Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“It’s quite far, isn’t it? Where exactly are we supposed to start climbing from originally?”

And 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.”

A man with a square face and square build answered casually.

From beneath the upturned brim of a russet-colored fedora, deep eyebrows shifted as he looked upward - above his gazing head stretched a faint spring sky suffused with indigo to its very depths, within whose softness one might doubt whether a breath could stir it, yet there Mount Hiei stood immovable amidst this tenderness, towering as if demanding "What will you do about it?"

“What a terribly stubborn mountain,” he said, thrusting out his square chest as he leaned slightly against his cherrywood staff.

“Since it’s right there in plain sight, how hard could it be?” he said, this time scorning Mount Hiei. “You keep saying it’s right there in plain sight—it’s been visible since we left the inn this morning. If you came all the way to Kyoto and couldn’t see Mount Hiei, that’d be a real problem.” “So it’s visible—what’s the issue? If you’d stop the idle talk and just keep walking, you’d naturally reach the mountain top.”

The slender man, without replying, took off his hat and began fanning around his chest. Shielded daily by his hat's deep brim, the broad forehead untouched by spring's fierce sun that dyes the rapeseed flowers stood out starkly pale.

“Hey, if we rest now it’ll be trouble. Come on, let’s hurry.” The other man exposed his sweaty forehead freely to the spring breeze, then gripped his handkerchief in one hand as if resenting how his clinging black locks refused to fly backward, and proceeded to scrub vigorously—not just his forehead or face, but all the way down to where his neck met his collarbone. He showed no sign of heeding the urging, “You called that mountain stubborn, didn’t you?” he asked.

“Well, isn’t this precisely the arrangement implied by ‘if it would but move’?” he said, squaring his already blocky shoulders further while shaping his free hand into a spiral akin to a turban shell’s whorl, adopting a stance that suggested even he might budge if compelled.

"When one says 'if it would but move,' that refers to something capable of movement yet choosing not to, I presume," Kōno gazed obliquely at the other man from the corners of his narrow eyes. "That’s right."

“Can that mountain move?” “Ah ha ha ha! Here we go again. “You were born to spout nonsense.” “Alright, let’s go!” he declared, swinging his thick cherrywood cane up to shoulder height with a whoosh that nearly whistled before starting to walk. The slender man likewise tucked his handkerchief into his sleeve and began walking. “It would’ve been better to spend the day at Heihachi Teahouse by the foothills. “Starting now would only leave us halfway up.” “How many ri is it to the summit anyway?”

“It’s one and a half ri to the summit.”

“From where?” “How should I know? It’s just another Kyoto mountain.”

The slender man said nothing and smirked silently.

The square-built man continued to chatter energetically. "When traveling with a man like you who only makes plans and never acts on them, you end up missing everything there is to see. It's me who's really inconvenienced here!" "Even if you go charging off recklessly like this, it's nothing but trouble for your companion. First of all, while you drag someone along, you haven't the faintest idea where to start climbing, what sights to take in, or where to descend from!"

“Nonsense! Why bother planning for such a trifle? It’s just that mountain over there.” “That mountain might be acceptable, but do you know how many thousand shaku high it is?” “Do I look like I know?” “Such trivial nonsense.” “...You know?” “I don’t know either.” “There, see?” “There’s no need to act so high and mighty.” “Because even you don’t know.” “Even if we remain mutually ignorant of the mountain’s height, unless we at least roughly determine what there is to see up there and how many hours it will take, the schedule won’t proceed as planned.”

“If it doesn’t proceed, we’ll just redo it.” “As long as you’re overthinking things like this, you can start over as many times as you like!” he continued briskly onward. The slender man fell silent and ended up lagging behind.

Spring pierced horizontally through Kyoto’s streets—from Shichijō to Ichijō—where verses took form effortlessly; past hazy willows, it counted exhaustively the white cloths beaten by warm waters upon Takano River’s gravel banks. Having wound northward along the long, undulating road for over two ri, the travelers found mountain slopes crowding in from both sides, while beneath their feet, murmuring streams resounded—now here, now there—with every twist and turn of the path.

Though spring had deepened upon entering the mountains, one reasoned that upon conquering their heights, lingering snow would chill what remained of the season; along a single path stitching through the hem of looming peaks and racing through shadowed hollows, an Ōhara woman came clawing her way up from below. A cow came. Kyoto’s spring is as long and tranquil as the ceaseless flow of a cow’s urine.

"The lagging man came to a halt and called out to his friend ahead."

The voice calling “Hey,” borne along the white-gleaming road by spring breezes, meandered lazily until striking against the mountain that walled the pampas-choked dead end—at that instant, the square shadow that had been advancing one chō ahead halted abruptly. The slender man stretched his lengthy arm above shoulder height and gave two deliberate waves. Scarcely had the cherrywood cane—catching the sun’s warmth—flashed anew at his shoulder’s tip before he came striding back. “What is it?” “Don’t ‘what’ me. We’re climbing from here.”

“We’re climbing from here? This feels odd. Crossing this crude log bridge is downright strange.” “If you keep wandering aimlessly like this, you’ll end up in Wakasa Province.”

“Even if we end up in Wakasa Province, that’s fine—but do you actually know the geography here?” “I just asked the Ōhara woman.” “Cross this bridge, go up that narrow path for one ri, and we’ll come out.” “And where exactly do we ‘come out’?” “To the top of Mount Hiei.”

“Where on Mount Hiei will we emerge, I wonder?” “I don’t know about that. You won’t know unless we climb up and see.” “Ha ha ha! Even a planner like you didn’t think to ask that far ahead, I see. A rare oversight in your meticulous scheming? Well then, I’ll obey your command and cross. We’re finally starting the climb. How about it—can you manage?” “Even if I can’t manage, there’s nothing to be done.” “I see—you truly are a philosopher through and through. Though if things were just a bit clearer, you’d make a proper philosopher.”

“Whatever—just go ahead.” “You planning to follow?” “Go already.” “If you mean to trail behind, I’ll lead on.”

The two shadows that crossed one after another over a precarious single-log bridge spanning the mountain stream vanished into a narrow path—clinging to the summit through a tenuous thread of effort—amidst the dense grasses of the grassy mountain.

The grass, having stubbornly carried over last year’s frost, stood withered in form, yet under sunlight that pierced straight down through thinly dissolved clouds, it grew so warm that one’s cheeks burned.

“Hey, you—Mr. Kōno,” he called over his shoulder. Mr. Kōno, his slender frame suited to the narrow mountain path, stood perfectly upright and looked downward.

“Yeah,” he answered. “You’re about to give up, aren’t you? Weakling.” He swung his cherrywood staff from left to right in a single arc. “Look down there.” At the farthest reach of his swung staff’s tip, the Takano River flashed silver—a thread of light piercing the eye. To either side, rapeseed flowers bloomed so thickly they threatened to combust, their smeared brilliance framing distant lavender mountains that dissolved into haze.

“Indeed, a splendid view,” said Mr. Kōno, twisting his characteristic tall frame around as he stood precariously on a sixty-degree slope without slipping off.

“When did we climb so high?” “That was quick,” said Mr. Munegaki.

Mr. Munegaki was the name of a squarely built man.

“It must be similar to how one might fall into depravity without realizing it or attain enlightenment without noticing.”

“It’s the same as day turning to night, spring becoming summer, or youth aging into old age, I suppose.” “In that case, I’ve known it for ages.” “Ha ha ha ha! So how old were you again?” “What’s your age next to mine?”

“I know that.” “I know that too.”

“Ha ha ha ha! So you’re still scheming to hide it after all.” “Hide it? I know full well.”

"So, how old are you?" "You go first and say it," said Mr. Munegaki, remaining unperturbed.

“I’m twenty-seven,” stated Mr. Kōno without ceremony, brushing it aside. “Is that so? Then I’m twenty-eight myself.” “We’ve grown rather ancient, haven’t we?” “Don’t be absurd.” “There’s barely a year between us!”

“So it’s mutual, then. I’m saying we’ve both aged.” “Yeah, mutual’s fine—I’ll let it slide if it’s mutual. But if it’s just me…” “Can’t you let that go? The fact that you’re so concerned about it shows you’ve still got some youth left in you.” “What’s this—don’t mock someone halfway up the slope!” “Look—we’re blocking the path halfway up. Step aside for a moment.”

Winding and twisting along a slope too steep to continue straight for five ken, a woman with a carefree expression descended, murmuring “Pardon me.” Bearing a massive bundle of brushwood too large for her stature—pressed down upon thick hair tinged with emerald and balanced without using her hands—she slipped past Mr. Munegaki. What caught the eye in the retreating figure that rustled through the thickly growing withered miscanthus was a red tasuki sash diagonally crossing through the black-striped pattern of her garment. Even a ri away, the thatched roof clinging to the tip of one’s pointing finger must have been this woman’s home.

Just as in ancient times when Emperor Tenmu deigned to descend, the lingering mist eternally sealed Yase’s mountain village in tranquil repose.

“The women around here are all so pretty.” “Remarkable.” “It’s almost like a painting,” said Mr. Munegaki. “That must be an Ōharame.” “Nonsense! A Yase woman!” “I’ve never heard of a ‘Yase woman.’” “Even if not, she’s still a Yase woman.” “If you doubt it, let’s ask her when we meet her next time.” “No one’s doubting it.” “But shouldn’t women like her be collectively called Ōharame?” “So you’re certain? You’ll stand by that?”

“It’s more poetic that way—better. It has an elegant charm to it.” “Well then, I’ll humor you by using it as a pseudonym for now.” “Pseudonyms are fine. The world has all sorts of pseudonyms. Things like constitutional government, universal theism, loyalty, trust, filial piety, fraternal duty—there are all sorts of them out there.” “I see—so when soba shops sprout thickets everywhere and beef shops all learn their ABCs, that’s just another example of the same principle, eh?”

“Exactly—us both calling ourselves graduates amounts to the same thing.” “How trivial.” “If it comes down to that, we should’ve just abolished pseudonyms.” “So now you’ll be adopting the diplomatic pseudonym, I suppose?” “Ha ha ha ha! That pseudonym’s proving hard to earn.” “It’s because none of the examiners have any refined taste.” “So how many times have you failed now?” “Three times?” “Don’t be ridiculous!” “Then twice?” “What’s this? You knew all along.” “With all due modesty, this makes it just one failure.”

“Since you took it once and failed once, from now on…”

“If I don’t know how many times I’ll have to take it, even I start feeling a bit uneasy. Ha ha ha ha. As for my pseudonym, that’s fine—but what exactly are you going to do?”

“Me?” “I’m climbing Mount Hiei—hey, don’t kick stones with your back legs like that.” “It’s dangerous for those following behind.” Ah—I’m utterly spent.

“I’ll rest here,” said Mr. Kōno, collapsing backward into the withered grass with a rustling sound.

“Oh, flunked again? You’re all talk touting fancy pseudonyms, but hopeless at mountain climbing,” said Mr. Munegaki, rhythmically tapping Mr. Kōno’s propped-up head with his cherrywood staff. With each tap, the staff’s tip scythed through withered grass, raising dry rustles.

“Come on, get up. The summit’s just ahead. If you’re going to rest anyway, do it after passing—then take your time. Come on, get up.” “Mm.” “‘Mm,’ is it? Well, well.” “I think I’m going to be sick.” “So you’ll vomit and fail? Well, well. Can’t be helped. Guess I’ll take a breather too.”

Mr. Kōno pressed his black head into the yellowed grass, his hat and umbrella left tumbled on the slope, and lay on his back gazing at the sky. Between his pale, aristocratically sculpted face and the vast heavenly realm where wispy clouds emerged boundlessly only to swiftly vanish away, there was not a speck to obstruct the eye. Vomit is meant to be expelled onto the ground. In his gaze fixed upon the vast sky—separated from the earth, detached from the mundane, transcending temporal ages—there existed only the boundless heavens.

Mr. Munegaki removed his Yonezawa kasuri haori, folded the sleeves into a bundle and momentarily placed it upon his shoulders—but then reconsidered. This time, thrusting both hands out from within his garment’s folds, he stripped off his inner shirt in one swift motion. From beneath emerged the sleeveless underlayer now exposed. From the lining of this sleeveless garment, unkempt fox fur protruded. This was the treasured sleeveless underlayer—a gift from a friend who had gone to China. As the saying goes, “A thousand sheepskins cannot equal one fox’s armpit,” yet he always wore this single sleeveless garment. Despite such claims, the fox fur lining lay patchy and frayed; judging by how readily it shed, it must have come from a rather ill-tempered stray fox.

“Planning to ascend the honorable mountain, sir? Shall I be your guide? Ho ho ho—what an odd place to take your rest,” came the voice again as the striped garment descended.

“Hey, Mr. Kōno. You’ve picked quite the odd spot to deign to lie down, I see. You’ll get mocked even by women. Haven’t you lounged about enough? Let’s get moving.” “Women are creatures who mock others.”

Mr. Kōno was still gazing at the sky.

“You can’t just settle down here so calmly—it’s a problem. Still about to puke?” “If I move, I’ll vomit.” “What a nuisance.” “All vomit comes from movement. The entire world’s sickness springs from that single character: motion.” “So you don’t actually mean to vomit? How tedious. I’d been steeling myself to carry you piggyback down the mountain if it came to that.”

“That’s unnecessary meddling on your part. No one asked you to.” “You’re such a charmless man, aren’t you?” “Do you know the definition of charm?” “You’re making all these excuses, but your real plan is to avoid moving even a minute more than necessary. You’re an outrageous man.” “Charm, you see—it’s a soft weapon that fells those stronger than oneself.” “Then lack of charm must be a sharp weapon for driving those weaker than oneself.”

“What manner of logic is that? “It’s precisely when one attempts motion that charm becomes necessary. “Would charm ever take root in someone who knows movement brings vomit?” “You’re excessively fond of sophistry,” “In that case, I’ll beg leave to go ahead.” “Understood?” “Do as you will,” said Mr. Kōno, still gazing at the sky. Mr. Munegaki wound the removed sleeves tightly around his waist while brusquely tucking up the vertically striped hem clinging to his hairy calves, folding it into the surrounding white crepe. No sooner had he hung the folded haori on his cherrywood stick’s tip than he cried “With single blade I roam the realm!” in unapologetic tones, then vanished—floating leftward down a ten-pace crag path until lost from view.

All that remained was silence. When tranquility settled—within that settled quietude, upon realizing one had entrusted their single thread of life—their lifeblood, though coursing solemnly through some corner of this vast firmament, perceived the corporeal form as mere earth and timber within serene stillness, yet bore a faint vitality. To discard the ambiguities one must bear while living—this act, born of self-awareness sufficient for existence itself—was a vitality transcending all attachments, like clouds departing mountain clefts as skies shift from dawn to dusk. Only by stepping one foot into a world beyond—a world voiding all past and present, exhausting every eastern and western position—could there be purpose; otherwise, one would wish to become a fossil. I wanted to become a jet-black fossil that had sucked dry red and blue, yellow and purple—knowing nothing of restoring them to their primal hues. Otherwise, I wanted to die. Death was the end of all things. It was also the beginning of all things. Even were one to accumulate moments into days, days into months, months into years—in the end, it amounted only to amassing everything into a grave. All trivialities on this side of the grave—causality partitioned by a mere wall of flesh, pouring needless oil of pity upon desiccated skeletons, compelling superfluous corpses to dance through endless nights—this was the farce. Those who possessed a far-reaching heart should yearn for a distant land.

Having thought without thinking, Mr. Kōno finally rose to his feet. He must walk again. Having seen Mount Hiei which he had no desire to see, having dealt with numerous unnecessary blisters, he had to leave behind these utterly useless traces of mountain climbing as a painful memento for about two or three days. If painful mementos are needed, there are enough to count until one’s hair turns white and still not exhaust them. There are enough to tear through to the marrow and never vanish. The moment he looked down at the heel of his laced boot—half-placed atop the sharp edge of a cut stone, with ten or twenty blisters swelling uselessly on the soles of his feet—the stone abruptly shifted its face and sent his half-placed foot sliding about two shaku in an instant. Mr. Kōno

“Not gazing upon the myriad-mile road”

Whispering the line in a low voice, he climbed the rugged path using his umbrella as a staff—until suddenly, a sharply bent slope loomed before his hat, its posture seeming to beckon those ascending from below toward heaven. Mr. Kōno adjusted his hat’s brim against the wind and gazed straight up from the foot of the slope to where it ended at the summit. 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, “To gaze upon the boundless heavens.” And he sang the second line in the same low voice.

Upon reaching the summit of the grassy mountain and ascending four or five steps through the mixed trees, suddenly darkness enveloped him from the shoulders downward, and the soles of his treading shoes felt damp. The path crossed the mountain’s spine from west to east, losing its grassy cover in an instant and immediately transitioned into a forest. This forest that colored Ōmi’s sky—if it did not stir—seemed to layer its towering trunks and branches endlessly for miles upon miles, year by year amassing their ancient verdure into ever-deepening darkness. Burying two hundred valleys, three hundred mikoshi, and three thousand corrupt monks—then filling even the remaining undersides of their leaves with the Buddhas of perfect enlightenment—the cedars planted since the time of Dengyō Daishi towered densely halfway to the sky. Mr. Kōno passed alone beneath these cedars.

From both right and left, cedar roots—blocking the wayfarer’s path with both hands—not only penetrated soil and split rocks to dig deep into bedrock but also, with their surplus strength, rebounded to crisscross the darkened path in stepped tiers two inches high. Upon the rocky ladder he sought to climb, natural sleepers were laid out—steps comfortable to tread, bestowed by the mountain spirits—as Mr. Kōno ascended breathlessly.

Pressing against cedars along the path, when he crossed vines crawling out from the darkness like escaped light—vines so thick they ensnared the feet—and followed their drawn-out lengths to where hands could not reach, decaying ferns swayed unsteadily in a windless noon.

“Here it is! Here!” Suddenly, Mr. Munegaki let out a booming voice like a goblin from overhead. Upon ground layered with decayed grass until it became soil—stepping only to sink deep enough to hide his boots without response—Mr. Kōno, with great effort, climbed onward using his umbrella as a staff until he reached the goblin’s seat. “Well done, well done! I have waited long for thee here.” “What on earth were you dawdling about?”

Mr. Kōno had just said “Ah” when he suddenly threw down his umbrella and plopped onto it. “Going to vomit again? Before you vomit, take a look at that view over there. If you look at that, even your precious vomit’ll regrettably settle down.”

He pointed through the cedars with that cherrywood walking stick. In the gaps between towering ancient trunks that sealed the sky—standing in orderly rows—Lake Ōmi glistened brightly.

"I see," said Mr. Kōno, fixing his gaze.

Merely being laid out like a mirror proved insufficient. As if repelled by the mirror’s clarity—inscribed with “Biwa”—the tengu of Mount Hiei, intoxicated by sacred sake pilfered at dusk, had blown their turbid breath across its surface; while above what sank beneath that luminous plane, a glimmering spring hue—as though some giant had gathered all the heat-haze rippling over fields and mountains onto a paint palette and daubed it in one broad stroke—hung blurred across ten ri of distant sky.

“I see,” Mr. Kōno repeated. “Just ‘I see,’ huh? No matter what I show you, you never look pleased.” “Talking about showing it off—it’s not as if you made it yourself.” “That kind of ungrateful wretch is just the sort you find among philosophers.” “You’ve been doing unfilial studies and neglecting interactions with people daily…” “My sincere apologies.—Unfilial studies, you say? Ha ha ha ha ha.” “You—white sails are visible.” “Look, against the blue mountain of that island—they aren’t moving at all.” “No matter how long you watch them, they don’t move at all.”

“Boring sails, huh.” “That vagueness really does resemble you, doesn’t it?” “But it’s beautiful.” “Oh—there are some over here too.”

“Over there—far in the direction of the purple shore—there are some too.”

“Yeah, there are, there are.” “Nothing but tedium.” “They’re plastered all over the place.”

“It’s like a dream.” “What is?” “What do you mean ‘what’? The view right in front of us.”

“Oh, right. I thought you’d remembered something again.” “When it comes to things, you should just get them sorted out quickly.” “If you keep saying ‘it’s like a dream’ and sit around doing nothing, that won’t do.” “What are you talking about?”

“What I’m saying must also be like a dream.” “Ahahahaha! Where exactly did Masakado flaunt his might, I wonder?” “Anyway, it’s on the other side.” “Because he overlooked Kyoto.” “Not this side.” “What a fool he was too.”

“Masakado, huh? Yeah, philosophers are more likely to spew vomit than bluster.” “Would a philosopher spew such things?” “When one becomes a true philosopher, they end up all head—just thinking away. Like Daruma, eh?” “What is that hazy island over there?” “That island? It’s uncommonly ethereal.” “It’s probably Chikubu Island.”

“Really?”

“Oh, it’s nothing precise.” “When it comes to pseudonyms—as long as the substance holds true, I don’t care what they’re called. That’s my policy.” “Does such certainty even exist in this world? That’s precisely why we need pseudonyms.” “All human affairs are but a dream.” “Good grief.” “Only death is real.” “Nope.” “Unless one confronts death, human inconstancy will never cease.” “It’s fine if it never ceases—I’ll have none of that confronting business.” “That ‘I’ll have none of it’ will come soon enough.” “When it comes, you’ll realize—‘Ah, so that’s it.’”

“Who?”

“Someone fond of intricate little carvings, you see.”

Descending the mountain and entering the fields of Ōmi brought one into Mr. Munegaki’s world.

Mr. Kōno’s world was one of gazing from a high, dark, sunless place upon the radiant spring world at an unreachable distance.

Two

In the midday haze where crimson melded with spring, amidst the slumbering world, there existed a woman like a vivid droplet—a dense point of purple that drew forth spring. Upon the neatly folded side-locks—black tresses that made the dreamworld appear more vivid than any dream—jewel beetle shells were sharply carved into violet motifs, their slender golden legs driven firmly in. In the stillness of noon, when one’s heart was nearly stolen away to a distant realm, the sudden flicker of black eyes brought the observer back to themselves with a start. In the spread of half a droplet, stealing a moment’s brevity to create the might of a gale—these were the profound eyes that, while in spring, controlled spring itself. When one traced back these pupils and plumbed the boundary of their enchantment, they left their bones whitened in the Peach Blossom Spring, never to return to the mortal realm. It was not a mere dream.

Within the vast haze of a dream, a single dazzling demon star—purple and pressing near my brow—commanded me to gaze until death. The woman wore a purple kimono. In the quiet noon, quietly pulling out a bookmark, the woman read upon her lap a volume heavy with foil.

"Kneeling before the grave, I speak: With these hands—with these hands I laid you to rest, yet now even these hands are no longer free. Since I am captured and cannot even journey to that distant land, know that the times when these hands should sweep your grave and burn incense for you have forever ended. In life, even Moya could not cleave us apart; death alone proves merciless. You of Rome are buried in Egypt, while I of Egypt am to be interred in your Rome. Your Rome—your Rome that denies this wretched me even the gratitude I imagined—is your merciless Rome. However, if there were even a shred of compassion, the gods of Rome would surely not look down from the clouds upon me—dragged through the city in living disgrace. Me—who now adorns your enemy’s victory. Me, forsaken by the gods of Egypt. The life you left me as half a body—it is now my enemy. I pray to the compassionate gods of Rome.—Hide me. In the depths of a tomb where shame cannot be seen—hide you and me for all eternity.”

The woman raised her face. Upon her pale, taut cheeks where faint makeup floated like a veil—as though concealing something more beneath its surface—all men who rushed to discern what lay hidden became her captives. The man partially moved his lips as if dazzled. When the composure of his mouth crumbled, this person's will had already fallen prey to the other. At the instant when his lower lip flushed theatrically yet failed to part decisively, whatever was thrust would inevitably be missed.

The woman merely flicked her gaze like a falcon striking through empty air. The man grinned slyly. The outcome was already decided. To stick out one’s tongue and vie with a foaming crab and squabbling crows and herons is the most unskillful of strategies. To urge the wind and beat drums, compelling a forced oath beneath the castle walls, is the most ordinary of strategies. Coating honey yet blowing needles, forcing wine to add poison—these are strategies that have yet to reach perfection. In the supreme battle, not a single word is permitted to be exchanged. The single gesture of picking a flower—even if not eight thousand *ri* away from here—remains ultimately wordless and silent. In the mere instant of hesitation, the demon that strikes at the void writes "delusion," writes "bewilderment," writes "lost child of man"—exactly as intended—and withdraws in the blink of an eye. Characters drawn without ceremony—blown onto the brush tip with acrid blue phosphorus amidst the ten-thousand-fathom will-o’-the-wisps of the mortal realm—cannot be easily erased, even scrubbed with a brush of white hair. Once he laughed, there was no way the man could retract this smile.

“Mr. Ono,” the woman called out. “Huh?” The man who instantly responded had no time to recompose his crumbling mouth. The smile that had formed on his lips was merely the half-unconscious manifestation of a mental ripple—idly transcribed into cursive script to pass the time—and as the transcribed lines neared their end, he found himself vexed by the absence of a second ripple to transcribe; thus, the timely “Huh?” slipped effortlessly from his throat. The woman had been a trickster from the start. Having elicited a “Huh?” from him, she said nothing for some time.

“What is it?” the man pressed on. If he didn’t continue, their hard-won rhythm would fall apart. If their rhythm didn’t align, it would be unsettling. Those who keep their opponent in view—even a monarch—always feel this sensation. How much more so now—in the eyes of a man who sees nothing but the purple-clad woman, a second phrase was naturally foolish.

The woman still had not said anything.

The sword bearer in Yōsai’s work hung in the alcove—the one with the child’s topknot mingling among young pines—had long been serene. The master of the bay horse, clad in hunting robe—perhaps as was customary for court nobles long accustomed to peace—did not see the shifting scenery.

Only the man remained restless. The first arrow had fallen in vain; where the second struck remained uncertain. If this missed, he would have to continue again. The man held his breath and stared at the woman’s face. His lean face—lacking fullness in the cheeks—swelled with anticipatory tension, lips too weighty for their form. Though questioning whether this imbalance arose by chance or design, he seemed to will some response into being.

“Are you still there?” the woman said in a calm tone. This was an unexpected response. It was as though an arrow shot from a bow bent toward heaven had swirled back like a gourd-feathered projectile, nearly grazing my head. While the man, forgetting himself, watched over her, the woman—contrarily—from the very beginning seemed to have lost all awareness of the person seated before her within the book spread open on her lap. Yet when the woman found this book to be of embellished beauty, she began reading it as though wrenching it from the hands of the man who now carried it.

The man replied with just a “Yes.” “Is this woman planning to go to Rome?” With an unconvinced look of displeasure, the woman stared at the man’s face. Mr. Ono had to take responsibility for Cleopatra’s actions. “She won’t go! She won’t go.” He spoke as if defending some unrelated queen. “She’s not going? I won’t go either, you know,” 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 attempted to mount his bicycle and dash off. Fish leapt in the abyss; kites wheeled in the sky. Mr. Ono was a man who dwelled in poetry’s realm. The place where pyramids sear the heavens; where sphinxes clasp the sands; where the long river conceals crocodiles; where two millennia past, the sorceress-princess Cleopatra embraced Antony and brushed her jade skin with an ostrich-plume fan—these were splendid motifs for painting and peerless matter for verse. This was Mr. Ono’s true domain. “When I behold Shakespeare’s Cleopatra,” he said, “a most singular sensation comes over me.”

“What kind of feeling?”

"Being drawn into an ancient cavity and becoming trapped there—while lingering in that dazed state—a violet-hued Cleopatra appears vividly before my eyes." "From within peeling brocade paintings emerges solitary figure that bursts aflame with sudden purple intensity." "Purple?" "You persistently say 'purple'." "Why must it be purple?"

“Why? Because that’s the impression I get.” “So—is this the color?” The woman swiftly unfurled her long sleeve—half-spread out across the blue tatami—and fluttered it before Mr. Ono’s nose. In the depths of Mr. Ono’s brow, the scent of Cleopatra suddenly wafted up sharply.

“Huh?” Mr. Ono suddenly returned to himself. Like a cuckoo skimming the sky—outpacing even a team of four horses—the strange color that had flickered as though piercing through the falling rain’s depths swiftly subsided, and the beautiful hand now rested upon her knee. It lay so quietly that one could not perceive its pulse. The pungent scent of Cleopatra gradually escaped from the depths of his nose. Chasing after the shadow—summoned abruptly from two thousand years past as it receded lingeringly into the distance—Mr. Ono’s heart was lured into a distant and profound realm, drawn toward the far side of two millennia.

“It is not the love of whispering breezes, nor the love of tears, nor the love of sighs.” “A love like a tempest—a cataclysm of passion unrecorded in any almanac.” “A nine-and-a-half-inch love,” Mr. Ono said.

“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 wrathful, nine and a half inches flash purple,” he said. “Did Shakespeare write such things?” “I commented on what Shakespeare depicted—when Antony married Octavia in Rome—when the messenger brought news of the marriage—Cleopatra’s…” “The purple must have been dyed dark with jealousy.” “When purple is scorched by Egypt’s sun, a cold dagger gleams.”

“Is this shade intense enough for you?” Before she could even finish speaking, her long sleeve flashed once more. Mr. Ono had his words slightly cut off. Even when she had demands to make of her counterpart, she was a woman who would not consent unless she interrupted. The woman, having neutralized the venom, gazed triumphantly at the man’s face.

“So what did Cleopatra do then?” The woman who had restrained herself loosened the reins once more. Mr. Ono had no choice but to break into a dash. “She interrogates the messenger about Octavia down to every root and leaf.” “The way she questions—how she presses—animates her character, making it fascinating.” “She badgers the messenger endlessly—‘Is she as tall as I am? What color is her hair? Is her face round? Is her voice low? How old is she?’…”

“Just how old is this interrogator, anyway?”

“Cleopatra would be around thirty.” “In that case, I must resemble her quite closely as an old woman.” The woman tilted her head and gave a derisive laugh. The man, ensnared within the mysterious dimple, found himself momentarily bewildered. To affirm would be a lie. To simply deny would be too banal. Until the instant when a golden streak glimmered amidst her white teeth only to fade away, the man could muster no response. The woman was twenty-four years old. Mr. Ono had long known she was three years his junior.

That a beautiful woman past twenty remained unwed, idly counting the years one by one until reaching twenty-four today, was indeed a mystery.

The spring garden idly deepened; she who saw the flower shadows at the railing reach their peak and the lingering daylight hasten to fade—cradling a koto with a resentful countenance common to women left behind in marriage—yet found curious delight in unorthodox tones, hearing lute-like resonances from the koto’s bridges as she occasionally swept a Buddhist whisk through empty airs—this grew ever more mysterious. The details were naturally unclear. From the shadows of this man and woman’s exchanged words came occasional glimpses that led to unnecessary conjectures—secretly divining nothing but ambiguous romantic gossip.

“Does jealousy grow stronger as one ages?” the woman asked solemnly, addressing Mr. Ono.

Mr. Ono was flustered again.

A poet must understand humanity. There exists an obligation to answer a woman’s questions. Yet one cannot answer what one does not know. A man who has never witnessed middle-aged jealousy—even were he poet or literary figure—stands helpless. Mr. Ono remains a literary scholar skilled in letters.

“Well... “It still depends on the person, I suppose.” Instead of making waves, his response was evasive. She was not a woman who would settle for that. “If I were to become such an old granny—though wait, am I already one now? Hohoho—but what do you suppose would happen if I reached that age?” “You—as for someone being jealous of you, such a thing, even now…” “There is, you know.”

The woman’s voice sliced through the tranquil spring breeze with an icy edge. The man who had been wandering in the land of poetry suddenly lost his footing and fell to the mortal world. When seen after falling, he was merely a mortal. She looked down from a high, unapproachable cliff. He had no time to ponder who it was that had kicked him down to such a place. “At what age did Kiyohime become a serpent?” “Indeed, it really must be set in one’s teens to make proper drama.” “Probably around eighteen or nineteen.” “Anchin...”

“Wouldn’t Anchin be around twenty-five?”

“Mr. Ono.” “Yes?” “How old are you, I wonder?” “Me? Well, I…” “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 much older than you.” “Oh, it’s not that bad.”

“It really is.”

“Shall I treat you to something?”

“Yes, please treat me. But it’s not your face that’s young. It’s your spirit that’s young.” “Do I really appear that way?” “You’re just like a spoiled young master.” “How pitiable.” “You’re adorable.”

A woman’s twenty-four is equivalent to a man’s thirty. They know neither reason nor wrong, nor do they have any idea why the world revolves or why it comes to rest. In the midst of the boundless development of the grand stage spanning past and present, they know not what position they occupy nor what role they play. Only their tongues are skilled.

To confront the world, to steer the nation, to manage affairs before a gathered crowd—all these were beyond women’s capabilities. Women had mastered the art of dealing with just one person. When one person fought another, the one who won was always the woman. Men would certainly lose. Kept in the cage of the tangible world were women—those who pecked at individual millet grains and fluttered their wings in delight. Those who competed in song with women within the small world of the cage inevitably perished. Mr. Ono was a poet. Because he was a poet, he had thrust half his head into this cage. Mr. Ono failed splendidly to sing.

“You’re adorable.” “Just like Anchin.” “Anchin is cruel.” Without uttering a word of apology, he accepted it now. “Are you displeased?” The woman laughed with only her eyes. “But…” “But what exactly do you dislike?” “I won’t run away like Anchin.”

This is what you call a failed evasion met with a counterblow. The young master did not know how to discern the opportune moment and make a graceful exit.

“Hohoho, I’ll chase after you like Kiyohime!”

The man remained silent.

“Am I perhaps a bit too old to become a snake?”

The untimely spring lightning emerged from the woman and slipped clean through the man’s chest. The color is purple.

“Miss Fujio”

“What is it?”

The man who had called and the woman who had been called sat facing each other directly. The six-tatami room, separated by dense green plantings, muffled even the faint sound of carriages passing on the street. In the desolate transient world, only two people were alive. When they faced each other across two feet of tatami mat bordered in brown, society withdrew 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 drew a breath as faint as an insect’s final gasp. In Russia, Nihilists threw bombs. At the station authorities caught a pickpocket. A fire broke out. A newborn struggled into life. At the drill ground officers scolded new recruits. Someone leapt to their death. Someone killed.

Fujio’s brother and Mr. Munegaki are climbing Mount Hiei.

In the deep alley where even the scent of flowers grew oppressively heavy, the figures of a man and woman who had called out to each other danced vividly upon spring’s shadow sinking into death’s depths. The universe was a universe of two. Surpassing three thousand pulsating blood vessels, the approaching door of a youthful heart’s tide opened with love and closed with love, vividly depicting the motionless man and woman in the vast sky. The fate of the two was decided in this precarious instant. East or west—the slightest movement would seal it. To call was no ordinary matter; to be called was no ordinary matter. With a trial surpassing life and death poised between them—whether the veiled explosive device would be hurled forth or hurled away—the motionless bodies of the two were two masses of flame.

When a voice rang out at the entrance with “Welcome back!”, the carriage wheels grinding against the gravel came to an abrupt halt. There was a sound of a sliding door being opened. The sound of hurried footsteps traveled along the corridor. Their tense postures slackened. “Mother has returned,” the woman said casually, remaining seated.

“Ah, I see,” the man replied casually.

As long as one did not clearly reveal their heart outwardly, it was not considered a sin. A reversible mystery made for feeble evidence in court. The two, nonchalantly entertaining each other, silently permitted their mutual nonchalance while remaining nonchalantly at ease. The world was at peace. No one could point fingers behind others' backs. Ideally, the fault lay with the other party. The world remained resolutely at peace. “Where did you have Mother go out to?” “Yes, she went out shopping for a bit.”

“I’ve imposed on you quite a bit,” he said, adjusting his posture slightly before rising. A man who, concerned about the creases in his Western-style trousers, usually sat as comfortably as possible. When he moved to rise, his hands—aligned at his knees to push himself up from the armrests—were covered up to the backs by snow-white cuffs, from beneath whose dull mouse-gray striped sleeves peeked cloisonné couple’s buttons that glimmered faintly.

“Oh, do take your time. Even if Mother returns, there’s no particular business anyway,” said the woman, showing no sign of welcoming the returned person. The man, of course, had no desire to rise from his seat. “However,” he said while rummaging through his hidden pouch and pulling out a thick rolled cigarette. Tobacco smoke generally distracts from most matters. Not to mention this was Egyptian-made with a golden mouthpiece. Blowing rings, blowing mountains, blowing clouds—within that dense hue, as he resettled his half-risen posture, there might yet emerge some means to narrow even slightly the distance between himself and Cleopatra.

As thin smoke streamed past the black mustache, richly flowing out, Cleopatra indeed— “Oh, do take a seat,” she issued the gracious command. The man wordlessly readjusted his posture once more. For them both, the spring day was long. “Lately it’s all women around—it’s unbearably lonely.”

“When is Mr. Kōno expected to return?” “When will he return? I have no idea at all.” “Have you received any word?” “No.”

“With the season being so fine, Kyoto must be delightful.”

“It would have been better had you gone with them.”

"I…" Mr. Ono blurred the rest. "Why didn't you go?" "There's no particular reason." "But isn't he an old acquaintance of yours?" "Huh?" Mr. Ono carelessly dropped cigarette ash onto the tatami mats. As he uttered "Huh?", his hand moved involuntarily. "Didn't you stay in Kyoto for quite some time?" "So that's how you became acquainted?"

“Yes.”

“Because it’s such an old acquaintance, I no longer feel inclined to go.” “How heartless you are.” “Not at all, that’s not true,” Mr. Ono replied with comparative seriousness, drawing deeply on his Egyptian cigarette until the smoke filled his lungs.

A voice called out from the opposite room, “Fujio, Fujio.” “Is that your mother?” Mr. Ono asked.

“Yes.”

“I’ll be leaving now.” “Why?” “But surely you have some business to attend to?” “Even if there were business, what would it matter? Aren’t you the Professor? Since the Professor has come to teach, it shouldn’t matter who’s left, should it?” “But I don’t teach that much.” “Oh, I am learning! What I’ve learned from you so far is more than enough.” “Is that so?” “You’ve been teaching me so much about Cleopatra and all sorts of things, haven’t you?”

“If Cleopatra meets your standards, there are endless others to draw from.”

Mother called repeatedly, “Fujio, Fujio.”

“Excuse me, but I must take my leave for a moment. Well, I still have things to ask you, so please wait here.”

Fujio stood up. The man was left behind in the six-tatami-mat room. In the old Satsuma incense burner placed on the flat floor—whether traces of smoke from some long-ago unfinished burning—spilled ashes remained as ashes without crumbling, and Fujio’s room was as quiet today as it had been yesterday. On the eight-tan zabuton carelessly laid out, the lingering warmth from its absent owner was quietly fanned by a gentle spring breeze, settling into hushed tranquility. Mr. Ono silently looked at the incense burner, then silently looked at the futon. In the warped lattice’s corner lifting from the tatami, something shiny was caught deep within. Mr. Ono tilted his head slightly to the side, surveying the glittering object as he pondered. It seemed to be a watch. He hadn’t noticed it at all until now. When Fujio stood up, perhaps the supple silk screen had rubbed against the futon, causing whatever had been hidden to come loose. *But there’s no need to hide a watch under the futon.* Mr. Ono peered under the futon once more. The pine-needle-shaped chain, bent at an angle, revealed its outward-facing portion reflecting thin shafts of light, while deeper within the recesses, the raised edge of seven beads floated faintly into view. *It was undoubtedly a watch.* Mr. Ono tilted his head.

Gold is a color of pure and concentrated intensity. Those who love wealth and honor will surely favor this color. Those who seek honor will inevitably choose this color. Those who attain fame will inevitably adorn themselves with this color. Like a magnet draws iron, this color draws 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 fine color.

Just then, from the direction of the opposite room came the rustling of silk, moving along the curved veranda as it drew near. Mr. Ono swiftly averted his peering gaze and, assuming an air of innocence, was staring directly at Yōsai’s hanging scroll when two figures materialized in the doorway.

She wore a black crepe kimono bearing three family crests with practiced ease on her sloping shoulders, its muted half-collar contrasting with an old-fashioned chignon that gleamed with polished luster.

“Oh, you’re here,” Mother said with a slight nod and took a seat near the veranda’s edge. In place of bush warblers, a garden swept so thoroughly that not a speck of dust caught the eye held a single pine tree—too long by half—standing as though it owned the place. This pine tree and this Mother somehow seemed to be one and the same.

“Fujio has been causing you such trouble—she must be making nothing but selfish demands.” “After all, she’s practically a child—oh, do please make yourself comfortable—I really ought to offer proper greetings each time, but I fear age has left me rather negligent in such courtesies.” “—She’s truly an infant, I tell you—nothing but tantrums—though thanks to you, she’s grown quite fond of English—lately she says she can read rather difficult material and fancies herself rather accomplished at it.” “—Well, she does have an older brother who could teach her—but—it seems—well—he simply refuses to comply—”

Mother’s eloquence flowed effortlessly and impressively. Mr. Ono, without even the leisure to interject a single word, rushed headlong into the flow of her eloquence. Their destination had never been clear from the start. Fujio silently opened the book she had borrowed earlier from Mr. Ono and continued reading. “The queen who kissed the grave with flowers upon it, who kissed the grave with her lips, who lamented her wretched self with all her heart—she did indeed summon her bath.” After bathing, she did indeed summon her evening meal. At this time, there was a lowly jailer who presented a small basket heaped with figs. The message sent by the Queen to Caesar stated: “I pray you bury me in the same tomb as Antony.” In the shade of the blue-green fig leaves flourishing there, a venomous serpent that had cooled its flaming tongue in the Nile’s mud had been stealthily concealed. Caesar’s messenger rushed. When one pushed open the door and their eyes were struck—there upon a golden bed, adorned today in regal attire of highest station, the queen’s corpse lay inescapably. The one called Iris did not abandon this world near the queen’s feet. The one named Charmion, near the queen’s head, gathered dew from a moonless night to forge a crown of a thousand pearls, now feebly supporting what was about to fall. Caesar’s messenger, having pushed open the door, exclaimed, “What manner of thing is this?” “Thus should end she who reigned over Egypt,” declared Charmion, and with these final words, she closed her eyes as she fell.

The final line—“Thus should end she who reigned over Egypt”—lingered like the faint trailing tail of refined incense burning under its cover as it neared exhaustion, drawing its wisp into the void, until the entire page appeared to haze over with a pale mist.

“Fujio,” Mother called out, unaware.

The man finally adopted a tolerant demeanor and turned his gaze toward the one who had been called. The person who had been addressed remained bowed down.

“Fujio,” Mother called again.

The woman’s eyes finally left the page. From beneath wavy temple hair meeting her white forehead emerged a slender nose free of angularity—lips finely woven with crimson hue—those lips curving outward to meet seamlessly the cheeks’ edge at the jawline—the jawline yielding to a softly receding throat—each feature gradually materializing into the tangible world.

“What?” Fujio answered. A reply poised between day and night, from one who stands at the threshold of both. “My, aren’t you the carefree one.” “Is that book truly so fascinating? You’d better let me see it later.” “How utterly rude.—This is what comes of being a spoiled child who knows nothing of the world—utterly impossible to manage.—Did you borrow that book from Mr. Ono?” “It’s quite beautiful—mind you don’t dirty it.” “You must take proper care of books—” “I am taking care of it.”

“If that’s the case, then fine—but don’t have it end up like last time—”

“But that’s Brother who’s at fault, you know.”

“Has something happened to Mr. Kōno?” Mr. Ono finally spoke in a manner resembling proper speech. “No—you see—with this household being such a gathering of willful souls—we’re forever squabbling like children—just the other day… her brother’s book…” Mother looked toward Fujio with an air of hesitation over whether to continue. Blackmail veiled in sympathy is a game the elder generation delights in playing upon the young.

“What happened to Mr. Kōno’s books?” Mr. Ono ventured timidly.

“Shall I tell you?” the elderly woman asked with a half-smile, restraining herself.

Her demeanor carried the intensity of thrusting forward a toy nine-and-a-half-sun dagger.

“I threw Brother’s books into the garden,” declared Fujio, cutting in before her mother could respond, and hurled her sharp retort straight at Mr. Ono’s brow. Mother gave a wry smile. Mr. Ono opened his mouth. “As you are aware, her brother is quite the eccentric,” Mother said, indirectly attempting to placate her now-resigned daughter.

“I hear Mr. Kōno has yet to return,” said Mr. Ono, skillfully changing the subject. “He’s just like you—a human cannonball! Though he keeps complaining about his poor health and moping about—so I suggested a short trip might settle matters—but he kept whining over every little thing, refusing to move—until I finally had to ask Munegaki to haul him out.” “But he’s a veritable human cannonball—” “Young people these days…”

“Brother isn’t merely young—he’s special. What makes him exceptional is how he transcends through philosophy.” “Well, I can’t claim to understand such things—but that Munegaki person now, he’s truly carefree through and through. A proper human cannonball, that one—quite the nuisance indeed.”

“Ha ha ha! What a cheerful and amusing person he is!”

“Speaking of Munegaki—where did you put that thing from earlier?” Mother raised her sharp eyes and scanned the room. “Here it is,” said Fujio, lightly tilting both knees at an angle as she smoothly slid an eight-tan zabuton across the blue tatami. The hue of opulence lay within chains triple-coiled like a snail’s spiral, heaped high with sevenfold lids. As she extended her right hand to clink the gleaming object, the chain slipped from her palm—about to fall onto the tatami—only to be caught at a foot’s length. Redirecting its residual momentum sideways, the long chain swayed two or three times with lazy undulations, the garnet ornament at its end tracing languid arcs through the air. The first wave struck the crimson bead against the woman’s white arm. The second wave swayed toward the pillar and lightly brushed against the sleeve cuff. As the third wave was on the verge of subsiding, the woman abruptly stood up.

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

“Mother,” Fujio called out, glancing back over her shoulder. “This way it stands out better,” she said, returning to her former seat. Across the chest of Mr. Ono’s vest, a gold chain arranged in pine-needle pattern threaded through buttonholes on either side glittered brilliantly against the darkened melton cloth backdrop.

“How about this?” Fujio said. “Indeed, it suits you very well,” Mother said. “What in the world is going on?” Mr. Ono asked while feeling overwhelmed.

Mother laughed—ho ho ho. “Shall I adjust it?” Fujio asked with a sidelong glance. Mr. Ono remained silent.

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

III

A day of rain where drooping willows sent mist-laden strands blowing into the railings in endless streams. Beneath the navy suit hanging darkly on the clothes rack, black tabi socks lay partially inside-out, crouched in a rounded heap. Upon the narrow staggered shelves sat an oversized pilgrim’s bag beside cords left dangling without proper ties, while tooth powder and white dentifrice seemed to greet the morning with a cheerful “Good day.” Through the glass of tightly closed shoji screens, white threads of rain gleamed slender and long.

“Kyoto’s an awfully cold place, isn’t it?” said Mr. Munegaki, who had layered a meisen silk tanzen coat over his rented yukata. Leaning against the pine-wood pillar of the tokonoma alcove, he peered outside while addressing Mr. Kōno, his posture arrogantly sprawled in a cross-legged sit.

Mr. Kōno had draped a camel-hair blanket from his waist downward and was restlessly shifting his black head on the air pillow, but— “It’s sleepier than it is cold.”

As he spoke, he shifted his face slightly, causing his damp, freshly combed head—buoyed by the air pillow’s elasticity—to come to rest beside the discarded tabi socks. “You’re always sleeping. You might as well have come to Kyoto just to sleep.” “Yeah.” “It’s truly a relaxing place.”

“If you’ve managed to relax, that’s something, at least.” “Your mother was worried about you, you know.”

“Hmph.” “So ‘Hmph’ passes for a greeting these days? Let me tell you—I’ve been putting in unrecognized effort just to keep you comfortable.”

“Can you read the characters on that scroll?”

“Hmm, that’s curious indeed.” “※ (Human radical + 孱) Rain ※ (Human radical + 愁) Wind?” “I’ve never seen those before.” “Since they use the human radical, they must relate to people somehow.” “Writing such superfluous characters—ridiculous.” “Who’s this supposed to depict anyway?” “Dunno.” “Never mind that—this sliding door’s more intriguing.” “The gold leaf pasted all over looks extravagant, but I’m appalled at these wrinkles forming here.” “It’s like peeking at stage props behind a theater curtain.” “And then they slap three bamboo shoots on it so boldly—what sort of reasoning is that?” “I say, Mr. Kōno—this is a proper mystery.”

“What manner of mystery would you call this?” “Can’t say I’d know.” “If something’s drawn beyond comprehension, that makes it a mystery by definition.”

“Doesn’t something you can’t understand not count as a mystery?” “It becomes a mystery precisely because it contains meaning.”

“But philosophers take things that have no meaning, treat them as mysteries, and waste their time pondering them.” “It’s like frantically analyzing a shogi puzzle some lunatic devised—veins bulging all the while.” “Then these bamboo shoots must’ve been painted by a mad artist too.” “Ha ha ha!” “If you grasped reason that clearly, you’d have no cause for anguish.”

“Since when are the world and bamboo shoots one and the same?”

"You know how there's something called the Gordian Knot in old stories?" "Do you know it?" "Do you take me for a middle schooler?" "Even if you don't think so, I'm asking anyway." "If you know it, then say it."

“Quit nagging—I know.”

“So go on and say it then. Philosophers are such evasive creatures—persistent people who can’t admit ignorance no matter what you ask them…” “You can’t tell which of us is more persistent.” “Either way’s fine—just spit it out.”

“The Gordian Knot is a story from Alexander’s time.” “Yeah, you know it. So?” “Gordias—a peasant—dedicated a chariot to Jupiter when…”

“Hold on—wait a minute.” “Does such a thing even exist?” “Then what happened?”

"You ask if such things exist—and yet you don't know yourself?" "I wasn't aware of that detail." "What nonsense." "You're hardly one to talk about ignorance."

“Ha, ha ha ha! When we studied it in school, the teacher never covered that part.” “That teacher probably didn’t know that part either.” “But that peasant had tied the chariot’s shaft and crossbeam with vines into a knot nobody could undo, no matter how they tried.”

“Ah, right—that’s what they call the Gordian Knot.” “Oh, right.” “So Alexander found that knot too bothersome, drew his sword, and sliced through it, huh?” “Yeah, got it.” “Alexander didn’t bother calling it troublesome or anything.” “That doesn’t matter.” “When Alexander heard the oracle stating that whoever untied this knot would become emperor of the East, he declared, ‘Then this is what I’ll do!’ and…”

“I know that part. That’s what the teacher taught us.” “Well then, that’s just fine, isn’t it?”

“Well, I think humans gotta have the resolve to say ‘Then this is what I’ll do!’ or they’re done for.”

“That would be acceptable too.” “If that’s acceptable, then where’s the contest? The Gordian Knot can’t be untied no matter how hard you try.” “So cutting it counts as solving it?” “If you cut it—even if it doesn’t come undone, well, that’s convenient enough.” “Convenience? There’s nothing in this world more cowardly than convenience.” “Then Alexander becomes a wretched coward.” “Do you truly hold someone like Alexander in such high esteem?”

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

When the misty rain falling upon the ancient capital Kyoto—as if intensifying its melancholy—grew dense enough to answer the backs of swallows that streaked across the sky, their crimson bellies exposed to the void, both Lower Kyoto and Upper Kyoto lay silently soaked beneath emerald depths of the Thirty-Six Peaks. Only the sound dissolving into Yuzen-dyed crimson and rapids pouring into fields of rapeseed flowers remained. At the gate where someone washed parsley while humming “You upstream, me downstream…”, removing the heavy towel that veiled their brows revealed the Daimonji. The Pine Crickets and Bell Crickets, moss-covered through generations of springs, had left only graves in the thicket where nightingales ought to sing. After demons ceased coming to Rashōmon—the gate where they once emerged—the structure itself was torn down in some forgotten era. A rope wrenched off an arm whose fate remained unknown to all. The timeless spring rain fell. In Teramachi it fell on temples; in Sanjō on bridges; in Gion on cherry blossoms; at Kinkaku-ji on pines. In the inn’s second floor, it fell upon Mr. Kōno and Mr. Munegaki.

Mr. Kōno began writing his diary while lying down. He opened the slightly sweat-stained corner of the side-bound tea-colored cloth cover as if folding it, turned two or three pages, and a blank space about one-third of a page appeared. Mr. Kōno began writing from here. He took up his pencil vigorously, “At the lone tower’s corner, rain; / Idleness stifles all who’ve been.”

After writing this, he pondered for a while. He seemed intent on adding the turn and conclusion to complete it as a quatrain.

Mr. Munegaki threw down the travel guide, thudded heavily on the tatami as though intimidating it, and stepped out onto the veranda. On the veranda sat a single custom-made rattan chair, sullenly positioned with an air of awaiting someone. Through sparse lotus flowers, the neighbor’s tatami room came into view. The shoji screens stood tightly closed. Inside resonated the sound of a koto. “Suddenly the koto’s note resounds; / Weeping willows stir fresh sorrows.”

Mr. Kōno wrote a cross in a separate line; but appearing dissatisfied, he immediately drew a line through it. The rest became ordinary prose.

"The universe is a mystery. Solving mysteries is people’s prerogative. Those who solve mysteries as they please and resolve them as they please are fortunate. If you doubt them, even parents are a mystery. Even siblings are a mystery. Wife and child—even oneself who views them thus—are a mystery. To be born into this world is to be burdened with unsolvable mysteries, to wander white-haired in perplexity, and to agonize through midnight hours—such is one’s purpose in being born. To solve the mystery of one’s parents, one must become one with them. To solve the mystery of one’s wife, one must become of one mind with her. To solve the mystery of the universe, one must become of one mind and body with it. If one cannot achieve this, then parents, wife, and universe all remain enigmas. An unsolvable mystery; a torment. To willingly take on the new mystery of a wife while already burdened by the unsolvable mystery of parents and siblings is akin to struggling with the management of one’s own property and then taking custody of another’s money. Not only does one receive the new mystery called a wife, but this new mystery begets yet newer mysteries to agonize over—it must be akin to borrowed money accruing interest, forcing one to manage another’s earnings as if they were one’s own. ...All doubts can only be resolved by abandoning oneself. The problem lies in how to abandon oneself. Death? Death is utterly incapable."

Mr. Munegaki sat squarely in the rattan chair, listening to the neighboring koto. In the spring chill of Omuro’s imperial villa, the elegant biwa bearing its poetic inscription could never grasp such refinement. Though its thirteen strings were strung in the Nanbu iris style, none possessed the eccentricity to deem noble the maki-e-adorned tongue resting upon ivory. Mr. Munegaki merely listened absentmindedly. Beyond the fence dripping with yellow lotus flowers lay a cluster of Narihira bamboo, accompanied by moss-thick Mikage stones jutting and creeping—across the small garden, less than three tsubo in size, Eizan moss spread profusely. The sound of the koto came from this garden.

The rain was one. In winter, raincoats froze. In autumn, lamp wicks grew thin. In summer, they washed fundoshi. Spring—with a flat silver hairpin left fallen on the tatami beside shells from a shell-matching game whose undersides glimmered vermilion, gold, and indigo—someone lightly plucked then lightly scattered the notes. What Mr. Munegaki was listening to was precisely this light pluck.

"What the eye sees is form," Mr. Kōno wrote again in a separate line. "What the ear hears is sound." Form and sound were not the essence of things. To those who had not apprehended the essence of things, form and sound remained meaningless. When one apprehended something within this depth, form and sound alike transformed entirely into new form and sound. This was symbolism. "Symbolism is originally an expedient means to perceive the unfathomable void through sight and sound......" The koto playing gradually grew more intricate. Through the intervals between raindrops, white nails seemed to dart repeatedly over the koto’s bridges, as the rich melody—intertwining the sounds of thick and thin strings—appeared to strike alternately in disarray. When Mr. Kōno had just finished writing, "Only by listening to a stringless koto does one first comprehend the significance of jo-ha-kyū," Mr. Munegaki—leaning back in his chair and gazing down at nothing but the neighboring house—

“Hey, Mr. Kōno—quit spouting logic and just listen to that koto for a bit. Pretty damn good!”

Mr. Munegaki called out from the veranda into the room. “Yep, I’ve been listening,” Mr. Kōno replied and snapped his diary shut. “There’s no proper way to listen while lying down.” “I hereby order you to come out to the veranda for a moment.”

“Nah, this is fine here. “Don’t bother me,” said Mr. Kōno, showing no sign of rising as he tilted his air pillow. “Hey, Higashiyama looks really beautiful from here!” “Is that so?” “Oh, there’s someone crossing the Kamogawa. “That’s truly poetic.” “Hey, there’s someone crossing the river!” “Let them cross.”

“You keep going on about me lying here wearing a futon—but where exactly am I wearing this futon? Why don’t you come over here and show me?” “No.” “You—while you’re dawdling like this, the Kamo’s water level has risen! Oh no—this is bad! The bridge is about to collapse! Hey—the bridge is going to collapse!” “It wouldn’t matter if it collapsed.”

“It wouldn’t matter if it collapsed?” “Would it still not matter if we couldn’t see the Miyako Odori tonight?” “No, no,” said Mr. Kōno, apparently finding it bothersome as he rolled over and began gazing sideways at the gold-brocade bamboo. “If you stay so composed, there’s no getting through to you.” “I guess I have no choice but to surrender here,” said Mr. Munegaki, finally relenting as he stepped into the room. “Hey! Hey!”

“What’s with you? You’re such an annoying man.”

“Did you hear that koto?” “Didn’t I say I heard it?” “Hey, you—that’s a woman!”

“Obviously.” “How old would you say she is?” “How old indeed?” “If you’re going to act this cold, there’s no point competing.” “If you mean to tell me, then say ‘Tell me!’ properly.”

“Who do you think would say that?”

“Won’t you say it?” “If you won’t say it, then I’ll just have to say it myself.” “That’s Shimada.” “Is there a gathering in the parlor?” “Nah, the parlor’s tightly shut.”

“Then it must be another one of those careless pseudonyms as usual.” “It’s a pseudonym that’s also a real name.” “I saw that woman.” “Why?” “There—I wanted to hear it!”

“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, I wonder why it appears shorter.”

“Probably because your eyes are positioned sideways.” “What fate led someone to draw three stalks on two sheets of karakami paper?”

“Probably figured they’d lost one because they were so terrible at it.” “Why are bamboo shoots such a vivid green?” “It’s probably the mystery of ‘eat it and get poisoned,’ as they say.” “So it’s a mystery after all.” “You solve mysteries too, don’t you?” “Ha ha ha ha!” “I do give it a shot sometimes.” “But don’t you think it’s rather unbecoming of a philosopher to be so indifferent that you won’t even let me solve this Shimada mystery I’ve been working on?” “If you want to solve it, solve it.” “Even if you act so pompous about it, I am not the kind of philosopher who will bow my head.”

“Alright then, I’ll give you a half-baked solution for now and make you bow your head later.—You see, that koto player—”

“Yeah.” “I saw her.” “I just heard that.” “I see. Then there’s nothing more to say.” “Then there’s no need.” “No, that’s not good. Then I’ll talk.” “So yesterday, after I got out of the bath and was cooling off on the veranda with my clothes off—you want to hear this, right?—I casually surveyed the Kamogawa East scenery, thought ‘Ah, what a pleasant mood,’ then happened to look down at the neighboring house, and there she was—that girl had slid open a shōji screen halfway, leaning against the opened screen while watching the garden.”

“A beauty, eh?” “Ah, she is a beauty. Not as good as Miss Fujio, but seems better than Itokō.” “Is that so?” “If we leave it at that, it’s far too careless. That’s a shame—you should at least humor me by saying ‘I should’ve looked too.’” “That was a mistake; I should’ve looked too.”

“Ha ha ha ha! That’s why I’m telling you to come out to the veranda—I’ll show you!” “But the shoji screen’s closed, isn’t it?”

“It might open up soon.” “Ha ha ha ha! Ono might be waiting until the shoji opens.” “That’s right. I should’ve brought Ono to show him.”

“Kyoto is a good place for that sort of person to live.”

“Yeah, that’s pure Ono through and through.” “I told you to come get him, Chief, but he kept hemming and hawing until he never showed up.” “He’s likely claiming he’ll study over spring break.”

“How could he possibly get any studying done during spring break?” “With that attitude, he’ll never get any studying done. The real issue with scholars is their superficiality.” “That stings a little. I’m not exactly the most substantial person myself, you know.”

“No, mere literary scholars are too busy being intoxicated by the haze—dazed and making no effort to part it in search of essence—that’s why they lack substance.” “Intoxicated by haze? Philosophers must be saltwater drunks—all that brooding over needless things with bitter faces.” “As you saw when climbing Mount Hiei—a man who can pierce through to Wakasa is just a drunkard caught in sudden squalls.” “Ha ha ha ha! It’s strange because we’re all drunk in our own ways.”

Kōno’s black head finally lifted from the pillow at this moment. The air, which had been damply pressed down by glossy hair, rebounded elastically, causing the pillow’s position to shift slightly on the tatami mat. At the same time, the camel-hair lap blanket slipped down, turning inside out and folding in half. From beneath, a carelessly wrapped flat-quilted narrow belt around his waist appeared.

“Indeed, we must all be drunkards without a doubt,” declared Mr. Munegaki, who had been sitting formally at the pillow’s edge, as he promptly added his critique. The other man—his emaciated frame propped up by arms extended in two stages—supported his torso on his palms while glaring at the area around his own waist. “We certainly seem drunk. And you’re sitting so properly for once,” he remarked, glaring sharply at Mr. Munegaki from between long, single-lidded eyes. “But I’m perfectly sane, you know.”

“At least your posture remains sane.” “My mind’s perfectly sane too.” “Wearing a padded robe and kneeling formally—it’s like being drunk yet puffing yourself up because nothing seems amiss.” “That’s even more absurd.” “A drunkard ought to act like a drunkard.”

“I see. In that case, I’ll excuse myself,” said Mr. Munegaki, promptly sitting cross-legged.

“You’re commendable for not clinging to foolishness. Nothing’s more ridiculous than fools who fancy themselves wise.” “They say I accept advice as naturally as water flows—that’s me through and through.” “Even when you’re drunk, that makes you tolerable.”

“What about you, acting so cocky? You’re the sort who knows you’re drunk yet can’t even sit cross-legged or kneel properly.” “Well, you’re quite the restless soul,” Mr. Kōno laughed with a touch of loneliness. Mr. Munegaki, who had been talking animatedly with enthusiasm, suddenly turned serious. When Mr. Munegaki saw this smiling face of Mr. Kōno’s, he had no choice but to turn serious. Among countless faces and countless expressions, there are those that will inevitably penetrate to the core of one’s being. It was not because the facial muscles were vying to outdo each other in their dance. Nor was it because each strand of hair on one’s head generated lightning. Nor was it because the dam of tear ducts had burst open to add the appearance of copious tears. Mere intensity was like a hot-blooded youth pointlessly swinging his sword to slash the floor. It moved because it was shallow. It was a play at the Hongo-za.

Mr. Kōno’s laughter was not theatrical laughter. Through a conduit finer than a hair’s strand, an elusive surge of sentiment had barely seeped from his heart’s depths, casting an ephemeral shadow upon the light of this fleeting world. It differed from those expressions strewn about the thoroughfares. Should one crane their neck out and recognize this as the transient realm, they must at once retreat to the inner sanctum. The victor is whoever apprehends it before turning back. Fail to seize it, and you would never truly know Mr. Kōno in your lifetime.

Kōno’s smile was faint, soft, and rather detached. Within its restraint, within its transience, within its dissolution—Kōno’s entire life stood clearly revealed. Those who grasped the significance of this moment were his true kindred. To place Kōno amid clashing blades and declare “Ah, so this is the man!”—not even parent and child could claim such understanding. Siblings remain strangers. To first depict Kōno’s character through sword-drawn confrontations marks the work of an inept novelist. In the twentieth century, blade-crossing violence does not erupt without cause.

The spring journey was tranquil. The Kyoto inn was quiet. The two men were safe. They fooled around. In the meantime, Mr. Munegaki came to know Mr. Kōno, and Mr. Kōno came to know Mr. Munegaki. This is the world.

“Restless soul, are we?” said Mr. Munegaki as he began twisting the tassels of the camel-hair lap blanket, soon... “Are you going to stay a restless soul forever?” He repeated “restless soul” without looking at his companion’s face—like a question, like a soliloquy, as if speaking to the camel-hair blanket. “Even a restless soul can have resolve,” said Mr. Kōno, finally raising himself slightly and turning to face his companion. “It would be good if Uncle were still alive.”

“What? If Grandfather were alive, it might just cause more trouble.” “Hmm, well...” Mr. Munegaki drew out the ‘well.’ “In other words, if I just give the house to Fujio, that settles everything.” “So what will you do then?”

“I am a restless soul.” “So you’re truly a restless soul now?” “Yeah—whether I inherit the house or not makes no difference. Restless either way.” “But that won’t do. “Aunt would be troubled.” “Mother?” Mr. Kōno made a strange face and looked at Mr. Munegaki.

If I doubted—even I would deceive myself. Moreover, when others stood at crossroads of clashing interests and bore loss’s dust screen—such audacity defied measurement. When a close friend appraised my stepmother thus—did he judge from behind society’s mask or merely parrot surface observations? Even I couldn’t escape sensing some self-deceiving demon lurking within—though he was my dearest friend and paternal kin—I dared not rashly bare these secrets. Was Munegaki’s comment a sickle probing my heart’s depths regarding my stepmother? If he remained unchanged after seeing them—so be it—but were he sickle-wielding—who could guarantee he wouldn’t upend everything after extracting his desires? Or was his remark mere echo of guileless nature—blindly accepting her spoken words as gospel? Judging by his usual ways—likely so. Surely he wouldn’t—at her bidding—plumb my clouded heart’s abyss with weighted probes? Yet honesty makes one others’ tool. Even knowing it vile—though he’d not become her pawn—mightn’t he—from misguided goodwill—embrace her misread intentions and force open rancorous consequences prematurely? Regardless—I resolved not to broach unspoken matters.

The two men remained silent for a while. In the neighboring house, someone was still playing the koto. "Is that koto of the Ikuta school?" Mr. Kōno asked, posing an irrelevant question.

“It’s gotten cold—I think I’ll put on that fox-fur sleeveless robe or something,” Mr. Munegaki also said, changing the subject. The two were speaking at cross purposes.

As he opened the front of his tanzen robe, took down that peculiar vest from the staggered shelf above, and angled his body to slip an arm through, Mr. Kōno inquired.

“Is that sleeveless robe handmade?” “Yeah, the leather I got from a friend who went to China, but Miss Ito sewed the outer fabric on for me.” “It’s genuine.” “That’s well-made.” “Miss Ito, unlike Fujio, is practical by nature—that’s good.” “Listen now—” “If that one gets married, it’d be rather troublesome.” “Don’t you know any decent prospects?”

“A marriage prospect?” Mr. Munegaki glanced at Kōno but replied in a disinterested tone, letting his words trail off limply: “There might be some…” Mr. Kōno changed the subject. “If Miss Ito were to marry，Uncle would be troubled too.” “There’s no use worrying—you’ll be troubled eventually anyway．Instead of that，aren’t you going to take a wife?” “Me? But... I can’t provide for one.” “So if you just inherit the house as your mother says…”

“That’s no good.” “Whatever Mother says—I detest it.” “How peculiar.” “It’s because you remain ambiguous that Miss Fujio cannot marry either.”

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

Mr. Munegaki silently twitched his nose. “Don’t make me eat conger eel again.” “Eating nothing but conger eel every day has filled my stomach with tiny bones.” “Kyoto is truly a foolish place.” “Let’s head back already, shall we?”

“I could go back.” “If it’s just conger eel, there’s no need to go back.” “But your sense of smell is remarkably sharp.” “Do you smell conger eel?” “You bet I do.” “They’re grilling it away in the kitchen, aren’t they?” “If he’d had even that much intuition, the old man might not have had to die abroad.” “It seems the old man had a dull sense of smell.”

“Ha ha ha ha.” “By the way, I wonder if your uncle’s belongings have arrived yet?” “It must be about time they arrived.” “A man named Saeki from the legation should be bringing them. There’s probably nothing of value—maybe a few books.” “What about that watch?” “Ah, right.” “The watch he proudly bought in London.” “It will probably come.” “It’s the watch that became Fujio’s toy from her childhood.” “Once she got hold of it, she wouldn’t let go easily.” “She was fond of the garnet on that chain, you know.”

“Come to think of it, it’s an old watch.” “That’s right—Grandfather bought it when he first went abroad.” “Give me that watch from Uncle’s belongings.”

“I had thought so too.”

“When Uncle left for abroad this time, he promised to give this to you as a graduation gift when he returned.”

“I remember too.—Perhaps Fujio has taken it and is playing with it again by now…” “Can Miss Fujio and that watch ever be separated? Ha ha ha ha! No matter—I’ll take it anyway.”

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

IV

A line from Mr. Kōno’s diary stated:

“Those who see color do not see form; those who see form do not see essence.” Mr. Ono is a man who lives his life by color.

Another line from Mr. Kōno’s diary states: “The karma of life and death knows no end; the world of form reveals madness.” Mr. Ono is a man who resides in the world of form.

Mr. Ono was born in darkness. Some even whispered he was illegitimate. From his first day wearing narrow-sleeved kimonos to school, classmates tormented him. Dogs snarled wherever he wandered. Father died. When harsh winds blew hardest outside, Mr. Ono found no home awaiting his return. He became driftwood clinging to others' shores.

The algae at the water's bottom drifted through darkness, never knowing sunlight upon shores where white-sailed ships passed. Whether swaying right or bending left, it remained tormented by waves. One had only to avoid resisting each moment's flow. Once accustomed, even waves ceased to matter. No time remained to ponder their nature; why they struck so harshly never arose as question. Rising brought no improvement—fate merely declared its growth in shadowed depths. There it grew. Fate commanded daily motion; thus it moved. Mr. Ono had been that water-bottom algae.

In Kyoto, he was taken care of by Professor Kodō. He had Professor Kodō make him a kasuri-patterned kimono. He was provided a monthly stipend of twenty yen. He was occasionally taught from books. He learned to circle endlessly around Gion’s cherry blossoms. Gazing up at Chion-in’s imperial plaque, he grasped its towering height. He even began eating full adult portions. The algae at the water’s bottom finally rose to the surface, freed from the soil.

Tokyo was a place that dazzled the eyes. Those who maintained lifespans of a hundred years in the Genroku era lived shorter lives than those who spent three days in the Meiji era. Elsewhere, people walked on their soles. In Tokyo, they walked on tiptoes. They stood upside down. They moved sideways. The impatient ones came flying in. Mr. Ono whirled frenetically through Tokyo. After whirling about, when he opened his eyes, the world had transformed. Even rubbing his eyes changed nothing. To deem something strange was to acknowledge it had changed for the worse. Mr. Ono advanced without thought. Friends called him brilliant. Professors declared him promising. At his boarding house, voices chorused "Mr. Ono, Mr. Ono." Mr. Ono advanced without thought. Having advanced thus, His Majesty granted him a silver pocket watch. Floating algae bore white blossoms upon the water's surface. He remained unaware of his rootlessness.

The world is a world of color. If one savors this color, one has savored the world. The colors of the world grow more vivid to the eye in accordance with one’s own success. When vividness reaches the point of surpassing brocade, a life worth living is deemed precious. 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 essence’s savor and obsesses over square and round vessels is a man who knows not how to manage the foaming sake that overflows. However closely you examine it, the plate cannot be eaten. Sake untouched by lips loses its spirit. The formalist, embracing a bottomless cup of morality, crouches at the roadside.

The world is a world of color. They idly spoke of illusory flowers and called them mirror blossoms. The true aspect of suchness was a delusion concocted by those misshapen souls whom the world could not accept, to vent their unaccepted resentment in the realm of dark sweetness. A blind man stroked a tripod. It was precisely because one could not see color that one desired to investigate form. A blind person without hands did not even dare to stroke. To seek the essence of things beyond the senses was the act of a blind person without hands. On Mr. Ono’s desk, flowers were arranged. Outside the window, a willow swayed its green. At the tip of the nose, gold-rimmed glasses were perched.

To transcend the realm of brilliance and enter into simplicity was the natural order. We had once been called babies and made to wear red infant gowns. Most beings grew within paintings, aging from the Shijō school’s pale washes to the Ungaku school’s ink monochromes, until they finally grew intimate with coffins’ ephemerality. When I looked back, there was Mother, there was Sister, there were sweets, there were carp streamers. The more I looked back, the more resplendent it grew. Mr. Ono was of a different nature. Reversing the natural course, he had torn free from dark soil’s roots to drift toward bright shores where sun-pierced waves broke. Born at a pit’s bottom, it had taken twenty-seven years to draw nearer by degrees to that beautiful floating world. When he peered through time’s knothole at twenty-seven years of history, darkness deepened with distance. Yet along that path swayed a single crimson speck. In his early Tokyo days, he had yearned so fiercely for this crimson that revisiting frozen memories brought no weariness—peering again and again through time’s knothole, passing long nights and endless days (drizzly ones too) in wistful absorption. Now—the crimson had receded far. Moreover, its hue had faded much. Mr. Ono had grown lax in knothole-peering.

Those who had nearly plugged the knotholes of the past were content with the present. If the present was gloomy, he manufactured the future. Mr. Ono’s present was a rose. It was a rosebud. Mr. Ono had no need to manufacture the future. If he were to make all the budding roses bloom, that would naturally become his future. When he peered at the knothole of the future through his favored lens, the rose was already in bloom. If he reached out, it seemed he could grasp it. Someone said by his ear: "Hurry and grasp it." Mr. Ono resolved to write his doctoral thesis.

Is one made a PhD because the thesis is completed, or does the thesis come into being so that one may become a PhD? Unless one asks a PhD, one cannot know—but in any case, the thesis had to be written. It must not be an ordinary thesis; it absolutely had to be a doctoral thesis. Among scholars, the PhD was the most splendid hue. Every time he peered through the lens of the future, the characters "PhD" burned in golden flames. Beside the PhD hung a gold watch from the heavens. Below the watch swayed a red garnet like the flame of a heart. Beside it, Miss Fujio with black eyes extended a slender arm and beckoned. Everything was a beautiful painting. The poet’s ideal lay in becoming a figure within this painting.

Long ago, there was a man named Tantalus. It is written that as punishment for his misdeeds, he suffered cruel torment. His body was immersed in water up to his shoulders. Above his head, delicious-looking fruits hung heaped upon branches bent under their weight. Tantalus’s throat was dry. When he tried to drink the water, it receded. Tantalus was hungry. When he tried to eat the fruits, they retreated away. When Tantalus’s mouth moved one shaku forward, they too retreated one shaku. When he moved forward two shaku, they too retreated two shaku. Three or four shaku—let alone a thousand ri—even if he traversed them all, Tantalus remained perpetually hungry, his throat stayed parched. He was probably still wandering in pursuit of water and fruits even now.—Every time Mr. Ono peered through the tube of the future, he somehow felt like a subordinate of Tantalus. That was not all. At times, Miss Fujio put on a haughtily aloof air. At times, she shortened her long eyebrows as if pressing them down and glared fiercely. There were times when the garnet flared up, and within the flames, the figure of a woman vanished while being enveloped. There were times when the two characters for “PhD” gradually faded, peeled away, and darkened. There were times when the watch came crashing down from the distant heavens like a meteor and shattered. At that moment, there was a sharp snapping sound. Mr. Ono, being a poet, conjured up various futures.

Propping his cheek at the desk, behind the camellia flower that abruptly obscured the colored glass single-stem vase, Mr. Ono peered into his own future as was his custom. Among the many possible futures arrayed before him, today’s crop proved particularly meager.

“I want to give you this watch, but...” said the woman. Mr. Ono reached out his hand. “Please give it to me.” She slapped his hand away with a sharp smack of her palm. “How pitiful—it’s already promised.” “Then the watch won’t be included—but when you ask...” “Me?” “Of course I’m attached to the watch,” she said, turning away and walking off briskly.

Mr. Ono had constructed his future up to this point, but shocked by how excessively cruel it was, he tried to start anew from the beginning. As he lifted his chin that had begun to ache slightly, the shoji door slid open with a swish—"A letter for you"—and the maid left the sealed envelope behind.

When he saw the address inscribed in the Kōhō style—"Mr. Seizō Ono"—Mr. Ono suddenly tensed both arms and jerked his body back from the desk where he had been leaning. The camellia tube through which he peered into the future quivered, and a crimson petal fell soundlessly onto Rossetti’s poetry collection. The perfect future began to crumble.

Mr. Ono kept his left hand extended along the desk, his face tilted as he gazed at the sealed letter from a distance in his palm, yet he could not easily turn it over. Even without opening it, he could roughly guess its contents. It was precisely because it matched his expectations that he found it difficult to open. If opening it should prove his assumptions correct, that would indeed be beyond remedy. He had once asked a turtle: "Stick out your neck, and it gets struck." Though knowing he would be struck regardless, he retreated into his shell thinking, "If only it were possible..." Even at the brink of facing that inevitable blow, he wanted to keep his neck retracted for just that moment longer. In my view, Mr. Ono was a scholarly turtle momentarily evading reality's verdict. The turtle would stick out its neck sooner or later. Mr. Ono would undoubtedly turn over the envelope before long.

After gazing at it for a while, his palm began to itch with a tingling restlessness. Having indulged in momentary ease, he now wanted to flip it over and confirm—to make his fragile peace of mind still more secure. Mr. Ono resolutely placed the envelope upside down on the desk. From its reverse side emerged four stark characters: Inoue Kodō. The cursive script—bold strokes of ink lavished across the white envelope—leapt from the paper toward Mr. Ono’s eyes like rows of needle points thrust into his vision. Mr. Ono withdrew both hands from the desk as if obeying some unwritten law against meddling. Only his face remained angled toward the letter. But between desk and knees stretched a chasm one shaku wide—their connection severed. The hands he had retrieved now hung limp at his sides, as though they might slip free from his shoulders altogether.

Should he open it? Should he not? If someone were to come and tell him to open it, he would explain his reason for not doing so and thereby reassure himself. However, unless one could subdue others, one could not possibly subdue oneself. One who employs vague jujutsu cannot truly prove themselves a practitioner unless they first throw someone in the street. Weak arguments and weak jujutsu were similar things. Mr. Ono wished that his friend from Kyoto would come visit for a while.

The second-floor student began playing the violin. Mr. Ono had also been planning to begin violin lessons in the near future. Today, he felt no such inclination at all. That student seems so carefree—it’s enviable, he thought. ――Another camellia petal fell.

Holding the single-flower vase, he slid open the shoji screen and stepped out onto the engawa. He tossed the flower into the garden. He poured out the water while he was at it. The flower vase remained in his hand. In truth, he had nearly discarded the vase along with it. He stood on the engawa still clutching the vase. There stood a hinoki cypress. There rose a wall. Across the way loomed a two-story building. In the parched garden hung an umbrella to dry. Two fallen petals clung to the black rim of the snake-eye umbrella. Various other things lay about. Everything existed in utter meaninglessness. All was mechanical.

Mr. Ono dragged his heavy feet and entered the room again. He remained standing before the desk without sitting down. A knothole in the past opened swiftly, and the history of old stretched out slender and distant. Dark. Within that darkness, a single point suddenly burst into flame. It began to move closer. Mr. Ono suddenly bent at the waist, and no sooner had he stretched out his hand than he cut open the seal. “Respected Sir, As we enter this splendid season of verdant willows and blossoming flowers, I humbly rejoice to hear of your continued good health. I remain in robust health as ever, and as Sayoko is also in good spirits, I beg you to set your mind at ease. I beg to inform you that regarding the matter of relocating to the Tokyo area which I briefly mentioned last December, though progress was hindered thereafter by various circumstances, matters have now been satisfactorily resolved, and we have reached the stage of executing the move imminently. I humbly request your acknowledgment of this arrangement. Having vacated Tokyo twenty years ago and having spent no more than five or six days there during two subsequent visits, we remain entirely out of touch with our hometown’s affairs and unfamiliar with all matters therein. I fear we shall inevitably impose upon your kindness upon our arrival.

“Regarding the residence we have long inhabited, our neighbor Tsutaya has expressed their desire to take it over; though other consultations arose elsewhere, we had finalized arrangements with this party. We have sold all luggage and other cumbersome items here, and intend to relocate as lightly as possible. However, the single koto in Sayoko’s possession has been arranged to be transported to Tokyo in accordance with her own wishes. I humbly beg your kind understanding regarding the sentiments of women who find it difficult to abandon the old ways. “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.” Regarding matters pertaining to her future prospects, as I believe we are in general agreement, I shall refrain from further elaboration. Subsequently, I humbly wish to meet with you there and engage in earnest discussions.

“I trust your esteemed locale must be bustling during the Exposition. Though I should prefer to select the express night train for our departure, given reports of exceptional passenger numbers on said express, it may prove unavoidable to make one or two overnight stops en route before proceeding leisurely to the capital. The specific dates and times shall be communicated promptly once finalized. With this, I shall conclude for now in haste regarding the aforementioned matters.”

Having finished reading, Mr. Ono remained standing before the desk. The unrolled letter hung limply from his right hand, its edge inscribed with "Seizō-sama... Kodō" lying in undulating folds across two or three layers of the blue cashmere desk cover. Mr. Ono’s gaze traveled downward from his hands along the half-unrolled letter to where the desk cover’s white-dyed pattern lay. When his downward gaze reached its end, he had no choice but to shift his eyes and look at Rossetti's poetry collection. He gazed at the two crimson petals scattered across the poetry collection’s cover. Lured by the crimson hue, he tried to look at the colored-glass single-flower vase that should have been in the right corner. The single-flower vase was nowhere to be found. The camellias he had arranged two days prior had disappeared without a trace. The tube through which he had glimpsed a beautiful future was gone.

Mr. Ono sat down before the desk. As he languidly rolled up his benefactor's letter, an odd odor arose from within. A sort of aged, musty smell rose. It was the scent of the past. It was a fragrance that tugged at the hesitant tips of hairs striving to forget, binding present and past—connected to the verge of rupture along a slender edge—face to face.

If one traces backward through half a lifetime's history to the fragile tips of long ears of grain, the deeper one delves, the darker it grows. If this trunk now putting forth buds were truly alive, then rather than declaring there's no need for memory's life to pierce through—taking comfort instead in how the drill's force comes to a point at the ends of dead branches where no sap flows—it would be more cruel than merciful. The god Janus sees both behind and ahead with his two faces. The fortunate Mr. Ono possessed only one face. Having turned his back to the past, only a radiant future filled his vision. Turn around, and the north wind howled through barren wastes. Having barely managed to cut through this frozen realm just yesterday or today, from that icy place came something cold in relentless pursuit. Until now, forgetting had sufficed. Enveloped within the warm, vivid unfolding of tomorrow's promise, it would have been enough to push the past even one step further away each day. The living past lay quietly inlaid among dead yesterdays—though he feared it might stir, he'd soothed himself daily by retreating, assured it remained still, leaving only an endless panorama of retrospection where nothing shifted. But when he peered into this vessel of the past—assuming it would stay as it always had—something stirred within. As I struggle to cast off the past, the past draws near to me. It presses closer still. Surmounting tranquil fore and aft, surpassing withered left and right, it sways nearer like a lantern flame illuminating dark night—this moving thing approaches.

Mr. Ono began to pace around the room. Nature does not deplete itself. Before things reach their limit, something occurs. Monotony is the enemy of nature. Before Mr. Ono had even completed half a circuit of the room, the maid’s head appeared through the shoji screen.

“Sir,” she said with a smile. I couldn’t grasp 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 without reason upon seeing others are certain to have something they seek from them. This maid was undoubtedly seeking some form of compensation 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 unclear reply: “Uh, yeah.” The maid was disappointed again. The maid laughed so readily because Mr. Ono possessed such charm. To the maid, a guest without charm wasn’t worth half a penny. Mr. Ono was well aware of this dynamic. The very awareness of this had been what maintained the maid’s goodwill toward him until today. Mr. Ono was not the sort of man to carelessly forfeit even a maid’s goodwill.

"No two objects can occupy the same space simultaneously," an ancient philosopher once declared. For charm and anxiety to dwell simultaneously in Mr. Ono's mind would violate this philosopher's principle. Charm retreated and anxiety crept in. The maid had stumbled upon an ill-timed moment. Charm retreated and anxiety crept in. To consider charm a superficial polish while anxiety constitutes true essence marks one as a pseudo-philosopher. When the landlord entered, Charm reached an amicable settlement and surrendered its rented quarters to Anxiety. Nevertheless, Mr. Ono had been observed by the maid during this vulnerable interval.

“May I show them in?” “Yeah, I suppose.” “Shall I say you’re not at home?” “Who is it?” “Mr. Asai.” “Asai?” “Not receiving visitors?”

“I suppose so.” “Will you be unavailable?” “What... should I do, I wonder?” “Either way.”

“Should I meet him?” “Then I’ll show him in.” “Hey—wait.” “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. Once that becomes clear, there’s no difficulty at all. If you don’t want to, just use the "not at home" excuse. Mr. Ono was a man with the courage to use the "not at home" excuse, provided it didn’t hurt the other party’s feelings. The real trouble comes when you both want to meet and don’t want to meet—when you step forward only to retreat, retreat only to step forward, until even the maid starts mocking you.

There are times when you pass someone in the street. If both parties shift their paths slightly, they pass by and return to being complete strangers as they were before. But sometimes both will dodge to the same right or left side. When one tries to adjust their footing toward the opposite side, thinking this won't do, the other—deeming this equally unacceptable—shifts course the same way. Opposite directions clash head-on; realizing their mistake, they try to readjust—only for the other party to mirror their movement at the very instant. The two would attempt corrections only to be too late, then being too late would try again, swaying like a grandfather clock's pendulum in ceaseless indecision. In the end, both want to curse each other as indecisive bastards. Mr. Ono, who commanded such goodwill, had nearly been called an indecisive bastard by the maid.

At that moment, Mr. Asai entered. Mr. Asai was an old friend from their Kyoto days. Crushing his slightly askew brown hat in his right hand, he no sooner threw it onto the tatami mats than—

"Fine weather we're having," remarked Asai, settling cross-legged. Mr. Ono had completely forgotten about the weather. "It is nice weather." "Did you go to the exhibition?" "No, not yet." "You should go see it—it's really something. I went yesterday and wolfed down some ice cream." "Ice cream?" "Ah yes, yesterday was rather sweltering, wasn't it."

“This time I’m planning to go eat Russian cuisine. How about it—want to come along?” “Today?” “Yeah, today’s fine.” “Today’s a bit…” “You coming? If you study too much, you’ll get sick! Hurry up and get your doctorate already so you can snag yourself a beautiful bride!” “What nerve!” “Nah, nothing like that. I can’t get any studying done—it’s driving me crazy!” “It must be neurasthenia. You look pale.” “Oh... I do feel rather unwell.”

“I thought so. Miss Inoue’s worried—she says you should eat some Russian food soon and get yourself sorted out.” “Why?”

"Why? Because Miss Inoue is coming to Tokyo, I suppose."

“Is that so?” “What do you mean ‘Is that so?’ The notice must have come to your place, of course.”

“Did it come to your place?” “Yeah, it came. Didn’t it come to your place?”

“Well, it did come, but…” “When did it come?” “Just a short while ago.” “So she’s finally getting married, then?” “Don’t be ridiculous!” “You aren’t going through with it? Why?” “Why? Because there are rather complicated circumstances involved.”

“What circumstances?” “Well now, I’ll tell you about that properly later.” “I too have been greatly indebted to Professor Inoue—I’d do anything within my power for him.” “But marriage isn’t something you can just rush into however you please.”

“But there’s a promise involved, isn’t there?” “Well now—I’ve been meaning to tell you this for ages—truth is, I deeply sympathize with Professor Inoue.” “Naturally you would.” “We’ll discuss it properly when the Professor arrives.” “It’d cause problems if he keeps making unilateral decisions.” “Just how much has he been deciding alone?” “Seems he’s settled everything already, judging by the letter’s tone.” “That professor is rather old-fashioned.”

“Once he makes up his mind, there’s no changing it. He’s dead set in his ways.” “Lately, their household finances probably haven’t been doing too well either.” “What do you think? They probably aren’t that hard up.” “By the way—what time is it? Check your watch.”

“It’s 2:16.” “2:16? — So that’s the renowned Imperial gift watch?” “Ah.”

“You’ve managed something impressive there. I should have gotten one too. Having something like this really changes how people regard you, doesn’t it?” “I don’t think that’s true.” “No, it does. After all, His Majesty the Emperor himself guaranteed it—that makes it certain.”

“Are you heading out somewhere?”

“Yeah, since the weather’s nice, I’m going out. How about it? Want to come along?”

“I have some business to attend to—but let me walk out with you that far.”

After parting at the gate, Mr. Ono turned his steps toward the Kōno residence.

V

Upon taking a single step past the temple gate, the verdure of an ancient world assailed one’s shoulders abruptly from both sides. Natural stones of irregular shapes were laid in orderly rows one *ken* wide, their uneven surfaces leveled to form a path—only the footsteps of Mr. Kōno and Mr. Munegaki fell upon this carefully arranged trail.

From this side where the narrow straight path had yet to be fully traversed, at its end where they peered along the stones toward the distant opposite side, looking up revealed a temple complex. Thick wooden shingles curved inward from both sides like great wings gathered along a single steep central ridge, upon which perched yet another smaller roof extending its own diminutive wings. It appeared designed either for ventilation or illumination. Both Mr. Kōno and Mr. Munegaki simultaneously looked up at this sanctuary from its most picturesque lateral angle.

“Evident,” said Mr. Kōno, stopping his cane.

“That hall may be wooden, but it doesn’t look like it could be easily destroyed.”

“In other words, its form is skillfully constructed in that manner, I suppose.” “It might conform to what Aristotle called the ideal form.”

“It’s rather perplexing. — Never mind Aristotle, but isn’t it strange how all these temples here give off such a peculiar atmosphere?” “That’s different from appreciating boat-plank fences or sacred lantern aesthetics.” “Musō Kokushi built them, you understand.” “When I look up at that hall and feel this odd sensation—it must mean I’m becoming Musō Kokushi!” “Ha ha ha ha!” “Even Musō Kokushi could manage a bit of conversation!” “The only reason to wander such places is if you become Musō Kokushi or Daitō Kokushi.” “What does mere sightseeing achieve?”

“If Musō Kokushi had become part of the roof and lived into Meiji, that would’ve been perfect.” “Better than shoddy bronze statues any day.”

“Exactly—it’s perfectly clear.” “What?” “What do you mean ‘what’? The scenery of these temple grounds.” “Not a single curve.” “Utterly evident.” “Just like me.” “That must be why I feel this good whenever I enter temples, I suppose.”

“Hah, perhaps so.” “So if Musō Kokushi looks like me, then it’s not me resembling him—it’s him resembling me!” “Whatever—it’s fine. Anyway, let’s rest awhile,” said Mr. Kōno as he settled onto the stone bridge railing spanning the lotus pond. At the railing’s midpoint, a grand three-tiered pine gazed through three sun’s thickness of wood at the water below. Patches of moss sprouted pale blue across the stones, their ash-mixed purple hues sinking deep into the rock’s grain, while slender yellow shafts of withered lotuses stood straight—last year’s frost still piercing through mid-spring’s heart.

Mr. Munegaki took out a match, took out a cigarette, and discarded the hissing remnant into the pond water. “Musō Kokushi would never play such pranks,” said Mr. Kōno, carefully pressing both hands atop his cane at the tip of his chin. “That just makes him inferior to me.” “You should try imitating Master Munegaki for a change.” “You’d fare better as a bandit than a Master.” “Since diplomat-bandits sound rather odd, I’ll station myself honorably in Beijing instead.”

“An Oriental specialist diplomat?” “Oriental statecraft, you know.” “Ha ha ha ha!” “Someone like me would never suit the West.” “What do you think—if I trained properly, could I become like your grandfather?” “It’d be disastrous if you died abroad like Grandfather did.” “Ah, I’ll leave the rest to you—no trouble at all.” “What a nuisance.” “It’s not mere dying—I’d perish for the realm’s sake. That much should warrant your trouble.”

“I can barely manage myself alone as it is.”

“Fundamentally, you’re too self-centered. “Do you even have the concept of Japan in your head?” Until now, their earnestness had been veiled beneath a layer of jest. The cloud of jest finally cleared at this moment, letting earnestness rise up from beneath.

“Have you ever considered Japan’s destiny?” said Mr. Kōno, putting force into the tip of his cane and leaning his supported body slightly back. “Destiny is something for God to consider.” “If people work as people should, that’s all that matters.” “Look at the Russo-Japanese War.” “You think that just because a cold happens to heal, you’ll live a long life.” “Are you claiming Japan is short-lived?” Munegaki pressed.

“It’s not a war between Japan and Russia.” “It’s a war between races.”

“Of course.” “Look at America, look at India, look at Africa.” “That’s like saying since your uncle died abroad, I should die abroad too—that’s your logic.” “Proof over theory—everyone dies regardless.”

“Is dying the same as being killed?” “Most are killed without ever realizing it.” Mr. Kōno, having rejected everything, tapped the stone bridge with the tip of his cane and shrugged his shoulders with a shudder. Mr. Munegaki suddenly stood up.

“Look at that,” “Look at that hall.” “Isn’t it said that the monk Gōzan rebuilt that main hall with just one bowl of alms?” “And he died when he was around fifty—if that.” “If you don’t have the will to act, you can’t even stand a sideways chopstick upright.”

“Look beyond the main hall over there,” said Mr. Kōno, pointing toward the opposite direction while keeping his seat on the railing.

Through the temple gate doors that sliced the world into a cross-section as they swung open swiftly to either side—red things passed through, blue things passed through. A woman passed through. A child passed through. As spring in Saga waned, the people of Kyoto streamed vibrantly toward Arashiyama. "That's it," said Mr. Kōno. The two of them emerged once more into the world of color.

If you turned left at the gate of Tenryu-ji Temple, you reached Shakado Hall; if you turned right, you came to Togetsukyo Bridge. Kyoto possessed beauty even in its place names. They passed shops on both sides haphazardly displaying all manner of goods touted as local specialties, continuing their week-long journey in travel attire toward the station with feet attuned to wanderers' rhythms. Every soul they encountered belonged to Kyoto. Trains departing Nijo every half-hour to prevent the blossom season from growing quiet now disgorged their freshly arrived troops of handsome men and fair women toward Arashiyama's flowers.

“It’s beautiful,” said Mr. Munegaki, who had already forgotten the grand affairs of the world. There was no place where women adorned themselves in such finery as in Kyoto. Even the grand affairs of the world could not rival the allure of Kyoto women. “The people of Kyoto perform the Miyako Odori morning and evening.” “They lead such carefree lives.” “That’s why I say it’s Ono-like.”

"But the Miyako Odori is quite something." “Not bad.” “It’s got a certain vitality to it.” “No. When you look at that performance, there’s scarcely any sense of femininity. When women adorn themselves to that extreme, the ornamentation outweighs their humanity.” “Precisely—the logical extreme of that ideal is the Kyoto doll.” “Dolls, being mere mechanisms, lack that grating artificiality.”

“The ones who apply light makeup and stay active are the most human—and thus the most dangerous.” “Ha ha ha ha! Any philosopher would be dangerous. But when it comes to the Miyako Odori, even diplomats face no danger. I couldn’t agree more. It’s a relief we both came to visit such a safe place, I must say.” “The human element works best when the primary principle is active, but usually it’s the tenth principle that runs amok and makes everything tiresome.”

“Where do we stand in terms of principles?”

“When it comes to us—flawed as we are—we’re still higher-grade humans who don’t stoop to second or third principles.” “Is that all there is to it?” “Even trivial talk has its intrigue.” “How kind of you.” “What manner of action constitutes this first principle?”

“The first principle?” “The first principle doesn’t emerge unless you see blood.” “Now that’s dangerous.” “When you wash away frivolous notions with blood, the first principle emerges vividly." “Humans are such frivolous beings, I tell you.” “Your own blood, or someone else’s?”

Instead of replying, Mr. Kōno began examining the matcha tea bowls displayed at the shop. Were they handcrafted from kneaded clay? The three-tiered shelves stood fully occupied, every piece there looking utterly unremarkable.

“Such a clueless fool would stay hopeless even scrubbed with blood,” Mr. Munegaki pressed on. “This…” As Mr. Kōno lifted a tea bowl to examine it, Mr. Munegaki suddenly jerked his sleeve without apology, putting full force into the pull. The bowl smashed to pieces across the packed-earth floor.

“Like this,” said Mr. Kōno as he gazed at the broken fragments on the earthen floor. "Hey, did it break?" “Who cares if it broke? That thing’s not worth worrying about.” “Look over here. Quick.” Mr. Kōno stepped over the threshold of the earthen-floored area. "What?" he said, turning toward Tenryū-ji Temple. Beyond him, only the retreating figures of those Kyoto dolls were filing away.

“What?” Mr. Kōno asked again.

“They’ve already left.” “What a waste we’ve made of it.” “What left?” “That girl—” “That girl, you mean—” “The one next door.” “Next door?” “The owner of the koto.” “The girl you were so eager to see.” “I was going to show you, but you had to go fiddling with that worthless tea bowl.” “That’s such a waste.” “Which one was it?” “Which one? You can’t even see her anymore!” “It’s a shame about the girl, but this tea bowl has been utterly ruined.” “The blame lies with you.”

“One’s plenty.” “That bowl won’t improve no matter how you wash it.” “It’s a nuisance that won’t mend unless smashed proper.” “Nothing’s more disagreeable than tea masters’ tools.” “They’re all twisted.” “I’d gather every last tea vessel in creation and smash ’em to bits.” “Might as well break a couple more while we’re at it.” “Hmm... How many sen per piece?” The two paid for the bowl and came to the station.

The Kyoto train that carried merrymakers to the flowers turned back from Saga to Nijo. The one that did not turn back passed through the mountains to Tamba. The two bought tickets for Tamba and alighted at Kameoka. The rapids of the Hozu River were ordained to descend from this station. The water destined to descend still flowed gently before their eyes, forming an emerald-like lustrous scene. The banks spread open, and horsetails picked by village children grew there. The boatman brought the boat to the shore and waited for passengers.

“What a strange boat,” said Mr. Munegaki. The bottom was a single flat plank; the gunwale remained no more than a foot from the water. Rolling the tobacco tray onto a red blanket, the two took their seats a suitable distance apart. “If you move to the left, you’ll be just fine—the waves won’t reach you,” said the boatman. There were four boatmen. The foremost wielded a twelve-foot bamboo pole; the next two held oars on the right side; the one standing to the left similarly gripped a pole. The oars creaked with a grating sound. The oar’s neck—roughly hewn and flattened from oak, wrapped in thick wisteria vines, its remaining foot rounded into shape—was a handle they gripped with all their might in both hands. The swollen knuckles of their gripping hands—jet-black, with veins standing out like those on a pine twig—appeared to channel the pulsing force of their mighty rowing. The oar—its neck clamped by wisteria vines—stayed rigidly upright with each stroke, scraping against both the vines and the gunwale. The oar creaked with each stroke.

The shore undulated two or three times, driving the silent water relentlessly forward without pause. The layered currents carved their path onward; above them rose spring-clad mountains encircling Yamashiro like a standing screen. The compressed waters found no escape but to surge between looming cliffs. The sunlight that had glinted on their hats disappeared abruptly as the boat plunged into the mountain gorge. The Hozu Rapids awaited ahead.

“Here it comes!” said Mr. Munegaki, peering past the boatman’s figure at the narrowing gap between rocks some fifty meters ahead. The water roared. “I see,” said Mr. Kōno as he leaned out over the gunwale—just as the boat slid into the rapids. The two on the right abruptly eased their paddling through the waves. The oar drifted to rest against the gunwale. The one standing at the bow remained holding his pole horizontally. The boat, tilting and descending like an arrow, resonated through the seats set on the bottom with a thudding, staccato rhythm. By the time they realized it wasn’t breaking, they had already emerged from the rushing rapids.

When Kōno looked back where Mr. Munegaki pointed and said “That’s it,” white foam stretched a hundred meters—countercurrents and cascades clashing as they vied to snatch the valley’s faint sunlight into ten thousand glinting pearls.

“Magnificent!” declared Mr. Munegaki with great satisfaction. “Which do you prefer—Musō Kokushi or this?” “This beats Musō Kokushi any day.” The boatman was utterly indifferent. Unperturbed by the pine-clad crag that threatened to fall yet did not, they plied their oars forward and maneuvered their poles away. The currents wound through varied rapids. With each turn, a new mountain leapt out before them. The rapids—rocky mountains, pine-covered mountains, mixed-wood mountains—granted travelers no respite to tally their names before driving the boat onward to plunge into another torrent.

It was a large, round rock. Spared from moss accumulation’s bother, it bared its purple form to splattering spray that drenched its waist in spring’s chill; amidst crumbling verdure, it awaited the boat’s arrival. The boat charged forth, heedless of arrows or shields. Aimed straight for this massive rock, it surged forward. The water that swirled away—the other side split by stone—remained unseen. The riverbed’s depth, carved into plunging slopes—how many tiers did it hold? From where the passengers sat, the waves’ destination stayed an unfathomable mystery. Would it shatter against the rock, or be swept away to plummet with a thunderous crash into unseen depths?—The boat simply charged straight ahead.

“We’re gonna hit!” Mr. Munegaki cried, rising from his seat—just as the massive purple rock loomed over the boatman’s dark head. The boatman gave a guttural “Hngh!” as he put his back into the bow. The boat, with a force that could shatter it, plunged into the bulging belly of a wave-swallowing rock. The laid-down pole was taken up again, and as both hands rose high above the shoulders, the boat swung around with a groan. From the tip of the pole thrusting away from this beastly rock, skimming diagonally along its base with not a foot to spare, the boat plunged onward.

“This is definitely superior to Musō Kokushi,” Mr. Munegaki said as they descended. As soon as they finished descending the rapids, an empty boat came up from the opposite direction. They had to use poles; oars went without saying. After pulling back their fists desperately braced against the rocky edge, they pulled the boat back at full strength along the lengthy valley, following a thin towrope that slanted from their shoulders and grazed shadow-striped rocks. Along shores offering not an inch of space beyond the flowing water, they leapt onto stones, crawled over rocks, bending forward until their straw sandals wore through. Both hands hung limp, confined, merely dipping fingertips into the pouring whirlpool. Through generations straining with diamond-hard strength, the rocks had worn down naturally, forming terraces that securely cradled the soles of those who pulled onward. Laying long bamboo across rocks here and there—clattering against stone—was said to be a tactic to swiftly guide the towrope so it wouldn’t resist their momentum.

“It’s calmed down a bit, hasn’t it?” Mr. Kōno cast his gaze along both banks. High on the distant, sheer mountain where no foothold could be seen, a hatchet clanged rhythmically. A black shadow swept high across the sky. “Just like monkeys,” said Mr. Munegaki, craning his neck to gaze up at the peak. “One can do anything once accustomed,” his companion replied, shading his eyes to look. “Working like that all day, they must earn a decent amount.” “Do you think they earn even that much?” “Shall we call up and ask them?” said Mr. Munegaki. “This current is far too rapid. It allows no respite. Rushing without cease. Without such stretches here and there, it still wouldn’t flow properly.”

"I want to go faster still," said Mr. Munegaki. "When we slammed into that rock's belly earlier and made the turn—that was truly thrilling! I wish I could've taken the boatman's pole and steered us myself!" "If you were steering," Mr. Kōno retorted, "we'd both be enlightened buddhas by now."

“What nonsense! This is exhilarating. “Don’t you find this more thrilling than watching Kyoto dolls?” “Because all nature operates through fundamental principles.” “Then nature serves as humanity’s model?” “Nonsense! Humanity serves as nature’s model.” “So you remain steadfast in the Kyoto doll faction.” “Kyoto dolls are admirable. “They approach naturalness. “In a sense, they embody fundamental truth. “The difficulty lies in—” “What exactly is difficult?” “That typically proves problematic,” Mr. Kōno countered. “When things reach that state, there’s no solution. “That’s why models cease to exist.”

“The reason you find descending rapids exhilarating is because there exists a model to follow.” “You mean me?” “Exactly.” “So I’m a man of first principles then?”

“While descending the rapids, it’s the first principle.” “Once you’ve finished descending, you revert to being ordinary? Oh ho!” “Because humans translate nature before nature translates humans, the model ultimately resides within humanity itself.” “The exhilaration you feel when shooting rapids comes from your visceral excitement activating as the first principle and transferring to nature.” “That constitutes both the translation and interpretation of the first principle.” “When we speak of being kindred spirits, it must require our first principles operating in tandem.” “That would be its essential nature.”

“Have you ever truly been of one mind with another person?”

Mr. Kōno fell silent and stared at the boat's bottom. "Those who speak do not know"—so Laozi had expounded long ago. “Ha ha ha ha! So I’ve become of one mind with the Hozu River after all!” “Delightful, delightful!” Mr. Munegaki clapped his hands twice, thrice. The current wound between turbulent rocks left and right, embracing then splitting around them; waves in the Kōrin style—half translucent jade—drew fern-like curves as they surmounted the crag’s edge. The river had at last neared Kyoto. “Rounding that promontory brings us to Arashiyama,” said the boatman, thrusting his long pole inside the gunwale. Propelled by sounding oars, they slipped from the deep pool as if gliding; then the rocks to either side parted of their own accord, and the boat came to rest beneath Daibikaku.

The two men clambered up amidst a throng of pines, cherry blossoms, and Kyoto dolls. Slipping under the curtain of sleeves, when they emerged through the pines onto Togetsu Bridge, Mr. Munegaki once again tugged firmly on Mr. Kōno’s sleeve.

Using the twin-trunked red pine as a shield against the waves of the Ōi River and showcasing blossoms' bright shadows, at the reed-screened teahouse by the bridge's base rested a high shimada chignon. The melon-seed-shaped face crowned with an antiquated topknot—tolerated in this modern age if only briefly—could not withstand the wind as it faced the blossoms; eyes cast downward to avoid others' gazes, she contemplated the famed dumplings. In her lightly dyed figured silk overgarment, with knees properly aligned, the color of the kimono layered beneath remained unseen. Just the patterned collar that seemed to flare forth from her neckline immediately caught Mr. Kōno's eye.

“That’s it.”

“That one?” “That’s the woman who played the koto.” “That black haori must belong to her grandfather.”

“I see.”

“That’s not a Kyoto doll—it’s from Tokyo.” “Why?” “The inn’s maid said so.” A handful of drunkards, their revelry adorned with gourds, swung their arms and pushed from behind amidst the crowd’s uproarious laughter. Mr. Kōno and Mr. Munegaki let the people angling past sideways slip through.

The world of color was now at its zenith.

6

Her round face held a hint of sorrow. From the crisply standing collar fabric emerged a pale warbler-yellow orchid, its faint fragrance exhaling against her skin to spill over the wearer’s chest. Itoko was this kind of woman.

When indicating something to others, she used a single finger. When folding four fingers into her palm and extending her remaining index finger fully to point, her gesturing hand formed a single unmistakable line of clarity. Were one to splay all five fingers as if declaring "Look there!", even when accurately indicating directions, the sense of precision would grow dulled. Itoko was like five fingers aligned in perfect order. The impression conveyed could not be called mistaken. Yet it felt peculiar. To feel something wanting meant the pointing finger fell short; to have in excess meant it overreached through excessive length. Itoko was like five fingers spread simultaneously. It could not be deemed sufficient. Nor could it be judged excessive.

When a finger pointing at someone tapered slenderly as the flesh receded from its tip, the distinct sensation gradually gathered at the fingertip to form a focal point. Fujio’s fingers broke free from the crimson at their tips only to be sharpened into sewing needle points. The eyes of those who looked smarted all at once. Those who failed to grasp the essence did not cross the bridge. Those who grasped too well crossed the handrail. Those who crossed the handrail risked falling into the water.

Fujio and Itoko wage war between five fingers and needle points in the six-mat room. All conversation is war. Women’s conversation is most certainly war. “It’s been some time since we last met. How kind of you to visit,” Fujio said in her hostess role. “With Father being so busy all by himself, I’ve rather neglected my calls...”

“Aren’t you going to the exposition either?” “No, not yet.” “And Mukōjima?” “I haven’t been anywhere yet.” Fujio thought how anyone could remain so content staying always at home like this—each time Itoko answered, the shadow of a smile veiled the corners of her eyes.

“Do you have so many obligations?” “It’s nothing major, really…” Itoko’s answers generally trailed off halfway through. “It’s bad for you if you don’t get out a bit. Spring comes only once a year.” “Yes... I’ve been thinking the same, but...” “Though it comes once a year, if you die, wouldn’t this spring be your last?” “Ohoho! Dying would be so dreary, wouldn’t it?” Their conversation, pierced through by the character for 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 companion to the other side of the grave. Her companion hadn’t even known graves had another side.

"If my brother were ever to marry, I would leave the household," said Itoko. Domestic women give domestic answers. There exists nothing more pitiable than a woman resolved that she was born solely to fulfill men's practical needs. Fujio snorted inwardly. These eyes, these sleeves, this poetry and song—they belong not to the realm of pots and charcoal scoops. A beautiful shadow moving through a beautiful world. When branded with those two characters—'practical utility'—women, beautiful women, lose their true essence and suffer the ultimate indignity.

“When does Mr. Ichiro intend to take a wife?” Her words alone skimmed the surface as they advanced.

Before replying, Itoko raised her face and looked at Fujio. The war was gradually beginning. "I suppose he would take her as his wife whenever someone comes forward."

This time, before replying, Fujio fixed her gaze intently on Itoko. The needle, poised to strike from the opposite direction, refused to surface in her eyes. "Ohoho! Any splendid wife could be found immediately."

“If that were truly so, it would be well enough,” Itoko responded with a half-tangled retort. Fujio needed to make a tactical retreat. “Don’t you have anyone in mind? If Mr. Ichiro decides to take a wife, I will search in earnest.” Whether the birdlime pole had reached its mark remained unclear, but the bird seemed to have indeed escaped. However, it was necessary to advance one more step and observe.

“Yes, please go ahead and look—as if you were my sister.”

Itoko had slightly overstepped a critical point. Twentieth-century conversation is an ingenious form of art. If you don’t engage, you’ll miss the point. Overstep and you’ll be struck down. “You’re the one who’s like an older sister,” Fujio retorted, severing the thread of inquiry with a snap and flinging it back inverted. Itoko had not yet realized. “Why?” She tilted her head.

When an arrow misses its mark, the fault lies with the archer's poor technique. To feign no reaction when struck betrays gracelessness. Women find gracelessness more mortifying than technical failure. Fujio bit her lower lip faintly. Having pressed this far, Fujio—who recognized only victory—could not possibly stop now.

“You don’t want to become my older sister,” she said with feigned innocence. “Oh!” A startled look appeared on Itoko’s cheeks. The enemy sneered inwardly—*Take that!*—and withdrew.

The maxim established through consultation between Mr. Kōno and Mr. Munegaki states: Those who fail to act upon the primary principle cannot attain mutual understanding of innermost thoughts. The younger sisters of both men were waging war on the outer perimeter of their innermost thoughts. Was it a war that drew one into those innermost thoughts, or a war that expelled one from them? The philosopher characterized twentieth-century conversation as a war that clouds mutual understanding of innermost thoughts.

Just then, Mr. Ono came. Mr. Ono, pursued by the past, circled round and round within his rented room. When no matter how many times he circled it seemed impossible to escape, he met an old friend and attempted to mediate between past and present. The mediation seemed both achieved and unachieved, so he himself remained in a state of unease. He had no courage, of course, to steady his nerves and confront what pursued him. Mr. Ono had no choice but to rush toward the future. There is a proverb about hiding in the emperor’s sleeve. Mr. Ono sought to hide in the sleeve of the future.

Mr. Ono came staggering in. It is regrettable that the meaning of "staggering" proves difficult to explain.

“What’s the matter?” Fujio asked. Mr. Ono had not yet commissioned the composed crested robe to drape over his anxieties. The aforementioned philosopher had once stated that all people of the twentieth century should prepare two or three of these crested robes each.

“You look terribly pale,” said Itoko.

It was pitiful how this dependent future reversed its halberd to dig up the past. "I haven't slept properly these past few days." "So," said Fujio. "What's wrong?" Itoko asked. "You've been working on your thesis lately—that must be why, isn't it?" Fujio blended answer and question in her phrasing. "Yes," Mr. Ono replied, grasping at this passing boat of an excuse.

If told to board any boat, Mr. Ono could not resist. Most lies were boats at the ferry landing. If there was a boat, he boarded it.

“So,” Itoko answered lightly. No matter what thesis he might write, domestic women had no part in it, she thought. Domestic women only concerned themselves with pallor. “Even after graduating, you’re still so busy.” “Since you received the silver watch upon graduating, you’ll now obtain a gold one through your thesis.” “How nice.” “You do agree, don’t you? Don’t you agree, Mr. Ono?”

Mr. Ono smiled. "In that case, you wouldn't go sightseeing to Kyoto with my brother and Mr. Kōno here—my brother's far too carefree." "I think it'd do him good to lose some sleep." "Hohohoho! Even so, he's better than my brother, don't you think?" "You have no idea how much better Mr. Kōno is," Miss Itoko blurted out before suddenly catching herself and crumpling her crepe-silk handkerchief into a ball on her lap.

“Hohohoho!”

From between her moving lips glimmered the golden line adorning the corner of her front tooth. The enemy had fallen neatly into my trap. Fujio sounded her second cry of triumph.

“Have you still not received any word from Kyoto?” Mr. Ono inquired this time. “No.” “But you’d think at least a postcard would have come by now.” “But people do say he’s a loose cannon, don’t they?” “Who does?” “Look, my mother said that the other day, didn’t she?” "They’re both loose cannons—especially Munegaki is a huge one, she said." “Who does?” “Your aunt?” “They’re plenty enough as loose cannons.” “So if we don’t quickly find him a bride, I can’t help worrying about where he might fly off to.”

“You should hurry up and get him married off.” “Don’t you agree, Mr. Ono?” “Why don’t we find him a suitable match together?”

Fujio looked at Mr. Ono with meaningful intent. Mr. Ono’s eyes met Fujio’s, trembling intensely. “Yes, let’s arrange a good one for him,” said Mr. Ono, taking out his handkerchief and lightly stroking his thin mustache. A faint fragrance wafted through the air. They say strong ones are vulgar.

“You must have quite a few acquaintances in Kyoto.” “You should let Mr. Ichi handle matters in Kyoto.” “I hear Kyoto has many beauties, isn’t that right?” Mr. Ono’s handkerchief faltered slightly. “Actually they aren’t beautiful at all.—You’ll understand if you ask Mr. Kōno when he returns.” “Would my brother really say such things?”

“Then ask Mr. Munegaki.” “My brother reports there are a great many beauties.” “Has Mr. Munegaki visited Kyoto before?”

“No, this is his first time going, but he did send a letter.” “Oh, then he isn’t a loose cannon after all.” “So the letter came?” “Oh, it’s just a postcard.” “He sent a Miyako Odori postcard, and on the margin he wrote that all the women in Kyoto are beautiful.”

“Yes. “Are they really that beautiful?”

“Somehow there are so many pale faces lined up that I can’t tell them apart at all. If you just look, they might seem nice, though...” “Even if you just look, there’s nothing but pale faces lined up. They may be beautiful, but their expressions are lifeless—not very appealing.” “And there’s more written here.” “That’s quite unlike someone lazy. What?” “‘The neighbor’s koto is better than yours,’ he wrote.” “Well now,” he chuckled dryly, “Mr. Ichi hardly seems qualified to critique koto playing.”

“He was taking a jab at me, wasn’t he? Because my koto playing is poor.” “Ha ha ha ha! Mr. Munegaki can be quite wicked, can’t he?” “Moreover, he wrote that she’s a greater beauty than you.” “How hateful!” “Mr. Munegaki is always so brutally direct about everything.” “Even I am no match for Mr. Munegaki.” “But he did praise you.”

“Oh my, what’s this?” “She’s a greater beauty than you, but not as good as Miss Fujio,” she quoted. “Oh, how dreadful of him!”

Fujio’s eyes glittered with mingled pride and scorn as she gracefully drew her head back. Amidst what seemed like undulating 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 once more at that moment. Itoko did not comprehend the meaning.

“Mr. Ono, is there an inn called Tsutaya in Sanjo?” The man who had forgotten himself in fathomless black eyes, utterly absorbed in a clinging future, now plunged into the past with the suddenness of a flipped door panel. To flee the pursuing past meant finding himself amid shadows of violet-tinged smoke billowing from sleeve censers—no moment remained to discern this ethereal pleasure, nor even a name for such craving. In that abrupt collision of gazes, unbound dreams shattered awake, and he was hurled backward into the past. There are snakes in the grass; one cannot lightly tread upon verdure.

“What’s this about Tsutaya?” Fujio turned to Itoko. “Well, they say Mr. Kōno and my brother are staying at that Tsutaya Inn.” “So I wondered what kind of place it was and decided to ask Mr. Ono.” “Do you know about it, Mr. Ono?” “In Sanjo? The Tsutaya Inn in Sanjo? Let me see… I believe there was one…” “The Tsutaya Inn in Sanjo.” “Well... I do seem to recall there being one, but...” “Then it isn’t such a famous inn after all,” Itoko said innocently, looking into Mr. Ono’s face.

“Yes,” Mr. Ono answered plaintively. Now it was Fujio’s turn. “Even if it’s not famous, isn’t that perfectly fine? In the back room, a koto can be heard—though with my brother and Mr. Ichi, it’s no good. Mr. Ono would surely like it. On a quiet day with spring rain softly falling, wouldn’t it be poetic to lounge about listening to a beauty play the koto in the neighboring inn?”

Mr. Ono was uncharacteristically silent. Even his eyes refused to turn toward Fujio as he stared vacantly at the kerria blossoms on the floor. “That sounded lovely,” Itoko answered on his behalf. Those ignorant of poetry had no right to meddle in matters of taste. If one were content to seek mere approval like “How lovely” from a domestic woman, then from the very start, they should never have mentioned the spring rain, the back room, or the sound of the koto. Fujio was dissatisfied. “Imagining it made for an interesting painting. “What kind of place should it be?”

He found himself utterly unable to comprehend why such a question would arise from a domestic-minded woman. There was nothing to do but remain silent, deeming it unnecessary to speak. Mr. Ono had no choice but to speak. "What kind of place do you think would be ideal?" "Me? "As for me... I'd prefer a rear second-floor room—with an encircling veranda offering glimpses of the Kamo River—though I suppose even seeing the river from Sanjo would suffice." "Yes, certain vantage points afford such views."

“Are there willows along the banks of the Kamo River?”

“Yes, there are.” “Those willows appear hazy in the distance. Above them rises Higashiyama—Higashiyama, that beautifully rounded mountain—looming through the mist like some azure attendant. And in that haze, faintly visible—a five-storied pagoda—what do they call that tower?” “Which tower?” “Which tower? The one you can see at the right edge of Higashiyama—isn’t it there?” “I don’t quite recall,” Mr. Ono said, tilting his head.

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

The poetess’s daydream was shattered by this single remark. Domestic women might as well have been born to smash beautiful worlds into pieces. Fujio knit her brows slightly. “How terribly urgent of you.” “Oh, but I’m finding it quite fascinating.” “And then what becomes of that five-storied pagoda?” There was no reason for the five-storied pagoda to matter at all. There were those who would send sashimi back to the kitchen after merely looking at it. The sort who fussed over five-storied pagodas were utilitarian types raised to find sashimi unbearable unless consumed.

“In that case, let’s drop the five-storied pagoda.”

“It’s interesting.” “The five-storied pagoda is fascinating!” “Don’t you agree, Mr. Ono?”

When someone’s displeasure was provoked, society invariably demanded that another person be offered as apology. The queen’s wrath could not be appeased with offerings of pots, kettles, and miso strainers. They had to enshrine the useless five-storied pagoda amidst the haze like a festering boil. “We’re done with the five-storied pagoda.” “What could a five-storied pagoda possibly do, I ask you?”

Fujio's eyebrow twitched. Itoko wanted to cry.

“Did I offend you—it was my fault.” “Really, the five-storied pagoda is fascinating.” “It’s not empty flattery, I assure you.”

The more you stroke a hedgehog, the more it raises its quills. Mr. Ono had to do something before things came to a head.

Bringing up the five-storied pagoda again would only provoke further anger. The sound of the koto was something he had to avoid. Mr. Ono pondered how best to mediate. While diverting the conversation from Kyoto would serve his purposes, cutting it off too abruptly without proper pretext would earn him contempt like Miss Itoko. He needed to follow their chosen topic while steering its development in a painless direction. The silver watch tactic seemed rather too difficult. “Mr. Ono, you understand, don’t you?” Fujio interjected. Itoko had been dismissed as obtuse. His reason for mediating between the women stemmed from distaste at witnessing an unseemly war of words unfold before him. When sparks clashed between brows fine as brocade, there was no need to intervene if one deemed the opponent unworthy. The courtesy of including the excluded lasted only so long as they persisted in entanglement. If one stayed quiet, being excluded or scorned bore no immediate consequence to one’s interests. Mr. Ono found it unnecessary to consider Itoko further. So long as he harmonized with Fujio—who had taken command—no misstep could occur.

“Of course I understand—the life of poetry stands firmer than fact. Yet how many in this world fail to grasp such truths,” he said. Mr. Ono held no contempt for Itoko; he had simply prioritized keeping Fujio pleased. Moreover, his answer contained truth—a truth that weighed cruelly upon the vulnerable. For poetry’s sake and love’s, Mr. Ono dared make such sacrifices. Moral principles cast no light upon the weak, leaving Itoko adrift in unease. Fujio, meanwhile, felt her heart at last grow light.

“Well then, shall I try telling you the rest?” To curse someone is to dig two graves. Mr. Ono absolutely had to answer “Yes.”

“Yes.” “Beneath the second floor lay three stepping stones arranged diagonally. Beyond them stood a wooden well frame, where clusters of small cherry blossoms bloomed so thickly that their petals would flutter down at the bucket’s slightest touch—threatening to spill into the well itself.…”

Itoko listened in silence. Mr. Ono also listened in silence. The cherry-blossom-hazed sky gradually darkened. Heavy clouds piled upon one another, pressing down gloomily on Yayoi. The day gradually darkened. Five shaku away from the sliding-door compartment, at the edge of the sleeve-shaped fence, shide-adorned kobushi magnolias stood with an eerie hue. Peering through the grove of trees, one could occasionally glimpse two or three threads of rain appearing in intermittent streaks. No sooner had they appeared diagonally than they vanished. It could not be perceived as falling from the sky, nor could it even be imagined as descending to the earth. The thread’s life spanned barely a little over a shaku.

One’s surroundings shifted one’s state of mind. Fujio's imagination deepened along with the darkening sky.

“You’ve had occasion to view the shimmering cherry blossoms from the second-floor railing before,” she said. “No, not yet.”

“On a rainy day—” “Oh—it seems to be coming down a bit now.” She looked toward the garden. The sky grew even darker.

“And then... Behind the shimmering cherry blossoms is Kennin-ji Temple’s fence, and beyond the fence you can hear the sound of a koto.” The koto finally emerged. Itoko understood. Mr. Ono thought this. “From the second-floor railing, if you look down, you can see the neighboring garden in its entirety.—Shall I also tell you about how that garden is laid out?” “Ohohoho!” Fujio laughed shrilly. A cold thread glinted as it grazed the kobushi magnolia flowers. “Ohohoho, how dreadful—it’s gotten rather dark, hasn’t it?” “The blossom-hazed sky seems ready to conjure phantoms, doesn’t it?”

The dark clouds that had drawn this near began to transform into slender threads. One thread swiftly passed through the grove; immediately after, another came chasing. As one watched, several threads swiftly passed through together. The rain gradually intensified.

“Oh my, it looks like it’s going to start pouring, doesn’t it?”

“I must excuse myself; it’s starting to rain.” “Forgive me for interrupting your conversation.” “It was very fascinating.”

Itoko stood up. The conversation dissolved into the spring rain.

Seven

A match was struck briefly, and the flame vanished into darkness. When the layers of multicolored brocade had been fully unfurled, they formed a border of unadorned plainness.

The springtime pursuits came to an end for the two young men.

Those who wear fox-sleeved robes and traverse the realm ascend the homeward path together with those who carry diaries in their bosoms bearing centuries of sorrow.

Covering the ancient temples, ancient shrines, sacred groves, and Buddha-adorned hills, Kyoto’s day—which comprehended no haste—drew to a close. A world-weary evening. Upon all things that vanished, only stars remained—and even they did not shine distinctly. Even as they twinkled, they began to melt thickly into the lazy sky. The past stirred from these slumbering depths.

In one person’s life there exist a hundred worlds. At times one enters the world of earth; at times one moves into the world of wind. At times one bathes in bloody rain within the world of blood. A compact sphere that condenses one’s world into palm-sized dimensions, and another sphere blending clarity with turbidity—layer upon layer interlinking—bring to life a thousand distinct real worlds for a thousand people. Each world sets its center at the intersection of cause and effect, drawing its due circumference now to the right, now to the left. The circle drawn from the center of wrath moves swift as flight, while the circumference swinging forth from the center of love burns trails of flame through the void. Some pull the threads of morality to move; others hint at circles of deceit as they revolve. When worlds collide and scatter chaotically in all directions—vertically, horizontally, front and back, in every dimension—the guests of Qin and Yue here share the same boat.

Mr. Kōno and Mr. Munegaki, their springtime pursuits having run their course, returned east. Professor Inoue Kodō and Sayoko roused their slumbering past and journeyed east. The two separate worlds unexpectedly crossed paths on the 8 p.m. night train.

When my world and my world clash, there are times when one commits seppuku. There are times when one self-destructs. When my world and another world clash, there are times when both collapse. There are times when they shatter and scatter. Or there are times when they trail a fired arrow and heat, parting ways within the infinite void. If a ferocious clash were to occur once in a lifetime, I would be the protagonist of a self-originated tragedy without ever taking the stage for its final curtain.

The character bestowed by Heaven leapt into action for the first time in the primary sense. The worlds that had collided on the eight o'clock night train were not so violently opposed. Yet had their connection been merely a fleeting encounter of sleeves meeting and parting—beneath this star-laden spring night in Shichijo, its very name grown desolate—there would have been little need for such fierce collision between their worlds. A novel sculpts nature. Nature itself cannot become a novel.

The two worlds collided within the two-hundred-ri-long train—ceaseless yet discontinuous, like a dream, like an illusion. The two-hundred-ri-long train remained utterly indifferent—whether it carried oxen or horses, how it whisked away the destinies of which people eastward. The iron wheels, fearing no worldly consequence, turned with a heavy clatter. What followed was a resolute thrust into darkness. It bundled uniformly together those who waited with forlorn faces to reunite after separation, those displeased to depart and return, those seasoned in travel who heeded no Confucian teachings—treating them all as clay dolls. Though the night itself remained unseen, it vigorously spewed black smoke.

Through the sleeping night, all living beings moved toward Shichijo by the light of lanterns. When the brake handle lowered, the black shadows suddenly brightened and entered the waiting room. Black shadows emerged one after another from the darkness. The station concourse became filled with living black shadows. The remaining Kyoto must surely be quiet, one imagined.

Gathering Kyoto’s vitality at the single point of Shichijo, the train ceaselessly spewed smoke to thrust these collected energies—a thousand and two thousand worlds of activity hastily bundled—toward bright Tokyo by dawn. The black shadows began to surge. The clustered mass broke apart into scattered points. The points moved right and left. After a while, with a deafening noise, they proceeded to clatter the train car doors shut one after another. Suddenly, the platform gaped open and empty, as though it had swept away all present. Only the large clock inside the window caught the eye. Then a whistle sounded in the distance behind them. The train clattered into motion. Unaware of how their worlds might interweave, plunging forward through the dark—Mr. Kōno, Mr. Munegaki, Professor Inoue Kodō, and the lovely Sayoko—all rode together in this train car. The unknown train clattered onward with relentless turns. Four strangers, while clashing their four different worlds, entered the dark night.

“It’s quite crowded in here,” Mr. Kōno remarked, glancing around the compartment. “Yeah, everyone from Kyoto must be taking this train to see the exposition.” “They really packed in, huh?” “Exactly. The waiting room was like a black mountain.” “Kyoto must feel lonely by now.” “At this hour...” “Ha ha ha! Truly.” “It’s a truly quiet place.” “It’s strange how even those who stay in such a place still move about.” “Even so, they must still have various things to attend to.”

“No matter how quiet it may be, there will be those being born and those dying,” Mr. Kōno said as he placed his left knee over his right. “Hahaha! Is being born and dying what you call errands? The parent and child living next to Tsuya-ya—well, they’re that sort of bunch. They live quite quietly, I tell you. They don’t even talk. It’s strange they’re saying they’ll go to Tokyo like that.” “They must be going to see the exposition.”

"No, I hear they're closing up their house and moving." "Oh? When?" “I don’t know when.” “I didn’t ask the maid that far.” “That girl will probably get married someday too,” Mr. Kōno muttered as if to himself. “Ha ha ha ha! She probably will,” Mr. Munegaki laughed as he placed his pilgrim’s bag on the luggage rack and settled into his seat. The other man turned half his face away and gazed out through the windowpane. Outside was nothing but darkness. The train unapologetically plunged through the darkness. There was only a roaring sound. Humans are powerless.

“It’s really moving fast, isn’t it? I wonder how many miles per hour we’re going,” said Mr. Munegaki, sitting cross-legged on his seat. “I can’t tell how fast we’re going when it’s completely dark outside.” “Even if it’s dark out, we’re still moving fast!” “I can’t tell because there’s nothing to compare it to.” “Doesn’t matter if you can’t see—it’s still fast.”

“Can you tell?” “Yeah, I can tell,” Mr. Munegaki boasted, adjusting his cross-legged posture. The conversation broke off again. The train continued to gain speed. The hat someone had placed on the opposite shelf remained tilted, its mountainous crown trembling. The attendant occasionally passed through the compartment. Most passengers sat facing each other, watching one another’s faces.

“It’s definitely fast, I tell you,” said Mr. Munegaki, initiating conversation again. Mr. Kōno was half-asleep. “Huh?” “No matter what—it’s fast.”

“I see.” “Yeah—it’s fast.”

The train plunged onward with a roar. Mr. Kōno merely smirked faintly.

“The express train feels invigorating. Without this speed, I wouldn’t feel like I’m truly aboard!” “Isn’t this superior even to Musō Kokushi?” “Ha ha ha ha! It’s functioning through primary principles, isn’t it?”

“It must be quite different from Kyoto’s trams.” “Kyoto’s tram? That thing’s surrendered! Doesn’t even reach the tenth principle! Marvel they keep it running at all.” “Because there are people who ride them.”

“Just because there are people who ride them—that’s excessive.” “Yet I hear their installation was world-class!” “That can’t be right.” “They’re far too rudimentary to qualify as world-class.” “But if their installation was world-class, then their stagnation must be equally world-class.” “Ha ha ha! Kyoto preserves its equilibrium.” “Exactly. They’re a historic tramway site—the Golden Pavilion of streetcars. Though originally, ‘ten years as one day’ was meant as praise.” “A tramway landmark.” “The Golden Pavilion of trams.” “The phrase ‘ten years as one day’ was intended as commendation—originally.” “Doesn’t a certain verse say, ‘A thousand li from Jiangling returned in a single day’?”

“A hundred ri amidst ramparts.” “That’s Saigō Takamori.” “I see. I thought there was something strange about that.”

Mr. Kōno withheld his response and fell silent. The conversation broke off again. The train plunged onward with its customary roar. Their world faded away, rocked in the darkness for a time. At the same time, the world of the remaining two appeared beneath a lamp that moved, illuminating the elongated night like a thread.

Fair-skinned and born under the shadow of a tilting moon, she was called Sayo. In their modest Kyoto residence where parent and child lived motherless, five years had passed since they began hanging Obon lanterns. That autumn—the first in many years—she prepared to welcome her deceased mother’s spirit with hemp stalks from Tokyo, her pale hands folded properly within the parted sleeves of her long kimono. The sorrow of all things gathered upon the shoulders of humble folk. Surging anger slipped into emotion’s hem through silk’s supple caress.

Those arrogant in purple beckoned; those steeped in yellow’s deep passion pursued. The springs of east and west, linked by two hundred ri of iron rails, ran through the long night along a single thread of desire—"Love alone is truth!"—their trailing tresses trembling as they stitched through the darkness. The past five years were a dream.

The old dreams—stained crimson by the dripping momentum of a painter’s brush that pierced through obscurity—seeped deep into memory’s abyss, appearing vividly dyed even in moments that inverted the past. Sayo's dream was clearer than life itself. Sayo carried this vivid dream eastward aboard a lone black train, warming it against the lingering chill of spring. The train, carrying its dream, ran single-mindedly eastward. The person carrying a dream moved forward, determined not to drop it, clutching fiercely to that burning thing. The train charged onward single-mindedly. It plunged through fields of green, pierced mountain clouds, and charged onward through star-filled nights. The person who held a dream, while holding it and running, was attempting to detach the bright dream from the distant darkness and cast it before reality. As the train ran on, the boundary between dream and reality drew nearer. Sayo’s journey ceased upon reaching a boundary where vivid dream and vivid reality abruptly met, becoming indistinguishable. The night was still deep.

The professor seated beside her harbored no such significant dream. Each day he grasped the sparse beard whitening beneath his jaw, trying to recall the past. The past had withdrawn twenty years deep and did not easily emerge. In the vast red dust, something stirred. Whether they were people, dogs, trees, or grass—even that much remained indistinct. A person’s past became a true past only when it became indistinguishable between people and dogs and trees and grass. The greater the lingering attachment one feels toward that time when my clinging self was coldly abandoned, the more people and dogs and grass and trees descend into chaos. Professor Kodō gripped his salt-and-pepper beard firmly.

“How old were you when you came to Kyoto?” “It was right after I left school, so it must have been the spring when I was sixteen.”

“Then, this year would be...” “It’s the fifth year.” “So five years already, eh? Time flies—still feels like yesterday,” he grunted, tugging his beard again. “You took me to Arashiyama when I arrived, didn’t you? With Mother.” “Ah yes! The blossoms hadn’t properly bloomed that year. Arashiyama’s changed quite a bit since those days. Don’t think they’d even established their famous dumplings yet.” “Oh but they had! We ate them right by Sangenjaya, remember?”

“Ah, right.” “I don’t remember it well.” “Look, don’t you remember how you laughed when Mr. Ono kept eating only the green ones?” “Ah yes, Ono was there back then.” “Your mother was healthy too.” “Ah, I never imagined she would pass away so soon.” “There’s nothing as incomprehensible as humans.” “Ono must have changed quite a bit since then.” “After all, it’s been five years since I last saw him…” “But since he’s quite well now, that’s perfectly fine.” “That’s right.” “He’s become quite robust since coming to Kyoto.” “When he first arrived, his face was quite pale, and he seemed perpetually nervous about something, but as he grew accustomed, he gradually became composed…”

"He has such a gentle nature, you know." “He’s gentle.” “He’s too gentle.” “But graduating with honors and receiving the silver watch—well, that’s commendable. People do look after others, don’t they.” “Even a good-natured man like that—leave him unattended like that, and who knows what depths he might sink to.” “Truly.”

The vivid dream began circling within her chest. It was no dead dream. Breaking free from memories deeply carved over five years at their depths, it leapt forth into the immediate present. The woman fixed her gaze rigidly upon the dream scenes pressing before her eyes—so vivid they verged on overwhelming—viewing them from right and left, front and back, above and below. One whose heart becomes seized by dreams forgets the beard of their aged parent. Sayoko fell silent. “Ono will come to meet us at Shinbashi.”

“He will certainly come.”

The dream leaped again. Even as someone suppressed its leaping while being rocked through the depth of night, it raced through the darkness. The old man released his hand from his beard. He soon closed his eyes.

Upon the ancient world where neither people nor dogs nor grass nor trees stood clearly defined, a black curtain descended unnoticed. The world racing through her small chest—leaping, tumbling, restrained—illuminated the darkness like fire. Sayoko embraced this radiant world and fell asleep.

The long train pushed through the enveloping night, striking against the wind that resisted its advance.

Striking the pursuing gods of the underworld with its mighty tail, it finally broke free into the dawn realm—a blue-hazed horizon now surging forth in full expanse. As the boundless plains stretched endlessly onward, rising ever upward toward the heavens in ceaseless wonder, and when they cast aside lingering dreams to fix their gaze upon the mid-sky—the world of the sun dawned.

In the void’s heart where the golden rooster—which had cried skyward since the Age of Gods—struck its five-hundred-*ri* wings once to part billowing clouds from the lower world, eternal snow emerged radiantly. Spreading fanwise, it unfurled left and right with force to overwhelm Yashū’s plains, burying itself waist-deep in azure mists. The whiteness thrust upward as if to flaunt itself against the sky. When one tier of whiteness completed its expanse, purple and indigo pleats folded diagonally, tearing irregular lines across the white ground. The gazer followed the shadow of crawling clouds upward—from the azure-dark foothills, stitching lightning-like through depths of indigo and purple—until reaching supreme purity’s white, where eyes awakened with sudden clarity. The whiteness beckoned all passengers into the bright world.

“Hey, Fuji’s visible!” Mr. Munegaki called out as he slid from his seat and threw open the window. From the wide foothills, the morning wind swept in. “Yeah. It’s been visible for a while,” replied Mr. Kōno, his head still buried under the camel-hair blanket, his tone coldly detached. “Oh, so you didn’t sleep?” “I slept a bit.” “What’s with you wearing that thing over your head…” “Cold,” answered Mr. Kōno from within his lap blanket. “I’m starving. They’re not going to serve the meal yet, are they?”

“I have to wash my face before eating…” “You’re absolutely right.” "You’re always spouting such perfectly reasonable things." “Take a good look at Fuji instead.” "It surpasses Mount Hiei." “Mount Hiei?” “What’s Mount Hiei? Just some Kyoto foothill.” "You hold it in utter contempt." “Hmph.—What do you make of that grandeur?” “Humans must attain such magnificence to matter.” “You could never maintain such composure.” “Is the Hozu River your pinnacle? “Even that river outranks you.” “You’re on par with Kyoto’s streetcars.”

“Kyoto trams may be like that, but at least they move.” “Aren’t you going to move at all?” “Ha ha ha!” “Alright, pushed aside the camel and moved!” said Mr. Munegaki as he took down the pilgrim’s bag from the shelf. The room grew restless.

The train that raced through the bright world caught its breath at Numazu. They washed their faces. Half of a haggard face emerged from the window. Each sparse strand of his beard—some black, some white—fluttered in the morning wind,

“Hey, give me two lunch boxes,” he said. Professor Kodō gripped several silver coins in his right hand and exchanged them with his left as it took the lunch box. The daughter was pouring tea inside the room. “How about this?” he said as he lifted the lid of the lunchbox, white rice grains clinging to its underside. Inside lay a Japanese yam reclining in pale broth beside a slice of rolled omelette—its yellow form crushed—desperately thrusting just its edge into the rice’s border. “Still not hungry?” Sayoko set down the lunchbox without picking up her chopsticks.

“Ah,” Professor Kodō said as he took the teacup from his daughter. Gazing at the chopsticks stuck upright in the lunchbox on his lap, he drank deeply. “We’ll be arriving soon.”

“Ah, there’s no need for that now,” he said as the yam began creeping toward his beard. “It’s such lovely weather today.” “Ah, we’re blessed with fine weather. The view of Fuji was splendid, wasn’t it?” he remarked as the yam retreated from his beard into the lunchbox. “Did Mr. Ono arrange lodgings for us?” “Yes. He’ll—he’ll have secured something,” the professor’s mouth juggled eating with replying. The meal continued for some time. “Let’s head to the dining car,” said Mr. Munegaki in the neighboring compartment, straightening his Yonezawa kasuri collar. Mr. Kōno in his suit rose lankily. When stepping over the leather suitcase sprawled in the aisle, Mr. Kōno turned back.

“Hey, you’ll trip if you kick it,” he cautioned. Pushing open the glass door and stepping into the neighboring compartment, Mr. Kōno had meant to go straight through when Mr. Munegaki grabbed the back of his suit jacket from behind and yanked him sharply. “The rice has gotten a bit cold.” “It’s fine that it’s cold, but it’s too hard. When you get old like grandpa, you just can’t handle hard things sitting heavy in your chest.” “If you’d like some tea… shall I pour it?”

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

Days and nights intermingled as small worlds darted through every direction—traversing all horizons yet finding no end—amidst this boundless expanse where silkworm eggs lay like careless stitches of finest thread, four miniature cosmos sat back-to-back with unknowing faces in the midnight train’s heartless rush. The starry realm had been swept away; through windows rising like peeled sky-flesh shouting “Hide nothing!”, four tiny universes chanced alignment, brushing past at this precise intersection of fates. Two of these passing cosmic fragments now sat devouring ham and eggs across white linen—their plates divided by tablecloth tundra.

“Hey, dig in,” said Mr. Munegaki. “Uh-huh,” Mr. Kōno answered while looking at the menu.

“Looks like we’re finally approaching Tokyo.” “Seems we didn’t encounter each other at Kyoto Station last evening.” “No, I hadn’t noticed at all.” “I didn’t realize you were in the adjacent compartment either—we do keep crossing paths rather often, don’t we?”

“We’ve been meeting a bit too much.—This ham is practically all grease. Is yours the same?” “Well, they’re about the same. About the difference between you and me, I’d say,” said Mr. Munegaki, turning his callused hand over to thrust a hefty slice into his mouth. “Do we both fancy ourselves pigs now?” Mr. Kōno remarked somewhat ruefully, stuffing his mouth with the greasy white fat. “I don’t mind being pigs, but there’s something odd about this.” “I hear Jews don’t eat pork,” Mr. Kōno suddenly remarked with detachment.

“Let’s leave the Jews aside—I’m talking about that woman. It’s a bit strange.” “Is it because we’ve been running into her too much?” “Yeah.—Waiter, bring some black tea.” “I’ll have coffee. This ham is no good,” Mr. Kōno said, steering the conversation away from the woman once more. “I wonder how many times we’ve encountered her now. Once, twice, three times—must’ve been about three encounters total.” “If this were a novel, these encounters would serve as the catalyst for some dramatic plot development. Well, since things seem peaceful enough with just this...” With these words, Mr. Kōno gulped down his coffee.

“Since things seem peaceful enough with just this, we must both be pigs.” “Ha ha ha ha!” “But there’s nothing more to say.” “You being in love with that woman…” “Yeah,” said Mr. Kōno, cutting off the other man’s words mid-sentence. “Even without that, given how often we’ve been meeting her, there’s no telling what kind of relationship might develop down the line.” “Me, you mean?” “Nah, it’s not that kind of relationship—a different sort.” “It’s a relationship beyond romantic involvement.”

“Yeah,” said Mr. Kōno, supporting his chin with his left hand while holding the coffee cup in his right near his nose, gazing blankly into the distance.

“I want a mandarin orange,” said Mr. Munegaki. Mr. Kōno remained silent. Before long, “I wonder if that woman will get married or something,” he remarked with an air of complete indifference. “Ha ha ha ha. Shall I ask?” he said, though he showed no intention of exchanging pleasantries. “Marriage? Is she really that eager to get married?” “Well, you won’t know unless you ask.” “What about your sister? Does she still want to go through with it?” Mr. Kōno asked a peculiar question with utter seriousness.

“Itokō?” “She’s still such an innocent.” “But she does care about her brother.” “She sewed me a fox-patterned sleeveless kimono and such.” “For all that, she’s actually quite skilled at sewing.” “How about having her make some arm guards or something?” “Let me see,” “Don’t you want them?” “Hmm, it’s not that I don’t need them…” The arm guard discussion ended inconclusively, and the two left the dining table. When they passed through Professor Inoue’s compartment, he was spreading out the Asahi Shimbun in front of his face, and Sayoko was scooping tamagoyaki into her small mouth. The four small worlds, each active in their own way, passed by one another again within the train, as if apprehensive of their mutual destinies within their own futures or as if harboring no suspicion at all, and arrived at Shinbashi Station bearing an immeasurable world of tomorrow.

“Wasn’t that Ono who just hurried past?” Mr. Munegaki asked as they left the station.

“Is that so.” “I didn’t notice,” Mr. Kōno replied. The four small worlds collided with the station and, for a time, scattered apart.

Eight

A single pale aqua cherry tree cast the garden into twilight gloom. The polished veranda lay quiet beyond the tightly closed shoji screens. In the house, a small oblong charcoal brazier boiled a handled iron kettle, and before it lay a zabuton cushion covered in crepe silk habutae.

On the futon sat Kōno's mother with refined composure. The sharply upturned outer corners of her eyes were enveloped by dusky, fine-grained skin that concealed tension lines running from beneath to her forehead, leaving only an appearance of utmost serenity. Conceal the needle within the sponge; have them grip it firmly; then with a gentle hand apply salve to soothe the wound. If possible, press your lips to the bleeding site to show you harbor no ulterior motives. Those born in the twentieth century must know these things. Mr. Kōno had once written in his diary that those who expose their bones perish.

Footsteps sounded on the quiet veranda. Her slender feet—stretched taut in white tabi socks so pristine they might have been freshly unboxed—lightly kicked back the thick patterned kimono hem dragging across the veranda as she slid open the shoji screen with a whisper.

Mother, maintaining her seated posture, tilted her thick eyebrows halfway toward the entrance. "Oh, you've come in," she said.

Fujio silently closed the door behind her. When she sat gracefully across from Mother with the charcoal brazier between them, the iron kettle began whistling incessantly.

Mother looked at Fujio’s face. Fujio gazed with downcast eyes at the newspaper folded in half beside the charcoal brazier. The iron kettle continued to whistle. In times of many words, truth is scarce. Leaving the iron kettle to whistle, the veranda lay quiet with parent and child idly facing each other. The pale aqua cherry tree ushers in the twilight. Spring is passing away.

Fujio eventually raised her face. "He’s come back, hasn’t he." The parent’s and child’s eyes suddenly met. Truth resides in a single glance. When one cannot endure the heat, the bones are laid bare. "Hmph." The sound of tobacco ash being carefully tapped from a long pipe. "What does he intend to do?"

“What does he intend to do? Even I can’t understand that man’s intentions.” The smoke from Kumoi tobacco streamed unceremoniously from her high-bridged nostrils. “Even if he returns, it’s still the same situation.” “The same situation.” “That’s simply how he’ll remain his entire life.” Mother’s tension lines surfaced from beneath her skin. “Does he truly despise inheriting the house so much?”

“Oh, it’s just talk.” “That’s exactly what’s wrong with it.” “Since he’s saying such things to pin it on us… If he truly won’t receive any inheritance or anything, then he should just do something himself, shouldn’t he?” “Day after day he keeps dawdling—it’s already been two years since he graduated.” “No matter how philosophical he gets, a single man ought to be able to manage on his own.” “He’s utterly indecisive.” “Every time I see his face, your mother gets so irritated…”

“Subtlety seems completely lost on him.”

“What do you mean? Even if it gets through, he’s just feigning ignorance.” “How detestable he is!” “Really. Until he does something about it, I can’t do anything about your situation...” Fujio withheld her response. Love harbors all sin. In withholding her response lay the resolve to sacrifice all things. Mother continued. “Aren’t you twenty-four this year? Is it common for someone turning twenty-four to remain so unsettled? If I suggest getting him married off, he dismisses it, saying he wants you to take care of me instead. Then if I propose finding some work to become independent, he just holes up in his room all day lying about. And then he goes around telling people he’ll hand over the inheritance to you and become a wanderer himself! It makes us look terrible, as if we’re the ones interfering and trying to drive him out, doesn’t it?”

“Where did he go to say such things?” “When he visited Munegaki’s grandfather, that’s what he said.” “He has such an unmanly disposition. He should just marry Miss Itoko already.” “Does he even have any intention of marrying?” “I can’t begin to comprehend Brother’s intentions. But Miss Itoko seems eager to come to him.” Mother removed the ringing iron kettle and took up the charcoal scoop. Within the Satsuma teapot—its crackled glaze perfectly sealed with amber resin, decorated with indigo waves and scattered white cherry blossoms—lay Uji tea leaves twisted with green strands, steeped in midday water that cooled as they layered against each other.

“Shall I make some tea?” “No,” Fujio replied, folding the swiftly escaping fragrance that still lingered into a teacup the same color as the teapot. The yellowish stream lacked force enough to stir the depths, yet near the rim the color gradually deepened, thickened liquid lying motionless with bubbles clustered at its surface. Within the smoothed mound of ash, Mother crushed the pristine white remnants of Sakuragari charcoal, gathering hidden embers within. From the collapsed warmth of the hollow emerged perfectly black circular cuts she selected, crackling with renewed vitality as they took flame. The spring light filling the room remained utterly serene upon mother and child.

This author disdains conversations devoid of artistic essence. Biting remarks that fail to impart a single vivid stroke to suspicion's shadowy realm bear no kinship to the poetic refinement of one who guides a graceful brush to let spring's pleasantness course through paper.

When one who governs a spring of tranquil flowers and plain zithers does not dwell beneath a poetic sky, and must instead enumerate vulgar language devoid of even half a drop of artistic essence, the brush tip seems clogged with mud, making it impossible to move the pen with both hands. Depicting Uji tea, a Satsuma teapot, and Sakuragari cut charcoal is an expedient means to steal a moment of leisure and provide readers with the solace of detachment in the snap of a finger. However, the Earth has rotated since ancient times. Light and dark do not forsake day and night. To succinctly depict the unpleasing aspects of parent and child is this author’s poignant duty. The brush that has been savoring tea and sketching charcoal must now return once more to the dialogue between the two. The dialogue between the two must at least possess more refinement than the preceding exchange.

“Speaking of Munegaki, Ichi is quite the joker too. Despite being utterly incapable of scholarship or anything else, he goes on about grand things—and yet he fancies himself quite the impressive figure.”

The stable and the chicken coop shared the same quarters. There exists a saying about hens appraising horses—it claims they know neither how to crow nor lay eggs. This stands to reason. "Even after failing the diplomat exams, he doesn't show an ounce of shame. Any ordinary person would display more initiative by now." "He's a misfired bullet." The meaning eluded her comprehension. It was simply an audacious assessment. Ripples formed across Fujio's smooth cheeks as she flashed a sly grin. Fujio possessed a poet's discernment. Sweets shaped like bullets are crafted by rolling brown sugar. Artillery shells get cast from molten lead. A bullet remains fundamentally a bullet. Through it all, Mother maintained absolute earnestness. The significance behind her daughter's laughter escaped Mother entirely.

“What do you think of him?” The daughter’s laughter inadvertently provoked the mother’s doubt. They say none know a child like their parent. That was incorrect. Matters of a world where there was no mutual conflict remained as foreign as Tang or India even to parents.

“What do I think of him…? I don’t think anything of him at all.”

Mother fixed a sharp gaze on her daughter from beneath her sharp eyebrows. The meaning was perfectly clear to Fujio. Those who know their opponent do not make a fuss. Fujio deliberately composed herself and waited for her mother to make the first decisive move. Strategic maneuvering exists even between parent and child.

“Do you intend to go there?” “To Munegaki?” she asked in return, pressing for confirmation like an archer drawing the bow to its fullest before releasing the arrow. “Ah,” Mother answered lightly. “I don’t want to.” “You don’t?”

“What do you mean, ‘don’t want to’? …A man with no taste like that,” Fujio cleanly severed her sentence, as though slicing through bamboo. Her sharply defined eyebrows lifted like drawn bows, while something unspoken—lingering in lips pressed tight as if to say *enough*—flashed briefly across her face before disappearing. Mother struck her matching chime of agreement. “I don’t care for a man with no prospects like that either.”

Lacking taste and lacking prospects were separate matters. The blacksmith’s hammer clanged down; the striking hammer clinked in response. Yet both beat upon the same sword. “I might as well make it clear and refuse him right here.”

“Refuse him? Is there even a promise involved?” “A promise? There was no promise. But Grandfather said he would give that gold watch to Ichi.”

“What of it?”

“Because you used to treat that watch like a toy, constantly fiddling with those red beads...” “And?”

“So then—this watch shares a profound bond with Fujio, but I’ll give it to you. However, I won’t give it now. I’ll give it when you graduate. But Grandfather said half in jest before everyone to Ichi: ‘Even if Fujio clings to it covetously, would that still be acceptable?’” “Do you still regard that as a mystery?” “According to Grandfather Munegaki’s impromptu words, that does appear to be so.” “That’s absurd.” Fujio drove her sharp retort against the long brazier’s corner. The repercussion came instantly.

“That’s absurd.” “I will have that watch.” “Is it still in your room?” “It’s been properly stored in the document box.” “Right. Do you want it that badly? After all, you can’t keep it anyway.” “Just give it to me.”

At the end of the chain, the blazing garnet emitted an eerie light from beneath the document box—adorned high with maki-e reeds and wild geese—beckoning Fujio. Fujio abruptly stood up. The pale blue cherry blossoms—too distinct to blur into haze—guarded what remained of the daytime’s fleeting life that should fade with the approaching dusk. A tall figure slipped free from their vigil, turning back to tilt its gaunt-faced shadow against the shoji screen. “Wouldn’t it be all right to give that watch to Professor Ono?” she said. The response from beyond the shoji screen was inaudible.

Spring drew to its close for mother and child.

Simultaneously, a rich light was lit in the Munegaki household’s parlor. The white light of the Western lamp’s shade gracefully transformed the quiet night back into day, while the white bronze oil jar—its surface boldly embossed with arabesque patterns—resplendently displayed its unclouded hue in the early evening. Within the lamplight’s reach, every face was animated.

A voice let out an “Ahahahaha!” first. All conversations arising around this lamplight seemed to find it fitting to begin with “Ahahahaha.” “Then I suppose you didn’t see the pagoda spire either!” he boomed.

The owner of the voice was an old man. The plump flesh of his ruddy cheeks spilled from both sides, forcing his constrained chin into a double fold. His head had grown significantly bald. He would occasionally stroke it. Munegaki’s father had stroked his head bald. "What exactly is a pagoda spire?" asked Mr. Munegaki, sitting in an unconventional cross-legged posture before the old man. “Ha ha ha ha! Then I can’t comprehend why you bothered climbing Mount Hiei at all!” “We never encountered anything resembling that along our route, Mr. Kōno.”

Mr. Kōno sat formally with a tea bowl before him, facing the faded striped fabric, his black haori collar properly adjusted. When Mr. Kōno was questioned, Itoko’s bewildered face wavered.

“It seems there was no pagoda spire,” said Mr. Kōno, keeping his hands resting on his knees. “Not on the path... Well, I don’t know where you started climbing from—was it Yoshida?” “Mr. Kōno—what was that place called? The one we climbed.” “The one we climbed—” “What was that place called? I don’t know.” “Old man, we apparently crossed a single-log bridge.” “A single-log bridge?” “Yes—we crossed a single-log bridge, you see—and apparently, if you go a bit further, you come out to Wakasa Province.”

“Would we reach Wakasa Province that quickly?” Mr.Kôno immediately retracted his earlier remark. “But you were the one who said that!” “That was just a joke.” “Ha ha ha ha! If you end up in Wakasa Province，that’d be quite a mess!” said the old man with great amusement. Itoko’s round face crinkled her double eyelids. “The problem is you all just keep walking like couriers—that won’t do.” “Mount Hiei has the East Pagoda，West Pagoda，and Yokawa—it’s such a vast place that there are people who traverse those three areas daily as part of their ascetic training.” “If all you do is climb up and come down，then isn’t it the same no matter which mountain you climb?”

“Well, we just climbed it thinking it was an ordinary mountain.” “Ha ha ha ha! Then it’s like you climbed all that way just to get a pebble in your shoe!” “The pebble’s real enough—it’s your responsibility,” he said with a laugh, looking toward Mr. Kōno. Even a philosopher couldn’t keep up a stern face forever. The lamplight swayed distinctly. Itoko pressed her sleeve to her mouth and, as her faltering smile began to settle, lifted her head while shifting her gaze toward the pebble’s keeper. Those who would move their eyes must first move their face. It was akin to looting during a fire. Even domestic women have strategies of this sort. Maintaining a composed expression, Mr. Kōno promptly raised a question.

“Uncle, what do the names East Pagoda and West Pagoda refer to?”

“It’s indeed part of Enryaku-ji Temple’s precincts,” said Munegaki’s father. “In this vast mountain, clusters of monastic buildings gather here and there—if you imagine them divided into three parts called East Pagoda and West Pagoda, you’d be essentially correct.” “Well,” Mr. Munegaki interjected from the side with an air of expertise, “it’s like how universities have their law, medicine, and literature departments.” “Precisely so,” the old man promptly agreed. “As the old poem says: ‘Asura dwells eastward; near western capital gates lies Yokawa’s depths.’ Yokawa remains the most secluded area—an ideal place for scholarly pursuits.” He leaned forward slightly. “You’d need to travel fifty chō inward from that Sōrintō pagoda we mentioned earlier to reach it.”

“So that’s why we passed through unknowingly, huh? You,” said Mr. Munegaki, addressing Mr. Kōno again. Mr. Kōno remained silent, listening respectfully to the old man’s explanation. The old man expounded proudly.

"Why, it's in the Noh play *Benkei on the Boat*, isn't it?—'I declare myself as Musashibō Benkei, dwelling near West Pagoda'—Benkei resided at West Pagoda." "Benkei belonged to the law faculty, huh? You'd be in Yokawa's humanities division.—Old man, who serves as Mount Hiei's chancellor?" "The chancellor?" "Mount Hiei's—that is, the man who established Mount Hiei." "The founder? The founder would be Dengyō Daishi." "Building temples in such places only torments people—it's utterly impractical. Men of old acted on drunken fancies, don't you agree, Mr. Kōno?"

Mr. Kōno gave a somewhat vague reply in one breath. “Dengyō Daishi was born at the foot of Mount Hiei, you see.” “Ah—now that you mention it, I understand.” “You get it now, right, Mr. Kōno?”

“What?” “There was a stake marked ‘Birthplace of Dengyō Daishi’ standing in Sakamoto.” “He was born there.” “Ah, I see. You must have noticed it too, Mr. Kōno.” “I didn’t notice.”

“You were too preoccupied with beans,” Munegaki quipped. “Ah ha ha ha!” The old man laughed once more. Those who contemplate do not see. The ancients declared thought alone supreme. Ceaseless flows the water night and day; men idly inscribe “truth,” then set their freshly penned “truth” upon retreating waves to vanish into oblivion—such is the world’s way. To name halls “Lotus Sutra,” stones “Buddha’s feet,” spires “sōrin,” cloisters “Pure Land”—those who deem their task done by recording names and dates clasp corpses while breathing. To see is not for naming. To contemplate is not for seeing. The Supreme sheds form to dwell in universal mind—thus did Mr. Kōno climb Mount Hiei yet remain blind to Mount Hiei.

The past was dead. The era when they had sounded the great Dharma drum, blown the great Dharma conch, and raised the great Dharma banner to guard the capital's demon gate lay forgotten—to now unearth ancient temples where Buddha slept beneath spider-threaded canopies in central halls, dredging them up from Emperor Kanmu's reign as though anew, scrubbing away eons of grime through futile debates—this was the work of idle souls imagining forty-eight-hour days. The present carved each moment and awaited me. The realm of impermanence fell before my eyes. Both arms sheared through wind, ringing across heaven and earth—this was why Mr. Munegaki knew nothing despite climbing Mount Hiei.

Only the old man remained serenely composed. As though convinced that Mount Hiei alone guided the realm’s fortunes through each passing night and day, reshaping its visage anew, he lectured tirelessly about its significance. His discourse sprang from genuine goodwill toward the young men. Yet they found his zeal somewhat wearisome.

“Even if it’s inconvenient, they deliberately chose to develop such mountains for ascetic training.” “Modern universities being in such convenient locations makes everyone grow decadent.” “Students prattling about Western confections and whiskey despite their station...”

Mr. Munegaki made a strange face and looked at Mr. Kōno. Mr. Kōno was unexpectedly earnest. “Old man, I hear the monks of Mount Hiei go all the way to Sakamoto around eleven at night just to eat soba.” “Ha ha ha! The exact opposite!” “No, it’s true! “Hey, Mr. Kōno. “No matter how inconvenient it is, people will eat what they want to eat.” “That’s just lazy monks.” “So does that make us idle students?” “You lot are worse than idle!” “We might be worse than idle, but—it’s about two ri of mountain path to Sakamoto.”

“There must be about that much.” “They start descending at eleven at night to eat soba, then climb back up again.”

“So what’s your point, huh?”

“It’s absolutely not work that can be done idly.” “Ha ha ha ha!” The old man laughed, thrusting out his large belly. It was a laugh loud enough to startle the lamp shade.

"Even so, do you suppose there were earnest monks here in the past?" Mr. Kōno asked, as if suddenly recalling. "They still exist even now," replied Munegaki's Father. "Just as there are few serious people in the world, there aren't many among monks either—but even now, they aren't entirely nonexistent." He leaned forward, his voice taking on a lecturing tone. "After all, it's an old temple. That was initially called Ichijō Shikan-in; it became Enryaku-ji much later." A knowing smile creased his weathered face. "From that time onward, they had these strange ascetic practices—it's said they'd seclude themselves in the mountains for twelve years straight."

“They wouldn’t have time for soba then.” “Why? —Because they never once come down from the mountain.” “So what’s the point of them just growing old in the mountains?”

Mr. Munegaki said, this time as if to himself. "They engage in ascetic training, you know," "You all should quit idling about and try your hand at something like that." "That won't do." "Why?"

“Why? It’s not that I couldn’t do it—but if I did, I’d end up going against your orders.” “My orders?” “But every time you meet someone, you’re always saying ‘Get married! Get married!’ If I secluded myself in the mountains for twelve years now, my back would be hunched over by the time I took a wife.”

The entire group burst into laughter. The old man slightly raised his head and stroked his bald pate backward. The sagging flesh of his cheeks trembled as though about to drop. Itoko bowed her head and stifled a laugh, her double eyelids turning faintly red. Mr. Kōno's stern lips also relaxed. “Well, ascetic training is one thing, but not getting married would be a problem. After all, there are two of you—it’s such a hassle.—You should get married soon too, Mr. Kōno.”

“Well, not so suddenly...” He gave an utterly disinterested reply. He thought to himself that he would rather seclude himself on Mount Hiei for twelve years than take a wife.

In Itoko’s eyes, which missed nothing, Kōno’s heart was fleetingly reflected. Her small chest suddenly grew heavy. “But your mother would worry.” Mr. Kōno gave no answer. This old man also presumed his own mother to be an ordinary one. In all the world, there is not a single person who has seen through their own mother’s heart. If one does not see through one’s own mother, there can be no reason to sympathize with oneself.

Mr. Kōno hung faintly between heaven and earth. It was the sensation of being the sole survivor on the day of the world’s annihilation.

“If you keep dawdling, Miss Fujio will be put in a difficult position. When women pass their prime, unlike men, it becomes quite a hassle to settle them.”

Munegaki’s Father—who was to be both respected and loved—remained an ally to Mother and Fujio. Mr. Kōno found himself at a loss for a response. "You should get married soon too, Ichi. I’m getting on in years myself—who knows what might happen." The old man was gauging Mother’s heart through his own mind. Even bearing the same title of parent, parental hearts differ. However, it could not be explained.

“I failed the diplomatic exams, so I’m out of the running for now,” interjected Munegaki from the side. “You failed last year.” “This year’s results aren’t in yet, are they?” “Yes—still no word.” “But you know, it looks like I’ll fail again.”

“Why?” “Probably because I’m lazier than ever.” “Ahahahaha!” This evening’s conversation began with uproarious laughter and ended with uproarious laughter.

Nine

Patrinia flowers bloomed in Magatsuka Field.

Smoothly through the pampas grass it passed—to one of lofty stature burdened with regret, the autumn wind slipped past with refined grace—a loneliness as autumn drizzled into winter. In tea hues and blackness, amidst frost scattered like drifting ash—within winter’s endless span—a slender life clung on with scant hope from morn till night. Winter did not tire of five long years. The lonely flower slipped free from the cold night and melted into spring’s realm of crimson and emerald, where want was unknown. As the spring wind swept across earth and sky, setting all things ablaze with rich hues of prosperity, a single slender stem bore its quiet yellow—breathing timidly in a world where it should not dwell.

Until now, she had cherished a dream more vivid than jewels. To the diamond set in pitch darkness, I granted my eyes, gave my body, and entrusted my heart—leaving no moment to spare for anything else to the right or left.

When she plucked the radiance of the jewel cradled in her bosom from the night and brought it forth through two hundred *ri* from its pouch of darkness, the gem had lost some measure of its former brilliance in reality’s bright sea. Sayoko was a woman of the past. What Sayoko held was a dream of the past. A past dream embraced by a woman of the past found no chance to meet with reality, separated by twofold barriers. If she tried to steal in by chance, the dog would bark. She wondered if even she herself did not belong where she had come. The dream cradled in her bosom—this sin that should not be embraced—even when concealed within a wrapping cloth shielding it from others’ eyes, still seemed to draw suspicious glances along the road.

Should I return to the past? A single drop of oil that had mingled with water could not easily find its way back into its jar. Whether it liked it or not, it had to flow along with the water. Should I abandon the dream? If it could have been discarded, I would have discarded it before emerging into the bright sea. If I tried to discard it, the dream itself came leaping back.

When one's world splits in two and the divided worlds begin acting independently, a painful contradiction arises. Many novels skillfully depict this contradiction. When Sayoko's world collided with Shimbashi Station, a fissure formed. All that remained was for it to split apart completely. The novel was about to begin. There is nothing as pitiable as the life of someone who is about to start a novel. Mr. Ono found himself in the same predicament. The cast-off past pushed aside the dust of dreams and extracted a timeworn mind from history's garbage heap. Before one could even utter "Oh?", it abruptly rose and came walking forward. It was regrettable that when discarded, the roots of life had not been properly severed - but since existence had revived unbidden, there was no helping it now. The withered autumn grasses, having mistaken the capricious season, revived pitifully amidst the shimmering heat haze of false spring warmth. To strike down what had been revived would violate a poet's refined sensibilities. If overtaken by it, one could not avoid tending to its demands. From the day he was born, Mr. Ono had never left a single matter unresolved through negligence - nor did he intend to start now. To ensure nothing remained neglected while settling affairs for himself, he peered briefly into the future from behind its sleeve. The scent of purple grew overpowering - just as this approaching ghost from the past steeled herself with thoughts of "If it must be this way...", Sayoko arrived at Shimbashi Station. A matching fissure formed in Mr. Ono's world too. Just as the author pitied Sayoko, so too did he pity Mr. Ono.

“And your father?” asked Mr. Ono. “He went out for a bit,” replied Sayoko with a trace of timidity. From the day after moving into their new home, the household—a single parent and child amidst spring’s bustle—had found no time to comb through their frizz-prone hair. Even their everyday wadded garments looked shabby through the poet’s eyes. ——When she adorns herself before the mirror, releasing rose scent from a glass vial to lightly bathe her cloudlike tresses, the amber comb teases apart strands of deepest jet.

―Mr. Ono immediately thought of Fujio. This was why the past was worthless—something declared within him. “You must be busy.” “I still haven’t unpacked my things…” “I meant to come help, but there were meetings yesterday and the day before…” That Mr. Ono received daily invitations proved his renown in that field. But what field this was—Sayoko could not begin to imagine. It simply seemed too far above her—a realm she could never approach, she thought. Sayoko looked down at the gold ring shining on her right middle finger resting on her knee.—It was naturally no match for Fujio’s ring.

Mr. Ono raised his eyes and surveyed the room. On the low ceiling’s faded white boards—where knot holes stood plainly visible in two places—stains from water leaks spread beneath clusters of soot that deceptively resembled spider webs, hanging darkly in patches. A cedar stick pierced horizontally through the middle of the fourth rail from the left, its longer end not bending downward as one might expect—likely where the previous tenant had hung an ice bag from a rope to cool their chest before vacating. The two karakami sliding doors partitioning the adjoining room used Western paper layered with foil, their surfaces neatly arrayed with dozens of geometric hollyhock patterns in an English style. The black-lacquered veranda that ought to suggest an elegant residence only emphasized its shabbiness. The garden path that supposedly curved capriciously along the veranda spanning two rooms existed in name alone, its width no greater than that of a tea ceremony cloth. Behind stunted cypress trees—useless in spring with last year’s leaves hardened into sharp points—that stood gaunt and withered, conversations from neighboring houses carried clearly over the waist-high fence as if within arm’s reach.

The house had undoubtedly been arranged by Mr. Ono for Professor Kodō. Yet it was wretchedly shabby. To Mr. Ono's mind, it made for a most disagreeable residence. If one were to keep a house at all, he thought— He longed to dwell where kobushi magnolias graced sleeve-fences, where pine moss carpeted the shade of cast-iron plants, where freshly-starched hand towels fluttered in spring breezes.—He had heard Fujio stood to inherit that very house. "Thanks to you, we've found such a fine house..." said Sayoko, innocent of boasting. How pitiable if she truly believed it fine. When a man treats another to servant-grade eel only to hear gratitude—"Thanks to you, I've tasted real delicacy at last!"— They say the host came ever after to despise his guest.

There are instances where pitiable endearment and contemptuous dismissal coincide. Mr. Ono had indeed looked down upon Sayoko as she sincerely expressed her gratitude. Yet he failed to detect within this interaction even a glimmer of that very endearment. The purple had cursed him. When cursed, one's eyeballs grow triangular. "I thought you wouldn't be satisfied unless it was a better house—I searched everywhere—but nothing suitable could be found..."

As he began to say this, Sayoko immediately— “No, this is perfectly fine. Father is also pleased,” she countered Mr. Ono’s words. She thought Mr. Ono was being stingy. Sayoko knows not.

She pulled her slender face back slightly and observed the other’s demeanor with upturned eyes. He had undeniably changed from five years prior.—His glasses had changed to gold. The Kurume kasuri indigo fabric had changed into a suit. The close-cropped hair had changed into glossy locks. The beard had leapt to the status of a gentleman. Mr. Ono had, without anyone noticing, grown something black. He was no longer the student he once was. The collar was newly tailored. Even the decorative pin on his lapel glinted with every shift of his shoulders. In the hidden pocket of the tasteful gray vest—resided the Imperial Watch. That he even wore a gold watch on top of all this—such a thing could not have entered the dreams of Sayoko with her modest heart. Mr. Ono had changed.

The Mr. Ono who had dwelled in a dream more vivid than life itself—a dream never forgotten for even a single day or night over five years—was not this person. Five years had passed since then. When they had parted ways east and west, long and short, barred by the pass of mutual longing beneath evening clouds that locked away their sorrow—who could have imagined these years of ever-sparser meetings would remain unchanged? Through wind that might bring change, through rain that might bring change, through moonlit flowers that might bring change, she had lived each day waiting. Yet resolved that things would not alter thus, she stepped down onto the platform.

Mr. Ono’s transformation was not like that of A Meng—a natural extension of his past through earnest maturation. It was as if he had violently twisted down his faded history to hastily construct this glaring present on the very night before my arrival at Shinbashi. He had become unapproachable to me. Even when I reached out my hand, it seemed beyond grasp. I grew resentful of myself—wanting to change yet remaining unchanged. Mr. Ono might as well have transformed expressly to distance himself from me.

He came to meet me at Shinbashi. He hired a rickshaw and guided me to the inn. Not only that—despite his busy schedule, he went out of his way to arrange and rent a hermitage where parent and child snails could sleep together. Mr. Ono was as kind as ever. Father said the same. I think so too. However, I could not approach him.

As soon as she descended from the platform, she said, "The luggage." Though the small hand-carried parcel hardly required assistance, he insisted on taking it anyway. When she saw his retreating back—the lap robe draped over his arm as he walked ahead with short, clipped steps—she thought: This was it. Him walking ahead did not appear to be guiding the two who had come from afar, but rather to be overtaking and rushing past those belated parent and child. A tally is evidence made by taking two identical halves and affixing them for comparison. The dream I had cherished as more precious than the sun hanging in heaven—when I pulled it from Time's scent-leaking pouch spanning five long years into the present and compared them, certain there could be no discrepancy—the present had already withdrawn far into the distance. The tally I clasped was no longer valid.

At first, she thought it was because she had emerged from darkness into blinding light. If she could grow accustomed—using the passing days as her staff—with each meeting, first and second, third and fourth, Mr. Ono only became more formal. As his formality increased, Sayoko found herself growing ever more distant. Drawing back her long chin that tapered softly into her throat, Sayoko looked up at Mr. Ono's figure and saw the altered spectacles. She saw the altered beard. She saw the altered hairstyle and altered attire. When she saw all these changes, she released a quiet sigh from her heart's depths. Ah.

“How are Kyoto’s flowers? They must be past their peak by now.”

Mr. Ono abruptly shifted the conversation to Kyoto. To comfort a patient, one speaks of illness. To plunge into an unwelcome past and reverse the twisted cord of memories that had gratefully begun to unravel—this was the poet’s sympathy. Sayoko suddenly drew near Mr. Ono. “They must be past their peak by now. Before departing, I made a brief visit to Arashiyama, and at that time they were just about eighty percent in bloom.” “That must be about right, since Arashiyama blooms early. That was splendid. Who accompanied you?”

The people viewing the flowers were as numerous as the stars on a starry moonlit night. However, throughout all heaven and earth, there was no one to accompany her but her father. If it wasn’t Father—she didn’t even voice the name in her heart. “As expected, was it with your father?”

“Yes.” “It must have been enjoyable,” he uttered superficially. Sayoko felt inexplicably forlorn.

Mr. Ono changed tack. "Arashiyama must have changed quite a bit from how it used to be."

“Yes. The hot spring at Daibikaku has been splendidly constructed…”

“Is that so?”

“There was the grave of Lady Kogo, wasn’t there?” “Yes, I know.” “That area has become so lively with nothing but tea stalls.”

“Every year it only becomes more vulgar.” “The past was far better.” Mr. Ono—who had thought he couldn’t approach—found himself abruptly confronted by the Mr. Ono from his dreams. Sayoko caught her breath in realization.

“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. The eyes that had been turned toward the garden flickered back to face front. The gold-rimmed glasses and faintly dark mustache immediately reflected in his pupils. The person before him still did not belong to the past. Sayoko pressed a hand to her throat where the thread of some refined old tale threatened to slip smoothly out, and closed her mouth in silence. When one grows bold and tries to turn a corner, there comes a collision. Even the decorous conversations between refined gentlemen and ladies perpetually collide within their breasts. Once more it became Mr. Ono’s turn to open his mouth.

“You haven’t changed at all since those days.” “Is that so?” replied Sayoko in a tone that seemed to acquiesce while questioning herself, her words devoid of conviction. If only she had changed, she wouldn’t feel such unease. What changes is merely my age; I resent this needlessly elaborate striped pattern and the worn-out koto. The koto stood covered in the alcove. “I must have changed quite a bit.” “You’ve matured splendidly beyond recognition.”

“Ha ha ha! That’s too kind of you．I still intend to change steadily from now on．Exactly like Arashiyama…”

Sayoko didn't know how to respond. She kept her hands on her knees and looked downward. Her small earlobe slipped neatly past the ends of her sideburns; where cheek met neck traced away in a softly blurred curve into shadow. It was a masterful composition. Yet Mr. Ono, sitting directly across, failed to perceive it. Poets crave sensory beauty - such curvature of rising flesh, such recession of form, such play of light and pigment rarely manifest together. Had he apprehended this living artwork in that moment, he might have driven his bootheel deep into the earth and vaulted five years backward through time's current. But Mr. Ono remained seated opposite. He merely thought her a dull woman lacking poetic charm. Simultaneously, sleeve fragrance surged against his nostrils - undulating waves that grazed a dark purple brow before dispersing pungently. Mr. Ono suddenly wanted to leave.

"I'll come again," he said, straightening his suit jacket. "It’s already time for you to leave," she said in a small voice, attempting to detain him. "I'll come again. When you return home, please give my regards." "Um…" she stammered. The other person was half-rising from their seat while Ono waited impatiently for what would follow her "Um…". He felt pressed to hurry. Those that cannot draw near increasingly drifted away. How pitiful. "Um... Father..."

Mr. Ono found himself weighed down by an inexplicably heavy mood. The woman found it increasingly difficult to broach the subject.

"I'll come again," he said, standing up. She wouldn't even listen to what he wanted to say. Those who departed drifted away heartlessly. He left without lingering attachment or so much as a nod. Having returned from the entrance back to the sitting room, Sayoko sat dazedly near the veranda edge.

From the depths of a sky threatening rain yet holding back, faint spring light filtered through pale clouds as it spread across the expanse. The skies overhead, their serenity restrained, appeared clear yet felt vaguely oppressive. A koto's notes drifted from somewhere. The instrument I ought to play remained undusted, leaning forlornly against the wall in its bag between two chintz-wrapped parcels. When would I ever remove the turmeric-dyed cover? That piece surely required a well-practiced hand. The plectrum—pressed intermittently and plucked in fragments—moved serenely across the numerous bridges, while spring's colors, stirred to their limits, maintained both diligent vibrancy and abundant richness. Listening, she felt as though that rain had been only yesterday. Amidst flickering midday fireflies and droplets dripping on bamboo fences, Father had complained of boredom since morning's persistent rainfall. The satin sleeve cuffs kept slipping down her wrists. Keeping the silk thread threaded through the needle's eye, she jabbed the crimson needle case and stood up. Upon the long swelling body of aged paulownia wood, she focused her gaze and pressed then plucked the strings stretched in a 'へ' pattern several times over. The piece was unmistakably Kogo. Around when her unruly fingers had muddled through that dreary afternoon, Father had kindly brewed tea himself. Kyoto was the Kyoto of spring, of rain, of koto. Of them all, the koto suited Kyoto best. I who loved the koto truly belonged in tranquil Kyoto. For one who had emerged from ancient Kyoto, it felt like a crow breaking through darkness—flying out only to startle at its own blackness and seek return—finding night had abruptly dawned into day. Had I learned piano instead of koto, it might have been better. My English remained as it was years ago, now mostly forgotten.

Father declares that women have no need for such things. By clinging to those who dwell in the past, I have fallen so far behind Mr. Ono that catching up seems impossible. The world of those long entrenched in antiquity will not endure forever. Should those mired in tradition overtake me while the new generation leaves me behind, this life that mistakes today for tomorrow—both its poetry and reason—would hang by the slenderest thread....

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

“I just got back. The dust here is just dreadful.”

“There’s no wind, though?” “There’s no wind, but the ground’s parched—I tell you, Tokyo’s a detestable place. Kyoto’s infinitely better.” “But you were the one insisting daily—‘We must move to Tokyo! Move to Tokyo!’—weren’t you?”

"I did say what I said, but now that I’ve come here, it’s not quite like that," remarked the old man as he dusted off his tabi socks and settled into his seat on the veranda. "The teacups are out." "Did someone come?"

“Yes. Mr. Ono was here…” “Ono?” she said, and began carefully undoing the crosswise-tied thin cord of the large bundle she had brought in, loosening each knot one by one.

“Well, today... I thought to buy some cushions and got on the train, but ended up forgetting to transfer and had a terrible time.”

“Oh dear,” sympathetically smiled the girl,

"But did you buy the futon?" she asked. “Ah, I did manage to buy the futon here, but thanks to that, I ended up awfully late,” he said, taking out a yellow-striped fabric resembling Hachijō cloth from the bundle. "How many did you buy?"

“Three. Well, three should suffice for now.” He placed one before Sayoko. “Here, try laying this out.” “Hohohoho, you go ahead and spread yours,” he chuckled. “Since Father will lay his out too, you should lay yours. There now – quite nice, isn’t it?”

“The cotton seems a bit firm.” “The cotton is anyway—given the price, there’s no helping it. But because I went to buy this, I ended up missing the train…” “Didn’t you transfer trains?” “Yes, the transfer—I even asked the conductor to arrange it. It was so infuriating that I walked back.” “You must be exhausted.” “Oh, it’s nothing. Even with this, my legs are still sturdy enough.—But thanks to that, my beard and everything’s gotten covered in dust.” He gathered four fingers of his right hand to comb under his chin in place of a comb—and sure enough, a grayish substance came off onto his thigh.

“It’s because you haven’t bathed.” “What dust?” “But there’s no wind.” “It’s strange how dust rises even without wind.” “But—” “Enough ‘buts’. Just step outside and see for yourself. Tokyo’s dust would shock most decent folk. Was it this bad when you lived here before?” “Yes, quite dreadful.” “I suppose it worsens yearly.” He peered out from beneath the eaves. “No wind at all today.”

The sky, with a moodiness threatening to cloud over, let the spring sunlight drift ambiguously. The sound of the koto could still be heard.

“Oh, someone’s playing the koto—they’re quite skilled. What’s that?”

“Take a guess.” “Go on, guess.” “Hahaha! This old man wouldn’t know!” “Listening to the koto makes me think of Kyoto.” “Kyoto is quiet and nice.” “Old-fashioned relics like me aren’t suited for intense places like Tokyo.” “Tokyo is a place for young people like Ono and you to live.” A relic like him had practically moved to dusty Tokyo for the sake of Mr. Ono and himself.

“Then shall we return to Kyoto?” she asked, her face showing an uncertain smile. The old man interpreted this as filial compassion sympathizing with his ignorance of the world.

“Ha ha ha ha! Should we really go back?”

“It would indeed be proper if we truly returned.” “Why?” “Just because.”

“But we’ve only just arrived.” “That’s perfectly all right even if we’ve only just arrived.”

“You don’t mind? Ha ha ha ha! You’re joking…”

The girl looked down.

“I hear Ono came.”

“Yes,” the daughter replied, still looking down. “Ono—Ono, what was he...”

“Huh?” she said, raising her head. The old man looked at the daughter’s face.

“Ono—he came, didn’t he?” “Yes, he came.” “And then what?” “So he didn’t say anything before leaving?” “No, nothing in particular…” “He didn’t say anything? He should’ve waited.” “He said he’d come again because he was in a hurry—so he left.” “I see.” “So he didn’t have any particular business coming here after all.” “I see.”

“Father.” “What is it?”

“Mr. Ono has changed quite a bit, hasn’t he?” “Changed? — Ah, he’s become remarkably impressive. When I met him at Shinbashi, he was practically unrecognizable. Well, it’s all for the best for both of us.” The daughter looked down again.—To her simple father, it seemed her meaning had not penetrated. “I remain exactly as I always was—they say I haven’t changed at all. …But even if I haven’t changed…”

The latter phrase reverberated in Professor Inoue Kodō's mind like stepping barefoot on the vibrating end of a resonating string.

“Haven’t changed, you say?” 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 answer were repeated once more. If you step on the waterwheel, it will just keep turning. No matter how long you keep stepping, you cannot break free. “Ha ha ha ha! You shouldn’t worry about such trivial matters.” “Spring is a time when spirits grow heavy, you know.” “A day like today isn’t good weather even for someone like your father.”

It is autumn when hearts grow heavy. Knowing it's mochi, they blame the sake. Those who receive comfort are those who endure ridicule. Sayoko remained silent.

“Why don’t you play the koto a bit? “To lift your spirits.”

The daughter tilted her sullen face with forced charm and looked at the alcove. The scroll hung vainly, needlessly cutting through the excess edge of the black wall vertically; the turmeric-colored mounting neither concealed nor revealed spring.

“Let’s just drop it.”

“Drop it? If you wish to drop it, then by all means drop it.—Well, Ono here...” “He’s been busy lately.” “I hear he’s about to submit his doctoral thesis soon…”

Sayoko didn't even need a silver watch. Even a hundred scholars were useless to me now. "That's why he remains unsettled. Anyone obsessed with scholarship becomes like that. You shouldn't fret overmuch. Even if he wished to relax properly—he simply can't maintain such leisure anymore. Eh? What was that?" "So intensely..." "Mhm." "Do hurry." "Ah." "When you return..." "When you return—has it been settled? Or needn't it? However fond he appears of dawdling—there's no alternative. He's wholly consumed by academic pursuits. Hence his request that you reserve a day—to visit the exhibition together or suchlike? Did you speak with him?"

“No.” “You didn’t speak to him? You should’ve just talked to him. What were you doing when Ono came? Even as a woman, you must speak up sometimes!”

They raise you not to speak and then ask why you don't? Sayoko must bear all the blame. Her eyes burned.

“It’s fine. Since Father will make inquiries by letter—there’s no need to grieve. I wasn’t scolding you.—By the way, do we have dinner ready?” “At least there’s rice.” “As long as there’s rice, that’s enough—we don’t need any side dishes. The old woman we arranged for will come tomorrow. Once you get a bit more accustomed to it, whether it’s Tokyo or Kyoto, it will all feel the same.”

Sayoko went to the kitchen. Professor Kodō began to untie the cloth-wrapped bundle in the alcove.

Ten

The mysterious woman descended upon the Munegaki household. Where the mysterious woman resided, waves became mountains and charcoal briquettes glittered like crystal. In Zen teachings, willows are green and flowers are red. Or they say sparrows go 'chirp chirp' and crows go 'caw caw.' The mysterious woman would not rest until she made crows chirp chirp and sparrows caw caw. Since the mysterious woman came into being, the world had suddenly become a clamorous place. The mysterious woman put those who approached into a pot and stirred them repeatedly with slender cedar chopsticks. Unless one came bearing potatoes of their own accord, they must not approach the mysterious woman. The mysterious woman was like a diamond. She glittered unnervingly. And the origin of that light remained unknown. When viewed from the right, it glittered on the left. When viewed from the left, it glittered on the right. She was adept at reflecting various lights from various facets. There were about twenty varieties of Kagura masks. The inventor of Kagura masks was the mysterious woman.—The mysterious woman descended upon the Munegaki household.

The sincere and jovial great monk of the Munegaki household never suspected that such a troublesome woman existed in the world, busily stirring the bottom of a pot. On a Chinese wood desk lay Chinese-carved calligraphy books; seated atop a thick zabuton cushion, he sang *Hachinoki* from his large belly—"Smoke rises in Shinano Province, smoke rises"—in resonant tones. The mysterious woman was steadily drawing near. The witch from the tragedy Macbeth swept all manner of things under heaven into her cauldron. A night toad secretly blowing the poison of the thirtieth moon in the shadow of stones; a salamander hiding its burning belly beneath a black back—its gall; snake eyes; bat claws;—the cauldron bubbled and boiled. The witch circled the cauldron round and round. Withered and sharpened claws gripped iron fire tongs emaciated by generations of rust that had gnawed at the world. The boiling cauldron stirred up thick, viscous waves along with foam.—Readers say it is terrifying.

That was theater. The mysterious woman did not engage in such macabre acts. Her domain was the capital.

It was the twentieth century. She arrived in broad daylight. From the pot's depths amiability welled up. They said the ripples were waves of laughter. They called the implement for stirring "chopsticks of kindness." The pot itself was elegantly crafted. The mysterious woman stirred [the pot] slowly and deliberately. Her very hand movements were adept. It was no wonder the Great Monk felt no fear.

“Oh. “It has grown quite warm.” “Here, please.” He thrust his large palm toward the futon. The woman deliberately remained seated at the entrance, resting both hands normally. “After that…” “Please lay it out…” His large hand remained thrust forward.

“I must step out shortly, but with no one else here—though I kept meaning to visit—I ended up neglecting my obligations...” As her words trailed off and the Great Monk tried to speak, the mysterious woman swiftly resumed. “I sincerely beg your pardon,” she said, pressing her dark head firmly against the tatami mats.

“Oh, it’s nothing at all…”—but she wasn’t the sort to lift her head so easily after mere words like these. Someone says: Women who bow too demurely are unsettling. Another person says: A woman who bows with excessive politeness is nothing but 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 Monk belonged to the nuisance camp.

The black head rested on the tatami mats while only the voice emerged from its mouth. "At your household, everyone is well... Kōno and Fujio keep coming over and imposing on you constantly... The other day I received such a fine gift—I ought to have come to thank you sooner—but I became caught up in my own affairs..." At this point, her head finally rose. The father heaved a sigh of relief. "Oh, it's nothing worth mentioning... Just something that arrived as a gift." "Ha ha ha ha! It's finally grown warm," he abruptly remarked on the weather while gazing toward the garden, but

“How are your cherry blossoms? They must be in full bloom around now,” he concluded.

“This year, perhaps due to the warm weather, they bloomed slightly earlier than usual—four or five days ago was just the right time to view them—but with the wind the day before yesterday, they’ve been quite damaged, and now…” “Ruined?” “That cherry tree is quite rare.” “What was it called again?” “Hm?” “Asagi cherry.” “Ah, right!” “That color is quite rare.”

“Slightly tinged with blue—somehow, in the evening especially, it gives me such a striking feeling.” “Is that so? Ah ha ha ha! In Arakawa, there’s something called scarlet cherry blossoms, but Asagi cherry blossoms are rare.” “That’s what everyone says. Double-petaled ones may be plentiful, but blue ones are seldom seen, as they say…” “There aren’t any. Of course, if you ask connoisseurs, they say there are over a hundred varieties of cherry blossoms…” “My, my,” the woman exclaimed in feigned surprise.

“Ah ha ha ha! Even cherry blossoms can’t be taken lightly.” “The other day when Ichi returned from Kyoto and mentioned visiting Arashiyama—I asked him what sort of blossoms they had there—all he could say was ‘single-petaled,’ nothing more! The boy knows nothing.” “Youth these days are hopelessly carefree—ah ha ha ha!” “Here—try one of these humble sweets.” “Gifu persimmon yōkan.” “No please—you needn’t trouble yourself…” “Truly—no need for such trouble…” “Not particularly tasty. Just rare,” said Munegaki’s Father as he raised his chopsticks to peel a slice of yōkan from the plate into his palm before munching away alone.

“Speaking of Arashiyama,” Kōno’s mother began. “The other day, Kōno once again caused you various troubles—but thanks to your kindness—he was able to visit many places and expressed great delight.” “Truly—as he remains such a willful person—Ichi must have found him quite a bother.” “No—I hear he received much kindness from Ichi…” “Not at all—he’s hardly the sort of man who could look after others.” “And at his age—they say he hasn’t a single friend to speak of…”

“If you study too much,” he laughed with a booming “Ahahaha!”, “you’ll struggle to mingle freely with all sorts.” “As a mere woman,” she demurred, fingertips brushing her obi sash, “I can’t presume to understand scholarly matters—but unless your Mr. Ichi drags him out occasionally...” Her voice trailed into meaningful silence. The old man’s guffaws shook his priestly robes. “My Ichi’s cut from different cloth! Why, that boy’d chat up a stone Buddha!” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Mind you—when he’s home? Teases his sister till she weeps! No,” he amended through fading chuckles, “truth told—even that grows tiresome.”

“Oh no—he’s truly cheerful and easygoing; quite commendable.” “I keep telling Fujio too—if only Kingo could liven up even half as much as Mr.Ichi-san would—that would be splendid—but of course it’s all due to his illness... Though precisely because he isn’t my own flesh and blood...”

“You’re absolutely right,” Munegaki’s Father responded gravely, then tapped the ashtray with a *pon* and let his forged-silver pipe roll onto the tatami. From the pipe’s mouthpiece, excess smoke flowed out.

“Hasn’t he been a bit better since returning from Kyoto?” “Thanks to your kindness…” “The other day when he came to the house, he was chatting away with everyone and seemed quite cheerful, but…” “Well, well,” she remarked with apparent interest in the details. “I’m at my wit’s end.” She said this in a drawn-out manner, as though thoroughly exasperated. “Well, now.”

“With his illness, I can’t even begin to tell you how much I’ve worried up until now.” “Perhaps getting him married might improve his disposition.” The mysterious woman had others voice what she thought. For her to take direct action would be a misstep. She waited quietly for them to slip and fall over there. She merely prepared a slippery, muddy expanse, unbeknownst to others.

“I have been urging him day and night about this marriage matter—but no matter how I approach it he simply won’t agree.” “As you can see I am getting on in years myself,and with Mr.Kono having passed away so suddenly abroad in that manner,I cannot help but worry.That is why I wish to secure his future as soon as possible…Truly,I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve brought up marriage.” “But every time I bring it up he just flatly rejects me…”

"Actually, when I saw him the other day, I did bring up that matter briefly." “The only one worried about him remaining stubborn forever is your mother—out of pity for her, I thought it’d be best if he settled down soon to put her at ease.” “Thank you ever so much for your kindness.” “Not at all—the worry is mutual! We’ve got two people of our own to settle down with as well—ah ha ha ha! What can I say.” “No matter how old one gets, the worries never cease.”

“Someone like yourself is admirably settled, but I—if he keeps claiming illness to avoid taking a bride, and should something happen… I would have no face to meet my spouse beyond the grave.” “Oh, why must he be so unreasonable?” “When he starts saying things like, ‘This old mother can’t possibly manage the household in my condition, so have Fujio take a son-in-law and let him look after me.’” “I won’t receive a single penny of the estate.” “So, you see, that’s how he puts it.” “If I were his true parent, I could simply say, ‘Do as you please,’ but as you well know, ours is not such a relationship. I cannot act so unjustly toward others, and thus find myself truly at a loss.”

The mysterious woman stared fixedly at the monk. The monk sat thinking, his large belly exposed. The ashtray clinked. He carefully placed the rosewood lid. The pipe rolled.

“I see.” The monk’s voice was uncharacteristically low. “Yet if I, not being his birth mother, were to meddle oppressively and thoughtlessly, unsavory disputes that I would rather you not hear of might arise...” “Hmm, this is troublesome.” The monk took a turmeric-dyed cotton cloth from the shallow drawer of the portable tobacco tray and began carefully wiping the whalebone stem. “Perhaps I should try discussing it thoroughly myself. If you put it poorly.”

“I’ve put you through so much trouble…” “Shall we proceed that way?” “What would happen if we were to tell him such a thing when his nerves are in such a delicate state…”

“Well, I’m fully aware of that—I intend to phrase it so it doesn’t offend him.” “But if I were to come forward personally and have it perceived as making an earnest plea, that would surely cause an uproar afterward…” “Troublesome indeed—yes, with his nerves so frayed.” “It’s like prodding at a festering wound…” “Hmm,” the Great Monk began crossing his arms. The short sleeves made his thick elbows appear uncouth. The mysterious woman led people into labyrinths until they murmured “Ah, I see.” She made them utter “Hmm.” She made ashtrays clink. Ultimately she made them fold their arms. The twentieth century’s greatest taboos were hasty words and abrupt demeanor. When a certain gentleman and lady were asked why this was so, both answered in unison: “Because hasty words and abrupt demeanor most easily transgress the law.” “Because the mysterious woman’s excessive courtesy most dangerously skirts the law.”

The Great Monk crossed his arms and said, "Hmm." “If he stubbornly insists on leaving the household—though I cannot possibly remain silent if I witness such a thing—but if the person in question absolutely refuses to listen…”

“A son-in-law, I suppose.” “When it comes to a son-in-law...” “No, that would be most troublesome—but unless we consider even such eventualities, we shall find ourselves at a loss when matters come to a head.” “Quite so.” “When I consider this—unless he recovers from his illness and gains some measure of reliability—I cannot possibly dispose of Fujio.” “Indeed,” said the Great Monk, tilting his head slightly— “How old is Miss Fujio now?” “She will turn four this coming year.”

"How time flies." "Huh?" "Just this big until very recently," she said, stretching her hand level with her shoulder and peering down at her spread palm from below. "No, she's only grown physically—and so remains of no use." "...By my reckoning, she'd be four years old now." "Since our Itoko is two." If left unattended, the conversation threatened to drift away entirely. The mysterious woman needed steering. "Here you are, burdened with concerns about Miss Itoko and Mr. Munegaki, yet I impose with such trivial matters—you must consider me a heedless woman oblivious to others' feelings..."

“Not at all—in fact, I had been meaning to discuss that matter thoroughly myself—but with Munegaki currently in such an uproar about whether he’ll become a diplomat or not, it cannot be settled today or tomorrow. Still, sooner or later, he must take a bride…”

“Indeed it is.” “Now, regarding—well—Miss Fujio, you see…” “Yes.” “With that person, well—we understand each other’s dispositions, I feel reassured, and Ichi naturally has no objections—I think it would be suitable.”

“Yes.” “What are your esteemed thoughts on this, Madam?” “It is truly most gracious of you to speak so favorably of one who is so lacking in attentiveness, but…” “There’s no harm in it.” “In that case, Fujio would be happy… and I could rest easy…” “If you were dissatisfied, that would be one matter—but since you’re not…” “It’s not dissatisfaction in the slightest. It’s exactly what I could have wished for and could not be more splendid, but I am at a loss regarding Kōno. Mr. Munegaki is the vital heir who will succeed the Munegaki family. Though I cannot say whether Fujio will take a liking to them or not—even if we were to proceed with having them accept her—if Kōno remains as he is now even after giving her away, I must confess I would feel profoundly uneasy...”

“Ahahaha! If you keep worrying like that, there’ll be no end to it.” “Once Miss Fujio is married off, Mr. Kōno will have to take responsibility—his mindset is sure to change naturally.” “You should go ahead with it.” “Is that truly how it would be?”

“Moreover, as you are well aware, Father spoke of this matter before. In that case, even the departed would find satisfaction.”

“I thank you for your many kindnesses. If only my husband were still alive—I—I wouldn’t have to shoulder these worries alone—but…”

The mysterious woman's words grew increasingly damp. The world-weary pen abhors this dampness. When the pen had barely managed to narrate the mystery of the mysterious woman this far, it declared that it loathed advancing even a single step further.

The God who created day and night, sea and land, and all things said to rest upon reaching the seventh day.

The pen that had written out the mysterious woman had to enter a sunlit otherworld and dispel this dampness.

In the sunlit otherworld, a brother and sister were engaged in their activities. In the six-tatami mezzanine facing south—dissatisfied with its brightness—with shoji doors thrown open briskly, outside lay a two-foot pine in a Shigaraki pot, its coiled roots heaped up to cast a crooked kana-shaped shadow on the veranda. The karakami paper of one room was pasted with a white ground scattered in Qin-Han roof tile patterns, while plovers flew over waves on the door pulls. The adjoining three-foot makeshift alcove, disdaining scrolls, had casually tossed a single light blossom into a basket flower vase.

Itoko, in the alcove, mingled the five hues of her sewing work and placed her needle box near the window—its two pulled-out drawers exposing enough spilled thread scraps to scatter. The sewing thread's progression, marking spring with each stitch through a faint sound that rendered the silence almost audible, was obliterated by her brother's booming voice. Lying prone in March's guise, it ruled over spring's domain even while slumbering. The ruler's tip kept rapping incessantly against the threshold.

“Ito.” “Well, your parlor here is brighter and more high-class.” “Shall I change it for you?” “Yeah. Even if you did change it, it probably wouldn’t do much good—but it’s too fancy for you.” “Even if it’s too high-class, since no one uses it anyway, what’s the harm?”

“Fine.” “It’s good that it’s good, but it’s a bit too fancy.” “And this decoration—hardly suitable for a young lady, don’t you think?” “What?” “What do you mean ‘what’? This pine tree!” “This must be the one Dad got swindled into buying for twenty-five yen at Koke Morien!” “Yes.” “It’s a precious bonsai!” “If it were to tip over, it’d be a disaster!” “Hahaha! Dad getting tricked into buying this for twenty-five yen is one thing, but you lugging it all the way up here, huffing and puffing—that’s something else!” “No denying the family resemblance, no matter the age difference.”

“Ohoho! You’re such a fool, Brother.” “Even if I’m a fool, it’s only to the same degree as you, Itoko.” “We’re siblings, after all.”

“Oh, come on! “Well, I’m certainly a fool.” “I may be a fool, but you’re a fool too, Brother.” “A fool, you say?” “So isn’t it fine if we’re both fools?” “But there’s proof!” “Proof that we’re fools?” “Yeah.” “That’s quite the invention of yours, Ito!” “What kind of proof do you have?”

“That bonsai, you know—”

“Hmm, this bonsai—” “That bonsai—I don’t know about that.” “You don’t know?” “I hate it!” “Well now, this time it’s my big discovery!” “Ha ha ha ha.” “Why bring up something you hate?” “Must’ve been heavy though.” “Father himself carried it up.” “What?” “He said with the sun at its peak, the second floor’s better for the pine.” “Father’s being kind too, huh?” “Oh! So that’s why your brother turned into a fool.” “Father acts kindly; the child turns into a fool.”

“What? That’s a bit… A haiku?” “Well, it’s somewhat like a haiku.” “You say it’s somewhat like one, but isn’t it a real haiku?” “You’re really pressing the point.” “Instead of that—you’re sewing something quite splendid today.” “What’s that?” “This? “This is Isezaki silk, right?” “It’s awfully shiny, isn’t it? “Is it Brother’s?” “It’s Father's.” “You only ever sew things for Father and never sew anything for Brother at all.” “So you’re cutting me off like the fox after its sleeve was torn, huh?”

“Oh，come on!” “Those are all lies!” “I sewed what you’re wearing right now myself!”

“This one? This one’s already done for. Look here—like this!” “Oh my, what terrible collar grime—and you just wore this recently! Brother, you use far too much pomade.” “No matter how much of anything there is, it’s already beyond saving.” “Then once I finish sewing this, I’ll sew yours right away.” “It’s new, isn’t it?”

“Yes, I washed and starched it.” “Is that one of the old man’s bestowed items?” “Ha ha ha ha!” “By the way, Itoko, there’s something strange here.” “What is it?” “It’s a bit odd that Father, despite being old, keeps wearing all these new clothes, while forcing someone as young as me to wear nothing but hand-me-downs.” “At this rate, he’ll end up wearing a Panama hat himself and might tell me to put on some old war helmet from the storeroom.” “Ho ho ho ho! Brother, you’re quite the silver-tongued one, aren’t you?” “Is your eloquence all you’ve got? Poor you.” “Poor you.”

“There’s more.” Mr. Munegaki stopped replying and, leaning his cheek on his hand, gazed down at the garden plantings through the railing gaps. “There’s more.” “Just a moment,” said Itoko, her eyes never leaving the needle. With her left hand, she pinched the seam—which came undone in an instant—and when she released her plump white fingertips with a decisive motion, she finally looked up at her brother’s face. “There’s more. Brother.” “What is it?” “That’s enough talk from you!”

"But there's still more," she said, directing the needle's eye toward the shoji screen as her lovely double eyelids narrowed.

Mr. Munegaki remained still, his serene mind resting on his propped cheek as he gazed at the garden. "Shall I try saying it?" "Uh. Uh-huh." His jaw stayed fixed against his palm. The response traveled from throat to nose. "Leg. You've figured it out, haven't you?" "Uh. Uh-huh." She moistened the navy thread with her lips and tapered its tip—a woman's method for coaxing through a defiant needle's eye. "Itoko—do we have visitors?"

“Yes, Mrs. Kōno has come.” “Mrs. Kōno? Now she’s truly formidable. Brother could never match her.” “But she has such class. She doesn’t speak ill of others like you might think, Brother, so that’s fine.” “If Brother takes issue with that, there’s no point in looking after him.” “Even though you don’t do any caretaking,” “Ha ha ha ha! Truth be told, to return your favor, I was thinking of taking you flower viewing soon.” “But the flowers have already fallen, haven’t they? What do you mean by flower viewing at this time of year?”

“No, Ueno and Mukojima are no good, but Arakawa is in full bloom right now. From Arakawa to Kayano to pick primroses, then loop around to Ōji and return by train.”

“When?” Itoko stopped sewing and stuck the needle into her hair. “Otherwise, we could go to the Exhibition, drink tea at the Taiwan Pavilion, see the illuminations, and return by train—which would you prefer?” “I want to see the Exhibition.” “Once I finish sewing this, let’s go. Okay?”

“Uh-huh. So you’ve got to take good care of Brother. There aren’t many brothers as kind as this in all of Japan, I tell you!” “Ho ho ho ho! Oh my, I’ll take good care of you.—Could you pass me that ruler there?” “If you keep studying sewing like that, I’ll buy you a diamond ring when you get married.” “Sweet talker—all mouth and no action. Do you really have that much money?” “Having it…—I don’t right now.” “Why on earth did you fail your exams, Brother?”

“Because I’m just too brilliant!”

“Well… isn’t there a pair of scissors around here somewhere?” “It’s next to that futon.” “No—a bit more to the left.—What’s with those scissors having a monkey attached?” “Is this some kind of joke?”

“This?” “Isn’t it pretty?” “Crepe Silk Mr. Monkey.”

“Did you make this?” “It’s really well made.” “You can’t do anything right otherwise, but you’re quite handy with stuff like this.” “I’ll never measure up to Miss Fujio—oh, quit scattering cigarette ashes on the veranda like that! Here—use this instead.”

“What the heck is this? “Hmm.” “You pasted chiyogami paper over woodgrain paper.” “So you made this after all?” “You’ve got too much free time.” “What’s this even for? To hold thread?” “Thread scraps?” “Hmm.” “Brother, you prefer someone like Miss Fujio, don’t you?”

“I like ones like you too.” “I’m in a separate category—right?”

“I don’t particularly dislike it, you know?” “Oh, you’re hiding something. How strange.” “How strange.” “Strange? So what if I am? — Aunt Kōno’s been holding frequent secret talks lately.”

“It might just be about Miss Fujio, you know.”

“I see—then shall we go eavesdrop?” “Oh, do stop that—I need the heating iron, but I’m too hesitant to fetch it myself.” “Being so reserved in your own home does no good. Shall I go get it for you?” “Just stop that already. If you go downstairs now, they’ll end their precious conversation.” “This feels rather precarious. So should we lie here holding our breath too?” “You needn’t hold your breath.”

“Then shall we lie down and breathe freely?” “You’ve had enough of lying around now. It’s because your manners are so terrible that you keep failing the diplomat exams.” “Well now, those examiners might actually share your opinion. What a pain.” “Saying ‘What a pain’—Miss Fujio shares the same opinion, you know.” Itoko, pausing her sewing needle and hesitating over the heating iron, drew out a thimble patterned with nested diamonds and—tucking beneath it a needle case stippled like silver rain on cedar-gray silk—let fall with a clatter the exquisitely lacquered lid of the scale-patterned box. Eventually supporting with her palm the area around her earlobe reddened by the window where the lengthening daylight fell, resting her right elbow on the sewing box, she slumped her hidden knee at an angle beneath the spread-out sewing. The deep hue scattered like flowers across the underkimono sleeve slipped soundlessly down the soft arm; distinctly brighter than ordinary flesh, the pillar of skin glowed vivid beneath the silk cord tilting like a butterfly.

“Brother.” “What is it?—Have you stopped working already? You look rather absentminded.” “Miss Fujio won’t do.” “She won’t do? What do you mean she won’t do?”

"But she has no intention of coming, I tell you." "Did you go listen in?" "How could you ask such a thing so bluntly?"

“You can tell without even asking?” “You’re like a shrine maiden—the way you’re propped against the sewing box like that makes a magnificent sight.” “Quite the pose for a sister! Ha ha ha ha!”

“That’s quite enough of your teasing—and here I am trying to be helpful...”

As she spoke, Itoko let fall with a sharp motion the white arm that had been supporting her head. Her aligned fingers drooped forward as though pressing down on the sewing box's corner. The cheek nearer the shoji screen—earlobe included—flushed red with the imprint of a pressed hand. The beautifully framed double eyelids drooped downward from above, their long lashes attempting to veil the cool gaze. Munegaki found himself intently regarded by his sister through those lashes.—He squared his shoulders, leveraged his fallen torso with an elbow, and rose up.

“Itokō, I’m supposed to get Uncle’s gold watch.” “Uncle’s?” she asked lightly, then suddenly lowered her voice. “But…” she began—and in that instant, her dark eyes vanished behind long lashes. A gaudy-colored silk cord briefly peeked out toward the front.

“It’s okay. I told Kōno back in Kyoto.”

"I see," she said, partially raising her downcast face. A smile both apprehensive and consoling emerged alongside her features. "If I go abroad soon, I'll buy you something and send it over."

“Do you still not know the results of this exam?”

“They should be out soon.” “You simply must pass this time.” “Huh? Uh-huh.” “Ha ha ha ha!” “Ah, never mind.” “I don’t like it.—Miss Fujio, you see...” “She likes those who excel academically and command respect.” “Is Brother not good at academics and lacking credibility?”

“That’s not it at all. That’s not it at all—well, for example, there’s someone like Professor Ono.”

“Uh-huh.” “He received a silver watch for academic excellence—they say he’s currently writing his doctoral thesis. You know… Miss Fujio likes that sort of person.”

“I see. Oh dear.” “What’s with the ‘oh dear’? “Because it’s an honor.” “Brother doesn’t receive a silver watch or write a doctoral thesis. "I do fail exams. “It’s the height of disgrace.” “Oh, no one would call it disgraceful. “It’s just that you’re far too carefree.” "You’re far too carefree."

“Ohohoho, how amusing.” “You don’t seem troubled by it at all.” “Itokō, your brother may be academically inept and keep failing exams—but let’s drop that; it hardly matters.” “Anyway—don’t you think I make a good brother?” “Of course I do.” “Between Professor Ono and me—who do you prefer?”

“Well, I prefer Brother.”

“And Mr. Kōno?” “I don’t know.” The deep sunlight shone warmly through the shoji screen onto Itoko’s cheek. Only the color of her bowed forehead appeared strikingly white. “Hey—there’s a needle stuck in your head. You’ll hurt yourself if you forget it’s there.” “Oh!” she exclaimed—and in the glimmering flutter of her underkimono sleeve, two fingers pressed firmly here and deftly plucked it out. “Ha ha ha ha! You can reach so skillfully even in places you can’t see.” “If you went blind, you’d make a fine masseuse for fretful patients!” “But I’m used to it, you know.”

“You’re amazing. By the way, Itokō—want to hear an interesting story?” “What is it?” “At the inn next door in Kyoto, there was a beauty who played the koto.” “You wrote about that in your postcard, didn’t you?” “Ah.” “I already knew that!” “Well… there really are strange things in this world, I tell you. When Brother and Mr. Kōno went to Arashiyama for flower viewing—we met that woman, I tell you. Meeting her would’ve been fine on its own—but then Mr. Kōno got so captivated he dropped his bowl, I tell you.”

“Oh, really? “Oh my!” “You were surprised, weren’t you? “Then when we were returning on the night express train, we ended up sharing the same car with that woman again.”

“That’s a lie!” “Ha ha ha ha! They ended up coming all the way to Tokyo together!” “There’s no reason why someone from Kyoto would come all the way to Tokyo so recklessly!” “That must be some kind of fate.” “People—” “Oh, listen here! In the train, Kōno kept worrying—‘Is that woman going to get married? What will happen?’—over and over…” “That’s enough!” “If you’ve had enough, let’s drop it.”

“What does that woman go by? Her name?” “Her name? But didn’t you just say you’ve had enough?” “There’s no harm in telling me, is there?” “Ha ha ha ha! You don’t need to be so serious about it. “Actually, it was all a lie.” “It was entirely my fabrication.” “How wicked!”

Itoko laughed merrily.

Eleven

Ants swarm to sweetness; people flock to novelty. Civilized people lamented boredom amidst their violent existence. Enduring the busyness of taking three meals while standing, they agonized over comatose sickness plaguing the streets. Civilized people were those who entrusted life recklessly in every direction and with equal recklessness greedily devoured death. No people boasted of their own activity so much as the civilized; none suffered so profoundly from their own stagnation as the civilized. Civilization sharpened human nerves to a razor's edge and pounded the human spirit into bluntness with a mortar. Those numbed by stimulation yet thirsting for it flocked in droves to new exhibitions.

Dogs yearn for scent; people chase after beauty. Dogs and people are the most sensitive animals in this regard. There are the purple robe, the yellow robe, the blue collar. They are all merely tools to gather people. Onlookers running along the embankment always shoulder various flags. Those borne along while desperately plying their oars are borne by color. In all the world, there is nothing more prominent than a tengu’s nose. The tengu’s nose has been radiantly red since antiquity. Where there is color, a thousand miles are not deemed far. All people gather at the exhibition of color.

Moths swarm to lamplight; people flock to electric lights. Glittering things govern the world. Gold, silver, conch shells, agate, lapis lazuli, Jambunada gold—all these shine to widen bored eyes and jolt weary heads upright. At evening gatherings where civilized folk compress daylight, jewels embedded in bare skin alone command attention. Diamonds surpass human hearts in value because they pilfer them. Shadows of stars plunging into murky seas—mere shadows though they be—flash brighter than roof tiles within observers' breasts. Good men and women, leaping in these shimmering shadows, abandon empty homes to congregate beneath illuminations.

When civilization was sifted to the bottom of a sack of stimuli, it became an exhibition. When they sifted the exhibition through the dull sand of night, it turned into brilliant illuminations. If they were to live at all, they had to gaze upon the illuminations and gasp in awe—all to seek proof that they were alive. Civilized people numbed by civilization realized for the first time that they were living when they gasped in astonishment. The Hanadencha cut through the wind and came. Urging others to witness the proof of being alive, they unloaded their cargo near Yamashita Gan'nahe. Gan'nahe had died long ago. The unloaded cargo, seeking to restore its own honor that was on the verge of being lost, trudged off toward the forest.

Oka stole through the night and set out from Hongō. The descent—its high plateau dimly visible as it flowed eastward across ten chō in width—channeled through Nezu, Yayoi, and Kiridoshi, measuring out astonished souls with its masu box before leading them down to Shitaya. The stepping black shadows all gathered at the edge of the pond.—There was no one who desired to be surprised more than civilized people.

The pines stood tall without concealing blossoms; early evenings layered through branch gaps to illuminate the night as rain fell and wind blew. First a single petal fell, then two petals scattered. Then before one could count them, they fluttered down in showers. All through this time crimson swept across the earth—before what was swept could reach ground, more came chasing from treetops. The frenzied blizzard of petals eventually subsided, and now even the storm had finally abated among lingering treetops. Though not stars, flower shadows meant to guard the night had vanished. Simultaneously, illuminations blazed forth.

“Oh!” said Itoko.

“The night world is more beautiful than the day world,” said Fujio. The number of half-moons woven into golden flashes overlapping from both sides around the rounded pampas grass plumes was beyond count. Standing one shaku away from Fujio’s broad obi covering her waist were Mr. Munegaki and Mr. Kōno.

“This is a marvel,” said Mr. Munegaki. “It’s practically the Dragon Palace!” “Miss Itoko, you seemed surprised,” said Mr. Kōno, standing with his hat pulled low over his eyebrows.

Itoko turned around. The night's laughter resembled poetry recited underwater. What one intends may never reach its destination. The color of her turning robe—yellow enough to deceive the night—was etched with vertical black streaks.

“Were you surprised?” Brother asked again. “And what about you all?” Fujio turned around, bypassing Itoko. A white face flashed from beneath the shadow of black hair. The edges of her cheeks, catching the distant firelight, were faintly red. “I’m not surprised because it’s my third time,” said Mr. Munegaki, turning his entire face toward the brightness. “As long as you can still be surprised, life has its comforts.” “Women have so many comforts and are so fortunate, aren’t they?” said Mr. Kōno, looking down at Fujio, his tall frame held perfectly erect. Black eyes pierced the night and moved.

“Is that the Taiwan Pavilion?” Itoko nonchalantly pointed across the water.

“That one protruding forward on the far right is it. That one is the best made.” “Hey, Mr. Kōno.” “When seen at night—” Mr. Kōno immediately added a qualification.

“Hey, Itokō—it’s just like the Dragon Palace, isn’t it?”

“It truly is the Dragon Palace.” “Miss Fujio, what do you think?” said Mr. Munegaki, who remained ever fond of his Dragon Palace analogy. “Isn’t that rather vulgar?” “What exactly? The building itself?” “It’s your description.” “Ha ha ha ha! Mr. Kōno—she says calling it the Dragon Palace is vulgar.” “Even if it’s vulgar, isn’t it still the Dragon Palace?” “It is a general rule that apt descriptions turn vulgar.” “If hitting the mark makes them vulgar, then what are they when they don’t?” “Then it becomes poetry,” interjected Fujio from the side.

“Therefore, poetry deviates from reality,” said Mr. Kōno. “Because it’s higher than reality,” Fujio added. “So then, descriptions that hit the mark are vulgar, and those that miss become poetry.” “Miss Fujio, let’s hear you come up with a flavorless description that misses the mark.”

“Shall I try saying it? — You know, brother.” “Listen carefully,” said Fujio, glancing sharply at Kōno from the corner of her eye. The corner of her eye said: ――A tasteless and off-target description is philosophy.

“What’s that over there?” Itoko asked innocently.

Lines of flame passed through the darkness to slice horizontally across the sky—these were roofs. What cut vertically were pillars. What cut diagonally were the ornamental roof tiles. Buried stars in the depths of the haze, upon the endless night leveled to ashen gloom—a lightning bolt’s tip carved a single line and raced through the void. A second line was carved, falling from above. It drew a swastika and rotated like fireworks near the ground. Finally, reversing its tip, it was hurled upward as if to pierce through the very center of the imperial seat. Thus, the tower entered the roof ridge, the roof ridge connected to the floor, and seamlessly filled the direction overlooking Shinobazu Pond from here, right to left—a grand fiery diagram formed.

On an indigo-infused black lacquer ground, the high-relief maki-e—sparing no gold—depicted halls, towers, winding corridors, curved balustrades, and countless round pagodas and square pillars; then, determined to exhaust even what remained superfluous, it traced back and forth over what had already been drawn. The lines of flame crisscrossing the sky remained perfectly ordered without disrupting a single stroke, alive within each individual stroke. They moved. Moreover, they moved clearly—and yet showed no sign of losing their form as long as they moved. "What is that visible over there?" asked Itoko.

"That's the Foreign Pavilion." "It's directly ahead." "It looks finest from this vantage point." "That tall domed structure on the left—the Mitsubishi Pavilion. Marvelous proportions." "How would one describe it?" Mr. Munegaki paused briefly. "Only the central section glows red," observed his sister.

“It looks like a crown inlaid with rubies,” said Fujio. “Ah—so you’ve seen Tenshodo’s advertisements,” said Mr. Munegaki, reducing her metaphor to vulgarity with feigned innocence. Mr. Kōno laughed softly and tilted his head back.

The sky was low. In the midst of a dusky night pressing upon the earth, indecisive stars wandered lost along the roadside, dangling listlessly. The myriad flames, linking pillars and piling upon roof tiles, soaked the sky upside down and shot through the drowsy eyes of the stars. The stars’ eyes burn. "The sky looks scorched. — Perhaps the Pope’s crown," said Mr. Kōno, his gaze tracing a great arc from Yanaka to Ueno Forest. “The Pope’s crown?” “Miss Fujio, what do you think of the Pope’s crown?” “Tenshodo’s advertisements seem preferable.”

“Either way…” Fujio replied coolly. “Either way works.” “Anyway, it’s not a queen’s crown.” “Hey, Mr. Kōno.” “It’s indescribable.” “Cleopatra wears such a crown.” “How do you know that?” Fujio asked sharply. “Isn’t there a picture in the book you have?” “The water is more beautiful than the sky,” Itoko suddenly remarked.

The conversation moved away from Cleopatra.

The water, dead even by day, was pressed beneath the windless shadow of night into a flat expanse as far as the eye could see. Since when had it remained motionless? The still water remained unaware. If the pond had been dug a century ago, it had not stirred since that century began; if fifty years past, then fifty years unmoved—from this bed that seemed only to have lain still, the decayed lotus roots now began to sprout faint green buds. Carp and crucian carp born from the mud worked their jaws slowly under the cover of darkness. The electric illuminations inverted their towering shadows, turning over two blocks of the banks completely crimson without leaving an inch, spilling onto this still water. The black water, even as it died, burst into color. The fins of fish lurking in the mud burned.

The dampened flames stretched along the shore in a single streak and crossed distinctly to the far side. They cleanly severed what would endlessly dye everything lying in their path, erecting a long bridge from west to east. The number of white stone arches spanning decorative wave patterns was twenty; all the ornamental finials crowning the railings were white luminous pearls illuminating the night.

“The water is more beautiful than the sky.” At Itoko’s remark, the eyes of the remaining three gathered entirely upon the water and the bridge. The electric lights illuminating the tall stone railings at each interval appeared, from this distant vantage point, to be neatly lined up in the sky. Below, people were streaming past.

“That bridge is packed with people!”

exclaimed Mr. Munegaki in a loud voice.

Mr. Ono was now crossing this bridge with Professor Kodō and Sayoko in tow. The crowd, eager to be astonished, pressed forward through Benten’s shrine. Those descending from the opposite hill pressed forward. People from all directions abandoned the vast forest and wide pond’s surroundings to gather entirely upon the narrow bridge. The bridge became impassable. At its center, a policeman raised his bow-shaped baton high, directing those coming and going left and right. All passing through—whether coming or going—were simply jostled along. They found no chance to plant their feet. Just as they managed to secure a few inches of space to stand comfortably—to feel momentarily settled—they were already being shoved forward from behind. It scarcely felt like walking. Yet one could not say they weren’t walking. Sayoko grew anxious as if trapped in a dream. Professor Kodō grew terrified, fearing the crowd meant to crush people of the past. Mr. Ono alone remained relatively composed. Those standing among the multitude, conscious of their superiority to the masses, keep their composure even when immobilized. The exposition embodied the current age. Electric illuminations epitomized modernity. Those gathering here—eager to be astonished—were all modern men and women. They simply exclaimed “Ah!” to heighten their contemporary sense of existence. Looking upon each other’s faces, tacitly agreeing theirs was the present age, they returned to widowed homes—recognizing their influence as part of the multitude—to sleep in peace.

Mr. Ono was the most contemporary among this multitude of the present age. It was no wonder he was composed. Mr. Ono, though composed, was simultaneously disheartened. Had he been alone, no one’s eyes would have perceived him as part of the present age. There could be no justification for this. Yet when he dutifully shouldered the outdated baggage of two people and was seen by the present age as one with an impotent past, it was not merely being observed—it was tantamount to being scrutinized. When he went to the theater, there were even those who became so preoccupied with whether the size of the crest on their haori was fashionable or outdated that they were utterly unable to engage with the performance. Mr. Ono felt self-conscious. He walked as quickly as the crowd allowed.

“Grandpa, are you all right?” she called from behind.

“Ah, I’m all right,” came the reply from a house away, strangers still wedged between them. “This feels so dangerously unstable…” “Just let the crowd carry you naturally—no need to struggle,” he said, working past the jammed people until reuniting with his daughter in the cramped space. “I’m only being pushed—can’t push back at all!” The daughter showed a faint smile on one pale cheek despite her disquiet. “Don’t push—just be pushed along.” As he spoke, the two managed to advance forward. The policeman’s lantern grazed Professor Kodō’s black hat as it swung.

“Where’s Ono?” “Over there,” he indicated with his eyes. If they reached out, their hands were blocked by someone’s shoulders. “Where?” Professor Kodō asked, without time to adjust his footing, tilting the front teeth of his weather-worn geta as he stretched upward. Just as the professor’s hips began to lose their balance, eager citizens of civilization pressed in from behind. The professor lurched forward. Just as he was about to fall, he managed to catch himself against the back of a modern citizen standing before him. The citizens of civilization, though endlessly eager to push forward, were kind people who did not refuse to support others with their backs.

The wave of civilization moved on its own, pushing the helpless parent and child out near Benten’s shrine. The long bridge came to an end, and as soon as the feet of those crossing touched the ground, the wave abruptly scattered left and right, black heads collapsing in every direction. The two of them finally felt as though their chests had opened up.

When one peered through the dark depths tinged with indigo of the departing spring night, flowers became visible. The lights of the human world brightly illuminated from below—the lingering fragrance of layered blooms scattering late through rain and wind, the flowers’ wish cast into the night. Hazily etched with pale crimson nacre. To call it “carving” felt too rigid. To speak of floating was to part from the sky. While pondering how best to describe this evening and these flowers, Mr. Ono waited for the two. “They’re truly terrifying people,” said Professor Kodō as he caught up. Terrifying—in the truly terrifying sense and in the ordinarily terrifying sense.

“There are so many of them.” “I want to get home quickly. “They’re truly terrifying people.” “Where do they all come from?” Mr. Ono smirked. The people of civilization, like spiderlings blanketing the dark forest as they come, are all his own kind.

“This is Tokyo indeed.” “I never imagined it would be like this.” “What a terrifying place.”

Numbers constituted force. Places that generated force were terrifying. Even a puddle of stagnant water less than one tsubo became terrifying when maggots swarmed thick as jade ladles. It went without saying that Tokyo, which effortlessly spewed forth the maggots of high civilization, was terrifying. Mr. Ono smirked again.

“How are you holding up, Sayoko? That was close—we nearly got separated. Such things never happen in Kyoto.” “When we crossed that bridge... I didn’t know what to do. It was just so terrifying...”

“You’re all right now.” “You look rather pale.” “Are you worn out?” “I feel a bit…” “Feeling unwell?” “It’s because you forced yourself to walk when you’re not accustomed to it.” “And this crowd doesn’t help.” “Let’s rest somewhere for a bit.” “Ono, there must be somewhere to rest—since Sayoko isn’t feeling well.” “I see—once we reach that area, there are plenty of teahouses,” said Mr. Ono, taking the lead again.

Fate forms a circular pool. Those who circle the pool must meet somewhere. Those who meet and pass by as strangers are fortunate. In dim London where human seas surge and swarm, someone exhaustively searches—eyes wide, legs weary—morning and evening endeavoring in vain to meet their destined counterpart, only to be blocked by a single wall while gazing at the sooty sky over the neighboring house. And yet they still cannot meet; they will never meet in this lifetime; perhaps they cannot meet until their bones turn to relics and grass grows on their graves—so wrote someone. Fate eternally separates those one longs for with a single wall, while abruptly bringing together those one never expected in a circular pool. Strange things draw near while circling around each other along the pool's edge. The mysterious threads sew through even the pitch-dark night.

“So, how about the women—they must be quite worn out by now? Shall we have some tea here?” said Mr. Munegaki. “Anyway, I’m more exhausted than the women.” “Itoko’s sturdier than you. Itoko—still able to walk?”

“I can still walk.” “Still walking? That’s tough. Shall we skip tea then?” "But didn’t Mr. Kōno say he wanted to rest?" “Ha ha! Sharp as ever,” he said. “Mr. Kōno, Itoko’s taking a break for you.” “How gracious,” Mr. Kōno replied with a faint smirk,

"Fujio will probably rest for us too, I suppose," he added in the same tone. "If that's your request," came the concise reply. "After all, one can't prevail against women," declared Mr. Kōno.

When they crossed the entrance of a Western-style makeshift structure extending over the pond water, they found themselves in a large hall where small tables with chairs were arranged here and there, each occupied by groups of three or four people engaged in their own conversations. Wondering where to take seats, Mr. Munegaki surveyed the gathering 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? However, it would be imprudent for her to ask outright what was happening. Mr. Kōno showed no particular sign of returning a signal.

“That spot’s open,” said Mr. Munegaki, marching resolutely toward the back. Following behind, Fujio’s eyes scanned every corner of the large room and committed them wholly to memory. Itoko walked through with her gaze fixed downward. “Hey—notice anything?” said Mr. Munegaki as he first lowered himself into a chair. “Yeah,” Kōno replied concisely. “Miss Fujio—Ono’s here. Look behind you.” Mr. Munegaki repeated: “Look behind you.” “I know,” she said without moving her head an inch. Her black eyes took on a dangerous gleam; under the electric light, her cheeks seemed slightly too flushed.

“Where?” said Itoko nonchalantly, turning her gentle shoulders at an angle. Having gone all the way left from the entrance, Mr. Ono’s group had gathered closely around a table in the second row near the wall. The seated trio took their positions by the window on the far right side. Itoko’s eyes—having shifted her shoulders—pierced through the haphazardly scattered crowd across the vast room until they landed on Mr. Ono’s profile in the distance.—Sayoko was visible straight ahead. Professor Kodō showed only his family crest on his back. The white threads of his beard, which intertwined sadly through spring nights—too indolent to be drawn from beneath his chin, left to grow as the world wills, as people do, and as the accumulated years take their toll—were turned toward Sayoko.

“Oh, there’s a whole group here,” said Itoko, turning 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 the matchbox standing upright on the ashtray with a sharp scrape. Fujio also kept her lips sealed. She might intend to part with Mr. Ono while remaining back-to-back. “So, what do you think? She’s a pretty one, isn’t she?” said Mr. Munegaki, teasing Itoko. Fujio’s eyes, cast downward as she gazed at the tablecloth, remained unseen; only her thick eyebrows twitched faintly. Itoko remained unaware, Mr. Munegaki was unperturbed, and Mr. Kōno sat aloof.

“She’s beautiful,” said Itoko, looking at Fujio. Fujio did not raise her eyes. “Yeah,” she retorted curtly.

Her voice was extremely low. When asked something not worth answering—when considering it beneath her to humor the other party with agreement—a woman employs this method. Women possess the uncanny ability to imbue affirmative words with a tone of denial. "Did you see that, Mr. Kōno? I'm surprised!" "Hmm, that's rather odd," Fujio said, flicking cigarette ash into the ashtray. "That's why I said it." "What exactly did you say?" "What do you mean, 'what did I say'? Have you forgotten already?" said Mr. Munegaki as he looked down and struck a match. In an instant, Fujio's eyes shot toward Mr. Munegaki's forehead. Mr. Munegaki didn't notice. When he lit the cigarette held in his mouth and raised his face straight up, the flash had already vanished.

“My, how strange. You two… what are you talking about?” asked Itoko.

“Ha ha ha ha! There’s something interesting.” Munegaki had just begun to say “Itokō—” when the tea and Western cakes arrived.

“Oh dear! The nation-ruining sweets are here.” “What do you mean by ‘nation-ruining sweets’?” Mr. Kōno pulled his teacup closer. “Nation-ruining sweets! Ha ha ha ha! You know the origin of ‘nation-ruining sweets,’ don’t you, Itokō?” he said while throwing a cube sugar into his teacup. Bubbles like crab’s eyes rose with a faint sound. “I don’t know anything about that,” said Itoko, stirring her spoon round and round. “See? Father said it, didn’t he? ‘If students start eating the likes of Western sweets, then Japan’s done for.’”

“Ho ho ho ho! You would say such a thing?” “Didn’t he say that? You’re really forgetful, aren’t you? See? Didn’t he say that when we had dinner with Mr. Kōno and the others the other day?” “That’s not it. He said that students who eat Western sweets despite being scholars are idlers, didn’t he?” “Oh, I see. Wasn’t it ‘nation-ruining sweets’? Anyway, Father hates Western sweets. He only goes for peculiar things like persimmon yōkan or miso-flavored matsubakaze crackers. If you bring them near someone as modern as Miss Fujio, they’ll be scorned immediately.”

“You needn’t speak ill of Father like that. Even you, Brother, aren’t a student anymore—it’s perfectly fine for you to eat Western sweets.” “No need to worry about being scolded anymore? Well then, I’ll have one. Have one too, Itokō. How about you, Miss Fujio? Have one—but you see... People like the old man will gradually become fewer in Japan from now on. A real shame,” he said, stuffing his mouth with chocolate-coated egg candy.

“Ho ho ho ho! Going on a solo rant…” Munegaki looked toward Fujio. Fujio did not respond. “Aren’t you going to eat anything, Fujio?” Mr. Kōno asked while bringing the teacup to his mouth. “Enough,” she said curtly. Mr. Kōno quietly set down his teacup and turned his head slightly toward Fujio. Fujio, thinking they had arrived, stared without blinking at the fragmented reflection of electric illuminations through the window. Her brother’s neck gradually returned to its original position.

When the four rose from their seats, Fujio, without drawing any sidelong glances, kept her gaze fixed straight ahead and advanced proudly to the entrance like a queenly figure in motion. “Ono has already gone home, Miss Fujio,” said Mr. Munegaki in jest as he tapped the woman on the shoulder. Fujio’s chest burned with black tea.

“There is ease in the moment of surprise. Women are fortunate,” Mr. Kōno repeated his earlier words once more when they emerged into the crowd again, though what thoughts accompanied this remained unclear. There is ease in the moment of surprise! Women are fortunate!

Until she returned home and slipped into bed, these two phrases rang in Fujio’s ears like mocking bells.

Twelve

There exist haiku that proudly proclaim poverty in seventeen syllables, boastfully composing of horse dung and horse urine. When Bashō had a frog leap into an ancient pond, Buson shouldered his umbrella to view autumn leaves. In the Meiji era, a man called Shiki suffered spinal disease and drew loofah water. The aesthetic pride in poverty remains unextinguished even today. Yet Mr. Ono deemed this vulgar. Hermits dine on drifting mists and drink morning dews. A poet's nourishment lies in imagination. To immerse oneself in splendid imaginings requires material leisure. To actualize splendid imaginings demands wealth. The poetic sensibilities of the twentieth century stood as wholly separate entities from Genroku-era refinement.

The poetry of civilization was made of diamonds. It was made of purple. It was made of the fragrance of roses, wine from grapes, and amber cups. Winter lay in assembling variegated marble into squares and warming the soles of silk socks over lacquer-like coal. Summer lay in heaping strawberries upon ice plates and dissolving their delicious blood into the whiteness of cream. At times it lay in greenhouses where tropical orchids ostentatiously perfumed the air. It lay in maru obi sashes where moonlit fields and skies were woven without restraint. It lay where Chinese brocade kosode and swirling furisode kimonos brushed past one another. The poetry of civilization lay in gold. Mr. Ono had to obtain money to fulfill his true calling as a poet.

They say to cultivate fields rather than compose poetry. Those who have made fortunes as poets are scarcely any in number throughout all ages. Above all civilized people love poets' conduct more than their songs. They realize civilization's poetry day and night while poeticizing their opulent lives through flowers and moons. Mr Ono’s poetry wasn’t worth a penny. There exists no business less profitable than poetry. Yet simultaneously no enterprise demands more wealth than poetry. Poets of civilization must by necessity compose verse with others' gold and sustain aesthetic lives through others' gold. That Mr Ono grew reliant on Fujio – who grasped his true calling – followed nature’s logic. Their household was known to possess at least moderate permanent assets. This was no mother who’d marry off her son’s half-sister with mere chests and trunks. Moreover Kōno suffered chronic frailty. None could deny she might take a son-in-law for her trueborn daughter. Whenever ostentatiously tied fortune slips proved accurate upon untying they ever boded well. Haste makes waste. Mr Ono waited quietly for events to unfold through that future when udumbara flowers bloom self-revealed. He wasn’t one to initiate sumo-like clashes nor could he be compelled into them.

Heaven and earth stretched eternal before this promising youth. Spring seemed to blow the ninety-day east wind endlessly across his triumphant brow. Mr. Ono was a gentle man who yielded to circumstance and moved through life with patience. —Then the past came rushing in. From that distant time when he had turned his back on a twenty-seven-year dream and let it flow westward—from that era he thought safely discarded—a dark speck no larger than an ink drop now surged into the radiant capital. What is pushed forward will lurch ahead even without intent. The poet who had resolved to wait quietly for his moment now found himself compelled to hasten the future. The black speck clung fixed above his head. When he looked up, it seemed to spin wildly. Were it to burst apart, white rain would drench him all at once. Mr. Ono wanted to hunch his shoulders and flee.

For four or five days, he had been occupied with attending to Professor Kodō’s needs and various other matters, so he could not make his way to Kōno’s place. Last night, forcing himself through impossible contrivances out of obligation to his former teacher, he had guided Professor Kodō and Sayoko to the exhibition. An obligation remains an obligation whether received long ago or now. He was not an unfeeling poet who would forget obligations. I had even been taught by Professor Kodō the story of how a single meal from a washerwoman was considered a virtuous deed. If it is for the Professor’s sake, I intend to support him henceforth without limit. Rescuing people from hardship is the beautiful poet’s duty. Fulfilling this duty and preserving rich human feelings as poetic material for his memories within his triumphant present—making them part of his personal history—this was the most fittingly gentle conduct for the mild-mannered Mr. Ono. But nothing can be done without money. Money cannot be obtained unless he marries Fujio. If the marriage were concluded even a day sooner, he could attend to Professor Kodō’s needs as he wished a day sooner. ――Mr. Ono invented this logic at his desk.

It was not to abandon Sayoko—he had to marry Fujio quickly in order to take care of Professor Kodō. —Mr. Ono was certain there could be no flaw in his reasoning. If someone were to hear it, he thought it would make a splendid defense. Mr. Ono was a clear-headed man.

Having thought this far, Mr. Ono opened the thick book on his desk—its tea-colored cover adorned with opulent gold lettering. From within appeared a bookmark dyed in Art Nouveau style with blue willows and a glimpse of red-tiled roofs. Mr. Ono slid the bookmark into his left hand and began reading the fine print through his gold-rimmed glasses. For about five minutes all proceeded smoothly, but before long—without his realizing—his dark eyes had left the page and become fixed on the diagonal bars of the shoji screen where daylight stretched longer. It had been four or five days since he last saw Fujio—she must surely have been thinking something. Were these ordinary times, even ten days instead of four or five would hardly warrant concern. But for one now overtaken by his past, even a moment’s respite was worth a thousand gold pieces. Each meeting brought his desired goal nearer. Without meeting, not an inch would shorten that cord of love meant to draw her and him together. Moreover—misfortune slips through knothole gaps. A sun might set within half a day apart; sequestered nights see moons wane. What lightning might have flashed through Fujio’s brows during these neglected days defied even dreamlike conjecture. Preparing his thesis was undeniably important. Yet Fujio mattered more than any thesis. Mr. Ono snapped the book shut.

When he slid open the bashōfu-patterned door, bedding filled the closet’s upper shelf while a willow trunk occupied the space below. Mr. Ono took out the suit folded atop the willow trunk and efficiently finished changing. The hat on the wall awaited its owner. When he slid open the shoji with a clatter and forced his cashmere tabi socks into the geta sandals with their red straps, the maid arrived.

“Oh, you’re going out. Please wait a moment.” “What is it?” he said, raising his face from the sandals. The maid was laughing. “Do you need something?” “Yes,” she replied, still laughing.

“What? Is this a joke?” he said, moving to leave—when one of his new sandals slipped from his foot and went sliding down the polished hallway toward the lamp room. “Hohoho, it’s because you’re in such a fluster.” “There’s a guest, sir.” “Who is it?” “Oh my, acting all clueless when you were the one waiting…” “Waiting?” “What for?” “Hohoho, how terribly serious you are,” she laughed, not waiting for a reply as she turned back toward the entrance. Mr. Ono wore a concerned look as he gazed down the hallway, his geta sandals neatly aligned by the shoji screen. He wondered what would emerge. A dark brown bowler hat crowned a stature tall enough to clear the lintel; at the dimly lit end of the hallway, precisely tailored in his subdued suit, from beneath the narrowly opened vest emerged a white shirt and collar that appeared strikingly refined. Mr. Ono, having stylishly donned his attire, settled into a casual stance in an unassuming corner of the hallway, tilted his gleaming glasses askew, and gazed down the dead end. He gazed while wondering what would emerge. To thrust both hands into the concealed pockets of his Western trousers was the composed posture of a discomposed moment.

Just as he thought he heard the maid’s voice say “Turn there and it’s straight ahead,” Sayoko’s figure appeared at the end of the hallway. One side of the maroon damask reflected light with peculiar intensity where the dragon pattern was woven. Wearing a traditional Meisen-lined kimono that revealed her white tabi socks, when she crisply turned the corner, a long underrobe seemed to flash a glimpse of color. Simultaneously, in the unobstructed central hallway separated by seven paces, the man and woman’s gazes fell upon each other’s faces.

The man was surprised. He maintained his posture. The woman hesitated, startled. Soon concealing the blush that had risen to her cheeks all at once, she let her disheveled smile fall to her shoulders. Against unadorned black hair, the broad hue of silk—rippling amber—spread like a vivid wing across one temple.

“Come now,” Mr. Ono offered a greeting as if to beckon the distant figure nearer. “Are you going out somewhere…?” said the woman, standing with her hands folded before her, her dropped shoulders slightly lifted as she remained motionless with a pitiful air.

“No, it’s nothing… Well, please come in. Come now,” he said, drawing one foot back into the room.

“Excuse me,” she said, gliding down the hallway with shuffling steps, her hands still clasped. The man withdrew completely into the room. The woman also entered after him. The bright window of lengthening days prompted the young pair into youthful conversation. “Thank you for last night, despite your busy schedule…” The woman hesitated near the entrance. “No, you must have been quite tired. How are you feeling? Are you feeling completely better now?” “Ah, thanks to you,” she said with a face that somehow appeared haggard. The man grew slightly more serious. The woman immediately offered an explanation.

“I’ve rarely ventured into such crowded places before.” Civilized people held expositions to marvel and delight. People of the past viewed electric illuminations to be startled and afraid. “How about you, Professor?” Sayoko refrained from answering and smiled sadly. “You didn’t like crowded places either, did you, Professor?” “I suppose it’s because I’ve grown old,” he said apologetically, averting his eyes from her to gaze at the burlwood tea coaster placed on the tatami. The Kyoto-style blue-and-white tea bowl had been resting on his knees for some time now.

"I must have inconvenienced you," said Mr. Ono as he took out his tobacco pouch from his hidden pocket. In the moonlight that illuminated the darkness, Mount Fuji and the Miho Pine Grove were intricately engraved. The use of green paint on those pines was slightly vulgar for a poet’s possession. It might have been a gift from Fujio, who enjoyed sending presents. “No, not an inconvenience at all. I was the one who asked for it,” Sayoko refuted Mr. Ono’s words outright. The man opened the tobacco pouch. The back was entirely gold-plated, over which a brilliant silver design burst forth in a floral flourish. He thought the lonesome woman looked splendid.

“If it were only you, Professor, perhaps I should have guided you to a more tranquil place.” Forcing the busy Mr. Ono to adjust his schedule and venturing into a disliked crowd was all out of self-love. To be honest, he disliked crowds as well. Despite their earnest intentions, brushing past each other’s sleeves as they moved their tranquil steps together through the spring evening, the very person remained unable to draw near. Sayoko hesitated over how to respond. It was not out of some socially calculated motive—being considerate of the other’s kindness to avoid making them feel bad. In Sayoko’s hesitation, there was a slightly more poignant meaning imbued.

“Doesn’t the Professor still prefer Kyoto after all?” Mr. Ono asked again, interpreting the woman’s hesitant demeanor. “Before coming to Tokyo, he kept saying he wanted to move quickly, but upon arriving, it seems he still prefers the familiar place he’s accustomed to.” “I see,” Mr. Ono replied meekly, but inwardly he wondered why he had come to a place so ill-suited to his tastes, and found himself feeling somewhat foolish as he considered his own circumstances.

“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 Western-scented tobacco. There were times when—if a boatman asked his passenger, “Do you like boats?”—the passenger had to answer that whether they liked it or not depended entirely on how he steered. Just as nothing proved more infuriating than being asked such a question by a competent boatman, being inquired of one’s preferences by someone who controlled those very inclinations—all while feigning ignorance—was deeply resentful. Sayoko faltered again. Mr. Ono wondered why she wouldn’t speak plainly.

He took out his watch from the hidden pocket of his vest and checked it.

“Are you going out somewhere?” The woman immediately discerned. “Yes, just briefly,” he deftly parried.

She hesitated again. He grew slightly impatient. Fujio must be waiting—there was silence for a while. "In truth, Father..." Sayoko finally managed to say after much effort. "Do you have some business with me?" "There are various things I need to buy..." "I see." "If you're free, Father said I should ask you to accompany me to the bazaar or such place to purchase them." "Ah, I see. "That’s most regrettable. "It’s just that I have somewhere I must hurry to right now. "—Then let’s do this. "I’ll note down the items you need and buy them on my way back to bring over this evening."

“In that case, I’m terribly sorry to trouble you…”

“It’s no trouble at all.” The father’s goodwill came to naught once again. Sayoko returned dejectedly. Mr. Ono placed the removed hat on his head and swiftly stepped outside.—Simultaneously, the stage of departing spring began to turn.

Rain washed purple into magnolia petals; upon the eaves where flowers browned with decay, she hid the sash of her drying hair—when she moved, heat haze shimmered at her back. Black outward-facing strands teased by wind, teased by sun, now teased by a yellow butterfly’s fluttering. Fujio faced inward with feigned obliviousness. Her sharply defined profile—firm-fleshed and damply faint—lay in shadows cast by sunlight from behind and by sidelocks veiling ears to cascade over shoulders. Peering past shoulders sheened with violet threads that glimmered thousandfold, one’s dazzled eyes grew deathly still. At twilight they say smartweed flowers’ whiteness—easily mistaken—lies concealed. In shadow where abundant hair spilled eavesward light, through a face so slender it might not exist at all, only the dark-drawn tails of eyebrows stayed certain. What those long,narrow black eyes beneath the brows might tell remained unknowable. Fujio leaned over the parquetry desk, elbows planted.

Strike the heart's door with a golden hammer; fill the cup of youth with love's crimson tide. Those who turn their mouths away without drinking are cripples. The moon wanes, yearning for the mountains; people grow old, preaching their ways in vain. In the youthful sky, stars scatter wildly; on the youthful earth, a blizzard of blossoms—having piled years to reach twenty, the god of love now reigns supreme. Tossing her lush black hair, she hung the gauze woven by spring breezes upon spiders' enclosures and five-colored eaves, waiting for the man who would inevitably become ensnared. The ensnared man sought noctilucent jade within the labyrinth; before the swastika-cross aglow in violet threads, he inverted his very soul, unsettling hearts for generations to come.

The woman gazed on contentedly. The Christian pastor urged salvation. Rinzai and Ōbaku preached enlightenment. This woman shifted her dark eyes only to lead others astray. All who did not stray were enemies of this woman. When they strayed, suffered, went mad, and leapt—only then did the woman's will find fulfillment. She extended her slender hand toward the railing and ordered it to bark. If it barked 'woof,' she commanded it to bark 'woof' again. The dog barked 'woof' repeatedly. The woman wore a half-smile. The dog barked 'woof,' and while barking 'woof,' ran left and right. The woman remained silent. The dog went wild, its tail flailing. The woman grew ever more pleased—this was Fujio's interpretation of love.

Stone Buddhas have no love; she had resolved from the start that beauty could not be created. Love arises from confidence in one's qualifications to be loved. Yet there exist those who remain assured of their worthiness to be loved while oblivious to their deficiency in loving others. These two qualifications stand inversely proportional in most cases. Those who brazenly tout their eligibility for affection compel every manner of sacrifice from their partners. For they lack the capacity to love another. Whoever pours their soul into yearning eyes shall inevitably be consumed. Mr. Ono was in peril. Whoever entrusts their life to an artful smile shall surely commit murder. Fujio was born under Hinoeuma - that fiery horse year breeding formidable women. Fujio understood love pursued for her own sake. She had never once contemplated whether love devoted to others might exist. There was poetic charm. There was no morality.

The object of love was a toy. A sacred toy. Ordinary toys existed solely to be played with. The toys of love operated on the principle of mutual toying. Fujio toyed with men. She did not permit men to toy with her by even a hair's breadth. Fujio was the queen of love. What came to fruition had to be a love that deviated from principles. When those who specialized in being loved and those who fixated solely on loving met abruptly before heaven and earth—amidst spring winds' caprices and tides' perfect ebb and flow—this irregular love achieved its consummation.

To love while asserting oneself was like wearing a fireman’s hood and drinking sweet sake—it felt off-key. Love melts everything away; even an angular paper kite shaped from candy craft would inevitably dissolve into formlessness. They who were steeped in love’s waters showed no sign of softening after three days and nights of immersion—unyielding through every moment—for those who cling to selfhood in love become rock candy.

Shakespeare said of women, "Frailty is thy name." The fervent love that asserts self amidst fragility spreads gritty sand upon the softness of freshly cooked rice, chilling to the core the trusting molars that grind and clatter. That which is clenched cannot endure safely without the resilience of rubber. The strong-willed Fujio chose the selfless Mr. Ono for her romantic pursuits. The oily cicada caught in the spider’s web does not struggle to escape even when ensnared. At times, it may tear through the web and escape. Capturing Mr. Munegaki was easy. Taming Mr. Munegaki proved difficult even for Fujio. A woman of her ilk delighted in what came immediately when signaled with a chin’s tilt. Mr. Ono not only came promptly but unfailingly arrived cradling jade-like poetry in his bosom. Without even in dreams harboring intent to toy with her, he offered full sincerity and considered it an honor to become her plaything. She remained unaware of whether she possessed qualifications to love him; she only recognized in her eyes, her brows, her lips—nay, her very talents—the qualifications to be loved, yearning with single-minded fervor. Fujio’s love had to be none other than Mr. Ono.

Mr. Ono, who should have come obediently, had not appeared for four or five days. Fujio applied light makeup daily, concealing her horns within the mirror.

That fifth evening! There was respite while still in shock! Women are such fortunate creatures! The bell of mockery still rang in the depths of her ears. Leaning on the small desk, her glowing black hair exposed to the sun's glare, she did not move a muscle. A residence that turned its back to the engawa and kept its face in shadow shunned Akkai when deep in thought—an age-old rule. The captive bound tenfold without rope—proud in his capture, coming when beckoned, running when commanded—had been toyed with under the guise of having no ulterior motives; yet turning over a beautiful leaf revealed a caterpillar. When she stood before the full-length mirror with her beloved, vowing to the gods that only you and I would be reflected, a glance proved her wrong. The man remained himself, yet the one beside him was a stranger she had never seen. There was respite while still in shock! Women are such fortunate creatures!

When she observed, across several tables under electric light, a pallid face tinged with blue in its lackluster whiteness—and when the man who, save by my side, should never approach a young beauty, circled the corner of a Western-style table with this person, half-anxious and half-familiar to face her—it felt as though a temple bell striker had pierced clean through her heart. In rhythm, the blood in her chest surged all to her cheeks. Crimson said: flaring up, it leapt forth here.

I stood vehemently. "If that is how it shall be," she declared. She must not turn around. She must not voice suspicion. Even a single word of criticism would be imprudent. Pretend it does not exist, even though it does. Treat it with haughty disdain as beneath consideration. The man who noticed would surely lose face.

This is vengeance.

A woman of my standing does not wear a timid face until the crucial moment arrives. To resent is what one says when the person they rely on is replaced. The fitting retort to contempt is rage. It was a rage blended from resentment and jealousy. Civilized ladies consider making fools of others their paramount principle. To be made a fool of by others is more disgraceful than death. Mr. Ono had indeed humiliated the lady.

Love is born of faith. Faith permits no worship of two gods. While bowing my head in devotion to the qualifications deserving love, I turn this duplicitous back toward frivolous streets and ring some shrine's bell. Ox heads and horse bones—their worship remains each person's choice. But Mr. Ono must not cast love's offerings to fickle gods then read divinations in ripples or letters. Mr. Ono became prey caught in an unpatterned net woven across empty skies by invisible light swiftly emitted from these black eyes. He could not be released. He must be cherished through life as sacred plaything.

Sacredness meant making something one's own toy and not letting others lay a finger on it. Since last evening, Mr. Ono had ceased to be sacred. Not only that—he might even be toying with us from his side.—Leaning on her elbow, Fujio's brows began to quiver with vitality even as she remained bowed.

If I had been made a plaything, I would not let this stand. I rent love into eight pieces. Façades of indifference were endless. Poverty desiccated love. Wealth made love extravagant. Ambition sacrificed love. I trampled upon lingering love. Piercing my own thigh with a sharp awl and showing it to others with a “Look!”—that was I. To discard what one deems most valuable and excel at it—that was I. If I stood firm, even my life would be slaughtered in the market of vanity. Inverted—leaving heaven’s gate only to fall into hell’s abyss—the hellish wind severing Setan’s ears was I! I! Fujio shouted through gritted teeth biting her lower lip as she stared downward.

During the four or five days we hadn't met, I had thought about sending a letter. Last evening upon returning home, I tried writing one immediately, but after penning five or six lines tore it to shreds. I would never write. I waited for him to bow his head and come apologizing. If I remained silent he would surely emerge. Should he appear—I'd force an apology. Should he not? This troubled me slightly. There was no way to position myself beyond reach. "He'll come—he'll definitely come," Fujio murmured through clenched teeth. Unaware, Mr. Ono was indeed being drawn toward me. He was coming.

Even if he came, I wouldn't ask about last night's woman. To ask would mean acknowledging her existence. Last evening at the dinner table, my brother and Munegaki had been using peculiar coded phrases. They must have been insinuating her relationship with Ono to torment me. If I bowed my head to inquire, I would lose face. If those two meant to gang up and make a fool of someone, then let them. I would present counter-evidence to their hinted accusations and make fools of them instead.

Ono must be made to apologize no matter what. He must be made to apologize through harsh confrontation. At the same time, my brother and Munegaki must also be made to apologize. Ono was entirely hers—the mischievous antics of those two, who had directed their teasing insinuations, proved utterly futile. She had to flaunt their intimacy with a "See this?" and humiliate them into apologizing.—Fujio, having washed her hair, buried her face in thought, striving to pierce these contradictions with the singular character of "I."

Footsteps sounded on the quiet veranda. A tall figure abruptly appeared. The front of his kasuri-lined kimono hung open, revealing a mouse-gray woolen undergarment pressed against his skin that formed a long inverted triangle across his chest—above which rose a long neck supporting a long face. His complexion was pale. His hair curled into whirls, appearing not to have been cut for two or three months. It seemed not to have been combed for four or five days. What were handsome were his thick eyebrows and mustache. The mustache’s texture was intensely black and exceedingly fine. Left ungroomed yet possessing a natural grace, it somehow gave the impression of character. Around his waist was wrapped a soiled white crepe sash twice over, the excessively long ends tied limply beneath his right sleeve like a cat’s plaything. The hem did not meet properly from the start. Beneath the loosely draped hem that floated like a priest’s robe, black tabi socks were visible. Only the tabi socks were new. They seemed to emit a navy blue scent if sniffed. Kōno, with his old head and new feet, walked through an inverted world and casually stepped out onto the veranda.

The polished straight-grained floorboards reflected shadows from beneath the veranda so vividly that when light footsteps fell upon them, the black hair cascading down Fujio's back shifted smoothly. The moment navy tabi socks that had dropped onto the veranda entered the woman's field of vision. The owner of those tabi socks could be identified without needing to look.

The navy tabi socks walked quietly over.

“Fujio.” He would speak a moment later. With his back against the hemlock pillar that stood straight, dividing the groove of the storm shutter, Kōno appeared to have come to a halt. Fujio remained silent. “Was it another dream?” Kōno muttered, still standing as he looked down at her flawlessly washed hair. “What is it?” the woman said as she turned her face back. It was like the moment when a red-striped snake raises its head. The heat haze rippled across her black hair. The man did not even move his eyes. He was looking down with a pale face. He continued staring down at the forehead of the woman who had turned to face him.

“Did you enjoy yourself last evening?” Before answering, the woman forcefully swallowed the hot dumpling. "Yes," she replied with utter coldness. “That’s good to hear,” he said with perfect composure.

The woman came hurrying in. When a spirited woman realized she was playing defense, she immediately came hurrying in. If the opponent remained composed, she came hurrying in all the more. If one had charged in sweating, that would have been one thing, but to attack and then lean leisurely against a pillar looking down on others was like a robber drinking sake while sitting cross-legged—it was a bit too presumptuous. “As long as you can still be surprised, there must be some comfort in that, I suppose.” The woman countered by pushing back. The man showed no sign of being perturbed, still looking down from above. Not a trace of comprehension showed on his face. Kōno’s diary stated: “Some interpret ten sen as one-tenth of a yen, while others interpret ten sen as ten times one sen.” The same words could become elevated or diminished depending on who used them. It depended on the discernment of those who used words. There existed this much difference between Kōno and Fujio. When those of differing ranks quarreled, a strange phenomenon occurred.

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

“That’s right,” he merely said. “When you become a scholar like you, Brother—even if you want to be surprised—you can’t be startled anymore. So there’s no comfort in that.” “Comfort?” he asked. Fujio took his words as practically questioning whether she understood what “comfort” meant. Her brother eventually spoke.

“Comfort isn’t so common. Instead, there’s peace of mind.” “Why?” “Those without comfort needn’t worry about suicide.” Fujio couldn’t comprehend her brother’s words at all. The pale face kept looking down impassively. To ask why would show poor judgment, so she stayed silent. “Someone like you with such abundance of comfort is dangerous.” A ripple ran through Fujio’s black hair involuntarily. Her brother still looked down from above, as if understanding her upward glance. Without grasping anything, she vividly recalled the verse: “Thus should end the reign of Egypt’s sovereign.”

“Is Ono still coming around?” Fujio’s eyes emitted sparks like those struck from flint by a hammer’s tip. The indifferent brother, “Isn’t he coming?” he said. Fujio ground her teeth. Her brother ceased speaking. Yet he remained leaning against the pillar. “Brother.”

"What is it?" he asked, looking down again. "That gold pocket watch—I won’t hand it over to you." "If you won’t give it to me, then who will you give it to?" "For now, I’ll keep it." "You’ll keep it for now? Very well. However, since I promised to give it to Munegaki…" "When it comes time to give it to Mr. Munegaki, I’ll be the one to do so."

“From you?” Her brother lowered his face slightly, bringing his eyes closer to his sister. “From me—yes, from me—I’ll give it to someone,” she declared, jerking her elbow off the parquet desk and rising gracefully. Navy, deep yellow, horsetail green, and maroon vertical stripes aligned and rose up like straight poles. Only the hem undulated in four-colored waves, concealing the white tabi’s fasteners.

“I see.”

With that, her brother showed the heels of Unsaizoko and went off toward the other side.

In the time it took for Mr. Kōno to appear like a ghost and vanish like one, Mr. Ono approached. Countless rains had fallen, steaming anew the bluish tinge trapped in the soil, as he trod upon the damp yet warm earth. He approached the gate of the Kōno residence with measured steps, his polished goatskin shoes so immaculate that not even a speck of dust upon them caught the eye. Mr. Kōno—his listless, world-weary figure draped in a formal haori with its cords tied in a round knot, idly fidgeting with a slender cane to occupy his empty hands—and Mr. Ono, drawing near, came face to face abruptly by the fence side. Nature prefers contrasts.

“Where are you going?” Mr. Ono placed a hand on his hat and approached with a laugh. “Oh,” he responded. The Western-style cane ceased to move just as it was. Originally，even the Western-style cane was something he had no real use for. “I was just thinking of stepping out for a moment...” “Go ahead．Fujio is here，” Mr．Kōno said straightforwardly，intending to let him pass． Mr．Ono hesitated． “And where are you going?” he asked again． While he had business with your sister，Mr．Ono found it unbearable to adopt an attitude of indifference toward what might become of you．

“Me? I don’t know where I’m going. Just as I swing this cane about, something swings me about.” “Ha ha ha! That’s quite philosophical—out for a walk?” Mr. Ono peered up from below. “Well… It’s fine weather, isn’t it?” “Fine weather indeed—how about the exhibition instead of walking?”

“The exhibition… The exhibition—I saw it last evening.”

“You went last evening?” Mr. Ono’s eyes fixed intently.

“Ah.”

Mr. Ono, thinking something more would follow that "Ah," kept waiting. The cuckoo, with a single cry, seemed to vanish into the clouds.

“Did you go alone?” I asked this time. “No. I was invited, so I went.” Mr. Kōno indeed had a companion. Mr. Ono found himself compelled to press further to find out.

“I see, it must have been beautiful,” he began as a bridge, then resolved to formulate his next question. However, Mr. Kōno simply— He replied with just a single “Uh-huh.” Before I could gather my thoughts, I had to immediately devise something. At first I meant to ask “With whom?” but before speaking, reconsidered—perhaps “Around what time?” would be more prudent. Might I instead boldly declare “I went too”—then depending on his reply, everything would clarify itself. But that too seemed unnecessary. Mr. Ono wrestled internally—in his chest and deep in his throat. Meanwhile, Mr. Kōno shifted the tip of his slender cane about a foot. Where the cane moved, the foot followed. Catching a glimpse of this movement, Mr. Ono abandoned his carefully laid plans in the depths of his throat. Even when controlled down to a fingernail’s breadth of initiative, one who exerts no will to reclaim what’s lost becomes a fatalist beyond education’s power to reform.

“Well, go ahead,” Mr. Kōno said again. He felt as if being urged onward. When he sensed fate directing him leftward, should something push from behind, he would step forward at once. “Well then…” Mr. Ono removed his hat.

“I see. Well then, excuse me,” said the slender cane as it retreated about two feet through space from Mr. Ono. Mr. Ono’s shoe took one step toward the gate—simultaneously pulled back one step by the cane to its former position. Destiny had placed Mr. Kōno’s cane and Mr. Ono’s foot in infinite space, vying over an interval of one shaku. This cane and this shoe were personalities. Our souls at times dwell in the heel of a shoe; at times lurk in the tip of a cane. Novelists who do not know how to depict souls depict canes and shoes.

The boot that had traversed a single step's worth of space turned its gleaming head and addressed the cane that had entrusted its slender form to the earth with abandon.

“Did Miss Fujio go with you last evening too?” The cane, standing straight as a rod, answered. “Ah, Fujio went too.—Depending on circumstances, I may not have completed my preparatory reading today.” The slender cane touched the ground as though landing, then lifted away as though departing; when one thought it stood upright, it tilted, and when one expected a tilt, it righted itself—carving through infinite space. The gleaming shoes, their thrust-in heads unpleasantly coated in thin mud, trod with excessive reserve on the gate’s gravel as they reached the entrance.

At the very moment Mr. Ono reached the entrance, Fujio—leaning against a veranda pillar, her toes that showed no intention of returning to her seat poised over the groove for sliding shutters—gazed out at the sprawling garden enclosed by broad verandas. Long before Fujio leaned against the veranda pillar, the mysterious woman—within the closed-off six-mat room, with the singing iron kettle as her companion—had been pondering exhaustively during the lingering days of departing spring.

Kōno was not born from my own womb. All contemplations of the mysterious woman originated from this single phrase. Elaborating upon this phrase shaped her view of life. Supplementing that view formed her cosmic perspective. Each day while listening to the iron kettle's song within her six-mat room,the mysterious woman constructed this worldview and fashioned that cosmic vision. Only those blessed with leisure could craft such philosophies and cosmic outlooks. The mysterious woman spent each day reclining upon silk bedding—a personage graced by fortune.

Residence disciplines the mind. The hina doll, dignified even as it burned with love, retained its elegance though insects had gnawed its nose away. The mysterious woman sat demurely. The six-mat-room view of life also had to be refined.

To grow old without a husband was unsettling. To have no child who should be relied upon was even more unsettling. To have such a child be a stranger was not only unsettling but detestable. To possess a child who should rely on her yet be bound by decrees compelling dependence on outsiders—this was not merely detestable but pitiable. The mysterious woman believed herself a pitiable unfortunate soul. Even strangers might not align with one’s will. Soy sauce and mirin had blended since ancient times. Yet drinking alcohol and tobacco together would make one cough. Kōno was not one to adjust his measure of water poured according to whether his parent’s vessel stood square or round. As days passed and piled up, barriers formed. Lately she felt as though encountering an Edo-era foe in distant Nagasaki. Scholarship remained a tool for social advancement. Defying a parent’s wishes could hardly count as ascetic training disrupting year-end rhythms. Spending money to deliberately become an eccentric—only to emerge useless after graduation—was disgraceful. It reflected poorly on them all. She found him unsuitable as an heir. She had no intention of letting such a person take the deathbed water—nor did he possess merit enough to do so.

There were Kō and Fujio. The winter-enduring bamboo had power enough to sharply flick away powdered snow drifting through night after night. To spring’s figure gathering ten thousand gazes upon the streets had been given flamboyant robes embroidered with butterflies and floating blossoms. The world lay wide enough to thrust forth my own child. Let them parade through sunlit heavens with radiant splendor—to falter remained each person’s prerogative. Only through bewildering those self-styled “finest suitors in three provinces,” only through tormenting them could a mother who had raised such treasure lift her face in pride. Better to enter my grave following my true daughter’s envied days—resplendent from dusk till dawn—than cling to strangers cold as frozen sea cucumbers.

Orchids grew in secluded valleys; swords belonged to heroic warriors. A beautiful daughter had to take a renowned son-in-law. There were many proposals, but those that did not please her daughter and those that did not please herself were of no use. A ring that did not match the thickness of one’s finger would only be discarded even if received. Whether too large or too small, they could not make a suitable son-in-law. Therefore, a son-in-law had not materialized to that day. Amidst the dazzlingly gathered suitors, only Mr. Ono remained. Mr. Ono was said to be a highly learned person. He was said to have received an imperial watch. It was said he would become a doctor in a little more time. Not only that, but he was charming and kind. He was refined and well-mannered. As Fujio’s son-in-law, he would not be a disgrace. Even if they had to take care of him, it would feel agreeable.

Mr. Ono was a flawless son-in-law candidate. The only flaw was his lack of wealth. However, relying on a son-in-law’s wealth for support meant that even a man she favored couldn’t assert authority. Bringing in a penniless man to dutifully cherish both bride and mother-in-law would suit Fujio’s purposes—and serve her own interests as well. The one problem remained that property. Today—four months after her husband’s death abroad—it had naturally reverted to Kōno’s ownership.

The scheme began here. Kōno declared he did not need a single penny of property. He declared he would give the house to Fujio as well. If one could shed the kimono of obligation and become conveniently naked, they might feel inclined to leap into a suddenly appearing hot spring as if seizing an opportunity. Yet the garment of appearances could not be stripped away so carelessly. When someone offered an umbrella saying rain might fall, society would not hesitate if there were two—but there were also people's judgments about willfully reaching out without regard for the giver getting drenched before their eyes. Thus arose the enigma. His declaration to give was an earnest lie, and her feigned reluctance served merely as an excuse for the neighbors. With reluctant expressions as she accepted Kōno's forced transfer of his property to Fujio from his own initiative, she had to maintain civilized pretenses. Thus the enigma unraveled. The enigmatic woman was one who interpreted an offer to give as meaning he wished not to give, then insisted on refusal under the guise of being prepared to accept. The philosophy of life in a six-mat room proved exceedingly complex.

The enigmatic woman, tormented by the unresolved problem, finally left the six-mat room. The method of endlessly refusing what one covets while scheming to seize it at the earliest opportunity was beyond even differential calculus to uncover. She abandoned the six-mat room wearing a distress-contorted face—her mounting agitation left her unable to stay seated upon the futon.

When she stepped outside, the spring day was unexpectedly tranquil, and the warm wind that nonchalantly toyed with her hair seemed almost mockingly dismissive. The enigmatic woman grew increasingly unsettled.

Turning left along the veranda led to the Western-style building, where the room adjoining the parlor served as Kōno’s study. To the right, it bent at a right angle, and the six-mat room protruding south at the bend became Fujio’s living quarters.

With the cautious posture of someone ducking beneath a diamond-shaped rice cake, she looked straight ahead at the far corner—and there stood Fujio. Her thick hair, styled with a damp luster, pressed against the hemlock pillar; in the midst of her glamorous figure leaning diagonally, only the wrist thrust deep into her obi appeared white. A wanderer might gaze upon a hometown where bush clover bows low and pampas grass sways in just such a manner. One could not tell what Fujio—who had never left her hometown—was gazing at. Mother rounded the corner of the veranda and approached.

“What are you thinking about?” “Oh, Mother!” Her slanted body moved away from the pillar. The look in her eyes as she turned around held not even a shadow of sorrow. The woman of my own and the enigmatic woman exchanged glances. They were mother and daughter by blood. “What’s the matter?” the enigma said. “Why?” I retorted. “But you just seemed so lost in thought.” “I wasn’t thinking about anything. I was just watching the view of the garden, that’s all.” “I see,” the enigma said with a meaningful look.

“The scarlet carp in the pond are leaping up,” I insist with unwavering determination. Sure enough, a plopping sound came from the murky water.

“Oh my.—I couldn’t hear it at all in my room.”

It wasn't that she couldn't hear it. She had been engrossed in the enigma. "I see," I said with a meaningful look this time. The world was full of variety. "Oh, the lotus leaves are already out." "Yes. Hadn't you noticed yet?" "No. Just now," said the enigma. Those who dwelled solely on enigmas were obtuse. If one extracted Kōno and Fujio from consideration, the mind became a vacuum. Lotus leaves were the least of her concerns. After lotus leaves emerged, lotus flowers bloomed. After the lotus flowers bloomed, they folded the mosquito net and stored it away. Then crickets chirped. Showers fell. Wintry winds blew. ...While the enigmatic woman struggled to solve her enigma, the world transformed around her. Yet she intended to remain seated in one place and solve it. The enigmatic woman believed there was no one in the world as clever as herself.

She would never dream of considering herself obtuse.

The scarlet carp leaped up again with a plop. In the murky water, the mud had settled, and from the bottom where only the surface layer was faintly warmed, a hazy crimson shadow stirred the quiet soil and rose up. Just as one thought its tail swayed gently enough not to disturb the glint of sunlight on the smooth waves, it suddenly leaped up with a splash, striking the water. Amidst the thickening mud churned up in all directions, a faint scarlet shadow sank away into hiding. The departing trace, having pushed through the lukewarm water, left a single ripple in its wake, agitating last year’s reeds where no wind blew. In Mr. Kōno’s diary, there was a couplet that read "Birds enter clouds without trace; fish pass through water leaving ripples." It adhered neither to regulated verse nor quatrain form, written plainly in regular script. Spring light does not blanket heaven and earth; it freely delights the human heart. But spring's light does not bless the enigmatic woman.

“Why on earth do they leap like that?” she asked. Just as the enigmatic woman pondered her enigma, the scarlet carp too must have been leaping about without reason. To call it whimsy—both were equally whimsical. Fujio did not answer. Of the floating lotus leaves, Chinese poets had said they were folded blue coins. There was, of course, nothing heavy about them like coins. However, those newly emerged at the water’s edge, entrusting their tender lives of yesterday and today to the winds of this mundane world as they exposed their delicate faces, were as fine as coins. Nor could their color truly be called blue. On leaves thinner than Mino paper—a soft tea color that shunned heavy indigo, tinged daily with encroaching verdigris—the lingering traces of spring from the carp’s leaps lay scattered as pearls that would scatter when blown and crumble when placed. Fujio, offering no answer, merely gazed at the scene before her. The carp leaped again.

Mother stared meaninglessly at the surface of the pond but eventually shifted her focus,

“Lately, Mr. Ono doesn’t seem to be coming around. Is something wrong?” she inquired. Fujio whirled around. “What do you mean?” she demanded, fixing her mother with a stare before coolly returning her gaze to the garden. Mother blinked in surprise. The faintly ruddy carp glided beneath the floating leaves. The leaves quivered lightly.

“If he isn’t coming, he ought to at least send some word. Could he be ill?”

“He’s sick?” Fujio’s voice rose shrilly. “No,” “I was simply asking if he might be ill.” “What do you mean he’s sick?”

The vehemence that seemed ready to leap from Kiyomizu’s stage halted with a dismissive snort at her nostrils. Mother was taken aback once more.

“I wonder when he’ll become a doctor.” “When would that be?” she said, as if it were none of her concern. “You—did you have a fight with him?” “How could anyone possibly quarrel with Mr. Ono?” “Well, he hasn’t taught us anything, and we’ve shown him proper gratitude.”

The enigmatic woman could offer no further interpretation. Fujio withheld her reply. If she were to confess about last evening’s events and explain everything that had happened, that would be the end of it. Mother would undoubtedly work herself into a frenzy and sympathize with me. She didn’t think revealing everything would cause any particular inconvenience, but actively seeking sympathy was no different from being driven by hunger to beg for a penny or two of pity at a stranger’s doorstep. Sympathy is my enemy. Until yesterday, like a marionette dancing on stage—with the tip of my indolent little finger that could barely speak—I made him stand as I pleased, lie down as I pleased, even laugh or grow impatient, flustering him while amusing myself with my clever feats—Mother too, in admiration, had twitched her nose with pride at her own show of triumph—but that was merely the surface; had she seen the reality of last evening, the inviting miscanthus would have bent away. If it were revealed that he had been amiably drinking tea with that beautiful stranger, my standing would diminish in Mother’s eyes. I cannot consent to this. If it’s a falcon that’s missed its mark, I’ll cut my losses and say I no longer need it. If it were a dog that neither follows nor whimpers, I would declare that after beating it, I had cast it aside. Mr. Ono’s misconduct has not yet progressed to that extent. If left alone, he might return. No—he would surely return—my own self, having compared myself to Sayoko, would testify to that. When he returns, I’ll make him suffer. After making him suffer a bitter experience, I’ll make him stand or lie down as I please. Make him laugh, keep him in suspense, fluster him. And then—if I show Mother my amusingly triumphant face—my standing with her will be preserved. If I show it to Brother and Ichi—it will serve as my retaliation against both of them.—Until then, I won’t breathe a word. Fujio withheld her reply.

Mother had permanently lost the opportunity to realize her misunderstanding.

“Didn’t Kōno come by earlier?” Mother asked another question.

The carp leapt. The lotus sprouted buds, the lawn gradually turned green, the kobushi magnolia had decayed. The enigmatic woman paid no heed to such matters. She was ceaselessly tormented by Kōno's ghost, day and night. 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 talk about. Kōno was a child she did not bear. A child one did not bear cannot be let out of one's sight. This was the great truth the enigmatic woman had been taught innately. Upon discovering this truth, the enigmatic woman developed neurasthenia. Neurasthenia was civilization's epidemic. If she abused her neurasthenia, she would make even her own child neurasthenic. And she said she was utterly troubled by his illness as well. Those infected were the ones truly inconvenienced. It was impossible to tell whose complaint of being utterly troubled held more weight. Yet for her part, the enigmatic woman remained utterly troubled by Kōno.

“Didn’t Kōno come by earlier?” she said.

“He was here.”

“How did he seem?” “He’s still the same as ever.” With a faint furrowing of her brows into the shape of an eight, she began, “That one too, really…,” but— When she snapped, “What a troublemaker,” the furrows between her brows deepened instantly. “He does nothing but speak in that sarcastic way, as if he’s got something stuck between his back teeth.” “Sarcasm is one thing, but when he sometimes spouts incomprehensible ravings, that’s a problem.” “Anyway, lately he’s been acting a bit strange.”

“That’s what they call philosophy, I suppose.” “I don’t know if it’s philosophy or what, but... Did you say something earlier?” “Yes, about the watch again...” “Are you telling me to return it? Whether we give it to Ichi or not is none of your business!” “He must have gone out somewhere by now?” “Where did he go?”

“He must have gone to Munegaki’s place.”

When the conversation had progressed this far, the maid placed both hands on the floor and announced, "Mr. Ono has arrived." Mother withdrew to her room.

When Mother’s shadow turned the corner of the engawa and vanished beyond the shoji, Mr. Ono came from the inner entranceway, passing beside the tearoom and cutting through the adjacent six-tatami room without detouring down the corridor. There was a Zen master who said that when one strikes the kei to signal entry into the chamber, merely hearing the footsteps reveals as plainly as if holding it in his hand whether the practitioner has resolved the koan or not. When one is hesitant, it shows even in their gait. Even beasts have a proverb called “the walk to the slaughterhouse.” This cannot be considered a phenomenon exclusive to Zen practitioners. The application holds true even for a genius like Mr. Ono. Mr. Ono had always been excessively apprehensive toward the world. Today was even more unusual. Like a fugitive finding no ease in rustling pampas grass, Mr. Ono entered with trepidation—his black-tabied toes gingerly touching the green tatami as he stepped inside.

Without directing a single glance into the shadows，Fujio did not raise her eyes. Merely catching a glimpse of his tabi sock tips grazing the tatami，she realized—Ah.

Mr. Ono had already been sized up before he even took his seat. “Good day…” he smiled while sitting down.

“Welcome,” she said with a serious face, looking directly at him for the first time. Mr. Ono’s eyes wavered under her gaze. “It’s been a while,” he immediately added by way of excuse.

“No,” the woman cut him off. But she left it at that. The man, feeling thwarted at the outset, wondered where he should begin anew. The drawing room was, as usual, quiet. “It’s gotten quite warm.” “Yes.” In the drawing room, only these two phrases were uttered; the rest returned to its usual silence.

Just then, a carp leaped up with another splash. The pond was to the east, against Mr. Ono’s back. Mr. Ono turned slightly, about to say "the carp," but when he looked toward the woman, her eyes were fixed on the southern kobushi magnolia. From petals as long as a jar’s neck, after the deep purple had chased spring away and fled, the remnants wrinkled with the hollow stain of tea, some left with only their bare calyxes snapped off. Mr. Ono tried to say “the carp,” but again abandoned it. The woman’s face was even more unapproachable than before.

The woman, intending to make the man who had neglected his visits explain his absence, had simply responded with "No." The man, realizing he had misstepped, tried changing the subject by remarking on how much warmer it had become, but when even that showed no effect, he attempted to shift toward the carp. The man fretted, edging forward until he could retreat no further, yet the woman remained seated in her usual spot, unmoving. Unaware, Mr. Ono found himself compelled to think once more.

If she was displeased about my absence these four or five days, then so be it. If we had been spotted at last evening's exhibition, that would prove troublesome. Still, there were countless ways to explain things away. But could Fujio have truly recognized Sayoko and me amidst that ceaseless flux of shifting black shadows? If she had seen us, that would settle everything. Yet to broach the matter myself if she hadn't noticed would be like stripping naked to thrust a festering boil beneath some stranger's nose.

Walking along the road with a young woman was the way of the world these days. If it were merely walking together, it might even have been considered honorable—one would not call it a flaw. If this had been but a single hazy night’s affair—tempted by improvisation, we might have rubbed our sleeves and cuffs of karmic bonds from another life just for tonight, then buried our heads east or west amidst the turbulent dark waves of an unknown world, transforming into complete strangers. Then there would have been no issue. I could have even proactively brought it up like this. Unfortunately, Sayoko and I were not in such a shallow relationship as two stones haphazardly placed on a Go board that clung together for no reason. For five long years I had fled, yet on her side she had spun threads of sincerity—dyed crimson with the hue of fate—day and night without cease, binding us together however tenuously these many years.

To dismiss her as merely a woman would not settle the matter. In exchange, it became a lie that others despised and even I could not abide. Lies were fugu soup. If they could be confined to the moment without inviting retribution, there would have been nothing more delectable. Yet once poisoned, one must vomit bitter blood in the end. Moreover, lies reeled in their own consequences. If one remained silent, there might have been a way to slip through unnoticed; yet attempts to conceal one’s appearance, name, and even origins only drew the arrows of suspicion unerringly to their mark. Mending was fated to unravel. The moment the ugly truth emerged from beneath the unraveling—triumphant as if declaring “Behold!”—was when the rust upon one’s soul could never be scrubbed away in this lifetime. Mr. Ono was a man of such discernment, no fool when it came to matters of profit and loss. My circumstances, bound by the thread of five long years stitching through Kyoto spread east and west, were something I did not wish to speak of to the very person sitting sullenly before me. At least until the pulse of this newfound love coursing through my veins aligned its rhythm, until we could proudly declare ourselves husband and wife before all, and until that warmth struck both our hands—I did not wish to speak of it. If I tried not to speak of these circumstances, I didn’t want to tell a temporary lie dismissing her as merely a woman while feigning ignorance. If I resolved not to tell lies, then I didn’t want to disclose even Sayoko’s name. Mr. Ono kept his gaze fixed on Fujio’s demeanor.

“Last evening at the exhibition…” Having mustered the courage to say that much, Mr. Ono faltered at whether to phrase it as “Did you go” or “I heard you went.”

“Yes, I went.” A black shadow grazed the hesitating man’s nose and swiftly crossed past. In the moment he thought 'Ah!', he found himself overtaken. So there was no help for it,

“It must have been beautiful,” he added. For a poet, “It must have been beautiful” was rather commonplace. Even the speaker himself became aware how dreadful this was. “It was beautiful,” the woman responded clearly. After a moment’s pause, “The people were quite beautiful too,” she added, dousing him with her words. Mr. Ono involuntarily looked at Fujio’s face. Since he couldn’t quite grasp her intent,

“Is that so?” he said.

Harmless answers are, in most cases, foolish answers. When one is vulnerable, even a poet resigns themselves to folly.

“I saw quite a few beautiful people too,” Fujio repeated sharply. It was a strangely foreboding choice of words. Somehow, Ono sensed he wouldn’t escape this unscathed. He had no choice but to fall silent. Fujio remained motionless where she sat. Her gaze pierced through him as if demanding: Still refusing to confess? They say even when pressed with a sword at his belly, Taira no Tomomori refused to commit seppuku. Civilized people who weigh profit and loss never rashly admit self-incriminating truths. Ono needed to better gauge his adversary’s intentions.

“Did you have anyone with you?” he asked nonchalantly.

This time, there was no reply from the woman. She remained steadfastly guarding her position.

"If I were to meet Mr. Kōno at the gate now, I hear he went along too." "If you already know that much, why bother asking?" she countered sharply.

“No, I just thought there might have been someone else with you,” Mr. Ono skillfully deflected. "Besides my brother?" “Yes.” “You could have just asked my brother.” Her displeasure remained unabated, but if he maneuvered skillfully, he might yet navigate through this maelstrom—somehow or other. By clinging to her words and weaving back and forth through them, one might unexpectedly find oneself emerging onto level ground. Mr. Ono had succeeded every time so far with this approach.

“I did consider asking Mr. Kōno, but I was in such a hurry to leave early that...”

“Hohoho!” Fujio suddenly laughed shrilly. The man was startled. In that moment of distraction,

“If you’re so busy, why did you skip out for four or five days without a word?” she fired back. “No, I was terribly busy for four or five days and simply couldn’t come.” “During the day as well?” She pulled her shoulders back. Each strand of her long hair seemed alive with movement. “Huh?” He made a strange face. “Are you really that busy even during the day?” “During the day…”

“Hohohoho! Do you still not understand?” she laughed shrilly, her voice echoing through the garden. The woman could laugh with perfect control. The man stood dumbfounded. “Mr. Ono, are there illuminations during the day as well?” she said, folding her hands demurely on her lap.

A brilliant diamond glinted painfully into Mr. Ono’s eyes. Mr. Ono felt as though struck across the cheek by a bamboo spatula. Simultaneously came a sound of his innermost thoughts being laid bare. “If you study too excessively, you’ll never obtain that gold pocket watch,” the woman pressed with immaculate composure.

The man’s defenses crumbled into total disarray. “The fact is, my former teacher came from Kyoto a week ago, so…” “Oh, really? I had no idea at all.” “So you must be terribly busy, then.” “I see.” “How terribly rude of me to say such things without knowing,” she said with feigned contrition, lowering her head. Her green hair shifted again. “When I was in Kyoto, I received great kindness from him, so…”

“So why don’t you just take good care of him? — As for me… Last evening, I went to see the electric illuminations with my brother, Mr. Munegaki, and Miss Itoko.” “Ah, I see.” “Yes, and then there’s that Kameya shop by the pond—don’t you know it, Mr. Ono?”

“Yes—I—do know.” “You know.—You do, don’t you? We all had tea there.”

The man wanted to rise from his seat. The woman persisted in adorning herself with a deliberately calm demeanor. “The tea was exceptionally delicious.” “You still haven’t been there yet, have you?”

Mr. Ono remains silent. “If you still haven’t been there yet, then you must take that Kyoto teacher there without fail.” “Since I too intend to have Mr. Munegaki take me there.” Fujio emphasized the name "Mr. Munegaki" peculiarly.

The spring shadows slanted. Long days, however long they may be, are not the exclusive possession of two. The majolica clock adorning the floor cleanly severed the unceasing dialogue with this single phrase.

About thirty minutes later, Mr. Ono stepped outside the gate.

In that night’s dream, Fujio found ease as long as she was startled! Women were fortunate creatures! He did not hear the derisive bell that proclaimed this.

Thirteen

They erected two thick square pillars to form what passed for a gate. It remained unclear whether there was an actual door. A hole in the wooden fence labeled “Night Mail” suggested it was secured after dark. Before them rose earthen mounds of turf arranged like burial tumuli, planted with pines whose emerald canopies spread umbrella-like to screen the city, laid out in strict geometric formation. Circling around a pine along its arcing path brought carved waves on the entrance eaves into view where they met overhead. The shoji screens stood wide open. Nonchalant white sliding doors partitioned off the tatami room, their surfaces brutally adorned with Taigadō-style brushwork in grass script as large as bugaku masks.

Mr. Kōno turned right at the entrance and quietly opened the lattice of the visible geta box. He stood tapping the hardened earth with the tip of his slender cane. He neither made a request nor uttered a word. Naturally, there was no response. The mansion's interior stood so utterly still that not a trace of human vitality could be detected. The carriages passing before the gate sounded more lively by contrast. The tip of the slender cane clicked. Before long, amidst the stillness came the soft swish of a sliding door opening. He called for the maid, "Kiyo! Kiyo!" The maid seemed to be absent. Footsteps approached from the direction of the kitchen. The tip of the cane clicked repeatedly. The footsteps slipped out from the kitchen toward the inner entrance. The shoji opened. Itoko and Mr. Kōno stood facing each other, exchanging glances.

A household that kept both maids and live-in students, even when maintained casually, rarely had them answer the door. Just when they thought to go out, they would lower a raised knee and let the sewing thread advance a stitch or two—such was the usual way. The long day, as heavy as cradling a biwa lute, was on the verge of collapsing under its own duration when, entranced by the dreamlike drone of flies, someone called for Kiyo—but Kiyo seemed to have gone to the back. In the crisp emptiness of the kitchen, only the iron kettle glowed quietly.

As was his custom, Mr. Kuroda was likely in the student quarters, his shaven head buried in his arms, sleeping cat-like atop his desk. Within what seemed like an abandoned mansion, a clicking sound echoed from the inner entrance. With a puzzled hum, she casually slid 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 shadowed figure remained motionless at the center of the hardened earth, ceaselessly tapping his cane.

“Oh!” Simultaneously, the cane's tapping ceased. From beneath his hat brim, Mr. Kōno regarded the woman's face as though seeing her for the first time in ages. The woman abruptly averted her eyes and fixed them upon the slender cane's tip. A warmth rose from the cane's tip, flushing her face crimson. Itoko bent at the waist, her hair—free of oil and left to swell naturally—cascading forward like falling water.

"Are you going out?" Mr. Kōno asked simply with an upward inflection.

“In a moment,” was her only reply, a wave of charm rising in her effortless double eyelids. “Is he not home? …Your father?” “Father has been out since morning attending a Noh recital gathering.” “I see,” the man said, half-turning his long frame to present his profile toward Itoko. “Oh, do come in—my brother will be returning soon.”

“Thank you,” Mr. Kōno said to the wall.

"Please," she said, drawing one foot back in invitation. Her kimono was coarse-striped meisen silk. "Thank you." "Please."

“Where did he go?” Mr. Kōno turned his face—previously directed at the wall—slightly toward the woman. In sunlight grazing from behind, his pallid cheek seemed perhaps—or was it his imagination?—somewhat more gaunt than yesterday.

“Out for a walk, I suppose,” the woman said, tilting her head.

“I’ve just returned from a walk myself. I walked rather far and grew quite exhausted…” “Then please come inside and rest awhile. Since it’s nearly time for him to return.”

The conversation extended little by little. The lengthening of their conversation was proof that their spirits had relaxed. Mr. Kōno removed his rough-hewn board geta and stepped up into the tatami room. The decorative beam was fitted with heavy nail covers, and in the immovable spring alcove, Jōshin’s cloud dragon painting hung deep within. In the age-worn era, even the ivory scroll rod rested serenely against the indigo of crest damask encircling the corners, its hue a pale black of ink-washed silk. The table—over a foot long, made of sesame-speckled rosewood whose glossy-grained lacquer shifted from tea-brown to purple to black—firmly supported a celadon censer cast with Chinese lions, its mouth prominently standing out.

The veranda held lingering spring sunlight; one who shivered at the world’s chill sat near the edge, facing the kasuri-patterned fabric. The woman pressed the chrysanthemum-patterned collar—ostentatious in its formality—against her ample chin and found the bright shoji opposite her dazzling as she waited at the entrance. The eight-tatami room was too spacious, accommodating the two diminutive figures separately. The space between them measured six shaku (about six feet).

Suddenly, Mr. Kuroda appeared. From beneath the hem of his hakama—its ogura pleats thoroughly flattened—his reddish-black legs moved stiffly as he brought the tea. He brought the tobacco tray. He brought the sweets bowl. The six-shaku distance was ceremonially bridged, and the positions of host and guest were barely connected by the implements of hospitality. Suddenly rousing from his midday nap’s dream, Mr. Kuroda mechanically passed the thread of connection between the two, sealed his dazed spirit within his chestnut-burr head, and withdrew once more to the students’ quarters. After that, it became an empty mansion as before.

“How was last evening?” “You must have been exhausted.” “No.”

"Aren't you tired? You're hardier than I am," Mr. Kōno said with a slight smile. "But I took the train both ways." "Trains can be exhausting though."

“Why?” “Because of that person. You get tired because of that person. Or isn’t that so?” Itoko merely revealed a single dimple in her round cheek. She did not respond. “Was it interesting?” asked Mr. Kōno. “Yes.” “What was interesting?” “The electric illuminations?” “Yes, the electric illuminations were interesting too, but…” “Was there something else interesting besides the electric illuminations?” “Yes.” “What was it?”

“But that’s strange,” she said, tilting her head and smiling adorably. Mr. Kōno, failing to grasp her meaning, found himself oddly wanting to laugh. “What was that interesting thing you mentioned?” “Shall I tell you?” “Please do.” “Well, everyone had tea together, didn’t they?” “Ah—so the tea was what interested you?” “It wasn’t the tea. Though it wasn’t the tea.” “I see.” “Mr. Ono was there at the time, wasn’t he?”

“Yes, he was there.” “He brought along a beautiful lady, didn’t he?”

“Beautiful? I suppose. “It seemed he was with a young person.”

“You know that lady, don’t you?” “No, I don’t.” “Oh? But my brother said so.” “That must mean you’re referring to knowing her face.” “I’ve never once spoken to her.” “But you do know her, don’t you?”

“Ha ha ha!” “Must you absolutely know?” “In truth, I’ve met her several times.” “That’s precisely why I said it.”

“So what?” “You thought it was interesting.” “Why?” “Just because.” The waves that formed in her double eyelids gathered only to collapse, collapsed only to gather again, wantonly toying with her black eyes as if to show them off. Sunlight filtered through dense young leaves and scattered mottled patterns across the earth; the wind swayed the treetops, making the flickering moss appear uncertain.

Mr. Kōno kept his eyes on Itoko’s face and did not ask for an explanation of "why." Itoko also did not volunteer to explain the reason behind "why." The "why" drowned in charm, and before its essence could be grasped, vanished without a trace.

The freshly lacquered gourd-shaped pond lay shallow, its waters tinted like egg yolks simmered in an earthenware pan—here goldfish lived out their days in bliss from dawn till dusk. Even when they dove into algae with tails flaring, no anxiety gripped them of being swept away by rising waves. The bones of sea bream passing through Naruto grew harder each year, tossed by the tides. Beneath the raging sea lay a bottomless hell; whether going or returning, none could pass through with futile efforts. Yet whether wild fish of the open sea or plump three-tailed goldfish, once confined to the same tank, they became neighbors in an aquarium—companions separated by glass. The barrier of separation remained unseen, but the transparent glass partition persisted; try to pass through it, and you would only bruise your nose. One could not speak of the sea to Itoko, who knew nothing of the ocean. Mr. Kōno responded in vague, gourd-like circles for some time.

“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 Oigami stone, undrying dew settled to form a perpetually damp path two shaku wide along its edge—there bloomed flowers that defied categorization as egret orchids or violets, sparse in number, pilfering the departing spring’s remnants as they flowered in secret. “Beautiful flowers are blooming.” “Where?” To Itoko’s eyes, only the red pine straight ahead and the bear bamboo artfully arranged at its roots were visible.

“Where?” she asked, extending her warm chin to peer ahead. “Over there.—You can’t see them from here.”

Itoko rose slightly from her seat. Swaying her long sleeves, she moved a few steps closer to the veranda on her knees. As the distance between them closed to a hair's breadth, the faint flowers came into view.

"Oh!" the woman stopped. "They're beautiful, aren't they?" "Yes." "You didn't know about them?" "No, not at all."

“They’re too small to notice.” “No one knows when they bloom and when they fade away.” “After all, peach and cherry blossoms are prettier and better, aren’t they?” Mr. Kōno did not reply, merely muttering under his breath, “Pitiable flowers,” he said. Itoko remained silent. “They’re like the woman from last night,” Mr. Kōno added.

“Why?” the woman asked suspiciously. The man turned his long eyes and stared fixedly at the woman’s face; then,

“You have it easy,” Mr. Kōno said earnestly. “Is that so?” she answered with equal earnestness. She couldn’t tell whether this was praise or censure. She didn’t know if she was truly carefree. The very nature of carefree existence—whether virtue or vice—eluded her understanding. She simply trusted Mr. Kōno. When one you trust speaks with such gravity, what recourse remains but to respond earnestly with “Is that so?” Writing dazzles the eye. Skill beguiles the gaze. Substance illuminates vision. Hearing her “Is that so?,” Mr. Kōno felt an inexplicable gratitude. When gazing directly into a human soul, the philosopher bows his head in understanding—feeling neither bitterness nor regret.

“That’s fine.” “That’s fine.” “It has to be that way.” “It must always remain that way.”

Itoko revealed her beautiful teeth. “After all, this is just how I am. No matter how much time passes, I’ll still be like this.” “That won’t do.” “But this is how I was born—no matter how much time passes, I can’t possibly change.” “You will change. When you leave Grandfather and Brother’s side, you’ll change.” “Why do you think that would happen?” “When you leave, you’ll become smarter.” “I do want to become smarter. If changing means becoming smarter, then changing must be better, right? I wish I could become like Miss Fujio somehow, but I’m such a fool that…”

Mr. Kōno wore an expression that seemed pitiable to the world as he gazed at Itoko’s childlike lips. “Is Fujio truly so enviable?”

“Yes, I truly envy her.”

“Miss Itoko,” the man suddenly adopted a gentle tone. “What?” Itoko responded warmly. “The world has far too many women like Fujio these days—it’s becoming a problem.” “If you aren’t careful, it’s dangerous.” The woman still merely kept her fleshy eyelids double-lidded, the dew of charm dripping over her large eyes. There was not even a shadow of danger to be seen. “If Fujio goes out alone, five women like last night’s will be killed.”

What had glistened in her vivid eyes scattered suddenly. Her expression changed instantly. The word "kill" wasn’t all that frightening. —Of course, she didn’t grasp any other meaning. “You’re fine as you are. If you move, you’ll change. You mustn’t move.” “If I move?” “Yes—if you fall in love, you’ll change.” The woman swallowed down what seemed about to burst from her throat. Her face turned bright red. “If you marry, you’ll change.”

The woman looked down.

“That’s fine. “It would be a waste for you to get married.” Her lovely double eyelids fluttered two or three times in quick succession. The shadow of a rain dragon darted across her pursed lips. The flower, neither egret orchid nor violet, still bloomed sparsely in the meager spring.

Fourteen

The tram lowered its red placard and came honking. After switching places, it chased the town's breeze along the iron rails and departed. The blind masseur seized an opportunity and cautiously crossed to the other side. The teahouse apprentice laughed while grinding in a mortar. The weave of the herringbone fabric worn by the flagman was clogged with dust, its pattern blurred into a yellowish haze. Western-style clothing 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 painted board. The sky was crisscrossed with telegraph wires. Not a single kite was visible. The very stillness above only accentuated the profoundly chaotic world below.

“Hey, hey!” someone called out loudly from behind.

A woman in her mid-twenties turned slightly and continued on her way. “Hey!” This time, the herringbone-clad figure turned.

The person who had been called, feigning unawareness, avoided the approaching figure and quickened his pace. Their path was blocked by two rickshaws racing to overtake each other, widening the distance between them further still. Mr. Munegaki puffed out his chest and broke into a run. His loosely worn lined kimono and haori jacket fluttered wildly with each pounding step. “Hey!” he called from behind, stretching out his hand. As his shoulder jerked to a halt, Mr. Ono’s narrow face came into view at an angle. Both hands remained occupied. “Hey,” he repeated, maintaining his grip on the shoulder as he gave it a shake. Mr. Ono twisted around under the persistent jostling.

“I thought it was someone else... My apologies.”

Mr. Ono gave a polite bow with his hat still on. Both hands were occupied. "What are you thinking about? No matter how much I called, you didn't hear me." "Was that so? I didn't notice at all." "I didn't notice at all."

“You seem to be hurrying yet not walking on the ground. It’s rather odd.” “What is?” “Your manner of walking, you see—” “Because it’s the twentieth century, ha ha ha.” “Is that the newfangled walking style? Somehow one leg seems modern while the other remains antiquated.” “Actually, carrying these things makes walking troublesome...” Mr. Ono thrust both hands forward and looked down at himself as if wordlessly declaring “See this?” Mr. Munegaki naturally shifted his gaze downward from the waist.

“What’s that?” “This one’s the wastebasket, and this one’s the lamp stand.” “You’re dressed like some fancy Western dandy yet lugging around a trash basket—that’s what looks so absurd.” “Absurd or not, I was asked to do it.” “Admirable how you’ll play the fool just because someone asks. “Never figured you for the chivalrous type hauling garbage through public streets.” Mr. Ono silently smiled and bowed. “So where’re you headed?” “I’m taking these…”

“Are you taking that home?”

“No. Because I was asked to, I’m buying it and delivering it. And you?” “I’ll go either way.”

Mr. Ono was inwardly somewhat perplexed. Mr. Munegaki’s remark that he seemed to be in a hurry yet not walking on the ground was an assessment that perfectly matched his present state.

The ground beneath his shoes was vast and firm, yet somehow the footing felt uncertain. Nevertheless, he wanted to hurry. When encountering someone as carefree as Mr. Munegaki, even making small talk felt like a struggle. If he were to suggest walking together, it would be even more troublesome. Even under normal circumstances, he felt vaguely uneasy whenever he ran into Mr. Munegaki. In a state of half-knowing and half-ignoring Mr. Munegaki and Fujio’s relationship, his own relationship with Fujio had taken shape. I have no intention of committing a crime as grave as stealing another’s publicly acknowledged fiancée, but Mr. Munegaki’s heart could be known without asking. Even in the overt behaviors of blunt individuals, he could infer where their intentions lay. Even if I hadn’t gone so far as to undermine it from behind, the fact remained that my doing had permanently sealed Mr. Munegaki’s hopes. From a human standpoint, it was regrettable.

The pity would have been pity enough on its own, but Mr. Munegaki carrying himself so carefree, not troubled in the slightest by his and Fujio’s relationship, 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 governance of the Orient. However, they did not speak much of matters of love. Rather than saying they did not speak of it, it might have been more that they could not. Mr. Munegaki was likely a man who could not comprehend the truth of love. He was not good enough to be Fujio’s husband. Nevertheless, regrettable as it was, it remained regrettable.

To call something pitiable is to efface the self. Because it is a self-effacing expression, it becomes a saving grace. Mr. Ono felt pity for Mr. Munegaki in his heart. Yet within this pity lay a vast self. Consider the feeling one has when facing a parent after mischief, and you'll understand. What weighed heavier than regret expressed for a parent's sake was an indefinable sense of foreboding. That my mischief had caused trouble for some distant other was one matter; that this trouble echoed back to make my own head ring unpleasantly was quite another. It resembled how detestable thunder wavers when confronted by cloud peaks that had confined it. This differed entirely from ordinary pity. Yet Mr. Ono insisted on calling it pity. Likely because he disdained reducing his own feelings to something beneath pity.

“Are you taking a walk?” Mr. Ono inquired politely.

“Yeah. “I just got off the train at that corner.” “So I can go either way.” "This answer didn't quite make sense logically," Mr. Ono thought. But logical consistency hardly mattered. “I’m in a bit of a hurry...” “No problem—I can hurry too. “Let me walk your way with you. Hand over that wastebasket. “I’ll carry it.” “No need. It would look improper.” “Improper.” “Come now, give it here. “Hmm—bulky yet surprisingly light. “The improper one here is you, Mr. Ono,” Munegaki declared, swinging the basket as he started walking.

“When you carry it that way, it looks so light.” “It’s all in how you carry things. Ha ha ha ha. Did you buy this at the Kankōba? It’s quite finely crafted. It’s a waste to put paper scraps in it.” “That’s precisely why one can carry it about the streets, I suppose. If it had real scraps inside…” “Nonsense! I can carry it just fine. Don’t trams strut through the streets all puffed up, crammed full of human dregs?” “Ha ha ha ha! Then that would make you the wastebasket’s motorman.”

“You’re the president of the wastebasket company, and the guy you asked is a shareholder? You can’t just stuff any old trash in there.” “How about putting in things like discarded poems or five-cart loads of waste?” “I don’t need that sort of thing. I want you to fill it with lots of discarded banknotes.” “If you just put ordinary scraps in there, having someone hypnotize them would probably be quicker.”

“First, it’s humans who become the scrap, I suppose.” “Shall we start with ourselves, as the saying goes?” “There’s no shortage of human scrap even without hypnosis.” “Why does everyone want to start with themselves?” “People are quite reluctant to start with themselves, you know.” “It would be convenient if human refuse would just climb into the wastebasket on their own, but...” “If someone were to invent an automatic wastebasket, that’d be splendid.” “If that were to happen, all the human scrap would probably leap right in on their own.” “Maybe I should take out a patent on it.”

“Ha ha ha ha! Splendid idea!” “Is there someone you know you’d like to toss in?” “There might be someone,” Mr. Ono replied evasively. “By the way, you went to see the electric illuminations with rather peculiar company last evening, didn’t you?” The fact that he had gone to see them had already come to light earlier. There was no use hiding it now.

“Ah, I hear you all went as well,” Mr. Ono replied nonchalantly. Mr. Kōno pretended not to notice even when spotted. Fujio pretended not to know, yet was determined to force a confession from us. Mr. Munegaki posed a question head-on from across the way. While Mr. Ono answered nonchalantly, he thought to himself, “I see.” “What is she to you?” “That’s rather blunt.—She’s my late teacher.” “In that case, that woman is your late teacher’s daughter, then?”

"Well, something like that." "When you see people drinking tea together like that, they don't look like strangers."

“Do they look like siblings to you?” “They’re a married couple.” “A good married couple.”

“Much obliged,” Mr. Ono said with a slight laugh but quickly averted his gaze. In the glass-paned door across the way, Western books with gold lettering glistened brilliantly, drawing the poet’s attention. “You, it seems quite a number of new books have arrived over there. Shall we take a look?”

“Books?” “Planning on buying something?”

“If there’s anything interesting, I might buy it.” “Buying a wastebasket and then buying books is quite ironic.”

“Why?” Before replying, Mr. Munegaki dashed through the streetcars to the other side, still holding the wastebasket. Mr. Ono also followed at a trot.

“Ah, there are quite a lot of beautiful books on display.” “So, anything catch your eye?”

“So it seems,” said Mr. Ono, bending at the waist as he pressed his gold-rimmed glasses to the glass window, scrutinizing them intently. There was one with softly tanned lambskin, its center a deep horsetail hue where a water lily had been delicately traced in gold—from the calyx where petals ended, straight lines ran down to the base, encircling the cover’s entire perimeter. The spine lay flat-cut across a deep crimson ground, its surface overrun by a pattern resembling golden threads. There stood another on a sturdy brass plate that firmly crushed the fabric’s weave beneath heavy foil arranged in a shield shape. Yet another displayed a plain calf spine divided vertically into sections of dulled gray and green, each bearing nothing but embossed lettering. On rough-grained paper could be seen title pages where vermilion characters had been tastefully composed.

“Everyone seems to want them, huh?” said Mr. Munegaki, looking not at the books but at Mr. Ono’s glasses.

“They’re all new-style bindings.” “I suppose so.” “I wonder if they’re just making the covers pretty to safeguard the contents.”

“Because they’re literary books, unlike yours.” “Is there a need to make their upper sections beautiful just because they’re literary books? Then does being a literary scholar necessitate wearing gold-rimmed glasses?” “That’s rather severe. But in a certain sense, literary scholars are themselves somewhat artistic creations,” Mr. Ono said, finally stepping away from the window. “Artistic creations are fine, but relying solely on gold-rimmed glasses for insurance is pitiful.” “Glasses do seem to invite misfortune—aren’t you nearsighted yourself, Mr. Munegaki?”

“Because I don’t study, I can’t become one even if I tried.” “Aren’t you farsighted either?” “Don’t joke about that—let’s walk properly.” The two started walking again, side by side. “You know about cormorants, right?” Mr. Munegaki said as they walked. “Yes. Is something wrong with them?” “That bird swallows a fish only to spit it right back out.” “Pointless.” “Pointless. But since the fish ends up in the fisherman’s basket, isn’t that just fine?”

“That’s why it’s ironic,” said Mr. Munegaki. “No sooner do they go to the trouble of reading a book than they immediately toss it into the wastebasket. Scholars live by spitting out books. They don’t nourish themselves at all. The only thing gaining anything is the wastebasket.” “When you say that,” Mr. Ono replied, “I feel sorry for scholars. They end up not knowing what they should do.” “Action,” Munegaki countered. “Merely reading books and being unable to do anything is no different from mistaking real rice cakes on a plate for painted ones and quietly gazing at them. For all their spewing of beautiful words, literary scholars rarely do anything beautiful. What do you think, Mr. Ono? There are plenty of those among Western poets, don’t you think?”

“So it is,” Mr. Ono drawled in response. “Like what?” Mr. Munegaki retorted. “I’ve forgotten his name, but there’s one who deceived women and abandoned his wife.” “There can’t be anyone like that.” “Nonsense—they certainly exist!” “I wonder...” “As for me, I don’t quite remember either…” “It’d be a problem if the expert can’t remember—anyway, about last night’s woman.” Mr. Ono’s underarms felt oddly clammy.

"I know all about that." If it was about the koto incident, he had heard it from Itoko. There was no way he could know anything beyond that.

“You were behind Tsutaya, weren’t you?” he said, leaping ahead. “I was playing the koto.” “You’re quite skilled, aren’t you?” said Mr. Munegaki; Mr. Ono did not easily grow despondent. His demeanor was somewhat different from when he had met Fujio.

“You must be skilled—it somehow made me feel drowsy.”

“Ha ha ha ha! That is indeed irony,” Mr. Ono laughed. Mr. Ono’s laughter never lost its quiet composure under any circumstances. Moreover, it had color. “Don’t tease this. This is a serious matter. Even in jest, you can’t make light of your mentor’s esteemed daughter.” “However, it’s problematic if it induces drowsiness.”

“Inducing drowsiness is precisely what makes it good.” “The same goes for people.” “People who induce drowsiness have something noble about them.” “Because it’s old and therefore noble, I suppose?” “A modern man like you simply never gets drowsy.”

“So they aren’t noble.” “Not only that. Depending on the case, they tend to disparage noble people as outdated and such.”

“Today I’m somehow getting nothing but attacks.” “Shall we part ways here?” Mr. Ono forced a laugh, pausing despite his discomfort. At the same time, he extended his right hand. It was the mystery of attempting to take the wastebasket.

“No, I’ll carry it a bit longer. “I’m free anyway.”

The two resumed walking. The two began walking again, their hearts aligned side by side. Each despised the other.

“You seem to have free time every day.” “Me? I don’t read much.”

“Otherwise, you don’t appear to have many pressing matters either.”

“Because I don’t see the need to act so busy.”

“That’s fine.” “If you don’t leave well enough alone while you can, you’ll be in trouble when it matters.” “A temporary fix is fine. It’s perfectly fine now—ha ha ha ha!” “Do you still go to Kōno’s place?” “I just came back from there.” “Going to Kōno’s place, guiding your mentor around—you must be busy.”

“As for Kōno, I took four or five days off.” “Your thesis—”

“Ha ha ha ha! Who knows when that will be!” “You should hurry and submit it. If it’s ‘who knows when,’ then there’s no point going through the motions of acting busy.”

“Well, I’ll handle it as a stopgap measure.” “Speaking of that mentor’s daughter—” “Yes…” “There’s rather an intriguing story about that young lady.”

Mr. Ono was suddenly startled. He had no idea what this was about. Looking askance at Mr. Munegaki over the rim of his glasses, he saw him still swinging the wastebasket and walking triumphantly straight ahead.

“What kind of…?” he asked back, his voice somehow lacking its usual force. “What kind, you ask? It appears to be quite a profound karmic bond.” “Who?”

“We and that young lady—”

Mr. Ono felt slightly relieved. However, somehow something still nagged at him. Shallow or deep—he wanted to cleanly sever and discard any connection between Mr. Munegaki and Professor Kodō. Yet what nature had bound could not be undone by talent or genius. With hundreds of inns in Kyoto—why had he ended up staying at Tsutaya? He could have managed without lodging there at all. Going out of his way to unload luggage at Sanjō and stay at Tsutaya seemed utterly unnecessary. It must have been a drunken whim. A pointless act of mischief. A way of lodging that caused others needless suffering without benefiting anyone. But no matter how much he agonized over it now—there was nothing to be done. Mr. Ono found himself too drained to respond.

“That young lady, you know—” “Mr. Ono.” “Yes…” “That young lady—no, that’s not it. “That young lady—I saw her.” “From the inn’s second floor?” “I saw her from the second floor too.” He found himself slightly preoccupied with implications of being observed. He had long been aware of being seen on that spring rain-drenched veranda overlooking the old garden with its forsythia blooms. Even if confronted now, he wouldn’t startle. But this second-floor vantage point suggested greater peril. There must have been other moments of exposure. Under ordinary circumstances he would have demanded specifics, yet sensing his own hollow bravado, he walked several paces without mustering proper inquiry.

“I also saw you going to Arashiyama.” “Did you only see me?” “I can’t talk to strangers about it. Just saw.” “It would’ve been better if you’d told me.”

Mr. Ono suddenly cracked a joke. The mood abruptly brightened.

“I also saw you eating dumplings.” “Where?”

“It was Arashiyama after all.”

“Is that all?” “There’s more. You came from Kyoto to Tokyo together.”

“Now that I calculate it properly, we were indeed on the same train.” “I also saw you going to meet someone at the station.”

“Is that so?” Mr. Ono said with a bitter smile. “I hear that person is from Tokyo.” “Who—” Mr. Ono began, peering strangely at the other man’s profile from the edge of his glasses.

“Who?” “Who—’ you say?” “Who told you?”

Mr. Ono's spirits were unexpectedly low.

“The inn’s maid told me.” “The inn’s maid? “Tsutaya’s?”

He looked as though pressing for confirmation—wanting to hear more, yet needing to verify there was nothing left to say. “Yeah,” Mr. Munegaki said. “Tsutaya’s maid…”

“Are you turning that way?” “Just a bit more—what do you say—shall we keep walking?” “We’ve wandered far enough—let’s turn back. “Now then—this precious wastebasket. “Take care not to drop it on your way.”

Mr. Ono deferentially received the wastebasket. Mr. Munegaki left nonchalantly.

When left alone, he felt an urge to hurry. If he hurried, he would reach Professor Kodō’s house quickly. Arriving was unwelcome. It’s not that I want to hurry to Professor Kodō’s house. Mr. Ono found himself wanting to hurry for some reason. Both hands were occupied. His feet were moving. The imperial gift watch was ringing inside his vest.

The thoroughfare was bustling. —Forgetting everything, Mr. Ono's mind raced. I have to hurry. But I don't see why hurrying would help. There was no other way but for a day and night to shrink to twelve hours and for the wheel of fate to spin at full speed in the direction I desired. I did not intend to act so recklessly as to willfully defy the laws of nature. Yet it seemed only fair that nature, for its part, might show some consideration for my circumstances and take my side for once. If I could be guaranteed that things would turn out that way, I wouldn't mind undertaking a hundred prayers to Kannon. I wouldn't mind offering a goma ritual to Lord Fudō Myōō. For Christians, this was only natural. Mr. Ono felt the need for God as he walked.

Munegaki was a man who lacked scholarly aptitude and didn’t apply himself to studies. He had no appreciation for poetic sentiment. I sometimes wondered what he intended to become in the future with that disposition. I sometimes felt contempt, wondering what he could possibly accomplish. There were times when his bluntness became unbearable. However, now that I thought about it in this belated manner, that attitude was one I could never adopt. Because I couldn’t do it, I wouldn’t conclude that I was inferior. In this world, there were things one couldn’t do and things one didn’t even wish to do. I thought that not being able to perform the trick of spinning a plate on chopstick tips was more refined than being able to do so. Munegaki’s manner of speech and action was of course something I found difficult to emulate. However, precisely because it was difficult to emulate, I had until then regarded it as a point of honor. When I stood before that man, I somehow felt pressured. It was unpleasant. I believed an individual’s sole duty was to bring pleasure to others. Munegaki didn’t even grasp the primary principle of social interaction. A man like that couldn’t succeed even in ordinary society. It was only natural he had failed the diplomatic exams.

However, the pressure I felt when facing him was of a peculiar kind. Was it born of bluntness, monotony, or what one might call old-fashioned frankness? I had yet to attempt dissecting it thoroughly, but regardless found it strange. Though no trace of deliberately oppressive scenery appeared visible to him, I somehow sensed its weight. From nature—which acted freely without so much as a nod—pressure showed its face as if demanding "How do you like this?" I felt oddly hesitant. I had persisted in believing my moral failings exacted retribution through these unresolved obligations toward him—yet knew this couldn't explain everything. Take that mountain indifferent to heaven and earth—towering without grace rather than mere dullness. Dew falling from stars caught by pistils; delicate petals drifting downstream with windborne tidings. I couldn't find joy except through such scenery. Ultimately our incompatibility resembled cypress mountains versus flower gardens—no wonder our clashing natures left me unsettled.

There were times when I maintained an air of indifference toward those with whom I was incompatible, thinking that if we didn't get along, then so be it. There were times when I considered them pitiable. There were times when I despised them as heartless. But never before had I felt such envy as on that day. Because they were noble, because they were refined, because they aligned with my ideals—I had never once dreamed of feeling envious. Just thinking how wonderful it would be if I could attain such a state of mind—when compared to my suffering at that moment—I suddenly became envious.

To Fujio，he had laid bare what he claimed was his relationship with Sayoko． He did not definitively state that any relationship existed． He had declared that this small shadow timidly accompanying his former benefactor—separated by five years veiled in mist—was merely a vague connection recently rekindled． He had proclaimed outright that obligations were but affection’s surface，a teacher’s kindness a disciple’s duty，and beyond lay only relations like birds and fish． The lie he’d desperately restrained—if possible—had finally escaped． This barely uttered falsehood must now persist even as deception． Though lacking intent to disguise lies as truth，once spoken，they imposed obligations—responsibilities emerged． To state it plainly：this lie now carried lifelong consequences． He could no longer lie． They say even God abhors twofold falsehoods． From this day forth，he must by all means make this lie pass for truth．

It was somehow painful. If he were to go to his mentor now, he would surely be confronted with a matter that would force him to tell a double lie. There were countless ways to wriggle out of it, but when cornered, he lacked the courage to refuse outright. Had he been born slightly more cold-hearted, there would have been no complications. He did not believe there were any issues amounting to legal problems—a clear refusal would end matters. Yet that would not do right by his benefactor. Before being cornered by his benefactor or having his lie exposed, nature needed to shift swiftly toward carrying him and Fujio into an open marriage—and what then? He would think about the rest later. Facts outweighed all else. Were this new fact called marriage established, everything must be reconsidered upon its foundation. Once society recognized this fact, he would make any inconvenient sacrifice. However painful the rethinking might prove, he would endure it.

I agonized at this critical juncture. My helpless heart raced. I feared to advance. I loathed retreating. While willing the matter to progress swiftly, I dreaded its development. Thus I envied carefree Munegaki. Those who weigh all things envy single-minded souls.

Spring departs. The departing spring fades into dusk. Silk-like pale yellow curtains, gently billowing, several layers of them part from the sky and descend to drape over the earth.

The street, where no wind could be seen sweeping anything away, fell completely silent under dusk's sway, and the ashen color of the earth crept across moment by moment. The clouds that had been faintly smoldering without purpose at the western horizon finally turned purple.

The soba shop's sign showed O-Kame's face dimly bulging out, while the side street across—its red cheeks awaiting the lamp soon to be lit behind—became a narrow passage less than two ken wide. Twilight fell slenderly between the houses and slipped through each door of the unlocked gates. The room inside must have been darker still. He turned and came to the third house on the left. It scarcely deserved the name of a gate. When he quietly opened the lattice door that barely partitioned off the street, inside he felt as though he had descended into a deeper stratum of the dimly approaching night.

"Excuse me," he said.

The quiet voice maintained a calmness that did not disturb spring's subdued rhythm. While gazing at the diamond-shaped black hole in the one-shaku-wide raised floorboard that extended beneath the veranda, he waited obediently for someone to answer. A response came shortly. Was it an "un," an "ah," or a "hai"? The voice grew even more indistinct. Mr. Ono continued peering into the diamond-shaped black hole while awaiting reception. Suddenly, there came a heavy thud from beyond the shoji screen as someone leapt up. The flimsy construction revealed itself through floor joists that creaked as clearly as if held in one's palm. The sliding door with its familiar wallpaper-patterned surface opened. Before he could fully register someone emerging into the two-tatami entryway, Professor Kodō's gaunt face—complete with beard—materialized within the dim shoji shadows.

He had never looked particularly robust to begin with. His bones were delicate, his frame slender, his face especially narrow—and upon this foundation, the passing years had relentlessly battered him with unstoppable rains, winds, and hardships, until in this bitter world, even the heart he had painstakingly preserved grew ever more fragile. Today, he looked even paler. Even his prized beard appeared uncharacteristically lifeless. Black gaps were filled with white, and wind passed through the white gaps. In ancient times, people's shadows were so faint they only reached below the chin. When examined individually, each strand of the professor’s beard appeared spindly. Mr. Ono politely removed his hat and offered a silent greeting. The modern English-style head bowed before the insignificant "Past".

A circle with a diameter of dozens of feet was drawn, from which countless boxes fitted with iron grates around their perimeters hung suspended. The playthings of fate scrambled to be first into these boxes. The circle began to turn. When those in this box rose closer to the blue sky, those in that box descended inch by inch toward the earth that swallows all. The one who invented the Ferris wheel was an ironic philosopher. The English-style head was about to ascend to the clouds within this box. The professor—who had carefully sprinkled sesame salt over his sparse beard as a memento of his world-weary years—was about to settle into the darkness within that box. Fate was constructed such that for every fragment that rose one shaku, another fragment descended one shaku.

Those ascending, embracing their awareness of rising, lowered their courteous heads without hesitation before those descending into night. This is what they call the irony wrought by God.

“Well, well!” said the Professor in good spirits. When those descending in the carriage of Fate meet those ascending, they naturally find themselves in good spirits.

“Please come up,” he said immediately turning back toward the sitting room. Mr. Ono untied his shoelaces. Before he could finish untying them,the professor reappeared. “Please come up.” In the center of the tatami room after pushing aside bedding that had lain unabashedly spread through daylight hours against wall edges newly made zabuton cushions were laid out. “Is something troubling you?” “I’ve felt unwell since morning. “Endured till noon then finally took bedrest. “Was dozing when you came—apologies for making wait.”

“No, I’ve only just opened the lattice door now.”

“I see. Since it seemed someone had come, I was startled and came out to check.” “I see, I’m sorry to have disturbed you. You should have stayed in bed.” “It’s nothing serious. Besides, Sayoko and the maid aren’t here.” “Did they go somewhere...?” “They went to take a bath and did some shopping while they were out.”

The husks of bedding rose in a mound, their emergent hole oriented toward the shoji screen. The shadowed portion faintly blurred the nightwear's pattern in the dimness, while the haori coat flung over it collected meager light into glimmering points upon its lining. This lining consisted of mouse-hued Kai silk.

“I feel rather chilled,” said the professor as he stood up. “I think I’ll put on a haori.” “You should have remained in bed.”

“No, I think I’ll try getting up for a bit.”

“What do you think it could be?” “It doesn’t seem to be a cold—probably nothing serious.” “Could your outing last evening have caused this?” “No, it’s nothing. —By the way, thank you for your trouble last evening.” “Not at all.” “Sayoko was also very pleased. “Thanks to you, we had a good rest.”

“If I had a bit more free time, I could accompany you to various places, but…” “You must be busy after all. No, being busy is commendable.” “I’m terribly sorry...”

“No need for such concern.” “Your busyness is our very happiness.”

Mr. Ono remained silent. The room gradually darkened. “By the way, have you eaten yet?” the Professor asked. “Yes.” “Have you eaten?—If not, come up. There’s nothing much, but we should have some tea over rice,” he said, beginning to stand unsteadily. A long black shadow formed on the closed shoji. “Professor, that’s quite alright. I’ve already eaten before coming.” “Is that true? Don’t hold back.” “I’m not holding back.”

The black shadow bent and lowered as though folding back. Two or three rasping coughs escaped. “Are you coughing?” “A dr—dry cough…” he managed before two or three more surged up again.

Mr. Ono waited with a resigned air for the coughing to subside.

“You should lie down and stay warm. Getting chilled would do harm.” “No, I’m quite alright now. Once it starts, I’m incapacitated for a time.” “When one grows old, they lose their mettle—everything must be done while young.” That one should act while young was a phrase he had heard countless times before. Yet this marked the first instance of hearing it from Professor Kodō’s own lips. This was the first time these words had reached him from a man who seemed reduced to mere bones left behind in this world—his sparse beard bearing the marks of life’s trials, his remaining breath alternately inhaling one bygone era and exhaling another. The temple bell tolled dully through the shadows. In the dim room’s gloom, hearing these words from that dim figure, Mr. Ono became acutely convinced of youth’s imperative. He thought youth would never return. He thought failure to act wisely while young would blight one’s entire life.

To suffer a lifelong loss and end up old and decrepit like this Professor—the feeling must surely be lonely. It must be terribly dreary. However，to commit an inexcusable wrong against a benefactor and carry that unease to the grave might prove even more oppressive than dwelling on past losses. In any case，youth would never come again. Things decided during those irreplaceable years were settled for a lifetime. He had to now decide one way or another on matters that would determine his entire life. If he had visited the Professor before meeting Fujio today，he might have postponed that lie for now. But having told it，there was nothing left to do. It was no exaggeration to say he had entrusted his future fate entirely to Fujio—Mr．Ono made this excuse inwardly.

“Tokyo has changed，has it not?” the Professor said． “In the bustling areas，it changes every day．” “It is almost terrifying．I was quite startled last night as well．” “Because there were so many people out．” “They really were out，were they not? Even in that crowd，do you not rarely meet anyone you know?” “Yes，” he responded ambiguously．

“Do you ever meet anyone there?” Mr. Ono started to hedge with “Well…”, then steeled himself: “Well, I suppose I don’t meet anyone.” “You don’t meet them. “Indeed, it must be a vast place,” the Professor remarked with admiration. The words carried a provincial air. Mr. Ono averted his eyes from the Professor’s dull complexion and looked down at his lap. His cuffs were immaculately white. The cloisonné couple’s buttons displayed a smooth pale pink against green, warmly framed within their delicate gold borders. His suit was tailored from refined English fabric.

When he scrutinized himself before his very eyes, Mr. Ono abruptly became aware of the world he ought to inhabit. At the critical moment when he was about to be drawn in by the Professor, he suddenly felt as if he had remembered something forgotten. The Professor, of course, had no way of understanding.

“It’s been a long time since we last walked together, hasn’t it? This makes exactly five years now, doesn’t it?” he said with evident fondness. “Yes, it’s the fifth year.” “Whether it’s five years or ten, it’s splendid that you’ve settled in one place like this.” He appended a line as if added afterward: “...and Sayoko is pleased.”

Mr. Ono forgot to respond immediately and felt himself stiffen in the dim room. "Your daughter went out earlier," he said, compelled to report. "Ah—it wasn't urgent, but I thought if you had time, I might ask you to take her shopping together." "Unfortunately, she had already left."

“Ah, so she did.” “I must have imposed on you terribly.” “Did you have any urgent business to attend to?”

“No—it wasn’t urgent business or anything,” the other man stammered slightly.

The Professor did not press further. “Ah, is that so?” “Oh,” he offered vaguely.

As the greeting grew vague, the room dissolved into a hazy blur. Tonight was a moonlit night. The moon was out, but it was still early. Yet the sun had set. The floor—painted deep indigo in sand-textured plaster as a makeshift solution for one room—bore at its rear the Professor’s treasured scroll by Gidō. Clad in Tang Dynasty robes and crown, teetering unsteadily in his shoes with long sleeves carelessly draped over his arms as he leaned on a boy’s shoulder, this drunken figure stood in stark contrast to the house’s loneliness—a carefree soul suited to spring’s fourth month under heaven’s reign. The crown’s black hue obscuring its wearer’s brow had struck one with vivid clarity moments before; yet now even its broad silk ribbons—whether ceremonial tassels or ornaments—flowing symmetrically on either side seemed to welcome the dimming twilight and dissolve into the approaching night. If he and the Professor lingered any longer, they would sink into a single pit and vanish like shadows.

“Professor, I’ve brought the lamp stand you requested.”

“That is most appreciated. Let me see.”

Mr. Ono went out to the dimly lit entrance and brought back the stand and wastebasket.

“Hmm… It’s too dark to see properly. Once we light the lamp, I’ll examine it at leisure.” “I’ll light it. Where is the lamp?” “How unfortunate. Though it’s nearly time for lights anyway. Go out to the veranda—you’ll find it in the right-hand door compartment. The cleaning should be done.” A shadowy figure rose and slid open the shoji screen. The remaining silhouette stood motionless with folded hands as night encroached.

The six-tatami room sealed its solitary occupant in gloom. He coughed roughly—hack, hack. Soon, with the rasp of a match struck at the veranda's edge, the coughing stopped. Light crept into the chamber. Mr. Ono bent his trousered knee and settled the trimmed wick atop the fresh stand. "It fits perfectly. The balance is good."

“Rosewood, is it?” “It’s an imitation, I suppose.” “Even an imitation is splendid.” “The price?” “How do you mean, sir?” “That’s unsatisfactory. “How much was it?” “Both together come to four yen and a little extra.” “Four yen. “Indeed, Tokyo is expensive—for managing on a modest pension, Kyoto would be far preferable.” Unlike two or three years prior, the Professor now had to subsist on a meager pension and the scant interest from his limited savings. The situation differed greatly from when he had supported Mr. Ono. At times it even appeared he wished Mr. Ono would provide some financial assistance. Mr. Ono remained deferentially silent.

“If it weren’t for Sayoko, I could have stayed in Kyoto without issue—but having a young daughter makes one rather anxious…” He paused deliberately mid-sentence. Mr. Ono remained deferentially silent. “As for me, it matters not where I end up dying—but I couldn’t bear leaving Sayoko alone afterward. That’s why I’ve come all this way to Tokyo at my age. Even if it were my hometown, twenty years have passed since I left.” “No acquaintances or social connections.” “It might as well be a foreign land.” “When you arrive—sand swirls, dust rises.” “Crowded streets, exorbitant prices—I can’t call it livable by any measure…”

“It’s not an agreeable place to live, is it?” “I did have a few relatives here long ago, but having lost contact over the years, I no longer know their whereabouts.” “In ordinary times I scarcely think of it, but lying here like this even half a day makes one dwell on such matters.” “I feel somewhat uneasy.” “I see.”

“Well, having you by my side is my greatest reassurance.” “I’m afraid I haven’t been of much service…” “No, I am truly grateful for all your kindness—even though you’re busy…” “If I didn’t have the doctoral thesis work, I’d still have free time.” “The thesis—the doctoral thesis.” “Well… yes.” “When will you submit it?” He didn’t know when he would submit it. He had to submit it soon. Were it not for these distractions—he could have written twice as much by now. Yet aloud—

"I'm writing it with utmost effort at this very moment," he said. The Professor withdrew his hands from his underrobe sleeves, elbows buried in the bare-skinned fold of his garment, and shrugged his shoulders two or three times.

“I can’t stop shivering,” he said, tucking his wispy beard into his collar. “You should lie down. Staying awake will do you harm. I must take my leave now.” “Nonsense—let us converse awhile. Sayoko should be returning soon. If you wish to retire, I shall humbly excuse myself. Besides—” his voice lowered, “there remains unfinished business.”

The Professor suddenly withdrew his hands from within his chest, placed them on his knees, and struck both simultaneously. “Just take your time.” “It’s only just grown dark.” Even amid his annoyance, Mr. Ono could not help feeling pity. That he wished to detain him so persistently was not merely due to nostalgia for their past or an evening’s boredom. It must have been because he was deeply anxious about the future and wanted to grasp the peace that would follow his passing as soon as possible with his own still-beating hands.

The truth was, he hadn’t even eaten dinner yet. If he stayed, topics he had no desire to listen to would arise. His hips alone had been hovering in mid-air for some time. However, seeing the Professor’s condition, he could not bring himself to straighten the knees of his Western-style trousers. The old man was suppressing his illness and forcing himself to muster energy for his own sake. The inviting futon had been pushed aside, now full of holes. The warmth had long since vanished.

“By the way, about Sayoko...” Professor Inoue said, gazing at the lamp’s flame. Within the fire chamber—shaped like a kamaboko fish cake and lit with a five-centimeter wick—the silent drawing of oil from the filled pot continued; gentle tongues of flame stood motionless, guarding the spring evening that had just fallen into dusk. A desolate night made lonely by human absence found redemption only in that single point of light. The lamplight cast shadows that beckoned hope.

“Now, regarding Sayoko.” “As you know, she has that timid disposition and hasn’t received any fashionable education like today’s schoolgirls, so I doubt she could ever appeal to your tastes, but…” Having reached this point in his speech, Professor Inoue looked away from the lamp. His gaze turned toward Mr. Ono. He had to say something in response.

“No… why would you…” he began, pausing deliberately, but the Professor did not shift his gaze from his face. He remained silent, waiting. “Not taking a liking to her—such a thing—there’s no way that could be,” he answered haltingly. The Professor, finally convinced, continued. “She’s also to be pitied.”

Mr. Ono neither affirmed nor denied it. His hands were on his knees. His eyes were on his hands.

“As long as I’m here managing somehow, it’s fine." “Fine for now, but with this body of mine, one never knows when something might happen." “That’s when it becomes troublesome." “There’s our prior agreement, and you’re not the frivolous sort to break promises, so I trust you’ll look after Sayoko even once I’m gone, but…" “Of course,” he had to respond. “That much gives me peace of mind." “But women are such narrow-minded creatures." “Ha ha ha! What a bother!”

Somehow, it sounded like a forced laugh. The Professor’s face grew all the lonelier for having laughed. "There’s no need for you to worry so much," he said falteringly. The backbone of his words was unsteady.

“I’m fine, but Sayoko...” Mr. Ono began rubbing the knee of his Western-style trousers with his right hand. For a while, both remained silent. The unfeeling lamplight illuminated each of them in halves. “You must have various circumstances to consider. But circumstances won’t resolve themselves no matter how well you arrange them.”

“Not exactly.” “Just a bit more.”

"But it's been two years since you graduated, hasn't it?" "Yes... But just a little longer..." "A little while—until when exactly? If you can clarify that timeline, I can wait. I'll explain things properly to Sayoko too. But simply 'a little longer' won't suffice—even as a parent, I bear some responsibility toward my child.—When you say 'a little longer,' do you mean until completing your doctoral thesis?" "Yes, essentially." "You've been writing it for an extended period now—when do you roughly expect to finish? Approximately?"

“I’m straining myself to write it as quickly as possible. But given how vast the subject matter is...” “Still, you must have some approximate timeline.” “Just a little longer.”

“Will it be around next month?” “Not that soon...” “How about the month after next?” “Well…” “Then it would be better to do it after getting married. There’s no reason to think marriage would prevent you from writing your thesis.” “But that would make my responsibilities heavier.” “Isn’t it fine if you just keep working as you have been? For now, we won’t need your financial support.”

Mr. Ono had no way to respond. "What's your current income?" "It's meager." "'Meager'?" "It's about sixty yen in total." "It's barely enough for one person." "Are you living in a boarding house?" "Yes."

“That’s absurd.” “Spending sixty yen all by yourself is wasteful.” “You could live comfortably even with a household.”

Mr. Ono once again had no way to respond.

While declaring Tokyo’s prices high, he failed to grasp the distinction between Tokyo and Kyoto. He did not know how to compare the era when he had fastened his Narumi shibori sash and endured the cold with sweet potato porridge to his present circumstances—having graduated university and now obliged to pay due respect through the very hems and collars of his attire. Books were second only to life itself for a scholar. Just like a masseur’s cane, they were an indispensable tool one could not navigate the world without. Did books spring forth onto desks as if by magic? Some had gone to astonishing lengths to collect them. Professor Inoue had no conception whatsoever of how much such expenses amounted to. Therefore, he couldn’t readily give a simple reply.

What was Mr. Ono thinking? He braced his left hand against the tatami, stretched out his right, and abruptly adjusted the lamp’s wick. The six-mat room—like a miniature globe suddenly spinning eastward—grew bright once more. The professor’s worldview brightened as though transformed in an instant. Mr. Ono still did not remove his hand from the spiral. “That’s enough. That’s sufficient. If you turn it up too high, it’s dangerous,” said the professor.

Mr. Ono released his hand. As he withdrew his hand, he peered into the depths of his cuff up to his arm. Eventually, from the inner breast pocket of his suit, he took out a pure white handkerchief and meticulously wiped the oil from his fingertips.

"The flame's a bit crooked..." said Mr. Ono, bringing the wiped fingertips to his nose and sniffing them two or three times.

“Whenever that old woman trims it, the flame bends,” said the Professor, examining the lamp with its splayed base. “How is she managing, by the way? Is she working out for you?” “Ah yes—you still haven’t expressed your gratitude, have you. “You’re becoming increasingly burdensome…”

“No. “Actually, I thought that since she’s getting on in years, she might still be able to work, but…” “Well, that’s sufficient.” “She seems to be getting used to things gradually.”

“I see. That was well managed.” “To be honest, I was concerned things might not work out.” “But I hear she’s dependable.” “Since Asai vouched for her.” “Is that so.” “Speaking of Asai—what are his plans?” “Hasn’t he returned yet?” “He should be back by now.” “In fact, he might arrive on today’s train.” “His letter from two days ago said he’d return within two or three days.” “Ah, did it?” With this response, Mr. Ono fell silent and gazed vacantly at the twisted five-tenths wick. His pupils contracted to pinpoints, as if trying to unravel the connection between Asai’s return to Tokyo and this fractionally adjusted flame.

“Professor,” he said. His face turned toward the Professor. Uncharacteristically, the corners of his mouth bore a hint of resolve.

“What is it?” “Regarding the matter we just discussed.” “Yes.” “Could you please wait two or three more days?”

“Two or three days.” “In other words, before I can give you a proper reply, I need time to consider various matters.” “Certainly. Three days or four—even a week is fine. As long as the situation becomes clear, I’ll wait patiently. I’ll inform Sayoko accordingly.” “Yes, please do,” he said, producing the Imperial pocket watch.

After the long shadows of approaching summer fell, the hands of night seemed to turn swiftly.

“Well then, I shall take my leave for tonight.”

“That’s quite all right. You’ll be returning soon.” “I will come again shortly.”

“Well then—my apologies for the haste.”

Mr. Ono stood up briskly. The Professor took hold of the lamp.

“You needn’t see me out. I know the way,” he said as he exited to the entrance.

“Well, it’s a moonlit night,” said the Professor, holding the lamp at shoulder height. “Yes, it’s a peaceful evening,” said Mr. Ono, tightening his shoelaces while looking out through the lattice at the street. “Kyoto remains calm.”

Mr. Ono, who had been crouching, finally stood in the entryway. The lattice door opened. His delicate frame emerged halfway into the street.

“Seizo,” called the Professor from the shadow of the lamp.

“Yes,” said Mr. Ono, turning from where the moonlight fell. “Nothing urgent—just know I came all this way to Tokyo because I want to resolve Sayoko’s situation quickly.” “You understand?” he said.

Mr. Ono respectfully removed his hat. The Professor's shadow vanished together with the lamp.

Outside was hazy. A light that half illuminated the world and half veiled it hung suspended in the sky. The sky floated in the early evening with a restless stance, appearing both high and low. Things that hung drifted all the more aimlessly. A ring tinged with yellow along its round edge expanded vaguely, its outline indistinct. The yellow band near its outer edge lost its color, seeping into the darkened indigo. If the haze drifted, even the moon appeared on the verge of vanishing. A night when the moon blended into the sky and people blended into the earth.

Mr. Ono’s shoes, as though shying from the damp light, concealed the heels he set down beneath his Western-style trouser cuffs, slipped out from the alley past the soba shop’s paper lantern, and turned left. The thoroughfare carried traces of human scent. The shadows trailing along the ground stretched not long. Rounded forms drew near. They swayed thickly and withdrew. The clogs’ sound lay muffled in haze, lacking frost’s keen edge. On the telephone pole he grazed while passing, white patterns showed. When he fixed his hollowed eyes in doubt, shared umbrellas marked with white chalk reflected back. The mist that had drifted since daybreak enshrouded this shallow night. Those coming and going all seemed vaguely adrift. Retreat into mist; emerge into moonlight’s realm. Mr. Ono advanced his steps as if dreaming. It recalled that verse about walking solitary and bereft.

Truth be told, he still hadn't eaten dinner. Normally, when he stepped out onto the street, he would promptly head straight for a Western restaurant, his well-creased Western-style trousers carried with pride. Tonight, no matter how long he stood, his stomach refused to growl. He didn't even feel like drinking milk. The weather was too warm. His stomach felt heavy. His retreating foot didn't stagger like a plover's, yet he felt no solid response beneath his step. It might have been due to something spilling out. Even so, he had no intention of tapping it lightly against the ground. If one could walk like a policeman, the world would have no need for haze. There was no further need for worry. Because he was a policeman, he could walk like that. For Mr. Ono—especially for Mr. Ono tonight—there was no imitating a policeman.

Why was I so weak-willed?—Mr. Ono wondered as he staggered along.—Why was I so weak-willed? His intellect was not inferior to others'. His academic achievements were twice those of his classmates. He was confident that from his mannerisms to the way he wore his clothes, he had perfected every detail with sophistication. He was just weak-willed. Because he was weak-willed, he ended up at a disadvantage. Suffering a loss would have been one thing, but he ended up being ambushed instead. A book said that those who drown kick at the water. In this situation where you couldn’t save your back at the expense of your belly—if he resigned himself to that and just kicked, then that was all there was to it. But...

The sound of women talking could be heard. Two figures were approaching from the other side of the road. In the tepid expanse of the evening, marked by the synchronized clatter of Azuma geta and Koma geta wooden clogs, voices could be heard.

“Did you buy the lamp stand?” asked one of them. “Hmm, maybe,” responded the other. “He might have arrived with it by now,” the first voice pressed. “Who knows,” came the evasive reply. “But you said you’d go buy it,” she insisted. “Ah… This evening feels unseasonably warm,” she said, changing the subject. “It’s the hot spring water’s doing. The medicinal baths keep you warm,” she explained.

Their conversation passed by Mr. Ono here. When he saw them off, only the shadow of a head emerged diagonally from beneath the row of eaves and moved toward the soba shop. After twisting his neck to look back for a while and standing still, Mr. Ono started walking again. If one were like Asai—less burdened by scruples—they could settle matters immediately. If it were an unflappable man like Munegaki, he would manage without difficulty. If it were Kōno, he might remain aloof yet find himself caught in a dilemma. But I cannot do it. Going toward that side sinks me one step deeper; coming to this side sinks me one step deeper. Trying to oblige both parties leaves each leg claimed by either side. In short—it's because I'm entangled in human sentiment and lack willpower. Self-interest? Calculations of self-interest are but a superficial veneer of circumstance laid over humanity's foundation. If asked what primarily drives me, I'd answer human sentiment without hesitation. Even were self-interest third or fourth—or absent entirely—I'd still drown in this same predicament.—Mr. Ono walked on with these thoughts.

Even if it's human sentiment, I mustn't remain this indecisive. If I fold my arms and leave things to take their natural course, there's no telling how this incident might develop. When I imagine it, I become frightened. The more I am troubled by human sentiment, the more terrifying developments I may come to witness firsthand. I must resolve this here and now—I must do something about it. However, I still have two or three days of leeway. It wouldn't be too late to make a decision after carefully considering it for two or three days. If no good wisdom came after two or three days had passed, then there would be no choice. I could enlist Asai and have him negotiate with Professor Kodō. In truth, I had already thought of that earlier—factoring in Asai's return—and requested a two- or three-day extension. Such matters are only for someone like Asai, who doesn't get bogged down by human sentiment. Someone as deeply emotional as I am could never bring myself to refuse.—Mr. Ono walked on, thinking this way.

The moon was still in the sky. There was no sign of it flowing, though it seemed it should. The light falling to the ground, denied a moment to cool, was sealed within heavy warmth and trailed a limitless great dream through mid-air. The sparse stars seemed to slip through the clouds to the other side. It was as though a cannonball fired into cotton barely managed to glimmer. A quietly heavy night it was.

Mr. Ono walked on through this atmosphere, lost in thought. Tonight, even the fire bell would not ring.

XV

The room faces south. The French-style window begins five sun above the floor and transitions directly into glass. When opened wide, the sun streams in. A warm wind enters. The sunlight halts at the legs of the chair. The wind, knowing not how to stop, blows mercilessly up to the ceiling. It reaches even behind the window curtains. The study becomes bright, airy, and cheerful.

A single-legged desk was placed to avoid the French window on the right. When its sliding door was lowered into a semicylindrical shape, a lock engaged from above. Opened, the green felt-covered center sloped diagonally downward toward hand level, its flattened back providing convenience for opening books. Silver fittings folded down the lower left and right sides until four feet touched the floor. The parquet floor of camphor wood gleamed under its lacquer coating as if to render even the slightest misstep by ill-suited shoes perilous. There was also a Western-style desk. Combining Chippendale and Art Nouveau elements in its design, it boldly concealed modern touches within delicate traditional forms to dominate the room's center. Four matching chairs stood arranged around it. Though their satin patterns were likely symmetrical, beneath the white sunblind their lowered seats and reclining backs served merely to comfort the body—they offered nothing pleasing to the eye.

The bookshelves were pushed against the wall, aligned at intervals of nine shaku in height and continuing all the way to the doorway. Featuring shelves that stacked when assembled and separated into single tiers when taken apart, they were something his late father had imported from the West. The tightly packed books radiated a refined glow in navy, yellow, and varied hues; amidst this, the gold of decorative and angular lettering shone beautifully both vertically and horizontally.

Every time Mr. Ono saw Kōno’s study, he never failed to feel envious. Kōno naturally did not dislike it either. It had originally been his father’s living room. Opening one partition door led directly to the reception room. Exiting the remaining one connected through the inner corridor to the Japanese-style room. The two Western-style rooms were his father’s solution for expanding their cramped residence into the twentieth century. Rather than being designed to satisfy aesthetic tastes, it was a structure that had surrendered itself to contemporary trends under practical necessity. It was not an especially pleasing room. Yet Mr. Ono burned with envy.

I think entering such a study—reading beloved books whenever I please, and when I grow tired of them, engaging in delightful conversations with cherished companions—would be paradise. I'll write my doctoral thesis right away. After writing my doctoral thesis, I will produce a great work that will astonish future generations. It would surely be delightful. However, in my current boardinghouse lodgings, being constantly disturbed by the disorderly commotion of the neighbors makes it utterly impossible. As things are now, being hounded by the past and devoting my heart day and night to the tangled mess of obligations and human feelings makes it utterly impossible. It’s not a boast, but I possess an excellent mind. Those who possess an excellent mind have a vocation to contribute to society by using this mind. To fulfill one’s vocation requires conditions sufficient to fulfill it. Such a study is one of those conditions. —Mr. Ono desperately wanted to enter such a study.

Although they had attended different high schools, at university both Mr. Kōno and Mr. Ono had been the same age. Since philosophy and pure literature were different fields, Mr. Ono had no way of knowing Mr. Kōno’s academic abilities. He had only heard that Mr. Kōno had graduated after submitting a thesis titled "The Philosophical World and the Real World." "The value of 'The Philosophical World and the Real World' cannot be understood by one who hasn’t read it, but in any case, Mr. Kōno did not receive the watch." I have received it. The imperial-granted watch not only measures time but also gauges the mind’s moral worth. It also gauges future progress and success in academia. Mr. Kōno, who missed out on the special privilege, is undoubtedly not a significant person. On top of that, since graduating, he doesn’t seem to have engaged in any significant research. He may have profound thoughts stored within him, but if he has stored them, he should have already brought them out. The fact that he hasn’t brought them out can safely be taken as evidence that he has nothing stored. Undoubtedly, I am a more useful asset than Mr. Kōno. While others embrace that useful material and rush about—earning sixty yen, clothing and feeding themselves month after month—Mr. Kōno idly folds his arms and spends his listless days in apparent boredom. It’s a waste for Mr. Kōno to occupy this study. If I—in Kōno’s position—could become master of this room, I would have done commensurate work these past two years. Yet bound by inherited poverty and heaven’s injustice that makes even a prized steed lie in its stall, I have had no choice but to endure until today. I have heard that even those without fortune are visited by the return of light. How he wished and wished—day after day, Mr. Ono fervently hoped. ―Unaware, Mr. Kōno sat solitary at his desk.

If the front window were opened, it would take no more than a single stone step's walk to survey the entire expanse of lawn; moreover, a bright atmosphere would flow seamlessly from the grounds into the room. Yet Mr. Kōno remained secluded behind closed windows, silent and still.

The small window on the right, with its panes lowered, was half-covered by curtains hanging down from both sides. The filtering light fell faintly upon the floor. The maroon woolen curtains with embossed floral patterns, left dusty, appeared not to have been moved for some twenty days. Their color had faded considerably. Even decorations that clashed with the room's style remained perfectly acceptable in Japan's transitional era as a matter of course. Pressing one's face against the glass through a gap in the curtains revealed a view of the pond beyond the Japanese snowbell hedge. Like wave patterns slipping sideways between straight vertical bars, it appeared in fragmented glimpses. The opposite bank of the pond became Fujio's sitting room. Mr. Kōno looked neither at the hedge nor the pond nor the lawn, leaning motionless against his desk. In the hearth lay a single piece of last year's leftover coal, coldly observing spring.

Before long, there was the sound of a book being set down with a clatter. Mr. Kōno took out the grimy, familiar diary and began to write.

“Many people wish to do me harm. At the same time, I do not permit myself to regard them as villains. Nor do I permit myself to resist their violence. Thus it says: ‘If one does not submit to fate, I shall envy you.’”

Having finished writing in fine characters, Mr. Kōno added “Leopardi” in katakana afterward. He shifted the diary to the right. Having returned the books to their original position, he quietly began reading again. The Western-style pen with its slender mother-of-pearl shaft rolled off the desk and clattered to the floor. A black blotch formed beneath his feet. Mr. Kōno braced both hands against the desk corners, slightly lifting his hips backward as he lowered his gaze to inspect the ink spill. Excess ink from the circular blot had burst outward in all directions. The mother-of-pearl gleamed coldly as it lay overturned in the dim light. Mr. Kōno adjusted his chair. The pen shaft he groped for in the shadows was an old souvenir his father had brought back from Europe years ago.

Mr. Kōno turned over the hand that gripped the shaft between his fingertips and let the retrieved object slide from the valleys of his fingers into his palm. When he flipped his palm over, the long shaft rolled forward and back. Each time it moved, it glinted. It was a small memento.

While rolling the Western-style pen shaft, he continued reading the book. When he turned the page, this is what was written.

"When swordsmen of equal strength cross blades, their swordsmanship becomes as though they had no technique at all." "If he cannot subdue this even after exhausting all strategies, it becomes equivalent to facing unlearned opponents as enemies." "Deceiving others also falls into this category." "When both the deceived and the deceiver are equally rich in deception, their positions reach a state no different from interacting with sincerity." "Therefore, unless falsehood and evil gain superiority and become allies, unless one encounters insufficient falsehood and insufficient evil, and finally, unless one makes an enemy of ultimate good—it becomes difficult to achieve any effect." "The third case is by nature rare." "The second is also uncommon." "For villains consider parity in moral corruption to be the norm." "'When people harm one another yet ultimately fail to attain their ends—or when even that which could only be reached through a thousand trials might have been easily attained by simply performing good deeds and bestowing virtue upon each other—one cannot help but grieve.'"

Mr. Kōno took up his diary again. He plopped the mother-of-pearl Western pen shaft to the bottom of the inkwell. Thinking it wouldn’t be easily retrieved once dropped, he finally released his hand. Leopardi lay open as he placed the yellow-covered diary atop its pages. Stretching both legs out, he leaned back heavily against the chair’s backrest with his clasped hands behind his neck. The moment he looked up, he found himself face to face with his father’s half-length portrait. It was not particularly large. Though a half-length portrait, only two buttons of the waistcoat were visible. The clothing appeared to be a frock coat, but absorbed into the darkness of the background; only the faintly visible white shirt and the broad forehead remained distinct.

It was said to be the work of a renowned artist. Three years ago, when Father returned to Japan, he had disembarked at Yokohama’s pier across the distant sea, carrying this portrait. Since then, whenever Kōno looked up, it hung upon the wall. Even when not looked up to, it gazed down upon Kōno from its place on the wall. When he took up his pen, when he propped his cheek on his hand, when he rested his head on the desk in a doze—it gazed down upon him ceaselessly. Even when Kōno was absent, the figure on the canvas perpetually gazed down upon the study. As it gazed down, it lived. The eyes held a focused intensity. Nor were they eyes meticulously daubed and painstakingly refined. A single brushstroke outlined the contours, creating a natural shadow between the eyebrows and eyelashes. The droop of the lower eyelids was visible. The accumulated years gathered, pulling at the corners of the eyes as wave-like creases emerged. Within them, the pupils remained vividly alive. The technique that had captured onto the canvas that momentary expression—still yet vividly alive—had to be called an extraordinary skill that instantly seized the opportune moment of mastery. Every time Mr. Kōno saw these eyes, he thought they were alive.

When a single ripple stirred in the realm of thought, a thousand ripples surged forth to reach their end. When waves of thought embraced one another in contemplation's realm and he lost himself completely, lifting his anguished head to suddenly meet those eyes—"Ah," he thought, "it was there." There were even times when he startled himself with an involuntary "Good heavens!" When Mr. Kōno tore his gaze away from Leopardi and entrusted everything to the chair’s backrest, he startled himself with a more vehement than usual "Good heavens!"

A memento that plants memories and evokes the departed—it cruelly offers means to remember yet never restores the deceased to life. Strands of hair that cling to the skin—cherishing them, weeping over them—the world is but a fleeting place where days and months merely cycle onward. He should burn such mementos.

Ever since his father’s death, Mr. Kōno had somehow grown to dislike looking at this painting. Even when apart—there being no harm in separation—he established a fortress of calm and conjured the loving face before him: not merely scorching the departed parent onto memory’s paper but forming an omen that one must await spring for reunion’s day. But the one he had wished 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 those eyes while lost in thought.

Father met with a pitiable end. He was still of an age where he could have lived longer... His beard wasn’t white at all. His complexion remained vibrant. He certainly hadn’t meant to die. A pitiable end indeed. If he had to die regardless, why not after returning to Japan? He must have had final words left unspoken. So much left to ask—so much left to say. What a waste. To be dispatched abroad three, four times at his age—only to succumb suddenly at his post...

The living eyes stared at Mr. Kōno from the wall. Mr. Kōno remained leaning back in his chair, staring at the wall above. Each time they looked, their eyes met perfectly. Remaining perfectly still without moving, as seconds of their locked gaze accumulated into minutes, the eyes across from him began to stir with indefinable vitality. It was no whimsical impulse that shifted their gaze to some secluded corner. The emanating light gradually intensified, and the soul that had emerged from the eyes advanced relentlessly straight toward Mr. Kōno. Mr. Kōno gave a start and moved his head. When his hair shifted two inches forward from the chair’s back, the soul was already gone. It seemed to have slipped back into the eyes unnoticed. The painting remained nothing more than a mere painting. Mr. Kōno once again leaned his dark head against the chair’s back.

How absurd.

But lately, such things had been happening occasionally. Perhaps it was due to his body weakening, or maybe his mind wasn’t functioning properly. Even so, I loathed this painting. The fact that it bore an unfortunate resemblance to his father was all the more disquieting. I knew full well that clinging to the dead served no purpose. To have the deceased dangled before my nose and be incessantly urged to remember them was akin to having a wooden sword thrust at me with demands to commit seppuku. It wasn’t merely irritating—it became downright unpleasant.

If it were merely an ordinary situation, that would be one thing. Every time he thought of Father, he felt sorry for him. Both his current state and current mind were pitiable even to himself. To dwell in the real world was merely to indulge in nominal clothing, shelter, and food; it was precisely because his mind resided in another country and he had forgotten both mother and sister that he continued living this way. In the eyes of those driven by profit and loss—who could not comprehend lifting their heels from the ground of the real world—this must surely have appeared as the height of foolishness. Even if he was resolved to abandon everything to himself, he did not want his father to see this wretched state of his. Father was merely an ordinary person. If Father were watching from beyond the grave, he would surely think him an unworthy child. The unworthy child did not wish to think of his father. To remember him was to feel pity—this painting simply would not do. If the opportunity arose, he should just store it away in the storehouse...

Ten people each bear their own karmic causes. To blow on cold jellyfish salad after burning one's tongue on hot soup and to guard a tree stump awaiting hares—both are equally governed by the same universal law. When the white sun stands at zenith and the noon cannon bids ten thousand hearths cook their rice, the masses beneath their quilts perfect schemes for midnight peace.

While Mr. Kōno was alone in his study thinking, his mother and Fujio were whispering in the Japanese-style room.

“So you still haven’t told him?” Fujio said. The tea-dominant textured silk lined kimono appeared unexpectedly subdued at first glance, yet from behind its long open sleeves, a single streak of crimson silk lining seductively revealed its alluring hue. An ancient-style ochre pattern adorned the obi. The fabric’s name remained unknown. “To Kīngo?” Mother asked again. She too wore muted stripes in an age-appropriate manner, cinched so tightly that only the black front closure stood out conspicuously.

“Yes,” Fujio replied. “Brother still doesn’t know, does he?” she pressed. “I still won’t tell him,” Mother said with finality, maintaining her composure. She flipped up the edge of the cushion,

“Oh, where is my smoking pipe?” she said.

The smoking pipe was on the other side of the brazier. She clamped the long bamboo stem upside down between the crook of her thumb, “Here,” she said, passing it over the handled iron kettle. “If I tell him, do you suppose he’ll say anything?” she asked, pulling her outstretched hand back toward herself. “If I speak up, will he just discard everything?” Mother declared sarcastically, looking down as she packed tobacco into the pipe’s bowl. The daughter did not respond. To answer would be to show weakness. The strongest reply lies in remaining silent when one intends to give it. Silence is gold.

Under the trivet, Mother, having drawn in a full breath, opened her mouth along with the smoke from her nose. “We can discuss this whenever.” “If you wish to discuss it, I’ll do the talking.” “There’s nothing to discuss.” “If I say I intend to handle it this way, that’s all there is to it.”

“Well even I—once I’ve made up my mind—won’t agree no matter what Brother says...” “He’s not someone you can reason with at all.” “If he were someone we could consult properly, we wouldn’t have needed to take this approach from the start—there would’ve been countless other methods.” “But when Brother’s state of mind alone dictates everything, we’re the ones who end up suffering.”

“That’s right. If it weren’t for that, we wouldn’t need any discussion at all. After all, since he’s the official heir, if he doesn’t give his full consent, we’ll be left destitute.” “Yet every time we discuss anything, he says, ‘I’ll give you all the property, so you should be prepared for that.’” “Just saying it isn’t going to solve anything.” “We can’t very well press him for it.”

“If he means to give it to us, I wouldn’t mind having someone urge him—it’s just that it would appear improper.” “No matter how much of a scholar he may be, it’s unseemly for us to broach the subject first.” “Then why don’t you speak to him?” “About what?”

“What do you mean ‘about what’? That matter.” “About Mr. Ono?” “Yes,” Fujio answered clearly. “It’s fine to talk about it. After all, we’ll have to talk about it eventually anyway.” “If we do that, he’ll handle it somehow. If he truly intends to hand over the entire inheritance, he’ll do it. If he’s willing to divide it, he’ll divide it. And if he wants to leave this house, he’ll go anywhere.” "But it’s difficult for me to say outright that he doesn’t want to take responsibility for us and ask you to manage Fujio’s affairs."

“But he’s the one who says he doesn’t want to take care of us, isn’t he?” “He can’t take care of us; he won’t give the property.” “Then what does he intend to do about you, Mother?” “He has no intention of doing anything about it. He’s just that sort of man who keeps dilly-dallying and causing everyone trouble.” “You’d think he’d have at least some understanding of our situation.”

Mother remained silent. “Even when you told me to give the gold watch to Mr. Munegaki…” “Are you saying you’ll give it to Mr. Ono?” “I didn’t say to Mr. Ono, but... “I didn’t say I’d give it to Mr. Munegaki.” “He’s so strange. “Just when I think of having Fujio adopted so someone can take care of her, I end up wanting to send you to Mr. Munegaki after all.” “But Mr. Munegaki is an only son, isn’t he?” “Who would ever agree to become an adopted son?”

Fujio responded with a “Hmph” and turned her slender neck sideways to look out at the garden. The pale blue-green cherry trees, once regarded solely as heralds of dusk, had all parted with their blossoms, now sprouting glossy brown new leaves instead. Through gaps between three or four thickly growing Japanese spindle trees on the left—their forms rounded by careful pruning—the study window could be glimpsed. The trunk of a cherry tree stretched its branches unrestrainedly askew; moving rightward from it revealed a pond. Where the pond ended lay her own projecting tatami room. After sweeping her gaze across the quiet garden, Fujio turned her face back to confront her mother directly. Mother had remained fixed on Fujio since earlier, never once averting her eyes. When their faces met, Fujio twitched her beautiful cheek—some unformed expression flickering between a smile and something else faded naturally before fully taking shape.

“Is Munegaki’s situation properly settled, I wonder?”

“Even if it isn’t settled, what can we do about it?” “But you did refuse them properly, didn’t you?”

“Of course I refused.” “When I went there the other day, I met Munegaki’s father and explained the reasons thoroughly.” “As I told you after returning home—”

“I do remember that, but it all seemed rather unclear.” “The lack of clarity lies with them. “Because Munegaki’s father is such an endlessly patient man.” “But we didn’t clearly refuse either, did we?” “Well, given our existing obligations, we can’t just flatly refuse them like some child’s errand boy simply because you say you dislike it.” “If it’s something you dislike, there’s no chance it’ll ever become agreeable—you might as well state it plainly.”

“But society isn’t like that,” Mother said. “You may think bluntness is acceptable because you’re young, but the world doesn’t work that way. Even when refusing someone, there’s a way to do it—you must phrase it with tact and nuance. Simply angering them solves nothing.” “So you did manage to refuse them somehow,” Fujio replied.

“No matter what, Kōno refuses to take a bride. ‘I’m at an age where I feel quite vulnerable myself,’ she said with a sigh. She took a sip of tea. ‘Because I’m old and anxious.’”

“If Kōno intends to persist as he does despite your anxiety—then arranging for my adoption becomes our only recourse.” “In that case, since Mr. Munegaki is the crucial heir of the Munegaki family, we cannot reasonably have him join our household—nor can we offer me to them either…” “So if Brother were to say he wants to take a bride, we’d be in trouble, wouldn’t we?” “Oh, it’s fine,” Fujio said. Mother furrowed her dark forehead into an angry figure-eight. The figure-eight quickly smoothed away. After a moment, Mother said.

“If he wants to take someone, let him take whoever he likes—Itoko or whoever. We’ll just quickly secure Mr. Ono on our end.” “But what about Munegaki’s situation…” “It’s fine. There’s no need to fret,” she declared bluntly before adding: “Marriage is out of the question until he passes the diplomatic exams.”

“If he passes, he’ll likely say something immediately.” “But can that man even pass? Just think—even if we promise to offer Fujio should he pass, it’s completely safe.” “Did you say that?”

“I didn’t say that. I didn’t say that—but even if I had, it’s perfectly safe. That man could never pass.”

Fujio tilted her head with a laugh. She straightened her posture neatly and said, bringing the conversation to a close. "So Munegaki's uncle does believe he was properly refused?" "He should think so—how about it? Has Ichiro's behavior changed at all since then?" "He's still the same as ever. When we went to the exhibition recently, he remained unchanged." "When exactly did you go to that exhibition?"

"As of today," she calculated.

"The evening of the day before yesterday and three days ago," she said. "In that case, Ichiro should have been informed by now—though given that Munegaki's uncle is the sort of man he is, perhaps the message didn't get through properly after all," she replied with palpable frustration. "Or perhaps, given that it's Mr. Munegaki we're talking about, he might remain unfazed even if he hears about it from his uncle."

“That’s right—it’s impossible to tell which way things stand,” she said. “Then let’s do this: I’ll go speak with Kōno directly. If we keep silent here like this, it’ll drag on endlessly.” “He’s in his study now, isn’t he?”

Mother stood up. She stepped back from moving toward the engawa and said in a low voice, “You’ll be meeting Ichi today, won’t you?” leaning forward. “I might,” Fujio replied. “If you do,” Mother pressed on, “you should drop a hint. Didn’t you mention going to Ōmori with Mr. Ono? Is it tomorrow?” “Yes—it’s set for tomorrow.” “Then let them see you two strolling together.” Fujio laughed mockingly.

Mother headed toward the study.

Passing through the sunlit engawa, she slid open the Western-style door halfway—its surface polished to reveal beautiful wood grain—and found the tightly closed interior dark. While pushing the round knob forward and leaning into the opening door, when she silently set both feet down on the parquet floor, there came the click of the latch snapping back. The study, blocking spring with its window coverings, dimly partitioned the two from the world of men. While saying "It's dark," Mother came to the center Western-style desk and stopped. The back of Kōno’s figure—only his head visible above the chair back—steadily turned toward the source of the voice, revealing about a third of his sharply drawn eyebrows. A black mustache followed along his upper lip, naturally descending, then suddenly curled back from the corner where it nearly ended. His lips were pressed tightly together. At the same time, his black eyes narrowed to their outer corners. Mother and her son recognized each other in this posture.

“It’s gloomy in here,” Mother repeated while standing. The silent man stood up. He clattered his indoor shoes against the floor several times and, upon reaching the corner of the Western-style desk, finally— “Shall I open the window?” he asked gently. “It doesn’t matter—I don’t care either way, but I just thought you might be feeling uncomfortable.” The silent man extended his right palm toward the desk once more. Prompted by this gesture, Mother took her seat in the chair first. Kōno likewise settled into his seat. “How are you feeling?”

“Thank you.”

“Are you feeling any better?”

When he gave a vague reply of “Well… I suppose…,” Mr. Kōno leaned back and crossed his arms. At the same time, beneath the Western-style desk, he crossed his left outer ankle over his right instep. From Mother’s perspective, only the sleeves of the egg-colored underrobe with shortened seams were visible straight ahead. “If you don’t keep yourself healthy… I’ll worry, you know…” Before the sentence could end, Mr. Kōno pressed his chin to his throat and peered beneath the Western-style desk. Two black split-toe socks were overlapping. Mother's feet were not visible. Mother repositioned herself.

“When your health is poor, your mood inevitably becomes gloomy, and you find no enjoyment in anything...”

Mr. Kōno abruptly raised his eyes. Mother abruptly shifted the conversation.

"But since going to Kyoto, you seem to have improved somewhat." "Is that so?" "Hohohoho! 'Is that so?' You say it as if it's someone else's affair." "—Your complexion has grown steadily healthier, hasn't it?" "Or is it just a tan?" "That might be the case," Mr. Kōno said, turning his head toward the window. Through the parted folds of heavy drapes, young hawthorn leaves blazed reflected in the glass.

“Why don’t you come to the Japanese-style room for a chat or something.” “That room is open and airy—it feels more pleasant than the study.” “Once in a while, engaging in idle chatter with some dull woman like Ichi could be a refreshing change of pace—quite amusing indeed.”

“Thank you.” “I may not be able to hold a conversation worthy of your attention—but even a fool has their own way of being, you know.…” Kōno released his dazzled gaze from the hawthorn. “The hawthorn has sprouted buds quite beautifully.”

“Splendid, isn’t it? “I much prefer them to fully bloomed flowers.” “From here, you can only see a single branch.” “When you go around to the other side, the trimmed ones are evenly rounded—that’s beautiful.” “It seems most visible from your room.” “Ah—have you seen it?” Mr. Kōno neither confirmed nor denied having seen it. Mother continued— “And also... “Lately, perhaps because of the warm weather, the crimson carp in the pond have been leaping quite vigorously... Can you hear them from here?”

“The sound of the carp leaping, you mean?”

“Ah.”

“No.” “You can’t hear them. You can’t hear them with everything shut tight like this. You can’t even hear them from my room. The other day Fujio laughed at me terribly about my hearing getting worse. Though of course”—she let out a dry chuckle—“at my age with failing ears, there’s nothing to be done about it.” “Is Fujio here?” “She’s here. It must be nearly time for Mr. Ono to come for the lesson.—Did you need something?”

“No, there’s nothing in particular.” “She’s such a strong-willed child—I’m sure she must get on your nerves at times—but do endure it. Think of her as your true sister and please look after her.” Mr. Kōno kept his arms folded as he fixed his deep gaze on his mother. Mother’s eyes lingered inexplicably on the Western-style desk. “I intend to look after her,” he said quietly. “If you say that, I am truly relieved.” “It’s not merely a matter of intention. “I’m practically wanting to do it.”

“If she herself were to hear that you care for her so deeply, she would surely be delighted.” "But…” His words trailed off.

Mother waited for him to continue. Kōno unfolded his arms and leaned forward from the chair, drawing so close that his chest nearly touched the corner of the Western-style desk. "But Mother. Fujio has no intention of being looked after." "Such a thing—" This time Mother drew back into her chair. Mr. Kōno did not so much as twitch an eyebrow. He continued in the same low voice, calmly threading his words.

“To take care of someone means the one being cared for must have faith in me—though ‘faith’ sounds odd, as if I were a god.”

Kōno abruptly cut off his words here. Mother, perhaps sensing that her turn had not yet come, waited with composed restraint. "In any case, it must be someone she trusts enough to accept being dependent upon." “Well, if you’ve already dismissed me like that, there’s nothing more to say—” she began smoothly, but suddenly sharpened her tone, “Fujio is truly pitiable too. Instead of saying such things, please find a way to help her.”

Mr. Kōno propped his elbow and pressed his palm against his forehead. “But since she looks down on me, trying to help would only lead to an argument.” “Fujio looking down on you…?” Mother exclaimed in a voice louder than her usual gentle refusals. “If such a thing were happening, I couldn’t possibly accept it,” he added, his tone already restored to its usual calm.

Mr. Kōno silently propped his elbow.

“Has Fujio done anything improper?”

Mr. Kōno still gazed at his mother from beneath the hand pressed to his forehead. “If there’s any problem, I’ll speak to her firmly myself—so don’t hold back and tell me everything. It wouldn’t be pleasant if there were awkwardness between us.”

The five fingers pressed against his forehead were slender with long joints, their nails even daintily shaped like a woman’s. “Fujio has certainly turned twenty-four, hasn’t she?” “She turned twenty-four this year.” “We really must take action soon, don’t you think?” “Is this about marriage prospects?” Mother pressed bluntly. Mr. Kōno gave no clear answer regarding either taking a bride or becoming a son-in-law. Mother said.

“I actually want to discuss Fujio’s situation too, but first...”

“What is it?” His right eyebrow remained hidden beneath his hand. His gaze was profound. Yet nowhere could any sharpness be seen. “What do you think? I do wish you would reconsider.”

“What do you mean?” “It’s about you, you know. Fujio has her own matters to attend to as well, but unless we settle your situation first, I will be in a bind.” Mr. Kōno smiled with one cheek in the shadow of his hand’s back. 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.” “I suppose there are.”

“So you see,” “You should reconsider once more.” “There are even those who became much healthier after taking a bride.”

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 casually picked up the ruled paper, turned it over, and saw three or four lines of English written there. He began to read and realized. It was a scrap of paper on which he had excerpted passages from a book he read yesterday for future reference and left there as it was. Kōno placed the ruled paper face down on the Western-style desk. Mother had furrowed only the inner part of her forehead and waited patiently for Mr. Kōno’s response. Mr. Kōno took up a pencil and wrote the character for 'crow' on the paper.

“I wonder…”

The character for "crow" became "bird". “I would be glad if you would do that, wouldn’t you?”

The character for "bird" became "shrike." Beneath it, he added the character for "tongue." Then he raised his face. He said: "Well, perhaps it would be best if Fujio decides herself." "If you absolutely refuse to consent, then I suppose there remains no other path but that."

Having finished speaking, Mother looked down dejectedly. At the same time, a triangle formed on the ruled paper. Three triangles overlapped to create a scale pattern. "Mother. I'm giving the house to Fujio." "But then you—" she began to protest. "I'll give the property to Fujio as well. I don't need anything."

“Then we’ll be the only ones put out.” “Does that trouble you?” he said calmly. Mother and son briefly exchanged glances. “‘Does that trouble you?’ you ask—how could I face your late Father then?” “Is that so? Then what should I do?” he said, tossing the amber-colored pencil onto the Western-style desk with a clatter. “What should be done—of course someone uneducated like Mother wouldn’t understand—but even in my ignorance, I don’t believe this situation can stand.”

“Do you find it disagreeable?” “Have I ever uttered something as extravagant as ‘I dislike it’ before now?” “There hasn’t been.”

“I also intend to have nothing.” “Haven’t I always expressed my gratitude every time you say that?” “I’ve heard your thanks all along.” Mother picked up the fallen pencil and looked at its sharpened tip. She looked at the rounded rubber end. In her heart, she thought he was an impossible person to deal with. After a moment, she gave the rubber end a quick tug against the Western-style desk and said.

“So you absolutely have no intention of inheriting the house, then?” “I am inheriting the house. “Legally, I am the heir.” “Even if you inherit the Kōno family estate, you won’t take care of your mother, will you?”

Before replying, Kōno fixed his gaze through the centers of his long eyes and intently studied his mother’s face. After a moment, “Therefore,” he said courteously, “I am stating that I will give both the house and all property to Fujio.” “If you insist to that degree, I suppose there’s no alternative.” With a sigh, Mother let this declaration fall upon the Western-style desk. Kōno maintained his detached composure. “Since there’s no alternative, I’ll allow you to have your way regarding yourself—but concerning Fujio…”

“Yes.” “Actually, I think Mr. Ono would be suitable, but what do you think?”

“Ono?” he said, then fell silent. “Won’t he do?”

“It’s not entirely out of the question,” he drawled. “If it’s acceptable, I suppose we could settle it that way…” “That’s fine.” “Are we agreed?” “Yes.” “At last, I can rest easy.”

Mr. Kōno stared fixedly, his eyes intently focused on something ahead. as if he did not acknowledge the presence of his mother before him.

“At last—are we agreed?” “Mother—Fujio has consented, hasn’t she?”

“Of course I know.” “Why?” Mr. Kōno was still gazing into the distance. After a single blink, his eyes abruptly focused nearer.

“Is Munegaki unsuitable?” he asked. “Ichi?” “Under normal circumstances, Ichi would be the best choice, but...” “After all, Father and Munegaki do have that sort of relationship.” “Wasn’t there some promise?”

“There was never anything you could call a promise.” “I seem to recall Father said something about giving a watch.” “A watch?” Mother tilted her head. “It’s Father’s gold watch. The one with the garnet.”

“Ah, yes yes. It seems there was such a thing,” Mother said, as though recalling it just then. “It seems Ichi is still expecting it.” “Is that so?” Mother replied tersely, her composure unshaken. “If there was a promise, it must be honored. To do otherwise would neglect moral duty.” “Since Fujio currently holds the watch, I shall convey that properly myself.” “This isn’t merely about the watch—Fujio’s situation takes precedence.” “But there was never any promise to give Fujio in marriage!”

“I see... Then that’s fine.” “When I say that, I feel bad as though I’m going against your wishes—but I have absolutely no recollection of such a promise.” “Haaah... So there was no promise after all.” “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 diplomatic exams yet. He can’t very well take a bride while he’s still studying.”

“I don’t mind.” “Moreover, since Ichi is the eldest son, he must inherit the Munegaki household.” “Are you planning to adopt someone for Fujio?” “I don’t want to do this, but since you refuse to heed your mother’s words…” “Even if Fujio steps aside, I will give the property to Fujio.” “As for the property—though I’d be troubled if you misinterpret my intentions—there’s no thought of property matters within me.” “I mean for it to be so pristine I’d want to slice it open and show you—though perhaps that isn’t how it appears.” “Does it not appear that way to you?”

“I can see that,” said Mr. Kōno. His tone was utterly serious. Even Mother could not take it as mockery. “It’s just that I’m growing old and anxious… If I were to send my only Fujio away, I’d be left in a difficult position afterward.” “I see.”

“Otherwise, Ichi would be preferable...” “He gets along well with you...” “Mother—do you truly know Ono?” “I believe I do. “He’s polite, kind, and academically accomplished—a splendid man, wouldn’t you agree? Why...” “Then it’s fine.”

“Don’t dismiss me so curtly—if you have any thoughts, do share them. After all, I came here specifically to consult you.”

After staring for a while at the sheet music on the ruled paper, Mr. Kōno raised his eyes and calmly stated. “Munegaki values you more than Ono does.”

“Well!” she blurted out immediately. Afterward, she said quietly.

"That may be—your discernment leaves no room for error—but unlike other matters, this lies beyond parents' or brothers' control." "Is Fujio insisting on this?" "Well... I wouldn't say she insists." "I know that. I know it. ...Is Fujio present?"

“I’ll call her.”

Mother stood up. Against pale pink wallpaper deeply scattered with arabesque patterns, she pressed the conveniently reachable electric bell squarely in its white center while standing—a response came before she had even returned to her seat. The entrance door quietly opened about five inches, and Mother turned around at the sound. “I need Fujio for a moment,” she said. The door that had opened softly now closed softly. Mother and child sat facing each other across the Western-style table. They remained mutually silent. Kōno took up his pencil again. He drew a circle around the three scales, its size grazing their edges. He filled in the space between the circle and the scales. He proceeded to meticulously align the black lines one by one in parallel. Mother, at a loss for what to do, gazed attentively at her son’s design.

The hearts of the two were, of course, unknowable. Only the surface remained perfectly still. If the movements of one's limbs could serve as symbols bringing inner truths into the physical realm, then a mother and child as tranquil as these two would be difficult to find. The son divided idle hours into dozens of lines to methodically fill the space outside three scales, while the mother rested her hands ordinarily on her lap as she composedly guarded the circle darkening with each stroke—these formed a harmonious pair of mother and child. They were mother and child in perfect accord. At the interposing Western-style table, their shielded chests facing each other within spring-locked curtained windows, they presented a vision that had forgotten the world, people, and strife. The portrait of the deceased, following custom, illuminated this serene pair from its place on the wall.

The meticulously drawn lines gradually grew denser. The black areas gradually increased. When only an arc-shaped section on the right remained, there was a clatter of the latch being turned, and the figure of Fujio, who had been waiting, appeared at the entrance. Her white-clad figure was set against spring. Her upper body, from the shoulders up, seemed to float within the deep background. Mr. Kōno’s pencil came to an abrupt halt midway through the line he had begun to draw. At the same time, Fujio’s face emerged from the background. “How did you manage to summon me?” she said as she came to Mother’s side and sat down from the edge. When she had finished settling into her seat, once again,

“Is he 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.” “I see,” Fujio said and turned to face her brother. Black lines were busily forming. “Brother, do you need something?” “Yeah,” said Mr. Kōno, finally looking up. He raised his face and said nothing.

Fujio looked at Mother again. As she looked, a faint smile cast its shadow across her beautiful cheeks. Brother finally broke the silence.

“Fujio, I’m giving you this house and all the property I inherited from Father.” “When?” “Starting today.—In exchange, you must look after Mother.” “Thank you,” she said while glancing at Mother again. She was still laughing. “You don’t intend to go to Munegaki, do you?” “No.” “You won’t?” “You absolutely refuse?” “I refuse.”

“I see.—Are you that fond of Ono?”

Fujio stiffened. "What would you gain by knowing that?" she said, stretching her back against the chair.

“I won’t do anything. “It does me no good. “I’m only telling you this for your sake.”

“For my sake?” she said, her voice rising in a sarcastic lilt and leaving it suspended. “So,” he dropped scornfully.

Mother spoke up for the first time.

“According to your brother’s thinking, Ichirō would be preferable over Mr. Ono.” “Brother remains Brother. I remain myself.” “Brother says Ichirō would care for me better than Mr. Ono would.” “Brother,” Fujio said sharply, turning toward Kōno, “do you truly comprehend Mr. Ono’s character?”

“I know,” he said calmly. “As if you know!” she said, standing up. “Mr. Ono is a poet. A noble poet.” “Is that so.” “He is a man of refined taste. He is a man who understands love. He is a gentle gentleman—a personality philosophers cannot comprehend. You can understand Ichirō-san, can’t you? But you do not understand Mr. Ono’s worth. You absolutely do not understand. There’s no reason for someone who praises Ichirō-san to understand Mr. Ono’s worth……”

“Then I’ll choose Ono.” “Of course I will.” With her words flung aside, the purple silk swayed toward the doorway. As her slender hand whirled the round knob in one motion, Fujio’s figure vanished into the shadowed depths beyond.

Sixteen

The narrative pen left Kōno’s study and entered the Munegaki household.

It was the same day. It was also the same hour.

Munegaki’s Father sat before the ever-present Chinese-style desk on an oni-sarasa patterned cushion. Having eschewed an undershirt, the collar of his black Hachijō silk underrobe had slipped open, exposing bushy chest hair against bare skin—a sight commonly seen in Imbe-yaki Hotei figurines. Before the Hotei ornament lay an extraordinary tobacco tray. Mountains, willows, and human figures adorned the blue-and-white porcelain bearing Wu Xiangrui’s mark, their proportions rendered with equal prominence as a single gilded line meandered toward the rim. Its jar-like form flared outward at the bowl before sharply tapering into a rounded edge. Through opposing handles threaded vines tightly bound with muted rattan strips to fashion practical grips.

Munegaki’s Father had unearthed this tobacco tray with its mended joints from some antique shop yesterday, and ever since this morning, he had been declaring it was Shōzui ware—Shōzui!—with the result that he filled it with ashes, lit a fire, and was now smoking tobacco incessantly.

Just then, the Chinese-style door at the entrance slid open smoothly, and Mr. Munegaki entered as lively as ever. His father took his eyes off the tobacco tray. When he looked, he saw his son wearing an ill-fitting hand-me-down suit from his father, paired only with cashmere tabi boots—making a grand show of his connoisseurship.

“Where are you off to?” “I’m not going out—I just got back. Ah, it’s hot.” “It’s really quite hot today, isn’t it?”

“It’s not so bad when you’re at home. You get hot because you rush around needlessly. Why don’t you try walking more calmly?” “I thought I was perfectly calm—does it not look that way? Give me a break... Oh, you finally lit the tobacco tray. I see.” “How’s the Shōzui?” “It somehow resembles a sake jar.” “Nonsense! It’s a tobacco tray. You all keep mocking it as something else, but see—with ashes in it like this, it clearly looks like a proper tobacco tray, doesn’t it?”

The old man gripped the vine and hoisted the Shōzui sharply into midair. "How about this?"

“Yes, it’s quite nice.” “It’s good. Shōzui pieces are often counterfeit; they’re not easy to come by.” “So how much did it cost?”

“Guess how much it cost.” “I can’t even begin to guess. If I say something careless, I’ll just get scolded outright again like with that pine tree the other day.” “One yen and eighty sen. It’s a bargain, don’t you think?” “Do you think that’s cheap?” “It’s a genuine find!” “Hmm... Oh, you’ve added new plants to the veranda as well.” “I just replanted them with coralberry. That’s a Satsuma pot—an old one.” “It looks like the kind of hat a 16th-century European would wear.—And this rose is incredibly red!”

“That’s called Butsumishō, you know. It’s still a type of rose after all.” “Butsumishō? That’s a strange name.” “In the Avatamsaka Sutra, there’s a passage that says, ‘Externally like a bodhisattva, internally like a yaksha.’ You know that, don’t you?”

“I know the lines, at least.”

“That’s why they call it Butsumishō.” “The flowers are beautiful, but they have formidable thorns.” “Go ahead and touch it.”

“There’s no need to touch it.” “Ha ha ha ha! ‘Externally like a bodhisattva, internally like a yaksha.’ Women are dangerous creatures,” he said while poking at the Shōzui with his pipe’s mouthpiece.

"What a complex rose this Butsumishō is," Mr. Munegaki remarked admiringly as he gazed at the flower.

“Hmm,” the old man slapped his knee as if remembering something. “Ichi, have you seen that flower before? The one placed in that alcove.” The old man remained seated but turned his face backward. On his twisted neck, displaced flesh bundled into about three strands that bulged out toward his shoulders. On the tea-colored flat alcove hung a scroll painted in a single stroke depicting the monk Kensu shouldering a fishing rod, with an old bronze vase placed before it. From within a neck as long as a crane’s, two stems emerged smoothly, bordered by leaves arranged in a cross and four directions, where dewdrop beads strung like prayer beads bloomed in pairs—two spikes each forming pairs.

“What an extremely slender flower—I’ve never seen anything like this before. What do you call it?” “This is what they call Futari Shizuka.” “Futari Shizuka? I’ve never heard of that name before—not as any famous example or otherwise.” “Mark this well. It’s a fascinating flower. The white spikes always grow in pairs—that’s why it’s called ‘Twofold Shizuka.’ In Noh plays, there’s a story where Lady Shizuka’s spirit dances as two entities. Are you familiar with that?” “No, I don’t know that one.”