ask… Me?” “I am, of course, attached to the pocket watch,” I said as I turned away and strode off briskly.

Mr. Ono had constructed his future up to this point, but startled by its excessive cruelty, he attempted to restart from the beginning. As he lifted his chin—now growing slightly sore—the shoji slid open smoothly, and the maid left behind a sealed letter saying, "This is for you."

When Mr. Ono saw the address—"Mr. Ono Seizō"—written in the Kōhō style, he suddenly tensed both elbows and jerked his body back from the desk he had been leaning against. The camellia tube peering into the future swayed, and a crimson petal fell soundlessly onto Rossetti’s poetry collection. The perfect future was already beginning to crumble.

Mr. Ono kept his left hand extended along the desk, his face tilted at an angle as he gazed at the sealed letter resting on his palm from a distance, yet he did not readily turn it over. Even without opening it, he could mostly guess its contents. It was precisely because he had guessed them that it felt difficult to open. If, upon opening it, things turned out as he surmised, that would indeed be beyond remedy. He had once asked a turtle about this: if it sticks out its head, it gets hit. Even though it knew it would be struck eventually, it would retreat into its shell if it could. Even at the brink of facing the fate of being struck, the neck of the moment wished to retract just for that moment. Mr. Ono was, one might think, a scholar-turtle evading the verdict of reality for the moment. The turtle would stick out its head sooner or later. Mr. Ono, too, would surely turn over the envelope before long.

After gazing at it for a while, his palm began to itch. Having indulged in a moment’s respite, he now wanted to flip it over to make that respite more certain. Mr. Ono resolutely placed the envelope upside down on the desk. From its back emerged four clear characters: Inoue Kodō. The cursive script—boldly inked without restraint on the white envelope—detached from the paper and leapt at Mr. Ono’s eyes like rows of needle points thrust into his vision. Mr. Ono withdrew both hands from the desk as if avoiding divine retribution. Only his face remained oriented toward the letter on the desk. Yet between desk and knees stretched a foot-wide chasm where their edges parted. The hands drawn back from the desk went limp, as though they might slip free from his shoulders at any moment.

Should he open it? Should he not? If someone were to come and tell him to open the letter, he would explain his reason for refusing and thereby reassure himself. Yet unless he could make others yield, he could never make himself yield. A half-hearted jujutsu practitioner could never prove himself a true master unless he first attempted to throw someone in the street. Weak arguments were akin to feeble jujutsu. Mr. Ono wished a friend from Kyoto would come visit him for a while.

The student lodger upstairs began playing the violin. Mr. Ono also intended to begin practicing the violin in the near future. Today, no such inclination arose at all. He found that student lodger carefree and enviable. Another camellia petal fell.

He opened the shoji while holding the flower vase and stepped out onto the veranda. He discarded the flower into the garden. He poured out the water as well. The flower vase remained in his hand. In truth, he had been about to discard the flower vase too while he was at it. He stood on the veranda still clutching the flower vase. There was a hinoki cypress. There was a wall. Across the way stood a two-story building. In the nearly dry garden hung a rain umbrella left to air. Two fallen petals clung to the black rim of its snake-eye pattern. There were various other things. Everything existed utterly without meaning. Everything felt mechanical.

Mr. Ono dragged his heavy feet back into the room. He stood before the desk without sitting down. A knothole in the past yawned open, revealing old history stretched thin and distant. Dark. A single point within that darkness flared up. It began moving toward him. Mr. Ono suddenly bent down, stretched out his hand, and tore open the seal. “Respected Sir, Though spring has arrived with willows thick and flowers bright, I rejoice at your continued good health. I too remain robust in constitution, and as Sayoko enjoys similar vigor, I humbly entreat you to set your mind at ease. Regarding my proposed relocation to Tokyo mentioned last December—though various circumstances impeded progress—all matters have now been settled favorably, compelling me to decisively execute this move in coming days. I respectfully request your acknowledgment of this arrangement. Having vacated that residence twenty years past, and with only brief stays during two subsequent capital visits, I find myself wholly estranged from hometown affairs; thus I anticipate my arrival shall unavoidably impose upon your graciousness.”

“The residence we have long inhabited has received an offer from the neighboring Tsuta-ya to take over the property, and though other consultations have arisen, we have settled upon this arrangement. As for luggage and other bulky items, we have sold them all here, and intend to relocate as lightly as possible. However, the single koto in Sayoko’s possession will be transported to Tokyo at her own request. I humbly beseech you to show compassion for the sentiments of a woman who finds it difficult to part with the past. "As you are aware, until Sayoko was summoned here five years ago, she had been receiving her schooling in Tokyo, and thus she earnestly hopes for our relocation to proceed swiftly. As I presume you are in general agreement regarding the matter of the same person’s future prospects, I shall refrain from further elaboration. I humbly beseech to have the honor of meeting you there and consult earnestly on these matters."

"At the Exhibition, I presume your esteemed locale must be exceedingly crowded. Though I intend to select the express night train for our departure if possible, given reports of extraordinary passenger numbers on said express, it may prove difficult to ascertain whether we might instead need to make one or two stops en route and proceed leisurely to the capital. The specific date and time shall be reported once finalized. First and foremost, I shall conclude this letter here with the aforementioned matters addressed in haste." Having finished reading, Mr. Ono remained standing before the desk. The unrolled letter dangled limply from his right hand, its edge bearing the words "Mr. Seizo... Kodō" lying in rippled folds across the blue cashmere desk cover. Mr. Ono let his gaze travel down from his hands along the half-torn edge to where the desk cover’s white-dyed pattern lay exposed. When his downward gaze reached its limit, he had no choice but to shift his eyes and gaze at Rossetti’s poetry collection. He gazed at the two crimson petals that had scattered on the cover of the poetry collection. Drawn by the crimson, he attempted to gaze at the colored glass vase that should have been in the right corner. The flower vase was nowhere to be found. The camellia he had placed there two days prior was nowhere to be seen. The vessel for peering into a beautiful future had vanished.

Mr. Ono sat down in front of the desk. A strange odor rose from the benefactor’s letter as he listlessly rolled it up. A kind of aged, musty odor rose. It was the smell of the past. It was a scent that tugged at the fraying threads of what he sought to forget, binding present and past along a slender edge where they threatened to snap, knotting them together before his very eyes. When he traced back through half a lifetime’s history to the frail tip of its long ear, the further he delved into the past, the more profound the darkness became. Since it was the present trunk sprouting buds, to deem it unnecessary to pierce through memory’s life—rather than proclaiming that the drill’s force found fortune in sharpening at the tips of dead branches whose veins no longer flowed—was all the more cruel. The god Janus, with his two faces, gazed both behind and ahead. The fortunate Mr. Ono possessed but a single face. Having turned his back to the past, all that filled his eyes was the radiant path ahead. If he turned around, the north wind would howl. Yesterday and today, having barely managed to cut through this cold place, from that cold place cold things came chasing after him. Until now, it had been enough to simply forget. If he could immerse himself within the warm and vivid unfolding of the future’s development and distance the past even a single step, that would have sufficed. The living past lay quietly inlaid among the dead past; though he fretted it might stir, he reassured himself it would likely hold still. Day after day, retreating step by step, he soothed his heart with the long-unfolding panorama of his reflections—where not a single point had shifted. However, having complacently assumed the past would remain as it always had, when he peered into the vessel of the past now—something stirred within. I am trying to cast off the past, yet the past draws near to me. It closes in. Surmounting the tranquil front and rear and the withered left and right, it swayed closer like a lantern flame illuminating the dark night—advancing. Mr. Ono began to pace around the room.

Nature does not exhaust itself. Before reaching its limit, something occurs. Monotony is the enemy of nature. Before Mr. Ono had completed even half a circuit of the room, the maid’s head appeared from the sliding door. “A guest for you, sir,” she said with a laugh. He couldn’t fathom why she was laughing. When she said “Good morning,” she laughed; when she said “Welcome home,” she laughed; when she said “Dinner is ready,” she laughed. Those who laugh indiscriminately at others are proof that they must have some demand to make of people. This maid was indeed seeking a certain reward from Mr. Ono.

Mr. Ono merely looked at the maid with an indifferent expression. The maid was disappointed. “Shall I show them in?”

Mr. Ono gave an indistinct reply: "Uh, yeah." The maid was disappointed once more. The maid laughed so freely because Mr. Ono possessed charm. A guest lacking charm was worth less than half a sen in the maid's estimation. Mr. Ono understood this psychology perfectly. That he had preserved the maid's goodwill until now stemmed entirely from this self-awareness. Mr. Ono was not one to casually relinquish even a maid's goodwill.

The same space cannot be simultaneously occupied by two things, as an ancient philosopher once said. For charm and anxiety to dwell together in Mr. Ono’s mind contradicted this philosopher’s principle. Charm withdrew, and anxiety crept in. The maid had arrived at an inopportune moment. Charm withdrew, and anxiety crept in. To deem charm superficial and anxiety essential was the mark of a pseudo-philosopher. When the landlord entered, charm reached a settlement and transferred the lease to anxiety. Even so, Mr. Ono had been caught by the maid at this awkward juncture.

“Shall I show them in?” “Uh, yeah.” “Shall I say you’re not at home?”

“Who is it?” “Mr. Asai.”

“Asai?” “Not at home?” “I suppose so.” “Shall I say you’re not at home?”

“What should I do, I wonder?”

“Either way.” “Maybe I should meet him.”

“Then I’ll show him in.” “Hey, wait a second. Hey.” “What is it?” “Ah, very well. Very well, very well.”

There are times when you want to meet friends and times when you don't. If this distinction becomes clear, there's no hardship at all. If unwelcome, you need only say you're not home. Mr. Ono was a man who had the courage to claim absence provided he didn't injure the other party's feelings. The true difficulty lay in those moments of simultaneous desire and reluctance - advancing and retreating until even the maid looked on with scorn.

There are times when one passes someone on a busy street. If both parties simply brush past each other, that suffices for them to return to being complete strangers once more. Yet sometimes both dodge to the same right or left. Realizing this won't do, they try stepping to the opposite side while adjusting their footing—just as the other party, thinking likewise, changes course toward the same opposite direction. When opposition met opposition in collision and they realized "This won't do!", attempting readjustment only brought mirrored movements at the exact same moment. The two would try readjusting only to lag behind, then lagging behind would prompt more readjustments, wavering this way and that like a grandfather clock's pendulum in endless hesitation. In the end, both parties nearly cursed each other as indecisive bastards. Mr. Ono—a man of good repute—came perilously close to being branded an indecisive bastard by the maid himself.

At that moment, Mr. Asai entered.

Mr. Asai was an old friend from his Kyoto days. Gripping his slightly askew brown hat with his right hand as if to crush it, he tossed it onto the tatami mats. “Nice weather,” he said, sitting cross-legged. Mr. Ono had forgotten about the weather. “It’s nice weather, isn’t it?” “Have you been to the exposition?” “No, I haven’t been yet.”

“Go see it—it’s a blast! When I went yesterday, I had some ice cream.” “Ice cream? Right, since it was quite hot yesterday.” “Next time I’m planning to go eat Russian cuisine. How about coming along?” “Today?” “Yeah, today’s fine.” “Today’s a bit…” “Aren’t you coming? If you study too much, you’ll get sick. You’re trying hard to get your PhD as soon as possible and marry some beautiful wife, aren’t you? Cheeky bastard!”

“Nah, it’s nothing like that... I can’t get any studying done, and it’s driving me mad.”

“It’s neurasthenia, isn’t it? You look pale.” “I see. I do feel rather unwell.” “I thought so. Miss Inoue’s worried—you should eat some Russian cuisine and get better.”

“Why?” “Why do you think Miss Inoue is coming to Tokyo?”

“I see.”

“What do you mean ‘I see’? Of course the notification must’ve come to you!”

“Did it come to your place?”

“Yeah, it did. Didn’t you get yours?” “Well, it did come, but...” “When did it come?” “Just a bit earlier.” “So you’re finally going to get married, aren’t you?” “There’s no such thing!” “You’re not going to? Why?” “Well, you see, there are rather complicated circumstances involved.” “What kind of circumstances?” “Well now, I’ll explain it properly when the time comes. “I’ve been greatly indebted to Professor Kodō, and I’m willing to do anything within my power for his sake, but...” “Marriage isn’t something you can just rush into on a whim.”

“But there’s a promise, isn’t there?” “Well… I’ve been meaning to tell you this for some time—I truly do sympathize with the Professor.” “Well, I should think so.” “I suppose I’ll discuss it properly once the Professor arrives.” “It’s problematic if he insists on deciding everything unilaterally like that.” “To what extent has he been deciding things on his own?”

“Judging from the letter, it seems he’s already decided everything on his own.” “That professor is rather stubbornly old-fashioned, isn’t he?”

“Once he decides something himself, he never wavers.” “He’s obstinate through and through.” “I imagine his household hasn’t been faring well lately either.” “What do you think?” “It likely won’t cause significant trouble.” “By the way—what’s the time? Let me see that watch of yours.” “Two sixteen.” “Two sixteen? So this is that famed imperial watch?” “Ah.”

“That was a slick move. “I should’ve gotten one too.” “Having something like this really changes how people treat you, huh?”

“There’s no such thing.” “No—there is. After all, His Majesty the Emperor himself guaranteed it, so it’s certain.”

“Are you going somewhere now?” “Yeah, the weather’s nice, so I’m going out to enjoy myself. How about coming along?” “I have some business to attend to—but I’ll walk out with you that far.”

After parting at the gate, Mr. Ono’s footsteps turned toward the Kōno residence.

V

The moment they passed through the mountain gate, verdure from an ancient world assailed their shoulders from both sides. Upon a path where irregular natural stones had been neatly arranged six feet wide - scattered yet evenly laid - only the footsteps of Mr. Kōno and Mr. Munekata fell.

From this side where they had not yet fully traversed the narrow, straight path, at the end where they peered into the distant beyond with eyes fixed on the stones—looking up, there stood the temple. Thick wooden shingles curved inward from both sides, converging like great wings along a single steep ridge, upon which a smaller roof extended its own diminutive wings to perch. It appeared to serve as ventilation or perhaps a skylight. Mr. Kōno and Mr. Munekata both looked up at this temple from its most picturesque side angle simultaneously.

“It’s clear,” Mr. Kōno said, pausing his cane. “That hall appears impossible to destroy easily, even though it’s wooden.” “It’s simply that the form is skillfully designed in such a manner.” “It might conform to what Aristotle called the formal cause.”

“That’s rather complicated. — I don’t care about Aristotle, but it’s strange how every temple around here gives off this peculiar atmosphere.” “It’s different from those cheap plank fences or gaudy lantern styles.” “Musō Kokushi built this.” “When I look up at that hall and feel this strangeness—it must mean I’m turning into Musō Kokushi.” “Ha ha ha ha.” “Though I suppose even Musō Kokushi could hold a conversation.” “It’s only when one becomes like Musō Kokushi or Daitō Kokushi that wandering such places holds value.” “What’s the use of mere sightseeing?”

“If Musō Kokushi had turned into a roof and lived until Meiji, that would’ve been splendid—far better than some shoddy statue.”

“Exactly, it’s clear at a glance.” “What?” “What do you mean ‘what’? It’s this temple grounds’ scenery.” “Not a single bend.” “It’s clear all the way through.” “It’s just like me.” “So that’s why I feel so good when I enter temples.”

“Ha ha ha, you might be right.” “So if you think about it, it’s that Musō Kokushi resembles me—not that I resemble Musō Kokushi.”

“Whatever, it’s fine.—Well, shall we rest a bit?” said Mr. Kōno, sitting down on the railing of the stone bridge spanning the lotus pond. At the base of the railing, a large three-tiered pine gazed out over the water through three inches of thickness. On the stones, patches of moss bloomed pale blue; beneath them, deeply embedded into a purple substance mingled with ash, the yellow stalks of withered lotuses swiftly pierced through last year’s frost into March. Mr. Munekata took out matches, took out a cigarette, and threw the extinguished match stub into the pond water with a hiss.

“Musō Kokushi would never have done such mischief,” said Mr. Kōno, carefully pressing the head of his cane against the tip of his chin with both hands. “That just makes him inferior to me.” “He should try imitating Munekata Kokushi a bit.”

“You’d be better off becoming a bandit than a Kokushi.” “Since a diplomat bandit would be rather odd, I’ll station myself honorably in Beijing instead.” “A diplomat specializing in the Orient, then?”

“The statesmanship of the Orient.” “Ha ha ha ha.” “Someone like me could never be suited for the West.” “What do you think? Or if I trained hard enough, could I reach even your Grandfather’s stature?” “If you were to die abroad like Grandfather did, that would spell calamity.”

“Oh, I’ll leave the rest to you—it’s fine.” “That’s quite a nuisance.” “It’s not like I’m dying for nothing—since it’s for the nation’s sake, you could at least do that much.”

“I can barely manage myself as it is.” “Fundamentally, you’re too self-willed.” “Do you even have a concept of Japan in that head of yours?” Until now, a cloud of jokes had veiled the seriousness. The veil of humor finally lifted at this moment, allowing the seriousness beneath to rise to the surface. “Have you ever considered Japan’s fate?” said Mr. Kōno, applying force to the tip of his cane as he leaned his body slightly backward. “Destiny is for God to consider.” “If humans work as humans should, that suffices.” “Look at the Russo-Japanese War.”

“You think just because a cold heals by chance, you’ll live a long life?”

“Are you saying Japan is short-lived?” pressed Mr. Munekata. “It wasn’t a war between Japan and Russia. It was a war between races.” “Of course.” “Look at America, look at India, look at Africa.” “That’s the same logic as saying since my uncle died abroad, I should die abroad too.” “Proof over theory—everyone dies anyway!” “Is dying the same as being killed?” “Most people are killed without even realizing it.” Having dismissed everything, Mr. Kōno tapped the stone bridge with the tip of his cane and shuddered as he hunched his shoulders. Mr. Munekata abruptly stood up.

"Look there." "See that hall?" "They say Monk Gōzan rebuilt its main structure through alms from just one bowl." "He died before fifty—maybe younger." "If you won't act decisively, you couldn't right an overturned chopstick." "Look past the main hall—there," countered Mr. Kōno from his perch on the railing, gesturing opposite.

Through the temple gate doors—which sliced the world into a cross-section as they swung open left and right with a whoosh—red figures passed, blue figures passed. Women passed. Children passed. As Sagano’s spring deepened, the people of Kyoto headed to Arashiyama in a vibrant, ceaseless stream. “That’s it,” said Mr. Kōno. They emerged once more into a world of color.

If you turn left at Tenryū-ji’s gate you reach Shaka-dō; turning right brings you to Togetsu-kyō Bridge. Kyoto possesses beauty even in its place names. The two men saw shops lining both sides—haphazardly displaying every manner of item touted as local specialties—and turned their travel-worn feet toward the station through seven-day-old journeying clothes. Every person they met belonged to Kyoto.

Trains departing from Nijo every half-hour, arranged so as not to leave the cherry blossom season wanting, now disgorged all their freshly arrived handsome men and beautiful women toward the blossoms of Arashiyama.

“How beautiful,” said Mr. Munekata, who had already forgotten the great affairs of the world. There was no place like Kyoto where women adorned themselves in such finery. Even the great affairs of the world could not rival the beauty of Kyoto women. “The people of Kyoto perform the Miyako Odori morning and evening—they lead such carefree lives.” “That’s exactly why I say it’s typical of Ono.” “But the Miyako Odori is quite splendid.”

“Not bad at all. It’s got a certain vibrancy to it.” “No. When I look at that, there’s scarcely any sense of them as the opposite sex. When women adorn themselves to that degree, the excess decoration diminishes their human element.” “Exactly—the ultimate realization of that ideal would be Kyoto dolls. Dolls, being mere mechanisms, lack any disagreeable traits.” “Those who wear light makeup and remain active possess the greatest human element—and are consequently the most dangerous.” “Hahaha! Any philosopher would indeed be dangerous. Yet when it comes to the Miyako Odori, even diplomats encounter no peril. Perfectly agreed. We’ve done well to visit such a harmless place together.”

"When the first principle activates within the human element, it's ideal—but usually it's something like the tenth principle that runs rampant, which makes one utterly sick of it all." "I wonder what-numbered principle we fall under?" "When it comes to us—even as superior specimens of humanity—we don't descend below the second or third principle." "So this is what passes for superior?" "Even if our words lack substance, there's an intriguing quality to them." "How generous of you." "If we're talking about the first principle, what sort of action would that entail?" "The first principle..." "The first principle doesn't emerge without bloodshed."

“Now that’s dangerous.” “When frivolous notions are washed away with blood, the first principle emerges vividly. That’s how frivolous humans are.”

“Your own blood or someone else’s?”

Instead of replying, Mr. Kōno began examining the matcha tea bowls displayed at the stall. Whether they were handcrafted from kneaded clay or arranged across three-tiered shelves, all of them looked utterly unremarkable.

“No amount of blood could cleanse such obtuse things,” Mr. Munekata pressed on. “This is…” As Mr. Kōno lifted a tea bowl to examine it, Mr. Munekata—without warning—seized his sleeve and wrenched it violently. The tea bowl smashed across the earthen floor.

“This is it,” said Mr. Kōno, gazing at the broken fragments on the earthen floor. “Hey, did it break? Who cares if it broke? Look over here. Quickly.” Mr. Kōno stepped over the threshold of the earthen floor. “What?” When he turned toward Tenryu-ji Temple, all that met his gaze were the retreating figures of those Kyoto dolls filing past. “What?” Mr. Kōno asked again. “She’s already left.” “What a waste.” “What has gone?” “That woman, you see—”

“That woman—” “The one next door.” “Next door’s?” “The owner of that koto. The girl you were so eager to see. I meant to show her to you properly, but you had to go meddling with that worthless tea bowl instead.” “That was ill-advised. Which one?” “Which one? She’s vanished by now.” “A pity about the girl, but this tea bowl’s been thoroughly wrecked. The blame rests with you.” “Good riddance. No amount of scrubbing would salvage such a bowl. A nuisance that demands smashing to be rid of. Truth be told, nothing irks me more than tea masters’ tools—all perversely crafted. I’ve half a mind to gather every last tea vessel in the land and shatter the lot. Since we’re at it, why not break another bowl or two on our way?”

“Hmm… About how much sen does one cost, I wonder?”

The two paid for the tea bowl and came to the station.

The Kyoto train that sees off revelers with flowers turns back from Saga to Nijo. The one continuing onward pierces through mountains into Tamba. The two purchased tickets for Tamba and alighted at Kameoka. The Hozu River's rapids descend from this station by immutable law. Waters fated to rush downward still flowed gently before them, taking on a jade-like luster. Banks stretched wide where horsetails grew - plucked by village children. Boatmen drew their craft to the shallows and waited for passengers.

“What a peculiar boat,” said Mr. Munekata. The bottom was a single flat plank, and the gunwale never rose more than a shaku above the water. Rolling the tobacco tray onto a red blanket, the two took their seats at a suitable distance from each other.

“If you move to the left, you’ll be safe—the waves won’t reach you,” said the boatman. There were four boatmen. The first held a twelve-foot bamboo pole; the next two had oars on the right side; the one standing on the left also carried a pole. The oars creaked with a grating sound. The roughly hewn neck of an oak, flattened and wound with thick wisteria vines—its remaining one shaku rounded off—formed a grip that clung fiercely to both hands. The knuckles of gripping hands rose prominent and jet-black, appearing like pine twigs with veins standing taut from the pulsing force of mighty strokes. The oar, its neck gripped by wisteria vines—as if bending with each stroke yet keeping its strong shaft rigidly upright—rubbed against both vines and gunwale. The oar creaked gratingly with each stroke.

The shore undulated two or three times, driving the soundless water ceaselessly forward without pause. The layered waters formed ripples as they flowed; above their heads, spring mountains encircled Yamashiro like a folding screen, towering high. The constrained water had no choice but to pass between mountain and mountain. No sooner had the sunlight on their hats lost its gleam than the boat slipped into the mountain gorge. The Hozu Rapids lay ahead.

“Here it comes at last,” said Mr. Munekata, peering past the boatman’s frame at the narrowing gap between rocks some fifty meters ahead. The water roared.

“Ah,” said Mr. Kōno as he leaned out from the gunwale—at that moment, the boat slid into the rapids. The two on the right suddenly loosened their hands that had been cutting through the waves. The oar was swept along and struck the gunwale. The one standing at the bow kept his pole held horizontally. The boat tilted and plunged like an arrow, thudding in rapid beats that reverberated through buttocks braced against the hull. By the time they realized it wouldn’t break apart, they had already shot through the rushing rapids. When Mr. Kōno looked back where Mr. Munekata pointed, stretches of white foam churned across a hundred meters—cascades clashing and tumbling over each other to seize the faint sunlight filtering through the valley, transforming it into countless beads they wrestled to claim.

“Magnificent!” said Mr. Munekata, thoroughly satisfied. “Which do you prefer—Musō Kokushi or this?” “This appears mightier than Musō Kokushi.”

The boatmen were utterly indifferent. Unperturbed by boulders clutching pines that seemed poised to fall yet held firm, they plied their oars forward and maneuvered their poles away. The rapids they passed through twisted and turned in endless variation. With each turn, a fresh mountain leaped out before them. The swift current, allowing travelers no leisure to count rocky mountains, pine-covered mountains, or mixed-wood mountains, drove the boat onward to leap into yet another rushing rapid. It was a large, round rock. Avoiding the hassle of moss accumulation, its purple bare body battered by scattering spray—chilled from the waist down by spring’s cold amidst crumbling greenery—there it waited for the boat to come. The boat deemed arrows and shields insignificant. With single-minded focus, it charged headlong toward this large rock. The swirling, receding water—beyond where it was split by the rock—remained invisible. How many tiers deep was the riverbed, carved and cascading down the slope? From where the passengers sat, it was the unfathomable destination of the waves. Would it crash against the rocks and shatter, or be swept away and plummet into unseen depths—the boat simply pressed straight ahead.

“We’re gonna hit!” Mr. Munekata had just risen from his seat when the massive purple rock loomed overhead, bearing down on the boatman’s black head. The boatman gave a forceful “Hnnh!” as he put his full strength into the bow. The boat, with enough force to shatter itself, dove into the thick belly of a wave-swallowing rock. The laid-down pole was taken up again, and as both hands rose above their shoulders, the boat swung around with a groan. From the tip of the pole that thrust away this beastly rock, the boat slid diagonally along the rock’s base without leaving an inch to spare and plunged forward. “No matter what, this is superior to Musō Kokushi,” said Mr. Munekata as they descended.

After finishing the descent through the rapids, an empty boat came up from the opposite direction. If they didn’t use poles, oars were naturally out of the question. Retracting their fists that had been desperately braced against rocky edges, they slung thin towropes—faintly striped where they slanted from shoulders—and hauled the boat back along the valley’s length to their utmost limit. They leaped from stone to stone, crawled over rocks along a shore that offered not an inch of space beyond the rushing water, bending forward until their straw sandals wore through. Their limp, hanging hands were constrained, barely able to dip fingertips into the pouring vortex. With generations’ Herculean strength bracing against it, the rock naturally wore away, forming terraces that securely cradled their hauling feet. Laying long bamboo here and there across the rocks was a strategy to swiftly guide the towrope without opposing its own force.

“It’s calmed down a bit now,” said Mr. Kōno, casting his eyes over both banks. Far above the sheer cliff of a mountain where no foothold could be seen, the sound of hatchets clanged rhythmically. A black shadow moved high in the sky. “Just like monkeys,” said Mr. Munekata, thrusting out his Adam’s apple as he gazed up at the peak.

“Once you get used to it, you can do anything,” he said, shading his eyes with his hand as he looked up. “Working like that all day must bring in a decent amount.” “I wonder if it’s really enough...”

“Shall we ask them down below?”

“This current is far too swift.” “It leaves no room at all.” “It races unceasingly.” “If there aren’t spots like this here and there, it just won’t do, will it?” “I wanted to steer even harder!” “Somehow, when we struck the rock’s belly and turned earlier—that was truly exhilarating.” “If only I could have borrowed the boatman’s pole—I wanted to steer the boat myself!” “If you’d been steering, by now we’d all have achieved enlightenment together.”

“Nah, it’s exhilarating!” “Isn’t this more thrilling than watching Kyoto dolls?” “Nature, you see, all operates by first principles.” “So nature is humanity’s model, huh?” “Nonsense! Humanity is nature’s model.” “Then you’re still in the Kyoto dolls faction after all, huh?” “Kyoto dolls are fine.” “That is close to nature.” “In a sense, they embody the first principle.” “The problem is…” “What’s the problem?” “That’s usually a problem,” Mr. Kōno dismissed curtly. “On such a troublesome day’s eve, there’s no managing it.” “Then the model would disappear, you see.”

“You find shooting rapids exhilarating because there exists a model to follow.” “Me?” “Precisely.” “Then I’m a man of first principles?” “While descending rapids, you dwell within first principles.” “So we revert to mere mortals once ashore? Oh ho!” “Because man translates nature before nature translates man, the model ultimately resides in humanity itself. The thrill of rapids stems from your inner vigor activating through first principles and transferring to nature. That constitutes both the translation and interpretation of first principles.”

“When people understand each other profoundly, it must be because first principles are active within both.” “That must generally hold true.” “Do you ever experience such mutual understanding?” Mr. Kōno fell silent and fixed his gaze on the boat’s bottom. “Those who speak do not know”—thus Laozi had expounded in antiquity. “Hahaha! So I’ve bared my soul to the Hozu River!” “Exhilarating! Exhilarating!” Mr. Munekata clapped his hands again and again. The current coiled around turbulent rocks to either side—embracing them only to split apart—as waves tinged translucent azure traced curves like young bracken fronds and eased over jagged promontories. The river had at last neared Kyoto.

“Once we round that promontory, it’ll be Arashiyama,” said the boatman, thrusting his long pole inside the gunwale. Propelled by the resounding oar, they glided out of the deep pool, whereupon the rocks on either side parted of their own accord, and the boat arrived beneath Daibikaku.

The two men clambered up through pines and cherry blossoms teeming with Kyoto dolls. Slipping beneath sleeves that flowed like theater curtains and emerging through the pines onto Togetsukyo Bridge, Mr. Munekata gave Mr. Kōno’s sleeve another firm tug.

At the reed-screen tea house by the bridge’s approach—where red pines two arm spans in girth stood guard against the Ōi River’s waves while showcasing blossoms’ bright shadows—a woman with a high chignon sat resting.Her oval face, framed by an antiquated chignon as if momentarily permitted in this modern age, could not withstand the wind blowing through the blossoms; she averted her gaze from passersby and fixed it upon the famous dumplings.The lightly dyed rinzu silk haori, neatly arranged across her knees, hid the colors of layered garments beneath.Yet from her collar flared some patterned half-collar lining that immediately caught Mr. Kōno’s eye.

“That’s her.” “That’s her?” “That’s the woman who was playing the koto.” “That black haori must be her father.” “I see.” “That’s not a Kyoto doll.” “It’s from Tokyo.” “Why?” “The inn’s maid said so.” A few drunkards, adorning their drunkenness with gourds, swung their arms and pushed from behind amid the world’s raucous laughter. Mr. Kōno and Mr. Munekata let the people twisting their bodies sideways pass through. The world of color was now in full bloom.

Six

Her round face held a hint of sorrow; from within the crisply draped collar，a pale warbler-colored orchid emitted an ethereal fragrance that spilled over the wearer’s chest． Itoko was this kind of woman． When indicating something to others，one uses a finger． When four were folded into the palm and the remaining second finger was extended to its fullest to indicate “that one，”the pointing hand became singularly clear and unambiguous． If one were to extend all five fingers to point at something，even if east and west were struck，the perceived accuracy of striking them would dull． Itoko was a woman like five aligned fingers． The impression one received could not be called mistaken． However，it was strange． To say something was lacking referred to when the pointing finger was too short． To be excessive would be when the pointing finger missed its mark due to being too long． Itoko was a woman like five fingers aligned simultaneously． It could not be called sufficient． Nor could it be deemed excessive．

When a finger pointing at someone becomes slender and sheds flesh at its tip, the distinct sensation gradually gathers at the fingertip to form a burning point. Fujio’s fingers emerge from their vermilion-lacquered tips only to sharpen into sewing-needle points. The viewer's eyes hurt all at once. Those who fail to grasp the essence do not cross the bridge. Those who grasp the essence too well cross the railing. Those who cross railings risk falling into the water.

Fujio and Itoko were waging a war between five fingers and needle tips in the six-tatami mat room. All conversation was war. Women’s conversation was the most warlike. “It’s been so long since we last met. How kind of you to come,” Fujio said in her role as hostess. “With Father being so busy all by himself, I’ve ended up neglecting to visit…” “Aren’t you going to the exhibition either?”

“No, not yet.” “What about Mukōjima?” “I still haven’t gone anywhere.” Fujio thought she could remain so content staying always at home—each time Itoko answered, the shadow of a smile lingered at the corners of her eyes. “Do you have so many pressing matters?” “It’s nothing important, really…” Itoko’s answers usually trailed off halfway. “You really should get out some; it’s bad for you if you don’t. Spring comes only once a year, you know.” “Yes. I think so too, but…”

“Though it comes once a year, if you die, this will be your last spring, won’t it?” “Ho ho ho ho, dying would be so dull, wouldn’t it?” Their conversation, pierced through by the word “death,” split apart to left and right. Ueno is the road to Asakusa. At the same time, it is the road to Nihonbashi. Fujio tried to lead her counterpart to the far side of the grave. The counterpart did not even know there was a far side to the grave.

"If my brother were to take a wife someday, I would start going out," said Itoko. Domestic women give domestic answers. There is nothing as pitiful as a woman resolved to being born solely to serve men's needs. Fujio inwardly snorted. These eyes, this sleeve, this poetry and song—they are not pots or charcoal scoops. They move through a beautiful world; they are a beautiful shadow. When labeled with the two characters for 'practical use,' women—beautiful women—lose their true selves and suffer the ultimate insult.

“And when do you plan to take a wife, Mr. Munekata?” she pressed, the conversation gliding forward on mere words.

Itoko raised her face and looked at Fujio before replying. The war was gradually beginning.

“I suppose he would take a wife whenever someone comes forward.” This time, Fujio glared sharply at Itoko before replying. The needle, poised to strike from the opposite direction, yet remained hidden deep within her eyes. “Ho ho ho ho, he could secure himself a splendid wife in no time at all.” “If that were truly so, it would be well,” said Itoko, her response laced with veiled implication. Fujio found it necessary to retreat momentarily.

“Don’t you have anyone in mind for Mr. Munekata?” “If Mr. Munekata decides to take a wife, I’ll search in earnest for one.”

It remained unclear whether the birdlime pole had reached its mark, but the bird had undoubtedly flown free. Yet she needed to advance another step and observe. "Yes, please do search for one - considering me as your sister."

Itoko had slightly overstepped at a critical point. Twentieth-century conversation was a skillful kind of art. If you did not advance, you could not grasp the gist. If someone overstepped, they were struck down. “You’re the one who’s the sister,” retorted Fujio, snapping the search line they had cast out and flinging it back inverted. Itoko still did not realize. “Why?” she tilted her head. When an arrow loosed failed to strike true, the fault lay with the archer’s poor aim. To feign ignorance when struck was a mark of ineptitude. Women found ineptitude more galling than mere clumsiness. Fujio bit her lower lip slightly. Having pushed this far, to stop now was something Fujio—who knew only victory—could not do.

“You don’t want to become my sister,” she said with an innocent face. “Oh!” A look of self-forgetting intensity appeared on Itoko’s cheeks. The enemy sneered inwardly—See that!—and withdrew.

The maxim established through consultation between Mr. Kōno and Mr. Munekata states: —Those who do not act upon the first principle cannot have their innermost selves reflected in each other. The two sisters were waging war along the outer edges of their innermost selves. Was it a war to draw them into those innermost depths, or a war to expel them from those depths? The philosopher declared that twentieth-century conversation was a war that clouded innermost selves.

Just then, Mr. Ono arrived. Mr. Ono was pursued by the past and circled round and round within his boarding house room. When no matter how many times he circled he could find no escape, he met with a friend from his past and attempted to mediate between the past and the present. The mediation seemed both successful and unsuccessful, leaving him still in a state of unease. He steeled his resolve but naturally lacked the courage to confront what pursued him. Mr. Ono, having no choice, came rushing toward the future. There was a proverb about hiding in the sleeves of an imperial dragon robe. Mr. Ono tried to hide in the sleeve of the future.

Mr. Ono came staggering in. It is regrettable that the meaning of "staggering and reeling" defies easy explanation.

“What’s the matter?” Fujio asked. Mr. Ono had yet to commission the ceremonial robe of composure meant to drape over his worries. The aforementioned philosopher had once stated that all people of the twentieth century should prepare two or three of these ceremonial robes each.

“Your complexion looks terribly pale,” said Itoko. It was pitiful how the future one relied upon turned its spear against itself and tried to dig up the past.

“I haven’t been able to sleep for two or three days.” “I see,” said Fujio. “What’s the matter?” asked Itoko. “You’ve been writing your thesis lately—that’s the reason, isn’t it?” said Fujio, her words blending answer and inquiry. “Yes,” replied Mr. Ono, seizing the lifeline she had thrown. If told to board any boat at all, Mr. Ono cannot help but comply. Most lies are boats at a ferry landing. Because there is one, he boards it.

“I see,” Itoko replied lightly. No matter what thesis one might write, domestic women had nothing to do with it. Domestic women were concerned only with pallid complexions. “You must be so busy even after graduating.” “Since you received the silver watch upon graduating, now through your thesis you’ll obtain the gold watch, you know.” “How nice.” “Right? Isn’t that so? “Right? Isn’t that so? Hey, Mr. Ono.” Mr. Ono smiled.

“Then you won’t be joining my brother and Mr.Kīgo here on their trip to Kyoto.—My brother is so carefree.” “I think it’d do you good if you lost some sleep over it.” “Hohohoho! Even so, you’re better than my own brother.” “You have no idea how much better Mr.Kīgo truly is,” Fujio retorted half-unconsciously before catching herself and crumpling her habutai handkerchief into a ball on her lap. “Hohohoho.”

From between moving lips flashed momentary glimpses of gold lines adorning the corners of front teeth. The enemy had fallen perfectly into my trap. Fujio raised her second cry of triumph.

“Have you still not received any correspondence from Kyoto?” Mr. Ono pressed this time. “No.” “But surely at least a postcard should have arrived by now.”

“But didn’t she say they’re loose cannons?” “Who did?” “Look, Mother said that the other day—didn’t she? Both of them are loose cannons—Miss Itoko, especially Munekata’s a tremendous loose cannon.” “Who said that?” “Your mother?” “They’re loose cannons through and through. That’s why we must marry them off quickly—who knows where they’ll go flying otherwise.” “You should hurry up and find brides for them.” “Don’t you agree, Mr. Ono?” “Why don’t we find them suitable matches together?”

Fujio looked meaningfully at Mr. Ono. Mr. Ono’s eyes and Fujio’s eyes met and quivered intensely. “Yes, let’s find a good match for one of them,” said Mr. Ono, taking out his handkerchief and lightly stroking his thin mustache. A faint fragrance wafted through the air. They say strong perfume is vulgar. “You must have quite a few acquaintances in Kyoto.” “You should have Mr.Ichi take care of the Kyoto side.” “I hear Kyoto has many beauties, doesn’t it?” Mr. Ono’s handkerchief momentarily lost its vigor.

“Actually, they aren’t beautiful at all.—You’ll understand if you ask Mr. Kōno when he returns.” “Would my brother really say such a thing?” “Then ask Mr. Munekata.” “Brother has told me there are a great many beauties.” “Has Mr. Munekata been to Kyoto before?” “No, this is his first time going there, but he sent a letter.” “Oh, then he’s not a loose cannon after all. The letter came?” “Oh, just a postcard. He sent a Miyako Odori postcard, and right there on the edge it says all the women of Kyoto are beautiful, you know.”

“Right. Are they that beautiful?” “There’s just row upon row of pale faces—I can’t make head nor tail of them. They might look fine at first glance, but...” “Even when you look properly, there’s nothing but pale faces lined up. They may be beautiful in form, but lacking any expression makes them rather dull.” “And there’s more written there.” “How uncharacteristically diligent of him. What does it say?”

“The neighbor’s koto is better than yours,” she said. “Heh heh heh... Mr. Ichi hardly seems qualified to critique the koto.” “You were taking a dig at me, weren’t you.” “Because my koto playing is poor.”

“Ha ha ha ha! Mr. Munekata does quite the nasty things, doesn’t he.” “Moreover—it says there’s a belle even more beautiful than you.” “How hateful!” “Mr.Ichi is always so blunt.” “Even someone like me can’t hold a candle to Mr.Ichi.” “But he did praise you.” “Oh, what did he—” “A belle more beautiful than you—but inferior to Miss Fujio.” “Oh, how cruel!” Fujio’s eyes glittered with a blend of triumph and scorn as she gracefully drew her head back. Amidst what appeared as waves akin to a mane, only the violet of the jewel beetle shell emitted a starlike, delicate radiance.

Mr. Ono's eyes and Fujio's eyes met again at that moment. The meaning was lost on Itoko.

“Mr. Ono, is there an inn called Tsuya in Sanjo?”

The person who had lost themselves in bottomless black eyes and been utterly absorbed into a clinging future plummeted into the past with a thud at the sudden flip of a door panel. To flee the pursuing past was to find oneself amidst smoke-shadows from sleeve censers that billowed cloud-purple hues—there being no moment to discern these ephemeral pleasures as such—until in that wordless collision where eyes locked with eyes, unnamed dreams shattered awake, and backward through time I was cast once more. There are snakes in the grass; they do not permit one to tread carelessly upon the green.

“Is something the matter with Tsuya?” Fujio turned to Itoko. “Well, you see, Mr. Kōno and my brother are staying at that Tsuya inn, they say.” “So I wondered what sort of place it might be and thought to ask Mr. Ono.” “Mr. Ono, do you know?” “Sanjo?” “Tsuya in Sanjo.” “Well… I do seem to recall there being one...” “In that case, it’s not such a famous inn, then,” said Itoko innocently, looking at Mr. Ono.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Ono plaintively. Now it was Fujio’s turn. “What does it matter if it isn’t famous? In the back room, a koto can be heard—though with my brother and Ichi-san, it’s no good. Mr. Ono would surely love it. On a quiet day with spring rain softly falling, lying back at ease listening to a beauty in the neighboring house play the koto—isn’t that poetic and lovely?”

Mr. Ono remained uncharacteristically silent. He kept his eyes averted from Fujio, staring vacantly at the kerria blossoms scattered across the floor.

“That sounds nice,” Itoko answered in her stead. Those who did not know poetry had no right to intrude into matters of taste. If one could be satisfied with seeking approval as tepid as “That sounds nice” from a domestic-minded woman, then from the very start she should never have mentioned the spring rain, the back room, or the sound of the koto. Fujio was dissatisfied. “If you imagine it, you could create an interesting painting. What sort of place should it be?” A domestic-minded woman found it utterly baffling why such a question would arise. There was nothing for it but to remain silent, deeming the matter unnecessary. Mr. Ono had no choice but to open his mouth.

“What kind of place do you think would be good?” “Me?” “For me, well… A back second floor would be nice—with a surrounding veranda where you can glimpse the Kamo River—and even if you can see the Kamo River from Sanjo, that’s fine, don’t you think?”

“Yes, depending on where you are, you can see it.” “Are there willow trees along the banks of the Kamo River?” “Yes, there are.” “Those willow trees appear to mist in the distance.” “Above them rises the Eastern Hills—the Eastern Hills, you know, that beautiful round mountain—and that mountain, like a blue attendant, stands densely veiled in mist.” “And then in the mist—a faint five-story pagoda—what is that tower called?”

“Which tower do you mean?” “The one visible at the right edge of the Eastern Hills—can’t you see it there?”

“I can’t quite recall.” Mr. Ono tilted his head.

“There is one—there must be,” said Fujio. “But the koto is next door, you know,” Itoko interjected.

The poetess's fantasy was shattered by this single phrase. Domestic women might as well have been born to shatter beautiful worlds. Fujio slightly furrowed her brows.

"How terribly urgent of you!" "Not at all—I'm finding it quite fascinating." "And then what becomes of that five-story pagoda?"

The five-story pagoda had no business being involved. There were some people who took sashimi back to the kitchen after merely looking at it. Those who fussed over the five-story pagoda were practical-minded people educated to find sashimi unbearable unless consumed. “Then let’s forget about the five-story pagoda.” “It’s interesting, you know.” “The five-story pagoda is interesting.” “Don’t you think so, Mr. Ono?” When someone’s mood turned sour, society invariably used others to make amends. A queen’s wrath could not be appeased with offerings of pots, kettles, and miso strainers. The utterly useless five-story pagoda had to be enshrined amidst the haze like a festering boil.

“The five-story pagoda ends there. “What on earth is a five-story pagoda supposed to do?”

Fujio’s eyebrow twitched slightly. Itoko felt like crying.

“Did I offend you—it was my fault.” “The five-story pagoda is truly interesting.” “I’m not just saying that to flatter you.” The more you stroke a hedgehog, the more it raises its quills. Mr. Ono had to do something before it burst. If he were to bring up the five-story pagoda again, she would only grow angrier. The sound of the koto was something I had to avoid. Mr. Ono considered how he should go about mediating. It would be convenient for me if the conversation moved away from Kyoto, but if I were to carelessly divert it without any connection, I would invite contempt just like Miss Itoko. I had to follow along with their topic while steering its development in a way that spared me any discomfort. The silver pocket watch approach seemed a tad too cumbersome.

“Mr. Ono, you understand, don’t you?” Fujio interjected abruptly. Itoko was dismissed as an obtuse nuisance. The reason he mediated between the two women was that he found it unpleasant to witness an unseemly exchange of words before his eyes. If one deemed the opponent sparking clashing flames against brows as delicate as brocade unworthy of engagement, there was no need to intervene. The kindness of including a dismissed person in one’s company was limited to when the dismissed person themselves persistently bothered one. As long as she remained quiet, whether she was dismissed or scorned held no immediate bearing on his own interests. Mr. Ono no longer needed to keep Itoko in mind. As long as he matched the tone of even Fujio—who had interjected—there would be no mistake.

“Of course I understand.” “—The essence of poetry stands firmer than fact.” “Yet there remain many in this world who cannot grasp such matters,” he said. Mr. Ono harbored no contempt for Itoko—he had merely weighted Fujio’s favor more heavily in the balance. This answer nevertheless held truth within it. A truth that fell cruelly upon the vulnerable. For poetry’s sake and love’s claim, Mr. Ono dared make such sacrifices. Morality casts no light upon the brow of weakness; Itoko sat adrift in unease. Fujio’s breast at last found respite from its constriction.

“Well then, shall I try telling you the rest?”

To curse another was to dig two graves. Mr. Ono had no choice but to answer “Yes.” “Yes.” “From the second floor, you could see about three stepping stones laid diagonally below, beyond which stood a well frame. The Koime cherry blossoms bloomed so thickly they brushed against each other, and if you touched the well bucket, petals would flutter down—almost spilling into the well...” Itoko listened silently. Mr. Ono also listened silently. The cherry blossom-hazed sky gradually scraped downward. Heavy clouds layered upon each other, pressing down on Yayoi with a leaden gloom. Daytime darkened steadily. Five shaku away from the shutter compartment, at the edge of the sleeve fence, obi magnolia flowers stood with their mysterious hues blending together. When peering through the trees, one could intermittently catch glimpses of two or three thin strands of rain. No sooner had they appeared diagonally with a whoosh than they vanished. One could not perceive them as falling from the sky, nor could one even conceive of them alighting upon the earth. The thread’s life spanned merely a little over a shaku.

The surroundings shifted the mood. Fujio’s imagination deepened along with the darkening sky.

“There was an instance when you viewed the Koime cherry blossoms from the second-floor railing,” she said. “No, there hasn’t.”

“On a rainy day— Oh, it seems to be raining a little now,” she said and looked toward the garden. The sky grew even darker. “And then—behind the Koime cherry blossoms is Kennin-ji Temple’s fence, and beyond the fence, you can hear the sound of a koto.” The koto finally made its appearance. Itoko understood. Mr.Ono realized what this meant.

“From the second-floor railing—if you look down—you can see the neighboring house’s garden in full view. Shall I go ahead and describe its layout too?” “Hohoho!” Fujio laughed loudly. A cold thread glinted as it grazed the kobushi magnolia blossoms.

“Hohoho! How unpleasant—it’s grown so dark all of a sudden.” “The blossom-hazed sky seems about to materialize.” The dark clouds that had drawn so near were gradually transforming into slender threads. Swish—one passed through the grove; immediately another came chasing after. As one watched, several threads glided swiftly through together. The rain finally grew heavier.

“Oh my—it looks like it’s going to start pouring in earnest.”

“I must excuse myself—it’s starting to rain.” “Forgive me for interrupting your conversation,” “It was most interesting.”

Itoko stood up. The conversation crumbled with the spring rain.

Seven

The moment a match was struck, its flame vanished into the dark. When the layers of colored brocade were fully unfurled, they formed a border of unadorned plainness. The spring excursion ran its course with the two young men.

Those who donned fox-sleeved robes and traversed the world ascended the return journey alongside those who clutched diaries to their breasts and bore a century’s worth of sorrows.

Enveloping the ancient temples, shrines, sacred groves, and Buddhist hills, Kyoto’s day—uncomprehending of haste—finally drew to a close. It was a weary evening. Above all vanishing things, only stars remained, yet even they did not shine distinctly. Faintly twinkling, they sought to dissolve murkily into the languid sky.

The past stirs from these slumbering depths.

In a single life, there are a hundred worlds. At times one entered the world of earth; at times one moved into the world of wind. At times one was drenched in a fishy rain within the world of blood. One sphere condensed an individual’s world into the palm-sized space of the heart; another blended purity and corruption. Layered and interconnected, they vividly manifested a thousand distinct real worlds for a thousand people. Each world, positioning its own center at the intersection of cause and effect, carved a circumference befitting its station—to the right and to the left. The circle drawn away from anger’s center with fly-like swiftness, the circumference swinging forth from love’s core scorched traces of flame into the void. Some pulled the thread of morality as they moved; others revolved while hinting at circles of deceit. When worlds collided and scattered in all directions—vertically and horizontally, front and back, in every dimension—strangers from Qin and Yue found themselves sharing a boat there.

Mr. Kōno and Mr. Munekata, having exhausted the pleasures of their springtime excursions, returned east. Kodō Sensei and Sayoko roused the slumbering past and headed east. The two separate worlds inadvertently collided on the eight o'clock night train. When my world and my world clash, there are times when one must commit seppuku. There are times when one brings about their own ruin. When my world and another world clash, there are times when both crumble. There are times when they burst and scatter. Or there are times when they pull forth a fired arrow and heat, only to part ways within the infinite void. If a clash of such tremendous magnitude were to occur even once in a lifetime, I would become the protagonist of a self-wrought tragedy without ever setting foot on the closing stage. The heaven-bestowed character surges forth for the first time in accordance with the first principle. The worlds that collided on the eight o'clock night train were not so fiercely at odds. Yet if theirs were but a fleeting connection—sleeves that meet only to part—then on this star-filled spring night in the desolate-named Shichijō, there would have been little need for their worlds to clash so fiercely. The novel sculpts nature. Nature itself does not become a novel.

The two worlds clashed within the long train of two hundred ri—ceaseless yet discontinuous, like a dream, like an illusion. The long train of two hundred ri remains utterly indifferent—will it carry oxen? Will it carry horses? What human destinies will it bear away eastward? The iron wheels, undaunted by the world, clatter as they turn. After that, it charges headlong into the darkness. Those who wait in vain for distant reunions; those who find no joy in departing and returning; those accustomed to travel yet indifferent to Sorai’s teachings—it bundles them uniformly, seeking to treat them all as clay dolls. Though the night remains unseen, it vigorously spews black smoke.

In the sleeping night, all living beings move toward Shichijō by the light of lanterns. When the rudder handle lowers, the black shadow suddenly brightens and enters the waiting area. The black shadow emerges in an endless stream from the darkness. The station becomes completely filled with the living black shadow. The Kyoto left behind must surely be quiet, one imagines.

The train ceaselessly spewed smoke as it worked to gather all of Kyoto’s vitality at Shichijō Station—this single focal point—and thrust these collected activities, this thousand or two thousand worlds bundled haphazardly together, toward bright Tokyo by dawn. The black shadows began to surge. The clustered mass scattered into fragments, becoming mere points. The points shifted right and left. After a while, with a deafening sound, the train doors clattered shut one after another. Suddenly, the platform gaped open and empty, as though it had swept away all those present. Only the large clock drew the eye from within the window. Then a whistle sounded far in the distance. The train clunked into motion. Unaware of how their respective worlds might intertwine, plunging ahead through the dark—Mr. Kōno, Mr. Munekata, Prof. Kodō, and the lovely Sayoko—all rode together in this same train. The oblivious train clattered onward, ceaselessly revolving. The oblivious four, their four distinct worlds clashing, plunged into the dark night.

“It’s rather crowded in here,” said Mr. Kōno, glancing around the compartment.

“Yeah, everyone from Kyoto must be taking this train to go see the exposition.” “They must have really packed in.” “Yeah, the waiting area was packed solid.” “Kyoto must feel lonely by now.” “By now…” “Ha ha ha ha, really.” “It’s truly a quiet place.” “It’s strange that even those in such a place move around.” “Even so, they must still have all sorts of business to attend to.” “Even in the most tranquil places, people are born and people die,” said Mr. Kōno as he crossed his left knee over his right.

“Ha ha ha ha! Is being born and dying all there is to do?” “The parent and child living next door to Tsuraya—well, they’re exactly that sort.” “They live so quietly, I tell you.” “They don’t speak a word.” “Strange that they’d say they’re moving to Tokyo despite all that.” “They must be going to see the exposition.” “No—I hear they’re shutting up house and relocating.”

“Oh? When?” “I don’t know when.” “I didn’t ask the maid that far.” “That girl will probably go get married someday,” Mr. Kōno said as if to himself. “Ha ha ha ha! She probably will,” laughed Mr. Munekata as he stowed his pilgrim’s satchel on the luggage rack and settled into his seat. The other man half-turned his face away and gazed through the windowpane. Outside was nothing but darkness. The train plunged unapologetically through the darkness. There was only a roaring sound. Humans are powerless.

“It’s moving quite fast, isn’t it? I wonder how many ri per hour we’re going,” said Mr. Munekata, sitting cross-legged on his seat. “How fast we’re going—it’s pitch black outside, so I can’t tell at all.”

“Even if it’s dark outside, it’s still moving fast, isn’t it?” “I can’t tell because there’s nothing to compare it to.” “Even if you can’t see it, it’s still fast.” “Can you really tell?” “Yeah, I can tell perfectly well,” declared Mr. Munekata boastfully as he readjusted his cross-legged posture. The conversation broke off again. The train increased its speed. Someone’s hat, placed on the opposite rack, remained tilted, its towering crown quivering. The attendant occasionally passed through the compartment. Most passengers sat facing each other, gazing at one another’s faces.

“It’s definitely too fast, I tell you,” Mr. Munekata said, initiating conversation again. Mr. Kōno had half-closed his eyes. “Huh?” “No matter what—it’s too fast.” “Is that so?” “Yeah. It’s—too fast, I tell you.” The train roared onward. Mr. Kōno only smirked faintly. “The express train feels invigorating. Without this, I wouldn’t feel like I’m really on a train!”

“It’s even superior to Musō Kokushi, isn’t it?” “Ha ha ha ha! It’s operating on first principles!” “Quite different from Kyoto’s trams.” “Kyoto’s trams? They’ve surrendered completely—barely functioning at the tenth principle! It’s a miracle they still run.” “Because people still ride them.” “People riding them doesn’t excuse it! They boast about laying ‘world-class tracks’ with that junk!” “Hardly world-class. Too primitive for such claims.” “Well if laying them was world-class, then not improving them must be world-class too!”

“Ha ha ha ha! They’re in harmony with Kyoto.” “Exactly. That’s a tramway heritage site, isn’t it? It’s the Kinkaku-ji of tramways. Though originally, ‘ten years as one day’ was meant as praise—or so they say.” “There’s also that line about returning to Jiangling in a single day from a thousand ri away, isn’t there?” “A hundred ri between fortress walls, I tell you.” “That’s Saigō Takamori for you.” “I see. I did think something was odd about that.” Mr. Kōno withheld his reply and sealed his lips. The conversation breaks off again.

The train roared onward as usual.

Their world swayed in the darkness for a time before fading away. At the same time, the world of the remaining two appeared beneath a moving lamp that illuminated the slender night like a thread.

Born fair-skinned beneath the slanting moon’s shadow, she was called Sayoko. In the Kyoto residence where a parent and child lived modestly without a mother, five years had passed since they began hanging Obon lanterns. This autumn, for the first time in years, they would welcome the spirit of their deceased mother in Tokyo with hemp stalks, while from within the openings of long sleeves, white hands were folded properly. The sorrows of existence gathered upon the shoulders of the petite. Looming anger slipped into the hem of emotion like supple silk being stroked downward. Those prideful in purple invited; those deeply passionate in yellow pursued. The spring of east and west connected along two hundred ri of iron rails; upon a single thread of wish, trembling with tresses draped over her shoulders as she declared love alone was true, it raced through the long night. The bygone five years were but a dream. The dreams of old, crimson-stained by the force of dripping brushstrokes that had pierced through obscurity, penetrated deeply into the depths of memory, appearing vividly dyed even in moments when the past was turned inside out. Sayoko’s dream was brighter than life itself. Sayoko, warming this luminous dream within the chill of early spring’s embrace, boarded a single black vehicle in motion and traveled eastward. The vehicle, bearing dreams, did nothing but run eastward. The person carrying a dream clutched tightly to the burning ember, determined not to let it fall as they pressed onward. The vehicle charged onward with single-minded purpose. Through fields it plunged through greenery, through mountains it pierced clouds, and on nights thick with stars, it charged through starlight. The person who held a dream, while holding it, while running, was cutting loose the luminous dream from the distant darkness and attempting to cast it before reality. As the vehicle charged onward, the boundary between dream and reality drew nearer. Sayoko’s journey ceased upon reaching a boundary where luminous dream and luminous reality abruptly encountered each other, becoming indistinguishable. The night was still deep.

Professor Kodō, seated beside her, harbored no dream of such import. Each day he would grasp the sparse beard whitening beneath his chin and try to recall the past. That past remained secluded twenty years deep, refusing to emerge readily. In the vague expanse of mundane existence, something stirred—whether person or dog, tree or grass, even that distinction blurred beyond recognition. A person’s past becomes a true past only when it grows indistinguishable from people and dogs and trees and grass. The more I clung with lingering attachment to that cold moment of abandonment, the more people and dogs and grass and trees dissolved into chaos. Professor Kodō gave a firm tug at his salt-and-pepper beard.

“How old were you when you came to Kyoto?”

“It was right after I left school, so I must have been just sixteen.”

“So, that makes it how many years this year, then…”

“Five years.”

“So it’s been five years.” “How time flies—it felt like just yesterday,” he said, tugging his beard again. “When we first came here, you took me to Arashiyama, didn’t you?” “With Mother.”

“Ah yes, the blossoms were still too early back then.” “When I think back to that time, Arashiyama has changed considerably.” “The famous dumplings probably weren’t even available yet.” “No, we had dumplings.” “Don’t you remember eating them by Sansenchaya?” “Is that so?” “I don’t remember well.” “You laughed about Mr. Ono only eating the green ones, didn’t you?” “Ah yes, Ono was there then.” “Your mother was still healthy back then.” “I never imagined she’d pass away so soon.” “Nothing’s more unfathomable than people.” “Ono must have changed quite a bit too.” “After all, it’s been five years since we last saw him...”

"But he's quite well now, so it's perfectly fine."

“That’s right. He became much healthier after coming to Kyoto. When he first arrived, he had such a pale face, you know—he seemed rather nervous all the time too—but once he grew accustomed, he gradually settled down…” “He has such a gentle nature, you know.”

“He’s gentle, I tell you.” “He’s too gentle.” “But graduating with honors and receiving a silver pocket watch—well, that’s commendable. People do look out for others.” “Even a man of such good nature—if left to his own devices like that—who knows where he might end up.” “Truly,”

A luminous dream began to swirl in circles within the heart. It was not a dead dream. From the depths of five years, leaving behind deeply etched memories, it leapt up to within an inch. The woman fixed her gaze and observed the scene—so vivid it seemed to surpass reality—of the dream looming before her eyes, from right and left, front and back, above and below. One whose heart is seized by dreaming forgets the beard of an aged parent. Sayoko fell silent.

“Ono will come to meet us at Shinbashi, don’t you think?” “He will most certainly come.”

The dream leapt again. Even as it restrained itself from leaping while steeped in night and being rocked about through darkness. The old man released a hand from beard. Then closed eyes.

In the ancient world where neither people, dogs, grass, nor trees were distinctly reflected, a black curtain descended unnoticed. The world—leaping and tumbling and being restrained as it raced within a small chest—illuminated the darkness with brightness like fire. Sayoko embraced this bright world and drifted off to sleep.

The long train plowed through the enveloping night, relentlessly battling against the opposing wind. Striking down the pursuing gods of the underworld with its powerful tail, it finally emerged into the land of dawn where bluish mists surged forward across the entire vista. The boundless wilderness stretched endlessly of its own accord, gradually pressing skyward—endlessly upward—as if questioning its own limitlessness; when one cast aside lingering dreams and turned their gaze to the mid-heavens, the world of the sun had dawned.

In the great void where moisture-swollen clouds part for the lower world—a realm dominated by the golden rooster whose five-hundred-ri wingspan beats once as it crows through celestial epochs—the eternal snow emerged pristine. Widening like an unfolding fan, it cascaded with force enough to overwhelm the fields of eight provinces, spreading left and right as it buried all from the waist down in azure vastness. The white pierced through the sky as if demanding to be seen. When one stratum of whiteness was exhausted, purple folds and indigo folds stacked diagonally, rending the white expanse into irregular streaks. The gazer, tracing the shadows of creeping clouds, ascended from the dark azure foothills—stitching together deep indigo and violet with lightning-like flashes—until reaching the pinnacle of pure white, where abruptly their eyes snapped open. The whiteness beckoned all passengers into the bright world.

“Hey, you can see Fuji,” said Mr. Munekata as he slid down from his seat and threw open the window. From the broad foothills, the morning wind swept smoothly in. “Yeah.” “It’s been visible for a while now,” said Mr. Kōno, still having the camel-hair blanket pulled over his head from crown to toe, his tone unexpectedly cold. “I see. You didn’t sleep at all?” “I slept a little.” “What’s this—wearing that thing over your head…” “I’m cold,” Mr. Kōno replied from under the lap blanket. “I’m hungry. “I wonder if they still haven’t served the meal.”

“I have to wash my face before eating…” “Quite right.” “You’re always spouting such perfectly reasonable things.” “You should at least take a look at Fuji.”

“It’s better than Mount Hiei.”

“Mount Hiei? What’s Mount Hiei anyway? Just some Kyoto mountain.” “You really disparage everything.” “Hmph—what do you think of that grandeur? Humans must become like that.” “You could never remain so settled.” “Is the Hozu River your ultimate standard? Even the Hozu surpasses you. You’re on par with a Kyoto tram.” “That Kyoto tram still moves—which makes it worthwhile.” “Won’t you move at all? Ha ha! Come—let’s brush aside this camel and get going,” declared Mr. Munekata, taking down his pilgrim’s bag from the shelf. The compartment grew restless. The train that had raced through the luminous world caught its breath at Numazu. He washed his face.

Half of his gaunt face appeared in the window. Each sparse strand of his beard, some black and some white, was blown by the morning wind.

“Give me two lunch boxes,” he said. Kodō Sensei gripped some silver coins in his right hand and exchanged them for the lunch boxes he took with his left. In the room, the daughter was pouring tea.

“How about this?” he said as he lifted the lid of the lunch box, white rice grains clinging to its underside. Inside, beside a yam reclining in pale broth, a slice of rolled omelet—yellow and on the verge of being crushed—desperately thrust only its head into the border of the rice.

“You still don’t want to eat?” Sayoko set down the entire lunch box without picking up her chopsticks.

“Ah,” said the professor as he took the bowl from his daughter, gazed at the chopsticks stuck into the lunch box on his lap, and took a hearty drink. “We’ll be there soon.” “Ah, there’s no issue now,” he said as the yam began to move toward his beard. “The weather is lovely today.” “Ah, this weather is a blessing. Fuji looked beautiful, didn’t it?” he said as the yam crawled from his beard back into the lunch box. “Did Mr. Ono arrange a place to stay for us?” “Yeah. He must’ve—he must’ve arranged it,” said the professor, his mouth performing double duty between eating and replying.

The meal continued for some time. “Let’s go to the dining car,” said Mr. Munekata as he adjusted his Yonezawa kasuri collar in the neighboring compartment. Mr. Kōno in his suit stood up lankily. When he stepped over the suitcase lying in the path, Mr. Kōno turned back

“Hey, you’ll trip if you kick it,” Mr. Munekata cautioned. Mr. Kōno pushed open the glass door and stepped into the neighboring compartment, intending to go straight through, but when he was halfway there, Mr. Munekata grabbed the back of his suit jacket from behind and yanked him backward. “The rice is a bit cold,” Sayoko remarked. “It’s fine that it’s chilled, but it’s too hard,” Mr. Munekata said. “When you get as old as a grandpa, tough things just don’t sit right in the chest.” “If you’d like some tea… shall I pour it?” Sayoko offered.

The young man wordlessly made his way to the dining car.

Amidst the ceaseless intermingling of days and nights—where small worlds darted across all directions, traversed every corner of the horizon, yet found no end to their wandering—the four small universes were arranged like silkworm eggs planted with care along threads of silk, their unknowing faces turned back-to-back in the heartless train hurtling through midnight. The starry world had been swept away, and within the window rising as if to proclaim “Hide nothing!”—framed by daylight that had cleanly peeled back the skin of the firmament—the four small universes formed fleeting connections, brushing past one another in this very moment. The two small universes that had brushed past and overtaken each other were now devouring ham and eggs across a white tablecloth.

“Hey,” said Mr. Munekata. “Yeah,” answered Mr. Kōno, glancing at the menu. “It seems we’re finally heading to Tokyo.” “It seems we didn’t meet at Kyoto Station last evening.”

“Not at all—I didn’t notice a thing.” “I didn’t realize we were sitting next to each other either. We do keep running into each other, don’t we?” “We’ve been meeting a bit too often. —This ham is all grease.” “Is yours the same?” “Oh, much the same.” “About the only difference between you and me, I suppose,” said Mr. Munekata, turning his callused hand the other way as he thrust a large cut of meat into his mouth.

“I wonder if we both pride ourselves on being hogs,” said Mr. Kōno, somewhat forlornly stuffing his mouth with the white grease. “Being hogs is one thing, but this really is strange.” “It seems Jews don’t eat pork,” Mr. Kōno remarked with sudden detachment. “Setting aside the Jews—that woman…” “It’s a bit strange.” “Is it because we meet too often?” “Yeah.—Waiter, bring some black tea.” “I’ll have coffee. This pork is no good,” said Mr. Kōno, again dismissing the woman.

"How many times does this make now?" "Once, twice, three times—we’ve met about three times now." "If this were a novel, this would serve as the catalyst for some incident developing." "With just this much, it seems safe enough..." he said before gulping down his coffee.

“If just this much keeps us safe, then we must both be hogs.” “Ha ha ha ha.” “—But there’s nothing to be said.” “If you were in love with that woman…” “Yeah,” said Mr. Kōno, cutting off the other man’s words mid-sentence. “Even without that, since we meet this often, it’s not impossible some connection might form down the line.”

“Like you?” “Nah, it’s a different kind of relationship—not the one you’re thinking of. It’s a relationship other than an amorous one.” “Yeah,” said Mr. Kōno, supporting his chin with his left hand while holding a coffee cup in his right near his nose and gazing absently into the distance. “I want a mandarin orange,” said Mr. Munekata. Mr. Kōno remained silent. Before long, “I wonder if that woman is going off to get married or something,” he said with a thoroughly unconcerned expression. “Ha ha ha ha. Shall I go ask?” he said, though he seemed in no mood to even hear a greeting.

“Getting married? Is she really that eager?” “Does she want it that badly?” “You won’t know unless you ask.” “What about your sister? Does she want to marry too?” Mr. Kōno asked earnestly about this peculiar matter. “Itokō? She’s still a child at heart.” “But devoted to her brother.” “She’s made me sleeveless jackets with fox patterns and such.” “Surprisingly skilled with a needle, that one.” “Want me to have her stitch you some elbow pads?”

“Well, perhaps.” “Don’t you want them?”

“Well, it’s not that I don’t want them…” The elbow pad discussion ended inconclusively, and the two men rose from the dining table. When they passed through Professor Kodō’s train compartment, he had spread the Asahi Shimbun before his face, while Sayoko was scooping rolled omelet into her small mouth. The four small worlds—each active in their own sphere—passed by one another again within the train carriage, as if apprehensive of how their mutual fates might endanger their individual futures, or as if finding nothing remarkable in them, until they arrived at Shinbashi Station cradling an immeasurable world of tomorrow.

“Wasn’t that Ono who dashed past earlier?” Mr. Munekata asked as they left the station.

“I see.” “I didn’t notice,” answered Mr. Kōno.

The four small worlds reached the station and, for a time, scattered apart.

VIII

A single pale aqua cherry tree cast a haze over the dusk-filled garden. The polished veranda lay quiet beyond the closed shōji doors. Inside, a small elongated brazier held a handled iron kettle at a boil, with a figured habutae cushion laid before it. On the futon sat Kōno’s mother with refined grace. The tautly upturned outer corners of her eyes—where tension lines seemed to course beneath the skin from their ends up through her forehead—were enveloped by a swarthy, fine-grained complexion that presented an utterly serene exterior. —After concealing the needle in a sponge and making one grip it firmly, soothe the wound pleasantly by applying salve with a soft hand. If possible, press one’s lips to the bleeding site to demonstrate absence of ulterior intent. —Those born in the twentieth century must know this much. Mr. Kōno had once written in his diary that those who expose their bones perish.

A sound of footsteps echoed on the quiet veranda. She revealed slender feet clad in white tabi so pristine they seemed freshly donned, lightly kicked back the thick differently-colored hem dragging across the veranda, and smoothly opened the shōji.

The mother, remaining seated as she was, tilted thick eyebrows halfway toward the entrance, “Oh, do come in,” she said.

Fujio wordlessly closed the door behind her. When she sat gracefully across from Mother with the brazier between them, the iron kettle whistled incessantly.

Mother looked at Fujio’s face. Fujio gazed down at the newspaper folded in half beside the brazier. The iron kettle continued to whistle. In times of many words, truth was scarce. Left to the iron kettle’s whistling, the veranda remained quiet with parent and child idly facing each other. The pale aqua cherry tree was ushering in the dusk. Spring was passing away. Fujio eventually raised her face. “He’s come back, hasn’t he?”

Mother and daughter's eyes abruptly met. Truth resides in a glance. When one cannot endure the heat, they reveal their bones. "Hmph."

The sound of tobacco ash being carefully tapped from a long pipe rang out. “What does he intend to do?” “What does he intend to do? Even I can’t grasp his thoughts.” Smoke from Kumoi’s pipe blew brusquely from her high-bridged nostrils. “Coming back changes nothing, does it?”

“It’s the same thing.” “That’s how he’ll be his whole life.” Mother’s tension lines surfaced from beneath her skin. “Does he truly despise inheriting the household so much?” “Oh, it’s just words.” “That’s precisely the problem.” “Since he means to confront us with such talk… If he truly won’t receive any inheritance, wouldn’t it be better for him to make his own way?” “Dawdling day after day—it’s already been two years since graduation…” “However philosophical one may be, a man ought to manage himself by now.” “There’s no denying his utter indecisiveness.” “Every time I see that face of his, my nerves fray…”

“It seems indirect talk doesn’t get through to him at all.” “Even if it did get through, he’s just feigning ignorance.” “How infuriating he is.” “Truly. Until he settles matters, I can’t resolve your situation...” Fujio refrained from replying. Love harbors all sin. In refraining from replying lay the resolve to sacrifice everything. Mother continued. “You’re turning twenty-four this year yourself, aren’t you? Is it common for someone turning twenty-four to remain so unsettled? When we suggest marrying him off, he dismisses it, saying he wants Fujio to take care of Mother. Then if we propose he find work to become independent, he just holes up in his room lounging about all day. And then he declares he’ll hand over the property to Fujio and become a drifter himself! It’s utterly disgraceful—making it look as though we’re trying to drive him out by being a nuisance!”

“Where did Brother go to say such things?” “When he visited Munekata’s grandfather’s house—that’s where he said it.” “What an utterly unmanly disposition he has. He should just hurry up and marry Miss Itoko already.” “Does he even have any intention of taking a wife?”

“I simply can’t fathom Brother’s intentions.” “However, Miss Itoko wants to come to Brother’s place, you know.” Mother removed the whistling iron kettle and took up the charcoal container. Within the Satsuma teapot—its crackled glaze sealed without gaps, depicting two or three indigo-streaked waves and scattering pure white cherry blossoms at whim—lay Uji leaves, their green strands finely twisted, now sodden in midday water as they overlapped and cooled. “Shall I make some tea?”

“No,” said Fujio, tucking away the lingering fragrance that had quickly escaped into a teacup matching the teapot’s hue. Though not thick enough to reveal its bottom when tapped, the yellowish liquid gradually deepened near the rim, its dense surface gathering motionless bubbles. Mother shattered the pristine white remnants of Sakura charcoal within the mounded ashes she had smoothed, collecting crimson embers hidden beneath. From the collapsed hollow of warmth, she selected properly cut black rounds that crackled with vitality. The spring light indoors remained completely serene upon mother and child.

This author detested unrefined conversation. Venomous words that cast not a single stroke of brilliance upon the dark world of suspicion and discord were not the refined elegance of a poet who flowed pleasant spring onto paper with a beautiful brush. When one who governs spring with idle flowers and plain koto does not dwell beneath a sky that seems to sing, and must instead enumerate vulgar words devoid of even a half-drop of artistic essence, the brush tip felt clogged with mud, making it difficult to guide the pen with both hands. Depicting Uji tea, a Satsuma teapot, and Sakura charcoal stole a moment of leisure—it was but a means to grant readers fleeting solace in the snap of a finger. However, the Earth has rotated since ancient times. Light and shadow cling to day and night without reprieve. To most succinctly narrate the unpleasant aspects of the parent-child relationship was this author’s poignant duty.

The brush that had savored tea and recorded charcoal now had to return to the dialogue between the two. Their exchange had to be no less refined than what preceded it.

“Speaking of Munekata, he’s really quite the joker.” “Even though he can’t manage any proper scholarship, he spouts nothing but grand ideas—and despite that, he carries himself with such splendid self-importance.”

The stable and the coop stood together. In the proverb where a hen judges a horse—it declares that creature knows neither how to crow nor lay eggs. Quite so. "Even after failing the diplomat exam, he shows not an ounce of shame." "Most people would demonstrate more initiative by now..." "He's a cannonball." She didn't comprehend the meaning. It was merely an audacious remark. Fujio's smooth cheeks dimpled as she smirked slyly. Fujio was a woman who understood poetry. The cheap candy bullets were formed by rolling brown sugar. The artillery shells were cast from molten lead. In any case, a bullet remained a bullet. And through it all, Mother maintained perfect seriousness. Mother could not grasp her daughter's laughing meaning.

“What do you think of that person?” The daughter’s laugh inadvertently provoked the mother’s question. It is said that none know a child better than their parent. That was incorrect. Even parents remained as foreign as Tang China or ancient India regarding matters of a world where no mutual contradictions existed. “What do I think... I don’t think anything of him at all.” Mother fixed her gaze on her daughter from beneath sharp eyebrows. The meaning was fully understood by Fujio. Those who know their adversary do not stir.

Fujio deliberately composed herself and waited for Mother to make her move. Negotiations exist even between parent and child.

“Do you intend to go there?”

“To Munekata?” she asked in return. Her pressing for confirmation appeared to be groundwork—drawing the bowstring taut before loosing the arrow. “Ah,” Mother answered lightly. “I don’t want to.” “You don’t want to?” “Don’t want to? … That kind of man with no taste—” Fujio decisively cut off her sentence. When you slice a bamboo shoot into rounds, it looks like this. Her firm eyebrows stirred a breeze, and something lingering in her tightly sealed lips—as if declaring “enough of this”—flashed briefly before vanishing. Mother nodded in agreement.

“I can’t stand a man with no prospects like that either.”

Lacking taste and lacking prospects were two different matters. The blacksmith's hammer struck with a clang; the cooperating hammer tapped with a thud. Yet both fell upon the same blade. "I might as well make it clear and refuse right here." "When you say 'refuse,' was there even a promise?" "A promise?" "There was no promise." "But Grandfather said he would give that gold watch to me." "And what of that?" "Because you used to treat that watch as a toy and fiddle with its red beads all the time..."

“And so?” “So then—‘This watch has a deep connection with Fujio,’ Grandfather said,‘but I’ll give it to you.’ “However, he won’t give it now.” “He’ll give it when you graduate.” “However, he said half-jokingly in front of everyone,‘Even if Fujio clings on wanting it,I’ll still give it to her when she graduates—is that all right?’”

“Do you still consider that a mystery?” “According to Munekata’s Grandfather’s impromptu verse, that seems to be the case.” “Preposterous.”

Fujio snapped a cutting remark against the corner of the long brazier. The repercussion came at once. “That’s ridiculous.” “I will take that watch.” “Is it still in your room?” “It’s properly stored in the writing box.”

“Yes. Do you want it that badly? But you can’t even keep it, can you?” “Just give it to me.”

The garnet blazing at the chain's end cast an eerie glow from the depths of the writing box adorned with lacquered reeds and wild geese, summoning Fujio. Fujio rose soundlessly. The pale indigo cherry blossoms—not yet blurred into haze—preserved what remained of daylight destined to fade with dusk's approach as her tall figure slipped away, turning halfway to cast a gaunt profile in shadow against the shoji screen. "That watch could be given to Mr. Ono, don't you think?" she said. No reply came from beyond the paper screen.

――Spring drew to a close with mother and child.

At the same time, a rich light was lit in the Munekata household’s sitting room. The shade of the lamp cast its pure white light to return the quiet night to daylight, gracefully enveloping the room, while the white bronze oil jar—embossed entirely with arabesque patterns in high relief—proudly displayed its unclouded hue, splendid even in the evening. Wherever the lamplight reached, every face grew animated. First came a voice exclaiming, “Ah ha ha ha!” Every conversation sparked by this lamplight seemed to find it proper to commence with “Ah ha ha ha!” “Then you probably didn’t see the pagoda finial either!” he boomed. The owner of the voice was an elderly man. Rosy-cheeked flesh spilled over from both sides, and his constrained chin had no choice but to fold into a double layer. His head was balding considerably. He would occasionally stroke it. Munekata’s father had stroked his head so much that he ended up balding.

“What’s a pagoda finial?” asked Mr. Munekata, sitting in an unorthodox cross-legged position before his father. “Ah ha ha ha! Then what did you even go up Mount Hiei for?”

“It seems we didn’t come across anything like that along the way, Mr. Kōno.”

Mr. Kōno sat formally before a teacup, his dull-striped hakama properly arranged and his black haori collar straightened. When Mr. Kōno was questioned, Itoko’s bewildered face wavered.

"It seems there was no pagoda finial," said Mr. Kōno, keeping his hands on his knees.

“You say there wasn’t one along the way… Well, I don’t know where you started from—was it Yoshida?”

“Mr. Kōno, what’s that place called? The one we climbed—” “What’s the name of that place anyway?” “Anyway, we crossed a single-plank bridge, Father.”

“A single-plank bridge?” “Yes—we crossed a single-plank bridge—and you know—a bit further on leads to Wakasa Province.”

“Would we reach Wakasa Province so quickly?” Mr. Kōno immediately retracted his earlier remark. “But you were the one who said that.” “That was a joke.”

“Ah ha ha ha! Ending up in Wakasa Province would be a disaster,” the old man said with great mirth. Itoko’s round face formed ripples in her double eyelids. “The problem with you all is that you just keep walking like couriers of old—that’s no good. Mount Hiei has the East Pagoda, West Pagoda, and Yokawa—it’s so expansive that some devotees practice ascetic training by journeying between those three areas daily. If all you do is climb up and descend, then isn’t it no different from scaling any mountain?” “Well, we only meant to climb an ordinary mountain.”

“Ah ha ha ha! Then it’s as if you climbed just to get blisters on your soles!” “The blisters are real. That’s your department,” he said with a laugh, glancing at Mr. Kōno. Even a philosopher cannot maintain a stern expression indefinitely. The lamplight swayed distinctly. Itoko pressed her sleeve to her mouth, lifting her head as her faltering smile settled into composure, and shifted her gaze toward the one responsible for the blisters. Those who would move their eyes must first move their face. It was akin to looting during a fire. Even domestic women have such schemes. Mr. Kōno, feigning ignorance, promptly presented a question.

“Uncle, what are the names East Pagoda and West Pagoda derived from?” “They’re still part of Enryaku-ji’s grounds, you see? Within the vast mountain, monks have gathered in clusters here and there—one cluster over there, another cluster here—so dividing them into three parts and calling them East Pagoda, West Pagoda, and such isn’t entirely wrong.”

"Well, you know, it’s like how universities have law, medicine, and humanities departments," interjected Mr. Munekata from the side, speaking as if he knew.

“Well, that’s about right,” the old man promptly agreed. “As the poem says—‘East lies the Ashura realm, West neighbors the capital, thus Yokawa’s depths were deemed fit to dwell’—Yokawa remains the most secluded, having become an ideal place for scholarly pursuits.” "—you have to go fifty chō further in from the Sōrintō pagoda we just mentioned."

"So that explains why we passed through without realizing it, huh?" said Mr. Munekata, addressing Mr. Kōno again. Mr. Kōno listened respectfully to the old man’s explanation without saying a word. The old man expounded proudly.

“Why, it’s even in the Funabenkei Noh play—‘Behold, this one is Musashibō Benkei who dwells by the West Pagoda.’ Benkei resided at the West Pagoda.” “So Benkei was in the Law faculty, eh?” “You’d belong to Yokawa’s humanities division.—Grandfather, who served as Mount Hiei’s chancellor?” “Chancellor?” “Mount Hiei’s—that is, the man who founded Mount Hiei.” “The founding patron? The founding patron was Dengyō Daishi.” “Building temples in such places only torments people—it’s insufferably inconvenient. Really, men of old were drunk on caprice. Don’t you agree, Mr. Kōno?”

Mr. Kōno gave a somewhat vague reply. "Dengyō Daishi was born at the foot of Mount Hiei." "Ah, now that you mention it, I understand." "You understand now, Mr. Kōno?" "What?"

“A stake marked ‘Birthplace of Dengyō Daishi’ was erected in Sakamoto.” “He was born there.” “Hmm, right. You must have noticed too, Mr. Kōno.” “I didn’t notice.” “Because you were too preoccupied with the blisters.” “Ah ha ha ha!” the old man laughed again. Those who perceive do not see. People of old preached that conception alone is supreme. The flowing water never ceases day or night; people vainly write "truth" and write "truth," yet fail to realize that the departing waves, now bearing the freshly written "truth," drift away into obscurity—such is the way of the world. To name halls “Lotus Sutra,” inscribe stones “Buddha’s footprint,” call pagodas “spire-topped,” and designate cloisters “Pure Land”—those who believe their task complete by merely recording names, dates, and histories are akin to ones who cling to corpses while alive. To see is not for the sake of names. To perceive is not for the sake of seeing. The Supreme One transcends form to enter universal thought—this is why Mr. Kōno climbed Mount Hiei yet remains ignorant of it.

The past was dead.

The ancient days when they sounded great Dharma drums, blew great Dharma conches, and erected great Dharma banners to protect the capital’s demon gate remained unknowable; yet to excavate these ancient temple complexes—where Buddhas slept in main halls beneath canopies strung with spider’s silk—as though freshly unearthing them from Emperor Kanmu’s reign, scrubbing away millennia’s mud through pointless inquiries—this became the work of idle folk who found forty-eight hours in a single day’s night and day. The present carved time and waited for me. The realm of impermanence descended before my eyes. Both arms cut through the wind and resounded through heaven and earth.—This was why Mr. Munekata climbed Mount Hiei yet remained ignorant of all.

Only the old man was at peace. As though thoroughly convinced that the realm’s fortunes were renewed each night and day under Enryaku-ji’s sole command, he expounded ceaselessly on Mount Hiei. His explanations naturally sprang from kindness toward the youths. Only the youths found it somewhat trying.

“Even if it’s inconvenient, they deliberately established such a mountain for ascetic training. “Modern universities are located in such convenient places that they’ve all grown extravagant. “Despite being students, they go on about Western confections and whiskey...”

Mr. Munekata made a strange face and looked at Mr. Kōno. Mr. Kōno was unexpectedly serious. “Grandpa, I hear the monks of Mount Hiei go all the way down to Sakamoto around eleven at night just to eat soba noodles.” “Ahahaha! The exact opposite!” “No, it’s true. Hey, Mr. Kōno— No matter how inconvenient it is, if you want to eat something, you’ll eat it.” “Those must be lazy monks.”

“Then I suppose we’re just idle students?” “You lot are beyond idle.” “We might accept being beyond—but the mountain path to Sakamoto measures a full two ri.” “There must be—at least that much.” “They descend from eleven at night, eat soba, then climb back up again—you see.”

“So what’s your point?” “It’s utterly impossible work for the idle, you see.” “Ah ha ha ha!” The old man laughed, thrusting out his large belly—a sound loud enough to startle the lampshade. “Even so,” Mr. Kōno asked as though the thought had just occurred to him, “were there truly earnest monks here in the past?” “They still exist even now.” “Just as there are few serious people in the world, there aren’t many among monks either—but even now, they’re not entirely absent.” “After all, it’s an old temple.” “Originally called Ichijō Shikan-in—it wasn’t until much later that it became Enryaku-ji.” “From that time onward, they had these peculiar practices where monks would seclude themselves in the mountains for twelve years straight, or so I’ve heard.”

“This is no time for soba.” “Why?—Because they never come down from the mountain at all.” “So what’s their grand plan—just growing old in these mountains?” Mr. Munekata said this time, as if to himself. “They’re doing ascetic training, I tell you. You all should stop idling around and try doing a bit of that sort of thing yourselves.”

"That’s out of the question." "Why?" "Why? Because..." "I could do it if I had to, but then I’d be defying your orders, wouldn’t I?"

“My orders?” “But every time you see someone’s face, don’t you keep telling me to get married? If I were to shut myself away in the mountains for twelve years now, my back would be bent by the time I took a wife.” The entire party burst out laughing. The old man slightly raised his head and stroked his bald pate upward. The sagging flesh of his cheeks trembled as though about to drop. Itoko bowed her head and stifled her voice, causing her double eyelids to flush faintly red. Mr. Kōno’s stiff lips also relaxed. “Well, ascetic training is ascetic training, but you must also take a bride—it’s essential.” “It’s troublesome with two of you—you must take a wife now too, Mr. Kōno.”

“Well, not so quickly…”

He offered a thoroughly indifferent response. He thought to himself that he would rather seclude himself on Mount Hiei for twelve years than take a wife. In Itoko’s all-seeing eyes, Kōno’s heart was fleetingly reflected. Her small chest suddenly grew heavy. "But your mother will worry." Mr. Kōno did not answer. This old man, too, regarded his own mother as an ordinary mother. In all the world, there exists not a single person who has seen through the inner heart of their own mother. Unless one sees through one’s own mother, there can be no sympathy for oneself. Mr. Kōno hung suspended between heaven and earth. It was as though he alone had survived the day the world ended.

“If you keep dawdling, Miss Fujio will be put in a difficult position.” “Once women pass marriageable age, unlike men, marrying them off becomes quite troublesome, you see.” The respectable and beloved Munekata’s Father remained an ally of his mother and Fujio. Mr. Kōno had no way to respond.

“If you don’t take Ichi now—well—I’m getting on in years, and who knows what might happen at any time.” The old man inferred Kōno’s mother’s heart through his own. Even when sharing the name “parent,” the hearts that bear that name differ. However, it could not be explained.

“Since I failed the diplomat exam, I’m no good for the time being,” Munekata interjected from the side. “You failed last year.” “This year’s results are still unknown.”

“Yes, they’re still unknown.” “But you see, it looks like I’ll fail again.” “Why?” “Probably because I’m even lazier than just idling around.” “Ha ha ha ha!” This evening’s conversation began with hearty laughter and ended with hearty laughter.

IX

In Magatsugahara Plain, the patrinia bloomed. Smoothly parting the susuki grass, autumn—with its showers—turned to winter, leaving the tall figure burdened with regrets to anxiously yet gracefully sidestep the chilling winds. In brown, in black, in scattered frostfall, within winter’s endless continuation, they feebly sustained their fragile lives from dawn to dusk. Winter did not mind the long five years. The lonely flower slipped free from the cold night and melted into spring’s realm—a world resplendent in crimson and green, untouched by scarcity. As the spring wind swept across land and sky, setting all things ablaze with opulent hues, a single slender tip crowned in quiet yellow seemed to exhale timid breaths into a world where it should not dwell, its presence ill at ease.

Until now, she had embraced a dream more vivid than pearls. To the diamond set in pitch-black darkness, she gave her eyes; she gave her body; she entrusted her heart—she had no time to spare for anything else to the right or left. When she drew forth the light of the pearl she had cherished in her bosom from the night and retrieved it from the dark pouch after journeying two hundred ri afar, the pearl lost some measure of its former radiance in reality’s bright sea.

Sayoko was a woman of the past. What Sayoko could embrace was a dream of the past. The dreams of the past held by the woman of the past were separated from reality by a twofold barrier, with no place where they might meet. If she were to sneak in by chance, the dog would bark. She herself wondered whether this might not be a place she should come. The dream she cradled within her—a sin that should never have been embraced—even when concealed in a cloth shielding it from prying eyes, she felt as though suspicion still assailed her on the street.

Should I return to the past? A single drop of oil that has mingled into water cannot easily return to the oil jar. Willing or not, it must flow onward with the water. Should I abandon the dream? If it could be discarded, I would discard it before emerging into the bright sea. If I discard it, the dream comes leaping back.

When one’s own world splits in two, and the divided worlds begin to act on their own, a painful contradiction arises. Many novels skillfully depict this contradiction. When Sayoko’s world collided with Shinbashi Station, a fissure formed. All that remained was for it to split. The novel began now. There is nothing as pitiable as the life of someone about to begin a novel. Mr.Ono was in the same position. The cast-off past pushed through the dust of dreams and brought forth its timeworn head from history’s refuse heap. Before one could say “Oh?”, it abruptly stood up and came walking over. When they had cast it away, they lamented not having severed its roots; but since those remnants had now sprung back unbidden across the way, there was nothing to be done. The withered autumn grasses—mistaking this for some capricious season—pitifully revived amidst shimmering heat haze. Killing what had been revived ran counter to a poet’s refined sensibilities. If overtaken, one could not avoid making effort. Since birth he had never once left anything unresolved. He had no intention of doing so henceforth either. To avoid leaving matters unsettled while settling them for himself—Mr.Ono briefly hid behind future’s sleeve. The purple scent grew potent; just as past’s approaching ghost steeled itself thinking “If this be so…”—Sayoko reached Shinbashi. A fissure formed in Mr.Ono’s world too. Just as the author pitied Sayoko—so too did he pity Mr.Ono.

“Your father?” asked Mr. Ono. “He stepped out for a moment,” said Sayoko, somewhat hesitantly.

From the day after moving into their new home, the household of one parent and one child, bustling with spring duties, had no time to run a comb through their hair prone to becoming sweaty. Even their everyday wadded garments appeared shabby in the poet's eyes. Her makeup was meticulously applied before the mirror; when she lightly immersed her cloudlike coiffure into a glass bottle suffused with the scent of roses, the amber comb unraveled strands of emerald-green. Mr. Ono immediately thought of Fujio. This was exactly why the past was no good, he thought to himself.

"You must be busy," said Mr. Ono. "I've left all my things just as they were..."

“I had intended to come help, but there were meetings yesterday and the day before...” That Mr. Ono was invited to daily meetings proved his renown in that field. Yet what field this might be, Sayoko could not fathom. She supposed it must be some lofty realm far beyond her reach. Sayoko looked down at the golden ring gleaming on her right middle finger resting on her knee—it could never compare to Fujio’s ring. Mr. Ono raised his eyes to survey the room. The low ceiling’s bleached boards showed distinct knotholes in two places, water stains spreading across them like invading forces, clusters of soot mimicking spiderwebs hanging darkly here and there. Through the middle of the fourth crosspiece from the left ran a cedar chopstick—its longer end drooping lower than one would expect—likely where a previous tenant had strung a rope to hang an ice bag for cooling their chest. The two sliding doors partitioning the adjoining room displayed Western paper with foil, neatly patterned with dozens of English-style hollyhock geometries. The mansion-like black-lacquered veranda only emphasized the shabbiness. The garden—which merely claimed the name of winding along the veranda spanning two rooms—measured no wider than a tea ceremony brocade. Behind stunted hinoki cypresses whose hardened last-year leaves stood sharp-pointed and useless in spring, conversations from beyond the waist-high fence carried as clearly as if reaching out to grasp them.

The house had undoubtedly been arranged by Mr. Ono for Professor Kodō. However, it was utterly vulgar. Mr. Ono thought it a disagreeable residence. If one were to own a house at all—he mused—it should be a place where magnolias graced sleeve fences, pine moss carpeted beneath aspidistra shadows, and freshly cut hand towels fluttered in spring breezes. He had heard Fujio was getting that very house. “Thanks to your help, we found such a good house…” said Sayoko, unaware of how to boast properly. If she genuinely believed this was a good house—he thought—it was pitiable. When someone treated another to chopped eel only to hear “Thanks to you, I’ve finally tasted proper eel,” the benefactor supposedly grew to despise that person henceforth.

In certain situations, being pitiable and being looked down upon coincide. Mr. Ono indeed looked down upon Sayoko, who had sincerely expressed her gratitude. Yet he failed to notice that within this lay a touch of pathos. It was because the curse of purple had taken hold. When there is a curse, one's eyes narrow into triangles. "I thought you wouldn’t be satisfied unless it was a better house, so I searched everywhere, but unfortunately nothing suitable turned up..." Just as he spoke these words, Sayoko immediately—

“No, this is perfectly adequate. Father is also pleased,” she said, contradicting Mr. Ono’s words. She thought Mr. Ono was being miserly. Sayoko did not know. She drew her slender face slightly back and observed him with upturned eyes. He had undeniably changed from five years ago.—His glasses had become gold-rimmed. The traditional Kurume kasuri fabric had changed into a Western suit. The close-cropped hair had transformed into glossy locks. The mustache had leapt at once into the realm of a gentleman. Mr. Ono had, unbeknownst to anyone, grown a black growth. He was no longer the student he once was. The collar was freshly tailored. Even the decorative pin on his shoulder glinted with every movement. In the hidden pocket of the tasteful vest with its prominent mouse pattern—there lay the imperial watch. As for adding a gold watch on top of all this—such a thing could not even enter the dreams of Sayoko with her modest heart. Mr. Ono had changed.

The Mr. Ono who had dwelled in her dreams—more vivid than lived reality, never forgotten through five years of days and nights—was not this man. Five years meant antiquity. When they had parted ways east and west with sleeves long and short, when evening clouds barring the pass of mutual longing had locked away their sorrows—to imagine these years and months of ever-rarer meetings remaining unchanged lay beyond conception. She had spent her days thinking change would come with the wind, change would come with the rain, change would come with moon and blossoms. Yet persuading herself he could not have altered thus, she descended to the platform.

Mr. Ono’s transformation was not the natural extension of his past—the admirable growth of an earnest student like A Meng. It was as though he had forcibly twisted his faded past into reverse, hastily fabricating this vivid present on the very night before their arrival at Shinbashi. She could not draw near. Even stretching out her hand seemed futile. She resented herself for being unable to change though she wished to. Mr. Ono might as well have transformed himself to distance her.

Mr.OnohadcometomeetthematShinbashi.Hehadhiredacarriageandguidedustotheinn.Notonlythat,butdespitehisbusyschedulehehadgoneoutofhiswaytosecureahutbarelylargeenoughforparentandchildsnailstosleeptogether.Mr.Onowasaskindasever.Fathersaidalikewise.Ithoughtsotoo.Howevershecouldnotdrawnear.

No sooner had he stepped off the platform than he said, "Your luggage?" It wasn’t quite a proper handbag, nor was it something worth having someone else carry, yet he insisted on taking it and walked ahead with the lap blanket. When she saw his retreating figure with those short strides—she understood. Going ahead did not seem meant to guide the two who had come from afar, but rather to overtake and rush past the belated parent and child pair. A tally is evidence made by taking two identical halves and affixing them for comparison. The dream I cherished as more precious than the sun in heaven—when I drew it forth from time’s five-year-long bag, fragrant with passing years, into the present, comparing them certain there could be no mistake—the present had already withdrawn far into the distance. The gripped tally held no validity.

At first she thought it was because she had emerged from darkness and been dazzled. Thinking she might grow accustomed in time—using the passing days as her staff—each time their meetings accumulated once, twice, three or four times over, Mr. Ono became ever more polite. As he grew more polite, Sayoko found it increasingly difficult to approach him. Drawing back her long chin that slid smoothly into her throat, Sayoko gazed up at Mr. Ono's figure and saw the changed glasses. She saw the changed beard. She observed the altered hairstyle and transformed attire. When she saw all that had changed, she let out a quiet sigh from the depths of her heart. Oh...

“How are the flowers in Kyoto? They must be past their peak by now.” Mr. Ono abruptly shifted the conversation to Kyoto. To comfort a patient, one speaks of their illness. To plunge into an unwelcome past and reverse the braid of memories that had begun to gratefully unravel—this was the poet’s sympathy. Sayoko suddenly approached Mr. Ono.

“They must be past their peak by now.” “Before departing, I did visit Arashiyama briefly—at that time, they were about eighty percent in bloom.”

“That must be about right, since Arashiyama’s blossoms come early.” “That was thoughtful of you.” “With whom did you go?” The crowd admiring the blossoms was as countless as stars in the night sky. However, searching heaven and earth, there was no one to go with besides Father. If it wasn’t Father—even in her heart, she did not speak the name. “So it was with your father after all?” “Yes.” “It must have been interesting,” he said offhandedly. For some reason, Sayoko felt forlorn. Mr. Ono started over.

“Arashiyama must have changed quite a bit from how it used to be.”

“Yes.” “The hot spring at Daibikaku was splendidly constructed...” “Is that so?” “There was Lady Kogo’s grave there too...” “Yes... I know.” “That whole area became nothing but temporary tea houses—so terribly crowded now.”

“Every year it just becomes more vulgar.” “The past was far better.” Mr. Ono, who thought he could not approach, abruptly met the Mr. Ono from his dream. Sayoko was startled. “Truly, the past was…” he began, then deliberately looked out at the garden. There was nothing in the garden.

“When I went out with you back then, it wasn’t so crowded.” Mr. Ono remained the Mr. Ono from the dream. Eyes turned toward the garden glanced briefly back. Gold-rimmed glasses and a shadowed mustache flashed in their reflection. The person before him still did not belong to the past. Sayoko pressed a hand to her throat where silken threads of nostalgia threatened to slip free, sealing her lips in silence. When one grows bold enough to turn a corner, they meet resistance headlong. Even the most refined exchanges between ladies and gentlemen collide endlessly within their breasts.

It became Mr. Ono's turn to speak again.

“You haven’t changed at all since those days.” “Is that so?” Sayoko replied in an unenthusiastic manner that seemed both to acquiesce to him and to question herself. If she had changed even a little, he wouldn’t be so worried. Only age had changed; he resented the stripes that had grown so needlessly and the koto worn with use. The koto remained propped up in the tokonoma, still in its dust cover.

“I must have changed quite a bit.” “You’ve grown so splendidly I can hardly recognize you.” “Ha ha ha ha, that’s too kind of you. I still intend to keep changing vigorously from now on. Just like Arashiyama…”

Sayoko did not know how to respond. With her hands resting on her knees, she looked down. The small earlobes slipped neatly past the ends of her sideburns; the juncture of cheek and neck traced a softly shaded curve into shadow. It was a splendid composition. Regrettably, Mr. Ono, sitting directly opposite, did not notice. The poet preferred sensory beauty. Such a rise of flesh here, such a recession there—under such light, with such play of color—this was rarely seen. Had Mr. Ono captured this beautiful composition in that instant, he might have twisted his laced heel deep into the earth until it sank through the ground, leaping back five years against time’s current to reclaim the past. Regrettably, Mr. Ono sat directly facing her. Mr. Ono simply thought her an uninteresting woman lacking poetic charm. At the same time, the fragrance from a rippling sleeve fluttered before his nose—it grazed the deep purple space between brows and wafted pungently. Mr. Ono suddenly wanted to leave.

“I’ll come again,” he said, fastening his suit jacket. “It’s already time for you to go,” she said in a small voice, attempting to detain him. “I’ll come again. When you return, please give them my regards.” “Um…” she stammered. The other person, half-rising from his seat, could hardly wait for her to continue. He felt hurried to leave quickly. That which cannot be approached only moves further away. How pitiful. “Um... Father...” Mr. Ono found himself weighed down by an inexplicable heaviness. The woman found it increasingly difficult to broach the subject.

"I'll come again," he said, standing up. She wanted to say what needed to be said, but he wouldn't listen. Those who left departed without a shred of decency. He walked away without reluctance or even a nod. Sayoko, who had returned from the genkan to the zashiki, sat blankly near the veranda edge.

From the depths of a sky threatening rain yet withholding it，a faint spring light filtered through thin clouds that spread across the expanse．The sky overhead，suppressing its serenity，appeared clear yet somehow oppressive．A koto’s sound could be heard from somewhere．The instrument that should have been played remained undusted；between two chintz-wrapped parcels placed side by side，it leaned forlornly against the wall，still in its bag．When would she ever remove the turmeric-dyed cover？That piece must have required a well-practiced hand．The plectrum pressed and plucked each string in turn，moving serenely back and forth across the koto’s many bridges，its hues disrupting spring’s boundaries with diligent，abundant vitality．As she listened，that rain felt as if it had fallen just yesterday．Flickering midday fireflies and dew dripping on bamboo fences—since morning，Father had complained about how tedious this rain was．Satin sleeve cuffs slipped easily against her wrist．Keeping the silk thread drawn long through her needle’s eye，she pierced the red pincushion with a sharp jab and stood up．On the long，swelling body of aged paulownia wood，as if awakening her eyes to its form，she pressed down several times on the strings stretched in a gentle curve，then plucked them repeatedly．The piece was unmistakably Kogo．Around the time her frantic fingers had mashed the dreary day into a pulpy mess，Father—saying “You must be tired”—had kindly prepared tea himself．Kyoto was Kyoto in spring，in rain，in koto．Of them all，the koto suited Kyoto best．As one who loved the koto，it was only natural she should dwell in tranquil Kyoto．Having emerged from that ancient capital，she was like a crow breaking through darkness only to startle at its own blackness upon taking flight—the night to which she might return now dawned clear and distant．In that case，she should have learned piano instead of koto．Her English remained as it had been from long ago，and now she had mostly forgotten it．

Father said women had no need for such things. Relying on those who dwelled in bygone eras, she had fallen behind Mr. Ono in such a way that she could never catch up. A world grown old from long habitation would not endure much longer. Overtaken by those of old, if left behind by the new—a life that counted today as tomorrow and measured its days found both literature and reason imperiled...

The lattice door clattered open. The person of old returned.

“I just got back.” “The dust is quite harsh, you know.”

"But there's no wind?" "There may be no wind, but the ground is parched—I tell you, Tokyo is truly a detestable place. Kyoto was far better." "But you were the one saying daily, 'Let us move to Tokyo soon, move soon,' were you not?" "I did say what I said, but having come here, it appears otherwise," said the old man, having dusted off his tabi socks on the veranda and settled properly into his seat.

“The teacups are out.” “Did someone come?” “Yes. Mr. Ono came...” “Ono? Oh?” she said, but began carefully undoing each cross-shaped knot on the twine binding the large package she had brought.

“Today, you see,” “I decided to buy some zabuton cushions and got on the train, but I forgot to transfer and ended up in quite a predicament.” “Oh dear,” smiled the daughter sympathetically. “But did you manage to buy the futon?” he asked. “Ah well—at least I bought this futon here—though it made me terribly late,” he said as he pulled out yellow-striped fabric resembling Hachijō cloth from his package. “How many did you get?” “Three.” “Well, three should do for now.” “Here—try laying this one out,” he said, placing a cushion before Sayoko.

“Hohoho, you should lay it out yourself.” "I'll lay one out too, so you should lay yours out as well. There now, isn’t this rather nice?” “The cotton seems a bit stiff.” “The cotton—well, you get what you pay for. But because I bought these, I ended up missing the train…” "You didn’t transfer trains, did you?" “Exactly—the transfer—I’d even asked the conductor about it beforehand. It was so infuriating that I walked back home.” "You must have been exhausted."

"Oh, it's nothing." "My legs are still going strong, you know. But because of that trip, even my beard got covered in dust." "Here," he said, using four fingers as a makeshift comb to rake under his chin—and sure enough, some grayish grime came off onto his thigh. "It's because you don't bathe properly." "It's just dust!"

“But there’s no wind.” “It’s strange that dust rises even without any wind.” “But...” “It’s not about ‘but.’ Well, try going outside and see for yourself. Tokyo’s dust could startle just about anything. Was it like this even when you were here?” “Yes, it’s been terribly harsh.” “It must be getting worse year by year. There’s absolutely no wind today,” he said, peering out from beneath the eaves. The sky held a cloudy disposition through which the spring sunlight drifted hazily. The sound of a koto could still be heard.

The sky filtered through its cloudy disposition and let the spring sunlight drift ambiguously. The sound of the koto could still be heard.

“Oh, someone’s playing the koto—quite skillfully. What piece is that?” “Why don’t you try guessing?” “Take a guess. Hahaha—this old man wouldn’t know. Listening to the koto reminds me of Kyoto. Kyoto was so peaceful. A relic like me isn’t cut out for this relentless Tokyo. Tokyo’s a place for young folks like Ono and you to live.”

A father behind the times had essentially moved to dusty Tokyo specially for Mr. Ono and himself.

“Then shall we return to Kyoto?” she showed with an apprehensive smile.

The old man interpreted this as filial compassion pitying his being out of touch with the world. “Ahahahaha! Should we really go back?” “If we really were to return, you know.”

“Why?” “Just because.” “But we’ve only just arrived.”

“Even if we’ve only just arrived, it’s all right, you know.” “You don’t mind? Hahaha, what nonsense…”

The daughter looked down.

“I hear Ono came.”

“Yes.” The daughter was still looking down. “Ono—what about Ono—”

“Huh?” She raised her head. The old man gazed upon his daughter’s face. “Ono—he came, didn’t he?”

“Yes, he did come by, you know.”

“So did he say anything? That is—didn’t he say anything before leaving?” “No, nothing in particular…” “He didn’t say anything?—He should have waited.” “He said he was in a hurry and would come again, so he left.” “I see. So he didn’t come for any particular reason after all, did he? I see.”

“Father.”

“What is it?” “Mr. Ono has changed, hasn’t he?” “Changed?—Ah, he’s become quite impressive.” "When I met him at Shinbashi, he looked completely different." “Well, it’s a fine thing for us both.”

The daughter looked down again - her simple father did not seem to grasp the meaning behind her words. "I'm told I remain exactly as I always was, unchanged in the slightest... Yet even if I haven't changed..." The latter part of her utterance resonated in Professor Kodō's mind like bare feet treading upon the quivering end of a plucked string.

“You haven’t changed?” he pressed further.

“There’s no helping it,” she added in a small voice. The old man tilted his head.

“Did Ono say something?” “No, nothing in particular…” The same question and the same response were repeated once more. If one steps on a waterwheel, it merely turns. No matter how long you tread, you cannot break through.

“Hahaha! You mustn’t trouble yourself over such trifles. “Spring weighs upon one’s spirits. “This dreary weather today ill suits even a father.”

It is autumn when spirits grow heavy. Knowing it's mochi, they say it's the sake's fault. Those who are comforted are those who are mocked. Sayoko remained silent. "Why don't you play the koto a bit to take your mind off things?" The daughter tilted her sullen face into a charming expression and looked at the alcove. The scroll hung vainly, vertically severing the needlessly remaining edge of the black wall; the turmeric-colored mounting did not conceal spring but laid it bare. "Oh, let's just forget it." "Discard it? If you're going to discard it, then discard it. Well, about Ono—he's been busy lately, I tell you. I hear he's about to submit his doctoral thesis soon..."

Sayoko thought even a silver watch was unnecessary. Even a hundred doctors would be of no use to me now.

“That’s why he can’t settle down.” “Once you immerse yourself in scholarship, everyone becomes like that.” “You shouldn’t fret over it.” “Even if he wanted to take things leisurely, he couldn’t keep it up—there’s no helping it. Eh?” “What was that?” “That much...”

“Hmm.” “Do hurry.”

“Ah.” “When you return…” “When he returns—has he?” “Hasn’t he?” “Even if he seems to like it, there’s no helping it.” “He’s engrossed in his studies.” “So isn’t he saying he wants you to arrange a day off to see the exposition together?” “Did you speak to him about it?” “No.” “You didn’t speak?” “You should have spoken.” “What were you doing when Ono came?” “Even if you’re a woman, you must at least say something.”

You raised me not to speak—why do you now say I don’t speak? Sayoko had to bear all the blame. Her eyes grew hot. “It’s alright.” “I’ll write a letter and find out—there’s no need to grieve.” “I wasn’t scolding you. —By the way, do we have anything for dinner?” “We have rice, at least.” “Rice alone is enough; we don’t need any side dishes.” “The old woman we arranged for will come tomorrow.” “Once you get a bit more used to it, Tokyo and Kyoto will be the same.”

Sayoko went to the kitchen. Kodō Sensei began to untie the furoshiki bundle in the alcove.

10

The enigmatic woman came storming into the Munekata household. Where the enigmatic woman dwelled, waves rose into mountains and charcoal briquettes gleamed like crystal. In Zen households, they say willows are green and flowers are red. Or perhaps they also say that sparrows go "chirp chirp" and crows go "caw caw." The enigmatic woman would not rest until she made crows chirp and sparrows caw. Since the enigmatic woman came into being, the world suddenly became chaotic. The enigmatic woman put those who approached into a pot and stirred them repeatedly with her slender cedar chopsticks. Unless one came bearing their own potato, they must not approach the enigmatic woman. The enigmatic woman was like a diamond. It glittered unnaturally. And the source of that light could not be determined. When viewed from the right, it shone on the left. When viewed from the left, it shone on the right. It excelled at reflecting motley lights from motley surfaces. There were about twenty types of kagura masks. The one who invented kagura masks was the enigmatic woman.—The enigmatic woman came storming into the Munekata household.

The great priest of the Munekata household—a man of sincerity and cheer—never could have imagined that such a troublesome woman walked the earth, busily stirring up the pot’s depths.

On a Chinese blackwood desk lay Chinese-carved calligraphy models; seated upon a thick zabuton cushion, from his large belly he chanted “Smoke Rises in Shinano, Smoke Rises,” the song from *The Potted Tree*. The enigmatic woman gradually drew near.

The witch from Macbeth swept all worldly dregs into her cauldron. The toad that secretly spewed thirty-day poison beneath stone shadows; the salamander hiding fiery gall beneath its blackened back; snake eyes and bat claws—the cauldron bubbled and seethed. The witch circled endlessly round her brew. Her shriveled talons gripped an iron poker wasted by aeons of rust gnawing at existence. The roiling pot heaved forth viscous waves with froth—readers call this terror.

That was theater. The enigmatic woman did not engage in such eerie things. The capital is where one resides. The time was the twentieth century. She arrived in broad daylight. Charm bubbled up from the pot’s depths. They say the ripples were waves of laughter. They called the implement that stirred it “the chopsticks of kindness.” The pot itself was tastefully crafted. The enigmatic woman stirred slowly and deliberately. Even her gestures were executed with Noh-like skill. It was no wonder the great priest wasn’t frightened.

“No— “It’s grown quite warm.” “Here, please,” he extended his large palm toward the futon. The enigmatic woman deliberately remained seated at the entrance, resting both hands properly. “After that…”

“Please, make yourself comfortable…” The large hand remained thrust forward. “I must step out briefly, but with no one else here—though I kept meaning to come by—I’ve ended up neglecting to visit for so long…” When her speech paused slightly, the great priest began to say something, but the enigmatic woman immediately cut in.

“My deepest apologies,” she said, pressing her black head firmly against the tatami. “Oh, it’s nothing…”—but this was not a woman who would readily lift her head at such perfunctory words. Someone says: A woman who bows too gracefully is unsettling. Another person says: A woman who bows too politely is a nuisance. A third person says: Human sincerity is directly proportional to the time spent bowing one’s head. There are various theories. However, the great priest belonged to the nuisance camp.

The black head remained on the tatami; only the voice emerged from the mouth. “Everyone in your household remains well, I trust… Though Mr. Kōno and Miss Fujio keep visiting and causing nothing but trouble… And then receiving such splendid gifts from you recently—I should have come to express my gratitude long ago, but I’ve been so preoccupied with my own affairs…” At last, her head lifted there. The father heaved a sigh of relief.

“No—just some trifling thing… A gift that came my way. Ha ha ha! It’s finally grown warm,” he abruptly remarked on the weather while glancing toward the garden before concluding, “How are your cherry blossoms? They must be at their peak around now.” “This year’s unseasonable warmth made them bloom early—four or five days ago was prime viewing—but the winds two days ago damaged them terribly, so now…” “Ruined? That variety’s quite rare. What was it called again? Hmm?” “Pale indigo cherry blossoms.” “Ah yes! That color’s truly uncommon.”

“They have a slight bluish tint, and somehow—you know—in the evening I find myself feeling quite overwhelmed.”

“Is that so? Ha ha ha ha! In Arakawa there are scarlet cherry blossoms, but pale indigo ones are rare.” “Everyone says so. There are plenty of double-petaled ones, but blue ones must be quite rare, they say…”

“There aren’t any. Though enthusiasts claim there are over a hundred varieties of cherry blossoms…” “Oh my,” the woman said with feigned astonishment. “Ha ha ha! You can’t underestimate cherry blossoms either. When Ichi came back from Kyoto recently and mentioned visiting Arashiyama, I asked him what the flowers were like—all he could say was ‘single-petaled.’ The boy knows nothing. Young people these days are so carefree—ha ha ha! How about some humble sweets? Gifu persimmon yōkan.”

“No, please.” “Please don’t trouble yourself…” “It’s not particularly tasty—just unusual,” said Old Man Munekata, raising his chopsticks to receive a piece of yōkan he had pried from the dish before munching away by himself. “Speaking of Arashiyama…” Kōno’s mother began.

“The other day, Kōno caused so much trouble again, but he said he was very pleased to have been able to visit various places thanks to your kindness. Truly, he is such a willful person—Mr. Ichi must have been quite inconvenienced.” “No, I hear that Ichi was the one who received so much kindness from you…” “Not at all—I’m afraid he isn’t the sort of man who could truly be of service to others. At his age, they say he hasn’t a single friend to speak of…”

"If one studies too much, it becomes difficult to get along with just anyone." "Ha ha ha ha!" "As a woman, I don't understand such things at all, but he does seem perpetually gloomy—unless even Mr. Ichi takes him out occasionally, it appears no one will keep him company..." "Ha ha ha ha! Ichi is the exact opposite." "He'll talk to anyone." "When he's at home—you know—he only teases his sister... No—actually, that's still a problem."

“Not at all—he’s truly cheerful and easygoing, which is quite admirable. If only Kōno would become even half as cheerful as Mr. Ichi—I often tell Fujio as much—though of course all of this stems from his illness, so I suppose there’s no use complaining now. But precisely because he isn’t my own flesh and blood, I can’t help but worry about how society perceives us…” “Quite right,” Old Man Munekata replied earnestly, then tapped the ash tray with a sharp *pon* and let his silver-forged kiseru pipe roll onto the tatami. From the mouthpiece of the pipe, excess smoke drifted out.

“How about it—hasn’t he improved somewhat since returning from Kyoto?” “Thanks to your kindness…” “The other day when he visited our home, he chatted idly with everyone and seemed quite cheerful, but…” “Oh?” he remarked with apparent interest. “It’s truly vexing.” She said this in a drawn-out manner, sounding utterly troubled. “Well, that’s quite…” “As for his illness, I can’t tell you how much I’ve worried until now.” “Perhaps if he were to get married, it might change his disposition for the better.”

The enigmatic woman made others voice her thoughts. To take action would have been a misstep. She waited obediently for the other party to slip and fall. She did nothing but prepare a slippery muddy sea unbeknownst to them. “I have been constantly bringing up the matter of marriage—but no matter how much I press him, he simply won’t agree.” “As you can see, I am getting on in years, and with Kōno having passed away abroad so suddenly like that, I cannot help but worry—so I wish to settle his affairs at the earliest possible opportunity…… Truly, I cannot tell you how many times I have brought up the matter of marriage until now.” “But each time I bring it up, he flatly rejects it outright…”

“The truth is, when he came by the other day, I did broach the subject briefly.” “I told him that if he kept being stubborn forever, the only one worrying would be his poor mother—so I suggested it’d be best for him to settle down soon and set her mind at ease while there was still time.” “Thank you very much for your kindness.” “No, our worries are mutual—we’re also saddled with two people we need to sort out, so… Ha ha ha! It’s quite something.” “No matter how old you get, the worries never cease.”

“You are fortunate in that regard, but I—if he continues insisting he’s too ill to take a bride, and something were to happen… I would have no face to meet my late husband among the grasses.” “Oh, why must he be so utterly unreasonable?” “When he starts saying things like—‘Mother, with this frail body of mine, I simply can’t manage the household any longer—so please let Fujio take a husband and have her look after me.’” “I don’t receive a single penny from property or anything.” “Well, that’s how it is.” “If I were his true parent, then I could tell him ‘Do as you please,’ but as you know—given our relationship isn’t one of blood—I cannot commit such an unfilial act toward others, and truly am at my wit’s end.”

The enigmatic woman stared intently at the priest. The priest considered the matter with his large belly exposed. The ash tray clinked with a *pon*. He carefully placed the rosewood lid. The kiseru pipe rolled. “I see.” The priest’s voice was uncharacteristically somber. “However, if I—not being his birth mother—were to act oppressively and meddle too much, complications I’d rather not have known may arise…” “Hmm, this is troublesome.”

The priest took out a turmeric-dyed cotton cloth from the shallow drawer of the portable tobacco tray and meticulously wiped the whale-bone stem.

“Perhaps I should have a thorough discussion with him myself.” “If it’s difficult for you to raise the matter.” “I must apologize for causing you such concern…”

“So that’s how you view it?”

“What do you think? If he were to hear such a thing in his current, peculiar state of nerves…” “Oh, that’s nothing—I’m well aware, so I intend to broach it in a way that won’t offend him.”

“But if by any chance it should be taken as though I came here to make this request myself, that would indeed lead to quite an uproar afterward…”

“This is a problem—if he’s so high-strung.” “It’s like touching a boil…” “Hmm,” the priest began to cross his arms. Because the sleeves were short, thick elbows appeared ill-mannered. The enigmatic woman led people into a labyrinth and made them say, “Ah, I see.” She made them say, “Hmm.” She made the ashtray clink. In the end, she made them cross their arms. The taboos of the twentieth century are hasty speech and abrupt demeanor. Wondering why, one asked a certain gentleman and a certain lady; both answered in unison. “Hasty speech and abrupt demeanor are most prone to violating the law.” “The enigmatic woman’s formality is most prone to violating the law.” The priest crossed his arms and said, “Hmm.”

“If he stubbornly insists on leaving home—though of course I cannot remain silent upon seeing that—but if he absolutely refuses to listen…”

“A son-in-law, eh? When it comes to a son-in-law...” “No, that would be most troublesome—but we must prepare for contingencies, lest we’re left helpless when the moment arrives.” “That’s true.” “Considering this, I cannot possibly arrange Fujio’s marriage unless he recovers from his illness and shows greater stability.” “Indeed,” the priest tilted his head slightly. “How old is Miss Fujio?” “She will turn twenty-four this coming spring.”

“How time flies.” “Huh?” “Until just the other day, she was only this big,” he said, extending his large hand level with his shoulder and peering into his spread palm from below. “Though he’s grown so large in stature, he remains utterly useless.” “……That makes four if you count.” “Since our Itoko is two.”

If left unattended, the conversation seemed liable to drift off somewhere. The enigmatic woman had to take the reins. “Over here as well, while you are worried about Miss Itoko and Mr. Ichi, for me to bring up such unnecessary matters—you must think me a carefree woman who doesn’t understand others’ feelings…” “Oh, not at all—in fact, I had been meaning to consult properly about that matter myself. But since Ichi is currently making a fuss about whether to become a diplomat or not, we can’t settle it immediately. Still, sooner or later, he must take a bride…”

“Indeed it is.” “Now then—about Miss Fujio…”

“Yes.” “If it’s her—well, we know her disposition, I feel assured, and Ichi naturally has no objections—I think it would be acceptable.” “Yes.” “What do you think, Madam?” “Though our household remains so inadequately managed, your speaking of it so generously is truly appreciated, but…”

“Isn’t that perfectly fine?” “In that case, Fujio would be happy, and I could rest easy…”

“If there were any objections, that would be one matter—but since there are none…” “Far from objections—it’s precisely what we could have wished for, an arrangement beyond reproach… But that person remains a concern.” “Mr. Ichi is the vital successor to the Munekata household.” “Though I cannot presume whether Fujio would suit your preferences—even were we to first have you accept her and then formally give her away—if Kōno persists in his current state, I must confess I would feel profoundly uneasy……”

“Ahahaha! If you worry like this, there’ll be no end to it! Once Miss Fujio is married off, responsibility will naturally fall upon Mr. Kōno too—his thinking is bound to change accordingly. Let that happen.” “Is that how it would be?” “Moreover, as you well know, there’s also what Father mentioned before. In that case, the deceased would be satisfied too.” “Thank you for all your kindness. If only my spouse were still alive… I… I wouldn’t have to shoulder such worries alone—but…”

The enigmatic woman’s words were gradually taking on a dampness. A pen wearied by the world disdained this dampness. When it had barely managed to narrate the enigmatic woman’s mystery this far, the pen declared its loathing to advance even a single step further. The God who created day and night, sea and land, and all things, upon reaching the seventh day, said to rest. The pen that had written the enigmatic woman had to enter a sunlit other world and dispel this dampness.

In the sunlit other world, two siblings moved about. In the six-tatami mezzanine that faced south yet refused to settle for mere brightness from that direction, beyond the refreshingly wide-open shoji screens stood a two-shaku pine in a Shigaraki pot, its coiled roots lifting upward to cast the shadow of a kana "ku" character upon the veranda. A single bay of karakami paper, white-ground with scattered patterns of Qin and Han dynasty tiles, was pasted up; on the pull handles, plovers flew over waves. The adjoining three-shaku temporary alcove, rejecting scrolls, had a single light blossom tossed carelessly into a basket vase.

Itoko placed her five-colored sewing in the alcove, its hues artfully disarrayed, and set her needle box near the window—two drawers pulled out so far that thread scraps threatened to spill. The path of the stitching thread, with each stitch carving spring in faint sounds—the silence profound enough to be heard—her brother obliterated with his booming voice. Lying prone in the guise of March, he commanded the realm’s spring even as he slept. The tip of a ruler was incessantly knocking against the threshold.

“Itokō. “This room of yours is brighter and more splendid, isn’t it?” “Shall I switch it for you?” “Right. Even if I had you switch them, it probably wouldn’t make much difference—but this room is too fancy for you.” “Even if I had you switch them, it probably wouldn’t make much difference—but this room is too fancy for you.”

“Even if it’s too fancy, no one uses it anyway, so isn’t that fine?” “It’s fine.” “It’s fine as it is, but a bit too fancy.” “And these decorations—there’s something rather unbecoming about them for a young woman, don’t you think?” “What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? This pine here. This must be the one Father got swindled into buying for twenty-five yen at Kokemori Garden.” “Yes. It’s an important bonsai. It’d be disastrous if you were to overturn it.” “Ahahaha! Father getting tricked into buying this for twenty-five yen is one thing, but you huffing and puffing to haul it up to the second floor—that’s another matter entirely! After all, no matter how different their ages get, you can’t argue with parent and child.” “Hohohoho! Brother, you’re such a fool.”

“Even if I’m a fool, it’s only to the same degree as you are, right?” “We’re siblings, after all.”

“Oh dear no!” “Well of course I’m a fool.” “I may be a fool, but Brother you’re a fool too.”

“A fool, am I? Then isn’t it just fine if we’re both fools?” “But there’s proof!” “Proof we’re fools?” “Yes.” “That’s your brilliant invention? What proof?” “That bonsai...” “Yeah—this bonsai—” “That bonsai... I don’t even know—” “You don’t know?!” “I hate it!”

“Heeey, now this here’s my great invention.” “Ha ha ha ha!” “Why’d you bring such a dreadful thing?” “It must’ve been heavy.” “Father was the one who brought it himself.” “What?” “He said the sun was high so the second floor would be better for the pine.” “Father’s being considerate too.” “Ah! So that’s why I turned into such a fool.” “Father shows kindness and children become fools.” “What? That’s... A haiku?” “Well, something like a haiku.”

“Even if it resembles one, isn’t it supposed to be a real haiku?” “You’re really hounding the point.” “Anyway, you’re sewing something quite splendid today.” “What’s that?”

“This? “This is Isesaki kasuri fabric, isn’t it?” “It’s awfully shiny, isn’t it. “Is this Brother’s?” “It’s Father’s.” “You only ever sew Father’s things and don’t sew anything at all for Brother.” “Since that fox-sleeve incident, you’ve given up on me, haven’t you?” “Oh, no! “That’s nothing but lies!” “The one you’re wearing now—I sewed that for you!”

“This one?” “This one’s no good anymore.” “Look at this!” “Oh my, such terrible collar grime! And you just wore this recently—Brother, you use far too much pomade.” “No matter how much is too much, it’s already ruined.” “Then once I finish sewing this one, I’ll make one for you right away.” “It’s new, I suppose?” “Yes, I washed and starched it.” “Is that old man’s thing a hand-me-down? “Ha ha ha ha!” “By the way, Itokō—there’s something rather odd.” “What?” “It’s strange—Father keeps wearing new clothes despite his age while making me wear nothing but hand-me-downs.” “At this rate, he’ll end up sporting a Panama hat himself while ordering me to don some old jingasa from the storage shed.”

“Ohoho! Brother, you’re quite silver-tongued.” “Is that silver tongue all you’ve got? How pitiful.” “There’s still more, you know.” Mr. Munekata stopped replying and, leaning his cheek on his hand, gazed down at the garden plantings through the railing’s gaps.

“There’s still more.” “Just a moment,” said Itoko, her eyes never leaving the needle. With her left hand firmly pinching the seam, she swiftly gathered it together, and when she released her plump white fingertips with a decisive motion, she finally looked up at her brother’s face.

“There’s still more.” “Brother.” “What?” “That’s enough talk from you.” “But there’s still more,” she said, turning the needle’s eye toward the shoji and narrowing her lovely double eyelids. Mr. Munekata remained still, his tranquil heart resting on his propped cheek as he gazed at the garden. “Shall I say it?” “Uh-huh.” His jaw stayed fixed beneath his hand. The reply escaped through his nose. “Ah.” “You understood, didn’t you?” “Uh-huh.” Moistening a navy thread with her lips and tapering it against her fingertip was a woman’s tactic for threading an elusive needle’s eye.

“Itokō, do we have a visitor?” “Yes, Kōno’s mother has come.” “Kōno’s mother? She’s the eloquent one—Brother here could never match up.” “She’s the eloquent one—Brother here could never match up.” “But she’s refined. “She doesn’t speak ill of others like you do, Brother—that’s what’s good about her.”

“If Brother dislikes that, there’s no point in looking after you.” “Even though you don’t do any looking after yourself,” “Ha ha ha ha! Actually, as a token of gratitude, I was just thinking of taking you flower viewing one of these days.”

“But the flowers have already fallen, haven’t they? Going flower viewing now?” “No—Ueno and Mukōjima are past their prime, but Arakawa’s at its peak now. We’ll go from Arakawa to Kayano to gather primroses, then loop around Ōji and return by train.” “When?” Itoko stopped sewing and stuck the needle into her hair. “Or we could visit the Exhibition instead—have tea at the Taiwan Pavilion, see the Illuminations, then take the train home. Which would you prefer?” “I want to see the Exhibition. Let’s go once I finish this sewing. Okay?”

“Yeah. So you’ve got to take good care of me. You won’t find many brothers as kind as me anywhere in Japan!” “Ohoho! I’ll be sure to treasure you—now please lend me that measuring tape.” “If you keep studying sewing like that, I’ll buy you a diamond ring when you get married.” “You’re all talk and no action, aren’t you? Do you have that much money?” “You ask if I have it—well, not right now.” “Why did you fail, Brother?”

“Because I’m too brilliant.” “Oh—aren’t there any scissors around here somewhere?” “They’re next to that futon.” “No—a bit more to the left. Why’s there a monkey on those scissors?” “A joke?” “This?” “It’s pretty, isn’t it?” “It’s a crepe-silk Mr. Monkey.” “Did you make this yourself?” “It’s impressively well made.” “You can’t do anything right, but you’re quite skilled at this sort of thing.” “I’ll never be like Miss Fujio—oh, you mustn’t toss tobacco ash on the veranda like that. Here, you can borrow this.”

“What’s this?” “Well, well.” She had pasted chiyogami paper onto wood-grained stock. “So you’re the one who made this after all.” “You’ve got too much time on your hands.” “What’s this even for? To hold thread?” “Or thread scraps?” “My, my.” “Brother prefers someone like Miss Fujio, don’t you?” “I like your sort too.” “But I’m in a different category altogether—don’t you agree?” “Can’t say I mind.”

“Oh, you’re hiding it. How strange.” “How strange.” “Strange? So what if it is? — Aunt Kōno’s been having frequent secret talks lately.” “In fact, they might be about Miss Fujio, you know.”

“Is that so? Then let’s go listen.” “Oh, you mustn’t do that—I need the charcoal iron, but I’m too hesitant to go fetch it myself.” “Being so reserved in your own home does harm.” “Shall I go get it for you?” “Just stop it already, please. If you go downstairs now, they’ll stop their important conversation.” “This feels rather precarious. In that case, must we hold our breath and lie here quietly too?” “You needn’t hold your breath.”

“Then I’ll just keep breathing and lie here, shall I?” “You really must stop lounging about like this. With such poor manners, no wonder you failed the diplomat’s exam.” “Hmm, perhaps that examiner shared your opinion. Troublesome business.” “If you find it troublesome, know that Miss Fujio holds the same view.” Pausing her sewing and hesitating over the charcoal iron, Itoko drew out a thimble woven in nested diamond patterns, turned over a needle case stippled with silver raindrops against ash-gray lacquer, and let fall with a clatter the fish-scale-patterned lid of lacquered wood. She then rested her palm against her earlobe—flushed from the long spring light through the window—propped her right elbow on the sewing box, and angled her concealed knee beneath the spread-out sewing work. The vibrant floral patterns cascading down her underrobe’s sleeve slid silently along her soft arm, revealing a column of flesh—more distinct than ordinary—that glowed vividly beneath the silk cord tied in a slanting butterfly knot.

“Brother.” “What is it? — Have you stopped working already? You look rather distracted.” “Miss Fujio is no good.”

“Is she no good? What do you mean by ‘no good’?” “But she has no intention of coming, you know.” “Did you go ask her?” “You don’t truly think I could be so ill-mannered as to ask that directly?” “You can tell without asking? You’re just like a shrine maiden. The way you’re leaning your cheek on your hand against the sewing box makes for the most splendid view in all creation. Quite the admirable posture for my own sister—ha ha ha!”

“That’s quite enough of your teasing.” “When someone’s trying to be kind enough to tell you though…”

As she spoke, Itoko abruptly dropped the white arm that had been supporting her head. The aligned fingers drooped forward as though pressing down on the sewing box’s corner. The cheek nearer to the shoji screen, along with the earlobe, was flushed red with the imprint of a pressed hand. The beautifully framed double eyelids drooped downward from above, long lashes attempting to conceal cool eyes. Mr. Munekata was intently observed by his sister from beyond these lashes.—Filling out her square shoulders, she propelled her reclined torso upward with an elbow.

“Itokō, I have a promise to receive Uncle’s gold pocket watch.”

“Uncle’s?” she asked lightly in return, then suddenly lowered her voice—but before she could finish “But…,” the black eyes vanished behind long lashes. A showy-colored silk cord briefly peeked out toward the front. “It’s fine. I even discussed it with Kōno back in Kyoto.”

With a "I see," she partially raised her face that had been cast downward. An apprehensive, consoling smile rose to her face.

“If I go abroad soon，I’ll buy you something and send it.”

“You still don’t know the results of this exam?”

“It should be soon.” “This time, you must pass without fail.” “Huh? Yeah.” “Ah ha ha ha!” “Ah, whatever.” “I don’t like her.—Miss Fujio, you know.” “She prefers those who excel academically and have credibility.” “So Brother has no academic skills and lacks credibility?” “That’s not it, you know.” “That’s not what I mean—well, to give an example, there’s that Mr. Ono.” “Yeah.” “He received a silver watch for academic honors.” “He’s writing his doctoral thesis now.—Miss Fujio prefers that sort of person.”

“I see. Well, well…” “What’s with the ‘well, well’? But it’s an honor!” “Brother couldn’t get a silver watch or write a doctoral thesis. I do fail exams. The height of disgrace.” “Oh, no one says it’s disgraceful. You’re just far too carefree.” “You’re far too carefree.” “Hohoho, how amusing. Somehow it doesn’t seem to trouble you at all.” “Itokō, Brother here can’t handle academics and fails exams—well, let’s drop it. Anyway, don’t you think Brother makes a good brother?”

“I do think so.” “Which do you prefer—Mr. Ono or me?” “Well, Brother is better.”

“And Mr. Kōno?” “I don’t know.”

The deep sun shone warmly through the shoji onto Itoko’s cheek. Only the color of her downward-turned forehead appeared strikingly white. “Hey, there’s a needle stuck in your head. If you forget about it, you’ll get hurt.” With an “Oh my,” she pinched the spot with two fingers through the fluttering sleeve of her undergarment and deftly plucked it out. “Ha ha ha! You can reach skillfully even where you can’t see. If you went blind, you’d make an excellent masseuse for fretful children.” “But I’m used to it.”

“That’s impressive.” “Now then, Itokō, shall I tell you an interesting story?” “What?” “There was a beautiful woman playing the koto next to the inn in Kyoto.”

“It was written in the postcard, wasn’t it?” “Ah.” “If that’s what you meant, I already know.” “Well now, the world’s full of strange things. When Brother, Mr.Kōno and I went cherry-blossom viewing at Arashiyama, we met that woman. Meeting her once would’ve been fine, but then Mr.Kōno got so entranced he dropped his teacup—you see?” “Oh really? My goodness!” “You must’ve been shocked. Then when we took the express night train back, we ended up sharing the carriage with her again—you see?”

“That’s a lie.” “Ha ha ha ha! She ended up coming all the way to Tokyo with us.” “But there’s no reason someone from Kyoto would come all the way to Tokyo so recklessly, is there?” “That must be some sort of fate.” “You’re making fun of…” “Oh, listen to this. In the train, Kōno kept worrying whether that woman was going to get married or not, wondering ‘Is she? Isn’t she?’…”

“That’s enough.” “Very well—if you’ve had enough, we’ll drop it.” “What does she call herself—her name?” “Her name? But didn’t you declare yourself thoroughly sated mere moments ago?”

“Even if you told me, wouldn’t it be fine?” “Ha ha ha ha! There’s no need to be so serious.” “Actually, it was a lie.” “It was all my fabrication.” “You’re wicked!” Itoko laughed cheerfully.

11

Ants gather to sweet things; people gather to new things. Civilized people lament tedium amidst their fierce existence. Enduring the bustle of taking three meals while standing, they lament the lethargic sickness plaguing the streets. Entrusting life freely and devouring death freely—such are the ways of civilized people. None boast of their own activities as much as civilized people; none suffer from their own stagnation as much as civilized people. Civilization whittles down people's nerves with a straight razor and grinds their spirits dull with a pestle. Numb to stimulation yet thirsting for it, they flock in droves to novel exhibitions.

Dogs yearn for scent; people pursue beauty. Dogs and humans remain the keenest animals in this regard. They mention purple robes, yellow robes, blue collars— all mere instruments to summon crowds. Onlookers dashing along embankments invariably bear colorful banners. Those borne aloft while desperately plying oars are borne away by beauty itself. In all creation, nothing stands more prominent than a tengu’s nose. That nose has blazed resplendently red since antiquity. Where beauty dwells, they deem no distance too great. All humanity converges at color’s grand exhibition.

Moths gather to lamplight; people gather to electric lights. Things that glitter lead the world. Gold and silver, chank shells, agate, lapis lazuli, jambunada gold—all such things shine to make weary eyes widen in astonishment and jolt exhausted heads upright. At the soirées of civilized people who shorten the day, jewels embedded in exposed skin reign supreme. Diamonds are more precious than human hearts because they captivate them. The reflections of stars falling into a muddy sea—mere shadows though they are—flash more vividly than roof tiles in the hearts of those who behold them. Good men and women, dancing to the flashing shadows, leave their homes empty and gather at the illumination.

When civilization was sifted to the bottom of a sack of stimuli, it became an exhibition. When one filtered the exhibition through night's dull sands, it became a brilliant illumination. If one were to live at all, they had to gaze upon this illumination seeking proof of life and cry out in astonishment. Civilized people—numbed by their own civilization—only realized they were alive when startled into such astonishment.

The decorated tram sliced through the wind as it arrived. As if commanded to witness proof of life, they unloaded their cargo near Yamashita Gankama. Gankama had died long ago. The unloaded cargo trudged toward the forest in a line, seeking to restore honor on the verge of being lost. Oka passed through the night and arose from Hongo. Hazily floating a high platform, the descent cascading eastward across ten blocks channeled those ripe for astonishment through Nezu, Yayoi, and Kiridoshi—as if sifted by a masu measure—guiding them down to Shitaya. Trampling black shadows all gathered at Ike no Hata.—Nothing desires startlement more than civilized people.

The pines stood tall without obscuring the blossoms; layered evenings illuminating the night through gaps in the branches as rain fell and wind blew. First a single petal dropped, then two scattered. Next they came fluttering down in showers too numerous to count. All the while, myriad crimson petals blew toward the earth—before what had been swept downward could reach the ground—they fell chasing one another from the treetops. The frantic blizzard of petals finally exhausted itself, and now the storm too subsided among the remaining tree crowns. The floral shadows that had guarded the night without being stars were nowhere to be seen. Simultaneously, the illumination lit up.

“Oh,” said Itoko.

“The world of night is more beautiful than the world of day,” said Fujio. The susuki plumes were bent into circles, and amidst the overlapping golden flashes from left and right, the number of half-moons woven within defied counting. A foot away from Fujio’s wide obi that covered her hips stood Mr. Munekata and Mr. Kōno.

“This is quite a spectacle.” “It’s practically the Dragon Palace itself!” said Mr. Munekata.

“Miss Itoko, you seem surprised,” said Mr. Kōno as he stood with his hat pulled low over his brows.

Itoko turned around. Night’s laughter was like reciting poetry in water. What one intends may never reach its destination. The color of the turning figure’s garment resembled yellow, deceiving the night, while black lines were etched vertically in several streaks.

“Did it startle you?” her brother asked again.

“What about you all?” said Fujio, turning around past Itoko. From the shadow of black hair, a white face flashed. The edge of her cheek, catching the distant firelight, was faintly red. “Since this is my third time, I’m not surprised,” said Mr. Munekata, turning his entire face toward the light.

“As long as one can still be startled, there’s comfort to be had. Women have many comforts and are fortunate indeed,” said Mr. Kōno, his tall frame held straight as he looked down at Fujio. Black eyes pierced through the night as they moved.

“Is that the Taiwan Pavilion?” Itoko asked nonchalantly, pointing her finger across the water. “The one protruding furthest on the right is it,” came the reply. “That’s the most well-made part of it. Don’t you agree, Mr. Kōno?” “When seen at night,” Mr. Kōno immediately qualified. “Hey, Itsu-kō—doesn’t this look exactly like the Dragon Palace?” “It truly does resemble the Dragon Palace.” “Miss Fujio, what do you think?” pressed Mr. Munekata, clinging stubbornly to his aquatic analogy. “Isn’t that comparison rather vulgar?” “What’s vulgar? The building itself?”

“It’s your description.” “Ha ha ha ha! Mr. Kōno—you declare the Dragon Palace vulgar.” “Even if it’s vulgar, it’s still the Dragon Palace!”

“It’s generally the case that a description becomes vulgar when it hits the mark too well.”

“If hitting the mark makes it vulgar, then what does missing make it?”

“It would become poetry,” Fujio interjected from the side. “Therefore, poetry inherently misses reality,” stated Mr. Kōno. “Because it’s elevated above actuality,” Fujio elaborated. “So precise descriptions are vulgar while imprecise ones make poetry.” “Miss Fujio, why not attempt an insipid description that fails to connect?”

“Shall I try? — You know, Brother.” “Do listen,” said Fujio with a sharp glance from the corner of her eye at Kingo. The corner of her eye spoke— tasteless and off-target descriptions are philosophy.

“What is that over there?” Itoko asked innocently.

Lines of flame spanned the darkness to cut horizontally across the sky—this was the roof. What cut vertically became pillars. What sliced diagonally formed eaves. Stars lay buried deep within the haze as night stretched endlessly across a dusky plain; there, lightning's ear drew one line racing through the void. It drew another plunging downward. Tracing a swastika pattern, it whirled earthward like fireworks before finally flipping its tip upward—hurled as if to pierce the Imperial Throne's very heart. Thus pagodas merged with ridges, ridges joined floors, and from this vantage overlooking Shinobazu Pond, they filled the expanse from right to left without gaps, completing a grand tableau of fire.

Upon indigo-tinged black lacquer, the lavish high maki-e—sparing no gold—depicted halls, towers, corridors, curved railings, exhaustively rendering numerous round pagodas and square pillars; then, determined to fully expend what yet remained superfluous, traversed back and forth across the already rendered surfaces. The lines of flame crisscrossing the sky remained orderly without disturbing a single stroke or dot, alive within each stroke and dot. They moved. Moreover, they moved clearly, and as long as they moved, there was no sign of their forms breaking. “What is that over there?” Itoko asked.

“That is the Foreign Pavilion. It’s directly ahead of us. This vantage point offers the finest view. That tall round roof to the left belongs to the Mitsubishi Pavilion—what an exquisite form,” said Mr. Munekata, pausing in deliberation. “Only the central portion appears red,” remarked his younger sister. “Like a crown set with a ruby,” Fujio proposed.

“Ah, so you’ve seen Tenshōdō’s advertisements,” said Mr. Munekata with feigned ignorance, vulgarizing the comparison. Mr. Kōno laughed lightly and leaned back.

The sky was low. In the dusky midst of night pressing upon the earth, half-hearted stars wandered lost and hung suspended by the wayside. Myriad flames that linked pillars and piled upon eaves soaked the heavens upside down, piercing the drowsy eyes of stars. The stars' eyes burned. “The sky looks scorched.—Perhaps it’s the Roman Pope’s crown,” said Mr. Kōno as his gaze traced a great arc from Yanaka to Ueno’s forest. “The Roman Pope’s crown?” “Miss Fujio, what do you think of the Roman Pope’s crown?” “Tenshōdō’s advertisement seems preferable, though.”

“Either way...” Fujio maintained her composure. “Either way there’s no issue. “At any rate it’s not a queen’s crown. “Don’t you agree, Mr.Kōno?”

“It’s hard to say. Cleopatra wears a crown like that.” “How do you know that?” Fujio asked sharply.

“Isn’t there a picture drawn in that book you’re holding?”

“The water is prettier than the sky,” Itoko suddenly remarked. The conversation departed from Cleopatra.

The water, dead even in daylight, was pressed beneath the windless night’s shadow and lay flat as far as the eye could see. Since when had it remained still? The quiet water does not know. From the water’s depths—which one might imagine had remained still for a hundred years if the pond was dug a century ago, or fifty years if half a century—the rotten lotus roots were beginning to sprout green buds. Carp and crucian carp born from mud worked their jaws slowly, hiding in the darkness. Illumination inverted its towering shadows and, having dyed over two blocks of the shore crimson without leaving an inch, came crashing down upon this tranquil water. The black water, even as it died, abruptly created color. The fins of fish lurking in mud burned.

The dampened flames stretched in a single streak along the shore and clearly crossed to the opposite side. Relentlessly dyeing everything that lay in their path, they abruptly severed their course to span a long bridge from west to east. Twenty arches straddled Nobatama’s waves upon white stone, while all the giboshi crowning the railings were pearls of white light illuminating the night. “The water is prettier than the sky,” Itoko observed, and at her words, the remaining three turned their eyes entirely toward the water and bridge. Electric lights illuminating stone balustrades at regular intervals appeared suspended from this distant vantage point in a neat, orderly row across the sky. Below, people streamed past.

“That bridge is packed with people!” exclaimed Mr. Munekata in a loud voice.

Mr. Ono was now crossing this bridge with Professor Kodō and Sayoko. The crowd, eager to be amazed, pressed through Benten’s shrine and came surging forward. The crowd descended the slope and pressed forward. People from all directions abandoned the vast forest and the wide pond’s surroundings and gathered entirely upon the slender bridge. On the bridge, movement was impossible. In the center, holding a bow-shaped baton aloft, a policeman directed those coming and going to the left and right. Those coming and those going were merely jostled through. They had no time to set their feet on the ground. Just as they thought they had finally found an inch of space to step comfortably and settled their heels with ease, they were already being pushed forward from behind. It did not feel like walking. Yet one could not exactly say they were not walking. Sayoko felt as insubstantial as a dream. Professor Kodō feared that the crowd was jostling to crush people of the past. Only Mr. Ono remained comparatively composed. Those who stood among the multitude, conscious of their superiority to the majority, remained composed even when unable to move. The exposition was the modern age. Illumination was modernity itself. Those who gathered here in astonishment were all modern men and women of the age. They merely exclaimed “Ah!” to heighten their awareness of existence in a modern way. They looked at each other’s faces, tacitly agreed that their shared world was the present age, recognized their own power as the majority, and returned to their widow households to sleep soundly.

Mr. Ono was, among this multitude of the present age, its most quintessential embodiment. It stood to reason he should feel self-assured. Yet this self-assured Mr. Ono simultaneously harbored despair. Were one alone in this world, whose eyes would perceive modernity? There could be no grounds for objection. But here he stood—meticulously bearing antiquated burdens meant for two others—seen by this present age as fused with an obsolete past that commanded no respect. This went beyond mere observation; it amounted to outright condemnation. There exist those who attend plays yet fixate solely on whether their haori crests align with current fashions—so consumed by this concern that they cannot immerse themselves in the performance at all.

Mr. Ono felt ill at ease. He walked as quickly as the crowd allowed.

“Grandfather, are you all right?” called a voice from behind. “Ah, I’m fine,” came the reply, separated by strangers and a house away.

“It feels so dangerous…”

“Oh, if we just go with the natural flow, there’ll be no trouble,” he said, slipping past those caught in the crush until he rejoined his daughter in the cramped space. “We’re only getting pushed—can’t push back even a bit,” the girl replied restlessly, a nervous laugh escaping her lips as she managed a faint smile on one cheek. “No need to push—just let yourself be carried along,” he answered, and as he spoke, the two pressed forward. The policeman’s lantern grazed Professor Kodō’s black hat before swinging away. “Where’s Ono?” “Over there,” the old man indicated with his eyes. Any outstretched hand would meet nothing but strangers’ shoulders.

“Where?” Professor Kodō asked, without time to adjust his stance, tilting the front teeth of his sunny-weather geta and standing on tiptoe. Just as Professor Kodō’s hips were losing their balance, eager civilized folk pressed in from behind. Professor Kodō lurched forward. He nearly fell but managed to catch himself against the back of a civilized person standing before him. Even as they ceaselessly strive to push ahead, these civilized folk are kind enough not to refuse lending their backs to support others.

The wave of civilization moved of its own accord, pushing the helpless parent and child out near Benten’s shrine. The long bridge snapped, and as soon as the feet of those crossing touched the ground, the wave abruptly scattered left and right—black heads spilling haphazardly in every direction. The two of them finally felt as though their chests had opened up with relief.

When you gazed through the departing spring night, its dark depths tinged with indigo, flowers came into view. Left behind by rain and wind that scattered them, the lingering fragrance of layered blossoms—the flowers’ wish to adorn the night—was brightly illuminated from below by the lights of the human world. Into the haze, pale pink mother-of-pearl etched itself. To speak of "engraving" felt too rigid. To speak of floating meant parting from the sky. While pondering how to describe this evening and these flowers, Mr. Ono waited to meet the two of them.

“What terrifying people,” said Professor Kodō as he caught up. Terrifying here meant both profoundly dreadful in its essence and conventionally frightening in the ordinary sense. “There are an awful lot of them.” “I want to go home soon. “They’re really frightening people. “Where do they all come from?”

Mr. Ono smirked. The citizens of civilization, spread like a spider’s brood across the dark forest, were all of his own kind. “It’s truly Tokyo, isn’t it? I never imagined it would be like this... It’s a terrifying place.” Numbers were momentum. A place that generated momentum was terrifying. Even in less than three square meters of stagnant water, a place where maggots squirmed and swarmed was terrifying. Needless to say, Tokyo—which effortlessly spewed forth the spawn of high civilization—was terrifying.

Mr. Ono smirked again.

“Sayoko, how are you holding up? That was close—we nearly got separated. They don’t have crowds like this in Kyoto, do they?” “When we crossed that bridge... I didn’t know what to do. It was so frightening…” “You’ll be all right now. You look rather pale. Are you exhausted?” “I feel slightly…” “Unwell? It’s because you pushed yourself to walk beyond your limits. And with this throng of people... Let’s find somewhere to rest briefly—Ono, there must be a place nearby. Sayoko isn’t feeling well.”

“I see. Once we emerge there, numerous teahouses exist,” said Mr. Ono, walking ahead again.

Fate forms a circular pond. Those who circle the pond must meet somewhere. Those who meet and pass by with feigned ignorance are fortunate. In dimly lit London where human tides surge and churn, someone striving morning and evening to circle and meet—eyes strained wide, legs worn to sticks from fruitless searching—finds themselves blocked by a single wall’s breadth, gazing at soot-stained skies over neighboring houses. Even so they cannot meet—never meeting in their lifetime; someone once wrote they might never meet until bones turn to relics and grass grows on graves. Fate eternally separates those who yearn through walls’ thinness while abruptly uniting unexpected souls at round ponds. Strange things draw near while circling the pond’s edge. The mysterious thread stitches through night’s very darkness.

“How about it—the women must be quite tired. How about we have some tea here?” said Mr. Munekata. “As for the women—well, I’m the one who’s tired.” “Itoko’s sturdier than you. Itoko—can you still walk?”

“I can still walk.”

“Can you still walk?” “That’s impressive!” “Then shall we skip tea?” said Mr. Munekata.

“But Mr. Kīngo said he wants to rest, didn’t he?”

“Ha ha ha ha! That’s quite a clever thing to say.” “Mr. Kōno, Itoko says she’ll take a rest for your sake.” “Much obliged,” Mr. Kōno said with a thin smile, but he added in the same tone, “Fujio will probably rest too, right?” “If you insist,” came the succinct reply. “Anyway, I can’t compete with women,” Mr. Kōno concluded. When they stepped through the Western-style makeshift entrance reaching the pond’s edge, they entered a large hall where small tables with chairs were arranged here and there, each occupied by groups of three or four people engaged in conversation. As he wondered where to take their seats, Mr. Munekata surveyed the group of forty or fifty people, then gave a firm tug on the sleeve of Mr. Kōno standing beside him to the right. Fujio immediately thought Oh? behind them. However, to ask ostentatiously what was happening would be indiscreet. Mr. Kōno showed no particular sign of returning the signal.

“There’s an empty spot over there,” he said, heading deeper inside. Following behind, Fujio’s eyes absorbed every corner of the large room without omission. Itoko kept her gaze lowered as she passed through.

“Hey, did you notice?” said Mr. Munekata as his hips were the first to settle into a chair.

There was a concise reply of “Yeah.” “Miss Fujio—Ono’s over there,” said Mr.Munekata. “Take a look behind you,” he added again. “I know,” she replied without moving her head. Her dark eyes glinted strangely under electric lights that made her cheeks appear feverishly flushed.

“Where?” Innocently, Itoko twisted a gentle shoulder at an angle.

After proceeding left through the entrance to its end, Mr. Ono’s group had taken seats closely surrounding a second-row table near the wall. The three, having settled into their chairs, positioned themselves to the right at the far end, keeping the window within reach. Itoko’s eyes—her shoulder having shifted—pierced through the indiscriminately scattered crowd filling the broad room from end to end, landing on Mr. Ono’s far-distant profile.—Sayoko sat visible head-on. Professor Kodō was only the family crest on his back. The dreary beard—white threads that listlessly passed beneath the chin through the lonely spring night, abandoned to the world’s whims, to others’ ways, to the piling years—drifted in the wind toward Sayoko.

"Oh, there's dear company here," said Itoko as she turned her head back. When she turned back, her eyes met those of Mr. Kōno sitting in front. Mr. Kōno said nothing. He struck the side of a matchbox clamped vertically on the ashtray with a swift stroke. Fujio too remained tight-lipped. She might intend to part from Mr. Ono while remaining back-to-back.

“What do you think—a real beauty, eh?” Mr. Munekata teased Itoko playfully. Fujio’s eyes—cast downward at the tablecloth—remained unseen; only her thick eyebrows twitched slightly. Itoko stayed oblivious; Mr. Munekata remained unruffled; Mr. Kōno kept his aloofness. “She’s a beautiful person,” said Itoko, looking at Fujio. Fujio did not lift her gaze. “Yes,” she replied curtly. Her voice was barely audible. When faced with a question unworthy of response—when considering it beneath her dignity to humor the speaker—a woman adopts this tactic. Women wield the uncanny ability to lace words of assent with denial’s cadence.

“Did you notice, Mr. Kōno? Quite unexpected.” “Hmm, rather peculiar,” Fujio replied as she flicked cigarette ash into the tray.

“That’s why I said it.” “What did you say?” “What did I say? Have you forgotten?” Mr. Munekata struck a match while looking down. In that instant, Fujio’s eyes shot toward Mr. Munekata’s forehead. Mr. Munekata didn’t notice. When he transferred the flame to the rolled cigarette he held in his mouth and raised his face straight up, the lightning flash had already vanished. “My, how strange. You two… What are you talking about?” asked Itoko.

“Ha ha ha! There’s something amusing.” “Itoko-kō—” he began when black tea and Western confections arrived. “Ah! The nation-ruining sweets have come!” “What do you mean by ‘nation-ruining sweets’?” asked Mr. Kōno, pulling his teacup closer. “Nation-ruining sweets! Ha ha ha!” “You know their origin story, don’t you Itoko-kō?” he said, tossing a sugar cube into his teacup. Bubbles resembling crab’s eyes surfaced with a faint hiss. “I don’t know anything about that,” replied Itoko, swirling her spoon in circles.

“See? Grandpa said it, didn’t he? If students eat Western sweets and such, Japan’s done for—that’s what he said.” “Ohoho, does he really say such things?” “Don’t you? You’ve got a terrible memory. Didn’t he say exactly that when we had dinner with Mr. Kōno and the others the other day?” “That’s not right. What he said was: ‘Students who eat Western sweets despite being students are idlers.’” “Ahh, was that it? Not ‘nation-ruining sweets’ then? Anyway, Grandpa hates Western sweets. He only prizes strange things like persimmon yōkan or miso matsubakaze. Take them near someone as modern as Miss Fujio and you’ll be scorned on the spot.”

“You needn’t speak ill of Grandpa like that, you know. Even you, Brother, aren’t a student anymore, so it’s perfectly fine for you to eat Western sweets.” “No fear of getting scolded now? Alright, I’ll have one then. Itoko-kō, have one too. How about you, Miss Fujio—care for one? But you know… People like Grandpa will become fewer and fewer in Japan from now on. What a shame,” he said, stuffing his mouth full of chocolate-coated egg candy.

“Ohohoho… Talking to myself here…” Mr. Munekata glanced toward Fujio. Fujio did not respond. “Is Fujio not eating anything?” Mr. Kōno asked while raising the teacup to his lips. “Plenty,” Mr. Munekata said curtly. Mr. Kōno quietly set down the tea bowl and turned his head slightly toward Fujio. Fujio, thinking They’re here, stared unblinkingly at the sliver of illumination reflected through the window. His head gradually returned to its original position.

When the four rose from their seats, Fujio, without so much as a glance at those around her, kept her gaze fixed straight ahead and strode haughtily to the entrance like a queen's doll in motion.

“Ono’s already gone home, Miss Fujio,” said Mr. Munekata, playfully knocking her shoulder. Fujio’s chest burned from black tea. “There’s comfort in being startled,” Mr. Kōno repeated his earlier words when they reentered the crowd, though what thoughts prompted this remained unclear. “Women are fortunate creatures.” There’s comfort in being startled! Women are fortunate creatures! Until Fujio returned home and slipped into bed, these two phrases rang in her ears like mocking bells.

Twelve

There existed haiku that proclaimed poverty in seventeen syllables, proudly composing of horse dung and horse urine. When Bashō made a frog leap into an old pond, Buson shouldered his umbrella and went to view autumn leaves. In the Meiji era, a man called Shiki suffered from spinal disease and extracted water from loofahs. The aesthetic pride in poverty had not ceased even today. Yet Mr. Ono considered this base. Immortal sages dined on drifting mists and drank the morning dew. The poet’s sustenance was imagination. To indulge in splendid imagination required means. To realize splendid imagination demanded wealth. The poetic sensibilities of the twentieth century and the refined elegance of the Genroku era were entirely distinct.

The poetry of civilization was formed from diamond. It was formed from purple. The poetry of civilization was formed from the scent of roses, wine from grapes, and goblets of amber. In winter, it lay in squared blocks of mottled marble, warming the soles of silk tabi socks over lacquer-like coal. In summer, it lay in heaping strawberries on an ice platter, dissolving their luscious crimson into white cream. At times, it lay in greenhouses where tropical rare orchids showily exuded their fragrance. It lay in maru obi sashes where wild fields, sky, and moonlit flower meadows were woven without reserve. It lay where Chinese brocade short-sleeved and long-sleeved kimonos brushed past one another. The poetry of civilization lay in gold. Mr. Ono had to obtain money to fulfill his duty as a poet.

They say to cultivate fields rather than compose poetry. Throughout history, few poets have ever amassed wealth. Above all, civilized people love the poet's actions more than the poet's songs. They realize the poetry of civilization day and night while transforming their opulent real lives into verse through flowers and moonlight. Mr.Onos poems were not worth a single penny. There was no business as unprofitable as that of poets. At the same time,there was no enterprise requiring more gold than poetry. Poets of civilization had no choice but to create verse with others money and live aesthetic lives through others wealth. It followed naturally that Mr.Ono would grow dependent on Fujio who understood his true calling. He had heard there were substantial hereditary assets there. This was no mother who would settle her half-sisters affairs with mere chests and trunks. Moreover Kingo was sickly. None could say she lacked designs on taking a son-in-law for her true daughter. Whenever she ostentatiously tied paper fortunes urging others to untie them accurate predictions always brought auspicious results. Haste risks failure. Mr.Ono waited passively for events to unfold within that udumbara flower future he himself should have opened. Mr.Ono was not one to take initiative in any match nor indeed capable of doing so.

Heaven and earth were eternal in their regard for this promising young man. Spring seemed to have the east wind of ninety days blowing ceaselessly upon its triumphant brow. Mr. Ono was a gentle, non-confrontational, patient man. Just then, the past came surging in. Having turned his back on the long twenty-seven-year dream and supposedly cast it lightly away to the western lands, a tiny dark speck—no larger than a drop of ink—from that distant past came surging all the way to the radiant capital. Even if what is pushed has no intention of emerging, it tends to lurch forward. The poet who had patiently resolved to wait quietly for the right moment must now rush toward the future. The black speck remained firmly fixed above his head. When he looked up, it appeared to be rapidly spinning. If it burst apart, a sudden shower would come all at once. Mr. Ono wanted to duck his head and break into a run.

For four or five days, he was unable to turn his steps toward Kōno’s household due to tending to matters for Professor Kodō and other obligations. Last night, forcing himself to devise a way he couldn’t manage out of obligation to his former teacher, he had guided Professor Kodō and Sayoko to the exhibition. A favor received long ago remained a favor even if received now. He was not a heartless poet who would forget a kindness. There had even been a time when Professor Kodō taught him the ancient tale of Han Xin and the Washing Woman, who considered a single meal from a stranger a lifelong debt of gratitude. For Professor Kodō’s sake, I intended to lend my support henceforth to any extent necessary. Saving people from hardship was the duty of a noble poet. Fulfilling this duty and preserving such profound human sentiments in the present—where he excelled—as a part of his own history, to leave them as poetic material for future remembrance, was the most fitting and gentle conduct for the mild-mannered Mr. Ono. However, nothing could be done without money. Money could not be obtained unless I married Fujio. If the marriage was concluded a day earlier, then a day earlier I could attend to Professor Kodō as I wished. ——Mr. Ono formulated this logic at his desk.

It was not to abandon Sayoko—to be able to care for Professor Kodō, I must marry Fujio quickly. ——Mr. Ono felt certain there could be no flaw in his logic. If others heard this, he believed it would make a splendid justification. Mr. Ono was a clear-headed man. Having reached this conclusion, Mr. Ono opened the thick book on his desk—its tea-colored cover embossed with lavish gold lettering. Inside appeared an Art Nouveau bookmark dyed with blue willows where glimpses of red-tiled roofs emerged. Slipping the bookmark into his left hand, he began reading the fine print through gold-rimmed glasses. For five minutes all proceeded smoothly, until unnoticed his dark eyes drifted from the page to fix upon the diagonal lattice of the shoji screen where sunlight now stretched long. It’s been four or five days since I last saw Fujio—she must be thinking something by now. Under ordinary circumstances, even ten days’ absence wouldn’t warrant concern. But for one overtaken by the past, every moment for self-composure becomes precious. Each meeting brings my desired goal nearer. Without meeting, not an inch shortens on love’s cord that should draw you and me together. Moreover, demons strike through knothole gaps. Though we part but half a day, suns may set; sequestered nights admit moonlight. What lightning might have struck Fujio’s brow during these neglected days defies even dreamlike conjecture. The studies for my thesis are undeniably important. But Fujio matters more than any thesis. Mr. Ono slammed the book shut.

When he opened the bashōfu sliding door, bedding was visible on the upper shelf of the closet, and below it lay a willow trunk. Mr. Ono took out the suit folded on top of the trunk and quickly finished changing into it. The hat on the wall awaited its owner. When he slid open the shoji screen with a clatter and forced his cashmere tabi socks into the red-thonged geta, the maid arrived.

“Oh, you’re going out.” “Please wait a moment.” “What?” he said, lifting his face from his geta. The maid laughed. “Do you need something?” “Yes,” she replied, still laughing. “What now? You’re joking?” As he tried to leave, one of the newly donned geta slipped from his foot and slid down the well-polished corridor toward the lamp room. “Hohohoho! You’re in such a fluster.” “There’s a guest.” “Who is it?” “Oh, you were waiting for her, and now you’re playing dumb…” “Was I waiting? For what?”

“Hohohoho! You’re so very serious,” she laughed, turning back toward the entrance without waiting for a reply. Mr. Ono stood by the shoji screen with an uneasy expression, his geta neatly aligned as he gazed down the corridor’s end. He wondered what would appear. His dark brown bowler hat rose high enough to clear the lintel as he stood in the dim corridor’s recess; the subdued formality of his well-tailored suit made the white shirt and collar emerging from its narrow vest opening appear strikingly refined. Mr. Ono positioned his impeccably dressed figure in an inconspicuous corner of the corridor—letting his clothes hang loosely—and peered down the hallway with his gleaming glasses tilted. He kept staring while wondering what might come. Thrusting both hands into his trousers’ hidden pockets became a composed stance for this moment of disquiet.

Just as he heard the maid’s voice say, “Turn there and go straight,” Sayoko’s figure appeared gracefully at the end of the corridor. One side of the maroon damask appeared to reflect light with an uncanny brilliance where the dragon pattern was embroidered. Wearing a Meisen lined kimono that did not hide the tops of the white tabi socks, when she turned the corner crisply, something like a nagajuban fluttered with a hint of color. In the unobstructed central corridor, seven paces apart, the gazes of the man and woman fell upon each other’s faces.

The man thought, "Oh?" He maintained his posture. The woman hesitated, startled. Soon concealing the rouge that had risen to her cheeks all at once, she let her disordered smile fall along with her shoulders. On jet-black hair unadorned with oil, the hue of broad silk—ripples nearing amber—spread vivid wings along one temple.

“Come,” said Mr. Ono in a greeting meant to draw the person standing at a distance nearer. “Where are you going…” said the woman, standing with her hands folded in front of her, her dropped shoulders slightly raised as she remained apologetically still. “No, it’s nothing... Well, please come in.” “Come,” he said, pulling one foot back into the room. “Excuse me,” she said, gliding down the corridor with shuffling steps, her hands still folded. The man pulled her entirely into the room. The woman also entered after him. The bright window of lengthening days prompted the young pair to engage in youthful conversation.

“Last night, despite your busy schedule…” Sayoko placed her hands near the entrance. “No, you must have been quite tired.” “How are you feeling?” “Are you quite well now?” “Oh, thanks to your kindness…” Her face looked somewhat haggard as she spoke. Mr. Ono grew slightly more serious. She immediately made excuses. “I rarely find myself in such crowded places.” Civilized people hold expositions to be startled and delighted. People of the past viewed illuminations to be startled and afraid.

“How is Sensei?” Sayoko refrained from answering and smiled sadly. “Sensei also disliked crowded places.” “It’s just that he’s grown old,” she said pitifully, averting her eyes from him to gaze at the buried-wood tea coaster placed on the tatami. The Kyō-yaki sometsuke tea bowl had been resting on her knees since earlier.

“It must have been a bother,” said Mr. Ono as he took out his tobacco case from his hidden pocket. In the moonlight that illuminated the darkness, Mount Fuji and the Miho Pine Grove were finely carved. The use of green paint on those pines struck a slightly vulgar note for a poet’s possession. It might be a gift from Fujio, who favored ostentation. “No, it wasn’t a bother at all.” “I was the one who asked to come,” said Sayoko, flatly denying Mr. Ono’s words from the outset. The man opened the tobacco case. The back was entirely gilded, over which silver’s brilliance flowed in a showy burst. The lonely woman was splendid, he thought.

“If it were only Sensei, perhaps it would have been better to take him somewhere quieter.” Forcing the busy Ono to accommodate her and going out of one’s way to a disliked crowd—all of this stemmed from her self-centeredness. When it came to inexcusable matters, even she herself disliked crowds. Despite their earnest intentions—brushing sleeves in passing, sharing a leisurely pace beneath the spring night’s sky—they themselves remained unable to draw near. Sayoko hesitated over how to respond. It was not out of worldly-wise consideration—reserve toward his kindness, trying not to sour his mood. In Sayoko’s hesitation lay a slightly more poignant meaning.

“Does Sensei still not prefer Kyoto after all?” Interpreting the woman’s hesitant demeanor in some way, Mr. Ono inquired again. “Before coming to Tokyo, he had kept saying he wanted to move as soon as possible, but now that he’s here, it seems he still prefers a place he’s grown accustomed to.” “I see,” said Mr. Ono meekly, but in his heart he found it somewhat absurd to consider why he had come to a place so unsuited to his nature when thinking of his own convenience.

“And you?” he asked.

Sayoko faltered again. Whether Tokyo was agreeable or not was a matter determined solely by the disposition of the young man before her eyes, wafting tobacco smoke that smelled of the West. There are times when, upon being asked by a boatman, "Do you like boats?" the passenger must answer that whether they like it or not depends entirely on how one steers. Just as there is nothing more infuriating than being asked such a question by a responsible boatman, so too was it galling to be inquired of—with feigned innocence—about one’s likes or dislikes by someone who governed those very preferences. Sayoko faltered again. Mr. Ono wondered why she wasn’t being more forthright.

He took out his watch from the hidden pocket of his vest and looked at it. “Are you going out somewhere?” The woman immediately realized.

“Yes, just briefly,” he replied smoothly. The woman faltered again. The man grew slightly anxious. Fujio must be waiting.—For a while, there was silence. “The truth is, Father…” Sayoko finally managed to say. “Ah, is there something you needed?” “He wants to do some shopping…”

“I see.” “If you’re free, he said to ask you to go together to the marketplace or somewhere like that and buy them.” “Ah, I see. “That’s unfortunate. “You see, there’s a place I must rush to right now. “Well then, let’s do this. “Let me note down the items, and I’ll buy them on my way back and bring them over this evening.” “I’m afraid that would be too much trouble…” “It’s no trouble at all.”

The father’s goodwill had once again vanished into bubbles. Sayoko returned dejectedly.

Mr. Ono placed the removed hat on his head and briskly stepped outside.—At the same moment, the stage of departing spring turned.

The rain that washed purple onto magnolia petals fell incessantly; on the eaves where flowers at last decayed into tea hues, she hid the obi of her drying hair—when she moved, a heat haze shimmered upon her back. The wind teased the blackness outside, the sun teased it too, and just moments ago a yellow butterfly came fluttering to join their teasing. Fujio, feigning ignorance, faced inward. Her sharply defined profile, firm with muscle, lay faintly moist beneath the shadow of light cast from behind—where the darkness of hair flowing over her shoulder veiled her ear. Passing over shoulders bathed in deep violet that glinted in countless strands, when one peered to the other side, the dazzling eyes grew perfectly still. In the dusk, what one might take for smartweed flowers—their white, people used to say, lay hidden. In the shadow cast here by light spilling from her abundant hair onto the veranda, within a face so slender it seemed barely there, only the thickly lingering tails of her brows remained certain. It was impossible to tell what the narrow, black eyes beneath her brows were saying. Fujio leaned forward, resting her elbows on the small inlaid-wood desk.

The door of the heart was struck with a golden hammer, filling the goblet of youth with love’s bloody tide. Those who turned their mouths away without drinking were half-formed beings. The moon declined and longed for the mountains; people grew old and preached the Way in vain. In the youthful sky, stars scattered in disarray; on the youthful earth, a blizzard of petals—having counted the years to twenty, the god of love now reigned supreme. Her lush green-black hair swayed and cascaded freely; the gauze woven by spring breezes hung upon the spider’s lattice and five-colored eaves—she waited for the man who would snare himself. The ensnared man sought the luminous jade wall in the labyrinth; reversing his soul upon threads that shimmered purple in a swastika cross, he disturbed hearts until ages hence. The woman gazed on with an air of contentment. The Christian pastor said, “Be saved.” Rinzai and Ōbaku said, “Attain enlightenment.” This woman moved her black eyes only to urge, “Be lost.” All who did not lose their way were enemies of this woman. Only when they were lost, suffered, went mad, and leaped did the woman’s will find its glorious fulfillment. She extended her slender hand to the railing and commanded someone to say “Woof.” “If one says ‘Woof,’ then one must say ‘Woof’ again,” she commanded. The dog barked again and again—woof. The woman harbored a smile on one cheek. The dog barked woof, and while barking woof, it ran right and left. The woman remained silent. The dog went wild with its tail bristled. The woman grew ever more pleased with herself.—This was Fujio’s interpretation of love.

Stone Buddhas have no love; she had resolved from the start that passion lay beyond her capability. Love arises from confidence in one’s qualification to be loved. Yet there exist those who, assured of their worthiness to receive love, remain blind to their incapacity to give it. These two qualifications stand inversely proportional in most cases. Those who trumpet their deservingness without restraint impose every sacrifice upon their counterpart. For they lack the very capacity to love another. Souls poured into yearning eyes will surely be consumed. Mr. Ono stood imperiled. Lives entrusted to beguiling smiles will assuredly destroy men. Fujio was born under the Fire Horse’s ill-starred sign. She comprehended love enacted for oneself alone. The possibility of love existing for another’s sake had never crossed her mind. Poetic charm resided therein. Moral principle held no place.

The object of love is a toy. It is a sacred toy. Ordinary toys exist solely to be played with. The principle of love’s plaything lies in mutual toying. Fujio toys with men. She permits not the slightest toying from men in return. Fujio is love’s queen. Only love that violates all principles may endure. When those who specialize in being loved and those fixated solely on loving—through spring winds’ caprices and tides’ cunning rhythms—abruptly meet beneath heaven and earth, this aberrant love attains fulfillment.

To love while asserting oneself was like wearing a fireman’s hood and drinking sweet sake—it fell out of harmony. Love melted all things. Even angular paper kites shaped like candy crafts would inevitably dissolve away. When steeped in love’s waters for three days and nights straight, this rigid self showed no hint of softening. It remained unyielding to the last. Those who loved while asserting themselves were rock sugar.

Shakespeare said of women, "Frailty is thy name." A love that asserts itself amidst fragility—like scattering Mikage sand over freshly steamed rice—grinds trusting molars with chilling grit. That which is bitten must possess rubber’s resilience; otherwise matters cannot proceed smoothly. The strong-willed Fujio chose the selfless Mr. Ono for her romantic pursuits. An oily cicada caught in a spider’s web does not struggle to escape. At times it may tear through and flee. Capturing Mr. Munekata would prove simple. Taming Mr. Munekata would challenge even Fujio. When this self-assertive woman signals with her chin, she revels in his swift compliance. Mr. Ono comes not only promptly but always brings poetry’s jewel clasped to his breast. Even in dreams he harbors no thought of toying with her—offering full sincerity, he considers it an honor to become her plaything. She does not deign to seek within herself qualification to love him; instead she finds in her eyes, brows, lips—nay her very talents—qualification to be loved, toward which she desperately yearns. Fujio’s love could only ever be Mr. Ono.

The Mr. Ono who should have come obediently hasn’t been seen for four or five days. Fujio applied light makeup daily and hid her horns within the mirror.

The evening of that fifth day! There’s comfort in being startled! Women are fortunate creatures! The mocking bell still rang in the depths of her ears. Leaning on the small desk, her burning black hair exposed to the sun’s glare, she did not move a muscle. To sit with one’s back to the veranda and face in shadow was an age-old rule for those who abhorred brightness while deep in thought. A captive bound tenfold without rope—who proudly wore his captivity, coming when beckoned, running when pointed—had been toyed with under the assumption of guilelessness; yet turning over this beautiful leaf revealed a caterpillar lurking beneath. When she had stood before the mirror with the one she loved, fervently believing only you and I would be reflected—upon looking, it had been mistaken. The man remained as he was; beside him stood a stranger she had never seen before. There’s comfort in being startled! Women are fortunate creatures!

When she observed that pallid face tinged with bluish gloom under the electric light across several tables—when a man who should never approach a beautiful young woman except by her side circled the corner of the Western-style table with this person, half-concerned and half-familiar as they faced each other—it felt as though a temple bell striker had pierced clean through her heart. In that instant, all the blood from her chest surged to her cheeks. Crimson declared itself leaping there in a blaze. I rose vehemently. "If that is how it must be," I resolved. She must not turn around. She must not betray suspicion. Not even one word of criticism would be prudent. Even if it existed, she must feign its absence. Handle him haughtily as beneath your station. The man who noticed would surely lose face. This was revenge.

The self-assertive woman did not show a timid face until the critical moment arrived. To resent was what one said when the person they relied upon had been replaced. The fitting retort to contempt was anger. It was anger blended with frustration and jealousy. A civilized lady took making fools of people as her primary principle. She considered being made a fool of by others a disgrace surpassing death. Mr. Ono had indeed dishonored the lady.

Love is formed from faith. Faith does not permit the worship of two gods. While bowing his head in devotion to my qualification to be loved, he turns the back of duplicity toward the frivolous town and rings the bell of some shrine. Ox heads and horse bones—enshrining them is a person’s prerogative. Yet Mr. Ono must not toss love’s offerings to a capricious god and read fortune slips of waves or characters. Mr. Ono is prey caught in the unpatterned web woven across the sky by the invisible light promptly cast from these black eyes. He cannot be released outside. He must be cherished as a sacred toy for life.

Sacredness meant that I alone could make him my toy and permit no outsider’s touch. Since last evening, Mr. Ono had ceased to be sacred. Not only that—they might even be making me their plaything over there. Leaning on her elbow, Fujio’s eyebrows quivered to life as she kept her face lowered. If she had been turned into a toy, she would not leave matters as they stood. I would rend love into eight pieces. Retaliation methods were limitless. Poverty parched love dry. Wealth pampered love with luxury. Ambition immolated love upon its altar. I crushed lingering affections beneath my heel. I was she who impaled her own thigh on a sharp awl and brandished it crying “Behold!” Discarding what one prizes most—in this I excelled. Should I stand firm, I would slaughter even my own life in vanity’s marketplace. The hellwind that severs Satan’s ears as he tumbles inverted from heaven into abyssal dark—that am I! I! —she cried silently. Fujio bit her lower lip, gaze still downcast.

During the four or five days we hadn’t met, I had thought of sending a letter. Last night upon returning home, I immediately started writing it out, but after writing five or six lines, tore it to shreds for some reason. I will never write it. I am waiting for him to bow his head and come forward in submission. If I remain silent, he will surely come out. If he comes out, I’ll make him apologize. What if he doesn’t come out? I was in a bit of a bind. I cannot position myself where I cannot reach. "He’ll come—he’ll definitely come," Fujio muttered under her breath. Unaware, Mr. Ono was indeed being drawn to me. He was coming.

Even if he comes, I will not ask about the woman from last night. If I ask, it would mean acknowledging the existence of that woman.

Last evening at the dinner table，Brother and Munekata were using a strange code phrase. They must be scheming to make me anxious by ostentatiously hinting at that woman’s relationship with Ono. If they press me with humble inquiries，I would have to concede. If those two intend to gang up and make fools of someone，then so be it. I will present counterevidence against their insinuated facts and make fools of them.

Ono must be made to apologize, no matter what. I must treat him harshly and make him apologize. At the same time, I must make brother and Munekata apologize too. Ono was wholly mine—the two's mischief, meant to provoke through their mocking faces, had been utterly futile. I would flaunt our intimacy before them—"See this!"—and shame them into apologizing.—Fujio buried her face in her hands after washing her hair, striving to reconcile these contradictions through the singular force of her selfhood.

Footsteps sounded on the quiet veranda. A tall shadow abruptly appeared. The front of his kasuri-patterned lined kimono hung open, revealing a mouse-gray woolen undergarment against his skin that formed an inverted long triangle on his chest; above which were a long neck and a long face. His complexion was pale. His hair was coiled into a whirl, appearing as if it hadn’t been cut in two or three months. It seemed he hadn’t run a comb through it in four or five days. What was beautiful were the thick eyebrows and a mustache. The mustache’s texture was intensely black and exceedingly fine. Left untrimmed, it possessed a natural elegance that somehow suggested character. Around his waist was a soiled white crepe wrapped twice, the overly long ends tied loosely beneath his right sleeve like a cat’s plaything. The hem was never properly aligned. From beneath the fluttering hem that hung like a priest’s robe, black tabi socks were visible. Only the tabi socks were new. If smelled, they would likely have given off a navy-blue scent. Kōno—with his old-fashioned mind and newly-shod feet—walked the world upside-down and drifted out onto the veranda.

The polished straight-grained floorboards reflected passing cloud shadows so vividly that when light footsteps fell, the black hair cascading down Fujio’s back swayed faintly. The instant navy-blue tabi socks appeared on the veranda, they entered the woman’s vision. The socks’ owner needed no visual confirmation to be identified. The navy-blue tabi socks approached in silence.

“Fujio.” He would speak later. With his back against the hemlock pillar that stood straight along the groove of the storm shutter, Kōno seemed to have come to a halt. Fujio remained silent. “Another dream?” said Kōno, still standing as he looked down at the freshly washed hair. “What do you mean?” retorted the woman, turning her face toward him. It was like the moment a red-banded snake raises its head. Her black hair shattered the heat haze.

The man did not even move his eyes. He gazed down with a pale face. He gazed fixedly at the forehead of the woman who had turned toward him. “Was last evening interesting?” The woman swallowed the hot dumpling in one gulp before answering. “Yeah,” she replied in an exceedingly cool tone. “That’s good to hear,” he said calmly. The woman rushed over. If the spirited woman realized she was on the defensive, she would immediately rush over. If the opponent remained composed, she would rush over even more urgently. If one were to charge in sweating profusely, that would be one thing—but to launch an attack and then lean leisurely against a pillar looking down on others was akin to a highwayman drinking sake cross-legged; it was a bit too presumptuous.

“There’s comfort in being startled, isn’t there?” The woman pushed back in turn. The man remained unperturbed, still looking down from above. Not even a hint of comprehension showed. Kōno’s diary states: —Some interpret ten sen as one-tenth of a yen; others interpret ten sen as ten times one sen. The same words can be elevated or diminished depending on who uses them. The value of words depends on the discernment of those who wield them. Such is the difference between Kōno and Fujio. When those of differing stages quarrel, strange phenomena occur.

The man, who appeared too indolent even to shift his posture, merely

“That’s right,” he merely said. “Brother—if one becomes a scholar like yourself—even wanting to feel startled—there’s no relief because they can’t.”

“Comfort?” he asked. To Fujio, his words seemed less a question than a challenge - as if to say, “Do you even understand what comfort means?” Her brother continued. “There’s little comfort to be had. But in its place... peace of mind.” “Why?” “Those without comfort needn’t fear suicide.” His words meant nothing to her. That pale face still loomed above. To ask why would betray weakness - she held her tongue. “You drown in comforts. That’s dangerous.” A ripple ran through her black hair. He remained towering above, watching for comprehension. Unbidden came the verse: “Thus meets his end the god-king who ruled Egypt’s golden age.”

“Is Ono still coming around?” Fujio’s eyes shot sparks like flint struck by a hammer’s tip. Her brother, unperturbed,

“Is he not coming?” he said. Fujio gritted her teeth. Her brother refrained from further conversation. However, he was still leaning against the pillar.

“Brother.” “What is it?” he asked, looking down again. “I won’t give that gold watch to you.” “If you don’t give it to me, who will you give it to?” “I’ll keep it for now.” “You’ll keep it for now? Very well then. But I promised to give that to Mr. Munekata…” “When it’s time to give it to Mr. Munekata, I’ll be the one to give it to him.”

“From you?” Her brother lowered his face slightly and brought his eyes closer to his sister.

“From me—yes, from me—I’ll give it to someone myself,” she said, jerking her elbow off the marquetry desk and rising smoothly. Navy, deep yellow, horsetail green, and maroon vertical stripes rose uniformly like staffs. Only the hem rippled in four-colored undulations, concealing the fasteners of her white tabi socks.

“I see.” With that, her brother showed the heels of his Unshō geta and headed off in the opposite direction.

While Mr. Kōno appeared like a ghost and vanished like a ghost, Mr. Ono approached. Through rains that had fallen countless times, he trod upon earth steaming up bluish hues trapped in its soil—damp yet warm—as he drew near. With shoes of polished goat leather so immaculate that even their gathered dust went unnoticed, he approached the Kōno gate in measured steps. Mr. Kōno—his figure listless as one who had cast off the world, a formal haori tied with round-knotted cords over his shoulders, idly occupying empty hands with a thin cane—and Mr. Ono, who had been approaching, met abruptly by the fence. Nature favors contrasts.

“Where to?” Mr. Ono asked, touching his hat as he approached with a laugh. “Oh,” he responded. The Western-style cane ceased to move. By its very nature, even a Western-style cane was something that left his hands idle.

“I thought I’d go out for a bit now...” “Go. Fujio is here,” Mr. Kōno said straightforwardly, intending to let him pass. Mr. Ono hesitated. “And where are you going?” he asked again. Though he had business with your sister, Mr. Ono found it unbearable to adopt an attitude of indifference toward what became of you. “Me? I don’t know where I’m going. Just as I swing this cane around, something swings me around.”

“Ha ha ha, that’s quite philosophical.—Out for a walk?” he peered up from below. “Well… It’s fine weather, isn’t it?” “It’s fine weather.—Rather than a walk, how about the exposition?” “The exposition… As for the exposition… I saw it last evening.” “You went last evening?” Mr. Ono’s eyes fixed intently. “Yes.”

Mr. Ono, thinking something more would follow after that "ah," waited expectantly. The lesser cuckoo, with a single cry, seemed to vanish into the clouds.

“Did you go alone?” he now asked from his side. “No— “No— I was invited, so I went.” Mr. Kōno indeed had company. Mr. Ono found himself compelled to press a little further. “Oh, really? It must have been beautiful,” he said, first offering this bridge before deciding to formulate his next question. However, Mr. Kōno simply— Mr. Kōno answered with just that single word: “Uh-huh.” Before my thoughts could coalesce, I had to immediately come up with something. At first, I thought to ask, “With whom?” but before asking—no—I considered whether “Around what time?” might be more expedient. I wondered if I should instead boldly declare, “I went too”—that way, depending on his response, everything would become clear. However, that too was unnecessary. Mr. Ono engaged in a silent debate within his chest and the depths of his throat. In the meantime, Mr. Kōno moved the tip of his thin cane about a foot. What moved after the cane was the foot. Having caught a glimpse of this interplay, Mr. Ono—already defeated—abandoned his carefully laid plan in the depths of his throat. Even if someone is controlled down to the speck of grime under their nails, a person who does not exert the will to recover what’s lost is a fatalist whom the power of education cannot reform.

“Well, go ahead,” Mr. Kōno said again. He felt himself being urged onward. When it seemed fate had directed him leftward—and something pushed from behind—he stepped forward at once.

“Well then…” Mr. Ono removed his hat.

“I see. Well then, excuse me,” said Kōno as the thin cane retreated about two feet from Mr. Ono through space. The shoes of Mr. Ono, having taken one step closer to the gate, were simultaneously pulled back one step by the cane to their original position. Destiny placed Mr. Kōno’s cane and Mr. Ono’s foot in infinite space, contending over an interval of one foot. This cane and this shoe are personalities. Our souls at times dwell in the heel of a shoe, at times lurk in the tip of a cane. A novelist who does not know how to depict the soul depicts canes and shoes.

The shoe, having traversed the space of a single step, turned its shining head and inquired of the cane—its slender body propped against the earth— “Miss Fujio, did you go together last evening too?”

The cane stood perfectly straight like a rod and answered.

“Ah, Fujio went too. —Depending on circumstances, she might not have done her preparatory reading today.” The thin cane moved as if touching the earth, as if leaving it; when one thought it stood, it tilted, when one thought it tilted, it stood, carving its way through infinite space. The gleaming shoe, its thrusting head unpleasantly coated in thin mud, stepped with restraint across the gravel inside the gate and reached the entrance. As Mr. Ono reached the entrance, Fujio, leaning against the veranda pillar, cast her toes—which did not return to their seat—over the groove for sliding the rain shutters and gazed at the broadly enclosed garden’s expanse. Long before Fujio leaned against the veranda pillar, the mysterious woman, confined within a single closed room, faced the singing iron kettle and pondered to the utmost limits the lingering vestiges of departing spring.

Kīngo was not a child of my own flesh. The mysterious woman’s contemplations all stemmed from this single line. Expanding upon this single line gave rise to the mysterious woman’s philosophy of life. Supplementing a philosophy of life produced a cosmic view. Every day when she heard the iron kettle’s sound within her six-mat room, she fashioned philosophies of life and constructed cosmic views. Those who fashioned philosophies and cosmic views were limited solely to people of leisure. The mysterious woman spent each day upon her silk futon—a person blessed by fortune. Residence corrects the mind. A doll burning with love in dignified composure remains elegant even when insects gnaw away its nose. The mysterious woman sat gracefully. The six-mat room’s philosophy too had to maintain gracefulness.

To grow old without a husband was disheartening. To lack such a child was all the more disheartening. For such a child to be another’s was disheartening and moreover loathsome. To have such a child yet be bound by an ordinance that must rely on others was not only loathsome but pitiable. The mysterious woman believed herself to be a pitiable, unfortunate person. Even strangers might find harmony. Soy sauce and mirin had mingled since ancient times. However, drinking alcohol and smoking tobacco together would make one cough. Kīngo was not one who adjusted the water’s tone to be contained according to the square or round shape of the parent’s vessel. As days passed and accumulated, barriers of separation formed. Lately, she had felt as though encountering an enemy from Edo in Nagasaki. Scholarship was a tool for social advancement and success. It was not as though this training existed to defy one’s parents and disrupt the year-end and New Year’s rhythm. To spend money deliberately becoming an eccentric, only to graduate and become useless in society was disgraceful. It was bad for appearances. She considered him unsuitable as an heir. She had no intention of having such a one take her death water, nor could he possibly possess the merit worthy of doing so.

There are Kō and Fujio. The female bamboo that endures winter also has the power to sharply repel the fine snow blown in and piled through the night. To spring’s form that gathers the gaze of ten thousand eyes upon the streets, they have also clad it in showy garments embroidered with butterflies and floating blossoms. The world is wide enough to present my child as my own. To parade splendidly through the clear world, yet to become lost—this lies at the discretion of people. It is precisely by bewildering and tormenting those who proclaim themselves the finest suitors in the land that the mother who raised them can hold her head high. Rather than depending on strangers as cold as frozen sea cucumbers, the proper path is to enter the grave accompanying the splendidly passing days of her true daughter—envied and resplendent in her twilight and dawn.

Orchids grow in secluded valleys; swords belong to heroic martyrs. A fair daughter must wed a groom of renown. There were many proposals, but those displeasing to my daughter or myself were useless. A ring ill-fitting one’s finger would only be cast aside even if received. Be he too grand or too meager, none could become a son-in-law. Thus no son-in-law had been secured until now. Amidst the glittering throng, only Mr. Ono remained. They said Mr. Ono was a man of great learning. They said he had received an imperial watch. They said he would soon become a doctor. Moreover, they said he was amiable and kind. Refined and agreeable. He would bring no shame as Fujio’s husband. Even supporting him would feel tolerable.

Mr. Ono was an impeccable son-in-law. The only flaw was his lack of property. Yet being supported by a son-in-law’s wealth meant that even the most agreeable man could not assert himself. Bringing in a certain penniless man and making both bride and mother-in-law dutifully value one another would suit Fujio’s convenience—and serve her own interests as well. The one problem was that property. Today, four months after her husband had died abroad, it had naturally reverted to Kīngo’s ownership. The scheme began here.

Kīngo declared he needed not a single penny of property. He said he would give the house to Fujio too. If one could cast off obligation’s kimono and stand conveniently naked, one might gladly plunge into this sudden hot spring of fortune. Yet garments worn for propriety cannot be so carelessly discarded. When someone offers an umbrella at rain’s first threat—two would let society accept freely—but grasping it while watching the giver drench himself invites others’ judgment. Thus arose a riddle. Their gift was an earnest lie; feigned indifference merely placated neighbors. Through gritted teeth accepting Kīngo’s forced transfer of assets to Fujio, she must preserve civilization’s decorum. There lay the solution: this mysterious woman construed their offer as reluctance, refusing acceptance under guise of willingness. The worldview within six tatami mats proved endlessly convoluted.

The mysterious woman, struggling to resolve the problem, finally left the six-tatami room. The method of insisting on not receiving what one wants to receive to the very end, and yet managing to receive it as soon as possible, is one not easily discovered even through differential and integral calculus.

The mysterious woman left the six-tatami room wearing an expression of desperate unease, her mounting anxiety making it unbearable to stay seated on the futon. When she stepped outside, the spring day appeared unexpectedly tranquil, yet the warm breeze that casually tousled her hair carried an almost mocking disregard. The mysterious woman grew increasingly disquieted.

Following the veranda to the left led to the Western-style building; the room adjoining the parlor was used by Kīngo as his study. To the right, it bent at a right angle, and the six-tatami room protruding southward at the bend became Fujio’s living quarters.

With the cautiousness of one skimming along the base of a diamond-shaped hishimochi cake, she looked straight ahead at the corner—and there stood Fujio. Her thick locks, dampened to a lustrous hue, were pressed against the hemlock pillar; amidst her alluring form leaning at a slant, only the wrist deeply tucked into her obi gleamed white. A wanderer might gaze upon their homeland where bush clover lies prostrate and pampas grass bends in such a manner. It remained unclear what Fujio—who had never left her homeland—was gazing at. Mother rounded the corner of the veranda and approached.

“What are you thinking about?” “Oh, Mother,” she said, leaning her slanted body away from the pillar. In her turned-back gaze, there was not even a shadow of sorrow. The woman of our house and the mysterious woman exchanged glances. They are parent and child by blood.

“Is something wrong?” asked the mystery.

“Why?” I asked back. “Because you seemed so deep in thought.” “I wasn’t thinking about anything at all. “I was looking at the garden.” “I see,” said the mystery with a meaningful expression. “The scarlet carp in the pond are leaping,” I insisted to the very end. Sure enough, a plopping sound came from within the muddy water. “Oh my—I couldn’t hear it at all in my room.”

It wasn’t that she couldn’t hear. She was absorbed in the mystery.

“I see,” I said, this time putting on a meaningful expression. The world is full of variety.

"Oh, the lotus leaves are already out." "Yes. I hadn't noticed yet." "No. They've only just come out now," said the mystery. Those who think only of mysteries are obtuse. If one extracts Kōno and Fujio's affairs, the head becomes a vacuum. She has no mind for lotus leaves.

After the lotus leaves emerged, lotus flowers bloomed. After the lotus flowers bloomed, the mosquito net was folded and stored in the storehouse. Then crickets chirped. Passing showers came. The wintry wind blew. ...While the mysterious woman struggled to solve the mystery, the world ended up changing. Even so, the mysterious woman intended to remain seated in one place and solve the mystery. The mysterious woman believed there was no one in the world as clever as herself. She would never even dream of being obtuse.

The scarlet carp leaped up again with a plop. In the slightly murky water, the mud settled as from the gently warmed bottom layer where only the surface rippled, a hazy crimson shadow stirred the quiet soil and rose. Just as one thought it swayed its tail enough not to disturb the sunlight glinting on smooth waves, it suddenly struck the water with a plop and leaped up. Amidst the thick mud churning across the surface, a faint crimson shadow slipped away into hiding. The trail left behind as it parted the lukewarm water revealed a single undulation, teasing last year's reeds where no wind blew.

In Mr. Kōno’s diary there was written a couplet—“Birds enter clouds leaving no trace; Fish pass through water leaving ripples”—neither in regulated verse nor quatrain form, transcribed directly in block script. Spring’s radiance did not blanket heaven and earth; it delighted the human heart at will. Yet the mysterious woman found no happiness. “Why on earth do they keep leaping like that?” she asked. Just as the mysterious woman pondered her mystery, the scarlet carp too must have been leaping about without reason. To call it whimsy—both were equally whimsical. Fujio did not answer.

The Chinese poet likened the floating lotus leaves to stacking blue coins, it was said. There was of course no weighty impression like that of coins. Yet those newly emerged at the water’s edge—entrusting their tender lives of yesterday and today, exposing their delicate faces to the winds of the mundane world—were as finely detailed as coins. The color couldn’t exactly be called blue. Thinner than Mino paper, in a soft brown that shunned oppressive azure, upon leaves daily encroached by verdigris, lay the lingering traces of spring from leaping carp—pearls that scattered at a breath and crumbled at a touch. Fujio, without answering, simply gazed at the scenery before her. The carp leaped again.

The mother had been staring absently at the pond but soon shifted her attention. “Lately, Mr. Ono hasn’t been coming around. Is something wrong?” she asked. Fujio turned around sharply. “What’s the matter?” After staring intently at her mother, she calmly turned her gaze back to the garden. The mother thought, Oh? The pale red carp from earlier passed beneath the floating leaves. The leaves stirred lightly. “If he isn’t coming, you’d think he’d send some word. Perhaps he’s fallen ill or something.” “Perhaps he’s fallen ill or something.”

“Ill?” Fujio’s voice rose shrilly. “No. I’m just asking if he’s ill.” “Ill? Him?” The force of her words—like someone leaping from Kiyomizu’s stage—snorted to a halt at the tip of her nose. The mother thought Oh? again. “When will he ever get his PhD, I wonder?” “When would that be?” she said, as though it were someone else’s affair. “You—have you had a quarrel with him or something?” “How could anyone possibly quarrel with Mr. Ono?”

“Well, he hasn’t even been teaching you, and we’ve shown him considerable courtesy.”

The mysterious woman could offer no further interpretation. Fujio withheld her reply.

If she were to confess what happened last evening and explain everything, that would be the end of it. Of course, the mother would become frantic and undoubtedly sympathize with her. She did not think confessing would be inconvenient in the least, but to actively seek sympathy was little different from starving and begging for a penny or two of pity at a stranger’s doorstep. Sympathy was her enemy. Until yesterday, like a puppet leaping onstage, she had amusedly toyed with him—using even the tip of her languid little finger to make him stand or lie down at will, laugh or fret, fluster him for her own delight—while the mother too, deeming it splendid, had twitched her nose in pride at this performance. But that was mere facade: had she seen last evening’s truth beneath, the beckoning plume grass would bend away. If it were revealed that she had been amiably drinking tea with that beautiful stranger—lifting the unexpected lid—her standing in the mother’s eyes would diminish. "I cannot consent," she declared. If it were a hawk that had missed its mark, you cut your losses and declared you no longer needed it. If it were a dog that didn’t whine at your heels, you beat it and then proclaimed you’d cast it aside. Mr. Ono’s indiscretion had not yet reached that point. If left alone, he might return. No—he would undoubtedly return, as the self that had compared herself to Sayoko testified. When he returned, she would make him suffer. After making him suffer, she would make him stand or lie down as she pleased. Make him laugh, make him fret, make him fluster. And if she showed the mother this triumphant look, it would save the mother’s face. If she showed it to her brother and Munekata, it would serve as retaliation against both of them.—Until then, she would say nothing. Fujio withheld her reply. The mother permanently lost any chance to realize her own misunderstanding.

“Didn’t Kōno come by earlier?” the mother inquired again. The carp leaped. The lotus sprouted buds; the lawn gradually greened; the kobus magnolia had decayed. The mysterious woman paid no heed to such things. Day and night, she was tormented by Kōno’s ghost. When he was in his study, she wondered what he was doing; when he was thinking, she wondered what he was thinking; when he came to Fujio’s room, she wondered what he had come to discuss. Kōno was not a child she had borne. One could not let their guard down with a child they had not borne. This was the great truth innately imparted to the mysterious woman. At the same time she discovered this truth, the mysterious woman contracted neurasthenia. Neurasthenia was an epidemic of civilization. If one abused their own neurasthenia, they would even make their own child neurasthenic. And she said she was utterly troubled by his illness as well. Those who became infected were the ones truly inconvenienced. It was unclear whose claim of being utterly troubled held true. Yet for the mysterious woman, she remained utterly troubled by Kōno.

“Didn’t Kōno come by earlier?” she said. “He did come.” “How is he?” “Still just the same as ever.” With a faint frown forming the character “八” on her brow, she began, “That one too, really…” When Fujio snapped, “What a nuisance he is,” the creases between her brows deepened visibly. “All he ever does is make sarcastic remarks through gritted teeth.” “Sarcasm is one thing, but it’s a problem when he sometimes spouts incomprehensible ramblings.” “I tell you, lately he’s been acting a bit strange.”

“That’s what philosophy is, I suppose.” “Whether it’s philosophy or whatever, I don’t know—did you say something earlier?” “Oh…that watch issue again…”

“Are you telling me to return it?” “Whether Ichi does it or not is none of your business!”

“Kōno’s gone out somewhere, hasn’t he?”

“Where did he go?”

“He must have gone to Mr. Munekata’s.”

When the conversation had progressed this far, the maid pressed both hands to the floor and announced, "Mr. Ono has arrived." The mother withdrew to her own room.

When the mother’s shadow rounded the veranda corner and vanished beyond the shoji screens, Mr. Ono came through from the inner entranceway—passing beside the tearoom, cutting straight through the adjacent six-tatami room without detouring around the corridor. There was a monk who said that when striking the kei [a Buddhist gong] to enter for an audience, one could discern as clearly as holding it in one’s hand whether someone had solved the kōan just by hearing their footsteps. When one’s conscience is uneasy, it shows even in their gait. There is a proverb that even beasts have the walk of those bound for slaughter. This could not be considered a phenomenon exclusive to Zen monks in training. The principle applied even to a talented man like Mr. Ono. Mr. Ono had always been overly considerate of others’ opinions. Today he was acting peculiarly. Like a fugitive finding no peace in rustling pampas grass, Mr. Ono entered with light steps upon the green tatami mats, hesitant about the black-tipped tabi socks he had removed at the entrance.

Without casting a glance toward the shadows, Fujio did not raise her eyes. She had only glimpsed the tips of the tabi socks that had been set down on the tatami before realizing with an “Aha.” Even before Mr. Ono had taken his seat, he was already being sized up. “Hello…” he said with a smile as he sat down. “Welcome,” she replied with a solemn face, finally looking directly at him. Mr. Ono’s eyes wavered under her gaze. “I’ve been neglecting to visit,” he immediately offered as an excuse. “No need,” the woman cut in. But that was all.

The man, feeling as though his initial momentum had been crushed, pondered where to begin anew. The tatami room was quiet as usual.

“It’s gotten quite warm.” “Yes.” Only these two phrases were exchanged in the tatami room before silence reclaimed its dominion. A carp broke the stillness with another splash. The pond lay eastward, its surface brushing against Mr. Ono’s back. He turned slightly to remark on the fish—but found her gaze anchored to the southern kobushi magnolia. From their urn-like calyxes, where deep purple hues had once pursued spring’s departure, now remained only remnants creased with hollow tea-stained decay; some bared nothing but severed calyces where petals had snapped away.

Mr. Ono, who had been about to mention the carp, abandoned the attempt once more. The woman’s face grew even more unapproachable than before. The woman—intent on making the man who had neglected his visits explain himself—had merely responded with a “No.” The man, realizing his misstep, tried changing tack by remarking “It’s grown quite warm,” but when this too proved ineffective, he sought to steer the conversation toward the carp. Anxiously inching forward while prepared to be halted at any moment, the man fretted as the woman remained seated in her usual spot, motionless. Unaware of her true intent, Mr. Ono found himself compelled to reconsider his approach.

If she was displeased that I hadn’t come these past four or five days, then there was nothing to be done. If I had been spotted at the exhibition last evening, it could prove somewhat troublesome. Even so, I could devise any number of excuses. But had Fujio truly recognized me and Sayoko amidst that ceaselessly shifting stream of shuffling black shadows? If we were recognized—that would be all. If we hadn’t been recognized—taking the initiative to bring it up ourselves would be akin to stripping off one’s clothes and thrusting a festering abscess under the nose of an unsuspecting stranger.

To walk accompanied by a young woman was the way of the world these days. If it were merely walking together—even should that bring honor—it would not be deemed a flaw. If one were incited by the improvisation that tonight’s haze was fleeting, they would rub together the sleeves and cuffs of karmic bonds from other lives just for this evening, then bury their heads in west or east amidst the turbulent black waves of an unknown world, transforming into complete strangers. In that case, there was no issue. He might even broach the subject himself. Unfortunately, the relationship between Sayoko and him was not some shallow connection like two stones placed haphazardly on a Go board that happened to touch. For the five long years he had fled from here, she on the other side—unwilling to let go—had spun out threads day and night, their bond tenuously sustained until now by sincerity dyed crimson as the red thread of fate.

If he were to dismiss her as merely an ordinary woman, that might settle matters. Instead, people would dislike it, and the lie would become something even he himself couldn’t abide. A lie was fugu soup. If it were only for the moment and left no curse, there would be nothing as savory. But if one was poisoned, in the end they must vomit bitter blood. Moreover, lies reeled their consequences closer. If one remained silent, there might be a path through unnoticed; yet attempts to conceal one’s appearance, reputation, or even background only drew the arrows of suspicion unerringly to their mark. Mending was inherently prone to unraveling. From beneath the unraveling, when the ugly truth emerged as if to say “See?”—that was when the rust of the self could never be scrubbed away in this lifetime. Mr. Ono, who possessed such discernment, was no stranger to matters of profit and loss—a clever man. The entanglement of my circumstances, bound by a five-year thread of longing that stitched through the eastern and western capitals, was something I did not wish to speak of to the very person sitting sullenly before me. At least until this new love’s pulse coursing through fresh blood harmonized its rhythm and warmly struck both their wrists as they were openly acknowledged as husband and wife, I did not wish to speak of it. If I resolved not to speak of this entanglement, I did not want to resort to the temporary lie of dismissing her as a mere woman and severing all connection. If I resolved not to tell lies, I did not want to reveal even Sayoko’s name.—Mr. Ono kept watching Fujio’s demeanor intently.

Mr. Ono had ventured as far as “Last evening at the exhibition…”, but at the point of deciding whether to phrase it as “Did you go…” or “I heard you went…”, he stumbled over his words. “Yes, I went.” A black shadow grazed the hesitating man’s face and swiftly crossed past. The man was overtaken in the moment he thought “Ah!” Since there was no help for it, “It must have been beautiful,” he added. “It must have been beautiful” was too commonplace for a poet. Even he himself, having spoken the words, became acutely aware of how dreadful they were.

“It was beautiful,” the woman clearly acknowledged. Afterwards,

“The people were quite beautiful too,” she added, hurling the words like water. Mr. Ono involuntarily looked at Fujio’s face. Because he couldn’t quite grasp her meaning,

“Is that so?” he said. Harmless answers are, in most cases, foolish answers. When in a weakened state, even a poet will resort to folly. “I saw quite a few beautiful people,” Fujio retorted sharply. It was an unsettling remark somehow. He likely wouldn’t emerge unscathed. The man had no choice but to fall silent. The woman too remained motionless. She fixed Mr. Ono with a look that seemed to ask, *Still refusing to confess?* They say even when a blade was pressed to him, Munemori wouldn’t slit his belly. Civilized people who prioritize profit and loss have no reason to rashly utter words against their own interests. Mr. Ono needed to observe his adversary’s movements a while longer.

“Did you have someone with you?” he asked casually. This time, the woman gave no reply. She was steadfastly guarding a single checkpoint. “If I had met Mr. Kōno at the gate just now, I hear Mr. Kōno also went together.” “If you know so much, why do you ask?” the woman snapped petulantly.

“No, I just thought there might have been someone else with you,” Mr. Ono skillfully evaded. “Other than my brother?” “Yes.”

“Why don’t you ask my brother?” Her mood remained sour, but if he played his cards right, he might just manage to steer through this vortex. By hanging onto her words and moving back and forth，before he knew it，there came times when he emerged onto level ground. Mr. Ono had succeeded every time so far with this method.

“I thought to ask Mr. Kōno, but I was in a hurry to come up early.” “Ho ho ho!” Fujio suddenly laughed shrilly. The man was startled. In that moment, “If you’re so busy, why did you take four or five days off without notice?” she fired at him.

“No, I was terribly busy for four or five days and simply couldn’t come.”

“Even during the day?” The woman pulled her shoulders back. The long hair moved as if each strand were alive.

“Huh?” He made a strange face. “Are you that busy even during the day?” “Daytime…” “Ho ho ho! You still don’t understand?” she laughed shrilly this time, loud enough to echo through the garden. The woman could laugh with complete freedom. The man was bewildered.

“Mr. Ono, do they have illuminations during the daytime too?” she said, folding her hands demurely on her lap. A brilliant diamond glinted painfully into Mr. Ono’s eyes. Mr. Ono felt as if struck across the cheek by a bamboo practice sword. Simultaneously came a sound—the sensation of his mind’s depths being laid bare. “Study too hard, and you might lose that gold watch after all,” the woman pressed with feigned innocence. The man’s defenses crumbled utterly. “The truth is... my former teacher arrived from Kyoto a week ago—”

“Oh my, really? I had no idea at all.” “So that explains your busyness.” “Is that so?” “How terribly rude of me to have spoken out of turn,” she said with feigned contrition, bowing her head. Her green hair shifted again. “I owed him a great debt from my time in Kyoto...” “Then shouldn’t you devote yourself to her properly? — As for me...” “Last evening I went to see the illuminations with Brother, Mr. Munekata, and Miss Itoko.”

“Oh, is that so?” “Yes, and then—there’s that turtle vendor’s stall by the pond. You know it, don’t you, Mr. Ono?” “Yes—I—know.” “You know it.—You do know it, don’t you? We all had tea there.” The man wanted to rise from his seat. The woman persisted in maintaining a deliberately composed demeanor. “The tea was exceptionally delicious.” “You still haven’t been there, have you?”

Mr. Ono remained silent.

“If you still haven’t been there, then by all means take that teacher from Kyoto along this time. Since I also plan to have Ichi-san take me there.” Fujio intoned the name “Ichi-san” peculiarly.

Spring’s shadow lengthened. The long day, however long, did not belong solely to two. The majolica mantel clock adorning the alcove neatly severed the ceaseless dialogue with this single line.

About thirty minutes later, Mr. Ono exited through the gate.

That night in a dream—Fujio found fleeting solace: There’s comfort in being startled! Women are fortunate creatures! The mocking bells proclaiming these words never reached her ears.

Thirteen

Two thick square pillars stood erected to form what passed for a gate. Whether there were doors remained unclear. A hole bored through the wooden fence bore the label "Night Mail," suggesting it was secured after dark. Before them lay lawn mounded into earthen domes that blocked the city's clamor, pines planted in strict formation spreading emerald canopies like umbrellas. Circling around a pine in an arc revealed waves carved in relief upon entrance eaves that met overhead. The shoji screens stayed thrown open. Carefree white sliding doors stood mercilessly scrawled with cursive characters—as large as Bugaku masks—executed in Taigadō-style brushstrokes, partitioning off the formal rooms.

Mr. Kōno turned right at the entrance and quietly opened the lattice of the geta box visible through its gaps. He stood tapping the hardened earth with his slender cane’s tip. He neither made a request nor uttered anything else. Naturally, there was no response. The mansion’s interior lay so utterly still it showed no sign of human habitation. The cars passing before the gate sounded all the more vibrant by contrast. The cane’s tip clicked rhythmically. In the deepening quiet came the soft sound of a sliding door opening. He called for the maid Kiyo repeatedly. The maid appeared absent. Footsteps drew near from the kitchen’s direction. The cane’s tip kept clicking. The footsteps slipped from the kitchen toward the inner entrance. The shoji opened. Itoko and Mr. Kōno stood facing each other, their eyes meeting.

A household with maids and live-in students may maintain an easygoing atmosphere, but those very attendants seldom came to answer the door. When they intended to go out, they would lower their raised knee and, as was usual, manage to advance the sewing thread by a stitch or two. The long day—as heavy as cradling a lute and unable to endure its own length—had been on the verge of crumbling when, entranced by droning flies that sustained the dream, he called for Kiyo; but she seemed to have gone to the back. In the sunlit kitchen, only the kettle gleamed quietly. Mr. Kuroda was likely in the student room as usual, burying his shaven head in his arms and sleeping on the desk like a cat. In what seemed like an abandoned, vacant house, a clattering sound came from the inner entrance. "Hmm?" she wondered, casually sliding open the shoji—and there stood Mr. Kōno alone in the vast world. With outdoor sunlight filtering through the lattice at his back, his tall figure stood motionless in the dimness at the center of the hardened earth, ceaselessly rattling his cane.

“Oh!” At the same time, the sound of the cane stopped. From under his hat’s brim, Mr. Kōno looked at the woman’s face as though seeing her after ages. The woman abruptly averted her eyes to gaze at the slender cane’s tip. Something warm seemed to rise from that cane tip—her face flushed suddenly. Stripped of oil and left to expand naturally, Itoko bent forward at the waist as if letting her hair cascade down. “Going out?” Mr. Kōno asked with an upward lilt.

“Just briefly,” she answered simply, her effortless double eyelids rippling with charm. “Is your father out? —Your father—” “Father left for a Noh chanting gathering this morning.” “I see,” the man said, turning his long frame halfway to direct his profile toward Itoko.

“Oh，please come in—Brother should be returning soon.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Kōno said to the wall. “Please,” she said, drawing one foot back as if to invite him in. Her kimono was rough-striped meisen silk.

“Thank you.” “Please.” “Where did he go?” Mr. Kōno turned his face—which had been directed at the wall—slightly toward the woman. In the sunlight grazing from behind, her pale cheek seemed slightly thinner than yesterday, though it might have been his imagination.

“A walk, I suppose?” the woman said, tilting her head.

“I’ve just returned from a walk myself. I walked quite a bit and ended up rather tired…” “In that case, why don’t you come in and rest a while? Since it’s about time he returns.” The conversation dragged on little by little. That it dragged on was proof their moods had relaxed. Mr. Kōno removed his rough-hewn wooden geta and stepped up into the tatami room.

Heavy nail covers were affixed to the nageshi beams, and in the still spring alcove hung Jōshin’s cloud dragon painting deep within. In this weathered era, even ivory scrolls found repose amidst indigo mon-donsu damask encircling the corners and silk hues darkened with ink-wash tones. The table—over a shaku in length, made of sesame-speckled rosewood whose glossy lacquered grain shifted from tea-brown to purple and purple to black—stood solidly planted with a celadon censer cast in karashishi designs, its gaping mouth dominating the form. The veranda basked in lingering sunlight; those who shivered at the world’s cold drew close to the edge of the kasuri fabric. A woman waited at the entrance—her collar adorned with scattered chrysanthemums pressed against her full chin, finding the bright shoji opposite her dazzling. The eight-tatami parlor was too spacious, holding the two small figures apart from each other. The space between them measured six feet.

Suddenly, Mr. Kuroda appeared. From beneath the hem of his hakama—its ogura fabric pleats thoroughly crushed—his reddish-black legs moved steadily as he brought in the tea. He brought in the tobacco tray. He brought in the sweets bowl. The six-foot distance was filled as if by social hierarchy, and the positions of host and guest were barely connected through the tools of hospitality. Mr. Kuroda, who had abruptly awoken from his midday nap, mechanically passed this thread of connection between them before sealing his dazed spirit within his chestnut-burr head and withdrawing once more to the student quarters. After that, it became once more the vacant house of before.

“How was last evening? You must have been tired.” “No.” “Aren’t you tired? You’re sturdier than I am,” Mr. Kōno said with a slight smile. “But I took the train both ways.” “Trains are tiring, you know.” “Why?” “Because of that person. That person tires me. Or isn’t that so?” Itoko merely revealed a single dimple on her round cheek. She did not respond. “Was it interesting?” Mr. Kōno asked. “Yes.” “What part did you find interesting? The illumination?”

“Yes, the illumination was interesting, but…”

“Was there something else interesting besides the illumination?” “Yes.” “What was it?”

“But that’s strange,” she said, tilting her head and smiling sweetly. Even Mr. Kōno, unable to grasp her meaning, found himself oddly compelled to smile. “What was this interesting thing you mentioned?”

“Shall I tell you?” “Please do tell.” “Well, we all had some tea together, didn’t we?” “Ah, was that tea what you found interesting?”

“It wasn’t the tea.” “It wasn’t the tea, though.”

“Ah.” “Mr. Ono was there at that time, wasn’t he?” “Yes, he was there.” “He brought along a beautiful person, didn’t he?” “Beautiful? I suppose so. He seemed to be with a young person, wasn’t he?” “You know that person, don’t you?”

“No, I don’t know.” “Oh? But my brother said so.” “That’s just in the sense of knowing their face, I suppose.” “I’ve never spoken to them even once.” “But you do know them, don’t you?”

“Ha ha ha ha.” “Must you really know?” “To tell the truth, I’ve met them countless times.”

“That’s why I said so.”

“So what of it?” “You said it was interesting.” “Why?” “Just because.”

The ripples in her double eyelids gathered only to collapse, collapsed only to gather again, toying with her black pupils as if to show them off. Sunlight filtering through dense young leaves cast mottled shadows across the earth; the wind shook the treetops, leaving the moss flickering uncertainly. Mr. Kōno kept looking at Itoko’s face without asking for an explanation. Nor did Itoko offer any explanation of why. The “why” had drowned in its own charm and, before grasping its essence, disappeared without a trace.

The freshly painted gourd-shaped pool lay shallow; in the yolk of an egg roasting in an earthenware pan, the world of goldfish that passed mornings and evenings in delight had no fear of being swept away by rising waves, even as they wagged tails and dove into algae. The bones of sea bream passing through Naruto Strait, kneaded by the tides, grew harder with each passing year. Beneath the raging sea lay a bottomless hell; neither going nor returning could be accomplished through futile efforts. Yet if the rough fish of the open sea and the round three-tailed ones were placed in the same tank, they became neighboring friends in an aquarium. The barrier of separation was invisible, but the partitioning glass, though transparent, would only bruise your nose if you tried to pass through. One could not speak of the sea to Itoko, who did not know the sea. Mr. Kōno responded vaguely for a while.

“Is that woman really such a beauty?”

“I think she’s beautiful.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Kōno looked toward the veranda. On the rough-hewn stone surface where undrying dew fell and a two-shaku path remained perpetually damp along its edge, flowers that could be egret orchids or violets—sparse in number—stole away the departing spring as they bloomed in secret. “Beautiful flowers are blooming.”

“Where?” In Itoko’s eyes, only the red pine directly ahead and the bear bamboo arranged at its base were visible.

“Where?” she extended a warm chin and gazed ahead.

“Over there.—You can’t see them from there.” Itoko slightly lifted her hips. While letting her long sleeves sway, she shuffled closer to the veranda on her knees in two or three steps. As the distance between the two drew close enough to touch their noses, the faint flowers came into view.

“Oh,” the woman paused. “Aren’t they beautiful?” “Yes.” “You didn’t know about them?” “No, not at all.” “They’re too small to catch your eye.” “You can never tell when they bloom or vanish.”

“After all, peach and cherry blossoms are more beautiful and better, aren’t they?” Mr. Kōno did not reply, merely muttering under his breath, “Pitiful flowers,” he said. Itoko remained silent.

“Flowers like last night’s woman,” Mr. Kōno added.

“Why?” the woman asked suspiciously. The man rolled his long eyes and stared fixedly at the woman’s face, then,

“You’re so carefree,” he said earnestly. “Is that so?” she answered earnestly. Was she being praised or disparaged? She couldn’t tell. She didn’t know whether she was carefree or not. It was hard to discern whether being carefree was good or bad. She simply believed in Mr. Kōno. Because the person she believed in spoke earnestly, she had no choice but to respond earnestly with “Is that so?” Writing seizes people’s eyes. Skill eludes people’s eyes. Substance clarifies people’s eyes. When he heard “Is that so?,” Mr. Kōno felt a vague sense of gratitude. When gazing directly upon the human soul beneath them, the philosopher bows their head in understanding, feeling neither resentment nor anything else.

“That’s fine.” “That’s fine.” “It has to be that way.” “It has to stay that way forever.”

Itoko revealed her beautiful teeth.

“It’s just how it is. No matter how much time goes by, it stays like this.” “That’s not how it works.” “But this is how I was born. No matter how much time passes, there’s no changing it.”

“It changes.—When you leave Grandfather and Elder Brother’s side, it changes.” “Why is that?” “When you leave, you’ll change and become smarter.”

"I truly want to become smarter. If changing means becoming smarter, then changing must be better, right? I wish I could somehow become like Miss Fujio, but being such a fool..." Mr. Kōno gazed at Itoko's guileless lips with an expression of worldly pity. "Is Fujio truly so enviable?" "Yes, I genuinely find her enviable."

“Miss Itoko,” the man said suddenly in a gentle tone.

“What?” Itoko responded openly. “Women like Fujio are far too common these days—it’s troublesome.” “If you don’t take care, you’ll face danger.”

The woman still kept her fleshy eyelids double-lidded, dewdrops of charm dripping onto large eyes. Not a shadow of danger showed in her countenance.

“If Fujio goes out alone, she’ll kill five women like last evening’s.” What dripped in her vivid eyes scattered instantly. Her expression changed in an instant. The word “kill” was terrifying in its impact. —Of course, she did not grasp its other meanings. “You are fine as you are.” “If you move, you’ll change.” “You must not move.” “If I move?” “Yes, if you fall in love, you will change.” The woman swallowed down something that seemed about to leap from her throat. Her face turned bright red.

“If you get married, you will change.” The woman looked down. “That’s fine as it is. It would be a waste for you to get married.” Her lovely double eyelids blinked two or three times in quick succession. The shadow of a rain dragon darted flickeringly over her closed lips. The flower—unclassifiable as either sagi grass or violets—still bloomed sparely in spring.

Fourteen

The tram unfurled a red sign and came booming through. After switching places, it chased the town’s wind along the iron rails and departed. The blind masseur timidly gauged his chance and cautiously crossed to the other side. The teahouse apprentice laughed while grinding in the mortar. The weave of the herringbone fabric worn by the flagman was caked with dust, dulled to a yellowish blur. Western-style clothes came out from the used bookstore. A bird-hunting cap stood in front of the vaudeville theater. Tonight’s storytelling was written in white on the signboard. The sky was stitched with countless threads. Not a single kite was visible. Precisely because the sky above was serene, the world below was an exceedingly chaotic one.

"Hey, hey!" he called loudly from behind.

A married woman in her mid-twenties glanced back over her shoulder as she walked on. “Hey.” This time, Inkanten turned. The person who had been called feigned ignorance, avoiding the approaching figure and quickening his pace. Intercepted by two rickshaws that came racing up to overtake each other, the distance between them grew ever greater. Mr. Munekata puffed out his chest and dashed forward. The loosely worn lined kimono and haori leapt and danced each time a foot was set down. “Hey,” he called from behind, reaching out. As the shoulder came to a sudden stop, Mr. Ono’s slender face came into view at an angle. His hands were occupied.

“Hey,” he said, keeping his hand on the shoulder and giving it a shake. Mr. Ono turned around while being shaken. “Oh—it’s you… My apologies.” Mr. Ono politely bowed without removing his hat. His hands were occupied. “What are you thinking about? No matter how much I call, you don’t hear me.” “Is that so? I didn’t notice at all.” “You seem to be in a hurry, yet you don’t seem to walk on the ground—it’s rather strange.” “What?” “Your way of walking—”

“Because it’s the twentieth century—ha ha ha ha!” “Is that what you call a modern way of walking? It’s like one leg’s modern and the other’s stuck in the past.” “Actually, carrying things like this makes it hard to walk…”

Mr. Ono extended both hands forward and, as if to say "like this," directed his gaze downward. Mr. Munekata also naturally shifted his gaze to below his waist. “What’s that?”

“This one’s the wastepaper basket, this one’s the lamp stand.” “It’s strange because you’re all done up in modern fashion yet hauling around a big wastepaper basket like this.” “I can’t help if it looks peculiar—I was entrusted with this.” “Commendable how being entrusted makes you look peculiar.” “I never imagined you possessed enough knight-errant spirit to parade through public streets carrying a wastepaper basket.”

Mr. Ono silently smiled and bowed. “So where are you off to?” “I’m taking these…” “Taking that home, are you?” “No. Because I was asked to, I’m buying them and taking them over. And you?” “I’ll go wherever.” Mr. Ono was inwardly somewhat perplexed. That Mr. Munekata had said he seemed to be in a hurry yet not quite grounded was an assessment that fit his current state perfectly. The ground beneath his shoes felt vast and firm, yet somehow unreliable underfoot. Despite this, he wanted to hurry. When encountering someone as carefree as Mr. Munekata, even holding a conversation while standing became arduous. Being asked to walk together made it all the more awkward.

Even under normal circumstances, being intercepted by Mr. Munekata left him vaguely uneasy. In the midst of half-knowing, half-not knowing about Mr. Munekata and Fujio’s relationship, his own relationship with Fujio had taken shape. Though he had no intention of committing a sin as grave as stealing another’s betrothed, Mr. Munekata’s heart could be understood without asking. Even in others’ occasional overt behavior, one could infer where their interest lay. Even if I did not go so far as to undermine it from behind, the fact remained that my actions had permanently sealed Mr. Munekata’s hopes. In human terms, it was pitiable.

The pity would be pitiable enough on its own, but Mr. Munekata’s carefree demeanor—utterly untroubled by his relationship with Fujio—made it all the more pitiable. When they met, they conversed without reservation. They told jokes. They laughed. They expounded on the true calling of men. They discussed the statecraft of the Orient. Yet they scarcely spoke of love. Rather than saying they did not speak of it, it might be that they could not. Mr. Munekata was likely a man who did not grasp love’s true nature. He was not fit to be Fujio’s husband. And yet, pitiable remained pitiable.

To call something pitiable is to use self-effacing words. Because they are self-effacing words, they become a blessing. Mr. Ono felt sorry for Mr. Munekata in his heart. Yet within this pity lay his own profound self. Consider the feeling of facing one’s parents after causing mischief, and you would understand. Rather than regretting for his parents that it was pitiable, the sense that it was somehow perilous carried greater weight. The trouble his mischief had caused others—distant from himself—was one matter, but the way this trouble reverberated to make his own head ring unpleasantly felt eerie. It resembled how thunder’s unpleasant essence would hesitate slightly when brought before the cloud peaks that confined it. This differed considerably from ordinary pity. Yet Mr. Ono insisted on calling it pitiable. He likely disdained reducing his own feelings to something beneath pity.

“Are you out for a stroll?” Mr. Ono inquired politely.

“Yeah.” “I just got off the streetcar at that corner.” “So I can go either way.” This answer wasn’t quite logical, Mr. Ono thought. But logic didn’t matter.

“I’m in a bit of a hurry, so…” “I can hurry without any problem. Let’s hurry a bit in the direction you’re walking and go together—hand over that wastebasket. I’ll carry it for you.”

“No need. It’s unseemly.” “It’s unseemly.” “Come on, hand it over.” “I see—it’s bulky but surprisingly light.” “It’s you who’s unseemly, Mr. Ono,” Mr. Munekata said, shaking the wastebasket as he started walking. “When you carry it that way, it does look light.” “It’s all in how you carry things.” “Ha ha ha ha.” “Did you buy this at the bazaar?” “It’s quite an elaborate piece, isn’t it?” “It’s a waste to put scraps in it.”

“That’s why I can carry it around in public,” he said. “If it actually held ordinary scraps…” “What do you mean ‘carry it around’? The streetcars go parading down the roads stuffed full of human refuse!” “Ha! Then you’d be the wastebasket conductor!” “So you’re the wastebasket company president, and that man who commissioned it is a shareholder? You can’t just toss any scrap in here.” “What if we filled it with rejected poems or five cartloads of drafts?” “No use for those. I want you to stuff it full of discarded banknotes.”

“It’d be quicker to just fill it with ordinary scraps and have someone hypnotize you.”

“First, humans themselves become the scraps, I suppose.” “Shall we start with Guo Wei?” “When it comes to human scraps, there’s no need for hypnotism—they exist in abundance.” “Why does everyone insist on beginning this way with Guo Wei?” “People are quite reluctant to start with Guo Wei, you know.” “It would be convenient if human scraps would just crawl into the wastebasket on their own.” “It’d be splendid if someone invented an automatic wastebasket.” “Then all the human scraps would leap into it themselves, I imagine.” “Shall I file for a patent on it?”

“Ha ha ha ha! Sounds good.” “Is there someone among those you know you’d like to have jump in?”

“There might be,” Mr. Ono dodged. “By the way, you went to see the illuminations with some strange company last evening, didn’t you?” The fact that he had gone sightseeing had already been exposed. There was no need for concealment now. “Yes, I hear you all went as well,” Mr. Ono replied casually. Mr. Kōno pretended not to notice even when he did notice. Fujio maintained an innocent face while trying to extract a confession from us. Mr. Munekata pressed him with direct questions. While answering nonchalantly, Mr. Ono inwardly thought: So that’s how it is.

“What is she to you?” “That’s rather intense.—She was my late mentor.” “So that woman is your mentor’s daughter?” “Well... something like that.”

“When you see them drinking tea together like that, they don’t look like strangers.” “Do they look like siblings to you?” “A married couple. A fine one at that.” “Much obliged,” Mr. Ono said with a brief smile but immediately looked away. In the glass door on the opposite side, Western books with gold lettering were brilliantly vying for the poet’s attention. “You, it seems quite a few new books have arrived over there—shall we take a look?” “Books? Planning to buy something?”

“I might buy something if there’s anything interesting.” “Buying a wastebasket and then buying books is quite ironic.” “Why?” Mr. Munekata, before replying, dashed through the tram cars to the opposite side while still holding the wastebasket. Mr. Ono also followed at a trot. “Ah, there are quite a lot of beautiful books on display.” “How about it—anything catch your eye?”

"Indeed," Mr. Ono replied as he bent at the waist, pressing his gold-rimmed glasses against the glass window to scrutinize the display with unwavering focus. There was one with soft-tanned lambskin, its dark horsetail-green center adorned with a slender golden water lily, from where straight lines ran down from where the petals met the calyx to the base, encircling the entire cover. There was one whose spine was flatly cut, bearing a pattern resembling golden hair spreading across a deep crimson ground. There was one with a hard brass plate that firmly crushed the cloth's weave, heavy foil placed upon it in a shield shape. There was one with a plain calf spine divided vertically into dull gray and green sections, each side embellished solely with lettering. A title page could also be seen where the vermilion title was tastefully arranged on rough-textured paper.

“They all look desirable, don’t they?” said Mr. Munekata, looking not at the books but only at Mr. Ono’s glasses. “They’re all in modern bindings.” “I suppose.” “Do they think just making the cover pretty acts as insurance for the content?” “Because they’re literary books, unlike your side.” “Do literary books require their tops to be prettied up? Then does that mean literary scholars have to wear gold-rimmed glasses?” “You’re too harsh—but in a sense, literary scholars are somewhat works of art themselves,” Mr. Ono said, finally stepping back from the window.

“It’s fine if they’re art pieces, but relying on gold-rimmed glasses for security is pitiful.” “Glasses do tend to be cursed.—You’re not nearsighted, are you, Mr. Munekata?” “Since I don’t study, I couldn’t become one even if I tried.” “You’re not farsighted either?” “Enough joking.—Let’s get moving properly now.” The two men began walking again, shoulders aligned. “You know about cormorants, right?” said Mr. Munekata as they walked.

“Yes. Is something wrong with the cormorants?” “That bird no sooner swallows a fish than it ends up vomiting it out. How pointless.” “How pointless. However, since the fish end up in the fisherman’s basket, isn’t that fine?” “That’s the irony of it. They no sooner start reading a book than they toss it into the wastebasket. Scholars make their living by regurgitating books. It provides no nourishment for themselves. The only thing that profits is the wastebasket.”

“That makes scholars seem rather pitiable. They wouldn’t know what to do.” “Through action.” “Merely reading books without acting is like mistaking real rice cakes on a plate for ones depicted in a painting and passively admiring them.” “Literary scholars may utter beautiful things, but they seldom do anything beautiful.” “Aren’t there plenty of Western poets like that?” “Indeed—” Mr. Ono answered, elongating the pause before—

“For example?” Munekata countered. “I’ve forgotten the name, but there’s someone who deceived women and abandoned his wife.” “There’s no such person.” “There are! They certainly exist.”

“Is that so? I don’t quite recall either…” “It would be troublesome if the expert doesn’t remember.—Speaking of which, about that woman last night.” Mr. Ono’s underarms grew uncomfortably damp. “I know all about that.”

If it was the koto incident, he had heard about it from Itoko. There was no way he could know anything beyond that.

“You were behind Tsutaya’s place, weren’t you?” he said, leaping ahead to take the lead. “I was playing the koto.” “You’re quite skilled, aren’t you?” said Mr. Munekata, not easily crestfallen. His demeanor was somewhat different from when he had met Fujio. “You’re skilled, aren’t you? I somehow got drowsy because of it.” “Ha ha ha! Now that’s irony,” Mr. Ono laughed. Mr. Ono’s laughter never lost its inherent stillness, no matter the circumstance. Moreover, it had a certain hue. “Don’t mock me. “I’m being serious here. “Even in jest, you can’t make light of your mentor’s daughter.”

“But if you make me drowsy, that’s a problem.” “The fact that it makes one drowsy is precisely what’s good about it. It’s the same with people. There’s something dignified about those who induce drowsiness.” “Because they’re old and dignified, right?” “A modern man like you just doesn’t get drowsy.” “That’s why they’re not dignified.” “It’s not just that. In fact, they tend to disparage dignified people as being behind the times.” “I seem to be under attack all day. Shall we part ways here?” Mr. Ono forced a laugh despite his discomfort and stopped. At the same time, he extended his right hand—the puzzling act of reaching for the wastebasket.

“No—I’ll carry it a bit longer. After all, I’ve got time to spare.”

The two resumed walking. The two began walking together, keeping their hearts aligned side by side. Each despised the other.

“You seem to have free time every day.” “Me? “I don’t read much.” “It doesn’t look like you have much else keeping you busy either.” “I don’t see the need to make such a show of being busy.”

“That’s fine.” “If you don’t leave things well enough alone while they can be, you’ll be in trouble when the time comes.” “A temporary stopgap is well enough. At last, well enough! Ha ha ha ha!”

“Still going to Kōno’s place?” “I just returned from there.” “Between visiting Kōno’s and escorting your mentor around, you must be busy.” “The Kōno household has been on hiatus these past four or five days.” “Your thesis?”

“Ha ha ha ha! Who knows when that’ll be!”

"You should hurry up and submit your thesis. If it's just 'who knows when that'll be,' there's no point putting on such a busy act." "Well, let's manage it as a temporary stopgap." "By the way, about your mentor's daughter..." "Yes..." "There's rather an intriguing story concerning that young lady."

Mr. Ono suddenly jolted. He didn't know what this was about. From the edge of his glasses, he glanced sideways at Mr. Munekata, who continued walking triumphantly ahead, swinging the wastebasket. "What...?" he asked back, his voice somehow lacking force.

“What do you mean? It looks like we’ve got a pretty deep fate with her.” “Who?” “Between us and that young lady—” Mr. Ono felt slightly relieved. But somehow it still nagged at him. Whether shallow or deep, he wanted to cleanly sever and discard the relationship between Mr. Munekata and Professor Kodō. But what nature has bound—no matter how talented or genius they may be—cannot be undone. With hundreds of inns in Kyoto, why did they have to stay at Tsutaya? Mr. Ono wondered. He thought they could have managed without staying over. Going out of their way to unload the rudder pole at Sanjō and then going out of their way to stay at Tsutaya—he thought it was entirely unnecessary. He thought it was a drunken whim. He thought it was a pointless prank. He thought it was a way of staying that needlessly tormented people when there’s no benefit to them. But no matter how much he thought about it, there was nothing to be done about it, he supposed. Mr. Ono couldn’t muster the energy to respond.

“That young lady, you know... “Mr. Ono.” “Yes…” “That young lady—you mustn’t think she’s just... “That young lady—I saw her.” “From the inn’s second floor?” “I saw her from the second floor too.” The “mono” character weighed slightly on his mind. The fact that they had appeared on the spring rain veranda alongside forsythia flowers and been observed overlooking the old garden was something he had known long ago. Even if it were brought up now, he wouldn’t be surprised. But if it was from the second floor as well, that was perilous. There must have been other times they were observed too. Under normal circumstances he would have pressed for details, but with an inexplicable sense of putting on a false front, he failed to push the question of where they’d been seen and took a few steps forward.

“I also saw you going to Arashiyama.” “Did you only watch?” “I couldn’t just talk to someone I didn’t know. I only watched.” “You should have tried talking to her.” Mr. Ono suddenly made a joke. The mood suddenly brightened. “I also saw you eating dumplings.”

“Where?” “It was Arashiyama after all.” “Is that all?” “There’s more. We came together from Kyoto to Tokyo.” “I see—when I calculate it out, we were on the same train after all.”

“I also saw you going to meet someone at the station.”

“Was that so?” Mr. Ono said with a bitter smile. “I hear that person’s from Tokyo.” “Who...” Mr. Ono began, peering oddly at his companion’s profile from beyond the edge of his glasses’ lenses. “Who?” “Who do you mean?” “Who told you?”

Mr. Ono’s demeanor unexpectedly faltered.

“The inn’s maid told me.” “The inn’s maid?” “Tsutaya’s?” He looked as if pressing for confirmation, as if wanting to hear more, as if trying to ascertain there was nothing left to say. “Uh-huh,” said Mr. Munekata. “Tsutaya’s maid…” “Are you turning that way?” “How about walking a bit longer?”

“Let’s head back now.” “Here’s your precious wastebasket.” “Make sure you don’t drop it.” Mr. Ono deferentially received the wastebasket. Mr. Munekata left nonchalantly.

When left alone, he felt the urge to hurry. If he hurried, he would reach Kodō Sensei’s house sooner. He did not welcome arriving there. It was not that he wanted to hurry to Kodō Sensei’s house. Mr. Ono found himself wanting to hurry for some reason. Both hands were occupied. His legs kept moving. The imperial pocket watch was ringing inside his vest. The streets bustled around him. With everything forgotten, Mr. Ono’s mind raced. He had to hurry. But he didn’t know how to hurry faster. There was no way but for a full day and night to shrink to twelve hours and fate’s wheel to spin full speed toward his desired direction. I have no intention of causing such unforeseen events that would break nature’s laws. Yet nature itself might show some consideration for these circumstances and work as my ally. If there were a guarantee of that outcome, I wouldn’t mind making a hundred pilgrimages to Bodhisattva Kannon. I wouldn’t mind offering goma rites to Fudō the Immovable either. For Christian believers, this would be natural. As he walked, Mr. Ono felt the need for divine intervention.

The man called Munekata could not manage scholarship and did not study. He had no appreciation for poetic sentiment either. There were times when I wondered what he intended to become in the future with that. There were times when I scornfully questioned what he could ever accomplish. There were times when his bluntness became unbearable. But now that I thought of it, that attitude was one I could never adopt. Just because I could not do it did not mean I would conclude I was inferior. In this world, there are things one cannot do—and things one does not even wish to do. I thought being unable to perform the trick of spinning a plate on chopstick tips showed greater refinement than being able to do so. Munekata’s manner of speech and actions were of course difficult for me to emulate. But precisely because they were difficult to emulate, I had until then considered it a point of pride. When I came before that man, I somehow felt a sense of pressure. It was disagreeable. An individual’s duty is solely to give pleasure to others, I think. Munekata had not even mastered the primary principle of social interaction. A man like that couldn’t succeed even in ordinary society. Failing the diplomat exam was only natural.

However, the pressure I felt when standing before that man was of a peculiar kind. Whether it stemmed from bluntness, monotony, or what might be called old-fashioned frankness—I had never attempted to dissect it—but in any case, it was peculiar. Though not a trace of the scenery that seemed intent on pressing down on me was visible to him, I somehow felt it here. From nature, which acted freely without acknowledgment, pressure emerged as if to silently declare, ‘How about this?’ I felt somewhat ill at ease. I had convinced myself that this haunting stemmed from moral principles imposing sanctions due to unfulfilled obligations toward that man, but it was by no means solely that. For example, it was akin to a mountain that neither feared heaven nor earth—towering indifferently—a feeling not so much of finding it uninteresting as of being unable to regard it as beautiful. Dew falling from stars was caught by pistils; delicate petals were, from time to time, carried by the wind’s tidings to the stream. I could find no joy unless it was in such a scene. In essence, the difference between Munekata and myself was like that between a cypress-clad mountain and a flower garden—our natures being fundamentally incompatible must have been why this peculiar sensation arose.

There were times when I resolved that if our natures did not align, then so be it. There were times when I pitied them. There were times when I scorned them as heartless. But never had I felt as envious as I did today. Because it was noble, because it was refined, because it aligned with my ideal—never in my wildest dreams would I feel envious. If only I could attain such a state of mind—how splendid that would be—comparing it to my present suffering made me suddenly envious.

He had fully explained to Fujio his relationship with Sayoko and himself. He stopped short of explicitly confirming its existence. He had definitively described it as merely a hazy connection recently rekindled after five years of separation—a faint shadow clinging anxiously to someone from his past who had once helped him. "To owe favors is obligation's surface layer; devotion to one's teacher defines a disciple," he had declared. "Beyond that, our bond differs no more than birds from fish." The lie he had desperately resisted telling finally escaped him. This long-withheld falsehood now demanded preservation as truth itself. Even without intending to falsify reality through lies, their utterance bound him to obligations and responsibilities. To state it plainly—his entire life's interests now hung upon this deception. I can no longer tell lies. They say even God despises layered falsehoods. From this day forth, I must make this lie pass as truth.

That felt somehow oppressive. If I went to Sensei’s place now, I would surely be confronted with a matter that would force me to tell double lies. There were countless ways to extricate myself, but when driven into a corner, I lacked the courage to rebuff it. If I had been born a bit more cold-hearted, there would have been no complications at all. Since I didn’t believe there was any inconvenience that would amount to a legal issue, if I clearly refused, that would settle it. But that would not suffice for my benefactor. Before my benefactor pressured me, before my lie was exposed, while nature still spun swiftly—fate had to drive me and Fujio to marry openly.—What came after? What came after could be thought about after. Facts were more effective than anything. If the fact called marriage came into effect, everything had to be reconsidered using this new fact as its foundation. If this new fact became recognized by society, I would make any inconvenient sacrifice afterward. No matter how painful the reconsideration might be, I would do it.

I was tormented on the verge of what one might call a critical moment. My heart that could do nothing raced. I was afraid to move forward. I detested retreating. While wishing that the matter would progress quickly, I felt uneasy about its progression. Therefore I envied the carefree Munekata. Those who deliberate over everything envy straightforward people.

Spring departed. The departing spring faded into dusk. Silk-like pale yellow curtains billowed softly down layer upon layer from the sky to drape over the earth. The street, devoid of any wind to sweep it clear, quieted completely under dusk's influence as the ashen hue of the earth crept forth moment by moment. The clouds that had been idly tinged with pale hues at the western horizon finally turned purple.

The soba shop’s sign bore *Okame*’s face dimly swelling in the gloom, its red cheeks poised as though awaiting the lamp soon to be lit behind—while the alley across narrowed into a cramped passage barely three meters wide. Twilight fell slenderly between house and house and slipped through each door of the unlocked gate. The room inside must have been even darker.

After turning the corner, he came to the third house on the left. It could not be called a proper gate structure. When he softly opened the lattice door barely partitioning the street, inside felt as though it had carved the dimly approaching dusk even deeper, descending further into shadow.

“Pardon me,” he said. His quiet voice maintained its composure, gentle enough not to disrupt spring’s settled rhythm. While gazing at the diamond-shaped black opening that ran through the foot-wide raised board beneath the veranda, he waited obediently for someone to answer. A response came before long—whether a grunt, an “ah,” or a “yes” remained unclear. Mr. Ono continued peering into the diamond-shaped void as he waited. Then came a heavy thud from beyond the shoji screen—someone springing upright. The creak of floor joists rang out as distinctly as if held in one’s palm, betraying questionable construction. The familiar sliding door with its wallpaper pattern opened. Before he could fully register the figure stepping into the two-tatami entryway, there in the dim shoji shadows materialized Kodō Sensei’s gaunt face, beard clinging to hollowed flesh.

He had never looked particularly robust even in ordinary times. His bones were delicate; his frame was slender; his face especially finely wrought—and upon this, the relentless years had driven into him rain, wind, and hardship, so that even the heart he had painstakingly preserved in this bitter world grew ever more delicate. His complexion was even worse today. Even his prized beard looked abnormal. White filled the black gaps, and wind passed through the white ones. The shadows of people of old were faint even beneath their chins. When examined strand by strand, each individual hair of Sensei’s beard appeared spindly and frail. Mr. Ono courteously removed his hat and greeted in silence. The new-style English-cut head bowed before the diminished 'Past'.

They drew a circle spanning several dozen shaku in diameter and lowered countless boxes fitted with iron grilles around their perimeters. The playthings of fate scrambled one after another into these boxes. The circle began to turn. When those in this box rose close to the azure sky, those in that box descended slowly, steadily toward the earth that swallows all whole. The inventor of the Ferris wheel had been an ironic philosopher.

The English-style head was now about to ascend toward the clouds within this box. Sensei, who carefully sprinkled sesame salt on his sparse beard as a memento of his long-suffering life in this world, was settling into the dark place within that box. Fate was constructed such that for every counterpart that rose one shaku, another counterpart had to descend one shaku. The rising one, embracing his awareness of ascent, lowered his courteous head without hesitation before the descending one moving toward night. This was what they called the irony wrought by god.

“Ah, well now,” Sensei said cheerfully. When those descending in the wheel of fate encountered those ascending, they naturally became cheerful.

“Please come up,” he said, immediately turning back toward the tatami room. Mr. Ono untied his shoelaces. Before he had finished untying them, Sensei came out again. “Please come up.” In the center of the tatami room—where the bed had been pushed to the wall despite being laid out for daytime use—newly made cushions were spread. “Is something wrong?”

“I’ve been feeling unwell since this morning, you see. Still, I managed to hold out through the morning, but come afternoon, I finally had to lie down. I was just dozing off when you arrived, so I’m afraid I kept you waiting.” “No, I’ve only just opened the lattice door.” “Is that so? It seemed someone had come, so I rushed out in surprise to check.” “I see, I’m sorry for disturbing you. You should have stayed in bed.” “It’s nothing serious, really. Moreover, Sayoko and the maid aren’t here either.”

"Did they go somewhere…"

“They just went to the bathhouse.” “While doing some shopping.” The emptied bedding lay piled high, its vacated hollow gaping toward the shoji screen. Where shadows fell, the dimness softened the nightwear’s pattern beneath the haori lining that caught sparse light in glimmering clusters. The lining was mouse-colored kaiki silk. "I seem to have a bit of a chill." “I’ll put on a haori,” Sensei said, rising. "You should have stayed in bed." "No—I think I’ll get up for a bit." "What could it be?"

“It doesn’t seem to be a cold—probably nothing serious.”

“Could it have been from going out last evening?” “No, it’s nothing—by the way, I must thank you for your great kindness last evening.” “Not at all.” “Sayoko was also very pleased.” “Thanks to you, we’ve had a most refreshing respite.” “If I were a bit less occupied, I could accompany you to various places...” “Because you’re busy.” “No—being busy is a good thing.” “I’m terribly sorry…” “No, there’s not the slightest need for such concern.” “Your busyness is, in other words, our happiness.”

Mr. Ono fell silent. The room gradually grew dark. “By the way, have you eaten?” Sensei asked. “Yes.” “Did you eat? If not, come up. There’s nothing much, but I could make some tea over rice,” he said, swaying unsteadily as he stood up. A long black shadow formed on the closed shoji. “That’s quite all right, Sensei. I’ve already eaten.” “Really?” “Don’t stand on ceremony.” “I’m not holding back.” The black shadow bent and lowered as if yielding. Two or three dry coughs escaped him.

“Are you coughing?” “It’s just a—a dry cough…” he began, only for two or three more to well up the moment he started speaking. Mr. Ono waited sullenly for the coughing to subside. "You should lie down and keep warm. If you get cold, it’s harmful.” “No, I’m fine now. When it starts up, it’s bad for a while. When you get old, you lose your spirit—everything’s a matter of youth.” It was a phrase I had heard many times before. But this was the first time I had heard it from Kodō Sensei’s own mouth. This was at least the first time I had heard it from the mouth of one who seemed a skeleton left behind in this world—sparse beard entrusted to the dust, alternating between past and present in his remaining breath. The temple bell echoed gloomily with a booming toll. In the dim room, having heard these words from the dim figure, Mr. Ono thought deeply that it was a matter of youth. Youth never comes twice, he thought. He thought that if he didn’t make good use of his youth, it would be a lifelong loss.

To waste one's life and end up aged like this teacher—the feeling must surely have been desolate. It must have been utterly dreary. However, the unease of dying with unresolved guilt toward a benefactor might prove more vexing than dwelling on past losses. In any case, youth would not come twice. Things decided in youth—which would not come again—were fixed for a lifetime. He had to decide now one way or the other on things that would be fixed for life. If he had come to Sensei's place before meeting Fujio today, he might have temporarily withheld that lie. But now that he had told the lie, there was nothing to be done. It would be no exaggeration to say he had entrusted his future destiny to Fujio—Mr. Ono offered this justification in his heart.

“Tokyo has changed, hasn’t it?” Sensei said. “In the bustling parts, it’s changing every day.” “It’s almost terrifying. I was quite startled last night as well.” “Because there have been so many people out.” “They’re out, aren’t they? Even in such crowds, you rarely meet anyone you know, do you?”

“I suppose so,” he replied evasively. “Do you ever meet anyone?” Mr. Ono started to hedge with a “Well…,” but then blurted out decisively, “Well… I suppose I don’t meet anyone.” “You don’t meet anyone. It certainly is a vast place, isn’t it,” Sensei remarked with deep admiration. It somehow seemed provincial. Mr. Ono shifted his gaze from Sensei’s lackluster face and looked down at his own lap. The cuffs were pure white. The cloisonné couple’s buttons floated their smooth pale crimson over green, warmly nestled within a delicate gold border. The suit’s fabric was a tasteful English weave. When he scrutinized himself before his very eyes, Mr. Ono suddenly became aware of the world he should inhabit. At the critical moment of nearly being lured in by Sensei, he suddenly felt as though he had remembered something forgotten. Of course, Sensei didn’t understand.

“It’s been some time since we last walked together.” “Does this make exactly five years now?” he asked fondly. “Yes, five years.” “Whether five or ten years pass, it would be splendid if we could come to live together like this.” “...and Sayoko would be pleased,” he added, as if appending the remark afterward. Mr. Ono forgot to respond immediately, feeling as though he were stiffening in the dark room. “The young lady came by earlier,” he offered reluctantly.

“Ah, well—there was no particular hurry, but I thought if you happened to have time, I’d ask you to take her shopping.” “Unfortunately, I was out at the time.” “So that’s how it was. “I must have been quite a bother. “Did you have some urgent business to attend to?” “No—it wasn’t urgent business or anything,” he replied with slight hesitation. Sensei did not press further. “Ah, I see. “Well...” he offered vaguely.

As the greeting grew vague, the room too began to lose its definition, dissolving into haze. The night held a moon. Though the moon had risen, time yet lingered. Yet the sun had set.

The floor had been painted a deep indigo sand-textured wall as a token gesture for the single room, while in its depths hung Sensei’s treasured scroll by Gidō. The drunken figure—staggering unsteadily in Tang Dynasty robes, long sleeves carelessly wrapped around his arms as he leaned on a boy’s shoulder—stood in stark contrast to this house’s loneliness, embodying instead a carefree optimist befitting the fourth month of spring. The black hue of the crown concealing the forehead—as described earlier—had only just now struck the eye with clarity when suddenly even the broad silk ribbons flanking it in stenciled patterns grew indistinct, welcoming the approaching dusk as they sought to melt into the coming night. If Sensei and I kept dawdling like this, we’d fall into the same hole and vanish like shadows.

“Sensei, I’ve brought the lamp stand you requested.” “That’s most kind. Let me see.”

Mr. Ono went out to the entrance in the dim light and brought the stand and wastebasket. “Hmm— It’s somehow too dark to see properly. After lighting the lamp, let’s take a leisurely look.”

“I’ll light it.” “Where is the lamp?”

“That’s unfortunate. Though it’s already about time for people to be returning home. Well then—if you go out to the veranda, it’s in the right door pocket; I’ll leave it to you. The cleaning should already be done.”

A dim shadow stood up and slid open the shoji smoothly. The remaining shadow, hands secretly folded in stillness, was assailed by the night. The six-mat room gloomily sealed in its lonely occupant. He let out a series of hacking coughs. Before long, along with the rasp of a struck match in a corner of the veranda, the coughing ceased. The light moved into the room. Mr. Ono bent the knee of his Western-style trousers and placed the five-minute burner on the new stand. “It fits perfectly. “It sits well.” “Is it rosewood?”

"It's likely an imitation." "Even an imitation can be splendid. The cost?" "How do you mean?" "That's unsatisfactory. The exact amount?" "Both together come to a little over four yen."

“Four yen.” “Indeed, Tokyo is expensive—Kyoto seems far better for managing on a modest pension.” Unlike two or three years prior, Sensei now had to make ends meet with a meager pension and the modest interest from his savings. The situation differed greatly from when he had taken care of Mr. Ono. Depending on how one viewed it, it might even appear he wanted some financial support from Mr. Ono himself. Mr. Ono sat formally, waiting in reserve. “If it weren’t for Sayo, I could stay in Kyoto without issue, but having a young daughter makes one worry so…” He paused mid-sentence. Mr. Ono remained formally seated and did not respond.

“As for me, it makes no difference where I end up dying,” he said, “but I couldn’t bear leaving Sayo all alone, so at this age I’ve gone to the trouble of coming all the way to Tokyo—though truth be told, it’s been twenty years since I left my hometown.” “No acquaintances, no connections.” “It might as well be a foreign country.” “Then when you arrive—sand swirls up, dust flies about.” “The crowds jostle, prices soar—I can’t call it a pleasant place to live at all…”

“It’s not a pleasant place to live.”

“Even here, there used to be a few relatives in the past, but since I had no contact for so long, now I don’t even know where they are.” “In ordinary times I don’t think much of it, but lying here like this—even for half a day—makes me dwell on things.” “Somehow I feel uneasy.”

“I see.” “Well, having you by my side is my greatest reassurance.” “I’m afraid I haven’t been of much use…” “No, I’m truly grateful for all your kindness. “In the midst of your busy schedule…” “If it weren’t for the thesis, I might still have some free time.” “The thesis. “The doctoral thesis, then?” “Well, yes, that’s right.” “When will you submit it?” He didn’t know when he would submit it. I have to submit it soon. If there were no such hindrances, I could have written much more by now. With his mouth,

“I’m working on it diligently right now,” he said.

Sensei withdrew his hands from the sleeves of his underkimono and shrugged his shoulders two or three times while keeping his elbows tucked into the bare skin at his chest. “I simply can’t stop shivering,” he said, burying his slender beard within his collar.

“You should rest.” “Staying awake will do you harm.” “I must take my leave now.”

“Oh, there’s no need for that—let’s talk a while longer. It’s about time for Sayo to return. If you want to sleep, I’ll take my leave and rest. Besides, there’s still more to discuss.” Sensei suddenly took his hands out from inside his chest, placed them on his knees, and slapped both at once.

“Just take your time.” “It’s only just gotten dark.”

Even amidst his own inconvenience, Mr. Ono couldn't help but feel pity for him. That he wanted so desperately to keep him there was not merely out of nostalgia for bygone days or to dispel an evening's tedium. It must have been because he was profoundly anxious about what lay ahead, wanting to clutch in his still-living hands—hands with a pulse—the peace that would follow his demise as soon as possible. The truth was, he hadn't yet eaten dinner. If he stayed, conversations he wished not to hear would emerge. His hips alone had long since floated into empty space. Yet seeing Sensei's condition, he couldn't bring himself to straighten the knees of his Western trousers. The old man strained against his illness, forcibly mustering vigor for his sake. The approachable futon had been shoved aside, now riddled with holes. Its warmth belonged to the past.

“By the way, about Sayoko,” Sensei said while looking at the lamp’s light. Within the kamaboko-shaped firebox with its five-centimeter wick, the oil-filled pot silently drew up fuel as gentle tongues of flame stood motionless, guarding the spring evening that had just darkened. A desolate night of human solitude found compensation in a single point of light. The lamplight summoned shadows of hope. “By the way, about Sayoko. As you know, she has that shy disposition—and lacking any modern education like today’s female students—she’s hardly likely to catch your fancy, but…” Having reached this point, Sensei looked away from the lamp. His eyes turned toward Mr. Ono. He had to address this somehow.

“No—why would you—” he responded, pausing deliberately for effect, but Sensei’s gaze did not shift from his face. Moreover, Sensei remained silent and waiting. “There’s no way I could—dislike her—or anything like that,” he answered in broken fragments. At last convinced, Sensei pressed forward. “She’s also quite pitiable, you see.”

Mr. Ono did not say it was so, nor did he say it was not. His hands were on his knees. His eyes were on his hands.

“It’s acceptable while I remain like this. “Acceptable for now, but with this body of mine, one never knows when something might occur. “That would prove troublesome. “We have our prior understanding, and you’re not the sort of shallow man to break promises—so even when I’m gone, you’ll care for Sayoko, I trust...” He had to respond: “That goes without saying.” “On that matter, I feel assured. “Yet women do tend toward narrowness of spirit. “Ah ha ha! What a quandary.”

It somehow sounded like a forced laugh. Sensei’s face grew all the lonelier for having laughed. “You needn’t worry so much,” he said haltingly. The words lacked conviction. “I’m fine, but Sayo...” Mr. Ono began to rub the knee of his trousers with his right hand. For a while, both of them remained silent. The unfeeling lamplight cast half its glow on each of them. “You must have various circumstances of your own.” “But no matter how many arrangements you make, things won’t sort themselves out.”

“I’m not… It’s just a bit more.” “Yes. Just a bit more.”

“But it’s been two years since you graduated, hasn’t it?”

“Yes. But just a little more time…” “A little—until when exactly? If you’d clarify that much, I could wait. I’ll speak properly to Sayoko myself too. But ‘just a little’ won’t suffice. Even as a parent, I bear some responsibility toward my child.—When you say ‘a little,’ do you mean until you finish your doctoral thesis?”

“Yes, that’s about right.” “It seems you’ve been writing this rather long while—well, when do you intend to finish? Roughly speaking?” “I’m endeavoring to complete it as soon as possible, but... The subject matter is quite extensive, you understand.” “Still, you must have some approximate timeline in mind.”

“Just a little more.” “Is it next month or so?”

“Not that soon...” “How about the month after next?” “Well…” “Then why not marry first? You can’t possibly claim marriage would prevent thesis writing.” “But the responsibilities would grow heavier.” “It’s fine as long as you just keep working like always. For now, we won’t have to depend on you financially.”

Mr. Ono had no way to reply. "How much income do you have now?" "It's meager." "Meager?"

“All together, it’s about sixty yen.” “It’s just enough for one person.” “Are you boarding somewhere?” “Yes.” “That’s absurd. “Using sixty yen by yourself is wasteful.” “You could live comfortably even with a household to maintain.” Mr. Ono once again had no way to reply.

He complained that Tokyo was expensive yet didn’t understand its difference from Kyoto. He did not know how to compare his era of tightening his Narumi tie-dyed sash and enduring cold with sweet potato porridge with current circumstances after graduating university where considerable respect had to be paid through details of attire. Books are second only to life itself for scholars. Just like a blind masseur’s cane，they are indispensable tools one cannot navigate life without. Do these books bubble up onto desks on their own? Some among them had been gathered through astonishing exertions. Sensei remained utterly clueless about what such expenses amounted to. Thus，he could not readily give a simple reply.

Mr. Ono braced his left hand on the tatami and extended his right to abruptly turn up the lamp’s wick with a sharp motion. The six-tatami room brightened instantly, as if suddenly rotating eastward—a fleeting illumination that transformed Sensei’s worldview in an instant. Yet Mr. Ono kept his hand firmly on the spiral adjuster. “Enough,” Sensei said. “That’s sufficient. You’ll risk breaking it if turned too high.” Mr. Ono withdrew his hand. As he pulled back, he peered into his cuff up to the wrist. Then from his suit’s outer pocket, he produced a spotless handkerchief and meticulously wiped the oil from his fingertips. “The flame’s crooked…” he remarked, bringing the cleaned fingers to his nose and sniffing them twice.

"The lamp is a bit crooked..." Mr. Ono brought the wiped fingertips to his nose and sniffed two or three times. "Whenever that old woman trims it, it always bends," Sensei said while looking at the lamp with its wick spread open. "By the way, how is that old woman working out? Does she meet your needs?" "Ah yes—I haven't thanked you yet." "I'm gradually becoming more of a burden..."

“No. Actually, I thought since she’s elderly she might be able to work, but…” “Well, that’s quite all right. She seems to be gradually getting accustomed.” “Is that so? That was a good arrangement.” “Actually, I was worried things might not be working out.” “But they say she’s reliable.” “Because Asai vouched for her.”

“Is that so?” “Speaking of Asai—what does he intend to do?” “Isn’t he back yet?” “It’s about time he returns, but…” “Depending on circumstances, he might return on today’s train.” “In the letter from the other day, it said he would return within two or three days.” “Oh, was that so?” With those words, Mr. Ono tilted back his close-cropped head and gazed absently into space. As if contemplating how to ascertain the connection between Asai’s return to the capital and his close-cropped hair, his eyes focused intently.

“Sensei,” he said. His face turned toward Sensei. Contrary to his usual self, a hint of resolve lingered at the corners of his mouth.

“What is it?” “Regarding the matter we just discussed...”

“Yeah.” “Could you please wait another two or three days?”

“Another two or three days...” “In other words, before giving a properly formulated reply, I would like to thoroughly consider various matters.” “That’s perfectly fine.” “Three days, four days—even a week is fine.” “As long as the matter becomes clear, I’ll wait with peace of mind.” “Then I’ll inform Sayoko accordingly.”

“Yes, please do,” he said while taking out the imperial pocket watch. After the long shadows of approaching summer had fallen, the night’s hands seemed to turn swiftly. “Well then, I’ll take my leave for tonight.”

“Well, that’s fine. “You’ll come back.”

“I’ll come again soon.”

“Well then—I must apologize for my neglect.” Mr. Ono stood up briskly. Sensei took the lamp. “Please, don’t trouble yourself.” “I know,” he said as he headed to the entrance. “Ah, a moonlit night,” Sensei said, holding the lamp at shoulder height.

“Yes, it’s a calm evening,” said Mr. Ono, tightening his shoelaces while looking out through the lattice at the street. “Kyoto remains calm, you know.”

Mr. Ono, who had been crouching down, finally stood up in the entryway. The lattice door opened. A delicate frame emerged halfway into the street.

“Seizō,” called Sensei from the lamplight’s shadow. “Yes,” Mr. Ono turned around from where the moonlight fell. “It’s nothing urgent—just know that the reason I’ve come all the way to Tokyo like this is because I want to settle Sayoko’s matter quickly.” “You understand, right?” he said. Mr. Ono respectfully removed his hat. Sensei’s shadow vanished along with the lamp.

The outside was hazy. A light that half illuminated the world and half shrouded it hung in the sky. The sky floated in the early evening with an unsettled posture, as if high, as if low. The suspended object swayed all the more ethereally. A ring with a yellow-tinged circular edge expanded dimly, its outline indistinct. The yellow band, nearing its outer edge, lost its color and seeped into the blackened indigo. As it drifted, the moon too seemed on the verge of vanishing. It was a night when the moon hung in the sky and people easily melted into the earth.

Mr. Ono’s shoes, as if shunning the damp light, concealed their heels beneath the hem of his Western-style trousers as they slipped through the alley to the soba shop’s lantern and turned left. The street bore traces of human presence. The shadow trailing along the ground was not long. It curled forward in approach. They swayed densely before retreating. The clatter of geta, swathed in haze, held none of frost’s sharp clarity. Telegraph poles brushed past in his path revealed white markings. When he narrowed hollow eyes in suspicion, chalk-pale shared umbrellas materialized before them. Mist that had drifted in since daybreak enveloped this shallow night. All who came and went seemed vaguely purposeless. To withdraw was to enter mist; to advance was to enter moonlight’s domain. Mr. Ono moved as one walking through a dream. It called to mind that verse: “Alone he walks in desolation.”

In truth, he had not yet eaten dinner. Normally, whenever he stepped out onto the street, he would immediately head to a Western restaurant with such resolve, proudly carrying his well-tailored Western-style trousers with their impeccable creases. Tonight, no matter how much time passed, his stomach refused to grow hungry. He didn’t even feel like drinking milk. The weather was too warm. His stomach felt heavy. Though his steps didn’t take on a plover’s staggered gait, he felt no firmness beneath his feet. It might have been due to something being expelled from within. Even so, he had no intention of striking the ground with a clink. If one could walk like a policeman, the world would have no need for haze. There was no need for further concern. Because they were policemen, they could walk like that. For Mr. Ono—especially for tonight’s Mr. Ono—the imitation of a policeman was impossible.

Why am I so weak-willed?—Mr. Ono wondered as he walked unsteadily.—Why am I so weak-willed? In intellect, I don’t lose to others. In academics, I have twice as much as my classmates. From my behavior and movements to the way I dress, I am confident that every aspect exudes refinement. I’m just weak-willed. I suffer losses because I’m weak-willed. If it were just suffering losses, that would be fine, but I end up in a situation worse than mere loss—like being hijacked. I recall reading in some book that those who drown kick at the water. In this situation where one can’t save both back and belly, if I resign myself and kick, that will be the end of it. But…

The voices of women talking were heard. Two figures approached from the opposite side of the road. The sounds of Azuma geta and Koma geta kept rhythm in unison, tepidly carving through the evening haze as their conversation became audible. "Did you buy the lamp stand?" one asked. "Perhaps," the other replied. "He might have arrived by now," pressed the first voice. "Who can say?" countered the second. "But you said he'd bring it!" "Oh... Doesn't this warmth feel excessive tonight?" she diverted. "It's the hot spring's doing. The medicinal bath heats one through," she explained.

The two women’s conversation passed by on Mr. Ono’s opposite side. When he watched them go, only the shadow of a head emerged diagonally from under the row of eaves and moved toward the soba shop. After twisting his neck and standing still for a while, Mr. Ono started walking again.

If one were like Asai—someone with little sense of pity—they could settle this immediately. If it were someone unflappable like Munekata, he would manage without difficulty. If it were Kōno, he might remain aloof yet find himself caught between opposing forces. But I cannot do any of that. Moving toward one side makes me sink deeper; approaching the other drags me down further. Obligated to both directions, my legs get pulled apart. Ultimately this stems from being ensnared by human sentiment while lacking resolve. Gains and losses? Such calculations are mere ornamental veneer laid over sentiment’s foundation. If asked what primarily drives me—it’s sentiment I’d name without hesitation. Even if considerations of profit were demoted or erased entirely—yes—I’d still meet this same fate.—Mr. Ono walked on thinking these thoughts.

Even for someone governed by human emotions, being this indecisive was unacceptable. If he were to do nothing and leave matters to nature’s course, there was no telling how events might develop. The thought terrified him. The more he became entangled in human emotions, the more he might come to witness terrifying developments before his very eyes. He absolutely had to take action there. However, he still had two or three days’ leeway. It wouldn’t be too late to make a decision after two or three days of careful consideration. If no good solution emerged after two or three days had passed, then there would be no choice but to accept it. I would get hold of Asai and have him negotiate with Prof. Kodō. In fact, earlier, with that idea in mind, I had factored in Asai’s return and mentioned a two- or three-day grace period. Such matters were limited to someone like Asai, who wasn’t bound by human emotions. Someone as deeply compassionate as I am could never possibly refuse. Mr. Ono walked on, thinking this way.

The moon remained in the sky. There was no sign of its flowing motion arrested mid-course. The light that fell to earth, denied clarity's chance, lay trapped within oppressive warmth, dragging endless grand dreams through the middle air. Sparse stars seemed to slip through clouds toward the far side. Like a cannonball fired into cotton batting, their glimmer struggled faintly. A still, heavy night. Mr. Ono walked through this atmosphere while thinking. Tonight, the fire bell would likely not ring.

Fifteen

The room faces south. The French-style window begins five sun above the floor and becomes entirely glass from there upward. If opened, sunlight streams in. A warm wind enters. The sunlight stops at the legs of the chair. The wind, knowing no restraint, blows mercilessly up to the ceiling. It reaches even behind the window curtain. The study becomes bright and airy.

A desk was placed to the right of the French window. When the sliding door was lowered into a semicircular shape, a lock engaged from above. When opened, the center—covered in green felt—was carved diagonally and low toward the user, with a flattened back to create convenience for opening books. The lower part was folded down into silver metal fittings on both sides, its four legs reaching the floor. The floor was camphor wood parquet coated with lacquer, its glossy surface threatening to make even the most improper shoe soles slip perilously.

In addition, there was a Western-style table. In a blend of Chippendale and Art Nouveau styles, it boldly incorporated modern elements into an elegant antique design, dominating the room’s center. The four-legged chairs surrounding it were naturally of identical construction. Though their satin patterns might have formed symmetrical pairs, with white sunshades, lowered seats, and reclining backs designed solely for physical comfort and mental ease, they offered no visual delight. The bookshelves were pushed against the wall, their uniform nine-shaku height lining up continuously to the doorway. When assembled, they stacked; when separated, they transformed into single-tiered shelves—these had been imported from the West by his deceased father. The tightly packed books—navy blues, yellows, and varied hues—radiated a refined glow, within which gold floral scripts and angular characters shone beautifully both vertically and horizontally.

Mr. Ono never failed to feel envious every time he saw Kōno’s study. Of course, Kōno did not dislike it either. Originally, it had been his father’s living room. When one sliding partition door was opened, it led directly to the reception room. Exiting the remaining one led from the inner corridor to the Japanese-style room. The two Western-style rooms were the result of his father expanding their cramped residence for convenience in the twentieth century. Rather than being designed to satisfy aesthetic tastes, it was an architecture that, compelled by practicality, had surrendered itself to the level of contemporary trends. It was not a particularly delightful room. But Mr. Ono was extremely envious.

To enter such a study, read favorite books whenever he liked, and when tired of it, converse with a favorite person about favorite topics—that would be paradise, he thought. I would write my doctoral thesis and show it soon. After writing my doctoral thesis, I would produce a great work that would astonish future generations. Surely that would be delightful. However, in a boarding house like this one, with my head being scrambled by the neighbors’ disorderly ways, it would be utterly impossible. If I continued to be hounded by the past and expended my heart day and night on obligations and human entanglements, it would be utterly impossible. It was not a boast, but I possessed an excellent mind. Those who possessed an excellent mind had a vocation to contribute to society by using this mind. To fulfill one’s vocation required all the necessary conditions. Such a study was one of those conditions. Mr. Ono desperately wanted to enter such a study.

Though their high schools had differed, at university both Mr. Kōno and Mr. Ono had been the same age. As philosophy and pure literature belonged to different disciplines, Mr. Ono could not possibly know Mr. Kōno’s academic capabilities. All he had heard was that Mr. Kōno graduated by submitting a thesis titled *The Philosophical World and the Real World*. Though one who hadn’t read it couldn’t grasp the value of *The Philosophical World and the Real World*, at any rate Mr. Kōno had not been granted a watch. I had received one. The imperial watch not only measured time but gauged the very morality of the mind. It measured future progress and academic success alike. Mr. Kōno—having missed such an honor—was assuredly no man of consequence. Moreover, since graduating he appeared to have conducted no meaningful research. He might have harbored profound thoughts within himself, but had he done so, he would surely have presented them by now. That he hadn’t could only mean he possessed nothing worth presenting. I was undeniably more valuable material than Mr. Kōno. While I embraced this valuable material and bustled about sustaining myself on sixty yen a month, Mr. Kōno idled away his days with folded arms in listless boredom. It was criminal waste for Mr. Kōno to occupy this study. Had I been born into Mr. Kōno’s station and become master of this room, I would have produced work befitting these two years—yet shackled by inherited poverty, I’d had no choice but to endure heaven’s injustice where even a prized steed must lie in its stall. They say the sun returns even to those without fortune. How I wished—how I fervently wished—Mr. Ono had repeated daily.

Unaware, Mr. Kōno sat solitary at the desk.

If one were to open the front window—beyond merely a single stone step—not only could they survey the wide lawn at a glance, but the bright atmosphere would flow seamlessly into the room through the connected ground. Yet Mr. Kōno remained secluded, keeping it tightly shut.

The small window on the right, with its glass pane lowered, was half-covered by curtains hanging down from both sides. The filtering light fell dimly upon the floor. The curtains—maroon woolen fabric with raised floral patterns left dusty—seemed not to have been moved for about twenty days. Their color had also faded considerably. Even decorations that clashed with the room were splendidly accepted as a matter of course in transitional-era Japan. From a gap in the curtains, he pressed his face against the glass and peered outside; through the planting of Japanese snowbell trees, he could see the pond. Like wave patterns slipping horizontally between vertical stripes, they appeared intermittently. Diagonally across the pond was Fujio’s sitting room. Mr. Kōno looked neither at the plantings, nor the pond, nor the lawn; he remained motionless, leaning against his desk. A single piece of last year’s leftover coal in the fireplace seemed to coldly observe spring.

Before long came a clatter as books were rearranged. Mr. Kōno pulled out that familiar diary smudged with hand stains and began writing. "Many people wish to inflict harm upon me. Yet I cannot allow myself to deem them villains. Nor can I permit resistance against their cruelty. It states: 'Should they refuse submission to fate, envy shall consume you.'"

Having finished writing in fine script, Mr. Kōno then added “Leopardi” in katakana. He shifted the diary to the right. He returned the repositioned book to its original place and quietly began to read. A Western-style pen with a slender mother-of-pearl inlaid shaft clattered as it rolled across the desk and fell to the floor. With a splat, a black splotch formed underfoot. Mr. Kōno braced both hands against the corner of the desk, slightly lifting his hips back, then lowered his eyes to first gaze at the black drip. The ink, having formed a circular ring, splattered outward in all directions. The mother-of-pearl pen rolled over, casting a long, cold-seeming gleam in the dimness. Mr. Kōno shifted the chair. The Western-style pen shaft he had picked up by feel was an old souvenir that his father had bought and brought back from the West.

Mr. Kōno flipped over the hand that held the shaft between his fingertips and let the retrieved object slide from the valleys of his fingers into his palm. When he turned his palm over, the long shaft rolled back and forth. Each time it moved, it glinted. It was a small memento.

He continued reading the book while rolling the Western-style pen shaft. When he turned the page, he found these words written there: "When swordsmen of equal strength engage in swordplay, swordsmanship becomes equivalent to having no technique. If he cannot subdue this with a single strategy, then facing those without learning becomes equivalent to facing an enemy. Deceiving people is also akin to this. When both the deceived and the deceiver are equally rich in cunning deceit, their positions ultimately become no different from those who interact with complete sincerity. Therefore, unless falsehood and evil gain the upper hand to serve as reinforcements, unless one encounters insufficient falsehood and insufficient evil, and unless one ultimately makes the ultimate good an enemy—it is difficult to achieve results. The third case is inherently rare. The second are also not numerous. Villains take as their norm being matched in vice. 'When people harm each other and ultimately fail to attain their goals, or when even those things that can only be achieved through immense hardships could be easily reached simply by mutually performing good deeds and bestowing virtue—one cannot help but lament this.'"

Mr. Kōno picked up his diary again. He plopped the mother-of-pearl pen shaft into the bottom of the inkwell. When he thought he wouldn’t easily retrieve what he’d dropped, he finally let go. Leaving Leopardi open, he placed the yellow-covered diary on top of its pages. He spread both legs firmly, folded his hands, and leaned back heavily against the chair’s backrest. The moment he looked up, his face met that of his father’s half-length portrait. It was not particularly large. Though it was a half-length portrait, only two buttons of the waistcoat were visible. The clothing appeared to be a frock but was absorbed into the darkness of the background; all that remained clear were the faintly visible white of his shirt and his broad forehead.

It was said to be by the brush of a renowned artist. Three years prior when Father had returned to Japan, he had carried this portrait with him as he disembarked at Yokohama's pier after crossing the distant sea. Since then, whenever Kōno looked up, it had hung on the wall. Even when not looked up at, it gazed down upon Kōno from the wall. Whether he took up his brush, rested his chin in his hand, or propped his head on the desk during a nap—it ceaselessly gazed down upon him. Even when Kōno was absent, the person on the canvas perpetually gazed down upon the study. True to its downward gaze, it lived. The eyes possessed a firm intensity. These were not eyes meticulously daubed and refined through patient effort. With a single brushstroke outlining the contours, a natural shadow had formed between the eyebrows and eyelashes. The droop of the lower eyelid was visible. Years gathered and pulled at the corners of the eyes, forming wave-like creases. Within them, the pupils were alive. The technique that had captured onto the canvas that momentary expression—still yet alive—without alteration had to be called an extraordinary skill that instantly seized the opportune moment of perfect execution. Every time Mr. Kōno saw these eyes, he thought they were alive.

If a single ripple was stirred in the realm of thought，a thousand ripples followed in pursuit. When the waves of thought embraced each other in contemplation’s domain and he forgot himself，then raising his tormented head to suddenly meet those eyes—ah，he thought，it had been there. At times he even startled with an “Oh!” When Mr.Kōno turned his eyes from Leopardi and entrusted everything to the chair’s support，he was startled more intensely than usual by an “Oh!”

A fragment that evokes memories of the deceased was a cruel thing—while offering opportunities for remembrance, it never restored the departed to life. Clutching the few strands of hair that clung to his skin, embracing them, weeping over them—in this fleeting world, time merely spun onward. A fragment should be burned. Since his father’s death, Mr. Kōno had somehow grown to dislike looking at this painting. Having established a fortress of composure where separation brought no harm, to conjure a parent’s benevolent visage close at hand was not merely to sear their departed form onto the parchment of memory—it became an omen to await reunion’s day with spring’s arrival. But the person who had wanted to meet was already dead. The only thing alive was the eyes. Even they were merely alive and did not move in the slightest. Mr. Kōno stared blankly at the eyes, lost in thought.

Father met such a pitiable fate. He was at an age when he could have lived longer still. His beard showed no trace of white. His complexion remained fresh and vibrant. He surely hadn’t intended to die. Father met such a pitiable fate. If he had to die regardless, I wish he’d done so after returning to Japan. He must have had final words left unspoken. So many things I wanted to ask him—so many things to say. What a wretched waste. To be sent abroad three or four times at his prime, only to succumb abruptly to illness at some foreign post...

The living eyes stared down at Mr. Kōno from the wall. Mr. Kōno remained leaning back in his chair, staring at the wall above. Each time their eyes met, they locked perfectly. As they remained perfectly still, seconds accumulating into minutes with their gazes locked, the eyes opposite began to stir ever so slightly. It was not a whimsical shifting of pupils to some secluded corner. The guarding light gradually intensified, and the soul that had pierced through the eyes relentlessly advanced straight toward Mr. Kōno. Mr. Kōno moved his head with an "Oh!" By the time his hair had moved forward about two inches from the chair’s back, the soul was already gone. It seemed to have slipped back into the eyes unnoticed. The single painting remained nothing more than a single painting.

Mr. Kōno threw his head of black hair back against the shoulder of the chair.

How absurd. But lately such things had been happening occasionally. Was it because my body had weakened, or was my brain not functioning properly? Even so, this painting was loathsome. The fact that it merely resembled Father was still a concern. I knew it was pointless to dwell on the dead. Being urged to remember the deceased dangling before my nose was like having a wooden sword pressed to my gut with demands to commit seppuku. It wasn’t just annoying—it became unpleasant.

If it were merely an ordinary circumstance, that would be one thing. Whenever I thought of Father, I felt sorry for him. My current body and mind were pitiable even to myself. To dwell in the real world was merely to indulge in clothing, shelter, and food in name alone; it was precisely because my head resided in another country and I forgot even my mother and sister that I continued living like this. To those who could not fathom lifting their heels from the ground of the real world—people bound by practical concerns—this state must surely have appeared as the height of foolishness. Even though I was resolved to abandon everything within myself, I did not want Father to see this wretched state. Father was just an ordinary person. If Father had been watching from beyond the grave, he would surely have thought me an unworthy child. I, the unworthy child, did not wish to recall Father. When I remembered, I felt sorry—this painting really would not do. When the opportunity arose, I would stow it away in the storehouse—...

Ten people each bear their own karma. To be burned by hot soup and thus blow on even vinegar-dressed fish, and to guard a stump awaiting hares—both are equally governed by the same great law. When the white sun reaches its zenith and the noon cannon signals ten thousand households to cook their rice, the common folk beneath their feet mature schemes for peace under their bedcovers at midnight.

While Mr. Kōno was alone in his study thinking, the mother and Fujio were talking in hushed voices in the Japanese-style room.

“So you’re still not going to tell him?” Fujio said. The lined kimono with its tea-toned slubbed threads was unexpectedly plain in appearance, yet from behind the long-flowing sleeves, a single streak of crimson silk lining exuded a coquettish charm. On the obi, an ancient pattern in ochre could be seen. The name of the textile remained unknown.

“To Kīngo?” the mother asked again. She wore a muted striped garment suited to her years, fastened so that only the black of the front closure stood out. “Yes,” Fujio responded.

“Brother still doesn’t know, does he?” Fujio pressed. “I won’t tell him yet,” Mother replied calmly. She flipped up the edge of the zabuton cushion. “Oh, where is my tobacco pipe?” she said.

The tobacco pipe was on the other side of the brazier. Holding the long bamboo stem reversed between thumb and forefinger,

“Here,” she said, passing it over the top of the handled iron kettle. “If I tell him, do you think he’ll say anything?” she said, withdrawing her outstretched hand back toward herself. “He’d just dismiss it if I told him,” Mother declared sarcastically, looking down as she stuffed tobacco into the pipe bowl. The daughter did not answer. To answer would be to show weakness. When intending to give the strongest reply, silence was paramount. Silence was golden. Having smoked her fill beneath the trivet, Mother opened her mouth as smoke streamed from her nostrils.

“We can discuss it anytime.” “If you’d prefer, I can tell him for you.” “There’s nothing to discuss.” “If I say I plan to handle it this way, that’s the end of it.” “Well, even I—now that my mind’s made up—won’t agree no matter what Brother says, but…” “He’s not someone you can reason with.” “If he were someone you could consult with, we wouldn’t have had to resort to this from the start—there were plenty of other options.”

“But it’s all because of Brother’s attitude that we end up in trouble.” “That’s right. If that weren’t the case, we wouldn’t need any discussion at all. After all, since he’s the official heir, unless that person gives his full approval, we’ll only end up destitute.” “And yet, whenever he does talk, he says, ‘I’ll give you all the property, so you should keep that in mind,’ but...” “Just saying it isn’t any use, is it?”

“I can’t very well press him about it, can I?” “I wouldn’t mind having someone press him about it—but it would look bad socially. No matter how much of a scholar he may be, it’s awkward for us to broach the subject first.” “So why don’t you just talk to him about it?”

“About what?”

“What do you mean ‘about what’? That matter!” “About Mr. Ono?”

“Yes,” Fujio answered clearly. “I can talk about it. After all, I’ll have to bring it up eventually anyway.” “Then he’ll have to do something about it. If he truly intends to give all the property, he’ll give it. If he’s willing to share some, he’ll share; if he hates the house, he can leave.” “But coming from my mouth, it’s difficult to say ‘I don’t want to rely on your care,’ so I can’t very well ask him to arrange things for Fujio.”

“But isn’t he saying he refuses to take responsibility for you?” “He can’t take responsibility, he won’t give the property.” “Then what does he intend to do with you, Mother?” “He has no intention of doing anything about it—nothing at all.” “He’s just a man who dawdles around like that and causes trouble for others.” “He should at least have some understanding of our situation.” Mother remained silent.

“Even when I told him to give the gold watch to Munekata the other day…” “Are you saying to give it to Mr. Ono?” “I didn’t say to give it to Mr. Ono.” “I didn’t say to give it to Ichirō either.” “He’s being strange.” “Just when you think he’s saying to have you adopted so someone will take care of you，he still wants to give you to Ichirō.” “But Ichirō is an only son，isn’t he?” “Who would ever agree to become an adopted son?” Fujio responded with a “Hmph，” turned her slender neck，and looked toward the garden.

The pale indigo cherry trees, which had been contemplated solely as heralds of dusk, had now completely shed their blossoms from the treetops, even sprouting glossy brown new leaves. Through gaps between three or four Japanese spindle trees clustered thickly to the left, their forms rounded by pruning, the study window could be seen. The trunk of a cherry tree stretched its branches as far as they would reach; to the right of it lay a pond. Where the pond ended extended her own protruding sitting room.

After sweeping her gaze across the tranquil garden, Fujio turned her profile back to face her mother directly. Mother had kept her eyes fixed on Fujio without wavering since earlier. When their eyes met, Fujio twitched her beautiful cheek—though what thought had prompted this remained unclear. What might have been mistaken for a smile dissolved naturally before ever fully forming. "Is everything settled with Munekata?"

“Even if it isn’t settled, there’s nothing to be done about it, is there?” “But you did refuse them, didn’t you?”

“I did refuse them.” “When I went the other day, I met with Munekata’s father and properly explained our reasons.” “—as I told you after coming back.” “I do remember that, but it all seemed rather unclear.” “The lack of clarity lies entirely with them.” “Because Munekata’s father is such an endlessly patient man.” “We didn’t refuse them clearly either, did we?”

“Given our longstanding social obligations, we can’t refuse outright like some child’s whim just because you say you dislike it.” “If something is disagreeable, there’s no way it’ll ever become acceptable no matter what you do. It’s better to state it plainly.” “But society doesn’t operate that way.” “You might think bluntness is permissible due to your youth, but the world doesn’t work like that.” “Even when refusing—” “You must phrase it with both discretion and nuance—otherwise you’ll only provoke needless anger.”

“So you phrased it tactfully and refused them.” “Kōno absolutely refuses to take a bride,” she declared in one breath. “And I grow more anxious with each passing year.” She sipped her tea. “Because I’m aging and uneasy.” “This uncertainty leaves us no choice—if Kōno persists in his stubbornness—but to arrange your adoption into another household.” “Since Ichirō-san must inherit the Munekata family estate, we cannot possibly accept him into ours—nor can we offer you to them anymore...”

“Then if Brother were to say he wanted to take a bride, that would be troublesome, wouldn’t it?” “Oh, it’s fine,” Mother said, furrowing her tanned forehead into an eight-shaped scowl of irritation. The eight-shaped scowl vanished immediately. Mother soon said.

“If he wants to take a bride, let him take one—Itoko or whoever he pleases.” “As for us, we’ll have Mr. Ono brought in quickly on our end.” “But what about the Munekatas…” “It’s fine. “There’s no need to worry so much,” she declared emphatically before... “Until he passes the diplomat exam, marriage is out of the question,” she added. “If he passes, they’ll bring it up immediately.” “But could he possibly pass?” “Just think about it—even if we promised to hand me over should he pass, it would be perfectly safe.”

“Did you say that?” “I didn’t say that—but even if I did, it’s perfectly safe. That man could never pass anyway.”

Fujio tilted her head, laughing. She soon straightened her posture crisply and said while concluding the conversation: "So Mr. Munekata’s uncle is certain he was refused?" "He should think so—but tell me, has there been any change in Ichirō’s manner since then?" "It’s still the same as before. When we went to the exhibition the other day, he remained unchanged." "When was it that you went to the exhibition again?"

“As of today,” she thought. “The evening of the day before yesterday and two days before that,” she said. “Then the refusal must have reached Ichirō by now—though given that Munekata’s uncle is that sort of man, perhaps the message was too obscure for him to grasp,” she said with evident frustration.

“Or perhaps, given that it’s Ichirō we’re talking about, he might remain unperturbed even upon hearing it from his uncle.”

“That’s right. There’s no telling which is which.” “Then let’s do this.” “At any rate, we must inform Kōno.” “If we stay silent here like this, it’ll drag on endlessly.”

“He’s in the study now, isn’t he?”

Mother stood up. She retracted the foot that had stepped onto the veranda and said in a low voice while stooping, "You'll be seeing Ichirō." "I might meet him." "If you meet him, it would be wise to drop a hint." "Didn't you say you were going to Omori with Mr. Ono?" "Is it tomorrow?" "Yes, it's scheduled for tomorrow." "If you like, it would be good to show him the two of you strolling around enjoying yourselves."

“Hohoho.”

Mother headed to the study.

Passing through the sunlit veranda, when she opened the Western-style door—its entire surface polished to reveal beautiful wood grain—halfway, the sealed-off interior lay dark. While pushing the round knob forward and letting herself be carried by the opening door, as she soundlessly set both feet down on the parquet floor, there came a metallic clatter of the latch springing back.

The study, shutting out spring with its window coverings, dimly partitioned the two from the world of men.

“It’s dark,” Mother said as she reached the center of the Western desk and halted. Kōno’s figure—only his head visible above the chairback—steadily turned toward the voice’s source, revealing furrowed brows whose crease tapered in a three-to-one ratio. A black mustache traced his upper lip’s contour, descended naturally, then abruptly curled back at its near-vanishing corner. His lips remained sealed. Simultaneously, his dark eyes flicked to their outer corners. Mother and child acknowledged each other through these postures.

"It's gloomy in here," Mother repeated while standing. The silent man rose. After tapping his indoor shoes against the floor several times and moving to the corner of the Western-style desk—

"Shall I open the window?" he asked gently. "It doesn't matter—I don't mind either way, but I just thought you might find it oppressive." The silent man extended his right palm beyond the edge of the Western-style desk once more. Prompted, Mother settled into the chair first. Kōno likewise took his seat. "How are you feeling?" "Thank you." "Have you improved at all?" When he responded vaguely with "Well... perhaps...," Mr. Kōno leaned back and folded his arms. Simultaneously beneath the desk, he rested his left outer ankle upon the instep of his right foot. From Mother's vantage point, only the sleeves of his egg-colored undergarment—its kimono length shortened—appeared directly before her.

“You must keep yourself healthy—your mother worries so…” Before her sentence ended, Mr. Kōno pressed his chin to his throat and peered under the Western-style desk. Two black split-toe socks overlapped. Mother’s feet remained unseen. Mother adjusted her position. “When your health fails, your mood naturally turns gloomy—you become unpleasant even to yourself…”

Mr. Kōno suddenly raised his eyes. Mother abruptly shifted topics. "But since going to Kyoto, you seem somewhat improved." "Is that so?" "Hohoho, 'Is that so?' you say, as if speaking of another's affairs." "You've grown quite robust in complexion, haven't you?" "Perhaps from sun exposure?" "That may be," said Mr. Kōno, turning his head to gaze toward the window. Through deep folds of parted window curtains, young photinia leaves blazed reflected in the glass.

“Why don’t you come to the Japanese-style room for a chat? That room feels more pleasant than the study—so open and airy. Occasionally keeping company with a dull woman like Ichi for some idle talk might prove an amusing change of pace.”

“Thank you.” “I can’t hold a conversation worthy of being your companion—but even a fool has their own way...” Mr. Kōno released his dazzled gaze from the photinia.

“The photinia has sprouted buds quite beautifully, hasn’t it?” “It’s splendid. These sprouting buds are preferable to gaudy flowers in bloom. From here, only a single stalk remains visible. When you circle to the opposite side, the trimmed ones form neat rounded shapes—that’s beautiful.” “It appears your room has the finest view.” “Ah—would you like to see?”

Mr. Kōno neither confirmed nor denied having seen it.

Mother said: "And lately—perhaps because of the weather—the scarlet carp in the pond have been leaping so vigorously... Can you hear them from here?" "The sound of the carp leaping?" "Ah—" "No." "I can't hear them. "You probably can't hear them either with everything closed up like this. "You can't even hear them from my room. "The other day when I told Fujio my hearing was failing, she laughed at me relentlessly. "Though I suppose at my age—well—with one's hearing going, there's nothing to be done about it."

“Is Fujio here?” “She is.” “It must be nearly time for Mr. Ono to come for his lesson.—Do you have some business with her?” “No, there’s no particular business.” “She’s such a headstrong girl—I’m sure she must often irritate you—but please bear with her, think of her as your true sister, and look after her.”

Mr. Kōno remained with his arms crossed, fixing his deep eyes intently on Mother. Mother’s eyes were, for some reason, resting on the Western-style desk. “I intend to look after her,” he calmly said. “If you say that, then I can truly be at ease.” “It’s not merely a matter of intention. I’m at the point where I want to do it.”

“If she were to hear you care for her so deeply，she would surely be pleased.” “But…” His words trailed off. Mother waited for him to continue. Kīngo unfolded his arms and leaned forward from his chair，drawing so close that his chest nearly touched the corner of Mother’s Western-style desk.

"But Mother..." "Fujio shows no inclination to accept any caretaking."

“Such a thing!” This time Mother drew her body back against the chair’s spine. Mr. Kōno did not so much as twitch an eyebrow. He quietly continued in the same low voice.

“To speak of taking care of someone—it requires those being cared for to have faith in their caretakers. Though ‘faith’ feels incongruous here—as if we were gods.” Mr. Kōno let his words drop abruptly there. Mother—perhaps interpreting that her turn had not yet come—maintained a composed silence. “In any case, they must be someone she trusts enough to accept being cared for by.” “Well, if you’ve been dismissed so thoroughly by her, that settles it,” she began smoothly enough, but then her voice tightened abruptly.

“Fujio is actually quite pitiable.” “Rather than saying that—please do something.” Mr. Kōno propped his elbow and pressed his palm to his forehead.

"But since she looks down on me, trying to help would only lead to quarrels." "That Fujio would look down on you..." Mother spoke in a relatively loud voice for someone who typically denied things gently. "If such a thing were happening, I couldn't possibly tolerate it first and foremost," he added, having already regained his usual composure. Mr. Kōno remained silent with his elbow propped. "Did Fujio do something improper?"

Mr. Kōno continued to gaze at Mother from under the hand pressed to his forehead. “If there’s been any trouble, I’ll speak to her firmly myself, so don’t hold back—tell me everything.” “After all, it wouldn’t do for there to be any unpleasantness between us.”

The five fingers pressed to his forehead were long-jointed and tapering, even the shape of his nails as delicate as a woman’s. “Fujio’s certainly turned twenty-four, hasn’t she?” “She turned twenty-four this year.” “She really must do something about it soon.” “Are you speaking of marriage prospects?” Mother pressed plainly. Mr. Kōno did not give a clear answer regarding either a bride or a groom. Mother said: “I actually want to discuss Fujio’s situation as well, but before that…” “What is it?”

His right eyebrow remained hidden beneath his hand. The gleam in his eyes was deep. But there was no sharpness to be seen anywhere.

“What do you think? I wish you’d reconsider once more.” “About what?” “About you, you know. Fujio must take care of her own matters, but unless we settle your situation first, I’ll be in a bind.” Mr. Kōno smiled with one cheek in the shadow of his hand. It was a lonely smile. “You say your health is poor, but there are plenty of people with constitutions like yours who have taken brides.” “Well, I suppose there are.” “So you see. You should try reconsidering once more. In fact, some have even become much healthier after taking a wife.”

Mr. Kōno’s hand left his forehead for the first time at this moment. On the Western-style desk lay a sheet of ruled paper with a pencil placed alongside it. He absentmindedly picked up the ruled paper, turned it over, and saw three or four lines of English written there. He started reading and noticed. It was a scrap of paper on which he had excerpted passages for future reference from the book he’d read yesterday and then discarded as it was. Mr. Kōno placed the ruled paper face down on the Western-style desk.

Mother knitted her brows into an '八' shape only at the inner part of her forehead and waited obediently for Mr. Kōno's response. Mr. Kōno took hold of the pencil and wrote the character for "crow" on the paper. "I wonder."

The character for "crow" became "bird". “I wish you would do that.” The character for "bird" became "shrike." He added the character for "tongue" beneath it. Then he raised his face. He said: “Well, perhaps it would be best if Fujio decides.” “If you refuse to agree no matter what, then there’s truly no alternative but to proceed accordingly.”

Having finished speaking, Mother looked down despondently. At the same time, a triangle formed on his paper. Three triangles overlapped to form a scale-like pattern. “Mother. I’ll give the house to Fujio.”

“Then you…” she began to protest.

“I’ll give the property to Fujio as well. I don’t need anything.” “That would only leave us in a bind.” “Would that be a problem?” he said calmly. Mother and son briefly exchanged glances. “‘Would that be a problem?’ you say? —I’d be failing your late Father.” “Is that so? Then what should I do?” He tossed the amber-colored pencil onto the Western-style desk with a clatter. “What should you do? Of course, an uneducated person like me wouldn’t know. But even in my ignorance, I don’t think that settles things.”

“Do you find it distasteful?” “Have I ever said anything as wasteful as ‘distasteful’ until now?” “You haven’t.” “I don’t recall having any. Haven’t I thanked you every single time you say that?” “I’ve heard your thanks all along.”

Mother picked up the rolled pencil and looked at its sharpened tip. She looked at the round rubber end. In her heart, she thought him an impossible person to deal with. After a moment, she pulled the rubber end sharply onto the Western-style desk and said. "So, you have absolutely no intention of inheriting the house, then?"

"I am inheriting the house. Legally, I am the heir." "Even if you inherit the Kōno household, you won't take care of me, will you?" Before replying, Mr. Kōno set his pupils in the center of his long eyes and gazed intently at Mother's face. After a moment, "Therefore, I'm saying I'll give both the house and all the property to Fujio," he said politely. "If you insist that much, then there's nothing to be done."

Mother let out a sigh and dropped this remark onto the Western-style desk. Mr. Kōno remained aloof.

“Since there’s no help for it, I’ll let you have your way in your own matters—but as for Fujio...” “Yes.” “To be honest, I think Mr. Ono would be suitable, but what do you think?” “Ono?” he said, then fell silent. “Wouldn’t he be suitable?” “There’s no reason it shouldn’t work,” he said leisurely. “If it’s agreeable, then I suppose we can settle it that way…” “That should be fine.” “Is that okay?” “Yes.”

“With that, I can finally rest easy.”

Mr. Kōno stared intently at something ahead, his eyes fixed as if piercing through empty space. It was as though the very presence of his mother before him had ceased to register in his consciousness.

“With that settled at last—are you satisfied?” “Mother, Fujio has consented to this arrangement, hasn’t she?” “Naturally I know that.” “Why do you ask?”

Mr. Kōno was still gazing into the distance. As he blinked once, his eyes suddenly drew near.

“Is Ichi unsuitable?” he asks. “Ichi?” “Under normal circumstances, Ichi would be best, but…” “Father and the Munekatas have that sort of relationship, you see.” “Wasn’t there some sort of promise?” “It wasn’t what you’d call a proper promise.” “I seem to recall something about Father saying he would give a watch, though.”

“A watch?” Mother tilted her head. “Father’s gold watch—the one with the garnet.” “Ah, right. Something like that did happen,” Mother said as though recalling. “Ichi still seems to be counting on it.”

“Is that so?” Having said this, Mother maintained her composed demeanor.

"If there's a promise, it must be honored," he said. "To do otherwise would be failing in one's obligations." "Since Fujio currently has possession of the watch, I'll make certain to relay that message properly." "The watch is incidental—my main concern lies with Fujio's situation." "But there was never any formal promise regarding Fujio's hand in marriage." "I see... Then let it be so." "When I say this, I feel I'm acting against your wishes—but I truly have no memory of such an arrangement."

“Haa. Then there wasn’t one, I suppose.” “Well, you see. Whether there was a promise or not, I wouldn’t mind if it were Ichi—but he hasn’t even passed his diplomat exam yet. It’s not as if he can take a wife while he’s still studying.”

“Well, I don’t mind.” “Moreover, since Ichi is the eldest son, he must inevitably succeed the Munekata household.”

"Are you planning to have Fujio adopted?" "I don't wish to do this, but since you refuse to heed your mother's words..." "Even if Fujio leaves this house, I will give the property to Fujio." "As for the property—I would be troubled if you misinterpret my intentions—there isn't a single thought of such matters in this mother's heart." "That heart is so pure I'd want to slice it open to show you—that's what I believe." "Doesn't it appear that way to you?"

“I can see it,” said Mr. Kōno. His tone was gravely earnest. Even Mother found no trace of derision to detect in his words. “It’s just that I grow old and anxious... Should I part with my sole Fujio, what hardship would await me afterward.”

“Indeed.”

“Otherwise, Ichi would be preferable, but... “You and he get along well…” “Mother—do you truly understand Ono?” “I believe I do.” “Courteous, kind, academically accomplished—a splendid man, isn’t he? Why do you ask—”

“Then that’s fine.” “Don’t dismiss me so coldly. If you have any thoughts, do share them properly. I did come here specifically to consult you.” After gazing intently at the musical notation on the ruled paper for some time, Mr. Kōno lifted his eyes and stated calmly: “Munekata cares more about you than Ono does.” “Well!” she exclaimed abruptly. Then she continued in a subdued tone: “That may well be true—your discernment is never mistaken—but unlike other matters, this particular one cannot be settled by parental or fraternal authority alone.”

“Is Fujio insisting on this?” “Well—she doesn’t exactly insist…” “That I know.” “I know that—but—” “...Is Fujio here?” “I’ll call her.”

Mother stood up. Against pale pink wallpaper deeply scattered with arabesque patterns, while standing, she pressed the conveniently reachable electric bell at its white center, and before she could return to her seat, there was a response. The entrance door opened quietly about five inches; Mother turned around at that moment.

“I need Fujio for a moment; there’s something I require,” she said. The door that had been quietly opened now quietly closed.

Mother and son sat facing each other across the Western-style table. They were both silent. Kōno took up the pencil again. He drew a circle just large enough to graze the edges of the three scales. He filled in the space between the circle and the scales. He meticulously aligned each black line in parallel. Out of restlessness, Mother gazed courteously at her son's design.

The hearts of the two were naturally unknowable. Only their upper bodies remained perfectly still. Had the movements of hands and feet served as symbols manifesting inner truths into physical form, one would struggle to find a mother and child more composed than these two. The son divided hours of tedium into dozens of lines, methodically filling spaces around three scales, while the mother sat with hands folded on her lap, solemnly guarding a circle that darkened with each stroke—a pair embodying perfect maternal-filial harmony. They were mother and son in tranquil accord. Across the intervening Western-style table, their shielded hearts faced each other; behind spring-locked window drapes, they sat as figures who had forgotten the world, its people, and all strife. The portrait of the departed illuminated this quiet pair from its customary place on the wall.

The meticulously drawn lines gradually grew denser. The black areas gradually increased. When only a crescent-shaped area near his right hand remained, there came a clatter of the latch turning, and Fujio’s awaited figure appeared at the entrance. Her white form dissolved into spring. From shoulders up, she seemed to float within the deep background. Mr. Kōno’s pencil halted abruptly mid-stroke. At the same moment, Fujio’s face detached itself from those shadows.

“How does the developing work?” she said as she came to sit beside Mother, lowering herself from the side. When she had finished settling into her seat, again, “Leaving?” she asked Mother. Mother merely cast a meaningful look in Fujio’s direction. Mr. Kōno’s black lines had increased by four during this time. “Brother said he has some business with you.” Having said “I see,” Fujio turned to face her brother. Black lines were rapidly taking shape. “Brother, is there something you need?”

“Mm,” said Mr. Kōno, finally raising his face. He raised his face and didn’t say anything.

Fujio looked toward Mother once more. As she looked, the shadow of a faint smile crossed her beautiful cheek. Her brother finally broke his silence. “Fujio, I’ll give you this house and all the property I inherited from Father.” “When?” “I’ll start today.—In exchange, you must take care of Mother.”

“Thank you,” she said while looking toward Mother again. She was still smiling. “Don’t you want to go to Munekata?” “No.” “No? “You absolutely refuse?” “I refuse.” “I see.—Do you like Ono that much?” Fujio stiffened abruptly.

“What good does hearing that do you?” she said, sitting up straight in her chair. “It won't accomplish anything. “It brings me no benefit. “I'm simply telling you this for your own sake.”

“For my sake?” she said, her voice rising.

“I see,” he dropped scornfully. Mother spoke up for the first time. “In Brother’s opinion，Munekata would be better than Mr．Ono—that’s what he’s saying．” “Brother is Brother；I am I．” “Brother says that Munekata would take better care of Mother than Mr．Ono would．”

“Brother,” Fujio said sharply as she turned toward Kingo. “Do you understand Mr. Ono’s character?”

“I know,” Mother said calmly. “How could you know?” Fujio stood abruptly. “Mr. Ono is a poet. A noble poet.” “I see.” “He understands refinement. He understands love. He’s a gentle soul—a character no philosopher could grasp. You may comprehend Mr. Ichi. But you’ll never understand Mr. Ono’s worth. Never. Those who praise Mr. Ichi could never fathom Mr. Ono’s value...”

“Then Ono it is.”

“I certainly will.” Having declared dismissively, the purple silk swayed toward the doorway. No sooner had her slender hand turned the round knob than Fujio’s figure vanished into the deep background.

Sixteen

The narrative focus departed Kōno’s study and shifted to the Munekata household. It was the same day. It was also the same hour.

With the usual Chinese-style desk before him, Munekata’s father sat upon an ogre-patterned cushion. He disliked undershirts; the collar of his black hachijō underrobe had come undone, revealing bushy chest hair against his bare skin. In Inbe-yaki Hotei figurines, such features were often found. Before Hotei was placed a peculiar tobacco tray. On the sometsuke bearing the Go Shōzui inscription were mountains, willows, and human figures. In the space where figures and mountains were depicted at nearly equal scale, a single line of gold paint wound its way up to the rim. The shape resembled a jar—the bowl flaring open where its expanded apex abruptly narrowed into a rounded edge. Around vines threading through opposing handles was tightly wound darkened rattan to facilitate carrying.

Yesterday, Munekata’s father had dug up this tobacco tray with its mended crack from some antique shop or another, and ever since this morning—after making a great fuss about it being Shōzui porcelain ("Shōzui! Shōzui!")—he filled it with ashes, lit the fire, and was now smoking tobacco incessantly.

Just then, sliding open the Chinese-style door at the entrance, Mr. Munekata entered as usual with his characteristic liveliness. Father took his eyes off the tobacco tray. There he was, wearing his father’s hand-me-down suit in a baggy fit, with only his Kashmir tabi socks to establish himself as a great connoisseur. “Are you off somewhere?”

“I’m not going out—just got back. Ah, it’s hot.” “It’s quite hot today, isn’t it?”

“When you’re home, it doesn’t feel that way. You’re hot because you rush about so. Why not walk with a bit more composure?”

“I meant to be perfectly composed—does it not show?” “This is vexing.” “Ah! You’ve finally lit the tobacco tray.” “I see.” “How about the Shōzui?” “It rather resembles a sake jar, doesn’t it?” “Nonsense—it’s a tobacco tray! You all may mock it as you please, but once filled with ashes like this, it clearly serves as a proper tobacco tray, no?” The old man gripped the vine handle and hoisted the Shōzui aloft.

“How about it?” “Yes, it’s quite nice.” “Told you it was good.” “Shōzui pieces have many counterfeits—not easily acquired.” “So how much did it cost altogether?” “Take a guess.” “I can’t even begin to guess.” “If I make another careless remark, I’ll get scolded outright again like last time with the pine tree.” “One yen eighty sen.” “That’s cheap, isn’t it?” “Is that cheap?” “I truly dug it up myself.” “Hmm… Oh, you’ve added new plantings to the engawa as well.”

“I just replanted them with coralberry.” “That’s an old Satsuma pot.” “It’s shaped like a hat worn by Budōmimi people around the sixteenth century—and this rose is remarkably red, isn’t it?” “That’s called Butsumenshō.” “It’s still a type of rose after all.”

“Butsumenshō? What a peculiar name.” “The Avatamsaka Sutra contains the passage ‘Outwardly like a Bodhisattva, inwardly like a Yaksha.’ You’re familiar with it, aren’t you?” “I know the phrasing, at least.” “That’s why it’s called Butsumenshō. The blossoms are beautiful, but the thorns are vicious. Go on—touch it.” “I’d rather not.” “Ha ha ha! ‘Outwardly like a Bodhisattva, inwardly like a Yaksha.’ Women are perilous creatures,” the old man remarked, prodding the Shōzui tray with his pipe’s mouthpiece. “What a devious rose this Butsumenshō is,” Mr. Munekata observed admiringly as he studied it.

“Hmm,” the old man said as if struck by a sudden thought, slapping his knee. “Ichi—have you seen that flower? “It’s placed in that alcove.”

The old man, while remaining seated, turned his face backward. On the twisted neck, flesh that had lost its place was bundled into three strands and bulged toward the shoulder. The tawny-colored alcove shelf serenely displayed a scroll painted in a single stroke depicting Zen monk Kanshishi shouldering his fishing rod, with an ancient bronze vase placed before it. From within a neck as long as a crane’s emerged two slender stems, bordered by leaves arranged in a cross and square, where each pair of spikes, strung with dewdrops like prayer beads, bloomed in perfect pairs.

“It’s an extremely delicate flower.—I’ve never seen anything like it. What is it called?” “This is that Futari-shizuka I mentioned.” “That Futari-shizuka you mentioned? I’ve never heard of it before—not in any example or anything.” “You’d do well to remember this. It’s a fascinating flower. White spikes always grow in pairs. Hence Futari-shizuka. In Noh plays, there are instances where two spirits of Shizuka dance together. Do you know?” “I’m afraid I don’t.” “Futari-shizuka. Ha ha ha ha—it’s an interesting flower.” “Somehow, all these flowers seem to have karmic connections, don’t they?”

“If you just look into things, you’ll find endless karmic connections. “Do you know how many varieties of plum blossoms exist?” he asked, lifting the tobacco tray while stirring the ashes with the mouthpiece of his pipe. Mr. Munekata seized this opportunity to change the subject. “Grandpa. Today, I went to the barber shop for the first time in ages and had my hair cut.” “Today, I went to the barber shop for the first time in ages and had my hair cut,” he said, stroking the black part with his right hand.

“About the head…” he said, tapping the middle of his pipe against the Shōzui tray’s rim to knock off the ashes.

“It doesn’t look presentable at all,” he remarked bluntly. “You say it doesn’t look presentable—but Grandpa—this isn’t even a close crop!” “Then what style is this?” “It’s parted.” “You clearly don’t get it.” “You’ll understand eventually.” “The center’s left slightly longer, see?”

“Now that you mention it, it does seem a bit long. You should just cut it off—it’s unsightly.” “Does it really look that bad?” “Besides, summer’s coming—it’ll be unbearably hot…” “But no matter how hot it gets, I can’t keep it this way without causing issues.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s simply going to cause problems.”

“You’re a strange one.” “Hahaha—the truth is, Grandpa,”

“Hmm.” “I passed the diplomatic exam, you know.” “You passed?” “Well, well.” “I see.” “Then you should’ve said so sooner.” “Well, I thought I’d at least fix up my hair first.” “Your hair doesn’t matter one bit.” “But they say if you go abroad with a close-cropped cut, you’ll be mistaken for a convict.” “Foreign country—you’re going abroad?” “When?” “Well, probably around the time this hair grows out into an Ono Seizō-style.”

“Then there’s still about a month left.”

“Yes, that’s about right.” “If there’s a month left, then I suppose it’s somewhat reassuring—we can have a proper discussion before you depart.” “There’s plenty of time. Plenty of time indeed—but I’d like to formally return this Western suit by day’s end.” “Ha ha ha ha—nonsense! It suits you perfectly!” “It’s only because you kept insisting it suited me that I’ve worn it this long—but it’s baggy everywhere.” “Oh? Then discard it. Grandpa will wear it again.”

“Ha ha ha ha—that’s unexpected! Then you’re the one who should discard it.” “You can discard it. Maybe I’ll give it to Kuroda or something.” “Kuroda would be terribly inconvenienced.”

“Is it really that strange?” “It’s not about being strange—it just doesn’t fit me properly.” “I see. Then it must indeed be absurd after all.”

“Yes, when it comes down to it, it’s ridiculous.”

“Ha ha ha ha—by the way, have you told Ito yet?” “Are you talking about the exam?” “Ah.” “I haven’t told her yet.”

“You haven’t told her yet? Why?—When did you even find out?” “The notification came two or three days ago. Well, I’ve been so busy that I haven’t told anyone yet.”

“You’re being too carefree—that won’t do.”

“I haven’t forgotten a thing. It’s all right.” “Ha ha ha ha—that’d be a disaster if you forgot. Well then, just be a bit more careful from now on.” “Yes, I’m going to tell Itoko now—she’s been worrying. About passing the exam and explaining this haircut.” “Your haircut’s fine—but where exactly are you going? England or France?” “I still don’t know that part yet. The West is the West, after all.” “Ha ha ha ha—you’re too carefree! Well then, go wherever you like.”

“I don’t even want to go to the West—but well, it’s part of the process, so there’s no helping it.”

“Hmph, well, go wherever you please then.” “If it were China or Korea, I’d go with my usual close-cropped hair and this ill-fitting Western suit.” “The West is particular. For an uncouth fellow like you, it’ll make good discipline—that’s fine.” “Ha ha ha ha—I thought if I go to the West, I’ll end up degenerating, you know.”

“Why?” “Because when you go to the West, it’s inconvenient unless you’ve prepared two different personas.” “Two personas, you say?”

“An uncouth interior and a beautiful exterior. It’s such a hassle.” “Isn’t it the same in Japan? Because the pressure of civilization is so intense, unless you keep the exterior polished, you can’t survive in society.” “But in exchange, because the struggle for existence grows fiercer, the interior becomes increasingly uncouth, I tell you.”

“Precisely,” he said. “The interior and exterior develop in opposite directions. From now on, humans will endure being torn eight ways while still breathing—agonizing, no doubt.” “If evolution continues like this,” Munekata retorted, “we’ll breed freaks grafting pigs’ balls onto divine faces—and call that composure? I refuse to train under such absurdity.” “Then abolish it outright,” his father chuckled. “Stay home wearing my threadbare Western suits and spouting idle drivel instead.” A dry laugh punctuated the verdict.

“Especially the British—I can’t stand them.” “They go around acting like Britain’s the perfect model from one to ten, trying to ram through everything their own way, I tell you.”

“But when you speak of British gentlemen, haven’t they been rather well-regarded lately?” “Even the Anglo-Japanese Alliance isn’t something that deserves such excessive praise.” “Those trend-chasing fools who’ve never even been to Britain just wave flags around—doesn’t it look like Japan itself has vanished?”

“Yeah. In any country, when the surface develops purely as surface, the underside will naturally develop its own underside proportionally.” “It’s not just countries—even individuals work that way.” “Japan must become so great that Britain starts imitating us instead.” “You’ll make Japan great then. Ha ha ha ha.” Mr. Munekata neither affirmed nor denied making Japan great. Suddenly extending a hand, his chintz necktie protruded to the center of the white collar, its knot twisted sideways.

"This necktie keeps slipping out of place," he muttered while fumbling to adjust its position. "Well then, I'll go speak with Ito," he said as he began to rise.

“Hold on—there’s something I need to discuss.”

“What is it?” he said, taking the opportunity to lower his half-raised hips into a semi-cross-legged position. “The truth is—until now, since your position hadn’t been settled—I didn’t press the matter much...” “A bride, I suppose?” “Exactly. “Since I’m going abroad anyway—whether it’s deciding beforehand, getting married properly, or even taking someone along—” “You can’t possibly take her along. “The funds won’t stretch that far.” “I don’t need to take her. “If I properly settle things here before leaving.” “I’ll look after her carefully while you’re away.”

“I’ve been thinking of doing the same.”

“So, how about it? Have you found a woman you like?” “I intend to marry Kōno’s sister… What do you think?” “Fujio, you mean?” “Yeah.” “Is that no good?” “What do you mean ‘no good’?” “For a diplomat’s wife, she needs to be exactly that sort of person.” “Well now—the truth is, when Kōno’s father was alive, there had been some discussion between me and his father about this matter. You might not know this—” “Uncle said he would give the watch.”

“That gold watch you mean?” “Fujio’s notorious for toying with that thing, isn’t she.”

“Yes, that ancient watch.” “Ha ha ha ha. Do you think that thing’s hands even move? Putting the watch aside—the real issue concerns the person in question. When Kōno’s mother came by the other day, I took the opportunity to broach the matter, but…” “Hmm, what did she say?” “She called it a truly auspicious match but said it’s regrettable since your position remains unsettled…” “Does ‘my position being unsettled’ mean I haven’t passed the diplomatic exam?”

“Well, I suppose so.” “That ‘I suppose so’ gave me quite a start.” “No—that woman speaks with great eloquence, but her meaning never comes through properly. It’s quite vexing.” “She talks at length but ultimately fails to convey the main point.” “In short, she’s an impractical woman.” With a somewhat bitter expression, Father tapped his knee with his pipe and shifted his gaze toward the veranda. The Butsumenshō rose, recently replanted, now proudly displayed its vivid crimson at the cusp of spring and summer. “But not knowing whether she refused or didn’t is quite a problem.”

“It’s troublesome,” Father said. “Dealing with that woman has caused plenty of trouble before now. That honeyed voice of hers droning on and on—I can’t abide it.” “Hahaha! Fair enough—but did the negotiations end up going nowhere?” “What they’re saying is, they’ll agree once you’ve passed the diplomatic exam.”

“Then there’s no issue.” “As you see—I’ve passed.”

“But there’s more.” “It’s a complicated matter—” “Well, this is quite something…” Father said, cupping both palms inward and vigorously rubbing his eyeballs. His eyeballs turned red. “Does that mean even passing isn’t enough?” “It shouldn’t be impossible, but—I hear Kōno is leaving the household.”

“That’s ridiculous!” “If he leaves, there will be no one left to care for the elderly.” “Therefore Fujio must take in an adopted son.” “So then we can’t send her off as a bride to Munekata or anyone else—that’s essentially what she’s saying.” “What nonsense.” “First of all, there’s no reason Kōno would leave the household.” “If he’s leaving home, he surely doesn’t mean to become a monk—in other words, he’s declaring he won’t take a wife and look after that mother of his, isn’t he?”

“It’s because Kōno has neurasthenia that he says such foolish things.” “You’re wrong.” “Even if he does leave—does Aunt intend to send Kōno away and adopt an heir?” “She’s worried it would be disastrous if that happened.” “Then wouldn’t it make sense to send Miss Fujio off as a bride?” “That’s fine.” “That’s fine, but when I consider the worst-case scenario, I can’t help feeling uneasy.” “I can’t make heads or tails of this. It’s like stumbling into Yawata’s tangled thicket.”

“Really—being unable to get to the point is utterly vexing.” Father furrowed his brow and glared upward while stroking his head.

“When exactly was this supposed to happen?” “It was just the other day. By today, it’s been nearly a week.” “Ha ha ha! My exam results were only delayed two or three days, but yours took a full week. Typical of a parent—you’re twice as carefree as me!” “Ha ha ha, but we’re missing the crux.” “We certainly are missing the crux. I’ll go straighten things out properly.”

“Why?” “First, I’ll persuade Kōno about taking a wife to stop him from becoming a monk. Then I’ll go negotiate clearly about whether they’ll give us Miss Fujio or not.” “You plan to handle this alone?” “Yes, I can manage alone. Since graduating I’ve done nothing at all—if I don’t do something like this now, I’ll be bored out of my mind.”

“Well, handling your own matters yourself is commendable.” “You should give it a try.”

“So then—if Kōno says he’ll take a wife, I plan to give him Itoko. That should be fine, shouldn’t it?” “That’s fine. No objection.” “First, I’ll go hear her own thoughts...” “No need to ask.” “But you must ask her! This isn’t like other matters.”

“Then go ahead and ask her.” “Shall I call her here?” “Ha ha ha ha! You can’t grill her in front of her parent and brother.” “I’ll ask her myself now.” “And if she agrees, I’ll speak to Kōno with that intention then.” “Alright.”

Munekata abruptly straightened both legs of his wide-cut Western trousers. Leaving behind the Butsumenshō rose, the Futari Shizuka Noh play, Kenshi Oshō, and the lifelike Hotei ornament, he ascended the corridor to the mezzanine.

When he clomped up two steps, his sister’s obi came into view, looking beautiful. On the third step, a light blue silk tilted sideways, and a plump cheek turned toward the entrance.

“Studying today, huh? Rare,” Munekata said. “What’s this?” He abruptly plopped down beside the desk. Itoko snapped the book shut. She placed her plump, round hand on top of the closed book. “It’s nothing.” “Reading some trivial book—you’re a true recluse of the realm.” “Well, it’s just like that.” “You can let go, you know. It’s like you’ve grabbed some scattered thing.” “It’s just some scattered notes or whatever—I don’t care! Since you’re so unrefined, go over there, please.”

“You’re being a real nuisance.” “Itoko, Dad said that.”

“What?” “Ito, it’d be better if you read something like *Greater Learning for Women*, but lately you’re only reading love novels—Dad says it’s really a problem.”

“Oh, you’re just full of lies! When have I ever read such things?” “Brother doesn’t know. Because Dad says so.” “That’s a lie! Would Father ever say such a thing?”

“Oh, really? But when someone comes in, you slam your book shut and press down on it like you’re trying to stuff it into a measuring box—seeing that, you can’t say Father’s claim is entirely a lie, can you?” “That’s a lie! Even though I’m telling you it’s a lie, you’re really quite despicable!” “Calling someone despicable is quite the crushing blow, huh? Aren’t you a traitorous person of interest? Ha ha ha ha!” “But it’s because you don’t believe what people say! Then shall I show you the evidence? Hmm. Wait right there.”

Itoko, trying to hide the pressed-down book with her sleeve, withdrew it from the desk to her copybook and concealed it in the shadow of her obi where her brother couldn’t see. “Don’t go swapping it out, I’m telling you.”

“Oh, just be quiet and wait there.” Itoko, avoiding her brother’s gaze, kept fidgeting with the book concealed under her long sleeve until— “Here,” she said, holding it up. In the center of the remaining one-inch square on the pages she had firmly pressed down with both hands, a red seal was visible. “Isn’t this Mitome? “What?—Kōno”

“There, you see?” “Did you borrow it?” “Yes. “It’s not a love novel, right?”

“Since you won’t show me the contents, I can’t properly judge—but very well, I’ll grant you clemency.” “Now then, Miss Itoko—how old are you this year?”

“Take a guess.” “Even if I don’t try guessing, I could just go to the ward office and find out immediately—but I’m asking as a reference point. It’s in your best interest to answer truthfully.” “Even answering truthfully—it feels like confessing to some wrongdoing. I detest being coerced like this.” “Ha ha ha! As expected of the philosopher’s prized disciple—I must admire your refusal to bow to authority. Now let me ask properly—how old are you?”

“Even if you make light of it—who would ever say such a thing?” “This is troublesome. If I say it politely—you get angry. —One? Two?”

“That’s probably about right.”

“You can’t even tell?” “If your own age isn’t clear，even I feel a bit uneasy.” “Anyway，you’re not in your teens anymore，are you?” “Isn’t that unnecessary concern?” “Asking about someone’s age...” “—And what do you plan to do with that?” “It’s not for any other reason—actually，I’m thinking of marrying Itoko off.” Itoko’s demeanor—which had been one of half-joking engagement and playful teasing—suddenly changed. If you place a hot stone on ice，it rapidly cools down. Her energy drained away all at once. At the same time，she gloomily lowered her cheerful eyes and began counting the seams of the tatami.

“How about getting married? It’s not like you’d hate it, would you?”

“I don’t know,” she said in a low voice. She remained looking down as before.

“You can’t just say you don’t know.” “It’s not Brother who’s going—it’s you.” “I never even said I’d go.”

“So you’re not going?” Itoko nodded.

“Aren’t going? Really?”

There was no answer. This time, she didn’t even move her head. “If you don’t go, Brother will have to cut his stomach.” “This is serious.” The color of her downcast eyes could not be seen. A shadow of a smile grazed her plump cheek and vanished. “This isn’t a joke.” “I’ll really cut my stomach.” “Is that clear?”

“Then go ahead and commit seppuku!” she suddenly looked up, beaming. “I don’t mind cutting myself open, but this is getting too serious. Wouldn’t we both be better off just staying as we are? Even you’d find it pointless if your only brother had to commit seppuku.” “No one would ever say it’s pointless!” “Then say it properly if you want to save your brother.”

“But you didn’t even explain the reason and just suddenly made such an unreasonable demand out of nowhere.” “If you just ask for the reason, I’ll tell you as much as you want.”

“I don’t care! Even if I don’t hear the reason, I’m not going to get married or anything like that!” “Itoko, your answer’s spinning like a mouse firework.” “You’re a disordered state.”

“What did you say?” “Never mind—it’s just legal jargon. Look, Itoko, since we’re getting nowhere like this, I’ll lay everything out plainly. Here’s how it is.” “Even if you explain the reason, I won’t go as a bride.”

“Are you planning to hear this conditionally? Quite cunning of you.—Actually, Brother wants to take Miss Fujio as his bride.” “Not yet.” “‘Not yet’—but this is your first time saying that now.” “But you should give up on Miss Fujio. Because Miss Fujio isn’t interested.”

“You said something like that before too, didn’t you?” “Yes, because there’s no need to take someone who’s against it, right? There are plenty of other women out there.” “That is entirely reasonable. I’m not some cowardly brother who’d force an unpleasant match on someone. It concerns your dignity as well. If it’s decided there’s a dislike, we’ll look elsewhere.” “You might as well just do that then.” “But that part isn’t clear, you see.”

“So make it clear.” “Oh,” the shy younger sister shifted her eyes to the desk as if slightly surprised. “The other day, Aunt Kōno came over and they were having a private discussion downstairs.” “That’s when that discussion happened.” “Aunt said that while it’s still not possible now，once Ichi passes the diplomatic exam and his position is settled，they’ll discuss matters properly—that’s what she told your father apparently.” “So?”

“So it’s settled then—since Brother properly passed the diplomatic exam.”

“Oh, when?” “What do you mean ‘when’? He went and passed it properly.” “Oh, is that true? I’m astonished.” “Who in the world would be surprised that Brother passed?” “How utterly rude of you!” “If that’s how it is, you should have said so sooner.” “Even so, I’ve been quite worried about you.” “It’s entirely thanks to you.” “I’ve been deeply moved.” “I may have been moved to tears, but since I’ve forgotten all about it, there’s no helping it now.” The siblings locked eyes, their gazes meeting without a trace of distance. And then they laughed simultaneously.

When their laughter subsided，her brother said. “So I also had my hair cut like this and was supposed to go abroad soon—but Father insists that before leaving，I should take a wife and build up my character—so I thought： ‘If I’m going to take someone anyway，I’ll take Miss Fujio.’ He said that unless a diplomat’s wife is that sort of modern，Westernized woman，they’ll face difficulties in the future.” “If you’re so fond of her，then go ahead and marry Miss Fujio.” “After all，women are better at judging women.”

“Since your accomplished opinion can’t be wrong—and Brother here fully intends to heed it—I must still settle this matter decisively through proper negotiations anyway. They’ll surely state their refusal plainly if they disapprove.” “Just because I passed that diplomatic exam doesn’t mean I’d spout such fickle nonsense about suddenly changing course.”

Itoko let out a faint laugh through her nose, broken into two or three short bursts. "Shall I say it?" "How about it? You should try asking—but if you’re going to ask, you should ask Mr. Kōno. You mustn’t risk embarrassment." "Ha ha ha! If you don’t want to, you just refuse—that’s the way of the world. Being refused isn’t shameful..." "But..."

“...but I’ll ask Kōno.” “I’ll ask Kōno about it—but there’s the problem.”

“What kind?”

“There’s a preliminary issue.” “—A preliminary issue, Itoko.”

“So what kind? I’m asking you, aren’t I?”

“It’s nothing else but this commotion about Kōno becoming a monk.” “Don’t be ridiculous.” “It’s no cause for celebration.” “Well, if someone in this day and age has the resolve to become a monk—setting aside rejoicing—it’s a phenomenon greatly worth celebrating.” “How cruel… But becoming a monk isn’t some drunken whim, is it?” “I can’t really say. In times like these when anguish is all the rage—” “Then why don’t you become one first?” “Some drunken whim of yours?”

“Whether it’s a tipsy whim or whatever.” “But even with this close-cropped hair getting me mistaken for a convict—if he becomes a shaven-headed monk stationed at some foreign embassy, they’ll surely think he’s a lunatic.” “If it were any other matter about my sister, I’d listen—but I must ask you to spare me this monk business.” “I’ve hated monks and fried tofu since childhood.”

“Then isn’t it perfectly fine if Mr. Kōno doesn’t become one either?” “Yeah, the logic feels slightly off somehow—but well, I suppose it won’t come to that.” “I can never tell how much of what you say is serious and how much is a joke, Brother. And you think that makes you fit to be a diplomat?” “They say you’re not cut out to be a diplomat unless you’re like this.”

“But to people… So what has Mr. Kōno done about it?” “The truth of the matter...”

“The truth is, Kōno—” “He’s decided to hand over the house and property to Fujio and leave, they say.” “Why is that?”

“In short, they say it’s because he’s in poor health and can’t take care of Aunt.” “Yes, how unfortunate. He probably doesn’t need money or a house. That might be for the best.”

“If even you agree, it’ll make solving the preliminary issue more difficult.” “But even if there were mountains of money, it would do nothing for Mr. Kōno.” “It would be better to give it to Miss Fujio instead.” “You’re surprisingly generous for a woman.” “Though it’s someone else’s money.” “I don’t need money either.” “It just gets in the way.” “There’s not enough to get in the way in the first place—that’s for sure.” “Ha ha ha ha!” “But that attitude of yours is commendable.” “You could become a nun.”

“Ugh! How dreadful! I detest all this talk of nuns and monks!” “On that point we agree—but abandoning his inheritance and leaving home? Utter foolishness.” “The property itself isn’t the issue—if Kōno departs legally complications arise requiring Fujio’s adoption.” “Then Aunt declares—‘We can’t give anything to Mr.Ichisan.’” “Only natural.” “So Kōno’s selfishness destroys Brother’s engagement—that’s how matters stand.” “Then you mean Brother must keep Kōno here to marry Miss Fujio?”

“Well, from one angle of things, that’s how it would work out.” “Then isn’t it you, Brother, who’s acting more willful than Mr. Kōno?” “You’ve approached this rather logically now.” “Isn’t it absurd—discarding property he properly inherited?”

“But if he doesn’t want it, there’s nothing to be done.” “Saying he doesn’t want it must be due to neurasthenia, huh?” “It’s not neurasthenia.”

“But isn’t that clearly pathological?”

“He is not ill.” “Itoko, you’re being uncharacteristically resolute today.”

“But Mr. Kōno is that sort of person.” “The fact that everyone calls that an illness means it’s everyone who’s mistaken.” “But that’s not healthy.” “Proposing such a motion—” “He’s discarding what belongs to him, isn’t he?” “That’s quite reasonable, but…” “He’s discarding it because he doesn’t want it, isn’t he?” “He says he doesn’t want it…”

“He truly doesn’t need them—Mr. Kōno’s things. It’s not out of stubbornness or spite.” “Itoko, you’re Mr. Kōno’s confidant.” “More so than even a brother would be.” “I hadn’t realized you were this devoted.” “Whether I’m his confidant or not, I speak the truth.” “I speak what is right.” “If Aunt and Miss Fujio claim otherwise, then they’re the ones who are mistaken.” “I detest telling lies.”

“Admirable.” “Even without scholarly learning, that confidence rooted in sincerity is admirable.” “I give my full approval.” “Now then, Itoko—to ask this properly anew: Whether Kōno leaves home or remains, whether he relinquishes the property or retains it—do you intend to marry him?” “That is an entirely separate matter.” “What I said just now was merely speaking truthfully.” “I said it out of sympathy for Mr. Kōno.”

“Very well.” “You truly grasp the situation.” “Even as my little sister, I must say I admire you.” “That’s why I’m posing this as a separate matter.” “Well then—do you object?”

“I do…” Itoko started to say before suddenly looking down. For a while, she appeared to be staring at the pattern on the collar. Before long, a single teardrop caught in her fluttering eyelashes plopped down onto her lap.

“Itoko, what’s wrong?” “With today’s sudden change in weather, you’ve done nothing but catch me off guard.”

Her lips, withholding any answer, quivered—and as he watched, two more teardrops fell. Mr. Munekata smoothly pulled out a crumpled handkerchief from the hidden pocket of his inherited suit.

“Here, wipe them,” he said, pressing it against Itoko’s chest. The sister remained as still as an attached doll. Mr.Munekata kept his right hand extended with the handkerchief, leaned slightly forward, and peered up at his sister’s face from below. “Itoko, do you dislike it?”

Itoko shook her head in silence. “So, you’re willing to go through with it?”

This time, her head did not move. Mr. Munekata left the handkerchief dropped on his sister’s lap as he returned only his body to its former position.

“You mustn’t cry,” he said, watching Itoko’s face. For a time, both of them fell silent.

Itoko finally picked up the handkerchief. The coarse meisen over her lap became slightly stained. On top of that she meticulously smoothed out its wrinkles and laid it folded into quarters. She pressed down the corners firmly. Then she raised her eyes. Her eyes were like the sea. “I will not marry,” she said. “I won’t marry,” Mr. Munekata repeated pointlessly before regaining his vigor— “Don’t joke about this! Didn’t you just say you didn’t dislike it?”

“But Mr. Kōno won’t take a bride at all.” “Then you must ask him—that’s why Brother will go and ask.” “Please stop this inquiry.” “Why?” “Just stop it, please.” “Then there’s nothing to be done.” “Even if there’s nothing to be done, please stop it.” “I’m perfectly content as I am now.” “This is just fine.” “Going to marry would only make things worse.” “This is troublesome—when did you become so stubborn? —Itoko, Brother isn’t saying this out of selfishness, like trying to marry Fujio himself by sending you to Kōno.” “Right now, we’re only discussing things with your best interests in mind.”

“I understand that.” “Once that point is understood, the rest will be easy to discuss.” “So then—you don’t dislike Kōno, do you? —Very well. Since I acknowledge that, it’s fine.” “Alright?” “Next, you’re saying you dislike having someone ask whether Kōno will take you or not.” “I still can’t make sense of that logic myself—but I’ll accept it as it stands. Let’s say you hate having someone ask—if Kōno himself says he’ll take you, you’d still go through with it, wouldn’t you? As for money or household matters—those are trivial anyway.” “If you were to go to a penniless Kōno’s household, it would instead be to your honor.” “Now that’s our Itoko.” “I won’t raise any objections. And Father won’t either.…”

“Does getting married make one’s character deteriorate?” “Ha ha ha ha! You’ve suddenly raised a monumental question! Why?”

“Because—if I were to deteriorate, I’d only be met with disdain. So I think it’s better to stay like this forever by Father and Brother’s side.” “Father and Brother—of course they’d want to stay with you forever, but—” “Listen, Itoko—that’s precisely the issue. Wouldn’t it be better to marry, become a finer person, and be cherished by your husband? But beyond ideals, practical matters take precedence.” “So then—about what we discussed earlier—it’ll work if I take charge, yes?”

“What about?” “You say you don’t want us to ask Kōno, but there’s no telling when Kōno himself might come to take you…”

“No matter how long we wait, such a thing could never happen. I understand Mr. Kōno’s heart perfectly.” “That’s why Brother will take responsibility. I’ll make sure Kōno gives a firm yes.” “But…” “I’ll make him say it. Just wait and see. Brother will take full responsibility. Oh, it’s fine. Brother also has to go abroad as soon as this hair grows out. So since I won’t be able to see you for a while, I’ll do this as thanks for your usual kindness—like a fox’s gratitude without sleeves. Come on, isn’t that fine?”

Itoko gave no answer. Below, Father began to chant a Noh song.

“There it began—well, I’m off,” said Mr. Munekata as he descended from the mezzanine.

Seventeen

Ono and Asai came to the bridge. The path they had come by emerged from the green wheat. The path ahead entered into the green wheat. Leaving a single path extending before and behind, rail tracks ran through the depths of a deep valley. The high embankment, with spring’s verdant hues now surging back across its slopes, formed magnificent sheer banks that curved in an arc like a round folding screen before receding into the distance. The broken bridge, having repeatedly elevated the rail tracks to a height tenfold, spanned from south to north. When leaning on the railing and looking down, they exhausted the expanse of green on both banks before finally reaching the stone wall. Only when they looked down at the stone wall below did a narrow brown path come into view lying across. The rail tracks glinted thinly within the narrow path.—The two came to a stop upon reaching the broken bridge.

“It’s a nice view, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, it’s a fine view.” The two leaned against the railing and stood there. As they stood watching, the boundless wheat stretched inch by inch. It was a day that felt less warm than outright hot. A stretch of land endlessly spread with blue rushes abruptly shifted tone into a modest forest. Amidst the blackened evergreens, what appeared to scatter into the sky as powder—a gaudy green tinged with yellow—was likely the camphor tree’s young leaves.

“I feel good coming out to the suburbs after so long.”

“You know, a place like this isn’t bad once in a while.” “But I just got back from the countryside—it’s nothing new at all.” “You must feel that way.” “It was rather inconsiderate of me to bring you here like this.”

“Don’t mind it.” “We’re just passing time anyway.” “But if someone has leisure to idle like this, they’re no good, you know.” “Don’t you have some little moneymaking scheme?” “Moneymaking isn’t on my side—there must be plenty on yours.” “Nah, law’s grown dull these days.” “In law school now—same as humanities—you won’t get anywhere without a silver watch.” Leaning against the bridge railing, Mr. Ono took out his usual silver cigarette case from an inner pocket and snapped it open. The gold-tipped ends of Egyptian cigarettes lay neatly aligned.

“How about one?” “Oh, thanks. “You’ve got a really splendid thing there.” “It was a gift,” said Mr. Ono as he pulled out one for himself before tossing the case back into his pocket.

Their smoke rose unimpeded and drifted into the tranquil sky. "You're always smoking such premium tobacco?" "You must have considerable means." "Won't you lend me some?" "Ha ha ha! I'm the one who wants to borrow!" "What nonsense—that can't be true!" "Lend me some." "I visited my hometown this time and spent terribly—I'm in dire straits now."

He seemed serious. Mr. Ono’s cigarette smoke darted sideways. “How much do you need?” “Thirty yen or even twenty would do.” “Do I look like I have that much?”

“Then ten yen will do.” “Five yen will do.”

Mr. Asai could lower it as much as he wanted. Mr. Ono rested both elbows on the iron railing from behind and slid his kid leather shoes forward slightly. With a cigarette still in his mouth, Mr. Ono gazed through his glasses at the toe ornament. The lingering spring sun cast long shadows, sparing no light. The polished leather shone richly, yet a layer of dust so fine it was barely visible had settled all over. Mr. Ono struck the side of his shoe with the slender Western cane he was carrying, tap tap. The dust left the shoe and swirled up about an inch. Only the part that was struck by the cane turned mottled black. Asai’s boots, visible beside them, were as heavy and crude as military-issue footwear.

“I might be able to manage ten yen or so—but by when would you need it?” “I’ll definitely return it by the end of this month.” “That should do,” said Mr. Asai, leaning in. Mr. Ono removed the cigarette from his mouth. Holding it between his fingers, he gave a single flick, and a third of the ash fell onto the instep of his shoe.

Keeping his body still, he twisted only his neck sideways from above the white collar and saw the face of the person leaning on the railing about five inches below.

“The end of this month would do—anytime would do. But in exchange, I have a small favor to ask.” “Will you hear me out?”

“Yeah, go ahead and tell me.”

Mr. Asai readily agreed. At the same time, he stopped propping his cheek and straightened his back. Their faces came within a breath of each other. “Actually, it’s about Professor Inoue.” “Oh, how’s the professor doing? Since I got back, I haven’t had time to check in, so I won’t be going. If you meet the professor, give him my regards. And also to the young lady.” Mr. Asai let out a loud “Ha ha ha ha!” Then, leaning out over the railing, he spat spittle like drool far below. “It’s about that young lady…”

“Are you finally getting married?” “You jump to conclusions too quickly. That won’t do.” He cut himself off with “You’re getting ahead of yourself…”, then gazed at the wheat field for a while before suddenly flicking away the cigarette butt he held. The white cuffs clinked against cloisonné couple’s buttons. An ember slightly too long skimmed through the air and fell at the bridge’s base. The fallen smoke crawled upward inversely from the ground.

“What a waste!” said Mr. Asai. “Will you really listen to what I have to say?” “I’m really listening. And then?” “‘And then’? I haven’t even told you anything yet! I’ll manage the money somehow, but I have a special request for you.”

“So spit it out already. I’m your old acquaintance from Kyoto. I’ll do anything for you!” His tone was quite earnest. Mr. Ono released one elbow and turned squarely toward Mr. Asai.

“I figured you’d handle it—truth is, I’ve been waiting for you to come back.” “Well, I returned at just the right time then.” “Here to negotiate something?” “Marriage conditions?” “These days, taking a penniless wife is rather inconvenient, you see.” “That’s not what this is about.” “But setting those terms would serve your future better.” “Alright then.” “I’ll manage it.” “If that’s what accepting her requires, then such negotiations would be permissible, but…”

“You do intend to take her, don’t you? Everyone thinks so, you see.”

“Who?” “Who? We are, of course.” “That’s a problem. Me marrying Miss Inoue—there’s no such firm promise, you know.”

“I see.—Wait, that’s suspicious,” said Mr. Asai. Mr. Ono thought to himself that he was a vulgar man. It was precisely because he was this kind of man that he could so nonchalantly propose breaking off the engagement, he thought.

“If you keep mocking me like this from the start, we can’t have a proper conversation,” he said in a subdued tone that sounded almost funereal. “Ha ha ha ha!” “No need to be so serious.” “You’ll only lose out if you stay this meek.” “You ought to grow some thicker skin.” “Just wait a moment, please—I’m still in training.” “Want me to take you somewhere for practice?” “I’ll rely on your judgment…” “With all that talk, maybe you’re secretly training hard behind the scenes.” “Don’t be absurd!”

“No, that’s not the case,” he said. “Considering how much you’ve been embellishing things lately.” “Especially the origin of that cigarette case you mentioned earlier is highly suspect.” “Now that you mention it, this cigarette has a rather strange smell to it, doesn’t it?” Mr. Asai brought the cigarette smoldering between his fingers up to his nose and sniffed audibly a few times. Mr. Ono thought this truly was a nonsensical bad joke. “Well, let’s talk while we walk.” To put an end to the stream of bad jokes, Mr. Ono stepped into the very center of Ippobashi Bridge. Mr. Asai’s elbow left the railing. To the wheat piercing through the earth left and right, the sun drew near from the sky. Warm green brushed the ears and rose along the ridges. The heat haze blanketing the field engulfed the two men with such intensity it seemed to seethe.

“It’s hot, huh?” said Mr. Asai, following from behind. “It’s hot,” concurred Mr. Ono as they met up, and when their shoulders aligned, he began to walk. As he began walking, he broached a serious matter. “About that earlier matter—actually, when I went to Professor Inoue’s place two or three days ago, he suddenly brought up that marriage proposal again, you see…” “I’ve been waiting for this!” retorted Mr. Asai, who seemed about to say something more, so Mr. Ono quickened their conversational pace and pressed onward abruptly.—

“Since the professor pressed me so insistently, I couldn’t very well hurt the feelings of someone who’s done so much for me, so I asked for two or three days’ grace to think it over and left.” “That’s cautious…” “Well, hear me out to the end. “Save your criticisms for later—you can voice them at your leisure. So, as you know, I’ve been greatly indebted to the professor, and I can’t very well ignore his wishes…”

“That’s too bad.” “I’m sorry, but marriage isn’t like other matters—it’s a grave affair affecting one’s entire life’s happiness. However much I owe the professor, I can’t simply obey his commands like some puppet.” “That won’t fly.”

Mr. Ono shot a piercing glance at the other man. The other man was unexpectedly serious. The conversation pressed on.— “If I had made a clear promise or fabricated some improper relationship with the young lady that warranted responsibility, the professor wouldn’t need to press me about it.” “I intend to take initiative and settle matters decisively, but in truth, I’m entirely blameless on that count.” “Oh, blameless indeed.” “There’s no one as noble and spotless as you.” “I’ll vouch for that.”

Mr. Ono shot another piercing glance at Mr. Asai. Mr. Asai remained completely oblivious. The conversation advanced once more.— “However, the professor has already assumed from the start that I bear full responsibility for this matter and proceeds to deduce everything from that premise.” “Yeah.” “I can’t very well go back to first principles and point out how your reasoning’s starting point contains a fundamental fallacy…” “That’s because you’re too softhearted.” “You need to toughen up or you’ll keep getting shortchanged.”

“I know it’s a loss, but given my nature, I just can’t oppose people so blatantly.” “Especially when it’s the professor who’s done so much for me.” “Right, because he’s the professor who’s done so much for you.” “Moreover, from my perspective, since I’m right in the midst of writing my doctoral thesis, having that sort of talk brought up now only complicates things further.”

“Still working on that doctoral thesis, are you? That’s something.” “There’s nothing impressive about it.” “What’s so impressive? Unless you’ve got the mind of a silver watch, you couldn’t manage it!” “That’s all well and good—but given the circumstances I’ve explained, while I appreciate your kind consideration, I think it’s best to decline for now.” “However, given my nature, if I were to meet the professor directly, I’d feel too sorry for him—I probably couldn’t bring myself to speak so firmly. That’s why I want to ask this of you.” “So… will you take this on?”

“Oh, no problem,” said Mr. Asai. “I’ll go meet the professor and have a proper talk with him.”

Mr. Asai accepted as easily as one might gulp down a bowl of chazuke. Having fulfilled the request, Mr. Ono shifted a step or two forward during the lull. And then he said: “In exchange, I intend to support the professor for life. “I don’t plan to dawdle indefinitely—to speak plainly, the professor’s finances no longer seem as secure as before. “That makes it all the more pitiable. “This consultation wasn’t simply about marriage—I sensed he might be using it as a convenient pretext to seek my assistance. “So I’ll provide that. “I mean to devote myself completely to the professor’s welfare. “But to help only if I marry, or withhold help if I don’t—such shallow calculations have no place in my mind. Once someone has cared for you, you must care for them in return—no matter what. “Until that debt is repaid, no action of mine can erase this obligation.”

“You’re quite the admirable man. If the professor heard this, he would surely be delighted.”

“Please ensure my intentions are fully communicated.” “If a misunderstanding arises, it’ll lead to complications down the line.”

“Alright. “I’ll make sure not to hurt their feelings.” “I’ll put it nicely.” “But in exchange I’ll lend you ten yen.” “I’ll lend it,” Mr. Ono answered with a laugh.

A drill was a tool for boring holes. A rope was a means to bind things. Mr. Asai became an instrument for proposing broken engagements. None would attempt to bore through pine boards without a drill. None could steel themselves to encircle turban shells without rope. Only through Mr. Asai could one undertake this negotiation with bath-going nonchalance. Mr. Ono stood as a man of talent. He understood well the method of employing tools.

Merely proposing a broken engagement and proposing a broken engagement while neatly tidying up afterward were entirely separate talents. Those who swept fallen leaves were not necessarily the ones who cleaned the garden. Mr. Asai was an unreserved man who would dare shake off fallen leaves even during an imperial palace visit. At the same time, he was an irresponsible man who did not comprehend how to sweep away a single speck of dust even during an imperial palace visit. Mr. Asai did not know how to float, yet he was a man of courage who would dive into water. No—he was a hero who dove without ever realizing that the art of floating was necessary when submerging. He simply accepted. He took on anything with the resolve to try it. That was all.

If one can consider matters by setting aside good and evil, right and wrong, importance and triviality, and consequences, then Mr. Asai is a well-meaning person without ulterior motives.

Mr. Ono was not someone unaware of such matters. The reason he made the request despite knowing was that he had resolved to abandon all further responsibility once the engagement was formally broken off. If the other side were to plead hardship, he intended to flee. Even if escape proved impossible, he had prepared things such that eventually they would have no choice but to swallow their tears in resigned acceptance.

Mr. Ono had plans to go on an outing to Ōmori with Fujio tomorrow. Even if common matters came to light after returning from Ōmori, he could not break off his relationship with Fujio. Therefore, he would provide Inoue with material assistance as promised. Having resolved himself thus, when Mr. Asai readily agreed to the request, Mr. Ono thought he had unloaded half the burden. “When the sun shines like this, the scent of wheat seems to float right up to one’s nose,” Mr. Ono’s conversation finally turned to something natural.

“Do you smell it? Not a whiff for me,” Mr. Asai sniffed with his round nose, but— “By the way, are you still going to that Hamlet’s house?” he asked.

“Kōno’s house? Still going there. In fact, I’m heading over today too,” he said casually. “Heard he went to Kyoto recently. Back yet? Maybe went to sniff some wheat scent or something.” “What a bore, that guy.” “Always got that gloomy look on his face.” “I suppose.” “Be better if that sort died sooner.” “He got much money?”

“Seems like it.” “What happened to that relative? I used to see them at school sometimes...” “You mean Munekata?” “That’s right. I intend to go to that man’s place within the next couple of days.” Mr. Ono suddenly stopped. “What for?” “To put in a word. You need to move around as much as possible beforehand; otherwise it won’t do.” “But even Munekata is struggling because he didn’t pass the diplomatic exam. Even if you ask him, it’s no use.”

“Doesn’t matter. I’ll go talk to him.”

Mr. Ono lowered his eyes to the ground and walked two or three ken in silence.

“When are you going to see the professor?” “I’ll go tonight or tomorrow morning.” “I see.”

Turning from the wheat field, the path became a gentle slope under the shade of cedar trees. The two descended the slope one after the other. They had no time to exchange words. When they had finished descending and were walking side by side past the sparse cedar fence, Mr. Ono spoke: "If you do go to Munekata's place... Please leave Professor Inoue's matter unmentioned." "I won't mention it." "No, really." "Ha ha ha ha! You're so embarrassed! What's the big deal?"

“There’s a bit of a problem for me, so please…”

“Fine, I won’t mention it.” Mr. Ono felt profoundly uneasy. He wanted to take back about half of what he had just requested.

After parting with Mr. Asai at the intersection, Mr. Ono arrived at Kōno’s residence with an uneasy heart. About fifteen minutes after entering Fujio’s room, Mr. Munekata’s figure appeared at the entrance to Mr. Kōno’s study.

“Hey.” Mr. Kōno sat in his usual chair, in his usual manner, designing geometric patterns as was his custom. The circle with three scales was especially well-crafted.

When he was called, he raised his head. It was a far simpler motion than could be called surprise, agitation, timidity, or affectation. Thus philosophical. “You?” he said. Mr. Munekata strode briskly up to the corner of the Western-style desk but suddenly furrowed his thick brows into an inverted V, “It’s stuffy in here. It’s foul. Let’s open it a bit,” he said, removing the upper and lower bolts. The moment he gripped the central round knob, he swung the French window wide open in a single motion, as though sweeping the floor. Into the room, along with the green of the budding lawn before the garden, the vastness of spring blew in.

“This makes it much more cheerful.” “Ah, what a pleasant feeling!” “The lawn has really greened up.” Mr.Munekata returned to the Western-style desk and finally sat down. It was the same chair where the mysterious woman had been sitting moments before. “What are you up to?”

“Hmm?” said Mr. Kōno, stopping his pencil. “How about it? Quite skillful, don’t you think?” he said as he slid the paper filled with patterns toward Mr. Munekata across the Western-style desk. “What’s this? You’ve written an awful lot here.” “I’ve been writing for over an hour.” “If I hadn’t come, you’d still be writing until evening.” “Pointless.” Mr. Kōno said nothing. “Does this have anything to do with philosophy?” “There could be.”

“You’d call this some philosophical symbol of the entire universe, I suppose.” “It’s remarkable how all this could be arranged by just one person’s mind.” “Not thinking of writing a treatise on master dyers and philosophers, are you?”

Mr. Kōno once again said nothing. “Somehow you’re still dawdling as usual.” “No matter when I look, you never come to a boil.” “Today I’m particularly unboiled.” “Maybe it’s the weather, ha ha ha ha!” “It’s not the weather—it’s the fault of living.” “True enough—there aren’t many who boil over and stay piping hot.” “We’ve both been stewing like this for nearly thirty years…” “We’ll just keep simmering endlessly in this worldly pot, never reaching a boil.”

Mr. Kōno laughed for the first time at this point. “By the way, Mr. Kōno, today I’ve come to report and also discuss a few matters.” “You’ve come on rather serious business.” “I’ll be going abroad soon.” “Going abroad?” “Yes—to Europe.” “It’s fine to go, but don’t end up indecisive like your father did.” “Hard to say, but once I cross the Indian Ocean, things should mostly be fine.” Mr. Kōno burst into laughter—ha ha ha ha! “The truth is, I recently passed the diplomatic exam at an opportune time—hence promptly getting this haircut—and after all, I must depart now that this recent opportunity has arisen.” “Worldly affairs keep me busy.” “No time for arranging circles and triangles.”

“That’s auspicious,” said Mr. Kōno, intently observing the other’s head across the Western-style desk. Yet he offered no particular criticism. He raised no questions. Mr. Munekata, for his part, did not take the initiative to offer an explanation. Thus the matter of his hair ended there.

“First, that’s the report up to this point, Mr. Kōno,” he said. “Did you meet my mother?” asked Mr. Kōno. “I haven’t met her yet.” “Today I came up through this entrance here, so I didn’t pass through the Japanese-style rooms at all.” Indeed, Mr. Munekata was still wearing his shoes. Mr. Kōno leaned back against his chair, observing this optimist’s head and the calico-patterned collar ornament—the ornament, as usual, protruded halfway up the collar. —and then stared intently at the suit inherited from his father as well.

“What are you looking at?” “Well,” he said, but kept staring all the same.

“Shall I go talk to your mother?” This time he kept staring without saying yes or anything else.

Mr. Munekata began to rise from his chair. “It’s better to drop it.” From across the Western-style desk came a single line delivered with perfect clarity. The long-haired man slowly rose from his chair, brushing back his forehead with his right hand while keeping his left pressed on the chair’s armrest, and turned his face toward the portrait of his deceased father.

“If you’re going to talk to Mother, then talk to that portrait instead.”

The man in the suit inherited from his father fixed his round eyes and watched the possessor of lacquer-black hair standing imposingly in the room. Next he fixed those round eyes upon the portrait of the deceased hanging on the wall. Finally he compared the man with lacquer-black hair to the portrait of the deceased. When he had finished comparing, the towering man shifted his gaunt shoulders and spoke from above Mr. Munekata's head—

“Father is dead.” “But he’s more certain than a living mother.” “He is certain.”

The face of the man leaning back in his chair turned once more toward the portrait with these words, as if moved by its own volition. Having turned, he remained motionless for some time.

The living eyes gazed down from above.

After a while, the person leaning back in the chair spoke.—

“Uncle also had such a hard time of it.” The man who had stood up replied— “That eye is alive. “It’s still alive.”

Having finished speaking, he began to walk around the room.

“Let’s go to the garden—it’s too gloomy in here.” No sooner had Mr. Munekata risen from his seat and taken Mr. Kōno’s hand from the side than he passed through the open French window and descended two stone steps onto the lawn. When their feet touched the soft ground, “What on earth is the matter?” asked Mr. Munekata. The lawn extended southward for a little over ten ken before ending at a tall oak hedge. Its width did not even reach half that length. The rear area, blocked by thick plantings, lay separated by a pond of about five tsubo, with Fujio’s desk placed in the projecting new wing beyond.

The two of them, at a leisurely pace, reached the end of the lawn. On their return, they detoured two or three ken and came back toward the study through the shade of the plantings. Both remained silent. Their footsteps happened to fall in step. When they reached the bend in the path where the plantings opened at the center to two or three stepping stones inviting one toward the pond, a shrill laugh—like the cry of a pheasant—suddenly rang out from the new room. Their feet came to a halt as if by prior agreement. Their eyes darted in the same direction at once.

A four-shaku strip of vacant land extended narrowly to the pond’s edge. On the opposite bank where water fell straight down, a pale blue cherry branch stretched sideways to cast shade near the eaves as Mr. Ono and Fujio stood facing this direction at the veranda’s edge, laughing together.

With irregular springtime trees to their left and right, cherry branches above them, and lotus pads below—their roots sprouting from the warming water to creep upward—the two living tableaux stood enveloped. Because the frame that partitioned them was formed by gathering nature’s finest elements—because its shape was precise enough not to mar its elegance yet irregular enough not to distract the eye—because of the stepping stones, water, and veranda spaced with perfect proportion—because they occupied a position neither too lofty nor too lowly—and finally, because they appeared suddenly like an illusion exhaled in a single short breath—the gazes of the two on this side gathered upon the two across the water. At the same time, the gazes of the two across the water also fell upon the two on this side. The four people stood transfixed, each nailing the others in place with their gaze.

It was a critical moment. The one who first leapt past the moment of startled realization became the victor.

The woman flicked one white tabi sock back slightly. From between her ochre-dyed obi—its ancient patterns starkly heightening spring’s desolation—she sharply drew out something that slithered forth like a torn thread. Grasping the swollen head of a slender serpent in her palm, she shook its golden length skyward; crimson light burst from its tip and tail. In the next instant, across Mr. Ono’s chest hung a resplendent gold chain—still as arrested lightning. “Ohoho! This suits you best.”

Fujio's shrill voice struck the dull water and rebounded sharply into their ears. Just as Mr. Munekata began to move forward with "Fu—", Mr. Kōno pushed against his flank from the front. The living tableau vanished from Mr. Munekata's vision. As if piling atop him, when Mr. Kōno's face—having pressed forward from behind—reached his dear friend's ear,

“Quiet...” he whispered while leading the dazed man into the shrubbery’s shadow. With a hand pressed on the shoulder as if pushing him upward, Mr. Kōno climbed the stone steps back to the study and wordlessly slammed shut the French window—resembling a door—from both sides with a heavy thud. He ceremoniously fastened the upper and lower bolts. Next he approached the entrance door. When he turned the pre-inserted key with a click, the lock yielded effortlessly. “What are you doing?”

“I’ve locked the room. To keep people from coming in.” “Why?” “It doesn’t matter why.”

“What on earth’s wrong?” “You look terribly pale.”

“No need. Do have a seat,” he said as he dragged the foremost chair closer to the desk. Mr. Munekata obeyed the command like a child. After calming the other person, Mr. Kōno quietly settled into his accustomed armchair. His body remained facing the desk.

“Mr. Munekata,” he called while facing the wall, but soon swiveled only his head around to face front and, “Fujio is no good,” he said.

Within his calm tone lingered a vaguely warm ambiguity. Through the stillness preparing all branches to return to green, spring’s pulse moved unseen—this was Mr. Kōno’s sympathy. “I see.”

Mr. Munekata, who had crossed his arms, answered only this. Afterwards, "Itoko said the same thing," he added gloomily. "Your sister has better judgment than you. Fujio is no good. She’s the type to make you leap out of your skin."

There was a click as someone twisted the round knob at the entrance. The door did not open. This time came a ton-ton rapping from outside. Mr. Munekata turned around. Mr. Kōno did not even move his eyes. "Leave it be," he said coldly.

There was a high-pitched Ohoho laugh, as if pressed against the entrance door. The footsteps hurried toward the Japanese-style room while receding into the distance. The two exchanged glances.

“That’s Fujio,” said Mr. Kōno. “I see,” Mr. Munekata answered again.

After that, everything became quiet. The desk clock on the table ticked steadily. “Discard the gold watch too.” “Yeah. Let’s discard it.” Mr. Kōno kept his head turned toward the wall, Mr. Munekata kept his arms folded—the clock ticked steadily. In the Japanese-style room, a large group of people laughed all at once.

“Mr. Munekata,” Kōno turned his head again. “I’ve been disliked by Fujio. You’re better off keeping quiet.” “Yeah, I’ll keep quiet.”

“Fujio doesn’t understand someone like you.” “She’s nothing but a shallow upstart.” “Dump her on Ono.” “My head’s properly done now.” Mr.Munekata pulled Setsuta’s hand from his chest and gave a light tap to the crown of his newly cropped hair.

Mr. Kōno gathered a ripple of smile at the corners of his eyes—whether present or not—and nodded gravely. He added afterward: "If your head's settled, you won't be needing someone like Fujio."

Mr. Munekata gave only a light “hmph.” “With that, I’ve finally found peace of mind,” said Mr. Kōno, raising one relaxed leg to rest his ankle atop his other knee. Mr. Munekata began smoking a cigarette. From the billowing smoke, “It’s just beginning,” he muttered as if to himself. “It’s just beginning. It’s just beginning for me too,” Mr. Kōno answered in similar self-directed tones. “You’re starting now too? What exactly are you starting?” Mr. Munekata waved away the cigarette smoke and leaned in with renewed vigor.

“Since I’m starting over from primordial nothingness, this is just the beginning.”

With the Shikishima cigarette clamped between his fingers, having even forgotten the mouth it was meant to be brought to, Mr. Munekata was dumbfounded. “Starting over from true nothingness?” he asked again, as though doubting his own mind. Mr. Kōno answered in an ordinary tone, perfectly composed. —— “I’ve already given everything—this house, the property—to Fujio.” “You’ve already done it? When?” “Just a little while ago. It was when I was drawing that crest.” “That’s…”

“It was precisely when I was drawing those three scales within the circle—that pattern came out best.”

“To just go and do it so easily…” “What do I need? The more there is, the greater the burden.” “Did your mother consent?” “She doesn’t consent.” “But she doesn’t consent… Then your mother will be in trouble, won’t she?” “Not doing it would cause more trouble.” “But isn’t your mother constantly worried that you might do something reckless?”

“My mother is a counterfeit.” “You’re all being deceived.” “She’s not a mother—she’s an enigma.” “A product of civilization’s decadent age.” “That’s going too far…” “Since you aren’t my real mother, you must think I’m being resentful.” “If that’s your view, then let it be so.”

“But…”

“Don’t you trust me?” “Of course I trust you.” “I am higher than Mother.” “Wiser.” “I know the reason.” “And I’m more virtuous than Mother.”

Mr. Munekata remained silent. Mr. Kōno continued— “When Mother says ‘Don’t leave the house,’ what she really means is ‘Get out.’” “When she says ‘Take the property,’ what she really means is ‘Hand it over.’” “When she says ‘I want you to take care of me,’ what she really means is ‘I detest being a burden.’” “So ostensibly I’m defying Mother’s will, but in reality, I’m carrying out her wishes exactly as she hopes.” “Look—after I leave home, Mother will claim I left out of spite, and society will believe her—so I’m daring to make that sacrifice and acting for Mother and my sister’s sake.”

Mr. Munekata suddenly stood up from his chair, came to the corner of the desk, propped one elbow on it, and peered down as if to cover Mr. Kōno’s face,

“Have you gone mad?” he said. “I’ve known from the start that I’m insane.—Even until now, behind my back, they’ve been calling me a fool and a madman nonstop.” At this moment, tears fell from Mr. Munekata’s large, round eyes, pattering onto the Leopardi on the desk.

“Why did you stay silent? You should’ve just expelled them…” “Even if I expelled them, their character would only degenerate further.” “Even if we don’t expel them, it wouldn’t be right for you to leave either.” “If I don’t leave, my character will only continue to degenerate.” “Why did you give away all the property?” “Unnecessary things.” “I wish you’d consulted me first.” “There’s no need for consultation when giving away unnecessary things—after all.”

Mr. Munekata said, “Hmm.”

“For money I don’t need, letting my obligated mother and sister become corrupt would hardly count as an achievement.” “So you’re truly set on leaving home now?” “I’ll leave. If I stay, we’ll both degenerate.” “Where will you go when you leave?” “I don’t know where.” Mr. Munekata picked up the Leopardi volume from the desk without purpose, tapping its spine vertically with the bevelled edge of a zelkova-wood corner while appearing to deliberate briefly, then said: “Why not come to my place?”

“Even if I went to your place, it wouldn’t solve anything.” “Do you hate the idea?” “I don’t dislike it, but there’s no helping it.” Mr. Munekata stared fixedly at Mr. Kōno. “Mr. Kōno. Please come. Forget about me and Father—at least come for Itoko’s sake.” “For Itoko’s sake?” “Itoko is someone who truly knows you. Even if your aunt and Miss Fujio misunderstand you, even if I misjudge you, even if all of Japan persecutes you—Itoko alone will remain steadfast. Itoko has neither academic knowledge nor wit, but she truly understands your worth. She has seen right through your heart. Itoko is my sister, but she’s a remarkable woman. She is a noble woman. Itoko is a woman who shows no concern for corruption, even without a single penny.—Mr. Kōno, please take her. You can leave the house. Even if you go into the mountains, that’s fine. It doesn’t matter where you go or how you wander. Just take Itoko with you, no matter what.—I’ve taken responsibility for her. If you don’t agree to this, I won’t be able to face my sister. I’ll have to kill my only sister.”

“Itoko is a noble woman—a woman of sincerity.” “She’s honest—I’ll do anything for you.” “Killing her would be a waste.”

Mr. Munekata shook Mr. Kōno’s bony shoulder on the chair.

Eighteen

Sayoko received a bag of sweets from the old woman. When she stood them upright and transferred them to an Izumo ware plate, the blue phoenix pattern at its center became hidden beneath Japanese-made biscuits. Much of the yellow rim remained visible. She carefully carried the two aligned bamboo chopsticks from the tearoom to the parlor, taking care not to drop them. In the parlor, Mr. Asai sat with the Professor, rekindling their camaraderie from their Kyoto days.

It was morning. The sunlight crept steadily closer across the veranda.

“Miss, you were familiar with Tokyo, were you not?” he inquired.

Placing the dish of sweets between host and guest, and while gently pulling her soft shoulders back,

“Yes,” she answered in a small voice, hesitating to stand. “This one was raised in Tokyo,” the Professor supplemented where her answer fell short. “Ah yes—you’ve grown so much,” he abruptly shifted topics.

Sayoko cast down her lonely smile and, this time, withheld even her reply. Mr. Asai gazed at Sayoko with an uninhibited expression. He calmly watched her while thinking he would now ruin this woman’s marriage prospects. Mr. Asai’s views on matrimonial matters were as facile as a street fortune-teller’s pronouncements. He showed little sympathy for women’s futures or lifelong happiness. He simply believed that since he had been asked, he needed only to handle matters as requested. And he believed this was the most legalistic approach—that being legalistic was the most practical, and that being practical constituted the supreme method. Mr. Asai was a man with the least imagination who had never once considered this lack to be a deficiency. He believed imagination was an entirely separate function from intellectual activity—that intellectual activity was rather constantly hindered by imagination. That one might need imagination before a proper measure—one that did not revert to full humanity—could ever emerge outside pure intellectual judgment was something he had never heard from any professor in the law faculty’s classrooms. Therefore, Mr. Asai remained utterly ignorant. He thought simply refusing would settle everything. How the lonely Sayoko’s fate might transform through a single word from the Professor was a problem Mr. Asai could not even conceive in his wildest dreams.

While Mr. Asai gazed meaninglessly at Sayoko, Professor Kodō stifled a couple of strange coughs. Sayoko turned uneasily toward father. “Have you taken your medicine yet?” “I’ve already taken the morning dose.” “Are you not feeling cold?” “I’m not cold, but a little...”

The Professor placed three fingers of his left hand on his right wrist. Sayoko, forgetting even Asai’s presence, stared fixedly at the Professor’s face as he took his pulse. The Professor’s face grew longer and gaunter day by day, along with his beard.

“How is it?” she asked anxiously.

“It seems a bit fast. “The fever still isn’t subsiding,” he said, his forehead wrinkling slightly. Each time the Professor took his temperature and made an impatient, unpleasant face, Sayoko grew sad. Taking shelter from the evening shower in an open field, they gazed up gratefully at the lone cedar they relied on—only for a lightning bolt to pierce its crown.

It was less frightening than pitiable for someone of advanced age. If the irritability stemmed from inadequate care, there would have been a way to appease him. But if it was an illness that could not be overcome by willpower, there remained no means to fulfill filial duty. What they had dismissed as a passing cold—a cough neither the patient nor others had troubled themselves over until now—the doctor declared bore an unfavorable prognosis. This was no mild ailment of the sort that might subside within days through anxious fretting. If she told him, he would worry. If she did not, he would persist through sheer resolve. On top of that, he grew irritable. Should matters continue thus, within a year his nerves would lay stripped bare, startling at even a breath of air. Last night, Sayoko had not met his eyes.

“Perhaps you should at least put on your haori.” Professor Kodō did not reply, “Do you have a thermometer? Let’s take my temperature,” he said.

Sayoko rose and went to the tea room. "Is something amiss?" Mr. Asai inquired casually. "No—merely a trifling cold."

“Oh, is that so?—The young leaves have come out quite a bit, haven’t they?” He had not the slightest sympathy or concern for the Professor’s illness. The Professor, who had hoped to have someone listen in detail to the cause, progression, and symptoms of his illness, found his expectations thwarted. “Hey, can’t you find it? What’s taking so long?” he called toward the next room, his voice louder than usual. This was followed by two coughs.

“Yes, right away,” answered a small voice. There was no sign of her emerging with the thermometer. The Professor turned toward Mr. Asai, “Oh, is that so?” he replied disinterestedly.

Mr. Asai grew bored. I should finish my business quickly and go home.

“Professor, Ono is utterly hopeless—he’s turned into nothing but a Westernized dandy. He has no intention of marrying your daughter,” he rattled off in rapid disorder.

Professor Kodō’s sunken eyes abruptly sharpened. Soon that sharpness suffused his entire face, rendering it resentful. “Best to call it off.” In the adjacent room, Sayoko—who had been searching for the misplaced thermometer—halted her hand mid-motion, leaving the long brazier’s second compartment pulled halfway out. The Professor’s resentful expression deepened. Mr. Asai, imagination being no strong suit of his, remained oblivious to impending consequences. “Ono’s gone completely Westernized these days.” “Dragging your daughter into such circles would be most unwise.”

He could no longer maintain his bitter expression. “Did you come here to speak ill of Ono?” “Ha ha ha ha! It’s true, Professor.” Mr. Asai let out a loud laugh at the most inopportune moment.

“That’s unnecessary meddling! Frivolous!” he snapped sharply. The Professor’s voice finally strayed from its normal composure. Mr. Asai started in genuine surprise. He fell silent for a long moment.

“Hey—isn’t the thermometer ready yet? What are you dawdling about?” No reply came from the next room. Before a word could be uttered, a shadow fell upon the half-opened shoji. A slender white wooden tube quietly emerged from beyond the waist panel. The Professor, having received it on the tatami mat, snapped and pulled out the tube. Holding the extracted thermometer up to the light and shaking it vigorously two or three times, “Why are you saying such unnecessary things?” he muttered, peering through the thermometer’s scale. The Professor’s mind was half on the thermometer. Mr. Asai regained his composure during this time.

“The truth is, I was asked to do it.” “You were asked? By whom?” “I was asked by Ono.” “Were you asked by Ono?” The Professor forgot to place the thermometer under his arm. He stood blankly. “Since he’s that sort of man, he can’t bring himself to come and refuse you directly.” “So he asked me to do it.” “Hmm.” “Explain it in more detail.” “Since he says he must absolutely receive your reply within two or three days, I’ve come here as his proxy.”

“Then explain in detail what reason he has for refusing.”

Behind the sliding door, Sayoko blew her nose. It was a faint sound, yet unmistakably coming from someone just beyond the thin partition. The noise near the lintel suggested she stood right behind the screen. What Asai made of this remained unknown. “The reason is...” “He says he must earn his doctorate—that he simply cannot marry under such circumstances.” “So you mean this Doctor title matters more to him than Sayoko?” “I wouldn’t put it that way, but unless he becomes a Doctor, he’ll face grave disadvantages later.”

“Understood. Is that all?” “He also says there’s no formal contract.”

“By ‘contract,’ you mean a legally valid contract, I suppose. You’re referring to the exchange of written agreements, then?” “It’s not a written contract—but in return for all the long-term support he’s received, he says he wants to provide material assistance as a gesture of gratitude.” “Are you saying he’ll give us monthly payments?” “Yes.” “Hey, Sayoko, come here for a moment. Sayoko—Sayoko!” His voice grew increasingly louder. There was finally no reply. Sayoko remained crouched behind the sliding door, motionless. The Professor, having no other choice, turned back toward Mr. Asai.

“Do you have a wife?”

“No, I don’t. I’d like to marry one, but I have to look after my own livelihood.” “If you don’t have a wife, listen well—a man’s daughter isn’t some plaything. Do you think I’d let myself trade Sayoko for a mere doctoral title? Think carefully. Even the poorest man’s daughter is a living being. To me, she’s my precious child. Tell Ono this—does he mean to become a Doctor even if it means killing someone? And tell him Inoue Kodō values moral bonds over legal contracts. Monthly payments? Who asked for his charity? I took care of Ono out of pure goodwill when he came to us crying like a pitiful soul. Material compensation? What outrageous disrespect! Sayoko—come here this instant!”

Sayoko was sobbing behind the sliding door. The Professor coughed persistently. Mr. Asai was flustered.

He hadn’t expected to face such anger. There had been no reason for him to face such anger again. What I was saying was logically clear. To succeed in society，a doctorate was essential in everyone’s eyes. Requesting an end to an ambiguous promise could hardly be considered such a breach of duty. It might have been inconvenient for them to keep receiving care without reciprocation，but if one proposed materially repaying what had been received，they ought to have gladly satisfied our sense of obligation. Kodō suddenly got angry at this—at which Mr．Asai was taken aback．

“Professor, if you get so angry like that, it’s a problem.” “If that’s not acceptable, I’ll try to talk to Ono again,” he said. This was no idle threat.

After remaining silent for a while, the Professor spoke in a somewhat calmer tone, "You treat marriage as if it's a trivial matter, but it's nothing of the sort," he said resentfully.

Though he couldn’t grasp the thrust of Kodō Sensei’s argument, even Mr. Asai found himself somewhat moved by the Professor’s bearing. Yet Mr. Asai—who believed marriage promises could be forged through convenience and dissolved through convenience without consequence—offered no particular response.

“Because you don’t understand a woman’s heart, you came here on such an errand.”

Mr. Asai remained silent. "It's because you don't understand human feelings that you can say such things so calmly." "If Ono breaks off the engagement, do you think Sayoko would just go off to marry someone else starting tomorrow?" "Do you believe there exists a woman who, after considering someone her husband for five years, could be suddenly rejected without reason and calmly enter another household?" "There may be such women, but Sayoko is no frivolous girl." "I did not raise her to be so shallow—do you feel no remorse for hastily conveying this broken engagement and ruining Sayoko's life?"

The Professor’s sunken eyes burned crimson. He coughed persistently. Mr. Asai was impressed, thinking that if that was indeed the case. He was finally beginning to feel sorry for him. “Well, please wait a moment, Professor. I’ll try talking to Ono once more. I just came because I was asked to—I don’t know all these detailed circumstances.” “No—there’s no need for you to speak to him. I have no desire to force someone who says they dislike it to take it. However, he himself should come to my house and explain the reason.”

“But if your daughter holds such a view…” “Ono should know Sayoko’s feelings by now,” the Professor snapped, like a slap across the cheek.

“But if that’s the case, Ono will be troubled too, so perhaps once more…” “Tell Ono this: Inoue Kodō may cherish his daughter deeply, but he’s no base wretch who’ll grovel before those who spurn him.” “Sayoko! Hey—are you there?”

On the other side of the sliding door came the sound of what seemed like a sleeve brushing against the hem of the decorative paper. "It should be acceptable to give such a reply."

There was no further answer. After a moment came a muffled voice—someone burying their face in their sleeve. "Professor, let me speak to Ono once more." "There's no need for that." "Tell him to come here and refuse it himself." "Well... I'll tell Ono that." Mr.Asai finally stood. When he bowed to the Professor who had escorted him to the entrance, the man said: "It's not worth having a daughter."

After stepping outside, Mr. Asai let out a sigh of relief. He had never experienced such a feeling before. Exiting the side street and passing the soba shop’s lantern to the right, when he reached where the streetcar was, he suddenly jumped aboard.

Mr. Asai, who had suddenly boarded the streetcar, appeared casually at the gate of the Munekata residence a little over an hour later. Two rickshaws emerged in succession. One rickshaw headed toward Ono’s boarding house. One rickshaw departed for Professor Kodō’s house. About fifty minutes later, a third rickshaw—parked with its shafts raised by the pine roots at the entrance—dashed toward Kōno’s estate, its black canopy still lowered. The novel must now relate, in order, the missions of these three rickshaws. When Mr. Munekata’s rickshaw came to a halt before Mr. Ono’s boarding house, Mr. Ono had just finished his midday meal. The meal tray remained set out. The rice tub still sat unputaway. The protagonist moved to his desk and sat watching the thick smoke from his mouth as he thought. I have plans to go to Ōmori with Fujio today. I must go because I promised. Yet now that I absolutely must go, I somehow feel guilty. I am uneasy. Had I not made that promise, things might have remained peaceful. I might have eaten another bowl of rice. The die had been cast by my own hand from the start. The one and six lay clear. The Rubicon must be crossed. But Caesar who crossed the river effortlessly—he is the hero.

Ordinary people tend to reconsider at the very brink of action. Whenever Mr. Ono reconsidered, he would inevitably regret that he should have abandoned it. When someone places one foot into a boat they've just boarded and the boatman adjusts his pole to announce departure, they want to cry out, "Wait!" I wish someone would come from shore and pull me back. For if one has only just boarded, there is still an opportunity to return to shore. As long as the promise remains unfulfilled, it is like a boat that has yet to leave shore—not yet a situation of desperate straits.

There was such a story in Meredith’s novel. A man and woman had conspired together to arrange a meeting at the station. Once their plan progressed smoothly and the steam whistle gave its shrill cry, their honor would be lost forever. When their fates had reached the very brink of decision, the woman ultimately failed to appear at the station. The man pressed his haggard face into the carriage and returned home in vain. Later came word that certain friends had detained her and deliberately made her miss the appointed hour.—As he gazed at his cigarette smoke, Mr. Ono—who had made plans with Fujio—thought how fortunate it might have been had he been able to break a promise in such fashion. Moreover, Asai’s reply still had not arrived. If he consented, matters would resolve favorably either way. If refused, Ono had planned to first push things to an irreversible precipice before turning back and adaptively navigating through the crisis—thus going immediately to Ōmori would settle everything. Of course there was no need to await refusal. Yet when facing execution of this plan, unease arose. The scheme devised through reason now found itself eroded by human sentiment. Imagination pulled back to forestall action. Mr. Ono—precisely because he was a poet—possessed imagination in greatest abundance.

Precisely because he was rich in imagination, he could not bring himself to go and refuse. When he saw before his eyes the Professor’s face, Sayoko’s face, the room’s furnishings, and the state of their lives—and when he projected what he saw into the future, envisioning it in the mirror of imagination—two distinct paths emerged. When he was woven into this mirror’s fabric, there was spring; there was abundance; there was utter happiness. Erase one’s reflection from the mirror’s surface, and darkness fell; dusk descended. Everything turned miserable. To negotiate separating one’s soul from that collective spirit was like anticipating smoke from a small hearth while stealing its firewood. I cannot bear it. One closes their eyes and swallows bitterness. To sever such tangled bonds cleanly cannot be done with imagination’s eye wide open. Therefore, Mr. Ono turned to Mr. Asai—a man who kept his eyes shut. Once entrusted, killing imagination would suffice. My resolve was feeble, but I had made up my mind. Yet killing even a single dog proves no easy task. To take the mind’s innate workings and blacken only inconvenient parts—to erase them utterly—has been a desperate stratagem tried by millions since antiquity; an ill-conceived plan where millions alike have failed. The human mind differs from manuscript paper. From that very evening when Mr. Ono made this resolution—his imagination revived.—

Hollow cheeks were depicted. Sunken eyes were depicted. Tangled hair was depicted. Insect-like breath was depicted. ——And then the imagination took a sudden turn. Blood was depicted. A terrifying night and wind and rain were depicted. Cold lamplight was depicted. A white paper lantern was depicted.—The imagination shuddered and came to a halt.

When the imagination came to a halt, he suddenly remembered the promise. He recalled the unpleasant results that would arise from fulfilling the promise. The result once again stirred turbulent waves through the power of imagination. His conscience was pawned. It could never be redeemed in his lifetime. Interest compounded upon interest. His back grew heavy, ached, and then his waist bent. He slept poorly. Society pointed fingers behind one's back.

He gazed absently at the cigarette smoke. The Imperial Gift watch urged the fulfillment of the promise every second. It was as though he had entrusted his powerless body to a sled. If he merely folded his hands, he would naturally slip into the abyss of the promise. “Nothing slides as accurately as the sled of Time.”

"I suppose I'll go after all. As long as I don't do anything that would weigh on my conscience afterward, there should be no problem in going. As long as I refrain from that, it can be undone. As for Sayoko, I'll handle things depending on Asai's reply."

When the cigarette smoke had thickened enough to hazily shroud the shadow of the future in its swaying veil, Mr. Munekata’s sturdy figure swept away all imaginings and materialized in the realm of reality.

He had no idea when or how the maid had ushered him in. Mr. Munekata abruptly entered. “Quite a mess here, isn’t it?” he remarked while carrying the crimson-lacquered tray out to the corridor. He took out a black-lacquered rice container. He even carried out the clay teapot and set it down there,

“How’s that?” he said, sitting down in the middle of the room. “I’m terribly sorry,” the host said, turning with an apologetic air. Just then, the maid came and took away the tray with the teapot and bowls.

Those who entrusted their hearts to the passage of time and dared not lift a finger were fated to fulfill their own promises. He piled an uneasy heart upon itself with each second, steadily advancing toward a terrifying place. Mr. Munekata, who had suddenly appeared from the side, intercepted midway the person who had been forced to slide. The person who had been intercepted could, upon encountering an obstruction, greedily seize a moment's respite in their original position. A promise must be fulfilled. However, the one who took away the conditions that should be fulfilled was not me. There’s a difference in how one feels between voluntarily breaking a promise and being unable to keep it due to unforeseen obstacles. When a promise grows perilous, it’s a relief to have others obstruct its fulfillment in a way that absolves me of responsibility. If I were to be reproached by my conscience for not going, I would answer that while I had the sense of duty to go, it couldn’t be helped because Mr. Munekata interfered.

Mr. Ono rather welcomed Mr. Munekata with goodwill. However, this single point of goodwill was, unfortunately, deeply shackled on all sides by unpleasant emotions.

Mr. Munekata and Fujio were distantly related. Whether he were to ensnare Fujio or Fujio were to ensnare him—not only had they coolly formed a perilous pact that threatened to create an irreparable bond between them, but just as they were about to set their plan into motion, this sudden intrusion—leaving aside the nuisance—weighed heavily on his conscience. If it were someone unrelated, that would be fine. The one who had suddenly barged in was, of all people, the other party’s relative.

If he were merely an ordinary relative, that would be one thing. Mr. Munekata, who had long held feelings for Fujio. The man who died overseas was none other than Mr. Munekata—the one they had long approved as their daughter’s husband. Mr. Munekata, who until yesterday had remained unaware of their relationship and clung stubbornly to his old hopes. Mr. Munekata guarding an empty vault without knowing where the stolen gold had gone. The cloud of secrets split halfway through by golden chain lightning piercing spring’s sky. If Mr. Asai went to where that lightning had roused slumbering eyes and started babbling about Inoue—that would spell trouble. “Pitiable” was a word used solely in reference to others. “Guilty conscience” applied when one had committed an inexcusable act oneself. “Troubled” came into play more skillfully still—when gains and losses rebounded directly upon one’s own person. Mr. Ono felt profoundly troubled when he saw Mr. Munekata’s face.

The core of goodwill that expressed welcome toward Mr. Munekata's visit was uncomfortably encircled by a ring of pity. On top of that, a ring of guilty conscience loomed ominously layered. On the outermost layer, the ring of trouble stretched endlessly into the future like spilled black ink. And so, Mr. Munekata appeared like the protagonist governing this future.

“I was rude yesterday,” said Mr. Munekata. Mr. Ono turned red and looked down. He uneasily applied the flame to his cigarette, anticipating that the gold watch would be brought up later. Mr. Munekata showed no sign of noticing.

“Mr. Ono, Asai came by earlier. I came here specifically about that matter,” he said plainly. Mr. Ono’s nerves jolted all at once. A moment later, cigarette smoke oozed thickly and gloomily from his nose. “Mr. Ono, you mustn’t think the enemy has come.”

“No, not at all…” Mr. Ono said—and in that moment, he startled again. “I’m not the sort to toss out random jabs and exploit people’s weaknesses.” “This head of mine works like this.” “I wouldn’t bother distilling medicine from such trifles.” “Even were there [such trifles], they’d violate my family’s principles…” Mr. Ono had grasped Mr. Munekata’s meaning. Yet he couldn’t fathom how this mind had come to be formed thus. But lacking the courage to press further, he kept silent.

“If you think I’m such a contemptible person, there was no point in my coming all this way when busy.” “You’re an educated man who comprehends logic.” “Once you take me for that sort of man, everything I say becomes completely invalid to you.”

Mr. Ono was still silent. "I may be an idler, but I didn't come racing here in a carriage just to be scorned by you—in any case, it's exactly as Asai said, isn't it?" "What did Asai say?" "Mr. Ono, you're being serious. Listen well. There are times when a person must get serious about once a year. If you keep living only on the surface layer, there's no worth in engaging with you. Even if others did engage with you, it'd still come to nothing. I came here meaning to take you seriously. Understand? Do you grasp this?"

“Yes, I understand,” Mr. Ono answered meekly. “If you understand, then I’ll speak to you as an equal. You seem constantly uneasy—don’t you? You don’t appear the least bit composed.” “That might—be the case,” Mr. Ono confessed helplessly and honestly.

“When you put it so plainly,” said Mr. Munekata, “I’m terribly sorry to say this, but it’s entirely true.” “Yes,” replied Mr. Ono. “Whether others are anxious or fail to remain composed—in this frivolous society that lives only on superficial appearances—it hardly matters.” Mr. Munekata continued bluntly. “There are plenty of people who—far from just others—strut about putting on airs while trembling with anxiety themselves.” His tone shifted slightly. “I might be one of them.” Then with sudden conviction: “No ‘might’ about it—I’m certainly one of them.” It was then that Mr. Ono actively interrupted him for the first time.

“You are enviable. To tell the truth, I think it would be splendid if I could become like you—I’ve been thinking about it constantly. If it comes to that, I must be a boring person.” It didn’t seem like he was trying to be charming. The veneer of civilization had crumbled. From within, his true feelings emerged. It was a despondent voice imbued with sincerity.

“Mr. Ono, are you aware of that?”

There was a certain ambiguity in Mr. Munekata’s words. “I am,” he answered. After a moment, once more, “I am,” he answered. He looked down. Mr. Munekata leaned his face forward. The other man remained looking down, “My character is weak,” he said.

“Why?” “It’s my nature—there’s nothing to be done about it.”

He said this too while looking down. Mr. Munekata brought his face even closer. He raised one knee. He rested his elbow on his knee. He supported his thrust-forward face with his elbow. And then he said.

“You’re more accomplished in academics than I am. Your mind is superior to mine. I respect you. It’s because I respect you that I’ve come to save you.” “To save…” When he looked up, Mr. Munekata’s face was right before his eyes. He pressed closer and said— “At a critical juncture like this, if you don’t reforged your innate nature now, you’ll spend your whole life in unease. No amount of study or scholarly achievement can undo that. This is the moment, Mr. Ono—the time to become serious. Countless people in this world live their entire lives without ever knowing what true seriousness is. Those who exist merely on surface appearances are no different from clay dolls. If one lacks seriousness, that’s one matter—but to possess it yet remain a doll is a tragic waste. Once you turn serious, you’ll find it brings profound satisfaction. Have you ever experienced that?”

Mr. Ono lowered his head.

“If you don’t have it, try becoming it now.” “A chance like this won’t come twice in your life.” “If you let this opportunity slip, it’s over.” “You’ll die without ever knowing the taste of seriousness.” “You’ll wander like a stray dog until death, filled with nothing but anxiety.” “A person becomes more complete the more opportunities they have to be serious.” “You start feeling truly human.” “This isn’t some tall tale.” “You won’t understand until you experience it yourself.” “Look at me—no academic merits, no studying, failing exams, just idling about.” “Yet I’m more composed than you.” “My sister thinks it’s because her nerves are dull.” “Sure, her nerves might be dull—but if she were truly insensitive, she wouldn’t have rushed here by carriage even today.” “Don’t you agree, Mr. Ono?”

Mr. Munekata smiled gently. Mr. Ono did not laugh. “The reason I’m more composed than you isn’t due to academics or study or anything of that sort—it’s because I sometimes get serious. Or rather than saying I become serious, it’d be more accurate to say I can become serious when needed. Nothing brings forth self-confidence like being capable of seriousness. There’s nothing that steadies your stance like being capable of seriousness. There’s nothing that makes you more aware of your spirit’s existence than being capable of seriousness. The awareness that you solemnly stand before heaven and earth—that’s something you only attain through becoming serious. Seriousness means life-and-death commitment. It means decisively settling matters. It means being compelled to resolve things conclusively. It’s about all humanity being driven to act. Clever words or dexterous hands—no matter how much you work them, that’s not true seriousness. Only when you hurl your entire mind into the world without reserve do you finally feel you’ve become serious—that’s when relief comes. To tell the truth, my sister became serious yesterday too. Kōno became serious yesterday too. I was serious yesterday and remain serious today—now it’s your turn to get serious once and for all.”

“When a single person becomes serious, it’s not just that individual who is saved.” “Society is saved—well then, Mr. Ono, don’t you understand what I’m saying?”

“No, I understand.” “It’s seriousness.” “I understand with all seriousness.”

“Then that’s good.” “I am grateful.” “Now then—that Asai fellow isn’t someone who functions properly as a human being, so taking every word he says at face value would be disastrous—but strictly speaking, if Asai were to come here and explain things his way, I’d have to lay out point by point before you exactly what he told me.” “And then, after cross-checking with what you’ve said, it might be proper to judge the facts.” “No matter how slow-witted I am, I know that much.” “But once you become serious, not being so would be a grave problem.” “Contracts existed, slips happened, falls occurred.” “If you get married you can’t become a doctor, if you don’t become a doctor your reputation’s shot—these childish squabbles about which comes first don’t matter one bit, right?”

“Yes, that’s acceptable.”

“In short, what serious measures should be taken?” “That’s where you must act.” “If it’s no bother, let’s consult properly.” “I’ll go mediate if needed.”

Mr. Ono, who had been hanging his head despondently, now straightened his posture. He raised his face and looked directly at Mr. Munekata. His eyes were fixed with an uncharacteristic steadiness.

“The serious course of action is to marry Sayoko as soon as possible. I can’t simply abandon Sayoko and call it settled. I can’t face Kodō Sensei either. I was at fault. It was entirely my mistake to refuse. I can’t make amends even to you.” “You feel remorse toward me? Well, that’s acceptable—it’ll become clear in time.” “It’s entirely my fault.—I shouldn’t have refused. If I hadn’t refused—Asai has already refused on my behalf, hasn’t he?”

“Well, it seems he refused just as you asked.” “However, Mr. Inoue says you should come and refuse in person yourself.”

“Then I’ll go. I’ll go right now to apologize and come back.”

"But you see, I've already sent my father to Mr. Inoue's place." "Your father?" "Yeah, according to Asai, he's apparently furious about everything." "And they say the young lady has been crying terribly." "While I was coming to your place to discuss things, I sent him as both a courtesy visit and a precautionary measure in case something were to happen during our conversation." "Thank you for all your kindness," Mr. Ono said, bowing his head close to the tatami.

“Well, the old man isn’t doing anything important anyway, so he’ll gladly help out if it’s useful.” “Here’s what I arranged—if the negotiations succeed, they’ll send a carriage to fetch the young lady here. When she arrives, you must clearly state before me that she’s your future wife.” “I’ll do it.” “I could go there instead.” “No—we’re summoning her here because there’s another matter to handle.” “Once that’s settled, the three of us will go to Kōno’s.” “Then you’ll make the same declaration again before Miss Fujio.”

Mr. Ono appeared momentarily frozen. Mr. Munekata pressed on immediately. "I could introduce your wife-to-be to Miss Fujio, you know." "Is that truly necessary?" "You do intend to become serious now—so prove it by cleanly cutting ties with Miss Fujio before my eyes." "As evidence, you'll take Miss Sayoko with you." "I could bring her along, but this would force such a public confrontation... If at all possible, shouldn't we handle this more discreetly..."

“I dislike confrontations too, but it can’t be helped if we’re to save Miss Fujio. That sort of temperament can’t be corrected through ordinary means.”

“But…”

“Are you saying this is shameful?” “If you keep mumbling about shame and awkwardness in this situation, that’s still just surface-level seriousness.” “Didn’t you just declare you’d become earnest?” “Seriousness—if I may define it—ultimately comes down to two words: taking action.” “Being serious only in speech means only your mouth grows earnest—not that you’ve truly become serious as a person.” “If you claim to have turned earnest as an individual human being, you must demonstrate concrete proof through deeds—otherwise it means nothing...”

“Then let’s do it. No matter how many people are around—let’s do it.” “Very well.”

“By the way, I might as well confess everything.—The truth is, I have an appointment to go to Ōmori today.” “To Ōmori? With whom?” “That—with the person from earlier.” “With Miss Fujio, I suppose? At what time?” “I’m supposed to meet her at three o’clock at the station, but…” “Three o’clock—I don’t know what time it is now.” A snap sounded from the middle of Mr. Munekata’s waistcoat. “It’s already two o’clock. You probably won’t go anyway.” “I will cancel it.”

“It’s not safe for Miss Fujio to go to Ōmori alone, isn’t it? Once we settle matters here, she’ll come back. Once it’s past three o’clock.” “If I’m even a minute late, there’s no need to wait. She’ll likely return right away.” “Perfect timing—seems it’s starting to rain. Is this meeting still on despite the rain?” “Yes.” “This rain—it shows no sign of stopping—regardless, let’s send a letter to summon Miss Sayoko. Father must be waiting anxiously.”

A heavy rain, unbefitting of spring, fell diagonally. The depths of the sky were immeasurably vast. From those depths, countless streaks streamed down ceaselessly. It was cold enough to make one want a brazier. The letter was composed amidst the pattering sound of rain. When the messenger hurried off, his carriage’s canopy color swayed by the lashing rain, the narrative shifted.

The second carriage that had earlier departed from the Munekata household’s gate was already at Prof. Kodō Sensei’s temporary residence, carrying out its appointed task. Prof. Kodō Sensei had developed a fever and taken to his bed. Sayoko was cooling his temple—which rested against the treasured Gidō hanging scroll—with an ice pack. Crouching by the pillow with eyes red and swollen from weeping, she appeared to be counting the wrinkles gathered at the ice pack’s fastening. She did not lift her face readily. Munekata’s father sat solidly planted about two shaku away from the iron-wire-patterned bedding. The sight of his thick knees protruding from the zabuton cushion to lightly press the tatami formed a dignified contrast to Prof. Kodō Sensei’s face—bloodless and gaunt.

Old man Munekata’s voice remained as loud as ever. Prof. Kodō Sensei’s voice was higher than usual. The dialogue was progressing between these two men. “Due to such circumstances, I have come suddenly, and while I am deeply sorry to intrude upon you in your unwell state, this matter requires urgency, so I beg your understanding.” “Oh no, it is I who must apologize for being in such a discourteous state.” “I should get up and offer my greetings properly, but…” “There’s no need—it’s easier to speak this way, and ultimately suits my convenience.” “Ha ha ha ha.”

"It is truly most kind of you to have taken the trouble to inquire." “Oh, in bygone days we samurai looked out for one another.” “Ha ha ha! Even the likes of me might find myself in your debt someday.” “Still, returning to Tokyo after so long must have brought you considerable hardship.” “It has been twenty years now.” “Twenty years! My word!” “That spans two eras, does it not?” “And your relatives—” “They might as well not exist.” “We’ve had no correspondence for many years.”

“I see. “In that case, Mr. Ono is your sole support, I suppose.” “Well, this has turned into quite an unconscionable affair.” “I made a fool of myself.”

“Well now, things will sort themselves out somehow. “You needn’t trouble yourself with concern.” “I’m not troubled. “I was merely made a fool of—though I’ve already thoroughly explained the karmic circumstances to my daughter.” “Still, it would be regrettable to abandon so decisively what you’ve painstakingly cultivated all this time. Please entrust this matter to us for now. “My son expressed his desire to exert himself fully in this endeavor.”

“Your kindness is truly humbling. “However, since they have refused—my daughter likely has no desire to go—and even if she says she will, I am in no position to allow such a thing…” Sayoko gently lifted the ice pack and carefully wiped the moisture from the forehead with a hand towel.

“Let’s try resting from cooling it awhile.—You needn’t go, Sayoko.”

Sayoko placed the ice pack on the tray. Thrusting both hands onto the tatami mat, she leaned her head over the tray as though to shield it. Tears fell drop by drop onto the ice pack. Prof. Kodō, his salt-and-pepper head resting on the pillow,

“Good,” he said as he twisted his head about halfway back. A single drop could be seen falling onto the ice pack. “Quite right. “Quite right…” Munekata’s father repeated twice in succession. Prof. Kodō’s head returned to its original position. Drying his moistened eyes, he stared fixedly at the old man.

Before long, “However, should Mr. Ono marry a woman like Miss Fujio on that account, it would be most regrettable for your son,” he said. “Oh—that—there is no cause for concern.” “My son has resolved not to take her.” “Likely—no, he will not take her.” “Even were he to take her, I would withhold consent.” “A woman who disdains my son—even should he plead to have her, I would not permit it.”

“Sayoko, Mr. Munekata’s father says the same thing,” said Professor Kodō. “It must hold true.” “I… need not go… It’s perfectly all right,” Sayoko uttered brokenly from behind the pillow, her words barely audible through the pounding rain. “No, that would never do,” countered Munekata’s father. “My rushing here would be for naught then. Given Mr. Ono likely has his own considerations, let us await my son’s report as discussed earlier—I beg your patience in this matter.” He leaned forward, knees pressing into the zabuton cushion. “Though it’s unseemly for a father to praise his own son, I assure you he’s a man of sound judgment who’d never make arrangements to burden you hereafter. Should breaking off the engagement prove advisable, he’ll come urging that course himself.—This being our first meeting, I implore you to trust me.—He ought to arrive with news any moment now, if not for this wretched rain…”

A single carriage braving the rain clattered its wheels and halted before the latticed gate. The moment it rattled open, someone squelched their sodden straw sandals into the entryway.

The narrative now turned to the mission of the third carriage.

While the third carriage, still carrying Itoko, came rumbling up to Kōno’s gate with a clattering noise, Mr. Kōno began tidying his study. He pulled out the desk drawers one by one, tearing up the accumulated correspondence documents and discarding them—tearing and discarding. The floor became covered with torn scraps of paper that piled up only around his knees. Mr. Kōno stood up, trampling the scattered wastepaper underfoot. This time he took out one sheet, then two sheets of meticulously handwritten copies from the drawer. Among them were some bound together into five or six pages. Most were Western-style paper. They were also written in Western script. Mr. Kōno glanced at them and immediately stacked them on the desk. Some he set back without reading even half a line. Before long, the pile had reached nearly one shaku in height [about thirty centimeters]. The drawers were mostly emptied. Mr. Kōno gripped the pile top and bottom, carried the entire mass over to the brazier, then wordlessly threw it all in. The stacked papers collapsed in unison as soon as they left the protagonist’s hands.

A bronze ashtray cast with grape leaves sat on the Western-style desk. On the ashtray lay matches. Mr. Kōno reached out and took the matchbox. As he grasped it and shook it sideways, five or six matches rattled with a hollow sound. He returned to the desk. He picked up the yellow-bound diary that lay beside Leopardi’s works and carried it back to the brazier. Pressing his thumb against the edge, he flicked through the pages like falling rain—black ink stamps and gray pencil marks fluttering up to halt at the yellow cover. He couldn’t grasp what he’d written there. He’d scrawled it last night before bed,

A tonsured guest of silence. A monk with hair, having renounced the world.

He only remembered that this couplet was the final verse on the last page. Mr. Kōno resolutely placed the diary atop the scattered papers. He crouched down. A swishing sound came from in front of the brazier. The scattered papers, in the stillness, stretched languidly as they were warmed from below. Acrid smoke crept up through the gaps between the papers and emerged. Then the papers began to stir from below. “Hmm, there was still more to write.” Mr. Kōno rescued the diary from the smoke while raising his knees. The paper turned brown. With a whooshing sound, the inside of the brazier burst into a sheet of flame.

“Oh, what’s going on here?” Mother stood in the doorway staring suspiciously into the brazier. Mr. Kōno turned his body sideways at the voice. He faced Mother, the edge of his sleeve catching the fire.

“It’s cold, so I’m warming the room,” he said and looked down into the brazier from above. The fire burned with a pale golden syrup hue. Indigo and purple hues mingled intermittently, as if recollecting themselves, then rose up behind the chimney. “Oh, do warm yourself properly.” Just then, four or five streaks of rain, lured by the wind, struck the windowpane and shattered. “It’s started raining.”

Without replying, Mother advanced three paces into the room. She peered at Kōno as if trying to see through him,

“If you’re cold, shall I have coal burned?” The fiercely blazing flames vanished in an instant after the swaying purple tongues leapt upward. The inside of the brazier turned pitch black. “I’ve had enough. It’s already out.” Having finished speaking, Kōno turned his back to the brazier. At that moment, his deceased father’s eye glinted down from the wall. The rain poured down. “Oh my, these letters are scattered everywhere—don’t you need any of them?”

Kōno gazed at the floor. The torn-up documents were in perfect disarray. Some had two or three lines, some five or six; in the most extreme cases, only half a line remained torn off. "I don't need any of them." "In that case, let's tidy up a bit. Where is the wastebasket?"

Kōno did not answer. Mother peered under the desk. A Western-style basket wastebasket was dimly visible beyond the footrest. Mother bent down and stretched out her hand. The dark satin obi caught the full light streaming through the window. Kōno stretched his arm straight to the right and gripped the top of the sunshade-covered chair’s back. He tilted his gaunt shoulder and dragged it along to the desk. Mother pulled out the wastebasket from the depths of the desk. She picked up the letter fragments one by one from the floor and placed them into the basket. She carefully straightened and examined a twisted fragment. She threw in a fragment that read, “I shall pay my respects in person at a later date…”. “…I humbly beg your pardon. She threw in a fragment that read, "At the earliest opportunity when circumstances permit your..." She turned over a fragment that read, “...is utterly beyond my endurance...” and examined it.

Kōno glared sidelong at Mother. He gripped the back of the chair he had pulled to the corner of the desk with all his strength. The dark blue tabi socks fluttered lightly into alignment atop the white sunshade. The aligned dark blue tabi socks immediately leapt up onto the desk. "Oh, what are you doing?" Mother asked, still holding the letter fragments as she looked up from below. Between their eyes, the color of fear was clearly discernible. "I'll take down the framed portrait," he said calmly from above. "The framed portrait?"

Fear turned to shock. Kōno placed his right hand on the gilded frame.

“Just a moment.”

“What is it?” His right hand remained on the frame. “What do you mean by taking down the portrait?” “I’m taking it with me.” “Where?” “Since I’m leaving this house, I’ll take only the portrait.”

“Leaving? Well… Even if you must leave, wouldn’t it be better to do so more gradually?” “Is that wrong?”

“There’s nothing wrong with it. You can take it if you want, though. There’s really no need to rush like that.” “But if I don’t remove it now, I won’t have time.”

Mother stood in a daze with a strange look on her face. Kōno placed both hands on the framed portrait. “You say you’re leaving—are you truly serious about going?” “I am leaving.”

Kōno answered over his shoulder. “When?”

“I am leaving now.” Kōno lifted the framed portrait once with both hands, removed it from its hook, and lowered it down. The framed portrait hung from the wall by a single thin thread. Were he to let go, the thread would likely snap and send it falling. He kept holding it reverently with both hands. Mother spoke from below. “In this downpour.” “I don’t mind the rain.” “At least go bid Fujio farewell before you leave.” “Fujio isn’t here.” “That’s precisely why I’m telling you to wait.” “Disappearing so abruptly out of nowhere—isn’t that just causing trouble for me?”

“I don’t intend to cause trouble.” “Even if you don’t mean to cause trouble, society exists.” “If you must leave, then leave properly—or I’ll be disgraced.” “Society…” he began, holding the portrait while turning only his head—the instant Kōno’s narrow eyes fixed upon his mother. Having withdrawn from her and reached the doorway, he suddenly halted. Mother turned around with unease. “Oh!”

As though descended from heaven, Itoko, who had been standing quietly, slowly lowered her head. As her dignifiedly styled sidelocks settled into place, Itoko moved to beside the desk. When both white tabi socks were aligned, “I have come to fetch you,” she said, looking up directly at Kōno. “Please pass me the scissors,” Kōno requested from above. He motioned with his chin—the scissors lay beside Leopardi. With a crisp snap, the framed portrait separated from the wall. The scissors clattered onto the floorboards. Kōno, cradling the framed portrait reverently in both hands, turned squarely to face forward at the desk.

"My brother instructed me to bring Mr. Kōno, so I have come." Holding the framed portrait reverently, Kōno shifted it downward from the corner of his eye with deliberate slowness. “Please take this.” Itoko received it firmly. Kōno jumped down from the desk.

“Let’s go. Did you come by carriage?” “Yes.” “Will this framed portrait fit?”

“It will fit.” “Then,” he said, taking the framed portrait again and moving toward the doorway. Itoko followed. Mother called out to stop them. “Wait a moment—Miss Itoko, you wait too, please. I don’t know what could possibly displease you enough to leave your parents’ home, but if you won’t even try to consider my position a little, how can I maintain any dignity before society?”

“I don’t care about society.” “Saying such unreasonable things—acting like an innocent child.” “If being a child is acceptable, then so be it. If I can become a child, that’s perfectly fine.” “There you go again. After all the effort it took to grow from a child into an adult? The care I’ve poured into raising you wasn’t some half-hearted effort done once or twice. At least try to think about it a little.” “Because I’ve thought about it, I’m leaving.” “Why must you insist on such unreasonable demands?—All of this stems from my own shortcomings, so there’s no use in crying or pleading now—though I—to your departed Father—”

“Father won’t mind.” “He won’t say a thing about it.” “Even if he doesn’t say anything—there’s no need to cling to stubbornness and torment me like this.”

Mr. Kōno remained holding the framed portrait and stopped responding altogether. Itoko stayed quietly beside him. The rain swirled around the room, blowing in from all sides. The wind gathered its roar from afar. With a roaring, high-pitched reverberation came a sound. It was also a broad reverberation. Within the reverberation, Mr. Kōno stood in silence. Itoko also stood in silence.

“Do you understand a little now?” Mother asked. Mr. Kōno remained silent as ever.

“Even after saying this much, do you still not understand?” Mr. Kōno still did not open his mouth. “Miss Itoko, given this deplorable state of affairs, when you return home, please tell your father and brother exactly what you have witnessed here. Truly, having you all see such circumstances here leaves me utterly without dignity to maintain.” “Aunt. Since Mr. Kōno wishes to leave, you should graciously let him go without objection. I think forcing him to stay won’t achieve anything.”

“If even you say that, there’s nothing more to be done.—Though it may be rude to say, given your youth, such superficial thoughts are only natural.” “—No matter how much he wants to leave, we’re not people living alone in a mountain cottage. If he suddenly decides to depart this very moment, those who remain will face greater inconvenience than the one leaving.” “Why?” “Because people’s gossip is relentless, isn’t it?”

“No matter what people say—why is that wrong?” “But it’s precisely because we can present ourselves properly in society that we’ve been able to live this way until now, isn’t it? Social propriety matters more than personal feelings.” “But he insists he wants to leave so desperately. Doesn’t it seem pitiful?”

“That’s precisely where duty lies.” “So that’s what you call duty. How trivial.” “It’s not trivial at all, you know.”

“But Kōno doesn’t care what happens—” “He doesn’t care at all. That’s still for Kōno’s sake.” “Isn’t this more for your own sake than Kōno’s?” “It’s duty to society.”

"I don't understand—if someone wants to leave, they'll leave regardless of what society says. That shouldn't inconvenience you, Aunt." "But with this rain falling..." "Even if it rains, since you won't get wet yourself, Aunt, why should it matter?"

It was a time when there were no trains. The mountain man and the sea man quarreled. The mountain man said that fish were salty. The sea man retorted that there was no salt in fish. The quarrel showed no signs of subsiding no matter how much time passed. Unless the train called education was established and the means to freely ascend and descend the steps of reason were created, people could not understand each other's thoughts. There were times when, having become too pickled in vulgar society, unless one was the sort of person who would grow dizzy merely from looking, one could not pass as human. Even if you explained that these were lies and falsehoods, they would not readily accept it. They insisted on their salt-pickled tastes to the very end. The exchanges between the mysterious woman and Itoko only ran parallel to each other no matter how far they went, never converging at a single point. Just as the mountain man and the sea man held fundamentally different notions about fish, so too did the mysterious woman and Itoko differ in their views on human beings from the very outset.

Mr. Kōno, who understood both sea and mountain, silently looked down at the two. What Itoko said was so simple it defended nothing. The mother’s arguments were so foolish and vulgar they exhausted all patience. With this debate unfolding before him, Mr. Kōno stood holding his grandfather’s scroll. He showed no particular signs of boredom. He showed no traces of anxiety. Nor did he show any air of being troubled. Were their debate to continue until dusk, one might imagine he would keep standing there holding the scroll in the same posture until nightfall.

Just then, a shout rang out through the rain. A carriage stopped at the entrance. Footsteps approached from the entrance. First to appear was Mr. Munekata.

“Hey, not leaving yet?” Mr. Munekata asked Mr. Kōno. “Nope,” was all he replied.

“Aunt, you’re here too—perfect timing,” he said, taking a seat. From behind, Mr. Ono entered. Sayoko followed behind Mr. Ono without straying even an inch from his shadow.

"Aunt, we've quite a gathering despite the rain—Miss Sayoko, this is my sister." The active one combined both greeting and introduction in a single utterance. Mr. Munekata was busy.

Mr. Kōno remained standing, still supporting the scroll. Mr. Ono also stood idly without taking a seat. Sayoko and Itoko bowed with excessive politeness. There was naturally no opportunity for casual conversation. "Despite the rain, my, what a..." Mother scattered all this charm about her.

“It’s really coming down, isn’t it,” Mr. Munekata promptly replied. “Mr. Ono…” Mother began to say when Mr. Munekata interrupted again. “Mr. Ono apparently had plans to go to Omori with Miss Fujio today.” “But he couldn’t go…” “Yes—but Fujio left a while ago.” “Hasn’t she returned yet?” Mr. Munekata asked calmly. Mother’s face showed a hint of displeasure.

“Why, Omori isn’t even the issue,” she muttered as if to herself, then turned slightly and

“Why don’t you all sit down? You’ll get tired standing. Miss Fujio should be back soon,” he advised. “Please, have a seat,” Mother said. “Mr. Ono, take a seat. Miss Sayoko, why don’t you… Mr. Kōno, what’s that…” “I’ve removed Father’s portrait.” “...and said something about taking it with me.” “Mr. Kōno, wait a moment. Miss Fujio will be back soon.”

Mr. Kōno did not particularly respond.

“Let me hold it for a while,” Itoko said in a low voice. “Hmm…” Mr. Kōno lowered the scroll he had been holding onto the floor and propped it against the wall. Sayoko, while bowing her head, quietly glanced toward the scroll. “Do you have some business with Fujio?” This was Mother’s remark. “Yes, I do.” This was Munekata’s answer. After that—the rain fell. No one said anything. At this moment, a carriage bearing Cleopatra’s wrath raced from Shimbashi like Idaten.

Mr. Munekata snapped against his waistcoat.

“Three twenty.”

There was no response from anyone. The carriage came racing through a thousand streaks of rain that rebounded off its black canopy. Cleopatra’s wrath leaped upon the futon. “Aunt, shall we talk about Kyoto or something?” Urging to overtake the falling rain before it could strike earth, the mounting wrath whipped the carriage driver’s back and drove him onward. Cutting through crosswise-blowing winds head-on and twisting against their teeth, the gravel spread across Kōno’s gate broke into two long lines stretching to the entrance.

Gathering wrath in a deep purple silk cord that trembled sharply beneath the carriage canopy, Cleopatra suddenly leapt up to the entrance. "Three twenty-five." Before Mr. Munekata could finish speaking, the incarnation of wrath—like a humiliated queen—stood defiantly at the study's center. The eyes of all six gathered on the purple silk cord. "Ah, welcome back," said Mr. Munekata around his cigarette. Fujio disdained to return even a word of greeting. She arched her tall back rigidly and swept her gaze across the room. The surveying eyes finally reached Mr. Ono and stabbed into him. Sayoko hid behind the suit's shoulder. Mr. Munekata jerked upright. He flung his half-smoked cigarette into the blue grape ashtray.

“Miss Fujio. Mr. Ono didn’t go to Shimbashi.” “I have no business with you.—Mr. Ono. Why didn’t you come?” “Going would have made matters irreparable.” Mr. Ono’s enunciation was uncharacteristically clear. Lightning fluttered from Cleopatra’s eyes. “What Inoko Sai nonsense!” She glared at Mr. Ono’s forehead. “If you break promises, explanations are required.” “Mr. Ono stopped because keeping it would cause disaster,” said Mr. Munekata.

“Be quiet,” she said to Mr. Munekata before turning to Mr. Ono. “Why didn’t you come?” Mr. Munekata took two or three large strides forward. “I’ll introduce them,” he declared, pushing Mr. Ono aside with one step. From behind him emerged petite Sayoko. “Miss Fujio, this is Mr. Ono’s wife.” Fujio’s expression first contorted with abrupt hatred. This hatred gradually mutated into jealousy. At the precise moment when jealousy carved its deepest mark, her features petrified completely. “She’s not his wife yet,” Mr. Munekata continued. “Not yet—but she’ll inevitably become his wife.” “The promise dates back five years, I’m told.”

Sayoko kept her tear-swollen eyes lowered as she bowed her slender neck. Fujio clenched her white fist and did not move. “It’s a lie. “It’s a lie. It’s a lie,” she said twice. “Mr. Ono is my husband. "He is my future husband. “What are you saying? “How rude,” she said.

“I’m simply conveying facts out of goodwill,” said Mr. Munekata. “I thought I’d take this chance to introduce Miss Sayoko too.” “You mean to insult me,” Fujio retorted. Behind her petrified expression, blood vessels suddenly ruptured. Purple blood flooded her face with renewed fury. “It’s out of goodwill,” Mr. Munekata repeated calmly. “Out of goodwill. Don’t misunderstand.” He maintained his composure—while Mr. Ono finally began to speak.

“Everything Mr. Munekata has said is entirely true. “This is undoubtedly my future wife. “Miss Fujio—until today, I have been an utterly frivolous person. “I must apologize to you. “I must apologize to Sayoko. “I must apologize to Mr. Munekata. “Starting today, I will reform. “I will become a serious person. “Please forgive me. “If I had gone to Shimbashi, it would have been detrimental to both you and me. “That is why I did not go. “Please forgive me.”

Fujio’s expression transformed for the third time. The blood from ruptured vessels was absorbed into pallid whiteness, leaving only contempt’s hue deeply etched. The mask’s form suddenly crumbled. “Oh ho ho ho!” The hysterical laughter pierced through the window’s rain and erupted violently upward. Simultaneously, as she thrust her clenched fist deep into the thick panel, she drew out a long, slick chain. The crimson tail took on an eerie glow, swaying left and right. “Then this is useless to you now, isn’t it? Very well—Mr. Munekata, I’ll give this to you. Here.”

A white hand bared its arm and sleekly extended. The watch landed firmly in Mr. Munekata's burnt-umber palm. Mr. Munekata took a large step toward the hearth. With a final shout, a burnt-umber fist burst into the air. The watch shattered against the marble corner.

“Miss Fujio, I didn’t stir up this drunken spectacle because I wanted the watch. Mr. Ono, I didn’t stage this mischief because I wanted a woman pledged to another. By breaking it like this, you should grasp my true intent. This too forms part of upholding life’s prime principle—don’t you agree, Mr. Kōno?”

“That’s right.”

Fujio stood dazed; the muscles of her face suddenly went slack. The hands stiffened. The legs stiffened. Like a stone statue that had lost its center of gravity, she kicked back the chair and collapsed onto the floor.

Nineteen

Breaking through the dense clouds' underside, the rain that had tilted the sky for nearly a full day fell until it seeped into the earth's core and ceased. Spring ends here. The plum blossoms, the cherry blossoms, the peach blossoms, the Japanese plums—scattering and scattering—even the remaining crimson petals scattered away like a dream. All that spring boasts of perish. Our woman drank deep of vanity’s poison and perished. The wind, having lost its companion in the flowers, began to idly waft fragrance into the room of the departed.

Fujio lay with her head pillowed to the north. The lightly draped yuzen-dyed nightgown bore a single-spoked wheel pattern dyed in unworldly fashion. Above it, ivy half-tinted with color crawled densely across the surface. It was a desolate pattern. There was no sign of movement. The futon appeared layered with two thicknesses of Gunma silk. Beneath the smoothly spread futon cover where not even dust could rise, coarse lattices of yellow and dark brown showed through one by one. The black hair alone remained unchanged. The purple silk cord had been removed and discarded. What remained had been left disheveled upon the pillow. The mother, believing this day marked the end of the transient world, seemed not to have run a comb through it. The tangled hair spilled across the pure white futon cover, cascading down to the velvet collar of the nightgown. Within this cascade lay an upturned face. The flesh retained yesterday's form, only its hue altered. Her eyebrows kept their former thickness. Her eyes had been closed earlier by her mother. Until sleep took her, Mother had meticulously stroked the hair. Nothing could be seen but her face.

On the futon lay a watch. The deeply engraved bead pattern had been mercilessly crushed. Only the chain remained intact. Coiling round and round the edges of both covers, in the center where the golden light bent every five minutes, a pomegranate bead sat like the crushed lid's eye. What stood reversed was a two-panel silver folding screen. Within the six-foot square space steeped in the moon's glacial radiance, verdigris pigment had been lavishly applied to render pliant stems in wild disarray. Irregularly layered sawtooth-edged leaves were depicted. At the stem tips where the verdigris ended, thin petals appeared in sizes resembling palms. The stems were drawn with such lightness they seemed ready to flutter down at a touch. Crinkled Yoshino paper had been rendered with multiple folded layers compressed like shibori patterns. They were colored red. They were colored purple. Everything grew from within silver. Everything bloomed within silver. They were depicted so that even their falling seemed to happen within silver.—The flowers were poppies. The seal was that of Hōitsu.

In the shadow of the folding screen stood a small marquetry desk worn smooth with use. The Takaoka lacquer maki-e writing box had been moved to the staggered shelf alongside the books. On the desk sat an earthenware vessel filled with oil, its single wick burning as a lamp despite the daylight. The wick was new. Exceeding the vessel's height by three sun, its tip extended white and slender beyond the rim without absorbing oil. There was also a white porcelain incense burner. An incense bag protruded its pallid red hue from the desk's corner. Five or six sticks stood in the ashes, disappearing into smoke from a single crimson point. Incense resembles the Buddha. Its color flows indigo. Thickly rising from the base, it swayed right then left. With each sway its breadth widened. As it widened, its hue grew faint. Within the fading band flowed a dark streak that gently dissipated until both expanse and streak vanished without trace. At times the spent ash would clatter down, still stick-shaped.

The Takaoka lacquer of the staggered shelf raised ancient tree trunks in blue relief against its deep azuki bean ground, crafting several cold-red plum blossoms in simulated mother-of-pearl inlay. The reverse side featured a black ground with a single nightingale in flight. Within the high-relief maki-e of reeds and wild geese that stood side by side, until yesterday, pomegranate beads that cast a deep light into the dark depths had been stored. A gold-rimmed pocket watch adorned with a tightly packed bead pattern on both lids was stored there. On the high-relief maki-e was placed a scroll of a book. Only the edges of the gilt, cleanly trimmed with gold at all four corners, remained vividly visible. A long purple bookmark tassel hung down from within. On the seventh line from the top of the page where the bookmark was inserted lay the verse: "Such is the end of she who reigned over Egypt's glorious age—truly fitting." Thin lines were drawn in colored pencil.

Everything was beautiful. The face of one lying among beautiful things was also beautiful. Those arrogant eyes had long been closed. Fujio's eyebrows - her forehead - her black hair - all these features beneath now-closed eyes of former arrogance - were beautiful as a celestial maiden's.

“I wonder if the incense hasn’t burned out,” Mother said as she started to rise from the adjoining room.

“I’ve just lit some,” said Kōno. He sat with his knees properly aligned and his hands folded. “Please light some incense too, Mr. Ichi.” “I’ve also just lit some now.”

The scent of incense wafted over from Fujio’s room as though suddenly remembered. The completely burned ashes, still in stick form, were falling into the incense burner with soft clatters. The silver folding screen was suffused with fragrance unawares.

“Is Mr. Ono still not here?” Mother said. “He should be here soon.” “I’ve just sent someone to call him,” said Kōno.

The room was deliberately shut tight. Only the partition’s sliding door remained open. Just the hem of the yūzen fabric with its one-wheeled cart pattern could be seen. Everything else lay hidden behind bashōfu-patterned karakami paper. The black border demarcating the netherworld stretched straight from lintel to threshold in a one-sun-wide band. Seated on this side of the screen, Mother would periodically crane her neck and arch her back as if peering into invisible depths. A chilled countenance troubled her more than cold feet. With each furtive glance, the black frame cleanly bisected the yūzen-patterned nightrobe at a diagonal. Had one traced it faithfully, the scene would have composed itself into a complete patterned painting.

“Auntie, this has become a dreadful situation, and I deeply sympathize, but there’s no helping it. You must resign yourself.” “To think it would come to this…” “Crying now won’t change anything. It’s karma.” “It’s karma.”

“I’ve done something truly regrettable,” she said, wiping her eyes.

“If you cry too much, it won’t help the memorial service. What matters now is handling what comes after. Since things have come to this, there’s no choice but to have Mr. Kōno stay. If you don’t steel yourself to do this, you’ll only bring trouble upon yourself.”

Mother burst into loud sobs. Tears reflecting on the past were easy to suppress. Tears that came when one suddenly became aware of their future fate arrived paroxysmally. “What should I do—when I think of that—Mr.Ichi.” Fragmented words emerged between tears and sniffles.

"Auntie—if I may say so—your usual way of thinking was somewhat flawed." "Due to my negligence... Fujio ended up like this... Kōno will abandon me..." "So you see—crying like this won't do any good..." "...I have no face left to show."

“So she’ll have to rethink things from now on.” “Right, Mr. Kōno? That should settle it.” “It’s all my fault, isn’t it?” Mother said, turning to Kōno for the first time. The man who had been crossing his arms finally opened his mouth.— “You don’t need to distinguish between a fake child and a real one.” “Just keep things plain and straightforward.” “You don’t need to hold back at all.” “You don’t need to overcomplicate trivial matters.”

Mr. Kōno ended his sentence. Mother looked down and did not answer. Perhaps she didn’t understand—or so one might think.

Mr. Kōno opened his mouth once more.— “You wanted to give Fujio both the house and the property, didn’t you? Even though I’ve been saying I’ll do it, your persistent distrust and refusal to believe me are what’s wrong. You didn’t find my presence in the house agreeable, did you? So when I say I’ll leave the house, it’s wrong for you to think it’s out of spite or some other malicious reason. You wanted to make Mr. Ono Fujio’s adopted son, didn’t you? You thought I would object, so you sent me off to Kyoto for leisure, and in my absence, Mr. Ono and Fujio’s relationship deepened day by day. Such schemes are what’s wrong. Even if you sent me to Kyoto for leisure, you would tell me—and others—that it was to cure my illness. It’s those lies that are wrong.—If you would just reconsider such things, there would be no need for me to leave the house. I can take care of you indefinitely.”

Mr. Kōno stopped at just this. Mother remained facing downward, thought for a while, but finally answered in a low voice.— “When you put it that way, I was entirely in the wrong.—From now on, I intend to listen to all of your opinions and correct any and all faults I have…”

“That’s acceptable, right, Mr. Kōno? She’s your mother too. You should stay home and take care of her. I’ll make sure to explain things properly to Itoko too.”

“Yeah,” Mr. Kōno merely answered.

When the incense in the next room was about to die out, Mr. Ono came pressing his pale forehead. Indigo smoke once again grazed the silver-patterned screen and billowed upward.

Two days later, the funeral was over.

On the night the funeral was over, Mr. Kōno wrote in his diary. ――

“Tragedy has finally come. The impending tragedy had been anticipated long ago. To let the foreseen tragedy follow its natural course without lifting a finger to intervene comes from knowing the futility of a single hand against the deeds of those steeped in karma. It comes from recognizing tragedy’s greatness. It is to make them taste tragedy’s immense force and thereby cleanse karma spanning three lifetimes from their very roots. This is not born of unkindness. If one raises a hand, one loses a hand; if one disturbs an eye, one loses an eye. Though hands and eyes be harmed, others’ karma remains unchanged. Nay—it grows deeper with each passing moment. To fold hands in sleeves and shut eyes is not done out of fear. It is but the subtle intent to humbly receive nature’s judgment—greater than hands or eyes—and through a spark’s fleeting touch, guide one to meet their original face.

Tragedy is greater than comedy. There are those who explain this by saying death is great because it seals all obstacles. To claim greatness lies in falling into an irreversible fate from which one cannot emerge is akin to saying flowing water is great because it departs never to return. Fate does not become great merely because it announces the final conclusion. It is great because it abruptly transforms life into death. It is great because it points out forgotten death in an unguarded moment. It is great because those who trifle suddenly straighten their collars. It is great because it makes them straighten their collars and feel the necessity of morality as if anew. It is great because it establishes in the mind the proposition that life’s primary principle lies in morality. The operation of morality is great because it does not stagnate except when encountering tragedy. The practice of morality is what we find most difficult, despite ardently wishing others to uphold it. Tragedy is great because it compels individuals to dare undertake this practice. The practice of morality brings the greatest convenience to others and the greatest disadvantage to oneself. Tragedy is great because when people direct their efforts there, they promote the general happiness and guide society to true civilization.

Problems are countless. Millet or rice—this is comedy. Industry or commerce—this too is comedy. That woman or this woman—this too is comedy. Tapestry or damask—this too is comedy. English or German—this too is comedy. Everything is comedy. Finally, one problem remains.—Life or death. This is tragedy.

Ten years is three thousand six hundred days. The problems that ordinary people exert their minds and bodies over from morning till night are all comedy. Those who perform comedy through three thousand six hundred days ultimately forget tragedy. Tormented by the question of how to interpret life, they lose sight of death altogether. Because they are so occupied with choosing between this life and that life, they neglect the greatest problem of life and death. Those who forget death become extravagant. A single buoyancy still occurs within life. A single sinking still occurs within life. Because every gesture and movement exists entirely within life, no matter how one dances, raves, or trifles, there is no fear of ever stepping beyond the bounds of life. Extravagance escalates into audacity. Audacity tramples morality and runs rampant with complete freedom.

All people set out from the great problem of life and death. They say that by solving this problem, one discards death. They say they prefer life. Therein did all people advance toward life. In their unanimous agreement to discard death, they tacitly covenanted to uphold morality as the essential condition for its rejection. Yet as people daily advanced toward life—daily turned their backs on death and grew more distant—daily reveled in unfettered freedom with unshaken confidence that life's bounds could never be breached—morality became unnecessary.

All people who do not prioritize morality take delight in performing every kind of comedy by sacrificing morality. They trifle. They make a fuss. They deceive. They mock. They ridicule. They trample. They kick. —all these are pleasures that all people receive from comedy. Because this pleasure diversifies and develops as one advances toward life—because this pleasure can only be enjoyed by sacrificing morality—the progress of comedy knows no bounds, while the concept of morality declines with each passing day.

When the concept of morality had declined to its extreme and a society of all people desiring life could scarcely be maintained satisfactorily, tragedy suddenly arose. There, the eyes of all people turned toward their own starting point. For the first time, they came to know that death dwelled next to life. When they danced and reveled recklessly, they came to know that it made people stumble beyond life’s boundary and enter death’s realm. They came to know that death—the thing others and themselves detested most—was ultimately an eternal pitfall that must never be forgotten. They came to know that the decaying rope of morality surrounding the pitfall must not be recklessly leaped over. They came to know that the rope must be newly stretched. They came to know the meaninglessness of all endeavors of secondary importance. And thus, for the first time, they came to realize the greatness of tragedy.…

Two months later, Mr. Kōno excerpted this passage and sent it to Mr. Munekata in London. Mr. Munekata’s reply contained the following. —

“Here, comedy is all the rage.”