Pathway to Japanese Literature

The Gate

I

Sōsuke had brought out a zabuton cushion to the engawa veranda and settled cross-legged in a spot that seemed pleasantly sunlit, but soon tossed aside the magazine in his hand and stretched out flat on his back.
It was such fine weather that one might call it a perfect autumn day; in the quiet town, the clatter of geta from passersby resonated cheerfully.
Resting his head on his arm and looking up from the eaves, he saw a beautiful sky spread clear and blue as far as the eye could see.
When he compared that sky to the cramped dimensions of the engawa where he lay, it appeared extraordinarily vast.
While thinking that even just leisurely gazing at the sky like this on his rare Sunday made quite a difference, he furrowed his brows and stared at the glaring sun until it grew too dazzling, then rolled over completely to face the shoji screens.
Inside the shoji screens, his wife was sewing.

“Hey, nice weather,” he called out.
His wife
responded with only a “Yes.”
Sōsuke didn’t seem to have anything more to say either and fell silent.
After a while, his wife spoke up instead:
“Why not go for a walk?”
But at that moment Sōsuke merely gave a vague “Mm” in reply.

Two or three minutes later, his wife pressed her face against the glass portion of the shoji and peered at her husband lying on the engawa. Her husband had bent both knees and curled up like a shrimp under some peculiar notion of comfort. Then, clasping his hands together and thrusting his black head into them, his face was completely hidden between his elbows.

“You’ll catch cold lying there like that,” cautioned his wife.
His wife’s speech carried a certain cadence common among modern schoolgirls—reminiscent of Tokyo yet not quite Tokyo.

Sōsuke blinked his large eyes rapidly within the crook of his arms,

“I won’t fall asleep; it’s fine,” he answered in a low voice.

Then it became quiet again.
After the bell of a rubber-tired car passing outside rang two or three times, the crowing of a distant rooster serving as a time signal could be heard.
Sōsuke, savoring against the back of his newly tailored cotton-spun garment the gentle warmth of sunlight that had naturally seeped in—drinking it in beneath his undershirt—was half-listening to the sounds from outside when suddenly, as if remembering something, he called out to his wife through the shoji screen,

“Ome, how do you write the character ‘kin’ in ‘kinrai’ again?” he asked.
His wife showed no particular sign of exasperation, nor did she emit the shrill laughter characteristic of young women,
“It’s not the ‘ō’ from Ōmi,” she replied.
“It’s that ‘ō’ character from Ōmi that I can’t figure out.”
His wife opened the fully closed shoji about halfway, extended a long ruler beyond the threshold, and with its tip wrote out the kin character on the engawa to show him,
“Like this,” she said, then placed the ruler’s tip where the character ended and gazed intently at the clear sky for a while.
Sōsuke, without looking at his wife’s face,

“So that’s how it is,” he said, though it clearly wasn’t a joke, and he didn’t laugh either.
His wife, too, showed no sign of being concerned about the character at all,

“It really is lovely weather, isn’t it?” she murmured half to herself, leaving the shoji screens open as she resumed her sewing.
Then Sōsuke slightly lifted his head, which was pressed between his elbows,

“There’s something truly mysterious about characters,” he said, looking at his wife for the first time.

“Why?”

“Why? Well, even the simplest characters become impossible to recognize once you start doubting them and thinking they look strange. Just the other day, I got terribly confused with that same character we were just talking about. When I write it properly on paper and stare at it, it somehow feels different. In the end, the more I look at it, the less it seems like itself anymore—haven’t you ever experienced something like that?”

“Don’t be silly.”

"Am I the only one?" he wondered, pressing a hand to his head.

"There's something off about you."

"Perhaps it's neurasthenia after all."

"That's right," his wife said, looking at her husband's face.
The husband finally stood up.

Stepping over the needle box and thread scraps as if leaping across them, he slid open the tea room’s fusuma door to find himself immediately in the tatami room.
Because the southern side was blocked by the entrance, the shoji screens at the far end appeared chilly to eyes that had abruptly entered from the sunny outdoors.
When opened there, a steep cliff pressing close to the eaves towered from the veranda’s edge, so even the sun—which by morning ought to cast its light directly there—found it difficult to leave a shadow.
Grass grew on the cliff.
Since not even one side was reinforced with stones from below, there remained a constant danger of collapse at any moment; yet strangely, it was said never to have collapsed—which might explain why the landlord had left it untouched in its original state for so long.
It was said that originally the entire area had been a bamboo grove, and when cleared, they had left the roots unexcavated and buried them within an embankment—surprisingly keeping the ground firm—or so explained at length by an old greengrocer who had lived in the neighborhood for twenty years when Sōsuke once met him at the back entrance.
At that time Sōsuke had asked in return: “But if roots remained, wouldn’t bamboo grow back and form a thicket?”
To which the old man replied: “Ah well now—once you clear land like that, things don’t go so smooth.”
“But that cliff there’s safe as houses.”
“Won’t collapse no matter what,” he declared as if defending his own property before striding off home with conviction.

The cliff showed no signs of changing color even after autumn had set in.
Only the scent of the green grass had faded, leaving behind uneven, tangled growth.
As for elegant varieties like miscanthus or ivy, there was no trace of them to be found.
In their place stood two remaining Mōsō bamboo stalks midway up, with about three more rising straight from the upper section.
They had taken on a faint yellow tinge, and when sunlight struck their trunks, if one leaned out from under the eaves, one could almost imagine glimpsing autumn’s lingering warmth upon the embankment above.

Sōsuke was a man who left in the morning and returned after four o'clock, so these days, as daylight dwindled, he rarely found time to gaze up at the cliff. Emerging from the dim toilet and scooping water from the basin into his hands, he happened to glance beyond the eaves and suddenly remembered the bamboo. Atop the trunk clustered dense leaves that looked exactly like a monk's shorn head. Drunk on autumn sunlight, they hung heavily downward; not one of those still-layered leaves stirred.

Sōsuke closed the shoji, returned to the tatami room, and sat down before his desk.
Though referred to as a tatami room, this was only because they received guests there; in truth, it would be more accurate to call it a study or living room.
Because there was a tokonoma on the north side, they had hung an odd scroll there as a token gesture, with a crude vermilion clay-colored flower vase displayed before it.
In the transom, there was neither a framed picture nor anything else.
Only two brass toggle nails gleamed.
In addition, there was one glass-doored bookshelf.
However, inside there was nothing that could be called particularly noticeable or splendid.

Sōsuke opened the silver-fitted drawer of the desk and searched through it intently, but before finding anything particular, snapped it shut.
Then he removed the lid of the inkstone box and began writing a letter.
He wrote one, sealed it, and paused briefly to consider,

“Hey, what was the address of the Saibara house in Naka-Rokubanchō?” he called out to his wife through the sliding door.

“It’s not Number Twenty-Five,” his wife replied as Sōsuke neared completion of writing the address.

“Letters won’t suffice—I must go negotiate properly,” he interjected.

“Well then let’s at least send one letter even if it proves useless,” she asserted decisively. “Should that fail through correspondence alone—then we shall resolve to make the visit ourselves.” But when his wife remained silent,

“Look—hey—that’s settled then?” he pressed for confirmation.

His wife seemed unable to declare it unwise and offered no further argument.
Sōsuke went straight from the tatami room to the entrance still holding the mail.
Only when she heard her husband’s footsteps did his wife rise from her seat and make her way along the tea room’s edge to reach the entrance.

“I’m going out for a short walk.”

“Go ahead,” his wife replied with a smile.

About thirty minutes later, when the lattice door clattered open again, Ome set aside her sewing once more and hurried along the engawa to greet what she assumed would be Sōsuke returning home—only to find his younger brother Shōroku entering instead, his high school cap slightly askew.
He struggled with the buttons of his long black woolen cloak—so lengthy that only five or six inches of hakama showed beneath—and complained,

“It’s hot.”

“That’s excessive.”
“To go out wearing such a heavy coat in this fine weather...”

“What? I thought it might get cold once night falls,” Shōroku half-muttered in excuse as he followed his sister-in-law into the tea room but paused upon noticing the half-sewn garment.

“You’re still full of energy,” she said as she sat cross-legged before the long brazier.
Ome pushed her sewing aside into a corner, came over to where Shōroku sat, lifted down the iron kettle, and began replenishing the charcoal.

"There's plenty of tea," said Shōroku.

"You don't want any?" pressed Ome in a schoolgirl-like manner.

"Then how about some sweets?" she said with a laugh.

"Do you have any?" asked Shōroku.

“No, there aren’t any,” she answered honestly, then suddenly remembered something. “Wait a moment—there might be some after all,” she said as she stood up, moving aside the coal scuttle beside her to open the cupboard.
Shōroku was gazing at the part of Ome’s back where her haori rose high over her obi.
Seeing how long it was taking her to find whatever she was looking for,

“Then let’s forget about the sweets.
“Anyway, what happened with Elder brother today?” he asked.

“Elder brother is just…” replied Ome without turning around as she kept searching through the cupboard. She finally snapped the door shut. “It’s no good. At some point Elder brother ate them all,” she said while returning to her place by the brazier.

“Then prepare something special for dinner.”

“I will, then,” she said, and when she looked at the pillar clock, it was already nearly four o’clock.
Ome counted the time: “Four, five, six o’clock.”
Shōroku silently watched his sister-in-law’s face.
In truth, he had little interest in his sister-in-law’s special dinner.

“Sister-in-law, did Elder brother go to Saibara’s for us?” he asked.

“He’s been saying he’ll go any day now.”
“But Elder brother leaves in the morning and comes back at dusk.”
“When he returns, he’s so exhausted that even going to the bath seems too much.”
“So it’s really rather cruel to blame him.”

“It’s not that Elder brother isn’t busy, but I can’t settle down to study properly until this matter gets resolved,” said Shōroku as he took the brass fire tongs and began scribbling intently in the brazier’s ashes.
Ome watched the moving tip of the fire tongs.

“That’s why he already sent a letter earlier,” she said comfortingly.

“What?”

“Well, I didn’t happen to see it either.”
“But it’s definitely about that matter.”
“When Elder brother comes home soon, just ask him.”
“It’s definitely that.”

“If he sent the letter, then that matter should be handled.”

“Yes，he really did send it．Right now Elder brother took that letter and has just gone out to mail it．”

Shōroku no longer wanted to lend an ear to his sister-in-law’s words that felt like excuses or hollow consolations. If he had the leisure to go out for a stroll, he thought bitterly, it would have been better had his brother gone himself instead of sending a letter—a notion that left him feeling thoroughly displeased. He went to the tatami room, pulled out a red-bound Western-style book from the bookshelf, and began flipping haphazardly through its pages.

II

Unaware of this, Sōsuke reached the corner of town where he bought stamps and "Shikishima" at the same shop, immediately mailing the letter. Yet feeling dissatisfied at retracing his steps along the same road, he let cigarette smoke waver in the autumn sunlight as he wandered aimlessly—until resolving to venture somewhere distant, imprint firmly in his mind the impression that "Tokyo is such a place," then return home with this as his Sunday souvenir to sleep.

He was not merely a man who had breathed Tokyo’s air for years; he had grown accustomed to twice-daily streetcar commutes through bustling thoroughfares to his government office. Yet finding neither bodily ease nor mental peace, he always passed through in a daze—so much so that lately he had not once felt conscious of being truly alive within those vibrant streets.

Of course, ordinarily he was too consumed by busyness to notice this void. But when his weekly holiday arrived and he found an opportunity to relax his heart at ease, his ordinary life suddenly appeared restless and overwrought.

Ultimately arriving at the conclusion that he had dwelled within Tokyo yet never truly seen it, he would always feel there a peculiar desolation.

At such times, he would suddenly go out to town as though remembering something.
Moreover, if there was even a little financial leeway, he would sometimes think of splurging a bit.
However, his loneliness was not intense enough to drive him to take such drastic measures; before he could plunge headlong into them, he would find the whole notion absurd and abandon it.
Not only that, but as was typical for such a man, the bottom of his wallet was usually only padded enough to caution against rash expenditures, so rather than go through the trouble of contriving elaborate plans, he found it easier in the end to tuck his hands into his sleeves and amble back home.
Thus, Sōsuke’s loneliness found its bounds in nothing more than a walk or a visit to an industrial exposition hall—consoling him in some way or another until the following Sunday.

On this day as well, Sōsuke boarded the streetcar with a resolve to go through with it. However, despite the fine Sunday weather, there were fewer passengers than usual, making the ride unexpectedly comfortable. Moreover, all the passengers had peaceful expressions, and every one of them seemed perfectly calm and composed. While sitting down, Sōsuke recalled his fate—competing every morning at the usual hour to seize a seat on the streetcar bound for Marunouchi. There was nothing as dreary as the streetcar commute during the morning rush hour. Whether hanging from leather straps or sitting on velvet seats, there had never been an instance where a humane, gentle feeling arose. He considered that to be enough, and sitting knee-to-knee and shoulder-to-shoulder like a machine or some such thing, he would simply ride along to his destination and abruptly disembark. As he watched an elderly woman in front of him lean close to her granddaughter’s ear—the girl about eight years old—and whisper something, then observed a merchant-looking man in his thirties standing nearby fussing over the child, asking her age and name, Sōsuke felt as though he had stepped into an entirely different world.

Above his head, advertisements were hung framed across the entire space.
Ordinarily, Sōsuke had never even noticed these.
When he idly read the first one, it was a flyer from a moving company declaring, "Moving made easy."
The next displayed three lines: "For the economically minded," "For the hygiene-conscious," "For fire safety advocates"—followed by an exhortation to use gas stoves, accompanied by an illustration of flames leaping from a stove.
The third advertisement featured both "Eternal Snow," a masterpiece by Count Tolstoy, Russia's literary giant, and the Bankara Comedy Koshintai Troupe—printed in white against a crimson background.

Sōsuke spent about ten minutes carefully rereading all the advertisements three times over.
There was nothing he particularly wanted to go see or buy, but merely that these advertisements had etched themselves clearly in his mind, that there had been time to read each one through, and that he had possessed this freedom of mind to comprehend them all—this gave Sōsuke no small satisfaction.
His life was so pressed that even this modicum of leisure filled him with pride, for on days other than Sunday, he could never settle into any comings and goings.

Sōsuke got off the streetcar at Surugadai.
As soon as he alighted, his eyes caught on Western books beautifully arranged in the right-hand window.
Sōsuke stood before them awhile, gazing at the gold lettering vividly stamped across red, blue, striped and patterned covers.
He understood the titles well enough, but no curiosity stirred him to take up a volume and examine its contents.
For Sōsuke, that urge to enter any bookstore he passed—and once inside, to inevitably want something—already belonged to a life from years past.
Only the History of Gambling (博奕史), specially bound and displayed at the center, added a touch of jarring novelty to his thoughts.

Sōsuke smiled and crossed the bustling street to peer into the watchmaker’s shop. Though numerous gold watches and chains were displayed, they registered in his eyes merely as beautiful colors and shapes, failing to entice any desire to purchase. Yet he read each price tag hung by silk thread and compared them with their items. He found himself genuinely surprised at how inexpensive the gold watches were.

Before the umbrella shop too he paused briefly. At a Western sundries store, his eyes caught on neckties hung beside a top hat. As their patterns seemed far more appealing than the one he wore daily, he nearly stepped into the shop to inquire about prices—but upon reconsidering how pointless it would be to change neckties starting tomorrow, he suddenly found opening his purse too bothersome and walked on. He lingered long at draper’s shops too, learning many fabric names like Uzura-omeshi, Kōki-ori, and Seiryō-ori that had been unknown to him until now. In front of Kyoto’s Eriara branch shop, he pressed his hat brim close to the windowpane and gazed endlessly at exquisitely embroidered women’s half-collars. Among them was an elegant one that might have suited his wife. No sooner had the thought to buy it arisen than came the realization that “that was five or six years ago,” immediately snuffing out his fleeting good intention. With a bitter smile he stepped back from the window and resumed walking—only to lapse into an oddly listless mood for half a block or so, paying scant attention to either streets or storefronts.

When he suddenly noticed, there was a large magazine shop at the corner, its eaves advertising newly published books in large characters. Paper had been pasted onto long narrow frames resembling ladders, while colors resembling those of patterned paintings had been applied to a single lacquered board. Sōsuke read each one carefully. The authors' names and work titles seemed at once familiar from newspaper advertisements yet utterly novel.

In the shadow of the shop’s corner, a man around thirty wearing a black bowler hat sat cross-legged on the ground in a carefree manner, inflating a large rubber balloon while calling out, "Here you go, children—something to amuse yourselves with." When inflated, it naturally formed the shape of a Daruma doll, complete with eyes and mouth drawn in ink at just the right spots—Sōsuke marveled at this. Once filled with air, it remained inflated indefinitely. Furthermore, its base would settle securely whether placed on a fingertip or a palm. When a thin object like a toothpick was inserted into its vent hole, it would whoosh and collapse instantaneously.

Many busy passersby came and went, but none stopped to take a proper look.
The man in the bowler hat sat cross-legged in a corner of the bustling town, as though oblivious to anything happening around him, inflating Daruma balloons while calling out, "Here you go, children—something to amuse yourselves with."
Sōsuke paid one sen and five rin to buy one of the balloons, had it swiftly deflated with a whoosh, and placed it into his sleeve.
He wanted to go to a nice barber and get his hair cut, but before he could find such a clean establishment, the day began to wane, so he boarded the streetcar again and headed home.

When Sōsuke reached the streetcar terminus and handed his ticket to the driver, the sky had already begun losing its light, dark shadows deepening over the damp streets. Gripping the iron pillar to disembark, he suddenly felt a chill. The people who had alighted with him scattered like leaves, walking briskly as if possessed by urgent business. Looking toward the town's edge, he saw pale wisps of smoke drifting from eaves to rooftops on both sides of the road. Sōsuke turned toward the tree-rich direction and quickened his pace. The thought that today's Sunday—this splendid weather—was already ending brought a mood both ephemeral and lonely welling up within him. And when he considered how tomorrow would return him to the same old grind, today's half-day of freedom suddenly felt precious, rendering the remaining six-and-a-half days of spiritless labor unbearably dreary. As he walked, visions arose unbidden—the dim, window-scarce office room; colleagues' faces; his superior calling "Nonaka-san!" with that perpetually hurried tone.

Passing by the fishmonger's called Uokatsu, then turning at a narrow passage five or six shops down that could hardly be called an alley or side street, he encountered a high cliff with four or five identical rental houses lined up on either side.
Until quite recently, among sparse cedar hedges, there had also stood a lonely old house—one that seemed to have been long occupied by a retainer—within the grounds. But after Sakai, who lived atop the cliff, purchased this plot, he promptly tore down the thatched roof, uprooted the cedar hedges, and rebuilt everything into new structures like those seen today.
Sōsuke’s house was situated at the very end of the side street, on the leftmost side directly beneath the cliff; while somewhat gloomy, they had specifically chosen this spot after consulting with his wife, reasoning that being the most removed from the main road would afford them a measure of tranquility.

Sōsuke hurriedly opened the lattice door, thinking that since his once-a-week Sunday was already drawing to a close, he should bathe early, get a haircut if time allowed, and then leisurely eat his evening meal.
From the direction of the kitchen came the sound of dishes and small bowls.
As he tried to step up, he inadvertently stepped on Shōroku’s discarded geta.
While he was bending down to adjust their position, Shōroku came out.
In the kitchen, Ome,

“Who is it? Brother?” she asked.
Sōsuke,
“Oh, you’re here?” he said as he stepped up into the tatami room.
From when he had mailed the letter earlier until returning home after strolling through Kanda and disembarking from the streetcar, not even a fragment of thought about Shōroku had crossed Sōsuke’s mind.
When Sōsuke saw Shōroku’s face, he felt somehow ill at ease, as though caught in wrongdoing.
“Ome! Ome!” he called his wife from the kitchen.
“Since Shōroku’s come, you should make something special,” he instructed.
His wife hurried out from the kitchen with the shoji still wide open and stood at the tatami room’s entrance, but no sooner had she heard this obvious instruction than

“Okay, right away,” she said, starting to turn back, but then returned once more.

“In return, Shōroku-san, I’m sorry to trouble you.”
“Please close the tatami room’s doors and light the lamp.”
“Right now, both Kiyo and I have our hands full,” she requested.

Shōroku replied simply,

“Yes,” he said and stood up.

In the kitchen, there was the sound of Kiyo chopping things.
There was the sound of hot water or water being poured into the sink with a splash.
“Madam, where should I move this?” came a voice.
“Sis, where are the scissors for trimming the lamp wick?” called Shōroku’s voice.
With a hiss, the water came to a boil and was placed over the brazier’s flames.

Sōsuke sat silently in the dark tatami room, holding his hands over the brazier.
Only the mass of embers atop the ashes appeared tinged with red.
At that moment, the young lady from the landlord’s house on the cliff behind began to play the piano.
Sōsuke stood up as if suddenly remembering something and went out to the veranda to close the tatami room’s rain shutters.
Above the Mōsō bamboo that faintly darkened and disrupted the sky’s hue, one or two stars glimmered.
The sound of the piano resonated from behind the Mōsō bamboo.

III

When Sōsuke and Shōroku returned from the bath carrying their hand towels, a perfectly square dining table had been set up in the center of the tatami room, with Ome's home-cooked dishes neatly arranged atop it.
The brazier's fire burned with a deeper color than when they had left.
The lamp glowed brightly.

As Sōsuke pulled the cushion before the desk toward him and settled comfortably into a cross-legged position, Ome—who had taken the hand towel and soap—

"Was the bath nice?" she asked.
Sōsuke responded with just a single word,

"Yeah," was all he said, though his manner seemed less curt than simply relaxed from bathing, appearing mentally at ease.

“It was quite a good bath,” Shōroku harmonized, looking toward Ome.

"But when it gets that crowded, nothing stays," Sōsuke said wearily, propping his elbow on the desk's edge.

When Sōsuke went to the bathhouse, it was always after leaving his government office and returning home—right at that bustling twilight hour before dinner when crowds gathered.
For the past two or three months, he had not once looked at bathwater’s color through sunlight.
That would have been one thing, but all too often he would go three or four days without setting foot in a public bath at all.
He would habitually think about rising early on Sundays to soak his neck in pristine bathwater first thing, yet when Sunday actually arrived, he’d convince himself this might be his only chance to sleep in properly. Lingering under the covers while time passed without restraint, he’d eventually think Ah, what a hassle—today I’ll skip it and try next Sunday instead—a pattern that had become almost mechanical.

"I wish I could at least make it to the morning bath," said Sōsuke.

"And yet on days when you could go to the morning bath, you're sure to sleep in, aren't you?" replied his wife in a teasing tone.
Shōroku had convinced himself this was his brother's inherent weakness.
Though living a student life himself, he couldn't grasp how precious Sundays were to his brother.
To recover from six days of dark mental strain through this single day's warmth, his brother had poured countless hopes into twenty-four hours.
There were too many things he wanted to do - he couldn't manage even two or three out of ten.
No, even when proceeding with those few tasks, he'd come to begrudge the time spent on them, withdraw his efforts again, and before he knew it Sunday would end while he sat motionless.
That Sōsuke - who needed such frugality even regarding his own diversions, recuperation, amusements or tastes - didn't exert himself for Shōroku wasn't refusal but incapacity; from Shōroku's view, this remained utterly unacceptable.
His brother was simply a self-serving man who idled about amusing himself with his wife whenever free - thoroughly unreliable, fundamentally lacking in affection - or so Shōroku had concluded.

However, it was only quite recently that Shōroku had come to feel this way; in truth, it dated back to when negotiations with Saibara had begun. Being young and thus impetuous in all things, Shōroku had convinced himself that if he asked his brother, the matter would be settled within a day or two. Yet not only had there been no resolution after many days, but his brother hadn’t even gone to meet with the other party, leaving him quite discontented. However, when he had lain in wait for his brother’s return today and met him, the fact that they were brothers—without any need for formalities—seemed to lend a certain warmth to their interactions, so he ended up postponing what he had wanted to say, and they ended up going to the bath together and talking amicably.

The brothers relaxed and settled at the meal.
Ome also unhesitatingly settled herself at one corner of the dining table.
Sōsuke and Shōroku each downed two or three sake cups.
Before starting the meal, Sōsuke laughed and,

“Yeah, there was something interesting,” he said while pulling out the rubber balloon Daruma doll he’d bought from his sleeve and inflating it large to show them.
Then, he placed it on top of the bowl lid and explained its distinctive features.
Ome and Shōroku found it amusing and watched the fluffy ball.
In the end, when Shōroku gave a puff, the Daruma doll fell from the dining table onto the tatami mats.
Even so, it still did not tip over.

“See there,” said Sōsuke.

As women do, Ome laughed aloud while opening the rice tub to serve her husband’s portion—

“Your brother is quite carefree,” she said, turning toward Shōroku in a tone that half-defended her husband.
Sōsuke accepted the rice bowl from his wife and began eating without a word of explanation.
Shōroku formally picked up his chopsticks.

The Daruma doll vanished from their conversation after that, yet it became the thread binding their innocent, leisurely talk until the meal ended.
Finally Shōroku shifted topics,

“By the way, Mr. Itō ended up in quite a terrible situation, didn’t he?” said Shōroku.
Five or six days earlier, when Sōsuke had seen the extra edition announcing Prince Itō’s assassination, he came out to the kitchen where Ome was working and said, “Hey, this is terrible—Mr. Itō’s been killed,” then placed the extra he held onto Ome’s apron and retreated to his study; yet his tone was rather composed.

“Even though you said it was terrible, you didn’t sound the least bit urgent,” Ome had half-jokingly made a point to remark afterward.
In the following days, there was never a newspaper that didn’t carry five or six columns about Prince Itō, yet Sōsuke appeared so indifferent to the assassination that one couldn’t tell whether he had even glanced through them.
When he returned home at night and Ome was serving dinner, she would sometimes ask, “Was there anything about Mr. Itō in today’s paper?” but he would only reply with something like “Yeah, plenty,” so unless she later pulled out that morning’s discarded papers folded inside the hidden pocket of his kimono and read them herself, she wouldn’t know what the day’s articles had actually said.
After all, Ome only brought up Prince Itō as conversation material after her husband’s return home, so she had no desire to drag the discussion into directions Sōsuke was unwilling to go.
Thus between these two, from the day the extra edition was issued until tonight when Shōroku broached the subject, even this publicly earth-shaking matter had not been met with any particular interest.

“Why on earth was he killed?” Ome asked Shōroku the same question she had asked Sōsuke when they saw the extra edition.

“The pistol went off repeatedly and the bullets found their mark,” Shōroku answered honestly.

“But still...
“Why on earth was he killed?”

Shōroku wore a look of incomprehension.
Sōsuke said in a calm tone,
“It must be fate after all,” he said, drinking his tea from the bowl with apparent relish.
Ome apparently still couldn’t accept this,
“But why would he go to Manchuria of all places?” she asked.

“You’re right about that,” said Sōsuke, his stomach full and his manner thoroughly satisfied.

“Apparently, he had some secret business in Russia,” said Shōroku with a serious expression.

Ome,

“Yes... But it’s awful. Being killed like that...” she said.

“A lowly clerk like me doesn’t want to get killed,” said Sōsuke with uncharacteristic vigor, “but someone like Mr. Itō—better he went to Harbin and got himself killed there.”

“Oh, why?”

“Why? Because getting assassinated makes Mr. Itō a historical great. Try just dying normally—you won’t get remembered that way.”

“I see, that might be the case,” Shōroku seemed slightly impressed, but soon—
“Anyway, places like Manchuria and Harbin are such dangerous places—I can’t shake this feeling of being in peril,” he said.

“That’s because all sorts of people gather there.”

At this moment, Ome made a strange face and looked at her husband who had answered thus.
Sōsuke also seemed to notice this,

“Well, it’s about time to clear the meal tray,” he urged his wife, then picked up the Daruma doll from the tatami again and placed it on his fingertip.

“It’s really strange.
I keep thinking it’s amazing how it can balance so well like this,” Shōroku said.

After Kiyo emerged from the kitchen and cleared away the scattered dishes along with the dining table, Ome also stood up to go to the next room to make fresh tea, leaving the brothers facing each other.

“Ah, it’s clean now. It’s always such a mess after eating,” said Sōsuke with a look of complete detachment from the dining table.
In the kitchen, Kiyo kept laughing.

“What’s so funny, Kiyo?” came Ome’s voice through the shoji screen.
“Hee,” said Kiyo, bursting into laughter again.
The brothers said nothing, half-listening to the maid’s laughter.

After a while, Ome came out again holding both a dessert plate and tea tray. From the large wisteria-patterned teapot, she poured coarse tea that satisfied neither stomach nor mind into rice-bowl-sized cups and set them before the two men.

"What could possibly be so funny?" asked her husband.
Yet rather than look at Ome's face, he peered into the sweet dish instead.

"It's because you brought home that toy and keep balancing it on your fingertip like it's so fascinating."
"Even though we don't have any children."

Sōsuke casually said “Is that so?” as though it didn’t register, then leisurely—

"We did have a child once," he added as though savoring his own words, raising tepid eyes to look at his wife.
Ome fell abruptly silent.

“Aren’t you going to have any sweets?” she said after a while, turning toward Shōroku.

Ignoring Shōroku’s reply of “Yes, I’ll have some,” Sōsuke quickly stood and went to the tea room.

The brothers were facing each other again.

As might be expected of a place deep in Yamanote—a good twenty-minute walk from the tram terminus—the neighborhood remained surprisingly quiet despite nightfall’s early approach. At intervals, the crisp clack of thin-soled geta passing out front cut through the air while the night chill deepened steadily. Sōsuke sat with his hands tucked into his sleeves,

“It’s warm during the day, but turns bitterly cold at night. Have they started circulating steam heat in the dormitory yet?” he asked.

“No, not yet. The school won’t fire up the steam unless it gets properly cold.”

“I see. Then you must be freezing.”

“Yeah.”
“But I don’t mind a bit of cold,” Shōroku said, his words faltering slightly before he finally steeled himself and—

“Brother, what on earth will happen with Saibara?”
“When I asked Sister-in-law earlier, she said you’d sent the letter today.”

“Ah, I sent it.”
“They should send some response within two or three days.”
“After that, I’ll decide whether to go or not.”

Shōroku looked at his brother’s calm attitude with lingering dissatisfaction in his heart.
However, finding neither a sharp edge in Sōsuke’s demeanor that might provoke others nor any self-serving undercurrent that demanded self-protection, he found himself unable to summon the courage to lash out.
Only,

“So you’ve left that matter untouched until today?” he simply confirmed the fact.

“Yeah, I’m sorry—it’s still untouched.”
“I only just managed to write the letter today.”
“There’s just no helping it.”
“Lately, it’s been my neurasthenia, you see,” he said seriously.
Shōroku gave a wry smile.

“If this falls through, I’ll quit school and just go to Manchuria or Korea now—that’s what I’m thinking.”

“Manchuria or Korea?”
“That’s quite a drastic decision.”
“But didn’t you just say Manchuria was too dangerous and you wanted nothing to do with it?”

The discussion went back and forth in this manner but ultimately failed to reach any conclusion.
Finally, Sōsuke,

“Ah, it’s fine—don’t worry so much. It’ll work out somehow.”
“Anyway, as soon as the reply comes, I’ll let you know right away.”
“We’ll discuss it again then,” he said, drawing the conversation to a close.

When Shōroku peeked into the tea room on his way out, Ome was leaning against the long brazier, doing nothing at all.

When he called out, "Sister-in-law, goodbye," she finally stood up, saying, "Oh, you're heading back?"

IV

From Saibara—the source of Shōroku’s distress—came a reply within two or three days as expected, but it proved exceedingly brief: merely a handwritten note from his aunt that would have sufficed as a postcard, yet had been ceremoniously placed in an envelope bearing a three-sen stamp.

Returning from the government office and having changed out of his constricting narrow-sleeved work clothes, Sōsuke had no sooner sat down before the brazier than his eyes fell on the envelope left deliberately protruding about an inch from the drawer. With a single gulp of the coarse tea Ome had poured, he immediately slit it open.

“Huh, so Mr. Yasunosuke has gone to Kobe,” he said while reading the letter.

“When?” asked Ome, remaining in the posture she’d held when placing the teacup before her husband.

“It doesn’t specify when. After all, it states he will return to the capital before long—he should be back soon.”

“Before long,” she says—it’s just like Auntie, isn’t it?

Sōsuke showed neither agreement nor disagreement with Ome's criticism.
Having rolled up the read letter and tossed it aside as if discarding rubbish, he ran his hand over the stubbly beard of four or five days' growth with a look of distaste.

Ome immediately picked up the letter but made no move to read it.
Keeping it on her lap, she looked at her husband,

“What does she mean by ‘he will return to the capital before long’?” she asked.

“Once he returns, she says she’ll discuss it with Yasunosuke and send some sort of response.”

“‘Before long’ is so vague, isn’t it.”
“It doesn’t say when he’ll return either.”

“No.”

Ome opened the letter on her lap for the first time just to be sure.
And then she folded it back as it had been,

“Let me have that envelope,” she said extending her hand toward her husband.
Sōsuke took the blue envelope wedged between himself and the brazier and passed it to his wife.
Ome blew lightly into it, inflated the inside, and placed the letter inside.
Then she went to the kitchen.

Sōsuke paid no further attention to the matter of the letter after that. At the office today, a colleague had recalled encountering Lord Kitchener—who recently visited from England—near Shinbashi Station, and he thought that such people seemed destined to stir up the world wherever they went; perhaps they were truly born that way. When he compared the fate he had dragged from his past and the future that would unfold before him as its continuation to that of a man called Kitchener, they seemed so vastly different that one could hardly believe they were of the same species.

Thinking this, Sōsuke kept puffing on tobacco.

Outside, the wind began blowing from evening onward, with a sound as though it were deliberately sweeping in from afar. When it occasionally ceased, the intervals of calm were desolate—even lonelier than when it raged. Crossing his arms, Sōsuke thought it must be about time for the fire alarm bells to start ringing.

When he went out to the kitchen, his wife had stoked the fire in the small charcoal stove until it glowed red and was grilling slices of fish.
Kiyo was bent over the sink area, washing pickles.
Both remained silent, diligently attending to their respective tasks.
Sōsuke left the shoji screen open and listened for a while to the dripping sounds of juices or grease from the fish, then closed it without a word and returned to his original seat.
Ome did not even take her eyes off the fish.

After finishing their meal, when the couple sat facing each other across the brazier, Ome once again

“Saibara’s side is being difficult, isn’t it?” she began.

“Well, it can’t be helped. There’s nothing to do but wait until Mr. Yasunosuke returns from Kobe.”

“It might be better to meet with Auntie and discuss it beforehand.”

“That’s right. Well, they’ll probably say something eventually. Let’s just leave it be until then.”

“Shōroku-san is angry, you know.” Ome pressed with deliberate emphasis and smiled.
Sōsuke looked down and inserted the small toothpick he held into the collar of his kimono.

After letting a day pass, Sōsuke finally informed Shōroku of Saibara’s reply. At that time too, he appended to the end of the letter, as was his custom, a phrase suggesting that things would likely work out eventually. And for the time being, he felt as though a burden had been lifted from his shoulders regarding this matter. Until the natural course of events pressed in oppressively before his eyes once more, he went to the government office each day only to return again, maintaining a demeanor that implied it was better to forget and avoid trouble. Though he returned home late, he rarely found it bothersome to go out again after arriving. Guests hardly ever came. When there was no need for her services, they even had Kiyo retire before ten.

The husband and wife faced each other across the same brazier every night and talked for about an hour after dinner.
The topics of their conversations were suited to their living conditions.
But difficult household talk about how they would manage the rice merchant’s payment by the thirtieth had never once crossed their lips.
That being said, not only was there no criticism of novels or literature, but hardly any of those lively exchanges of words—darting like heat shimmer between men and women—were ever heard.
Though not yet of such an age, they already seemed like people who had passed through that phase and were growing more subdued with each passing day.
Or perhaps from the very beginning, they appeared as commonplace individuals of faintly tinted hues who had merely come together out of habit to form a marital bond.

When viewed from above, there was no sign that the husband and wife were particularly troubled by things.
That could be easily imagined by observing the attitude they had taken regarding Shōroku.

Being a woman, as one might expect, Ome once or twice remarked,

“I wonder if Mr. Yasunosuke still hasn’t returned yet. Why don’t you go to Banchō around this coming Sunday and see?”

He would only give a vague reply like, “Yeah, I could go,” but when that Sunday arrived, he would act as though he had completely forgotten about it. Ome saw this and showed no sign of reproaching him. When the weather was nice,

"Why don't you go for a short walk?" she said.
When rain fell or wind blew,
"Today being Sunday makes us fortunate," someone said.

Fortunately, Shōroku had not come even once since then. This young man possessed an obsessively neurotic temperament; while his tendency to pursue things relentlessly once resolved closely resembled Sōsuke during his student days, he would conversely flip completely upon a sudden change of mood—acting as though yesterday’s matters were entirely forgotten—and maintain a nonchalant face. In this too, being brothers, he was exactly like the Sōsuke of old. Moreover, his mind was relatively clear-headed—whether he poured emotions into logical pathways or imposed a framework of reason upon his feelings remained unclear—but in any case, he would not rest until he had imposed order on things, and once that order was established, he would become fervently intent on putting it to use. Moreover, as his constitution was relatively robust in energy, he tended to act on youthful impetuosity in most matters.

Every time Sōsuke saw his younger brother, he couldn't help feeling as though his former self had been revived and was moving about before his very eyes.
At times, there were moments when he felt anxious.
There were also times when he thought bitterly.
In such moments, he thought, might heaven have specifically placed Shōroku before his very eyes in order to evoke—as frequently as possible—within his heart the bitter memory of how single-mindedly he himself had behaved in those days?
And then he became extremely terrified.
When he considered that this fellow too might have been born to fall into the same fate as I, he now grew deeply concerned.
At times, it was more unpleasant than concerning.

However, up until today, Sōsuke had never made presumptuous remarks to Shōroku, nor had he ever given him advice about the future.
His manner of treating his younger brother was merely ordinary and commonplace.
Just as his current life had sunk to a depth unimaginable for someone with his past, in his treatment of his younger brother too, he found it difficult to assume the demeanor of an elder who had lived through what could be called a past.

Between Sōsuke and Shōroku had been two more boys, but since both had died young, though they were brothers, there was an age difference of about ten years. Moreover, due to certain circumstances, Sōsuke had transferred schools to Kyoto during his first year, so they had lived together morning and night only until Shōroku was around twelve or thirteen. Sōsuke still remembered Shōroku as the stubborn, unheeding, mischievous boy he had been. At that time, their father was still alive, and the household’s circumstances were not unfavorable, so they had a private coachman living in the estate’s tenement house and lived comfortably. This coachman had a child about three years younger than Shōroku who would constantly serve as his playmate and keep him company. One midday in summer, Sōsuke saw the two of them—having tied a sweets bag to the end of a long pole—competing to catch cicadas under a large persimmon tree. "Kenbō, you’ll get heatstroke with your head baked in the sun like that. Here, put this on," he said, producing Shōroku’s old summer hat for him. Thereupon, Shōroku—annoyed that his brother had freely given away his belongings to someone else—suddenly snatched the hat Kenbō had received, threw it to the ground, and leaping upon it as if charging forward, crushed the straw hat with a crunch. Sōsuke jumped down barefoot from the engawa and struck Shōroku’s head. From that time on, Shōroku appeared in Sōsuke’s eyes as an impish brat.

In his second year, Sōsuke had to leave the university.
He could no longer return to the Tokyo home either.
From Kyoto he immediately went to Hiroshima, and while living there for about half a year, his father died.
His mother had died about six years before his father.
Therefore, in the end, only a concubine aged twenty-five or twenty-six and Shōroku, aged sixteen, remained.

Having received a telegram from Saibara, Sōsuke—who had come to the capital after a long absence—completed the funeral proceedings and began investigating to settle the household affairs, only to be shocked at finding that the property he thought existed was surprisingly meager, while instead there turned out to be a considerable amount of debt he had assumed nonexistent.
When he consulted his uncle Saibara, it was said that there was no choice but to sell the mansion.
They decided to give the concubine a suitable sum of money and dismiss her immediately.
They decided to have Shōroku taken into their uncle’s house for the time being and looked after.
However, the crucial house and land could not be sold off immediately.
As there was no other choice, they asked their uncle to make temporary arrangements and had him settle the immediate matters.
Their uncle was an entrepreneur who dabbled in various ventures only to fail—a man of many gambles, so to speak.
Even when Sōsuke was in Tokyo, he would often persuade Sōsuke’s father with smooth talk and extract money.
Sōsuke’s father may have had his own greed, but the sum of money poured into his uncle’s ventures through this method was by no means small.

Even on this occasion of his father’s death, Uncle’s circumstances did not appear to have changed much from before; however, whether out of obligation from his father’s lifetime or because—as was typical of such a man—he seemed relatively flexible when push came to shove, Uncle willingly took charge of the arrangements.
In return, Sōsuke entrusted all matters concerning the sale of his house and land to Uncle.
To put it simply, it was as though he had provided his land and house as compensation for the emergency funds.
Uncle,

“After all, with things like these, you’ll lose out if you don’t find the right buyer before selling,” he said.

They sold off all furnishings that merely took up space and held little monetary value; however, agreeing with Uncle’s opinion that only by patiently seeking buyers for the five or six scrolls and twelve or thirteen antiques could they avoid losses, they entrusted him with their storage.

After deducting all expenses, approximately two thousand yen remained on hand, but Sōsuke realized he would need to use a portion of this for Shōroku’s tuition.

Yet given their precarious financial situation at the time, sending monthly payments from his own funds would likely prove unsustainable; though it pained him, he resolved to entrust half the amount to Uncle with a request to handle matters appropriately.

Having failed midway himself, he felt compelled to at least secure his brother’s future; leaving behind only a faint hope that once this thousand yen was exhausted, Uncle might somehow manage further concerns, he returned to Hiroshima.

About half a year later came a letter in Uncle’s own handwriting telling him to rest assured that the house had finally been sold, though it specified neither the price nor any details whatsoever. When Sōsuke promptly wrote back to inquire, the reply arrived some two weeks later stating there was no need for concern—the sum amply covered the advance payment he had made.
Sōsuke felt no small dissatisfaction at this response, yet since the same letter mentioned discussing particulars when they next met in person, he found himself wanting to go straight to Tokyo. When he tentatively broached the matter with his wife—mumbling something about “how things stood”—Ome assumed her usual smile tinged with pity.

“But since you can’t go, there’s nothing to be done,” she said with her usual smile.
At that moment, Sōsuke crossed his arms and pondered as one who had just received a declaration from his wife, but finding himself bound by circumstances and a position offering no escape through any contrivance, he ultimately resigned himself to things as they were.

Since there was no alternative, he exchanged written correspondence three or four more times, but the result remained unchanged—they merely reiterated, as if stamped from a printing block, that details would be discussed when they met.

“There’s no helping it this way,” said Sōsuke, looking at Ome with an irritated expression.
About three months later, when arrangements had finally been made and he was on the verge of taking Ome to Tokyo for the first time in ages, he caught a cold that forced him to bed; this developed into typhoid fever, leaving him confined for over sixty days, after which he remained so weakened for another thirty days that he could scarcely work.

Soon after making a full recovery from his illness, Sōsuke found himself compelled to leave Hiroshima once more and relocate to Fukuoka.
Before moving, while considering this a good opportunity to make a brief trip to Tokyo, he found himself constrained yet again by various circumstances and ultimately failed to carry this out too, entrusting his fate instead once more to the southbound train.
By that time, the money he had taken when closing the Tokyo house was nearly all spent.
His two-year life in Fukuoka proved a considerable struggle.
He would often recall how, during his student days in Kyoto, he had requested large sums of tuition money from his father under various pretexts and spent it freely as he pleased; comparing this with his current circumstances, he constantly feared the bonds of karma.
At times he would secretly look back on springs past and, with newly sober eyes, gaze at the distant haze, realizing those had been the pinnacle of his own splendor.
When matters finally became unbearable,

“Ome, I’ve left things unsettled for too long—perhaps I should try negotiating with Tokyo again,” Sōsuke proposed.
Ome did not oppose him.
She kept her gaze lowered,

“It’s no use.”
“Uncle has absolutely no credibility,” she answered faintly.

“They might distrust us there, but we distrust them equally here,” Sōsuke declared with forced bravado, yet seeing Ome’s downcast eyes, his resolve appeared to crumble abruptly.
At first they held such exchanges once or twice monthly, then once every two months, then once every three months—until finally—

“Alright—if only Shōroku would take care of it.
The rest I can sort out once I get to Tokyo and meet them.
Ome, then—let’s go ahead with it,” he said.

“That would be splendid,” answered Ome.

Sōsuke left Saibara’s matter unresolved.
Sōsuke thought that even considering his own past, he could not bring himself to make a mere financial entreaty to his uncle.
Therefore, negotiations regarding that matter had never been put into writing from the outset.

From Shōroku came occasional letters, most being extremely short and formal in nature.
Sōsuke only remembered Shōroku as he had appeared in Tokyo during their father’s funeral—a memory that kept him imagining his brother as little more than an innocent child; thus it never crossed his mind to have Shōroku negotiate with their uncle on his behalf.

The couple lived relying on each other like those unseen by society who, unable to endure the cold, clung together for warmth.
In hard times, Ome would always say to Sōsuke,
“But there’s nothing to be done,” she said.
Sōsuke said to Ome,

“Well, I’ll just have to endure it,” he said.

Between them, resignation and endurance were constantly in motion, but shadows of future or hope seemed scarcely to cast their light.
They did not speak much of the past.
At times, as if by prior agreement, they even seemed to avoid it.
Ome would at times,

“Before long, something good will surely happen.”
“It’s not like bad things will keep happening forever,” she would say to console him.
To Sōsuke, this felt like fate’s cruel mockery delivered through his sincere wife’s lips.
In such moments, he would answer nothing, merely forcing a bitter smile.
Even when Ome remained oblivious and kept speaking,

“Aren’t we people who’ve no right to expect such good things?” he would finally burst out in resignation.
His wife would at last notice and fall silent.
And so, sitting wordlessly face-to-face, they would find themselves plunged into the vast dark cellar of their own making—their past.

They brought this upon themselves and blotted out their future.
Therefore, resigned to being unable to discern any vibrant colors ahead on their path, they resolved simply to walk on hand in hand.
As for the land and house their uncle had sold off, they had held few expectations from the start.
At times, as if suddenly remembering,

"But given current market prices," Sōsuke began, "even if we sold it off cheaply now, it would still fetch double what Uncle had prepared for us back then."
"It's just too utterly ridiculous," he added, whereupon Ome smiled with a lonely expression,

“The land again? You’re still thinking about that matter all the time, aren’t you? But you told Uncle to handle everything properly, didn’t you?” she said.

“That can’t be helped. In that situation, there was no other way to handle it,” said Sōsuke.

“So,” she continued, “Uncle may well think he took the house and land in place of the money.”

When told this, even Sōsuke began to see some reason in Uncle’s handling of the matter, but verbally—
“But isn’t that intention problematic?” he retorted defensively, yet with each repetition, this issue gradually receded further into the background.

At the end of their second year of living together in this lonely yet harmonious manner, Sōsuke happened to meet a man named Sugihara, an old classmate with whom he had been very close during their student days.
Sugihara had passed the Higher Civil Service Examination after graduation and was already employed at a certain ministry by that time; however, due to official duties requiring him to travel to Fukuoka and Saga, he had come all the way from Tokyo.
Sōsuke had learned from the local newspaper exactly when Sugihara had arrived and where he was staying, but reflecting on his own status as a failure and feeling ashamed of the stark contrast of bowing before a successful man, coupled with his own particular reasons for wishing to avoid meeting an old friend from his student days, he had absolutely no intention of visiting Sugihara’s inn.

However, through some strange connection, Sugihara had discovered that Sōsuke was smoldering there and insisted on meeting him, so Sōsuke had no choice but to yield.
That Sōsuke had been able to move from Fukuoka to Tokyo was entirely owing to this Sugihara.
When a letter came from Sugihara and matters were finally settled, Sōsuke laid down his chopsticks and—

“Ome, we can finally go to Tokyo,” he said.

“Well, that’s fine,” said Ome, looking at her husband.

After arriving in Tokyo, two or three weeks passed in a whirl.
Driven by the natural haste of those newly establishing a household and embarking on fresh work, and by the ceaselessly intense stimuli of the metropolis that enveloped them—its air trembling day and night—they found neither leisure to contemplate anything steadily nor composure to act with deliberation.

When they arrived at Shinbashi by the night train, Sōsuke saw his uncle and aunt’s faces for the first time in a long while, but whether due to the lamplight or not, neither of the couple appeared cheerful to his eyes.
There had been an accident en route, causing their arrival time to be delayed by a rare thirty minutes; yet his uncle and aunt wore expressions as though this delay were somehow Sōsuke’s fault, their faces drawn from long waiting.

The words that Sōsuke heard from his aunt at this time were,

“Oh my, Sōsuke—you’ve aged terribly since I last saw you.”
Ome was introduced to the uncle and aunt for the first time on that occasion.

“This is the…” The aunt hesitated, looking at Sōsuke.
Ome could find no words for a greeting, and so simply bowed her head in silence.

Shōroku had naturally come with his uncle and aunt to greet them both. When Sōsuke caught sight of his figure, he was astonished at his younger brother’s growth—how he had surpassed him in stature before he knew it. At that time, Shōroku had just graduated from middle school and stood on the brink of entering high school. Upon seeing Sōsuke, he neither said “Brother” nor “Welcome back,” but simply offered an awkward greeting.

Sōsuke and Ome stayed at an inn for about a week before moving to their current residence. At that time, his uncle and aunt had gone out of their way to assist them in various matters. There was no need to buy such trivial kitchenware, they said—if old items would suffice—and thus they gathered and sent all essentials required for a small household. Moreover,

“Since you’ve started a new household, you must require many things,” they said, giving him sixty yen.

More than half a month had already passed in the flurry of establishing their household, yet he still had not brought up to his uncle the matter of the house and land that had so preoccupied him back in the provinces.
One time, Ome,

“You should speak to Uncle about that matter,” she said.
Sōsuke, as if he had suddenly remembered,

“Yeah, I still haven’t told him,” he replied.

“How strange, after being so concerned about it,” said Ome with a faint smile.

“But I haven’t had a moment to calmly bring up such a thing,” protested Sōsuke.

Another ten days or so passed.

Then this time, from Sōsuke’s side—

“Ome, I still haven’t told him about that matter. It’s such a bother to bring up that I just couldn’t stand it anymore,” he said.

“You don’t have to force yourself to say what’s unpleasant,” replied Ome.

“Is that okay?” Sōsuke asked back.

“‘Is that okay?’—it was never about you in the first place. I’ve been fine with whatever from the start,” answered Ome.

At that moment, Sōsuke,

“Well, it feels awkward to bring it up so formally—I’ll ask when there’s a chance later.”
“Ah, I’m sure an opportunity to inquire will come up eventually,” he said, postponing the matter.

Shōroku lived at his uncle’s house without any particular wants.
Since he would need to enter the dormitory if he passed the exam for high school, it appeared even those arrangements had already been settled through discussions with his uncle.
Perhaps because he received no special provision for school expenses from his older brother, who had newly come to the capital, Shōroku did not bring personal consultations about his circumstances to him as he did with his uncle.
With his cousin Yasunosuke, owing to their long-standing connection, they maintained an exceptionally close relationship.
If anything, theirs resembled more of a fraternal bond.

Sōsuke naturally began visiting his uncle’s house less frequently. Even when he did go occasionally, they often ended up being mere duty-bound visits, so he always felt a hollow emptiness on his way home. In the end, after exchanging seasonal greetings, there were times when he wanted to leave immediately. At such moments, even sitting for thirty minutes and making small talk to pass the time proved laborious. On their side too, there seemed to linger an air of constraint and discomfort.

“Oh, it’s fine, isn’t it?” his aunt would typically say to detain him, but this only made him feel all the more reluctant to visit. Even so, if he didn’t go occasionally, he would feel a nagging sense of guilt in his heart; thus, he began visiting again. At times,

“I must apologize for Shōroku being a burden on you,” he would say with a bow on his part. However, beyond that—whether regarding his younger brother’s future school expenses or the land and house he had asked his uncle to sell off during his absence—he found it too troublesome to bring up the topics. Yet it was evident that Sōsuke’s occasional visits to his uncle’s house, made half-heartedly despite his lack of interest, stemmed not merely from a dutiful desire to maintain their uncle-nephew blood ties at a socially acceptable level, but rather because he held in his heart something he wished to settle should an opportunity arise.

“Mr. Sōsuke has really changed completely, hasn’t he?” remarked his aunt to his uncle.
Then his uncle,

“Yeah, I suppose so. When such things happen, they do echo long afterward,” he answered, adopting a tone that spoke of cause and effect’s fearsome nature.
The aunt reiterated,

“It really is frightening, isn’t it? He wasn’t such a sluggish child originally—he used to be so lively it was almost too much. Within just two or three years of not seeing him, he’s aged so much he looks like a completely different person. Now he’s become positively ancient compared to you,” she said.

“The exact opposite!” the uncle replied again.

“No, setting aside his head and face—it’s his demeanor,” the aunt explained again.

Such conversations had been exchanged between the old couple not just once or twice since Sōsuke had left the capital.
In reality, whenever he came to his uncle’s house, he appeared precisely as the old man perceived him.

As for Ome, for some reason, from the time she was introduced to the elderly couple upon arriving in Shimbashi, she never once set foot in her uncle’s house. From their perspective, they would courteously receive her as Uncle and Aunt, but upon her departure,

“Why don’t you come visit us sometime?” they would say, but she would only

She would only bow and say “Thank you,” never once making the attempt to go.
Even Sōsuke had once

“How about going to Uncle’s place once?” he had suggested.

"But..." she made a strange face, so Sōsuke never brought it up again.

Both families spent about a year in this state.
Then the uncle who had been acknowledged as more youthful in spirit than Sōsuke suddenly died.
The illness was an acute condition called spinal meningitis; he had been lying in bed for a couple of days with cold-like symptoms when, upon returning from the toilet and attempting to wash his hands, he collapsed while still holding the ladle and turned cold within a day or so.

“Ome, Uncle died without ever bringing it up,” said Sōsuke.

“Were you still planning to ask about that matter? You’re quite tenacious, aren’t you,” said Ome.

Then, after about another year had passed, Saibara’s son Yasunosuke graduated from university, and Shōroku became a second-year high school student.
The aunt moved to Nakarokubanchō together with Yasunosuke.

During the third summer vacation, Shōroku went to Bōsō for a seaside holiday.
After staying there for over a month, as September approached, he cut across from Hodata, followed the Kujūkuri coastline of Kazusa to Chōshi, and then, as if suddenly remembering, returned to Tokyo.

It was on a sweltering late-summer afternoon, just two or three days after his return, that he appeared at Sōsuke’s place.
His face burned pitch black from the sun, with only his eyes gleaming through what now seemed an unrecognizably wild countenance, he had entered the comparatively dim tatami room and lain down to await his brother’s return; but no sooner did he see Sōsuke’s face than he abruptly sat up.

“Elder brother, I came because there’s something I need to discuss,” Shōroku declared bluntly. Slightly startled, Sōsuke listened to his brother’s account without even changing out of his stifling Western clothes.

According to Shōroku’s account, two or three days earlier, on the evening he had returned from Kazusa, his aunt regretfully notified him that his educational expenses would cease after the end of this year.
Ever since his father’s death and subsequent adoption by his uncle, Shōroku had been able to attend school, have clothes made as needed, and receive regular pocket money; thus, through sheer inertia of living without want—just as during his father’s lifetime—he had never once considered the matter of educational expenses even up until that very day. Consequently, when confronted with his aunt’s declaration, he was left so dazed he couldn’t even manage a proper response.

The aunt, looking genuinely apologetic, had reportedly spent a full hour explaining in detail—as only a woman might—why she could no longer support Shōroku.
It was said that this included such matters as the uncle’s death, the subsequent economic shifts, Yasunosuke’s graduation, and the impending marriage issue following his graduation.

“If possible, I thought to at least see you through high school graduation—I’ve made every effort up until today, but...”

Shōroku repeated that the aunt had said this. At that moment, he suddenly recalled how his elder brother, years earlier when leaving Tokyo after arranging everything for their father’s funeral and returning to Hiroshima, had told him, “Your educational funds have been entrusted to Uncle.” When he first inquired about this with his aunt, she looked taken aback,

“That—well, Mr. Sōsuke did leave a certain sum behind at that time, but it’s all gone now.”
“Because ever since your uncle was still alive and well, we’d been covering your educational expenses,” she replied.

Because Shōroku had not asked his brother how much his school funds amounted to or for how many years they had been entrusted to their uncle, when told this by his aunt, he could find no way to respond.

“You’re not alone in this—your elder brother is also involved, so perhaps you should discuss it properly with him.”
“In return, I will meet with Mr. Sōsuke and explain the situation thoroughly.”
“Well, Mr. Sōsuke hasn’t been coming around much lately, and I’ve been rather remiss in visiting myself, so I simply haven’t had the opportunity to discuss your situation,” the aunt reportedly added as a final remark.

When Sōsuke heard the entire story from Shōroku, he simply gazed at his younger brother’s face and uttered,

“This is a problem,” he said.
He showed no sign of flaring up as he once might have and rushing over to his aunt’s to confront her, nor did he seem to think ill of his brother’s sudden shift in attitude—a brother who until now had been kept at a distance, treated as someone who could manage without assistance.

After seeing off Shōroku—who stood agitated over his self-constructed beautiful future now half-collapsed, as though it were another’s fault—Sōsuke remained standing on the threshold of the dim entranceway, gazing awhile at the evening sun piercing through the latticework.

That evening, Sōsuke cut two large banana leaves from the rear garden, laid them out along the veranda edge of the tatami room, and sitting side by side with Ome to cool themselves, spoke of Shōroku’s situation.

“Auntie isn’t implying we should take care of Shōroku-san here, is she?” asked Ome.

“Well, until we meet and hear what she has to say, we won’t know what her intentions are,” said Sōsuke.

“I’m sure that’s the case,” she answered, fluttering her fan in the dimness.
Sōsuke said nothing, stretched his neck, and gazed at the narrow reflection of the sky’s color between the eaves and the cliff.
The two remained silent for a time, and after a while,

“But that’s impossible,” Ome said again.

“Graduating even a single person through university—with my skills, it’s utterly impossible,” Sōsuke clarified, addressing only his own capabilities.

The conversation shifted to another topic at that point and never returned to Shōroku or his aunt again.
A few days later, as Saturday arrived, Sōsuke stopped by his aunt’s house in Banchō on his way home from work.
The aunt,

“My, my, what a rare occurrence,” she said, welcoming Sōsuke more warmly than usual.
At that moment, Sōsuke suppressed his distaste and for the first time posed to his aunt the question he had been holding onto for the past four or five years.
The aunt, of course, could not avoid offering as thorough an explanation as possible.

According to the aunt’s account, when Sōsuke’s residence was sold off, while she could not recall the exact sum that had entered her husband’s possession, after repaying urgent debts incurred on Sōsuke’s behalf, there apparently remained a surplus of around four thousand five hundred yen or four thousand three hundred yen.
However, according to Uncle’s view, since that residence had been provided to him by Sōsuke, no matter how much remained, he saw no issue in regarding the surplus as his own income.
Yet since being told that he profited from selling Sōsuke’s residence would be disagreeable, he had this kept under Shōroku’s name and made into Shōroku’s property.
Sōsuke was nearly disinherited for having done such a thing, so he had no right to a single penny.

“Mr. Sōsuke, you mustn’t get angry.
I’m just telling you exactly what Uncle said,” the aunt insisted.
Sōsuke remained silent and continued listening.

The property meant to be held in Shōroku’s name had unfortunately been transformed through Uncle’s management into a house on Kanda’s bustling main street.
Then, before they could even secure insurance, it burned down in a fire.
Since they hadn’t informed Shōroku from the start, they left matters as they were and deliberately kept him unaware.

“Given how things stand, I truly feel sorry for you too, Mr. Sōsuke, but since it’s an irreversible matter, there’s nothing to be done. Please resign yourself to it as fate. Of course, if only Uncle were still alive, things could be managed. For just Shōroku alone, that shouldn’t pose any difficulty. Even if Uncle weren’t here now—if our circumstances were favorable at present—we could either return to Shōroku something equivalent to the burned house or, failing that, at least manage to support him until his graduation.” With this, the aunt proceeded to share other confidential matters. That concerned Yasunosuke’s occupation.

Yasunosuke was the uncle’s only son, a young man who had just graduated from university that summer. Having been raised in a warm household and being a man whose social interactions extended little beyond his classmates, he could indeed be described as rather naive about worldly matters—yet this very naivety carried a certain magnanimous quality as he stepped into real society. His specialty being mechanical engineering, even in these times when entrepreneurial fervor had waned, it went without saying that he could find one or two suitable positions among the many companies across Japan; yet it seemed a streak of his father’s adventurous spirit lay dormant within him, and just as he grew restless to establish his own work, he encountered a senior from the same department who had built a modest, privately owned factory near Tsukishima and was managing it independently. This meeting became the catalyst for discussions with the senior, leading Yasunosuke to decide to invest some of his own capital and collaborate on the venture. The aunt’s confidential talk concerned that point.

“Well, we decided to put all the few shares we had into that venture, so now we’re practically penniless.”
“To the outside world, our household is small and we own a house, so it’s only natural we appear comfortably off.”
“Just the other day, Hara’s mother came by and remarked, ‘My, there’s no one as carefree as you—whenever I visit, you’re just diligently tending to the omoto niwaki leaves,’ you know.”
“It’s not as if I’m carefree at all, though,” said the aunt.

When Sōsuke heard his aunt’s explanation, he felt dazed and found it difficult to form a response.
In his heart, he recognized this as proof that neurasthenia had robbed him of the mind once capable of swiftly producing agile and clear judgments.
As if sensing her account wasn’t being accepted as truthful by Sōsuke, the aunt went so far as to disclose the exact sum Yasunosuke had contributed in capital.
That amounted to about five thousand yen.
Yasunosuke would have to subsist for the time being on his meager monthly salary and whatever dividends this five thousand yen might yield.

“As for those dividends, we still don’t know how they’ll turn out.”
“Even if things go well, it’ll likely be ten or fifteen percent at most. And if there’s even one misstep, it could all go up in smoke,” added the aunt.

Although Sōsuke could discern no blatantly underhanded aspects in his aunt’s conduct, he found himself considerably troubled internally; yet he felt it utterly absurd to return home without having broached even a single word concerning Shōroku’s future.
So, setting aside all previous issues there, when he inquired about the disposition of the 1,000 yen he had entrusted to his uncle at the time as Shōroku’s educational fund, his aunt—

“Mr. Sōsuke, that was truly used up by Shōroku.”
“Even since Shōroku entered high school, it’s already cost something like seven hundred yen,” she answered.

Sōsuke took the opportunity to also check on the outcome of the calligraphy, paintings, and antiques he had entrusted to his uncle for safekeeping.
Thereupon, the aunt—

“We had some foolish trouble with the remaining items—” began the aunt, but observing Sōsuke’s demeanor,
“Mr. Sōsuke—what’s this? Have you still not spoken about that matter?” she asked.
When Sōsuke answered no,

“Oh dear, then Uncle must have forgotten all about it,” she said, proceeding to explain the whole affair.

Shortly after Sōsuke returned to Hiroshima, Uncle entrusted the sale to an acquaintance named Sanada.
This man, said to be knowledgeable about art and antiques, usually brokered sales of such items and made rounds to various places; he promptly accepted Uncle’s request and, under pretexts like “So-and-so wants to see this” or “Mr. Such-and-such desires such an item,” took the goods away and never brought them back.
When they pressed him, he would only make excuses—claiming the items had yet to be returned from the other party—and there had never been any resolution; finally, it seemed he could no longer sustain it and disappeared somewhere.

“But you know, there’s still one folding screen left. When we were moving the other day, we noticed it—‘Since this belongs to Mr. Sōsuke, we should have it delivered when there’s a chance,’ Yasunosuke said.”

The aunt spoke in a manner that placed no importance whatsoever on the items Sōsuke had entrusted to them.
Given that Sōsuke himself had neglected them until now and could muster little interest in such matters, he felt no particular anger even when observing his aunt’s demeanor—utterly devoid of any troubled conscience.
Even so, his aunt—

“Mr. Sōsuke, since you aren’t using it at home anyway, why not take it along?
Haven’t you heard such things have become quite valuable lately?” she said, and he found himself genuinely inclined to bring it home.

When it was brought out from the storehouse and examined in bright light, it proved indeed to be a familiar two-panel folding screen. At its base were bush clover, bellflowers, silver grass, kudzu, and patrinia depicted in dense profusion, above which a perfectly circular moon shone in silver leaf. In the adjacent empty space appeared patrinia along a field path beneath an empty moon, bearing the title "Kazunari." Kneeling before it, Sōsuke studied every detail—from the blackened edges where the silver had oxidized to the parched hues of kudzu leaves turned inside-out by invisible winds—until his gaze settled on the large vermilion circle, as large as a daifuku rice cake, enclosing Hōitsu’s cursive seal. He could not help but recall the days when his father had been alive.

His father would unfailingly take this folding screen out from the dimly lit storehouse at New Year’s, set it up as a partition in the entranceway, place a square rosewood cardholder before it, and receive New Year’s greetings.
At such times, because it was an auspicious occasion, he would always hang a pair of tiger paintings in the tokonoma alcove of the parlor.
Sōsuke still remembered how his father had once told him that this was not by Kishikoma but by Kishidai.
This tiger painting had ink on it.
His father was deeply troubled by the slight staining on the nose bridge of the tiger depicted drinking valley water with its tongue out, and whenever he looked at Sōsuke, he would say, "Do you remember daubing ink here? This was your mischief from childhood," making a peculiar expression that blended amusement with reproach.

Sōsuke knelt before the folding screen and, while thinking of his time in Tokyo long ago,

“Aunt, then I’ll take this folding screen,” he said.

“Oh, by all means take it. If you prefer, I’ll have a servant bring it for you,” the aunt added.

Sōsuke made appropriate arrangements with his aunt and, concluding matters for the day, returned home.

After dinner, Sōsuke went out to the engawa again with Ome, lined up their white yukata in the dark, and while cooling off, talked about the painting.

“Did you not meet Mr. Yasunosuke?” Ome asked.

“Ah, Mr. Yasunosuke is said to be at the factory until evening, even on Saturdays or whatever.”

“That must be quite a hassle for him.”

Ome said no more on the matter and offered no criticism of how his uncle and aunt had handled things.

“What are we to do about Shōroku?” Sōsuke asked.

“Well...” was all she said.

“If we argue logically, we’ve got our side too—but once we start, it’ll just mean lawsuits. And without any proof, there’s no way we’d win.”

“We don’t need to win any lawsuit,” Ome said immediately, at which Sōsuke gave a bitter smile and dropped the matter.

“In other words, it’s all because I couldn’t come to Tokyo back then.”

“And by the time you did come to Tokyo, none of that mattered anymore,” she replied.

While exchanging these words, the couple peered at the slender strip of sky visible beneath the eaves, discussed tomorrow’s weather, and withdrew into the mosquito net.

The following Sunday, Sōsuke called Shōroku and relayed every detail of what their aunt had said exactly as she had stated it,

“Whether Aunt didn’t give you a detailed explanation because she knew your impulsive nature, or because she still thinks you’re a child and deliberately kept it brief—I can’t say for sure—but in any case, the facts are exactly as I’ve just told you.”

No matter how detailed the explanation, it did nothing to satisfy Shōroku.
But,

“I see,” he said with a sullen, dissatisfied expression and looked at Sōsuke.

“There’s nothing to be done about it. Even Aunt and Yasunosuke don’t have such ill intentions.”

“I know that,” the younger brother said in a harsh tone.

“So you’re saying it’s my fault.”
“I am of course at fault.”
“I’ve been nothing but a flawed man from the very beginning until now, you know.”

Sōsuke lay down and puffed on his tobacco, saying nothing more beyond this.
Shōroku also remained silent, gazing at the two-panel Hōitsu folding screen that stood in the corner of the tatami room.
"Do you remember that folding screen?" asked his brother.

“Yes,” answered Shōroku.

“It came from Saibara the day before yesterday,” said Sōsuke. “Of all the things our father owned, this is the only one left in my hands now. If this could pay your tuition, I’d give it to you right away—but one shabby folding screen won’t see you through university.”

With a bitter smile, he added, “Keeping this thing standing here in all this heat is madness, but there’s nowhere else to put it—it can’t be helped.”

Shōroku always found this carefree yet sluggish elder brother—so utterly different from himself—unsatisfying, yet when it came down to it, he could never bring himself to quarrel. At this moment too, he felt as though the sharp edge of his irritation had been abruptly blunted,

"I don't care about the folding screen, but what am I supposed to do from here on out?" he asked.

"That's a problem."
"Since it's best if things get settled properly, well, I'll think it over carefully."
"I'll think it over too," said Sōsuke.

The younger brother, true to his nature, earnestly began to voice his grievances—how he detested being left in such an unsettled state, how he couldn’t possibly endure circumstances where even attending school left him unable to focus on his studies or make proper preparations—but Sōsuke’s attitude remained unchanged.
When Shōroku voiced too many high-strung complaints,

“If you can list that many complaints over such a trivial matter, you’ll manage just fine anywhere.
Even if you quit school, it wouldn’t matter at all.
You’re far more capable than I am,” said his brother, and with that, the conversation came to a halt. Shōroku finally returned to Hongo.

Sōsuke then bathed, finished his evening meal, and went out with Ome to the nearby night market.
Then they bought two suitable potted plants and, as a couple, each carried one back home.
Thinking it would be better to expose them to the night dew, they opened the shutters beneath the cliff and placed both plants side by side at the front of the garden.

When they entered the mosquito net, Ome,
“What about Shōroku’s situation?” she asked her husband.

“It’s still not settled,” answered Sōsuke, but about ten minutes later, both husband and wife were soundly asleep.

The next day, when he awoke and his office life began, Sōsuke no longer had time to think about Shōroku.
Even when he returned home and was idling about, he hesitated to clearly visualize this problem before his eyes and examine it.
His brain, encased within its nest of hair, could not withstand the strain.
When he recalled how he had once loved mathematics, how he’d had the patience to transform even the most intricate geometry problems into clear diagrams within his mind, this drastic change that had come over him in what seemed a relatively short time struck even him as terrifying.

Even so, about once a day, Shōroku’s figure would vaguely float up from the depths of his mind, and only at such times did he feel compelled to somehow consider that guy’s future.
But immediately afterward, he would dismiss himself, as if there was no need to rush after all—this had become his usual pattern.
And so, with a heart that felt as though a tendon in his chest had caught on a hook, he spent his days.

As September drew to an end, on an evening when the Milky Way appeared vividly each night, Yasunosuke arrived as if he had dropped from the sky. For both Sōsuke and Ome, this was a guest so rare as to be unexpected; though the two surmised that he must have come on some business, it turned out indeed to concern Shōroku.

Some time ago, Shōroku had suddenly appeared at Yasunosuke’s factory in Tsukishima and explained that while he’d heard the full details about his tuition from his elder brother, having pursued his studies this far only to end up unable to enter university struck him as deeply regrettable—so he wanted to take out loans or do whatever necessary to continue, and was asking if any solution might exist. When Yasunosuke replied that he would try discussing it with Mr. Sōsuke, Shōroku immediately cut him off, declaring his brother utterly unreliable as a confidant. Since Sōsuke himself hadn’t graduated from university, he seemed to consider it only natural for others to abandon their studies midway. Tracing the matter back to its roots, Shōroku insisted his brother bore responsibility, yet remained completely unperturbed, ignoring whatever others might say. “So I have no choice but to rely solely on you,” he pleaded. Though acknowledging the oddness of approaching Yasunosuke again after being formally refused by their aunt, he’d come believing Yasunosuke would grasp the situation better than she—yet apparently he hadn’t managed to gain traction.

Yasunosuke said there was no need for that—he had reassured Shōroku by explaining that Mr. Sōsuke was also quite concerned about him and was supposed to come discuss matters at their house again soon—then sent him on his way.
As he was leaving, Shōroku took several sheets of Japanese paper from his sleeve and requested that a seal be stamped on them for the absence notices, explaining that until it was settled whether he would withdraw or remain enrolled, he couldn’t focus on his studies and thus had no need to attend school every day.

Yasunosuke, citing busyness, spoke for less than an hour before departing, but regarding Shōroku’s situation, no concrete plan emerged between them.
The words exchanged upon parting were that they would all gather at their leisure to decide matters eventually, and that it would be good for Shōroku to attend if convenient.
When they were alone, Ome turned to Sōsuke,

“What are you thinking about?” she asked.
Sōsuke tucked both hands into his sash and held his shoulders slightly raised.

“I’d like to become like Shōroku one more time myself,” he said.
“Here I am, worried he might end up trapped in my fate, yet he doesn’t give a damn about his brother—impressive, really.”

Ome gathered the tea set and went out to the kitchen.
The couple ended their conversation there and, spreading out the bedding, went to sleep.
Above the dream, a lofty galaxy hung coolly.

In the following week, with neither Shōroku visiting nor any word from Saibara, Sōsuke’s household returned to its usual weekday uneventfulness.
The couple woke each morning when the dew glistened and saw the beautiful sun upon the eaves.
At night, they sat on either side of the Western-style lamp with its smoke-blackened bamboo base, casting long shadows.
When the conversation lapsed, it would grow hushed, and there were not infrequent moments when only the sound of the pendulum clock could be heard.

Even so, during this time, the couple discussed Shōroku’s situation.
If Shōroku truly intended to continue his studies, that would be one matter—but even if not, it was evident he would have to vacate his current lodgings temporarily. In that case, he would have no choice but to either return to Saibara or be placed at Sōsuke’s residence.
While Saibara had made such a declaration, if they were to request it, keeping him at their house for the time being was not something they would refuse out of goodwill.
However, if they were to have him continue his studies on top of that, Sōsuke would be socially obligated to cover the tuition, allowances, and other expenses.
However, that was beyond what Sōsuke’s household finances could bear.
The couple, having meticulously worked out their monthly income and expenses,

“It’s just impossible.”

“No matter what we do, it’s impossible,” she said.

The family living/dining room where the couple sat was adjacent to the kitchen; to the right of the kitchen lay the maid’s room, and to the left was a six-tatami space. With only three people in the household including the maid, Ome—finding little use for this six-tatami room—had always positioned her mirror stand by the east-facing window. Each morning after rising, washing his face, and finishing breakfast, Sōsuke would come here to change his clothes.

“Instead of that, we should clear out that six-tatami room and have him move there,” proposed Ome. In her view, if they took responsibility for providing a room and meals themselves while receiving some monthly assistance from Saibara for other expenses, Shōroku might manage to complete his university education as he wished.

“For clothing, if we alter Mr. Yasunosuke’s old garments and yours to give him, perhaps that would suffice,” added Ome. In truth, a similar notion had vaguely occurred to Sōsuke as well. Partly out of deference to his wife and partly from lack of enthusiasm, he had kept silent about it; but when confronted with this proposal from her side, he naturally found himself without the resolve to refuse.

When Sōsuke notified Shōroku of this plan via letter—inquiring whether he would go negotiate with Saibara once more if Shōroku had no objections—Shōroku arrived that very evening the post came, clattering his umbrella through the rain as if his tuition had already been secured.

“Well, Auntie’s side has left your matter unattended all this time without doing anything about it—that’s why she spoke that way.”
“Even your brother would have settled things long ago if circumstances were better, but as you know how things stand, it was truly unavoidable.”
“Still, if we present it this way, even Auntie and Mr. Yasunosuke won’t refuse.”
“It will surely work out—please rest assured.”
“I’ll handle it.”

Having received this assurance from Ome, Shōroku returned once more to Hongō beneath the sound of rain.
Yet after a day had passed, he came asking whether Brother still hadn’t gone.
When another three days slipped by, he went this time to Aunt’s house to inquire—only to learn Brother still hadn’t come—and pressed them to urge him with all haste.

As Sōsuke spent his days repeating “I’ll go soon,” the world slowly deepened into autumn.
On one clear Sunday afternoon—having delayed too long in visiting Saibara—he wrote a letter detailing the matter and sent it for consultation to Banchō.
Then came Aunt’s reply: Yasunosuke had gone to Kobe and was away.

V

Saibara’s aunt came to visit a little past two o’clock on Saturday afternoon.
That day was unusually cloudy from morning, and with the wind having suddenly shifted northward, it felt bitterly cold.
Aunt held her hand over the round bamboo-woven brazier and,

“Well, Ome.
This room seems pleasantly cool in summer, but from now on it will be rather chilly, I daresay,” she said.
Aunt had tied her unruly hair into a neat chignon and fastened the cords of her old-fashioned haori jacket at the chest.
By nature fond of sake—and perhaps because she still indulged in a little evening drink each day—her complexion remained good, and as she was quite plump, she looked considerably younger than her years.
Whenever Aunt came to visit, Ome would later remark to Sōsuke, “Aunt looks young, doesn’t she?”
Sōsuke would invariably explain that of course she did—she’d borne only one child by that age.
Ome privately thought this might be true.
After such exchanges, she would sometimes slip into the six-tatami room to study her face in the mirror.
Each time, her cheeks seemed to grow thinner before her eyes.
For Ome, nothing pained her more than thoughts linking herself to motherhood.
Behind their house at the landlord’s residence, numerous small children would play noisily in the cliffside garden—swinging and chasing one another—and whenever their voices reached her, she felt both ephemeral longing and resentment.
The aunt now sitting before her had borne but one son who’d grown into a fine graduate; even widowed today, she sat with cheeks so plump they formed folds beneath her chin, her face radiating contentment.
Yasunosuke often fretted that his mother’s stoutness courted apoplexy, yet to Ome’s mind, both worrier and worried seemed bound in mutual happiness.

“What about Mr. Yasunosuke?” asked Ome.

“Yes, he’s finally managed it, you know.
He came back the evening before last.
That’s why my reply got delayed—it’s truly inexcusable,” she said, leaving the matter of the response there as the conversation returned to Yasunosuke.

“Well, thanks to everyone’s kindness, he’s at least graduated from school—but now comes the crucial part, and I must say it’s quite worrying. Still, starting this September he’ll be working at a factory in Tsukishima, so if he just keeps studying hard as things stand now, I suppose his future won’t turn out too badly... But young people being what they are, who knows how he might change from here on.”

Ome occasionally interjected phrases like "That’s splendid" and "How fortunate."

"He went to Kobe precisely for that business," she said. "They’re installing what they call oil engines or some such thing on bonito boats, you know."

Ome had no idea what it meant at all.
Without understanding a word, she simply responded with an “Uh-huh,” whereupon her aunt promptly continued her story.

“I didn’t understand a thing about it either at first,” she said with a hearty laugh, “but after hearing Yasunosuke’s explanation, it was like, ‘Oh, I see!’—though I still don’t get a lick about oil engines, mind you.”
“Apparently, it’s a device that burns oil to freely maneuver boats, and from what I’ve heard, it sounds like an incredibly handy thing.”
“If that’s installed, they say it completely eliminates the need to row.”
“They say it makes going even twenty or forty kilometers out to sea much easier.”
“But you know, when it comes to the number of bonito fishing boats across all of Japan, it must be truly enormous.”
“Once each of those bonito boats gets equipped with this device, they say it’ll bring in enormous profits—apparently he’s been completely absorbed in that lately.”
“The enormous profits are welcome, but I even joked the other day that it’d be a shame if he got so absorbed in it and ruined his health.”

Saibara’s aunt kept talking about bonito boats and Yasunosuke.
She looked quite pleased with herself, but never quite broached the matter of Shōroku.
Sōsuke, who should have returned home long before, for some reason still hadn’t come back.

That day, on his way home from the government office, he came as far as Surugadai, disembarked from the streetcar, pursed his lips like someone holding something sour, walked a block or two, and slipped through the gate of a dentist’s office.
Three or four days earlier, while sitting across from Ome at dinner—talking as he picked up his chopsticks—he had somehow clenched his front teeth at an awkward angle, making them suddenly ache.
When he wiggled them with a finger, their roots felt loose.
Hot water and tea stung during meals.
Even air stung when he opened his mouth to breathe.
That morning, while brushing his teeth and carefully avoiding the sore spot with a toothpick, Sōsuke peered into a mirror at his mouth. The two silver-filled molars from Hiroshima and his uneven front teeth—worn down as if filed—suddenly gleamed coldly.
As he changed into Western clothes,

“Ome, it seems my teeth are fundamentally defective,” he said, demonstrating by wiggling his lower teeth with a finger.
Ome laughed.
“It’s just your age,” she replied while adjusting the white collar onto his shirt.
That afternoon, Sōsuke finally steeled himself and stopped by the dentist’s office.

When he was shown into the waiting room, large Western-style chairs upholstered in velvet surrounded a central desk, where three or four people sat hunched with their chins buried in their collars. They were all women. The handsome brown gas stove had not yet been lit. Sōsuke glanced obliquely at the white wall reflected in the large full-length mirror as he waited his turn, but growing too bored, he fixed his eyes on the magazines stacked atop the Western-style desk. He picked up a couple of them and looked through their pages—they were all women’s magazines. Sōsuke repeatedly gazed at several of the women’s photographs featured in the frontispieces. Then he picked up a magazine titled *Success*. At the beginning, among what appeared to be a list of “Secrets to Success,” he read one article stating that one must charge ahead at all costs, and another declaring that mere charging was insufficient—one must charge ahead while standing upon a solid foundation—then closed the magazine. Sōsuke was a man who had always been far removed from *Success*. He had not even known until today that a magazine with such a name existed. Then, growing curious once more, he reopened the magazine he had just closed and found two lines of block characters without any kana mixed in. Within it were written: “The wind sweeps through the azure heavens, scattering all drifting clouds; / The moon ascends the Eastern Hills, a sphere of jade.” Sōsuke had never been particularly interested in poetry or songs from the start, but for some reason found himself deeply impressed upon reading these two lines. It wasn’t that the couplet was skillfully crafted or anything like that; rather, his heart was suddenly stirred by the thought that if a person could attain a state of mind akin to such a scene, they would surely feel profound joy. Sōsuke read the article preceding these lines out of curiosity. However, it seemed completely unrelated. Yet even after he set the magazine aside, these two lines continued to wander through his mind. In truth, his life had not encountered such scenery in the past four or five years.

At that moment, the door across the way opened, and a student holding a slip of paper ushered Mr. Nonaka and Sōsuke into the operating room.

When he entered, the space inside was twice as large as the waiting room.
On both sides of the brightly arranged room—designed to let in as much extra light as possible—four surgical chairs stood positioned, where men in white aprons attended individually to patients.
Sōsuke was guided to a chair at the very back and, instructed to proceed, stepped onto what resembled a footrest before settling into the seat.
The student carefully wrapped his legs from the knees down with a thick striped apron.

When he was settled so gently into position, Sōsuke discovered that the troublesome tooth was not actually hurting enough to cause him distress.
Not only that—he noticed his shoulders, back, and around his waist had settled comfortably, his posture naturally adjusting into an altogether relaxed state.
He simply lay on his back and gazed at the gas pipes descending from the ceiling.
And so, given this setup and equipment, he worried that upon leaving, he might be charged a higher treatment fee than he had expected.

At that moment, a portly man with thinning hair that seemed disproportionately sparse for his face appeared and greeted him very politely, causing Sōsuke to shift his head slightly in his chair with a flustered air.
The portly man first inquired about his condition, examined the inside of his mouth, and gave a slight shake to the tooth Sōsuke had said was painful, but—

“Once it’s become this loose, I’m afraid we can’t restore it to its original firmness.”
“You see, the interior has completely rotted through,” he added.

Sōsuke received this diagnosis like desolate autumn light filtering through bare branches.
He nearly asked, “Does this mean I’ve reached that age already?” but found the question too mortifying to voice aloud.

“Then it won’t heal?” he pressed.

The portly man said with a laugh—

“Well, I’m afraid there’s no alternative but to inform you it won’t heal.”
“If unavoidable,I would resolve to extract it entirely,but presently it hasn’t yet reached that stage.I shall merely suppress the pain.”
“You see—though you may not grasp what I mean by ‘rotten’—the core has thoroughly decayed.”

Sōsuke said, “I see,” and let the portly man proceed as he wished.
Then the man began whirring the instrument and drilling into the root of Sōsuke’s tooth.
He then inserted a long needle-like object into it, sniffing its tip repeatedly until finally extracting a thread-like filament. “This much of the nerve has been removed,” he declared, showing it to Sōsuke.
After filling the cavity with medicine, he instructed him to return the following day.

When he stepped down from the chair and straightened his body, his line of sight shifted abruptly from the ceiling to the garden—where a potted pine tree, easily five feet tall, came into Sōsuke’s view.
At its base, a gardener wearing straw sandals was carefully wrapping it with straw matting.
As it was the season when dew gradually congealed into frost, he realized that those with means were already making such preparations at this time.

On his way out, when Sōsuke received a powdered gargle solution from the pharmacy beside the entrance—along with instructions to dissolve it in a hundred parts tepid water and use it over ten times daily—he was pleased to find the treatment fee requested by the clerk unexpectedly modest.
If this was all it required, then visiting four or five times as suggested would not be particularly difficult after all, he thought. But when he went to put on his shoes, he discovered their soles had torn without his noticing.

When he arrived home by a hair’s breadth after his aunt had already left,
Sōsuke,
“Oh,” he muttered with evident weariness while changing out of his Western clothes and settling before the brazier as usual.
Ome gathered undershirts,trousers,and tabi socks into a bundle before entering the six-tatami room.
Sōsuke sat vacantly smoking until brushing sounds emerged from across—
“Ome,did Aunt Saibara leave any message?” he inquired.

Since his toothache had subsided on its own, the chilly mood that felt as though autumn had assailed him had eased somewhat; but soon Ome retrieved a powdered medicine from her hidden pouch, had him dissolve it in lukewarm water, and he began to gargle frequently.
At that moment, he remained standing on the engawa,

“The days have truly grown shorter,” he said.

Soon dusk fell.
The neighborhood—where little carriage traffic had been heard since midday—lay desolate from early evening onward.
The couple drew together under the lamp as always.
In the broad world beyond, only where they sat seemed bathed in light.
Within this bright pool of lamplight, Sōsuke became aware solely of Ome’s presence; Ome became aware solely of Sōsuke’s; together they forgot the dark society lying beyond the lamp’s reach.
Through living each night thus, they discovered their lives.

This quiet couple shook the can of Yōrō kelp that Yasunosuke had brought back as a souvenir from Kobe, picked out the small sansho-pepper-laced bundles from within, and slowly discussed Saibara’s reply.

“But surely they could manage to arrange something for tuition and pocket money at least.”

“They say they can’t do it.”
“No matter how you calculate it, combining both would come to ten yen.”
“They’re saying that coming up with the full ten yen every month right now is too much of a burden.”

“Then wouldn’t paying out twenty-some yen each time until year’s end be impossible for them?”

“So he says—even if it’s a strain, he’ll manage just another month or two, so please find a solution in the meantime.”

“Do you think they truly can’t manage it?”

“Well, I wouldn’t know.”
“After all, that’s what Auntie says.”

“If they’re profiting from their bonito boats, that sum should hardly trouble them.”

“True enough.”

Ome laughed in a low voice.
Sōsuke twitched the corner of his mouth slightly, but with that, the conversation came to an end.
After a while,

“After all, there’s no other way but for Shōroku to decide to come home.”
“The rest will follow.”
“He’s attending school now, right?” said Sōsuke.

Dismissing Ome’s response of “I suppose so,” he rarely entered his study.
About an hour later, when Ome softly slid open the fusuma door to peek in, he was sitting at the desk reading something.
“Still studying? Won’t you rest now?” When she urged him, he turned around,

“Yeah, I’ll go to bed now,” he answered, standing up.

When going to bed, he removed his kimono and, while wrapping a silk crepe heko obi around and around over his nightclothes,

"Tonight I read The Analects for the first time in a while," he said.

When Ome asked in return, "Did something in The Analects...?" Sōsuke answered, "No, nothing at all." Then he said, "Hey, my teeth really are because of age, you know. They say once they're loose like this, there's no curing them," as he laid his dark head on the pillow.

Six

In any case, it was settled that Shōroku would vacate his lodgings and move into his brother’s house when circumstances permitted.
Ome gazed at the mulberry dressing table installed in the six-tatami room and made a reluctant face.

“Now that it’s come to this, we’re rather at a loss, aren’t we?” she told Sōsuke imploringly.
In truth, if this space were taken away, Ome would lose her place to do her makeup.
Sōsuke stood without devising any solution, gazing obliquely at the back of the mirror placed by the far window.
Then, through some trick of the angle, there appeared reflected a single cheek of Ome’s from her collar upward.
He was startled by how pallid her profile looked,

“What’s wrong with you? You look terribly pale,” he said, shifting his gaze from the mirror to look at Ome directly. Her hair at the temples was disheveled, and the back of her collar was slightly soiled with grime. Ome merely replied, “It must be the cold,” before moving to the west side. She opened a cupboard in the one-tatami room. Below stood an old chest of drawers covered in scratches, while atop it lay two or three Chinese-style trunks and willow baskets. “There’s simply no way to organize all this.”

“So I’ll just leave it as it is.”

Shōroku’s moving in was, from this perspective, something of a nuisance for both husband and wife.
Thus, though he had promised to come, they made no particular effort to press him about his continued delay.
With each passing day, they felt as though their discomfort had lessened somewhat.
Shōroku shared exactly the same reluctance; perhaps having resolved that staying at his lodgings remained preferable for as long as possible, he kept putting off the move day by day.
Yet by nature—unlike his brother and sister-in-law who had resigned themselves to this state of passive acceptance—he could not settle into such complacency.

Before long, a light frost fell and utterly destroyed the banana plant in the back.
In the morning, a brown-eared bulbul let out a piercing cry from the landlord’s garden atop the cliff.
In the evening, mingling with the tofu seller’s horn as he hurried past the front gate, came the sound of Enmeiji Temple’s wooden fish.
The days grew increasingly shorter.
Yet Ome’s complexion showed no more vitality than when Sōsuke had glimpsed it in the mirror.
There were once or twice when her husband returned from government offices to find her asleep in the six-tatami room.
When he asked what was wrong, she would only answer that she felt slightly unwell.
When he urged her to see a doctor, she dismissed it as unnecessary.

Sōsuke grew concerned.
Even when at the office, he found himself worrying about Ome to the point of distraction.
Then one day on his commute home, he suddenly slapped his knee in the train.
That day he threw open the lattice shutters with unusual vigor and energetically asked, "How are you today?"
Ome bundled her clothes and tabi socks as usual and entered the six-tatami room; he followed close behind.

“Ome, could you be pregnant?” he said with a laugh.
Ome kept brushing dust from his suit without replying, her face turned down.
When the brushing sounds stopped yet she didn’t emerge, he went to check and found her sitting alone before the dressing table in the dim room, looking cold.
“Yes,” she said rising, her voice like someone who’d been crying.

That evening, the couple sat facing each other over the brazier, cupping their hands around the iron kettle placed atop it.

“So, how about this world?” Sōsuke said in an uncharacteristically light tone.
In Ome’s mind vividly appeared the figures of Sōsuke and herself from before they became husband and wife.

“Let’s try to make things a bit more interesting. Lately, everything’s felt so dreary,” Sōsuke said again.
The two then spent some time discussing where they should go together this coming Sunday—whether here or there.
Next, their spring clothes became the topic.
When Sōsuke’s colleague Takagi was pestered by his wife for things like a new underkimono, he rebuffed her by saying, “I don’t work to satisfy your vanity!” To this his wife protested, “That’s heartless! I truly have nothing proper to wear even as it grows cold,” so he retorted that if she was cold, she should just wear bedding or wrap herself in blankets for now—a story Sōsuke found so amusing that he repeated it to make Ome laugh.
Seeing her husband like this, Ome felt as though the past had returned before her eyes.

“Takagi’s wife can make do with bedding, but I’d like to get myself a new overcoat. When I went to the dentist the other day, I saw a gardener wrapping the roots of a potted pine with straw, and it really made me think.”

“You want an overcoat?”

“Ah.”

Ome looked at her husband’s face with an air of sympathy.

“You should have one made. In installments,” she said.

Sōsuke suddenly replied despondently, “Let’s drop it.” Then he asked, “By the way, when does Shōroku plan to come?”

“He probably doesn’t want to come,” answered Ome.
Ome had been aware from the start that Shōroku disliked her.
Yet because he was her husband’s brother, she had done her utmost to accommodate him and draw him closer bit by bit until now.
Perhaps because of this effort—though she now believed they shared at least an ordinary brother-in-law/sister-in-law closeness unlike before—when such situations arose, she would inevitably overthink matters and become convinced she alone was the sole reason Shōroku wouldn’t come.

“Well, moving from lodgings to a place like this can’t be pleasant for him.”
“Just as we find it inconvenient, he must feel constrained too.”
“If Shōroku isn’t coming after all, I might even muster the courage to have that overcoat made now—”

Sōsuke declared this resolutely, as befitted a man.
Yet these words alone failed to fully ease Ome’s mind.
Without replying, Ome remained silent for some time, her slender jaw buried in her collar as she gazed upward through lowered lashes,

“Do you think Shōroku-san still resents me?” she ventured.
When Sōsuke first came to Tokyo, he had occasionally received similar questions from Ome, each time finding it considerably troublesome to console her; but in recent times, as she had ceased to say anything at all—as though having entirely forgotten—even Sōsuke had stopped paying it any heed.

“The hysteria’s starting up again.”
“What does it matter what someone like Shōroku thinks?”
“As long as I’m here.”

“It says so in *The Analects*.”

Ome was a woman who would crack such jokes at times like these.
Sōsuke

“Yeah, it says so there,” he answered.
And so their conversation came to an end.

The next day, when Sōsuke woke up, there was a cold sound on the zinc-covered eaves. Ome came to his bedside with her sleeves still tied up with a tasuki sash,

“Come now, it’s time,” she reminded him, but as he listened to the sound of dripping water, he wanted to linger a little longer in the warm futon.
Yet no sooner had he seen Ome’s pallid complexion and bustling figure than—

“Hey,” he said, sitting bolt upright.

Outside was shut in by heavy rain.
The Mōsō bamboo on the cliff swayed in the wind and rain from time to time, as if shaking a mane.
For Sōsuke, who ventured out beneath this desolate sky, the only things that gave him strength were warm miso soup and steaming rice.

“The insides of my shoes will get soaked again.
I absolutely must have two pairs,” he said, reluctantly putting on the ones with a small hole in the sole and rolling up the hem of his Western-style trousers slightly.

When he returned home past noon, Ome had soaked a rag in a metal basin and placed it beside the dressing table in the six-mat room.
Only the upper part of the ceiling had discolored, and water droplets occasionally fell from it.

“It’s not just the shoes. Even the house is getting wet inside, huh?” said Sōsuke with a bitter smile.
That evening, Ome lit the portable kotatsu for her husband and dried his Scotch socks and striped woolen Western-style trousers.

The next day brought rain again in the same manner.
The couple likewise repeated the same things in the same way.
That next day still did not clear.
On the morning of the third day, Sōsuke furrowed his brows and clicked his tongue.

“How much longer will it keep raining? I can’t even bear to put on these damp shoes.”

“The six-mat room’s leaking too—oh, it’s dreadful!”

The couple agreed they would ask the landlord to repair the roof once the rain stopped. But there was nothing to be done about the shoes. Sōsuke forced his feet into the creaking pair that refused to fit properly and left.

Fortunately, by eleven that morning the skies cleared completely, turning into a mild autumn day with sparrows chirping along the fence. When Sōsuke returned home, Ome’s complexion looked unusually vivid as she—

“You mustn’t sell that folding screen,” she suddenly said.
The Hōitsu folding screen had remained standing in the corner of the study exactly as received from Saibara.
Though a two-panel piece, given the tatami room’s layout and dimensions, it served more as an obstruction than decoration.
If turned southward, it blocked half the entryway from the genkan; positioned eastward, it darkened the room; while placing it on the remaining side hid the tokonoma—so Sōsuke,

“It’s supposed to be a memento of Father, so I went through the trouble of bringing it here, but really—this thing’s just in the way,” he had muttered once or twice.
Each time, Ome would gaze at the perfectly round silver moon with its burnt-edged rim and the ear-of-grain hues barely distinguishable from the silk fabric, appearing as though she could not fathom why anyone would prize such a thing.
However, out of deference to her husband, she did not voice anything to him.
Only once had she asked,

“And is this really considered a good painting?” she had once asked. At that time, Sōsuke had explained Hōitsu’s name to Ome for the first time. Yet this amounted to nothing more than him carelessly repeating vague memories he had once heard from his father. When it came to the painting’s actual artistic merit or detailed historical background about Hōitsu, even Sōsuke himself remained fundamentally uncertain.

However, this very thing coincidentally became the catalyst for Ome’s peculiar course of action. As she suddenly connected this knowledge to conversations she and her husband had shared over the past week, she allowed herself a faint smile. When the rain cleared that day and sunlight streamed through the shoji screens of their family room, Ome went out wearing over her everyday kimono a peculiar woven garment that resembled neither shawl nor scarf. After walking two blocks down the street and turning toward the tram line, she found herself before a sizable antique shop nestled between a dried goods store and a bakery. She remembered purchasing a collapsible-legged dining table there once before. The iron kettle now warming on their brazier was another item Sōsuke had brought home from this very shop.

Ome stood in front of the antique shop with her hands tucked into her sleeves. Looking in, she saw new iron kettles still lined up as usual. Apart from these, perhaps owing to the season, braziers stood out most prominently to the eye. Yet there did not appear to be a single item worthy of being called an antique. Hanging alone was an indescribably large turtle shell facing directly forward, from beneath which a long yellowish Buddhist whisk protruded like a tail. Then there were one or two rosewood tea shelves on display, but all appeared to be raw wood likely to warp. Such distinctions, however, made no impression on Ome at all. Having confirmed only that neither hanging scrolls nor folding screens were to be found, she entered.

Of course, Ome had come all the way here intending to sell off the folding screen her husband had received from Saibara for whatever price she could get; however, thanks to having gained considerable experience in such matters since Hiroshima, she was able to resolutely negotiate with her husband without feeling the usual effort or distress of an ordinary wife.
The proprietor was a gaunt-cheeked man around fifty with a dark complexion, wearing oversized glasses with tortoiseshell frames as he read his newspaper while warming his hands over a pockmarked brass brazier.

“Well then, I’ll come take a look,” he replied casually, but as he showed no particular interest, Ome felt a twinge of disappointment. However, since she hadn’t come with any great expectations to begin with, when he responded so casually, she ended up having to ask him herself, as if it were her own initiative, to come take a look.

“Sure thing.”
“Well then, I’ll stop by later.”
“You see, my clerk has just stepped out for a moment.”

Ome heard these casual words and returned home as she was, but deep down, she greatly doubted whether the antique dealer would actually come. After finishing her simple meal alone as usual and having Kiyo clear away the tray, she was suddenly startled by a loud "Pardon the intrusion!" as the antique dealer came through the front entrance. When she led him up to the tatami room and showed him the folding screen in question, he said “I see” and began stroking the back and edges, but—

“If you’re looking to part with it,” he said after a moment’s consideration, then quoted a price with apparent reluctance, “I’ll take it for six yen.”
To Ome, the price set by the antique dealer seemed entirely appropriate.
However, she realized that proceeding without first discussing it with Sōsuke would be too unilateral, and given the item’s particular history, she felt even more hesitant. She replied that she would consult him properly once he returned home, then tried to send the dealer away.
The antique dealer, on his way out,

“Well then, ma’am, since you’ve gone to the trouble, I’ll make an effort and add another yen.”
“So please let me have it for that,” he said.
At that moment, Ome resolutely—

“But Mr. Dealer, that’s a Hōitsu,” she replied, though a chill ran through her inside.
The antique dealer, unperturbed,
“Hōitsu hasn’t been in vogue lately,” he dismissed, then stared intently at Ome before adding,
“Well then, you’d better discuss it properly,” he said dismissively and left.
After explaining the circumstances of that time in detail, Ome
“You mustn’t sell it,” she asked innocently again.
In Sōsuke’s mind, material desires had been ceaselessly stirring since some time before.
Having grown accustomed to a modest lifestyle, he had developed a habit of resigning himself to making ends meet with insufficient household finances, so beyond his fixed monthly income, no drive arose to make extraordinary efforts—even through temporary, unexpected arrangements—to secure even slightly more comfort than usual.
When he heard this, he was rather surprised by Ome’s quick-witted resourcefulness.
At the same time, he doubted whether there was indeed such a necessity.
When he heard Ome’s reasoning, she explained that if they received a little less than ten yen there, they could have new shoes made for Sōsuke and even buy about one bolt of meisen silk.
Sōsuke thought that made sense too.
Yet when he placed the Hōitsu folding screen inherited from his parents on one side and set on the other new shoes and new meisen silk to consider them side by side, exchanging these two things seemed utterly absurd and even comical.

“If you want to sell it, that’s fine by me. It’ll just be in the way if we keep it at home anyway. But I can still manage without new shoes yet. As we saw recently, it’d be troublesome if the rain kept up, but the weather’s cleared now…”

“But if it rains again, we’ll be in trouble.”

Sōsuke couldn’t possibly guarantee permanent good weather for Ome. Nor could Ome bring herself to insist they sell the screen before another downpour. The two exchanged glances and laughed. Soon,

“Is it too cheap?” asked Ome.

“Hmm, perhaps,” answered Sōsuke.

When told it was cheap, he felt it did seem cheap.
If there were a buyer, he wanted to take whatever money they would offer.
He felt as though he had read in the newspaper that bids for old books and paintings had recently become very high.
He thought that if only he had even one such scroll.
But he had resigned himself to the fact that such things were not to be found within the reach of the air he breathed.

“It might depend on the buyer, but it’s also down to the seller.”
“No matter how much of a masterpiece it is, as long as I’m the one holding onto it, it can’t possibly sell for such a high price.”
“But seven or eight yen—that isn’t nearly enough.”

Sōsuke defended Hōitsu’s folding screen while letting slip a tone that seemed to justify the antique dealer’s position as well.
And so, he felt that he alone was not worth defending.
Ome also seemed somewhat disheartened and let the matter of the folding screen drop.

The next day, Sōsuke went to his government office and told this story to his colleagues.
They all said in unison that it wasn’t a fair price.
Yet none volunteered to mediate and sell it at a proper value.
Nor did anyone explain how to avoid being fooled through proper channels.
Sōsuke had no choice but to sell the folding screen to the backstreet antique dealer.
Otherwise, he could only leave it standing in the tatami room again—an eyesore or not.
He set it back up in the tatami room as before.
Then the dealer came and offered fifteen yen for the screen.
The couple exchanged glances and smiled.
“Let’s try keeping it unsold a while longer,” they said, leaving it untouched.
The dealer came again.
Again, they refused.
Ome began finding amusement in these refusals.
On his fourth visit, he brought an unfamiliar man; after huddling with him, they settled on thirty-five yen.
At that moment, the couple stood and conferred.
And so they finally resolved to sell off the folding screen.

Seven

The cedars of Enmyōji Temple had turned reddish-black, as if scorched.
On fine days, mountains with white streaks that looked rugged appeared at the edges of the sky cleansed by the wind.
The year herded Sōsuke and his wife day by day into the cold.
The voice of the natto seller that never failed to pass by each morning evoked the color of frost clasping the roof tiles.
Lying in bed as he listened to that voice, Sōsuke remembered once more that winter had arrived.
In the kitchen, Ome worried from year’s end through spring, hoping this year’s faucet wouldn’t freeze like last year’s.
At night, the couple would do nothing but huddle around the kotatsu.
And they envied the warm winters of Hiroshima and Fukuoka.

“We’re just like the former Mr. and Mrs. Honda,” Ome said, laughing.
The former Mr. and Mrs. Honda were a retired couple who had likewise lived within the same grounds and rented one of Sakai’s houses.
With only a young maid employed, they maintained a hushed livelihood from dawn till dusk without so much as a peep.
When Ome sat sewing alone in the family room, she would sometimes hear a voice call out “Grandpa.”
This was Mrs. Honda addressing her husband.
Whenever they met at the gate or elsewhere, they exchanged polite seasonal greetings and urged each other to “come visit sometime,” yet neither side had ever actually called on the other.
Thus their knowledge about the Honda couple remained meager.
They had only heard from visiting merchants that the pair had one son—now an esteemed official at something called the Korean Residency-General—whose monthly remittances allowed them to live comfortably.

“Is the old man still fiddling with the plants?”

“Since it’s been getting colder, he’s probably stopped by now. There are lots of plant pots lined up under the veranda.”

The conversation then shifted from the former house to the landlord.
This household was the complete opposite of the Hondas; to the couple, it seemed nothing less than bustling.
Lately, as the garden had become overgrown, large groups of children no longer came up onto the cliff to make noise, though the sound of the piano could still be heard nearly every evening.
At times, even boisterous laughter from the maid or someone in the kitchen carried all the way to Sōsuke’s family room.

“What on earth does that man do?” asked Sōsuke.
This was a question he had already put to Ome many times before.

“He’s just idling about without doing anything—he owns land and rental properties,” answered Ome.
This answer had already been repeated to Sōsuke by her several times before.

Sōsuke had never inquired further into Sakai’s matters beyond this.
When he first left school, whenever he encountered those in favorable circumstances who carried themselves with confidence, he would feel a sense of Just wait and see.
After a while, that changed into mere feelings of hatred.
However, over the past year or two, he had grown utterly indifferent to distinctions between himself and others. He came to think that he was simply born as himself, while others entered the world with their own fates—that from the start, they were fundamentally different kinds of people. Beyond surviving as human beings, there was no reason for interaction or shared interest between them.
Occasionally, during casual conversation, he might ask something like "What on earth does that person do?" but beyond that, even making the effort to find out more felt like too much trouble.
Ome also had this same inclination.
But that night, unusually, she spoke of things like how the master of the Sakai household was a beardless man of about forty, how the one playing the piano was his eldest daughter who was twelve or thirteen, and how even when children from other houses came to play, they weren’t allowed on the swing.

“Why don’t they let children from other houses ride the swing?”

“They’re just being stingy. Because it’d wear out faster that way.”

Sōsuke burst out laughing.
He found it contradictory that such a miserly landlord would promptly send a tiler when told the roof was leaking and just as quickly have a gardener tend to the fence when complained of its rot.

That night, neither Honda’s plant pots nor Sakai’s swing appeared in Sōsuke’s dreams.
He went to bed around half past ten and snored like a man exhausted by all creation.
For some time now, Ome—troubled by her inability to fall asleep due to the persistent discomfort in her head—would periodically open her eyes and gaze at the dimly lit room.
A slender lamp was placed on the tokonoma alcove.
The couple had developed the habit of keeping a light on at night, so whenever they went to bed, they would carefully bring the lamp up there.

Ome adjusted the position of her pillow with care.
And each time she did so, she slid the shoulder bone she was lying on across the futon.
In the end, lying prone, she propped herself up on both elbows and gazed for a while at her husband.
Then she got up, threw on the everyday clothes that had been hanging on the edge of the bedding over her sleepwear, and took up the lamp from the tokonoma.

“Darling, darling,” she called, bending over Sōsuke’s bedside. Her husband had already stopped snoring by then, though he continued breathing with the steady rhythm of deep sleep. Ome rose again and, lamp in hand, slid open the partition to enter the family room. As the dark space became faintly illuminated by her lamp’s glow, she discerned the dull glint of drawer handles on a chest. Passing through into the soot-blackened kitchen, only the paper of the waist-high shutters showed white in the darkness. She lingered awhile in the fireless center of the kitchen before silently sliding open the door to the maid’s chamber on her right and holding aloft the lamp’s light within. The maid lay bundled in bedding too faded to show its patterns or colors, curled like a mole in its burrow. Next Ome peered into the six-tatami room on the left. There in that hollow desolation stood the familiar mirror stand, its surface glaring back at her with midnight intensity.

After making a round of the entire house and confirming that there were no abnormalities, Ome returned to bed.
And then, she finally closed her eyes.
This time, fortunately feeling she could avoid paying attention to her eyelids, she began to doze off before long.

Then her eyes suddenly opened again.
She felt something reverberate heavily near her pillow.
When she lifted her ear from the pillow to consider it, she could only think that some large, heavy object had rolled down from the cliff behind them and fallen just beyond the veranda of the tatami room where they slept.
But when she realized this had happened right before she awoke—absolutely not part of her dream—Ome was suddenly overcome with dread.
Then, pulling at the sleeve of her husband’s bedding beside her, she began earnestly trying to rouse Sōsuke.

Sōsuke had been sleeping soundly until that moment, but when he suddenly awoke to find Ome shaking him and urging, "You need to wake up"—still half-asleep—he responded with a quick "Hey, alright," sitting upright on the futon. Ome recounted what had occurred in hushed tones.

"Did it only happen once?"

"But it just happened now!"

At this they fell silent, keeping perfectly still as they listened for any movement outside. Yet the world remained a realm of trees and stillness. However long they strained their ears, there came no further sign of falling objects.

Complaining of the cold, Sōsuke threw his haori over his unlined sleeping robe and stepped out onto the veranda to slide open one storm shutter. Peering into the darkness revealed nothing—only a sudden rush of frigid air against his skin from the void beyond. He promptly shut the shutter again.

No sooner had he lowered the latch and returned to the tatami room than he dove back into the futon,

“There’s nothing out of the ordinary.
It was probably your dream,” said Sōsuke, lying back down.
Ome insisted that it was absolutely not a dream.
She persisted that a loud noise had certainly sounded above her head.
Sōsuke turned his face, half-emerged from the bedding, toward Ome,

“Ome, you’re getting overly sensitive—something’s not right with you lately.
You need to find some way to rest your mind and get proper sleep,” he said.

At that moment, the pillar clock in the next room struck two o’clock.
At that sound, they both momentarily stopped speaking, and when they fell silent and listened, the night seemed to grow even stiller.
Their eyes were wide awake, and sleep seemed unlikely to come anytime soon.
Ome said,

“But you’re so carefree,” she said. “You lie down and fall asleep within ten minutes.”

“I do sleep, but it’s not that my mind is at ease letting me sleep,” replied Sōsuke. “In other words, I probably sleep well because I’m exhausted.”

As they exchanged these words, Sōsuke drifted back to sleep. Ome continued fidgeting restlessly in her futon. Then a car clattered noisily past outside. Lately, Ome had often been startled by these predawn vehicle sounds. Noticing they always occurred around the same hour, she concluded it must be the same car passing daily at this time—likely rushing to deliver milk or some such task. Each time she heard it, she took comfort in imagining night had lifted and neighbors were beginning their day, as if communal activity could anchor her frayed nerves.

Somewhere a rooster crowed. After another interval came the sharp clack of wooden clogs on the street. Presently came sounds of Kiyo opening the maid’s room door and visiting the toilet; soon after, she seemed to enter the living room to check the clock. By then, the lamp in the alcove had burned low, its wick too shortened to reach the remaining oil, plunging Ome’s sleeping area into total darkness. Through a gap in the sliding doors seeped the wavering light from Kiyo’s lamp.

“Kiyo?” called Ome.

Kiyo then immediately got up.
After about thirty minutes had passed, Ome also got up.
After another thirty minutes or so had passed, Sōsuke finally got up as well.

Normally, Ome would come at a reasonable hour and,
"You can get up now," was her usual refrain.
On Sundays and the occasional national holiday, it would,

would change only to “Come on, get up now, please.”
However, today—with yesterday evening’s events somehow weighing on his mind—Sōsuke had left the bed before Ome came to fetch him.
Then he slid open the storm shutters below the cliff.

Peering from below, behind bamboo stalks frozen stiff by the morning chill, he saw sunlight piercing through the frost to faintly gild their tips. At the steepest part of the slope two shaku down, dead grass had been strangely scraped away to expose raw red earth—a sight that gave Sōsuke pause. Descending straight to where he stood at the veranda's edge, he found the soil churned up as though frost columns had been shattered. Could a large dog have tumbled down from above? he wondered. Yet even for the biggest dog imaginable, this seemed too violent a disturbance.

Sōsuke brought wooden clogs from the entranceway and immediately descended to the garden.
Because the toilet jutted out in a bend at the edge of the veranda, the already narrow cliffside area—particularly the roughly half-ken space leading to the back—became even more cramped.
Ome would worry about this bend every time the cleaner came,
“If only that spot were a bit wider,” she would fret anxiously, so much so that Sōsuke would often laugh at her.
Passing through there, a narrow path led straight to the kitchen.
Originally, there had been a cedar fence with intertwined dead branches serving as a boundary to the neighboring garden, but when the landlord recently made repairs—neatly clearing away the hole-ridden cedar foliage—a knotty plank fence now blocked one side all the way to the kitchen entrance.
Due to the poor sunlight and the constant dripping of water from the gutters, begonias would grow thickly in summer.
At their peak, their green leaves would overlap so densely that the path became almost impassable.
In their first year there, even Sōsuke and Ome had been astonished by this sight.
These begonias had been spreading underground for years, even before the cedar fence was removed; when Ome realized that even now, with the old house demolished, they still sprouted as they always did when the season came, she—

“But they’re so lovely, aren’t they?” she said joyfully.

When Sōsuke stepped onto the frost and emerged into this side area steeped in memories, his gaze fell upon a single spot along the narrow path.
And then he stopped dead in the cold where the sun didn’t reach.

At his feet lay a black-lacquered handbox decorated with maki-e that had been tossed aside.
The contents sat properly arranged on the frost as if deliberately brought and left there, but the lid lay two or three feet away—flipped over against the base of the fence as though struck there—revealing clearly the patterned chiyogami paper lining its interior.
Among the letters and documents that had spilled out from the handbox, scattered without restraint across the ground, a relatively long one had been deliberately spread out about two shaku in length, its end crumpled like wastepaper.
Sōsuke approached and peered beneath this disordered paper, involuntarily giving a wry smile.
Underneath, feces had been left.

Sōsuke gathered the documents scattered on the ground into a single bundle, placed them into the handbox, and carried it to the kitchen entrance, still soiled with frost and mud. He opened the waist-high sliding door and called out to Kiyo,

"Hey, put this over there for a moment," he said as he handed it over, whereupon Kiyo made a strange face and accepted it with a puzzled expression.
Ome was in the back, dusting the tatami room.
Sōsuke then thrust his hands into his sleeves and carefully inspected the entranceway and gate area, but could detect nothing out of the ordinary.

Sōsuke finally entered the house.
Having come to the family living room and sat before the brazier as usual, he immediately called out loudly for Ome.
Ome,

“Where did you go first thing after getting up?” she said as she emerged from the inner room.

“Hey, that loud noise by the bedside last night—it really wasn’t a dream after all.”
“It was a thief!”
“The thief jumped down from Mr. Sakai’s cliff into our garden.”
“When I went around back just now, this handbox was lying there with all its letters thrown out in disarray.”
“And he even left us a little gift.”

Sōsuke took two or three letters from the handbox and showed them to Ome.
Every one bore Sakai’s name as addressee.
Ome remained half-kneeling in astonishment,

“Was anything else taken from Mr. Sakai?” she asked.

Sōsuke crossed his arms and replied, “It seems they might have been hit again.”

Resignedly concluding “for now,” the couple left the handbox there and sat down to breakfast. Yet even as they moved their chopsticks, they kept discussing the thief. Ome proudly emphasized to her husband how reliable her ears and mind were. Sōsuke counted it fortunate that his own ears and mind were unreliable.

“You may say that,” she countered, “but imagine if this had happened to us instead of Mr. Sakai. If you’d been snoring away like that, we’d have been in real trouble!” Ome rebuked him.

“Nah, there’s no need to worry about thieves breaking into our place—we’re safe,” Sōsuke retorted with a cheeky reply.

At that moment, Kiyo suddenly appeared from the kitchen,

“If the master’s coat we recently had made had been stolen, that would have caused a real uproar. Since it was Mr. Sakai’s home and not yours, this is truly fortunate,” she said earnestly, leaving both Sōsuke and Ome somewhat at a loss for how to respond.

Even after finishing the meal, there was still plenty of time before he needed to leave for work. Since they must be in an uproar at the Sakais’, Sōsuke decided to take the handbox there himself. Though decorated with maki-e lacquerwork, it merely consisted of gold tortoiseshell patterns on a black background and didn’t seem particularly valuable. Ome took out a striped cotton furoshiki and wrapped it. Because the furoshiki was slightly too small, she tied the opposing corners together and fashioned two small knots in the center. When Sōsuke carried it, it looked exactly like a gift box of sweets.

From the tatami room, it appeared to be right atop the cliff, but approaching from the front required going down the street about half a chō, climbing the slope, then backtracking another half chō in the opposite direction to reach Sakai’s gate.
Sōsuke entered through the gate along the fence where turf had been mounded over stones and spindle trees were neatly planted.

The house’s interior was unnervingly silent—almost too quiet.
When he came to the entranceway with its frosted-glass doors shut and pressed the bell two or three times, no one appeared—the bell seemed broken.
Sōsuke had no choice but to circle around to the kitchen entrance.
There too were two waist-high partitions with frosted-glass panels, both closed tight.
Inside came sounds of someone handling utensils.
Sōsuke slid open the door and greeted the maid crouching in the board-floored area where the gas stove sat.

“This must be yours. Since I found this handbox behind my house this morning, I’ve brought it with me,” he said as he presented the handbox.

The maid responded with a simple “I see. Thank you,” then carried the handbox to the partition in the board-floored area and called over another woman who appeared to be a fellow servant. After giving a whispered explanation there and handing over the item, the fellow servant accepted it, glanced briefly toward Sōsuke, then immediately retreated into the interior. As they passed each other, a round-faced girl of about twelve or thirteen with large eyes and a younger sister-like child wearing matching ribbons came running together, peering into the kitchen with their small necks aligned. While gazing at Sōsuke’s face, they whispered, “A thief.” Once he had handed over the handbox, Sōsuke considered that since his business here was concluded, he might as well skip the formal greetings with the master and return home immediately.

“This handbox belongs to your household, correct?”
“It’s definitely yours, right?” he pressed for confirmation, just as he was making the unaware maid uncomfortable, when the fellow servant from earlier appeared.

“Please come through,” she said with a polite bow, at which Sōsuke now found himself somewhat abashed.
The maid repeated the same request with even greater decorum.
Sōsuke moved beyond feeling abashed and finally began to feel inconvenienced.

Just then, the landlord himself appeared.

The landlord indeed possessed the ruddy-cheeked, well-fed countenance they had anticipated, though contrary to Ome’s description, he was not without facial hair.
Beneath his nose grew a closely cropped mustache, while his cheeks and jaw remained smoothly shaved to a bluish hue.

“My deepest apologies for this extraordinary inconvenience,” said the landlord, creasing the corners of his eyes as he offered thanks.
His knees—clad in Yonezawa-patterned kasuri fabric—remained planted on the wooden floorboards as he listened to Sōsuke’s account with an air of utter nonchalance.
Sōsuke summarized the events from last evening through that morning, then inquired whether anything beyond the handbox had been stolen.
The landlord responded that a gold watch left upon his desk had been taken.
Yet he displayed no trace of concern whatsoever, as though reporting the misplacement of some trivial object.
Far more intrigued by Sōsuke’s narrative than by the missing timepiece, he posed his question—had the thief truly intended to flee along the cliffside at their rear, or had they perhaps tumbled from it in their frantic escape?
Sōsuke naturally found himself unable to answer.

Just then, the same maid from before came bringing tea and tobacco from the inner rooms, so Sōsuke once again missed his chance to leave.
The landlord had gone so far as to send for a zabuton cushion and finally seated Sōsuke’s bottom upon it.
And then he began to talk about the detective who had come early that morning.
According to the detective’s assessment, the thief had likely sneaked into the estate in the evening and hidden himself in a storage shed or some such place.
The point of entry was also the kitchen.
He struck a match to light a candle, placed it upright in a small bucket found in the kitchen, and stepped out into the tearoom; but since his wife and child were asleep in the next room, he made his way along the corridor to reach the master’s study. While occupied there, their recently born youngest son—perhaps having reached feeding time—awoke and began crying, prompting him to open the study door and flee into the garden.

“It would have been better if the dog had been here as usual, but...
“Unfortunately, he fell ill, so I had to take him to the hospital about four or five days ago,” the landlord lamented.
Sōsuke also,

“What a shame,” he replied.
Then the landlord began talking about the dog’s breed and lineage, how he sometimes took it hunting, and various other matters.

“I do enjoy hunting. Though lately I’ve had to take a break due to neuralgia.”
“After all, when I go snipe hunting from early autumn through winter, I inevitably end up standing waist-deep in the rice paddies for two or three hours at a time, which really doesn’t agree with my body.”

The landlord, appearing to be a man with no time constraints, kept talking endlessly as Sōsuke interjected with remarks like “I see” and “Is that so,” forcing Sōsuke to rise mid-conversation.

“I must be going out again as usual now,” he said, at which the landlord—as if noticing for the first time—apologized for detaining him when he was busy.
He added that they might need his cooperation again when the detective came to inspect the scene.
Finally,

“Please do come by for a chat sometime. Since I’ve been rather free of late myself, I’ll come to visit you again,” he said politely.

When he exited the gate and hurried home, he was already about thirty minutes behind his usual morning departure time.

"What happened to you?" Ome asked anxiously, coming out to the entrance.
Sōsuke immediately began taking off his kimono and changing into Western clothes as he said,
"That Mr. Sakai is such a carefree person, isn't he? When you have money, I suppose you can afford to be that relaxed."

VIII

“Shōroku-san, shall we start with the tearoom? Or would you prefer the tatami room first?” asked Ome.

Having finally moved into his brother’s house four or five days prior, Shōroku now found himself obliged to help replace the shoji screens that day. He had once worked alongside Yasunosuke at their uncle’s home to replace the karakami paper in his own room. Back then, they had approached the task with formal diligence—mixing paste in trays, experimenting with spatulas—but when they dried the panels and tried reinstalling them, both warped stubbornly against the doorframe grooves. There was also that other botched job with Yasunosuke under their aunt’s orders: having sloshed water liberally over the shoji frames during replacement, everything warped upon drying, leaving them thoroughly vexed.

“Sis, you’ve got to be really careful when putting up shoji or you’ll botch it,” said Shōroku as he began ripping off the old paper from the engawa veranda of the family living room with a tearing sound. “Don’t go washing them, got it?”

The engawa bent to the right where Shōroku’s six-mat room stood, while the entrance jutted out to the left. A wall running parallel to the veranda enclosed the space, forming something like a square courtyard. In summer, they would let cosmos flowers spread across the entire area, and the couple would delight each morning in the dew-heavy scenery; they’d also set slender bamboo poles along the base of the wall for morning glories to climb. Back then, they’d count the newly bloomed flowers first thing after waking and find solace in it. But from autumn into winter, when all flowers and grasses withered completely, it grew desolate as a tiny desert—so bleak one almost felt guilty looking at it. With his back to this frost-coated square of earth, Shōroku kept peeling away at the shoji paper.

From time to time, a cold wind would buffet Shōroku’s shaved head and collar from behind. Each time, he wanted to retreat from the exposed veranda into the six-mat room. He worked his red hands silently, wringing out the rag in the bucket and beginning to wipe the shoji frames.

“You must be freezing—how awful for you. And with this wretched drizzly weather we’re having,” Ome said sympathetically, pouring hot water from the iron kettle again and again as she dissolved the paste she had boiled yesterday.

In truth, Shōroku deeply scorned having to do such tasks. Moreover, given the circumstances in which he had recently been unavoidably placed, he now held the rag with a sense that he was somewhat demeaning himself. Back when he had been made to do this same work at his uncle's house, he even remembered finding it amusing as a way to pass the time—far from unpleasant. But now, feeling as though those around him had forcibly resigned themselves to the idea that he was incapable of anything beyond such trivial work, the cold of the veranda irritated him even more.

As a result, he couldn’t even muster a proper pleasant reply for his sister-in-law.
And in his mind, he recalled the extravagance of the law student who had lived in his boarding house—how even when going out for a casual stroll, this student would stop by Shiseidō and spend nearly five yen just to buy a three-piece set of soap and toothpaste.
And yet he couldn’t help feeling there was no reason why he alone should be driven into such dire straits.
Moreover, his elder brother and sister-in-law, who seemed content to spend their entire lives in such circumstances, appeared truly pitiable to him.
To Shōroku, they seemed to lead such a passive existence that they might even hesitate to purchase Mino paper for replacing the shoji.

“This paper’s so flimsy, it’ll tear again in no time,” said Shōroku, holding the rolled edge up to the light for about a foot’s length before snapping it forcefully two or three times.

“Is that so? But with no children in the house, it shouldn’t be too bad, you know,” replied Ome, then took a brush loaded with paste and tapped it ton-ton-ton across the frame.

The two pulled the long pasted paper taut from both sides, straining to prevent sagging, but whenever Shōroku made a bothered face, Ome grew hesitant and ended up roughly trimming the edges with scissors.
The finished panels consequently developed noticeable bulges here and there.
Ome gazed helplessly at the newly pasted shoji screens standing in the door compartment.
And in her heart, she thought how different this would feel if her partner were her husband instead of Shōroku.

“There are some wrinkles here.”

“With my clumsy hands, it’ll never turn out right anyway.”

“Well, your brother isn’t particularly skilled either.”
“And he’s far lazier than you are.”

Shōroku gave no reply.
He took the rinsing bowl Kiyo had brought from the kitchen, stood before the door compartment, and misted the paper until it was thoroughly damp.
By the time they pasted the second sheet, the earlier-misted portion had nearly dried, leaving the wrinkles mostly smoothed out.
When they applied the third sheet, Shōroku announced that his back was hurting.
The truth was, Ome had been suffering from a headache since morning.

“Let’s put up one more sheet and finish the tearoom before taking a break,” she said.

By the time they finished up in the family dining room, it was noon, so the two of them began their meal.
In the four or five days since Shōroku had moved in, Ome had been eating her midday meals without Sōsuke, always facing Shōroku across the table.
Since marrying Sōsuke, the only person with whom Ome had shared her daily meals was her husband.
When her husband was away, it had been her long-standing habit to eat alone.
So suddenly placing this rice tub between her brother-in-law and herself and chewing their food while facing each other was for Ome a kind of unusual experience.
Even that was somewhat manageable when the maid was working in the kitchen, but when there was no sign or sound of Kiyo, an even stranger sense of constraint arose.
Naturally, Ome was older than Shōroku, and given their existing relationship as well, there could not have been any possibility of an amorous atmosphere arising between them—even in those restrictive early days—that might entangle the two sexes.
I wondered to myself when this stifling feeling I experienced whenever I sat across from Shōroku at meals would finally disappear.
Since I hadn’t noticed at all that such an outcome would arise before Shōroku moved in, I was all the more perplexed.
Having no other choice, I tried to talk as much as possible during meals and endeavored to at least fill the idle gaps.
Unfortunately, the present Shōroku lacked both the composure in his mind and the discernment required to reciprocate his sister-in-law’s considerate demeanor with an equally agreeable tone.

“Shōroku-san, at the boarding house there were such good meals—”

When faced with such questions, Shōroku could no longer manage to give the blunt, unreserved answers he used to provide when visiting from his boarding house. Having no choice—

When he would keep his replies to vague phrases like “It’s not really like that,” the lack of clarity in his tone sometimes led Ome to wonder if her treatment of him might be at fault. There were also times when this would cross Shōroku’s mind in silence.

Today in particular, her head was not in good condition, so even when facing the meal tray, Ome found it tedious to make an effort as usual.
To make the effort only to fail was even more loathsome.
As a result, both of them finished their meal with even fewer words than when they had been pasting the shoji.

Perhaps because their hands had grown accustomed in the afternoon, the work progressed slightly faster compared to the morning.
However, the mood between the two had grown even more distant than before the meal.
The cold weather bore down particularly on both their heads.
When they awoke, the sky was so clear that it seemed as though the sun-bearing heavens were gradually receding into the distance; yet from the time it took on a deep azure hue, clouds abruptly emerged, sealing away the sunlight as if brewing a fine snowfall within the gloom.
The two of them alternately held their hands over the brazier.

“Elder brother’s salary will increase next year, won’t it?”

Suddenly, Shōroku posed this question to Ome.
Ome was picking up paper scraps from the tatami and wiping her paste-stained hands when her face showed genuine surprise.

“Why do you ask?”

“But according to the newspaper, isn’t there talk of a general salary increase for government officials starting next year?”

Ome had been completely unaware of such news.
After hearing a detailed explanation from Shōroku, she nodded in agreement for the first time, finally understanding.

“Truly.
With this, anyone would struggle to get by.
The price of sliced fish for meals has already doubled even since I came to Tokyo, I tell you.”
When it came to the price of sliced fish for meals, Shōroku was completely ignorant.
It was only after being corrected by Ome that he realized prices could rise so unreasonably high.

Because a slight curiosity had arisen in Shōroku, the conversation between the two flowed unexpectedly smoothly.
Ome repeated the story she had heard from Sōsuke about how prices had been astonishingly low back when their landlord was in his late teens.
In those days, even when eating soba, a basic bowl cost eight rin while one with toppings went for two sen and five rin.
Beef was four sen for a standard portion, with sirloin at six sen.
Vaudeville theaters charged three or four sen.
Students who received around seven yen monthly from the state were considered comfortably middle-class.
Even ten yen was seen as extravagant.

“Shōroku-san, if it were back then, you could’ve graduated from university without any trouble at all,” said Ome.
“Elder brother must have found life much easier back then too,” replied Shōroku.

By the time they finished repapering the tatami room, it was already past three o'clock. While they were occupied with this, Sōsuke would be returning home soon and they needed to start preparing for the evening, so the two of them tidied away the paste and razor as a suitable stopping point. Shōroku let out a big stretch and rapped his head rhythmically with a clenched fist.

“Thank you for your hard work. You must be tired,” Ome consoled Shōroku.
But more than that，Shōroku felt a peckish dryness in his throat.
As thanks for delivering the handbox，they took out sweets from Sakai stored in the cupboard and ate them.
Ome made tea.

“Is Mr．Sakai a university graduate?”

“Yes，apparently he is．”

Shōroku drank tea and smoked．
Before long，

“Elder brother still hasn’t told you about the salary increase?” he asked.

“No, not at all,” answered Ome.

“It would be nice if I could be like Elder brother.
I’d have no complaints or anything.”

Ome did not offer any particular remark.
Shōroku got up just like that and entered the six-tatami room, but soon came back out carrying the brazier, saying the fire had gone out.
While being a burden on his elder brother’s household, he had trusted Yasunosuke’s comforting words that things would work out if he held on a little longer, and so he had temporarily settled the matter by officially taking a leave of absence from school.

Nine

Through the handbox, Sakai living behind them and Sōsuke became unexpectedly connected.
Until then, their interactions had been limited to once monthly sending Kiyo with rent from their side and receiving a receipt in return—no different than if a Westerner had lived on the cliff above them, leaving no trace of neighborly closeness.

On the afternoon Sōsuke delivered the handbox, as Sakai had mentioned, a detective came to inspect below the cliff behind Sōsuke’s house. With Sakai accompanying him, Ome finally saw the landlord’s face she’d only heard about through rumors.
She had assumed him clean-shaven, but he wore a beard—more startling still was how he used surprisingly polite language even toward someone like her.

“You know, Mr. Sakai really does have a beard,” Ome made sure to point out when Sōsuke returned.

Two days later, a maid came bearing a fine confectionery box with Sakai’s calling card attached. “Thank you very much for all your help the other day,” she said deferentially. “The master intends to call on you himself soon.” With this message delivered, she departed.

That evening, Sōsuke opened the lid of the delivered confectionery box and, while stuffing his cheeks with a Chinese-style bun,

“Judging by how he gives us things like this, he doesn’t seem that stingy after all. The rumor about him not letting neighborhood children play on his swing must be false,” he said.
Ome too—

“It’s definitely a lie,” Ome defended Sakai.

Though the couple and Sakai had grown closer than before the thief’s intrusion, neither Sōsuke’s mind nor Ome’s heart harbored any intention to deepen their acquaintance further. From the standpoint of calculated gain, this went without saying; even viewed through neighborly courtesy alone, they lacked the courage to advance beyond this point. Had nature let time continue idly, Sakai would soon have reverted to his former self and Sōsuke to his original state—just as their houses stood separated by the cliff between them, their hearts too would surely have drifted apart.

However, after another two days had passed, on the evening of the third day, Sakai suddenly came to Sōsuke’s place wearing a warm-looking coat with an otter-fur collar. The couple, unaccustomed to nighttime visitors, were startled into mild panic; but when they showed him into the tatami room and spoke with him, Sakai politely expressed his gratitude for the other day’s matter before...

“Thanks to you, the stolen items have been returned,” he said as he unfastened the gold chain wrapped around his white crepe sash and produced a double-lidded gold pocket watch.

“Since it was required by procedure, I did file a report with the police, but truth be told, it was quite an old watch, so I’d more or less resigned myself to its loss—it wasn’t something I’d feel too sorry about if it were taken. Then yesterday, a parcel arrived out of nowhere with no sender listed, and inside was my missing watch, properly wrapped up.”

“The thief must have had trouble handling it too.”
“Or perhaps it didn’t fetch enough money, so he reluctantly decided to return it?”
“It’s such a rare occurrence,” Sakai said with a laugh.
“And then,

“If I may say so myself, that handbox is actually a far more precious item. My grandmother received this when she worked at a palace long ago—it’s something of a memento,” he explained.

That evening, Sakai talked about such things for nearly two hours before leaving, but both Sōsuke, who had been his interlocutor, and Ome, who had listened from the family living room, couldn’t help but think he was a man of remarkably abundant conversational material.

Afterwards,

"He's quite worldly," Ome remarked.

“It’s because he’s idle,” Sōsuke interpreted.

The next day, as Sōsuke was returning home from work after getting off the streetcar and reaching the hardware store in the side street, Sakai's coat with its otter-fur collar caught his eye.
He was turned sideways toward the street, speaking to the shopkeeper.
The shopkeeper, still wearing his large glasses, looked up at Sakai's face from below.
Thinking it wasn't the proper moment to greet him, Sōsuke was about to pass by when Sakai's gaze turned toward the street as he reached the front of the store.

“Oh, last night—are you on your way home now?” came the casual address, leaving Sōsuke no choice but to abandon his indifferent stride. He slowed his pace slightly and removed his hat. Then Sakai, with the air of having finished his business, came out of the shop.

“Are you looking for something?” asked Sōsuke.

“No, nothing much,” he replied, and started walking home alongside Sōsuke.
When they had walked six or seven ken,

“That old man is quite a crafty fellow.
He tried to foist a counterfeit Kazan on me, so I just gave him a good scolding,” Sakai declared.
Sōsuke realized for the first time that this Sakai too engaged in that common pastime of people with leisure—the indulgence of hobbies.
And he thought how it might have been better had he shown someone like this the Hōitsu folding screen he’d sold off the other day right from the start.

"Is that man actually knowledgeable about calligraphy and paintings?"

"What calligraphy and paintings? That fellow doesn't understand a single thing about them. Just look at how that shop appears—doesn't that make it clear enough? Not one item resembling a proper antique is on display. After all, he started out as a scrap paper dealer before working his way up to that miserable state."

Sakai knew the shopkeeper's background thoroughly. According to stories from the elderly greengrocer who delivered their vegetables, the Sakai family had once claimed some gubernatorial title during the shogunate era, making them the neighborhood's most established aristocratic lineage. Sōsuke seemed to recall hearing something about them not retreating to Sunpu during the regime's collapse—or perhaps retreating only to return later—but none of these details had stayed clearly in his mind.

“He was quite the mischief-maker from a young age, you know. There was a time when that guy became the ringleader of the local kids and often went around picking fights,” Sakai let slip even a tidbit about their mutual childhoods. When asked why he had tried to push that counterfeit Kazan on him, Sakai laughed and explained: — “Well, since my father’s time we’ve been patronizing him, so he occasionally brings over all sorts of odds and ends. Despite having no eye for quality, he’s just greedy—quite a troublesome character to deal with. And then, just the other day, he had me buy Hōitsu’s folding screen and got a taste for it.”

Sōsuke was startled.
However, since he couldn’t interrupt the conversation midway, he remained silent.
Sakai went on to talk about how the shopkeeper had since become enthusiastic, frequently bringing in calligraphic works and paintings that he himself didn’t understand, and how he had carefully displayed what he believed to be genuine Osaka-made imitation Koryo pottery—after recounting all this,
“Well, in a place like that, you can only buy a kitchen dining table or at best a new iron kettle,” he said.

Before long, the two reached the top of the slope.
Sakai turned right there; Sōsuke had to descend from there.
Sōsuke wanted to walk together a little longer and ask about the folding screen, but realizing it would seem odd to deliberately take a detour, he parted ways there.
At the moment of parting,

“Would it be all right if I paid you a visit sometime soon?” Sōsuke asked.
“Please do,” he answered readily.

That day was windless and even had a stretch of sunshine, but claiming that staying at home subjected one to a bone-chilling cold, Ome deliberately draped Sōsuke’s kimono over the kotatsu, placed it in the center of the tatami room, and waited for her husband’s return.

That day marked the first time since winter began that they set up the kotatsu during daylight hours.
They had been using it at night since long before, but it had always been placed only in the six-tatami room.

"Why did you set that thing up in the middle of the tatami room today?"

“But since there are no guests or anything, it should be fine.”
“Because Shōroku-san is in the six-tatami room—it’s occupied, you see.”

Sōsuke noticed for the first time that Shōroku was in the house.
He had her drape a warm spun fabric over his undershirt and wrapped the belt around himself tightly, but

“This place is a polar region—we can’t manage without a kotatsu,” he said.
The six-tatami room that had become Shōroku’s, though its mats were not clean, faced south and east and was the warmest room in the house.

Sōsuke drank about two mouthfuls of hot tea from the teacup that Ome had brought,

“Is Shōroku here?” he asked.
Shōroku should have been there all along.
Yet the six-tatami room lay so silent it scarcely seemed occupied.
As Ome began to rise to call out, Sōsuke stopped her with a “No need,” then burrowed into the kotatsu quilt and lay down.
In the tatami room that backed against the cliff face, dusk’s hues were already seeping through.
Propping his head on his arm, Sōsuke stared vacantly at the dimming, confined view.
The sounds of Ome and Kiyo working in the kitchen reached him like neighbors’ distant chores.
Gradually the room darkened until only the shoji screens glowed faintly white through his eyelids.
He lay motionless still.
He did not call for the lamp.

When he emerged from the dark space and took his seat at the dinner table, Shōroku too came out from the six-tatami room and sat facing his brother.
Ome excused herself by saying she’d forgotten due to being busy and rose to fasten the tatami room’s sliding doors.
Sōsuke wanted to suggest that come evening his brother might assist their occupied sister-in-law by tending to tasks like lighting lamps or securing shutters but held back from voicing awkward remarks toward one so newly settled.

Waiting for Ome to return from the tatami room, the brothers finally picked up their bowls.
At that moment, Sōsuke finally recounted how he had encountered Sakai in front of the tool shop on his way home from the government office that day and how Sakai had bought Hōitsu’s folding screen from that bespectacled shopkeeper.
Ome,

“Oh…” she said, keeping her gaze fixed on Sōsuke’s face for a while.

“Then it must be that one.”
“It must surely be that one.”

At first, Shōroku did not interject at all, but as he gradually listened to his elder brother and sister-in-law’s conversation, the connection had become nearly clear—so

“So how much did you sell it for?” he asked.
Before responding, Ome glanced at her husband’s face.

When the meal ended, Shōroku promptly entered the six-tatami room.
Sōsuke returned to the kotatsu.
After a while, Ome also came to warm her feet.
Then they discussed how it would be good to go to Sakai’s the next Saturday or Sunday and see the folding screen.

When the next Sunday arrived, Sōsuke—as was his custom—indulged in his once-weekly restful sleep, thereby squandering the entire morning half of the day.
Ome again complained that her head felt heavy, leaned against the edge of the brazier, and appeared too listless to do anything.
At times like this, if the six-tatami room were vacant, there would be a place for her to retreat to even from morning—thinking this, Sōsuke felt particularly remorseful that assigning the six-tatami room to Shōroku had indirectly resulted in depriving Ome of her refuge.

Even when advised that if she felt unwell she should lay out bedding in the tatami room and sleep there, Ome would demur and not readily comply.
"In that case, why don't we set up another kotatsu? Since I'll be using it too," he suggested, and finally had Kiyo bring the frame and quilt to the tatami room.

Shōroku had gone out somewhere just before Sōsuke woke up and hadn’t shown his face that morning.
Sōsuke did not ask Ome about his whereabouts.
Lately he had come to feel it cruel to raise matters concerning Shōroku and make Ome respond.
There were times he thought it would be easier if Ome herself initiated complaints about his brother—whether he reprimanded or consoled her.

Even when noon arrived, Ome remained at the kotatsu.
Thinking it better for her health to let her rest undisturbed, Sōsuke slipped out to the kitchen, told Kiyo he was going up to Sakai’s place, threw a short Inverness coat with visible sleeves over his everyday clothes, and left the house.

Perhaps because he had been in a gloomy room until now, when he came out to the street, he suddenly felt refreshed.
As his skin’s muscles resisted the cold wind—that sharp winter sensation of sudden constriction—Sōsuke felt a certain pleasure within its intensity. While walking, he thought it wasn’t good to keep Ome cooped up at home like that; once the weather improved, he must let her breathe some outdoor air, or it would do her harm.

When he entered the gate of the Sakai house, through the gaps in the hedge partitioning the main entrance from the kitchen entrance, he caught sight of a vivid red object out of place in winter. When he went closer to examine it, it turned out to be small bedding meant for dolls. The way slender bamboo rods had been slipped through the sleeves and propped against the Japanese photinia branches to keep them from falling struck him as admirably skillful work, unmistakably characteristic of a young girl's handiwork. Though girls at that mischievous age were to be expected, Sōsuke—who had never raised any children himself—stood gazing for some time at this small red bedding laid out in the sun with such ordinary care. And he recalled the red tiered platform his parents had decorated nearly twenty years earlier for his deceased sister—the five court musicians, the beautifully patterned dried sweets, and the shirozake that tasted sweet yet bitter.

Although the master of the Sakai household was at home, Sōsuke had to wait for a while as he was told he was in the middle of a meal.
No sooner had Sōsuke taken his seat than he heard the commotion of those who had hung out the small bedding in the next room.
When the maid slid open the fusuma door to bring tea, four large eyes were already peering at him from behind its shadow.
When she came out carrying the brazier, another different face appeared from behind her.
Perhaps because it was his first time observing this, each time the sliding door opened or closed, entirely different faces appeared, making it impossible to tell how many children there were.
When the maid had finally retreated completely, someone slid open the karakami door just a crack this time, revealing only a pair of black glinting eyes through the gap.
Amused, Sōsuke silently beckoned to them.
They snapped the sliding door shut at once, and three or four voices burst into laughter in unison on the other side.

Soon, one of the girls said, “Hey, Elder Sister, let’s play aunt again like we always do!” The one acting as the elder sister explained, “Okay, today it’s Western aunt roleplay. Mr. Tōsaku is Father so he’s Papa, and Ms. Yukiko is Mother so she’s Mama—that’s how it works.” At that moment, another voice chimed in with a giggle, “That’s silly! ‘Mama’?” followed by someone else laughing delightedly, “Mama!”

“Even so, I’m always Grandmother.”
“Grandmother must have a Western name, you know.”
“And what do we call Grandmother?” asked another.

“Grandmother can still just be Baba,” the elder sister explained again.

For a while after that, excuses like “Pardon me” and inquiries like “Where have you come from?” were exchanged in earnest.
In the meantime, the ring-a-ling of a make-believe telephone also mixed in.
To Sōsuke, everything sounded cheerful and delightfully novel.

Just then, footsteps sounded from the back, and the master seemed about to come out this way—but no sooner had he entered the next room than—

“Now, you all shouldn’t be making noise here—go on over there. We have a guest,” he admonished. At that moment, someone immediately—

"No! Papa!"
"No!"
"I won't go over there unless you buy me a big horse!"
The voice was that of a young boy.
Perhaps due to his young age, his tongue didn't move smoothly, making his attempts at protest seem tedious and drawn-out.
Sōsuke found this particularly amusing.

While the master took his seat and was apologizing for having kept him waiting so long, the children had gone off into the distance.

"It's wonderfully lively here," said Sōsuke truthfully. The master seemed to take this as gracious praise.

“Well, as you can see, it’s quite disorderly here,” came the apologetic reply, and with that as his opening, he proceeded to tell Sōsuke all manner of things about the trouble of raising children and how tremendously demanding they were.
Among these tales, the comical account of how they had filled a beautiful Chinese flower basket to the brim with charcoal briquettes and displayed it in the alcove, along with the mischief of pouring water into his lace-up boots and releasing goldfish inside, struck Sōsuke as utterly novel.
However, when the conversation turned to how having many girls meant clothing expenses piled up, or how returning from a two-week trip made him feel pursued by their sudden growth spurts—everyone’s height having increased just a bit—or how soon he’d not only be overwhelmed with wedding preparations but surely financially ruined, such talk failed to elicit much sympathy from Sōsuke, who had no children.
On the contrary, Sōsuke found himself envying how, despite the master’s verbal complaints about the children’s burdensomeness, there was no trace of actual distress visible in either his expression or demeanor.

Judging the right moment, Sōsuke requested the master if he might be shown the folding screen they had discussed previously.
The master promptly agreed and, clapping his hands, summoned a servant, whom he ordered to retrieve it from the storehouse where it was kept.
And then he turned toward Sōsuke,

“I had it set up there until just two or three days ago. But those children started gathering behind the screen on purpose to play all sorts of pranks for fun, so I thought if they damaged it that’d be a disaster and ended up storing it away.”

When Sōsuke heard these words from the landlord, he now felt both sorry for causing the trouble of showing him the screen and found it bothersome as well. Truth be told, his curiosity was not particularly strong. Indeed, once something had passed into another’s possession, whether it had originally been his own or not, even if one were to trace it back, in practical terms, it would have made no difference whatsoever.

However, the folding screen was soon carried out from the back along the veranda, as Sōsuke had requested, and appeared before his eyes. And indeed, as he had anticipated, it was the very same one that until just recently had been set up in his own parlor. When he discovered this fact, no great emotion arose in Sōsuke’s mind. When he imagined placing this screen amidst the color of the tatami he now sat upon, the grain of the ceiling, the alcove ornament, and the patterns on the sliding doors—and then added to that image the sight of two servants carefully retrieving it from the storehouse—it indeed appeared to him as an object ten times more precious than when it had been in his possession. He could not immediately find the words to say, so he idly fixed his eyes—no fresher than before—upon the familiar object.

The master had misunderstood Sōsuke to be something of a connoisseur. Standing with a hand on the screen's edge, he compared Sōsuke's face to the painted surface, but when Sōsuke offered no critique,

"This is of impeccable provenance—the origin speaks for itself," he said.

Sōsuke merely replied, "I see."

The master then circled behind him, pointing here and there while offering critiques and explanations. Among these were observations that—as befitting a daimyo—this painter's liberal use of fine pigments created splendid colors, remarks that struck Sōsuke as novel yet were interwoven with widely known facts.

Sōsuke, having judged the opportune moment, politely expressed his thanks and returned to his original seat.
The master also settled back onto his floor cushion.
Then he began discussing poetic phrases like "wild paths and skies" and various calligraphy styles.
To Sōsuke's eyes, the master showed deep interest in both calligraphy and haiku.
He seemed so thoroughly versed in all matters that one marveled how he'd accumulated such knowledge.
Ashamed of his own inadequacy, Sōsuke kept his remarks sparse, straining to focus entirely on the other's words.

The master, noticing his guest’s lack of interest in this area, steered the conversation back to paintings.
“Though nothing remarkable, I’d gladly show you my collection of art albums and hanging scrolls if you wish,” he offered kindly.
Sōsuke found himself unable to refuse this considerate gesture.
Instead, prefacing with “Forgive my impertinence,” he inquired how much the master had paid to acquire this folding screen.

“Well, that was quite a bargain!”
“I bought it for eighty yen,” the master promptly replied.

Sōsuke sat before the master, deliberating whether to confess everything about the folding screen or not, when it suddenly occurred to him that revealing the truth might prove rather amusing; thus, he finally began recounting the entire story in detail—how matters had unfolded thus far.
The master occasionally interjected with surprised remarks like “Oh,” “Oh,” as he listened, when finally—

“So you didn’t actually have any particular interest in calligraphy or paintings when you came here to see it,” he said, laughing as though he had just experienced something amusing.
“At the same time,” he added, “what a waste—I should’ve just bought it directly from you at a fair price instead.”
Finally, he harshly berated the pawnshop owner in the side street, calling him a disgraceful scoundrel.

Sōsuke and Sakai would go on to become much closer.

10

After that, neither Saibara’s Aunt nor Yasunosuke ever appeared at Sōsuke’s house again.
Sōsuke naturally had no leisure time to visit Kōjimachi.
Nor did he possess any interest in doing so.
Though they were relatives, separate suns shone upon their two homes.

Only Shōroku seemed to go out to discuss matters from time to time, but even so, it didn’t appear he visited particularly often. Moreover, upon returning, he made it a habit to hardly ever tell Ome about his aunt’s household. Ome suspected this might be Shōroku’s deliberate doing. However, since she herself had no particular stake in Saibara, Ome was rather glad not to hear about her aunt’s activities.

Even so, there were times when she managed to overhear news about them through Shōroku’s conversations with his brother. About a week prior, Shōroku had told his brother that Yasunosuke was struggling again with applying his new invention practically—a seemingly convenient machine that could produce clear printed materials without ink. Given the technical nature of this topic—something entirely removed from her own concerns—Ome remained silent as usual, refraining from comment. Sōsuke, perhaps driven by masculine curiosity, pressed for details on how one could print without using ink.

Shōroku, lacking any specialized knowledge, naturally could not provide a precise response. He explained everything he had heard from Yasunosuke as thoroughly as he could remember. This printing technique had recently been invented in England, and fundamentally speaking, it amounted to nothing more than the application of electricity. “By connecting one pole of the electricity to the type, passing the other pole through the paper, and then pressing that paper onto the type, it’ll work right away,” said Shōroku. “The color is ordinarily black, but with adjustments, it can become red or blue. For color printing, just eliminating the time needed to dry paints makes it extremely useful. If applied to newspapers, not only would it save on ink and ink-roll expenses, but overall, considering how it reduces the required labor by at least a quarter compared to conventional methods, it’s an exceptionally promising venture,” repeated Shōroku, echoing Yasunosuke’s explanation verbatim. And he spoke as though Yasunosuke had already grasped that promising future in his hands. Moreover, his eyes sparkled as though within Yasunosuke’s promising future lay the shadow of his own equally promising prospects. At that time, Sōsuke listened to his brother’s words in his usual manner—rather calmly—but even after hearing them out, he did not offer any particularly noticeable criticism. In truth, from Sōsuke’s perspective, this invention seemed both plausible and dubious; until it was actually put into practice in the world, he found it difficult to either endorse or oppose it.

“So has the bonito boat project been discontinued already?” said Ome, speaking up for the first time after having remained silent until now.

“It hasn’t been discontinued, but that project requires a considerable amount of money, so no matter how convenient it is, apparently not just anyone can make one,” replied Shōroku.
Shōroku spoke in a manner that somewhat seemed to represent Yasunosuke’s interests.
After that, conversation was exchanged among the three of them for a while, but eventually,

“No matter what you do, things just don’t work out,” said Sōsuke.

“Having money and living leisurely, like Mr. Sakai, really is the best way,” said Ome. Hearing her words, Shōroku returned to his room again.

On such occasions, news about Saibara’s Aunt would occasionally reach the couple’s ears; otherwise, they spent many days unaware of how she and Yasunosuke were living.

One day, Ome posed such a question to Sōsuke.

“Whenever Shōroku-san goes to Mr. Yasunosuke’s place, does he receive some pocket money and bring it back?”

Until now, Sōsuke had not paid much attention to Shōroku, but suddenly confronted with this question, he immediately countered with, “Why?”
Ome hesitated for some time,
“But lately, there have been times when he comes home after drinking,” she remarked.
“When Mr. Yasunosuke talks about that invention of his or his money-making ventures, he might be treating him in return for listening,” Sōsuke said with a laugh.
The conversation didn’t develop any further after that.

On the evening of the third day, Shōroku once again failed to return home in time for dinner.
They waited together for a while, but Sōsuke finally declared he was hungry and began eating without regard for Ome’s considerate concern—her suggestion that Shōroku might have gone to the bathhouse to pass the time.
At that moment, Ome turned to her husband and,

“You mustn’t be the one to tell Shōroku-san to stop drinking,” she began.

“Does he drink enough to warrant lecturing him?” Sōsuke asked with an unexpectedly puzzled expression.

Ome felt compelled to argue it wasn’t that severe.
Yet in truth, she grew anxious whenever he returned red-faced during empty daytime hours.
Sōsuke let the matter drop.
But privately, he suspected Shōroku might be deliberately drinking—something he didn’t even enjoy—using money borrowed or received elsewhere, exactly as Ome suggested.

Before long, the year drew toward its close, with night pressing in to claim two-thirds of the world.
The wind blew daily.
Just hearing its sound lent a gloomy tone to life.
Shōroku found himself utterly unable to endure shutting himself away in the six-mat room all day.
The more calmly he contemplated matters, the lonelier his mind became until it grew unbearable.
Venturing out to the parlor to converse with his sister-in-law proved even more disagreeable.
He had no choice but to go outside.
And so he wandered from one friend's house to another.
At first, his friends engaged him in as many amusing conversations as young students typically enjoy.
But even when these topics were exhausted, Shōroku kept visiting.
Eventually his friends remarked that he must be revisiting their talks out of sheer boredom.
At times they affected airs of being busy men occupied with school readings and research.
Shōroku felt deeply affronted at being treated like some carefree idler.
Yet when he tried settling at home, neither reading nor contemplation proved possible.
In short, for a youth of his age striving toward adulthood through study and effort, everything remained untouched—caught between inner turmoil and external constraints.

Even so, when cold rain fell sideways or when melting snow left roads treacherously muddy—requiring him to wet his clothes and dry the mud from his tabi socks—even Shōroku would occasionally refrain from going out.
On such days, appearing truly at loose ends, he would sometimes emerge from his six-mat room to slump by the brazier and pour himself tea.
And if Ome happened to be there, they might exchange a word or two of casual conversation.

There had been a time when Ome remarked, “Shōroku-san likes his drink.”

“It’s almost New Year’s already, isn’t it? How many servings of ozōni will you have?” she had once asked.

As such occasions repeated themselves, the two gradually grew closer.
Eventually, Shōroku began proactively asking Ome for favors himself—things like “Sister-in-law, could you sew this spot here please?”
When Ome took the kasuri-patterned haori and mended its frayed sleeves, Shōroku would sit idle nearby, watching her deft fingers work.
With her husband, Ome would typically stitch in silence indefinitely; with Shōroku, her nature compelled her to break such casual indifference.
Thus during these moments she made efforts to converse.
The topic that persistently clung to Shōroku’s lips was his anxiety over shaping a favorable future.

“But Shōroku-san, you’re still young, aren’t you?”
“Whatever you do lies ahead of you.”
“That’s your brother’s situation.”
“It’s your brother who can afford to be that pessimistic.”

Ome offered this sort of consolation about twice.

On the third occasion,

“It wasn’t that Mr. Yasunosuke promised to arrange things for you once next year comes,” she said.

Shōroku wore an uncertain expression.

“Well, if Mr. Yasunosuke’s plans go as smoothly as he says they will, there’d be no problem. But the more I think about it, the more they start to seem a bit unreliable,” he replied.
“And because katsuo boats don’t seem to make much profit either.”

Ome saw Shōroku’s disconsolate figure and, comparing it to the Shōroku who sometimes returned home with alcohol on his breath—a Shōroku harboring some undefined aggression, yet so resentful about unclear grievances that he seemed utterly perplexed—found herself both pitying him and feeling oddly amused in her heart.

At that moment,

“Really, though.
If only your brother had money, I could do anything for you,” she said with genuine sympathy, not mere flattery.

One evening, perhaps, Shōroku once again bundled his chilled body in his overcoat and went out. Returning after eight o’clock, he produced a long white bag from his sleeve before his brother and sister-in-law, explaining that he had bought buckwheat flour on his way back from Saibara’s place, thinking they should make some soba noodles to eat in the cold.
While Ome was boiling water, he busily shaved dried bonito flakes, saying he would prepare the broth.

At that time, Sōsuke and his wife learned as recent news that Yasunosuke’s wedding had finally been postponed until spring.
This marriage arrangement had arisen shortly after Yasunosuke graduated from school, and by the time Shōroku returned from Bōshū and was refused further educational support by his aunt, the negotiations were already well underway.
Since no formal notice had arrived, Sōsuke remained entirely unaware of when the matter had been settled; he could only anticipate the new couple who were supposed to hold their ceremony within the year through Shōroku, who periodically visited Saibara’s household and brought back whatever information he could gather.
Beyond this, through Shōroku as well, he had only heard that the bride’s family included a salaried employee living comfortably, that she had attended Jogakukan school, and that she had many siblings.
As for her photograph, Shōroku alone knew her face.

“Is she pretty?” Ome had once asked.

“Well, she’s probably good-looking,” Shōroku had once replied.

That evening, the question of why the ceremony wasn’t held before year’s end became the topic of conversation among the three while the soba was being prepared.
Ome speculated that perhaps the direction was inauspicious.
Sōsuke thought it was likely because they were pressed for time with no suitable days left.
Shōroku alone,

“It seems to stem from material necessity after all.”
“Since the bride’s family appears quite extravagant, Aunt probably can’t settle matters so simply,” he remarked with an uncharacteristically domestic observation.

Eleven

Ome began to feel unsteady when autumn was past its midpoint, around the time the maple leaves turned a dark red and shriveled.
Apart from her time in Kyoto, Ome—who had scarcely known good health even during her years in Hiroshima or Fukuoka—could not be considered fortunate in this regard even after returning to Tokyo.
There had been a time when Ome grew troubled enough to wonder—so much that one might well suspect—whether the waters of her native region disagreed with this woman's constitution.

Lately these concerns had gradually settled, and occasions for Sōsuke to fret had become so rare they could be counted on one hand each year. Thus Sōsuke passed his days attending to government office routines with peace of mind, while Ome likewise spent her hours calmly managing household affairs during her husband's absences.
When autumn faded that year and winds bearing thin frost began biting harshly at exposed skin, even as Ome again started feeling unwell, she did not find it particularly burdensome.
At first she did not even inform Sōsuke.
Even when Sōsuke noticed and urged her to consult a doctor, she proved reluctant to comply.

It was then that Shōroku moved in.
Sōsuke had observed Ome’s condition during that time—her physical constitution and mental state, which only he, as her husband, knew well—and though he thought it best not to increase the household’s numbers and create commotion, since circumstances were unavoidable, there was nothing to do but let matters take their course.
He merely offered the contradictory advice that she should try to stay as quiet as possible.
Ome smiled and,

“It’s fine,” she said.
When he received this response, Sōsuke found himself growing even more uneasy.
Yet strangely, Ome’s spirits had been uplifted ever since Shōroku moved in.
With even this small responsibility added to her shoulders, her mind seemed to grow taut, and she began tending to her husband and Shōroku more diligently than ever before.
To Shōroku, this change went entirely unnoticed, but Sōsuke could clearly see how much more effort Ome was exerting compared to before.
In his heart, Sōsuke felt fresh gratitude toward his conscientious wife while simultaneously fearing that this very strain might culminate in some sudden physical collapse.

Unfortunately, this very worry suddenly began to materialize after the twentieth day of December, and Sōsuke, as though his anticipated fears had ignited, was thrown into great panic.
That day, a sky too dim to cast shadows on the ground had hung low since morning, its oppressive cold pressing down on people's heads all day long.
Ome had again been unable to sleep the previous night and began working while cradling her unrested head; though each time she rose or moved some pain resonated in her brain, perhaps distracted by the relatively bright external stimuli, she found this easier to endure than lying still with only her head remaining painfully alert.
In any case, she endured until seeing her husband off by convincing herself things would soon return to normal.
But once Sōsuke left and she felt her duties momentarily pause, the murky weather began gradually assailing Ome's head.
When she looked up, the sky seemed frozen solid; indoors, cold appeared to seep through gloomy shoji paper—yet Ome's head kept growing hotter.
With no alternative, she retrieved the futon put away that morning and lay down with it spread in the sitting room.
Still unable to bear it, she had Kiyo wring out a wet towel and place it on her head.
As this quickly grew warm, she pulled a metal basin bedside and occasionally re-wrung it.

By noon, she had tried cooling her forehead with these makeshift measures, but as there was no sign of improvement whatsoever, Ome lacked the energy to go out of her way to rise and eat with Shōroku. Having instructed Kiyo to set out the meal and have it served to him, she herself still did not leave her sickbed. Then she had Kiyo bring the soft pillow her husband usually used and replaced the hard one with it. Ome even lacked the courage to fret in a womanly way over her hair getting damaged.

Shōroku came out from the six-tatami room, slid open the fusuma door slightly, and peered in at Ome. Finding her half-facing the alcove with her eyes closed—perhaps thinking she had fallen asleep—he closed the door again quietly without uttering a word. Then, having claimed the large dining table all to himself, he began making the sound of noisily shoveling down his chazuke from the very start.

Around two o'clock, Ome finally managed to doze off, but when she awoke, the damp towel she had placed on her forehead had grown nearly dry from the warmth. Instead, her head had eased a little. From her shoulders down to her spine, a heavy, oppressive sensation had newly settled in. Motivated by the idea that failing to nourish herself would only worsen her condition, Ome got up alone and ate a light, late lunch.

“How are you feeling, Madam?” Kiyo asked repeatedly while serving her.
Since Ome was feeling considerably better, she had the bedding put away, leaned against the brazier, and waited for Sōsuke to return.

Sōsuke returned at his usual hour.
He described how stores along Kanda’s streets had already raised banners for their year-end sales, and how the market hall had hung red-and-white curtains with a band playing to boost the atmosphere—

“It’s lively out there,” he said.
“You should go see it.”
“It’s nothing if you take the train,” he urged, his face raw and red as if corroded by the cold.

When Sōsuke showed such concern, Ome found she couldn’t bring herself to mention her poor health.
In truth, it wasn’t so unbearable.
So with her usual unaffected expression, she helped her husband change into his kimono, folded his Western clothes, and thus evening came.

However, as it approached nine o'clock, she suddenly said to Sōsuke that she wanted to retire early because she felt unwell.
Because they had been conversing as cheerfully as usual until then, Sōsuke was startled upon hearing this, but with Ome's reassurance that it was nothing serious, he finally felt relieved and let her make preparations to rest immediately.

After Ome went to bed, for about twenty minutes, Sōsuke listened to the sound of the iron kettle beside his ear as he illuminated the quiet night with the round-shaded lamp.
He recalled rumors of a salary increase for general officials in the coming fiscal year.
He also remembered hearing there would likely be reforms or layoffs beforehand.
Then he wondered which category he might fall into.
He regretted that Sugihara, who had brought him to Tokyo, no longer served as section chief at the ministry.
Since moving to Tokyo, he had strangely never fallen ill.
Consequently, he had never filed a leave notice.
Though he had left school midway and hardly read books anymore—making him no scholar—his mind remained adequate for government work.

After synthesizing various circumstances in his mind, he concluded internally that things would likely be all right. Then he lightly tapped the iron kettle's rim with his fingernail. At that moment in the sitting room,

"You—come here..." When Sōsuke heard Ome's pained voice call out, he instinctively rose to his feet.

When he entered the sitting room, he found Ome with knitted brows, pressing her right hand against her shoulder as she leaned halfway out of the futon up to her chest.
Sōsuke reached almost mechanically toward the same spot.
From above where Ome pressed, he gripped the hard bony ridge.

“A bit further back,” Ome implored.
It took two or three positional adjustments before Sōsuke’s hand settled where she wanted.
When he pressed with his fingers, the area slightly toward the back at the juncture of neck and shoulder had stiffened like stone.
Ome requested he press with all his strength as a man.
Sweat began oozing from Sōsuke’s forehead.
Still, he couldn’t apply enough force to satisfy her.

Sōsuke remembered an old term—sudden acute shoulder pain.
In a story he had heard from his grandfather as a child, there was a samurai who, while riding his horse somewhere, had been suddenly struck by this sudden acute shoulder pain; immediately leaping from his horse, he drew his kogatana dagger and cut his shoulder to let blood flow, thus narrowly saving his life—this tale now rose vividly in his memory.
At that moment, Sōsuke thought this would not do.
But whether it was truly advisable to use a blade and pierce the shoulder flesh—he found himself unable to decide.

Ome was flushed more than usual，ears red all the way up.
When asked if the head was hot，she answered in a pained voice that it was.
Sōsuke raised his voice and ordered Kiyo to put cold water into an ice bag and bring it.
Unfortunately there was no ice bag，so Kiyo soaked a hand towel in that morning’s metal basin and brought it.
While Kiyo cooled the head，Sōsuke continued pressing down on the shoulder with all his strength.
Even when occasionally asked if it felt any better，Ome would only faintly reply that it hurt.

Sōsuke grew utterly disheartened.
He resolved to dash out and fetch a doctor himself, but worried about what might happen in his absence, he couldn’t bring himself to step outside even a single pace.

“Kiyo, hurry to the street—buy an ice bag and fetch a doctor! It’s still early, so he’s probably awake.”
Kiyo immediately stood up and looked at the clock in the tearoom.

“It’s nine fifteen,” said Kiyo, then went around to the kitchen entrance and was rummaging through her geta clogs when Shōroku returned from outside just in time.
As usual without greeting his brother, he tried to slip into his room, but Sōsuke sharply called out “Hey, Shōroku!” and stopped him.
Shōroku had been hesitating in the tearoom when his brother called out twice more in quick succession with a loud voice, forcing him to give a low reply and show his face through the sliding door.
His eyes still bore traces of alcohol’s lingering flush.
Peering into the room with sudden alertness,

“What happened?” he asked, his expression suddenly clearing of all traces of drunkenness.

Sōsuke repeated to Shōroku what he had ordered Kiyo to do and urged him to hurry.
Shōroku, without even taking off his coat, immediately turned back to the entrance.

“Brother, even if we hurry, going all the way to fetch the doctor will take time. Let’s borrow Mr. Sakai’s telephone and ask him to come immediately.”

“Ah.”
“Do that,” answered Sōsuke.
While Shōroku was away, he repeatedly had Kiyo change the water in the metal basin and desperately pressed and kneaded Ome’s shoulders.
Because he couldn’t bear to just sit and watch Ome suffer without doing anything, he distracted himself this way.

For Sōsuke at that moment, nothing was more agonizing than waiting for the doctor's arrival at any instant. While kneading Ome's shoulders, he constantly listened for sounds from outside.

When the doctor finally arrived, it felt as though dawn had broken for the first time. The doctor, true to his professional demeanor, showed not the slightest sign of panic. Drawing the small briefcase close to his side, he conducted a leisurely examination with unflappable composure, as though attending to a chronic patient. Perhaps from observing that unhurried countenance at her side, Sōsuke's agitated heart finally settled.

The doctor instructed Sōsuke on emergency measures: applying mustard plasters to the affected area, warming the feet with compresses, and cooling the head with ice. He then mixed the mustard plaster himself and applied it from Ome's shoulder to the nape of her neck. The compresses were managed by Kiyo and Shōroku. Sōsuke placed the ice bag over the hand towel on the forehead.

Nearly an hour passed in this manner.
The doctor said he would stay to observe her condition for some time and remained seated at Ome’s bedside until then.
They occasionally exchanged small talk, but mostly sat in silence watching over Ome’s state.
The night grew late with its usual stillness.

“It’s getting quite cold,” said the doctor.
Feeling pity for him, Sōsuke listened carefully to the subsequent instructions before requesting that he leave without ceremony.
This was because Ome had grown considerably more comfortable than earlier.

“She ought to be all right now.”
“I’ll give one dose for tonight—have her take it.”
“I believe she’ll likely sleep,” said the doctor as he departed.
Shōroku immediately followed him out.

While Shōroku went to get the medicine, Ome,

“What time is it now?” she asked, looking up at Sōsuke by her pillow. Unlike in the evening, the blood had drained from her cheeks, and where the lamplight fell, she looked especially pale. Thinking her disheveled black hair might be to blame, Sōsuke carefully brushed back the strands at her temples. Then—

"Is it any better?" he asked.

"Yes, I feel much better now," Ome replied, letting slip her usual smile.
Even when suffering, Ome never failed to show Sōsuke a smile.

In the tearoom, Kiyo lay face down, snoring.

"Please let Kiyo sleep," Ome requested of Sōsuke.

By the time Shōroku returned from getting the medicine and had administered it as the doctor instructed, it was already nearing twelve o'clock.
Within less than twenty minutes, the patient was sound asleep.

“It’s just right,” said Sōsuke, looking at Ome’s face.
Shōroku had also been watching his sister-in-law’s condition for a while, but

“She should be all right now,” he answered.
The two of them removed the ice bag from her forehead.

Before long, Shōroku entered his own room.
Sōsuke spread out the futon beside Ome and slept as usual.

Five or six hours later, the winter night, pierced by frost as sharp as an awl, gave way completely. Then, after another hour had passed, the sun that dyed the earth rose boldly into a cloudless azure sky. Ome still slept soundly.

Before long breakfast was finished, and the time to leave for work finally drew near.
Yet Ome showed no signs of waking from sleep.
Sōsuke crouched by her pillow, listening to her deep breathing as he debated whether to go to the ministry or take the day off.

Twelve

In the morning, he attended to his usual duties at the ministry, but as scenes from the previous evening occasionally flashed before his eyes, he found himself worrying about Ome’s condition, so his work did not progress as intended.
At times, he even made peculiar mistakes.
Sōsuke waited until noon and resolutely returned home.

In the train car, he envisioned nothing but favorable scenarios—when Ome’s eyes must have opened by now, how much better she must feel after waking, that there was no longer any risk of another attack occurring.
Having boarded during an unusually sparse passenger hour, Sōsuke scarcely needed to mind the distractions around him.
Thus he freely contemplated the numerous mental images that arose.

Before long, the train arrived at the terminal.

When he reached the house entrance, the interior lay hushed as if no one was there.
He opened the lattice door, removed his shoes, and stepped up into the entryway, yet no one came out to greet him.
Instead of proceeding from the veranda to the tearoom as usual, Sōsuke directly slid open the adjoining fusuma and entered the tatami room where Ome lay sleeping.
Looking in, he found Ome still asleep.
The vermilion-lacquered tray by her pillow held the powdered medicine packet and glass tumbler, its water still half-full just as it had been that morning.
Her head remained turned toward the alcove, the left cheek and mustard-plastered collar visible exactly as they had appeared that morning.
The profound slumber—seeming to connect with reality only through breath—mirrored what he had observed that morning.
Everything matched precisely the scenes he had stored away in his mind before leaving that morning.
Without removing his overcoat, Sōsuke bent over and listened for some time to Ome's steady breathing as she slept.
Ome showed no sign of waking easily.
Sōsuke counted on his fingers the hours since Ome had taken the powdered medicine the previous evening.
At last, anxiety surfaced on his face.
Though he had worried until last night about her inability to sleep, now seeing her lie unconscious for so long before him, he began to suspect this prolonged sleep might itself signal some abnormality.

Sōsuke placed his hand on the futon and shook Ome lightly two or three times.
Ome’s hair moved like waves atop the cylindrical pillow, but she continued to sleep steadily.
Sōsuke left Ome and went from the tearoom to the kitchen.
In the small bucket by the sink, bowls and lacquered bowls had been left soaking unwashed.
When he peeked into the maid’s room, he found Kiyo with a small tray set before her, leaning against the rice container and lying face down.
Sōsuke then pulled open the six-tatami room’s door and stuck his head in.
There, Shōroku lay asleep with a single quilt pulled over his head.

Sōsuke changed into a kimono by himself and folded the Western clothes he had taken off without assistance before putting them away in the closet.
Then he replenished the fire in the brazier and prepared to boil water.
For two or three minutes he leaned on the brazier and thought, but soon stood up and began by rousing Shōroku.
Next he roused Kiyo.
Both were startled and jumped up.
When he asked Shōroku about Ome’s condition from that morning until now, he explained that he had actually been so sleepy he had eaten around eleven-thirty and gone to bed, but until then Ome too had been sleeping soundly.

“Go to the doctor and ask if it’s all right that she hasn’t woken up since taking last night’s medicine.”

“Yes.”

Shōroku gave a brief reply and went out.
Sōsuke returned to the tatami room and stared intently at Ome’s face.
He crossed his arms, torn between conflicting thoughts—that it would be wrong not to wake her, yet that waking her might harm her health.

Before long, Shōroku returned and reported that the doctor had just been about to go out on a house call; when he explained the situation, the doctor replied that he would stop by a couple of houses first and then come right away.
Sōsuke asked Shōroku if it was all right to leave her like this until the doctor arrived, but since Shōroku merely said that the doctor had told him nothing beyond what he had already conveyed, he had no choice but to sit still by the pillow as before.
And in his heart, he felt that both the doctor and Shōroku were being too unkind.
On top of that, he recalled Shōroku’s face when he had returned the previous evening while Ome was being nursed, and this made him even more uncomfortable.
Sōsuke had first learned of Shōroku’s drinking through Ome’s warning. Afterward, when he paid closer attention to his brother’s behavior, he indeed noticed something unserious about him, and though he had resolved to eventually give him a thorough scolding, he had deliberately held back until now out of pity for Ome, not wanting her to see their unpleasant faces.

"If I'm going to bring it up, it has to be now while Ome is asleep," he thought. "Even if we were to hurl the most awkward accusations at each other now, there'd be no danger of upsetting Ome's nerves."

He had followed this line of reasoning to its conclusion, but seeing Ome's insensate face renewed his anxiety about her condition instead, making him want to rouse her immediately—which left him wavering indecisively between these conflicting impulses.

At last, the doctor arrived.

Once again carefully drawing last evening’s medical bag close to his side and leisurely puffing on a rolled cigarette as he listened to Sōsuke’s account with vague assent, the doctor then turned toward Ome and said, “Well then, let me examine her.”
He took the patient’s pulse as usual and stared at his watch for a long time.
Then he placed the black stethoscope over her heart.
He carefully moved it here and there.
Finally, he took out a reflective mirror with a round hole and told Sōsuke to light a candle.
Because Sōsuke did not have a candle, he had Kiyo light the lamp.
The doctor pried open Ome’s sleeping eyes and carefully focused the light of the reflective mirror deep into her lashes.
The examination was thus concluded.

“The medicine was a bit too potent,” he said, turning toward Sōsuke, but upon seeing the look in his eyes, he immediately—

“But there’s no need for you to worry. In such cases, if any adverse effects were to occur, they would certainly affect either the heart or the brain. However, upon examination, I’ve found no abnormalities in either.”

Sōsuke was finally relieved by this. The doctor also explained that the sleeping drug he had used was comparatively new and, in academic terms, not as harmful as other sedatives, and moreover that its effectiveness varied greatly depending on the patient’s constitution—before taking his leave.

When the doctor was leaving, Sōsuke asked, “Then is it all right to let her sleep as long as she can?” To which the doctor replied there was no particular need to wake her unless necessary.

“Then is it all right to just let her sleep as long as she can?” he asked. The doctor replied, “As long as there’s no urgent need, there’s no particular necessity to wake her.”

After the doctor left, Sōsuke suddenly felt hungry.
When he went into the tearoom, the iron kettle he had hung earlier was whistling.
When he called Kiyo and ordered her to serve the meal, she made a troubled face and replied that she hadn’t prepared anything yet.
Sure enough, there was still some time before dinner.
Sōsuke sat cross-legged comfortably by the brazier and, while chewing on pickled daikon, shoveled down about four bowls of rice with hot water in quick succession.
Then, about thirty minutes later, Ome’s eyes opened of their own accord.

Thirteen

Feeling the urge to prepare for the New Year, Sōsuke stepped over the threshold of the barber shop for the first time in a long while.
Perhaps due to the year-end rush, the shop was quite crowded with customers, so the snip-snip of scissors rang out simultaneously from two or three places.
The sound struck his eardrums with particular urgency—having just witnessed the main street's bustling activity that seemed determined to force its way through this cold and hasten spring's arrival.

As he waited by the stove smoking his cigarette, Sōsuke felt like someone swept against his will into society's vast machinery, compelled to see out the year through sheer obligation.
With the New Year looming before him, he found himself harboring an unsettled mood—devoid of any real hopes yet needlessly agitated by his surroundings' restless energy.

Ome’s attack had finally subsided.
By now, even when going out as on weekdays, he had reached a point where household matters no longer weighed so heavily on his mind.
Though their spring preparations were quieter compared to others', for Ome this still meant her annual busy season; Sōsuke, having resolved to skip even the usual preparations and usher in the New Year more simply than ever, felt as though some dreadful tragedy had retreated a step when he saw his wife’s revitalized form, and he breathed a sigh of relief.

However, this vague anxiety—that he had no way of knowing when or in what form that tragedy might come again to seize his family—would occasionally settle like mist in his mind.

At year’s end, when Sōsuke saw people who seemed to thrive on complications deliberately hastening the short days onward through their bustling activity, he felt all the more assailed by this formless dread.
If possible, he even found himself wishing to remain alone in December’s gloomy darkness.
When his turn finally came and he found his reflection in the cold mirror, he suddenly gazed at it, wondering what this shadow truly was.
From the neck down was wrapped in pure white cloth, hiding entirely the color and pattern of the kimono he wore.
At that moment he noticed the barber’s small birdcage reflected deep within the mirror.
The bird flitted restlessly along its perch.

Having had fragrant oil applied to his head and a cheerful voice call out to him from behind, when he stepped outside he still felt refreshed.
In the cold air, Sōsuke realized that getting his hair cut as Ome had advised had ultimately served to renew his spirits.

Due to needing to discuss the water tax matter, Sōsuke stopped by Sakai’s house on his way home.
The maid came out and said, “This way,” so he expected to be shown to the usual parlor, but she led him past it and into the tearoom.
Then he saw that the sliding door to the tearoom was open about two feet, and from within came the sound of three or four people laughing.
The Sakai household was as lively as ever.

The master was sitting on the opposite side of a glossy long brazier.
The wife had left the brazier and moved slightly closer to the veranda’s shoji screen, still facing this way.
Behind the master hung a pillar clock with a slender black frame.
To the right of the clock was a wall, and to the left was a built-in cupboard.
In that cupboard could be seen things like stone rubbings, haiga paintings, and fan ribs with their paper removed.

In addition to the master and his wife, two girls in matching patterned haori with cylindrical sleeves sat with their shoulders pressed together.
One appeared to be twelve or thirteen; the other about ten.
With their large eyes wide open, they turned toward Sōsuke, who had entered from behind the sliding door, but around both their eyes and mouths still lingered the rich traces of having just laughed.
Sōsuke glanced around the room and noticed that, besides this parent and child, there was another strange man sitting formally near the entrance.

Sōsuke had not sat for five minutes before realizing that the earlier laughter had arisen from the exchange between this strange man and Sakai’s family.
The man had red hair that looked gritty with sand and dust, and a sunburned complexion of such a strong hue that it would never fade in his lifetime.
He wore a white cotton shirt with ceramic buttons and a stiff handwoven coat, from whose collar hung a long, round cord resembling a purse string—an appearance that could only belong to someone from a remote mountainous region who rarely had the opportunity to visit Tokyo.
Moreover, despite the cold, the man had his knees slightly exposed and kept pulling out a handkerchief tucked into the end of his faded indigo Kogura sash to wipe under his nose.

“This is a man who comes all the way from Kai Province to Tokyo carrying bolts of fabric on his back,” Sakai introduced. The man then turned toward Sōsuke.

“Please, sir, buy one from me,” he greeted.

Indeed, meisen silks, figured silks, white pongees, and the like were scattered all about the place.
Sōsuke found it rather strange that this man, with his peculiar appearance and manner of speech, carried such splendid goods on his back as he traveled.
According to Sakai’s wife’s explanation, the weaver’s village was full of volcanic rocks where they couldn’t harvest rice or millet, so they had no choice but to plant mulberry trees and raise silkworms. It seemed to be an extremely poor place, with only one household owning a pillar clock and just three children attending higher elementary school.

“I hear you’re the only one in your village who can write,” said the wife with a laugh.
Then the weaver too:

“It’s God’s honest truth, ma’am.
“There ain’t a soul ’sides me who can read, write, or cipher.
“A downright wretched place, no mistake,” he agreed solemnly.

The weaver kept thrusting bolts of fabric before the master and mistress, repeating endlessly, “Take one, won’t ya?”
When met with protests like “That’s too steep—give us a proper discount,” he’d retort with “Ain’t no price at all!” or “I’m beggin’ ya—take it as charity!” or “Leastways check the weight!”—all in that peculiar country-bumpkin way.
Each time, everyone laughed.
The master and his wife, evidently at leisure, kept humoring him half in jest.

“Weaver,” said Sakai’s Wife, “when you go out carrying that load on your back like that, do you still have your meals at proper times?”

“Ain’t no way I can go without eatin’. The hunger’s somethin’ fierce!”

“What sort of places do you eat at?”

“What kinda place d’ya think? Same as always—eateries.”

Sakai laughingly asked what “eateries” meant.
The weaver answered that eateries were places serving meals.
He then told them how Tokyo departure meals tasted so good that once he started eating heartily most inns couldn’t keep up—adding it’d be downright pitiful making them serve three full meals daily—which made everyone laugh again.

In the end, the weaver managed to sell one bolt each of twisted-thread tsumugi silk and white ro gauze to the wife.
Sōsuke felt that those who had the means to buy summer ro in such financially strained times were truly exceptional.
Then Sakai turned to Sōsuke and suggested,
“How about you getting something too while you’re here?
Something for your wife’s everyday wear?”
His wife also explained how buying on such occasions allowed getting items at discounted prices.
Then he assured,
“Oh, payment can be made anytime.”
Sōsuke finally decided to buy a bolt of meisen silk for Ome.
The master haggled relentlessly until he brought the price down to three yen.

The weaver, after having lost,

“This ain’t no price! Makes a man wanna cry!” At this, everyone burst into laughter again.

The weaver seemed to use this rustic language consistently wherever he went.
As he made his daily rounds to familiar houses, the load on his back gradually lightened until only an indigo cloth wrapper and Sanada cord remained.
He said that around the time when the old New Year would come, he would first return to his hometown, spend what remained of spring in the mountains, then come back out shouldering as much new fabric as he could carry.
By late April or early May when sericulture grew busy, he would convert it all into cash and return to his small village littered with volcanic rocks on Mount Fuji’s northern slopes—or so people said.

“It’s been four or five years since he began visiting our house, yet no matter when you see him, he remains exactly the same—utterly unchanged,” the wife observed.

“He’s truly an unusual man,” the master added.
In this current era where streets might unexpectedly widen if one stayed indoors for three days, or where new tram lines could open unnoticed by those who skipped a day’s newspaper—for such a mountain man to visit Tokyo twice yearly while stubbornly preserving every rustic peculiarity was indeed remarkable.
Sōsuke studied the weaver’s countenance, bearing, attire, and manner of speech with meticulous attention, feeling a pang of pity.

He left Sakai’s house, and even on his way home, while adjusting his hold on the meisen bundle he had carried under his Inverness cape, he kept envisioning before his eyes the man who had sold it for the paltry sum of three yen—the coarse stripes of his padded coat, his reddish, tousled hair, and those stiff, lusterless locks that were somehow impeccably parted down the middle of his head.

At home, Ome had finally finished sewing the spring haori for Sōsuke and, instead of pressing it with weights, placed it beneath a zabuton cushion and was sitting on top of it herself.

“Please lay this out to sleep on tonight,” said Ome, turning to Sōsuke.
When she heard from her husband about the man from Kai Province who had been visiting Sakai’s house, even Ome could not help bursting into loud laughter.
She kept gazing at the striped pattern and texture of the meisen silk Sōsuke had brought home, repeating over and over how inexpensive it was.
The meisen silk was truly a fine piece.

“How can they sell it so cheaply and still make it worthwhile?” she finally inquired.

“Well, it’s because those middleman drapers are lining their pockets too much,” answered Sōsuke, sounding like some authority on the subject despite basing this conclusion solely on the single bolt of meisen silk before them.

The couple’s conversation turned to Sakai’s financial ease—how this very affluence allowed them to bypass opportunistic side-street merchants and instead occasionally purchase seemingly superfluous items cheaply from traveling weavers like this one—until gradually settling on vivid descriptions of that household’s perpetually cheerful, bustling atmosphere.
Sōsuke abruptly shifted his tone and,

“It’s not just about having money.
“Another reason is they’ve got so many children.
If only we had children—even a poor household would generally be cheerful,” Sōsuke remarked to Ome.

The bitter tone in his voice—as if reproaching their own lonely existence—made Ome unconsciously release the fabric from her lap and look at her husband’s face.
Sōsuke, aware only that he had finally pleased his wife after so long by bringing home something from Sakai that matched her tastes, failed to notice this nuance.
Ome glanced at Sōsuke’s face but said nothing in that moment.
Yet she deliberately waited until bedtime that night to address it.

The two went to bed as usual past ten, but Ome, waiting until she knew her husband was still awake, turned toward Sōsuke and spoke.

"You said earlier that without children, one can't help feeling lonely."

Sōsuke certainly remembered having made some similar general remark.
Yet since it hadn't been a deliberate observation stubbornly focused on their own situation—and particularly not one meant to catch Ome's attention—being formally challenged like this left him no recourse but discomfort.

“I wasn’t talking about our household.”

Having received this reply, Ome remained silent for some time.
Before long,

“But you’re always thinking how lonely our home is—that’s why you said something like that,” she repeated, posing a question nearly identical to the previous one.
Sōsuke indeed had something in mind that he naturally needed to affirm.
Yet out of consideration for Ome, he couldn’t bring himself to make such an explicit confession.
Thinking it better to ease his wife’s recovering mind by turning it into a joke, he...

“Well, if you call it lonely, I suppose it’s not exactly not lonely,” he said, shifting his tone to sound as cheerful as possible, but once he reached that point, he found himself stuck, unable to conjure any fresh phrases or amusing words. “Having no choice—”

“Well, never mind. Don’t worry,” he said.
Ome once again gave no answer.
Sōsuke thought to change the subject—

“There was a fire last evening too,” he began making small talk.
Then Ome suddenly—

“I’m truly sorry for you,” she half-explained in a pained voice, then fell silent once more.
The lamp was placed as usual on the tokonoma.
Ome had her back to the lamp, so Sōsuke could not clearly discern the expression on her face, but her voice seemed somewhat tinged with tears.
He had been lying on his back looking at the ceiling until now, but immediately turned toward his wife.
And then he gazed intently at Ome’s face, which had become a dim shadow.
Ome was also staring intently at Sōsuke from the darkness.
And then,

“I’ve been meaning to confess and apologize over and over, but since I couldn’t find the right words, I left it at that,” she said haltingly.
To Sōsuke, the meaning remained utterly unclear.
He wondered if it might partly be hysteria, but unable to settle on that conclusion, he stayed dazed for some time.
Then Ome, in a desperate tone,

“There’s simply no chance of me ever bearing children,” she declared and burst into tears.

Even as Sōsuke remained perplexed, at a loss for how to console this poignant confession, his feeling of profound pity for Ome grew even stronger.

"Kids? It’s not like we need them anyway."
"If we had as many children as Mr. Sakai up there, even you’d find it pitiful just looking from the outside."
"It’s just like a kindergarten."

"But if it’s been decided we can’t have even one, you wouldn’t like that either, would you?"

"It hasn’t been decided yet that we can’t have children, has it?"
"There might still be one born from now on, you know?"

Ome burst into tears even more.
Sōsuke, also at a loss, calmly waited for the outburst to subside.
Then he slowly listened to the explanation.

In terms of harmonious cohabitation, the couple had succeeded more than most; yet when it came to children, they proved more unfortunate than their ordinary neighbors.
If there had been no seed from the start, it might have been bearable; but having lost what should have grown midway, their sense of misfortune cut all the deeper.

The first time she became pregnant was when they had left Kyoto and were keeping an impoverished household in Hiroshima.
When her condition was confirmed, Ome spent her days harboring feelings akin to simultaneously dreaming of a terrifying future and a joyous one through this new experience.
Sōsuke alone interpreted this as proof that he had given form to love's invisible essence—a tangible confirmation—and took no small joy in this.
Counting on his fingers, he eagerly awaited the day when this lump of flesh imbued with his own life would dance before his eyes.
Yet contrary to their expectations, the fetus grew for five months only to suddenly miscarry.
During those days, their livelihood persisted through nothing but harsh, trying months.
Gazing at Ome's pallid face after the miscarriage, Sōsuke concluded this too had ultimately sprung from their domestic hardships.
He lamented how poverty had shattered love's fruition, leaving them unable to hold it fast any longer.
Ome did nothing but weep.

Shortly after moving to Fukuoka, Ome once again began craving sour things.
Having heard that miscarriages could become recurrent, Ome took every precaution and lived with extreme caution.
Perhaps because of this care, the pregnancy progressed smoothly at first, but for some inexplicable reason—with no discernible cause—the baby arrived prematurely.
The midwife tilted her head and advised them to consult a doctor.
When examined, the doctor declared the infant insufficiently developed and insisted they maintain a constant artificial warmth in the room day and night.
Given Sōsuke’s limited resources, even installing a proper heating stove proved difficult.
The couple devoted all their time and ingenuity to protecting the infant’s life.
Yet all efforts proved futile.
A week later, the child born of their shared blood turned cold.
Ome clutched the lifeless infant to her chest,

“What should I do?” she sobbed.
Sōsuke manfully endured this second blow.
Until the cold flesh turned to ash and that ash blended into the black earth, he did not utter a single word of complaint.
Before long, the shadow-like presence that had lingered between them gradually receded and soon vanished entirely.

Then came the memory of the third time.
In the first year after Sōsuke moved to Tokyo, Ome became pregnant once again.
When they first moved there, Ome’s body had become quite weakened, so of course Sōsuke was deeply concerned; but since both were resolved that this time would be different, they safely passed month after month with growing anticipation.
However, just when they reached the fifth month, Ome again met with an unexpected mishap.
At that time, since no water supply had been installed yet, their maid had to draw water from the well and do laundry morning and evening.
One day when Ome needed to give instructions to the maid working in back, she went to speak with her by the tub placed near the drainage channel—and while crossing over it, lost her footing on a wet board covered in blue-green moss.
Though Ome feared she had failed again, ashamed of her carelessness she deliberately said nothing to Sōsuke at the time.
Yet when she became certain this jolt had caused no discernible effect on either fetal development or her own condition, she finally felt relieved enough to confess her past failure anew.
Sōsuke had never intended to blame his wife.
Still,

“You need to be careful, or it could be dangerous,” he calmly cautioned.

Amidst all this, the months reached full term.

As the days drew near to the imminent birth, Sōsuke, even while going to work at the government office, found himself constantly preoccupied with thoughts of Ome.
On his way home, he would keep worrying that something might have happened in their absence that very day, standing before his house’s lattice door.
When he did not hear the infant’s cry he had half-anticipated, he instead felt as though some mishap had occurred, hurriedly rushed into the house, and found himself ashamed of his own carelessness.

Fortunately, Ome’s labor began at midnight when Sōsuke had no other obligations, making it extremely fortunate that he could stay by her side to care for her.
The midwife arrived in ample time, and all preparations—from absorbent cotton onward—had been made without any shortages.
The delivery proved unexpectedly straightforward.
Yet the long-awaited infant merely slipped from the womb into the wider world without drawing a single breath of earthly air.
The midwife took something resembling a slender glass tube and repeatedly forced strong breaths into the tiny mouth, but to no effect.
What had been born was nothing but flesh.
The couple traced with their eyes the contours of nose and mouth etched into this flesh.
But the cry that should have issued from its throat never came.

The midwife had come just one week before the birth, carefully listened to even the fetus's heart with her stethoscope, and assured them of its perfect health before leaving.
Even if there had been some mistake in the midwife's assessment and the fetus's development had halted at some earlier stage, unless immediately removed, the mother's body could never have remained unaffected until that day.
As Sōsuke gradually investigated this point and discovered a fact he had never heard before, he instinctively recoiled in fear and astonishment.
The fetus had remained healthy until moments before birth.
However, there was what's called umbilical cord entanglement - colloquially speaking, a membrane wrapped around its neck.
In such abnormal cases, there naturally remained no recourse but to depend on the midwife's skill; an experienced practitioner should have deftly removed this neck-entwined membrane during delivery and extracted [the child].
The midwife Sōsuke had summoned was sufficiently advanced in years to be thoroughly versed in such matters.
Yet the umbilical cord coiled around the fetus's neck wasn't a single loop as occasionally occurs.
Having failed to remove this membrane wound twice around the slender throat while passing through that narrow passage, she caused the infant's windpipe to be tightly constricted, resulting in suffocation.

The guilt also lay with the midwife.
However, more than half the blame undoubtedly lay with Ome’s mistake.
It became known that the abnormality of the umbilical cord entanglement had been caused by Ome herself five months earlier when she slipped at the wellside and fell hard on her backside.
Ome, during her postpartum convalescence, heard the explanation and merely nodded lightly without saying anything.
And then, moistening her eyes that were slightly sunken with fatigue, she fluttered her long eyelashes repeatedly.
While comforting her, Sōsuke wiped the tears flowing down her cheek with a handkerchief.

This was the couple’s past concerning their children.
They who had endured this bitter experience henceforth did not care to speak much about infants.
But the underside of their lives had been bleakly dyed by this memory, and did not seem likely to fade easily.
At times, even through their shared laughter, this underside would dimly reflect in each other’s hearts.
Given this, Ome had no intention of bringing up this past history anew to her husband now.
Sōsuke, for his part, saw not the slightest need to be made to hear that from his wife now.

When Ome spoke of confessing to her husband, it was naturally not about the fact they both shared.
When she lost her third fetus and heard from her husband about the circumstances of that time, she felt as though she herself were a cruel mother.
Even if she had no memory of laying a hand on it, depending on how one thought about it, it was the same as if she had lain in wait between darkness and bright sea to strangle the life she herself had given.
When she interpreted it this way, Ome could not help but see herself as a villain who had committed a terrible crime.
And so, unbeknownst to anyone, she endured an unexpected moral reproach.
Moreover, there was not a single person in the world who understood that reproach and would suffer alongside her.
Ome had not spoken of this suffering even to her husband.

At that time, she spent three weeks in bed like any ordinary postpartum woman.
Physically speaking, it was undoubtedly an extremely restful three weeks.
At the same time, from the perspective of her heart, it was three weeks of dreadful endurance.
Sōsuke prepared a small coffin for the deceased child and conducted an unobtrusive funeral.
After that, he also made a small mortuary tablet for the deceased.
On the mortuary tablet, the posthumous Buddhist name was written in black lacquer.
The owner of the mortuary tablet had a posthumous Buddhist name.
But even the parents did not know its secular name.
Sōsuke initially placed it on the chest of drawers in the tea room and, upon returning from work, would constantly burn incense.
The scent occasionally reached Ome’s nose as she lay in the six-tatami room.
Her senses had become so acute at that time.
After some time, Sōsuke—for reasons unknown—put the small mortuary tablet away in the bottom drawer of the chest.
There, the mortuary tablet of the child who had died in Fukuoka and that of his father who had died in Tokyo were each wrapped in cotton and carefully placed.
When closing up their Tokyo home, Sōsuke had carried all the ancestral mortuary tablets with him, but finding the nuisance of drifting from place to place unbearable, he placed only his new father’s tablet in his suitcase and entrusted all the others to a temple.

Ome watched and listened to everything Sōsuke did from her bed.
Lying on her back atop the futon, she bound these two small mortuary tablets together with a long, invisible thread of karma.
She then extended the thread further still and cast it over the dead child—the one that had drifted away without becoming a mortuary tablet, a formless shadow from the very beginning.
In the depths of memories lingering in Hiroshima, Fukuoka, and Tokyo, Ome recognized fate's solemn dominion—and when she perceived herself standing beneath that unshakable rule through countless months as a mother mysteriously made to repeat misfortune, she heard curses whispering by her ear.
Throughout the three weeks she was physiologically compelled to endure bed rest upon the futon, those curses almost ceaselessly assailed her eardrums.
For Ome, those three weeks of enforced stillness became three weeks of unparalleled endurance.

Ome spent this painful fortnight and more staring fixedly at her pillow.
In the end, enduring lying down grew so unbearable that on a bright day after the nurse had left, she secretly rose and wandered about—yet even then, the anxiety pressing upon her heart would not be dispelled.
Despite forcing her unwieldy body to move, her mind refused to stir at all; disheartened again, she finally slipped beneath the disheveled bedding and shut her eyes tightly as if to push the human world away.

In time, the prescribed three weeks passed, and Ome’s body naturally recovered.
Ome tidied the bedding neatly and gazed once more at her eyebrows—which felt somehow renewed—in the mirror.
It was the season for changing clothes.
Ome shed the heavy cotton-padded garments she had worn for so long and refreshingly felt the light, clean sensation against her skin.
The vibrant Japanese scenery that adorned the threshold between spring and summer stirred some response even in Ome’s lonely mind.
Yet it merely churned up what lay sunken within her, letting it drift amidst the bustling light.
Within Ome’s dark past, a certain curiosity had sprouted at that time.

On a morning of exceptionally beautiful weather, Ome, after seeing Sōsuke off as usual, immediately went out.
It was now the season when women should go out carrying parasols.
As she walked hurriedly in the sun, her forehead grew slightly damp with sweat.
While walking—recalling how she had inadvertently touched the new mortuary tablet stored in the bottom drawer when opening the chest to change clothes—Ome finally passed through the gate of a fortune teller.

She had harbored a superstition common to many modern people since childhood.
Yet in daily life, this superstition—like that of many modern people—had surfaced only playfully without consequence.
That it now encroached upon the solemn fabric of real life was something that could only be called extraordinary.
With solemn bearing and solemn heart, Ome sat before the fortune teller to ascertain whether heaven had destined her to bear children in the future and raise them.
The fortune teller—indistinguishable from those who read fortunes for pennies on main streets—arranged sangi sticks in patterns, rubbed and counted shikichiku rods, then gravely clutched his beard while pondering, before finally fixing an intent gaze upon Ome’s face.

“You cannot have children,” the fortune teller declared calmly.
Ome remained silent, turning his words over in her mind.
Then she raised her face.

“Why is that?” she asked back.
At that moment, Ome thought the fortune teller would deliberate further before replying.
However, he stared fixedly between her eyes and immediately declared:
“You have done something inexcusable to others. Because that sin is haunting you, your children will never thrive.”
Ome felt as though her heart was pierced by these words.
With her head drooping dejectedly, she returned home and did not even properly look up at her husband’s face that night.

That Ome had lived until now without confessing to Sōsuke was this fortune teller’s judgment.
On a quiet evening when the light of the slender Western-style lamp placed in the alcove seemed to sink into the night, Sōsuke heard this story from Ome’s lips for the first time—and even he could not feel at ease.

“When your nerves were acting up, you had to go out of your way to such a foolish place.”
“You paid money just to be told such nonsense—isn’t that pointless?”
“Are you still going to that fortune teller’s place?”

“Because it’s terrifying, I’ll never go there again.”

“You shouldn’t go.”
“It’s absurd.”

Sōsuke deliberately gave a magnanimous answer and went back to sleep.

Fourteen

Sōsuke and Ome were undoubtedly a close couple.
In the six long years since coming together until now, they had never spent even half a day in discomfort.
Nor had there ever been an instance where they contradicted each other and flushed crimson.
They bought bolts of fabric from the draper’s shop and wore them.
They took rice from the rice merchant and ate it.
Yet beyond these necessities, they were people for whom society held exceedingly little in store.
In any sense transcending daily provisions, they scarcely acknowledged society’s existence.
For them, each other was absolutely necessary—and each other alone sufficed completely.

They lived in the city, harboring hearts that remained in the mountains.

By the natural course of things, their life inevitably flowed into monotony. By managing to avoid the vexations of complex society, they also blocked off for themselves any opportunity to directly engage with the diverse experiences arising from that society’s activities, ultimately arriving at a state where—while residing in the city—they had relinquished the privileges of civilized urban life. They too were occasionally aware that there was no change in their daily lives. Not even a speck of boredom or dissatisfaction arose between them, yet within the life they each held in their minds, there was a dull awareness of something lurking that lacked stimulation. Nevertheless, the fact that they had pressed the same seal upon the same breast each day and passed through the long months and years without weariness was not because they had lost all interest in society from the very beginning. It was none other than the result of society whittling them down to just two people and turning its cold back on them. Finding no room to grow outward, the two began to extend deeply inward. Their life was losing its breadth while simultaneously gaining depth. Instead of seeking scattered interactions with society over six years, they devoted those same six years to excavating each other’s hearts. Their lives had, unbeknownst to them, sunk deep into each other’s depths. In the eyes of society, they remained two separate individuals. But from each other's perspective, they had become a single organism that could not be separated in terms of moral duty. The nervous systems structuring their two minds had been formed through mutual embrace down to the very last fiber. They were like two drops of oil that had dripped onto the surface of a large water basin. Rather than saying they had come together by repelling the water, it would be more appropriate to describe them as having been propelled by the water’s repelling force into clinging together in a circle, rendering them unable to part.

Within this embrace, they possessed both an affinity and satiety not found in ordinary marriages, along with the weariness that accompanied them. And so, even while being governed by that languid mood of fatigue, they never forgot to consider themselves happy. Weariness would drape a veil like slumber over their consciousness, hazing over their love. Yet they never felt the anxiety of having their nerves scraped by a bamboo whisk. In short, they were a couple whose closeness stemmed precisely from their estrangement from society.

They continued linking their days from today to tomorrow with a harmony beyond the ordinary, often moving through life unaware of it; yet at times they would distinctly recognize their own affectionate hearts. In such moments, they could not help but trace back through the long years they had spent in harmony and recall the time when they had dared to marry despite whatever sacrifices it required. They knelt trembling under nature's terrifying retribution brought before them. At the same time, they did not forget to burn a single stick of incense to the god of love in gratitude for the mutual happiness gained through enduring this retribution. They headed toward death while being lashed by the whip. Yet they realized that sweet honey clung to that whip's tip - honey that would heal all.

Sōsuke was a man who, as a scion of a fairly affluent Tokyo family, had freely indulged during his student days in the ostentatious tastes common among their set.
At that time, in his attire, demeanor, and ideas alike, he had brimmed with the visage of a brilliant man of the age, strolling through whichever areas he pleased while holding his head high toward society.
Just as his collar had been white, just as the cuffs of his Western-style trousers had been neatly turned up, just as the spats visible beneath them had been of patterned cashmere, so too had his head been elegantly styled for society's gaze.

He was a man naturally quick to understand.
Therefore, he could not muster the motivation to study hard.
Since he viewed academics as a mere stepping stone to enter society, he held little interest in the position of scholar, which required stepping back from society to attain.
He simply attended lectures and, like any ordinary student, filled many notebooks with writing.
However, once he returned home, he rarely reread them or made revisions.
Even the sections he had skipped over during breaks were usually left untouched and neglected.
He would neatly stack these notebooks on his boarding house desk, leave his study—which always appeared impeccably orderly—and go out walking.
Many of his friends envied his generous nature.
Sōsuke was proud of this as well.
His future shone before his eyes as beautifully as a rainbow.

At that time, unlike now, Sōsuke had many friends.
To tell the truth, all people reflected in his lively eyes were friends, almost without distinction between this person and that.
As an optimist who could not properly comprehend the meaning of the word "enemy," he passed through his youthful world with unbridled freedom.

“If you just don’t make such a gloomy face, you’ll be welcomed anywhere, you know,” he often told his classmate Yasui.
In truth, his face had never once shown an expression severe enough to make others uncomfortable.

“You’re so robust—how fortunate,” Yasui, who was often prone to some ailment or other, would say enviously.
This Yasui’s home province was Echizen, but having long resided in Yokohama, his speech or mannerisms showed not the slightest difference from a Tokyoite.
He was a kimono enthusiast and had a habit of keeping his hair long and parted down the middle.
Although they had attended different high schools, they often sat next to each other during lectures, and since Yasui would later ask about parts he had missed, this led to them starting to talk and eventually becoming close.
Since this occurred at the start of the academic year, it proved quite convenient for Sōsuke, who had only recently arrived in Kyoto.
Under Yasui’s guidance, he drank in the impressions of the new land as if they were wine.
The two walked through bustling towns like Sanjō and Shijō nearly every night.
At times, they also passed through Kyōgoku.
They stood in the middle of the bridge and gazed at the waters of the Kamo River.
They saw the quiet moon rising over Higashiyama.
And then, they felt that the moon over Kyoto seemed rounder and larger than the moon over Tokyo.
When they grew weary of the town and its people, they would use Saturdays and Sundays to venture out to distant suburbs.
Sōsuke delighted in the deep green-cloaked forms of the large bamboo thickets that were everywhere.
They delighted in the sight of pine trunks dyed red as if by stain, reflecting the sunlight as they stood in countless rows.
On one occasion, they climbed Daibikaku and, lying on their backs beneath Sokuhi’s plaque, listened to the sound of oars descending the valley stream.
They both found it amusing how closely the sound resembled the cries of wild geese.
At times, they would go out to Heihachi Tea House and spend the whole day sleeping there.
Then, they skewered unappetizing river fish, had the wife grill them, and drank sake.
The wife had a hand towel draped over her head and was wearing something like an indigo hakama.

Under these new stimuli, Sōsuke found temporary satisfaction for his desires.
But after walking about and breathing in the old capital's scent until it became familiar, everything gradually began to appear flat and monotonous.
At that time, he began feeling dissatisfied that the beautiful hues of mountains and clear waters no longer imprinted themselves as vividly in his mind as they had initially.
He embraced his warm youthful blood yet could no longer find the deep green that might cool its fever.
Still, he certainly never encountered any intense activity that could consume this passion.
His blood beat with heightened pulses, flowing restlessly and itchily through his body.
Crossing his arms, he sat gazing at the surrounding mountains.
And then,

“I’ve grown thoroughly weary of this antiquated place,” he said.

Yasui laughed and, by way of comparison, recounted to Sōsuke a story he knew about a friend’s hometown.
It concerned a famous inn in Tsuchiyama from the Jōruri plays, renowned for its association with rain.
After describing it as a place where one saw nothing but mountains from dawn till dusk—as though living in the bottom of a mortar—Yasui went on to relate his friend’s childhood memory: how during prolonged rains of early summer, the boy would fear in his child’s mind that the inn might at any moment be engulfed by rainwater cascading down from the encircling mountains, unable to suppress his anxiety.
Sōsuke reflected that there could be nothing more pitiable than the fate of those who spent their entire lives in such a mortar’s depths.

“I can’t believe people can live in such places,” he said to Yasui with a look of wonder.
Yasui laughed.
Then, just as he had heard from his friend, he repeated a short anecdote: among those who had left Tsuchiyama, the most notable was one who had swapped a thousand-ryō box and ended up executed by crucifixion.
Having grown weary of confined Kyoto, Sōsuke even came to think such events were necessary—as splashes of color to break life’s monotony—perhaps once every hundred years or so.

At that time, Sōsuke’s eyes remained fixed solely on new worlds.
Once nature had displayed the full spectrum of seasonal colors, he no longer needed blossoms or crimson leaves to summon last year’s memories.
For him who clung unwaveringly to proof of having lived fiercely, the pressing matters were the vibrant present and imminent future—the fading past being but a phantom as insubstantial as dreams.
Having surveyed countless peeling shrines and desolate temples, he nearly lost courage to turn his dark head toward history’s faded palette.
Yet his spirit had not withered enough to wander through senile antiquity.

At the end of the school year, Sōsuke and Yasui promised to meet again and parted ways.
Yasui said he would first return to his hometown of Fukui, then go to Yokohama, so when the time came, he would send a letter to notify him; they should then take the train down to Kyoto together if possible, and if time allowed, stay somewhere around Okitsu and leisurely take in sights like Seiken-ji Temple, Miho Pine Grove, and Kunōzan as they traveled.
Sōsuke replied that it sounded splendid and had already begun to imagine, deep down, how he would feel upon receiving Yasui’s postcard.

When Sōsuke returned to Tokyo, his father was still in good health.
Shōroku was a child.
He felt oddly pleased to breathe in the bustling metropolis’s scorching heat and soot for the first time in a year.
Under the blazing sun, gazing down from a high place at the landscape stretching for miles where the color of the tiles seemed to swirl into a frenzied vortex, he even thought to himself, “This is truly Tokyo.”
The myriad things that would have dazzled the present Sōsuke all reflected back at that moment to sear the characters for “vigorous” onto his forehead.

His future, like a sealed bud, was not only unknowable to others but unclear even to himself.
Sōsuke felt only that the two characters for “boundless” seemed to hover before his future.
Even during this sweltering vacation, he did not neglect making plans for his life after graduation.
Though he had not yet clearly decided whether to enter government service or pursue business after university, he realized it would be advantageous to make as much progress as possible now regardless of the path.
He obtained a direct introduction from his father.
Through his father, he secured an indirect introduction to an acquaintance.
Then he sought out people who might influence his future and attempted two or three visits.
Some had already left Tokyo under the pretext of escaping summer heat.
Others were absent.
Still others, too busy, proposed meeting at their workplaces instead.
There were even times when Sōsuke—guided by an elevator to a brick building’s third floor around seven o’clock, while dawn still lingered—found himself astonished at the sight of seven or eight others waiting like him in the reception room.
He found it vaguely pleasant, this visiting new places and encountering new things; regardless of success or failure, he felt he was cramming his head with fragments of a living world that had previously slipped by unnoticed.

Following his father’s instructions to assist with the annual airing-out was counted during these times as part of the work that held considerable interest.
He sat on the damp stone before the earthen storehouse’s door where cold winds blew through, gazing curiously at the family’s long-owned Edo Famous Places Guidebook and a volume titled Edo Sunako.
In the middle of the zashiki room where even the tatami had grown hot, he sat cross-legged, dividing into small paper pieces the camphor bought by the maid and folding them into shapes resembling powdered medicine from doctors.
Since childhood, Sōsuke had associated this camphor’s sharp scent with sweltering midsummer heat, moxibustion treatments, and kites drifting lazily across azure skies.

Amidst all this, the season entered the Start of Autumn.
Before the 210th Day, winds blew and rains fell.
Clouds like ink diluted in water swirled incessantly across the sky.
The thermometer plunged completely over two or three days.
Sōsuke once again had to bind his wicker trunk with hemp rope and prepare to depart for Kyoto.

Even through this turbulence, he had not forgotten his promise with Yasui.
When first returning home, he remained unconcerned—it being still two months away—but as days drew nearer, he grew anxious for word from Yasui.
Yasui had not sent even a single postcard since then.
Sōsuke tried writing to Yasui’s hometown of Fukui.
Yet no reply ever arrived.
He considered inquiring in Yokohama but having failed to note the address or district name, found himself powerless to act.

On the evening before his departure, his father called Sōsuke and, as Sōsuke had requested, gave him spending money for two or three days’ stay en route and initial expenses upon arriving in Kyoto, in addition to the usual travel funds.

“You must be as frugal as possible,” he admonished.

Sōsuke listened to it as an ordinary child would listen to an ordinary parent’s admonition.
Father added,

“Since we won’t meet again until you return next year, take good care,” he said.
By the time he was meant to return, Sōsuke had already become unable to come back.
And when he did return, his father’s corpse had long turned cold.
Even now, Sōsuke felt he could not recall his father’s face from that time without unease.

Just as Sōsuke was about to depart, he received a sealed letter from Yasui.
Opening it, he found an apology: though Yasui had intended to return together as promised, circumstances now compelled him to leave ahead of schedule; they would meet leisurely in Kyoto later, it concluded.
Sōsuke stuffed the letter into his coat’s inner pocket and boarded the train.

When he arrived at Okitsu as promised, he stepped off the platform alone and walked along a single long street toward Seikenji Temple.
With summer having already passed into early September and most summer guests long departed, the inn was comparatively quiet.
Sōsuke lay on his stomach in a room overlooking the sea and wrote several lines on a picture postcard addressed to Yasui.
In it he wrote: 'Since you didn't come, I ended up coming here alone.'

The next day, as promised, he visited Miho and Ryūgeji Temple alone and gathered as much material as possible to discuss with Yasui once he arrived in Kyoto. However, whether due to the weather or the lack of company, neither looking at the sea nor climbing the mountains proved particularly enjoyable. Staying cooped up at the inn proved even more tedious. Sōsuke hurriedly discarded the inn’s yukata, hung the twisted three-foot towel over the railing alongside it, and departed Okitsu.

On his first day in Kyoto, what with exhaustion from the night train and organizing his luggage, he spent the day without noticing the passage of time outside. When he finally went to school on the second day, he found that the teachers had not yet all gathered. The students were also fewer than usual on weekdays. Strangely, even Yasui—who should have returned three or four days before him—was nowhere to be seen. Because Sōsuke was concerned about this, on his way back, he made a special detour to Yasui’s boarding house to check. The place where Yasui was staying was beside Kamo Shrine, abundant with trees and water. He had gone so far as to seclude himself in this inconvenient countryside, as remote as a village, having declared before summer break that he intended to move to a somewhat quieter outskirts area to focus on his studies. The house he had found was surrounded by desolate earthen walls on two sides and already arranged in an old-fashioned manner. Sōsuke heard from Yasui that the master there had formerly been one of the Shinto priests at Kamo Shrine. There was a wife around forty who spoke fluent Kyoto dialect and took care of Yasui.

“What she calls ‘care’ is just making unappetizing meals and carrying them to my room three times a day,” Yasui had been disparaging this woman ever since moving in.
Through having visited Yasui there two or three times, Sōsuke knew the person who prepared these so-called unappetizing meals.
The landlady too remembered Sōsuke’s face.
The instant she saw Sōsuke, after delivering her customary polite greeting with that pliant tongue of hers, she proceeded to ask about Yasui’s whereabouts—the very matter he had come intending to inquire about—before he could raise the subject himself.
According to the landlady’s account, he had not sent even a single piece of correspondence to the boarding house from the day he returned to his hometown until now.
Sōsuke returned to his own boarding house with unanticipated thoughts.

For about a week after that, each time he went to school, he would open the classroom door daily with vague anticipation—wondering whether today he might see Yasui’s face or tomorrow hear Yasui’s voice.
And each day, he returned home feeling a vague sense of lack.
In those final three or four days, rather than simply wanting to meet Yasui quickly, Sōsuke—as someone involved—found himself increasingly concerned about Yasui’s well-being, for there were certain circumstances: despite having specifically notified him of his intention to leave ahead, Yasui had yet to show even a shadow of himself, no matter how long Sōsuke waited.
He inquired about Yasui’s whereabouts to every classmate he could.
However, none of them knew.
Only one person had answered that last evening in the crowd at Shijō, they had seen a man in a yukata who closely resembled Yasui.
However, Sōsuke could not believe that it was Yasui.
Yet the very next day after hearing this story—that is, about a week after Sōsuke had arrived in Kyoto—Yasui, dressed exactly as described, suddenly came to visit Sōsuke.

When Sōsuke gazed at his friend’s figure—still in his informal kimono, holding a straw hat in hand—for the first time in ages, he felt as though something new had been superimposed on Yasui’s face since before summer break.
Yasui had applied oil to his black hair and parted it with conspicuous neatness.
Then he offered what sounded like an excuse about having just come from the barber.

That evening, he engaged in idle talk with Sōsuke for over an hour.
His solemn manner of speaking, his reluctance to speak freely about himself, the tentative tone of his conversation, his habitual use of "shikaruni" (however)—none of these differed from his usual self.
Yet he never explained why he had departed Yokohama ahead of Sōsuke.
Nor did he clearly state where he had lingered along the way, resulting in his delayed arrival in Kyoto compared to Sōsuke.
He only clarified that he had finally reached Kyoto three or four days prior.
And he added that he still hadn't returned to the boarding house where he'd stayed before summer break.

“Then where?” asked Sōsuke, at which point he told him the name of the inn where he was currently staying.
It was a third-rate establishment in the Sanjō area.
Sōsuke knew the place.

“Why did you go to such a spot?”
“Do you mean to stay there awhile?” Sōsuke pressed further.
“There were... circumstances,” Yasui answered vaguely,

“I’m thinking of giving up boarding-house life and renting a small house instead,” he disclosed this unexpected plan, startling Sōsuke.

Then, within about a week, Yasui finally set up a household in a quiet area near the school, just as he had told Sōsuke.
It was a narrow rental house, built in the dark, gloomy style common to Kyoto, with pillars and lattice painted a dark reddish-black to deliberately give it an antiquated appearance.
At the entrance stood a willow tree of uncertain ownership; Sōsuke watched its long branches swaying in the wind, nearly brushing against the eaves.
The garden, unlike those in Tokyo, was at least somewhat well-kept.
Where there was ample space for stones, a relatively large one had been placed directly in front of the tatami room.
Under it, cool-looking moss grew in abundance.
At the back, a storage shed with a rotten threshold stood empty and desolate; behind it, the neighboring bamboo thicket could be seen from the toilet entrance.

Sōsuke’s visit there occurred at the beginning of the semester in October, which had a brief interval.
Because the lingering summer heat remained intense, Sōsuke now remembered he had been using a Western-style umbrella for his commute to school.
He folded his umbrella before the lattice door, and as he peered inside, he caught a fleeting glimpse of a woman’s shadow wearing a coarse-striped yukata.
Beyond the lattice lay an earthen-floored entryway that ran straight through to the back; unless one ascended the entrance-like steps immediately to the right upon entering, the dim interior remained visible in an unbroken line to the rear.
Sōsuke stood there until the retreating figure in the yukata vanished at the back door.
Then he opened the lattice door.
At the entrance, Yasui himself appeared.

They were ushered into the tatami room and conversed for some time, but the woman did not once show herself. She made no sound nor caused any noise. Though the house was small enough that she must have been in the adjacent room, her presence differed not at all from complete absence. This woman, quiet as a shadow, was Ome.

Yasui spoke of his hometown, of Tokyo, of university lectures—discussing various matters without reserve. Yet concerning Ome, he did not breathe a word. Sōsuke too found himself unequal to broaching the subject. That day, they parted ways without further ado.

The next day when the two men met, Sōsuke still kept the woman in his thoughts but did not utter a single word about her. Yasui maintained a casual air. Despite the candid topics that had been freely exchanged between these close young men countless times before, Yasui now appeared stifled. Sōsuke too lacked sufficient curiosity to force open that door. Thus while the woman remained lodged between their awareness, the topic never arose, and another week or so passed.

On that Sunday, he visited Yasui again.
It was due to some business arising concerning a certain meeting in which the two men were involved—a matter-of-fact visit stemming from motives entirely unrelated to the woman.

However, when he entered the tatami room, was made to sit in the same spot, and saw the small plum tree along the hedge, the events of his previous visit came back to him vividly.
That day too, outside the tatami room was still and silent.
Sōsuke could not help but imagine the shadow of the young woman lurking within that stillness.
At the same time, he believed this young woman would show no intention whatsoever of coming before him again—just as she had not done previously.

Under this anticipation, Sōsuke found himself suddenly introduced to Ome.
She wore no coarse yukata this time as before.
She emerged from the adjoining room dressed as if either about to go out or having just returned from outside.
To Sōsuke, this came unexpectedly.
Yet since her attire showed no particular splendor, neither the colors of her garments nor the gleam of her obi proved startling enough to unsettle him.
Moreover, Ome displayed little of that maidenly reserve typical of young women when facing Sōsuke for the first time.
She simply appeared as an ordinary person made quiet and sparing with words.
Recognizing her composure—so consistent whether appearing before others or remaining concealed in the next room—Sōsuke deduced that Ome’s withdrawn nature stemmed not merely from excessive shyness compelling her to avoid company.

When Yasui introduced Ome,

“This is my sister,” he said.
After sitting face-to-face for four or five minutes and exchanging some conversation, Sōsuke noticed there was no trace of a regional accent in Ome’s speech.

When he asked, “Until now, in your home province—” Yasui spoke up before Ome could reply.

“No—she was in Yokohama for a long time,” he answered.

That day, as the two planned to go shopping in town, Ome had changed out of her everyday clothes and, despite the heat, even gone to the trouble of putting on new white tabi socks.
Sōsuke detained their planned outing and felt apologetic, as though he had gotten in their way.

“Well, since we’ve just set up house, day after day we discover something new we need, so we simply have to go shopping in the city once or twice a week,” said Yasui with a laugh.

“Let me walk you part of the way,” said Sōsuke, immediately standing up.
He acquiesced to Yasui’s request to check on the house.
Sōsuke looked at the square hibachi with a zinc insert, the brass kettle with its cheap-looking yellow hue, and the overly new bucket placed beside the worn-out sink in the next room, then went out to the gate.
Yasui lowered the lock at the entrance and, saying something about leaving the key at the back house, hurried off.
While waiting, Sōsuke and Ome exchanged two or three ordinary words.

Sōsuke still remembered the words they had exchanged during those three or four minutes.
It was nothing more than simple words exchanged between an ordinary man and an ordinary woman to express human closeness.
If described, it was something as shallow and insipid as water.
He had no idea how many times he had repeated such greetings with strangers encountered on roadsides up until now.

Each time Sōsuke recalled that extremely brief exchange from those days, he recognized how utterly colorless every word had been—so plain they might as well have been untinged by any hue at all.
And he marveled at how such translucent voices could have daubed their future in such violent crimson.
Now that red had faded with time’s passage, its former brilliance dulled.
The flames that once seared them both had darkened naturally to black.
Thus their lives sank into shadow.
Looking back across time’s shoulder, retracing events in reverse, Sōsuke dwelled bitterly on how this insipid greeting had stained their history so deeply—all while dreading fate’s power to transmute trivialities into catastrophes.

Sōsuke remembered how their shadows had bent when they stood before the gate, half-reflected on the earthen wall. He remembered how Ome’s umbrella had blocked her shadow, leaving an irregular shape where her head should have been against the wall. He remembered how the early autumn sun—already tilting—had scorched them both relentlessly. Ome had moved under a willow tree that offered little shade, still holding her umbrella aloft. He remembered stepping back to compare the purple umbrella edged with white lines against the willow leaves’ lingering green.

Now that he thought about it, everything was clear.
Therefore there was nothing strange about it.
After waiting for Yasui who had reappeared from behind the earthen wall's shadow, they walked toward town.
As they walked, the two men kept pace shoulder to shoulder.
Ome dragged her zori sandals and fell behind.
The conversation too was mostly carried by the men alone.
Nor did it last long.
When they had come partway, Sōsuke separated from them and returned home—that was why.

However, the impression of that day lingered long in his mind. Even after returning home, taking a bath, and sitting before the lamplight, the figures of Yasui and Ome would flicker before his eyes as flat images tinged with color. Moreover, after getting into bed, he began to wonder whether Ome, who had been introduced as his sister, was truly his actual sister. Unless he pressed Yasui for answers, resolving this doubt would not be easy—yet a suspicion formed immediately. Sōsuke considered that there was ample room for this suspicion to exist between Yasui and Ome, and found it somewhat amusing as he lay there. Moreover, realizing how absurd it was to let that suspicion linger in his mind, he finally blew out the oil lamp he had forgotten to extinguish with a quick puff.

Such memories would gradually sink until all traces vanished without their seeing each other’s faces—Sōsuke and Yasui were not estranged to that extent.
Not only did they meet daily at school, but they also continued their comings and goings just as before summer vacation.
Yet Ome did not necessarily come out to greet him every time Sōsuke visited.
About one in three times, she would not show her face, staying quietly hidden in the next room as she had done initially.
Sōsuke paid it no particular mind.
Despite this, the two of them gradually grew closer.
Before long, they had grown close enough to exchange jokes.

Before long, autumn came again.
Under the same circumstances as the previous year, Sōsuke—who had little interest in reliving Kyoto's autumn—found a new fragrance in the crisp air when Yasui and Ome invited him mushroom hunting.
The three of them viewed the autumn leaves together.
On the mountain path from Saga to Takao, Ome hitched up her kimono hem, pulled her underrobe above her tabi socks, and used her slender umbrella as a walking stick.
When sunlight struck the stream flowing a chō below the mountain peak, making its bed visible even from afar, Ome—

“Kyoto is such a lovely place,” said Ome, looking back at the two of them.
To Sōsuke, who had viewed it together with them, Kyoto truly seemed like a lovely place.

It was not unusual for them to go out together like this.
They still often met face-to-face at home.
One time, when Sōsuke visited Yasui as usual, Yasui was out, and only Ome remained, sitting alone as if abandoned in the desolate autumn.
Saying “You must be lonely,” Sōsuke ended up entering the tatami room where he held his hands over both sides of the hibachi and had a longer conversation than expected before leaving.
One time, when Sōsuke sat vacantly leaning against his boarding house desk—unusually troubled about how to pass the time—Ome suddenly appeared.
Having come out shopping that far, she said she had just dropped by, and following Sōsuke’s suggestions, they drank tea, ate sweets, chatted leisurely, and then she left.

As these things accumulated, the leaves fell unnoticed.
Then one morning, the mountain peaks appeared pure white.
The wind-scoured riverbed whitened, and shadows of bridge-crossers moved thinly.
That year's Kyoto winter possessed an insidious quality that pierced flesh silently.
Yasui caught this vicious chill and fell gravely ill with influenza.
The fever ran higher than common colds—at first even Ome grew alarmed—but though it soon subsided, clarity about his full recovery never came however long she waited.
Yasui remained trapped in a gluey fever's grip, enduring its daily rises and falls.

The doctor, saying that his respiratory system seemed to be affected, strongly recommended a change of climate.
Yasui reluctantly tied a hemp rope around the wicker trunk in the closet.
Ome locked the handbag.
Sōsuke saw the two of them off as far as Shichijō, entered the compartment until the train departed, and deliberately made cheerful conversation.
When he stepped down to the platform, from inside the window,

“Do come visit,” said Yasui.

“Please, by all means,” said Ome.

The train passed slowly before Sōsuke—his complexion still healthily ruddy—and promptly belched smoke toward Kobe.

The patient spent the New Year at his convalescent retreat.
Picture postcards arrived nearly every day from their very arrival.
Moreover, they never failed to include the repeated invitation: "Do come visit anytime."
Ome’s handwriting invariably mingled with each message, contributing a line or two without exception.
Sōsuke kept the postcards from Yasui and Ome separate from others, stacking them atop his desk.
Returning home, they would immediately catch his eye.
At times he would take them out one by one in sequence, rereading each and examining them anew.
"In the end," one read, "since I’ve fully recovered, I shall return."
Yet another arrived stating: "Having come all this way, it would be regrettable not to see you here—come at once, if only briefly, upon receiving this."
To stir Sōsuke—who detested both uneventful safety and tedium—these dozen-odd words sufficed amply.
Sōsuke took the train that very night and reached Yasui’s lodgings.

When the three met with composed expressions under the bright lamplight, Sōsuke noticed first that the patient’s healthy complexion had returned. He appeared even better than before his departure. Yasui himself declared feeling similarly and deliberately rolled up his shirt sleeve to stroke his vein-lined arm alone. Ome too sparkled her eyes happily. To Sōsuke, that animated gaze registered as strikingly unfamiliar. Until now, the Ome reflected in his mind had maintained utter composure even amidst swirling colors and sounds. It seemed this composure stemmed largely from eyes that never darted restlessly.

The next day, the three of them went outside and gazed at the sea flowing with deep hues in the distance.
They breathed in the resinous air from the pine trunks.
The winter sun crossed the brief span of sky unadorned and quietly set in the west.
As it fell, it dyed the low clouds in hues of yellow, red, and hearth-fire amber.
The wind did not rise even after night fell.
Only occasionally rustling the pines as it passed.
Warm, fine days continued throughout the three days of Sōsuke’s stay.

“I want to stay longer,” said Sōsuke.
“Let’s stay longer,” said Ome.
“This fine weather must have come because you visited us,” said Yasui.

The three of them returned to Kyoto once more, carrying the wicker trunk and handbag.
Winter sent the north wind uneventfully off to colder lands.
The mottled snow that had lightened the mountaintops gradually melted away, and from behind, a blue hue burst forth all at once.

Whenever Sōsuke recalled that time, he thought that if nature's progression had come to a complete halt there, and both he and Ome had instantly turned to fossils, it might have been less painful after all.
The events began when spring lifted its head from winter’s underbelly and ended as the fallen cherry blossoms yielded their hues to young leaves.

Everything was a battle of life and death.
It was as excruciating as roasting green bamboo to wring out its oil.
The gale suddenly blew down the two unprepared individuals.
By the time they got up, everywhere was already covered in sand.
They acknowledged themselves covered in sand.
However, they did not know when they had been blown down.

Society mercilessly imposed upon them a moral sin.
Yet before they could be reproached by their own moral conscience, they were first left bewildered, doubting whether their minds were sound.
Before they could appear to their own eyes as an immoral man and woman deserving shame, they had already appeared as an irrational pair, utterly incomprehensible.
There was no excuse that could even be called an excuse.
Therefore, there existed an unbearable pain in that situation which they could not bring themselves to speak of.
They bitterly resented how their cruel fate had capriciously struck down the innocent pair without warning and, half in amusement, pushed them into a pit.

When the day of exposure struck them squarely between the brows, they had already endured the convulsions of moral agony.
They meekly presented their pallid foreheads and received there a brand resembling flames.
Thus bound by invisible chains, they discovered they must walk hand in hand forevermore, keeping pace with one another wherever they went.
They abandoned their parents.
They abandoned their relatives.
They abandoned their friends.
In broader terms, they abandoned society at large.
Or were abandoned by those.
Of course, they were abandoned by school.
At least outwardly, it was made to appear they had withdrawn from school themselves, preserving a semblance of human decency in formality.

This was Sōsuke and Ome’s past.

Fifteen

Burdened with this past, the two suffered even in Hiroshima.
They suffered in Fukuoka too.
Even after coming to Tokyo, they remained weighed down by that heavy load.
They could no longer maintain close ties with the Saibara family.
Uncle had died.
Though Aunt and Yasunosuke still lived, they had piled up so many days of coldness that open interaction within their lifetimes became impossible.
This year again, they had not exchanged year-end visits.
Nor had any come from the other side.
Even Shōroku, whom they had taken into their home, held no true respect for his elder brother in his heart.
When they first moved to Tokyo, with a child's simple mind, he had openly disliked Ome.
Both Ome and Sōsuke understood this perfectly well.
The couple smiled through their days and pondered beneath the moon, quietly seeing years come and go.
Now this year too teetered on the edge of ending.

In Tōrimachi, New Year's shimenawa decorations had been uniformly arranged on the gates since early evening.
Dozens of bamboo grass clusters lining both sides of the street—each taller than the eaves—rustled softly as the cold wind swept through them all.
Sōsuke bought a slender pine branch over two feet long and nailed it to the gate pillars.
He then placed a large red orange atop the ritual offering and set it in the tokonoma.
Within the tokonoma hung a peculiar ink painting of a plum tree that appeared to exhale a moon shaped like a clam shell.
To Sōsuke, the significance of placing both orange and offering before this strange hanging scroll remained unclear.

“What on earth is the reasoning behind this?” Sōsuke asked Ome, gazing at the decorations he himself had arranged.
Even Ome had never understood why they did this every year.

“I don’t know.”
“Just leave it as it is,” she said and retreated to the kitchen.
Sōsuke,

“So we set this up just to eat it in the end?” he muttered, tilting his head as he adjusted the offering’s position.

The stretched mochi was brought out to the family dining room along with the cutting board for nighttime preparations, and everyone cut it together.
With not enough kitchen knives available, Sōsuke never lifted a finger from start to finish.
Being the strongest present, Shōroku ended up cutting the largest share.
In exchange, his pieces showed the most irregularity.
Among them were shapes decidedly unappealing to the eye.
Each time a peculiar form emerged, Kiyo would laugh aloud.
Shōroku pressed a damp cloth against the knife's spine and sawed through the stubborn edges,

"The shape doesn't matter so long as you can eat it," he declared, straining until his ears flushed crimson.

As for other New Year’s preparations, they boiled small rice cakes and arranged simmered dishes in layered boxes.
On New Year’s Eve evening, Sōsuke went to the Sakai house to deliver the rent and pay his respects.
Out of deference, he deliberately went around to the kitchen entrance where he saw bright light reflected on frosted glass and heard bustling activity inside.
A young apprentice who seemed to be a bill collector—holding a ledger while sitting on the entrance step—stood up and bowed to Sōsuke.
In the tearoom were both the landlord and his wife.
In one corner sat what appeared to be a regular visitor wearing a stamped short coat, head bowed as they crafted several small wreaths.
Beside them lay nagi leaves, a fern, Japanese paper, and scissors.
A young maid sat before Madam arranging what looked like change—bills and silver coins—on the tatami mat.
The landlord saw Sōsuke and,

“Ah, thank you for coming,” he said.
“You must be terribly busy with the year-end rush.”
“As you can see, everything’s in chaos here.”
“Now please come this way.”
“Well, I suppose we’ve both grown weary of New Year’s rituals by now.”
“No matter how enjoyable something might be, repeating it over forty times becomes tiresome.”

The landlord spoke words that sounded like complaints about year-end formalities, yet his manner showed no particular sign of irritation.
His speech remained vigorous.
His complexion glowed.
The flush from the wine he’d drunk at dinner still seemed to linger on his cheeks.
Sōsuke accepted the offered tobacco, conversed for twenty or thirty minutes, then took his leave.

At home, Ome had said she was taking Kiyo to the bathhouse; wrapping the soap container in a hand towel, she waited for her husband’s return after entrusting him with watching the house.

“What kept you? That was quite long,” she said, glancing at the clock.
The clock already showed nearly ten.
Moreover, Kiyo was supposed to stop at the hairdresser’s on her way back from the bath to have her hair done.
Even Sōsuke’s normally quiet household saw year-end commotion fitting for New Year’s Eve.

“Have all the payments been settled?” Sōsuke asked Ome while standing.
Ome replied that one firewood dealer still remained.

“When he comes, please pay him,” she said, pulling a soiled men’s wallet and a silver coin-filled pouch from her breast and handing them to Sōsuke.

“Where’s Shōroku?” asked the husband as he received it.

“He went out earlier saying he wanted to see the New Year’s Eve night scenery.”
“You’ve had quite the ordeal, haven’t you.”
Following Ome’s remark of “In this cold,” Kiyo burst into loud laughter.
After a moment,

“Because he’s young,” Kiyo remarked while heading to the kitchen entrance and straightening Ome’s geta.

“Where does he think he’s going to see the night view?”

“He said from Ginza through Nihonbashi-dori.”

Ome was already stepping down from the entrance threshold when she said this.
The sound of the waist-high sliding door opening followed immediately.
Sōsuke listened to the noise fade before sitting alone before the hibachi, watching charcoal turn to ash.
Sun flags for tomorrow’s festivities materialized in his mind.
Outside flashed glimpses of silk hats on carriage riders.
The clang of Western swords mingled with horses’ whinnies and battledore players’ shouts.
In mere hours, he would face that spectacle—the annual contrivance meant most powerfully to refresh human hearts.

Things that appeared cheerful, things that seemed lively—countless such visions passed before his mind, yet among them all, there was not one that seized his arm to pull him along. He existed merely as an uninvited outsider to the feast—a man who had been forbidden from intoxication yet simultaneously spared its consequences. He harbored no greater hopes than continuing to pass each year navigating the ordinary turbulence of his and Ome’s shared existence. In this manner, on the bustling New Year’s Eve, the solitary quiet of keeping house alone came to perfectly represent his everyday reality.

Ome returned home after ten o'clock.
Cheeks more lustrous than usual were illuminated by the lamplight as she layered her underkimono with its collar slightly open where the bath’s warmth still lingered.
The long nape was clearly visible.

"It was so crowded—so crowded you couldn’t even wash properly or get a bucket," she finally exhaled slowly.

Kiyo returned after eleven o'clock.
She too presented her neatly coiffed head through the shoji screen to apologize for the lateness, then mentioned she had ended up waiting for two or three others afterward.

Only Shōroku did not return readily.
When the clock struck twelve, Sōsuke announced he would go to bed.
Ome, thinking it strange to retire first on this particular day, kept the conversation going as long as possible.
Fortunately, Shōroku returned shortly after.
He made his excuse: after going from Nihonbashi to Ginza and heading toward Suitengū Shrine, the trams had been so crowded that waiting through several departures made him late.

He entered Hakubotan intending to win a gold watch from the prize draw, but finding nothing worth buying, reluctantly purchased a box of beanbags with bells attached. Then, after grabbing one of the hundreds of machine-inflated balloons, when the gold watch didn’t materialize as a prize, he declared “This is what I got instead,” and produced from his sleeve a bag of Club Senko washing powder. He placed it in front of Ome,

“I’ll give this to you, Sis,” he said. Then, he placed the beanbags with bells attached, sewn into the shape of plum blossoms, in front of Sōsuke,

“You should give these to Miss Sakai,” he said.

The uneventful New Year’s Eve of their small family thus came to a close.

Sixteen

The New Year brought snow on its second day, blanketing the city's shimenawa decorations in white.
Before the roofs regained their original color after the snow ceased, the couple was startled several times by the sound of snow sliding off the zinc-covered eaves.
In the dead of night, the thudding sound was particularly intense.

The muddy path in the alley, unlike after rain, did not dry easily even after a day or two. Every time Sōsuke returned home from outside with muddied shoes and saw Ome’s face, "This won't do," he said as he stepped up into the entryway. The way he carried himself gave the impression that Ome was being treated as the one responsible for the muddy path, so finally, Ome—

“I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry,” she said with a laugh.
Sōsuke had no particular retort to offer.

“Ome, from here it must seem like you need to wear geta wherever you go out.
But downtown it’s completely different.
Every street there is bone-dry—so parched the dust kicks up. If you wore geta there, you’d feel too awkward to walk properly.
In other words, by living in a place like this, we’re left a century behind.”

Sōsuke, who gave voice to such words, showed no particular look of discontent.
Ome listened as if watching the tobacco smoke drift through her husband’s nostrils.
“Please go tell Mr. Sakai that,” she replied lightly.

“And then we’ll have him lower the rent or something,” answered Sōsuke, who in the end did not go to Sakai’s.

He had merely dropped off a New Year’s card at the Sakai residence early that morning, deliberately leaving through the gate without seeing the landlord’s face. After completing almost all his obligatory visits within the day and returning home at dusk, he was mortified to find that Sakai had actually come during his absence.

The second day passed without incident, save for the snow that fell.
On the evening of the third day, the maid came on an errand and said, “If you are at leisure, we request that the master, his wife, and the young master come visit this evening,” then departed.

“What are they going to do?” wondered Sōsuke.

“It must be karuta.
There are so many children,” said Ome.
“You should go.”

“Since it’s such a rare opportunity, you should go.
I haven’t played karuta in ages—I’d be no good.”

“I haven’t played karuta in ages either, so I’d be no good.”

The two showed no eagerness to go.
At last it was settled that “the young master” would attend as their representative.

“Off with you then, young master,” Sōsuke told Shōroku.
Shōroku rose with a strained smile.
The couple found grotesque humor in conferring this grand title upon him.
When they saw his awkward grimace at being addressed so, they burst into simultaneous laughter.
Shōroku stepped out into air tinged with spring.
He traversed a block’s breadth of wintry chill before settling once more beneath electric light that feigned vernal warmth.

That evening, Shōroku tucked into his sleeve the plum-blossom-patterned beanbags he had bought on New Year's Eve and, explicitly stating they were a gift from his brother, presented them to the young lady of the Sakai household. In return on his way back, he brought home a small naked doll won in a lottery draw, tucking it into the same sleeve. The doll's forehead was slightly chipped, with only that spot painted over in ink. Putting on a serious face, Shōroku declared "This is Sodehagi" and placed it before his brother and sister-in-law. Why it was called Sodehagi remained incomprehensible to the couple. Though Sakai's wife had meticulously explained it to Shōroku—who naturally hadn't understood—it still made no sense to him, so the master had reportedly written both the pun and its explanation side by side on half a sheet of paper, instructing him to show it to his brother and sister-in-law upon returning home. Shōroku fished through his sleeve and produced the note. Alongside "This single-layered fence of black iron," parentheses added "(This brat's forehead with a black chip)," prompting Sōsuke and Ome to release laughter reminiscent of spring.

“That’s quite a meticulous setup. Whose idea was it anyway?” his elder brother asked.

“Who knows?” said Shōroku with the same bored expression, dumping the doll there and returning to his own room.

Two or three days later—on the evening of the seventh, to be precise—the usual maid from the Sakai household came again and politely conveyed her master’s message: if they were at leisure, he would appreciate a visit.
Sōsuke and Ome had lit the lamp and were just beginning their evening meal.
Sōsuke, holding his rice bowl just then,

“Spring has finally settled down,” he remarked.
Just then, Kiyo relayed a message from Sakai, so Ome looked at her husband’s face and smiled.
Sōsuke set down his rice bowl and,

“Is there another event or something?” he asked with a slightly troubled look.
When he asked Sakai’s maid, she replied that there were no particular guests expected nor any preparations being made.
Moreover, she even mentioned that the wife had been invited to relatives with the children and was out.

“Well then, I’ll go,” said Sōsuke as he headed out.
Sōsuke disliked general social interactions.
He wasn’t one to attend meetings or gatherings unless absolutely necessary.
He didn’t seek many personal friends.
He had no time for visits.
However, Sakai alone was an exception.
At times, even without particular business, he would make a point of going over on his own initiative to pass the time there.
Yet Sakai was the most sociable person imaginable.
That this sociable Sakai and solitary Sōsuke could sit and talk together was a phenomenon even Ome found peculiar.
Sakai,

“Let’s go over there,” he said, passing through the tearoom and entering a small study via the hallway.
There, hanging in the tokonoma alcove were about five large, stiff characters, as if written with a palm brush.
On the shelf, magnificent white peonies were arranged.
In addition, everything from the desks to the futons was immaculate.
Sakai initially stood at the dark entrance,

“Please,” he said with a crisp twist of his wrist as he turned on the electric light.
Then,
“Wait a moment,” he added, striking a match to light the gas heater.
The heater was modestly sized to match the room’s proportions.
Sakai then gestured toward the futon.
“This is my cave—when troubles arise, I take refuge here.”

Sōsuke too felt a peculiar stillness upon the thick cotton padding. The faint hiss of burning gas gradually suffused his back with warmth.

“When I’m here,” Sakai began, “I’ve no connections to anything beyond these walls. Utterly carefree. Make yourself comfortable. Truth be told, New Year’s proves more burdensome than anticipated—by yesterday I’d been thoroughly worn down. This lingering festive stagnation weighs heavy indeed. So this afternoon I finally withdrew from worldly affairs, took ill outright and collapsed into bed.” He paused, then continued fluidly: “Having just now awoken, bathed, dined and smoked—only to find my wife away visiting relatives with the children—naturally I thought ‘How peaceful!’ Yet immediately this boredom struck anew. How capricious we humans are! But tedious as it gets, enduring more auspicious sights and sounds would prove tiresome; partaking in proper New Year’s fare grows dreadful too—though it’s rude to call it ‘improper,’ perhaps ruder still to deem you ‘disconnected from society.’ In short—” he concluded with practiced ease “—I fancied conversing with one of those aloof souls, hence dispatching my messenger.”

Before this sanguine man, Sōsuke often found his past receding from memory. At times he even wondered—had his own development followed its natural course—might he not have become such a man himself?

Just then, the maid opened the narrow three-foot entrance and entered; after bowing politely to Sōsuke once more, she placed something like a wooden dish or a dessert plate in front of him. Then she placed another of the same item before her master and withdrew without uttering a word. On the wooden plate was placed a single large rustic manju, as big as a rubber ball. Alongside it was a toothpick that appeared to be more than twice the usual size.

“How about it? While they’re still warm,” said his host, prompting Sōsuke to notice for the first time that these manju were freshly steamed. He gazed curiously at the yellow wrapper.

“No, they’re not freshly steamed,” his host said again. “Actually, last night I went to a certain place, and when I half-jokingly praised it, they told me to take it as a souvenir, so I brought it back. They were truly warm at the time, though. I thought to serve them now, so I re-steamed them.”

His host, using something that was neither chopsticks nor a toothpick, casually split the manju and began munching noisily. Sōsuke followed suit with a grimace.

In the meantime, his host told a story about a peculiar geisha he said he had met at a restaurant visited the previous evening.
This geisha was fond of the Pocket Analects and supposedly carried it in kimono whenever taking trains or going out for entertainment.

"So you see, among Confucius's disciples, she said Zilu was her favorite."
"When I heard the reason, she explained it was because this man Zilu was so honest that if he learned something and hadn't yet put it into practice, he'd grow troubled upon hearing anything new."
"To tell the truth, I was at a loss since I didn't know Zilu well either—so I asked her, 'If you find someone good, but before becoming husband and wife another good person appears, wouldn't that be troubling?'..."

His host related all this in a very carefree manner.
Judging from how he told the story, he seemed to frequent such places constantly; though long since numbed to their stimulation, as a result of ingrained custom, he still repeated the same routine any number of times each month.
Upon closer examination, it seemed that even such an unflappable man would occasionally grow wearied by surfeits of pleasure and feel compelled to restore his spirit in his study.

Sōsuke was not entirely inexperienced in such matters, so he had no need to forcibly feign interest; indeed, his ordinary manner of greeting appeared to please his host instead.
He displayed an attitude suggesting he glimpsed some distinctive past within Sōsuke’s commonplace words.
Yet whenever Sōsuke showed even a trace of reluctance to venture there, he promptly diverted the conversation.
This arose more from courtesy than strategy.
Consequently, it caused Sōsuke not the slightest unease.

Before long, the topic turned to Shōroku.
Sakai had two or three fresh insights about this young man that even his own flesh-and-blood brother might have overlooked.
Sōsuke listened to his host’s remarks with interest, without disputing their accuracy.
Among them was this query: Was he not a child who, while possessing a mind too complex for practical use given his age, nonchalantly revealed a temperament simpler than his years?
Sōsuke nodded at once.
Yet he countered that those who received only school education without social training would likely retain such tendencies however old they grew.

“Yes, conversely, those who have only social education and no schooling may exhibit quite complex temperaments, but their minds remain childlike forever, you see.”
“On the contrary, it might prove even more troublesome.”

His host gave a slight laugh there, and then,

"How about it? If you send him as a student boarder to my place, it might provide some social education," he said.
It seemed his host's live-in students had all entered military service after passing their conscription exams about a month before his dog fell ill and was hospitalized, and now there were none left.

Sōsuke rejoiced that a favorable opportunity to arrange Shōroku’s circumstances had arrived unbidden with spring’s approach, preceding any active pursuit on his part.
Simultaneously, he—who until now had lacked the courage to proactively seek goodwill and kindness from society—found himself sufficiently startled by this sudden proposal from his host to grow momentarily flustered.
Yet if feasible, he resolved to entrust his brother to Sakai at the earliest juncture, supplementing the financial leeway arising from this shift with partial assistance from Yasunosuke, thereby prudently deciding to enable Shōroku’s pursuit of advanced education as desired.
When he candidly disclosed these matters to his host without reservation, the master merely listened with repeated nods of comprehension; yet ultimately, without complication,

“That sounds good,” he said, so the discussion was nearly settled then and there.

Sōsuke should have excused himself and left then.
Once again, he tried to take his leave.
However, his host told him to take it easy and detained him.
His host declared that the night was long and it was still early evening, even showing him the clock.
In truth, he seemed bored.
Since Sōsuke had nothing to do upon returning home but sleep, he ended up settling back down and began smoking a fresh, strong tobacco.
In the end, following his host’s example, he even relaxed his knees on the soft zabuton cushion.

His host, speaking in relation to Shōroku,

“Well, having a brother can be quite troublesome, you know.”
“I too have memories of looking after a ne’er-do-well,” he said, then went on to recount various things about how much money his brother had cost him during university days, comparing them to the modest simplicity of his own student years.
Sōsuke asked his host about what paths this adventurous younger brother had taken and how he had developed since then, as a way to glimpse the workings of an ominous fate.
His host abruptly—

“Adventurer,” he blurted out abruptly, as though hurling a phrase without beginning or end.

After graduating, this younger brother had entered a bank through Sakai’s introduction, but he was said to have constantly repeated that he absolutely had to make money; not long after the Russo-Japanese War, ignoring his brother’s attempts to dissuade him, he became determined to achieve great success and finally crossed over to Manchuria.
And what do you think he started there? He managed a large-scale transport business using the Liao River to ship soybean meal and soybeans by boat—only to fail almost immediately, it was said.
Though he had not been the primary investor to begin with, when push came to shove and the accounts were tallied, they revealed a significant deficit; naturally, the business could no longer continue, and he inevitably lost his position altogether.

“After that, I didn’t really know what became of him either—but when I finally heard about it later, I was shocked.”
“He went into Mongolia and has been drifting around there.”
“Since there’s no telling how far his reckless streak goes, I’ve grown rather uneasy about it myself.”
“Still, while he stays away, I just assume he’s managing somehow and leave him to it.”
“Even when he occasionally sends word—Mongolia being such a water-scarce place that during heatwaves they sprinkle muddy ditch water on the streets, and when those run dry, horse urine instead, making it reek something awful—those are the only letters I get. Oh, he does ask for money too, but between Tokyo and Mongolia? Might as well let it lie.”
“So as long as he keeps his distance, it’s manageable—but then he suddenly turned up here last December.”

His host, as if struck by a sudden thought, took down a decorative object with an elegant tassel that had been hanging on the alcove pillar.

It was a sword about one shaku long, housed in a brocade bag.
The scabbard was made of an indescribable green mica-like material, with three sections wrapped here and there.
The blade measured only about six sun.
Consequently, the blade was also thin.
Yet the scabbard's shape remained as thick as a hexagonal oak stick.
Upon closer inspection, two slender rods were inserted side by side behind the hilt.
The result achieved the same effect as binding overlapping scabbard layers with a silver band.
The master

“He brought this back as a souvenir.” “It’s called a Mongolian dagger,” he said as he immediately drew it out and showed it. He also pulled out and showed two ivory-like rods that had been inserted at the back.

“These are chopsticks! Mongolians always carry this set at their waist—when it comes time for a feast, they draw the dagger to cut meat and eat it right there with these chopsticks,” he explained.

The master deliberately held both dagger and chopsticks in his hands, demonstrating cutting motions followed by eating gestures. Sōsuke gazed intently at their intricate craftsmanship.

“I also received some felt used in Mongolian tents, but well, it’s no different from old felt rugs.”

The master told Sōsuke about how skillfully the Mongolians handled horses, how the lean, elongated Mongolian dogs resembled Western greyhounds, and how they were being gradually pushed into a corner by the Chinese—relaying everything just as he had heard it from his brother who had recently returned from there.

Since these were stories he had never heard before, Sōsuke listened to each one with considerable interest.

As he listened, curiosity arose in him about what this brother was originally doing in Mongolia.

When he tentatively asked the master, the master—

“Adventurer,” he repeated emphatically. “I have no idea what he’s doing. To me, he claims to be raising livestock. Insists it’s thriving too—but there’s not a shred of truth to it. He’s always spun wild tales to deceive me before. And this business about coming to Tokyo now? Downright fishy. Says he needs to borrow twenty thousand yen for some ‘Mongol king.’ Claims his own credit’s at stake if I don’t lend it—been running around making a fuss.”

“First he corners me with this scheme—as if Mongol kings or vast lands for collateral mean anything between Mongolia and Tokyo! You can’t even collect debts across that distance! When I refuse, he slinks off to my wife behind my back—‘Big Brother could never handle big ventures,’ he boasts.” He sighed heavily. “No helping it.”

The master laughed briefly here but, noticing Sōsuke’s oddly tense expression,

“Why not meet him once? He’s gone to the trouble of wearing this loose fur-lined getup—it’s rather amusing.”
“I could introduce you if you like.”
“I’ve already arranged to have them over for dinner the evening after tomorrow.”
“—Not that you need dwell on it, mind you.”
“Just stay quiet and let him prattle away—no danger in listening.”
“It’s simply amusing,” he pressed insistently.
Sōsuke felt mildly swayed.

“Will it be only your esteemed brother who will be coming?”

“No, there’s another person—a friend of my brother’s who came with him from there—who’s expected to come as well. There’s a man called Yasui whom I’ve never met, but since my brother keeps pressing to introduce him to me, that’s precisely why I decided to invite both of them.”

Sōsuke left Sakai’s gate that night with an ashen face.

Seventeen

The relationship that darkened Sōsuke and Ome’s entire lives thinned their shadows, compelling them to harbor ghostly thoughts deep within.
They spent their years facing one another with feigned ignorance, dimly aware that within some recess of their hearts lurked a tubercular horror unseen by others.

What had initially struck their minds most painfully was how their transgression had impacted Yasui's future. When the terrible, seething thing that had been churning in their heads finally settled, they heard that Yasui too had withdrawn from school midway. They had undoubtedly been the root cause of ruining Yasui's prospects from the start. Next came rumors of Yasui returning to his hometown. Then reports of him falling ill and being bedridden at home. Each time they heard such news, their chests tightened with anguish. Finally came word that Yasui had gone to Manchuria. Sōsuke wondered inwardly whether the illness had healed by now. Or perhaps the Manchuria story itself was a lie, he considered—for in both physique and temperament, Yasui was hardly suited for Manchuria or Taiwan. Sōsuke pulled every string he could to uncover the truth. Through certain connections, he confirmed Yasui was indeed in Fengtian. He further verified that Yasui remained healthy, vigorous, and fully occupied. At this, the couple exchanged glances and released a breath of relief.

“Well, that’s something,” said Sōsuke.

“Better than being ill,” said Ome.

From then on, they avoided mentioning Yasui’s name.
They dared not even think about it.
For they stood in a position where, no matter how much they heaped up anguish of remorse over the sin of having made Yasui drop out of school midway, return to his hometown, fall ill, or be driven off to Manchuria, there was nothing they could do.

“Ome, have you ever experienced a religious awakening?” Sōsuke asked Ome one day.
Ome merely,
“Yes,” she answered simply, then immediately asked in return, “And you?”
Sōsuke gave a faint smile and offered no answer.
Instead, he pressed no further with detailed questions about Ome’s faith.
For Ome, this might have been fortunate.
She possessed nothing so clearly defined or well-formed in that realm.
They passed by without resting on church pews or entering temple gates.
And so, relying solely on time’s palliative power—that natural blessing—they gradually found stability.
Even the occasional appeals emerging unexpectedly from afar had grown too faint, too thin, too detached from flesh and desire to merit such cruel names as suffering or fear.
Ultimately, their faith—having found neither God nor Buddha—took each other as its object and functioned.
Embracing one another, they began tracing a circular path.
Their life settled into stability, lonely though it was.
Within that lonely stability, they tasted a kind of sweet sorrow.
Unconnected to literature or philosophy, they savored this flavor thoroughly yet lacked the intellectual capacity to self-consciously preen over their condition—making them purer than any poets or writers sharing similar circumstances. This remained the couple’s state until that seventh evening when summoned to Sakai’s home to hear news of Yasui.

That night, the moment Sōsuke returned home and saw Ome’s face,

“I’m feeling a bit unwell, so I’ll go to bed right away,” he said, leaning against the hibachi and startling Ome, who had been waiting for his return.

“What’s wrong?” Ome looked up and gazed at Sōsuke.
Sōsuke stood rigidly there.

For Ome, Sōsuke returning home and behaving this way was so rare that she could hardly recall it ever happening before.
Ome stood up as though struck by a sudden, inexplicable fear, but almost mechanically took out the bedding from the closet and began laying out the futon as her husband had instructed.
All the while, Sōsuke remained standing nearby with his hands tucked in his sleeves.
As soon as the futon was laid out, he hastily discarded his clothes and immediately burrowed into it.
Ome could not leave the bedside.

“What’s wrong?”

“I feel unwell somehow. If I stay still like this awhile, I’ll likely recover.”

Sōsuke’s answer emerged half-muffled beneath the night quilt. When this stifled voice reached Ome’s ears, she remained seated by the pillow with an apologetic look, motionless.

“You may go over there. I’ll call if needed.”

Ome at last withdrew to the tearoom.

Sōsuke lay rigid beneath the bedding, eyes shut tight in the darkness. Over and over he rehearsed the account heard from Sakai. Never had he imagined learning of Yasui’s Manchurian circumstances through their landlord’s lips. That he’d nearly been summoned to the same house as Yasui simultaneously—destined to sit side by side or face to face—was beyond any conception until finishing dinner that very night. Lying there, he retraced the past few hours’ progression, finding it strange how abruptly and unexpectedly the climax had arisen. And sorrowful too. He’d never credited himself as something requiring such coincidental machinations and covert snares to overthrow—a weakling who should have been easily cast aside through gentler means. This much he’d believed.

From Shōroku to Sakai’s brother, then Manchuria, Mongolia, leaving the capital, Yasui—the more he traced the thread of their conversation, the more he realized how extraordinarily coincidental it all was. When he considered whether he had to be someone extraordinary enough to be singled out from thousands—someone destined to encounter this rare coincidence that ordinary people scarcely ever meet, all to renew past anguish—Sōsuke found it excruciating. He was also irritated. He exhaled a hot breath within the dark night quilt.

The wound that had finally begun to heal over the past two or three years suddenly started to throb.
As it throbbed, heat rose.
Once again the wound split open, and a poisonous wind threatened to blow in mercilessly.
Sōsuke thought he might as well confess everything to Ome and have her share in the suffering.

"Ome, Ome," Sōsuke called out twice.

Ome immediately came to the bedside and looked down at Sōsuke from above.
Sōsuke fully exposed his face from the collar of the night quilt.
The light from the next room illuminated half of Ome’s cheek.

"I’ll have a cup of hot water."

Sōsuke ultimately lost the courage to say what he had intended to and lied to cover it up.

The next day, Sōsuke woke up as usual and finished his meal no differently than on any weekday.
Then he gazed at Ome’s face—which showed some relief as she served him—with a complex emotion that mingled gladness and pity.

“I was startled last night… I thought something had happened.”

Sōsuke simply looked down and drank the tea that had been poured into his bowl. It was because he couldn’t find the right words to answer.

That day, from morning onward, the wind blew violently, occasionally snatching hats from passersby along with the dust. Disregarding Ome’s anxious suggestion that he rest for the day lest he develop a fever, Sōsuke boarded the streetcar as usual and sat hunched against the wind’s howl and clatter of wheels, staring fixedly at a single spot. As he disembarked, a whistling sound rang out; noticing the hum from the overhead wires above his head, he looked up at the sky—there, amidst the raging of this violent natural force, the sun had slowly emerged, clearer than usual. The wind swept by, chilling the crotch of his Western-style trousers. To Sōsuke, the shadow sweeping up the sand and advancing toward the distant moat appeared as clearly as the slanting streaks of rain driven by the wind.

He couldn't focus on his work at the bureau. Holding a brush and resting his cheek on his hand, he remained lost in thought. At times he ground ink needlessly. He chain-smoked cigarettes. Then, as if suddenly remembering something, he would gaze outside through the windowpane. Each time he looked, the world beyond was ruled by wind. Sōsuke simply wanted to return home early.

When he finally returned home when the time came, Ome looked at Sōsuke’s face with apparent anxiety.

“Are you really alright?” she asked.
Sōsuke had no choice but to answer that he was fine, just tired, then immediately got into the kotatsu and didn’t move until dinner.
Gradually, the wind abated with the day.
In reaction to the daytime’s commotion, the surrounding neighborhood suddenly fell into a hushed stillness.

“What a relief—the wind has stopped. When it blows like it did during the day, even sitting at home feels somehow terribly unsettling.”

In Ome’s words was a tone that feared the wind as though it were some demonic presence.
Sōsuke calmly said, “It seems a bit warmer tonight. It’s a calm and pleasant New Year’s.”

After finishing the meal and when he was about to smoke a cigarette, suddenly—

“Ome, why don’t we go to the vaudeville theater?” he suggested uncharacteristically.
Ome naturally had no reason to refuse.
Shōroku said it would be more convenient for him to stay home and toast rice cakes rather than listen to gidayū ballads, so they asked him to look after the house and went out together.

Because they were a bit late, the vaudeville theater was packed.
The two were allowed to squeeze in at the very back where there was no room to lay out seating cushions, settling into a half-sitting position.

"What a crowd, isn’t it?"

“I suppose it’s because of spring that they’re all here.”

While speaking in hushed voices, the two looked around at the heads of the people packed tightly into the large room.
Among those heads, the front area near the stage looked dimly hazy through the cigarette smoke.
To Sōsuke, this mass of black heads all seemed like people with the leisure to come to such entertainment venues and enjoyably pass the late hours.
He envied every face he saw.

He gazed directly at the stage and strained to listen intently to the jōruri. But no matter how he strained, it failed to become enjoyable. At times he averted his eyes and stole glances at Ome’s face. Every time he looked, Ome’s gaze remained fixed on the performance. She seemed almost to have forgotten her husband’s presence beside her as she listened earnestly. Sōsuke found himself counting even Ome among those enviable people.

During the intermission, Sōsuke turned to Ome and began, “How about we head back now?” Ome was startled by this abruptness.

“Don’t you like it?” she asked.
Sōsuke gave no answer.
Ome,

“It’s fine either way,” she replied, half-heartedly avoiding contradicting her husband’s wishes.
Sōsuke felt sorry toward Ome, whom he had gone to the trouble of bringing along.
He persisted until the very end.

When they returned home, Shōroku sat cross-legged before the hibachi, reading a book held aloft without regard for its warped spine.
The iron kettle had been left beside it, its water cooled to tepid.
On the tray lay three or four leftover grilled rice cakes.
Beneath the grill, the color of remaining soy sauce showed through on a small plate.

Shōroku stood up from his seat,

“Did you enjoy it?” he asked.
The couple warmed themselves at the kotatsu for about ten minutes before promptly going to bed.

The next day too, Sōsuke’s mind remained as unsettled as it had been the day before. After leaving work and boarding his usual train, he found it utterly irrational to be rushing home at such speed—timing his return around Yasui’s visit to the Sakai household that evening—all for the sake of avoiding an encounter with that man. At the same time, imagining how much Yasui must have changed since their last meeting, he felt a desire to glimpse his former friend’s present state from afar.

The sound of Sakai having succinctly called his own brother an "adventurer" two nights prior now resonated loudly in Sōsuke’s ears. In this single word, Sōsuke imagined every form of self-destruction and recklessness, resentment and hatred, incest and immorality, rash judgments and decisive actions—then pictured in his mind what manner of men Sakai’s brother, who must have brushed against some aspect of these, and Yasui, who had come from Manchuria to share interests with him, might have become. The depicted image was naturally imbued with the most intense hues permissible within the literal bounds of the term "adventurer."

Having thus fabricated in his mind an adventurer who particularly exaggerated depravity, Sōsuke felt as though he alone bore full responsibility for this creation. He simply wanted to catch a glimpse of Yasui visiting Sakai's house and, from that figure, sense Yasui's present character. And he wanted to obtain the solace that Yasui had not fallen as low as his own imagination had depicted.

He stood by the Sakai residence and considered whether there might be some convenient spot from which to spy on visitors without being detected by them. Unfortunately, he could not conceive of a suitable hiding place. If Yasui were to come after sunset, there would be the advantage of not being recognized himself, but at the same time, the inconvenience of being unable to discern faces passing through the darkness.

Before long, the streetcar arrived at Kanda.
Sōsuke found it painful to transfer there as usual and head homeward.
His nerves couldn't withstand taking even a single step toward the direction from which Yasui might come.
His curiosity to glimpse Yasui from afar, never particularly strong to begin with, had been utterly crushed by the time he changed trains.
He walked through the cold streets like countless others.
Yet unlike them, he moved without clear purpose.
Soon shopfronts lit their lamps.
The streetcars too illuminated their lights.
Sōsuke entered a beef restaurant and began drinking.
He drained the first bottle feverishly.
The second he forced down.
Even the third failed to intoxicate him.
Leaning against the wall with eyes like a solitary drunkard's, Sōsuke stared vacantly into space.

Because it was dinner time, customers came in a steady stream to eat.
Most of them efficiently finished their meals, promptly settled their bills, and left.
Amid the bustle around him, Sōsuke sat silently, feeling as though he had spent twice or three times the actual time there, until finally, unable to endure sitting any longer, he rose from his seat.

The street was illuminated by the light from shops on both sides.
The hats and attire of those passing under the eaves could be clearly discerned.
However, it was far too feeble to illuminate the vast cold.
The night, disregarding the gas lamps and electric lights of each household, still appeared dark and vast.
Sōsuke walked enveloped in a coat so dark it harmonized with this world.
At that moment, even the air he breathed had turned gray, and he felt as though it were brushing against the blood vessels in his lungs.

On this particular evening, the thought of utilizing the streetcars—ringing their bells and busily shuttling back and forth before his eyes—simply did not occur to him.
Along with people who walked the path with purpose, he forgot to move his feet diligently.
Moreover, being a rootless man, as he reflected on his own heart enacting this prototype of wandering—wondering what he should do if this state were to persist long into the future—he secretly agonized over his own future.
From the course of events up to today, he had deduced from his own experiences the adage that time heals all wounds and had engraved it deeply in his heart.
That had completely crumbled two nights prior.

As he walked through the black night, he thought only of how he might escape from this heart of his.
That heart was indeed weak and unsettled—anxious and indecisive—so lacking in courage it seemed scarcely human.
Under a pressure bearing down on his chest, he considered only practical methods to save his present self while severing entirely from this outcome his own sins and failings that had caused the pressure.
At that moment, having lost all capacity to think of anything else, he became wholly self-absorbed.
Until now he had navigated life through endurance.
From now on he would have to actively forge a more adaptable philosophy of living.
And this philosophy could not be something merely spoken aloud or grasped intellectually.
The very substance of one’s heart had to grow robust—nothing less would suffice.

As he walked on, he repeated the two characters for “religion” under his breath over and over.
But their echo vanished immediately after each repetition.
Like smoke that seems grasped yet disappears when one opens their hand—religion was but fleeting characters.

In connection with religion, Sōsuke recalled the practice of zazen.
Back when he had been in Kyoto, there had been a classmate who went to Shōkoku-ji Temple to practice zazen.
At the time, he had laughed at his classmate’s naivety.
"In this world today…" he had thought.
Seeing that his classmate’s behavior was no different from his own, he felt all the more foolish.

Now belatedly considering that his classmate might have gone to Shōkoku-ji Temple without begrudging precious time due to motives deeper than what warranted his contempt, he felt profoundly ashamed of his own shallowness. If one could truly attain states like peace of mind or establishing one's destiny through zazen's power—as worldly wisdom had long claimed—he thought he wouldn't mind taking ten or twenty days off work to try it. Yet regarding this path, he remained a complete outsider. Consequently, no clearer thought than this arose.

When he finally reached home and saw Ome as usual, Shōroku as usual, and then the usual tea room, sitting room, lamp, and chest of drawers, he became acutely aware that he alone had spent these four or five hours in an unprecedented state.
On the hibachi hung a small pot, steam rising from the gap in its lid.
Beside the hibachi, at his usual sitting spot, the usual zabuton cushion had been laid out, and before it, a meal setting had been properly arranged.

Sōsuke gazed at his own bowl—deliberately placed upside down with its spiral-patterned base facing upward—and the wooden chopsticks he had grown accustomed to using morning and evening over the past two or three years.

"I won’t be eating dinner," he said.
Ome seemed somewhat reluctant.

"Oh, I see. I did think you must have eaten somewhere since you were so late, but just in case you hadn’t..." she said, gripping the pot’s handles with a cloth and setting it down on the trivet.
Then she called Kiyo and had the meal set cleared away to the kitchen.

Sōsuke had made it his custom that whenever some incident occurred causing him to go out immediately after leaving work and return late, he would always give Ome a general account of what happened as soon as he arrived home.
Ome too could not feel settled until hearing it.
But tonight alone, he had no desire whatsoever to mention having gotten off the streetcar in Kanda, entered the beef restaurant, or forced himself to drink.
Ome, knowing nothing of this, once again innocently persisted in asking about one thing after another as usual.

“There wasn’t any particular reason—it’s just that I suddenly felt like eating beef around there.”

“And did you walk all the way back here just to digest your meal?”

“Well, I suppose so.”

Ome laughed with amusement.
Sōsuke found himself rather distressed.
After a pause,
"Did Mr. Sakai not come to fetch me while I was out?" he asked.
"No—why?"
"When I went there the night before last, he mentioned something about treating me to a meal."
"Again?"

Ome made a slightly exasperated face.
Sōsuke ended the conversation there and went to bed.
Something buzzed restlessly through his mind.
Whenever he opened his eyes, as usual, the oil lamp had been dimmed and placed on the alcove.
Ome was sleeping soundly.
Until just recently, he had been the one sleeping well while Ome had been tormented by sleeplessness night after night.
With his eyes closed, Sōsuke felt even more distressed by his present self having to clearly hear the clock in the next room.
At first, the clock struck many times in rapid succession.
When that passed, it rang once clearly.
The muffled sound resonated in Sōsuke’s ears for a while like a comet’s tail with a whoosh.
Next came two strikes.
It was an exceedingly lonely sound.
During that time, Sōsuke resolved only that he must somehow find a way to live more magnanimously.
Three o'clock passed in a haze between hearing and not hearing.
He remained unaware of four, five, six o'clock.
The world had merely swollen.
The sky billowed, stretching and shrinking.
The Earth traced a great arc through space like a ball hung by thread.
Everything was a terrifying dream under demonic control.
A little past seven, he startled awake from this dream.

Ome was smiling as usual, crouched by the pillow.
The crisp day had swiftly driven the blackened world away somewhere.

Eighteen

Sōsuke entered the temple gate with a letter of introduction tucked in his pocket.
He had obtained this from a certain acquaintance of a colleague.
That colleague was a man who would take out Saikontan from the hidden pocket of his Western-style suit and read it in the streetcar during his commute to and from the government office.
Sōsuke, who had no interest in such matters, naturally did not know what Saikontan was.
One day when they sat side by side on a streetcar seat, he asked what it was.
The colleague produced a small yellow cover before Sōsuke and answered that it was such a strange book.
Sōsuke asked again what was written in it.
At that moment his colleague—apparently lacking any suitable words to explain it concisely—made an odd remark along the lines of it being a book on Zen studies.
Sōsuke remembered this reply he had heard from his colleague quite well.

Four or five days before receiving the letter of introduction, he approached this colleague and abruptly asked, "Do you practice Zen studies?"
The colleague, seeing Sōsuke's intensely strained face, looked very surprised; but with a hurried "No, I don't—I just read those books for fun," he quickly retreated.
Sōsuke let his lower lip droop slackly in disappointment and returned to his seat.

That day on their way home, they happened to share the same train again.
The colleague, who had been sympathetically observing Sōsuke's condition earlier, seemed to detect deeper meaning behind his question beyond casual chatter, and now spoke more kindly about the subject.
However, he confessed he had never actually experienced Zen meditation practice.
"If you want detailed information, fortunately I can introduce you to an acquaintance who frequents Kamakura," he offered.
In the train car, Sōsuke jotted down the man's name and address in his notebook.
The next day, carrying his colleague's letter, he deliberately took a roundabout route to make the visit.
The letter Sōske carried in his pocket was one he had obtained on that occasion.

He decided to take about ten days off from work due to illness.
He fabricated being ill for Ome's sake as well.

"My mind isn't well, so I'll take about a week off from work to rest," he said.
Ome had noticed something unusual in her husband's recent behavior and had been privately worrying about it constantly; precisely because of this, she felt pleased by Sōsuke's uncharacteristic decisiveness.
Yet she was also utterly startled by its suddenness.

"When you say 'going out,' where are you going?" she asked, barely keeping her eyes from widening in surprise.

“I still think the Kamakura area would be best,” Sōsuke replied calmly.
The plain Sōsuke and modern Kamakura had little to do with each other.
Suddenly linking the two was comical.
Ome also couldn’t suppress a smile.

“My, aren’t you the wealthy one.
Take me along with you, please,” she said.
Sōsuke did not have the leisure to savor this joke from his beloved wife.
He put on a serious face and,

“I’m not going to any fancy place like that. They’ll let me stay at a Zen temple—just to rest my mind quietly for a week or ten days. Though whether it’ll actually help or not, I can’t say, but everyone claims good air makes all the difference for your head,” he explained.

“Oh no—you must go! That was just a silly joke,” Ome replied.

She felt slightly guilty for teasing her good-natured husband.

Sōsuke, the very next day, tucked the letter of introduction he had received into his pocket and boarded the train from Shinbashi.

On the front of the letter of introduction was written “The Venerable Gidō”.

“Until recently he had been serving as an attendant,” the colleague had written with special care when providing the letter, “but I heard that lately he has been renovating an old hermitage at a subtemple and living there. Why not try asking around once you arrive? The hermitage’s name was indeed Ichian-an.” Sōsuke expressed his thanks while receiving the letter and listened to explanations of terms like “attendant” and “subtemple”—words entirely unfamiliar to him—before returning home.

When he passed through the temple gate, large cedars stood on both sides, and because they blocked the sky high above, the path suddenly darkened.
When he came into contact with that gloomy atmosphere, Sōsuke suddenly became aware of the distinction between the secular world and the temple.
Standing at the quiet precinct entrance, he felt a chill akin to when he first became aware of catching a cold.

He began walking straight ahead.
To either side and ahead, hall-like structures and temple-like buildings dotted the landscape.
Yet there was no sign of anyone coming or going.
Everything lay in utter desolation, as if rusted through with decay.
Sōsuke stood in the middle of the deserted path, considering where to ask directions to Gidō’s whereabouts, and scanned his surroundings.

The temple seemed built into the mountain’s foothills, ascending a block or two inland, its rear densely walled by the dark mass of trees.
The path was hemmed in on both sides by terrain that rolled into mountains or hills—anything but flat.
Here and there on slightly elevated ground, where stone steps climbed upward beneath towering temple gates, he reached the second or third such compound.
On level plots enclosed by fences, countless others stood scattered.
Approaching closer, he saw beneath each gate’s roof tiles framed plaques bearing names like “In” and “An.”

Sōsuke walked along reading one or two old plaques with flaking gold leaf, but suddenly resolved to search beyond Ichian-an; it occurred to him that if the monk addressed in the letter wasn't there, it would be more efficient to inquire further within. He retraced his steps and began checking each subtemple systematically, discovering that Ichian-an stood atop a high stone staircase immediately to the right of the main temple gate. Situated on a hill's edge, its sunny, dry entranceway receded into the mountain's protective embrace behind it—a position seemingly designed to endure winter's harshness. Sōsuke passed through the entryway and stepped into the earthen-floored area from the priests' quarters direction. Reaching the shoji door at the entranceway's upper step, he called out "Excuse me" several times. Yet no one appeared to answer him. Sōsuke remained standing there awhile, peering into the interior's shadows. When no response came despite his prolonged vigil, he exited the priests' quarters in puzzlement and turned back toward the gate.

Then, from below the stone steps, a monk with a freshly shaven head tinged blue ascended. He appeared no older than twenty-four or twenty-five, his youthful face pale and fair-complexioned.
Sōsuke took his place at the gate's doors,

“Is Venerable Gidō here?” he asked.

“I am Gidō,” answered the young monk.
Sōsuke was a little surprised but also pleased.
He immediately took out the letter of introduction from his pocket and handed it over, whereupon Gidō broke the seal while standing and read it through on the spot.
Having rolled the letter back up and returned it to the envelope,

“Welcome,” he said with a polite bow before leading Sōsuke inside.
The two removed their wooden clogs in the priests’ quarters, slid open the shoji screen, and entered.
A large sunken hearth had been built into the floor.
Gidō removed the thin, coarse priestly robe he had been wearing over his mouse-gray cotton undergarment and hung it on a nail,

“You must be cold,” he said, digging out the charcoal buried deep in the hearth from beneath the ashes.

This monk was a man whose manner of speaking was remarkably composed, belying his youth.
After responding in a low voice, the way he then smiled faintly gave Sōsuke an impression almost like that of a woman.
In his heart, Sōsuke wondered under what circumstances this young man had resolved to shave his head, and he somehow felt pity for his gentle demeanor.

“It seems very quiet here—is everyone out today?”

“No, not just today—it’s always just me alone. So when I have business to attend to, I simply leave everything open and go out. I’ve just returned from tending to some matters down below. I must apologize for being absent when you so kindly came.”

At this time, Gidō once again apologized to the visitor from afar for his absence.
Taking care of this large hermitage alone was already burdensome enough, and if even more trouble were added on top of that, it would surely be troublesome—with this thought, Sōsuke shifted his gaze elsewhere with a somewhat pitying expression.
Then Gidō said,
“Not at all, there’s absolutely no need for concern.
It is for the sake of the Way,” he said courteously.
He then informed him that, apart from Sōsuke, there was currently one more lay devotee under his care where he was staying.
It was said that this lay devotee had already been coming to the mountain for two years.

A few days later, Sōsuke finally saw this lay devotee; he was a carefree-looking man with a face resembling a mischievous arhat.
He dangled three or four thin daikon radishes, announced that he’d bought a treat today, and had Gidō boil them before eating.
Gidō and Sōsuke also partook of the meal.
This lay devotee’s face was so monk-like, Gidō said with a laugh, that he sometimes mingled with the monks in their hall and went out to village feasts and such.

He also heard various stories about laypeople who had come to the mountain for training.
Among them was a man who dealt in writing brushes and ink.
He would carry a full load on his back, walk around the area for twenty or thirty days until he nearly sold everything, then return to the mountains to sit in zazen.
Then, after some time passed and his food ran out, he would again load brushes and ink on his back and set out peddling.
It was said that he repeated these two aspects of life almost like a repeating decimal, never tiring of it.

Sōsuke compared the seemingly untroubled lives of these people with his own current inner existence and was astonished at the vast gap between them. He found himself perplexed—was it because they led such carefree lives that they could practice zazen, or did practicing zazen result in attaining such a carefree state of mind?

"You must not be carefree," said Gidō. "If one could treat it as mere diversion, people wouldn’t endure twenty or thirty years of hardship as wandering monks."

He proceeded to give Sōsuke advice that now seemed precarious—general principles for zazen practice, how koans would be assigned by the Zen Master, the necessity to desperately grapple with those koans day and night without rest—and after all this,

“I will show you to the meditation room,” said Gidō, standing up.

Leaving the hearth area, passing alongside the main hall, and sliding open from the veranda the shoji screen of the six-tatami mat room at its edge—when guided inside, Sōsuke felt for the first time that he had truly come to a distant place alone.
Yet his mind, perhaps reflecting the surrounding serenity, grew more unsettled than when he had been in the city.

About an hour had likely passed when Gidō’s footsteps once again resounded from the direction of the main hall.

“I hear that the Zen Master is available for an audience, so if it suits your convenience, we should go,” he said, politely kneeling on the threshold.

The two once again left the temple vacant and departed together.

When they had come about one chō further along the temple gate's thoroughfare, there was a lotus pond on the left side.
In the cold season, the pond held only a thin murkiness within, lacking any clear charm; yet the sight of a room with railings along its edge protruding all the way to the high stone cliff visible across the water added a scenic quality reminiscent of a literati painting.

"That is where the Zen Master resides," said Gidō, pointing at the relatively new building.

The two passed before the lotus pond, climbed five or six stone steps, and—while gazing up at the large temple hall's roof ahead—made a sharp left turn.
As they approached the entrance, Gidō

“Excuse me for a moment,” he said, then went around to the back entrance alone, and soon emerged from within.

“Now then, please,” he said, guiding Sōsuke and taking him to where the Zen Master was.

The Zen Master appeared to be around fifty years old.
He had a reddish-black face with a glossy sheen.
His skin and muscles were all tightly drawn, leaving no slack anywhere—this impression of a bronze statue carved itself into Sōsuke’s chest.
However, his lips were overly thick, so there was a hint of slackness visible there.
Instead, a kind of vividness that ordinary humans could hardly ever see flashed in his eyes.
When Sōsuke first met that gaze, he felt as though he had abruptly glimpsed a white blade in pitch darkness.

“Well, it makes no difference where you begin,” the Zen Master said to Sōsuke.
“What is your original face before your parents were born? You might try contemplating that one.”

Sōsuke did not fully grasp the meaning of “before parents were born,” but he concluded it must mean he was to apprehend the true nature of what he himself ultimately was.
Being too deficient in Zen knowledge to speak further on the matter, he remained silent and was led back by Gidō to Ichidō-an.

At dinner, Gidō told Sōsuke that there were two meditation sessions each day—one in the morning and one in the evening—and that the dharma lectures were held in the morning.

“Since you may still be unable to reach a conclusion tonight，I will invite you either tomorrow morning or tomorrow evening，” he kindly offered.
He also gave him practical advice—since sitting through long sessions would be difficult at first，he suggested lighting an incense stick to measure the time and taking breaks little by little.

Sōsuke took a stick of incense，passed in front of the main hall，entered the six-tatami mat room that had been assigned as his quarters，and sat down in a daze.
From his perspective，the nature of what was called a koan felt undeniably distant from his current state.
I am now suffering from stomach pain.
When I came here bearing this complaint of stomach pain，I was met with what was essentially being presented a difficult mathematical problem as a symptomatic treatment—as if told，“Well，try thinking about this for now.”
If I were told to think，I might think，but that had to wait until my stomachache subsided.

At the same time, he was a man who had taken leave from work and come all the way here.
Toward both the person who had written his letter of introduction and Gidō, who was attending to all matters for him, he could not behave too recklessly.
He first resolved to muster all the courage he could currently allow himself and face the koan.
Where this would lead him and what result it would bring to his heart were things even he himself did not know at all.
Deceived by the fine name of enlightenment, he was plotting to attempt an adventure ill-suited to his usual self.
And clinging to this fleeting hope that if he succeeded in this adventure, he might perhaps rescue his current anxious, uncertain, feeble self.

He lit a thin stick of incense in the cold ashes of the hibachi and sat in the half-lotus position on the zabuton as instructed. The room, which hadn’t felt particularly cold during daylight hours, turned sharply chilly after sunset. As he sat there, he couldn’t bear the frigid air that made his spine shiver.

He thought. Yet both the trajectory of his thoughts and the essence of the problem he contemplated hovered in an emptiness nearly impossible to grasp. While thinking, he began doubting whether he was engaged in some profoundly foolish pantomime. It felt like performing an act far more disjointed and misdirected than someone who, while rushing to visit a fire scene, pauses to meticulously consult a detailed map of street names and house numbers.

A multitude of things flowed through his mind.
Some were distinctly visible.
Others churned turbulently like clouds.
Their origins and destinations remained unknown.
No sooner would one vanish than the next would appear.
They continued ceaselessly from one to another.
These passers-through his mind were infinite, countless, inexhaustible; by no command of Sōsuke’s would they ever halt or rest.
The more he tried to sever them, the more abundantly they surged forth.

Sōsuke became frightened, suddenly summoned his everyday self, and looked around the room.
The room was dimly illuminated by a faint light.
The incense stick planted in the ashes had only burned about halfway.
Sōsuke noticed for the first time just how dreadfully long the passage of time was.

Sōsuke began to think again.
Then, immediately, things with color and form began to pass through his head.
They moved along like swarming ants; then from behind, they appeared again like swarming ants.
The only thing that remained still was Sōsuke's body.
His mind moved with a heartrending, agonizing, unbearable intensity.

Before long, even his body, which had remained still, began to ache from the knees. The spine that had been stretched straight gradually began to curve forward. Sōsuke cradled the instep of his left foot with both hands and lowered it down. He stood up in the room with no particular purpose in mind. He opened the shoji, went outside, and wanted to run around and around in front of the gate. The night was still and silent. There didn’t seem to be any sleeping people or awake people anywhere. Sōsuke lost the courage to go outside. To remain alive while being tormented by delusions was even more terrifying.

He resolutely lit another new incense stick.
And then he repeated nearly the same process as before.
Finally, he reasoned that if the purpose was to think, then whether he sat and thought or lay down and thought would amount to the same thing.
He spread out the slightly soiled futon that had been folded in the corner of the room and crawled into it.
Then, due to the fatigue from earlier, before he had time to think of anything, he fell into a deep sleep.

When he opened his eyes, the shoji by his pillow had grown bright without him noticing, and upon its white paper, the color of the impending sun began to shift.
The mountain temple, which did not need to be left unattended even during the day, did not produce the sound of closing doors even after night fell.
The moment Sōsuke realized he was not sleeping in the dark room beneath Sakai’s cliff, he immediately stood up.
When he stepped out onto the veranda, the shadow of the giant cactus high on the eaves caught his eye.
Sōsuke passed through the front of the Buddhist altar in the main hall and went out to the tearoom with the sunken hearth where he had been the day before.
There, as yesterday, Gidō’s Buddhist robe hung on the bent nail.
And then Gidō was squatting in front of the kitchen stove, building a fire.
Seeing Sōsuke,

“Good morning,” Gidō said with a polite bow. “I meant to invite you earlier, but since you appeared to be sleeping deeply, I took the liberty of going alone.”

Sōsuke understood that this young monk had already completed his zazen practice at dawn, returned, and was now cooking rice.

Observing closely, he saw Gidō continually feeding the fire with his left hand while clutching a black-bound book in his right, reading it during brief pauses between tasks. Sōsuke asked Gidō the book’s title. It was called Hekigan-shū—a work with a daunting name. To himself, Sōsuke reasoned that instead of exhausting his mind with aimless thoughts as he had the previous night, borrowing a text on Zen might offer a more efficient path to understanding. When he proposed this to Gidō, the monk immediately dismissed the idea.

“Reading books is most ill-advised.”
“To put it plainly, there seems to be nothing that hinders practice as much as reading.”
“Even we read texts like the Hekigan-shū like this, but when it comes to matters beyond our own level, we’re utterly at a loss.”
“If you develop the habit of casually speculating like that, it becomes a hindrance when sitting—you end up either anticipating realms beyond your current state, awaiting enlightenment, or faltering just where you should be plunging in fully.”
“It becomes quite harmful, so it would be best to stop.”
“If you insist on reading something, something like Zenkan-sesshin—which encourages and inspires people’s courage—would be suitable.”
“Even that should only be read as a provisional means of stimulation; it has no relation to the path itself.”

Sōsuke did not fully grasp Gidō’s meaning.
Standing before this youthful monk with his shaven head, he felt like a simpleton.
His arrogance had been completely worn away since Kyoto.
He had lived until now accepting mediocrity as his fate.
Nothing felt more distant to him than worldly success.
He stood before Gidō as nothing but his unadorned self.
Moreover, he could not help but acknowledge himself as an infant far more powerless and inept than his usual self.
For him, this was a new revelation.
Simultaneously, it was a revelation that uprooted his self-respect.

While Gidō extinguished the stove fire and steamed the rice, Sōsuke descended from the kitchen, went out to the wellside in the garden, and washed his face.
Before his nose stood a hill of mixed trees.
At its base, a slightly flat area had been cleared to prepare a vegetable garden.
Sōsuke exposed his wet head to the cold air and deliberately went down to the vegetable garden.
There he found a large hole dug horizontally into the cliff.
He stood before it for a while, gazing into the dark depths.
When he returned to the tearoom, a warm fire burned in the sunken hearth, and he heard water boiling in the iron kettle.

“Since there’s no one to help, I ended up being late—I’m terribly sorry. I’ll prepare the meal shortly. But being in such a place, I’m afraid there’s nothing proper to offer you. In return, perhaps tomorrow I can prepare a proper bath for you as a treat,” said Gidō.
Sōsuke gratefully sat down facing the sunken hearth.

Having finished his meal and returned to his room, Sōsuke once again set before his eyes the rare problem known as "Parents Before Birth" and gazed intently at it.
However, since it was a problem that had no coherent structure and thus no potential for development, no matter how much he thought about it, he could find no way to approach it.
And then he immediately grew weary of thinking.
Sōsuke suddenly realized he had to write to Ome about his arrival here.
As if welcoming the occurrence of a mundane task, he promptly took out a roll of paper and an envelope from his bag and began writing a letter to Ome.
He started by enumerating the tranquility of this place; how it was considerably warmer than Tokyo, likely due to being near the sea; the clarity of the air; the kindness of the monk who had introduced him; the unpalatable meals; the bedding not being properly arranged—and as he wrote of these things, the letter soon grew to over three shaku in length, at which point he laid down his brush. Yet he did not breathe a word of being tormented by the koan, of his knee joints aching from zazen, or of how his neurasthenia seemed to grow more severe from all this thinking.
He affixed a stamp to this letter and, seeking the pretext that it had to be mailed, promptly descended the mountain.
And then, while haunted by Parents Before Birth, Ome, and Yasui, he wandered through the village and returned home.

In the afternoon, he met the lay practitioner that Gidō had mentioned.
This lay practitioner took out a bowl and, when having Gidō serve him rice, without uttering any polite hesitations, simply clasped his hands in prayer to express gratitude or exchanged signals.
He said that doing things this quietly was the monastic way.
Not speaking and avoiding noise, it was said, stemmed from the principle that such things would interfere with contemplation.
Considering how seriously one ought to approach it, Sōsuke felt somehow ashamed of himself since the previous night.

After the meal, the three of them talked for a while by the hearth.
At that moment, the lay practitioner said that sometimes while doing zazen, he would unknowingly doze off, and just as he startled awake—thinking "Ah, I’ve attained enlightenment!"—he would open his eyes only to find himself exactly as before, leaving him utterly disappointed. This made Sōsuke laugh.
When he thought that there were people engaging in Zen practice with such carefree thoughts, Sōsuke too relaxed somewhat.
However, when the three went their separate ways to their own rooms, Gidō—

“Since I’ll be summoning you tonight, please sit properly until evening.” When Gidō solemnly urged him this way, Sōsuke felt a renewed sense of obligation.
Carrying an anxious heart like an indigestible rice dumpling lodged in his stomach, he returned to his room.
Then he lit another incense stick and began his seated meditation.
Yet he couldn’t maintain the position until dusk.
Though he thought he must at least prepare some answer, his endurance eventually failed, leaving him fixated only on wishing Gidō would soon come through the main hall to announce dinner.

The day declined amidst anguish and exhaustion.
As shadows of time cast upon the shoji screens gradually receded into the distance, the temple's air began to chill from beneath the floorboards.
The wind had not stirred the branches since morning.
Stepping out onto the veranda and looking up at the high eaves, beyond where only the edges of black tiles aligned in a long row, the serene sky was sinking a blue light into its depths while growing faint alongside him.

Nineteen

“It’s quite dangerous,” said Gidō, taking a step ahead down the dark stone stairs.
Sōsuke followed behind.
As the footing grew treacherous at night unlike in town, Gidō lit a lantern to illuminate just one chō of the path.
When they reached the bottom of the steps, large tree branches arched over their heads from both sides, blotting out the sky.
Though dark, the blue tinge of leaves chilled Sōsuke so deeply it seemed to seep into his kimono’s very weave.
The lantern light faintly reflected that same hue.
Perhaps dwarfed by imagined tree trunks nearby, the lantern appeared pitifully small.
Its glow stretched barely a few feet across the ground.
The lit patch formed a bright gray fragment suspended softly in darkness.
And as they moved, their shadows shifted in tandem.

After passing the lotus pond, the path ascending to the left proved somewhat treacherous underfoot for Sōsuke as he experienced it for the first time at night.
He caught the base of his geta once or twice on stones whose roots were embedded in the soil.
There was also a back path branching off sideways before reaching the lotus pond, but since this one was quite uneven and would likely be inconvenient for Sōsuke, who was unaccustomed to it, Gidō had deliberately guided him along the wider route.

When he entered the entranceway, numerous geta were lined up on the dark earthen floor. Sōsuke bent down and quietly ascended the stairs, taking care not to step on others' footwear. The room measured about eight tatami mats in size. Along the wall, six or seven men stood lined up on one side. Among them was a shaven-headed monk clad in black priestly robes. The others mostly wore hakama trousers. These six or seven men formed an orderly L-shape along the wall, leaving only a three-shaku-wide corridor opening connecting the stairway and inner chambers. Not one of them spoke a word. At first glance of their faces, Sōsuke was struck by their severity. They all kept their lips tightly sealed. Their brows were knit as if pondering weighty matters. They neither glanced at their neighbors nor paid any heed to newcomers entering from outside. Like living sculptures they maintained their composure, sitting solemnly in the unheated room. To Sōsuke's senses came an air of solemnity that surpassed even the mountain temple's chill.

Before long, within the profound silence, footsteps echoed faintly. At first they resonated weakly, then grew louder as they trod the floorboards, drawing nearer to where Sōsuke sat. Finally, a monk suddenly appeared from the corridor entrance. Passing by Sōsuke's side, he wordlessly vanished into the outer darkness. Then, from deep within the far recesses, a bell rang out.

At that moment, among the men who had been solemnly waiting alongside Sōsuke, one wearing an ogura hakama stood up in silence. He came directly before the corridor entrance at the room's corner and took his seat. There hung an object within a wooden frame about two shaku high and one wide - shaped like a gong but far thicker and heavier than any ordinary one. Its bluish-black surface was dimly lit. The hakama-clad man lifted the mallet from its stand and sounded the center of this gong-like bell twice. Then he rose swiftly, exited through the corridor entrance, and proceeded inward. This time, contrary to before, his footsteps grew fainter as they receded into the distance until abruptly ceasing altogether. Sitting rigidly, Sōsuke started. He imagined what might now be transpiring with this man in hakama.

But the inner depths remained profoundly silent.
Not a single one of those lined up with Sōsuke moved a muscle in their face.
Yet in his heart, Sōsuke waited for something from those depths.
Then abruptly, the ringing of a bell resounded in his ears.
Simultaneously, footsteps echoed through the long corridor, drawing nearer.
The man in hakama reappeared from the corridor entrance, descended the entryway without a word, and vanished into the frost.
Another man rose to take his place, struck the bell as before,
then tramped down the corridor toward the inner chambers.
Sōsuke observed this sequence unfolding in silence, hands resting on his knees as he awaited his turn.

When the man one person ahead of him stood up and left, after a short while, a loud "Wah!" voice was heard from deep within.
The voice was too distant to strike Sōsuke’s eardrums violently, but it was indeed projected with all his might.
And it bore the distinctive qualities of a voice that had emerged from a single person’s throat.
When the person immediately before him stood up, constrained by the awareness that his turn had finally come, he lost even more composure.

Sōsuke had prepared his own answer to the recent koan.
However, it was nothing more than an exceedingly uncertain and flimsy thing.
Since he had to enter the meditation hall, he could not avoid presenting some kind of answer; thus, he had reluctantly patched together his unresolved thoughts into a semblance of coherence—a mere temporary courtesy for the occasion.
He had not even dreamed of hoping to pass this difficult hurdle with such a feeble answer by some stroke of luck.
He had no intention, of course, of deceiving the Zen Master.
At that time, Sōsuke had been a bit more earnest.
He was ashamed of his own emptiness—for having to enter the meditation hall out of mere obligation, bringing with him something as useless as a painted rice cake that he had simply concocted in his mind.

Sōsuke struck the bell as others did. Moreover, even as he struck it, he knew he lacked the authority to sound this bell with the mallet as others did. He deeply loathed himself, like a monkey mimicking others by ringing it. While harboring fear of his own vulnerability, he stepped out of the entrance into the cold corridor. The corridor stretched on endlessly. Every room along the right side lay shrouded in darkness. After rounding two corners, a lamplight shone upon the shoji screen at the far end. Sōsuke reached this threshold and stopped.

For those entering the meditation hall, it was customary to perform three prostrations toward the Zen Master. The manner of prostration involved lowering one’s head close to the tatami mat like a regular bow while simultaneously opening both palms upward, placing them on either side of the head, then raising them near the ears with a sensation of cradling something. Sōsuke knelt at the threshold and performed the prostration as prescribed. Then, inside the room,

“A single prostration will suffice,” came the response.
Sōsuke omitted the remaining ones and entered inside.

The room was illuminated only by a dim light.
The dim light was too faint to permit reading even a large-character book.
Drawing on his experiences up to that day, Sōsuke could not recall any people who carried on through the night under such a faint light.
The light was certainly stronger than moonlight.
Nor was it as wan in color as the moon.
But it was of a nature that was on the verge of sinking into obscurity.

By the quiet, indistinct light, Sōsuke recognized what Gidō referred to as the Zen Master, seated four or five shaku directly in front of him.
His face remained as immobile as cast metal, as was his custom.
The color was copper.
He was clad from head to toe in a monastic robe of a color resembling a muted blend of persimmon and tea.
Neither his feet nor his hands were visible.
Only the head and neck were visible.
The head and neck, settled in solemnity and the height of tension as if it held no fear of ever changing, fascinated those who beheld it.
And there was not a single hair on his head.

The words uttered by Sōsuke, who sat drained of vigor before him, amounted to nothing more than a single phrase.

"You must bring something with more piercing clarity," the Zen Master immediately declared.
"That much could be said by anyone who's done even a modicum of study."

Sōsuke withdrew from the meditation hall like a stray dog bereft of its master.
Behind him, the violent clangor of a shaken bell reverberated.

Twenty

Outside the shoji, a voice called "Mr. Nonaka, Mr. Nonaka" twice.
Half-asleep, Sōsuke thought he had answered, but before completing his response, he swiftly lost awareness and sank back into shapeless slumber.

When he awoke the second time, he started in surprise and leapt to his feet.
When he went out to the veranda, Gidō, wearing a mouse-colored cotton kimono with a work sash tied around him, was bustling about as he wiped down the area.
With red, frozen hands squeezing a wet rag and his usual gentle, amiable smile,

“Good morning,” he greeted.
After completing his morning zazen as usual, he had returned to the hermitage and was working like this.
Sōsuke reflected on his own negligence in being unable to rise even when specifically roused and felt thoroughly embarrassed.

“I ended up oversleeping again this morning. My apologies.”

He slipped out furtively through the back door toward the well. And then he drew cold water and washed his face as quickly as possible. The stubble that had begun to grow scraped roughly against his cheeks like needles pricking his hand, but Sōsuke, in his current state, had no room to be bothered by it. He repeatedly contrasted Gidō with himself in his thoughts. When he had received the letter of introduction in Tokyo, he had heard that this monk named Gidō was a man of excellent character who had by now largely completed his training, but upon meeting him, he found him as deferential as an utterly uneducated servant boy. Seeing him working like this with a work sash tied around him, he did not at all resemble the master of an independent hermitage. He could be called both an administrator and a young novice.

This diminutive young monk had sat in full lotus for seven days without moving an inch when he first came there as a lay practitioner to train before taking monastic vows.
In the end, his legs ached so much that he could no longer stand, and when he had to go to the toilet, he could only manage to move his body along the wall with great difficulty.
At that time, he was a sculptor.
On the day he achieved enlightenment, overwhelmed with joy, he ran up the mountain behind the temple and shouted at the top of his voice, "All sentient and insentient beings alike attain Buddhahood!"
And then he finally shaved his head.

"It’s been two years since I began overseeing this hermitage, but I’ve yet to properly lay out bedding and stretch my legs out comfortably to sleep," he said. He said that even in winter, he only slept sitting up against the wall in his clothes. He said that when he had been an attendant, he’d even been made to wash the Zen Master’s loincloths. On top of that, he said, whenever he stole a little time to sit [in meditation], others would come afterward to spitefully disturb him or speak to him venomously, and with his head freshly shaven, he often lamented what karmic retribution had led him to become a monk.

“I’ve finally begun to find it somewhat easier of late.”
“But there remains a long road ahead.”
“Ascetic practice is truly arduous.”
“If it could be achieved so easily, no matter how foolish we might be, there’d be no reason for us to endure such suffering for ten or even twenty years.”

Sōsuke sat dumbfounded.
Not only did he chafe at his own lack of fortitude and vitality, but if enlightenment couldn’t be attained without devoting such years to its pursuit—why then had he come all this way into the mountains? Herein lay the first contradiction.

“There’s absolutely no cause for concern that you’ll come out worse off.”
“If you sit for ten minutes, you gain ten minutes’ merit; if you sit for twenty minutes, you gain twenty minutes’ virtue—this goes without saying.”
“Moreover, if you can break through cleanly just once at the outset, then afterward you won’t have to keep coming here all the time like this.”

Sōsuke had to return to his room and sit down if only out of obligation.

At such a time, Gidō came and,

When Gidō invited him by saying, “Mr. Nonaka, it’s time for the Dharma lecture,” Sōsuke felt genuinely happy from the heart.
He was tormented by an elusive problem akin to trying to grasp a bald head with no place to grip, and as he sat there motionless in his agonizing, he felt the pain of it keenly.
No matter how energy-consuming the work might be, he wanted to engage his body a bit more actively.

The location of the Dharma lecture was, as expected, a full chō removed from Ichidō-an.
When they passed in front of the lotus pond and continued straight ahead without turning left, they came upon tall eaves with solemnly layered roof tiles visible through gaps in the pine trees.
Gidō had placed a black-covered book inside his robe.
Sōsuke was of course empty-handed.
He had only come to realize here that what was called a "Dharma lecture" was equivalent to what in school would be termed a lecture.

The room was spacious and cold in proportion to its high ceiling.
The faded color of the tatami mats complemented the old pillars, leaving the space desolate as though recounting times long past.
The people sitting there all appeared subdued.
They had taken their seats as they pleased regardless of rank, but there was not a single person who spoke loudly or laughed.
The monks, all clad in indigo linen robes, formed rows to the left and right of the curved meditation chairs at the front and lined up facing each other.
That curved meditation chair was painted vermilion.

Before long, the Zen Master appeared.
To Sōsuke, who had been staring at the tatami, it remained utterly unclear by what path or from where he had emerged.
He only saw his composed and imposing figure leaning against the vermilion-lacquered curved meditation chair.
He saw a young monk standing to untie a purple cloth wrapping, take out a book from within, and reverently place it on the desk.
He also saw how he bowed reverently and withdrew.

At this moment, the monks in the hall all clasped their hands together in unison and began reciting Musō Kokushi's posthumous admonitions.
The lay practitioners seated haphazardly before and behind Sōsuke all matched their voices to the same rhythm.
To his ears, it became a kind of text bearing a cadence that hovered between sutra chant and ordinary speech.

"I have three grades of disciples: those who cast aside all worldly ties with fierce intensity and single-mindedly investigate their true matter—these are named the highest grade; those whose practice remains impure yet delight in eclectic studies—these are called the middle grade;"
those who cast aside all worldly ties with fierce intensity and single-mindedly investigate their true matter—these are named the highest grade;
"their practice impure yet delighting in eclectic studies—these are called the middle grade;" and so on—it was not overly long.
Sōsuke had not initially known who Musō Kokushi was.
From Gidō, he learned that Musō Kokushi and Daitō Kokushi were the revivers of Zen tradition.
He also heard from Gidō on that occasion about Daitō Kokushi—how he had been unable to properly cross his legs due to lifelong lameness, but in his final moments declared "Today I shall finally do as I please," forcibly bending his bad leg into full lotus position until blood flowed and dyed his robe crimson.

Before long, the Dharma lecture began.
Gidō took out the book from his robe, opened it halfway, and placed it before Sōsuke.
That was a book titled *Shūmon Mujintōron*.
When he first attended the lecture, Gidō had informed Sōsuke,
“It’s a most valuable and excellent book.”
It appeared to be a work edited by a certain Tōrei Zenji—a disciple of Hakuin Zenji—that systematically organized both the path by which Zen practitioners advance from shallow to profound levels and the accompanying changes in mental state.

Though Sōsuke, having joined midway, could not fully comprehend it, the lecturer was so eloquent that as he sat listening quietly, he found certain parts remarkably engaging. Moreover, likely to encourage Zen practitioners, it was customary to intersperse these lectures with historical accounts of those who had suffered along this path since antiquity, thus lending them greater depth. This day followed the same pattern until reaching a certain point, when the lecturer abruptly changed his tone:

"Lately there are those entering the meditation hall who lament being unable to suppress delusional thoughts," he suddenly rebuked the attendees for their laxity, making Sōsuke startle involuntarily. The one who had entered that hall and voiced such complaints was none other than himself.

An hour later, Gidō and Sōsuke walked side by side back to Ichidō-an.
On their way back, Gidō said,
“During those Dharma lectures, they often admonish practitioners for their negligence.”
Sōsuke did not answer.

21

Meanwhile, the days in the mountains passed one by one.
Two rather long letters had already arrived from Ome.
However, neither of the two letters contained any new worries that would disturb Sōsuke’s mind.
Unlike his usual considerate self toward his wife, Sōsuke ultimately neglected to send a reply.
He felt that before leaving the mountain, he had to somehow settle this lingering problem; otherwise, his coming all this way would be in vain, and he would feel as though he had wronged Gidō.
When he was awake, he was subjected continuously to an indescribable kind of pressure because of this.
Therefore, as days turned to nights and dawns broke, and the number of suns he saw at the temple accumulated, he grew increasingly frantic, as though being pursued from behind.
But he knew no way to approach this problem other than the initial solution.
He believed that no matter how much he thought about it, this initial solution was certain.
But since it was derived from logic alone, it never reached his core.
He discarded this certainty and attempted to seek another certainty.
But nothing of the sort came to him at all.

He thought alone in his room. When fatigue set in, he would go down through the kitchen to the vegetable garden out back. There he would crawl into a horizontal hole dug beneath the cliff and sit perfectly still. Gidō had told him a scattered mind was useless. “You must gradually concentrate and harden until you become like an iron rod,” he’d said. The more Sōsuke heard such instructions, the harder achieving that state became.

“The trouble is you already have ulterior motives in your mind about trying to do this,” Gidō admonished him again. Sōsuke felt increasingly cornered. Abruptly, his thoughts turned to Yasui. If Yasui started visiting the Sakai house frequently and delayed returning to Manchuria, withdrawing from their rented home now and relocating elsewhere would be wisest. Staying here dawdling was pointless—returning to Tokyo promptly to handle matters might prove more practical anyway. Letting things slide would only multiply Ome’s worries if she found out, he reasoned.

“Someone like me will never attain enlightenment,” he said desperately, grabbing Gidō.

It was two or three days before his return.

“No, as long as one has belief, anyone can attain enlightenment,” Gidō answered without hesitation.
“Just try approaching it like those fervently devoted Lotus adherents who beat their drums in single-minded focus.”
“When from the crown of your head to the tips of your toes becomes wholly saturated with the koan, a new realm will abruptly reveal itself before you.”

Sōsuke deeply lamented how ill-suited his circumstances and temperament were for such blindly fervent exertions.
Moreover, his remaining days in these mountains were already numbered.
He who had sought to sever life’s entanglements directly had instead become a fool straying into these peaks through circuitous means.

While thinking this to himself, he lacked the strength to say all that in front of Gidō.
He sincerely respected this young Zen monk’s courage, zeal, sincerity, and kindness.

“There is a saying that ‘The Way lies near, yet people seek it afar,’ and it truly holds.
It’s right under your nose, yet you just can’t seem to notice it,” Gidō remarked with evident regret.
Sōsuke retreated to his room again and lit an incense stick.

This state continued until the unfortunate day when Sōsuke had to leave the mountain, without any opportunity to achieve a noticeable breakthrough.
When the morning of his departure finally arrived, Sōsuke resolutely cast off all lingering attachments.

"I am deeply grateful for your long care.
It's regrettable, but there's nothing to be done.
As we likely won't meet again for some time, I bid you farewell," he said to Gidō.
Gidō looked genuinely pained.

"Far from being helpful, I'm sure everything here felt terribly inadequate and constraining.
But even sitting this much has made a difference.
Your coming all this way was truly worthwhile," he replied.
Yet Sōsuke clearly recognized he might as well have come merely to pass time.
That Gidō would gloss things over like this stemmed from his own weakness, he thought with burning shame.

“The speed of enlightenment is entirely a matter of one’s nature; that alone does not determine superiority or inferiority.”
“There are those who find it easy to enter but later become blocked and immobile; and there are also those who take a long time at first but can act with great decisiveness when the critical moment arrives.”
“You must never be disappointed.”
“What matters is dedication.”
“The late Reverend Kōsen, for instance, originally practiced Confucianism and began his training in middle age, but after becoming a monk, he did not pass a single koan for three whole years.”
“So he would say, ‘My karma is too deep; I cannot attain enlightenment,’ and every morning he would bow in worship toward the toilet, but later he became such a renowned master.”
“This is precisely the best example.”

Gidō, through such stories, seemed to be indirectly cautioning Sōsuke in advance not to abandon this path entirely even after returning to Tokyo.
Sōsuke respectfully listened to what Gidō was saying.
But in his heart, he felt as though the great matter had already half departed.
I had come to have the door opened for me.
But the gatekeeper was on the other side of the door; even when he knocked, he never even showed his face.
Only,

“Even if you knock, it’s no use.”
Only a voice spoke: “Open it yourself and come in.”
He thought about how to unlatch this gate.
He clearly devised the method in his mind.
Yet he possessed no cultivated strength to actually open it.
Thus where he stood differed not at all from before he’d ever contemplated this problem.
He remained before the door, shackled by his own ineptitude.
He had always lived by his discernment.
Now he bitterly regretted how that discernment haunted him.
He envied the fool’s resolve—one who from outset allowed neither choice nor debate.
Or revered as sublime those devout souls who practiced forgetting wisdom and shunning thought.
He seemed born to stand eternally outside the gate.
This was inevitable.
Yet striving to reach an impassable gate was contradiction itself.
He looked back.
But held no courage to retrace his former path.
He looked ahead.
Before him, an unyielding door forever barred the way.
He was no passer-through of gates.
Nor one who could live without passing through.

In short, he was an unfortunate man who stood frozen beneath the gate, left to wait for nightfall.

Before departing, Sōsuke went with Gidō to bid farewell to the Zen Master.
The Zen Master led the two of them to a room above the lotus pond, with a railing along its edge.
Gidō himself stood in the next room, prepared tea and brought it out.

"Tokyo must still be cold," said the Zen Master.
"If you had even a little foothold to work with, it would be easier after returning home."
"What a waste."

In response to the Zen Master’s words, Sōsuke paid his respects with utmost courtesy and exited through the temple gate he had passed under ten days earlier.
The cedars overwhelming the roof tiles loomed blackly behind him, sealing winter within their shadows.

22

Having crossed the threshold of his house, Sōsuke pictured even in his own mind a pitiable figure.
For the past ten days, he had wet his head with cold water every morning without once running a comb through his hair.
He had naturally found no time to shave his beard.
Though he did eat the three daily meals of white rice that Gidō had kindly prepared for him, as for side dishes, they amounted only to boiled greens or daikon.
His face was deathly pale.
He appeared somewhat more haggard than before his departure.
Moreover, he had yet to fully break free from the habit of endless contemplation cultivated at Ichidō-an.
Somewhere within him lingered a brooding sensation like a hen sitting on her eggs, leaving his mind unable to function with its usual freedom.
Yet paradoxically, he found himself preoccupied with thoughts of Sakai.
Or rather than Sakai himself, it was news of Sakai's so-called adventurer brother—a title that had struck Sōsuke's ears—and of Yasui, who as that brother's friend had unsettled his heart, that weighed on him.
Yet he lacked the courage to visit the landlord's residence himself and make inquiries.
Nor could he bring himself to question Ome indirectly about the matter.
Even during his mountain retreat, there had scarcely been a day when he didn't worry whether Ome might have heard something regarding this affair.
Sōsuke sat in the tatami room of the home he had inhabited for years,

“Even a short train journey seems to take it out of me—maybe it’s just my imagination,” he asked. “Did anything unusual happen while I was away?” In truth, he looked like someone who couldn’t endure even a brief rail trip.

Ome couldn’t summon up the smile she always kept ready for her husband’s sake, no matter the circumstances. Yet it felt too cruel to tell him outright—this man who’d just returned from a much-needed restorative trip—that he appeared worse off now than before he’d left. With deliberate cheerfulness,

"No matter how much you rest away, coming home always takes something out of you. But you look positively disheveled. For mercy's sake, once you've rested a bit, go to the bathhouse and get a haircut and shave," she said, deliberately taking out a small mirror from the desk drawer to show him.

Upon hearing Ome's words, Sōsuke felt as though a wind had swept clean the lingering atmosphere of Ichidō-an. Once he left the mountains and returned home, he remained exactly the same Sōsuke as before.

“Has Mr. Sakai said anything since then?”

“No, nothing at all.”

“And Shōroku?”

“No.”

Shōroku had gone to the library and was not home.
Sōsuke took a hand towel and soap and went out.

When he went to work at the government office the next day, everyone asked how his illness was.
Some remarked, “You look a bit thinner.”
To Sōsuke, it sounded like unconscious criticism.
The man reading Saikontan simply asked, “So, did it go well?”
Sōsuke found this question painful too.

That evening, Sōsuke was grilled by Ome and Shōroku in turn about his time in Kamakura.

“It must be nice and carefree, huh? If only you could just leave without even a caretaker or anything,” Ome said.

“So how much do you have to pay per day for them to let you stay there?” asked Shōroku.
“It might be fun if you took a gun and went hunting or something,” he added.

“But it must be so dull.”
“It must be so lonely for you.”
“You can’t just stay in bed from morning till night there, can you?” Ome said again.

“If it’s not somewhere you can eat more nourishing food, it’s still not good for your health,” Shōroku said again.

That night, as Sōsuke lay in his futon, he resolved that tomorrow he would finally visit Sakai and discreetly inquire about Yasui’s whereabouts—and if Yasui still remained in Tokyo and kept visiting Sakai regularly, he would move far away.

The next day cast its unremarkable light upon Sōsuke’s head, and the uneventful sun set in the west.
When night fell, he—

“I’m just going to Mr. Sakai’s,” he said as he stepped out the gate. Climbing the moonless slope and crunching the gravel illuminated by gas lamps as he opened the sliding door, he steeled himself with the conviction that there was little chance he would encounter Yasui there tonight. Even so, he deliberately went around to the back entrance and did not forget to ask, “Are there any guests?”

“Welcome! It’s still as cold as ever, isn’t it?” came the usual energetic voice of the master of the house. When Sōsuke looked, he saw Sakai lining up a crowd of children before him and playing rock-paper-scissors with one of them while calling out the game’s cues. The girl he was playing against appeared to be about six years old. With a wide red ribbon fastened to her head like a butterfly, she clenched her small fist with vigor matching Sakai’s and thrust it forward decisively. The contrast between her resolute manner and tiny fist against Sakai’s exaggeratedly large knuckles drew laughter from all present. By the hibachi sat Sakai’s wife,

“There! This time Yukiko will win for sure!” she said cheerfully, showing her beautiful teeth. Beside the child’s knees were many glass marbles—white ones, red ones, indigo ones. The master of the house, “I’ve finally lost to Yukiko,” he said, rising from his seat and turning toward Sōsuke. “How about I take you into the cave again?” he added as he stood up. Hanging from the pillar of the study, as usual, was the Mongolian dagger in its brocade bag. In the flower vase, yellow field mustard flowers—wherever they had bloomed—were already arranged. Sōsuke fixed his eyes on the bag that was vividly decorating the pillar midway up.

“It’s still hanging here, isn’t it?” he said, while probing Sakai’s demeanor from the depths of his mind.
The master of the house replied, “Yes, it’s a bit too eccentric for my taste, that Mongolian dagger. But when that rascal of a younger brother brings such trinkets trying to win me over, what’s one to do?”
“And how has your brother been since then?” Sōsuke asked with feigned nonchalance.

“Yes, he finally returned four or five days ago.”
“That fellow is truly Mongolia material.”
“‘Barbarians like you don’t belong in Tokyo—go back where you came from,’ I told him, and off he went.”
“By all rights, he belongs beyond the Great Wall.”
“Let him dig for diamonds in the Gobi Desert.”

“And the other companion?”

“Yasui? Oh, he went back with them of course.”
“Once it comes to that sort of life, he can’t seem to stay put.”
“They say he was at Kyoto University originally.”
“What could have changed him so drastically, I wonder?”

Sweat broke out under Sōsuke’s arms. He had absolutely no desire to hear how Yasui had changed or why he remained restless. He felt profoundly grateful—as if by heavenly blessing—that he still hadn’t revealed to Sakai having attended the same university as Yasui. Yet this was the same Sakai who had once proposed introducing him to those very two men when inviting them to dinner. Though he had narrowly avoided the disgrace of attending that gathering through his refusal, there remained no guarantee that Sakai hadn’t let his name slip to them at some point that evening. Sōsuke acutely sensed how convenient an alias would be for someone with a guilty conscience navigating the world. He burned with the urge to demand of Sakai, “You didn’t happen to mention my name before Yasui, did you?” Yet this one question he could not bring himself to voice.

The maid arranged a peculiar confection on a flat, large confectionery dish and brought it out.
It was a golden marble sugar about the size of a block of tofu, with two goldfish visible inside, which had been sliced with a kitchen knife as it was and transferred to the plate without altering its original form.
At a glance, Sōsuke found it merely curious.
However, his mind was rather preoccupied with other matters.

Then the master of the house,

“Care for one?” As was his custom, he reached out first himself.

“This here—well, I was invited to someone’s silver anniversary yesterday and received this, so it’s exceptionally auspicious.”
“You might as well take after them and have a piece.”

In hopes of emulating their example, the master stuffed several pieces of the cloyingly sweet golden marble sugar into his mouth. He was a robust and adaptable man who could drink alcohol or tea and eat meals or sweets with equal ease.

“To tell the truth, even if a couple lives on until they’re all wrinkled up over twenty or thirty years, there’s nothing particularly auspicious about it—but that’s where things are relative, you see.”

“I was once passing by Shimizudani Park and was shocked,” he said, steering the conversation in an odd direction. This was how the master, accustomed to social graces, would skillfully steer from one topic to another, never allowing his guests to grow bored—his usual manner in such situations.

According to his account, in the narrow stream resembling a muddy ditch that ran from Shimizudani to Benkeibashi, countless frogs were born when early spring arrived.
As the frogs jostled and croaked while growing, hundreds or thousands of pairs formed in the muddy ditch through their courtships.
These creatures living in love would line up without gaps from Shimizudani to Benkeibashi, floating amicably without overlapping—only for passersby like errand boys and idlers to strike them with stones, mercilessly killing frog couple after frog couple, until their numbers reportedly grew beyond counting.

“That must be what they mean by ‘corpses piled high,’” he said.
“Since they’re all married couples, it’s truly pitiful.”
“In other words, walking just two or three blocks through that area, we never know how many tragedies we might stumble upon.”
“When you think of that, we’re really quite fortunate, you know.”
“Just because being married is seen as something bad doesn’t mean we risk having our heads smashed by stones.”
“And if both parties stay safe for twenty or thirty years, that’s truly auspicious, isn’t it?”
“So I suppose we ought to take after them by having at least one piece,” he said, deliberately using his chopsticks to pick up a fragment of golden marble sugar and present it to Sōsuke.
Sōsuke accepted it with a wry smile.

The master could keep up this kind of banter endlessly, so Sōsuke had no choice but to play along up to a point.
However, his inner self was never as carefree as the master’s.
After taking his leave and stepping outside, when he gazed up at the moonless sky once more, beneath its deep black expanse he felt an indescribable kind of sorrow and dread.

He had gone to the Sakai household with nothing but the intent to at least evade what he must. And to achieve that purpose, he endured shame and discomfort, strategically steering the conversation with the master, who was full of goodwill and sincerity. Moreover, he had been unable to learn everything he wished to know. Regarding his own weaknesses, he acknowledged neither the courage nor the need to confess a single word before him.

The raincloud that had threatened to graze his head seemed to have passed by without touching it.
But somewhere within him lingered a foreboding that anxieties akin to this would have to be repeated countless times henceforth, in varying degrees.
The one who would make them repeat was heaven.
To keep evading this was Sōsuke’s role.

Twenty-Three

Since the month changed, the cold had considerably eased.
Along with the inevitable issue of salary increases for government officials, the much-rumored elimination of bureau and section staff members had also been mostly settled by the end of the month.
During that period, Sōsuke—who kept hearing the names of acquaintances and strangers being axed here and there—would sometimes return home and say to Ome,

There were times when he would say, “This time, it might be my turn.”
Ome took it both as a joke and as a serious remark.
At times, she interpreted them as ominous words that deliberately invoked a hidden future.
Even as Sōsuke spoke these words, the same sort of clouds drifted through his heart as had passed through Ome’s.

When the month changed and word spread that the upheaval at the ministry had finally reached a conclusion, Sōsuke looked back on his own fate of having survived and found it only natural.
He also felt it had been a matter of chance.
While standing, he looked down at Ome,

“Well, we made it through,” he said gravely.
To Ome, his demeanor—neither happy nor sad—appeared comical, as though it had fallen from the heavens.

After another two or three days, Sōsuke’s monthly salary was raised by five yen.

"They probably had no choice but to forgo the standard twenty-five percent increase. After all, there are plenty who were let go or kept at their original salaries," said Sōsuke, wearing an expression of satisfaction as though these five yen had brought him more value than the amount itself.
Naturally, Ome found no room in her heart to voice any dissatisfaction.

The following evening, Sōsuke gazed at the fish on his tray—its head still attached, its tail seeming to leap beyond the edge of the dish. He caught the aroma of rice tinted red with adzuki beans. Ome had gone out of her way to send Kiyo to invite Shōroku, who had moved into the Sakai house.

Shōroku,

“Ah, what a feast!” he said as he entered through the kitchen.

Plum blossoms began to catch the eye here and there.
The early ones had already lost their color and begun to scatter.
The rain began to fall like drifting smoke.
When it cleared and was steamed by the sun, from both ground and roof rose thick swells of dampness that ought to renew spring's memory.
There were days when a puppy frolicked about an umbrella drying by the back door - days when heat haze shimmered like flame across the snake-eye pattern's glittering surface, making all seem peacefully tranquil.

“It seems winter has finally passed,”
“You should stop by Saibara’s aunt’s place this Saturday and settle Shōroku’s matter.”
“If we put it off too long, Mr. Yasunosuke will forget again,” Ome urged.
Sōsuke,

“Hmm, I’ll go and settle it decisively,” he replied.
Through Sakai’s kindness, Shōroku moved in there as a live-in student.
Moreover, it was Sōsuke himself who had told Shōroku that if he and Yasunosuke could share in covering the shortfall.
Shōroku, without waiting for his brother’s intervention, immediately took his case directly to Yasunosuke.
In this way, he had settled the matter himself to the extent that if Sōsuke were to formally make the request, Yasunosuke would immediately agree.

A lull fell upon the conflict-averse couple.
One Sunday afternoon, Sōsuke went to the neighborhood bathhouse for the first time in ages to wash off four days' worth of grime, where a shaven-headed man around fifty and a thirty-something who looked like a merchant were exchanging seasonal pleasantries about spring having finally arrived.
When the younger man remarked he'd heard the bush warbler's song for the first time that morning, the monk-like man replied he'd heard it once two or three days prior.

“They’ve only just started singing, so they’re still not very good.”

“Yes, their tongues aren’t quite nimble enough yet.”

Sōsuke returned home and recounted this exchange about the warblers to Ome.
Ome peered through the glass-paneled shoji at the radiant sunlight reflected there,

“It’s truly a blessing. Spring has finally come,” she said with a cheerful lift of her brows.
Sōsuke went out to the veranda and, while trimming his long nails,

“Yeah, but winter will be here again soon,” he answered, keeping his head down as he moved the scissors.