Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

“Kishimoto—I want to write to you about fragments of my recent life and thoughts.” “But to tell the truth, there is simply nothing to write about.” “It is something best settled by silence.” “The deeper our friendship grows, the more natural it becomes to remain silent.” “Having left my old house and moved to a new one, I find myself content with little more than days increasingly spent in laziness.” “I cannot work.” “Of course, I cannot possibly labor under another’s will.” “Then could I take up life’s solemn path by bearing the lash of my own will? No—even that I cannot do.” “That I have not completed a single substantial work until now stands as clearest proof.” “I could gaze upon sky, clouds, and earth all day without tiring—yet even half a day’s reading often wearies me.” “Since moving here, my only labors are planting favored trees in vacant soil or half-heartedly tending garden plots.” “All I achieve is surrendering each barely sprouted vegetable in turn to insects faithful to life.” “Naturally, there’s no reason I should become a kitchen hand.” “Given this state, thoughts of country living—or any such fancy—never cross my mind.” “My life persists as an empty existence, unchanged as ever.” “And so upon the strings of my life’s span, weariness and laziness have laid their gray hands.” “When I consider it—this must be the inevitable fate of those who hold no faith in modernity’s gospel of life’s fulfillment: they are destined to fall.” “If I were to regret that—even that I cannot do.” “The reason being that instinctive life-impulses within my flesh have grown desperately faint.” “To fall forever is the pit of inaction.”

However, even for those who have fallen into the pit of inaction, there remains one final faith. Impermanence—that primordial synthesis of philosophy repeated for two thousand, three thousand years—through this vitality-drained body of mine, there are moments when I now listen transfixed to its tolling bell. "This has become the root tone of my life these days…"

A letter from a friend living in the Nakano suburb was spread out before Kishimoto.

This was a letter Kishimoto had received several months prior. He took it out and reread it. In his youth, he too had written lengthy letters to friends and received them in return, but gradually their correspondence dwindled into brief missives reserved for practical matters alone. Even when settling affairs by postcard, they kept it as simple as possible. As a result, the number of letters requiring replies had multiplied on his side. It was not uncommon for him to spend entire days writing any number of letters. In that sense, what lay spread before him was no ordinary letter from a friend. It was a letter that was not a letter—one composed and sent under the pretense of correspondence. As he read on, he found himself struck above all by his friend’s confession—the life of a man who had reached life’s midpoint—and profoundly moved. One evening arrived to find that, much like a flock of small birds—which had fluttered noisily between distant trees and nearby boughs—falling silent one by one, then two by two, until their clamorous chorus had faded unnoticed, precisely such an evening now enveloped Kishimoto’s world. Most notably, since the friend who had sent this letter built a new house in Nakano and moved there, he had maintained utter silence. He had truly fallen mute.

Placing the half-read letter before him, Kishimoto compared his own life to that of this friend, toward whom he had harbored unchanging respect and affection for fourteen or fifteen years.

II

Kishimoto continued reading further. “……Since moving to the suburbs, my religious mood has deepened somewhat. My Buddhism is, of course, nothing more than a Buddhist mood that has permeated my body. I would rather lose myself in nirvana than attain it. Rather than attain illusory purity, I would sooner entrust this ‘self’ of weariness and laziness to a dreamlike realm for a time. As if sensing a mysterious dream while asleep, I want to transform this life of weariness and laziness into one of mystery and joy. I want to move from the religion of impermanence to the art of enchantment…… Even someone as lazy as I found the suburban winter somewhat novel, so I tried keeping a diary. On November 4th of last year, the first frost fell. Then on the 11th, the second frost fell. December 1st, the fourth frost, was like snow. And on the 7th, 8th, and 9th came three consecutive mornings of severe frost—the yatsude and tsuwabuki leaves withered. On the morning of the 8th, the first ice formed. From the 22nd onward, it transitioned into full winter, and days when the color of snow could be seen from the Tanzawa mountain range to the Chichibu mountain range became more frequent. The wind blew fiercely again.

However, generally speaking, the scenery of the fields in early winter was profoundly captivating. The pallor of the frost’s color possessed a more vivid and poignant charm than snow. In contrast, the depth of the thawed soil’s color was more invigorating than after a rain in early summer. When the tattered moss, moistened by thawing frost, was illuminated by the morning sun, the beauty of the earth’s colors nearly reached its zenith. The green of the moss at this time was more vivid and vibrant than any other shade of green. It was as though green gems had been crushed and scattered. It was also as though one were gazing upon an Impressionist canvas. In this desolate winter phantasm, I had never imagined encountering such beautiful green. In that instant when both my soul and flesh were captivated by the beauty of such phantasms, even this illusory life became joyous, and the dreamlike fleeting world was cherished like a precious gem. However, just as natural phantasms are not manifestations of any effort, the complete apprehension of those phantasms likewise requires no effort whatsoever. “Let dreams be dreams and let them pass…”

For Nakano's friend—who seemed to be attempting a fusion of artistic and religious living—there existed a father who had left behind both substantial assets and frugal habits, granting him leisure sufficient to savor the serene silence so evident in this letter. Kishimoto did not have that. Nakano’s friend had a good wife who attended to him morning and night. Kishimoto did not have that either. His wife had died of severe postpartum hemorrhage while giving birth to their seventh daughter.

Since he had come down from the mountains and begun living in the city, seven years had passed for Kishimoto.

During that time, deaths of those dear to him continued with uncanny frequency. His eldest daughter's death. His second daughter's death. His third daughter's death. His wife's death. Then his beloved nephew's death. His soul was shaken without respite. Long ago when Kishimoto was still young—when all his friends were young too—there had been a friend named Aoki, but Aoki died young without ever knowing Nakano's friend. Counting from the year Aoki perished, Kishimoto had outlived him by seventeen years. And so those in his immediate circle destined for ruin had all met their ends one after another, until he found himself gradually becoming utterly alone.

III

There was a certain scene that still rose fresh in Kishimoto’s heart as a new memory. Relentlessly assailed by deaths of those dear to him that came one after another, he felt compelled once more—inescapably confronted by that very scene—to acknowledge what he thought had been shown to him. It was when he attended the memorial service held at the church within Mitsuke in Kōjimachi as one of the mourners. A coffin draped in black cloth and adorned with two wreaths lay beneath the pulpit. Inside lay the remains of a man who was Kishimoto’s former classmate, a Christian, who had graduated from the same school alongside him about twenty-one years earlier. The memorial service for the classmate who had died of tuberculosis was conducted with utmost simplicity inside the church where he had often sat during his lifetime. Before long, the coffin passed through the central pews and was carried along the wall toward the church entrance. The pastor—who from the deceased’s youth when he was still a student had preached doctrine to him and had now even delivered that day’s funeral sermon—along with relatives and friends, supported the coffin from all sides while...

Kishimoto stood by the gray wall, watching the scene. On that day besides Kishimoto, Adachi and Suga had also come to pay their respects. All three were classmates of the deceased.

“Are these all our surviving friends?” Suga said, casting a gaze as if searching for fellow graduates. “I’d expect someone else might show up.” Adachi added. The mourners who had gathered for the funeral began drifting apart in scattered groups. For a time, Kishimoto stayed inside the church with his two classmates, standing motionless as they watched the departing crowd of believers. Then an elderly man approached to offer condolences on behalf of the family. All three had been looked after by this treasurer from their old school.

“What a tragic thing has happened.” And the treasurer spoke of the deceased classmate. “How many children did he have?”

Kishimoto asked. “Four.”

With that, the treasurer said his piece, then parted ways with them, leaving behind the words: "The aftermath will be a bit troublesome, I tell you." When Kishimoto, together with his two classmates, was about to leave, most of the mourners had already departed. Only the deserted church building remained. Only the pointed arch-style decoration at the front, the high walls, and the plain pulpit—before which the coffin adorned with wreaths had been placed until moments ago—remained. Only the many long benches that had been arranged after all the mourners had departed remained. Only the large vase, flowers, and leaves at the side of the pulpit—seemingly prepared specifically for the funeral service—remained. As the season was beginning to grow warm, only the bright May sunlight streaming through the church-style windows remained.

Kishimoto stood reluctant to leave, gazing at the sunlight cast beneath the high ceiling, acutely feeling the sorrow of those who remain living. He felt that sorrow through his own body—exhausted by the profound weariness that follows being bereft of many close family members. When Kishimoto looked at Adachi and Suga, memories of their youthful camaraderie surfaced in his chest. Next came thoughts of that deceased Aoki. The two classmates who had descended the church’s stone steps with Kishimoto had already become people who spoke of the days when Aoki was alive as tales of the distant past.

IV Then Kishimoto walked toward Mitsuke with his two classmates. After a long interval, he was invited toward Adachi’s house and went. The rickshaw driver who had taken Kishimoto to the church pulled his empty vehicle along and followed behind Kishimoto as he walked on talking all the while. “How many years has it been since I last came to this church?” As they continued talking about such things, they came to a vacant lot near the old Mitsuke ruins. It was a windy day with swirling dust; yellowed sand whirlwinds came billowing in. Each time they did so—Adachi, Suga, and Kishimoto—they would turn their backs to wait out the passing dust before resuming their walk.

A sweltering, steaming heat lay ahead in the direction they were walking. While discussing among themselves the biographical sketch of their late classmate’s forty-five-year life—which the pastor had read from the pulpit—they quietly made their way up a gentle slope through terrain that still bore traces of its former days as a castle town.

“When I left my house earlier, I happened to encounter everyone at the embankment.” “I followed the coffin all the way to the church.”

The one who spoke was Adachi, the eldest among the three. “In our group, how many have already died?” When Kishimoto said this, Adachi responded in his usual meticulous tone, “Out of twenty graduates, four were missing.” “This makes five now.” “Hasn’t anyone else died?” “I get the feeling there should be more.” It was Suga who said that. “I wonder whose turn will come next.” To Adachi’s methodical remarks, both Suga and Kishimoto fell silent. For a while, the three of them walked on in silence.

“Of us three here, I’ll likely be the first to go,” Adachi said again with a laugh. “I’m the more likely one,” Kishimoto couldn’t help but say. “Nah, you’re fine.” “I might actually be the first to go,” Suga said methodically, laughing. “But you know, if I’m going to kick the bucket, I feel like it’ll be within the next year or two…” Kishimoto’s words may have sounded like a methodical remark to his two classmates, but he himself could not laugh at what he had said. A smoke-like dust storm came upon them again with terrifying force, and he was battered with so much sand that his mouth felt gritty.

That day, despite being on their way back from the funeral, Kishimoto and Suga dropped in at Adachi’s house. “It’s rare to have you all come together like this.” Adachi said this and went to great lengths to entertain them. Unintentionally engrossed in conversation, Kishimoto kept talking until dusk while leaving the rickshaw man waiting at the gate. “When we all graduated from school together—back then, it felt like something interesting was waiting for us ahead. This... is this what you call life?”

Without intending to bring it up, Kishimoto said it in front of two classmates.

“Right, this is life,” said Suga in a composed tone. “When I think that way, an odd sensation comes over me.” “Isn’t there something more to it than just this?”

When Kishimoto said this, Adachi took it up, “Thinking there’s something that interesting out there—that’s where you’re wrong.” Gathering with Suga in Adachi’s room and looking around, Kishimoto felt that here too a strange silence held sway over the three old acquaintances. Even as close comrades with no barriers between them, even while chattering and laughing so much, their hearts remained silent toward one another.

“No matter what—I can’t bring myself to die like this.”

Kishimoto could not help but say it again. The memories of these conversations, the memories of these scenes, the memories of these events, the memories of these heart experiences—all remained vividly fresh to Kishimoto. At every turn, he found himself tormented by a sinister premonition that made him feel the crisis of his entire life was drawing near.

V

While dwelling on his classmate’s death, even the carriage ride back from Adachi’s house along the Kanda River remained etched in Kishimoto’s memory as one of those unforgettable moments. Even what the ancients called earth, water, fire and wind—these four elements—kept rising incessantly in his imagination during that ride. Whether through fire or water or earth—if only he could touch nature’s raw primal stimuli with a fervor verging on superstition—perhaps then he might save himself; even this thought had come to him during that carriage journey.

The immeasurability of existence. When Kishimoto once tried to lead his wife and children down the mountain, how could he have anticipated that such heavy stagnation awaited him midway through life’s journey? The weariness that had come to Nakano’s friend also came to him. The many people who had once led beautiful lives that elevated his spirit had all turned to emptiness. He had nearly lost even his interest in life. All day long dreary monotonous sounds would echo against the shoji of his room; he would feel himself enclosed in endless solitude; for some time he no longer visited anyone and had become like a man who sat staring at cold walls. Was this fundamentally the result of excessive labor? The culmination of a groundless melancholy that had cycled through half his life? Or the outcome of struggling through nearly three years of hardship with young children who had no mother? He could not say for certain.

In the latter part of the letter he had received from Nakano’s friend, such things were also written.

“Kishimoto, it must be about time I remained silent.” “Weariness and Laziness await my return to myself.” “My eyes are weary, and my heart is weary.” “When I suddenly glanced toward the flowerbed’s edge, a white butterfly had discovered the first blossom to emerge in that withered bed.” “And that butterfly was also the first one I had seen since the year began.” “The mountain camellias I adore will gradually come into full bloom.” “For about ten days now, the Japanese cornel dogwood and Japanese star anise flowers have been blooming.” “All are lonely flowers.” “In particular, the Japanese star anise flowers resemble wintersweet and possess an elegant poetic charm.” “My heart trembles with loneliness as I gaze upon those flowers.” Thus it concluded.

Nakano’s friend had no children. There had been a time when he had offered to take in and raise Kishimoto’s second son. However, the faultless yet unyielding child did not stay at his house even a week. In the end, Kishimoto kept two children with him and entrusted one to his sister’s home in his hometown. For the youngest daughter he had entrusted to the wet nurse’s house along the coast of Hitachi, he could not neglect the monthly support payments.

He kept silent, kept silent, and continued his labor without cease.

Kishimoto's forty-second year was drawing near. The anxieties about his future compelled him to heed even such phrases as "a man's great calamity" in the world. He had even tried comparing himself to Nakano’s friend and putting it this way: Nakano’s friend’s was a vivid, easeful silence, while his own was a dead silence. In that dead silence, he awaited the fierce storm bearing down upon him.

Volume One

I

Descending from the second floor of a house a couple of blocks from the mouth of the Kanda River, Kishimoto went out to the riverbank he customarily took pleasure in walking along. And he walked along that riverbank in utter silence. As if strolling down a long corridor just outside his own room.

Whenever he came to that riverbank—whenever he saw the fishing-boat inns, rice wholesalers, or refined townhouses facing the water beyond the willow rows—Kishimoto would invariably recall a certain unknown youth. By chance he received a letter from this youth and learned that the shaded willow grove he so enjoyed walking through had also been that young man’s cherished haunt for years. Though they had never met face-to-face, this shared fondness for the same spot felt strangely fated. Then came the youth’s request to meet. At this Kishimoto wrote back—saying he already met more people than he could bear in daily life—proposing instead that they continue enjoying those willows’ shade as strangers bound by mutual anonymity. His sentiment must have resonated, for the youth soon relinquished his insistence on meeting, and thus began their ongoing exchange of letters. Through those willow rows their hearts communed. To the youth, the riverbank became Kishimoto. To Kishimoto, the riverbank became that youth.

This exchange of letters between strangers who did no more than gaze at the same water and tread the same earth continued for a surprisingly long time. At times, the youth would send Kishimoto postcards from his travels, writing that no matter how brilliantly blue the sea shimmered, no particular thought arose in him—that the willow rows were rather more tranquil—and at other times, from his home in Tokyo, he would pen in meticulous detail the lonely, seemingly helpless sentiments common to youth. Gradually, Kishimoto came to receive such letters less frequently. The youth abruptly ceased all communication.

“What’s become of him?” Kishimoto murmured this to himself as he walked along the riverbank. A phrase from a postcard he had once received from that youth—“There must be a stone beneath those willow rows”—lingered strangely in Kishimoto’s mind. He stood beside what seemed to be that stone, gazing at the chill water flowing through the canal from beneath Asakusabashi Bridge, while envisioning an unknown youth who appeared about eighteen or nineteen. He pictured that youth who had once caught the blue fragrance of branches hanging low enough to brush his cheeks, feeling his heart leap with inexplicable nostalgia. He imagined that youth sitting on the stone, chin propped on hands resting upon knees, conjuring various scenes of Kishimoto walking there.

He who had been entrusted with such youthful devotion, he who had been pleaded to with unbearable pathos, he who had even seemed to find some strength in merely exchanging letters—when his thoughts reached that point, Kishimoto could no longer stand by that stone.

Those willow rows—it seemed the youth no longer came there. Only Kishimoto, who continued to walk there as he always had, remained.

II

After the youth had gone, even the willow rows that had bound their hearts together stood withered and dry. Kishimoto’s heart was not calm. His nearly three years of singlehood had never allowed his heart to remain calm. "What do you intend to do?" "How long do you intend to go on living alone like this?" "What meaning does your silence, your toil, even hold?" "Your singlehood has even become the subject of people’s gossip, hasn’t it?" Even if others said such things to him, he did not know how to respond. There had been a time when he compared his room to the lonely Trappist monastery said to stand in Hokkaido’s wilderness. He had even likened himself to those monks within that monastery—those who first built their own graves, then donned coarse robes and subsisted on meager meals while laboring fiercely in silent ascetic practices. "There was someone who said, 'I tell myself I’ll stop thinking, yet I can’t help but think.'" Kishimoto was indeed that person. Yet he had continued thinking.

Near the stone wall by the riverbank's boat house, three or four small boats could be seen moored close together. In his desperation to escape the terror of his utterly stagnant life, Kishimoto had even zealously rowed a small boat for about two summers. That summer and the summer of the year before. When he had reached his absolute limit, he conceived that idea. It was also at that riverbank where he forced himself down from the second floor—that second floor where he had sat rigidly alone in his room until even shifting his body grew loathsome—to launch his small boat each early morning. At times he would venture out onto Sumida River’s waters, still as a mountain lake, breathe his fill of pristine summer morning air—so pure it seemed unimaginable they were in the heart of the city—and row back through bustling cargo boats, all returning to that same stone embankment.

“Mr. Kishimoto.” There was a boy who called out and walked toward him. He was the eldest son of the riverbank’s boat house. “With it being this cold, the boats are done for, huh?”

Kishimoto also said sheepishly. He often borrowed that boy of about fifteen or sixteen from the boat house to take along as a companion when going out in the small boat. Though just a boy, he was skillful at handling the oar. As the boat house’s son looked at Kishimoto’s face, “I often see your Izumi around here.”

“Do you know Izumi?” Kishimoto said. He found it unusual to hear his child’s name from that boy’s mouth. “He often comes around here to play.” “Huh, even he comes here to play?”

Kishimoto tried mentioning his own child, who had finally started attending elementary school that year.

After parting from the innocent boy, Kishimoto once again walked along the stone wall beneath the thin sparse withered branches of willow trees. When he crossed Yanagibashi Bridge and immediately turned left, there was a sandbank at the corner of the riverbank. Two or three people stood near the sandbank gazing at something with an air of significance. Some would even go out of their way to stop and gaze at the vacant sandbank before returning looking somewhat at a loss.

“I wonder what happened.” Kishimoto muttered to himself. The waters of the Sumida River, swirling toward the iron bridge at Ryogoku, appeared to him as if being drawn in.

III Though Kishimoto had lived near the Sumida River for some six years and had often heard those rumors common to all who dwell by the water's edge, never once had he actually encountered the reality of a woman's corpse washing ashore.

By chance, he found himself at the very site where such an incident had taken place.

“This morning…”

One of the men who had been standing by the sandbank gazing at it told this to Kishimoto. The young woman’s corpse said to have washed ashore near Ryogoku had already been taken away; the inquest site had been neatly cleared away, and not a single straw mat remained there. Only the rumor of the woman who had drowned herself lingered there.

With the feeling of having witnessed an unexpected tragedy, Kishimoto turned back toward home. In his heart, the matter of the marriage proposal he had recently declined came and went. Nothing infuriated and frustrated him more than when he considered whether his weariness, his fatigue, his stagnant life, and this body of his—a body that had only just reached the prime of manhood yet now trembled like an old man’s at the slightest provocation—might all be consequences of his singlehood. “If you’re going to marry, now is the time”—he wasn’t deaf to this concerned advice from friends, yet whenever faced with actual proposals, he would always end up hesitating.

Even at the home of Tanabe’s uncle—a man who had been Kishimoto’s benefactor—the uncle had passed away, the sister had passed away, and it had now become the era of Hiroshi, the only son who since Kishimoto’s student days had grown accustomed to calling him “Brother.” The grandmother was still in good health. There had even been a marriage proposal that the grandmother went to the trouble of bringing her aged body by rickshaw to recommend, but Kishimoto declined that one as well. Kishimoto’s actual sister back in his hometown also worried about him. From her perspective as his sister, she persistently recommended via letters the wife of her own deceased son—who, from Kishimoto’s perspective, was the wife of his nephew Taichi—but Kishimoto declined that proposal as well.

“If possible, stay just as you are. Please keep living that way forever.” Kishimoto did receive letters of this nature. However, those who sent them were invariably much younger. Only after becoming alone did Kishimoto begin to realize how the world teemed with women of diverse circumstances. Among them, he could count those still in their youthful prime—women who had once married and left their homes, now on the path to becoming nuns yet willing to remarry if someone would have them. He could even count those deeply accomplished in feminine arts, well-educated and flawless as homemakers, who had remained virgins until nearly forty due to being born into temples of excessively high status. Even if such women existed, Kishimoto had never noticed them before. It even struck him that there might be more women living alone than men.

IV

Niece Setsuko had been waiting at home for Kishimoto. Between the riverbank and the town where Kishimoto lived, separated by just one side street, lay several narrow alleys. Kishimoto could take whichever shortcut he liked to return home.

“Where are the children?” Even when returning after briefly walking around the area, asking the household members this had become Kishimoto’s habit. He could not feel at ease until hearing directly from Setsuko that the older child had gone to play in town at a friend’s invitation or that the younger one was playing at the house across the way.

It was from some time after Setsuko had graduated from school that she began helping at Kishimoto’s house, and around that very time, her sister Teruko had also come to stay with him. The two sisters lived together for about a year, taking care of Kishimoto’s children. After seeing off Teruko, who had married and left that summer, Kishimoto had come to rely solely on Setsuko, entrusting her and the elderly maid he employed with the care of his still-young children. When Setsuko first came to Kishimoto’s house, she was still young. Even though they were sisters, the older one had studied things like embroidery, sewing, and artificial flower-making at school, while she had learned to read difficult books. When Setsuko left academia and came to Kishimoto’s house, she found across the street the home of an Ichikotsu-bushi master, then one house over a residence said to belong to a descendant of a renowned ukiyo-e artist, and behind them the dwelling of the Tokiwazu school headmaster. Even the fact that her uncle’s study—a man devoted to scholarly pursuits—existed in such a cluttered town struck her as something to remark on with curiosity. “When I told them I was coming to live at Uncle’s house, my school friends were so envious.” In her eyes as she said this still lingered the radiance of a girl attending school. The heart of that unknown youth who once walked beneath the willow trees along the riverbank—the lonely, seemingly anchorless torment of his younger days, which he had often poured out to Kishimoto in letters—this heart, so akin to that youth’s, was what Kishimoto now perceived in her demeanor: a niece who had taken refuge with her uncle and leaned upon him. Her mother and grandmother were in the mountain villages of her hometown; her father had been in Nagoya for a long time due to business matters; her sister Teruko had accompanied her husband to a distant foreign country; even though there was an aunt’s house in Negishi, Tokyo, it was occupied only by women caretakers; and Uncle Minsuke—Kishimoto’s eldest brother—was in Taiwan. Thus, there was no one to support her but Kishimoto, her uncle. That summer, when Teruko left to be married, she had treated Kishimoto’s house almost as her parental home, setting out from there on her distant newlywed journey.

“Shigeru, come play!” A neighborhood girl’s voice called out from the front entrance. Shigeru was Kishimoto’s second child.

“Shigeru went out to play.” Setsuko answered from the room near the kitchen entrance. She was tying the hair of a girl who often came to play. The girl was the daughter of an acupuncturist who lived nearby.

“When the children aren’t here, the house is absurdly quiet.”

While speaking thus to Setsuko, Kishimoto walked through the house inspecting it. Just then, the elderly maid entered from the kitchen entrance. "Miss Setsuko, they say a woman's corpse washed up on the riverbank."

In her accented tone, the elderly maid told Setsuko the rumor she had heard in town. “Apparently she was pregnant.” “How pitiful.” Setsuko was tying the acupuncturist’s daughter’s hair when she heard this from the elderly maid, and made a displeased face.

V “Setsuko!” A childlike voice called out, and his younger son Shigeru returned from the house across the way. When Setsuko, having finished tying the acupuncturist’s daughter’s hair, moved to the child’s side, Shigeru suddenly clung to her hand.

Kishimoto was walking through the house watching this scene. He gazed anew at his deceased wife Sonoko’s second son—left behind in this world as a memento—and at Setsuko’s tall figure standing there while being clung to by the children. When Sonoko had still been in good health, Setsuko used to commute to school from Negishi; yet compared to that Setsuko who once visited Kishimoto’s house in short single-layer kimonos, the woman now before him seemed like a different person—grown into the very image of an older sister.

“Shigeru, come here,” said Kishimoto, holding out his hand toward the child. “Let’s see how heavy you’ve gotten. Daddy will check for you.”

“Daddy says to come,” Setsuko said, leaning her face close to Shigeru. Kishimoto tightly hugged the joyfully rushing Shigeru from behind and, making a show of its weight, lifted up the grown child’s body. “Oh, you’ve gotten heavy.” Kishimoto said.

“Shigeru, now it’s my turn,” said the acupuncturist’s daughter as she came over and looked up at Kishimoto. “Uncle, me too—” “This one’s heavy too,” said Kishimoto as he lifted up the acupuncturist’s daughter again and again with apparent effort. Suddenly, Shigeru went over to Setsuko and began to fuss as if seeking something. “Setsuko!” The voice of the motherless child, insistent and pleading with force in its words, pierced Kishimoto’s ears as though striving to grasp something forever beyond reach.

“Shigeru, you must have fallen asleep—that’s why your voice sounds like that—” Setsuko said to the child. “Go to sleep now.” “I’ll give you a treat, so…” At that moment, the elderly maid came from the direction of the kitchen entrance and laid out a futon in the corner of the room for the child. That was the lower sitting room where a long hibachi and such were placed, situated directly below Kishimoto’s study on the second floor. Setsuko took two mandarin oranges from the Buddhist altar, placed one in Shigeru’s hand, and carried the yellow one over to the acupuncturist’s daughter.

“Here, one for you too.” In such moments, there was a candor unique to Setsuko in both her words and actions. “There, there, Shigeru. Take your mandarin and go to sleep,” Setsuko soothed, stroking the fussing child’s head like a mother lying beside him.

“Uncle, forgive me.” With Setsuko lying beside the child and the elderly maid tidying the room as his interlocutors, Kishimoto felt inclined to talk while taking a break by the long hibachi. “Even so, has Shigeru become somewhat more docile compared to before?” said Kishimoto.

“Day by day, he’s been changing,” Setsuko answered. “Oh my, sir. Compared to when I first entered service here, Shigeru has changed tremendously.” “Between when Miss Setsuko’s sister was present and now—” the elderly maid added. These answers were precisely what Kishimoto had wanted to hear. He tried to say something more but exhaled two rough breaths, as if fortifying himself.

VI

“Ugh, Shigeru.” “Digging into my breast pocket or something like that,” Setsuko said, looking at the child’s face as he acted like he was searching through a mother’s bosom. “If you do that, I can’t let you sleep with me anymore.”

“Be good and go to sleep now,” said the elderly maid, sitting at the child’s bedside. “Shigeru really is such a child,” Setsuko said as she adjusted the front of her kimono. “That’s why people say you’re a cross between an adult and a child—Codona or whatever.” “Codona sure is a handful, ain’t he?” chuckled the elderly maid in her country accent. “Oh no, you’re fussing again.” “No one was laughing at you.” “Right now, right now, isn’t everyone praising you?” “My goodness, they say Shigeru has become so very well-behaved compared to when I first came here—right?”

“Now, off to sleep,” Setsuko said, stroking the short hair of the dozing child.

“Ah, has he already fallen asleep?” said Kishimoto from beside the long hibachi, peering at the child’s sleeping face. “Children truly are quick to change.” “So innocent… Yet this one demands such constant attention.” “When Shigeru used to rage—kicking doors, tearing shoji screens—once he started fussing there was no calming him… He was truly formidable back then.” “Even Teruko or Setsuko must have struggled terribly with him.”

“Shigeru really made me cry so much,” Setsuko said as she rose quietly and slipped away from the child’s side. “Once he grabs hold, he won’t let go—he’d tear sleeves or anything.” “I suppose that’s how it was,” Kishimoto responded. “Compared to those days, Shigeru has become somewhat more understanding, hasn’t he?”

As Kishimoto spoke these words, the memory of that summer surfaced in his chest—the summer when Setsuko’s sister, not yet departed on her wedding trip, had stayed to help her younger sister care for the children. When he listened from the second floor, Shigeru’s cries echoed from below—Teruko and Setsuko both sounded overwhelmed by the little one. Each time, Kishimoto would bite his lip and rush down the stairs, only to find Teruko weeping with the child as she pleaded, “Why won’t you listen?”—while Setsuko hid from the wailing boy behind a shoji screen, crying herself. Though Kishimoto wished desperately to raise the child naturally—to avoid even a single strike, to nurture him without such harshness—the cruel force of instinct left him unable to bear Shigeru’s unrestrained tantrums. Not until he heard Teruko’s words—“Father, forgive us—Shigeru won’t cry anymore, please check on him”—apologizing for the child as though it were her own fault, could Kishimoto ever find peace. Each time the child clung to Teruko—still wearing her hair in the pre-marriage Shimada style—he recalled her protests: “Stop it! You’ll ruin my hair!” He remembered Shigeru at his most mischievous, pointing at Teruko and declaring, “I’m getting married—hurry up!” He revisited Teruko’s farewell in that lower sitting room before her overseas journey—“Still, everyone’s grown so much”—as she took turns holding both children. At that moment, he recalled Setsuko beside him asking a child, “Is being told you’ve grown so much truly that pleasing?” All these scenes from days gone by—whether they had occurred earlier or later—merged together and passed through Kishimoto’s chest like lightning.

“Everything began with Sonoko’s death alone.”

Kishimoto tried saying that within himself and absently gazed around beneath the hollow ceiling.

VII The conversation about how the young ones were managing to grow up without a mother shifted from the younger child to the older one. Just as Kishimoto was discussing Izumi, the elder brother, with Setsuko and the elderly maid, Izumi himself came in from outside. “Where’s Shigeru?”

Abruptly, Izumi asked this from outside the garden entrance’s shoji. When the two of them played together, their games often ended in tears—sometimes crying, sometimes making each other cry—and whenever Izumi came in from outside, he would search for his brother before anyone else.

“Izumi, we were all just talking about you,” said the elderly maid. “Aren’t you cold running around outside so much?” “With such red cheeks,” Setsuko said, looking at the child whose ears had flushed crimson from the outdoor air as he returned. As was Izumi’s habit, this child would go and cling to anyone. He would go over to the elderly maid—clinging to her sturdy frame that had known farm labor in her youth—and then go over to Setsuko as well, who kept the acupuncturist’s daughter sitting so quietly by her side you could scarcely tell she was there, and cling there.

“It’s not good to cling to people like Izumi does.” Even after that admonishment, Izumi came around behind Kishimoto and sank his teeth into his father’s nape.

“But Izumi has grown so much,” Kishimoto said. “A child’s growth isn’t very noticeable when you see them every day.”

“The kimono has already become so short—” Setsuko added. “When I look at Izumi’s face, that’s what I think.” “It’s a wonder he’s grown this much despite everything,” Kishimoto said again. “He was such a frail child when he was little, you see. “That drawstring-pouch-shaped head of his is proof enough.” “This child’s older sisters seemed far sturdier.” “Yet those sisters died, while Izumi—the one we doubted would survive—has grown like this… It defies understanding.”

“Quiet!” “Quiet!” Izumi cut off his father’s words. “Setsuko, I have good news.” “Which is stronger—the police officer or the soldier?”

Such questions from the child did not only unsettle Setsuko but had often unsettled Teruko too when she remained through summer. "Both," Setsuko answered the child, just as her sister would have. "Which is stronger—the schoolteacher or the soldier?" "Both." Setsuko answered again, peering into eyes that seemed newly lit by dawning understanding.

Kishimoto began as if recalling memories: “When you look back now it seems trivial enough, but those three years of childcare were truly grueling—getting through them was no easy task. When your aunt died... after all, even Izumi—the oldest—was only six years old. It was a sweltering summer; once one child developed something like a heat rash, it would spread to the others—you probably don’t know much about that time, Setsuko—but when we had four children crying their eyes out with a six-year-old as the eldest, there was simply no way to cope. Sometimes they’d develop fevers—there were nights I went pounding on the doctor’s door to wake him—back then... even Uncle hardly slept.”

“I’m sure it was,” Setsuko responded with her eyes. “Compared to those days, things have become considerably easier now. “I suppose it’ll just take a little more endurance.” “If only Shigeru could start going to school,” Setsuko said, looking toward the elderly maid.

“I humbly ask for your continued kindness.” With these words, Kishimoto placed his hands on the floor and bowed deeply before Setsuko and the elderly maid.

VIII

In the lower sitting room stood a chest of drawers, a tea cabinet, and a long charcoal brazier arranged nearly identically to how they had been placed during the days when the children’s mother was alive. The old octagonal pillar clock—a keepsake from when Kishimoto first established a household with Sonoko—still hung in its original position, its brass pendulum swinging as it always had. The sole alteration since Sonoko’s time lay in the walls’ hue. What had once been walls entirely smudged with children’s scribbles and soot stains now shone as pale yellow surfaces—this alone marked the extent of change.

That summer, Kishimoto invited Setsuko, her sister, Izumi, and even Shigeru to the familiar riverbank, boarded the entire household onto a small boat, and taking along the boatman’s son as well, went out onto the water together. From then on, not only were the children’s voices—pleading “Papa, the boat… Papa, the boat…” —frequently heard in this lower sitting room, but at times the desk would be overturned to serve as a boat, a long ruler tied to an uchiwa rack would become an oar, a futon would transform into reed matting inside the vessel, and the tatami floor would turn into a tiny boatman’s rowing space—until even the newly repainted alcove wall was thoroughly marked with wave patterns from the children’s mischief.

In the dim Buddhist altar, two mortuary tablets glowed golden. One was the children’s mother’s, and the other was the three older sisters’. Yet already, dust had begun to gather around those mortuary tablets. The four graves Kishimoto had built—particularly that of his wife Sonoko—though her grave was the one he had gazed upon for nearly three years, his feet gradually grew distant from actual visits to the tombs. “I’ve begun to forget Aunt…”

Kishimoto would often say this to Setsuko and sigh.

Directly above this lower sitting room was Kishimoto’s study, where opening the glass door revealed rooftops of houses extending into the town. Even if voices from upstairs were barely audible when downstairs, being upstairs meant voices from below—particularly the elderly maid’s shrill tones—could be heard as clearly as if within arm’s reach. When he climbed up there and sat quietly before his desk, Kishimoto’s thoughts continually drifted downstairs toward the children. Still assisting the young Setsuko, he found himself unable to neglect supervising the children even while remaining upstairs. He could no longer bring himself to lie down alone upstairs after sending all household members outside to play, closing the gate and fastening its lock.

Kishimoto took out his favorite tobacco. Smoldering it, he considered the days of cohabitation with Sonoko.

“Papa, believe in me… Please believe in me…”

As she said this, Sonoko buried her face in his arm and wept—the sound of her voice still lingered vividly in the depths of his ears. It took Kishimoto twelve years to truly hear his wife’s words. Sonoko was not like a daughter born into wealth; she endured hardships well, enjoyed working, and possessed many fine qualities that brought her husband happiness—yet she had also brought with her an utterly careless aspect that would make him taste bitter jealousy when she came to marry Kishimoto. He had stared at his wife too intently—by the time Kishimoto realized this, it was already too late. It took him twelve years to finally feel he had truly met his wife face to face in their hearts. And by the time he thought he had heard those words, Sonoko was already gone.

“When I think of myself, I can’t help feeling as though I’m split into three separate parts—my childhood days, my time at school, and since I came here as a bride.” “When I was truly a child, I was such a crybaby, you know.” Even these heartfelt words his wife had left behind still lingered in Kishimoto’s ears. Kishimoto had become someone who could no longer entertain the idea of a second marriage proposal without preparation. For him, bachelorhood meant a form of revenge against women. He had come to fear even the act of loving. The experience of love had wounded him so deeply.

IX

Facing the study wall, Kishimoto continued to think.

“Ahhh, I’ve unburdened myself. “I’ve unburdened myself.” Such an unfeigned sigh arose within Kishimoto, intertwined with a heart that mourned Sonoko—lost at an age that should have been her prime as a woman. When he had lost his wife, Kishimoto had resolved never to repeat such a married life again. A household marked by the mutual antagonism of the sexes had left him chastened. He tried to transform the household his wife had left behind into something of an entirely different nature. If possible, he wanted to start a completely new life. Twelve years—having stayed with someone and raised seven children—even if there were shortcomings in that, he even thought he had fulfilled his duty as a human sufficiently. He wanted to yearn for the scent of his wife’s hair lingering in things like her blue jade bead hairpin, with a sense of having unburdened himself. With a feeling akin to wearing his wife’s keepsake kimono—the one that had clung to her skin—as sleepwear, he wanted to recall the painful quarrels between them as a married couple that had often manifested in silence.

Before Kishimoto’s eyes stood a sturdy, simple wall repainted in a bright pale yellow with rich depth using lime and clay. He realized he had spent nearly three years staring at his room’s walls. And toward those three years’ end, he came to think that many works he had produced were all products of “boredom.”

“Papa”

A voice called out from the staircase, and Izumi came up from downstairs.

“Where’s Shigeru?” asked Kishimoto. Izumi gave a listless reply, angling to beg for something. “Papa, mitsumame—” “Cut it out with the sweets already.” “Why—” ‘Something-something’—is that all you kids think about? Stuffing yourselves? If you play quietly like good children, Papa will have Setsuko give you a treat.” Izumi wasn’t one to stubbornly push his demands like his younger brother did. That very timidity struck Kishimoto as pitifully endearing. Nothing made him more acutely recall the private history between husband and wife than tracing what era this Izumi—his wife’s living memento—had been born into.

Izumi, who had been playing near the glass door overlooking the rows of houses extending through town, eventually went back downstairs. Kishimoto looked around his study that had served as his workplace for six years. The many beloved books that once stirred passion in his chest now stood arranged in dust-filled bookshelves like chipped still-life objects. At that moment, Kishimoto suddenly recalled the elderly protagonist of a modern play he had seen on stage. He pictured the young girl hired solely to play piano for that protagonist. To hear melodies flowing from that vibrant girl’s fingertips, the play’s protagonist had paid monthly. He had sought to soothe old age’s sorrow and solitude through this. Kishimoto compared himself to that play’s protagonist. At times he would liken both the tender youths he invited to waterside rooms with sake—their sole comfort being quiet shamisen music—and Setsuko, whose mere presence with her youthful spirit consoled him, to that girl in the play. Three years of bachelorhood, having barely reached forty, had imposed upon him an old man’s heart prematurely. When he considered this, Kishimoto burned with bitter resentment.

X

The sound of a child crying outside shattered Kishimoto’s deep contemplation. Having lost his wife, Kishimoto had become not merely a rooster seeking food for his chicks but also a hen compelled to spread its wings at every faint noise to shield the young from harm. At the child’s cry, he rose from his seat with near-instinctive urgency. He stepped onto the veranda outside his room and slid open the glass door to peer out. Then he descended to inspect downstairs as well.

“Are the children fighting?” he told Setsuko and the old servant to be careful about. “That’s another family’s child.” Setsuko stood before the rodent barrier in the small room near the kitchen door and answered. Somehow her face looked pale. “What’s wrong?” Kishimoto asked in an uncle-like tone. “I mean… there was something eerie.” Kishimoto nearly burst out laughing at Setsuko’s remark—so unlike something an educated girl would say. According to Setsuko, when she went to tidy the Buddhist altar and was carrying things toward the kitchen area, she noticed her palm was smeared with blood. She had just washed it off under running water. This was how she related it to her uncle.

“That’s ridiculous—” “But even the old servant checked it properly!”

“That’s impossible—how could blood get on your hands just from tidying the Buddhist altar?” “I thought it was strange too, so I wondered if it might be a rat or something and checked thoroughly under the Buddha’s altar with the old servant... but nothing came out...” “You shouldn’t dwell on such things.” “Once you figure out the cause, it’s sure to be something trivial.” “I have just offered a lamp to the Buddha now.”

Setsuko said this as though it were an omen of something that would soon occur within this household. “It doesn’t suit you either, does it?” Kishimoto scolded her. “Back when Teruko was here—see—there was a strange incident once. Like when Grandmother from home appeared by Teruko’s bedside…… Even you turned pale back then. Really, you all sure know how to surprise Uncle sometimes.”

In the season of short days, the downstairs rooms were beginning to grow dim. Kishimoto left Setsuko’s side and walked about the house, but ultimately he could not dismiss his young niece’s words as mere hallucinations typical of timid dispositions. Nor could he laugh at those who found it eerie to remain beneath a roof where death had occurred and would often move away.

Kishimoto went and stood before the Buddhist altar. On the golden mortuary tablet that glistened in the glow of the lamplight, the following characters were inscribed. "Hōshūin Myōshin Dai-shi"

11 “Thou, my sorrow—remain wise and calm still.” After reciting these words, Kishimoto brightened his study with a blue paper-shaded lamp. “Your house still uses lamps? You’re so old-fashioned!” Even Izumi’s elementary school friends laughed at how Kishimoto’s household still used oil lamps. He tried to bolster his own heart beneath the glow of his favored lamp’s light. Even that French poet who sang of likening his own heart to the Arctic sun—burning crimson yet frozen through—had never, Kishimoto imagined, merely trembled in the depths of loneliness and anguish like some owl with only its eyes aglow; repeating to himself the profound verses that man had left behind, he tried to bolster his own spirit.

The yellowed lamplight cast a large shadow of Kishimoto—who took pleasure in sitting alone in meditation—upon the walls of the familiar room. With a heart that yearned to call that shadow his friend, Kishimoto recalled those who had lived long celibate lives in days of old; he recalled the monk from *Essays in Idleness* who shunned society yet cured all ailments through potato-eating while maintaining self-care; and he wished that if possible, he might take his children and journey as far as his feet could carry them.

“Master, Okume-chan’s father has arrived.”

The old servant came to the foot of the stairs and called out. Okume-chan was the name of the nearby acupuncturist’s daughter who often came to play at Kishimoto’s house. The acupuncturist he had requested came up the stairs carrying a small handbox. From the cold of the past year, Kishimoto had developed lower back pain and feared it might become a chronic ailment. To save his own heart, he felt he must first begin by saving his own body. “It may be because I sit too much, but my lower back feels like it’s rotting away.”

After saying this to the acupuncturist, Kishimoto fetched bedding and such from the room adjacent to his study without enlisting any help from the household. He gathered it into a corner of the room and laid it out close to the wall.

“It must indeed be hernia symptoms. In this kind of weather, it’s bound to get chilled,” said the acupuncturist as he approached Kishimoto with his acupuncture tools. A pungent smell of alcohol reached Kishimoto’s nose. Lying face down, he could not see what the acupuncturist was doing, but through the skin of his back, he felt the lingering coolness left by the alcohol swab. Before long, needles pressed into the center of his neck, moved to his shoulders, then inserted along both sides of his spine.

“Ouch.” At times, Kishimoto involuntarily cried out. However, when what appeared to be the longest thin gold needle sank deep into both sides of his hipbone and reached the throbbing afflicted area, a drowsy pleasure—enough to induce sleepiness—radiated from its faint vibrations. He asked the acupuncturist to apply the needles thoroughly to his lower back pain.

"Am I beyond saving now?"

After the acupuncturist had left, Kishimoto muttered to himself. From the pleasurably intense fatigue following the procedure, he lay like a dead man by the wall for a long time. Beyond the room's storm shutters came the sound of cold rain falling.

12

The year drew to a close. Setsuko did not find it a bother that she alone, rather than together with her sister, had been entrusted with the care of her uncle’s household. She possessed a fastidious disposition that found no pleasure in any task unless entrusted to handle it entirely on her own. In that sense, she acted comfortably and as she pleased. However, that was the Setsuko who worked alongside the old servant; to Kishimoto’s eyes, there now appeared a different Setsuko who seemed somehow ill at ease. When her sister was still with them that summer, Setsuko had been the sort of girl who would place yellow-blooming roses in a jar atop the shelf by the sink and enjoy gazing at them alone even while helping with kitchen work. “Izumi, shall I let you smell something nice?” said her sister while bringing the flower close to the child’s nose. When Izumi squinted his eyes and exclaimed, “What a lovely fragrance!”, she stood beside her sister—who retorted in a lively tone, “How cheeky!”—and giggled with girlish delight, adding, “Even Izumi knows what’s good!” The Setsuko sisters were well-versed in Western floral names unknown to Kishimoto, but particularly the younger sister possessed both meticulous knowledge and an innate love for flowers, along with a quiet, introverted disposition. When Kishimoto remarked with admiration, “You two know such names despite everything,” and her sister Teruko said, “Not even knowing flower names would be—right, Setsu-chan?” it was Setsuko who brought over a pot of blooming tulips, saying, “Uncle, look at this—doesn’t it have a sweet camellia-like fragrance?” Setsuko had still been this innocent. There was a virginal innocence about her, as if she had just left the schoolroom. By year’s end, that same Setsuko had somehow become a girl who was no longer at ease, sinking into silent contemplation.

The clothes Kishimoto’s wife had left behind—most had been returned to her family home, distributed as mementos to her elder sister in her hometown, shared with his sister-in-law in Negishi and his niece, given to acquaintances in the mountains, and generally dispersed among those Sonoko had been close to during her lifetime—until only a small amount remained in his possession. “The children have been in your care in so many ways.” Kishimoto had said this and, on occasion, had taken things Sonoko left behind from the bottom of drawers in the chest of drawers located in the lower room to distribute them between Setsuko and her sister. At that time, Teruko’s voice calling out to her sister—“Setsu-chan, come here!”—still lingered in Kishimoto’s ears. Distributing the deceased mother’s mementos to those who looked after the children was by no means something Kishimoto found regrettable.

Once again, Kishimoto stood before the chest and looked. From the drawers he usually left to Setsuko’s care, he took out items she was not permitted to handle and examined them.

“Aunt’s mementos have gradually dwindled as we’ve been giving them out to everyone.” Kishimoto said half to himself and placed the retrieved items before her to comfort the despondent Setsuko. “Such a long underrobe has turned up.” And once more Kishimoto said this, then handed Setsuko the one with the girlish, feminine design that might bring her joy. Even seeing that, she found no relief.

13 One evening, Setsuko drew near Kishimoto. Suddenly she began to speak in a despondent tone.

“My condition... Uncle must already understand perfectly.” The new year had come around, and Setsuko had just turned twenty-one. At that very moment, both children had gone together to play at the house across the street, while the old servant had gone to fetch them and become engrossed in conversation. Downstairs remained utterly empty of others. In a voice barely above a whisper, Setsuko told Kishimoto she had become a mother. As if that long-dreaded moment he had strained to avoid had finally arrived, Kishimoto trembled uncontrollably upon hearing it. Though her voice—forced out through desperate anguish—remained faintest of whispers, it pierced the depths of his ears with truly dreadful power. Hearing this, Kishimoto found himself unable to remain beside his desolate niece. He attempted soothing words before leaving her side, yet could do nothing to still the trembling in his chest. Dejectedly climbing the dark staircase to his room, he pressed both hands against his head.

The stubborn Kishimoto—who had neither followed societal customs, heeded his relatives’ advice, nor listened to his friends’ warnings, persisting in his self-willed path even against nature—had thus fallen into this pitfall-like abyss. Even if I were to say I had no intention of committing such a sin, it would serve as no excuse. Even if I were to say that through all these years spent prizing feminine virtue and cherishing justice, I had never considered myself inferior to others—that too would serve as no justification. Though I possessed some appreciation for sake and enjoyed listening to Kamigata-style shamisen interludes—though I had whiled away idle hours with artists and performers—even if I claimed always to have remained an observer untouched by such stimuli—this not only failed as any defense but rather made me suspect myself of feigned nonchalance and hypocritical solemnity. Moreover—if I had possessed even enough sophistication to appreciate a traditional song or two—why hadn’t I conducted myself more prudently? Such self-interrogations reverberated through his mind.

For a while, Kishimoto could not think of anything. In the room, a lamp with a blue lid burned forlornly. The water in the iron kettle upon the sturdy square hearth had come to a boil. Kishimoto drew the tea set closer, prepared his usual hot tea, and drank it. He took out his favorite cigarettes and smoked two or three in quick succession while gazing absently at the crimson flames of charcoal glowing within the hearth’s ashes. A cold, anguished feeling—as if directed at his crumbling self—rose within Kishimoto’s consciousness.

14

There was a bamboo screen. There was a round fan. Cold wheat noodles ordered for the occasion had been laid out. Relatives were gathering while watching fireworks. There was the nephew’s wife. There was Teruko from her high school days. Setsuko, who had just arrived in Tokyo from her hometown, was there too, brought by her sister. Nephew Taichi sighed while snapping his white fan open and shut with sharp cracks: “If this were better times, I’d have borrowed a temma boat and set out by now…” The still-young Izumi, made to change into a kimono, was happily wandering among the crowd. Held by the mother trying to entertain everyone, Shigeru suckled at her breast there too. From Ryogoku’s direction came the sounds of evening fireworks beginning to rise—

This was the scene from the downstairs room during Sonoko’s days of vigor. Through memory, Kishimoto could still vividly see her in her prime—her womanly developed form, her sturdy yet supple physique that retained its softness despite its fullness. He could even carry those memories from downstairs up to his study. There he was, shut away alone on the second floor facing his desk. At times, something would come up behind him there—embracing him as if with wings, drawing its face near affectionately. That was his wife.

From that time onward, Sonoko did not fear her husband’s study. In the study, which he had arranged not as a painter’s atelier but rather as something cold and solemn like a scientist’s laboratory, she seemed to find even the self-conscious act of being there as delightfully as if in a dream. What Kishimoto had self-consciously directed at her, she invariably repaid to her husband with the same approach. There were even times when she would carry her husband’s body on her own back and stagger around near the bookshelves there—all within that very same room which Kishimoto now saw before his eyes. He who had long been solely preoccupied with trying to guide his wife finally came to understand, only then, what would bring Sonoko’s heart joy. He realized that his wife, too, was one of those women who wished not to be awkwardly revered with propriety but to be roughly embraced and loved.

And then Kishimoto’s body began to awaken. His hair too awoke. His ears too awoke. His skin too awoke. His eyes too awoke. All other parts of his body awoke. He came to realize that he was by his wife’s side—a presence he had never before acknowledged. That he harbored a heart so desolate that even sobbing into his wife’s embrace would not suffice, that he contemplated sorrows akin at times to the infatuations of libertine lovers—all of this arose from the mournful solitude he discovered beside his wife, who slept soundly, oblivious to everything. The poison in Kishimoto’s heart was indeed conceived in that solitude.

Kishimoto had never been able to truly grasp the meaning of anything—whether good or bad—unless he had first experienced it himself from as far back as his childhood. When he saw Setsuko despondent and heard of the irreversible outcome, he felt ashamed of his own heart—a heart that had only just learned to feel shame. He tried to imagine himself before the wrath of Setsuko’s parents. He was already forty-two years old. If he scratched his head and felt awkwardness, he was no longer at an age where everything could be excused with a youthful apology. He had no face he could show to his brother Yoshio, who had gone to Nagoya, nor to his sister-in-law back in his hometown.

15

The storm had finally arrived. To Kishimoto—who had likened his own room to a Trappist monastery and himself to its monk— and moreover in a form beyond what he could have imagined even in dreams during those livelier times until half a year prior when Setsuko’s sister still lived with them. Kishimoto had generally been cold toward women. That he faced various temptations as a mere bystander stemmed not from forced restraint but from his inherent disposition to disdain them. Compared to his late nephew Taichi—a lifelong devotee of women—he had been born with an entirely different nature. This same Kishimoto now found himself compelled to suffer alongside his niece—a woman he had neither chosen from many nor desired in any particular way. Setsuko was like young grass barely lifting its head from beneath a heavy stone. She was a girl who had never loved nor been loved. She possessed nothing that should have tempted Kishimoto’s heart. There remained only her girlish quality of relying on uncle and drawing strength from uncle.

What an irony of “life”! Kishimoto, who for three years had fixed his gaze on a single grave precisely because he did not wish to consider his deceased wife’s passing—she who had left behind four young children—with any levity, now found himself conversely stirred by a sensation of being trampled underfoot by the very power of that death. Moreover, with extreme cruelty. “Dad. Is this morning?” “Is this morning?”

Then Shigeru came to Kishimoto and, looking up at his father’s face with large, childlike eyes, said. Shigeru often asked things like, “Is this morning?” or “Is this evening?” “Yes, it’s morning. “This is morning. “You’ll go to sleep once and wake up—then this will be morning.” Having finished explaining, Kishimoto briefly held the young child—who still couldn’t clearly distinguish morning from evening—and looked at him. To observe Setsuko’s condition closely, Kishimoto went to the small room near the kitchen. He walked around the area as if occupied with some business there. Setsuko was working in the kitchen with the old servant. At times she would stand before the mouse-proof cabinet in the small room, retrieve a box of bonito flakes from within, carry it to the kitchen area, and shave them. There was still nothing noticeably different about her appearance. In her daily life as well. In her movements as well. Seeing this, Kishimoto felt somewhat relieved, albeit temporarily.

With the same eyes that had observed Setsuko, Kishimoto looked at the old servant. The old servant was bent over by the flowing water, working energetically. This honest, hardworking old servant—who took pride in her robust health while in service—had originally been brought for an introduction by the wife of that school friend who had died of tuberculosis during the period when said friend, despite his sickly countenance, had not yet taken to bed and would frequently visit Kishimoto to lament life’s hardships. This old servant was most adept at times when she washed even a single pot while listening to the sound of water gushing from the faucet.

Setsuko had somehow come to fear the old servant closest to her. Nevertheless, she maintained her composure.

16

“What happened to you this morning, sir? You haven’t even eaten your meal.” The old servant who had come to wipe the floors upstairs asked Kishimoto this.

“The miso soup you like turned out truly delicious this morning, sir,” the old servant said again. “Ah, skipping a meal once in a while—I do that often,” said Kishimoto, looking toward the old servant, who seemed incapable of sitting still for even a moment without working. “Well, my part doesn’t matter. You all take good care of the children.” “After all, your body is an important one.” “If you were to fall ill, sir, this household would truly be at a loss.” “Even so, you’re managing everything all by yourself—all the neighbors are saying so.” “Truly, they say our master is a man of principle...”

While hanging up the cleaning rag, Kishimoto listened in silence to the old servant’s words. Before long, the old servant went downstairs. Kishimoto rubbed his hands together alone.

Kishimoto could not help but flush red unbeknownst to others. If someone with a tender heart like that unknown youth who once walked beneath the willow rows along the riverbank were to learn of his actions. If those who cherished him like family—such as Hiroshi from his benefactor’s household with his “Brother, brother” calls—or friends who worried for him daily, or even Sonoko’s female acquaintances from the mountain area were to hear. Even with his entire body flushed red, Kishimoto still did not feel sufficiently ashamed. He recalled even his friend Aoki, who had departed this world too soon at twenty-seven, and heard deep within his ears a voice as if that deceased friend were laughing at him, saying, "It would have been better had you died sooner."

If this were to progress, Kishimoto could not fathom what would ultimately become of it. However, he could not avoid anticipating that there would be stones cast toward him. He could recall the words that the editor-in-chief of a newspaper had stated in court. According to that editor-in-chief, there exist many human evils in the world that, while not violating the law, cannot be overlooked. Society must impose sanctions and punitive measures against these. Journalists do not take pleasure in exposing people’s private conduct, but they have no choice but to denounce those individuals on society’s behalf. More than the pain of these invisible stones flying toward him, Kishimoto felt sorrowful as he pictured in his mind the spectators’ cheers.

Day and night came to feel like drawn-out moments. And Kishimoto’s nerves began to converge upon the deep wounds he had inflicted upon his niece and borne himself.

Kishimoto approached the glass-paned door. From the second-floor railing facing the thoroughfare, he gazed out at the narrow town. White-papered shoji windows were fitted on both upper and lower floors of the townhouses across the way. Behind those windows lived neighbors who would gossip things like, “Are you taking in a bride?” even when Kishimoto merely repainted his walls. The wife of a certain merchant—her bearing suggesting she’d let no neighborhood secret escape—passed through town shouldering a large cloth-wrapped bundle, likely returning from market errands.

17

“Mr. Kishimoto—I have arrived here at this moment. It has been some time; I would be most obliged to hear your words. If it suits your convenience, I shall await your arrival with this rickshaw.” Kishimoto received this friend’s letter together with the rickshaw that had come to fetch him. “Setsu, lay out Uncle’s clothes. I’ll just go see a friend and come back.” Having said this to Setsuko, Kishimoto made hasty preparations to go out. Even just having Setsuko take out his kimono from the chest was enough for Kishimoto to feel toward her a closeness that pricked his conscience and a profound sorrow steeped in guilt. The change somehow beginning to manifest within her, and her demeanor as though straining to suppress it again and again, pressed upon Kishimoto’s heart with a heavy force. Setsuko, tending to silence, prepared even white tabi socks for her uncle.

It was still within the New Year season. Kishimoto, who had secluded himself even from customary New Year visits to relatives that particular year, felt as though he were leaving his home for the first time in ages. With uneasy foreboding in his heart, he listened from the rickshaw to the sound of withered blue bamboo leaves rustling at gated entrances along the street as he departed. He crossed the bridge and cut across the tram tracks. People wearing renewed expressions for the new year moved through the towns more animatedly than during festival seasons. When he reached where river steamers could be heard, the waters of Sumida River flowing toward Shin-Ōhashi came into view. This area held boyhood memories for Kishimoto.

Nakano’s friend from Moto-Sonochō awaited Kishimoto in a clean and pleasant second-floor parlor that retained an old Edo-style ambiance. When this friend, burdened with many duties, found a moment of leisure to rest near the Sumida River, he would often send a messenger to Kishimoto’s place.

“It’s been a while.” As both Moto-Sonochō—who adjusted his seating—and Kishimoto were addressed repeatedly as “Professor, Professor,” the house was staffed with women well-versed in entertaining guests. “The Professor from Moto-Sonochō has been awaiting your arrival for some time now.” When the maid with thinning hair said this, the older maid took over in an exceedingly courteous tone, “Mr. Kishimoto hadn’t come by in some time, so we were all wondering what had become of you.” “And is everyone at your home well?” “And are the young masters well too?”

It was in that second-floor parlor that Kishimoto would gather with friends to hear even a fragment of old melodies or come alone at times trying to soothe his heart. His heart, growing ever more melancholy with each passing year, could not help but seek music in some form. There had been a time when he once brought his old friend Adachi to that second floor, and Adachi had laughed saying, "How amusing that Kishimoto has come to frequent such places." At times he would retreat to the second floor to avoid guests he felt obliged to meet too often, gathering letters received from various quarters to spend half days alone reading through them. He preferred conversing with people of entirely different backgrounds—listening to the life stories of maids working there, hearing rumors about elderly and young guests who gathered there, sometimes surrounding himself with girls aspiring to make their way through artistic pursuits while delighting in their tales of youthful romance. Kishimoto even knew of an actor who had grown old without ever blooming on stage—one who had been coming for years to arrange flowers in the parlor's alcove.

“Why don’t you pour Mr. Kishimoto a drink?” Moto-Sonochō said, turning to the woman beside him. “I’ll bring the hot one now.” As she said this, the maid picked up the sake bottle that was there and offered it to Kishimoto.

“Ahhh… It’s been so long since I’ve come to a place like this.” Kishimoto said this as if soliloquizing and sniffed the aroma of the sake.

18

Moto-Sonochō was before Kishimoto. Moreover, he drank sake without knowing that Kishimoto bore such deep wounds. Gazing at this friend's face—a man who combined prudence and passion in equal measure, who seemed likely to offer considerable support if confided in—Kishimoto made no attempt to even hint at what had befallen him. He felt ashamed even to hint at it. “Mr. Kishimoto, the hot one has arrived.” Accepting into his cup what one of the maids offered, Kishimoto drank a little sake while listening to everyone’s cheerful conversation. Before he knew it, his mind had wandered to his old mentor from whom he had studied long ago—to the wife from his mentor’s third marriage, then to her younger sister. His mind drifted further to that secluded dwelling where the teacher—who had tried to spend his old age quietly planting flowers—had reportedly lived apart from his wife for a time. Whether the relationship between his old mentor and the wife’s younger sister resembled that between himself and his niece was something Kishimoto did not fully know, but at least in outcome, they were alike. He pictured the anguish of his mentor’s heart—the man who had secretly knocked on a certain doctor’s door late at night—and envisioned too the mentor’s regret upon submitting to the doctor’s reasonable words and leaving that gate once more. For a time, his mind had strayed completely from what lay before him.

“What could you be thinking about so deeply, Mr. Kishimoto?”

said the older maid, looking at Kishimoto’s face. “Me?...” Kishimoto gazed at the cup before him. “Just thinking about things that can’t be helped, no matter how much I dwell on them.” “Won’t you partake of anything today? The sake will cool off.”

"I’ve been thinking this since I first noticed earlier—you don’t look well today either," added another maid. "Truly, Mr. Kishimoto seems different every time we meet... One moment your face flushes red, the next it turns so pale we fear something terrible has happened..." The young, slender woman who had come to liven up the drinking party also spoke. Kishimoto had favored this woman since she was a mere girl still wearing a red collar about her neck, summoning her to work at banquets whenever they occurred. This person too had now grown like tender spring grass.

“In contrast, the Professor from Moto-Sonochō never changes no matter when you see him. He’s always smiling so warmly…” The older maid began, then abruptly shifted her tone. “Oh dear—here I am going on about gentlemen. How improper of me.”

As she said this, the maid placed her hands on her knees and bowed politely.

“Please let me hear a song.”

“Please let me hear a song,” said Kishimoto. Even he—whose face would flush crimson from but a little sake—did not grow drunk that day as he habitually might hour after hour.

19

What stirred in Kishimoto a will to live was, strangely, when he heard folk songs. The woman who had come to enliven the sake gathering in that second-floor parlor, knowing Kishimoto’s fondness for Kamigata ballads among other things, sang in time with the old, somber, eerily quiet shamisen melody. “With all my heart, ah— These years, When someday these tangled thoughts— Stretching on and on— With a single heart— I’ll never abandon— Let the world—” For whom were these old song lyrics—whose original author could not be known—intended to be heard, as they flowed from the woman’s lips, their color faded and changed like a ripe plum?

“Short night’s— Dreams are fleeting— That lingering scent— Is it wicked to pluck? An ownerless blossom, What’s all this rustling— And yet love’s a fickle thing—” As he sat beside his Moto-Sonochō friend listening to this song, memories of men and women tormented by carnal desires surfaced one after another in Kishimoto’s heart. “The Professor from Moto-Sonochō keeps such fine color in his cheeks,” remarked the older maid. “Your sake is excellent,” said Kishimoto, turning to his friend.

“It’s not as though you’ve ever truly gotten drunk, Mr. Kishimoto,” said the thin-haired maid, glancing between the two guests. “You don’t drink much nor indulge in leisure—surely it’s not that you dislike women either...” “You line up all these young ladies yet do nothing but gaze at them,” interjected the older one with a laugh. “Still, I hope you Professors will always remain this way,” said the thin-haired maid again. “I simply couldn’t bear to see either of you corrupted.”

“I’m only human too,” said Kishimoto. “No, that you continue to favor even a place like ours is what matters most.” “Ah, I am well aware.” “We understand full well your gracious intent to listen to even a single song…”

“I’m amazed you can keep enduring like this,” said Kishimoto. “Living like that—aren’t you lonely, Professor? …You haven’t even brought your wife…” Moto-Sonochō, holding his sake cup, had been listening to everyone’s conversation with an air of contentment when he suddenly fixed Kishimoto with an intense gaze and spoke. “I still find it puzzling that you remain alone, Kishimoto.” Kishimoto let out a sigh unnoticed by others.

20

“I do respect you as a friend, Kishimoto,” Moto-Sonochō said reproachfully in his cups at that moment. “Honestly, you’re such a fool.”

“Yo-ho-ho!” The thin-haired maid clapped her hands and laughed. “The Professor from Moto-Sonochō has trotted out his favorite routine, hasn’t he?” “That ‘fool’ simply must make his entrance before our Professor can drink himself merry,” said the older maid, joining in the laughter.

Kishimoto had unfinished business at his home and did not remain long at that place. Leaving his friend—who sat pleasantly drunk and relaxed in the second-floor parlor—he soon departed from the house. When he left that atmosphere where colors, music, and women’s cheerful laughter seemed crafted for indulgence, Kishimoto’s heart sank all the deeper. Kishimoto walked toward home. By the time he reached Ōkawabata, the sake had worn off. Feeling the bone-piercing chill of the river wind, he followed the riverbank he used to wander from his benefactor Tanabe’s house in his youth until he came to the edge of Ryōgoku Bridge. Passing a house that retained only a sign from its former glory as a renowned boat inn, he arrived at a sandbank. The murky water flowing gently from the Kanda River came into view. Near where it merged with the Sumida River, flocks of gulls floated clustered along the shore. Suddenly, Kishimoto remembered an incident he had encountered near that sandbank. He recalled how a pregnant young woman’s corpse had washed up there. More acutely than when he himself had once gazed at the damp sand after an inquest, Kishimoto now understood the tragedy of that waterfront. From that state of mind, an indescribable terror seized him.

Kishimoto hurriedly crossed the bridge. He briskly made his way back home.

Children who seemed intent on playing among the New Year's pine decorations filled the narrow streets with the sound of their shuttlecock game, seeming to pass the final hours of a pleasant week around four o'clock in the afternoon. At that very moment, Negishi’s sister-in-law had come to visit Kishimoto’s home and was waiting for his return. “Oh, Sut-san?” said Negishi’s sister-in-law, calling Kishimoto by name. This sister-in-law was the wife of Kishimoto’s eldest brother and, from Setsuko’s perspective, the aunt who had cared for her during her school years. “Though today isn’t the formal day for women’s New Year’s greetings,” she added, “with our household being in Taiwan and all, I came by briefly today as their proxy.”

Setsuko had changed into New Year’s attire and was entertaining her aunt from Negishi. The faint roughness apparent in Setsuko’s complexion had already been noticed by Kishimoto alone. He wanted to shield her from both his sister-in-law’s keen feminine eye—attuned to every delicate detail—and the scrutiny of someone who had raised three children herself. “Setsuko, there’s no need to sit there like that. Why don’t you go refresh the tea?” Kishimoto spoke protectively. Across the long brazier separating them, his sister-in-law’s gaze kept drifting toward Setsuko, now a woman in full bloom. This aunt—who seemed unable to forget the trying years spent managing her absent husband’s household alongside Kishimoto’s late mother and his younger self—addressed Setsuko in tones that lectured the young at every opportunity. Mention was made too of Teruko, said to have built a happy home in some distant foreign land.

“It is precisely because of this Uncle here that we were able to provide such care up to now.” “One mustn’t forget this kindness, no matter how comfortably Teruko lives these days—” said the sister-in-law in a tone comparing Teruko’s circumstances to those of her own daughter Aiko, who had married well and even borne children. Then she turned to Setsuko: “Dear Setsuko, you too are truly blessed to have such an admirable uncle.” As he listened, Kishimoto felt cold sweat tracing down his spine.

21 Negishi’s sister-in-law returned home after leaving behind tales of how her long years of house-sitting had finally proven worthwhile as her time to shine arrived, rumors about Brother Minsuke in Taiwan, boasts about her daughter Aiko, and stories of Kishimoto’s youngest daughter Kimiko being raised in Hitachi. From Kishimoto’s perspective, the hometown of his niece Aiko’s husband was along the coast of Hitachi. Due to that connection, Kishimoto had arranged to entrust Kimiko to a wet nurse’s household in a certain fishing village to be raised.

“Sut-san, you can’t go on being alone forever like this either.” “Why on earth doesn’t Mr. Kishimoto take a wife? Every time I’m asked that, even I’m at a loss for how to respond.” Negishi’s sister-in-law left behind such words as she departed. After such visits from female relatives, Kishimoto found it even more painful to face Setsuko. It was not merely the faces of a man and woman meeting, but those of an uncle and niece. Kishimoto could vividly discern the dark shadow that appeared on Setsuko’s face. The dark shadow pressed upon Kishimoto’s heart with even greater force than the furious voice of his brother Yoshio—“You are truly a despicable man”—which he heard echoing from the depths of his soul. Unlike her vivacious sister Teruko, Setsuko had always been a girl of few words. But now, her habitual silence weighed down with sorrow seemed to voice unspoken terror and grief—at times even a fierce hatred toward her uncle.

“Uncle, what will you do for me—” Kishimoto read this plea in the dark shadow that appeared on his niece’s face. Above all else, he first felt the lash of Setsuko’s anguish. He was most severely condemned by the sight of her suffering. When Kishimoto suddenly heard the sounds of the two children fighting, he was in his upstairs room. He rushed down the staircase. There he found the children quarreling, disregarding Setsuko’s attempts to intervene. The older brother struck the younger. The younger brother struck back.

“What are you doing? What are you fighting for—you idiots!” Kishimoto said. Izumi and Shigeru both raised their voices and began to cry together. “Shigeru tore his older brother’s kite, and that’s how the fight started,” said Setsuko while restraining Shigeru.

“Izumi hit me—” Shigeru cried, reporting to his father. The older brother appeared to try to speak but couldn’t; biting his lip in frustration, he raised his fist toward his younger brother once more.

“Alright, stop it. Stop it,” Kishimoto said in a scolding tone. “Now stop it, alright? Big Brother, you need to stop too, alright?” Setsuko added. “My, my, what have you young masters been fighting about?” By the time the old servant rushed over saying this, the two children were still heaving with sobs. Kishimoto returned to his room with his heart pounding. He approached the glass door and gazed at the town at dusk. The feeling of being drawn along the sandbank by the river began to come and go within Kishimoto’s chest. He found it terrifying to even think of associating that tragedy by the water with Setsuko. A cold, faint shudder coursed unnoticed through his body.

22

For about seven days, Kishimoto had barely slept at all. He worried alone. At lunchtime, he would often sit alone with his meal tray rather than with the family, but during those times, without fail, Setsuko would come to sit beside his tray. She rarely entrusted the role of serving her uncle to the old servant. She did it herself. And even when she kept her gaze lowered, her hands tucked into her obi, seemingly trying to avoid meeting her uncle’s eyes, her knees always remained turned toward him. Sooner or later, an anxiety about the future—one that would not cease until it erupted—dominated the two of them. Kishimoto would often sit before his meal tray and face Setsuko in silence.

“Uncle, a rare guest has arrived.”

When he heard Setsuko’s voice calling from below the staircase, Kishimoto was in his study. Every time a guest came, his heart would race. Each time, the urge to hide Setsuko arose before anything else. It was around the time when lamps were lit both in the town and within the house. Kishimoto went downstairs to check. There stood Suzuki’s older brother—a man who, from Kishimoto’s perspective, was his own elder sister’s husband from his hometown—who had not been in contact with him for over a decade, appearing in a disheveled state as if avoiding prying eyes, beside the fatsia plant in the dimly lit garden.

Kishimoto immediately understood why this unexpected visitor had chosen the lamplighting hour to come secretly. In his pitiable, travel-worn state. With the cloth bundle he clutched and his threadbare hat. Compared to Suzuki’s older brother as seen over a decade prior, his face bore the weathering of years spent wandering. This man was the father of his deceased nephew Taichi. Suzuki’s older brother—who had abandoned his family and fled home—seemed to shrink from Kishimoto’s scrutiny as he deferentially entered the lower guest room. “I’ve heard much about you from my elder brother in Taiwan.”

Even as Kishimoto welcomed him with these words, Suzuki’s older brother appeared wary, looking as if he anticipated what his obligated brother might say. "Izumi, come out. Bow to Uncle Suzuki," Kishimoto called to the child who was there. "Is this Izumi?" As the guest looked at the child, a smile finally surfaced on his face—one reminiscent of the old Suzuki household’s master from days past. "Uncle, welcome," Setsuko also came and greeted him.

“Ah, Setsu. “You’ve grown so much I hardly recognize you.” “You’ve still got just a trace of that baby face—” When Suzuki’s older brother said this, Setsuko’s cheeks flushed slightly. “In my household as well, Sonoko passed away,” Kishimoto said. “All three of the children you were acquainted with have passed away.” “For a time, Teru was here helping out, but she too has married and left. Now Setsu looks after the children for us.”

“I heard about Sonoko’s passing while in Taiwan… I received much help from Minsuke over there… I also heard about you from Minsuke… After all, I’ve grown old, my body has weakened, and so I’ve returned from Taiwan intending to ask for your consultation…”

23 “Setsu, it seems Suzuki’s brother is wearing an unlined kimono. Take out my padded one for him. While you’re at it, fetch the haori too.” With these words, Kishimoto called to Setsuko and had her prepare dinner for the man who had returned after a decade-long absence. Putting aside for later the matter of hearing Suzuki’s older brother’s troubles—this man who, after much hardship, had journeyed far to seek out his obligated younger brother—Kishimoto first let the weary traveler rest. He decided to let him stay awhile and observe his condition. The passage of ten years had altered not only Kishimoto’s life but also the old grand Suzuki household after Taichi’s father abandoned his family. There, Taichi—who had been Kishimoto’s nephew, friend, and confidant—was no longer present. Taichi’s wife too was gone. There was an adopted son who had revived the crumbling Suzuki house. There was the adopted son’s wife. There was Kishimoto’s sister, who had waited ten years for a husband whose whereabouts remained unknown. There was Taichi’s younger sister. Kishimoto had entrusted his third son to that sister’s household.

While fretting over Setsuko, Kishimoto listened in fragments to what Suzuki’s older brother was saying. Faced with this wanderer scorched by Taiwan’s blazing days, he could still recall the man’s dignified bearing from his time as a Ministry of Finance official. He remembered this person’s gentlemanly appearance when wearing a tiger-hunting cap—a style popular during his own boyhood. When Kishimoto had first come to Tokyo at nine years old, it was to this man’s house that he had gone to stay, and he could still recall those youthful days of receiving lessons in reading Chinese classics from him. Though Kishimoto had spent barely a year of his boyhood by this man and his elder sister’s side, the affection received during that time had been deeply engraved into his young heart. Much later, various changes had occurred in this man’s circumstances, and his actions had often drawn severe criticism. Yet even then, Kishimoto’s refusal to judge him as others did stemmed entirely from that childhood warmth—precisely because it burned like a faint lamp’s glow in his heart’s depths.

Kishimoto had allowed this traveler to stay with him for about seven days. After those seven days, he resolved to save this disgraced father of Taichi.

“Setsu, Uncle is taking Mr. Suzuki to pay our respects back home.” After saying this, Kishimoto separately urged Setsuko to have a medical examination during his absence. Setsuko agreed to her uncle’s words at that time. She herself said she wanted to be examined once. If only it were her misunderstanding. Kishimoto clung to this faint possibility with desperate hope, made hasty travel preparations, and entrusted Setsuko with watching the house for two or three days before departing.

24

Truly abruptly, Kishimoto’s heart grew dark. Even on his way back from his sister’s house in his hometown, relying on what he had told Setsuko, he had clung to the doctor’s words with a slim hope—though how much of that hope remained was uncertain. When he returned and saw, he became all the more disheartened. “Setsu, you don’t need to worry so much. Uncle will figure out a good way to handle things.” Having said this, Kishimoto told Setsuko that in case of the worst, the child could be registered as his illegitimate offspring.

“An illegitimate child?” Setsuko’s face flushed slightly. In an attempt to console his unfortunate niece, Kishimoto had even broached such matters as future family registry details—but when pressed to consider it thoroughly, the prospect of entering the mother’s name on that registry seemed utterly impossible. Over the coming months, how could he protect her? How could he keep her in a secure position? He keenly felt that Setsuko’s torment was tantamount to a mortal wound for her.

Kishimoto went into town. He purchased an herbal decoction said to warm and regulate a woman’s blood for Setsuko. “You need to take better care of your own body.” With those words，he handed the bag of medicine to Setsuko．

Night fell.

Kishimoto went up to his study and sat down alone at his desk. The memory of that young woman’s corpse that had washed up on the riverbank came floating spitefully into his mind. “Because Setsu is that kind of person, she might very well die.”

Nothing darkened Kishimoto’s heart as much as this thought. He who had resolved never to repeat a marriage like the one lost with his wife Sonoko; he who had wished to begin an entirely new life if possible; he who had even conceived of remaining single as a form of revenge against women—now found it utterly unreasonable and infuriating that his fate was plunging into such darkness because of a woman who had always been a nuisance to him—moreover, because of one young niece.

An unexpected sorrowful thought passed through Kishimoto’s mind like a flash of lightning. He came to consider atoning for his sins by killing himself and entrusting the aftermath to Setsuko’s parents. Not only was marriage between close relatives prohibited by law, but if his own actions still constituted such a violation, he even thought of willingly accepting punishment. For he could sympathize with that pitiful sentiment shared by many sinners—how they would rather submit to the cold, solemn lash of the law than be pelted by the stones of society’s merciless ridicule. In the room, a Western-style lamp with a blue shade burned forlornly. Its dwindling oil announced the deepening night. Kishimoto laid his bedding near the wall and sat down alone upon it. If he slept through the night and awoke, what sort of day might come next—the thought suddenly crossed his mind again. Exhausted from contemplation, Kishimoto sat with arms crossed on the bedding before collapsing as if felled into the depths of heavy slumber.

25

“Dad.” Shigeru came to Kishimoto’s bedside and tried to wake his father in a childlike voice. Kishimoto did not even know how many hours he had slept. By the time the children came upstairs with the wet nurse, his eyes were open, but he remained exhausted, as if no amount of sleep could ever be enough. He heard the children’s voices and felt inclined to leave his bedding. “Shigeru, Dad can’t get up alone.” “You too, give me a hand.” “Try lifting up Dad’s head for me.”

Told by Kishimoto, Shigeru happily slid both hands beneath his father’s head. “Young master, please go ahead and wake Dad up—you really are strong enough.” Urged even by the wet nurse, Shigeru supported his father’s large frame from behind as if lifting a fallen tree trunk. “Heave-ho!”

Shigeru said with effort. Kishimoto finally managed to get up with the help of this young child’s strength. “Master, it’s already eleven o’clock,” said the wet nurse, glancing at Kishimoto with a hint of exasperation. “Oh, thank you. Thanks to Shigeru, I was finally able to get up.” As he said this, Kishimoto looked around his surroundings as if assaulted by a bad dream. The sun was shining just as it had yesterday. The sounds of the town filtered through the room’s paper screens just as they had yesterday. When he opened his eyes, Kishimoto found the same state of mind from yesterday persisting within him. No day arrived that was any better than yesterday. With a somewhat clearer state of mind after sipping hot tea, he faced his desk.

The manuscript Kishimoto had recently begun writing lay on his desk. It was something that could be called part of an autobiography. It had begun to recount the period from his boyhood into early manhood. For him, this might very well be his final act of writing—such a turbulent emotion came to dominate his troubled heart. He sat quietly before his desk and read through his unfinished manuscript, which he intended to leave behind in this world with no thought of preserving it. After reading it, he tried to endure as steadfastly as he could. He also tried to add the missing parts toward the end. The one who appeared in the draft was his eighteen- or nineteen-year-old self.

When summer vacation arrived, like birds returning to their branches after flitting here and there, memories of his school days gathered in Sukekichi’s heart. Amidst wondering how he would spend that summer, he thought of the Tanabe family—the master, his wife, and the grandmother—his benefactors who worried over him and welcomed him into their home. He also thought of his brother Tamasuke, who lived in a boarding house near the Tanabes. While still seen as a child by these elders, the young sprout of life budding within him had already lifted its head like a bamboo shoot. The relentless self-reproach—the anguish of a heart resolved to silence—acts bordering on madness—how could his elders ever know of the inner battles he had fought until then, battles he hadn’t even shared with classmates? How could they know there had been women like Shigeko and Tamako, graduates of Christian schools, who had once mingled with young men? Let alone how the entire atmosphere around such women had vanished like an illusion—so he pondered. To Sukekichi, still naive to the world’s ways, everything felt astonishing. With the sensation of having just been born into this world, when he considered his current actions, he realized he had unwittingly begun walking a path unknown to his elders—one chosen entirely by himself. From this realization came an inexpressible terror……

Kishimoto continued reading. “……It was the twenties of the Meiji era, still in its youth.” In Tokyo’s city streets, there were no such things as electric streetcars yet. From the school to the Tanabe residence was roughly two *ri*, but walking that distance meant nothing to someone in a student’s position. Often Sukekichi would detour through the valleys near Sankōchō—an area thick with old temples and cemeteries—following the rolling hills’ contours, or else take Takanawa Street straight to Hijirizaka before descending toward the Tanabe house in the distant low-city district. That day, planning to wait for the shared carriage at Iirayasaka Slope’s base, he left his dormitory right after lunch. The road, baked dry by afternoon sun following an evening shower, grew hotter still. Yet realizing summer vacation had arrived at last, he found himself walking as if down some pleasant homeward path. Something awaited them all in the far future—this conviction hung in the air. Such yearning felt almost like present joy itself. He not only keenly sensed his own abrupt growth—the sudden stretch in height, the rapid maturation of limbs—but also perceived young people around his benefactor’s household growing in tandem with him. What astonished him most was how those still seen as little girls had transformed into proper young women. Among them could be counted the daughter of Ōmasa from Ōdemmachō and Taruya’s daughter from Hekamagashi. Ōmasa stood as master to both Sukekichi’s benefactor Tanabe and his brother Tamasuke, while the Taruyas maintained close ties with the Tanabe family. Sukekichi could envision the forehead of that elder-sisterly figure—how Taruya’s mistress’s prized daughter, whose hair had once been styled in a maidenly foundation for wigs during her dance lessons, now wore it swept up in a Shimada knot. He could picture too the pale, delicate hands of Ōmasa’s treasured daughter, raised deep within Ōdemmachō’s merchant quarter……

As he read on, his younger self appeared there. Whenever something stirred in his chest and his cheeks grew hot with immediacy—there appeared his still innocent and naive self. The self from when he had just begun walking with a sense that something in the distant future awaited them appeared there. Kishimoto felt as though he were seeing his own boyhood form before him.

Twenty-Six

"There’s just no helping it." "It’s already over."

Kishimoto uttered those words to himself alone. Even without being blamed by others, he tried to blame himself. Even without being cast out by society, he tried to bury himself. Twenty years prior, Kishimoto had once gone and stood on the coast near Kōzu. The dark waves of Sagami Bay had surged close enough to touch his feet. He had still been in the prime of extreme youth then. Driven by unceasing mental turmoil, after wandering for nearly a year, the path of his journey had reached its end at that coastal water’s edge. At that time, he had gone a whole day without eating or drinking. He hadn’t possessed a single sen for travel expenses. On his person, he wore something resembling a priest’s robe yet not quite one. Moreover, he had presented an unusual appearance with his tucked-up hem, leggings, and straw sandals. His head had been shaved like a monk’s. The memory of that mental experience now returned bodily to Kishimoto. Instead of the dark waves that once filled his vision, four graves now lay before his eyes. What had once filled his sight were actual evening waves surging toward him; what lay there now were illusory graves—yet in their coldness, these phantoms surpassed reality. The four graves he had stared at for three years stood before his eyes like tangible presences in the dark night. Kishimoto Sonoko’s grave. Likewise, Tomiko’s grave. Likewise, Kikuko’s grave. Likewise, Mikiko’s grave.

Not only could he vividly read the epitaphs on those four graves, but at times he even heard what sounded like the sobbing voice of his wife Sonoko. Was it a voice he heard within his disordered mind, a sound coming from the lower room where Setsuko was, or something else entirely? He could not say for certain. Before he had descended to where those phantom graves became visible, he had not failed to consider various escape routes to hide his shameful self from the eyes of all acquaintances and relatives. A distant island populated entirely by strangers was also one of them. A lonely temple with few visitors was also one of them. However, he bore far too heavy a burden to find such escape routes. He was too exhausted. He was too ashamed of himself. He had no choice but to draw closer, step by step, toward the four phantom graves that lay before him—whether he willed it or not.

The day drew to a hollow close. The setting sun filled the second-floor room. The walls, the shoji screens, the glass doors—everything began glowing with a deep hue. Kishimoto’s heart was truly dark. As part of his usual disposition, to decide in his heart was to act. The voices of his sons—the brothers Izumi and Shigeru—no longer reached his ears. Only the resolve in his heart awaited him.

Twenty-Seven By the time Setsuko came upstairs still unaware of anything, day had already darkened into evening. She handed the letter brought by the servant to her uncle. Upon receiving and examining it, Kishimoto learned that his friend from Motomaru-cho had gone so far as to send not only another letter but even a rickshaw to fetch him. The desire to see friends was not absent from Kishimoto. But rather than acting from that sentiment, he moved half like a machine. The moment he read the letter from Motomaru-cho, he descended the stairs and made perfunctory preparations to go out.

Outside the dark gate, a hooded rickshaw waited for Kishimoto. After entrusting Setsuko with watching the house, Kishimoto ambled out. Though he had no intention of bidding farewell to his friends, with a dark, anxious heart that could not foresee how things would truly unfold, he boarded that rickshaw. And within the hooded confines, he heard the rhythmic tread of the rickshaw man’s footsteps, the occasional jingle of the bell the puller rang, and the particularly resonant clatter of wheels whenever they crossed a bridge. The lights of the great city’s night-like streets flickered and vanished upon the hood’s glass. The sound of crossing numerous bridges also reached him. He felt himself being jostled toward a part of town he rarely visited.

The friend from Motomaru-cho was waiting for him at an unfamiliar house together with a guest. There was the glow of electric lights there. The aroma of sake also filled the tatami room. Even the meal had already been prepared for Kishimoto. Motomaru-cho was in the midst of actively talking and drinking with the guest. “Kishimoto, shall we drink our fill tonight?” said Motomaru-cho, raising his eyebrows. Kishimoto had barely received the cup offered by Motomaru-cho when he also received one from the familiar guest.

“Tonight we must get Mr. Kishimoto thoroughly drunk.” The guest said this too and offered another cup to Kishimoto. “Hey, you,” said Motomaru-cho, looking at the guest, “Mr. Kishimoto has no idea how much someone like me thinks of him.” “Well, let’s have another,” said the guest, urging Kishimoto to return the toast. The laughter of friends reaching his ears and the resplendent shadows of electric lamps before his eyes—these became intermingled with the anguish in Kishimoto’s heart. While inhaling the cheerful fragrance of sake, he pictured his own form trembling all the way there atop the rickshaw. He thought back to the impasse he had reached by that time—when he had even come to believe there was no other way but for one of them, Setsuko or himself, to die.

Motomaru-cho seemed pleasantly drunk, but then, as if suddenly remembering something, turned his gaze toward the guest and— “Hey, you—someone like Kishimoto should take a trip around Europe… I wholeheartedly recommend it…” The guest, treating such tipsy conversations as just another side dish to the sake, kept refilling his cup.

“Kishimoto,” said Motomaru-cho, urging him on through drunken encouragement. “You must go see Europe at least once… You absolutely must see it… If you can muster the resolve to depart, I’ll spare no effort to assist… One must witness what Europe truly is at least once…” Kishimoto listened to his friend’s words in heavy silence. His heart—desperate to survive—found itself drawn forth by those affectionate words steeped in camaraderie.

Twenty-Eight

The night deepened. The surroundings had grown hushed. All those who had been drinking companions had gone home. Even still,Yoyogi was drinking with the guest. The two had an air about them that suggested their enjoyment of sake was far from exhausted. That night,Kishimoto too was uncommonly drunk. The later the night grew,the more strangely clear his mind became. My friend had said something kind. I cannot endure any more of this extinction— He said to himself.

The rickshaw he had called for arrived. Kishimoto headed back to his house through the midnight city air. The towns that could be called Tokyo's ornamental centerpiece had fallen asleep, and the sound of streetcars running late into the night had ceased. On the wide main streets, no footsteps of passersby could be heard. Beyond the sea. Kishimoto clearly heard that voice while on the returning rickshaw. As though a deep night had come to whisper a single path of escape into his ear. At the very least, that he had found a beginning in the words spoken by his friend from Motomaru-cho over sake seemed to him a precious gift. I must save myself somehow. And Setsuko as well. And Izumi and Shigeru as well. When this thought surged up in his chest and moreover seemed not impossible, he was struck by a profound astonishment from the depths of his heart.

Having been jostled about in the rickshaw for a considerable time, Kishimoto returned to the town he was accustomed to living in. Even in that neighborhood where people typically passed by until relatively late, it was already midnight, and the faint sound of roosters crowing from their coops could be heard nearby. It seemed everyone at home had already gone to bed.

With that thought, Kishimoto knocked on the gate door.

“Is that you, Uncle?”

By the time Setsuko’s voice called out and the sound of the latch being undone came from within, Kishimoto still had not sobered up. “My, this is unusual for you, Uncle.” Setsuko said, looking at her uncle in surprise. Even after going to his room, Kishimoto could not suppress the emotions surging up within his chest. Just then, Setsuko prepared cold water for her drunken uncle and brought it. Kishimoto could not help but share his feelings even with his niece, who remained unaware of everything.

“What a pitiful girl you are.” Before he realized it, he had spoken those words and tightly embraced Setsuko, who trembled like a wounded bird because of him. “I have good news. I’ll tell you everything tomorrow.” When Setsuko heard Kishimoto’s words, she stood pressing her face against the wall as if something were rising in her chest. The sound of her silent tears flowing endlessly reached even the ears of the drunken Kishimoto.

Twenty-Nine

When morning came, the dirt within the study—which Kishimoto had never paid much mind to in ordinary times—stood out glaringly to his eyes. He walked through the second-floor room that had long served as his place of labor. Not a single thing there remained unstagnated. Even the scholarly and artistic pursuits he had long devoted himself to had fallen into ruin. He opened the bookshelf doors to look inside. There, dust that had accumulated over half a year buried every last book. He stood by the wall and looked. There remained only a coldness and dread so wearied by gazing that one might have thought blood was seeping there.

A journey to a distant foreign land—the single narrow path that seemed capable of rescuing him from the depths of this stagnation had grown even clearer to Kishimoto. Above all else, he first attempted to clutch at strength. He contemplated the mystery of the life of a monk of old like Mongaku Shonin—who had intended to kill his lover’s husband but ended up killing her by mistake, yet still managed to go on living. From there, he sought to learn how to fortify himself even further. For someone like Kishimoto, who had never once stepped beyond his own country, the thought of embarking on a distant journey was far from easy. Overturning his current life—which had become so deeply entrenched over seven years of continuous living—from its very foundations was no easy task. Moving Setsuko and the children to safer circumstances while making arrangements for their time in his absence, leaving his family behind alone was no easy task. When he thought of that, a cold, greasy sweat welled up on Kishimoto’s forehead.

However, strangely enough, Kishimoto found the strength to rise. The body he had often lamented as being on the verge of rotting; the body that had come to fear its pains might develop into chronic illness; the body that still refused to obey despite attempts at rowing boats and acupuncture treatments; the body that would often collapse by the wall for half a day or more, powerless against its intense fatigue and lassitude—it was only then that this body finally began to obey. He sweated from the depths of his spirit. And he had forgotten about the throbbing pain of his ailing lower back. He would abandon everything and go beyond the sea. To a completely unknown country, among completely unknown people, he would go. There, he would hide his ashamed self. These feelings arose intertwined with the desire to save Setsuko by willingly subjecting himself to hardship.

From that sentiment, Kishimoto wrote a letter addressed to his friend from Motomaru-cho. Not only did he resolve to cast off everything that was part of him, but he also determined to devote all the fruits of his years of labor toward the expenses of his journey. This sudden resolve to embark on a distant journey startled Setsuko more than anyone else.

Thirty “It’s troubling if you take things said over drinks as seriously as you do, Kishimoto.” This was a remark Kishimoto had heard secondhand from a guest with whom he had shared drinks the previous evening, presented as the opinion of his friend from Motomaru-cho. Even to this friend, Kishimoto could not bring himself to disclose the reason why he couldn’t help taking things so “seriously”—his own position. Even so, his friend from Motomaru-cho sent him a letter expressing willingness to spare no assistance. This letter encouraged Kishimoto, and the fortunate presence of people who approved of his resolve to travel further stirred his heart even more. From then on, Kishimoto spent his days almost entirely preparing for his journey. By the time the plum blossoms began to bloom, he had reached a point where he could roughly determine the course of his journey. He, who had long secluded himself without visiting anyone, went to Kanda and Ushigome. He also went to Kyōbashi. He also went to Hongo. He wished to hurry the preparations before Setsuko’s condition became noticeable to others.

“I suppose seeing Europe at least once would be reasonable.” “There’s truly no need to hurry so—you could depart at leisure.”

When the friend from Banchō came to visit Kishimoto’s house, the topic came up. This friend was younger than Kishimoto but had experience traveling abroad.

“If I don’t set out when the idea strikes me—well, I’ll just grow old while procrastinating.” Even as Kishimoto deflected in this manner, he felt ashamed of the shadowy aspects of himself he had to conceal even from this friend who had kindly taught him so many things. Kishimoto had not yet spoken to his brother Yoshio about anything. Not only the care of the children during his absence, but also regarding the disposition of Setsuko’s situation, he had concluded there was no alternative but to rely on the paternal compassion of her father, his brother. However, what could Kishimoto—who knew his brother’s temperament all too well—possibly say? Yoshio had left Kishimoto’s household and was someone who had inherited his maternal family’s household. Tamisuke and Yoshio shared the same ancestors and were the heads of two large, old families bearing the Kishimoto surname. Yoshio, who considered himself a provincial commoner, possessed an especially strong regard for family reputation and social standing. Women’s chastity was the most important lesson Yoshio sent to his daughters. Merely receiving a letter from this brother of such disposition—one stating his intention to come to Tokyo shortly—was enough to fill Kishimoto with unease.

“I hear your father is coming.” When Kishimoto told this to Setsuko, she merely hung her head, appearing dejected. Yet her relative composure brought Kishimoto some reassurance.

While spending his days with mind preoccupied by journey preparations, the brother whom Kishimoto had been anxiously awaiting—wondering whether he would arrive today or tomorrow—came from Nagoya.

Thirty-One “Ah.” “Well, it’s been a while since I last came here.” “I just came from the station and haven’t even stopped by an inn yet.” “This time I have quite a lot to attend to，and I can’t really linger too long—but well，let’s talk for a bit.” “Are all the children well?” Even as he removed his overcoat，Yoshio continued speaking in this manner．Not only was he seeing his brother after a long absence，but also his daughter—and in that spirit，he addressed Setsuko as well，who had come forward to take his hat and coat．

“Setsu, you’re still working as hard as ever.”

When he heard this, Kishimoto could not even bring himself to look at his brother’s face—a face that remained oblivious to everything. With welcoming expressions for someone who had come to Tokyo after a long absence, they walked him around every corner of the lower rooms. “Well, let me treat you to a cup of tea before I go.”

As he spoke these words, his brother Yoshio—familiar with the house’s layout—took the lead up to the second-floor tatami room. Facing this brother across from him, Kishimoto found himself unable to voice his true thoughts and could speak only of his resolve to journey abroad. He entrusted his brother solely with matters concerning the children during his absence. “Splendid!” Yoshio declared with undiminished vigor. “My household stands poised for great expansion henceforth.” “I had been meaning to summon those from back home to Tokyo in the near future.” “So long as you secure a residence beforehand—I’ll handle childcare.”

Yoshio’s words were always straightforward and brisk. After spending some time discussing rumors—Suzuki’s older brother who had returned home after ten years, and the eldest brother in Taiwan—Yoshio made preparations to take his leave from his brother’s presence with an air of pressing business. Even if Yoshio’s time of triumph had not yet arrived, his vigorous ambition could not be contained; not only did he willingly take charge of matters during Kishimoto’s absence, but he also expressed strong approval of the foreign journey.

The brother left. Kishimoto called Setsuko, conveyed his brother's words to her, and tried to offer some reassurance to her anxious heart. "But to ask him to take care of you—no matter how shamelessly I tried, I just couldn't bring myself to say it."

Kishimoto said with a sigh.

“If your mother were to come from the country, she would surely be shocked.”

And again he added.

The face of Yoshio, who had been pleased about his younger brother’s foreign travels, lingered in Kishimoto’s mind. By postponing the confession of his own misconduct and having his brother take on the care of the children during his absence, he had effectively deceived him without any intent to do so. Kishimoto could not help but think how this journey’s resolve was a sorrowful act of deceit—one that betrayed his brother, betrayed his friends, and betrayed society itself. And the more grandiose his overseas journey became—a mere student’s trip after all—the more he agonized over how it magnified that falsehood. If possible, he would leave without informing anyone. He would say farewell only to those closest to him. By shouldering suffering and hardship, he would atone for all his transgressions—so he resolved. Even so, the time would come when he must entrust Setsuko’s fate to Yoshio alone before departing. At this thought, Kishimoto felt as if burying his face in the earth would still be insufficient penance.

Thirty-Two

Snow that melted easily, as if heralding spring's approach, came and blanketed the town. Kishimoto had resolved on this journey with startling casualness, but when he actually began preparing—even just assembling what he needed for travel to distant lands—the process consumed far more days than anticipated. During that time, the tiny invisible bud of life had slowly begun to raise its head. Every aspect of Setsuko's suffering and anguish—her shame-filled demeanor that seemed determined to conceal it all—spoke unmistakably of the terrifying force surging from within her body. Like a spring bamboo shoot breaking through frozen earth, relentless until it sees daylight. Each confrontation with this reality made Kishimoto wait all the more impatiently for his ordered travel clothes and luggage to be ready.

One day, Kishimoto was summoned to the police station, underwent a background check, and returned home. This was one of the necessary procedures to obtain a travel permit for going abroad. Setsuko stood in the small sitting room near the kitchen entrance and told her uncle with a worried expression that the changes gradually occurring within her had even begun to manifest in her food preferences. "The old servant woman said that to me." "'My, you want to try such strange things, don't you, Setsu?'—I just can't help craving something like pickled plums."

Setsuko said, her face turning red. She also said that what she found most terrifying was being near the old servant woman and being observed. Kishimoto had not yet told the two children anything. Countless times he thought that what he was about to say would stir the hearts of the young ones. Each time, he hesitated. “Izumi, come here.”

Kishimoto called Izumi to the dinner table. “Shigeru, Father is calling for you.” Izumi called his younger brother again. The two children gathered by their father’s side. Since deciding to travel, there were many guests, and more often than not, Kishimoto was unable to sit down for dinner with his family. “Father has a request for you—how does that sound? In the near future, Father will be going abroad. Will you both behave yourselves and look after things here?”

Setsuko stood by the meal setting while the old servant woman listened at the kitchen entrance, and Kishimoto spoke these words to the children. "We'll look after things." The younger brother leaned forward before his elder sibling could react. "Shigeru," the older brother said in a scolding tone. Izumi's interjection seemed meant to assert his priority in responding to their father. "Both of you must sit still and listen properly." "Make sure you remember where Father is going." "Father will be going to the country called France—"

"Father, is France far?" asked the younger brother. "That's far," the older brother said, trying to explain it to his younger sibling in the manner of an elementary school student.

Kishimoto compared the faces of his two young children. Even his elder son—who had declared “That’s far”—had no true grasp of just how distant it was.

Thirty-Three Contrary to his expectations, Izumi and Shigeru were unfazed. They remained so utterly unaware of everything. They seemed to think of their father’s journey to a distant place as nothing more than going to the countryside where Uncle Suzuki lived or perhaps to the Hitachi coast where their younger sister Kimiko had been entrusted. When he saw their innocent demeanor, Kishimoto wondered if he could leave them behind without causing the children’s hearts too much pain. Kishimoto called the old servant woman to the meal tray as well,

“I’ve caused you all sorts of trouble,” said Kishimoto. “I’ve made up my mind—I’m going abroad this time. Setsu’s mother and the others will likely come from the countryside to help soon, so until then, keep working here.” “Oh, Master is going abroad?” said the old servant woman. “That is all well and good, but—” Kishimoto intended for not only this old servant woman to hear but also the children. “I went to Tokyo for training when I was nine years old. From then on, I was never by my parents’ side again. I studied only among strangers. Even so, I’ve managed to make it through to today somehow or other. Considering that, I don’t think there’s any reason Izumi and Shigeru can’t look after things while Father’s away… What do you say, Izumi? Can you look after things?”

“I can do it,” Izumi said nonchalantly. “Even if I’m gone, Setsuko will stay with you, and Aunt and Grandmother will come soon too.” “Is Setsuko staying?” asked Shigeru, looking toward her. “Yes, she’s staying.” Setsuko tightened her grip on the children’s hands as she spoke with deliberate force. Before anyone knew how it spread, talk of Kishimoto’s foreign travels had become public gossip. He received a letter from Nakano’s friend too. In it came words to the effect that while he vaguely recalled such plans being discussed before, he never imagined they would be executed so hastily. Letters arrived from younger acquaintances as well. Some wrote things like, “I couldn’t believe the rumors about you abandoning motherless children to journey to distant lands,” “I thought you’d lost your mind,” and others implying, “So this confirms the truth then?” Such talk inevitably agitated Setsuko’s tender heart. The flood of letters to her uncle’s house and sudden influx of visitors alone sufficed to make her sense the fate rapidly encroaching upon her. She drew near her uncle and began speaking in a fragile voice.

“Uncle must be so happy…” Setsuko’s brief words, which seemed to rejoice in her uncle’s journey abroad, paradoxically tormented Kishimoto’s heart with an indescribable force. As if he alone were doing something good. As if abandoning the unfortunate ones without support, he alone were fleeing off to some foreign land. “Whether Uncle is happy or not—well, just wait and see.”

Kishimoto tried to answer but could not even bring himself to say it. He left his niece's side in silence.

Thirty-Four

Setsuko’s eyes, now that she had come to no longer fear her uncle, did not solely speak of her intense hatred toward him. At times, those eyes would even seem to smile. And they moved in unison with the dark shadows forming on her face. “How strange.”

Setsuko would sometimes attempt to convey the intense turmoil arising within her to her uncle using such brief words. Yet Kishimoto was tormented both by his unfortunate niece’s hatred and by her smiles. Both the hatred and the smiles tormented him in nearly the same way.

A warm rain had passed through. The sound of that rain soaking everything made Kishimoto feel the day was nearing when he would leave beneath the roof he'd grown accustomed to over seven years. He had to close this house quickly. He had to hide Setsuko in the new house. Amid these endlessly gathering tasks, Kishimoto wanted to quietly inform his close acquaintances of his impending departure. He wanted to write as many letters as possible. Kishimoto had his carriage hurried to a certain theater. From within his busy self, he found a sliver of time to spend in the theater's box seats. It was when several actors he knew from a modern play's trial performance took the stage. A scene from an old play, disconnected from its context, began. A boy actor's face painted white like a doll came into Kishimoto's view. The long sleeves one might want on a girl, the coquettishly tilted head, the pathetically earnest delivery typical of child actors—none resembled his mischievous Izumi and Shigeru. Yet Kishimoto felt strangely drawn. His chest filled with thoughts of his own children being left behind in their homeland. Hot tears streamed ceaselessly down Kishimoto's cheeks then. He couldn't bear to look toward the stage. He couldn't remain seated. Avoiding others, he stepped into a long corridor where several dim windows stood aligned. He went to one window and wept violently.

Thirty-Five Kishimoto tried to hurry his journey preparations as much as possible. By the time grass sprouts appeared in the narrow spaces beneath the house’s eaves, he had managed to complete moving preparations. Setsuko became someone who would shut herself away in the small sitting room near the kitchen whenever free—clinging to the kotatsu like a bird hiding in its nest. As January progressed, Kishimoto could clearly perceive her state of torment from the growth of something unseen. The more his heart grew impatient, the more this invisible thing—unable to wait for its growth—displayed a spitefully unrestrained force. As if not a single day or moment of its allotted time could be postponed. That small thing which sought life even at the cost of the mother’s—against this they truly could do nothing by human power.

Kishimoto, who had been thoroughly shaken by Setsuko’s agonizing state that suggested death itself, now went to comfort her at times with a heart that felt trampled by the force of what was being born from her. Setsuko showed her uncle by wrapping her youthful, ample chest in a haori and told him of the uncontrollable power swelling within her. The only one who shared her terror and pain was none other than her uncle alone. “Excuse me.”

The moment Kishimoto caught the voice of a female relative at the front entrance, his anxiety surged forth. Aiko—the niece from Negishi and eldest daughter of his older brother Minsuke—came to visit amid the hectic move preparations. The “elder sister from Negishi” that Teruko and Setsuko called was this Aiko. Aiko brought Kishimoto what could be considered the most thoughtful farewell proposal. After consulting her father in Taiwan, she wished to take her uncle’s youngest child—Kimiko—and raise her as her own sister.

“Father has received your kind assistance in many ways… And since you’ll be going abroad, Uncle, I thought sending money for Kimiko would become quite burdensome…” Kishimoto gratefully accepted this kindness from Aiko. “Come to think of it, Uncle, your hair—” Aiko said, looking at Kishimoto in surprise. “My, how white your hair has turned. It seems your hair has turned so white so suddenly over the past year or two.”

“Hmm... Has it really turned that white?” Kishimoto laughed it off. Never did Setsuko appear as formal as when she was seen before the “Negishi sister.” That was not limited to Setsuko alone. Her sister Teruko was exactly the same way. Even among close relatives who shared the Kishimoto name, there existed a tension between Aiko and Setsuko—a sensitivity only perceptible between women. Moreover, Setsuko, fearing being seen by those who might see her, tended to avoid Aiko by staying near the kotatsu behind the shoji screen.

“Shall I have you send something to Kimiko?” As he said this, Kishimoto took out what had remained at the bottom of the chest of drawers as a memento of his deceased eldest daughter and placed it before Aiko. The uncle, steeped in guilt, even faltered before this niece who offered to take in and raise his own daughter.

Thirty-Six

The time came to leave the familiar town. The household furnishings that had been kept almost exactly as they were when Izumi and Shigeru’s mother was alive—each time an old clock was taken down from a pillar or a tea cabinet was shifted from a corner of the wall—the familiar scenery within the lower sitting room crumbled away.

Kishimoto sold off nearly all the books from his cherished shelves, excluding only those that could be carried in his travel bag for the distant journey. Then, setting aside only the seasonal garments he intended to wear as loungewear in foreign lodgings, he sold off nearly all his clothing—from the old formal robes dating back to his marriage with Sonoko to the everyday garments he had worn until now. “Setsuko, I’m leaving this for you.” Kishimoto called Setsuko and pulled out a drawer of the chest of drawers to show her. There remained a set of formal attire and a thick obi that had been carefully stored away until that day as mementos of Sonoko. Not only was this obi a memento of Sonoko’s wedding day, but it had also been used for Aiko’s marriage and Teruko’s as well. Kishimoto distributed those final mementos of his wife to Setsuko without hesitation.

“I’m entrusting Izumi and Shigeru to you.”

he added those words.

Beside the hedge at the back entrance were about two clumps of bush clover roots. Every year when flowering time approached, Kishimoto’s household would transfer them into large pots and place them by the glass doors on the second floor. One had round leaves and the other somewhat pointed leaves; though differing slightly in flower shape and hue, their full bloom was astonishingly beautiful. In that cramped town, it was these bush clovers that adorned Kishimoto’s study. Setsuko, who loved plants, had tended to the roots without Kishimoto’s knowledge and prepared them for transport to their new residence—a memento of the house where she had lived with her uncle for over a year and a half. At last, the long-awaited morning arrived.

“Izumi, Shigeru, come here. Let’s get you changed into your kimonos,” Setsuko called the two children. “We’re going to the new house over there,” said the old maid as she approached them. The acupuncturist’s daughter came to watch her relatives’ children change clothes. Both Izumi and Shigeru clattered around on the tatami mats in their brand-new geta, delighted about moving to an unfamiliar town. Kishimoto went upstairs to check. There stood the yellow walls of the room he’d repainted intending to stay longer. There was his study, now empty. He walked to the glass doors and stood gazing out. Rooftops stretched before his eyes—towns washed by several warm rains already passed. He marveled that this morning had arrived when he could depart without becoming fodder for gossip-loving tongues.

The words of Hiro from his benefactor’s household, who had recently visited, suddenly came back to Kishimoto’s mind.

“Isn’t Mr. Suga’s way with words just perfect? ‘Mr. Kishimoto sometimes startles people—it’s been that man’s quirk since long ago,’ he said.” These were Hiro’s words when he had encountered his old friend Mr. Suga at this house during Kishimoto’s absence.

As if bidding farewell to the town, Kishimoto closed the second-floor door. To the house he had found in distant Takanawa, he first sent the women and children ahead.

Thirty-Seven

The new hideout awaited Kishimoto. The two children, who had arrived before their father under Setsuko and the old maid’s guidance, seemed intrigued by their sudden move to this newly developed suburban area abundant with trees as they ran around the single-story house encircled by bamboo fences and wooden plank walls. “Izumi, Shigeru—be careful now,” he said. “Don’t pick leaves from the garden plants.” Kishimoto first gave this warning to the children, but even merely hearing his young sons calling to each other in their new residence stirred an unfamiliar sensation within him.

Setsuko was working in a manner befitting moving day alongside the old maid. The cartloads had still not arrived.

“Finally... Finally.” Kishimoto said as if unloading a heavy burden, then looked around the hastily cleaned house interior. Compared to their previous residence, this one had considerably more rooms. Accompanied by Setsuko, Kishimoto walked through the quiet north-facing room where sunlight streamed in. “If Grandmother were to visit, we could have her stay in this room.” “It seems a quiet, pleasant space for needlework or such things.”

Kishimoto said to Setsuko. Directly in front of that room was a small open space arranged to allow passage from the back gate to the kitchen entrance. “Uncle, there’s a good spot here to plant the bush clovers we brought,” said Setsuko, pointing to a corner of the vacant lot for her uncle to see. Kishimoto went to look toward the south-facing room. There too, Setsuko followed along. She had an uncharacteristically bright expression, her figure and movements not yet burdened by an inescapable heaviness, and while letting out only faint, light breaths, she pointed out the camellia buds in the front garden to her uncle. The garden’s deutzia with vigorously spreading new branches and the ginkgo tree that stood withered yet dignified pleased her.

“Not a single one of our relatives lives in a house like this.” Setsuko said half to herself, surveying the area with a youthful gaze. Before long, Setsuko went over to the old maid. What she had said imparted a strange loneliness to Kishimoto’s heart. Living in such a house—what pride was there in that? Would it be a case of maintaining appearances for the sake of relatives? In this way, he said to himself in Setsuko’s absence.

The commotion that began with the arrival of the luggage continued until evening.

When dinner was finished, Kishimoto thought of nothing other than having left the cramped town behind. The gossip-loving people who had grown familiar over seven years no longer passed by his house at all. There were no longer the sounds of footsteps late into the night or even the rattle of passing rickshaws. “Dad, I can hear the train.” The downtown-raised children pricked up their ears. The sound of the steam train resonating from the direction of Shinagawa’s sky made the surroundings grow even more hushed. Kishimoto lay down beneath the roof of his newly moved-in home and let out such a succession of sighs that it nearly made everyone in the household laugh.

Thirty-Eight

Kishimoto was already half a traveler. He tried to avoid attracting attention as much as possible. He declined as many farewell gatherings as he could. He left notifications to various parties unsent until his travel preparations were complete. The reason he decided not to board the ship departing from Yokohama and instead go all the way to Kobe was that he intended to bid farewell to his homeland alone and in secret. Kishimoto’s abrupt resolve instead piqued the curiosity of strangers. The more he tried to move quietly, the more his trip abroad became the subject of people’s gossip. The splendor of such appearances only deepened his unease. Even to those who didn’t require explanations, he couldn’t help justifying why he had deliberately moved his household from Ryogoku’s vicinity—through outskirts upon outskirts near Ebara District—to such a far-flung town at the edge of Shiba Ward. Even though they hadn’t specifically asked, he spoke of how Takanawa was a place filled with memories from his youth, and how he had spent four years there at an old school atop the hill alongside classmates like Adachi and Suga. He mentioned that a distinctly commoner-like landowner family lived near that school. He spoke of how the family’s patriarch still possessed qualities sufficient to evoke the virtue of a village headman dating back to when traces of Musashino’s former landscape lingered in that area. He spoke about how a private girls’ school, a kindergarten, and a distinctive elementary school were being operated by that unusually large family. He spoke about how that elementary school had such a family-like environment and how he had considered it most suitable for entrusting his children. And he spoke about having moved his residence during his absence to a location near that academy.

Nearly every day, Kishimoto would descend from the familiar plateau to attend to his errands. He would casually stop by acquaintances’ homes in the downtown area to bid farewell. At times he went as far as Ryogoku, walking along the riverbank where one could see the Sumida River’s flowing waters, accompanied by a magazine reporter. “Your resolute decision to depart appears to have stirred many people,” said the reporter. Hearing these words, Kishimoto found himself unable to respond. He walked silently for some time, his gaze fixed on the ground.

“And what will become of your children?” the reporter asked again.

“The children?” “I plan to entrust things to my brother’s household while I’m away.” “My sister has made arrangements to come from our hometown, you see.” “Has your sister already arrived?”

“No, not yet… It has to be next month.”

“Aren’t you said to be departing for Kobe within this month?” “And your sister hasn’t even arrived yet—” What the reporter had said with concern struck home to Kishimoto. He simply could not face his sister-in-law—Setsuko’s mother.

Thirty-Nine

When Kishimoto spread out a suitcase sturdy enough for long journeys, organizing books and clothes while trying not to neglect even minor medicinal preparations, the feeling of truly heading toward distant lands came over him. "It’s so sad—Izumi and Shigeru will have no one left to support them from now on."

The niece from Negishi also visited Takanawa and said such things to Kishimoto.

“Do you all think that way? Your uncle managed without thinking that way even when he attended elementary school, spending a year at Suzuki’s older brother’s house and then a long time as a live-in student at the Tanabes’. You can just consider everyone who’ll take care of you as parents.”

“Since both are still so young, it might be better for you to leave now rather than later.” Aiko’s words made all too clear her implication that Kishimoto relied excessively on Yoshio’s family. Why would he entrust his two children to Yoshio’s older brother without consulting those in Negishi? This was something even Aiko could not be told. “Please take good care of her.”

And Kishimoto entrusted his youngest daughter to the niece from Negishi. In Takanawa, Kishimoto stayed for about ten days. The time he could spend with Setsuko and the children had now dwindled to just one day. Amidst his turbulent state of mind before departure, finding a moment before dinner, Kishimoto went out alone for a walk. His feet turned toward a nearby hill. He headed toward where stood the buildings of the school from which he had graduated long ago. Twenty-two years had not only changed one graduate who left there but transformed even his former school. Only a single path remained unchanged from former times—the one curving along gentle terrain from hilltop to main gate—but gone were the windows of the caretaker's house that once stood by the gate. Kishimoto entered through that gate and climbed up the path. The familiar old lecture hall where he used to walk with Adachi and Suga while hearing chapel bells was no more. In its place stood a new building of different design. He went around to its rear. There he found a crape myrtle tree holding old memories. It was on this hill that Kishimoto had first grown close to foreign books, first learned of Western literature and religion, first let his youthful mind imagine lands beyond seas. For some time he circled around the new lecture hall. He had not come merely to tread this familiar soil and say farewell. He carried within him thoughts of resuming work on his unfinished autobiography in distant foreign lodgings. This too was why he carefully observed his surroundings—to stir memories of his youth. The temple bell sounding from dusk-filled valleys also served to recall bygone days. The bell's toll hastened Kishimoto's steps homeward.

Setsuko had prepared dinner and was waiting for her uncle.

Forty

For dinner, all household members gathered at the farewell table. In one corner of the dining room stood the Buddhist altar brought from their former residence, where Setsuko lit an oil lamp as if it were truly the eve of her uncle’s departure. Even seeing this glow, the two children remained oblivious to everything. After dinner, Kishimoto led them before the brightly lit altar. “Mom, goodbye.” Kishimoto showed them how to say it— as though bidding farewell even to the deceased.

“Is this Mom?”

Izumi said playfully and exchanged glances with Shigeru, who was beside him. “Yeah. This is your mother.” When Kishimoto said this, the two children deliberately pretended not to understand and burst out laughing.

Kishimoto went to the south-facing room and busily began his preparations for departure. The number of letters he needed to write alone was considerable. The room was filled with items spread out to pack into travel bags. The farewell gifts received from various quarters—Kishimoto tried to pack as many as possible into bags and trunks as souvenirs for foreign lands. “I wonder if tomorrow will be fair.” While murmuring this, Kishimoto went to check the glass door facing the garden. When he opened the shutters, through the dark trees, the night sky appeared before his eyes. Stars glimmered in the distance. Air that blended cold and warmth flowed into the room.

“Setsuko, spring is coming.” Kishimoto turned to look at Setsuko, who was wholly occupied with helping prepare for the journey, and spoke. Setsuko had been sorting white undergarments in the lamplight but then went to stand by the shutters, exchanging places with her uncle. “A bush warbler came today and kept singing in this garden,” she said. Having moved from the bustling downtown where people lingered late into the night, the hour that would still count as early evening in places like Asakusa Daichi lay as quiet as midnight upon that high ground. Outside, not a single sound stirred. The ticking of the old pillar clock brought from their former residence struck Kishimoto’s ears with particular clarity.

“It’s really quiet around here, isn’t it. “It’s like we’re in the mountains or something.” While speaking to Setsuko in this manner, Kishimoto hurried his preparations for the distant journey amid the suburban night’s stillness. For Kishimoto, even just wearing Western clothes—which he had rarely done before—felt burdensome from this point onward. He imagined matters like a tropical voyage and fretted over preparing for it.

Gradually, the night deepened. Of the two children, the older brother fell asleep first. The younger brother stayed awake late into the night chatting childishly with Granny until he too sank into sleep. Even after twelve struck and one struck, the room remained untidy. "You should all rest now," Kishimoto told Setsuko and Granny. "Granny, you must rise early tomorrow. Don't concern yourself with me. Please retire without ceremony."

“Is that so?” replied the nanny. “Truly, even the preparations alone for such a distant journey must be no easy task—sir, with that, I shall take my leave first.” “Setsuko, you should rest too.” When Kishimoto said this, Setsuko’s eyes glistened with tears. Every time she saw the suitcase bearing Kishimoto’s name in Roman letters, a feminine expression that seemed to contemplate her uncle’s sorrowful resolve was evident in her teary eyes. “Goodnight, Uncle.” As she said this, through violent sobs, she met her uncle’s lips in farewell.

Forty-One

The next day, Kishimoto moved to an inn near the former Shimbashi Station along with his travel luggage. There, he waited for those he was ordinarily close to. Visitors came in an unending stream throughout the day. Nakano's friend also came, bringing the tea and camellia seeds Kishimoto had requested beforehand. Kishimoto tried to pack those seeds of an Oriental plant into his travel bag as mementos for foreign lands. "It won't be easy for these to sprout and grow large," said Nakano's friend, laughing in his characteristically resonant voice—but to Kishimoto came the thought of when he might ever hear that laughter again. That day, he served sake to everyone.

Resolutely, Kishimoto prepared to embark on his journey. In what little time he managed to doze fitfully between bouts of wakefulness, the day of his departure from Tokyo had already arrived. That morning, none of what he wore—not the light travel hat nor the newly tailored Western suit—matched the sorrow pooling in his heart. He could recall a relative once mistakenly confined in Kajibashi Detention House. He remembered that relative passing through the courthouse garden in handcuffs and waist rope, silently greeting him from beneath a woven hat. Precisely that prisoner's figure suited Kishimoto's heart—a heart seeking to receive its own lash. An invisible woven hat. Invisible handcuffs. And an invisible waist rope. With the feeling of one exiled to some distant island where survival seemed uncertain, he made his way toward Shimbashi Station.

A cold, thin rain fell steadily. When he climbed the stone steps of the old station building, the people who had come to see him off were already gathered here and there. “Congratulations.”

A certain bookstore owner came to his side and greeted him. “Congratulations today.” The old geisha who had often treated him to Kamigata ballads around Okawabata came to his side. This woman came accompanied by her husband, a rakugo artist younger than herself, and together they offered their greetings. "This is going to be a problem." This thought struck Kishimoto’s heart at the very moment he encountered the people who had come to see him off. Even unexpected people who had heard of his departure approached him one after another.

Kishimoto met the children who had been brought by the nanny from Takanawa. The nanny wore a formal expression, dressed in a haori meant for outings, and had brought Izumi and Shigeru along. “Miss Setsuko is staying home today,” the nanny said, looking at Kishimoto. “Izumi, Shigeru – you both made it here.” Kishimoto alternately hugged the two children. Izumi’s eyes widened as he looked around at the people gathered around his father, but soon he hung his head and teared up. Only the child of this older brother seemed to have dimly realized at that moment that his father was going away to a distant place.

Forty-Two Hiro of Tanabe came from Nakasu; Aiko and her husband came from Negishi—both had come to the station to see Kishimoto off. Hiro’s stout, well-built physique made Kishimoto feel as though he were seeing his deceased benefactor before his very eyes as he bid farewell. “Uncle, congratulations today,” Aiko’s husband greeted too, holding his hat. Both this man and Hiro—people who seemed generations apart from Kishimoto’s perspective—had all reached their prime working years. Among those gradually gathering at the station, Kishimoto spotted an old man with a magnificent white beard. That man was his wife’s father. Having heard of Kishimoto’s journey abroad, the old man had come from Hakodate to see him off. When he thought how even those called Sonoko’s sisters—whoever they were—had entrusted farewell gifts through this old man, Kishimoto’s head involuntarily bowed. Many friends from Yoyogi, Kagamachi, Motomotoencho, and other areas—along with those close through work—had also come. Kishimoto then went to bid farewell to where people had gathered.

“Next, it’ll be your turn to go abroad.”

A person stood before Yoyogi’s friend and spoke. “You all really didn’t have to come out, you know.”

Yoyogi laughed and gazed with lively, excited eyes at the people gathering around him.

The time of departure approached. Suddenly, the old man from Hakodate drew near to Kishimoto's side.

“I will take my leave here.” “Well then, take care of yourself.” Beside the ticket gate’s railing, the old man gazed intently at Kishimoto as he spoke. That he did not hold a platform ticket like the others revealed something of his character.

Five or six friends boarded the train with Kishimoto. When Kishimoto leaned out of the train window, not only his usual acquaintances but also young strangers—those who might have read at least one of his works—had gathered there. A professor from the art school also came pushing through the crowd toward the window to find him. "I hear you're off to France—I wasn't even properly aware of your departure date." "I saw it in this morning's paper and hurried over."

“Yes, I’m going to the country you’re familiar with.”

At the window, Kishimoto exchanged hurried words of farewell with a painter he had known since his boyhood. “Mr. Kishimoto, please lean out a little more.” “We’re taking the photograph now.” A voice rose from the group of newspaper reporters. Kishimoto reluctantly leaned his face out the window, forced to show an expression he wished to keep hidden.

“Please, just lean out a bit more.” “Otherwise the photograph won’t turn out properly.” In the sudden flare of the camera’s light, Kishimoto revealed his face full of shame. “Izumi… Shigeru… Farewell.”

While Kishimoto was looking at the faces of his two children being led by the nanny，the train began to move. Kishimoto silently bowed his head before the people standing on the platform. “What a send-off，huh. Having this many people come see us off—we might only experience this once in our lives. It’s about like when someone goes off to Europe，or maybe at a funeral.” Kagamachi，who had boarded together with him，spoke in tones befitting a high-ranking official and gazed toward Kishimoto while standing by the window. To Kishimoto，it truly felt equivalent to holding a funeral for a living corpse.

Forty-Three

In the end, Kishimoto left Tokyo, leaving his young children behind. Friends from Motomotoencho, Kagamachi, Morikawacho, and others saw him off to Shinagawa. Yoyogi’s friend, reluctant to part, proposed that they at least take the train together as far as Kamakura. This was because there was also a friend said to be waiting for Kishimoto in Kamakura.

The steam train passed Tsurumi. The steadily falling rain trickled down the outside of the glass window. At that station too, there had been an acquaintance who tried to bid farewell to Kishimoto from the window but could not do so. The station workers reflected in and vanishing from the glass, the passengers boarding and alighting, the people standing dejectedly on the small station's platform—not a single one could be seen unsoaked by the fine rain. In Kamakura, waiting for Kishimoto had been a friend of Shiga's from when he lived seven years in Shinano's mountains; this man's wife and her aunt—who corresponded to the latter—had also been friends of Sonoko. This particularly close person not only detained Kishimoto en route to Kobe and spent nearly half a day conversing with Yoyogi but went ahead to guide him all the way from Kamakura to Tōnosawa in Hakone to fully express their parting sentiments. The small joys of travel within a journey, the snow at Tōnosawa's mountain foot, the sound of Hayakawa River that recalled even his youthful days with Aoki, Suga, Adachi and others—these unforgettable impressions blended with the silent, unspeakable scenery within Kishimoto's heart.

Even when Yoyogi and Shiga’s close friend sat before them in a second-floor tatami-matted room of a hot spring inn, exchanging farewell drinks, Kishimoto could not voice a single thing. As he listened to the sound—indistinguishable from the heavy rain at the foot of Hakone’s mountains or the rushing current of the Hayakawa River flowing through the valley—Kishimoto finally spoke. “I… well, I suppose I’ll set out with a deep sigh…”

“Yes… I too feel the urge to detach from everything and heave a sigh.”

As he said this, Yoyogi’s eyes were shining. Shiga, in a deeply considerate tone, looked toward Kishimoto and, “From your wife’s passing, the thought of journeying to somewhere like France must have arisen for you.” “In any case, even if it’s just a year or two, I envy being able to read books at leisure while traveling. Kagamachi and others seem quite inspired by your journey to France.” Then Yoyogi spoke again and, in a tone that said “It’ll be a while before we meet again,” poured sake for Kishimoto.

That day, from the morning he had departed Tokyo amid a fervent send-off, Kishimoto had been gripped by the sensation of cold sweat trickling down his back. Compelled by the necessity of this unavoidable journey—as if attempting to flee with nothing but his own body—he wanted to liken himself to a pitiable ascetic abandoning all discardable things and departing a “house of flames.” The fact that this flight of his had stirred friends of the same age even slightly was truly distressing to him. He could find no way to explain his position and could only say he was departing for Paris with the same feelings he’d had when going to Sendai and Komoro before.

Yoyogi, who had a fondness for sake and travel, attempted an old ballad in a low voice at Kishimoto’s request. From the lips of a friend whom he might not meet again for who knew how long, Kishimoto heard the lyrics of a favorite song, deepening his resolve for the distant journey.

Forty-Four

Kishimoto departed Tōnosawa together with two friends the following afternoon. Having reached Kōzu, there Kishimoto bid farewell to Yoyogi and Shiga. Before long, the faces of these friends too vanished from the steam train’s window. Recalling the bustling article about his Shimbashi departure printed in that day’s Tokyo newspaper, Kishimoto despondently made his way westward alone. Judging by the scheduled date of the Marseille-bound ship awaiting him in Kobe, Kishimoto had not needed to leave Tokyo with such urgency. Yet he simply could not face Setsuko’s mother and strove to reach Kobe before his sister-in-law’s arrival in Tokyo. Even if he had used his Kobe business affairs as pretext to send an apologetic letter beforehand to his sister-in-law in the countryside. And even if he had not failed to prepare the travel expenses for her Tokyo journey...

Four or five days after arriving in Kobe, Kishimoto received a letter from Setsuko. It had been sent in reply to one he had written, yet within it lay not merely updates about the children’s safety and practical matters of the household left behind—there were also words that ventured deeper into her heart.

In the second-floor tatami room of a pleasant inn he had found on the slope leading from Kobe’s port town toward Suwayama, he read through the letter. At minimum, it described the mysterious change of heart that had arisen within Setsuko. Compared to the Setsuko whose feelings had wavered over these past four or five months—approaching her uncle at times with terror, at others with fierce resentment, and still others with intimacy—this letter contained an entirely different woman. Kishimoto could not escape sensing how his distant journey’s commencement had brought some abrupt transformation unfolding in his unfortunate niece’s heart.

He read the letter over again carefully. Setsuko negated all the apologetic feelings that had come from Kishimoto’s side—all the feelings of pity he had felt toward her—and sent them back. Reflecting on how she had come to this point when considering everything up to today—she wrote that even she herself was surprised. She wrote that she had ultimately been unable to resist temptation. However, she wrote that in this world there exists a compassion beyond compassion and that she had come to realize this. She wrote asking why his letters had to refer to her with such a distant term as “you” when plain “you” would suffice. She wrote that on the morning he departed from Shimbashi, she had stood vacantly in the same spot by the garden of the house in Takanawa listening to the steam train’s sound rising from Shinagawa’s direction until it faded into the distance. She wrote that the bookcases he left behind and the desk he left behind—there wasn’t a single thing that didn’t make her think of him—and that she was now walking through the room where they were placed. She also wrote that ever since hearing of his resolve to travel abroad she had had countless things she wanted to say but ultimately could not bring herself to do so.

Forty-Five When he took Setsuko’s letter in hand and read it, the emotions he had shared with her—the terror they had endured together, the anguish they had borne as one—still would not leave Kishimoto.

“Ah, it was terrible. Terrible.” Kishimoto uttered this and looked around his surroundings. Neither relatives, nor friends, nor even his two children remained by his side anymore. He found himself utterly alone at a Kobe inn. He thought back on the ferocity of the storm he had barely managed to flee to that port and involuntarily let out a sigh of relief. No matter how Setsuko tried to dismiss it, the profound remorse—as though he had ruined her life while leaving an indelible stain upon his own—would not leave Kishimoto’s heart. Until that day, he had worried for Setsuko, done his utmost to care for her, and even considered matters during her absence—all because he wanted by any means to save her from ruin. Stubborn-hearted as he was, he resolved not to respond to anything Setsuko had written.

When April came, Setsuko sent word of her mother’s arrival in Tokyo. With his chest trembling, Kishimoto read the letter and learned that her mother, grandmother, and still-young younger brother had safely arrived in Takanawa. Setsuko's one younger brother was about the same age as Kishimoto's second child. Setsuko wrote that she had gone to Shinagawa Station to meet those family members who had come from their hometown after closing up their house. “Mother had aged too,” she wrote. Whenever she saw her aged grandmother and mother before her eyes, she wrote that she thought she must become much stronger. “Over the past months, the dark shadow clinging to me had not left my side for a single day, but now that dark shadow too had departed,” she wrote. “And I had come to think that I must work harder for the elderly and children,” she wrote.

This letter from Setsuko contained numerous detailed matters that seeped into Kishimoto’s very being. Within it, even her feminine qualities were vividly expressed. Kishimoto pictured in his heart the moment when she, no longer in an ordinary position, was reunited with her mother who had come to Tokyo. The trembling of her small chest at that moment, her demeanor that always remained relatively composed—all of it, Kishimoto could vividly picture in his mind. When that sister-in-law saw the vacant house in Takanawa, when she discerned his intent to leave Setsuko and the children behind and go overseas—thinking of this, Kishimoto felt as though flames were leaping from his face.

Upon arriving in Kobe, the one thing Kishimoto absolutely had to do was write that difficult letter addressed to his brother Yoshio in Nagoya. He tried to board the ship alone after leaving that single letter behind. Several times he unfurled paper with the intent of entrusting Setsuko's care to his brother. Each time he cast aside his brush and heaved a deep sigh.

From the Cook & Co. branch office in Tokyo came notification of the cabin number appended to the French ship ticket Kishimoto had reserved. When he stepped out from the inn’s second-floor tatami room into the corridor, a portion of Kobe’s harbor could be seen from the elevated position of the town built on slopes. The blue, glimmering sea he was about to set out upon was also before his eyes.

Forty-Six “A Mr. Kishimoto from Nagoya has come to see you.” The inn maid came to inform Kishimoto. At that very moment, he was developing influenza symptoms and had yet to advance the manuscript section of his autobiography—which he wished to leave written however briefly before departing Kobe. Hearing of elder brother Yoshio’s visit, he hastily threw a haori jacket over his sleeping garments. He shoved the laid-out futon into a room corner. Were it not for his influenza pallor, his face would have blanched beyond concealment. Yoshio, his elder brother, had come from Nagoya to see him before Kishimoto’s departure.

“When my own younger brother is going abroad, I thought it too cruel to say farewell with just a letter.” “Also, I had some business to take care of in Kobe, so I just came by.” Kishimoto could not feel at ease until he heard these words from his brother.

“Well—anyway, the move went off without a hitch. When you move a whole house, there’s quite a lot of belongings to deal with, you know. Since there was your advice, we decided to leave most things in the hometown and just packed and sent what was necessary. I went out from Nagoya, you know. I’ve finished tidying up the house in our hometown. ‘So Mr. Sute’s going abroad too—leaving his children behind like that! I can’t believe he’s resolved to go through with it,’ the villagers said, so I told them, ‘A man’s got to have that much courage!’”

Yoshio spoke in his usual energetic tone. Gradually, Kishimoto's head lowered. He listened to his brother’s words while gazing at his own palms. "In my household too, since everyone’s moving to Tokyo, the villagers even held a farewell party for us." "Kayo—Setsuko’s mother—was saying something rather faint-hearted, so I told her that just won’t do." "Isn’t brothers helping one another the admirable tradition passed down from our Kishimoto family’s ancestors?" "And it’s not just about Sukekichi—my household too is about to prosper from here on out." "With that, I gave Kayo some encouragement." "Well, just you wait and see—by the time you come back from France, I’ll have made my grand mark on the world too—"

Listening to his fiery-tempered brother Yoshio speak in this manner, Kishimoto found no opportunity as the younger sibling to bring up Setsuko's matter. Yoshio had come all the way to Kobe simply to see his younger brother's face—satisfied with that in a manner of speaking—and did not linger long due to pressing business. I must not let this moment pass. Kishimoto heard what seemed like a commanding voice within his own mind. Though mentally grasping at the sleeve of his brother who was about to leave, he could not bring himself to say anything.

In the end, Kishimoto parted from his brother without saying a word. He could not utter a single word of apology to his sister-in-law; contemplating the depth of his own sins—sins so profound he could not even apologize now to his brother—he sighed.

Forty-Seven

At the inn in Kobe, Kishimoto waited two weeks for the ship. Those two weeks felt interminably long to him. The separation between him and Setsuko—kept hidden until now—had become the physical distance between Tokyo and Kobe, yet though this spatial remove should have let him put space between them, an invisible terror pursued him relentlessly. Each day brought fresh dread—would something arrive from Tokyo today? Would news come tomorrow?—this anxiety ceaselessly rising and falling in his chest. Yet those two weeks’ reprieve let him write letters impossible to compose in Tokyo and finalize his rushed travel preparations. During this interval, he also met again in Kobe with a friend from Motoencho who had come to Osaka on business. He read letters from his children too, sent from their vacant Tokyo home.

“Papa.” “Thank you for the egg toy the other day.” “I go to school every day and study hard.” “Please send me letters from France.” “Goodbye—Izumi” This was Izumi’s thanks for the Hakone craft toy that Kishimoto had entrusted to Shiga’s friend to deliver to the vacant home. This childlike letter, which seemed to have been completed only with someone’s assistance, was Izumi’s first letter addressed to his father; written as if composing a school essay, it filled a full sheet of Japanese writing paper. Kishimoto could not help but think of Setsuko’s feelings—how she had likely encouraged the child to write such a letter and send it—and he felt nothing but pity.

The sea was already calling Kishimoto. In the letter that had come from Setsuko before his departure were written brief words of farewell—of seeing her uncle off as he boarded his ship in the distance. Kishimoto’s heart became filled with imaginings of the unknown foreign land he was about to venture into. He remembered how, the day after arriving in Kobe, he had gone walking along the coast and unexpectedly found himself seeing off a group of South America-bound emigrants. He recalled that among those several hundred emigrants, there were those dressed in quilted winter coats with leggings and straw sandals, those carrying hand pots, and even several women who appeared to be the wives of young laborers mixed among them. He also came to be strangely acutely aware of his own skin color and hair color, which he had been completely oblivious to until now.

The day of departure drew near.

Before he knew it, a group of newspaper reporters found Kishimoto’s inn and descended upon it.

“I never would’ve thought you’d be holed up in a place like this.” One of the reporters positioned Kishimoto before him, exchanged looks with the others, and laughed derisively.

Amidst this unavoidable commotion, Kishimoto received an unexpected visit from his elder brother from Taiwan.

“Oh! I’ve arrived at just the right moment.” “The shipping company people told me your inn’s location.”

“Oh! I’ve arrived at just the right moment,” said Minsuke. “The shipping company people told me your inn’s location.” This eldest brother was apparently traveling to Tokyo from Taiwan. Even Kishimoto hadn’t known about it. By chance, the brothers had managed to meet face-to-face for the first time in several years.

Compared to Suzuki’s brother, Minsuke bore deeper sunburn from hotter climes. This eldest brother—the very picture of health—moved with such vigor that one could scarcely believe him nearing sixty, his youthful vitality matched only by his remarkable stamina. Before Minsuke, who after years of toil was at last entering his season of success, Kishimoto stood as a younger brother should. He keenly felt the decline of his own spirit.

Forty-Eight

To see Kishimoto off on his ship, Bancho came from Tokyo and Akagi from Sakai; both visited the inn. When the day of departure from Kobe finally arrived, there were also two women who had come from Mikage to see Kishimoto for the first time in twenty years. One of them had come accompanied by her husband. When Kishimoto was still young, he had once taught a student named Katsuko at a school in Koji-machi, Tokyo. The section of his unfinished autobiography was a memento of his youthful struggles—a long, lonely path that had led him to meet Katsuko. The two women who had come to visit were former students whom Kishimoto had taught around the same time as Katsuko. Katsuko had been nearly the same age as Kishimoto in his younger days; she had passed away about a year after graduating school and marrying her betrothed.

“I thought you would have changed more, Teacher.” Such former students were already women past forty. With the feeling of having encountered unexpected visitors, Kishimoto, together with his elder brother, entertained those guests and made preparations for departure. At times, he would step out of the tatami room alone and gaze at the harbor sky visible from the second-floor veranda. In the towns of Kobe bidding farewell, spring with higan cherry blossoms had already arrived. The prearranged French steamship entered the port in the afternoon. Bancho, who was accustomed to traveling abroad, went into town and took care of exchanging a portion of the travel funds into French banknotes and silver coins for Kishimoto. It was also this friend who provided letters of introduction to acquaintances in France and advised him on lodgings after arriving in Paris. Bancho watched as Kishimoto made his somewhat hasty preparations, speaking in a tone meant to encourage the travel-inexperienced man.

“When it comes to you, Mr. Kishimoto, you’re quite the efficient one.” “Do you really consider me efficient—?” Kishimoto felt pleased at having been told this by Bancho. “You certainly are efficient. When someone like me went abroad, I had others pack everything—suitcases and all.” “After all, I’m alone, so I’ve managed to gather just what I need.” Minsuke came and stood by Kishimoto’s side, helping his younger brother—departing for distant lands—with donning the unfamiliar Western clothes.

“Brother, I have something to leave with you,” said Kishimoto as he presented a package before his elder brother. “Inside this is the lined kimono our mother wove.” “I had brought it all the way from Tokyo with the intention of using it as a housecoat once abroad.” “No matter how I try, the suitcase is too small, so I’ll leave this with you.” “This is a fine thing you’re giving me!” Minsuke rejoiced. “There’s nothing left of our mother’s with me anymore.”

“I had only one of those lined kimonos left with me.” “But it lasted a very long time.” “I treasured it for over a decade, bringing it out to wear every year when lined kimonos are in season, and it remains perfectly intact.” “It’s made of cotton with a bit of thread woven in—my favorite kimono.” “It’s a shame, but there’s nothing to be done.” “Well, I’ll give this to you, brother.” “Well then, I’ll take it and wear it for you.”

The brothers exchanged such words. Kishimoto left behind the item his mother had handwoven as a memento for his brother and took on the full appearance of a traveler.

Forty-Nine

The time had come for those who had committed hidden sins to bear their hardships. The time had come to embark on a distant journey that might make this his final glimpse of Kobe. It was nearly dinnertime. Accompanied by friends and his elder brother Minsuke who meant to see him off to the ship, Kishimoto left the inn. The two women from Mikage also followed Kishimoto and walked along.

The town with its long slope lay before everyone's eyes. After descending that slope, the group searched for a place to eat. When they reached the front of a restaurant, the two women bid farewell to Kishimoto there. Guided by his friends, Kishimoto exchanged farewell drinks with them in a private room of that restaurant. To elder brother Minsuke who offered a celebratory cup for his younger brother's foreign travels as if they were some honorable undertaking; to Akagi who had specially come from Sakai to meet him; to those from Mikage whom he was meeting for the first time; and then to friends like Bancho—Kishimoto returned cups of gratitude steeped in shame, each bearing a different significance.

By the time they left the restaurant, the sun had completely set. The mere act of boarding a French ship where no words could be understood filled Kishimoto with profound unease. The night's darkness enveloping the towns bore down on him relentlessly. "Isn't being unable to understand the language itself one of travel's pleasures?"

Encouraged by Bancho’s words, Kishimoto walked toward the wharf together with everyone. Before leaving Kobe, he had fully intended to leave behind a letter addressed to his elder brother Yoshio in Nagoya and had attempted it several times on that inn’s second floor. No matter how hard he tried, he could not write that letter. He did not know what words could possibly express his heart. There were no words there. Having no choice but to write after boarding the ship, in the end he boarded the launch without leaving that letter.

To the main ship floating on the dark sea—besides friends and his brother—there were also two or three young people who had come to see Kishimoto off. The innkeeper’s wife who had cared for Kishimoto for over two weeks also came to see him off, bringing her maid along as they observed the foreign ship. This innkeeper’s wife was a meticulously attentive Kansai-style woman who, insisting she could mend even the slightest tear in his travel garments, had gone so far as to specially wind red and white threads onto spools with her husband and add sewing needles to present them to Kishimoto as a farewell gift. Kishimoto had long intended to hide himself alone on this French ship and stealthily bid farewell to his homeland. From his state of mind, being seen off by these people ran somewhat counter to his expectations. Gathered in the second-class dining room with its dazzling electric lights, when he saw everyone lamenting their parting from him, thoughts of the distant future welled up in Kishimoto’s inexperienced traveler’s heart.

To see off those returning to the launch, Kishimoto passed through the ship's complex structure and emerged onto the deck. His friends descended the ship's ladder one by one back toward the launch they had come from. Soon voices called out to Kishimoto from the darkened waters below. The launch had already pulled away from the ship. Trying to catch those voices, he ran frantically through the shadows of glaring electric lights on the high deck. The ship bearing Kishimoto left port around eleven at night. When he stepped onto the deck again, both sky and sea were wrapped in profound darkness. Standing silently by the railing with bowed head, he gradually receded from the port's dwindling lights.

Fifty

On the third day, Kishimoto arrived in Shanghai. The letter to his elder brother Yoshio that he had intended to write after boarding the ship remained unwritten even during the voyage to Shanghai.

Sighing, Kishimoto went out onto the deck at the stern. He climbed the ship’s ladder up to the high double-layered deck to look around. At that time when passengers were still scarce, on that elevated deck he could find only a solitary Frenchman with a long beard gazing lonesomely at the sea. Kishimoto approached the railing near the stern. From there, he gazed toward his homeland’s sky. The steamship belonging to the French Messageries Maritimes company had departed Kobe on the evening of April 13th and was now coursing over waves from Shanghai toward Hong Kong with such pleasantly swift speed that it had already entered Shanghai’s port by the night of the 15th. White waves breaking in the distance filled Kishimoto’s vision. That vista evoked the distance between himself and those he had parted from back home. Each day carried him further from those people than the last—this truth pressed upon him. From the second floor of that Asakusa residence in Tokyo where he had lived seven years, from beside that wall where even moving had become burdensome, he now marveled at having somehow reached these waves. He likened himself to a wounded beast hastening toward a deep forest’s heart.

The fierce sea wind drove Kishimoto from the high deck. He descended to the lower deck where a long corridor ran alongside the ship's ladder. There too only one or two French passengers were visible. The vivid yellow-green sea behind him drew his heart toward the springtime of his homeland he had left behind. He remembered how the peach blossoms blooming at Li Hongzhang's former temple in Shanghai had there too spoken of spring's profundity. He recalled wishing he could show those lush Chinese-style flowers to his niece who loved blossoms. He also remembered how he had agonized over the letter he tried writing to her father en route to Shanghai. He recalled that in the letter received from elder brother Yoshio at the Kobe inn, Yoshio himself had written of being moved by his foreign travels. He recalled the letter stating that Teruko's husband in the Russian territories would likely be profoundly affected upon hearing this. Considering such depth of feeling in his brother's letters, Kishimoto found himself without any words he could write about Setsuko's suffering.

From the funnel of the ship advancing toward Hong Kong, thick plumes of coal smoke were carried by the sea wind, at times swept low over the waves. Kishimoto calculated how many days a mail ship would take from Hong Kong back home. He also tallied that eighteen or nineteen days had already passed since his sister-in-law had joined Setsuko. Whether he liked it or not, he was forced to write that difficult letter during the voyage to Hong Kong. If he missed that chance, the next port would have to be as far as French Saigon.

Fifty-One Kishimoto went to his cabin and took out stationery from his travel bag. In the French ship said to carry few passengers east of Saigon, seizing the quiet moment when a six-berth room had been assigned to him alone, he tried to write a letter addressed to his elder brother Yoshio whom he was leaving behind in their homeland. The reflection of waves in the round porthole made the cabin seem quieter still. He wrote on, oblivious to the ship's rocking. He wrote that this letter was being composed aboard a French vessel during the voyage from Shanghai to Hong Kong. That it was a letter he had tried but failed to write when leaving Kobe, then reluctantly meant to send from Shanghai but again found impossible. That though unexpected well-wishers had seen him off at both Shinbashi Station and Kobe Port, he had nevertheless parted from them in desolate silence. He wrote of why he had left motherless children behind to undertake this journey - though keeping these thoughts from all others, he felt compelled to disclose them to his elder brother alone. That among so many departed friends, with both nephew and wife gone from this world, he lamented his own foolish nature for surviving only to bring fresh grief upon his brother's head. As a younger brother I've no right to speak thus before you, he wrote, yet necessity compels me to endure this unbearable confession. I wrote that Setsuko - whom I accepted responsibility for under your charge - now finds herself in delicate condition. That this stems wholly from my own moral failings. Though as you well know my old neighborhood's social connections naturally drew me to drinking gatherings, he continued, I never once compromised myself through such associations. Yet now I must pen this shame-laden letter. Looking back, he wrote, my error lay in presuming to care for your daughter however slightly when taking her under my roof. In truth I committed an act too sinful for consultation with kin or friends - ruined an innocent maiden's life - and through this tasted anguish beyond all prior experience. Setsuko bears no guilt, he wrote. I beg you grant her forgiveness. I implore you secure her salvation.

He wrote that moving houses, requesting his elder sister’s relocation to Tokyo, and placing her in a relatively safe position—all these were measures he had taken for her sake. He wrote that the shock and sorrow you would feel upon receiving this letter were beyond anything he could imagine. He wrote that he had no face he could show to his elder brother. He wrote that he had no words he should write. He wrote that he was leaving behind this unforgivably rude letter solely for Setsuko’s sake. He wrote that he would depart for a distant foreign land and wished to weep over his harsh fate. Elder Brother Yoshio—Sutekichi signed respectfully.

Fifty-Two

After thirty-seven days at sea, Kishimoto arrived at the French port of Marseille. "In that port of Marseille with its beautiful avenue of plane trees, it brings me joy to think of you receiving this postcard there." Kishimoto was able to read a postcard bearing such words upon arriving at that port. The ship's purser called Kishimoto's name and handed him the postcard. Even among the many French passengers, those who received postcards or letters at that long-awaited port were few. This was because Bancho, who had come to see Kishimoto off to his ship when he departed Kobe, had sent that postcard via Siberia from Tokyo.

Kishimoto, having set foot on European soil for the first time, climbed a path between cliffs toward Notre-Dame basilica in Marseille's port the day after landing. At that moment, there was one travel companion. At that port, Kishimoto reunited with a Japanese silk merchant he had sailed with from Colombo Port (India, Ceylon) to Port Said before parting ways aboard ship. The silk merchant was bound for London and seasoned in foreign travel. Through this connection, Kishimoto secured an able guide. When they completed their ascent along sunlit paths hugging high cliffs, they emerged before an ancient stone temple. Below the precipice stretched a panorama of European-style port town.

The sea shone blue in the distance. That sea was the Mediterranean. That sea was the Mediterranean where, during the voyage from Port Said to Marseille’s port, Kishimoto had encountered towering waves one day. The yellowish-white soil of the cliff below and the new grass made the color of that sea appear even bluer. From his elevated position, Kishimoto looked down upon the twin-funneled steamship he had arrived on, now anchored near the pier, and truly felt how far he had journeyed.

A young nun standing at the temple entrance approached Kishimoto. Seeing him as a traveler from distant Eastern skies, she held out a vessel resembling an alms bowl as if soliciting donations. The nun was French. A beggar sat on the stone steps. That beggar too was French. Kishimoto climbed the temple's entrance steps alongside the silk merchant. In a corner of the entrance sat an old woman selling white and pale purple wooden rosaries that might have delighted girls from his homeland. That old woman was also French. Kishimoto stood beneath the main hall's ceiling and looked around. On the dim stone walls hung a framed ship painting likely donated by seafarers bearing prayers. Guided by the temple custodian, he ventured deeper inside. The quiet sunlight through stained glass illuminated a golden Virgin Mary statue in Roman Catholic style and an antiquated, tarnished organ nearby. That custodian too was French.

There, Kishimoto found himself surrounded entirely by strangers.

Even amidst the hectic state of his journey, there was not a day that passed without the letters he had left behind in Hong Kong—destined for his homeland—weighing on Kishimoto’s mind. That night, he departed for Paris on the night train together with the silk merchant. Fifty-Three

It was on the fourth morning after disembarking that Kishimoto entered Paris, the distant city he had journeyed toward. On his way to Paris, he spent a day in Lyon with the silk merchant who had accompanied him. Gare de Lyon was the station with a tall clock tower where he first arrived in Paris. There, he parted ways with the silk merchant bound for London, hired a horse-drawn carriage, and boarded it along with his travel luggage. Even the coachman’s tall hat—one might call it suited for both fair and rainy weather—was a novelty to him. He looked to the right and to the left, and crossed the Seine River for the first time. On a late May morning when the clamor of the city had yet to rise, he rode through streets lined with plane trees bearing soft young leaves—the same species he had seen in Marseille and Lyon. Even the crack of the coachman’s whip and the clatter of hooves against the stone pavement sounded pleasantly in his ears.

A boarding house in a corner of a tree-lined street near the Paris Observatory awaited Kishimoto. In the vicinity’s comings and goings, people who seemed to be morning commuters—laborers, girls carrying milk bottles, women heading out to buy vegetables—all these caught Kishimoto’s eye. The boarding house maid and housekeeper came to carry his luggage, but not a single word was understood between them. At the first-floor entrance of a roughly seven-story building, he encountered an elderly yet robust-looking woman who had come out to greet him still wearing her reddish-black morning sleepwear. That person was the boarding house’s landlady. What this landlady was saying also did not get through to Kishimoto.

The landlady, who seemed accustomed to hosting guests, brought a Japanese man to Kishimoto. He was an international student staying at that boarding house, someone whose name Kishimoto had previously heard from Bancho’s friend. That he was someone who had lived abroad for a long time was something Kishimoto immediately understood at a single glance. Upon arriving in Paris, Kishimoto first met this international student and managed to understand what the boarding house landlady was trying to say through him. He was also shown to his room. After explaining things like meal times to Kishimoto, the international student said:

“The landlady says—‘I must apologize for appearing in my sleepwear. I will properly greet you once I’ve changed into proper attire.’” “Because you arrived so early this morning.” The landlady, who had been listening to this, looked between the international student and Kishimoto’s faces, “Did you understand everything?” In such a manner, she spread both hands toward Kishimoto. When left alone in his room, Kishimoto still could not shake the sensation of being on a long journey, as if he were still being rocked by the motion of a ship. For him, unaccustomed to travel, merely continuing the voyage amidst a crowd of foreigners was no small feat. The light and heat of the tropics were beyond anything he had imagined. The colors too were like a dream. At times, he had even gone so far as to privately coin the name “Sea Desert” to describe it—a boundless expanse of ocean where, let alone distant land, not a single ship, not a solitary bird, nothing at all entered his sight, and there he had savored its radiance, its desolation, and its immortality. From around the time they entered the Indian Ocean, all the passengers slept out on the deck, but he too would bring a rattan chair near the railing and spend several sleepless nights gazing at the pale phosphorescent light flowing across the dark waves. The ship had also stopped at the port of Djibouti, a French territory at the entrance to the Red Sea, to load coal. The wastelands of Asia Minor and Africa he had gazed upon from Suez, the Mediterranean waves he first beheld after departing Port Said, Italy’s southern tip—enumerating them like this, the impressions of the distant lands he had journeyed through truly flooded his chest in endless succession.

Fifty-Four By learning a new language, Kishimoto resolved to forget the sorrow in his heart. The international student staying at the same boarding house introduced him to a language teacher living near the Observatory. The woman was an elderly lady who taught French to foreigners gathering in Paris to eke out a living, but since she gave her explanations in English, this proved most convenient for Kishimoto. For the time being, he made attending the language teacher’s lessons one of his daily routines.

And so, while awaiting news from his homeland, a reply arrived from his elder brother Yoshio via Siberia. Involuntarily, Kishimoto’s chest trembled. His brother had written from the Tokyo home. He wrote that he had been utterly stunned upon reading the letter you sent from Hong Kong. After agonizing over it for more than ten days, he wrote that he had come up to Tokyo briefly from Nagoya to take appropriate measures. He wrote to tell you this: What’s done is done—you must forget this matter now.

Brother also wrote that he had resolved not to speak of this matter to anyone—not even to Mother, let alone his own wife—since it was not something to be shared with others. He wrote that regarding Kayo (his sister-in-law), they would establish that there had been a certain Mr. Yoshida. He wrote that they would set it up as if this Mr. Yoshida had abandoned the person in question and disappeared. In fact, he wrote that Kayo was now pregnant. Moreover, he wrote that Teruko too would soon return home and wished to give birth in their hometown. He wrote that if Teruko’s return were to coincide with this, matters would become somewhat complicated. However, he wrote that worldly affairs somehow reach their resolution, however imperfectly. He wrote that everyone there was safe, and that Izumi and Shigeru remained well. He wrote that you should not trouble yourself over affairs at home and devote yourself wholeheartedly to pursuing your aspirations there.

Kishimoto let out a sigh unknown to others. With a French reader tucked under his arm, he left the boarding house, passed shopfronts displaying fruits and such, crossed the tree-lined avenue’s tram tracks, followed the old stone wall of the maternity hospital, and turned past the Observatory toward the language teacher’s house. And after attending his language lesson, whenever he saw boys playing in the shade of the trees before the Observatory, he would think of his own children back home and retrace the same path back to his boarding house. At that age, he felt he was beginning his education at forty.

Several times, Kishimoto took out the letter from his brother and read it over and over. He felt compelled to offer heartfelt gratitude toward his brother’s sentiment of having said, “You must forget this matter now.” The nameless fear that had pursued him from Tokyo to Kobe, to Shanghai, to Hong Kong—at times even as far as distant Paris—had by then somewhat lifted from his chest. Instead, the dread of secretly atoning for his sin with his brother’s help—surpassing even when he had worried alone—stirred an indescribably dark mood within him. In his brother’s letter, there was only mention of “the person in question,” with even Setsuko’s name being avoided. He imagined her—who found herself in an extraordinary situation alongside her mother and sister.

Fifty-Five

Before long, Kishimoto received word from Setsuko. She informed him that she had gone to a remote village in the rural district.

"So Setsuko has finally left too…"

Having muttered that to himself, Kishimoto looked around the new room he had moved into next to the former dining area. There were two windows, and the green leaves of the plane tree avenue grew thickly near one of them. The green leaves of those avenue trees had already deepened in hue since Kishimoto first arrived in Paris, and from their shade hung small chestnut-burr-like objects—neither clearly flowers nor fruits—resembling clusters of blue orbs. One window was positioned exactly at the corner of a building, and the intersecting streets could be seen below. To Kishimoto’s eyes—accustomed to gazing daily from his familiar second-floor residence in Asakusa, Tokyo, upon wooden-fenced houses and white shoji windows—there now appeared beyond the tree-lined streets: the French tricolor flag fluttering before a maternity hospital grand enough to resemble an ancient temple; the six-story building facing that hospital; and the curtained entrance of a café at the street corner. In place of the gossip-loving merchant’s wife who used to pass by the gate every morning shouldering that large furoshiki bundle, there now walked beneath his window a Frenchwoman carrying bread that resembled bundles of firewood. Instead of the Tokiwazu and Nagauta shamisen that used to reach that study, there now came the sound of piano practice from the upper floors of a tall building. That was above his head.

Kishimoto went to that window and reread the letter from Setsuko. She wrote that after her mother came up to Tokyo, she had also dismissed the maid. She wrote that when her father came up from Nagoya to Tokyo, that discussion had occurred for the first time. She wrote that at the time, Mother had been quite insistent, but in the end, she had decided to leave home for a while. She wrote that through the assistance of the head nurse whom Father had come to know at a certain hospital, she had come to this countryside. She wrote that the head nurse was now a woman doctor. She wrote that she was an extremely kind person living in this countryside, coming to see me nearly every day to offer comfort. She wrote that she was composing this letter in secret on the second floor of a midwife’s house. She wrote that she had not even informed the kind woman doctor about Uncle. She wrote that she wanted to bring Uncle’s books from the Takanawa house here as well to find solace during these lonely times, but refrained from doing so out of concern that others might see them. She wrote that the people living in this house were both mother and child midwives. She wrote that there was a place reachable from Tokyo by train in a very short time. She wrote that the croaking of frogs, so characteristic of the remote countryside, was reaching her ears. She wrote that since there was still some time before she would enter her childbed, she thought she should at least try to send one more letter, but that even that seemed uncertain. She added that her sister (Teruko) would also soon return from her husband’s post abroad for childbirth.

Fifty-Six The horse chestnut and plane tree avenues, growing thick as a forest, lay ahead of Kishimoto. He could find that pleasant leaf shade both before the clock at the nearby observatory and within Luxembourg Park where stone statues of queens from around the eighteenth century stood in rows. When a certain friend from Tokyo—who had left their homeland before him and toured Northern European countries—stayed at his boarding house for about nine days, they walked through the corridors of Parisian theaters together and stood before the murals of Sainte-Geneviève inside the Panthéon. Even when he went walking around Denfert-Rochereau Square with its massive stone lion statue erected in commemoration of national defense during the Franco-Prussian War, he found no shortage of places suitable for a traveler’s stroll.

However, Kishimoto’s journey to France amounted to planning an experiment in living. He had plunged into something wholly new and different. This required correcting habits from his homeland that had seeped into his bones over decades. For someone accustomed to meditative stillness like him, even sitting in chairs from dawn till dusk became an ordeal. Daylong stretches brought no true respite. He felt perpetually upright—as though never permitted to recline. If only he could stretch out freely on Japanese tatami... This longing sometimes stirred in him a childish urge to weep. Not only had the long voyage sun-scorched and sea-battered him—through great effort he’d also wrenched himself from that Asakusa garret to subject his entire being to this foreign trial. Indeed, contemplating how invisible forces had expelled him from home made him wonder what would become of his traveler’s existence henceforth.

The letter from Setsuko weighed incessantly on Kishimoto’s heart as he journeyed. By coincidence, a maternity hospital stood before his lodgings—its forty-some windows, each framing lives being born or beginning, appeared to him as an omen. The stone gate remained visible from his room’s window; the stone wall bordered the path he walked daily to language lessons. Those countless windows kept their lights burning later than any others in town, speaking volumes each night.

“Let me go among strangers.”

muttered Kishimoto. To go into that midst and hide his shameful self had been his resolve since first conceiving this journey.

Fifty-Seven

To board the Seine River steamboat, Kishimoto went out to the banks of the stone bridge at Châtelet. No matter where he went, Kishimoto was so dependent on his Baedeker guidebook that he could hardly let go of it; yet here he was, attempting to visit the home of a Frenchman he had only just met since arriving in Paris—entirely on his own.

Kishimoto was no longer just a traveler but now also a foreigner. Compared to when he had walked Tokyo's streets with the unconscious ease of saltwater fish swimming naturally in brine—on those rare occasions when he would see differently featured travelers from abroad and think "a foreigner passes"—his own position had now been completely inverted. Like it or not, he couldn't avoid being conscious of the differences in his hair color, skin tone, facial contours, and eye hue. Every person he encountered stared fixedly at his face. Being perpetually forced into this role of observed specimen allowed his mind no respite whenever he went out. It even made him wonder what possible purpose such exertion served. By the time he walked from his boarding house to Châtelet Bridge's embankment, his thoughts had become thoroughly muddled.

Following along the high stone embankment, he descended to where the river steamer waited. Before his eyes flowed river waters that branched around Cité Island now formed into a midstream sandbank. The Frenchman Kishimoto intended to visit was a clerk at Paris’s National Library; he had received an invitation letter in English from the man’s mother. It contained meticulous instructions characteristic of an elderly woman: take a Louvre-bound river steamer to Billancourt—their house stood directly from the landing point, no more than five minutes’ walk—and to mind boarding the correct vessel among various steamers. Kishimoto boarded at Châtelet only to needlessly transfer again at the Louvre—such was his circuitous route. So unfamiliar remained he with the terrain. This marked his first attempt at visiting a French household. Before him lay strangers’ lives that seemed open to any casual entry. He could turn right; he could turn left. Through his chest coursed an uncanny sensation—as if every person he might henceforth meet would split his journey’s narrow path leftward or rightward.

Fifty-Eight

“Sir, here is Billancourt.”

As if to say as much, the Frenchman aboard the steamboat pointed out the landing to Kishimoto. From the landing to the house Kishimoto sought was only a short distance. Across the road along the riverbank lined with tall poplar trees stood a residential-style building facing the Seine River. That was the residence of the library clerk. Kishimoto pushed open the gate door and made his way through the flowering shrubs. Before he knew it, a pet dog came flying over, approached his side with sharp eyes, and showed signs of about to bark.

“Are you Mr. Kishimoto?” At that moment, an elderly woman appeared at the stone steps of the entrance and asked in English. Kishimoto knew at a glance she was the mother who had given him the letter. “Please leave your hat and cane there. Then come with me to the room.” In this manner, the elderly woman guided Kishimoto.

“My son remains at the library, but he shall return shortly,” said the elderly French woman in English. “My daughter-in-law will come greet you presently as well.” For Kishimoto—still so unfamiliar with the land in his traveler’s state—finding an elderly woman who addressed him thus in English within a French household brought welcome relief. The one who had guided Kishimoto to this house was none other than the old woman’s niece. This Mademoiselle, though thoroughly French by birth, had developed such admiration for distant Japan that she now resided in Tokyo itself. Kishimoto had met her through an introduction from his friend in Bancho before departing Japan. At that meeting, Mademoiselle had already spoken Japanese quite passably—well enough to read works like The Diary of Murasaki Shikibu. So fervent was her partiality toward Japan that one might have called her a Japan enthusiast. It was she who had arranged this introduction. The elderly woman led Kishimoto into her parlor. Every object adorning the room—from furnishings to paintings and sculptures—harmonized perfectly with her cultivated tastes. Near the window where a desk stood, she retrieved a letter from her Tokyo-dwelling niece and showed it to him.

“I wonder if my niece is living safely.” “Do you think she has grown to look even a little like a Japanese lady?” With a deeply worried expression, she inquired of Kishimoto about Mademoiselle, who had ventured to the edge of the Orient. The elderly woman spoke of how Mademoiselle was the only daughter of her sibling, how she had been fond of learning since childhood, and how even while in Paris she had studied classical literature under Japanese exchange students.

Kishimoto took out souvenirs from his homeland—a memento of his journey—from the furoshiki bundle. The elderly woman even looked at the pattern of the furoshiki cloth with fascination, “Oh, in your country do you use such things? What an interesting pattern. Still, just being able to meet someone from Japan and talk about my niece brings me such joy. They all say it’s my fault that my niece went off to Japan like that—that it was my mistake—everyone keeps telling me so… Poor girl…”

As she spoke, she gave a look that seemed to pity her niece who had abandoned France and departed. Before long, the elderly woman gazed at the old Japanese paintings hanging on the parlor wall and said to Kishimoto, "For me, Japan was a land of fantasy, you see."

Fifty-Nine As he conversed with the elderly woman for some time, Kishimoto noticed that even the room's long window curtains were made from an old gold-thread embroidered cloth imported from Japan. The elderly woman, her gaunt frame clad in an antique black French-style garment, would sometimes walk about the room or retreat to its depths in search of items to show Kishimoto; yet there was not a single object within that room that did not speak of yearning for that distant foreign land. Kishimoto thought it no wonder that such an elderly woman’s niece was someone like Mademoiselle—a woman who seemed the very embodiment of exoticism.

“This is my daughter-in-law.” The elderly woman introduced to Kishimoto the wife who had changed into a kimono and come to greet him. While awaiting the master’s return, their three-way conversation centered entirely on talk of Mademoiselle in Tokyo. The wife spoke of Mademoiselle’s artistic inclinations, led Kishimoto before a framed oil painting she had created while still in France, and produced photographs said to have been left behind by her.

“When Mademoiselle was in France, she would ask people to style her hair in Japanese fashion.” “She was that enamored with Japan.” The elderly woman supplemented in English what the wife tried to convey through French-mixed speech. She spoke to Kishimoto in an utterly amiable tone—about having once lived in London; how this made her the best English speaker in the household while her daughter-in-law struggled though her son managed somewhat conveniently; how their family had previously resided in central Paris but moved to Billancourt after securing a dwelling here; and even how this house hadn’t been acquired cheaply.

Urged by the elderly woman and wife who said, “My son should be arriving any moment now,” Kishimoto walked together with them from the entrance hallway down the stone stairs and through the garden. He also went out beyond the gate to look. The clear water of the Seine River flowed beneath the low bank lined with trees. On the opposite slope, enveloped in an air of the suburbs, villa-style red-tiled roofs could be seen here and there. Guided by the wife, Kishimoto went around to the backyard and walked about looking at fruit trees and vegetables. “We grew so many onions this year,” she told him. While trying to discuss various topics with Kishimoto, she seemed unable to surface her thoughts in English. Under the sunlit pear tree, Kishimoto met the nursemaid letting two children play.

“He’s from Japan.”

When the wife said this, the two children hesitantly approached Kishimoto. And one after another, they extended their small hands. Kishimoto grasped those young hands tightly, but even though he wanted to speak to them, he still couldn't manage a word in French. "I too left children behind in my country." This English of Kishimoto's also did not come across clearly to the wife. The kind-seeming wife showed Kishimoto not only the gardens and vegetable plots surrounding the house but also led him along both sides of the corridor stretching from the entrance into the interior—past various portrait frames hanging there—to her husband's study on the second floor, then to the children's room, and finally even to the bedroom. Just then, the master of the house returned.

Sixty Kishimoto had already become acquainted with the master of that house through the library. By the time the master returned, dinner preparations were complete, and Kishimoto was led to the dining room overlooking a garden abundant with trees. “During the summer, we often have meals outside this window as well.” While listening to the elderly woman’s remarks, Kishimoto joined the master, his wife, and herself—the four of them—around the dining table. “We haven’t prepared anything special.” “This is how we always are.”

The wife said with a hospitable expression. “There are those like you, Mr. Kishimoto, who go out of their way to come from Japan to France—” said the elderly woman, comparing her son’s face with Kishimoto’s, “and then there are others like my niece who end up going from France to Japan.” At that moment, Kishimoto mentioned that he had brought tea and camellia seeds from his country. He spoke of wanting to ask some expert to plant them as a memento of his journey. “What did Mr. Kishimoto say he brought?” the elderly woman said to her son, then turned to Kishimoto and added, “My hearing has grown poor—there are times I can’t quite catch what’s being said.”

“Seeds,” declared the master in a loud voice with a laugh. After the meal, Kishimoto took out the furoshiki-wrapped bundle he had brought. From within emerged seeds—ginkgo nuts, camellias, sasanquas, wisterias, cinnamons, and daphnes. The elderly woman explained to Kishimoto that her niece in Tokyo had arranged introductions to a professor at the French university too, then instructed that his son and daughter-in-law would now guide him—as there happened to be a tea gathering at the professor’s house—and that he should accompany them to become acquainted with that fine family.

“Just to be thorough, I should mention—the professor is a renowned scholar even here.” The elderly woman stood in the corridor and cautioned Kishimoto.

Not wanting to miss the final river steamer departing in the evening, Kishimoto hurried along the riverbank with the couple. The wife carried roses from the garden as a gift for the professor’s wife and told Kishimoto how she had frequented the professor’s house since she was a girl. At last, the three managed to catch the boat. When Kishimoto sat down with the couple—who had settled among the unfamiliar French passengers and were exchanging friendly words with various people—he felt at ease.

“Is the Seine’s water always this calm?” “It’s usually like this. Every morning I commute to the library by this boat. Summer mornings are quite pleasant, and evenings aren’t unpleasant either.” Beside Kishimoto and the clerk, who were talking while gazing at the dark tranquil river scenery, the wife sat with her handbag on her lap listening to their conversation.

This Billancourt clerk also had writings. The plant seeds he had brought to share with half of that household were those given by Nakano’s friends and others when Kishimoto left his country. Kishimoto intended to share the remaining half with the professor who was said to live near the botanical garden, imagining what kind of person this professor was that he would soon go see with the clerk and his wife. He also imagined the unknown people who were likely to gather at that evening’s tea gathering.

61 By the time Kishimoto walked back to his lodgings from the tea gathering at the professor’s house in the town called Guy de la Brosse, it was quite late. His heart remained full from the day’s events—his first glimpse into a French household and encounters with strangers. Before the gates of houses built in imposing arched forms stood people returning late, ringing doorbells. The caretaker was fast asleep by then.

When he climbed the dark stairs and opened the boarding house door, everyone was already fast asleep. Even after going to his room at the end of the corridor, Kishimoto did not immediately climb into bed. As he faced the old-fashioned Western lamp that illuminated the room, the voice of Professor Bloss—who had said in a pleasantly refreshing tone, “When did you arrive in Paris? Why didn’t you come to see me sooner?”—still lingered in his ears. In the study filled with numerous books related to Indian studies, that professor’s voice—the one who had taken him over to a young man who still seemed to be attending university and said, “Please do meet my son as well”—also lingered. Then, after the professor carried away the ginkgo nuts he had given as a memento of his journey to another room, the women—likely young professors’ wives who had been invited to the tea gathering—all gathered together and gazed at those uniformly sized seeds of Eastern plants, their voices lingering as they said, “Oh, it would be a shame to plant them—we’d rather keep looking at them like this.” He had never imagined that upon coming to this foreign land, he would be able to exchange such heartfelt handshakes with those belonging to the intellectual class. The considerate gesture of that Billancourt couple—even going so far as to not let him pay for the river steamer and train tickets—was something he had never anticipated. Sensitive and elegant, Billancourt’s mother too was a woman who seemed to perfectly embody the old French women he had encountered for the first time. The professor, whose hair had whitened with age yet whose eyes still held a youthful gleam; the clerk, simple yet manly in his agreeable demeanor—even after climbing into the bed by the wall to sleep, he continued to dwell on the favorable first impressions he had received from these people, thinking this warm kindness would likely remain long unforgotten.

However, come morning, the very fact that his first impression of the people he had met was favorable only made a traveler's sense of incompleteness steal into Kishimoto's heart. He considered what everyone had said and grew dazed. Foreigners would always remain foreigners—a sense of incompleteness, as if one could only graze the surface of things, arose intertwined with that initial favorable impression. Ever since her time in France, the image of the mademoiselle who had asked someone to style her hair in the Japanese manner kept surfacing vividly in Kishimoto's mind. Even with such an intense yearning for foreign lands, he wondered how much this Mademoiselle—who had abandoned France—could truly fathom the depths of a Japanese heart. He contrasted that Mademoiselle sitting there in her Japanese kimono upon tatami mats with his own traveler's self, dressed in Western clothes and perched on a chair.

"In the end, perhaps there is no path for us but through art," he thought. "Perhaps there is no way to touch the hearts of people in this country except through art." This thought drove Kishimoto’s heart, steering him even more toward language practice.

62 In the fifth month of his journey, Kishimoto learned through a letter from home that he had become a father again. When counted together with his three deceased daughters, he was no longer merely the father of seven children. Beyond the publicly recognized children he had with Sonoko, there existed another child somewhere whose existence he had not known. He pressed his forehead—as if branded with an indelible seal—against the glass window of the inn and silently repeated this truth to himself.

A letter from Brother Giyo stated that "the person in question" needed to undergo surgery for a postpartum breast abscess and demanded that the expenses be sent. After waiting about a month, Setsuko sent detailed particulars. The delivery had been difficult and strenuous but resulted in a boy being born, she wrote in her letter. She provided meticulous details. The arduous delivery was likely due to her having neglected her health; people had told her so. She wrote that she had been permitted only a single glance at the newborn’s face. At the earnest request of a childless couple from rural areas. she wrote. the infant had been taken away immediately. When the kind midwife visited. she recounted with a laugh. "You’re husband bears such a striking resemblance to your father." The monk from that countryside became naming parent. bestowing the name Chikafumi—a name he had originally conceived for his own child but relinquished for hers. she wrote. At their new home. the adoptive family pleaded for at least disclosure of the mother’s surname. or failing that. some indication of Tokyo’s vicinity—even just a cardinal direction—but she wrote that even this minimal request had been refused by the midwife. Though Father must have notified them. she wrote. her breast had swollen painfully. necessitating incision surgery at the midwife’s residence. "My condition remains unstable. so I must stay longer on this midwife’s second floor. though I wish desperately to leave." she wrote. "I’ve grown terrified here—everything revolves around money. money. it feels like hell." The childbirth left her hair alarmingly sparse; cropped short and reddened. she wrote. she would feel ashamed facing Uncle again.

Reading this letter from Setsuko, Kishimoto let out a deep sigh from the depths of his heart. He felt as though some burden had been lifted from him. Yet because of this, the lifelong stain he had incurred could never be erased. The more he tried to bury it, the more his sins surged from his heart's depths. He had apportioned from his meager travel funds to cover all expenses for Setsuko until her pregnancy; he could not neglect sending remittances from abroad to his household; he had to bear the costs of Setsuko's surgery demanded by brother Giyo. The journey itself was arduous. Nevertheless, he resolved to go as far as he could.

63

Whether from the feeling of having hidden Setsuko at the vacant home in Takanawa, Tokyo, and departing on his journey without waiting for his sister-in-law’s arrival in the capital, or from the feeling of having left behind a single letter addressed to his brother Giyo and departing from Hong Kong, Kishimoto had not left the country with any intention of seeing his brother and sister-in-law again. Setsuko never forgot to send word to her uncle on his journey; even when she returned to Takanawa from a remote village in the rural district, she sent a detailed letter. Yet by the time that correspondence reached Kishimoto, it was already year’s end, with the season of Noël (Christmas) drawing near. The first New Year encountered in a foreign land, the Carnival typical of a Roman Catholic country, the meat-eating Mardi Gras, and even Mi-Carême—all deepened his traveler’s heart. At his boarding house, he welcomed a Keio University exchange student who had come from Munich, Germany, and saw off someone heading to Switzerland; yet even when visiting the Luxembourg Museum with those people or ascending to the Gaveau concert hall, he remained a wanderer at heart.

"It is said that someone once remarked, 'People grow accustomed to any circumstance—this too being a natural blessing bestowed upon us.'" "It is also said that another observed, 'Nothing is more terrifying than becoming accustomed.'" Kishimoto discerned the dual truths contained within these contradictory maxims. Ultimately, even he could not resist this acclimation. When he reached the point of scarcely noticing tall buildings, walking streets unperturbed, and spending whole days seated in rooms devoid of tatami mats, there were moments he even forgot the foreign hue of his hair and skin. Strangely enough, as he grew indifferent toward the external world, the external world grew indifferent toward him. At the inn, he discovered himself living as an alien traveler wholly disconnected from those passing beneath his window. Like a prisoner chained within jailhouse walls, severed from all connection to the outside world.

The terrifying sounds of the town began clinging to Kishimoto's ears. As the intense sensations born of all stimuli subsided, those sounds grew distinct in his hearing. The clatter of horses clad in sword-sharp, rigid harnesses with gleaming brass fittings pulling heavy wagons; the rumble of the Mont Toulon omnibus; the clang of trams shuttling through tree-lined avenues; all these urban reverberations from stone-paved streets resounded among tall buildings, rippling against his room's glass panes. Hearing them, his homeland abruptly receded into distance. He felt the tedium of foreign life creeping steadily upon him.

Hardship was naturally what he had anticipated in his heart. No matter what it took, he had to battle against unbearable tedium. And he had to continue the wandering of his heart.

64

Easter was drawing near. After returning to the vacant home in Tokyo, Setsuko wrote about Izumi and Shigeru at every opportunity while lamenting her circumstances. Kishimoto could imagine her returning from that rural house to Shinagawa Station, where she met the sister-in-law who had come to greet her. He could imagine her returning once more to the Takanawa house where both her mother and sister Teruko had given birth to sons. He could imagine her feminine obstinacy in declaring that compared to her sister’s child—celebrated by countless relatives and acquaintances—the child born to her, whom no one acknowledged, was truly the happiest in this world. He could even imagine her from afar—now harboring such awkwardness toward her mother—as she described how since that incident, her father had grown so kind he seemed a different man, even secretly placing letters from Uncle addressed to him on her desk. "I’ve done something truly pitiful." This compassion intertwined with self-reproach would rise within Kishimoto at all times.

To find solace for his traveler's heart in a foreign land, Kishimoto went to the chest of drawers in his room. Though called a chest of drawers, it more closely resembled a cabinet with mirrored doors. From its drawer he took out photographs of relatives and friends from home. Among them emerged a picture of his elder brother Giyo's entire family. It had been sent recently from Tokyo. Part of the garden at the Takanawa house was captured in the photograph exactly as it was. On the south-facing veranda sat Grandmother with a futon spread beneath her. In the garden stood Teruko holding an infant at the very front. Two boys were perched on a garden stone - one Giyo's child, the other Shigeru. Beside his younger brother appeared Izumi's figure, captured in a manner befitting an eldest son. Giyo himself was there. The sister-in-law was there too, cradling the baby boy born in that house. Kishimoto found himself unable to calmly regard even the photographic faces of his brother and sister-in-law. At the very back stood Setsuko's transformed countenance. The once-youthful fullness of her chest had vanished. Her distinctively long hair falling straight down now accentuated the gauntness of her cheeks.

"Have I reduced a single person to such a state?" When he thought of that, Kishimoto became frightened and hid that photograph at the bottom of the drawer.

65

Kishimoto awoke in his room to the flute of a goat milk seller. Even through the air of a vast metropolis like Paris, that flute's melody—so pastoral it seemed to flow across the urban expanse—still reached his glass window in the early morning. With a traveler's frame of mind, listening intently to the slender, pure sound, Kishimoto settled before a small breakfast tray at the desk facing the window. When he had finished, the maid came and made a light kon-kon knocking sound at his door.

Mail arriving via Siberia was always delivered in the morning. At that moment, he received the accumulated newspapers, magazines, and letters all at once with a thud. Among the long-awaited correspondence from his homeland, Setsuko’s letter was also among them.

“Oh, Izumi sent his clean copy,” Kishimoto said aloud, spreading out the child’s writing—so large it seemed peculiar when viewed from abroad—to examine it. Then he read Setsuko’s letter. Addressed to her uncle, who maintained silence no matter what she sent, she had patiently kept writing. Each time accounts of Uncle’s travels appeared in the newspaper, she wrote that reading them became her greatest solace. She wrote that the season when they had parted had come around again. She wrote that the feelings from seeing off her departing uncle had returned to her. She wrote that she was constantly reminded even of standing in Takanawa’s garden and hearing trains from Shinagawa.

Kishimoto had at times likened the sentiments of his journey to the travel poems of ancients and written them at the beginning of dispatches to newspapers in his home country. Setsuko quoted that classical poem and wrote the lines from another verse by the ancients in her letter as if they were her own helpless lament. "Is the moon not the same? Is this spring the spring of old? Is spring not the same, Only my self, Remains as it ever was." She wrote asking how Uncle had viewed the photograph taken of the entire household that she had sent some time ago. She wrote that she appeared in it like a ghost and that it was shameful to show Uncle such a photograph. She wrote that she had told her mother about it and been scolded. She also wrote about the old servant woman they had employed at their house in Asakusa. She wrote that even now the old servant woman still came to visit from time to time, and that she would lend her magazines from the house to keep the old woman in good spirits. "The old woman is quite fearsome, you see," she had written.

Since embarking on his journey, Kishimoto had continued receiving letters of this nature from Setsuko. When he had left Tokyo and reached Kobe, he had already sensed an unexpected transformation taking root within her heart. He had departed his homeland intending to sever all connections. Yet the more he tried to distance himself from Setsuko, the more tenaciously his unfortunate niece's heart pursued him. He resolved to maintain absolute silence in response to these letters from Setsuko. Each time he read her words, he felt as though his wounds were being torn open anew, fresh blood flowing from them. With a sigh, Kishimoto sat at his desk. He retrieved a pale yellow-jacketed book from atop the bookshelf and turned his mind toward it. Without glancing aside, he sought immersion in this new linguistic realm. Even merely holding original editions of works he knew through English translations brought him solace. Though he already owned countless books he longed to read, his shaky command of foreign languages rendered most mere decorative objects on his shelves. When would he ever grasp the shadow-laden nuances embedded within this country's tongue? The thought filled him with restless impatience.

66

In his travels, Kishimoto had already encountered compatriots of various ages and differing aspirations. He who had deliberately chosen a French ship to cross the seas—who upon leaving Kobe had even attempted to immerse himself completely among foreigners—sought to keep his distance from fellow compatriots during his initial days in Paris. That Japanese compatriots abroad would naturally gather together was unavoidable, yet Kishimoto's perspective had stirred resentment among some residents there due to a verbal misunderstanding. Voices of residents saying, "Kishimoto apparently intends not to associate with Japanese people"—as if doubting his sincerity—reached even his own ears. However, this suspicion gradually began to dissipate. Artists residing near Montparnasse who visited his lodging became increasingly frequent, and compatriots passing by who stopped at his lodging were not uncommon.

Kishimoto went to the window of his room. The window of the inn where a professor from Kyoto University had stayed for a while was visible from Kishimoto's room. Not only had the professor - along with an associate professor from Tohoku University, both agreeable people he had met during his travels - come to his boarding house's dining hall at every meal, but he himself had gone to the inn visible from his room and spoken his native language freely with them late into the night. The memory of that time still felt as vivid as yesterday in his heart. Kishimoto gazed alone from the window at the tree-lined street after those people had left - the professor who had promised they would meet again in Brussels or London if circumstances allowed, and the associate professor who had sent a postcard from his homeward journey saying he had set foot in Berlin for the first time in a year. He thought about how conversations that would never have been broached back home had been drawn out between himself and the professors gathered at the foreign inn. He also thought that the hardships of travel, the longing for one's native tongue, and the unbelievable tedium could bind the hearts of compatriots encountered in a foreign land like friends of ten years. He could not help but realize how much darker his soul was compared to the professors with whom he had strolled through Luxembourg Gardens and sat at Lila Coffee Shop.

Day after day, the mysterious woman who wandered about the tree-lined street appeared before his eyes through the windowpane. The people gathered in the boarding house dining room, likely deeming her an idiot, whispered among themselves and—without anyone in particular bestowing it—had given her the name "Madame Caroline." Madame Caroline wore a hat adorned with crimson roses, pulled on white gloves, and paced back and forth through that neighborhood from morning till night. The sight of this woman beneath his window—appearing to others as though awaiting something unknown—intensified Kishimoto's sense of being a traveler in a foreign land.

“Because of his niece, he had gained such anguish and sorrow.” Drawing an analogy to a verse from a poem written by a certain French poet, he attempted to articulate his own condition as a traveler. Just then, a painter named Oka came to visit.

67

Oka looked around Kishimoto’s room as if seeing it for the first time. On the wall covered with wallpaper hung an old-fashioned, large copperplate print in a frame. Titled "The Death of Socrates," it was an image depicting the philosopher’s final moments, but as a French-style copperplate print, it was an utterly commonplace piece—no different from what one might find in antique shops along the Seine’s riverside thoroughfares. The bed where Kishimoto had slept for nearly a year during his travels was placed against the wall where the framed picture hung.

“What connection could there possibly be between this framed picture hanging in the room and you, Mr. Kishimoto—” Oka made a remark befitting a painter and gazed at an old print that seemed to evoke the era when the Rococo architectural style was in vogue. “The landlady here at this boarding house took pride in that, you see,” said Kishimoto. “Aren’t you bothered by having such things hanging there, Mr. Kishimoto?” “These days, you see, I don’t particularly mind anymore. “Whether it is there or not, it is all the same to me, you see.” “When traveling, you see, it cannot be helped.”

Compared to when he was in his home country, Kishimoto had grown accustomed to a much simpler life. When he first arrived in Paris, he often sighed at the dreariness of Western-style inns and boarding houses, lamenting that no one would tidy his desk—but gradually he learned to manage everything without assistance. He folded his own kimono and shaved his own beard. Though weekly massages had once been indispensable, he now did without them altogether. He reverted to the student he had been long ago. When encountering people his own age, he felt compelled to brew tea from home and entertain the younger Oka.

“For someone like me, it is as if I’ve been banished to paradise.” With that, Kishimoto rose from his chair. When Kishimoto said “paradise,” he meant to convey a country that valued the arts and sciences. “Banished to paradise?” Oka burst into laughter. Kishimoto went to retrieve the alcohol lamp and kettle from beneath the window beside the washstand. It was something Oka had previously found lying in a corner of some artist’s studio and brought over. The items were mementos left behind by an artist who had studied abroad.

“Mr. Oka, magazines and newspapers have arrived from home. My children have sent over some neatly written copies.” “How many children do you have, Mr. Kishimoto?” “Four,” Kishimoto stammered. Oka paid no heed to his hesitation. “Are they all in Tokyo?” “No, only two remain in Tokyo. The third has gone to live with my sister in the countryside, and the youngest girl has been entrusted to someone along the Hitachi coast. Just having those who still live—three of my children have already died.”

“What a father you are.” While gazing at the alcohol lamp’s flame, Kishimoto found pleasure merely in conversing with Oka in their native tongue. His boarding house accommodated a philosophy student from the Sorbonne—the Versailles-born son of a military man—alongside a German youth. The comfort of speaking with compatriots remained unattainable in the boarding house’s dining hall. Oka unfolded the magazines and newspapers Kishimoto had suggested, devouring their contents like one parched.

68 Oka had arrived in Paris about half a year before Kishimoto. Kishimoto came to know this painter through various encounters during his travels. When they took a horse-drawn carriage to Paris' outskirts to view Perrin's collection. When they visited an art shop displaying new paintings near Madeleine Temple. When they both suffered burns at a year-end party in Théâtre. Yet it was when Kishimoto was invited to Oka's favorite Japanese restaurant and shared traveler-like drinks that he suddenly began feeling closeness. From that night onward, Kishimoto came to know the secret buried in Oka's heart. He realized neither this man's passion nor sincerity had sufficed to move her mother and brother. Having abandoned his sincerely pledged devotion, Oka spoke almost forgetting time's passage as he lamented - what in this world could bring people happiness? This man - who left an impassioned letter for her mother, severed years of friendship with her brother, and fled his homeland - harbored anger and resentment deaf to any forgiveness. The kettle's water boiled. Kishimoto placed French-made bowls acquired in town upon a tray, poured fragrant green tea from their homeland, and offered it to Oka.

Whenever he looked at this painter’s face, there was invariably a young exchange student who would come to Kishimoto’s mind. The exchange student—whose gentlemanly appearance so perfectly embodied the word "gallant," and whose habit of collecting yellow leather gloves even during his Paris stay remained etched in Kishimoto’s memory—had left behind a personal story and departed for Switzerland. The exchange student said there had been a young woman back in his home country with whom he had been deeply intimate. That woman, who seemed like one reared in seclusion, was now another man’s wife, he added. In the motives of this self-funded exchange student resolved to study abroad, his manner suggested that at the very least, his relationship with that young wife lay concealed. The exchange student was also greatly troubled by the matter of that wife’s pregnancy. During the time he stayed in Paris, that story often came up, and Oka too had been among those who heard it.

“There’s not a single man who hasn’t come to the West because of some woman—”

Oka was the type who wouldn’t be satisfied unless the conversation was taken that far. To such an extent did Oka possess the straightforwardness of a mountain farmer.

Oka placed the emptied teacup on the spot above the fireplace, “Last night, two or three beggar models came barging into my studio. They rummaged through whatever they could find and had the nerve to demand I buy them drinks… Those filthy models… But when I let them have their alcohol, they all ended up singing songs for me. Listening to them, I ended up feeling so sorry for them…”

Even among the resident artist community, Oka’s manner of telling such stories seemed quite a burden. Moreover, as Kishimoto looked at Oka’s face—Oka, who since arriving in France had been locked in such a mental struggle that he couldn’t even muster the will to paint properly—he found himself all the more confronted by the tedium of life abroad.

69 "I often told you how envious I was of people back home warming themselves at the kotatsu, yet even so, Easter has come around again." Having said this to Oka, Kishimoto soon left the boarding house together with him. The Roman Catholic festival they had encountered during their travels was now here. Women dressed entirely in black from hats to clothes walked through the town as if visiting a temple. When they reached the corner near the square before the observatory, the rows of trees changed—instead of platanus with yellowish-green sprouting buds, horse chestnut trees already bearing fresh green young leaves could be seen.

“The horse chestnut blossoms are already out.” Oka pointed out to Kishimoto the upper part of the blackened branches dense with young seven-leaf foliage that had grown thick. Flowers resembling white candles were peeking out from among the young leaves. “Is this the horse chestnut blossom?” said Kishimoto. “How do you like them? Lovely flowers, aren’t they?” “A professor from Kyoto University sent me a postcard from Strasbourg saying, ‘Since we often talked about how when the horse chestnuts bloomed, I wondered what kind of flowers they’d be, but they’re rather unimpressive, aren’t they?’” “It’s rather harsh to disparage them like that.”

Though each blossom lacked sufficient elegance to warrant singling out for praise, Kishimoto the traveler found himself drawn to their faintly lonesome appearance. "Around this time last year, I was aboard the ship, wasn’t I?"

Kishimoto said that to Oka. The two of them turned their steps from in front of Billiers' Dance Hall toward a small coffee shop. Before the tree-lined avenue of Petit Luxembourg stood a shop they often visited to sit—a place where formalities fell away. This was what Oka called “Simonne’s house.”

At the shop front, Frenchmen who looked like laborers could be seen standing and drinking wine. The housewife at the counter welcomed Oka with a familiar greeting and handshake.

In the back was a room with tables set up. As Oka and Kishimoto went to sit there, a girl of about sixteen descended the stairs from the second floor alongside the wall. The French-style black outfit she had changed into for Pâques suited her slender, delicate frame perfectly. The girl approached Oka's side and extended her white maidenly hand with a smile. Then she came to Kishimoto too to offer a handshake. This girl was Simonne.

All the artist colleagues Kishimoto knew often gathered at this girl’s house. Among them, Oka in particular would frequently come over from his studio, taking pleasure in seeing the master of the house, the housewife, and Simonne—who seemed to embody all her parents’ affection—and while placing ordered cognac cups on the room’s table, he would write postcards and letters to his hometown there. This painter, with nowhere to direct his sorrow, had made the back room—intended for trysting couples or those awaiting others—into a traveler’s hideaway, seeming almost as though he sought to glimpse the shadow of his parted beloved in this foreign girl.

70 The small coffee shop was situated at the corner where one would emerge from Val-de-Grâce Military Hospital toward Saint-Michel's tree-lined avenue, with footsteps of passersby on the narrow side street's sidewalk audible right outside the window of the room where Kishimoto and his companions sat. The housewife, embodying the industrious temperament of French women, never let her daughter idle. No matter when one visited, the daughter was assisting in the shop. Yet the housewife seemed to attend to everything at once, rarely permitting her daughter to carry customers' orders. When the shop grew busy and servers were short-handed, the housewife's sister would come to take orders in the back room. Otherwise, the housewife herself would bring over coffee and such. At times in a corner of the back room, mother and daughter would begin their meal together. Simonne would come and sit down. There were moments when one glimpsed scenes of respectable domestic warmth strikingly incongruous with their commercial establishment. Seated like a traveler in such a room, Kishimoto listened as Oka told him about the daughter.

“You can’t fathom how fiercely that housewife cherishes her daughter,” said Oka. “I once invited Simonne to the theater. She must’ve gone and asked her mother about it. When she did, the housewife made this face like ‘How could that ever happen?’” “She’s at her most radiant now,” Kishimoto remarked. “But mark my words—if she grows up coddled like that, she might rebel instead. She’s still such a child through and through. That’s what makes her so endearing.”

Kishimoto found himself agreeing with Oka’s impassioned words. Between them arose rumors of artists cohabiting with models. There were not few compatriots who would come abroad and live with French women. Talk also surfaced of artists happily dwelling in their studios not with professional models, but with certain modistes. “Splendid weather we’re having,” a painter called out as he entered from outside.

“I thought if I came to Simonne’s house, Oka would surely be here, so I stopped by—and sure enough, he was,” said the painter with a laugh. “We were just talking about you,” Oka said, perking up. Following this, two or three more painters entered. All of them were acquaintances to Kishimoto, and from the way they tied their cravats, they looked youthfully artistic. When gathered like this, Oka—who was much younger than Kishimoto—appeared rather as the elder among the resident artist group.

“Oka—how’s it going?”

The first painter who had entered spoke encouragingly to Oka. Suddenly the room was filled with boisterous laughter. The painter also looked toward Kishimoto. "Kishimoto, you've come all the way to Paris yet still haven't known a foreigner's touch? How pitiful." His cheerfully irreverent tone made the whole group laugh. "I don't want to grow old." When Oka said this, everyone again burst into laughter.

71 “What are you sighing so much about, Kishimoto?” One of the painters spoke up. The tone was so comical that everyone began giggling again. “I’ve been waiting here ready to uncork champagne for you, Kishimoto, but who knows when we’ll actually get to drink it.” The painter sitting before Kishimoto said this in a friendly tone and laughed. This painter appeared rather aged, but his actual years proved surprisingly few. Even when young artists gathered like this at cafés, talk of art seldom arose. Those of differing temperaments and schools carefully avoided broaching specialized subjects. Not even Oka—who loved conversation—brought up his private discussions with Kishimoto about paintings and sculptures. Eventually one painter summoned the waiter. Tucking a white cloth under his arm, the waiter brought them worn dominoes and a stained playing cloth. He demonstrated arranging the tiles in a fan shape. A slate and chalk followed for scoring. Sunlight filtering into the dim room illuminated this small world where only Japanese gathered. Unrestrained laughter, French cigarette smoke curling quietly upward, and the heedless clatter of dominoes alone occupied the space. People clattering along stone pavements outside, neighborhood maids stopping for standing coffee at the counter, workers chatting with shopkeeper-like Frenchmen—all remained utterly separate from this microcosm in the back room. No one reproached or comprehended whatever these compatriots discussed. Kishimoto joined the game too, gazing awhile at tiles adorned with queens and soldiers until he realized travel’s tedium wasn’t bitterness he alone suffered. After long years abroad, many wore expressions of domino-weariness.

Before long, Kishimoto left the coffee shop. He walked back to his lodgings while contemplating the traveler's life he had been leading since arriving in Paris. Whenever opportunity arose, he would visit that metropolis' world of pleasure where a Parisian had once told him with a laugh, "Paris has everything." Sometimes he sought to relieve foreign loneliness by visiting nearby dance halls like Billiet's; other times he guided passing compatriots to distant Montmartre. With the same spirit that once made him relish listening to quiet shamisen in riverside rooms near Tokyo's Sumida River, he now took pleasure in watching Spanish-style dances performed for theatergoers on upper floors after Parisian playhouses closed. Yet what force had made him abandon everything - friends, relatives, even his own children - never left his thoughts for a single day.

72 The most delightful season had come to Paris. Among the avenue trees, it was the horse chestnuts that first infused this antiquated capital with vibrant new life, though the later-sprouting plane trees now hurried from bud to leaf—each day their foliage unfurling wider, forms growing larger, colors deepening—until already the streets had transformed into a realm of young verdure. Beyond the stone walls of homes, lilacs clustered thickly in purple and white had reached their glorious peak. This fair season worked to quicken Kishimoto's spirit anew.

While harboring such thoughts of resurgence, Kishimoto nonetheless continued to experience days of strangely unsettled feelings. Having come on this journey, he had not wished for a single luxury. He wished for nothing but to calm his soul. He had been unable to obtain what he needed most of all. Why he couldn't live in a Parisian lodging for even two or three years with the same mindset as if he had moved his study from Asakusa in Tokyo—that was something he couldn't explain. In a vexed state of mind, he left his lodgings. On the tree-lined street before the maternity hospital, plane tree trunks and branches cast their shadows across the sidewalk. Through that radiant sunlight passed a group of elementary school students led by their teacher. The French boys—apparently setting off on an excursion—all looked curiously at Kishimoto as they passed. Watching those innocent children depart, his thoughts turned to Izumi and Shigeru far away in their homeland. He wondered if Shigeru had begun attending school together with his brother that year.

He walked over to the front of the Observatory and looked. There too, boys and girls were playing under the quiet trees. The white blossoms blooming on the high branches of the horse chestnut trees were at their peak, appearing as though extending candlesticks toward a hidden "Spring’s" ball. The memory of when he had first set foot on European soil upon arriving at the port of Marseille the previous year returned anew to Kishimoto’s heart. For that past year or so, he had pictured himself as akin to a traveler who had walked without rest. Whether holed up under the roof of his Paris apartment or walking along the stone pavement in shoes, for him—who truly knew no rest—they were nearly the same. There would come days when he could neither stay in nor go out, leading him to wander aimlessly to the park, linger before shopfronts over there, peer into display windows here, and ultimately find himself sitting in coffee shops he had no desire to visit—the only way he could pass the time. There were times when these days stretched on endlessly. The year spent in a foreign land had indeed been one long, continuous wandering for him. He was dismayed at himself for having turned wandering into his occupation.

After wandering through the young foliage of the towns, by the time Kishimoto returned once more to his lodgings, he was exhausted from the fruitless exertion. He went to his own room and stood dejectedly by the window alone. He spotted in the distant sky the same white cotton-like clouds he had once seen from the mountains of Shinano. He gazed at the early spring clouds, their forms ceaselessly shifting as they were blown by the gentle breeze. Not even one of his close friends was by his side now. The work he had brought from home remained untouched no matter what. Even amidst this, he could not forget to send money to the Tokyo household left behind and support the children from afar. Was he too beginning to succumb to homesickness? The thought filled him with intense vexation. At times, he would press his forehead against the wooden floor of the room and feel the anguish of his journey—so intense that even weeping felt insufficient.

73

Passing by the Montparnasse cemetery, Kishimoto went and stood before Oka’s studio.

With the sound of a key opening the bluish-black painted door from within, Oka showed his face. Finding Oka’s studio in a quiet corner of Paris—a town on the outskirts where one might even hear a nightingale’s song—made Kishimoto reflect each time he visited on both the inconveniences of travel and an unexpected sense of carefreeness. There was also an artist older than Oka and the others who was called “Rōdai” (Old Master) and paid no mind to being teased by the younger crowd; the studio where he had once lived was also in the same building.

“Mr. Kishimoto, shall we light a fire?” said Oka with a welcoming expression, then went to search for the stretcher frame kept in the studio’s corner.

“You don’t need the fire anymore, do you?” said Kishimoto. “But somehow, it feels lonely without a fire—” Before Kishimoto’s eyes, Oka snapped the plainwood frame used for stretching canvas without hesitation and tossed it into the iron stove as kindling. Within the high-ceilinged room where easels, desks, beds, and the like were placed, the sound of fire burning began to be heard. Kishimoto pulled a chair to that side and, “Today I wanted to see you, so I came by for a bit.”

“It’s good you’ve come.” “I was just thinking of coming to see you again,” said Oka. Oka—a man of intense passions—appeared achingly aware of his bitter idleness, unable to produce satisfactory works yet continuing only mental battles; gazing from the fireplace side at the large newly stretched canvas left untouched in the room’s corner, “Mr. Kishimoto, I’ve been chanting the nembutsu lately—I’ve come to feel that way.”

Oka began saying something that could be interpreted in countless ways. He continued: “Since coming to Paris, everything old within me has been completely shattered. “Splendidly shattered. “But when I ask what new path I should take—I still haven’t found it. “I’ve no choice but to wait. “I think there’s nothing for it but to wait patiently until that takes form in my heart. “This journey has made me a believer in the Other-Power sect. “I mean to chant the nembutsu and try moving forward day by day. “I wrote to my father back home—you see how he worries about me—‘Father, these days I’ve come to feel like chanting the nembutsu, so please wait without fretting so much,’ like that.”

74 Though Oka’s talk of resigning himself to fate concerned matters of an artistic life, to Kishimoto’s ears it somehow also struck him as conveying this painter’s ardent, fierce, yet lost heart in matters of love. Kishimoto caught these words from Oka’s lips—Oka who had emphatically confirmed at their parting, “You can rest assured, can’t you?” and heard her stiff “Yes”; Oka who had never seen her again since; Oka who had sent an indignant letter declaring her mother—who sought to trample the sincerity of their mutual devotion—nothing short of a demon; Oka who even after coming to Paris would sometimes dream of murdering her brother and wake drenched in cold sweat—this Oka whose voice now uttered, “The journey has made me a believer in the Other-Power sect.”

At that moment, there came a light knocking sound from outside the studio, and a poor-looking French girl revealed half her figure through the door. The hatless girl peered inside and immediately tried to leave, but Oka called her back. Oka retrieved an empty bottle from a corner of the room and asked the girl to buy beer. "Is she a model?" inquired Kishimoto. "Yes, she sometimes comes by asking if I'll use her as one," replied Oka.

On the studio wall hung a landscape painting Oka had done along the Brittany coast, displayed without a frame. No matter when one came to look, that oil painting alone was never removed. Kishimoto stood before it, talking with Oka and gazing intently, when before long the girl returned from town carrying the bottle. “This girl and her sister are both hired as models. “This one is the younger sister. “If you ask, she’ll do things like fetch alcohol,” Oka demonstrated to Kishimoto, “but usually she just comes around to play and makes such a racket.”

The girl, hearing herself being discussed in unintelligible Japanese, laughed and went out. Oka brought a table to the stove-side, placed the beer there, and spoke of his parents back home. "When it comes to parents, I can't express how fortunate I feel." "Both my parents are perfectly aligned." "That gives me strength." "I received a letter from Mother just recently." "'Your father has grown quite old now, and we're relying on you alone—please strive to come home as soon as you can,' Mother wrote." "If not for my parents, I wouldn't want to return home at all." "Hearing news from home is painful." "I'd rather stay in Paris long-term." "Even during that incident—you can't imagine how much they must have worried for me." "I received my lover's final letter at my parents' house." "What's more, that letter seemed forced—like her mother or sister made her write it." "A farewell letter." "When Father handed it over saying 'This came for you,' I took it upstairs to read... When I didn't come down no matter how long they waited, Father and Mother grew so worried they heated sake and called me downstairs." "The moment I caught that sake's aroma—I couldn't hold back anymore. I started sobbing alone." "Father let me cry myself out in silence. When I thought he'd finally speak—wouldn't you know—his words were unexpectedly decent." "'You're one unlucky bastard with women,' he said..."

Oka repeated the words his father had supposedly said and laughed mockingly at himself.

75

While comparing himself to Oka—who had said he wouldn’t want to return home if not for his parents—Kishimoto eventually left the studio and made his way back toward the observatory.

“Does everyone who comes on a journey struggle like this?” He unconsciously uttered this to himself, turning from Rue Pasteur toward Montparnasse station, passing beneath the elevated railway’s iron bridge to emerge onto Edgar Quinet’s tree-lined avenue, then cutting through the town with its meat and vegetable markets—avoiding the cemetery direction—to cross straight into Montparnasse street. The area around General Née’s statue standing in the shade of the tree-lined avenue was Kishimoto’s constant wandering ground morning and evening. From the square where streets converged from six directions, one side offered a view of the entrance to Luxembourg Park while the other looked upon the observatory’s stone tower, round like a paper lantern. When he went that far, his lodgings were near.

"I wonder how friends in Tokyo are doing—" With these thoughts，he walked on under the dry，withered young leaves of the Platanus trees.

For Kishimoto, there was one historical site that captivated his traveler’s heart. None other than the legacy of Abelard and Héloïse. As a graduate of English studies, he knew few details about that renowned learned monk. Yet he had first become familiar with Abelard’s name long before. The love between Abelard and Héloïse. How much Kishimoto in his youth must have imagined that unrestrained passion within his young heart—one could scarcely know. How often the name of Abelard—who for that learned nun’s sake cast aside both manhood and priesthood—must have come up in his conversations during those younger days.

When Kishimoto heard from his roommate who was a Sorbonne student that the old university this French youth attended was precisely where Abelard had once taught—a place steeped in history—he felt as though reuniting with an old acquaintance. With this thought weighing on him, he returned to his room. Among the books he had brought from home in his travel bag was a collection by an English poet that evoked memories of years past. He opened it again to the translated verse within that chronicled the story of Abelard and Héloïse.

“Where's Héloise, thelearned nun, For whose sake Abeillard, I ween, Lost manhood and put priesthood on ? (From Love he won such dule and teen ! ) And where, I pray you, is the Queen Whowilled that Buridan should steer Sewed ina sack's mouth down the Seine ? "But where are the snows of yester-year ?” (The Ballad of Dead Ladies. ――Translation from François Villon by Rossetti.) It was twenty years ago that Kishimoto had recited this poem with friends at a boarding house in Ikenohata, Shitaya, Tokyo. Ichikawa, Suga, Fukutomi, Adachi—all his friends were young. The voice of that sensitive Ichikawa, who had recited “But where are the snows of yester-year?” as if unable to bear his own youth, still lingered deep in Kishimoto’s ears.

As night fell, a gentle rain came to the young Platanus leaves outside the inn’s window. In the quiet filled with the sound of rain, Kishimoto once again tried to imagine this historical site, attempting to console his solitary boredom.

76 "Is Uncle so eager to hear news from home?" Setsuko wrote to Kishimoto, explaining she'd decided to send this letter after reading his travel accounts in the newspaper. She added that though her letters might seem frequent, he should read them as if hearing news from home. Her letters gave detailed updates about Izumi and Shigeru growing into adulthood, yet always carried an air of dissatisfaction with mere factual reporting. She wrote that her condition—the one that had worried Uncle—had finally improved enough that strangers wouldn't notice at a glance, so he needn't worry. Of course, she noted, those who knew what to look for would still see it immediately. She also wrote of being troubled by something like athlete's foot on both hands, making kitchen work difficult. She even mentioned her hair kept falling out, leaving her anxious. Every time Kishimoto read such letters from Setsuko, he sighed and strengthened his resolve never to return home.

Even amidst his travels, Kishimoto found no shortage of compatriots to bid farewell to or welcome. As the favorable season approached, he increasingly heard news of people intent on moving from journey to journey. Among those who had finished their Italian travels and left anecdotal souvenirs at Kishimoto's lodgings was a Kyoto University graduate specializing in archaeology. Among those who had sent word from Germany about preparing to depart for Italy was a Keio University exchange student majoring in art history. There was also an art school assistant professor leaving his riverside room on the Seine to soon begin his return voyage to Japan, and two painters who had newly arrived in Paris via Siberia.

“I heard of Mr. Kishimoto’s arrival in Paris when I was in Moscow.” After saying this, there was also a guest who came to show his familiar face at Kishimoto’s lodgings. This guest was someone who had come intending to spend a month or two in Paris. After Oka came from the direction of the studio and met them in the room, the travel talk among unguarded comrades began. Even welcoming someone as perpetually youthful as this guest in a foreign inn was rare for Kishimoto. The well-fitted navy blue suit and light, travel-style attire made him look even younger.

“Isn’t there a reputation that you don’t go out to enjoy yourself at all since coming to Paris?” “Doesn’t that make you feel lonely?” The guest said with a laugh. “So Mr. Kishimoto isn’t entirely averse to socializing after all,” Oka took up the guest’s thread, “He goes wherever others go, and whenever people gather saying ‘Shall we talk?’ he’s always the one to propose staying up all night.” “It’s funny that Mr. Kishimoto even has a nickname like ‘Amorous Jizo.’” “So he’s someone who gladly plays Cupid in love affairs, eh?” “And yet he himself is perfectly content just watching from the sidelines.”

"But really, you don't need to adopt such a special mindset just because you've come traveling. Can't we live with the same state of mind we had back home?" said Kishimoto. 77

As if the youth that all things vie for had passed, even the guest who looked so youthful seemed unable to withstand time’s relentless march; they immersed themselves in stories of their travels, yet long after Oka and that man had departed, a multitude of emotions lingered in Kishimoto’s heart.

“Now that we’re on the subject, I must confess—I’ve committed my share of sins through your poetry collection.” “Looking back, I wasn’t being sincere either.” “I may have used your poems as bait and led who knows how many young women astray.”

The voice the guest had left behind still lingered in the room even after his departure. The face of the guest who had recited countless poems from Kishimoto's youth still hovered before his eyes. The man had told him to imagine a youth lying in a meadow caressed by a gentle, rustling breeze, reciting Kishimoto's old verses. He had also told him to envision a young schoolgirl who often wandered into that meadow as if to gather flowers. He had said the windborne recitations easily captured maidens' hearts. And he had added that Kishimoto's poetry collection proved most effective when the maiden belonged to a sheltered, well-bred background. Kishimoto knew well that the guest possessed a voice of pure admiration. This confession—neither innocent nor mature, but so childishly absurd as to be almost farcical—left Kishimoto stunned. He felt he stood before someone of an entirely different temperament from himself.

“However, fantasies like those of the past are gradually disappearing.” “I suppose that much means I’ve aged as well.” “I sometimes think that—if one becomes unable to love, humans would feel so anxious.” “I can still do it—that’s what I tell myself to find comfort.” This too was a voice the guest had left behind. “I can do it too.”

It was Oka who stood before the guest and declared this with force. Kishimoto could still see the gleam in their eyes from that moment before him. The poetry collection that the guest had reportedly used as a means to approach women was, for its author Kishimoto, conversely a memento of his youthful heart created during a time when he had distanced himself from feminine entanglements. He had been around twenty-five when he went to an inn in Sendai and wrote it. That year in Sendai remained an unforgettable, joyful time for him. It was a period he would often recall even years later. The reason for that joy lay in having maintained mental tranquility through complete separation from women. Indeed, Kishimoto was a man who had walked steadfastly from youth until that day, striving to remain unburdened by womankind.

78 On the day when the assistant professor at the art school—who had been rumored repeatedly to depart but had not departed—was finally to embark on his return journey to Japan from the northern station, Kishimoto too went to the station with the heartfelt air of seeing someone off. On that day, most of the artist colleagues residing in Paris had gathered. The assistant professor being seen off was someone returning home, while those seeing him off were those who remained.

The traveler’s emotions ran deep even among those seeing him off. It was exactly as if a welcoming ship had arrived for those gathered on some distant island, where only one person had been permitted to board. The assistant professor was well-liked even among the younger crowd. At gatherings held at the Japanese restaurant proprietress’s house—unrestrained parties without any foreigners—when everyone tried to forget their travel weariness through innocent, artist-like revelry, the assistant professor would always join the young people in singing. To see off this unpretentious pioneer came painters from Dantfer-Rochereau who often brandished spear-rust props and excelled at Kanjinchō performances; a painter from Montparnasse who startled crowds with vocal shamisen imitations of Echigo lion dances; and sculptors and painters from various towns possessing hidden talents—oiwake folk songs, hauta ballads, naniwabushi narratives, farcical sutra chants—all gathering to mourn the parting. Oka too seemed to send him off with reluctant resolve, pinning hopes on the assistant professor’s future advocacy after returning home. Kishimoto found himself among artists he would rarely have encountered except on such occasions. He met a sculptor who had married a French woman and lived in Paris for six or seven years. He also met a petite female compatriot painter who had come from America and resided in a studio.

After seeing off the assistant professor, Kishimoto took the subway to Vavin Station. He had come to keenly feel that he ultimately could not return to his homeland. That feeling was further deepened by seeing someone returning home. Walking from Vavin toward his lodging—it being around the time of Roman Catholic Communion ceremonies—he encountered several girls near a branch of Notre-Dame who seemed to be returning from worship. Maidens in pure white garments walked through the town in many groups with solemn expressions, each led by mothers. He had come to this country full of strangers and agonized over how he was to live out his days.

"The force that has guided me until today will surely guide me tomorrow as well—I beg you not to worry so much for my sake." Kishimoto recalled these words he had written to a certain friend in Tokyo even after returning to his lodgings. If possible, he wished to find suitable employment at his destination. If possible, he wished to bring over even the children he had left behind in his homeland and live long-term in foreign lands. For that purpose, he needed to take more time, find a competent language instructor, and study the tongue thoroughly. Learning this language while fulfilling his vow—made when departing Japan—to wield his pen as much as possible abroad proved fundamentally irreconcilable endeavors. Moreover, in that distant realm where even exchanging letters consumed months, he often found himself ignorant of affairs back home, until even his immediate journey began feeling fraught with obstacles.

"How far does fate intend to take me?" Such questions disturbed Kishimoto’s heart. At times, he would kneel on the floor of his room, press his forehead against the hard wooden floorboards, and shed hot tears.

79

Kishimoto, who had intended to go among strangers, within about a year came to know the families of the clerk from Billancourt and Professor Bloss, as well as the poet residing on Quai de la Rapée, the female sculptor living in the town called Madame, and the collector of Japanese art dwelling on Quai de Béthune. However, the more Kishimoto mingled with the locals, the more this gnawing frustration—this sense of being an unfulfilled outsider—clung to his heart. In June, Kishimoto received a letter from the mother of the clerk from Billancourt. In it, she began by writing that the elderly woman had long been bedridden—though you must have thought she had forgotten all about you, this was absolutely not the case, and her prolonged silence had been due to her own illness. She wrote asking if you would come for dinner next Saturday evening, saying they all wanted to see you. "I imagine you must now speak some French," she wrote, "but as my daughter-in-law does not know English and my son is often away from home, we have not invited you over as often as we would have liked." She also wrote that the niece in Tokyo often sent letters inquiring whether she could meet you. The elderly woman had written this letter in English. The clerk’s mother had once been reported to be in critical condition, and during her illness, there were times when Kishimoto visited Billancourt only to return without meeting the elderly woman.

"The first elderly woman I met upon coming to France was the one who thought of me the most." Kishimoto had come to feel this at every turn. After Pentecost had passed, Kishimoto received another letter from Billancourt. This time, it was not by the mother’s hand but by the clerk’s that arrangements had been made—since two or three close friends and relatives were gathering for tea, Kishimoto too was asked to come. Compared to the time when he couldn’t even navigate the Seine without Bedecca’s guidebook, Kishimoto had at least grown accustomed enough to travel to Billancourt by either water or land routes. With the pleasure of seeing the French family he liked, he rode the train along the banks of the Seine. When Kishimoto stood at the gate of the clerk’s house and pushed the iron door, the familiar pet dog noticed him and came bounding over, but showed no sign of barking at all anymore.

The elderly woman was out in the garden where flowers bloomed; she had placed several chairs near the broad stone steps directly before the house entrance and waited there for guests. Long benches had also been arranged in that area. In the garden dappled with afternoon sunlight filtering through tree leaves, Kishimoto joined the elderly woman, the wife, and female guests invited for tea. He was also introduced to a couple comprising a Russian musician married to a French woman.

“I thought I might never see you again, Mr. Kishimoto. To think I’ve become this healthy—it feels like a dream even to myself.”

The elderly woman explained this to Kishimoto. To Kishimoto, it seemed almost miraculous to see her—this woman who had risen from her deathbed—still clad in old-fashioned black French garments, quietly strolling through the garden while still tending to her aged body with care. He perceived in both her movements and speech a restless idleness—this woman who had already distributed her property and made her will, only to regain robust health. But that wasn’t all—as they conversed, he came to realize a grave matter now troubled this household.

80 Talk arose about the elderly woman’s niece who had forsaken France for Japan. Though termed a tea gathering, that day’s affair appeared to be a very private one; people holding teacups sat scattered about on chairs, engaged in casual conversation. Amidst this, Kishimoto heard directly from the elderly woman about Mademoiselle’s impending marriage in Tokyo.

The elderly woman looked worried, “Bring me that letter, please.”

The elderly woman said to the wife. The wife went up the stone steps at the front of the house and brought back the letter from Japan. “Mother, it says a Mr. Taki,” said the clerk’s wife, looking at Mademoiselle’s letter. “Mr. Kishimoto, do you know an artist named Mr. Taki?” asked the elderly woman. “I know there are two artists with the surname Taki, but I don’t know either of them personally.” Kishimoto’s answer seemed to make the elderly woman even more anxious.

“Even Mr. Kishimoto says he doesn’t know him well.” The elderly woman exchanged glances with the clerk’s wife, their shared apprehension about what manner of Japanese man this artist—their niece’s prospective husband—might be passing wordlessly between them. When all was said and done, this aunt in France remained Mademoiselle’s true guardian of concern. At that moment, Kishimoto recalled the elderly woman’s past confession: “Everyone blames me—calls it my failing—that my niece went off to Japan like that.” Could this foreign woman, so unversed in local ways, have truly found a fitting spouse in alien soil? Such misgivings lay plain upon the elderly woman’s face.

“It seems this Mr. Taki had studied abroad in Paris as well,” said the clerk’s wife. “It says so in the letter.” As she read aloud excerpts from Mademoiselle’s letter, the name of Kishimoto’s close friend from Bancho in Tokyo emerged. Through an introduction from this Bancho friend, it became apparent that Mademoiselle had come to know the artist. “Getting married in Japan—what will they do about the ceremony? What about religion? Poor Mademoiselle must be so troubled, being all alone there.”

When the clerk’s wife said this, the elderly woman followed up, “Poor girl.” she muttered. “In any case, since many young Japanese artists have come to Paris, I will inquire about this Mr. Taki.” “Since Mademoiselle is a capable person, there’s no need to worry about her doing anything rash.” Thus Kishimoto reassured the elderly woman and the clerk’s wife. Soon after the clerk entered, a Japanese lawyer came into the room. The elderly woman asked the lawyer about this Mr. Taki too, in a tone that presumed no Japanese lawyer handling legal affairs could possibly be ignorant of developments in the art world. When the lawyer replied he’d never even heard Taki’s name, the elderly woman—with both clerk and Kishimoto present—snapped in uncharacteristically harsh tones:

“Neither of you know him.” The clerk stood silently before the elderly mother with a look of concern for Mademoiselle at the edge of the Orient.

81 For Mademoiselle, who had introduced him to this French family, and for that delicate soul said to have departed for Japan yearning after its skies, Kishimoto resolved to investigate this artist Taki as thoroughly as possible—to reassure the anxious aunts fretting from afar. Even after leaving Billancourt house and walking along the poplar-lined embankment toward the steamboat landing, he kept interrogating himself. Why did those Billancourt folk worry so intensely about Mademoiselle’s marriage?

"Is it not because the other party is Japanese—" The answer inevitably drifted there. Even after boarding the ship, Kishimoto found himself wondering whether Mademoiselle's exotic tastes had truly driven her to marry a Japanese person. A few days later, Kishimoto obtained favorable news about Mademoiselle’s spouse. Even among resident artists, Makino—a painter who had recently arrived from their homeland via Suez—knew Taki well. Makino was close with Oka and acquainted with the friend from Bancho in Tokyo. The "Paris village" that had sent "the Elder," dispatched an assistant professor from art school, and—as far as Kishimoto knew—at least three other young artists had now added this Makino; Kotake who came via Siberia; and a few other newcomers.

“To have become the wife of a man like Taki—that’s a stroke of luck.” Encouraged by Makino’s words, Kishimoto promptly sent a favorable report to Billancourt. Having written about Taki’s reliable character and good upbringing that he had heard from Makino, he added that Mademoiselle had not made a poor choice and that there was absolutely no need to worry, then sent it off. The reply from the clerk’s mother came to Kishimoto from the coast of Sevrès-d'Onne, a summer resort. The elderly woman began her letter with thanks for what Kishimoto had conveyed, wrote that her son was now in Paris but as he had instructed that the letter be sent there for her to read as well, and that she was replying herself with deep gratitude. She wrote that if her own brother—the niece’s biological father—had lived to see this day, how would he have regarded this marriage? Whenever she thought of that, she was simply astonished at heart. However, given what you had conveyed, everything did seem favorable, and since her niece had not sought any counsel from her whatsoever, she wrote that they could only hope from the shadows for this matter to proceed smoothly. The elderly woman also added that the Seebl region was vast and beautiful, and wrote that the many families who had come there to escape the heat all seemed like friends, and that it was delightful to see children playing on the sand. In any case, she wrote that while the weather had been rainy, fortunately the sun had also begun to shine. From your old friend.

82

With a sense of having unexpectedly understood another's heart, Kishimoto wrote another letter to the clerk in Billancourt. If they were so anxious about Mademoiselle's marriage prospects, he sent a letter suggesting that since the friend in Bancho, Tokyo appeared capable of supporting Mademoiselle, it might be advisable to recommend she consult this friend about all matters. This letter seemed to have been redirected to the elderly woman, as an immediate reply arrived from the coast of Seebl. The elderly woman wrote apologizing for troubling him about her niece. I must say with regret that my niece is willful and has never done anything beyond her own desires, she wrote. She was born exceedingly delicate—so much so that her own parents never imagined she would live to this age. That they silently indulged her whims and fantasies was likely due to her prolonged frailty. She was born into great wealth and remains ignorant of the world; thus she rejects others' counsel. If she believes she can manage everything alone, then it would be splendid if she succeeds, she wrote. It appears Mr. Taki hadn't even known my niece during his Paris studies; while her letter describes him as exceedingly reserved, she neglected to mention what kind of artist he is. Should you have further information for my son, he still frequents the library, and I intend to separately write my niece urging consultation with that Bancho friend per your advice—though if she fears his opposition, she may refuse altogether. She abandoned her mother on her deathbed to pursue amusement in Japan; we sent telegrams urging her return, but when she reached Paris to visit her ailing mother, all had already concluded. Her willfulness is terrifying to contemplate; we cannot comprehend her heart, she wrote.

When he placed the elderly woman’s letter before him and looked at it, Kishimoto felt as if he himself were being scolded along with her. That one could only act as one thought proper applied not just to Mademoiselle—he himself was exactly the same. Yet in his heart, he defended her. "Wasn’t this the elderly woman’s own reflection: 'For me, Japan was an imagined homeland'?" In other words, was Mademoiselle not someone attempting to physically manifest her aunt’s dreams? When she went to Japan and married a Japanese man, why could they not show more sympathetic understanding? That she had abandoned her mother on her deathbed to leave France might indeed have been Mademoiselle’s failing—but without such desperate resolve, how could anyone venture alone toward Eastern skies?

83

The elderly woman's letter contained rather harsh words. Yet among people of this foreign land, there were few who would write such truths to Kishimoto. He had come to realize how removed his journey as an outsider was from the lives of the locals. He had come to realize how thickly an atmosphere permeated him—an atmosphere of extreme politeness cloaking something cold and severe, an atmosphere so professionalized that one grew accustomed to it unawares—among those who made their living tending to the travelers flocking to Paris from various nations. Each time he viewed his lodgings through eyes that had seen French households, he could not help but sigh.

At Kishimoto’s lodgings was staying an assistant professor from Kyoto University named Takase, who had come from Germany. This man’s room was right next to Kishimoto’s, separated by nothing more than a single wall. When he went to see that room with its lone window, the branches of the tall plane trees lining the street stretched closer to the windowsill than they did from Kishimoto’s room, their dense green foliage proclaiming July’s arrival. “You can see the inn where Mr. Chimura stayed from here.” Kishimoto spoke as if suddenly remembering, gazing at the inn’s structure visible through the verdant leaf cover. The one who had introduced Takase to Kishimoto was likewise a professor from that university—for Kishimoto, this meant Chimura, with whom he had briefly shared meals in the lodging’s dining hall.

“Mr. Chimura, I think it’s remarkable how he managed to endure such an inn,” said Kishimoto. “Didn’t Mr. Chimura say that to me? ‘Even so, your room remains enviable. From my window here, when I look, the sun shines on your room’s window all day long,’ he said. ‘Since it’s a town made up entirely of tall buildings, there are rooms like that where the sun doesn’t reach, you see. If you call it a hotel, it sounds nice, but in reality, it must have been quite pitiable for Mr. Chimura.’”

As they spoke of this, memories surfaced in Kishimoto's mind—times when he had gone over to that inn across the way to spend late nights comparing travel experiences with others, and times when Chimura too would come to this lodging at every mealtime to talk at length. "Back when Mr. Chimura was here, we often discussed homesickness, didn't we? There was even that story about how people told me, 'If you go to the West, you'll surely come down with homesickness.'"

When Kishimoto again mentioned Chimura—who had gone to Germany—Takase too seemed to recall something. “There’s no one who’s come to the West that hasn’t been afflicted with at least some degree of homesickness.” This sigh of Takase’s, surpassing the hollow bravado of other travelers, sounded to Kishimoto like the voice of a cherished compatriot.

84 Takase was a young scholar who, like Professor Chimura, had established himself in economics. Compared to Chimura—whom Kishimoto had met earlier in Paris—Takase had come to Paris after enduring all manner of hardships in Germany, which made him far more travel-hardened than that professor. He brought with him various travelers' tales heard during his German sojourn. From Takase's lips emerged stories of compatriots stricken with shockingly severe homesickness. One international student had leapt from a high window to his death. Another had sunk into extreme hysterics. This latter man, taken under the wing of cultured yet kindhearted compatriots, found himself invited to meet a German woman who survived by offering herself to travelers. Upon seeing this lowly woman, he had reportedly burst into tears. Even when hearing such tales from Takase, Kishimoto could not laugh.

“It’s terrible, isn’t it?” said Kishimoto. “The position we occupy in Paris is exactly like that of Chinese international students around Kanda in Tokyo. I often think such things. In such circumstances, it’s only natural to come down with homesickness, I think. Now that I think about it, it was wrong to mistreat Chinese international students like that.” “When I used to walk around Kanda, I didn’t think that way either,” Takase also said. “It wasn’t until I came to Europe that I understood that.”

“Those fellows too—back in China, they’re all youths from respectable backgrounds, aren’t they? When I think of those people being treated as mere travelers, spending considerable money yet suffering such misery, I can’t help but feel truly sorry for them. There’s nothing more loathsome than spending money only to feel wretched. When I was leaving the country, there was someone who said, ‘Once you go to Europe and see for yourself, you won’t know whether we’ve risen in status or fallen into ruin.’”

Unintentionally, Kishimoto tried to vent through Chinese international students—using them as a pretext—the bitter experiences he could never have imagined when leaving his country, along with his daily patience and indignation. Every time he thought of Oka, Makino, and Kotake—who lived and worked in studios near Pasteur—he would envision them creating art under the same roof as prostitutes and women from back-alley shops, unable to help pitying their actual circumstances. In this country that proclaimed liberty, fraternity, and equality as its mottos, there existed only the extremely wealthy and the extremely poor—he even began doubting whether a comfortable middle-class life like that in his homeland could exist here at all.

When he gained a companion like Takase, with whom he could share thoughts about their travels morning and night, Kishimoto realized these indescribable feelings were not his alone to bear. On walks through the town, he would often invite Takase to his favorite spots discovered in the vicinity - to the quiet tree-lined path behind the Observatory, to the rose garden at the rear of the Luxembourg Museum, sometimes even to the impoverished neighborhoods near the Gobelin Market. Gazing from his lodgings at a Paris that seemed to hold both poetry and science within its bounds, he compared his own plight to Takase's - this scholar who appeared to be catching his breath midway through his lifelong academic journey.

85

"Your journey isn't like others', is it? You're hiding things even from Takase next door. How can you sleep with your head held high like this?" Such a voice tested Kishimoto. His room at the town's corner connected to Takase's on the maternity hospital side through tree-lined streets, and to another room facing the narrow alley where Mont-Toulon omnibuses ran. He kept that side rented for a young French lawyer from the Court of Appeals, who left at dawn and returned late. The lawyer might as well have been absent during daytime. Aside from Takase and Kishimoto, only a young German lodged there, keeping the house quiet. From his room, Kishimoto would hear Takase pacing next door. Though devoted to scientific research, Takase seemed to dabble in oil painting interiors—a diversion since arriving in Paris. The footsteps through the wall conveyed more keenly than face-to-face meetings the weariness of this traveling scholar.

Kishimoto went to stand before the mirror attached to the hinged door of the storage cabinet. His own hair, which had grown even more conspicuously white since embarking on this journey, was reflected in the glass. For a while, he gazed at his own figure. There in the mirror was a man who seemed intent on deceiving himself.

“Dead secret.”

Suddenly, such detestable words in English rose to his lips. Kishimoto, trying to bury his own tracks so that no one would find out, attempted as much as possible to avoid touching upon the dark secret by losing himself in other matters. After waiting for over a year in a distant land far from his country, he reached the point of receiving word from his niece: “It’s become such that someone unaware wouldn’t notice at a mere glance, so please be reassured.” If his brother kept silent, if Setsuko kept silent, and if he himself remained silent as well, it began to seem that this matter could indeed be buried. There had never been a time when his brother failed to keep silent. His brother was by nature someone who would steadfastly uphold anything he had once undertaken, a man who valued honor more than most, and moreover, this matter concerned his daughter’s entire life. There had never been a time when Setsuko failed to keep silent. She had even written to say she flattered the old maid she used to employ by calling her terrifying. If he alone remained silent—silent—so Kishimoto thought, he resolved to wait further for the power of “time.” From the beginning, he had embarked on this journey intending to receive his own lash. The hardships had been anticipated from the beginning; if through them he could make amends, then to atone for his own sins had been his wish since leaving his homeland.

"Even after enduring all this, is it still not enough?" He repeated this to himself.

86

Setsuko had unusually entered Kishimoto’s dream. Due to oppressive heat, Kishimoto kicked off the heavy blanket and half-rose on his bed by the wall to look around, yet still felt lingering dread from waking. It was a summer-like night yet oddly chill. Kishimoto layered his quilted robe from home over sleepwear and stepped down from bed. Approaching the window to open its high curtain, he saw pale dreamlike light of approaching dawn. The streets still silent save faint carriage bells and patrolmen’s footsteps echoing through dark plane trees. The brief night sky lingering at dawn’s edge combined with twilight longer than home’s evoked foreign melancholy. Both Takase next door and the French lawyer seemed still deep asleep. Kishimoto took a drag of strong French cigarettes and retraced Setsuko’s rare dream-visit. The image flickered before him—her anxious touch at chest where she’d had tumor surgery. As if through terror-filled hallucination, he now felt keenly what he’d barely noticed before.

“Uncle, please return from France pretending not to know anything.” Those words Setsuko had spoken at the house in Asakusa, Tokyo—the words she had uttered when approaching him during his frantic journey preparations—suddenly rose to his mind. Kishimoto recalled this alone and felt a chill. Leaving the window curtain open, Kishimoto climbed back into bed. By the time he awoke again after falling asleep once more, it was considerably late. That morning, the dreadful sensation from the dream still hadn’t left him even when he rose and sat at his desk.

"Why does Setsu act like that? Why does she keep sending such letters time and again?" Kishimoto tried saying this aloud as if his niece were there with him, then let out a sigh. For Kishimoto, who tried as much as possible not to touch upon "that matter" and even wanted to avoid anything that might remind him of it, even receiving letters from Setsuko was painful. He had once heard a certain German word from a Keio University exchange student who had previously stayed at this boarding house. When that word was explained to mean 'incest' in English—a pathological characteristic found among those with warped minds—merely hearing such a term had shocked him. When told another exchange student’s story about an affair with a young wife, and when hearing how she became pregnant during her husband’s absence, such tales alone had tormented his conscience. Moreover, when that young student recounted the story as if flaunting his beauty and talent, Kishimoto could not help but feel intense anguish burning within him. Why must immorality be a source of pride for others, yet become such torment for me? he had even lamented. For over a year now, he had tried to shut the eyes of his heart by losing himself in travel.

87

Even in those foreign lodgings where nostalgic letters from home—so precious that he would occasionally take out old correspondence just to reread them—made even a single postcard feel invaluable, Kishimoto burned or tore up every letter he received from his niece, never leaving them where his eyes might fall upon them. In secret, he wished for Setsuko—he wanted her to forget about him in his travels and think of her own long life ahead. From that resolve, he had avoided corresponding with Setsuko as much as possible, taking care to write any necessary replies addressed to her brother Yoshio. However, just when he thought she might have finally begun to forget, another letter would arrive from her, and each time, Kishimoto’s torment only deepened. The many letters she had sent since Kobe remained as a question in Kishimoto’s heart. Ever since she had written to say she could finally break free from that dark shadow—the shadow said to have clung to her without a day’s respite—she had somehow become a different person. Despite having been inflicted with such profound wounds, she was a person who knew no remorse whatsoever. According to Kishimoto, could a woman like Setsuko—born with the heart of a young maiden—ever truly bare her small chest before someone as vastly different in age as himself, a man whose temples were already half-gray? Each time he thought this, Kishimoto would reflect on Setsuko being the mother of a son. Amidst men and women who are prone to separation and quick to forget, he contemplated just how deeply rooted their relationship was. Unless he pushed his imagination that far, there were aspects of the letters she kept sending that simply didn’t sit right with Kishimoto.

“Is that what happens when one has a child—”

Before he knew it, Kishimoto recalled things he did not want to remember and sat dazedly alone in his room. He suspected Setsuko was attempting to protect her motherhood by dismissing the notion of their immoral act. Every time he thought of Setsuko from afar, he did not merely feel a profound sense of guilty sorrow. At the same time, he even came to feel an inexpressible terror. A knocking sound came from outside the door. Kishimoto left his chair and went to open it.

88

It was Oka who knocked on the door. Whenever there was a new exhibition, he would come to invite Kishimoto; whenever new paintings were hung at the art shop near Madeleine Church, he would come to invite him. Seeing this painter's face, Kishimoto regained his composure. Oka brought not only dejected souls like himself who refused to return home but also always spirited young people to Kishimoto's presence. "Oka, have you heard of Abelard?"

Kishimoto began to speak. Starting from the notion that one could never predict what might emerge from this storied capital resembling a great treasure vault, Kishimoto told Oka how Abelard and Héloïse's deeds had powerfully gripped his heart in youth; how upon arriving in Paris he discovered that same Abelard had once taught at the Sorbonne, whose scholarly traditions extended back to that celebrated medieval monk's era; and how he had felt both astonishment and joy upon finding the lovers' tomb in Paris's Père Lachaise Cemetery.

“At this boarding house now, there’s also a Dr. Yanagi who comes here just for meals.” “He’s staying at the hotel where Mr. Chimura used to live.” “He’s also a professor at a university in Kyoto.” “With Dr. Yanagi, Takase next door, and me—the three of us visited Père Lachaise.” “It was quite a splendid cemetery.” “At the far end stood a marble sculpture designated as the ‘Monument to Death,’ and with its hill-leaning topography offering fine views, Paris could be seen clearly from the chapel-topped hill.” “After searching exhaustively, we ended up standing before an old chapel.” “That, my friend, is the tomb of Abelard and Héloïse.” “Two reclining figures lay inside the chapel, with an inscription displayed beside them.” “It said something about these people sharing an unchanging spiritual love throughout their lives, didn’t it?” “Well, it’s like a lovers’ tomb, I suppose.” “But you see, if there were a moss-covered gravestone carved with both their names that visitors seek out, it might feel like a lovers’ tomb—but that’s not it at all.” “What astonishes is the man and woman’s statues lying majestically side by side.” “‘It’s truly the country of Amour,’ Mr. Takase said with a laugh, if I recall correctly.”

This story characteristic of Kishimoto’s travels made Oka smile. Kishimoto continued speaking, “However, it was an old-fashioned, quiet chapel—the kind you wouldn’t see except in a Catholic country, you know. It seems many people visit to pay their respects—the iron fence surrounding the chapel was completely covered with men’s and women’s names. In that regard, the West and Japan are no different, aren’t they? Everyone wants to share in the fate of those two, don’t they?—”

As he continued to that point, Oka interrupted Kishimoto’s words. “Mr. Kishimoto, what do you think? At your age, do you still imagine things like love?”

"Well, you see, as one ages, I do believe there exists an entirely different, more complex realm of romance compared to one's youth," he said. "But something like love will likely never come to me again." In his younger days, Kishimoto's face would flush crimson at even the mere mention of such topics. Though moments still came when hot tears would flow as they once did, his cheeks no longer colored so readily.

89

“Mr. Kishimoto, I’ve come with a request,” Oka said at that moment. “Actually, I haven’t eaten since this morning.” Kishimoto widened his eyes and looked at Oka. In their travels, theirs was a relationship where they helped and relied on each other—such occurrences were not uncommon—yet the overly forthright tone Oka had just used still managed to startle Kishimoto. He realized that this talkative painter had been speaking about “love” while keeping “hunger” at bay.

“Oka, when you have something, you have it, but when you don’t, you’re really out of luck,” Kishimoto said in a familiar tone and laughed. “Well, let’s figure something out. Then you can wait at Simonne’s house while having lunch or something. I’ll head out right after you.” Kishimoto’s journey was sometimes sufficient, sometimes insufficient. Unlike journeys such as Takase’s, this stemmed both from how circumstances back home had changed over many months and years and from how the work he had intended to accomplish upon coming to Paris often remained unfulfilled.

"The trouble with being in a foreign country is that when trouble comes, it truly does come." After muttering this to himself, he followed after Oka, who had stepped ahead. When they went to Simonne’s house, everyone from the master to the waitstaff had gathered together in a corner of that familiar back room and were seated at a rather late meal, as befits a household engaged in hospitality. Simonne was becoming more and more of a lovely young woman. She sat beside her mother, stuffing her cheeks with French bread as she ate. While watching the family enjoy their meal with apparent delight, Oka—in the same room—had also begun a simple lunch. There, Kishimoto brought some provisions he had prepared.

After Makino and Kotake met at this coffee shop, Oka grew even more spirited. Among the three painters, Kotake was the eldest, followed by Oka, then Makino in order of age. For Kishimoto, both Makino and Kotake were people whose names he had heard back in his home country. For Makino, Kishimoto had imagined a more intense person. The Makino he met turned out to be unexpectedly gentle, meticulous, and moreover a vigorous artist. The glossy color of his cheeks harmonized well with his reddish hair, making him appear even more youthful. For Kotake, Kishimoto had imagined someone more difficult to approach. Kotake, who had become a travel companion, was an artist who seemed immediately approachable, not prone to disliking people, and displayed a calm disposition likely to be liked by anyone. The two of them had not been in Paris long, and even their travel-worn Western clothes remained unsoiled by black grime.

“Makino remains unmistakably Makino. “I thought you’d come looking more haggard, but I’m impressed by your vigor,” Oka said. “That’s different from someone like you, Oka,” Makino teased. “Now that we’re all gathered like this, I suppose I’m the eldest after all,” Kishimoto said. “Mr. Kishimoto, someone like you is already in the old man’s league,” Makino retorted playfully with a laugh. “But back home, we never get to assemble like this with everyone. No matter how you look at it, traveling makes things more lively,” Kotake said. “I’ve also had the pleasure of seeing Oka’s patronage mademoiselle quite often—”

“Anyway, when you come on a journey, you do end up reflecting on yourself,” Oka replied with a touch of seriousness. For a time, Kishimoto enjoyed pleasant moments with this group. He envied Makino and Kotake, whose carefree minds found interest in everything they saw and heard.

90

With thoughts of the children he had left behind in his homeland weighing on him, and to provide for Izumi and Shigeru who were far away, Kishimoto hurried to complete the work he wished to accomplish at the inn.

It was around the time July had entered its latter half. Thunderstorms would sometimes come outside the window, and at times, the room would darken so abruptly in broad daylight that lamps were needed. What Kishimoto attempted to continue was a portion of his autobiography that he had begun writing in his former study in Asakusa, Tokyo. Sitting at his desk in the room, the feelings from when he had first begun that manuscript—the feelings from when that terrifying storm had closed in on him before he had even conceived of this journey—the feelings from when he had thought in that Asakusa second-floor room that this might be his final act of writing—all these came and went within Kishimoto’s breast. Even the mere thought that he could resume work on that manuscript again in his Paris lodgings struck him as strange.

Kishimoto read Austria’s declaration of war against Serbia just as he was beginning his own work. With each passing day, the towns grew increasingly unsettled. A strange, oppressive, ominous silence began to dominate the towns. The faces Kishimoto saw daily in the dining hall were Dr.Yanagi, who came from the inn near the maternity hospital, and Takase from the adjacent room; the young German guests were no longer to be seen. Each time they gathered in the dining hall, Takase and Kishimoto increasingly found themselves exchanging puzzled looks.

Amid an anxious atmosphere that presaged the impending rupture of great events, Kishimoto hastened his work. That French writer born in Normandy had reportedly begun drafting *The Temptation of Saint Anthony* during the Franco-Prussian War, taking up his pen amidst the Siege of Paris. They said that very writer had conceived the work at precisely fifty years of age. In his traveler's state, Kishimoto imagined these things—picturing how that writer he'd often discussed with friends back home had been writing in Paris some forty-odd years prior—seeking through this to console and fortify himself. At times he would lay down his half-grasped brush and go to his room's window. A hush lingered there like the stillness before a sudden cloudburst. He went to inspect the dining hall too. There stood the boardinghouse landlady—living with fearsome thrift—begrudging even lamplight as she brooded over her uncertain future in the dim corner.

“Mr. Kishimoto, look there—that’s surely an omen of something.” The landlady stood by the dining hall window and pointed out to him the maternity hospital building stained reddish-purple by the twilight air. Her niece—a red-curled girl from the Limoges countryside—gazed alongside them through the window at the sunset bleeding like fresh blood. “War may be unavoidable after all.” With this pronouncement, the landlady gave a characteristically French shrug of her shoulders.

Around the sixth day since Austria declared war on Serbia, Kishimoto finally finished part of the work he needed to mail to his home country. The tree-lined avenue, usually teeming with passersby, felt unnaturally quiet; even those out walking had grown scarce.

91

The peaceful stage of Paris was transforming with truly rapid momentum. Around the time rumors spread that the mobilization order would be issued today or tomorrow, Kishimoto went with Takase to see off someone bound for Belgium at North Station. They incidentally stopped by East Station too. Before the noticeboard inside that station, they learned traffic across the Franco-German border had already been severed, with both railways and telegraph lines rendered impassable. Germans and Austrians trying to leave Paris had all gathered at the station in travel attire, sprawling directly onto the paving stones as they waited for departing trains. Kishimoto encountered a laborer-like man who suddenly nearly collapsed right before his eyes. Even travelers clutching luggage, people reluctant to part, and women with tear-swollen faces seemed to herald the urgency of the times. Kishimoto hurried back to the boarding house with Takase, feeling he had encountered an utterly dire situation. First, Kishimoto shut himself in his room and wrote to his elder brother Yoshio back home about the pressing situation. He wrote that the future was difficult to predict. He wrote entrusting care of the children. He busily wrote letters to two or three friends in Tokyo too, but also learned mail from his homeland via Siberia had already ceased.

In the evening, he went out into the town. He stood amidst a swirling crowd of citizens struck by tragic premonitions of the great war already descending. People trying to read mobilization orders printed with tricolor flags, presidential proclamations, and cargo export bans now overflowed into towns that had until then lain in hushed silence. The hurried footsteps of people now somehow tinged with menace struck Kishimoto's chest. Even women anxious about husbands, brothers, or lovers panted as they rushed through the crowd.

In the span of just a week, Kishimoto found himself in such an atmosphere. The abrupt changes in his surroundings were as if a rotating stage had transformed a theatrical scene in an instant. The fact that a renowned French socialist leader and pacifist had been struck down in the opening act of the war rendered this dramatic spectacle all the more ghastly. Kishimoto went to his room and thought alone of many things. Having left his homeland far behind, he realized his traveler's existence now stood unexpectedly amidst the turmoil. By around eleven at night, rain had started falling, and the tree-lined street visible from the window was dark.

92 Every conscript without exception was streaming toward the border. For two days now, soldiers departing for the front had been passing through tree-lined streets. Reports had even arrived that German scouts had breached France's eastern frontier. At the boarding house, both the landlady and her niece went to stand by the dining hall window, attempting to watch the infantry troop pass through the street. When Kishimoto approached that same window, the landlady turned toward him,

“Mr. Kishimoto, isn’t conflict inevitable? The young German guest who stayed here knew the war was coming, I tell you. When a letter arrived from his parents, he left Paris in great haste. That man was undoubtedly a German spy!” As she spoke, she tapped her index finger beside her nose, as if bitterly regretting having hosted such a guest.

“Look, there was that strange woman who loitered around this town every day, right? There was that woman everyone nicknamed ‘Madame Caroline,’ right? I kept thinking there was something strange about that woman’s behavior. That’s a false imbecile! She’s a fake woman! I thought they’d slathered on too much white powder, but now that I think about it, that’s a man’s face.” And again, the landlady proclaimed. Driven by suspicion, this French woman had not only turned her own boarding house guests into German spies but even the imbecilic woman who wandered the town.

When he looked at the landlady's niece with eyes that had just watched the soldiers passing by outside the window, Kishimoto noticed this girl from rural Limoges had a face red and swollen from crying. The landlady told Kishimoto that both her brother and her fiancé were about to depart for the front. Kishimoto went to his room. Outside that window stretched an unbroken procession of mobilized citizens marching in formation. All wore hunting caps, carried small bundles, sang the French national anthem, and called farewells to the women and children standing beneath the trees as they passed. Every public bus had been requisitioned for military use, silencing even the rumble of Mont-Toron-bound vehicles. With all men aged eighteen to forty-seven conscripted into this war, it felt as though a great tide were rising to sweep them away en masse.

It was declared that foreigners residing in Paris who wished to leave must depart quickly, while those possessing nationalities other than German or Austrian were permitted to remain.

Even in light of this event, the desire to enlist repeatedly surged within Kishimoto's heart. He, whose heart told him he could never return home anyway, wished to willingly set out for the battlefield, but each time he reconsidered—there were too many afflictions weighing on him, and he likely couldn't even write satisfactory correspondence—he restrained himself. Martial law was already declared, the gates of Paris were firmly shut, and travel became entirely impossible. In fact, he was already akin to one under siege.

93 In the end, Kishimoto resolved to leave Paris after spending over a year there. For more than three weeks since the mobilization order had been issued, he had been unable to accomplish anything. Amidst an atmosphere where they awaited daily war reports—yesterday that Belgium’s Namur fortress was endangered, today that German vanguard troops were advancing toward Lille at the border—there was nothing to do but share anxieties with fellow citizens, exchange relieved glances at compatriots still unharmed, and speak of uncertain futures. When Takase from the neighboring room—who had allied with Dr. Yanagi to flee the war turmoil for London—urged Kishimoto to join them, he instead chose to retreat to the French countryside, parting ways with Takase at the northern station.

The painter Kotake, who had been unable to sleep on the first night enemy airships attacked Paris, also joined their group and had already crossed the English Channel by mid-August. Among the few French people Kishimoto knew, the clerk from Billancourt was at the Versailles barracks; the poet Lapey had joined Paris's motor unit; and Professor Bloss was anxiously awaiting news of his two sons who had gone to the front. The clerk from Billancourt especially sent a letter from the barracks to Kishimoto's address, writing that he was pleased to think they stood together on the same side of the Allied forces. From Madame Takishin (the elderly woman's niece) in Tokyo as well came word of their intention to visit France together with her husband, but she wrote that there was nothing to be done in this war. The lawyer attached to the Court of Appeal who had been staying in the adjacent room to Kishimoto's had also disappeared before one knew it. Even the owner of the coffee shop known as "Simonne's House" and the caretaker of the boarding house—all these people had set out for the front.

On the day news arrived of Russian forces entering eastern Germany, Kishimoto stayed in his room packing until nightfall. His boarding house was in mid-relocation chaos. Both the landlady and her niece had left for Limoges a day ahead of him. With some travel now permitted, he accepted the boarding house residents' invitation to visit the landlady's hometown region. He resolved to use this chance to observe rural France too. Travel had grown arduous since war began—passengers were barred from carrying over thirty kilograms of luggage. Anticipating Limoges' impending chill, he stuffed his suitcase with as much clothing as his arms could bear. Books he resolved to abandon entirely. Even in cicada-less Paris streets, autumn's breath now whispered through. Flies lingering on his walls descended upon the travel suitcase.

A lonely evening arrived. Kishimoto remained alone in the room; recalling how he had spent over a year on this distant journey, thinking of his homeland from which all news had ceased, he attempted at least to send a brief note to a newspaper back home before leaving Paris. Sitting down beside his suitcase to write, his nerves grew endlessly agitated until he managed only to pen a letter addressed to his vacant house in Tokyo. The Evening Star appeared in the sky outside the window. Occasionally when he stood by the window trying to glimpse that solitary starlight, fierce choruses of the French national anthem would rise from crowds passing through the streets. By nine o'clock at night, the towns lay silent already, lights dwindling, while the cries of hungry dogs clung strangely to his ears. What would become of those left in this city? What horrors might befall the women? At this thought came memories of how people during the Franco-Prussian War siege had hidden in cellar-like basements and even eaten rats—merely imagining such days returning filled him with terror. Thinking of his early departure come morning, he scarcely slept at all.

94

From the riverside station at Dorsay, Kishimoto departed by train. For this journey to the countryside, he brought along Makino as well as three painters residing in Paris. The war had, by chance, given him an opportunity to temporarily escape the clamor of a major metropolis like Paris. From the dreadful noise of creaking trams, automobiles, and horse-drawn carriages on those stone-paved streets. From those cramped stone buildings layered one upon another. From the air of dense crowds that weakens people.

The travels of five companions enlivened even the train car. When Kishimoto had traveled from Marseille to Lyon and then on to Paris in May of the previous year, it had been almost entirely a midnight train journey, so what now appeared through the window seemed entirely new to him. He watched with curiosity the flat farmlands, pastures, and forests of central France passing by. Though approaching Haute-Vienne Prefecture offered no views of the towering mountains seen in his homeland's Kōshū or Shinshū regions, for Kishimoto—having spent over a year in Paris—it was his first chance in ages to breathe air that felt authentically rural. At a station along the way, they also came across a train packed with wounded soldiers. These wounded soldiers sent from the frontlines bore stark testimony to the ferocity of the fighting in Belgium.

After taking about seven hours, Kishimoto arrived at Limoges station with the group. It was at a time when townspeople had gathered near the station to see off soldiers departing for war, and local men and women—as if seeing Japanese people for the very first time—came peering at Kishimoto and his group from both sides. The landlady from Paris, who had arrived in this provincial town a day earlier, sent her niece to the station. The landlady had waited for Makino and Kishimoto at her sister’s house, but the rooms were not yet ready. Kishimoto and his group decided to spend the day at the inn in front of the station. Having been told to come only for meals, and with the landlady’s nephew arriving on an errand in the evening, the group of five walked toward the house on the outskirts of town. The local children, unaccustomed to seeing Japanese people, trailed along in a group, sometimes falling behind and sometimes moving ahead. Among the artists who had come together with Kishimoto from Paris, there were those extremely accustomed to traveling. The local children were following them so noisily that some would even dash from behind to get a look at the five faces, so the painter deliberately fixed his large eyes upon the children while—

“Look at this.” The painter would sometimes playfully tease them like this. The arrival of Kishimoto and his group was such a novelty to the locals. It was a rural-style house with a grape trellis in the front garden and what looked like a vegetable field in the back, where Kishimoto found himself together with the landlady from Paris and her niece.

“This eldest one here is Kishimoto-san.” “This is Mr. Makino, an artist who has also come to Paris.” After saying this, the landlady introduced Kishimoto and the others to her sister. The short elderly woman wearing black French-style clothing welcomed each guest from afar in a quiet tone. The local children’s boisterousness was such that even when Kishimoto and the others were enjoying a pleasant dinner in the dining room with windows near the grape trellis, some came peering from outside the stone wall. Despite such surroundings, he returned to the station front, spent the night there, and upon hearing the crowing of roosters in the morning mist while gazing at the tower of Saint-Étienne Church from the inn window, he truly felt as if he had placed himself in a quiet countryside where he could breathe deeply of good air.

95

It had already been about fifteen months since he left his homeland. Even fifteen months felt like an exceedingly long time to Kishimoto. The past fifteen months seemed equivalent to three or even four years. He felt as though he had spent an immeasurably long time living without seeing his homeland—without seeing the faces of those close to him or hearing anyone’s voice during that period. He likened himself to a traveler who walks until his legs give out yet still cannot reach an inn. To this French countryside he had come with many heartfelt hopes. Above all else, he wished to calm his soul. At last, that wish seemed on the verge of being granted. “Do you really like such a countryside? There’s not even as much rustic charm here as you’d find along the Brittany coast. Yet it also lacks even the modest refinement one might expect from a rural town aspiring to urban grace. Isn’t this place just an ordinary land after all?” One of the artists who had come from Paris posed this question to him. Nevertheless, from the day he climbed the high hill where Saint-Étienne Temple stood and gazed out from atop the stone wall of that scenic park behind the ancient temple—overlooking the farming and herding lands on Limoges’ outskirts—he found himself deeply reflecting on all his travels since first coming to Europe. The Vienne River flowed through those town outskirts. Below him stretched stone bridges spanning French national highways and small mule-drawn carts passing between riverside trees. Though he could not yet make out from that stone wall the rural house that would become his lodgings, he could see across the river’s cultivated slopes rows of red-tiled roofs characteristic of the French countryside.

Haute-Vienne Prefecture, France; the town of Limoges; Babylon New Road—that was where Kishimoto took lodgings together with Makino. He had come to the provincial outskirts where a woman blew a trumpet to sell newspapers. On the third day after settling into the second floor of that house, he received a letter from Oka in Paris and learned how dire the situation had become. In Oka’s hastily written letter were the words: “You must absolutely refrain from returning to Paris.” It also stated that three artists remaining in Paris had found it impossible to flee to Britain.

96

From Oka came separate letters simultaneously addressed to both Makino and Kishimoto. "Finally comes the time to evacuate Paris. The French government has already apparently relocated elsewhere. Even at the embassy, they were burning documents last night. Yesterday afternoon, a German plane dropped six bombs on Paris. One destroyed Gare de Lyon, another hit the East Station, and another wrecked shops in Saint-Martin. It seems impossible to avoid Paris being besieged now. The enemy cavalry has advanced to within eighty kilometers. Last night we all gathered for a final consultation—if we can't cross to Britain today, our whole group will depart for Lyon. In any case, we're leaving Paris by day's end. Given this, we've decided to abandon your belongings—and naturally ours too. Ah, Paris—my Paris—will you too finally be trampled by those German brutes? Seeing little Simonne's tearful face made leaving Paris fill him with shame. To me, this place is but transient soil. To them, it was burial ground. The emotions overwhelm."

The artist companions who had come from Paris saw this letter and departed for Lyon. In Limoges, only Makino and Kishimoto remained. After about three days passed, the final report from Paris arrived. Upon reading it, Kishimoto learned that twenty-one compatriots—those in painting, sculpture, science, and related fields who had been near Paris' Observatory and Montparnasse—had each left the capital in their own way. Eleven to Britain. One to America. Two to Nice. One to Lyon. Amid reports that the last train to Dieppe would depart at three o'clock tomorrow morning and that a moment's delay would mean facing siege, the account conjured images of London-bound individuals scrambling to escape the war's chaos—whether via Le Havre or through Saint-Malo in Brittany. He also learned that Oka and another sculptor were likely the last among their artist companions to leave a Paris where all night lights had been extinguished and herds of cattle, pigs, and sheep gathered in Bois de Boulogne for siege provisions. Nearly all remaining compatriots had already abandoned Paris.

From his artist companions bound for Lyon too came reports to Kishimoto about the congestion and anxieties of train travel. According to their account, they had changed trains multiple times—on services whose destinations even conductors didn't know—waited three or six hours at six stations, and after forty hours total had finally managed to reach Lyon from Limoges. To Kishimoto's lodgings came people who might be called the innkeeper's sister's daughter and her husband, evacuating from Paris. These evacuees said their thirty-hour train journey to Limoges had taken seven hours when Kishimoto's group made it. There were also accounts that evacuees from not just Paris but the northern border regions were spilling over even into freight trains.

“Even if we’re still managing alright, those who were in Germany must have had a terribly hard time...”

Kishimoto would exchange these remarks whenever he glanced toward Makino in the adjacent room. Since transportation across the Franco-German border had been severed, they had learned that Professor Chimura of Berlin and the Keio University students studying in Munich—who had been completely out of contact—had managed to escape to London. Many compatriots Kishimoto had come to know since arriving in Europe had all been scattered by the war. They could not speak of what lay ahead. However, through the innkeepers' kindness, Kishimoto and Makino found themselves placed in a relatively secure location. The housewife procured a desk from somewhere for Kishimoto and positioned it by the second-floor window. Beyond the grape trellis with its creeping vines lay Babylon New Road visible through the window. The pasture marking Oka's terrain pressed right against this road, and at times the faces of cows grazing atop red clay bluffs would appear reflected in the glass.

97

A loneliness akin to that after a great wind had swept through was present even in this countryside. All men in their prime had left the fields and pastures; horses had been requisitioned; huts stood empty; pottery factories closed; shops shuttered; even middle school and commercial school buildings became makeshift hospitals for wounded soldiers sent from the front. There was nothing meeting Kishimoto’s eyes that did not resemble a wartime rural scene. In vegetable fields, an old man whose face remembered a child at the front tilled soil. In wheat fields, people labored to manage the harvest using only women’s hands.

At the corner of the slope leading up to Saint-Étienne Church, which stood tall along the banks of the Vienne River, there was a stone wayside shrine carved with a cross. A statue of the Virgin Mary holding incense and flowers was enshrined within that wayside shrine. A hunched old woman with a bent spine was selling slender candles in front of the shrine. In the candle flames lit in rows during the day, there was also a young woman—still in her black kimono—kneeling on the stone steps, seemingly praying for the safety of someone at the front.

Kishimoto, who had not fulfilled his aspiration to enlist, after coming to the outskirts of Limoges, wrote what could be called a siege diary—documenting the wartime scenes he had witnessed in Paris, news of remaining compatriots, and his withdrawal from the capital with Makino and others—and attempted to send this report to those worrying about him back home. At times he would set down his brush and walk around the house. Whether walking through vegetable fields where pears and peaches had already ripened and apples were on the verge of ripening, or along stone walls where red roses and white oleanders bloomed profusely with fragrant intensity, or even when wandering toward pastures where flocks of sheep—common in this area—were kept, he never failed to savor a traveler's mood. On such occasions he often took along Édouard, the housewife's nephew.

“Please don’t call him ‘Monsieur’—just call him Édouard.” “He’s still just a child, you see.” The housewife said this with the boy of about sixteen before her, but Makino and Kishimoto still called him “Monsieur” morning and evening, keeping company with this youth well-versed in local affairs. Makino chose a nearby pasture and began his painting work. Every time Kishimoto walked there to look, without fail he would find Édouard sitting behind Makino, legs stretched out, comparing the scenery before his eyes with the canvas. The trees within the pasture that formed Oka’s terrain, the towns of Limoges visible in the distance, and old temple towers had all been incorporated into Makino’s painting. In the pasture’s grass trampled by cows, white chickens could be seen here and there. When Kishimoto went there, spread grass to sit on, and stretched out his legs, it was not merely that he had escaped the chaos of Paris—where he had stood for four or five hours alongside Takase near the police station—but he felt he had found what seemed like his first true rest since coming to France, there on the banks of the Vienne River.

98

After living nearly two months in the quiet countryside, not only everything since arriving in Europe but even the circumstances of when he had left his homeland somehow coalesced in Kishimoto's mind. He thought this: If there were a judgment of life where he too must stand as a defendant, what psychological shield could he possibly raise to articulate all that had arisen within him? How could one who had faced a life-or-death crisis—who had needed to survive at any cost—ever express anything clear, logical, consistent, or justifiable? The terror that had come like endless nightmares—the distrust he couldn't control even toward relatives and friends—his soul trembling before invisible forces of persecution—those distant waves that had rushed in like a dream—the nameless sorrow that drove him solely toward strangers—what horrific trials he had endured! What layers of mental disarray he must have accumulated! What a monumental failure his life had been! This profound realization might grow sharper with time rather than fade. Yet the violent spiritual turbulence that once gripped him gradually receded. Only his concern for that unfortunate niece remained. It was then that he calmly reviewed his own actions. He who had tried repeatedly to bury the sin committed purely from desperation to live had come to feel that no hardship he might bear could ever mend the deep wound inflicted on his niece or erase the stain marking his life. The more he blamed himself, the more pitiable he grew in his own eyes.

In that state of mind, Kishimoto went to the vegetable garden behind the country house. He walked through a field with a narrow path at its center, lined on both sides with many fruit trees. This was a place where he often came to rest with Makino, plucking ripe peaches straight from the branches to taste them or strolling about while breathing in the soil's earthy fragrance. The season had already reached late October. Not only were there many French pears on the branches tinged pale red, but occasionally a ripe fruit would sway in the autumn wind and fall to his feet like a stone.

The vegetable field bordered a narrow side path on one edge of the town and extended on the other side to the backyard of a neighboring house with a rustic red-tiled roof. Kishimoto heard the footsteps of people clattering in wooden shoes along one side path, and while listening to the clang of hoes tilling soil from the vegetable field near the backyard on the other side, he walked among the peach and pear trees, breathing in the fresh fragrance of ripening fruit—as though trying to fill his entire being with the life of the mature trees.

The autumn of Haute-Vienne somehow stirred a tender new heart within Kishimoto. He even recovered an interest in life that he had nearly lost over the long years. Even if his sins still lived within him, he came to be able to confront them with a somewhat softened heart.

99

After mail that took forty days to arrive began trickling in, Kishimoto, staying in the countryside of Limoges, was able to learn news from his homeland that had been completely cut off since the war began. How the turmoil of the European war must have shocked those waiting back home in Tokyo. Setsuko too had sent him a letter expressing concern about it. Kishimoto resolved to send commemorative postcards to her and the children. Even if just a few words, this act of writing to his niece was something rare for Kishimoto since embarking on his journey. For his niece, he chose a postcard showing a distant view of Saint-Étienne Church; for Izumi, he selected one featuring a pasture dotted with sheep. The former depicted a scene captured near the Vienne River—trees, roads, and bridges that had grown familiar to him—with the distant temple and its ancient stone tower where he often sat during Mass. The latter showed a pasture backed by woods, a solitary country house visible among distant trees. The flock grazing in a shallow valley—their gentle long ears and slender legs—these novel scenes of French rural life would surely delight the children waiting at home, he imagined. Around his lodgings, where one could reach the Toulouze Highway after a short walk, pastures identical to those on the postcards stretched out before him.

To mail the written postcards, Kishimoto left the inn. The neighborhood children who had initially found him novel and persistently pestered him gradually came to treat him as a friend after about two months. When he went to the edge of a town, little girls inviting him to join their jump rope game were gathered there. When he walked to the edge of the Pon-Nafu stone bridge and looked around, there was a boy who came to his side and sought a handshake. “Monsieur.” Called “Monsieur,” the child would often come running up. That boy was the only son of the small coffee shop by the bridge where he would stop and sit whenever he went out.

The Vienne River flowed beneath the stone bridge. Wanting to spend a moment of rest, Kishimoto descended to the water's edge. Even observing women doing laundry lined along the bank—their rustic manner so thoroughly rural one wouldn't think this the outskirts of a country town. The rhythmic thud of cloth beaten on stone echoed across the quiet water. For a while, Kishimoto listened to the fulling block's cadence, setting thoughts of war aside. Just then, an unfamiliar boy suddenly approached and addressed him.

“Foreigner sir, could you tell me a little about Japan?” Upon looking, he saw a boy who appeared to be either in the upper grades of elementary school or perhaps the lower grades of the modest commercial school in this town. “Which is more beautiful—France or Japan?” “Is Japan more beautiful than France?” The boy’s question troubled Kishimoto. “How can you even compare such things?” said Kishimoto. “Your country too has beautiful places and places that aren’t so beautiful—our country is just the same.”

“What color is the sea in Japan?” the boy asked again. “Is it yellow?” “Why, it’s blue—a transparent blue—that’s what makes it a beautiful sea.” When Kishimoto, gazing into the intelligent-looking boy’s eyes, answered thus, the boy seemed to imagine the distant Orient he had never seen, “Transparent blue?” he repeated.

100

One day, Kishimoto went again to the same bridge’s edge. The yellowed leaves of the plane trees now fell almost daily. That place was where the French national highway continued, situated such that from atop the stone wall near the bridge, one could view both banks of the Vienne River and glimpse the stone tower of Saint-Étienne Church among the roadside trees lining the highway. On days when fatigue crept in and he felt like taking a break from work, Kishimoto’s feet would often lead him to the small coffee shop by that bridge. He would savor a cup of strong coffee warmed for him there—gazing at the stone water hydrant pillar standing at the street corner, watching women gather with water jugs, and observing the quaint figure of an old woman sitting nearby knitting—finding pleasure in passing time alone. Around the thick trunk of a plane tree with mottled white patches where bark had peeled off, there could be seen a group of children busily gathering fallen leaves and playing. Among them were two or three little girls who had grown so familiar with Kishimoto that they would bring their gathered leaves to show him where he sat. It began when he treated them to a bag of sweets from a nearby confectionery shop—the kind that would delight any child—and from then on, those little girls began coming to his side whenever they spotted Kishimoto.

“What good children you all are. Shall Uncle take some of those leaves as a souvenir from Limoges?” When Kishimoto said this, the little girls happily darted off toward the rows of trees, collected countless fallen leaves, and returned to his side. Among the plane tree leaves they had brought were some as large as *Japanese aralia* leaves. “I can’t take such large ones,” said Kishimoto. “Please bring me the smallest one.” When he repeated this, the children dashed out and piled an overwhelming number of Limoges souvenir leaves on the table before him—so many that even when he protested, “That’s enough! That’s enough!” they paid no heed. There was also a girl who wasn’t yet accustomed to him, timidly approaching at the others’ urging.

“Come closer to the Japanese man.” Led by the hands of the other little girls, the seemingly nervous girl came before him, but suddenly shook off her companions’ hands and stepped back. “Oh, so scary!”

The girl said, looking at Kishimoto with an uneasy expression.

“Come here. Uncle also left children about your age back home. This uncle isn’t so scary at all.” Having said this, Kishimoto then asked the three little girls to sing for him. He had heard from both the inn’s landlady and the boy Edouard about a folk song composed in the local dialect called Patois. This request delighted the song-loving girls. On his journey far from Izumi and Shigeru, when Kishimoto heard this innocent French country folk song from children’s lips, tears unexpectedly welled up in his eyes.

101

In the damp autumn air, Kishimoto turned back toward Babylon New Road. Just near the inn, he found himself walking alongside Makino, who had finished his outdoor painting work and was returning. The boy Edouard too came back with them from the direction of the national highway at the town's outskirts, carrying Makino's oil paint box over his shoulder. "Another fine painting has been completed!"

Edouard announced this to Kishimoto, then repeated it to the landlady pacing beneath the grape arbor in the entrance garden.

“You’ll end up with so many Limoges souvenirs now.” “Mr. Makino truly paints so swiftly and finishes them all off.” When the landlady in the garden said this, her older sister too leaned out from the kitchen window and listened to everyone’s conversation like an elderly woman would. The landlady’s niece also peered out from behind her aunt.

Kishimoto ascended the stone entrance steps with Makino and went up to the second floor along the railing of the country-style staircase. Autumn in Limoges had been a season of rich harvest for Makino too—so much so that his succession of landscape and still-life paintings, still not fully dry, covered an entire wall of the second-floor room. Every time Kishimoto visited Makino's room, he was first struck by the intense odor of drying oil paints. Though Makino's travels seemed as arduous as Oka's, this keen and meticulous painter worked through his doubts by energetically applying brushstrokes while Oka remained mired in creative struggles. Among the painters Kishimoto had grown close to during his travels, Oka and Makino differed remarkably in temperament. Whether they discussed rumors about Nakano's friend in Tokyo or talked of Takase, Oka, and Kotake who had fled to London to escape the war—sometimes losing themselves in artistic debates until late at night—it was Makino who had become Kishimoto's sole intimate companion since coming to the countryside, providing both solace and stimulation.

Seeing Makino, who appeared weary from outdoor work, taking off his shoes, Kishimoto went to his rented room. The sound of the Vienne River's waters he had heard while returning from the riverside still resonated deep within his ears. He found himself savoring the essence of his European travels more keenly in that rural house's second-floor room than in Paris's cramped boarding house. He felt like a traveler who had finally discovered himself before the welcoming lamplight of a familiar inn. The utterly undecorated room offered only this: grape leaves glistening with morning dew at its lone window; a black wooden cross hanging above the pillow in its bed-corner; above the fireplace, an image of the Virgin Mary cradling infant Christ adorning the wall—as became a Roman Catholic land. Yet by shifting his mental state within that room, he could instantly transport himself back to contemplate his former study in Tokyo's Asakusa—that place from which he had risen out of stagnant life. To those final years when he would do naught but stare at cold walls, finding even bodily movement detestable; speaking with family members odious; descending stairs unbearable. To doubt's depths where nothing remained desirable beyond light and heat and dreamless sleep. To that extremity where he'd believed midnight hours spent alone on bedding—feeling pain as pain—meant living more fully than in numb unconsciousness. To that endless solitude he'd likened to "living ice." To that extreme fatigue. To that dazzling hell endured alive. Toward that bestial path down which he'd fallen with his unfortunate niece—

A strange hallucination came. That hallucination suggested to Kishimoto’s mind, through the wall of a room in a French country house, the existence of a dreamlike world. Not only had they once risen in his memory, but they had also surged through his entire being—the many griefs, loathings, terrors, arduous toils, and tremors—all now seemed to burn and flow across the surface of the wall before him like a sheet of flame.

102

The sound of the church bell resounded. The tolling announcing Toussaint—the Feast of the Dead—passed through skies above tree-filled town outskirts, reached between red-tiled roofs where tranquil smoke rose, and came even to fields where yellowed leaves had withered and fallen. At the Babylon New Road inn too, potted chrysanthemums had been prepared that day, and the landlady with young Edouard were about to depart for graves in a nearby village. Kishimoto had learned of the Billancourt matron’s death several days before this Feast of the Dead. The notification from the vacant home of that clerk—now attached to Versailles barracks’ bicycle corps—had wound through Kishimoto’s Paris lodgings to reach him. It stated that her remains would be interred at Père Lachaise Cemetery, with names of all relatives—from her clerk son downward—listed alongside precise familial ties. Phrases like “the deceased’s niece such-and-such” or “the deceased’s brother-in-law so-and-so.” That this old woman had sickened and died beneath war’s vast shadow rendered her passing more grievous still. Thus did Limoges inn’s church bell carry particular resonance in Kishimoto’s ears.

Kishimoto remembered that it was that old woman who had first welcomed him when he came to France. As a traveler in a foreign land, he remembered that she had been the one who thought of him most. He couldn’t say for sure whether that Frenchwoman—who seemed unable to forget her dynastic past—had lost her spiritual center and consequently developed this dreamlike longing for Eastern countries, but he recalled her nonetheless as a woman of refined sensibility, innate feminine virtues, and a truly precious soul. He remembered how even during those times when he—having arrived knowing no French—could find no escape from his foreigner’s silence, it was that clerk’s mother who encouraged him with letters saying things like: “You must hurry to learn French. If you could read even a few books, you wouldn’t feel such emptiness. I’d be happy if these few lines could comfort you.” He remembered that her final letter from Sèvres had concluded with words wishing “this sad war would end as soon as possible”—the last correspondence he ever received from her.

Feeling a dejection that didn’t even seem commensurate with the death of someone from a foreign country, Kishimoto walked alone toward the old Saint-Étienne Church.

103

A grand requiem mass for the deceased was being held. The Saint-Étienne Church standing high on the hill along the Vienne River, with its old Gothic-style stone architecture that Kishimoto found appealing, had an internal structure so familiar to him it felt like entering a forest of intertwined branches. He often came there to sit. That day too, he looked forward not only to reminiscing about the elderly woman's life but also to entrusting his soul to that quiet building for a while. As if he were a long-distance traveler seeking rest in the shade of trees.

Group after group of women passed by Kishimoto’s side—wetting their hands in the marble basin, tracing the sign of the cross over their chests as they prepared to participate in that day’s ceremony. As it was the first Feast of the Dead since the outbreak of war, even wounded French soldiers had gathered with faces of mourning for their fallen comrades. In Roman Catholic churches, there is always displayed in some form the "Way of the Cross"—those religious paintings. Following the right corridor deep into where this pictorial narrative ended, there were empty chairs. Kishimoto chose a spot beside a tall stone pillar and sat down among people from the unfamiliar land. The raw voices of the children’s and adults’ chorus, echoing through the timeworn hall, merged with the massive organ’s music and resounded solemnly. Just like light filtering through the trees of a dark forest, the tall stained-glass windows depicting saints’ figures appeared brightly translucent in hues of navy blue, purple, crimson, and green from where they met the stone pillars.

The fragrance of myrrh and frankincense wafting from the altar had imperceptibly drawn Kishimoto's mind. Having immersed himself in this Roman Catholic church's atmosphere, he imagined the life of an extreme modern man who—after fully witnessing humanity's vileness—not only walked toward a monastery but ultimately became one bearing a cross akin to a monk's. He also envisioned the life of a renowned French poet who, after descending into prison following a clash with a friend rumored to have shared a homosexual relationship with him, opened his eyes to pure wisdom from decadence's depths.

104 When the chorus voices ceased, only the reverberations of the great organ filled the high-ceilinged stone edifice. Soon an aged priest in white vestments stood upon the lofty pulpit positioned to overlook the multitude of worshippers. A sermon mourning the dead continued at length for this wartime Toussaint observance. Kishimoto's mind turned toward the priest's impassioned oration, then toward the antiquated crown-shaped pulpit, finally resting upon the crucifix of Christ facing it across the nave. Yet he gradually forgot all these things. He forgot the two or three elderly monks in crimson robes with golden crosses at their breasts and the dozen-odd middle-aged clerics in black vestments arrayed before the altar; forgot the white-veiled nun guiding her pupils through the congregation; forgot the women in mourning attire seated beside him listening intently; forgot even the trio of tall candles whose flames illuminated the chancel. Alone by the stone pillar he sat wordless, returning to a traveler's frame of mind that faced eternity itself - if only for fleeting moments.

The slanting autumn sun streamed through the windows of the church atop the high hill, casting its light upon the stone pillars within. Every stained-glass window shone. The tips of those windows adorned with crosses in floral wreaths, diamonds, or circles; or the standing statues of saints depicted at green and crimson centers—all glowed in the setting sun. Within such Gothic-style old architecture, even Roman Catholic tarnished-gold decorations appeared inconspicuous. All stone weight, lines, and assembly gathered beneath high ceilings formed one grand harmony. The day gradually faded during prolonged ceremonies. The evening sun reflected in windows vanished. Like light disappearing into deep woods. Remaining were hall lights flickering awake, occasional reverberations of heavy entrance doors, and twilight darkness solemnly deepening.

By the time Kishimoto left this church and reached the stone bridge of Pont-Neuf, the sky still retained some brightness. Everything on both banks of the Vienne River was reflected in the water. He thought that even his stay in Limoges with Makino was now dwindling. He could not imagine there would ever come a time again when he would visit this French countryside and sit in his beloved temple. Even as he walked toward the inn on Babylon New Road, he mentally compared Saint-Étienne to the other temples in this rural city. In the stagnant, heavy air of Roman Catholicism, he tried to imagine how much human effort was keeping that old Saint-Étienne church alive.

105

In Limoges, Kishimoto stayed from when the grapes ripened until they were finally made into wine. The Battle of the Marne ended with the enemy’s full retreat, the danger of Paris being besieged passed, and most of those who had evacuated to this town had already returned. Whether staying in the countryside or going to Paris, the wartime inconveniences made little difference for Makino and Kishimoto. The landlady was preparing to return to Paris again, taking her niece with her. Makino was also preparing to leave this town at the same time.

“I’ll go on ahead.” “Since I’ve come this far, I’ll take the chance to look around Bordeaux.” “You all wait for me in Paris.”

Kishimoto told Makino about this matter.

Frost now came every morning. They started burning firewood in the fireplace. With a heart stirred by this countryside, he tried to return once more to Parisian air. As part of his journey, he envisioned the delight of finally seeing southern France. Thereupon, he set out for Bordeaux. Though he encountered no crowds like those at the war's outbreak, he still needed to present his police-endorsed wartime pass to vigilant soldiers at the ticket gate.

After parting ways with Makino and young Édouard, who had come to see him off at Limoges Station, he became a solitary traveler. Soon, the train he boarded passed through the outskirts of Limoges. Though his two-and-a-half-month stay had been brief, he recalled the carefree, rather joyful days spent there; he recalled how it was there that he had finally breathed a sigh that truly felt like a sigh since arriving in Europe; and he sought to bid farewell—to the pastures where he had often lain in the grass, to the towns across the river with their crimson roofs and clustered buildings, and to the towering spire of Saint-Étienne that seemed to reign over all of Limoges. By the time the Vienne River disappeared from view through the train window, the autumn rain had ceased.

Kishimoto, now sufficiently accustomed to travel that he felt no discomfort even with his knees pressed against complete strangers in the third-class compartment, leaned close to the train window and gazed out at the rural landscapes of central France where autumn was just about to pass. He rode on, gazing at the yellowed mixed woods after the rain and counting the standing trees—white birches, oaks, and chestnuts—on the slopes of the continuous hills. At times, along the stone walls bordering the railway tracks, he would spot yellowed shrub leaves scattered about—so resembling wild bush clover—and recall train journeys through the Tohoku region back home, particularly around Shirakawa. The leaves that had changed color belonged to a young acacia tree. Military freight trains loaded with withered grass and freight trains carrying barrels of wine likely intended as drink for soldiers at the front—countless of them passed by outside the window.

Passengers heading south crossed from Haute-Vienne to the neighboring department of Dordogne, passed through the small rural station called Cocieux, and transferred trains in Périgueux. From around Poitiers onward, not only did the landscape visible beyond the train windows change—with houses multiplying and even verdant vegetable fields coming into view—but even the passengers' appearances transformed. Just hearing the accents and cadences of their conversations made Kishimoto feel he was gradually entering southwestern France. Having passed through Gironde's countryside, they crossed the Garonne River after dark. What would have been a six- or seven-hour journey in peacetime took eleven hours. He gazed through the train window at countless lights reflected in the night sky. This was Bordeaux—where even Japan's embassy had relocated alongside the French government.

If he had come this far with such anticipation, that alone was more than enough—Kishimoto told himself. He had carried both the joy of imagining southern France and the satisfaction of having journeyed there—though what awaited him in Bordeaux was two days of unrelenting rain. At the inn facing Bordeaux's Saint-Jean Station, an inexplicable urge moved him to write travel letters addressed to his homeland. Though somewhat monotonous, the plains around Bordeaux glimpsed from the train window and vineyards stretching endlessly to the horizon still lingered in his eyes. Time and again he would spread paper before the fireplace in his inn room or pace about the space, lamenting his inability to write as intended. On the wall hung a small framed painting that appeared to be a copied seascape. Even this sufficed to evoke in him the long-forgotten sensation of traveling near the sea.

Soaked in the heavy autumn rain, Kishimoto walked through the town. To visit the embassy there and inquire about Paris's situation. Or to see Saint-André Cathedral, or visit places like Bordeaux's museum. At times, groups of infantrymen newly bound for the front blocked his path. Soldiers in new grayish-blue uniforms wore yellow and white chrysanthemums pinned to their chests, even their rifle barrels bearing those flowers. Women desperate to send off husbands, brothers, or lovers joined the columns; some clung to soldiers' arms while pleading as they marched.

The Garonne River flowed through this city. For Kishimoto, what most vividly recalled the Sumida River—so deeply connected to his past—was neither the Saône's mountain stream he had seen in Lyon, nor the clear waters of the Seine, nor even the Vienne flowing through Limoges, but rather this rain-muddied estuary of the Garonne. Not only was there a riverside view that halted Kishimoto's steps, but at times the rain would lift, and faint sunlight glimmered on the red factory roofs visible across the bank. Through gaps in scattered clouds, he could glimpse patches of blue sky just like those seen back in Japan. Kishimoto felt profoundly how far he had come from his homeland.

106

Recalling the joy of returning to that capital he had left wondering when he might see Paris again, and recalling the joy of a new linguistic world finally unfurling before him, Kishimoto boarded the night train from Bordeaux. What cold winds might now whirl through that city upon his return? How many compatriots would remain to meet him? Such thoughts filled Kishimoto's mind. Outside the window lay darkness; even when he tried sleeping in the carriage, proper rest eluded him. Only when all passengers in the compartment had reached utter exhaustion did dawn begin breaking within the train.

With morning's arrival leaving him oddly relaxed, Kishimoto tried to catch some sleep. Each time he dozed off and awoke, he sensed Paris drawing nearer. It was a crisp morning where every sight seemed to sharpen his awareness. Gradually they approached the citadel from Paris' outskirts. The architectural character reflected in the train window had begun shifting imperceptibly. The provincial elements seen around Limoges transformed into robust urban designs; buildings once two or three stories tall now rose five or six levels like battlements, their stacked brickwork sections looming high between fortress-like structures.

Around eight in the morning, Kishimoto arrived at Orsay Quay Station. From inside the horse-drawn carriage he rode with his luggage, he gazed right and left as they went. To eyes that had gazed upon the yellowed willow leaves by the old pond in Bordeaux’s park speaking of deep autumn and upon the lush, vivid green of southern magnolias, the towns now appeared in full winter scenery. The avenues of trees stood withered and bare. Even the sound of hooves treading on the cold streets struck his ears. He felt he had returned to a Paris more desolate than he had imagined.

Upon arriving at the maternity hospital, Kishimoto first visited the concierge’s wife. The concierge’s wife, who lived near the entrance stairs, suddenly rushed out of her room when she saw him. “Mr. Kishimoto.” As she stood before him, the concierge’s wife’s face vividly revealed the hearts of those who had remained in Paris through what felt like a prolonged siege.

Seeing the unchanged boarding house was also a joy for Kishimoto. The landlady and her niece, having arrived from Limoges ahead of him, welcomed Kishimoto. He went to see his own room at the end of the hallway. During the two and a half months he had been away, so much dust had accumulated on the luggage and books he had left behind that they appeared barely touched.

The landlady’s niece came to peek into the room, “My goodness, what a layer of dust! Even so, Auntie and I spent all day yesterday cleaning!”

With that laugh, she brought from the dining room the packages, newspapers, and magazines from his homeland that had arrived during Kishimoto's absence. Among them were items that had taken many days yet somehow reached him intact. Kishimoto went to his room's window and looked out. The dark winter of Paris had already descended upon that tree-lined avenue. Pedestrians were sparse. The maternity hospital gate across the way, the coffee shop, the windows of the inn where Dr.Yanagi and Professor Chimura had once stayed—everything seeped into his vision.

107 The neighboring room was also quiet. The young French lawyer attached to the Court of Appeal who had rented that room had been conscripted and left without sending any word to the landlady. “Poor thing—that lawyer might have been killed in action,” the landlady told Kishimoto. In the neighboring room remained the entire collection of books and magazines left behind by that Frenchman—the sort one might imagine being born in Normandy—completely untouched. Kishimoto peered into that vacant room and felt a chill more dreadful than reading gruesome war reports. He sensed this coldness existing perilously close by, separated from his own room by nothing more than a single wall. Kishimoto went outside and stopped at his usual shop to buy cigarettes. The proprietor there had sustained an injury severe enough to lose a leg and was now said to be at a field hospital.

In the afternoon, Makino came to visit. Kishimoto learned from Makino that the group of artists who had split off toward Lyon from Limoges had already returned to Paris. He also learned there were one or two painters who had remained in Paris all along. “Makino, why don’t we go see the town? I never imagined Paris would become this desolate.” “They say it was even lonelier when the Lyon group returned.” Kishimoto left the inn with Makino while talking. They went as far as Saint-Michel Street and stopped briefly to see the people at “Simonne’s House.” The proprietor there had headed for the battlefields in Belgium and gone missing since.

A loneliness as if after some immense terror had passed reigned over the towns. Kishimoto walked alongside Makino down the long Saint-Michel Street toward the Seine River. Foreigners had departed, many citizens had evacuated, and only a few elderly people, women, and children walked along that usually bustling tree-lined avenue. As they walked, Makino told Kishimoto about a painter who had remained in Paris all along. He told how this capital had once braced for encirclement by the German army and opened all trains to evacuees. He told how they had given bread freely to anyone who asked. He told how many citizens with no means of transport had evacuated on foot. He told how those people kept moving through night streets until dawn, their procession unceasing.

They walked as far as the Place du Châtelet. When they reached that point, they could see something resembling Paris's usual foot traffic. The two followed the Seine's embankment, crossed the bridge to Île Saint-Louis, and came to a spot where they could glimpse the rear of the old Notre-Dame Cathedral. At the base of the stone wall, shadows of dark figures lined up fishing were visible. The Seine's waters flowed with a lonely air. "Cold stone architecture and black winter trees—this truly embodies a Parisian winter."

Makino shared an observation worthy of a painter. Kishimoto moved like a shadow through the withered tree-lined streets alongside this person. As they listened to their own footsteps echoing across the stone pavement, they felt themselves becoming two among the scant handful of Japanese remaining in Paris.

108 “Leave England quickly. Taste this bitter Paris.”

Thus Kishimoto wrote at the edge of a letter addressed to Takase and sent it off, as his reply when Takase from London had inquired about recent circumstances.

Despite the desolation surrounding him, Kishimoto turned once more to face his desk in the room. The towns visible beyond the traveler's window—those spared from becoming streets of ashes—and the unchanged furnishings within the room both appeared to welcome him back anew. Once again came the sound of piano practice. Not only the faint melody flowing from those absorbed fingertips but also girlish footsteps pattering across the floor could now be heard from upstairs.

The sprouts of the new language he had begun learning to forget his heart's sorrow suddenly began to grow. When he took out books he had stored away after repeated failed attempts at reading them, only to find their meanings had somehow become clear, he felt a joy akin to that of his youth. The academic and artistic world of the Latin people—which had seemed like objects stored in some vast warehouse—suddenly unfurled before him. He reached a point where he could declare, "There lies poetry's spirit, here resides history's essence." For one who harbored no preconceptions, nothing made him forget travel's hardships like this vista of new horizons—so expansive it left him scarcely time to breathe.

Shifting his focus to continuing life in a foreign land, Kishimoto turned his thoughts to his family far away in his homeland. Two full years had altered the circumstances of even his distant relatives. His niece Aiko had accompanied her husband and moved to Sakhalin. Negishi’s sister-in-law had gone to Taiwan and was living with elder brother Minsuke. Kishimoto had learned during his travels that Hiro of the benefactor’s household had gotten married and that Suzuki’s older brother had passed away from illness in his hometown.

Among the tidings from the increasingly distant homeland, it was Setsuko who sent Kishimoto detailed reports about the state of the Tokyo household he had left behind. Through her letters, Kishimoto could imagine how the two children he had entrusted to elder brother Yoshio’s family were growing. "Is your body made of iron?"—the sister-in-law’s words directed at the robust children; Izumi and Shigeru’s ceaseless play with their sticky rods catching dragonflies—it was through her letters that Kishimoto could imagine these scenes as vividly as if hearing them with his own ears and seeing them with his own eyes.

"If only she wouldn't write about that—Setsuko's letters would be truly good otherwise..." Kishimoto would often murmur this to himself when alone. Setsuko never failed to use the blooming of bush clover she'd transplanted from their old Asakusa home as an excuse to write commemorating the birthday of the child Kishimoto had never seen.

109

"Even though I wrote so many letters, Uncle hardly ever replied—now at last I understand your heart," wrote Setsuko in a letter she sent him, its tone thick with contained intensity. Days had arrived that hinted at a long winter's seclusion. A cold severe enough to freeze the fountain in Luxembourg Park had come. A fire burned in the room's hearth. Kishimoto went to its side and read Setsuko's letter repeatedly. "You must be trying to forget me now," she had written. "If that's how it is, then fine—if that's your intention, I'll no longer write you any letters," she continued. She asked whether all the letters she'd sent had truly been insufficient to move him. She wrote that every time she thought of him and her child, not a single night passed without her pillow growing damp. She demanded whether he meant to keep his silence so stubbornly, whether he felt no pity for her.

An indescribable emotion coursed through Kishimoto’s heart. The state of mind that had accumulated layer upon layer of disappointment—so much that he had come to regard women with a kind of contempt—was laid bare there. Even when he pitied his niece or feared her, the true nature of his heart—so different from what she had imagined—was laid bare there. Whenever he thought of Setsuko, it was always his brother Yoshio’s words that surfaced—"You must forget this now"—and with them came his own conflicted feelings toward that brother. Kishimoto felt he could hear Setsuko’s final voice lingering outside the tightly shut door of his heart, calling to him without cease. He felt he had heard the last, desperate knock against that door—the sound of her patience and strength finally spent.

In the hearth, crimson flames were burning fiercely. In the frugal households of Paris, small turtle-shaped charcoal briquettes used in winter were mixed with coal and burned everywhere.

Kishimoto sighed and threw both the letter from his niece and the envelope she herself had addressed in unsteady Roman letters into the hearth. In the blink of an eye, the paper burned up, and Setsuko’s characters vanished without a trace. Kishimoto stood before the hearth like a grief-stricken person and watched the paper fragments he had thrown in turn to ash.

110

After that, all word from Setsuko ceased, and the Parisian winter—dimly lit, oppressively gloomy, scarcely touched by sunlight, with days so short that dusk already crept in by three-thirty in the afternoon, leaving most of each twenty-four hours as though it were night—returned to the traveler’s window. At last, Kishimoto welcomed a lonely wartime Christmas and spent his second year apart from the children in a foreign inn. It was in mid-February of the following year when the yellow mimosa flowers and small narcissus-like blooms slightly comforted the heart waiting for spring. Once communication had ceased, a message from Setsuko unexpectedly arrived at Kishimoto’s residence. She wrote that though she had resolved to write no more letters, whenever she looked at the commemorative postcards he had sent from his travels, she ended up breaking her resolve and felt compelled to send this message. The letter not only detailed how prone she was to irritability, how weakened she had become—as if her former self from the Asakusa days had vanished somewhere—and how the something like athlete’s foot spreading across both hands still had not healed and caused her hardship, but also described her awkward feelings toward her mother in a tone unlike anything before. Upon starting to read, Kishimoto couldn’t help but frown. For the words of Setsuko’s mother conveyed through her letter could only be perceived as having sensed his secret, which should have been known to Yoshio alone. At that moment, Kishimoto thought so. Why had elder brother Yoshio adopted a policy of concealment even from his wife? Why had Setsuko not mustered the resolve to confess her shame and apologize to her mother alone?

According to Setsuko’s letter, there were times when her mother would call her “Granny” instead of “Sister” in front of her young brothers. Prone to irritability and unable to help in the kitchen as she wished, she wrote of the pain of enduring this sarcasm. Not only that—she had even written down such things as her mother’s words. “Calling her ‘Granny’ is simply too pitiful—no, ‘Aunt’ would be better—this one isn’t your sister, she’s Aunt Kishimoto—” She wrote that her mother’s words were always in this tone.

“Kishimoto’s aunt” “If this isn’t sarcasm, then what is it?” Kishimoto repeated those words to himself. He was so struck by the tone of Setsuko’s letter—unlike any she had used before—that he could scarcely bear to read it through. She wrote in a tone so heartrending it bordered on the pathological. She had written in a tone bordering on madness. Never before had Kishimoto been made to see so vividly the figure of his niece suffering because of him as he was at that moment.

111

An indescribable terror and pity remained in Kishimoto’s heart even after he had torn up and burned Setsuko’s letter. Long ago, when Kishimoto had secluded himself working as a country teacher in the mountains of Shinano, he once passed through a shallow valley on his way to the school near the castle ruins. At the water’s edge in that shallow valley behind a certain shrine, he had found a small bird. Without intending to catch the bird that would not fly away yet attempting to catch it nonetheless, as he chased it among the stones of the mountain stream, the Western umbrella in his hand struck the bird’s wing before he knew it. By the time he realized he had injured the small bird—whether fleeing something or ill, but in any case unable to escape—it was already too late. The eyes of the bloodied bird looking his way were terrifyingly human-like, and he could not rest until he had beaten that tiny sacrifice to death. After walking about half a cho, when he reached the railroad crossing near the castle ruins, he noticed the broken handle of his Western umbrella. The eyes of that small bird were exactly like those of Setsuko as he imagined them. What heartrending eyes. Eyes with the force of a sharp knife piercing through his chest without fail.

"Why does a sin once committed cling so spitefully to me?" Kishimoto sighed. A phrase that a French poet had discovered and preserved in a poetry collection rose to his mind. “Que m’importe que tu sois sage, Sois belle etsois triste ……” The ugliness of heart—that of an uncle in his prime leading his niece into a world unknown to her innocent maidenhood—could find its likeness even in a verse of this anguished poem. The same French poet who had left behind those verses comparing his innermost heart to the Arctic sun—verses Kishimoto had often recited at his Asakusa residence in Tokyo—had also composed this work. Kishimoto imagined that someone possessing such a decadent heart had once walked through this world while steeped in profound solitude. He envisioned that the crimson yet frozen-to-death sun described in that poet’s verses—even without conjuring images of the Arctic’s edge—was precisely what now filled his view in Paris’s wintry dark sky.

Kishimoto went into town to search for medicine for Setsuko’s hands, which were afflicted and causing her distress. He had purchased a French-style notebook with a black cover to send to his children; bundling it with the medicine, he resolved to entrust both to someone returning to Japan when the opportunity arose. Yet even these gestures could not alter the harsh reality that his niece—someone as unfortunate as Setsuko—persisted in living in this world. That anguish came to overshadow the renewed traveler’s spirit he had painstakingly regained in the countryside of Limoges.

112

Days when thick fog darkened the town's sky continued. Even on days when one glimpsed pale yellow glimmers in patches of sky near rooftops or saw clusters of peach-colored clouds in rare expanses of brightness, life tended to unfold in a mood that remained darkly confined. As befitted a desolate wartime winter, everything lay frozen solid. On cold rainy evenings, Kishimoto even found himself wanting to call out the names of friends now distant. Recalling the words "Loneliness Yearns for You" that a friend from Tokyo's Kaga-cho had written on a postcard's edge and sent to him, he went to gaze from the window.

A column of gun carriages pulled by six horses passed through the town at that very moment. Behind each gun carriage followed a vehicle loaded with ammunition boxes, drawn by eight horses. Among the citizens standing in the streets to watch, not one uttered an enthusiastic cry. All maintained solemn silence, merely seeing off the young conscripts on horseback. The wartime atmosphere had grown thick with gloom. From his room, Kishimoto gazed at the town's scenery—hushed as if water had been poured over it—and felt himself struck even more deeply than months before. Since returning from Limoges, he had sunk deeper into this atmosphere with each passing day. The time of intense excitement and turmoil had passed, replaced by a time of patience and restraint.

Kishimoto looked around his room. An even thicker ennui than before the war had settled there.

“Ah, it’s beginning again.” Whenever this thought came, he found it galling how the same sensation kept recurring—this feeling of having no way to pass time except wandering aimlessly through towns or sitting in cafés he had no desire to visit. The gray light streaming through the window sometimes made the dark room’s interior resemble a prison. That his surroundings were enclosed by cold stone was one such element. That everything from bedding to washbasin to chamber pot was contained within the room was another. That he was utterly separated from relatives, friends, and children was another still. The scarcity of visitors was another element; even when there were any, their idle hours were spent consoling one another through talk of homeland cuisine or women. That he had no connection whatsoever to the outside world was another element. The unimaginable lack of stimulation was another. That he was driven by fantasies utterly impossible to act upon was another. Moreover, Kishimoto had to bear the lash of his own whip upon his back. To one who had left his homeland with a heart shrouded as if by a woven hat, this unseen confinement seemed only natural—the loneliness, the abstinence.

113

In this desolate winter seclusion, Kishimoto’s heart often returned to his father. Frequently, he found himself yearning for the father from whom he had parted in boyhood. When staying at foreign inns during moments when thoughts of the future clogged his chest, he would throw himself onto the bed in the corner of the room and bury his face in the white lace coverlet. Beside the wall where hung that old painting depicting Socrates’ death, he would bring himself before his father who no longer existed in this world—call out to him, even attempt to pray to his soul. As if still carrying the heart of that boy who had parted from his father.

Kishimoto’s father was born into a family with an ancient history spanning over three hundred years in the mountainous regions of his homeland. In the neighboring village, just over a single mountain pass and bordering a deep valley, there was another household that bore the same surname of Kishimoto. That household’s history—having served for generations as magistrates, village headmen, operators of official inns, or wholesale merchants—closely resembled that of Kishimoto’s father’s family. From this household, Kishimoto’s mother had come as a bride. Yoshio had been taken in from early childhood to inherit his maternal family’s household. Yoshio’s adoptive father—Setsuko’s grandfather—was Kishimoto’s mother’s biological brother. Kishimoto left his parents’ side at the age of nine, departing his ancestral home to study in Tokyo. At thirteen, while living in Tokyo, he learned of his father’s death. Not only had his time living beside his father been brief, but the period during which he received his mother’s affection was equally short. The earnest two years he spent with his mother in Tokyo coincided with the onset of his arduous youth. He heard of his mother’s death while away in Sendai.

Kishimoto possessed only childhood memories of his father. Now at forty-four years old, it seemed strange even to himself that his traveler's heart should return once more to that man. The melancholy that had coiled endlessly through half his lifetime - that nameless, causeless melancholy from which all his words, deeds and thoughts seemed to spring - this thing that had descended upon him as early as youth's dawn was something he could have spoken of to only one person: his father. For just as Kishimoto had been tormented through half his life, so too had his father lived a troubled existence. Had his father survived in this world and learned of his son's motives for embarking on this distant journey...what might he have said? Yet still, when Kishimoto imagined himself crawling through dirt to press his forehead against the earth and pour out his anguish, it was before his father that he saw himself prostrate.

114 "Of father and mother, intensely yearned for— 'the pheasant’s cry'" This verse arose in Kishimoto’s heart. The yearning of wanderers from ages past, concealed within these brief words, seeped deeply into his very being. If it were not for this journey in a foreign land—waiting anxiously for a spring that might never come, fretting over his uncertain future—he wondered if he could have ever felt his father’s love so profoundly. The memories of his childhood carried him back to show him his distant hometown mountain village. There was a spacious entrance. There was a country-style hearth. There was a relaxation room where elder brother Minsuke resided. The village gentlemen often came there to hold discussions. There was an anteroom, and there was a central room. Mother and sister-in-law were spreading out their needlework in the room where bright light streamed in. From its position high on the mountainside, even distant mountains, spread-out valleys, and vast plains that seemed to haze into view could be seen beyond the shōji doors of that room. Across the courtyard’s wall, below the stone embankment, the wooden roof of his aunt’s house could also be seen. There was an inner room. There was an upper reception room. On one side, facing a quiet garden planted with old, well-branched pine trees and peonies, there was his father’s study with deep eaves. That was the house where Kishimoto was born.

Kishimoto could still vividly see in his memory the books his father loved and, at times, tools for traditional Japanese mathematics that had been placed atop the desk covered with a red rug. He could still see through memory the interior of that study—how he would go around behind his father, who often complained of stiff shoulders, and while being made to recite tedious historical era names like “Kyoho, Genroku…” as if chanting sutras, he would cling to his father’s shoulders, reciting and tapping them. He could still see through memory that candle flame he was made to hold before the blank sheets spread across the room, rubbing his sleepy eyes as he sat beside his father, who wrote late into the night.

Father was a strict man—so strict that Kishimoto had no childhood memory of ever being held on his lap. Father reigned as absolute sovereign over his family members while serving as an ardent educator to Kishimoto and his siblings. Before studying standard school textbooks, Kishimoto learned three-character primers his father had personally written; after entering the village school, he received instruction from his father in reciting The Great Learning and Analects through rote reading. He would clutch that chestnut-colored volume of Gotō’s annotated classics and timidly approach his father. At every opportunity, his father lectured him on human ethics and the Five Virtues—even as a child, Kishimoto both revered and feared him. When his father’s chronic nervous condition flared up particularly severely, he became terrifying. Being the youngest child still of tender age, Kishimoto largely escaped such treatment, though elder brother Minsuke would occasionally be beaten with a snapped bow. To state it plainly: to young Kishimoto, a father meant nothing but fearfulness, obstinacy, and unbearable constraint.

115

The memories from his boyhood took Kishimoto back to show him the backstreets of Tokyo’s Ginza. There was a clay-walled house. There was an entrance. Facing the street was a window fitted with iron bars. Sunlight streamed through the small shōji screens into the area beneath the window where the desk and bookcase were placed. That was the Tanabe house where, after Kishimoto moved to Tokyo, the boy had taken refuge under the supervision of his uncle and aunt and grandmother. The five or six tanzaku strips he had received from his father as a farewell gift—the characters his father had written in that meticulous calligraphy, telling him to use them as his motto after moving to Tokyo—Kishimoto could still vividly picture before his eyes. As a boy, he kept those mottos in the drawer of the bookcase beneath the window and would sometimes take out the several tanzaku strips to look at them. Every time he saw his father’s handwriting with phrases like “In conduct, be ever sincere and respectful…”, he felt as though he could hear the stern teachings of his father back in their hometown. Though haltingly, after Kishimoto began corresponding with his hometown, his father often sent him letters. Even after he moved to Tokyo, his father remained his constant advisor. He wrote to his father as if composing a school essay, but when Uncle Tanabe told him to show it, his face would often turn red. The time when his father had once come from their hometown to this Tanabe house was one of Kishimoto’s unforgettable memories. Father unpacked his travel blankets and luggage in the back room on the second floor of the Tanabe house and stayed there for a time. Back in his hometown, his father had still tied his hair in an old-fashioned style, securing it with a purple cord that hung down his back, but on that trip he spoke of how he had gotten his first short haircut. “This goes like that, and that goes like this—” Such was Father’s habit—muttering to himself as if in soliloquy to organize his thoughts. Once, when Father took out a mirror stored in a paulownia box from his travel bag, he asked, “Father, do men look in mirrors?” Father smiled and explained that mirrors were important even for men, especially when traveling—one must maintain proper appearance.

Father was a man full of eccentricities who left behind anecdotes wherever he went, but through his son’s eyes, these appeared more pitiable than amusing, more outlandish than abnormal. During that visit to the capital, he felt this especially keenly. Father had even suggested visiting his school friend’s house. At his friend’s house in Sanjukkenbori, the friend’s mother, a widow, was raising her children. There, he guided his father. The things Father did were nothing but a source of anxiety for the boy he was. When they visited his school friend’s house, the family welcomed them warmly, but as they were leaving, Father borrowed a tray from the friend’s mother and placed on it the large tangerines he had brought as a gift. As he watched, thinking his father would present them to his friend’s mother, Father instead suddenly took the tangerines to the Buddhist altar and offered them there. To the boy he was, such actions of Father’s seemed merely strange. He had no leisure to consider things like the beauty or honesty of his father’s spirit. For no particular reason, he simply wanted to quickly leave his school friend’s house and take his father back to Tanabe. In his heart at that time, he could not help but feel pleased at being reunited with Father after so long, yet he still wanted to consider Father remaining in their hometown mountain village. He wished Father would leave Tokyo as soon as possible, return to the hearth where a fire burned year-round back home, and stay there with Grandmother, Mother, his elder brother and sister-in-law, and the elderly faithful servant. When he later reflected on it, that had been his sole encounter with his father since moving to Tokyo. After that, he never saw his father again.

116 It was rather after his father’s death that Kishimoto came to know him. When he finally entered adolescence and began to feel his own rapid growth, he once returned home upon hearing of his late grandmother’s passing in his hometown. By that time, elder brother Minsuke was already in Tokyo, and he returned to his hometown as his brother’s proxy to mourn the late grandmother and stay with his mother and sister-in-law who were keeping house there. At that time, not only did he see his birthplace for the first time in a long while, but he also followed his mother—who wanted to show him his father’s collection of books—out to the backyard. The path between the vegetable fields and mulberry fields leading from the main house’s side to the storehouse; the detached second-floor room that had been his late grandmother’s retreat; the several persimmon trees planted before the storehouse—all remained unchanged from when he had seen them in his earliest childhood. Mother stood on the stone steps of the storehouse with its dark wire-mesh door shut, clattering the lock with a large key in her hand, then eventually guided him upstairs. There remained the long chest from when his grandmother had come as a bride. Here was Mother’s long chest. Excluding those old tools, what filled the second floor of the storehouse were the numerous books left behind by his father. From the old bookcases stacked against the wall emerged primarily books related to National Learning. Seeing this, he perceived how profoundly his own father had devoted himself to that classical school of thought. When he began studying English, his father was still alive and sent him deeply concerned letters, but he now came to understand those feelings of his father.

From that time on, he began striving more earnestly to understand his father. Regarding anything related to Father, he tried to commit even the smallest details to memory. At every opportunity, he questioned relatives and those who had known Father—elder brother Minsuke, elder brother Yoshio, Uncle Tanabe, Tanabe’s grandmother—piecing together Father’s life from their fragmented recollections. Yet paradoxically, he discovered Father more vividly within himself than through others’ accounts. This realization struck him most acutely whenever the burgeoning life-force within—pushing outward like a sprout—led him into melancholic realms where all colors seemed altered by despair. With each passing year, he grew more alarmed at how his nature increasingly mirrored Father’s. He had been twenty-six when returning from Sendai. One summer spent at Suzuki’s older sister’s home in his hometown brought Father’s voice through her lips: “Sutekichi’s my boy—such a scholar! Father kept saying he wanted that one to follow in his footsteps,” she recounted in rustic cadence. During those days Suzuki’s brother too dwelled in their ancestral home, enjoying his prime years—a joyful season for the sister as well. Seated before her long-absent brother, she turned to her husband laughing: “Just look at Sutekichi sitting there—why, his hands are Father’s very image!” In that moment he found Father’s hands emerging from his own flesh—though Father had worn plain tabi socks without patterns, while the towering figure etched in childhood memory still loomed larger than himself.

117 Father’s melancholy, just like Kishimoto’s, had also originated in his youth. Kishimoto’s repeated battles of the mind—unknown to other youths his age—were also a result of that melancholy, but he held firm to the extent of not descending into madness. Father’s was genuine.

Though this chronic illness had tormented Father throughout his life, Kishimoto could imagine that there had also been many sound days in his father's existence. As evidence stood Father's reported history: that he had been a disciple of Atsutane Hirata; that during the Restoration he had abandoned household concerns to devote himself to national affairs; that he had served as chief priest of Minashi Shrine in Hida Province; and that after retiring to his hometown, he had spent his final years educating pupils. The sister-in-law now living with elder brother Minsuke in Taiwan—she who knew well the particulars of Father's daily life—had once recounted these stories to Kishimoto at the Negishi house in Tokyo. "When Father's nerves weren't acting up, he was truly a gentle soul," she had said. "He wasn't the sort who could bring himself to administer even a single moxibustion treatment to a child."

Through this sister-in-law, Kishimoto learned of the days his father had spent confined in the tatami prison during his final days. Father’s senses, perceiving illusions as reality, became increasingly tormented by invisible enemies. “The enemies are attacking. The enemies are attacking,” Father would often say. Driven by those terrifying hallucinations, he ultimately attempted to set fire to the shoji paper screens of the village temple that the Kishimoto family’s ancestors had built. That marked the first time he was taken toward the room that was equivalent to a prison. Even elder brother Minsuke, who had always been known as an obedient child, was forced to stand before Father, bow once, and then bind his hands behind his back along with the villagers. The tatami prison built for Father was in a wooden shed at the back. It was located down stone steps by a dug well between the late grandmother’s retreat and the storehouse. In front lay an old pond, one side connected to a rice storehouse, and behind grew a dense bamboo thicket attached to Kishimoto’s house.

There, Father spent his final dark days. Not only did Mother stay in a separate room and not neglect Father’s care, but even the villagers who usually referred to him as “Master” took shifts day and night to keep watch. The sister-in-law’s account conveyed the details of Father’s time in the tatami prison, while Suzuki’s older sister relayed his emotions. Suzuki’s older sister was then around the time she had begun living apart from her husband, who had abandoned their home. After leaving her hometown for a time, she told this story to her younger brother on the second floor of Kishimoto’s house in Asakusa, Tokyo. At times in the tatami prison, Father would demand an inkstone and brush to write, then fill an entire sheet with the character for “bear” to show others. He would laugh mockingly at himself until he doubled over in hysterics—only for sorrowful tears to stream down his face moments later. “When plovers cry in frostlit night, on chill-woven mat I lay my robe—alone must I sleep?”—Father was said to have recited this ancient poem endlessly, clinging to the prison’s bars as he listened to his own voice and wailed in anguish. “To make of a patriot who grieves for his nation a madman—is this not tragedy?”—these were said to be Father’s final words left in that wooden shed. Father ultimately departed this world from beriberi-induced heart failure.

118 After Suzuki’s older sister moved to Tokyo, during the time when Sonoko was still in good health, Kishimoto once returned to his hometown to erect his father’s grave. At that time, he stopped by Suzuki’s house in his hometown to see his sister and then walked about ten ri along the Kiso River. Even though it was his hometown, Kishimoto had walked that path between the ravines only a handful of times. Each time he passed by, the remnants of the old station road had changed. When he went to the village where his mother was born, the old large mansion was no longer to be seen, but there stood elder brother Yoshio’s vacant house, where Setsuko’s mother lived with Grandmother, keeping company with the children. The topography of deep ravines ended around that area, and following a path with many slopes through the mountain forests, there lay Kishimoto’s village. At the temple said to have been established by distant ancestors, old moss-covered tombstones attached to Kishimoto’s family stood in rows as if recounting the past. Kishimoto passed through the cemetery built on the slope of a hill and emerged from between the cedar groves to a position where a part of the village could be seen. Two tombs came into view before his eyes. There lay his parents.

In the village, there still lived many people who had received Father’s teachings. The owner of the neighboring liquor store, who was usually close with Kishimoto’s household, was also one of them. When invited by the man to ascend to the second-floor room commanding a fine view, Kishimoto saw the former mansion site lying below from the elevated position atop the stone wall. The village’s great fire had transformed Father’s house into mulberry fields. Neither the main house nor the storehouse could be seen anymore. Beneath a sky that had somehow begun to drizzle, the persimmon leaves clinging to their branches amidst the mulberry fields spoke of autumn in his hometown. Kishimoto and the liquor store owner pointed to the mulberry fields and reminisced—there had been Father’s study there; there had stood the old pine tree Father cherished. From around the time when the entire family moved to Tokyo, as the former mansion site had also become the neighboring household’s property, Kishimoto obtained permission from the liquor store owner and went alone along the back way to emerge between the mulberry fields. From when the sweet-scented persimmon flowers bloomed to when the hollow fruits with their green calyxes fell, the scenes of days long past around the storehouse that had been his boyhood playground still lingered in his eyes. The memory of that day when he stood with his mother on the stone steps before the dark wire-mesh door to look at the books Father had left behind still remained in his eyes. From the second-floor room that had been the late grandmother’s retirement quarters to the back area, only that part had barely escaped the flames, and Kishimoto could see the wooden shed still standing unchanged. The sister-in-law who had gone to Taiwan had also spoken of that shed. The high stone wall in front, the old pond, and the dense bamboo thicket growing behind conjured images of Father’s desolate, dark final days.

119

All these memories of his father welled up in Kishimoto’s heart as he journeyed. Having lost his father early, he had ended up scarcely receiving the parental affection that many other boys might have known. Yet growing older, he had been spared from experiencing any terrible clashes between father and son. He often thought this. What connection could there be between his studies, actions, and thoughts and his father? What might have become of things had that father survived? From the days of his youth when he first resolved to master the foreign language his father despised—pursuing it as he wished—he had already turned his back on his father’s heart.

Strangely, in this foreign inn, Kishimoto’s heart had drawn closer to his father than it ever had before. Father’s voice resounded once more from the depths of his ears.

On a day when the dark, frigid sky passed through like a copper plate hung overhead—without the red sun shining—Kishimoto sat inside a frozen stone building, pondering the path ahead on his journey.

“Sukekichi. Sukekichi.” The voice of his father that he had heard as a child seemed to reach his ears once more. That was not all. Having come to the land of the heretical religion his father had vehemently rejected and despised in life, Kishimoto found himself developing new eyes through which to view his father. Back in his homeland, he had regretted on behalf of his father and others—those who devoted themselves to Hirata school doctrines—that they had not been content with following paths trodden by pioneers like Keichū and Norinaga, but instead pressed onward into Shinto itself. Now he came to regard with considerable gravity how his father and those like him—men who had remained steadfast in classical scholarship—had participated in patriotic movements of their time and moved from academic study to direct action. In the year before this journey, there had been a commemorative occasion when he compiled his father’s posthumous poetry collection, printed it in limited numbers, and distributed copies among those who had known the man. Among these literary remains were numerous travel poems his father had composed in Hida Province. Recalling them now, he reflected on how that period when his father secluded himself as chief priest of Minashi Shrine in Hida’s mountains had been both the loneliest time of his life and one filled with deep nostalgia. He reconsidered the cause of his father’s mental illness. Rather than attributing it to romantic notions he’d imagined in youth, he now viewed it as stemming from simpler matters of sanitary neglect. Even if his father’s madness had indeed arisen from such external pathogens, this did nothing to alter Kishimoto’s feelings toward him. The fearsome, stubborn, rigid father now appeared before his eyes as another fragile human being like himself—only viewed with greater intimacy than before.

Before this father, Kishimoto brought his traveler’s existence. When he had left his country with a heart that burned with shame—shame upon shame, yet still insufficient—as he stood on the deck of the French ship departing the harbor into the dark night to bid his final farewells, he had in truth intended that Kobe too would be his last glimpse. His journey had reached the point where he had to determine its future course.

120 “Sir, your meal is ready.” A maid wearing a French-style striped apron opened the door to the room and came to inform Kishimoto that it was time for lunch. At the boarding house too, the landlady’s niece had returned to Limoges, and a maid from the countryside had been hired.

Passing through the dark corridor, Kishimoto went to look into the dining room. During the nearly two years he had spent traveling, he saw himself there as a familiar fixture among that dining room's patrons. “Now then, everyone, please take your seats,” said the plump landlady as she sliced French bread. “I do wonder if our humble country fare will suit madame’s palate—coming all the way from Normandy as you have.” The woman who had journeyed from Normandy to visit her wounded husband at Val-de-Grâce military hospital nearby, and the middle-aged governess who tutored children for a local family—these were the faces gathered in Kishimoto’s dining room. The Roman Catholic Lent had already begun. As happened every year, even the landlady’s “Fat Tuesday” celebration with pork sausages had come and gone. The return of this forty-day religious season made Kishimoto realize how long he had been living in France.

“Mr. Kishimoto, have you had any letters from home? Are your children well? They must be waiting so eagerly for their father.” As she spoke these words while joining them at the table, the landlady passed around a large platter of homemade vegetarian dishes suitable for Lent before each guest. She praised the Paris-bought hat of the visitor from Normandy and complimented the newly tailored kimono of the home tutor—exclaiming “How splendid!” and “Truly exquisite!”—leaving no flattery unuttered. Being from rural Limoges, she seemed compelled to heap everything high—both food and compliments. Kishimoto had grown weary of their small talk; chewing his meal, he pondered this foreign journey that consumed nothing but funds. When he returned from dining room to his quarters and looked about him, the awareness of being an outsider surged acutely within Kishimoto. He began feeling this was neither a place to remain much longer nor a life he could prolong indefinitely. The compassionate old woman of Billancourt who had often worried over him was gone now, while current events had further constrained his travels. Not one among the French acquaintances he’d painstakingly made remained untouched by national crisis. Scholarship and art alike had nearly ceased entirely. All around him existed only war.

Kishimoto had come to feel that his resolution—to leave his country intending to become soil in a foreign land—was ultimately too difficult to carry out. In his homeland, there were helpless children waiting for him. He lamented that he would rather return the life he had been given than be made to stand at such a crossroads of his existence, as though bowing his head before a cold and solemn fate. He brought himself before his deceased father and even prayed, "Please take this life."

121

“Traveler, halt your steps. Why are you in such a hurry? Where are you going? Why do your eyes shine so? Why are you always searching for things? Why do you walk so scuttlingly?

――O traveler. Did you come all this way from the star-lit east to behold this country? Are even the things of this land insufficient to fill your heart?

――O traveler. Evening has come. Why are you welling up with tears? Is it that your unaccustomed boots are heavy? Is it this evening that weighs so heavily? Or is tomorrow’s evening that will be painful?

――O traveler. Why do you tremble like a small bird? Even were your life an endless chain of terrors, why cling not to innocence? ――O traveler. Halt your steps. The Roman Catholic season has come to this land. Come rest in this twilight that marks the Lord's Passion. "Surely there must be bread here to feed you, water here to quench your thirst......" In the room that served as both study and bedchamber, Kishimoto took out his writings and faced the desk. The French calendar on the wall by the window spoke of March's arrival. There at the window, he reread the travel sentiments he had recorded.

When he looked around the room, he still could not completely free himself from the lingering state of winter seclusion. The town's sky too was dark. Yet around January and February, there had often been stretches of even gloomier days. He felt a terrible low-pressure system—one that had persisted for fifteen days—pass through the depths of his heart. Through glass that felt cold to the touch, the town's sky appeared dark yet already held a faint reddish hue suggestive of spring; distant rooftops and chimneys stood blurred in haze, and even to his journey's window—frozen solid as befitted this wartime winter—it seemed a profoundly warm spring might finally be drawing near.

The sound of a military signal whistle, heard for the first time in ages, struck Kishimoto's ears. A squad of French infantrymen, led forward by a bugler, advanced from the direction of the Gobelin market. They were preparing to rest at the town's edge before moving on. Through the window, he saw winter-bare plane trees surrounded by stacked rifles and backpacks shrugged off shoulders. Officers dismounting their horses to rest came into view. The navy cloths swathing soldiers' caps and their new winter uniforms were all grimed beyond recognition—one could almost feel the harsh winds and snowstorms they'd endured.

“There is no one who does not want to live—” he said to himself.

The women of the towns came out to comfort the soldiers. There were coffee shop proprietresses who generously served wine, and confectionery shop proprietresses who arranged bread pastries on plates to offer. Kishimoto too could not stay still in his room. He hurriedly put on a hat, descended the stairs, and decided to mingle among these people. Women left behind with worried expressions about their husbands, brothers, and cousins, along with children and elderly people, were making their way through the resting soldiers and walking this way and that. Kishimoto took out a bag of rolled tobacco from his coat sleeve and offered it to the five or six soldiers nearby.

122 With each passing day, Kishimoto’s resolve to journey grew stronger. Whenever he had free time, he would leave his lodging, climb up to the grand hall of the Sorbonne to listen to wartime orchestral performances, and sit in the university’s old chapel, said to hold Paris’s finest religious music. He also strolled with others along Saint-Germain’s long tree-lined avenue to the banks of the Seine. When he reached the riverbank where the old buildings of the Louvre Palace and the stone walls of the Tuileries Garden were visible across the water, the flow seemed hazy, and the horse chestnut trees along the shore had begun to bud. On such days, a longing for spring rose particularly strong within him.

It was a time when the new words he had spent nearly two years cultivating began to spread. Like a traveler surveying his surroundings, he noticed phenomena busily preparing for an impending era. To his eyes, they were unmistakably buds—buds preparing ceaselessly and without respite. One might say they had already been sprouting vigorously for a considerable length of time. Yet the cold European war that seeped into humanity's very marrow seemed to have further invigorated their germinating power. Such things surrounded him. And among those buds, every single one represented the rebirth of what had once decayed.

This contemplation deepened Kishimoto’s resolve to journey even further. Even the dead Jean d'Arc was being revived once again in the hearts of the French people around him. With eyes that had seen many old Catholic temples akin to pagan shrines, he looked at Limoges’s Saint-Étienne Church; shifted those same eyes that had beheld that Saint-Étienne Church to gaze upon Paris’s François Xavier Church; and further turned his gaze to contemplate the many newcomers aspiring toward the Way of the Cross—until he felt he could discern such buds of regeneration even within the ancient, ancient air of Roman Catholicism.

The bud whispered to Kishimoto.

“Why don’t you prepare yourself as well? Why not transform yourself—you who have risen from the depths of a stagnant life—into something new just as you are? Your weariness and your fatigue—if possible, even the anguish itself that you harbor deep in your chest—” 123

An afternoon arrived when he felt like going out into town and mingling with the passersby. Kishimoto was about to leave his lodging when he encountered Makino, who had come visiting from the direction of the studio near Pasteur. Around this time, Oka and Kotake had already returned to Paris from England, one after the other. Makino had brought news that the woman Oka had feelings for had married someone else back in their home country. Before the war, when an assistant professor from the art school was about to depart Paris, and on other occasions as well, Oka had still clung to a thread of hope in those people’s return to their home country. By now, even the one Oka loved had left. Thinking of this, Kishimoto exchanged glances with Makino.

“Oka and Kotake are gathered at my studio right now,” said Makino. “We’re at our wits’ end about how to comfort him. We need even you to come—” “What good would someone like me going there do?” Despite his words, Kishimoto left his lodgings with Makino, concerned for Oka. The two walked along Port-Royal’s tree-lined avenue. Since the French government’s relocation from Bordeaux before year-end Christmas, the towns had regained some liveliness yet remained profoundly desolate. The war’s infiltration into every life—evident without singling out the black-mourning-dressed women with trailing veils—could be read in every townsperson they encountered: children with grimy faces; men driving coal-laden wagons with giant horses; nurses clutching children’s hands while carrying folding stools toward parks; young laborers in hunting caps; old women with small dogs; women in eye-catching attire—hats adorned with red flowers or cherry fruits, absurdly high-heeled shoes—their faces seeking that day’s sustenance.

When they reached the square in front of the observatory, the two encountered a group of youths around seventeen or eighteen years old. Those youths were all students. They wore regular clothes fastened with leather belts, sported armbands, wrapped leggings around their legs, shouldered rifles, formed ranks, and were heading toward Luxembourg Gardens to undergo military-style training. Among them mingled those with youthful yet intelligent faces. “Will even those people have to go to war soon? In our case, that would’ve been around the age when we were still wearing short hakama to school...”

While exchanging such words, the two saw off the French youths who seemed destined to head into their nation’s crisis. Compared to the previous year, the budding of the avenue trees was much delayed. The plane trees were still in their withered winter state. When they walked along Montparnasse’s tree-lined avenue toward the vicinity of Notre-Dame’s branch, blue buds could finally be seen on the horse chestnut trees there. “Even so, the horse chestnut buds have started appearing now,”

Makino said as he walked alongside Kishimoto. "You've really endured that studio well." "For some reason, this winter felt especially long." Kishimoto replied while walking briskly. In his heart, thoughts of Oka, whom he was going to meet, and of his own journey came and went.

124 “You all are admirable.” “Even so, you still help each other out.”

As they walked as far as Pasteur Street, Kishimoto looked at Makino and said. “A model who comes to my place said the same thing. ‘The Japanese are all poor, but they help each other admirably—people from other countries never do that.’” Makino replied and led Kishimoto toward the side street where his studio stood, as if returning home. From behind Montparnasse station to the tree-lined streets beyond stretched a path Kishimoto knew well. Being near Paris’s encircling ramparts gave it a slightly suburban air, but this very quality made it unassuming. The vegetable shop where Kishimoto would buy scallions when invited to Makino’s place for homemade Japanese meals was also visible along this street. By then, the studio was nearly within reach.

Oka and Kotake were waiting for Makino’s return, gathered around a table set with beer.

“Oh! Thank you for your trouble,” said Kotake, looking at Makino. “Makino, since Mr. Kishimoto is here too, why don’t we all have a drink together?” said Oka, placing his half-empty cup on the table. “Ah.” Makino, playing both host and hostess, bustled about in a corner of the studio with a hospitable air, making clattering noises. Just seeing this scene was enough for Kishimoto to feel the mood of “Paris Village” welling up within him. He sat down opposite Oka. Oka spoke little. Letting his habitually tensed shoulders and fervent brow do the talking, he poured beer for Kotake and Kishimoto. As if they were raising their cups to each other to see someone off.

“When I think that even with someone who truly understood by my side, things still ended up like this—that’s what I find most regrettable.”

Oka said that. “Though my situation and yours can’t be compared—first of all, from your perspective, I was much younger and in different circumstances. But in that single aspect—that we opened our hearts to each other—I think we were similar. I fought with death. Even so, I could do nothing to stop the one who left. I was the one who announced our separation—though in my case, the other party had a fiancé.”

Kishimoto spoke before everyone of things he would rarely ever mention in ordinary times.

125 Kishimoto had not forgotten how, when he embarked on this journey to France, he had unexpectedly encountered two women who came to visit him at the inn in Kobe. Those he met after twenty years were now women over forty, yet the one who had died two decades prior remained forever young in Kishimoto’s heart. What he inadvertently revealed before Oka and Kotake concerned Katsuko—the old schoolmate of those women encountered in Kobe. At the age when Kishimoto vied in youthful vigor with friends like Aoki, Ichikawa, Suga, and Adachi—he met that Katsuko. For him, still in his prime, everything became a cascade of heart-shaking revelations. Strangely, what society called blindness had inversely opened his eyes. His vision awakened not only to Katsuko but also to hidden depths he had never perceived before. He could now penetrate not just the hearts of older friends around him but also imagine the lives of ancient poets who left behind passion-suffused verses, connecting their experiences to the universal ardor for women that all must pass through. Young lives unfurled from that awakening.

However, the young lives that unfolded before him were not merely bright and joyful; rather, they were filled with dismal scenes. He saw Katsuko, wrested from his hands, ultimately going to marry another in accordance with her father’s command. Simply put, it was because he was poor. He could not forget the many intimations he had received that, even at the same youthful age, had he been born into a slightly wealthier family, he might have been able to keep her. What he could offer was nothing more than a fragment of sincere heart. “I love you. My body is as good as dead—all that remains is this heart of mine that yearns for you.” With these words, Katsuko was led away by her father’s hand. He had experienced this not only in his own life but also in the cases of friends around him. Even a clever young man like Ichikawa—those who could not provide economic security to their lover’s sister or relatives—ended in failure. And Okami, born into a katsuobushi wholesaler family in Nihonbashi Denmacho, succeeded. This fact engraved a deep impression on his young heart. It was indeed at that moment that he realized the futility of love’s endeavors.

Kotake and Makino’s cheerful laughter arose before Kishimoto. These two painters, who had left their wives back in their homeland, sought to console Oka’s heart by losing themselves in unreserved laughter. Observing Oka sitting with folded arms as if declaring the time had come to bury everything, Kishimoto felt something resembling the sight of his younger self—not quite to the extent of seeing it before him, but close enough. For between him during Katsuko’s lifetime and Oka, there had been an age difference akin to that of a younger and older brother.

126 Whenever Kishimoto recalled his younger days, Aoki’s name would invariably surface in his heart—a name that, through frequent mention in his stories, had become familiar to Oka and Makino as well. He recalled the words of that friend who had ended his regrettably short life at around twenty-seven, there before Oka. “Didn’t Mr. Aoki say this? ‘Of all things in this world, not one endures—yet within them, I wish to leave sincerity behind.’ I’d like to commend those words to you, Oka.”

With that, Kishimoto looked toward Oka and said. He talked in that atelier until sunset. The remnants of that New Year’s gathering—when only close acquaintances in Paris had gathered to set out wine, have the model sing, and spend an evening of childlike joy—still hung in Makino’s atelier: the faded colored paper strung from wall to wall beneath the ceiling. Before long, Kishimoto prepared to take his leave. Makino said he had shopping to do in town and followed Kishimoto while worrying about Oka.

Makino said once they reached the town. "This time, even Oka seems to have lost heart." "Well, I suppose there's nothing for it but to let him weep his fill," Kishimoto replied, walking alongside Makino through the twilight-painted sidewalk. "But knowing him, he'll surely grasp something from all this eventually." "Even if someone were to ask for my sister's hand, I'd have reservations." "Fellow artists know too much about each other's private affairs—it never ends well." "I won't have my sister endure the same hardships."

Exchanging such words as they walked, Kishimoto parted ways with Makino on Boulevard Pasteur, a street considerably busy with passersby. The buds on the horse chestnut trees lining the street seemed ready to burst forth all at once in the March dusk. There was still time before dinner at seven. Kishimoto walked back to his lodging through the pervasively warm town air, thinking of the emotions stirred up in Makino’s atelier, his friends from younger days, and how those memories brought Katsuko to mind once more.

“The fact that I still think of Morioka so often just goes to show she did have her womanly qualities after all.” Along the way, Kishimoto tried saying that aloud. Morioka was Katsuko’s birthplace. In places like Denmacho or Saikyo—whenever they used to gather with Ichikawa, Suga, and others in the old days—such coded references would surface. Kishimoto’s sympathy for Oka’s despondency soon became his own heart from long ago—the heart that had heard of Katsuko’s marriage. It had indeed been a blow to him in his youth. Even glimpsing an unfamiliar newlywed couple in town would wound his young heart. But hearing of Katsuko’s death struck him even more deeply. She had passed away while still in the bloom of her youth, barely a year after her marriage, from complications of morning sickness during pregnancy. When he heard the news, everything around him seemed tinged yellow—he even felt as if the very soil of the streets were rising before his eyes. Dark days followed. Hardships assailed him. He could still vividly recall how many long years it had taken to recover his crushed spirit.

The trip to Sendai saved his heart in this way. It felt as though the pure morning of his life had only begun to dawn after he went to that old, quiet Tohoku city.

However, he was no longer the same Kishimoto as before. From then on, his repeated attempts to distance himself from romantic entanglements, his efforts to avoid women who approached him, and his striving to live alone—all were rooted in that bitter experience of love endured during the most sensitive and tender-hearted years of his life.

127

“How many years has it been since Aoki died?” Even after returning to the maternity hospital with its forty-odd windows glowing with lamplight, Kishimoto went to stand before the Western-style lamp placed atop his room’s fireplace and retraced everything that had unfolded since parting ways with his old friends. He retraced the state of mind from when he had first set out alongside Aoki, Adachi, Suga, Ichikawa, and even the Okami brothers. After dinner, the lodging’s maid came and hurriedly closed the room’s windows.

“If light is visible from the windows, the police will make a fuss.”

With that, the maid left behind those wartime-like words and departed. Kishimoto moved the old-fashioned lamp with its yellow cloth-covered shade to his desk. As he faced the lamplight, his heart wandered to the time before his marriage when he had no intention of taking a wife; then to how Sonoko, whom he had become engaged to through his senior’s recommendation, had once been taught by that Katsuko who had graduated early from the same school during her girlhood; and even further back to those joyful newlywed days when he and Sonoko first shared a home like a bird’s nest.

“Papa, please believe me… Please believe me…” Those words Sonoko had spoken—weeping into her husband’s arms twelve years into their marriage—remained Kishimoto’s most cherished and unforgettable memory of his wife’s voice. Resolved never to treat love carelessly, he had endured a bitter existence. In striving to reclaim what he’d lost, he forfeited even what he still possessed. When Sonoko left this world through postpartum hemorrhage—without time to bid farewell to their children—he transformed into a man who could only gaze vacantly at women. Had he placed greater faith in what society called love, he might have avoided the hardship of solitary parenthood. Had he earnestly heeded relatives’ counsel, he might have taken another wife. A heart barren of trust—this became the fathomless abyss into which he plunged. It was despair layered upon despair. From this void emerged loneliness. From it sprang tedium. Even his comprehension of womanhood itself disintegrated there.

Since coming on his journey, he had received numerous letters from his niece. No matter how Setsuko wrote words that seemed to lay bare her heart, he couldn't bring himself to believe them.

128

With the wall hung with that old copperplate print depicting the death of Socrates behind him, Kishimoto sat near the bed. And he continued to reflect on his own life up to that point. Even those with passion find it difficult to encounter the one truly worthy of that passion. This was the reflective statement Kishimoto had attempted to jot down in the margins of his correspondence to a newspaper back home while staying at an inn during his journey awaiting spring. At nine o'clock at night—with the window outside now hushed in that wartime air where passersby’s footsteps were rarely heard—Kishimoto repeated the words he had written himself. Born with a disposition so intense that he had known passionate first love by the age of eight, he now contemplated the contradiction of a life half-lived where he could no longer bring himself to trust the opposite sex.

The tombs of Abélard and Héloïse in Père Lachaise Cemetery, which Kishimoto had visited alongside Dr. Yanagi and others when Takase from Kyoto University occupied the adjacent room, remained vivid in his memory. Not only had that celebrated medieval monk shared an undying love with his disciple and lover—a nun—throughout their lives, but even in death they lay side by side within an old chapel darkened by time. What rested there symbolized a world steeped in profound ecstasy—an embodiment of trust between man and woman beyond imagination’s reach. “Truly the country of Amour!” Takase had laughed, but Kishimoto could no longer find humor in that tomb. Even if their story were but legend... He recalled the two serene effigies resting as if in love’s nirvana within the Catholic-style chapel supported by four pillars, visible through its four arches from every angle. He remembered how begonia-like flowers had bloomed poignantly within the iron fence encircling that ancient chapel, as though bearing some symbolic meaning. Circling the perimeter, he had gazed at the figures from both head and foot ends, reluctant to depart. “It’s just like a fairy tale,” he murmured of the lovers’ image before him. Yet no life felt lonelier than one devoid of fairy tales. He wondered if he would traverse this world as a perpetual traveler, never encountering anyone worthy of his passion—and when he did, loneliness gripped him.

That evening, Kishimoto retired late to his bed. Even before lying down, he remained half-sitting up on the mattress and recalled friends from his youth and his younger days. From the time he had parted with Aoki—who had left this world so early—he contemplated his own life, realizing he had now outlived that friend by nearly twenty years. He had believed until then that he had moved through life with the childlike heart born within him. When he noticed, even that heart was beginning to fade.

“Yes. Above all else, I must first return to my childlike heart.” I told myself. Never since coming on this journey had he returned so deeply to the feelings of his youthful days as on that night.

129

At last, a turning point began to emerge in Kishimoto’s stubborn heart. If he were to resolve not to return to his homeland and attempt to immerse himself among complete strangers, what path could possibly lie before him in this time of war? Now Frenchmen from eighteen to forty-eight or forty-nine years of age were answering their nation’s call. Even among those engaged in arts and academia, some—like the clerk from Billancourt—served as bicycle corps attendants, while others—like the poet from Lapérouse—worked aboard transport vehicles. Had he possessed the resolve to join the volunteer soldiers and disappear among strangers, there would have been no path closed to him, however arduous. But Kishimoto could not bear to involve himself any further and thereby torment the children he had left behind in his homeland. Having reached that conclusion, he finally resolved to return.

Letters began arriving from his elder brother Yoshio urging him to return home as soon as possible. Kishimoto wrote to his elder brother to convey this resolution. He wrote that in any case Yoshio should wait until around October—by then he intended to prepare for his return to Japan, and since it hardly seemed likely there would ever be another opportunity to venture abroad like this again, he wished to make the most of this journey. “Mr. Kishimoto, I will be returning to Japan via Suez.”

A picture postcard bearing brief words heavy with unspoken emotion arrived from Professor Chimura. When he held it, Kishimoto felt he could intimately hear the voice of that same Professor Chimura with whom he had grown close beneath foreign skies during their travels. It was when Chimura boarded a mail steamer in London for his eastward journey home that he had sent this missive. As for Takase—who had written of his wish to return via America—it seemed his departure too could not be far off now. Kishimoto went to his room’s window and gazed out at the inn where Chimura had lodged. The row of plane trees beyond the pane still stood stark in winter barrenness. Through gaps in their sparse branches, he could clearly make out the window of Chimura’s former room, the noren curtain of the café below it, and the town road Chimura had walked each mealtime. The war in Europe enduring even after those men’s departure; these March days of Paris witnessed alone—the sensations born of such sights and sounds made Kishimoto’s heart feel ever more like a journey lingering past its end. He stood at the window’s edge imagining Chimura’s voyage as if bidding farewell to some traveler receding into distance. His heart voyaged to the French ship that had borne him from Kobe, to the Mediterranean glimpsed from those decks, onward to the Red Sea and Arabian Sea. It ventured even to the Indian Ocean’s expanse where one might behold summer’s eternal terror made manifest—to Colombo and Singapore and other Eastern ports besides. Comparing outbound and homeward passages, he pictured Chimura surveying colonies through eyes that had already seen Europe—surmising that while vague anxieties and wonders might dwindle, richer travel-sensations would instead multiply on the return voyage. Imagining the day Chimura would again behold his homeland, he marveled that such a day had now come for himself too—he who two years prior had cast all away to hasten over distant waves.

130 The warm rain had begun to fall sporadically. He had not felt as though he had been waiting impatiently for this rain. For five months now—throughout his winter seclusion during his travels—Kishimoto had felt as though he had been waiting for nothing but this. What had surrounded him since his journey to Limoges? There had been ongoing reports up until that day—of trenches near France’s mountainous border being buried under deep snowdrifts, of citizens gathering blankets to relieve frostbite among those at the front—testaments to compassionate hearts enduring such hardships. Not a single story he heard failed to recount war’s miseries. Since hostilities began, some said five or six hundred thousand French lives had already been lost. Others claimed few would return to Paris whole when this war ended. Every child left behind in town, every woman, every elderly person he encountered was impatiently awaiting spring’s arrival. Cold and bitter—amidst this war’s inescapable anguish and the world’s suffering—it seemed almost none could help hoping that nature’s rebirth might herald their own.

Nearly every day, Kishimoto went to stand before the French calendar hanging on his room’s wall. The days had grown considerably longer. The sky had grown brighter. Already he could live without a fireplace. With each rain he felt spring approaching. At last the horse chestnut buds had begun to swell. Amidst all the reviving plants, he took delight in awaiting the coming world of young leaves. The horse chestnut flowers resembling upright white candles bloomed among the young leaves, and it seemed the time was no longer far off when spring’s flames would stream forth even from cold glass windows and stone walls.

The evening’s softly blowing south wind now carried even German airships as they arrived. Though not exactly a French journalist’s words, on that first night when those “sky pirates” dropped bombs across central Paris and its outskirts, Kishimoto had slept so soundly he remained entirely unaware of the commotion. The following night, he awoke in bed to a deafening noise. Patrol cars blaring their horns raced through towns in the dead of night. Once more, he realized enemy airships were approaching. When he hurried out of his room, he found the boarding house landlady in the kitchen trembling as she prayed. Outside stood townspeople gazing up at the dark sky, watching searchlight beams like lightning. Even amid such a Paris, he had grown so accustomed to the wartime atmosphere that it no longer seemed terrifying. “Instead of swallows, airships have come flying.” Such remarks drew nothing but wry smiles from the boarding house residents. More than anything, he worried that telegrams about Paris’s situation would alarm his relatives and acquaintances back home.

Kishimoto, at his journey’s window, thought of Izumi and Shigeru waiting for him and imagined the day when news of his return home—which he had notified his elder brother Yoshio about—would reach the children’s ears. Then he imagined too the day when he would see that unfortunate Setsuko again. At this thought, an involuntary deep sigh escaped him. Through observing the war before him, Kishimoto had come to discern the hearts of various people moving within it. Just like Vronsky’s departure described at the end of Anna Karenina, he found it easy enough to envision young Frenchmen advancing toward battlefields in such manner, seeking their own salvation. He had also heard tell of Professor Bloss’s son who treated war as sport and was seen off at the station by family and friends as if departing on some casual excursion—a mindset he found truly pitiable when contemplated. This regenerative power born from death—it was not merely the wish of those around him but his own ardent hope as well. Spring remained awaited.

『寝覚』 Note

"Nezame" is a retitling of *Shinsei*.

Even now, I feel hesitant to offer you readers what might be called a book of such sorrow and suffering. However, without this work, I cannot make clear the path that led me even to that *Storm*.

This work originally comprised two parts, but properly speaking, it should have become a trilogy through the addition of another section—without depicting how the protagonist ultimately returns to the heart he carried back from his distant journey, one could scarcely grasp the narrative’s full scope, making it an inadequate record of a life’s journey. Moreover, between when I wrote this and today’s world twenty years later, the surrounding circumstances have changed, people have changed, and even my own mental disposition has transformed. For this reason, I selected only the first part for this seventh library volume—confining it to the section from the protagonist’s departure on a distant journey to his contemplation of return—and changed the title to *Nezame*.

Looking back today, I realize I was too fixated on the word "rebirth" when I wrote this. The fact that rebirth is rebirth lies in its not being achieved. Rebirth is not something that can be attained so casually. In that sense as well, the retitled *Nezame* is indeed far more suited to this work.

I began writing the first part of this work in April of Taisho 7 (1918) and published it serially in the Tokyo and Osaka Asahi newspapers. I was forty-seven years old at the time. It was in September of the following year that I completed the manuscript of the second part. In Showa 2 (1927) [the 16th year of the Republic], this work was translated into Chinese by Mr. Xu Zuzheng of Peking University and published by a company called Beixin Book Company. It was also the first time my work had been introduced among readers in a neighboring country. Incidentally, it seems Mr. Xu, as a translator, faced hardships beyond our imagination; translating this into Chinese reportedly required a considerable number of years. Mr. Xu had written to me about this in a letter, and at the beginning of the lengthy preface to his translation, he stated: "Due to various circumstances, the completion of this book was delayed for a considerable time. Now I take this chronicle as my final task. Herein, I earnestly hope for the swift completion of this book and respectfully wish the original author good health."

In the latter part of the first volume of *Nezame*, there appears a passage where the protagonist reflects on his deceased father; yet viewed from today’s perspective, there remain many inadequacies in how that father is portrayed. Even when attempting to capture his father’s likeness as a son, this remains true. How much more so for the likenesses of others. Even so, I came to keenly realize how difficult creation truly is. Moreover, as I was still in the prime of my vigor at the time, I took up my pen to write this work with profound emotion, and even to my own eyes, there seemed no few instances where I lacked composure. I simply continued to shed hot sweat and cold sweat while writing this. Given the nature of its content, it was also this work that stirred up various issues. However, I remained silent in many instances. It was because the deeper my self-reflection became, the more it seemed proper to remain silent.

Herein lies *Nezame*, which is but a fragment; yet even so, I believe it might be considered a work in its own right. There are still many things I would like to set down in writing, but I cannot give full expression to them here.

Volume Two

I

Nearly three years had passed during his journey in a foreign land. Kishimoto, who had often likened his circumstances to those of a man exiled to some distant island, felt as though he were removing his own handcuffs and untying the rope around his waist as he sought to leave behind his desolate life of self-reproach.

The day of his return to his homeland had drawn near. The day that should have come before Christmas had been delayed by about half a year, and Kishimoto spent both that third Christmas encountered on his journey and the New Year of the following year at his Paris boarding house. Counting from when he had first arrived at Marseille’s port aboard that French steamship and set foot on French soil, it had already been nearly four full years. By his original resolve upon leaving home—to venture into unknown lands among strangers without looking back, seeking to forget his heart’s sorrow—he had never imagined there might come a day when he would return alive. Perhaps Kobe’s port would have been his final glimpse. The thought of redirecting his steps toward the homeland he had left with such resolve made him feel as though he were slinking back in disgrace. Yet since wartime had exhausted all travel means, prolonging his stay would only burden others; moreover, he felt acute concern for the children left behind in his homeland. That he had somehow maintained nearly three years of restraint and endurance—this ascetic practice (?)—had somewhat lightened his traveler’s heart. Like a prisoner awaiting release, he anticipated the day he might see his children again in their homeland. The time had come to prepare for the long journey. Among the Japanese garments brought from home in his suitcase were haori jackets and kimonos he often wore indoors. There too remained an undergarment kept as a memento of his wife Sonoko—gone so many years he could scarcely count them. The navy silk lining its back had worn completely through. During his Paris stay, the padded robe specially sent from a friend’s house in Tokyo’s Motomaru-cho proved invaluable; through long winter nights he would layer it over Western clothes at his desk, savoring the loose comfort of Japanese attire—yet even this sturdy robe now showed white cotton through its hem. The suit worn yearly from late autumn to early spring had grown too shabby to take home. He sought to discard that aged suit as one might cast off a red kimono. By journey’s end, even the grime of his boarding house room caught his eye. He prepared to bid farewell to that long-familiar room. At times even to its stone walls where he had felt imprisoned in invisible confinement. At times even to its glass pane where he had gazed while clutching himself, vexed over the uncertain path ahead.

"I am being permitted to return." He tried voicing aloud the thought of his own homecoming.

II

As Kishimoto prepared for his return, his homeland had somehow become distant. He could not even clearly imagine how rapidly his own children—whom he had not seen in nearly three years—might have grown. In his eyes remained only their image as they had been when he parted from them at the old Shinbashi Station: forever young. The war in Europe still raged; the concierge’s husband at Kishimoto’s boarding house address had been conscripted long ago, returning only occasionally on wartime leave—yet in his absence, the children left with the concierge’s wife had grown astonishingly large. When going up and down the stairs, Kishimoto often approached the French children playing there. He frequently asked their ages. Their attire—black jackets and short trousers exposing their shins—bore no resemblance to anything seen back home. But gazing at the blue eyes of these approaching children, Kishimoto imagined how Izumi and Shigeru awaiting him might have grown. The Izumi he would soon return to see was already twelve; Shigeru would be ten.

Alongside imagining the growth of Izumi and Shigeru, thoughts of Setsuko—whom he had entrusted with the children when leaving the country—rose in Kishimoto’s heart. The landlady’s niece—whose reliable French fiancé had unfortunately gone off to the battlefield and died—had now returned to the countryside near Limoges; this niece was exactly Setsuko’s age. She was a woman of sturdy build with unnervingly red, frizzy hair—when she first came from Limoges to assist her aunt in Paris, she had been thoroughly provincial, but by her return to the countryside, she had absorbed Parisian customs to such an extent that she became nearly unrecognizable; even her diligent, work-worn hands bore traces suggesting a young woman in her prime. She stood taller than the landlady. Through this woman, Kishimoto often envisioned his niece’s growth. He had always thought of Setsuko as a young girl, yet she was already twenty-four.

A letter from Setsuko arrived before Kishimoto vacated his boarding house. In a modest tone, she wrote that she was praying for Uncle’s safe return to his homeland; that the children back home were in excellent health and eagerly awaiting his return; yet also that she worried about what Uncle might think when he soon returned and saw the state of the household. “I couldn’t even look after the house properly—I’m truly sorry.”

Such words were also written within it. The terribly nervous, vulnerable tone that had once characterized her letters was no longer there. Especially her most recent letter was written in an unreserved tone—the easiest to read among the many letters Kishimoto had received from her during his travels.

“It’s such a relief that Setsuko keeps up this kind of tone.” Before he knew it, Kishimoto found himself murmuring those words. Simultaneously, the image of her—still unsettled at that age, seemingly adrift—pressed upon his heart with silent insistence.

III Regarding the marriage proposal for Setsuko that had arisen back home, Kishimoto was not entirely unaware of it. From his brother Yoshio in Tokyo, there had even been a time when he had sent word to Paris before such matters were settled. When Kishimoto read that letter, he learned of his brother’s anxious desire to have Setsuko settle down quickly, learned that the prospective suitor was a salaried worker earning sixty to seventy yen monthly, and also learned that the man was a descendant of a scholar renowned during the Tokugawa period. His brother had also written that he hoped the marriage proposal would be settled. After that, there was no word from his brother, and seeing that Setsuko herself had written nothing about the matter in her occasional letters, he thought that the proposal had likely fizzled out—

Every time he recalled these tidings to mind—thoughts of Setsuko secretly giving birth to their child, of her breasts that had undergone surgery, of her body that had become so altered that an unknowing observer could not discern it at a glance—Kishimoto's heart could not help but confront those irrefutable, hidden secrets. He, now preparing to return to his homeland, had to confront that terrifying thing—from which he had tried for nearly three years to turn his face away, tried to shut his mind's eye, tried desperately to forget amid his wandering journey. He brought himself to face his brother Yoshio, who looked stern even in photographs. He brought himself before his sister-in-law, who had fled without being able to ask for a single word of help while leaving her children behind. He brought himself before his grandmother, who had left her familiar hometown with his sister-in-law without knowing anything. Then, among those gathered people, he once again brought himself before Setsuko—whom he would meet upon returning—and faced her.

Kishimoto sighed and contemplated how difficult returning to his homeland would be. Yet with a heart that felt like awaiting dawn anew, he turned toward those people. He resolved to confess everything at least to his sister-in-law alone and apologize for all that had transpired. For the sake of unfortunate Setsuko too, he resolved to do everything within his power; he would even endeavor to assist with her marriage prospects. For Kishimoto, this homeward journey was nothing but a succession of challenges requiring no small measure of spiritual courage.

IV

The effects of the war had reached even the boarding house where Kishimoto was staying—the guest who had been an ophthalmologist commuting to the military hospital left, the guest who had been a tutor left, until finally Kishimoto became the sole remaining guest. The dining room was utterly desolate. The landlady, who had been grumbling repeatedly that she could no longer manage due to soaring prices of all goods, eventually declared her intention to close down the place and retreat to the countryside near Limoges until the war’s end; seizing this opportunity, Kishimoto resolved to leave the boarding house he had long grown accustomed to. And so, he decided to move to a hotel near the Sorbonne, convenient in every way for his imminent departure.

Kishimoto still could not set a date for leaving Paris. The long journey meant even waiting for letters from his homeland required considerable time. As travel itself had become difficult, he needed to make various inquiries about the route ahead. Through these, he had to determine his return journey's course. Should he choose the lengthy sea voyage home via the distant Cape of Good Hope, passing through Eastern ports from the Indian Ocean? Or resolve to risk strict censorship that might confiscate his travel journal, opting instead for a train journey across the North Sea from England, detouring through Northern Europe which he had long wished to see, then traversing Siberia? In distant Russian territories lived Teruko—Setsuko's elder sister—and her husband, who had written they would await their uncle's return. In any case, this was no time for an easy homecoming. Kishimoto found himself torn between these two paths.

Among the artist friends Kishimoto had grown close to in Paris, Kotake had already returned to Japan, and Oka had gone to Lyon for a time. In the atelier near Pasteur was Makino, who had promised to leave Paris together with Kishimoto; this painter often visited Kishimoto’s boarding house to discuss their return journey. “What awaits us back home?” Every time he saw Makino, Kishimoto could not help but say those words.

“I can’t help thinking those at home must be struggling too,” said Kishimoto. “When I return, I suppose my first duty will be to worry about that.” When Kishimoto spoke of his household affairs—something he rarely mentioned before Makino—the painter nodded solemnly. Makino had endured his own arduous journey through these war years. “I’ll never make such a journey again.” With Makino facing him, Kishimoto heaved a sigh that seemed to dredge up every hardship from the past three years.

That was the final time he saw Makino in the boarding house room.

After moving to the hotel, Kishimoto truly wanted to prepare for his journey. At last, the hired carriage he had requested arrived beside the town’s tree-lined street, and before sending off the provisionally packed luggage, Kishimoto went to the bedside in the room that had been the site of bitter naps, to the space beneath the copperplate engraving of Socrates hanging on the cold wall, and to the large full-length mirror affixed to the cupboard door. By the time he left that room, his hair had turned so white it startled even him.

V

Kishimoto was no longer a settled resident of Paris but a traveler about to embark on his journey home. After moving to a hotel near the Sorbonne University, he went out almost daily to run errands. To complete the procedures for his impending journey to London, he went to the Paris police station, the Foreign Ministry, and the British consulate. To find modest tokens as souvenirs for his close acquaintances back home, he walked through the old tree-lined streets of Saint-Germain. Just as the tercentenary of Cervantes was approaching, new publications commemorating that renowned Spanish author of Don Quixote adorned the bookshop windows. For a man like Kishimoto—one devoted to arts and letters—passing before these eye-catching shop windows displaying new publications while walking back and forth beneath the horse chestnut trees whose yellowing young leaves were stretching forth only deepened his traveler’s state of mind all the more. To bid farewell, he visited the homes of French acquaintances he was usually on good terms with. There was not a single house he knocked on that did not evoke a wartime state of mind. He went to see the clerk’s house in Billancourt. There, no trace of the elderly woman remained, the wife was away, and the two children sat forlornly with the maid. He went to see old Professor Bloss’s house. There, it was said that one of their young sons who had gone to the front had been injured; the professor and his wife had gone to visit him, leaving the maid to keep watch with a worried expression.

At last came an evening that seemed to herald the imminent end of his French journey. Kishimoto shut himself alone in a third-floor room of the inn and wrote a letter addressed to his Tokyo home, listening to the chapel bells from the historic Sorbonne weaving through the stone buildings of the town. There had long been something Kishimoto wished to accomplish by journey's end. He had resolved that when the time came to leave Paris, he would shave off his beard and set forth on his homeward path. Strange it might seem to others, abrupt they might call it—yet to Kishimoto, who had departed his homeland with a heart heavy as if wearing a woven hat upon it, this was neither strange nor abrupt. He yearned to make manifest in flesh the state of his present soul.

For a while, Kishimoto sat on the bed in his room and tried to restrain himself from acting. Yet the time had come to fulfill his long-held resolve. Then he began to shave off his beard. In the room stood a stone washbasin built into the wall. Above it hung a full-length mirror. He positioned himself before it and took up the razor. Each unhesitating stroke sent years of growth beneath his nose sliding down his strained face. With a blade that barely cut, he pressed so hard around his lips that they swelled.

In place of his former self who had once taught others in his homeland, there now appeared a version of himself from much earlier days—as if he had reverted to his student years. When he finally went to the full-length mirror and gazed at his freshly shaven face, the area beneath his nose—previously concealed by his beard—appeared bluish. Blood had seeped out in places. Kishimoto’s face had transformed entirely. Yet he ran both hands around his mouth with evident satisfaction. He thought that only with this face could he return to his homeland and face Setsuko’s parents.

VI “Oh my, you’ve made yourself look so refreshed!” The first to notice Kishimoto’s face—after uttering these words in French—was the hotel waiter who came to clean his room the next morning. Everyone who saw Kishimoto burst out laughing. Within Paris’s small expatriate circle—those enduring the tedium of life abroad—people spoke of his former face, where everything had been in its proper place as if recounting some village incident, lamenting his drastic act on his behalf and insisting his previous appearance had been far better. At every farewell domino game or small gathering in cafés, Kishimoto faced comments about his face wherever he went. “There was something nostalgic about your face with the beard.” “Now that you’ve shaved it off, you look rather fierce,” someone said with a laugh. “Goodness, what have you done?” “I was truly shocked!” “It’s rude to say, but I thought you’d gone mad,” remarked another. “What a waste.” “You really did look better with a beard.” “You must grow it back before returning home,” someone advised.

“Mr. Kishimoto, your beard is gone. Is there some meaning behind that?”

An exchange student staying at the same inn returned from a short trip and asked Kishimoto about it. This man was a Keio graduate and much younger than Kishimoto, but he had been a great help to him in various matters. "In the past, I heard you became a monk, Mr. Kishimoto—" the exchange student said again, raising his masculine eyebrows and fixing an intense gaze upon him. "Does that bear some similar significance now, I wonder?"

Indeed, this person’s words were sharp. Kishimoto was at a loss for a reply, "I can’t tell that my hair has turned white unless I look in a mirror," he said,"but seeing how white my beard has become fills me with such unease I can hardly bear it." *Let me return once more to my student days.* "Having thought that," he continued abruptly,"I shaved it off while you were away—" Kishimoto couldn’t say anything more than that. The vibrant green of young leaves had arrived as if pouring lush vitality into the timeworn,darkened stone-built towns. Kishimoto left the inn alone,took a tree-lined avenue alongside the university buildings,and walked all the way to the banks of the Austerlitz Bridge. It was a slightly cloudy day,and though he couldn’t see the bright April sunlight typical of the month,Kishimoto sensed this would be his final chance to go near the Seine River. Since he had first arrived in Paris nearly four years prior in April,the memory of those young leaves returned once more just before his departure. With his eyes fixed on clear waters swirling beneath stone arches,the notion of seeing Sumida River within two months felt utterly unreal.

VII Among all the Seine riverbanks, Kishimoto’s favorite stretch ran from the Austerlitz Bridge to the island where the spire of old Notre-Dame could be glimpsed. Over those three years of exile, he had often come to these banks to forget his journey’s weariness. A time when he longed for everything from his homeland with such intensity that living without it seemed impossible. A time when travel funds grew so scarce he considered fasting for days on end, his heart sinking into desolation. When even after exhausting every possible path of wandering, what he most wished to cry out at journey’s end was neither his father’s name—lost to him in childhood—nor that of his deceased wife who had shared twelve years by his side, but rather, above all else, the name of that first lover known in youth’s season of unclouded sensitivity—so utterly had his traveler’s heart sealed itself away. At such times it was this water he came to see. The Seine flowed as ever—cold and soundless beneath its high stone embankments. Keeping the river to his right, he walked along the verdant tree-lined path toward the quarter where his inn stood.

Since arriving in France, everything that had transpired during his journey had somehow coalesced within Kishimoto’s heart. He recalled the plant seeds he had brought from his homeland at the start of this journey and distributed among the French. He remembered that among them were not only tea seeds gifted by Nakano’s friend but also ginkgo, camellia, daphne, and roughly seven other varieties of Oriental plant seeds collected by an acquaintance living in Tsukiji. He recalled how those gifts had been prized by the French for their rarity—divided by old Professor Bloss into three grains for some recipients and four for others—and how there had been talk of a ginkgo tree sprouting in a Japanese art collector’s garden. He remembered that some seeds had been transferred to the botanical garden, from whose director a letter of thanks had arrived. He recalled how after the war began, when he visited the professor’s residence near that garden and mentioned the matter himself, the professor had shrugged in that French manner of his and said, “This war has turned everything into utter chaos.”

What had become of the seeds he had taken such pains to bring from afar? When he recalled them, thoughts of his journey—unable to take root in foreign soil yet now turning back toward his homeland—intertwined and ebbed within him. People like him who had come from the edge of the Orient remained what they called foreigners wherever they went, never truly entering the lives of this land’s people. He had believed from the start of his French journey that art was their only path—the sole means to touch local lives—but given how he did nothing but bury himself in books while avoiding even the local women, there had been no way to enter strangers’ worlds. A certain traveler had once told him that starting with women was the most natural approach. In this regard, he had blamed himself too severely. He had been too deeply wounded by his niece’s circumstances.

VIII

Yet it was this foreign journey that directed Kishimoto’s heart toward marriage once again. As he walked back from the Seine riverbank toward his inn comparing his present feelings with those from three years prior when he first embarked on this journey—now preparing to leave these foreign lands—Kishimoto became acutely aware of how strikingly different his departing mindset was from his arriving one. His celibacy had originally sprung from profound misogyny. That he who so despised women could not help desiring them— The more fiercely he clung to solitude and mortified his flesh through travel,the more painfully he recognized this contradiction within himself. Looking about him,wives anticipated reunions while unmarried men looked forward to finding spouses;not one soul remained who wouldn’t return from this dreary expatriate life to their homeland’s embrace. “Once home we’ll indulge ourselves properly!” Some travelers uttered such words trying to dispel their helpless wanderer’s melancholy. The language of home,the blood of home,the people of home—beneath distant alien skies where these remained unattainable despite longing,Kishimoto came to deeply appreciate their preciousness. If he could but reach home safely now—find a suitable woman,build a household anew;persuade Setsuko too(who’d nearly ruined her life for him)to join some fresh family—thus had his thoughts turned. This resolve—to retreat from bachelorhood and undertake second marriage—precisely through this resolve alone,Kishimoto believed,could he face Setsuko again.

Before departing Paris, there had also been an artist who supported his remarriage plan. That person was so eager to help that he would recall women he had in mind back home and recommend them as candidates. That person had even gone so far as to send letters back home on his behalf.

“What awaits me back home?” As he walked with this thought, the actual scenes that would unfold before him from here on seemed utterly beyond his ability to fathom.

When he retraced his steps to the tree-lined Saint-Michel street with its rows of merchant houses, a stationery shop’s display window caught Kishimoto’s eye. At that shop, he selected French-style notebooks with black covers and colored pencils for his children. He thought how even these meager Paris souvenirs he could fit into his narrow suitcase would delight Izumi and Shigeru. When he returned to the inn carrying them, he happened to encounter an elderly Frenchwoman who had come to visit. A black hat, a black dress, black gloves—everything was in mourning black. She even wore a black veil over her face. The woman who had come visiting in wartime-appropriate mourning attire was the landlady of the boarding house where Kishimoto had long stayed.

The landlady came to Kishimoto’s inn to express her gratitude. During his stay in Paris, Kishimoto had quite a few compatriot guests looked after by this landlady. As an added gesture, the landlady brought a French-style doll for Kishimoto’s youngest daughter. “Both the doll’s hood and kimono—all of them I sewed by hand.” “I’ve even put shoes on her.” “Please give this to your daughter.” “When you return to your homeland and unpack it to look, you will understand.” “This doll is wearing everything that French girls wear.”

After saying this, the landlady continued, “If there should be any Japanese person wishing to lodge in Paris once the war has ended, please do me the favor of looking after them.” “As I haven’t yet abandoned this business,” she added. Kishimoto likewise expressed his gratitude and bid farewell to this landlady whom he would likely never have the chance to see again.

IX

On the day of his departure from Paris, Kishimoto left the inn early in the morning and had one last simple breakfast at his usual coffee shop. Bread and coffee. There was still some time left until departure. For some time now, Kishimoto had so loved a particular rose garden in this city that he wished to see it one last time before leaving. That rose garden was located behind the museum within the Luxembourg Gardens. Yet when the long-awaited day arrived, his feet turned not toward that rose garden but again toward the district containing his long-familiar boarding house. He took the gently sloping terrain of the Sorbonne quarter toward the Panthéon, walked around Rousseau's statue beside that old building, then proceeded along the narrow stone-paved walkway of Saint-Jacques. Passing through a cramped alley lined with sundry shops from Val-de-Grâce military hospital's frontage brought him to the building corner where his former lodgings stood. The landlady had already closed her establishment and moved elsewhere, leaving all high windows shuttered; yet there before his eyes was his own room's window - where he had spent three years learning a new language like a convict studying at a prison desk. It remained early morning, with familiar morning faces - a girl carrying a milk jug, town maids out buying newspapers - coming and going beneath tall plane trees. Kishimoto reached the square before the observatory and stopped by Simone's house to offer brief farewells. The girl's father, said to have become a prisoner of war or something similar, remained missing.

"I will never embark on such a journey again." Even with that resolve burning within him, the thought that he might never lay eyes upon this great metropolis again stirred a profound sense of wistfulness in Kishimoto's heart. He walked back from the tree-lined streets of Saint-Michel to his inn. Kishimoto had made arrangements to return to Paris not just with Makino, but also with two other compatriots. All of them had been lodging at the same inn as Kishimoto. At last came the hour of departure. Together with his companions, Kishimoto loaded their traveling luggage into a taxi waiting at the intersection and hastened toward Saint-Lazare Station. Through the car window he gazed from, towns disappeared one after another like fleeting images.

At the station, there were not few people who came to see Makino and Kishimoto off. The crowd who since wartime had endured siege-like conditions together, regularly gathered for dominoes, and shared Greek-style meals came to see off Kishimoto and his companions departing for distant shores. Amid the bustle of soldiers and passengers bound for England coming and going, Kishimoto saw Makino fully prepared for travel. “So we end up departing without meeting Oka after all.” “Who knows when even Oka might return himself.”

Kishimoto and Makino talked between themselves about Oka, who was in Lyon. “Makino, I’m still wavering,” said Kishimoto. “I want to return by ship with you as much as possible, and I also want to go around Russia...” “Are you still saying such things, Kishimoto?”

Seeing Kishimoto’s face still clouded with indecision even as they were about to depart Paris, Makino laughed in his hearty voice. In any case, Kishimoto decided to accompany Makino and the others as far as England. They decided to determine the rest of their journey once they arrived in London. After all, it was a wartime journey. As if boarding a ship of salvation, Kishimoto boarded the train with three companions. From the window of the soon-departing train, he gazed at the distant high tower of Sacré-Cœur where sunlight glinted. As if even that old stone temple standing atop the hill were seeing him off on his return to Japan. That was the final Paris he had wished for.

X Kishimoto traveled as far as Le Havre at the mouth of the Seine. To reach that port in France's Lower Seine Department from Paris required a day's journey by train. There, having left French soil, he crossed the English Channel by night steamer together with Makino and the others. It was a time when travel was difficult. The customs office in Le Havre—known as the seat of the Belgian provisional government—already stood as the first checkpoint, scarcely permitting passage to anyone, and moreover, the stretch from that port across the channel became yet another trial for travelers. In the ship advancing through the terrifying maritime darkness that pressed in relentlessly, anxious thoughts akin to awaiting an enemy that might attack at any moment did not allow Kishimoto to sleep peacefully. Rumors of a steamship sunk by a German submarine a few days prior only deepened that unease. Upon arriving in Southampton, the security was not as heavily guarded as when departing France, but even there, the customs did not readily permit travelers to pass through. Makino of their group made a pencil sketch of a customs officer to show them, going so far as to try to prove himself with it.

In any case, Kishimoto was able to enter London safely. And after parting from the other companions, it became a journey of just him and Makino. On the day he visited the Nippon Yusen Kaisha branch office there, he abandoned his plans for the Siberian route. Teaming up with Makino, they decided to opt for the sea voyage home via Africa.

From Paris to London. Kishimoto had merely taken a single step. Yet even that single step made him feel he had drawn nearer to his homeland. In London, Kishimoto waited about nine days for the ship’s departure. During that time, he received news from Paris and learned that the wife of an acquaintance living in Montmorency had come to the station to see him off. However, by the time the acquaintance’s wife came searching for him at the station, he had already left Paris. The acquaintance who had helped him in various ways, the Keio graduate student, and all the others who had come to see him off at the station—at every turn, he found himself remembering Paris. It happened to be Shakespeare’s tercentenary year in London—a year commemorating that renowned English poet—and he thought of how he had chanced upon this journey during that very time.

Three years prior, the sea that had whispered a lifeline into the half-dead Kishimoto’s ear now called out to him once more toward his homeland. That voice reached his ears again. He thought of the many days he would have to spend at sea from here on, and he thought of how even in the early May weather—still cool enough to want an overcoat when leaving London—he had to prepare for the journey with his arrival time in mind; merely making such considerations made him keenly feel how distant his homeland’s skies truly were.

XI

The Nippon Yusen Kaisha ship waited at Tilbury Dock near the Thames estuary for Makino and Kishimoto to board. By the time the bulk of British cargo had been loaded, their luggage had already been delivered to the ship. Crew members clustered near the mast, observing passengers transfer one by one from a small steamer moored alongside. It was a day of intermittent cold drizzle. Clad in travel coats dampened by rain and sea spray, Makino and Kishimoto boarded the large steamship. Wartime conditions left few compatriots aboard—among them a Paris-acquainted couple also fleeing westward. These were people striving to return home as families. These were people who had quit Paris around Kishimoto’s own departure. These were all people shackled to shared memories from the war’s outbreak—survivors of a collective siege.

“Traveling with children isn’t easy.” Kishimoto remarked to Makino about the couple. The addition of even two young ones to their travel companions made him feel all the more like someone embarking on a distant journey.

At last, Kishimoto found himself on the deck of a steamship departing the mouth of the Thames as a traveler setting out on the journey home. The sea was no longer that distant thing he would recall in his Paris lodgings or conjure in imagination—a diversion during idle hours—but rather the actual vermilion-black English-style sails passing before his eyes, the actual flocks of seagulls flying near him, the actual masts and smokestacks of sunken ships left to the waves' sway. His beloved homeland was no longer merely a dreamlike village in the distant reaches of the sky but an actual land drawing nearer with each passing day. Standing beside the railing on the stern deck and gazing at the large smokestack, he saw thick black smoke billowing out with tremendous force. It looked as if sinister black birds, wings spread wide, were taking flight one by one from there. That smoke made him feel even more keenly within himself the heart yearning for his homeland. The final destination of this ship was Kobe. When he thought this, it began to seem that all manner of things awaited him in his homeland—things that would intensely stir his heart. The prospect of seeing his homeland again was both a joyous thing and a worrisome thing for him.

May rain fell upon the turbid waves. Kishimoto stood alongside Makino, who had come to his side, and the two of them gazed out at the sea from the deck.

XII

At a pleasantly swift speed of three hundred fifteen or sixteen nautical miles per day and night, the ship carrying Kishimoto passed through Dover Strait. By the fifth day of the voyage, England’s white-glowing coastal cliffs had receded far into the distance. They now found themselves in a deep blue expanse of open sea where no land could be seen whichever way one looked.

“Once you’re on this ship, it’s almost as if you’re halfway home—” As if recalling it, Makino would say this to Kishimoto whenever the occasion arose. The ship resembled a wartime cargo vessel more than a regular passenger liner, and even considering all passengers divided across its three-tiered decks, their numbers were exceedingly small. Makino remained the sole fellow countryman passenger whom Kishimoto saw daily on the rear deck; the rest were all English travelers. That too amounted to only seven colonial-bound voyagers when counting both men and women. It was such a lonely time for those at sea. Kishimoto would often find himself the sole person on that wide deck. It was precisely at such times that memories returned to him as if they had happened yesterday—the sorrowful storm he could never speak of; the outbound voyage aboard that French steamship rushing from port to port; the emotional ordeal of that letter intended to entrust Setsuko’s care to Brother Yoshio, which he had failed to write in Kobe and Shanghai, finally scrawling it en route to Hong Kong before abandoning it there. Before him stretched a boarded floor continuing like a long corridor. There was a white-painted ventilation duct. There were pillars. There was an iron tool for winding anchor ropes. Intersecting with the deck railing’s lines lay a distant horizon that appeared to rise and fall. When sunlight began glinting upon it, there was a sea glowing with indescribable blue. Everything resembled what had once been. Kishimoto passed through the side where thick ropes and ship equipment lay piled, often walking to the stern to stand and gaze. Watching the ceaseless spinning of a long thin rope cast into waves from the stern railing—where a water depth gauge was installed—the memory resurfaced of his outbound voyage when he had watched his homeland’s sky recede alone. When he contemplated his inability to alter the course of some invisible violent force—as if tracing its path—with his meager wisdom and strength, he even marveled at being made to stand once more upon this very deck.

The ship was gradually moving away from the offshore waters of southern Portugal as well. Unlike the outbound journey via Suez, this return voyage had to detour far around the southern tip of South Africa and cross the equator twice. From that point at sea to the Cape of Good Hope was a distance of over five thousand four hundred nautical miles.

XIII

After a long fifty-five-day voyage, Kishimoto, who had left Paris at the end of April and departed London in May, finally arrived at the port of Kobe in early July.

“We shan’t sleep on the night we reach Kobe. Let us all stay awake.” “Let us all stay awake.” Together with all the passengers—who had so eagerly anticipated their arrival that they made this pact while gazing at distant harbor lights—Kishimoto spent a night near Wada Misaki Lighthouse before undergoing quarantine at dawn and transferring to a lighter. Since Singapore, the ship had abruptly taken on additional passengers, making that morning’s disembarking crowd of male and female compatriots quite sizable.

For a time, Kishimoto and Makino spent their hours near the customs office. They still bore the appearance of travelers who had just found themselves standing on the cherished coastal soil. People who had learned of the ship’s arrival gathered at the pier to greet those disembarking. Kishimoto would gaze at those people and walk about among them. At moments, he even felt compelled to bow to complete strangers. He wanted to express the sentiments of one who had returned from a distant land.

“Makino,” “Let’s not take a car or anything—why don’t we walk to the inn from here?” “I want to walk somewhere more—maybe even go barefoot and run around here!”

Around the time Kishimoto said this, the sunlight of his homeland—seen after so long—was already shining intensely down to the vicinity of the customs house. Kishimoto spoke without considering the inconvenience it might cause their group. He could not conceal the madness-tinged joy that overflowed within his small chest.

Having invited Makino and on their way to the same inn as before, Kishimoto came across an old familiar face. The proprietor there had come to welcome him. When Kishimoto arrived at the inn, there too he met someone he had not seen in three years. It was the proprietress of that inn who, during his outbound journey, had come along with friends from Tokyo’s Bancho to bid him farewell at the ship.

Kishimoto was already feeling intense fatigue. Above all else, his foremost wish was to shed his travel clothes. However, before long, the group of journalists who came to visit the inn did not let Makino or him rest. When he returned as far as Shanghai, during the ship’s anchorage, he was already found by local journalists and asked for stories about his travels. At that time, he could not help but feel that those awaiting him in his homeland would primarily be such visitors. The reporters, saying they wanted to make the deadline for that day’s evening edition, tried to draw from his mouth travel stories that would enliven the pages as much as possible. Among the reporters were those he had met during his outbound journey and would encounter again on this return trip.

"Oh! You've shaved off your beard!" There were even those who said this while still remembering his face.

XIV

At long last, in the second-floor tatami room of a Kobe inn where only he and Makino remained, Kishimoto attained the rest on the tatami mats he had longed for. “Somehow I feel like I might catch a cold—I just can’t bring myself to take off my socks yet.” Kishimoto said this to Makino while demonstrating, keeping wrapped the feet he had not exposed except when sleeping for three years. In the amusing custom of wearing socks with the inn’s yukata, the two stretched their legs toward each other. The refreshing tatami floor granted complete freedom—to sleep, rise, or sit as they pleased. Kishimoto reveled in such ease that even rolling about the room felt insufficient. When he experimentally lay down and pressed his back against the tatami, the emotions from disembarking surged within him. He still felt half-submerged at sea. Had there been any Japanese person encountered upon landing—known or unknown—he might have clung to them, so intense was his homecoming fervor. At minimum, his homesickness driving him back to this distant port resembled that of sailors enduring endless voyages. Those sailors’ hearts—yearning to prostrate themselves and kiss the beloved soil—mirrored his own perfectly.

“At last. At last.” he said, exchanging glances with Makino, both of them deeply tanned by the sun. By the time the evening edition came out, the news that Makino and Kishimoto had safely returned from France was already printed in the newspaper the inn’s proprietress brought to show them. The very things they had discussed upstairs mere moments ago had already been typeset. With sensational headlines and hastily composed text. Kishimoto read through the article about himself. First to surface in his mind was imagining what bitter expression Brother Yoshio would wear upon reading such a piece. The newspaper also carried a photograph of Makino and him standing side by side. It showed them captured in a snapshot taken by an engineer at the vacant lot behind customs just after their arrival. There stood Makino in London-made gray spats and a light straw hat, with Kishimoto beside him. The sun’s blinding glare rendered his photographic image impossibly youthful—a traveler’s visage he scarcely recognized as his own.

“I’ve been napping in Paris for three years.” “That’s more than enough about me.” As he said this, he recalled how the restless mind of his journey had denied him the composure needed to work as intended; he recalled how he had limited himself to occasionally writing travel dispatches for his homeland’s newspapers; and he brought to mind how even one-tenth of the many promises made upon leaving the country remained unfulfilled. “But it’s written rather well, isn’t it?”

Makino came to his side and said this, then reread the newspaper as if it were someone else’s affair. Kishimoto thought that their return had already become known to people in the Keihan region. He also imagined the moment when the people awaiting him in Tokyo—beginning with Brother Yoshio, his sister-in-law, Setsuko, and then Izumi and Shigeru—would learn of it. He wrote to his family back home that he had safely arrived in Kobe and that he would be returning while visiting acquaintances in Osaka and Kyoto, but he deliberately did not inform them of the date he would arrive in Tokyo.

XV What Kishimoto felt in his being was intense joy—and fierce exhaustion. He could not express how strong that joy was, nor how intense that fatigue was. It was of such a nature that it could not be forgotten even with a day’s rest or a night’s sleep—a force that compelled him to crave even greater joy and yearn for even fiercer exhaustion. He looked at Makino among their companions and was surprised to find this painter, who had always claimed susceptibility to seasickness, showed no signs of particular weariness.

Despite feeling such joy, Kishimoto’s feet felt heavy as he prepared to depart Kobe in Tokyo’s direction. Together with Makino, he made his way back to Osaka. Both Makino and he remained in their travel attire, having put back on the journey clothes they had removed in Kobe, and stood nearly without rest by the train’s glass window throughout the ride. Pointing out the damp sunlight’s brightness there, the eye-piercing green rice paddies here, and the thatched roofs over there, they went on comparing these sights to the peculiarly dry air they had witnessed in rural central France, the pastures thick with cattle and sheep, and the red-tiled farmhouses glimpsed through verdant foliage.

In Osaka, Kishimoto was supposed to visit an unknown family together with Makino. For there lived someone recommended by a Parisian artist regarding his remarriage—someone whose brother maintained extremely close ties with that very artist. Just as passing through the drowsy hours of night sharpens the mind, Kishimoto found that weariness paradoxically heightened his clarity of thought. He contemplated his potential remarriage. He reflected on those historical figures who, disillusioned with reality, had abandoned monastic retreats to take wives despite being monks—their lives having taught him much during his travels. He himself had returned home with a heart like one awaiting dawn, yet now stood at forty-five years of age. Were his wife Sonoko still alive, he mused, she who had married him at twenty-two would be thirty-nine now. A second marriage at this stage. While he harbored no desire for a much younger bride, neither could he countenance wedding a woman nearing forty. His hopes rested firmly on someone around thirty—a hope that, according to the Parisian artist’s account, seemed within reach.

However, Kishimoto’s impending visit to an unknown family was unlike ordinary carefree visits made without preparation. If upon meeting them they seemed incompatible, he would have to decline. That would insult the woman. This thought gave him no small pause. After all, he had only just returned from his journey; he wanted more time for himself now and sought a natural opportunity to become acquainted with the woman in question. He discussed this matter with Makino and ultimately abandoned the visit. At the Osaka inn, he spent the entire day conversing with guests. With Makino, he walked through towns vibrant with summer nights. As he wandered beneath bright lamplight, his heart would drift back to Paris’ grand boulevards or turn toward Africa’s colonial ports glimpsed during his return voyage.

XVI

Makino, who had intended to head straight to Tokyo from Osaka, and Kishimoto, who had planned to return to Tokyo while visiting acquaintances from Paris like Chimura and Takase in Kyoto, parted ways at their inn in Dotonbori. Makino had wanted to enter Tokyo as soon as possible, while Kishimoto had wanted to delay his arrival by even a single day. The closer he drew to Tokyo, the slower Kishimoto's steps became.

“Mr. Kishimoto, why don’t we go into Tokyo together?” At the moment of parting, Makino urged him thus, but Kishimoto—having promised they would meet again—parted ways instead. Why did his feet drag so at seeing Tokyo anew after all this time? Why did he resolve to enter that city alone and desolate, refusing even a single welcoming soul? These feelings remained beyond explanation even to Makino, who had shared over seventy days of homeward journey with him.

When Kishimoto set out for Kyoto, there were no longer any companions by his side with whom to share the nostalgic camaraderie of travel. Yet Kishimoto gazed out from the train window at what might be called the Yodogawa River basin—as if Makino were still beside him, as though the two were viewing it together. As the train gradually climbed the sloping terrain, distant mountains began revealing their contours. He threw open the carriage window like a starved man, striving to absorb into his very being the panoramic vista of the Yamashiro-Tamba mountain ranges. Even during the journey from Osaka to Kyoto, he could not tear his eyes from the window.

At the Kyoto inn, the Paris-acquainted painter whom Kishimoto had met in Osaka had arrived before him. The riverbank behind the inn, the shaded resting platform, the crimson pomegranate blossoms along the shore, the waters of the Kamo River rushing beneath Shijo's stone bridge—by the time one reached that place, such stillness reigned that Europe's war might have been nonexistent. Kishimoto's mind, still that of a traveler midway through an endless journey, found no respite. In Kyoto waited Professor Chimura, with whom he had shared boarding house meals in Paris. There too was Takase—now promoted from associate professor to full rank after their return—with whom he had grown especially close during their French travels. Adding to these anticipated reunions stood a painter at the inn who traded rumors of Oka lingering in Lyon and Simonne's fate in Paris. For Kishimoto, a single day along the Kamo River brought such an onslaught of sights to absorb, conversations to navigate, and sounds to process that moments of reprieve grew scarce.

The day after arriving in Kyoto in this manner, he became acutely aware of his exhaustion. Anticipating the busyness that would follow his return to Tokyo, he attempted to while away at least half a day lying in the inn’s second-floor tatami room. In the same room was a painter who had spread out his travel art supplies, and— “The folks in Paris?” “I still haven’t met anyone.” “There are hardly any opportunities for everyone to gather.” “Once you’re back home, everyone starts putting on airs—it’s no good. Not the least bit interesting.”

While such talk continued beside someone deeply engrossed in painting, and at times finding the Kansai dialect spoken by the inn maid who came up from downstairs strangely novel, Kishimoto tried to rest his painfully exhausted body. Having grown accustomed to sitting in foreign lands for three years, even sitting upright on tatami mats proved arduous for him. His knees and legs ached. He tried sitting cross-legged, then lying down. He had not yet reached the point where he could truly rest his body.

Kishimoto resolved to depart from Kyoto that evening. His feet, as he turned toward Tokyo, were as heavy as if dragging chains.

XVII

Kishimoto, who had departed Kyoto by night train, caught sight of Shinagawa Station by the next afternoon. He thought of seeing Tokyo Station—completed during his travels—and even wondered if someone might be waiting there to greet him. But since Shinagawa was close to his unoccupied home, he had arranged to collect his luggage there instead. He disembarked at that station rather than continuing to Tokyo Station. The household members left behind—whom he had deliberately kept uninformed of his arrival date—could not have known he was returning alone in such dejection. True enough, not even a shadow of his children coming to welcome him appeared within the station grounds. He paced about near the exit. In his shoes, he stamped repeatedly on the hardened earth. Then he waited for his luggage. Standing before the sparsely trafficked station building, he felt with renewed intensity how far he had journeyed. This solitary entry into the capital seemed a fittingly humbling conclusion to his long travels.

At that moment, he had completely forgotten even that he was painfully exhausted. The Tsujimachi car he had requested arrived. His luggage had already been loaded onto another vehicle. Before long, the car carrying him turned onto the newly opened road leading from Shinagawa to Takanawa and began climbing the long slope, veering right and left as it went. Unlike the Parisian sunlight that seeped through that hazy, semi-overcast sky, the radiant July-like sunlight of his homeland streamed down the slope. The intense glare filled even the car with its sunshades drawn. At times it was so strong that it seemed the very sunlight under which he rode might pierce into the depths of his mind. Each time the car moved closer to the vacant home and those awaiting him there—mingled with the blinding sunlight before his eyes—his heart grew more agitated. Even more than the poignancy of seeing his brother or the anguish of facing his sister-in-law, he felt he could not bear to look upon Setsuko. To imagine how she must have been transformed through his own lack of virtue and accumulated sins—this alone was unbearable.

The rickshaw driver, panting heavily as he climbed the slope, suddenly regained his vigor upon reaching the top of Takanawa Hill. The car, carrying a passenger who wanted to arrive as late as possible, sped onward. When the vehicle turned into a side street, there was a tobacco shop at the corner. Suddenly, Kishimoto caught sight of a boy’s retreating figure playing nearby and wondered if it might be his second child. “Isn’t that Shigeru?”

Involuntarily, he called out from the rickshaw. Shigeru—who had grown unrecognizably taller and seemed unsure how to interpret being addressed—did not even properly look toward the vehicle with its sunshade drawn. “Dad hasn’t come back yet.” With that dismissive remark, he shouted something cheerful and suddenly dashed toward the house. From there, it was already near enough to see the lattice door of the unoccupied home.

XVIII

When Kishimoto, enduring what was unbearable to endure, alighted from the carriage he had stopped before the house, the first things that caught his eye were the damaged eaves and the short bamboo fence grown dilapidated. The one who rushed out to the lattice door entrance before anyone else upon hearing sounds like luggage being unloaded was his sister-in-law. His sister-in-law opened the lattice door fully from within.

“Oh, you’re back.” With that, Yoshio stood at the entrance. Next, Yoshio’s children and Shigeru gathered there. Kishimoto, still in his travel attire, stood in the entrance garden and faced everyone at once. He also saw Setsuko standing behind Grandmother. He felt his own complexion change painfully. At last, Kishimoto was welcomed in by his family. Greetings were exchanged one by one. Kishimoto bowed his head before his brother and bowed his head before his sister-in-law. “Mr. Sute, have you returned?” “You’ve come back safe and sound after all.”

Kishimoto also went before Grandmother, who had spoken quietly, and greeted her. There, Setsuko too came out to greet him. Kishimoto simply bowed silently before her as well. "Ichiro, Jiro, won't you bow to Uncle? Don't just stand there like that."

Told by the sister-in-law, the brother’s two children and Shigeru lined up together before Kishimoto. The children wore expressions that said they had been waiting for the adults to finish their greetings.

“Oh, so this is Jiro—” Kishimoto looked at the red-cheeked child he was meeting for the first time. “This one was born while you were away,” the sister-in-law added. In the three years since he had last seen him, Shigeru’s growth astonished Kishimoto. Shigeru seemed awkward about meeting his father in front of everyone and, like the boy he was, shifted his knees restlessly. “Sukekichi, come now, have some tea.” Kishimoto went to Yoshio, who had called from the inner room, and came face to face with his brother for the first time. Compared to the man who had come from Nagoya to bid him farewell at his Kobe inn when Kishimoto left the country, even this brother now seemed somewhat aged.

"There were people who came to our house saying you must be returning soon," said Yoshio. "I took all the children to Tokyo Station to meet you, but you never came... Then others claimed they knew you'd reached Osaka, but after that your whereabouts became unknown. Yesterday and the day before yesterday—twice I went to Tokyo Station." "I apologize for that," replied Kishimoto. "I meant to refuse any welcoming party and intentionally didn't send notice. I've only just arrived here from Shinagawa."

“Sukekichi has arrived from Shinagawa, I tell you.” His brother spoke loudly enough for the family to hear and gave a strained laugh. Something suppressed and restrained dominated the air within the house. Even the children’s faces somehow appeared solemn to Kishimoto. To inform Izumi, who was at school, of his father’s return home, Shigeru dashed off.

XIX

“I’m home.”

Izumi’s voice called out from the entrance, and soon this eldest child came bowing to his father’s side, eyes wide and still wearing his school-worn short hakama. “Oh, Izumi has grown so much!”

With Yoshio positioned before him, when Kishimoto said this, Izumi appeared thoroughly delighted to be told by his father—whom he hadn’t seen in three years—that he had grown so much.

“Izumi was still at school, then?” asked Yoshio, looking toward him. “Shigeru came to pick me up—so my teacher said I could leave,” Izumi said to Yoshio. “The teacher was considerate and kindly sent him home today,” said the sister-in-law, coming over to add. “Day after day, he kept calling ‘Father, Father’—you can’t imagine how much he waited for your return,” Grandmother said from the next room.

“Thank you for your long care.” “You have my deepest gratitude.” As he said this, Kishimoto pressed his hands to the floor and bowed again before his sister-in-law. Seeing this, Yoshio gave a shallow nod. “Now then—enough bowing. Children, off you go.” At Yoshio’s words, Izumi retreated to the adjoining room where Grandmother waited. Above all else, Kishimoto sought first to retrieve the travel gifts for his brother and children. Stepping over the unwieldy threshold to approach the younger ones, he found this place less his own vacant home than his brother’s dwelling. Even in this reunion between father and sons, their circumstances did not yet allow for easy words.

“Well now, shall I bring out the gifts?” “There are gifts for Ichiro and Jiro too!” When Kishimoto said this, the sister-in-law told Jiro, “How lovely! Uncle has brought you presents.” “Uncle has brought you presents.”

“Gifts! Gifts!” “Gifts! Gifts!” The children raised their voices in delight and ran boisterously around the room. “Jiro, I’ve told you not to make such a racket.” “Despite being the youngest, he always wants to act the most important.” Even when told by his sister-in-law, Jiro would not listen. Kishimoto brought out the notebooks, colored pencils, storybooks and such from his travel bag and carried them over to where his brother’s older children and his own children were. “After all, it’s necessary to have three of the same thing,” said Kishimoto, looking toward his sister-in-law and the others.

“What about me?” Jiro asked in a plaintive voice. “Oh, for Jiro too.” Kishimoto handed out the animal picture book he had obtained from Paris to Jiro. Jiro sullenly compared the gifts his older brothers had received with his own—Uncle’s present being different—but soon regained his cheer and took the picture book adorned with birds and beasts to show his mother, then to Grandmother, and even to Setsuko.

“Let’s have a look.” When Yoshio said this in his regional dialect, Jiro took it to his father as well. “This book smells foreign or something,” said Ichiro, sniffing at his uncle’s gift before bursting into laughter.

“Kids won’t feel like they’ve gotten anything unless they receive something to eat—I tell you,” Yoshio said to Kishimoto. “That’s true. There are some sweets I bought in Osaka—could you also distribute those, hmm?” Kishimoto alternated between standing and sitting. From the window facing the street outside, the afternoon sun shone through the shoji of the room where Grandmother and the others were. Setsuko had made herself small in a corner of the room and was looking through a storybook from a distant country together with Izumi and Shigeru.

Twenty

The husband of Negishi's niece (the daughter of Kishimoto's eldest brother) came to see Kishimoto immediately after Brother Yoshio's telegram arrived. Kishimoto met face-to-face with this obligated nephew at the same Shinbashi Station where they had previously parted.

“Uncle Sute has also returned safely...” In front of relatives offering such greetings, Yoshio seemed determined not to reveal even a hint of his brother’s motives for undertaking such a distant journey. Not only that, but he deliberately used “Kishimoto Sekichi” where simply saying “my brother” would have sufficed, treating his brother—who had arrived dejectedly from Shinagawa—as if he were some ceremonious returnee. To such an extent did Yoshio’s disposition tend to place heavy emphasis on clan honor and public reputation.

“Uncle, why don’t you go ahead and take off your Western clothes—there’s a yukata laid out here for you.” said the sister-in-law.

This sister-in-law more often than not referred to Kishimoto as "Uncle" in the same manner as Ichiro and Jiro. It was only then that Kishimoto finally shed the appearance of a traveler. “Shall I hear one of your travel stories—” Grandmother too came to the inner room and joined everyone. “Grandmother seems to be in good health.” When Kishimoto said this, Yoshio took it up,

“Grandmother is the healthiest in the entire household.” This brother’s words struck Kishimoto’s ears with particular force. “Come to think of it, Uncle, you never seem to change no matter when one looks,” said the sister-in-law. “Not at all,” said Kishimoto, touching his forehead. “My hair has already turned this white.” “And you’ve gotten quite sunburned.”

“I’ve been thinking the same thing myself for a while now,” said the husband of Aiko (Negishi’s niece), also looking at Kishimoto. “Uncle has become quite dark. You used to have such a fine beard before. Why did you go and remove such a fine beard? Somehow your face looks a bit different too.” “Even so, I wonder if I’ve come back smelling a bit foreign.” Kishimoto deflected in this manner.

The travel stories Kishimoto had gathered in France were precisely what Aiko’s husband and others longed to hear. Hiro Tanabe—who resided in Okawabata and was the son of Kishimoto’s late benefactor—also visited upon learning of his return to Tokyo. When reunited after three years apart, Hiro had grown into a respectable father. His portly frame now resembled his deceased benefactor’s more closely than ever. Amid these familiar faces came newspaper reporters seeking tales of his travels, until Kishimoto—drained to his marrow—lost all awareness of his own exhaustion.

In the evening, the lamp Grandmother had lit shone in the room with the Buddhist altar. Kishimoto went before the Buddhist altar and saw the old, rusted mortuary tablets of the late Sonoko and their three daughters reflected in the lamplight. The old mortuary tablets and Buddhist implements that had not existed until the night before his departure on that distant journey were known to have been brought from Grandmother’s hometown. Kayoko and Setsuko came through from the kitchen and moved about near the Buddhist altar. Kishimoto avoided approaching Setsuko. He had returned yet still had not properly spoken. He merely tried to observe her condition without being obvious. The unfortunate victim reflected in his eyes was both physically distant and not as disfigured as he had imagined, so he felt somewhat relieved at this. That evening for dinner, Yoshio’s family, two relatives, and even Izumi and Shigeru gathered around the dining table. As a celebration of Kishimoto’s return, two servings of fresh soba were brought out. The frugality of his brother’s household, its laboriousness—this modest feast told it all. With tears threatening to spill, Kishimoto gratefully partook of the long-awaited dinner.

Twenty-One

That night, Kishimoto slept inside the same mosquito net as his brother Yoshio, still carrying himself like a guest freshly returned from travels. In this newly developed district of Takanawa, people had reportedly been hanging mosquito nets since a month prior. Lying beneath the roof he had returned to after so long, breathing the scent of aged hemp netting, Kishimoto found the day's accumulated worries still clinging to his chest. When he glanced at his brother—who appeared to be reciting classical Chinese epitaphs to induce sleep—he realized loud snores already rose from where their pillows lay side by side. Kishimoto marveled he had managed to shed his traveler's garments under this roof at all, yet with matter after matter swelling in his breast, peaceful sleep eluded him.

When morning came, Yoshio said that commuting to an inn closer to central Tokyo had become part of his daily routine and left carrying his briefcase. In such an inconvenient suburb, in a residence without even a telephone, it seemed his inability to devise business ventures was what drove his daily commute to the inn. After the children too had left for school, the house fell quiet. With the mindset of someone bracing for daily visitors in the coming weeks, Kishimoto walked about inspecting various parts of the house. He examined even the front of his own abandoned bookcase. He went and stood before the old chest of drawers. The octagonal pillar clock surviving from Sonoko's era still swung its pendulum with familiar sounds, its face seeming to welcome his return. Neither the discolored paper screens nor the walls scarred by children's hands—nothing failed to testify to that storm's fury from three years prior, the tempest that had compelled him to abandon everything.

In the corner of the back room, the travel suitcases remained untouched as they had been left. From those cases marked with voyage numbers from departing and returning ships, pasted labels, and stamps from countries across the seas emerged the sorts of Japanese garments Kishimoto had thoroughly worn through at his Paris boardinghouse. He pulled out underclothes with frayed linings and a padded robe leaking cotton from its hem to show Kayoko and Grandmother in the adjoining room, then produced the travel underrobe whose torn seams he had humorously patched during the homeward voyage to display that as well.

At that moment, Setsuko arrived. She sat beside Grandmother and the others, listening to everyone’s talk. Grandmother, who had come from the countryside knowing nothing; Setsuko, whose very motive for her uncle’s journey had been kept hidden even from her mother—amidst this gathering of women, Kishimoto saw in his sister-in-law a countenance so inscrutable he could not begin to measure how she might be thinking of him.

From the garden came the sound of Jiro singing alone as he wandered about. The child would sometimes climb up from the veranda and fumble through his mother’s bosom before everyone’s eyes. “Jiro, Uncle is watching—he’ll laugh at you,” said Kayoko even as she—who found this youngest child more unbearably dear than anyone—still let him suckle at her breast despite his age. From the depths of Kishimoto’s suitcase emerged Parisian souvenirs prepared as mere tokens for those who had cared for Izumi and Shigeru. He placed them before both his sister-in-law and Setsuko. These were all items he had selected while wandering through places like the tree-lined streets of Paris’s Saint-Germain. Some he had even gone out of his way to seek out, taking the metro from his lodgings near the maternity hospital all the way to the bustling district around “Opéra.” The heart that commemorated this distant journey ran deeper in those who gave than in those who received.

“My, you’ve gone to such trouble for each and every one of us.” His sister-in-law’s eyes flashed sharply as she expressed her thanks.

Twenty-Two

He wanted to ask about what had happened during his long absence. He couldn’t even fathom the depth of that longing. He had often thought this while preparing for his return during his travels—that if he could safely reach his homeland, he would ask about that matter and this matter too. Now his sister-in-law and the others were by his side. But as long as his secret remained hidden from them, there was scarcely anything he could broach about those years away. Any attempt to inquire about when they had left their hometown for Tokyo would immediately confront him with the memory of abandoning Setsuko and the children to flee this house. Trying to ask about Teruko’s return from Russia would force him to recall how Setsuko had temporarily left to avoid prying eyes. Even watching Jiro play innocently before him brought relentless associations that left him breathless—for the son Setsuko had borne was exactly the age of her sister-in-law’s child in its short kimono and pouch.

Kishimoto regained his composure and opened another suitcase he had brought from his journey. “Sister, this doll turned up.” “Should we show it to Grandmother too?” “The landlady at my Paris lodgings said, ‘Please give this to Kimi-chan (Kishimoto’s youngest daughter),’ and was kind enough to send it along.” “Well—oh my, this doll is simply adorable. “Wearing a blue hood like this,” Kayoko said this and, along with Grandmother and Setsuko, gathered close to gaze at the blue-eyed French doll.

“Even so, didn’t she say the landlady had sewn the doll’s clothes herself by hand? When you return home and untie this—‘All that French girls wear is what this doll has on’—didn’t she say something like that when she sent it over——” When Kishimoto said this, Setsuko drew close to her mother while—

“The hair is brown, isn’t it.” “Truly,” Grandmother said, taking the doll in her hands to examine it. Somehow, Setsuko seemed self-conscious about her own hands. Kishimoto, noticing this, casually asked.

“Setsuko, how are your hands?”

“Her hands have already been like that for over three years.”

Grandmother said this in her country accent. Setsuko, tending to remain silent, showed her uncle her palms—troubled by something like athlete’s foot—and gazed at them herself. “Is it still that bad? I thought they would have healed long ago,” said Kishimoto, turning his gaze toward his sister-in-law. “While I was in Paris, I happened to find some good medicine for skin conditions and intended to send it to Setsuko. Just around that time, I found notebooks at a stationery store for the children too—one for Ichiro, one each for Izumi and Shigeru—so I bundled those together with the medicine and entrusted it all to a friend who was returning home. Well, that friend’s luggage sank into the Mediterranean along with the ship. It was sunk by enemy ships. The friend alone arrived in Japan on a different ship, but for that reason, the long-awaited notebooks and medicine never reached any of you—what a waste that was.”

Even when recounting such travel stories, Kishimoto took care not to address Setsuko directly, instead ensuring his sister-in-law and Grandmother were the ones to hear them. Kishimoto attempted to restore his relationship with Setsuko to the ordinary position of uncle and niece. It was through this approach, he thought, that he could reassure his brother and sister-in-law while also perhaps forgetting his own long-standing anguish.

Twenty-Three

“Brother, I brought this intending to give it to you.” When Yoshio returned from the inn, Kishimoto took out items he had prepared from his travel bag and presented them to his brother as a memento. It was a practical handbag for holding books and documents, like those tucked under the arms of people coming and going around the tree-lined streets of Paris’s Saint-Michel. “Oh. You’ve brought me something fine,” “I’ll keep this one.”

Yoshio was in a good mood.

After journalists from newspapers and magazines—who had come to inquire about wartime Paris upon hearing of Kishimoto’s return—along with other familiar guests had left, the house remained in disarray for some time. Kishimoto still could not manage the fatigue he had carried over from his long journey. From his landing in Kobe until that day, he had maintained nearly ceaseless contact with things from his homeland that had awaited him—so much so that he had virtually no rest. When he returned to Tokyo and saw how matters stood, he even found himself thinking how good it would have been to have lain down for at least half a day at that Kyoto inn.

While suppressing his fatigue, Kishimoto went to see his brother calling him from the back room. “Sukekichi.” “Sit down now.” “There are matters I must discuss.” Yoshio said this and told Kishimoto about visitors during his absence, those who had shown him kindness, and particularly relatives who assisted during a personal crisis while Kishimoto was away. Yoshio—ever meticulous and forceful—seemed unable to rest until voicing every necessary word; he then produced a self-written document and showed it to Kishimoto.

“I’ll show you this for your reference—” Having said this, Yoshio produced another document. “Kayoko (his sister-in-law’s name), you should show Uncle your document too.”

Yoshio then called Kayoko over to where just he and Kishimoto were and spoke. Kishimoto withdrew from before his brother and sister-in-law while wringing his hands. Only then did he understand how heavily his brother had labored during his absence. He recognized that even for this brother who had once vowed, “By your return from France, I too shall make my great leap,” fortune’s wheel still refused to turn. More than that—he grasped how those three years of absence must have been his brother’s cruelest trial, even in life’s full retrospect. He perceived too life’s bitter paradox—that his own damnable transgression had somehow become a threadbare cord sustaining this household through those years. The history of their divided family branches told always of mutual succor. Faced with such fraternal grace—steeped in their father’s legacy—Kishimoto found himself powerless to plead exhaustion from recent homecoming. Nor could he voice explanations for that journey which burdened so many with care—nor beg recognition of struggles endured abroad to nourish children. That act of departure—a deception cloaked as journey—this was it. This above all. “Done cannot be undone—cast this matter from mind,” this brother had said, pardoning a lifetime’s failures. Against such words—however harsh—Kishimoto felt bound.

Twenty-Four

Kishimoto went to a place where no family members were and, alone, took out his right hand to look at it. And he asked himself and answered himself. "As expected, the issue of money keeps coming back—there’s just no helping it." Kishimoto gazed at his own hand as if presenting it to a palm reader. He re-extended that hand as though it were one offered from elsewhere. It was, in truth, no one’s hand. It was a dark hand that his own sin itself sent forth from nowhere in particular.

Kishimoto once again re-extended that hand and looked at it. If one did not intimately know the fragility of a human being trying to bury the traces of their sin where none could perceive them, how could they ever sense the existence of such a hand? It was a hand deserving of such gratitude that even venerating it would not suffice. But it was a cunningly manipulative hand. It was a hand that seemed to grasp his weaknesses. Kishimoto gazed intently at his own hand and felt a profoundly dark mood.

“Sister, I’ve returned now, so please let me take care of this household from today.” Kishimoto went to the room where his sister-in-law was and said that. From the wallet that still contained items like his travel permit, he took out some immediate spending money and handed it to his sister-in-law. On the day promised in a letter from Makino—who had returned on the same ship—Kishimoto went to Yokohama Customs to collect his remaining luggage. The familiar ship that had come around from Kobe to Yokohama was still anchored there, its hull lying against the wharf and its large black funnels recounting the myriad events of their voyage. Kishimoto came to gaze once more at the blue sea from the side of the customs house, drawing even closer.

The heart of Kishimoto, who had returned from afar yearning for his homeland—that heart was an irreplaceable treasure he could not lose. From that heart's perspective, he needed to apologize both to his brother and sister-in-law. Yet unexpectedly, from the very first moment he saw his brother's unharmed face again, he found himself able to restrain that impulse. His brother's eyes declared with force: "You mustn't speak another word." But this restraint went against Kishimoto's true will. From the beginning, he had believed apology necessary toward the couple. Moreover, regarding Setsuko—who bore such deep wounds for his sake yet showed no indication of demanding recompense—he felt compelled to manifest contrition through his very existence more earnestly than toward anyone else.

Twenty-Five

Like a pilgrim returned from a long journey, Kishimoto stepped over the threshold of his vacant home and at last found rest that resembled true rest beside his children. Many guests came visiting—all people he wanted to meet—and though his post-return days proved busier than anticipated, amid it all he resolved to repay those who had helped raise Izumi and Shigeru. He did what he could with his own strength to console his brother who bore misfortune with resentful endurance, his sister-in-law who occasionally let complaints slip, and his aged grandmother. Given his brother’s temperament—incapable of half-measures whether building grand mansions or enduring wretched dwellings—the crumbling house fence had been left to others’ eyes. Kishimoto strove to pour some freshness beneath this roof. From air so stagnant it threatened mutual collapse, he took solace in hoping something might yet emerge. The Setsuko he found upon returning rose early each morning, aided her sister-in-law with chores, and worked without losing heart—at minimum. “Since you came back, Setsuko’s grown much livelier”—through these brotherly words, Kishimoto learned his return had given her some hope. After all, even abroad she’d been his foremost concern. From that heart’s depths he felt joy not small within himself.

“Since Father returned，even Izumi and Shigeru have visibly changed—after all，a parent is a parent.” Even as flattery，such words from his sister-in-law were a joy to Kishimoto. Above all else，Kishimoto’s foremost wish was to gradually alleviate the intense travel fatigue whose severity even he himself found astonishing. In such cases，he would go to where the two children were. He went there and stretched out his knees，which he had kept uncomfortably bent while sitting before guests. Having grown accustomed to sitting，he would sometimes grimace，cradle his aching legs，and let out a groan-like sound before the watching children.

“So, what do you think—has Dad come back smelling a bit foreign now?—” When Kishimoto asked this, Izumi, sitting beside Shigeru, gazed at his father’s face while— “You smell so foreign I can’t stand it!” Izumi’s good-natured tone made his father and younger brother laugh.

Twenty-Six “But both Izumi and Shigeru have grown so big,” said Kishimoto as he looked between the two children. “I’d imagined Izumi would be about that size by now, but I was surprised at how much Shigeru had grown.” “When I stand next to Izumi, our heights are about the same,” said Shigeru, looking toward his brother. Kishimoto could not help but smile when he thought that this second child sitting before him—the child who had now learned to use words like “I”—was the same young Shigeru who, near their old house by the Kanda River, used to ask with no clear distinction between morning and evening, “Is this morning?” or “Is this evening?”

Kishimoto continued, “When Dad returned, I called out to you from the car, didn’t I? I knew right away it was you. At that time, you gave a strange reply and ran off, didn’t you?” “I didn’t think it was Dad,” answered Shigeru. “I see... You didn’t recognize Dad?” “I didn’t really look at the car—the sunshade was down, so I couldn’t see well—”

The two children suddenly exchanged glances, and their father went to fetch the travel souvenirs. They carefully brought them to their father. “Izumi and Shigeru often sent things like neatly written copies and drawings over to Dad.” “Japanese characters are written large with a brush, right?” “In foreign countries—you see—everyone uses pens.” “When I saw Izumi’s neatly written copies abroad, the characters were so large—it was quite remarkable.” “Right, right—I often received letters and such from you all as well, didn’t I?”

Rather than listen to their father’s talk, the two children each tried to show him what they had brought there. They tried to share their childlike joy with their father. “Let me see that notebook.” “It’s got a French-style black cover—a fine notebook.” “This notebook and colored pencils are things Dad bought in Paris.” “There’s also a fairy-tale book here.” “It’s English fairy tales.” “Dad found that one in London and brought it back.” “Both of you—take good care of these and keep them safe.”

“This book’s too hard—I can’t read it at all,” said Shigeru.

“That’s because it’s in English,” Izumi said, looking at his brother. “But it’s still nice. It has pictures, you know,” Shigeru replied. “Dad wrote in my book too. Hmm, shall I give it a read? *The Day of Return from Journey—From Father—To Shigeru*” Both Shigeru, who was reading, and Izumi, who was listening, burst out laughing. At that moment, Izumi—as if he had remembered something—

“Dad’s so great, huh?”

“Why?” asked Kishimoto. “But you were all alone eating French bread and—” “Alone? It’s not like I could take you all along.” “Dad, what did you go to France for—”

This question from Izumi left even Kishimoto at a loss for words.

Outside, frogs suddenly began croaking. Kishimoto gazed at the children's faces while listening intently to their calls—a sound rarely heard beneath foreign skies. Through the three years he'd been absent, summer rain soon fell—true Tokyo summer rain—soaking both the garden's ginkgo that had grown a sturdy trunk and the deutzia leaves now thick along the veranda edge.

27

The two children brought out more things like neat copies and drawings to show Kishimoto, and they also laid out there the picture postcards he had sent from his travels. “Oh, there’s a Limoges picture postcard here.” “This is the one I sent over to Izumi, isn’t it?” “It’s surprising it’s still here after all this time without getting lost.” As he said this, Kishimoto gazed at the French countryside picture postcards together with the children. The outskirts of Limoges where he had once spent about two months; the pasture where a flock of sheep was kept; from the familiar trees in the foreground to the distant high stone tower of Saint-Étienne’s church standing atop a hill—all were there in that postcard. The autumn depicted there was the same season Kishimoto had encountered during his travels, enough to evoke the traveler’s sentiments of the Vienne riverside where he had often wandered.

“Dad.” “Here’s a picture postcard with a ship too.”

As Shigeru said this and presented it，Kishimoto took it in his hands and looked. “This is the ship Dad took when he went there.” “You see，Dad went to distant countries on a ship like this.” “Was it that far？”

“Have you ever seen the sea?”

“If you go to Shinagawa, you can see the sea,” answered Shigeru. “I went on a school trip to Kamakura.” “I saw the sea back then,” said Izumi.

The fact that there were countries beyond the sea unknown to these children was something Kishimoto couldn't quite put into words. Both Izumi and Shigeru watched their father's face, darkened by the sun and weathered by the sea breeze he had encountered on his journey. With these children beside him, Kishimoto told them of the strange customs of indigenous peoples in the ports he had wandered through, the tropical plants, and the regions where crocodiles, ostriches, goats, deer, zebras, elephants, lions, and countless varieties of venomous snakes and insects actually dwelled.

“Oh! Whale! Whale!” “Whale!” “Whale!” The two children exclaimed to each other, their eyes wide as if listening to a fairy tale, and listened to their father’s travel story about having seen a whale being caught.

Kishimoto still felt like a traveler who had just crawled up from the sea. His heart wandered to the equator crossed during the return voyage and to the Atlantic waves where countless flying fish swarmed. The Southern Cross, which resembled a cross drawn slightly askew in the sky, had also made its first appearance before his eyes. The blue bioluminescent light flowing through the dark sea was half a light from the world of dreams. From the time he departed London until reaching the Cape of Good Hope, he spent eighteen long days entirely at sea, completely cut off from any news from land. The ship had also called at the port of Durban in South Africa to load coal. The island silhouettes of Sumatra glimpsed as they neared Singapore; the Hong Kong lighthouse he had gazed upon both departing and returning; the China Sea turbid with a yellow-green hue—as he tallied these, truly countless impressions of his homeward journey welled up in his heart.

28

Suddenly and utterly, Setsuko sank into depression. It was around the time when Kishimoto, having gauged that the number of visiting guests had somewhat decreased, had begun going out daily to make visits on his own initiative. Why had Setsuko, who had finally regained her spirits and been working diligently, suddenly become so despondent? What had displeased her to make her wither like a rose? Kishimoto could not comprehend it at all. "What’s happened to Setsuko?" he said to himself, startled by her abruptly altered state.

He said to himself, startled by her appearance that had changed too abruptly. Had Setsuko been scolded by brother Yoshio? From Kishimoto’s perspective, nothing particular had occurred within the household. Was there something about her mother’s arrangements that she found dissatisfying? There was no sign of that either. "She must have troubled her sisters like this even while I was away." And saying this again, he even began to feel somewhat irritated by her nervousness and lack of self-control, which confronted him with her unpleasant face so soon after his return.

If Kishimoto were to speak of it, there was no need to repeat now what he felt guilty toward Setsuko for. To seek forgiveness for that—to start fresh from a lifetime of failures and forge a new path if possible—he reversed his initial determination not to return and came back to his homeland once more. Fortunately, his travels had sparked many new passions in life. He himself intended to remarry, and if a marriage proposal were to come up for Setsuko, he planned to support her discreetly. And he was striving to pave a way for her. He had discussed this matter even before Brother Yoshio, who had enthusiastically endorsed his plan to remarry. There was nothing in her future that would make her lose so much hope she had to sink into despair.

At that point, he came up with a term. He tried referring to her profound melancholy—whose cause he couldn’t fathom—as “Setsuko’s low-pressure system.” Until that day, he had tried to avoid her as much as possible, had even refrained from directly addressing her, and had only watched her from afar. Put differently, he had yet to face Setsuko properly. When this strange low-pressure system arrived, he could no longer avoid paying close attention to this often-silent unfortunate soul.

29

Almost daily, Kishimoto went out to make visits. Out of nostalgia for old acquaintances, he wanted to visit as many relatives and friends as possible. To Shiba. To Kyōbashi. To Nihonbashi. To Ushigome. To Hongō. To Koishikawa. Like a pilgrim knocking on household doors. And each time he returned home to Takanawa, Setsuko remained sunk in gloom. When Kishimoto had returned from his journey with apprehension, the niece he imagined had been someone dreadfully transformed in appearance. The image of Setsuko captured in that photograph—one he found too frightening to retrieve from his Paris lodgings, or in her own words, her ghostly postpartum visage—still lingered before his eyes. By that memory’s measure, she seemed merely somewhat emaciated; even her reportedly shortened hair appeared less drastically changed to his gaze than one might expect. Yet this provided only temporary reassurance. Gradually, mentions of how Setsuko had weakened—unlike before—began slipping from her brother’s, sister-in-law’s, and grandmother’s lips.

“Since you came back, she might be putting on a brave face with all that effort—but for Setsuko to rise so early? That’s practically unheard of since creation itself.” “Sometimes she lacks even the strength to clean her room.” “Folding her own bedding was already the utmost she could manage—who knows how many days passed like that before.” “While you were away, she might as well have slept through every day.” “If we rarely send her out on errands, she nearly faints on the train—how absurd, I tell ya.”

Yoshio had spoken to Kishimoto in such a country-accented tone on occasion. His manner suggested that unless a woman was as modest as Suzuki’s sister, as wise as the deceased nephew Taichi’s wife, or as courageous as the grandmother of the Tanabe household, she wasn’t worth considering as a woman.

Indeed, Setsuko was exactly as Kishimoto had feared. She had grown so frail—so encumbered by hand afflictions that she could neither handle water nor properly hold a needle—that people wondered how she could ever become a proper homemaker in this state. "You did this to a human being"—suppose such an accusatory voice had confronted him. Even if not every pathological element surrounding Setsuko was his direct fault, the foundational blow that left her this enfeebled remained beyond dispute.

What Setsuko’s low-pressure system truly was remained something Kishimoto could never grasp. Kishimoto had even gone to check on his niece in an indirect manner. Outside the north-facing room lay a small vacant lot leading from the back gate to the kitchen. There stood bush clovers that Setsuko—who usually liked plants—had transplanted from their previous house near the Kanda River. There had even been times when pressed flowers from those plants were delivered to the Paris lodging along with Setsuko’s letters. Over three years’ time, the bush clovers had grown large. Setsuko stepped out onto the veranda and sat alone despondently facing the green bush clovers, appearing unwilling to speak to anyone.

Thirty

On another day, Kishimoto, intending to visit old acquaintances in the town where he had previously lived, sat down at the table with everyone before leaving the house. It was exactly lunchtime, and everyone gathered there—from his brother’s family to Izumi and Shigeru, who were enjoying an early dismissal from school.

“Since you returned from France, Uncle, everyone in the household is still holding back.” “Everyone here’s wearing cat masks.”

Yoshio brought this up half-jokingly. "Why, even Ichiro here is made to sit in the second seat next to Izumi and Shigeru—if you weren't here, Uncle, they'd all just be eating in silence like that." "Everyone here is wearing cat masks." "If they can keep these cat masks on—now that would be a real triumph—" Yoshio said once again. Izumi, Shigeru, and the others ate alongside their uncle with expressions that seemed to anticipate what Uncle Yoshio might say next.

“You’re wearing a cat mask yourself.” The sister-in-law looked sharply at Yoshio and said. This sister-in-law’s sarcasm drew a wry smile from Yoshio.

Setsuko sat between mother and Ichiro, head kept bowed as she ate without uttering a word. Kishimoto distinctly sensed her cheerless bearing.

"Setsuko still has that look on her face." With that thought, Kishimoto left the dining table.

Why did Setsuko's low-pressure system persist so relentlessly? All the more because its cause remained unknown, she had come to seem pitiable to Kishimoto. With that weighing on his mind, he left the house in Takanawa and walked along the slope bordering Oka to the tram stop.

When he rode the train to Asakusabashi and looked out, the banks of the Kanda River came into Kishimoto’s view once again. He stood on the bridge and gazed down from the railing at the riverbank he had often wandered in the past. He could say there was the stone wall where he had once sat, and there before the boat inn was where he had once launched his small boat. He walked all the way to the town he had lived in for seven years to see it. The house that had been his old residence had been altered even in its front entrance, its inhabitants changed over time; only the glass door he had left behind on the second floor, visible from the street, spoke of the time before his distant journey. He also visited the old familiar houses. Among them were those who stared fixedly at his sunburned cheeks, whitened temples, and beardless face—some wearing expressions that seemed unable to believe this visitor was truly him, returned from his journey.

Kishimoto crossed Yanagibashi in that town and soon arrived near Ryogokubashi. On a day during his travels when he had sent feelings of wanderlust from the banks of the Saône, Vienne, and Garonne rivers far away, the Sumida River once again spread out before his eyes. With the same eyes that had gazed upon the waters of the Seine from the stone bridge at Austerlitz, he now watched the currents of the Sumida River—unforgotten through three years’ time—swirling as they flowed down from upstream.

Thirty-One Every time he returned home on the Shinagawa-bound train, Kishimoto would pass through Shinbashi and recall how, three years prior, he had embarked on his journey from that old station. On his way home that day as well, he paid attention to the view of Shiodome Station and the solemn-looking warehouses from the train window, gazing upon the aged stone buildings that seemed to have ceded the city’s pride and splendor to newer structures. To that extent, he still had not lost the traveler’s mindset. In many instances, he stood in a corner of the train, gazing at the other passengers as if they were curiosities, and rode on with a feeling akin to that of someone from a foreign land.

Kayoko and Grandmother were preparing dinner at home while waiting for Kishimoto’s return. Setsuko also worked diligently alongside everyone else. At times, Kishimoto would look toward Setsuko and think this. He wondered how Kayoko and the others viewed that Setsuko, who seemed so deeply sunk in thought. Kayoko wore an expression that suggested this was all routine; even when Setsuko fell into such silence that she wouldn’t speak to the household, she didn’t seem particularly concerned.

That evening, Kishimoto and his brother spent hours talking in the back room. Then Grandmother came there too, "Setsuko... I think we must find some way to help those hands of hers..."

Grandmother began to say. Grandmother, who had come from her rural home unaware of anything, had regarded Setsuko’s emaciation over the past three years as something mystifying and fretted endlessly over her many ailments. For Yoshio, Grandmother was a mother-in-law by obligation. Kayoko was the only daughter of this elderly woman. Yoshio had left the Kishimoto household and, as someone who had inherited the Kishimoto surname from his mother’s side, spoke to Grandmother in a deferential tone,

“Now that Sukekichi has returned, I’ll consult with him and find some solution.” “After all, it’s been nearly three years since Setsuko’s hands worsened,” said Grandmother. “We did have a doctor examine her,” Yoshio interjected, “but he said this is a severe illness—it won’t heal unless she sees a proper specialist. Even then, these hands will take considerable time to recover. That’s what he told us when sending her home.” “If things stay this way and she truly can’t marry, then we should at least try treatment first—but even if that fails, every family has at least one disabled member among them. That’s what I tell myself to accept it.”

Kishimoto’s brother’s words struck his ears with force. On a day during his travels, after entrusting Setsuko to her parents, Kishimoto had come to think in his heart that he had somehow managed to save her from ruin. Whenever he heard of marriage proposals arising for Setsuko, he increasingly felt he had confirmed her recovery. He saw upon returning from his journey. Setsuko was a fragile person. However, that she could become something so disabled as to be seen by those around her as an invalid was something Kishimoto simply could not bring himself to believe. “Every family has at least one disabled person.” These words from his brother shocked Kishimoto terribly.

With that weighing on him, Kishimoto went to the kitchen early the next morning to wash his face. It was a time when neither Kayoko nor Grandmother had yet risen. Setsuko alone was dejectedly working on her feet.

“How long were you going to keep making that sullen face?”

With that thought, Kishimoto started to turn back from the kitchen. The indescribable state of his niece at that moment drew him in with a mysterious force. He almost impulsively approached Setsuko and, without a word, gave her a brief kiss. She tried to let out such a violent sob that he, startled and flustered, tried to cover her mouth.

Thirty-Two

August arrived, bringing the death anniversary of Izumi and Shigeru’s mother. The two children, now on summer vacation from school, had eagerly anticipated going out with their father for the first time in ages and kept talking about visiting the graves since the previous evening.

He decided to set out early in the morning. Kishimoto invited both Ichiro and Setsuko. In the temple-dotted suburbs lived an old friend whom Kishimoto wished to visit; therefore, he intended to entrust the children to Setsuko for the return journey alone while detouring to his friend's house by himself. "Sukekichi will stop by Mr. Suga's place. In that case, you should go along too, Setsuko, and bring the children back on the way home." With that, Yoshio addressed Kayoko in a mediating tone, conveying that "it would do good to let even Setsuko show such vitality on rare occasions."

Setsuko hurriedly prepared herself. Amid the children’s insistent urging, she pulled on new white tabi socks and left the house last. “If Jiro notices you’ll be in for more noise—people going out should get moving already!”

While ignoring Kayoko’s voice, the three children cheered and ran ahead first. Kishimoto had walked about half a block with the children when he waited for Setsuko, who approached from behind holding a pale Western umbrella. More than anything, he was concerned about Setsuko’s tendency to suffer fainting spells while out. “Setsuko, are you all right today?” Kishimoto asked. “Yes, I think I’ll be all right.” Setsuko’s voice as she answered was reserved.

“Your kimonos and everything being stored away in the storehouse—there are quite nice ones among them, aren’t there? With those, that’s plenty enough.” “Whether they’re good or bad, this is all I have.” Setsuko blushed faintly. With an air of resignation toward circumstances beyond her control, she opened the slightly faded Western-style umbrella she carried and raised it overhead.

For Setsuko, walking alongside her uncle who had returned from his journey was something she was doing for the first time. After her depressive mood had cleared without any indication of when it would lift, she had such bright, clear eyes that day that one might wonder where the traces of the melancholy that had so stirred Kishimoto’s heart now remained. When Kishimoto met his brother Yoshio’s family for the first time in three years—a reunion fraught with discomfort—the Setsuko who reappeared before his eyes was a more petite woman than he had remembered. It was likely because he saw his own niece suddenly through eyes that had compared her to the niece of his Parisian landlady, and through eyes that had compared her to that red-haired, well-built Frenchwoman raised in Limoges—a woman said to be Setsuko’s age. Going out together like this, even Kishimoto could keenly sense how much Setsuko had developed over those three years. She was like a small bird emerging from a cramped cage, breathing freely in the summer morning air for the first time in years. Unlike when she smoldered at home, that day’s Setsuko even displayed her innate disposition and the modest airs befitting a young woman.

The children would wait along the way for the slow-footed Setsuko, only to hurry ahead again. Setsuko walked with her uncle in silence to the Kiyomasa-kō-mae tram stop, as if the arrival of such a day felt like a dream to her.

Thirty-Three

They took the train to Shinjuku; then Kishimoto walked with the children and Setsuko toward Okubo. Despite Kishimoto's prior worries, Setsuko showed no signs of fatigue. Out of consideration for his frail niece, he made every effort to slow his pace. Ahead lay the suburb where he had once lived for about a year—a place thick with memories from when he had moved down from the mountains with his then still-vigorous wife Sonoko, who brought along three daughters who would have been like older sisters to Izumi and Shigeru. What had once been a tree-filled suburb now lay before him as entirely transformed newly developed land.

“The town around here has completely changed, hasn’t it—” Even when Kishimoto made such remarks, Setsuko seemed content merely to listen, as if she desired nothing more than to walk silently alongside her uncle. For the siblings heading to “Mother’s” grave after so long—especially for Izumi—this path they now walked was one that led back to the suburb where he had been born. “Izumi, this is Okubo.”

When Kishimoto called out from behind, Izumi walked alongside Ichiro and Shigeru, “Ah, this is the Okubo where I was born,” he said nostalgically. Setsuko gazed and gazed at the retreating figures of three boys of roughly the same height, then quietly followed closely behind them. Compared to before, the area around the temple had changed significantly. Leaving Setsuko—who wanted to buy flowers for “Auntie”—at the flower shop’s storefront, Kishimoto entered the temple grounds a step ahead. Before long, Setsuko came carrying the white lilies she had selected herself and rejoined the others beside the entrance to the priest’s quarters adjoining the main hall.

“Dad, I’ll carry the incense sticks!”

The eager Shigeru was the first to blurt it out. The death of Sonoko—and the myriad events that followed—intertwined in Kishimoto’s heart with the sights now before his eyes. The elderly temple worker leading the way toward the cemetery with a guide’s demeanor, the ritual water bucket and shikimi leaves, the smoke from incense sticks wrapped in red paper being waved by the children’s hands—not one of these failed to draw Kishimoto into deep contemplation. Alongside the main hall stretched a narrow path that guided grave visitors deep into the cemetery. This slender trail between old and new graves was where Kishimoto had paced back and forth each time he lost another daughter. Kishimoto went and stood before his wife’s grave for the first time in years. Before this marker where it felt impossible to discern the intentions of its occupant, he wondered whether to say “You returned well from your long journey,” or “You all came together so nicely,” or perhaps something else entirely.

“It’s been nearly seven years since Auntie passed away, hasn’t it?” Kishimoto looked back at Setsuko, who had followed him there carrying flowers, and said. Silence dominated the surroundings. The old tombstones standing in staggered rows appeared to exist solely for those who remained alive.

Tomb of Kishimoto Sonoko Tomb of Kishimoto Tomiko Tomb of Kishimoto Kikuko Tomb of Kishimoto Mikiko

Thirty-Four “The ones next to Mom’s are Tomiko’s and Kikuko’s graves, huh?” “Yeah, that’s right.” Izumi and Shigeru exchanged these words. While the temple worker decorated the graves with shikimi leaves and lilies, Kishimoto spent time with Setsuko and the children in what resembled a proper grave visit. He washed the gravestones himself without the temple worker’s help and poured water over them. Seeing this, Izumi and Shigeru took turns imitating their father.

Setsuko went last and pressed her palms together before her aunt’s grave. “It was the evening of the Ryogoku fireworks, wasn’t it—” With that remark to her uncle, Setsuko left the graveside with a reminiscent look, recalling that very day seven years prior when her aunt had passed away. On a day after the muggy, continuous rain had finally ceased, the memory of when Kishimoto had once come to this cemetery to bury his wife returned vividly before his eyes. At that time, it was not only about burying Sonoko but also about relocating the remains of their three daughters to be interred alongside their mother in the same place. In the earth the temple worker had dug, yellow-muddied water gushed forth and overflowed. The temple worker alternately thrust both hands deep into it and probed every corner of the hole with the tips of both feet, unearthing three small skulls, scattered bones, and fragments of a decayed coffin. The bright August light shone through the green leaves, illuminating this cemetery after the rains as if to display it. In the sweltering air, the temple worker wiped the sweat from his soiled forehead as he washed the mud from three skulls. Among them, the smallest one—which had weathered the most days—had lost the shape of its skull and facial bones, its teeth broken and missing, halfway turned to earth. The largest retained the firmness of a skeleton, its teeth still aligned, with even a few strands of hair clinging to the still-vivid forehead bone alongside soil. Those were Izumi and Shigeru’s sisters. And the elderly temple worker who had assisted them then was now that same old man decorating their graves with shikimi leaves and placing incense sticks before them.

The memory of that moment’s raw experience—the acrid, cruel odor of earth that had assailed his nostrils—would likely remain unforgotten by Kishimoto for the rest of his life. The terrible upheaval of his spirit through those passing years. This upheaval had not only arisen continuously since his wife’s death but could in fact be traced back to a time long before. First came Mikiko’s death as the youngest; then Kikuko at five years old; then Tomiko at seven—he had lost all three within a single year. By then, he could no longer even bring himself to visit this cemetery. On the rare occasions when his feet did turn toward this temple, merely contemplating the direction left him nearly collapsing on the spot.

As these memories rose within him while returning to the front of the temple's priest quarters, Kishimoto became aware of a child's voice approaching his side with a question. "Dad, is this really all?" Izumi said with an expression that suggested dissatisfaction.

“Is this all? “This is a grave visit, isn’t it?” Kishimoto said with a laugh. “You didn’t come here to play today, did you?”

Thirty-Five

After spending some time at the temple’s priest quarters, they eventually exited through the gate along the stone-paved path of the grounds. By then, the August sunlight was already beating down strongly upon Okubo’s streets. An invisible congestion lay ahead in Kishimoto’s path. The reason was that he had brought Setsuko along on such a grave visit. Kishimoto walked in silence. Setsuko also walked in silence. The only thing that broke their silence was the cheerful laughter arising among the children. Kishimoto searched for the vicinity of the house where Setsuko had stopped by to buy flowers on the way, in order to let Setsuko and the children rest. In that area, there was nothing but small ice shops with flags displayed—yet even such shops, along with this newly developed townscape, were things that hadn't existed in Okubo when Kishimoto had lived there before.

Izumi and Shigeru sat with their father at the shopfront and found satisfaction just in listening to the cool, refreshing sound of the ice being shaved. “Ichiro, the ice is here.” Kishimoto offered a cup heaped with ice to Ichiro and distributed some to Izumi and Shigeru as well. “Izumi, lemon ice!” “Dad treated us too, huh?” said Shigeru, holding his cup. “Ah, what a lovely aroma,” said Izumi, narrowing his eyes and crunching the ice in his cup with his spoon.

“Setsu-chan, what about the ice?” asked Kishimoto. “I’ll have a little,” Setsuko replied, rubbing her ailing hands whose skin sensitivity seemed far keener than most. Setsuko was not only sparing in words toward her uncle but also toward her younger brother Ichiro. When compared to her cheerful and talkative older sister Teruko, she had always been of a quiet and sparing nature with words. But she had never before been someone who fell so completely silent. Her bright, clear eyes and unspeaking lips seemed almost to voice the vulnerable fragility of her inner life—straining to grow yet unable to do so.

The grave visit was also one of Kishimoto’s visits after returning home. From the standpoint of wanting to visit as many people as possible, he had only just begun considering such things. Yet he felt such intense fatigue—suppressed and restrained in secret—that he wanted to take this grave visit as a stopping point to rest his body. Gazing at the sunlight reaching right outside the ice shop, he found himself thinking all the more of rest. To see the children off on their homeward path, Kishimoto decided to walk with them that far. He felt more concern for Setsuko during their return than he had on their way there. The glaring sunlight proved unbearable even for him. With tender care, he accompanied Setsuko all the way to Shinjuku’s outskirts through the same newly developed town they had traversed earlier. Even when he tried inquiring about her needs in those constrained circumstances—attempting conversation as they walked together—Setsuko offered no proper replies. She walked wordlessly along the sun-drenched path, her face steeped in memories of those three vanished years.

"Is there really no way to save this person?" With that thought weighing upon him, Kishimoto watched Setsuko walk away. For a long while he remained rooted in place, observing both the receding figures of the three children and Setsuko's pale Western-style parasol as it gradually disappeared into the distance.

Thirty-Six Izumi and Shigeru’s summer break lasted about a month from then. During that time, the sweltering heat set in. An unbearable fatigue now truly overwhelmed Kishimoto— with such force as to make him abandon everything. In the sweltering summer nights of the Takanawa house, there were times he would collapse on the tatami mats of the back room as if dead.

This first summer heat since returning home not only drew out the fatigue Kishimoto had carried over from his long sea voyage since departing London but was beginning to draw out even that fatigue from his three-year journey through France—as though he had walked almost without rest among people he didn’t know. From the abrupt stillness and rest of his strained nerves, what had lain hidden within him surfaced all at once. And he became as if steamed by the heat of this drastically altered land.

Somehow, Kishimoto’s heart grew restless. No matter what one might say, everything Setsuko did—as if bound by the same sad memories—acted upon him. When a strange low-pressure system settled over Setsuko and persisted for days on end, even though he could not bear to witness her agitated state, he regretted having given her an unintended kiss. Three years of restraint and self-reproach had not made him stronger; rather, they had even come to be suspected of making him weaker. Together with this most unfortunate woman, he seemed on the verge of being tested once again.

One day, Kishimoto left home intending to find a room in the neighborhood where he could study alone, should such a place exist. In his current house where two families totaling nine people lived under one roof, he couldn't muster the will to organize the books brought back from his travels. Moreover, with so many children about, he found it absolutely necessary to secure a temporary study. When he stepped into the town's open air, the traveler's mood—that peculiar state known to all who roam the wide world—still clung to him undiminished. This sensation made him behold his homeland as though it were foreign soil. At moments he still felt adrift at sea, as if his two months ashore constituted nothing more than a brief layover in some nameless port. His mind wandered back to Cape Town in South Africa, to Durban, to Singapore's streets where Malays, Indians, Chinese and Europeans jostled together. At times he doubted his own eyes—why else would these women passing by strike him not as Japanese but as natives from the Malay Peninsula? These visual phantoms merged strangely with the internal landscapes of his travel-weary self. With growing astonishment he pondered what connection could possibly exist between the man who'd fled Paris like an escaped prisoner and this self now tentatively approaching Setsuko once more. Had he truly returned home at all? The thought left him standing dumbstruck.

Thirty-Seven

Kishimoto rented a second floor with two rooms near his house. From the beginning of September, he used that space as a temporary study and commuted to the main house for meals and sleeping. Among his children, there was one who had developed the habit of needing to be awakened every night despite sleeping soundly. He discovered that the duty of waking that child was a considerable burden for Yoshio’s family. This was absolutely not something to trouble others with. From that thought, he arranged three pillows for parent and children in the north-facing room, had the child—who retained a boyhood habit that might resolve with age—lie beside them, and endeavored to cause as little trouble as possible to his sisters-in-law. At that exact time, Yoshio had gone out to his hometown and was away. Setsuko, perhaps unable to bear seeing her uncle’s struggle, came to wake the child. From that day onward, the twist between them returned.

Every time he went up to that second floor, Kishimoto’s mind would sometimes fall utterly silent. At the same time, such a voice was heard from the depths of his ears.

"Have you ever truly pitied anyone? Though your heart returned from journeying as if awaiting another dawn—turned toward all people—does it not turn toward the one right beside you? Can’t your eyes see that half-dead person? If you won’t pity that person, then who will you pity?"

Someone who had once endured the bitter experience of terrible burns was now being swept back into the flames. Kishimoto's relationship with Setsuko closely resembled this. Yet he was no longer the same Kishimoto as before. He was not so repulsed by women as to consider bachelorhood a form of revenge. He was no longer that earlier Kishimoto—the man who had vowed never to repeat such a married life, who had tried to transform his deceased wife's household into something entirely different, who had sought to walk his own willful path even if it meant defying nature itself in the endless desert of solitary existence. He had returned while gazing at his homeland's lights from afar with such resolve that he thought he wouldn't sleep on the night he reached Kobe. He had returned wearied from his long journey with a heart that yearned to prostrate himself upon the earth and kiss the beloved soil.

A deep sense of compassion welled up in Kishimoto’s chest. That compassion surged forth not merely to save Setsuko but to redeem himself as well.

Thirty-Eight

The more he pitied Setsuko, the more Kishimoto resolved to devote whatever strength circumstances permitted toward her. The burdens he currently bore—his dutiful service to Yoshio’s family and Grandmother—he came to regard entirely as being for her sake. Above all else, he first determined to provide for Setsuko herself. For he believed her frailty and listlessness arose from prolonged neglect—like a garden abandoned to overgrown weeds—whether due to unavoidable family circumstances or her own shadowed existence of perpetual self-effacement.

Kishimoto also tried to teach Setsuko, who remained dependent on her parents, to work. Even if she were to continue living as before, he wanted to devise a way that would at least allow her to maintain her dignity through self-reliance. To this end, he considered having her assist with his work—teaching her to transcribe conversations and such—and helping her in some small way under the guise of compensation. Not only did he aim to teach Setsuko how to work, but he also wished to somehow awaken in her a heart that could find meaning in living.

This proposal pleased Yoshio, who had returned from his hometown. It also pleased his sister-in-law. “Even if Setsuko has trouble with her hands and can’t manage water chores, holding a brush shouldn’t pose any difficulty for her.” When Kishimoto said this, Grandmother, who was with his sister-in-law, chimed in, “Well now, Setsuko’s always been one to enjoy writing things down, y’know. She often writes or reads all by herself, patiently.”

“Ah. “That’s an excellent idea.” “That should work well.” Yoshio added. His sister-in-law continued, “Father keeps calling her useless, useless—only disparaging Setsuko—when she could easily earn nine or ten yen if she tried.” Her voice trembled with emotion. Kishimoto went up to the second floor, gratified that his proposal had first encouraged Setsuko above all others. Alone in the room, he retrieved what she had left behind after bringing three o’clock tea and sweets from the main house. The pages contained diverse reflections.

“Even if a mother has many children, it is absolutely not a good thing for her to be troubled by them around the clock. Of course she must be a deep sympathizer, kind advisor, and wise guide in all situations—but she also wants a heart with some degree of independent autonomy. Through this, children gain precious experience, and through this, a mother can obtain time to develop her own world, I think. Only upon such mutual best understanding can a true life of order and vitality be sustained. Cowardly love has no life.”

At the edges of pages where Setsuko seemed to jot down thoughts whenever moved, fragmented phrases—womanly reflections never meant for others’ eyes—seeped out from her constricted small chest. “No matter how slight, advice tainted with self-interest lacks the power to move people.” Kishimoto continued reading what Setsuko had written, smiling faintly all the while. The words spilled out like those from a stammering mouth—haltingly, one drop at a time.

“To wish for thoroughness in all things brings with it much pain; yet the pleasure granted thereby is unmatched by any other… One must see with one’s own eyes, hear with one’s own ears, and walk with one’s own feet.”

Thirty-Nine Among other things Setsuko had left behind for him to read were writings about her state of mind while awaiting his return journey, as well as diary-style entries from when she had stayed at a small hospital to undergo incision surgery for a postpartum breast abscess. All of them seemed to show nerves sharpened to excess and the narrow chest of a woman, and for Kishimoto, who was reading them, it did not feel very good.

"What a truly unfortunate person—someone who's never loved nor been loved," Kishimoto ventured to say.

It was the day when Setsuko, having been permitted by her mother, came from the main house to see Kishimoto. Helping her uncle's work even a little had thus increased her opportunities to come here. She still remained unaccustomed to transcribing her uncle's conversations. Moreover, the work he gave her wasn't something with fixed hours either. That day, satisfied that Setsuko had come to help, he tried having her tidy up even the cluttered parts of the room.

“But compared to when we were in Asakusa, you’ve changed quite a lot.” Kishimoto looked at Setsuko and said. Setsuko remained as sparing with words as ever, yet it seemed she could only maintain this unhurried ease while on the second floor. She moved between the tea utensils in the room’s corner and the books piled in the alcove, tidying those areas. “I don’t think all the hardships you’ve endured until now were in vain.” “In the end, I believe they’ve improved you.”

When Kishimoto repeated this, Setsuko reacted as if his words carried weight and gave a faint sigh. "Your feelings must have grown quite different from your mother and the rest by now." "Everyone—they all betray me in the end." Setsuko spoke only those words before bowing her head. To Kishimoto's eyes, there now appeared a Setsuko who seemed almost a different person from before. Where once stood a girlish figure fresh from school, now spoke someone with a distinctly sisterly tone. Where once was a soul ignorant of worldly sorrows, now stood one tempered by grief and hardship. At times, Kishimoto felt he could discern in this Setsuko qualities that his brother and sister-in-law neither recognized nor wished to acknowledge. Compared to three years prior, their relational positions had already shifted this profoundly.

Forty

In the closet of his makeshift study lay French wine that Kishimoto had bought to fortify his health—the sort one grows accustomed to drinking during travels abroad, its price not easily afforded. He took the bottle from the closet. “I meant to drink this myself, but here—take it instead,” he said, placing it before Setsuko. “Better than poor medicine. Drink a little each day.” “You don’t look terribly gaunt to me—” he continued, studying her. “Still, you’ve grown much thinner than before, haven’t you? Weren’t you always slight to begin with?”

"I was actually quite plump before," said Setsuko with a slight droop in her posture. "Grandmother often says—'Why has that daughter who was so plump become so thin?'" "Your hair hasn't been cut that short either, has it? With that much there, isn't it plenty? In the letter you sent to Paris, you wrote that your hair had been cut so pitifully short and red, didn't you?" "It's finally grown this much—"

“It’s finally grown this much—” Setsuko said and deliberately let the hair around her hairline hang down over her forehead to show him.

“Setsuko, you’ve improved so much through your hardships compared to before.” “Somehow I’ve come to like you—I didn’t feel that way before.” Unusually, Kishimoto said these words. Hearing this, Setsuko—as if recalling countless memories—seemed to contemplate her own arduous months spent waiting until she could speak with him like this again after her uncle had gone abroad, and kept silent with her head bowed.

Eventually, Kishimoto had Setsuko take the wine and sent her back home. Even at that time, he still had not abandoned his hope of remarriage. The idea he had brought back from that journey—that he would build a household with a suitable person and urge Setsuko, too, to become part of a new household—had come to dominate him. The matter regarding the person from Osaka whom he was supposed to visit on his way back to Tokyo from Kobe had since yielded no leads, but his return to Japan seemed to present other suitable candidates. In fact, he had even received a letter concerning a marriage proposal from the principal whom Negishi’s niece Aiko had once studied under. In the principal’s handwriting, it said that there was someone he earnestly wished to recommend to him, and that the other party also strongly hoped for this proposal might come to fruition. For details, please ask Negishi, and it also stated that the person they wished to arrange for and Aiko had graduated in the same year.

This marriage proposal somewhat moved Kishimoto's heart. Though she was a woman he had never met nor known at all, there existed no better lead than being able to learn about her character and circumstances through Negishi's niece who remained close at hand in daily life. At any rate, after sending a courteous letter to the principal stating he would consult properly with Negishi, he waited for Aiko's report. Within Kishimoto's mind settled a stillness. The relationship with Setsuko—now bound together a second time—made him confront his own spinelessness. Yet he thought he mustn't remain shackled only to matters before his eyes—he had to carve out a path forward, both for Setsuko's sake and his own.

Forty-One

From Negishi’s niece came a detailed report before long. Aiko wrote down each and every detail with feminine insight regarding her classmate—the sort of information Kishimoto would want to know—and sent it over.

Regarding that person’s upbringing. Regarding that person’s temperament. Regarding that person’s old Edo-style peaceful household—a detail only those long acquainted with Tokyo would readily recognize. Aiko wrote about her classmate’s appearance too, noting that while not particularly striking in that regard, she would surely make for an earnest and gentle wife, and as a mother would likely care well for her aunt’s children. She had written that above all, this was not someone so strong-willed as to bully children. Aiko added that being too intimately familiar with this classmate from ordinary times made her reluctant to say much more, but if her uncle’s heart leaned this way, she would not hesitate to endorse the match. She also wrote of her own anticipation at seeing her old schoolmate enter her uncle’s household.

Up to this point, the matter had actually begun to take shape. Even as he read Aiko’s report, Kishimoto could not help but dwell on how his relationship with Setsuko—with whom he had even had a child—would influence this second marriage. He also tried to fit the case of his remarriage into a hypothetical framework where Setsuko had married elsewhere. “Thank you for your letter. I would like to consider this proposal more carefully.” After sending a reply to Negishi to this effect, Kishimoto told his brother Yoshio about this marriage proposal.

Whenever he returned home for meals, Kishimoto would startle anew at how Setsuko's condition had changed without his noticing. The phenomenon he called "Setsuko's Low Pressure" now manifested upon her with greater intensity than before. Kishimoto found himself utterly at sea regarding Setsuko's true feelings. This remarriage plan—something he had resolved upon without external prompting—was something he had explained not just to his brother Yoshio but to Setsuko herself. That she would withdraw so completely as to refuse speaking to anyone in the household—this he could never have conceived. The distance between them now bore no resemblance to those earlier days when he would avert his eyes, keep his distance, and offer help only in secret. To save her, he had already extended an arm. Yet Setsuko shrank even from him.

“Ah, it’s starting again.”

Kishimoto muttered to himself and found himself unbearably irritated by her nervous temperament. Her manner—as if she had bowed her head motionlessly and sunk into thought—made even the surroundings of the dining table unpleasant.

Forty-Two “Setsuko, what’s happened to you?” One day, Kishimoto approached the wilted Setsuko and stood before her. Her gloomy appearance—which seemed ready at any moment to sink into profound despair—had become unbearable for him to witness. He tried to calm her again just as he had done before. Then Setsuko, her complexion shifting slightly, pushed against Kishimoto’s chest with the fragile strength of a delicate woman.

However, these Low Pressure episodes of Setsuko’s no longer lasted as long as they once had. The more intense they grew, the briefer they became. Afterward, with even greater closeness than before, she became an even stronger mainstay for Kishimoto.

“Setsuko is fine, but I’m at my wit’s end when she clams up like that from time to time, as if some Low Pressure has rolled in.”

Kishimoto had even brought this up during meals and laughed about it in front of his brother and sister-in-law. Setsuko had regained enough vigor that even when addressed like that before everyone, she showed no unpleasant expression. Setsuko, who tended toward silence, once opened the cupboard in the small room adjoining the kitchen and took out her handbox stored deep within to show Kishimoto. Though called a handbox, she—constrained in all things—made do with an empty candy tin. With an expression that seemed to ask him to examine it, Setsuko left Kishimoto there alone and went to the room where her grandmother and mother stayed. The items she had stored so carefully appeared utterly ordinary to Kishimoto’s eyes. They were letters and postcards he had written to Setsuko since around the time he departed for France. Some had been sent from Kobe. Others from midway through his outbound voyage. Others still after arriving in Paris. Some even from the countryside of Limoges. They were either practical letters entrusting household matters or care of the children, or else mere travel mementos. Every last one bore witness to his anguished heart that had sought to detest and avoid her. Recalling his state of mind when writing those travel updates—and equally when tearing up or burning Setsuko’s own strange letters addressed to Kobe or Paris—Kishimoto felt disgusted. At the handbox’s bottom lay an old two-panel brocade print. Attributed to Toyokuni III, it depicted lovers from *Inaka Genji*. Seeing this only made him imagine how the box’s owner had consoled her feminine heart with such meager colors; Kishimoto himself felt no attraction. Harboring two conflicting emotions—a resolve not to be bound by present circumstances, and a desire to rescue unfortunate victims—Kishimoto headed upstairs. There he encountered Setsuko passing through from the house with laundry briefly in hand. Kishimoto stopped her as she moved to leave after setting down the laundry, and spoke of his intent to remarry.

"Is it truly impossible for an uncle and niece to marry?" Involuntarily, Kishimoto blurted out such words. He continued speaking while watching Setsuko’s face intently, "Why can’t I just take you as my wife?" "After all, I must marry someone."

“Father is a man of such convictions, you see,” Setsuko replied. “Setsuko, don’t you have any intention of entrusting your whole life to me—even if we can’t marry?” Having said this, Kishimoto was somewhat startled by the words that had sprung unbidden from his own lips. “Let me think it over carefully.” Leaving that reply behind, Setsuko returned home.

Forty-Three

In the morning air following the brief night, the narrow vacant lot leading from the back gate to the kitchen entrance brightened. After enduring a sweltering, sleepless night that felt like the year's final heat since his return from travels, Kishimoto rose before anyone else in the house and walked out to the back entrance. Though past their peak bloom, morning glories had buried the boundary wall in overlapping leaves where vines entwined. Retracing the night's lingering mood that persisted even after waking, Kishimoto paced along the wall's edge. Each pure-hued flower peeking through the foliage seemed to jolt his eyes awake. With every blossom gazed upon, the feverish night spent half-dreaming as he waited slipped away from him.

Before long, Setsuko also awoke. As soon as she opened the kitchen door, she spotted her uncle. Since it was still so early that neither Grandmother nor Sister-in-law had risen, Setsuko came to see her uncle for a moment before beginning the kitchen preparations. The flower-loving Setsuko walked from one morning glory to another, counting the blooms for her uncle—"There’s one here," "Another there." “Setsuko, how did yesterday’s talk turn out? What about your reply where you said you’d think it over carefully?”

Kishimoto asked. At that moment, with her characteristic frankness, Setsuko made her consent unmistakably clear to him. "You've accepted me, haven't you—" "Yes." Setsuko nodded. Kishimoto had merely meant to sound out her true feelings, but her "yes" somehow pleased him nonetheless. Even after Setsuko—as if suddenly aware of something in the kitchen—abruptly left his side, he walked through the morning air contemplating the pathos of a heart that could entrust its entire life to someone as vastly different in age as himself.

That afternoon, Kishimoto was on the usual second floor, waiting for Setsuko to come help with his work. He tenderly cared for Setsuko’s afflicted hand while having her transcribe stories from his travels. Whenever a character failed to surface in her unpracticed mind, he would write it on paper to teach her. At times, this required more hours than if he himself had taken up the brush to record those tales. Nevertheless, he found pleasure in letting Setsuko assist him.

After finishing a task, Setsuko began tidying up the papers and pencils as if remembering something, "I have to think about when Izumi and Shigeru grow up, you see." “Are you already thinking that far ahead?” With that, Kishimoto laughed. What Setsuko had meant the previous day when she said she would think it over carefully seemed to lie mainly with Izumi and Shigeru—specifically, how they would view the two of them once the children had grown much older.

“Even if you say such things,” Kishimoto ventured again, “can you truly follow me?” “I believe I can follow you.” Setsuko answered this way, but before she knew it, her eyes began to glisten with tears. For a short while, silence lingered between them. “I won’t let you leave me behind this time.” Setsuko was the one who spoke these words.

“Somehow, despite my age, I can’t help feeling like I’m doing things even a middle schooler would do,” Kishimoto said. “Setsuko, are you sure this isn’t just a joke?” “Oh, you’re still saying such things—I would never tell lies.”

Forty-Four

Truly, in one breath, Kishimoto had moved to such a point. When he looked upon September's end, he felt how the entire summer since his return had passed in violent upheaval. Before this, his heart had returned to that time when he bid farewell to the distant Paris boarding house. From that boarding house's dining room—with a traveler's heart that kept gazing toward Paris Observatory's round lantern-like tower where window lights kindled at dusk—he now contemplated his present self.

“You had grown weary from your long journey,” he thought. Upon reflection, the psychology of returnees was not as blissful as imagined by most in society. There were those who suffered from severe neurasthenia. There were those who fell into intense spiritual despondency. There were those afflicted by various illnesses. There were those struck by sudden death. Wouldn’t people be shocked? Even upon observing this, he understood that abnormal complexities, uncontrollable turmoil, some hidden mechanism—though invisible and unknown to others—would never let his heart as a returnee know peace. “You’ve only just returned from your journey—don’t fret so,” he admonished himself. “First, rest.”

Such a voice echoed deep within Kishimoto’s ears. Recently, he had also received a letter from Kotake, who was familiar with Paris. Even in the accounts of that painter who had returned to Tokyo before him via Siberia, the sentiments of a returnee were evident. Kotake had written with extreme honesty that his mind remained somewhat clouded and he had yet to begin any artwork. When he read this, Kishimoto recalled Kotake’s exhausted-looking face from when he had returned to Paris from Lyon carrying reproductions of French Impressionist works and others, and he felt a pang of nostalgia for the sentiment expressed in that letter.

"When I thought about it, I supposed everyone must be like that after all."

He inadvertently said it aloud. The words of an acquaintance who had been in a state of utter bewilderment for nearly half a year after returning to Japan also floated into his mind. “Ahhh—it’s as if my own soul has been turned upside down.” And he sighed. During his travels, he had often recalled how he had imagined the day of his return. He remembered how frequently he had asked himself what might be waiting to receive him in his homeland. In truth, if—as he had envisioned in his traveler’s heart—the past could be buried as past, his unfortunate niece given a new path forward, he himself could establish a household, and even children like Izumi and Shigeru, separated early from their mother, could be made happy, then this world would indeed be at peace; yet how could one who had fled all the way to distant lands have been able to stand by and observe that trembling bird-like Setsuko? He had ended up embracing someone akin to a living corpse. From this emerged a sorrowful heart that sought to cleanse sin with sin and fault with fault. If one arm proved insufficient, he had resolved to offer both arms for Setsuko. Yet even now, he could not bring himself to make the resolve to shoulder her burden to the extent of rejecting that marriage proposal from the approving niece in Negishi.

Forty-Five The figure of Setsuko, who seemed to be casting aside both body and soul in her quest for salvation, grew clearer to Kishimoto with each passing day. She appeared to savor her youthful vitality only during moments spent with her uncle. All other matters seemed forgotten. Her illness too. Her constrained circumstances too. Her fierce resentment toward parents, sister, and cousins too. In this way, the recollections of three long years of unrelenting hardship lent her act of welcoming her uncle home from his travels an air of unreality. She would often sit weeping hot tears at Kishimoto's side.

There had even come days that seemed to demonstrate Setsuko’s actual weakness. Kishimoto asked Setsuko to go to the nearby post office. She said that even after walking just a little during the days just after the autumn equinox, she had suddenly begun to feel unwell. When she returned from the post office, she soon collapsed on Kishimoto’s second floor. “Uncle, please don’t get involved and leave me be. Please let me borrow this corner of the room for a while.”

Setsuko said and quietly lay down in the small two-room space on the second floor. She tried to wait for her chronic dizziness to pass. By the time Kishimoto had gone downstairs to search for medicine and returned, her forehead remained pale. "You've grown weak too, Setsu-chan." "Would something like that really cause cerebral anemia?"

While saying this, Kishimoto offered the medicine he had fetched to Setsuko. “There’s nothing in Uncle’s room—not even a blanket to cover a patient who might collapse here.” “This place might as well be my hermitage.” Kishimoto repeated this, then tended to her with a hand towel wrung out in cold water. At times he would leave his desk to check on Setsuko. The wet towel placed on her forehead had wiped away her pallor. Her natural tanned complexion—the one she was born with—lay revealed. Among the four siblings, Teruko and Ichiro had been born in their hometown; Jiro in Tokyo’s outskirts; while she alone had come into this world when Yoshio’s elder brother and his wife kept a home in Korea. The sun-kissed hue of her skin was that same shade she’d brought back from Korea.

The cerebral anemia that had come over Setsuko also began to appear as though it would resolve relatively mildly. Before long, while tending to his niece lying quietly beside him, Kishimoto reached the point where he could say such things and even laugh. “You’ve really got quite a dark complexion, haven’t you?” When told this, Setsuko turned toward the wall and hid her face with both hands—so much had her energy returned.

From the house, Grandmother came up to the second floor, worried, to check briefly on Setsuko. By the time Grandmother left, Setsuko had already gotten up. "But it’s such a strange thing, isn’t it?" Setsuko looked toward Kishimoto and tried to express the boundless emotions welling up inside her with those few words.

At that moment, the memory of numerous perplexing letters he had received from her during his travels surfaced in Kishimoto's mind. The letters from his niece that he had received in Kobe and Paris still remained a mystery to him. For the first time, he found himself wanting to bring up the matter of those letters before Setsuko. "What did you mean by sending those letters to your uncle?"

To this question from Kishimoto, Setsuko could find no way to answer; she fell silent and looked down. “I thought once again that you were thinking of your own child and that’s why you sent those letters—isn’t that so?” “I’ll tell you everything now.”

Setsuko answered with force in her voice, saying only that. Before she knew it, hot tears welled up in her eyes once more. They flowed down her feminine face as if they couldn’t be stopped.

Forty-six

“Sutekichi, there’s something I need to discuss with you. I’ll come up to your room on the second floor later.”

One day, Yoshio informed Kishimoto of the matter.

Kishimoto waited for his brother in the second-floor room he was renting. Whenever Yoshio spoke with Kishimoto at home, it was always in the inner room where Grandmother or Kayoko were present in the adjacent room. The fact that his brother was coming to talk where none of the family could hear already seemed suggestive of something to Kishimoto. He went near the second-floor shoji and stood looking out. Autumn dragonflies were now flying vigorously through the town’s sky. Around this time, Izumi and Shigeru had gone to the old pond nearby and were engrossed in catching dragonflies. Even gazing at the afternoon sunlight streaming onto the street evoked thoughts of late September. The neighborhood children carrying long sticky poles on their way to the pond could also be seen from the second floor. Before long, Kishimoto caught sight of his brother approaching from the direction of the house along one side of the street.

Before long, Yoshio came up the stairs from downstairs.

“Hmm, this second floor is bright.” “Well, let’s have some tea.”

With his brother before him like this, when the two sat facing each other alone, thoughts of Setsuko churned restlessly in Kishimoto’s heart. He could not bring himself to enjoy sharing tea with his brother in this makeshift study. Yoshio’s account unfolded one matter after another—how he had long been burdened with caring for his younger brother’s children, how Kayoko had tried to refuse Izumi and Shigeru during Kishimoto’s absence, and how he had adamantly opposed it.

“Once I take something upon myself, I’ll see it through to the end.” “It’s not just about the children.” “If I deemed something unspeakable, I wouldn’t breathe a word of it—not even to my own wife.”

Every time Yoshio’s words touched upon a sore spot, Kishimoto felt pained at having it mentioned. Yoshio returned to talking about Izumi and Shigeru, explaining to Kishimoto how those children never clung to their sister-in-law but would come to him even when scolded. Yoshio remained on his brother’s second floor for nearly two hours. Kishimoto saw his brother off as he descended the stairs from the second floor, rubbing his hands together. After being left alone, he gathered in his heart the words his brother had left behind that day. In short, it concerned his sister-in-law. Yoshio had revealed that the source of her grievances lay in a deep secret shared only between brothers—that he was hiding something from her.

Such talk from his brother was not entirely beyond Kishimoto’s own understanding. He had once spoken with his sister-in-law at the house. “Yoshio is hiding something from me,” she had said to him with a sharp look, and “Just who was it that suggested we move to Tokyo in the first place—?” she had pressed him. For him, who had long been thinking of apologizing to that sister-in-law, there had been no better opportunity than at that moment. He could not help but hear a voice above his head that seemed to command, “If you’re going to apologize, now is the time.” But he had already missed his chance to apologize on that very day when he crossed the difficult threshold of the vacant house to meet his brother and sister-in-law. He could no longer bring himself to mention it now. Given how drastically his relationship with Setsuko had changed since his return, it had become all the more impossible. No matter how those burdened with deep sin might writhe in anguish trying to save each other from their suffering—who would believe such a delusion? With this thought, Kishimoto stood despondently by the room’s shoji.

Forty-seven

Even for Izumi and Shigeru’s sake, Kishimoto had come to believe he shouldn’t indefinitely prolong this provisional arrangement of two families living together. The rumors about his sister-in-law that Yoshio had left behind hastened this resolution. “Uncle—did Father say anything?”

Setsuko came from the house carrying laundry and briefly appeared at Kishimoto’s second-floor room. With a worried look, she asked about her father’s conversation that had taken place on this second floor. “Nothing about you came up.” Kishimoto replied. Eventually, he took some money from his wallet and set it before her. “Setsuko, this is your share of what you earned.” “You hand over all that money to Mother.” “I’ll provide for your living expenses each month from now on.” “I’ve only just returned from my journey myself, and managing everything alone isn’t easy—”

“I’m truly sorry.”

While answering, Setsuko tucked her uncle’s kindness into the fold of her obi.

That day, Kishimoto closed up the second floor earlier than usual and returned home. At the lattice door of the house, he met two children coming back from the old pond carrying long birdlime poles—Ichiro and Shigeru. “Papa. Silver.” Shigeru showed his father the bluish-silver dragonfly pinched between his fingers. “Huh. You two really do know all sorts of dragonfly names.” When Kishimoto said this, Shigeru glanced at Ichiro. “Not even knowing dragonfly names—right, Ichi?”

“Uncle, want me to show you?” Ichiro stood before Kishimoto. “Silver, Shioshio, Mugiwara, and then Red Dragonfly.” “Look—a black-and-yellow Great Bandit! That pond’s got all kinds of dragonflies, huh?” Shigeru chimed in.

Kishimoto did not immediately proceed to the entrance from inside the lattice door but instead slipped out through the sliding door into the garden with Shigeru. Through the room containing the long brazier visible from the garden, even the innermost areas lay exposed. He could see Grandmother along with his sister-in-law and Setsuko standing busily at work preparing dinner. At that moment, Kishimoto approached Shigeru, who had propped his sticky pole in the garden corner, and spoke in a low voice. "Shigeru, don't fight with Ichiro or Jiro—Jiro's still just a little one, understand?" "You hear me?" "And mind what your aunt tells you."

Shigeru nodded, then immediately left his father’s side and darted off. The thick camellia leaves in the garden were still bright. Kishimoto climbed straight from the garden onto the veranda and went to look toward the room with the Buddhist altar. The mere fact that Setsuko had come to pass even a small portion of her earned reward into her mother’s hands had somehow shifted her position. “Thanks to you, Setsuko has started earning money.” “She even brought the money to show me.”

How many years had it been since Setsuko had seen such a good-humored expression on her sister-in-law's face? This too Kishimoto privately imagined.

Forty-eight “Uncle, you fool!”

While saying this, Jiro stood on the veranda and approached Kishimoto, who was waiting for dinner. This brother’s second child had grown bold enough to even call Kishimoto a fool. At times, Jiro would look at his uncle with eyes as if he were an outsider guest. Jiro, as if trying to demonstrate the strength of having both a father and mother— “You bastard, I’ll hit you!” Jiro looked toward Kishimoto and puffed up his shoulders. Having overheard this, the sister-in-law—

“Jiro, I told you not to act so tough like that,” she said, scolding the child. Even as she scolded him this way, Jiro remained so utterly adorable to Kayoko that she seemed ready to dote on him endlessly—so precious she could have held him in her very eyes without complaint.

After dinner, Kishimoto tried to spend time by his children’s side. Then his brother Yoshio also came and they relaxed together. Yoshio began explaining the nature of the children he had looked after during his brother’s absence, while pointing out Shigeru, who had come to stand nearby, to Kishimoto.

“Ah, Shigeru. This boy here is quite the comedian,” Yoshio said to Kishimoto. When told this by his uncle, Shigeru drew himself in slightly and offered a thin smile. Jiro came darting over. Thrilled to have his father and uncle watching, he suddenly grappled with Shigeru. On the tatami mats, the two boys’ sumo match began. Shigeru deliberately let Jiro win. Watching this, Yoshio found Shigeru’s thrown timing—as if he could no longer endure—

“Even so, Shigeru is the best at sumo among the three of them—Izumi, Ichi, and himself.” “Well, in the house, when it comes to fighting, Ichi is the strongest.” “But when it comes to sumo, he loses to Shigeru.” “Shigeru may be a child, but he’s got some grasp of sumo techniques, you know.”

Having said this, Yoshio laughed. At that moment, Kishimoto looked toward Ichiro. "Ichi seems quite agile." "Hmm, that one might be a bit of a prodigy," said Yoshio, stroking his chin. "But he's the precocious type—if he studies even a little, he complains of headaches. That's no strength to speak of. When it comes to Izumi, well, he's the sullen, sulky type. Whatever you say to him, he stays silent. But Izumi has good perseverance. He can stick to one task half a day without tiring of it. That sort might ultimately claim victory, I tell you."

Kishimoto gazed at his own child and wondered whether Izumi’s silence might be an unnatural consequence of his prolonged absence. He felt concern for Shigeru too—that boy with the volatile nature that had often reduced Setsuko to tears at their former Asakusa residence—and how he had fared during his father’s absence. Kishimoto surveyed the house. He contemplated the implications of keeping his brother Yoshio’s children together with his own. He weighed the consequences of raising them in a household atmosphere where they might grow attached to their uncle yet remain distant from their aunt. Eventually, they would need to establish separate households. He must consider living apart from his brother’s family. Preparing himself mentally for this separation was something he regarded as an act of familial obligation.

Forty-nine

As November arrived, Setsuko had visibly changed. She had changed so much that even her grandmother—who had stayed by her side for three full years worrying over her—commented on it. From her movements to her voice, everything had grown vivid.

“But I’ve truly gained strength now.” Setsuko had reached the point where she would come to Kishimoto’s second floor and say such things with visible pleasure.

This power—it worked not only upon Setsuko, who professed to have received it, but with equal force upon Kishimoto himself, who desperately sought to sustain her life. The more earnestly he contemplated saving even one soul, the more he cradled Setsuko’s transformation within his heart, acutely sensing within himself the joy born from her vital essence. Moreover, he had come to perceive that even their bond as uncle and niece was gradually transmuting into something indefinably altered.

Of course, Kishimoto had no intention of forcibly leading her down a mistaken path, even if it meant bending his niece’s will. Between him and Setsuko lay something so deeply rooted that it threatened to bind them together a second time. There was no salvation from their mutual anguish through half-measures. The sin he bore as an uncle was the very sin she bore as a niece. If Setsuko were to step forward of her own accord to share the burden of their transgressions—if she were to entrust her entire life to her uncle and propose sharing this strange fate—he had even considered abandoning any thought of remarriage. For that very reason, he wanted all the more to keep Setsuko alive.

What sort of life would unfold before these two? If they were pressed onward with this path, Kishimoto could not imagine what might ultimately come of it. All he felt was that he had diligently begun preparing for the approaching dawn they would await once more—taking his unfortunate niece, who until now had walked with him through utter darkness, as his companion. Among the books Kishimoto had brought back from his travels was an art book of Rossetti’s works. He had found it at a stationery store near Luxembourg Gardens during his stay at a Paris boardinghouse. It even contained a French translation of Arthur Symons’s preface. The print titled *Dante’s Dream* within that volume was not only finely engraved but seemed certain to reveal to Setsuko a world wholly distinct from the rural Genji-style figures depicted by Toyokuni’s brush. Kishimoto took pleasure in imagining placing that single print at the bottom of Setsuko’s handbox.

Around that time, the issue of Yoshio and his younger brother living separately had actually arisen on Yoshio’s side as well. Kishimoto wrapped a commemorative painting from his journey in white paper and sent it to Setsuko on his way to the house. On the back of that painting, he had also inscribed the following words. “Those who endure to the end shall be saved.”

Fifty Soon, the families of the Kishimoto brothers found themselves caught in a whirlwind of activity as they prepared to live apart. The older brother sought a new residence to part ways. The younger brother intended to remain in Takanawa temporarily to settle affairs. Out of gratitude for his brother’s long care of the children, Kishimoto accepted the presented document and provided Yoshio with relocation funds along with enough to sustain his family for the time being. Everything began to move. Yoshio started venturing out nearly daily to hunt for a new home. From Kayoko down to Setsuko and even the children—all sprang into motion. Kishimoto himself began taking action. Though barely four months had passed living under the same roof as Setsuko, this brief period had profoundly transformed his state of mind. Neither the awe nor dread that once arose when confronting women with hatred emerged from his niece anymore. Rather than awkwardly avoiding her, he discovered that approaching Setsuko with such compassion instead lightened his heart.

When Kishimoto found himself together with Setsuko on his second floor, he tentatively said to her.

“Our relationship may have begun from the pain of the flesh, but I want to find a way to give it life.”

Kishimoto’s words pleased Setsuko. “I believe I could follow you, Uncle—if only you would teach me everything.” “When I think of you, somehow only this moral suffering wells up—it has been troubling me.” “I too…”

Given both their emotional states, Kishimoto told Setsuko he thought living separately would be mutually beneficial. Even then, Setsuko’s tightly sealed lips showed no sign of loosening easily. She could not speak even one-tenth of what she thought to Kishimoto. She more often substituted silence for words she could not voice. In such silences, Kishimoto found himself overcome by a feeling that made it impossible to distinguish where the sad storm of the past ended and where the present—bound by the same fate—began.

“Setsu, will you always be mine?” “Yes—forever.”

With tears that welled up as if pressing against her chest, Setsuko choked back her sobs.

Fifty-One

The house that Yoshio intended to move into with his family was found in the Yanaka district, not too far from Ueno Zoo. By around mid-month, the preparations had nearly been completed. Yoshio decided to leave only the elderly grandmother at his brother’s house, following Kishimoto’s wish. In the end, Kishimoto found himself in the midst of the moving chaos—having ended up apologizing for nothing, limiting himself to merely expressing his heart through actions—as if seeing off his departing sister-in-law.

“Sister, please take anything you need,” said Kishimoto, and divided even the old furniture and serviceable kitchenware for his sister-in-law.

The passing showers had already swept over the roof several times. Around the time his sister-in-law went out to clean the Yanaka house with Setsuko, Yoshio had claimed business in his hometown, asked others to assist with the move, and was not in Tokyo himself. That day, both the sister-in-law and Setsuko returned exhausted from Yanaka.

“Welcome back?” Grandmother spoke consolingly; Ichiro and Jiro, who had been waiting for their mother and sister’s return; and Kishimoto with his children trying to hear about the Yanaka house—all gathered around Kayoko and the others. “I’ve just come back from cleaning that house once and already detest it! It’s dark—no, it’s *not* dark!” Kayoko exclaimed to Kishimoto while glancing at Setsuko who had returned with her by train. “Why on earth did Father decide to rent such a place? Though that second floor alone is bright.”

“Yes, the second floor is...” said Setsuko, looking at her mother’s face. “But one room on the second floor is quite dark—there’s nowhere for sunlight to reach there.” “It would be good if the ditch isn’t nearby.” “Oh, spare me,” the sister-in-law said again wearily. “Setsu, just stretch out your legs or something.” “Uncle, I’m sorry.” As Setsuko spoke, she and her mother both stretched their seemingly exhausted legs sideways. She showed him such familiarity that even when thrusting her white-tabi-clad legs toward him, she made no attempt to adjust them. That day, Setsuko displayed a youthfulness not usually seen, just as she had when visiting her aunt’s grave.

“But having someone come to help was such a relief,” said Setsuko. “That person did everything for me.” While speaking to Kishimoto this way, she bent one knee at a time beside her mother and undid the clasps of her tabi socks worn all the way to Yanaka. “In any case, you’ve worked hard,” said Grandmother. She appeared pleased that Setsuko—who once grew dizzy even riding trains—could now assist with moving preparations.

The next day, it rained from morning. The sisters-in-law, who had packed and waited, had no choice but to postpone the move whether they liked it or not. Grandmother and the sister-in-law took turns stepping out onto the north-facing veranda to gaze at the stubbornly overcast sky. Even merely leaving behind Grandmother—who had lived with them since their hometown days—in Takanawa left the sister-in-law visibly unsettled. “If only this wretched rain would stop so we could finally move out.”

The sister-in-law muttered half to herself, annoying Kishimoto.

The rain that had fallen all day not only detained those bound for Yanaka long enough to thoroughly prepare for their move but also gave Grandmother and Kishimoto time to spend talking together by their sides. The maid Kishimoto had arranged for arrived, and with just the kitchen work entrusted to her care, Setsuko found that much more breathing room in her life. Around the time Kishimoto was traveling abroad—before Europe’s war reached its second Christmas—even the story of how rumors of his return had once reached the empty household came, unusually enough, from Setsuko’s own lips.

“When there was talk that Father was returning, both Izumi and Shigeru stayed up late into the night.” “Eventually, Izumi fell asleep, but Shigeru—being that kind of child—stayed up all night without sleeping properly. He must have been so happy then.” In the darkening evening air, where the sound of rain filled the room with packed furniture piled in the corner, Setsuko lamented the final day she would spend living in Takanawa. Having struggled with illness, she was well-versed in the names of various medicines and attempted to leave behind on paper children’s remedies and other such references for Kishimoto.

Fifty-Two

Early in the morning, the cartage company brought a horse-drawn cart and stopped the horse outside the back gate of the house. The day finally came for the people moving to Yanaka to depart. Even while waiting for the packed household goods to be loaded onto the cart, Kishimoto worried about the cloudy weather for his sister-in-law and the others who were about to depart. Eventually, after seeing off the heavily laden cart as it began to move away, he waited for his sister-in-law, Setsuko, and the others to finish their departure preparations. “Setsu, do come visit Grandmother now and then, won’t you?”

“Yes, I’ll certainly come up.” “After all, I’ll be coming to help Uncle anyway.”

Setsuko replied and promised to come help her uncle and visit Grandmother about once a week. The sky showed no signs of rain, but its coldly clouded hue already suggested winter’s approach. Kayoko and Setsuko led the two children, greeted the neighbors who had come to the gate to see them off, and departed into the cold day. Kishimoto—thinking of his brother Yoshio’s absence from Tokyo—remained standing outside until the figures of those bound for Yanaka, women and children all, had vanished from view.

“The house feels so empty all of a sudden.” Kishimoto said to Grandmother and walked through each room after seeing off his sisters-in-law. “Grandmother, let’s make this area with the long hibachi your room. Ms. Kume will be coming soon too—we’ll assign her the room next door.”

Kishimoto said again. Kume was a woman who had known the circumstances of Kishimoto’s household well since the days when Sonoko was still in good health, addressing him as “Mr. Kishimoto.” She too had come to assist at Kishimoto’s house for a time while pursuing her studies. The maid he newly hired was also arranged by Kume.

In this way, Kishimoto secured Grandmother’s help and Kume’s assistance, glimpsing for the first time the simplified life that followed his separation from his brother’s family. Two days after the sisters-in-law had departed, Kishimoto received a letter from Setsuko and read it aloud to Grandmother. Setsuko had written it while listening to the quiet patter of rain from the three-tatami room on Yanaka’s second floor. She expressed gratitude for their long-standing care, noted how smoothly yesterday’s move had gone, and added that she imagined even there they must have discussed it. She wrote of that sky’s mournful hue and how desolate she had felt walking along Ueno Park’s edge while cold winds buffeted her. After arriving, she explained, a helper couple sent by her father’s acquaintance had come—making them feel almost like guests themselves. The previous evening, guided again by the elderly woman who assisted them, she had strolled through brightly lit streets for the first time in ages; even after parting ways, she stayed up late talking with her mother until emotions crowded her chest and sleep eluded her. She also described her brothers’ situation—having just filed their residency notice—and wrote that once settled slightly, she hoped to soon visit both to repay his kindness and inquire after his well-being.

Fifty-Three

Setsuko was no longer by Kishimoto’s side. Neither her mother nor her brothers were there. Somehow marking the seeing-off of his sister-in-law toward the Shitaya residence as an endpoint, Kishimoto perceived what seemed like a demarcation—as if drawing a line—in the small domestic history stretching from that day when that sister-in-law had brought Grandmother and Ichiro from their hometown to form this household. Kishimoto particularly found it pleasant to think that the day had come for him and Setsuko to live apart from each other for their own sakes. For this reason—between these two who sought to share a strange fate—they had no choice but to learn mutual restraint. For as long as they remained flawed beings, there was no guarantee that circumstances might not arise which would force Kishimoto to embark on another distant journey.

When he saw Setsuko off, Kishimoto felt that emotion even more deeply. At the same time, Setsuko left behind a loneliness that Kishimoto had never felt before. Just as early winter stealing into Musashino had already crept on tiptoe into this Takanawa house’s garden, so too had Setsuko’s lingering loneliness come to dwell both within him and without before he knew it. Particularly, the letter she had sent from Yanaka describing her move left Kishimoto with an inexplicable loneliness. He continued thinking about that unfortunate woman throughout a sleepless night. Various emotions were drawn out from there. Until that day, his attempts to devote himself to Setsuko had stemmed from a heart keenly aware of his own responsibility—for this he had offered one arm, yet finding that insufficient, both arms—but he could not bring himself to cast his entire being into it. The divide between pitier and pitied became, in time, the divide between him and Setsuko. “Setsu-chan, will you always belong to your uncle?” Even when drawing near enough to ask this, he still maintained some distance between them. It seemed he had resolved to cast aside even that divide. To save this delicate-hearted woman—still in her youthful prime yet willing to entrust her entire life—he had come to feel such passion that he wanted to give her everything. So profoundly did Setsuko’s letter leave him lonely.

Such sleepless nights continued. For the past three years, Kishimoto's soul—tormented by the anguish of his transgressions—had ceaselessly called out to his unfortunate niece. Only then did he first become aware of his own sincerity toward Setsuko. All his prolonged agonies, his melancholies, his endurance, his desolate solitary journey in foreign lands—they now seemed to have existed solely to make him perceive this single truth. His heart grew so willing that he wanted to press this relationship further still. By having placed Setsuko in Yanaka and observing it all, Kishimoto came to understand this with even greater clarity.

For some five nights, Kishimoto did not sleep well. He could no longer hold himself together. At last, he wrote a letter addressed to Setsuko that could be read aloud to Kayoko without issue and enclosed another separately written one. Within it, he laid bare his innermost feelings—ones he had never before revealed to Setsuko.

Fifty-Four

Setsuko sent the following reply.

“I smiled from the bottom of my heart.” “Even though I had become someone who hadn’t laughed in years… I did say I would tell you everything.” “The time has finally come.” “I never imagined that time would arrive so soon.” “I thought I would have to wait at least two or three years… You once said that nothing could fill my heart didn’t you?” “Ever since I was little whenever I’ve gazed intently at various people something always feels lacking—I tell you.” “I truly could not bring myself to open up.” “Our creation was like that at first but before long I found that it was what I had long been seeking.” “But back then you did not deign to open your heart at all.” “During those three long years not even shadow of smallest thing could reach my heart.” “Wealth glory are not nourishment for my heart… In half-month since your return from journey this immense joy—so overwhelming nothing could pass through throat—to whom should go?” “Is this sole thing granted solely such these?” “As what low pressure suppose have finally understand.” “Please accept heart mine over long years smile from bottom heart.”

Upon receiving this reply, Kishimoto was pleased above all by Setsuko’s candid confession. He was also drawn to how she had sought to articulate the bond between them through the word “creation.” Kishimoto read and reread Setsuko’s reply countless times, discovering within the brief words she had written that they were imbued with a multitude of emotions. According to her, their relationship had indeed been like that at first, but she had soon discovered it to be what she had long sought. This statement was akin to her personally endorsing—providing a postscript to—the many perplexing letters she had sent him over time: those he had received in Kobe and Paris, which had long remained a mystery to him. Kishimoto could recall that when he was about to embark on a long journey and had gone as far as Kobe, within the first letter he received from her, she had already negated all the feelings of pity he harbored toward Setsuko. He could also recall that feeling of his—how, whenever he read her letters at his lodgings in Paris, he had wondered in astonishment why someone who had been inflicted with such a deep wound could show no sign of remorse. He could also recall that feeling of his—how he had wondered in astonishment whether it was truly possible for someone like her, born with the heart of a girl in her youth, to lay bare her small heart before one as vastly different in age as himself. He could also recall having taken that doubt all the way to her motherhood and suspected that through this, she might be attempting to negate the notion of infidelity. All these doubts had finally begun to unravel.

Fifty-Five

By that time, even if he was forgiven by no one else, Kishimoto had come to realize that he was at least forgiven by that unfortunate niece of his. The more he became conscious of his sincerity toward Setsuko, the more he found himself not only breaking free from the long-standing pain of his transgressions but also arriving at life's wonder - how even those lifelong failures that had once shamed him to the core, even the moral failings that had driven him to destroy himself, could now be transformed into something entirely different in meaning.

Memories of Oka’s time in Paris and stories of that painter who often came to the boardinghouse near the maternity hospital rose naturally in Kishimoto’s heart. Whenever Kishimoto saw the face of that passionate painter—aglow with fervor as he spoke of his beloved while traveling—he would compare himself to the man, realize that the era when his own blood had boiled so ardently was now long past, wonder whether he was destined to wander this world as a traveler who would never again meet someone worthy of his passion, and recall the indescribable loneliness that had welled up from such thoughts. I can still love. When he thought this, he was struck by a profound joy and astonishment.

Kishimoto had now become a man who would willingly shoulder Setsuko. He could share no domestic happiness with Setsuko, nor could he entertain any hope of securing his children’s happiness through her—yet he resolved to live by this new bond between them, taking greatest joy in aiding and protecting her. In this frame of mind, Kishimoto began raising his children, relying on Grandmother, Kume, and the maid. He had already cleared out his temporary study on the second floor and placed his desk and bookshelves in the back room where Yoshio used to rise and recline. In that room, he received his brother who had come visiting from Yanaka as a guest. Yoshio had returned from his hometown and had come to express his thanks for having been away during the move.

“Everything’s working out splendidly at my place too. Kayoko’s downright delighted,” said Yoshio. “Ah, I’d been rather concerned,” replied Kishimoto, accepting his brother’s words. “From Sister’s manner of speaking, it sounded as though she wasn’t entirely pleased with the house—but now that you’ve moved in and lived there, it’s not so disagreeable after all?” “Not in the slightest! Thanks to you, Uncle—being able to relocate to such a fine house—she keeps expressing her gratitude to you.”

“That turned out rather well.” “Moreover, even just not having the children together must make it different from when we were in Takanawa.” “It’s too soon to speak ill of it, but it’s also too soon to praise it.”

Yoshio’s remark, being nothing more than his sister-in-law’s rumor about him, made Kishimoto laugh. That day, Yoshio did not settle down for long. He left behind talk of sending Setsuko over before long and went home. The transformed relationship between Kishimoto and Setsuko had somehow altered even the sibling relationship. He had come not only to see Yoshio as an older brother but also to develop an unprecedented feeling of sometimes viewing him as a parent.

Fifty-Six

Sleepless nights continued once more. With a feeling so dubious even to himself—wondering why such a thing had come to pass—Kishimoto waited longingly for Setsuko’s arrival.

Setsuko visited Takanawa with her younger brother Ichiro on a day that alternated between sudden showers and clearing skies. For Setsuko and her brother, this marked their first visit from Yanaka to see Grandmother and Uncle. Ichiro arrived wearing his newly changed school emblem on his cap, carrying a gift with a formal expression. Being together with Ichiro struck Izumi and Shigeru as something novel. Setsuko appeared even more composed than usual. She stayed mainly by Grandmother’s side—the elderly woman eager to hear about Yanaka’s household—recounting details and offering comfort in that manner. After telling Grandmother she would return soon to assist her uncle, she hastened homeward with her brother along the distant path.

Even such a day of family reunion remained unforgettable for Kishimoto. That day marked when he had laid bare his heart in ways never before revealed, and he and Setsuko—who had accepted it—exchanged glances unlike any they had shared before. After Setsuko departed, he found himself able to vividly reconstruct that moment within his heart: her eyes when she came along the engawa to greet him in the back room; those true visages of their hearts that ordinary uncle-niece sentiments had prevented from meeting until then. That day when everyone was photographed in the garden, Kishimoto could not forget his concealed emotions either when asking Setsuko to visit the photo studio—a place already familiar to her from town. When sending her on this errand, he secretly tucked into her obi the payment for the solo portrait she would take.

“What should I do? Should we stop?” Setsuko deliberately stood outside the lattice door with her umbrella as she said this, then briefly turned toward him after they had gone out together to the entranceway. The closeness Setsuko had restrained time and again—the affection she allowed to reach him—was but a brief moment.

Fifty-Seven

Kishimoto received a letter from Negishi’s niece concerning the marriage proposal. Aiko wrote about her classmate with even greater enthusiasm than before. Since her classmates from the same graduating year had decided to take turns hosting gatherings at each other’s homes to renew old ties, she wrote that her home had recently held a small gathering and invited the schoolteacher who had once shown them particular kindness. She added that this teacher too had spoken of Uncle and urged him to endorse the match by all means. Nearly all her classmates were now settled with children, she wrote, leaving only that classmate unmarried. Aiko also mentioned the principal’s support, concluding that the proposal would surely succeed if only Uncle consented.

Even though there were people who worried about him so much, Kishimoto’s mind was already made up. While maintaining a relationship with Setsuko, he felt ashamed in his heart for having listened to such marriage proposals. “I am grateful. I have caused you much concern, but after careful consideration, I have resolved to decline. Please also convey my regards to the Principal.”

Kishimoto sent a reply of this nature to Aiko. He imagined that if Aiko’s classmate had known of his past, she would have thought it better to have refused.

It was exactly the day that Setsuko had come from Yanaka to assist her uncle. As though she had come to Takanawa precisely to learn the outcome of this matter. Kishimoto showed Setsuko what he had written on paper and did not forget to reassure her. By now, a foot warmer had been placed in Grandmother’s room. Setsuko came from the direction of that room along the veranda to the side of Kishimoto’s desk. “Even if I go to great lengths, it would be truly dull if you were taken away somewhere one day.”

Unrelated to the conversation before or after, such a brief remark left Kishimoto’s lips. But Setsuko, upon hearing it, fully grasped the meaning he had meant to convey. “To be taken away somewhere—if you don’t go anywhere, isn’t that all right?” With that, Setsuko smiled.

After that, Kishimoto never spoke of such things again. When Setsuko was near, he saw a flame surging within her shimmer vividly in her eyes. At times, he saw the blood rising to her face profoundly yet faintly stain her cheeks. To hear Kishimoto tell it, he and Setsuko had only just taken their first step. In a sense, they had barely managed to reach this state. He resolved to take Setsuko as his companion on this worldly journey, going as far as they could together. After returning to Yanaka, Setsuko sent a brief letter to Kishimoto.

“How many hardships you must have endured in silence.” “When I consider they all stem from me, it pains me beyond measure.” “Please… please grant your forgiveness for everything.”

Fifty-Eight

“Winter had come to my side.”

What awaited me was—to be honest—a far more lusterless, monotonous, sleep-inducing figure: an old woman trembling in poverty, ugly and withered with wrinkles. I gazed intently at the face that had come to my side, astonished to find it utterly contrary to my preconceived notions and expectations. I asked.

—So you’re ‘Winter’? “—Who do you take me for, saying such things? Have you misjudged me so gravely?” answered Winter.

“Winter pointed out various trees to me.” “Look at that deutzia,” Winter said. When I looked, the old frost-bitten leaves had long since fallen away, but each slender young branch tinged with brown already bore new buds—winter’s flame flowed through both the dewy luster of those young branches and the vigorous sprouts emerging from them. “It isn’t just the deutzia,” Winter continued. “The plum’s natural growth stretches deep green, some shoots already a foot long.” “The azalea has shrunk and crouched low, yet shows no sign of trembling.” “Look at that camellia tree,” Winter told me. The winter-green leaves glowed under the sun with an indescribable brilliance. Between densely packed leaves, large buds peeked out. Among those camellia flowers blooming like profound smiles, some had already opened and fallen before the frost came. Winter pointed out the fatsia tree to me. There, a near-white pale green held freshness, its flower shapes breaking the surrounding monotony.

Over the past three years, I had spent dark, dark winters in foreign lodgings. On days when cold rain fell and darkened the shoji paper doors, I would often recall those Parisian winters. There, around the winter solstice when daylight grew shortest in the year, morning would finally break around nine o'clock only for dusk to fall by half-past three. That sun which burned with a red-hot flame yet froze solid—as described in Baudelaire's poetry—could be witnessed while walking through Parisian streets without needing to imagine it at Arctic extremes. Though the view of grasslands remaining verdant and unwithered even as winter came among bare marronnier trees made for an exceptional winter scene, it was those gray tones steeped in profound silence from Chavannes' *Winter* that truly harmonized with that land's nature.

――This year, for the first time in ages, I was spending winter secluded in Tokyo’s outskirts. There had been nothing like winter days where light filled the house to overflowing during those past three years. In this season, being able to gaze upon a deep blue, open sky was also rare. It was indeed Musashino’s “Winter” that came to my side and whispered.

“Winter pointed out the oak tree to me.” Between those leaves that shone like hair, a small bird that did not sing hid and flitted about, bearing the semblance of announcing a wordless song… Kishimoto, seeking to console the self he had restrained time and again, tried writing this down at the paper’s edge. The deutzia, plum, azalea, camellia, and oak—all could be seen from his room’s veranda straight into the garden. Camellia flowers blooming like some profound smile; a small bird that sang no song yet bore the semblance of announcing wordless music—these all formed the landscape of his heart.

“You don’t have to say it—I already know.”

Setsuko, who had left these words behind, made clear her resolve to abandon worldly happiness and follow Kishimoto. For those deeply sinful comrades of the past to mutually abandon worldly happiness was indeed to abandon everything. A new world of love was unfolding before Kishimoto. The fact that such sincerity could be drawn from the depths of an improper relationship—one he felt he could never be ashamed enough of—poured courage into Kishimoto’s spirit. From there, he seized a power he had never known before.

Fifty-Nine

Kishimoto’s past was an unbroken succession of days filled with hardships so strange in their relentlessness, and the very obstinacy that had always defined him only caused him to seal his heart all the more tightly against those struggles. Above all else, he had to first return to his childlike heart—this had long been his sentiment during his time in a Parisian lodging, yet he was never permitted to return to that heart. Whether during the long years he had existed as a suffering bystander of this world—so much so that even when standing before the iron door of the crematorium and gazing at his wife’s ashes, he had merely stared at them without shedding a single tear—or during the three-year distant journey where he had impassively faced the stone walls of lodgings, what Kishimoto continued to dwell on was in truth a grievous truth contained within these next words.

"We pitiful laborers of art! Why is what comes so easily to ordinary people denied to us?" "That too is only natural." "Ordinary people possess sincerity." "We ultimately possess nothing of sincerity." "We are incomprehensible beings…"

Even upon Kishimoto, who had continued dwelling on such thoughts, a strange transformation began to occur day by day. He had come to realize that the day when he could return to the childlike heart he was born with had finally arrived. It was then that he discovered there was something to which he could wholeheartedly devote his passion. He discovered that joy. How could those who had not walked as lonely a path as he greet the joy of life with such hunger and thirst? He had even come to consider it a natural gift bestowed upon wayfarers like himself, and thus began to immerse himself in that newfound joy.

Everything seemed to startle Kishimoto’s heart.

He even considered it a wonder that now, in the midst of his life and at an age when he was approaching old age, a woman like Setsuko had come to dwell within him. He compared Katsuko—whom he had met during those years when he vied in youthful vigor with Aoki, Suga, and Ichikawa—to Setsuko. Tentatively, he compared their differences. Their temperaments. Their appearances. Their ages. The Katsuko he had parted from over twenty years earlier as a young man and the Setsuko he now saw were not so different in age. He had once likened the generational gap between himself and Setsuko to that between an elderly protagonist in a modern play and the young girl who visited him solely to play the piano. He had compared it to the divide between one who tries to forget old age's sorrows and solitude by listening to melodies from innocent fingertips, and a verdant youth with life stretching long ahead. Though Setsuko's three years of growth had transformed her considerably from that young girl's position, the chasm between their eras remained unbridgeable nonetheless. Countless times he must have wondered why hearts of young women like Setsuko turned toward him. Through Setsuko's "smile from the heart," he began cultivating a perception that discerned the smile of deep-rooted anguish between them.

From Kishimoto’s chest, which was on the verge of being unleashed, something even he himself found unexpected burst forth. For him, nights when he could barely sleep continued for nearly a month.

Sixty

"I have lost all capacity for sorrow." In this way, Setsuko wrote in pencil in a small notebook and left fragments of her heart’s tidings at Kishimoto’s place along with other tersely written words. Among them was a passage she had inscribed: "My body still feels unwell somehow—and with that, I must refrain from wine." Between them had gradually formed various coded terms. “Artistic creation” and “wine.” The latter term had drawn its meaning solely from the religious rite substituting bread for the Lord’s flesh and wine for His blood.

As if to show that Setsuko’s heart—having walked through darkness while confined to an unfree existence—had moved beyond what could be called sorrow, the joy Kishimoto immersed himself in was even greater. The lonelier the path he had traversed, the more immense became that joy, as though he had leapt into a vast, liberated world. He likened himself to a pauper suddenly turned wealthy—one who had never possessed money before and knew not how to use it. He could recall a relative who had emerged long ago from Sugamo Prison; how that kinsman had run about before the prison gate still wearing white tabi socks, stamping the earth like a madman while gulping the free air of the outside world. His newfound joy was that of one who had shed a crimson garment. It was the joy of beholding the first heartfelt smile from an unfortunate victim who had never known laughter.

Having forgotten sleep and meals for nearly a month and been in a state of utter bewilderment, Kishimoto came to realize what people would think if they saw him now. He was astonished at himself for having not slept a wink for an entire month. Even in his youth, when his youthful blood stirred his chest and drove his heart to madness, there had never been a stretch of sleepless nights lasting more than seven days. If he had been twenty years younger, he thought, he would not have had the strength to endure such mental turmoil. In the end, he came to find his own passion terrifying.

"This is a ravaged passion. It differs from something bathed in the quiet light of love—I must somehow quickly pass through this place—this simply will not do."

He said this to himself and tried to encourage his dazed self.

By the tenth day of Shiwasu, Kishimoto conceived the idea of a small journey. He stowed away photographs of Setsuko taken alone where his eyes would not fall upon them. Her letters, her notebook—he stowed away everything that might remind him of her. From among his books emerged a dark-colored scrap of cloth with a floral pattern. That was the half-collar that Setsuko had treasured and kept close to her body day after day. Kishimoto also stowed away that feminine gift, which he had placed between the pages of books as makeshift bookmarks. He entrusted Grandmother and Kume with looking after the children during his few days away and wandered out of the Takanawa house.

61

Kishimoto’s steps turned toward Yanaka. He had someone waiting at Yoshio’s house regarding an errand and wanted to invite that brother—who hadn’t taken any proper respite—to accompany him as far as Isobe. He also anticipated the pleasure of visiting a mountain hot spring after so long, gazing at Haruna and Myōgi’s peaks from the train window, encountering highlands swathed in alpine air and deep ravines. There was the pleasure of steeping in that murky, briny mineral spring while listening to the Usui River’s flow, yearning to soothe both body and spirit wearied from distant travels.

For Kishimoto, this was the second time he was going to see the house where Yoshio lived. At a time when the tram around Ikenohata had not yet been built beyond Ueno, Kishimoto walked along the winter-bare park-side path toward Yoshio’s house. Setsuko commuted from Yanaka to Takanawa along this very path. Such thoughts lightened his heart as he walked along the edge of Shinobazu Pond. Kishimoto harbored a distinct state of mind that arose solely from seeing Setsuko at the house in Yanaka. He discovered a striking difference between the Setsuko he saw at the house in Yanaka and the Setsuko he saw at the house in Takanawa—the same woman. This difference attested well to her nature, which was prone to pretense. Once, he barged in on Setsuko when she was off guard and saw her in a state so devoid of vitality that she seemed like a different person from the one he saw at his own home. The Setsuko seen in Takanawa was not only perceived as someone whose character had improved through hardship, but also as a person whose very appearance—having once given birth—seemed more favorable than before. There were cases where a young woman who, like her, had given birth and shed excess weight existed—something he had even been made aware of by others. The Setsuko he saw at the Yanaka house shattered this appeal. He was struck by a kind of disillusionment. At that moment, he thought: If it would make him feel this relieved, why hadn’t he come to Yanaka to see Setsuko sooner? A cold wind struck the face of him who had been unable to sleep well for many nights. To calm his own mental turmoil—which had grown so uncontrollable he felt compelled to embark on a journey to Isobe—he walked toward Yoshio’s residence, almost anticipating disillusionment.

Behind Ueno Zoo, where the path bent and turned away, there lay a narrow side street cluttered with tightly packed houses. Somehow, the damp winter air of the town evoked a sense of proximity to Shinobazu Pond—a sensation that felt peculiarly rare for such an infrequent visit. There hung a nameplate bearing Kishimoto Yoshio’s name.

“Oh, Uncle—” As if she had come there without thinking, Setsuko called out while removing the latch that was fastened even during the day for caution from behind the dark lattice door.

62

From the moment he resolutely left Takanawa, Kishimoto already felt the mood for a short trip well up within him. It had been agonizing until he could bring himself to abandon the work that refused progress, but once he did resolve to do so and embarked on a four- or five-day break, his mind felt considerably lighter. Since the day of his return, he had done nothing but keep taxing his heart, and he had not even been able to plan the hot spring visit he’d counted as one of the few pleasures awaiting him from overseas. Thinking this, Kishimoto comforted himself.

When he came to the house in Yanaka, this mood intensified considerably. Even when he saw Setsuko attempting to take her uncle’s hat and coat in the dim, quiet entrance room; even when he found himself with his sister-in-law, Setsuko, and Jiro in the downstairs room where the long brazier was placed; even when he was telling them all about his sudden decision to visit Isobe—already, he felt as though he were halfway to his journey’s destination.

“Jiro!”

The sound of Yoshio calling out could be heard from upstairs. “Uncle, please come upstairs!” Yoshio’s voice came again. “Jiro there, go to Father and tell him that, then come back.” “Uncle has something to discuss, so please come downstairs.” Told this by Kishimoto, Jiro—who had been playing around his sister-in-law and Setsuko—went up and down the ladder-like stairs leading to the second floor. Yoshio came downstairs. Yoshio, who rarely ever sat before the long brazier, went to the foot warmer in the corner of the room. The act of including Yoshio in the conversation only made the downstairs room appear all the more like a world of women and children. At that moment, Kishimoto brought up the fact that he had come to invite his brother to the hot spring area.

“That might do on rare occasions.” “Yeah.” “That’d be something.” “I’ll come along too.”

Yoshio placed his hands on the foot warmer and laughed cheerfully. “Setsuko, isn’t it nice... Men can go anywhere so lightly,” her sister-in-law said to her in a motherly tone, then turned to Kishimoto. “Truly, everyone in our household seems like they’d want to tag along even for a cure.” Setsuko silently gazed at her own palms while listening to everyone’s conversation. “In any case, we’ll depart tomorrow morning. That works better for me,” said Yoshio.

“Sis—would it trouble you terribly if I stayed tonight? It’s been so long since I’ve properly relaxed at your place...” “Oh, sure. As if that’s an option.” Kishimoto exchanged these words with his sister-in-law and sighed in relief as if he were at an inn on his journey.

“Sutekichi. Well, let’s talk upstairs.” Even after his brother had tossed those words aside and ascended the ladder-like stairs, Kishimoto lingered in that room for a while longer, trying to savor a traveler’s ease. As he gazed out at the afternoon sunlight streaming through the glass door, it seemed every house had already settled into winter seclusion. The sound of trickling water flowing through the narrow ditches of the town could be heard from just outside the glass door. While remaining in that room, Kishimoto could hear the sound of the lattice door from the house across the way—so similar he might mistake it for his brother’s—and observe the domestic daily scene of Setsuko working as she went in and out of the kitchen to help her mother. On top of the old chest that had been in Grandmother’s possession since her youth lay Setsuko’s partially read copy of the New Testament, among other things. That small Bible with a black cover was something Kishimoto had given her, intending for her to read it. Setsuko made no effort to come to her uncle’s side unless necessary, yet her silent affection, laden with intimacy, worked unnoticed upon Kishimoto.

63 “Setsuko, would it be all right if I borrow your room?” “Yes. Please go ahead.” “Today I’d like to take my time writing letters.” Kishimoto, having said such things to Setsuko, soon went up to the second floor. The steep ladder-like stairs, dangerously sloped, continued in front of Yoshio’s room. Jiro seemed intrigued by having welcomed his uncle to Yanaka and went up and down the ladder-like stairs. For Kishimoto, walking through the second-floor rooms with young Jiro—who had finally been weaned from his mother’s embrace by being made to taste chili peppers instead of sweet milk—was itself a pleasure. In Yoshio’s room, there was also a kotatsu. The small desk brought from Takanawa was serving a purpose in one corner.

“Sutekichi. Well then, I’ll go take care of some business now, but I’ll be back by dinner without fail,” said Yoshio, clapping his hands loudly enough to be heard downstairs. “How about having some tea before I go?”

Jiro appeared there. Yoshio instructed Jiro to tell his mother to bring the tea utensils quickly. "By the way, thank you for all you've done for Setsuko," said Yoshio. "The other day, she came back saying she'd gotten money from your place to buy a desk and the Genkai—and hey, an interesting desk was made." "You can't do without the Genkai." "A desk is necessary for reading and writing, but that one's a bit too much for my house."

“Once she wants something, she just can’t help but buy it, I suppose. That’s just Setsuko’s youthful side showing, isn’t it?” Kishimoto spoke as if defending Setsuko and laughed. He went to her room to look at the new desk that had come up in his brother’s conversation. In his heart, he felt Yoshio’s criticism wasn’t entirely unreasonable. “That aside, your household has settled in Takanawa now. As things are now, it simply won’t do. You can’t keep relying on Kume-san for long either.”

“Well, for now we’ll maintain the current situation.” “Whether we go or not, we’ll manage with that temporarily.” “If Grandmother weren’t there, my household simply couldn’t function—but thanks to her efforts, she handles things well, and Kume-san works diligently too.” “Truthfully, I had concerns given her long-standing poor health—but even if it’s demanding, I want someone who understands our family’s situation.” “After all, there are children in my household.”

“You should hurry up and start a family already.” “I hear you turned down that Negishi matter in the end.” “The other day, that came up at Ai-chan’s place.” “‘After careful consideration, we must decline’—apparently a letter came from Uncle.” “I saw that photo of Ai-chan’s friend too.” “She seems rather suitable, I must say.” Yoshio’s words ultimately settled into urging his brother to remarry. Kishimoto remained silent. “Ah. “I shouldn’t have lingered so long talking.” “We can discuss this properly in Isobe.”

Yoshio, as if struck by a thought, took out his pocket watch and checked it, drank a sip of the tea that the sister-in-law had brought up from downstairs, and stood up hurriedly.

64

Yoshio left.

Kishimoto found in that second-floor room what might truly be called the first instance since his return to Japan—a half-day's remaining time he could pass quietly and alone in peaceful solitude. He could still make his brother understand the feelings that had moved him to invite Yoshio to the hot springs, but he had grown utterly incapable of explaining the emotions that kept him silent while listening to talk of marriage. I'll write some letters. With the mood of one departing on a journey, Kishimoto went to borrow Setsuko's room. Separated from Yoshio's quarters by a dim sitting area lay the brightest small chamber on the second floor. A new desk stood positioned by the window. Upon it—apparently prepared beforehand by Setsuko—lay scroll paper and fresh brushes.

"It was also in that room that Setsuko had written, 'I write to you from the three-tatami-mat second floor of the Yanaka house,' and sent it to Takanawa at the time of the move. Kishimoto found it unusual to position himself there and sat down alone before the desk."

“Setsuko, please leave everything as it is without involving yourself. If you’d just serve me some tea, that’s more than enough.”

Kishimoto said to Setsuko, who had brought the tea utensils there. “Uncle’s journey begins today.” “Tonight I’ll pay the lodging fee and have you put me up at your house.” Kishimoto said with a half-joking laugh. At that moment, Setsuko brought out a newly tailored striped cotton-padded garment and showed it to Kishimoto. It was something he had deliberately chosen for her—a modest striped cotton outfit she had requested as work clothes for coming to Takanawa—which he had bought and given her. “Let’s just make do with what we have,” the sister-in-law had said, but Kishimoto, thinking of her long journey, had instead presented her with a matching striped haori as a gift.

“Mother sewed it for me, you know.” Setsuko said, trying to convey her womanly delight. Jiro came up from downstairs. Jiro danced about happily in the space and tried clinging to his sister’s side. “Jiro has grown into such a fine boy.” When Kishimoto spoke these words, Jiro pulled his sister forward and playfully dangled from her tall frame by her hand before his uncle’s gaze.

“Compared to when we were in Takanawa, things have changed quite a lot here.” Setsuko said to Kishimoto as if demonstrating this. Hearing her mother’s call, Setsuko went downstairs with her younger brother. Upstairs, Kishimoto remained alone. From the mingling of two emotions—a nostalgic yearning for Setsuko’s study desk and a carefree urge to simply lie down alone in that three-tatami room—he found himself unable to muster the will to write letters. It was an unadorned small space that appeared almost like a “hideaway” existing solely for Setsuko to settle her spirit. The room’s simplicity—retaining only a faint trace of feminine refinement around the desk—instead brought Kishimoto an unexpected sense of ease.

A single guest came to see Kishimoto and eventually left as dusk was nearing. Setsuko, with a sense of ease different from when they were in Takanawa, would sometimes come to talk to Kishimoto while tidying up the second floor, but each time, Jiro would follow her. Even Ichiro came up to the second floor, looking curious. She found her pestering younger brothers bothersome and walked around escaping from room to room. “When Izumi and Shigeru grow up, I wonder what they’ll think.”

Setsuko drew near Kishimoto’s side, taking pleasure in just those few words they exchanged. “No matter what they think, there’s nothing to be done about it,” he said. “I just want them to truly understand the truth… Once they grow up and comprehend things, surely there’ll come a time when they acknowledge our feelings.”

Kishimoto answered in this way, but after that, the two of them did not speak of such matters again.

Yoshio returned home punctually before dinner. How many years had it been since they last heard the murmur of the Usui River—such talk came up from both Yoshio and Kishimoto. That evening, Kishimoto stayed at his brother’s house as if it were an inn, and the next morning, he set out for Isobe together with his brother.

65

The stay of a few days at a hot spring resort near the mountains gave Kishimoto, who had grown terribly exhausted, a sense of rejuvenation. By the time he prepared to return to Tokyo, slightly later than Yoshio whom he had accompanied as far as Isobe, Kishimoto had begun to feel a desire to engage with his work—something that had eluded him since his return to Japan. The study in the Takanawa house, where the books he had long ago brought back from France were kept, awaited this Kishimoto. He had come to realize that the new bond he had discovered between himself and Setsuko—that truth—was irreconcilable with the old morality he had long tormented himself over. Life was vast. In this world existed countless things both difficult to attain and yet true. This contemplative state of mind guided Kishimoto. He had come to feel keenly that he stood at a parting of ways with that elder brother Yoshio—the one who had secretly buried his failures for the sake of the family’s honor. Even if it meant defying his brother’s will, he resolved never to abandon that unfortunate niece.

Kishimoto contemplated how Setsuko, much like himself, began walking her own path in silence. The time had finally come for Setsuko—who had long been called a “disgrace to her parents”—to be of use to those very parents. This was because Yoshio suddenly contracted a serious eye disease as the year was drawing to a close. As for the cause of Yoshio’s eyesight deteriorating so suddenly in such a manner, even the doctor specializing in ophthalmology had yet to give a clear explanation. Whether accompanying Yoshio to the hospital or handling all his correspondence, Setsuko became someone the Yanaka household could not do without. In the midst of her circumstances, she did not neglect to come and inform her worried grandmother and uncle in Takanawa about her father’s condition. At times, she would come from Yanaka on cold, rainy days, warming her chilled body by the charcoal brazier in Grandmother’s room while lying down for a while.

“Setsuko, you mustn’t let yourself weaken too.” There were times when Kishimoto would speak encouragingly to Setsuko as she lay there exhausted, gently wiping the tears welling in her eyes with his lips. On a day when December had only three days left in its hectic close, Kishimoto received a short letter from Setsuko. “In that Bible, there is a passage that says: ‘Ask, and it shall be given you; seek, and ye shall find; knock, and it shall be opened unto you,’ is there not? “From a little before that part, that section has ever been a favorite of mine. “O knock, and it shall be opened unto you—we are surely to be the final victors, are we not?”

It was written in pencil. When he read it, Kishimoto thought of her approaching her twenty-fifth year—the prime of life. He felt he could even imagine hearing the beating of her heart as she strove forward with all her might toward that distant horizon. “O knock, and it shall be opened unto you—” Kishimoto repeated the phrases from Setsuko’s letter and imagined her life stretching onward in that very rhythm.

66 “Could there possibly be others who welcome as happy a spring as we do—”

On the evening before the year’s end, this short letter written by Setsuko reached Kishimoto’s hands. The happy spring she had proclaimed for the two of them still seemed far off to Kishimoto. He feared those irrepressible words of joy might crumble into mere obstinate defiance. By any means necessary, he wished to make her abandon her petty resistance toward those around them. From the standpoint of ordinary morals governing uncles and nieces—those who would so readily cast cold, harsh glances—the path he sought lay in relinquishing such small rebellions. He had come to think that notions like final victory mattered little at all. He had not even entertained thoughts of winning or losing in his mind. Though brief and open to interpretation, the phrases in Setsuko’s letter carried a meaning clear enough: the spring they awaited together was by no means—by no means—what the world would call a happy one. It was a spring that visited only those who had forsaken worldly happiness—the destitute—bestowing upon them riches of the heart.

Before long, a new year arrived. Setsuko began wrapping herself in the coat her uncle had made for her out of concern and making the long journey. This was because until then, she had often arrived drenched in cold rain along the way without any protection from the harsh weather, and Kishimoto could not bear to see her pitiful state.

“Father keeps fussing about how we don’t need things like coats—I’ve only shown it to Mother so far.” As she spoke, Setsuko brought the new coat—which had been folded in the entryway with its modest appearance—all the way to the inner room, and before Kishimoto’s watching eyes, slipped her arms into the gray garment and demonstrated tying its eggshell-colored inner cords. She said she hadn’t needed to have it newly tailored—she had found a ready-made one at a store like Matsuzakaya and simply had the measurements taken in a bit.

“Even if I wear it, Father won’t notice.” Setsuko said again, subtly mentioning her father’s failing eyesight. Even when merely procuring a single raincoat for Setsuko like this, Kishimoto had to be cautious in every direction. Even his desire to protect Setsuko could not be freely pursued. Because he had to consider not only the times when he left Setsuko in Yanaka but also when she came visiting his own home.

“You’ve no notion how much that girl leans on you.” “You alone are her pillar.” “When young, whoever gives you things becomes your dearest soul—that’s how it goes.” Thus Grandmother still spoke of Setsuko—already twenty-five—as though she remained a mere child.

67 However, even Kishimoto's heart—which had permitted Setsuko—could not advance without alternating between coldness and heat. After the violent passion had somewhat subsided, a cold sentiment, its very antithesis, arose and warred within his breast.

Kishimoto looked around his room. A voice came and tried to test him as he sought to immerse himself in solitary work. The voice was not so much a loud denial as a faint, delicate whisper at the depths of his ear, yet that small voice stirred a disenchanted state of mind. The voice asked him: Could scholarship and art coexist with a woman's love? Hadn’t everything that had occurred between Setsuko and him since his return ultimately been mutual temptation? Wasn’t the bond between them nothing more than a mutual hunger of their natures, starved by three years of solitary existence? It was always men who ascended love’s stage to play the fool—men who ceaselessly gave; in this world there were even women who knew only how to receive and nothing of giving—so when faced with women’s composure, how could one not find men’s frantic impatience infuriating? The state of mind induced by these voices made all the burdens he bore for Setsuko’s sake, the trampling by unseen forces of persecution, and the seething resentment of a heart enduring to its limits—all of it—seem unbearably fleeting and hollow.

He still could not help finding it suspicious that a young woman like Setsuko would bare her tender heart to him. Each time he noticed himself trying to humor the youthful Setsuko, he felt an inexpressible irritation. By nature, he couldn’t even manage his own moods. How could he humor others without feeling ashamed? There remained an indefinable sense of insufficiency. Merely protecting and guiding her had already grown inadequate for him. Even the excessively restrained tone of her letters now felt lacking. To put it differently, he had wanted Setsuko herself to take far greater initiative.

68 The days when Setsuko commuted from Yanaka to Kishimoto’s house had been roughly set for every Saturday. Provided that accompanying her father to the hospital every other day did not interfere, she strove never to neglect coming to assist her uncle. Since Yoshio had developed eye trouble, Setsuko showed signs of needing to help her mother with work even more. However meager the income might be, she tried to make use of the monthly payment received from her uncle for her mother’s sake. At the time Kishimoto began work that might be called a memento of his travels, he lacked leisure to prepare proper tasks for her and considered asking her to help with copying or proofreading instead—yet regardless of whether such work existed, he found pleasure in imagining himself working alongside Setsuko. Once he left his house for a walk and went partway along her usual route to meet her. Even just walking from the Shinagawa Line tram stop to his house required considerable effort. That day he went from Takanawa Avenue through a branching side street, climbed a slope along a hilltop ridge, descended that slope all the way to the tram stop and waited—but ultimately Setsuko did not come.

After the fifteenth day of the New Year, while looking forward to walking the same path, Kishimoto came to a suburban-like road bend along the outer wall of a large estate. In that area, he waited for Setsuko, who was making the long commute from Yanaka. He found himself walking alongside her as she carried a black, modest cloth-wrapped bundle tucked under her arm. Setsuko, with the air of one who had come while pondering various things along the way, walked quietly along the sparsely populated path following Kishimoto. Around the time they reached the side of the mansion with old-fashioned latticed windows visible at the dead end, she turned toward Kishimoto and began to speak.

“I’ve already become a man.” “Father is as he is, and both Ichiro and Jiro are still so young—Mother and I talked it over alone, and since I’ve already become a man now, we’ll manage things properly with that resolve—”

69 Setsuko’s words, heavy with resolve, plunged Kishimoto into deep reflection. Her tone made him sense she had already resolved to renounce this world.

At that very moment, Kishimoto noticed footsteps approaching from behind. As the sound drew gradually nearer, the person soon overtook Kishimoto and Setsuko, casting a brief glance back at them as they passed. It was as if they were trying to discern who these two were—a man and woman seen from behind—by getting a look at them from the front as well. Though it was a quiet road flanked by mansions, it served as one of the thoroughfares leading to Takanawa. Content simply to walk alongside Setsuko, Kishimoto urged her to step ahead of him once they reached the Takanawa street near home.

Still, Kishimoto retained a comparatively sober frame of mind that had lingered since the New Year's beginning. It was a time when that chill had blended with a heart that longed so deeply for Setsuko's arrival. In this state, he returned home. He had not only hoped Setsuko would take greater initiative toward him but also wished she might perceive his true self more keenly. As Grandmother had gone to the Yanaka house for New Year's calls and Kume attended a tea gathering—both absent that day—Kishimoto found a moment to lay bare the knot coiled at his chest's depths before Setsuko.

“I’d resolved never to give my heart to anyone else my whole life.” “In the end, you took it all away.”

Unforgettable bitter experiences from the past took form in such words and escaped Kishimoto’s lips. The tone with which he addressed Setsuko—as if speaking to another man—startled her slightly. “Oh, to speak of such matters in that manner—”

Setsuko averted her eyes slightly to the side and murmured, half to herself. Yet Kishimoto resolved not to conceal even his distrustful heart—born of their age difference—from her. "I've always thought I've been too considerate toward you." "That very consideration—treating you like a woman—has kept us from speaking truthfully, I realize now." "Setsuko—what could you possibly find appealing in someone like me?" "My hair's already gone this white...and someone like me won't last much longer anyway." "There might be countless younger men more thoughtful than my sort." "What if...you tried finding someone like that?"

Half in self-distraction and half as a string of jests, Kishimoto uttered these words and laughed. At that moment, he felt he had never before revealed the ugliness within him so nakedly to Setsuko. His own words sounded so sarcastic and bitter that they grated even on his ears. "In that case, shall we start looking then—for someone young at least?" Setsuko said this playfully before concealing it behind a bitter smile. She appeared eager to avoid continuing this conversation.

70

Even what seemed on the verge of loosening remained unopened—Setsuko’s tightly sealed lips. "Even if she had written in her letter, 'The time has finally come when I can speak of anything,' in reality, Setsuko more often replaced her attempted words with a silence she could not break." As he sat face-to-face with Setsuko, the words she had spoken on their way home—"I’ve already become a man"—lingered in Kishimoto’s mind.

“What you said earlier on the way—I remembered that. “You seem tormented by your thoughts too.” With that, Kishimoto gazed at Setsuko’s face—the face of one trying to steer their relationship, born of fleshly suffering, toward some resolution. To such penitent depths did he sink that he came to pity her brooding heart—this young woman striving to endure what should have been her vibrant prime. “There’s no need to force yourself into saying ‘man.’ “Being a woman is just fine. “Imagine a heart awakened to great truth—if one can purify the soul, surely the flesh too can be cleansed—”

Kishimoto’s words brought a smile to Setsuko’s face.

That afternoon, Kishimoto drew into their conversation the old French tale that had gradually comforted his traveler’s heart during his stay at a Paris lodging. The occasional dispatches he had sent to domestic newspapers during his travels had been clipped and preserved by Setsuko’s own hand—so much so that names like Abelard and Heloise from those articles still lingered in her memory. He found himself unable to forget those journeying impressions tied to places like the ancient Sorbonne chapel. Strangely, this story of the dead had come alive in his heart. Within that old chapel at Père Lachaise Cemetery where he had wandered, the effigies of a monk and nun lying side by side as if asleep began to speak. The white marble plaque declaring their lifelong exchange of spiritual love still burned in his vision. He described to Setsuko how he had circled that chapel again and again, unable to tear himself away—the very essence of his traveler’s heart laid bare. He even told her about the begonia-like flowers that had bloomed riotously within its iron fence.

“Well, yes...” “People who can’t stay together till the end rush headlong to ruin.” “It’s not easy to persevere as long as a couple like that did.” With that, he said. Setsuko once again listened earnestly to his story. This foreign tale somehow seemed to lift her spirits. Pleased by this, he promised to send her anything else he might obtain about Abelard’s life story.

Unusually, Kishimoto felt as if he had spoken with Setsuko just the two of them. After she returned to Yanaka, that feeling grew even deeper. The longstanding doubt—the emotional barrier between men and women born of their age difference—also began to seem like something fluid, transforming into what could be forgotten the more they spoke. However, Kishimoto's sarcasm seemed to strike Setsuko's heart, for from her came a practical letter to which she had appended the following words at its edge.

“Please don’t torment me so much.” “There are so very many things I want to tell you, but you ensure that you don’t say them yourself in the end, you know.”

71 Kishimoto embarked on a section of his travelogue chronicling his sojourn through foreign lands. As he began that work, snow came repeatedly to bury the garden outside his study. Following the seasons rich in memories leading up to his distant journey, he continued writing that travelogue. With deep emotion, he poured into it the state of his heart from that time—when he had needed to survive at all costs, sacrificing everything. In one passage of his travelogue, he wrote these words:

“...Savages act out of necessity.” “Indeed, I was that.” “It had become utterly impossible to endure, and then I began to move.” “To that small building where I had dwelled for seven years—like a sigh of faint wind mingling with the breath of the earth—I had left behind words of sorrowful anger.” “That’s right.” “There are those who have spoken of a wish for sleep devoid of light, heat, or dreams.” “Are there those who would laugh upon hearing such words?” “If this were not merely an imaginatively beautiful turn of phrase—if, in this world filled with such seemingly delightful things, there were truly nothing more desirable than sleep devoid of light, heat, or dreams—what would that mean?” “There was a time when I trembled upon my bed for two weeks with an indescribable feeling akin to that.” “The cold of last winter also brought out this neuralgia.” “My habit of meditative sitting—in truth, I believe it sustains my health—may instead have become the cause of such pain.” “Moreover, being too talkative and bothersome, I abandoned even the massage therapy I had always relied on three or four times monthly.” “I had no choice but to wait for my body to recover naturally.” “Since there was no effective treatment method available.” “I tried to sleep as much as I could.” “At times, like one heavily intoxicated, I continued sleeping for a day or even two.” “In a certain sense, our bodies may exist in perpetual illness.” “I—who normally slept so little that I could forget such things—found myself at a loss with my own body in such situations.” “There were times I awoke upon my bed with a heart braced as if awaiting graver illness.” “A strange shudder coursed through my entire body.”

It was nearly impossible to discern whether this was the clamor of the town beyond the shoji screens, an imperceptibly faint tremor unfelt by ordinary people, or the trembling of my own body…… Much grief, loathing, dread, arduous toil, and shuddering rose not only into my memory but into my entire being—into my lower back, into my shoulders…… And I felt that any pain, so long as it was one’s own, might be something precious. At the very least, people wish to take pride in their own pain even more than in others’ joys. Yet when I sat alone on my bed late at night, feeling pain as pain—each time I sensed that this was a time of living more fully than when numbed and unaware—I could not help but think: how can human suffering persist so endlessly?…… Once, before relocating my home from the mountains to Tokyo, I attempted to visit my friend in Shiga’s mountain village and trod a snowy path. I cannot forget the cold of that time when I felt as if every single joint in my body would freeze solid. I can also recall how, thoroughly convinced it was the landscape within my own heart, I gazed at that snowy path where travelers were few. Spells of dizziness that lulled me toward sleep, a suffocating tightness as if I might collapse at any moment, a shudder unlike anything I had ever experienced—I could still recall that boundless white sea where I had nearly thought myself to die. Precisely, the world I had escaped to was a desolate realm where such dizziness and shuddering arose. What lies there is the piling snow of “life.” It was as if a world of ice. It was a sea of ice. And I drowned in that sea of ice. “O seven years of life in that small building—farewell…”

The very depths of the decadent life into which those who had grown utterly weary of reality had fallen with anguished hearts was none other than the icy world he had sought to escape to.

72

That Kishimoto came to regard his life at the end of his Asakusa period as one of decadence, and that he came to think of Setsuko as if she were a flower of sin that had bloomed within that life—these realizations came to him long after he had embarked on his distant journey. “People come to toy with everything and anything.” This was a brief impression he had written and sent to someone from that second-floor room in Asakusa—yet even when his heart had grown so poisoned that such words could spill from his own lips; even when women’s ways of thinking had crumbled to such an extent that one might wonder how so many marriages could avoid ending in mutual corruption; even when he coldly had come to realize his fate as a wounded observer of his own destruction—still he refused to consider himself a decadent. He could not remain trembling in the depths of desolation and anguish, making only his eyes gleam like an owl. He could not bring himself to consider that as the ultimate end of his destiny. With the fervor of one who hails Death as their pilot, he could not help but seek something newer in this voyage of life.

When he began writing a section of his travelogue, memories of various events from that journey’s outset merged with recollections of emotional experiences—alongside feelings he later traced through them—and returned to Kishimoto’s chest. He thought that had he persisted in such stagnant living, even without Setsuko’s incident arising, he would have eventually fled overseas regardless. The decadence into which he had sunk was not the abyss of “inertia” described by Nakano’s friend, but rather a melancholy so profound that madness seemed its only possible conclusion. He remembered others saying such things about him and how often he himself had pondered them. What he had come to fear most was “death.” He recalled how this fear had taken root in having outlived three daughters. Looking back, never had “death” so relentlessly haunted his heart as during that time—yet he also remembered perceiving it as a portent nearing ruin. He remembered those immobilized days staring at cold walls, when even speaking or descending stairs felt unbearable—how he had trembled at the thought that “death” might be seeping into his very flesh. He remembered approaching decadence’s final curtain with such dread. The tempest centered on Setsuko now loomed as a cataclysm within his life’s span.

The season when plants came back to life was already unfolding before Kishimoto’s eyes. No sooner had a spring-like snow come and blanketed the garden than it melted away overnight, leaving the sprouting grass even more visible afterward. The spring he had awaited with such fretful longing—wondering when it would come, when would it come—now seemed at last to have reached him. Realizing he wasn’t alone in greeting this season with memory-laden heart, he opened the small notebook Setsuko had recently brought and left behind.

"Why must I keep my feelings buried so deep within?" "There was no longer any need for that at all." "And yet, like one robbed of the very words to express what overflows within my chest, I found myself utterly unable to give them voice." "A long, long silence—how terrifying it was. Why do I remain silent as ever, as if practicing verbal austerity?" "I want to speak—and won't you truly listen?" "Just as that thick ice gradually melts beneath warm spring light, so too shall my lips surely thaw without doubt." "How happy I would be if only I could quickly, quickly speak my mind freely."

Thus Setsuko had written in pencil at the beginning of her notebook; though the feeling of being like a shipwrecked crew member had long persisted, she now wrote of wishing to forget all about her own ill health and live together with you. She had also written, likening it to an old song someone had left behind, that even if there were days when crows did not cry in the groves of Ueno, there was not a day she did not long for you.

73

When March arrived, a notice came from his niece in Negishi that she planned to relocate to Osaka. Kishimoto was still hurrying through part of his travelogue that he had begun writing when he welcomed Aiko—who had come to bid farewell—to his house in Takanawa. Aiko, who was preparing to leave Negishi with her husband, lingered in Tokyo as if reluctant to part with it. She shifted from speaking about her parents (Kishimoto’s eldest brother and his wife) in Taiwan and Teruko (Setsuko’s older sister) in the Russian territories to gossiping about the people at Uncle Yoshio’s household—and even spoke such words about Setsuko.

“Setsuko-chan has changed so much—why, just the other day she came to visit me in Negishi, and we had a good long talk.” “You know, compared to before, she’s become such a pleasant person to meet.” Kishimoto thought pleasantly of how he had come to hear such rumors from Aiko’s lips—or rather, from the lips of “the elder sister from Negishi,” who from Setsuko’s perspective was an older cousin. Moreover, Kishimoto had entrusted his youngest daughter to this niece from Negishi. Various topics arose regarding Aiko’s move to Osaka.

“There’s something I want to show you.” Kishimoto said and pointed out the new three-section bookcase placed in the corner of the room to Aiko. Though called book boxes, when brought together they formed something about the size of a bookshelf. It was a travel memento crafted from packing crate boards he had brought back from Paris, with only the lids made separately from hinoki cypress planks. “I want you to draw something on these bookcase lids’ undersides. I haven’t seen your paintings lately. Before leaving for Osaka—could you paint peach blossoms here? That’s why I left this middle board open.”

Kishimoto said again, flipping over the three lids—each about three shaku in length—and arranged them before Aiko. On both sides of those lids were writings he had commissioned from people around him, each contributing a single brushstroke. On the left board, Kishimoto pointed out characters inscribed by Kume—Basho’s haiku written in her distinctive slender brushstrokes that seemed quintessentially feminine. On the right board was Setsuko’s writing done with a thick brush. What Setsuko had written was a seven-character quatrain left behind by someone who had departed this world in their twenties.

“My, Setsuko-chan’s handwriting looks just like a man’s.”

Together with Aiko, who had spoken thus, Kishimoto gazed intently at the unpainted hinoki cypress board. "Setsuko-chan's handwriting has become quite skilled—after all, she's made to do Father's writing for him day in and day out."

Having said that, he suddenly recounted how he had asked Setsuko to write those phrases when she visited. At that time, Setsuko acted as if she had never written such things before; she took it to her grandmother’s room to write and returned with it completed. When he saw the result, he mentioned how it had ended up slightly curved. He tried to imagine how old a young girl like Aiko must have been when the person who had composed those youthful lines in the form of a Chinese poem was still alive. He recalled that it had been his younger self who had recommended Aiko study painting and, from around age thirteen or fourteen, urged her to study under a woman who had made a name for herself in Nanga painting.

“Something simple is fine—a small sketch-like thing would do.” “Please just draw one and leave it there.”

“I can draw it, but if you ask me to do it right now, I’m afraid I’d be a bit pressed.”

“I can draw it,” Aiko answered, “but if you ask me to do it right now, I’m afraid I’d be a bit pressed.” Aiko, who seemed to live for her artistic pursuits, did not appear to treat the hidden decorations of such furniture as casually as her uncle. Eventually, she proposed creating some preliminary sketches and visiting him once more before departing for Osaka. “You don’t need to make it so elaborate,” Kishimoto insisted. “It’s just the lid of a bookcase, isn’t it?” “No, that won’t do.” With that, Aiko refused to listen.

74

That was two days later. When Setsuko appeared from Yanaka, Kishimoto recalled what the niece from Negishi had said in her presence. "Aiko was praising you—somehow I felt as happy as if I'd been praised myself." He showed his uncontainable joy by telling Setsuko this. His hope stemmed from wanting her to cast off the bitter feelings of rebellion she harbored against those around her. Because he believed that the moment she could break free from them would be when she could truly flourish.

For the frail Setsuko, it was not the heat but the cold that made the climate unbearable. These were words she often wrote to Kishimoto—that she was always catching colds and could never properly assist with any work. During the coldest periods, Kishimoto would think of how exhausting it must be for her when she stayed in Yanaka, and at his own house he preferred to let her rest instead. Though it was March, it felt like a day when winter had returned. As Grandmother and Kishimoto worried about her journey home, Setsuko stayed the night in Takanawa that evening.

“Do you remember this?”

In the course of bringing hot tea from Grandmother’s room, Setsuko would sometimes show Kishimoto the detachable collar she was wearing. “Didn’t I wear this in Asakusa?” she said, showing him. Kishimoto seized an opportunity to quietly take out a boy doll he had found in the downtown area for Setsuko. It was neither particularly large nor small, and though it wore no kimono, its eyes were crafted adorably like those of a boy. He had come across it while running an errand, with no particular intention. He slipped it beneath Setsuko’s sleeve.

Surprisingly, this small gift drew unstoppable tears from Setsuko’s eyes. Her choked-back sobs grew louder, threatening to reach even Grandmother, Kume, and the maids.

“What’s wrong with you now, Setsuko?” In the end, Kishimoto said brusquely, trying to salvage the situation from Setsuko’s tears that threatened to reach Grandmother and the others. Setsuko seemed unable to remain seated any longer. She stood up and moved to the corner of the room, stifling her voice with her sleeve as she wept in muffled sobs. Even by the next morning, when Setsuko had concealed the doll in her furoshiki bundle and departed for Yanaka, Kishimoto still hadn’t connected her tears to his ill-conceived gesture. Setsuko sent Kishimoto a letter likely written in that three-tatami room on Yanaka’s second floor. She wrote that despite his thoughtful gift the previous day, things had ended thus—he must surely have found it contrary to his intentions. When I consider my position, this part weighs all the more—I don’t envy Ane-san or Teru-han at all, but this alone... she wrote. "When I saw that doll’s innocent face, I suddenly grew sorrowful—it reminded me of when that unknowing little one cried as we parted," she wrote. The more I tried to hold them back, the more spiteful tears kept flowing until I seemed to have displeased you—please forgive all my impropriety and understand this aching heart of a mother," she wrote. This marked the first time Setsuko had directly disclosed to Kishimoto her feelings about the child they had conceived. She now showed such intimacy that even her letter’s salutation changed from “Uncle” to “Sukekichi-sama.” Their kinship ties had come to seem like mere worldly formalities. What remained had become nothing but raw truth between two people.

75

"Though I must not love, yet walk this path— Does my heart’s realm know peace? On this radiant road walk two souls— How I envy even the vows of mandarin ducks. My past—so suited to remembrance— Spring rain pours through dusk-lit windows. Leaning by evening windows, thinking of you— This spring rain feels akin to my own tears. Thinking of you, thinking of our child— On spring nights, my dreams find no gentle rest. Through countless years of resented parting, An eternal spring has come even to me—

The spring rain showering sprouting young leaves—I began to find sorrow in this sight. As you prepare to depart on your distant voyage, stealthily I listen—yet this rain does not sound like what I heard before. In the spring rain, crimson camellia petals fall—the masterless house stands desolate. Endlessly gazing at the sky—I longed for you; remembering that day, my chest tightens. Awakening from dreams—late into the night alone, thinking of you by my pillowside—this nearby spring rain. What path lies ahead? Discarding traveling robes, listening through spring nights to rains grown familiar. The spring rain that whispers to me, ever learning—may it fall thus where you dwell.

The spring rain drenches them without mercy; wings aligned, two birds find no joy. Was it you who came or I who went? Our whispers leave dream and waking blurred. Alone I chant of bygone days—bush clover sprouts with mocking cheer. Though nightly the child sleeps in my arms, how lonely lies this wordless one. My eyes lack their luster; tears wet but one cheek—do you know? Do you not? You still wield your brush, I wonder—here in our bedchamber, shame consumes me.

By the roadside, small red plum blossoms—like the lips of my cherished child smiling in dreams do I behold them. How oft have I resolved to cast these thoughts aside—yet what remains? To claim as mine a child not of my blood. Innocent amidst scarlet carp frolicking in schools—this endearing vision manifests before me. The spring-lit vault of heaven—how I envy the kite soaring there! Day by day grows more intimate our bond with Him who sees what's hidden. Clinging to your noble hand, yet again has this day ended in tears.

In this fleeting world where all vanishes like foam, what do we seek that makes us live on? “Even if I try to unravel and remember people of old, this feeling far exceeds mere endurance.” Setsuko wrote this down in a small notebook and left it with Kishimoto. She had created such poems solely to show them to Kishimoto. Kishimoto came to hold this around the time when March 25th—the day he had once embarked on that distant journey from the old Shinbashi Station—was drawing near.

Soon, Setsuko sent another letter from Yanaka containing the following. “I must apologize for disturbing you during your busy time the other day.” “Have you finished your work yet?” “The other day, thinking you might still be occupied, I considered refraining from visiting altogether—I even resolved that if your work remained unfinished, I should take back the poems I brought without showing them to you. But now I worry whether I intruded after all.” “If that was so, please forgive me.” “Should such occasions arise again in the future, if you would but deign to say so, I shall endure any restraint… The twenty-fifth draws near already.” “What a tremendous difference this marks!” “When I recall how I stood rooted in that same spot long after the train’s echoes had faded, it feels like a dream… We are happy.” “In that copy of Rousseau’s *Confessions* you gave me, there is a passage stating true happiness cannot be articulated—it can only be felt, and precisely because it defies description is it felt all the more deeply.” “That truly is how it is.”

76 The figure of a gentle woman growing more distinct each day occupied Kishimoto’s vision. When he compared her present self to how she once was, the Setsuko before his eyes had transformed into almost a different person. He summoned memories of Setsuko from her earliest youth. In her school days—when she had first come to Tokyo from her hometown at fifteen or sixteen, still wearing short kimonos and often visiting the old house with her sister Teruko—Kishimoto could never have imagined her life as a woman would unfold as it now had. He marveled that Setsuko—emerging from an interminable silence (not of her own making, but one resembling atonement for verbal karma)—had begun sending him poem-like letters unlike anything he had seen from her before. Repeating Setsuko’s verses, he tried to envision the feminine sentiments veiled behind her myriad words. That she was prepared to forsake worldly happiness to follow him aligned with her poem’s declaration—that she envied not even the bond of wedded ducks. She had relinquished marriage. From the outset, Kishimoto had never been within her power to claim. Not even the child she bore lay within her control. Hers was a love that could possess nothing in this world. Contemplating how she now groped falteringly toward religion from that emotional state, Kishimoto felt sorrow beyond expression.

“Don’t you think it’s pitiful to leave Setsuko like that? Her youth too will soon pass away—isn’t that so?”

At times, such voices would come and inevitably test Kishimoto. But what was he to do with the very person who had said, "We are happy"? Of course, he felt the depth of his sin too profoundly to willingly shoulder Setsuko's burden. If, after long suffering, he could somehow manage to rescue her and make her happy, what more could the power of weak humans do against fate?

Kishimoto felt his life pouring ceaselessly toward her. Even in their tastes, he and Setsuko were aligned to a surprising degree. Her hair, her clothes—all matched his preferences more than anyone else's. He imagined Héloïse—disciple, nun, and lover—bound to Abelard's life; imagined renowned monks tormented by inescapable attachments; imagined the sorrow of those who possessed everything yet owned nothing; and carried these visions to the passion of that ancient poet who sang, "Though I cast all away and deem myself nothing—".

77 Before long, along the path Setsuko frequented, early-blooming camellia petals had begun falling incessantly. As was his custom, Kishimoto went partway to meet her, joining Setsuko—who had come from Yanaka—near a temple adjacent to an estate. While strolling alone around his neighborhood, he had discovered a hidden path leading from that area to Tōzenji Cemetery. That day, having looked forward to walking through the cemetery with Setsuko, he first invited her in that direction. Kishimoto led the way to a spot circling behind the main hall within the temple grounds atop a hill. To reach Tōzenji Cemetery from there required descending the same continuous slope lined with new graves and crossing a single thicket-covered cliff. Kishimoto jumped down from the cliff first. Then he looked up at Setsuko standing among the trees at the cliff's edge.

“Can you get down from there?” Before Kishimoto could even offer his hand, Setsuko descended the cliff using her umbrella for support and then faced him.

A view of a considerably vast cemetery—so vast that one could not even begin to count the number of dead resting there—spread out before them. Moss-covered gravestones stood lined up ahead. From their antiquated style to the unrestrained use of stone in their construction, everything about these graves spoke of a time far removed from the present era. Even there lingered places that somehow evoked the aura of ruins. Beyond the cemetery on a modest hill forming part of the continuous terrain, four or five laborers could be seen at work, as if relocating even ancient graves. Kishimoto stepped out with Setsuko into a stone-paved section of the cemetery. When they reached that point, the laborers' figures too became hidden behind tall gravestones, leaving only a sound resembling earth being dug up to echo through the desolate air.

Suddenly, it struck Kishimoto that this vast old temple ground was where his late friend Aoki had once lived. He recalled how, beside the grave where he and his deceased friend—and he himself, then only twenty-one or twenty-two—had once sat together, they had spotted a young woman who seemed to have come seeking Aoki's advice about marriage troubles. However, he merely brought these memories to mind and made no effort to share them with Setsuko. He invited Setsuko to take the path through the cemetery toward the hillock and led her up stone steps along the wooded slope.

A different scene where huge tombstones stood in rows spread out atop that hillock. There was a stillness there as though entirely removed from the world. The light of early April, streaming from the depths of the blue sky, fell before their eyes. Kishimoto joined his right hand to Setsuko’s left hand and walked very quietly between the sunlit gravestones. As if they were a couple not of this world, an intimacy akin to that of a married couple came through Setsuko’s hand as they walked mostly in silence, reaching Kishimoto’s heart.

However, this ephemeral illusion of a mood shattered instantly. The area around that hillock served as a pathway for people traveling from Shinagawa's tram line to Takanawa. Setsuko had just started descending the stone steps back along their original path when, through evergreen trees casting shadows halfway down the slope, she quickly spotted the figure of someone approaching from ahead. Then she moved away from Kishimoto's side.

“Let’s go over there.” “Let’s sit on a grave and talk.” Kishimoto said this and descended the stone steps together with Setsuko.

78 “Why did I find someone like you in my own niece of all people? Why couldn’t I find you in someone else instead?” After returning to a section of the cemetery they had come from, Kishimoto brought that up to Setsuko. Setsuko spread a small cloth at the corner of a grave and sat down on the stone, still wearing that gray coat she always wore.

“Still, it’s remarkable we found such a place,” said Setsuko. “After all, it’s because we suffered that we found it,” he replied. “Otherwise, we might never have come to such a mysterious place.” Never before had Kishimoto found himself in circumstances where he could breathe outdoor air and enjoy blue skies so freely with just Setsuko by his side. She too appeared to take pleasure in these moments—however brief—spent sitting together on stone slabs, treating each stolen interval as belonging exclusively to them.

“Ah, right—there was something I wanted to ask you,” said Kishimoto. “In that letter you sent me—you remember, where you wrote about the time coming when we could speak of everything—you did write that to me, didn’t you?” “I never imagined that time would arrive so soon—I thought we’d need to wait two or three years at least… If I had married back then, what would you have done?” “I myself intended to marry and had meant to urge you to do the same.” “That was my purpose in returning from my travels.” “If I had married—even then, would you have planned to wait?”

“So, isn’t that why the low-pressure system arose?”

Setsuko answered, her face slightly reddening. This answer from Setsuko did not keep Kishimoto still. In truth, it was that strange low-pressure system that had drawn him back to Setsuko once more after returning from his journey.

“Ah… so that’s it. “So that’s how it was.”

Kishimoto said as if suddenly remembering and walked about here and there before the rows of old gravestones. That Setsuko had waited three years—not for a favorable marriage arrangement, nor for social advancement, but for Kishimoto’s return from his journey—now left no room for doubt. What form the melancholy that had arisen in Setsuko took, combined with the contents of the numerous letters he had received during his travels, all at once dissolved within Kishimoto’s chest.

“The low-pressure systems won’t arise anymore.” Setsuko said this in a tone steeped with emotion and soon left the corner of the grave.

“The camellias are blooming, aren’t they?”

By the time Setsuko spoke these words, she had already climbed up the cliff and was walking with Kishimoto along the sloping terrain dotted with new graves. The section of the cemetery where they had sat together now came into view below them. "But you managed to wait like that for three years," said Kishimoto, glancing back at Setsuko as they walked. "If your hand hadn't been bad, you might not have been able to wait like that."

"That's right." "If this hand hadn't been bad... I might have had to marry someone." "I suppose I ought to be grateful to this hand." "But Setsuko—are you truly satisfied with this? Can you keep standing alone like this from now on?" "Do you really have so little faith in me—"

These words that Setsuko had spoken with emphasis gave Kishimoto reassurance.

79

The time they spent at the cemetery was brief. However, even during the time they spent together at home until that evening, it left Kishimoto with an even more unforgettable impression. After two or three days had passed, he received a letter from Yanaka. It was a letter concerning financial matters that Setsuko had written on behalf of her brother Yoshio, but she had also enclosed a poem she had scribbled in pencil separately. “The crimson camellia flowers scattered upon the path where we two walked.”

Without you, without myself—two souls quiet in spring's light. Through fresh green leaves the sunlight filters soft, upon moss-clad stones alights. Hand in hand we climb the silent steps; spring's tender breeze lifts wayward locks from sight.

After reading this, Kishimoto realized how deeply the cemetery had marked her as well. From that time onward, Setsuko began making efforts to render even her pale complexion as subdued and inconspicuous as possible. Though trivial, this development gladdened Kishimoto. Her faint makeup signified willing acceptance of his counsel. He could scarcely fathom how much more natural this made her appear compared to before. Yet as he reflected that an aging man's concern had unconsciously taken form as such advice, he felt compelled to acknowledge with shame that his wish to keep her unobtrusive stemmed from jealousy. At times his thoughts turned irresistibly toward her situation—one allowing contact with younger men. But this jealousy proved fleeting, passing lightly like spring mist. There had even come a moment when he attempted to broach these feelings before Setsuko.

“Quite a lot of women come to visit me, you know. And even then, you don’t mind?” Even when he tried saying it half-jokingly, Setsuko responded with a bitter smile and did not engage. “Jealousy is an inherent part of such feelings. Isn’t it strange that such a thing doesn’t arise at all?”

When he said this, Setsuko, in her usual manner, “I don’t have the luxury for that...” There were times when she answered like that.

Setsuko’s heart, which sought to devote everything and accompany Kishimoto, was deeply felt by him as well. “Will you always be mine?” he had asked, and just as she had answered, “Yes, always,” she was already entirely his. And yet, the poignancy of an attachment that he sought and sought but could never obtain rendered him powerless toward Setsuko, who was his yet not his. At night, his soul in its lonely recesses often called out Setsuko’s name. Was she with him—and was he truly with her? He lay alone, turning such thoughts over in his mind. At times, as if half in a dream, he would hear a gentle whispering voice from the depths of his ear.

"My husband." Each time he earnestly tried to seek out that voice, there was nothing in his arms. His hand grasped only emptiness.

80 The simple life Kishimoto tried by borrowing Grandmother and Kume after separating from Brother Yoshio's family continued for about half a year. Grandmother, indispensable to Kishimoto, proved equally indispensable as the peacekeeper in Brother Yoshio's household, and circumstances arose making it impossible to keep her long at the Takanawa residence. Losing this grandmother meant not only losing his household's central figure - it made Kishimoto feel increasingly sorry for Kume too, who had come intending to study but found herself constantly burdened by the children. He saw how the children's unnaturally restrained dispositions suddenly relaxed under Grandmother and Kume's affectionate care. He saw what a trial it became for those who could comfort the motherless children but couldn't scold them. Most of all he saw how Shigeru's daily tantrums - once started, unstoppable until he'd cried himself hoarse - reduced even Kume and the maid to tears. There was no choice but to raise them himself; he must take these parentless children somewhere more natural and wait for them to grow. Thus resolved, Kishimoto decided to disband the Takanawa household entirely. He couldn't endure troubling Grandmother and Kume any further with his children's upbringing.

Thereupon he conceived an idea. It was to move into lodgings together with Izumi and Shigeru. He held some expectation that his three years of life in lodgings experienced in Paris might prove useful for this attempt. However, he had still told no one about it. Having given up remarriage for Setsuko's sake, that Kishimoto would now abandon this semblance of a household and return to a wanderer's life seemed to him rather the natural course. In that frame of mind, one day he waited for Setsuko coming from Yanaka.

Setsuko came to visit. It was just at the time when everyone in the household—from Grandmother to the children and even the maid—had gone out to view the cherry blossoms in Ueno, leaving Kishimoto alone keeping watch over the empty house. Setsuko, as was her custom, first went to see Grandmother and headed toward the room where the long brazier was placed. “Where is Grandmother?” When he welcomed her asking this, the interior of the house was as silent as a temple. Kishimoto recalled how at his former house in Asakusa, he would often send the household members out, close the front gate, and savor the loneliness of being alone.

“Today everyone’s gone flower viewing; I’m keeping house alone. “If you want to leave too, you may go now.” “Shall we go back then?” Setsuko said deliberately, then came along the corridor to the inner room. Kishimoto told Setsuko before anyone else that he had resolved to raise Izumi and Shigeru entirely by his own hand, and that he intended to soon find suitable lodgings to move into with the children.

“Can a man’s hands truly accomplish such a thing? Whether I can or cannot, well, I intend to try raising the children myself.” This resolve of Kishimoto’s did not particularly surprise Setsuko.

81 “So Takanawa is finally coming to an end, isn’t it?”

Such Setsuko held more memories beneath this roof than Kishimoto. Even though it was Kishimoto who had moved her into this house before embarking on a distant journey, she herself had spent three dark years there. When that moment came, the state of the house they had worn down through four years of living struck Kishimoto's eyes with fresh intensity. To the garden where Setsuko once stood four years earlier - remaining rooted until train sounds toward Shinagawa faded completely - deep spring now circulated, its verdant young leaves intensifying the vegetation's presence. Every plant in this never-properly-tended garden appeared to have reverted utterly to wildness. Plum branches particularly stretched unchecked, layering fresh foliage over soot-darkened old leaves. In a garden corner lined with Otome camellias stood late-blooming red camellias too. Their floral zenith and leafage's prime seemed to press against the inner room's old glass doors at the veranda edge, mingling with crumbling eaves' atmosphere.

"A house of memories like a distant evening shower - gray intertwined with silver threads—"

“Silver is good, and gray too is dear—all the unfurled picture scrolls.”

What floated into Kishimoto’s mind was this song. When he thought that Takanawa was finally nearing its end and felt reluctant to part with it, it was a poem that had been included in a recent letter from Setsuko. However, thinking that awkwardly uttering such phrases might not make her blush, he refrained from reciting it in front of her. “The camellias are blooming well.” Together with Setsuko, who said this, Kishimoto soon went down from the veranda into the garden. Beneath the slender yet sturdy camellia branches, large crimson flowers bloomed profusely between the leaves. There were some that had fallen onto the garden soil, still retaining their full petal shape. Kishimoto saw Setsuko with a reluctant look near that camellia tree.

“How about trying one in your hair?” When Kishimoto said this, Setsuko looked here and there for buds, but every one she tried to reach was just beyond her grasp. At that moment, he felt a playful impulse to lift her up until her hand could touch the camellia branch. With a laugh she couldn’t contain—unusually bright for her—Setsuko came down into the garden. She merely held the red camellia bud she had plucked briefly against her hair, making no move to fasten it there. For a while, Kishimoto sat on the veranda, had Setsuko sit beside him, and tried to savor the shared quiet as they gazed at the nearly noon spring sun falling on the garden soil.

82

Setsuko climbed up from the garden to the veranda and went to the kitchen to prepare lunch. At noon, Kishimoto had a simple meal alone with Setsuko in Grandmother’s room where the long brazier was placed—the camellia buds she had brought from the garden were left resting on the brazier’s wooden board.

In Kishimoto’s eyes, Setsuko that day appeared like someone who had completely forgotten all those she usually felt obliged to consider. Moreover, surpassing even her typically reserved self, it was impossible to know just how much more natural this made her. Even her modest kimono with its wide hem—as if taken up with a dark brown border at the skirt—suited her movements perfectly as she went back and forth between rooms. “You truly prefer quiet things, don’t you? That might be where we align.”

Kishimoto left these words behind and tried to make a brief trip to Takanawa Street to find something to entertain Setsuko.

“Setsuko, I’m leaving the place to you for a bit.” “I’ll go find some sweets or something and be back.”

With these words, he went out.

When Kishimoto returned from town, Setsuko was in the inner room preparing tea. Though it was still late April, he had found some unusual rice dumplings. The aroma of steamed bamboo leaves—a reminder that the Boys’ Festival approached—proved enough to draw from Setsuko’s lips talk of the child she tried yet could not forget. For the first time then, Kishimoto broached various matters regarding the son born between them.

“The name was Chikara, wasn’t it? That name—you know, the one the monk had prepared for his own child but specially gave to us—you wrote about that in your letter, didn’t you?” Compared to his journeying days when merely contemplating this unknown child’s existence had made his heart tremble, Kishimoto now found himself able to speak of it before Setsuko with an entirely different disposition. With an expression that regarded even their sin itself nostalgically now, Setsuko guided Kishimoto’s imagination to the rural countryside where she had gone for childbirth—to the second floor of the midwife’s house there. When their talk turned to how this unfortunate yet fortunate child was being raised by kind adoptive parents in a peaceful farmhouse—parents no less caring than its biological ones—a distinctly maternal expression, befitting a young mother, surfaced on her face.

“Huh, so their house runs a fishing pond? Maybe I’ll go visit under the guise of catching carp or something.” “Putting on a face like I’m going carp fishing, maybe I’ll drop by to visit them one of these days.” Kishimoto’s words made Setsuko smile. “But truly, one never knows where and what kind of people one might meet—” said Setsuko. “I wrote to you in Paris about that woman doctor who took such good care of us in the countryside, didn’t I?” “I met her.” “At the eye hospital you go to… She’s now working as an assistant in ophthalmology, isn’t she?”

For a time, Setsuko’s words trailed off. What that silence meant came through to Kishimoto’s heart more clearly than words could have. “What about your mother, I wonder,” Kishimoto said after the prolonged silence had continued. “Does your mother know about ‘that matter’—”

“My mother probably knows,” said Setsuko. “What about Teru?” “Teru might know too.” “When Teru came back for childbirth, I wasn’t in this house.” “If she went to Father to ask, he’d tell her to go ask Mother; if she came to Mother to ask, she’d tell her to go ask Father—Teru must have found it strange.” “At that time, Father was still in Nagoya, you see.”

“Then what about Ai-chan?” “Well, Nerima’s sister too…” Setsuko faltered. Once more, the two of them sat facing each other in silence for a while.

“Somehow, I’m starting to feel a bit strange.”

When Kishimoto said this, Setsuko responded, “But it has already become a matter of discussion.” As if letting out a deep sigh, she said this to Kishimoto.

Eighty-three

The happy day the two of them spent secluded together eventually came to a profoundly sorrowful end. Setsuko, who cherished the doll of a boy Kishimoto had sent her about a month prior, bestowing upon it a motherly sorrow; Setsuko, who dressed the doll in a black kimono and even put a black hood on it, concealing it in a furoshiki bundle as if taking her own child for a walk to show Kishimoto; Setsuko, who seemed to imply she had been unable to find the right opportunity to speak of it despite wanting to—this Setsuko appeared most pleased to have Kishimoto understand her maternal heart. Yet the more they spoke of the child born between them, the more Kishimoto found himself confronted by a harsh reality. Setsuko continued by recounting how during her time recuperating postpartum in the countryside, she had often been invited by that woman doctor to visit the home where her own child had been taken in. The people of that house persistently tried to uncover her background, dividing their efforts in various ways to probe; they told her that if she couldn’t reveal her name, she should at least tell them which part of Tokyo she was from—or at least the general direction—but she said she would refuse even that, and in the end, it was the doctor who did not disclose anything.

"They do dote on him—when the child’s eyes were bad, the grandfather there carried him on his back to the doctor’s house nearly every day."

she told Kishimoto.

The interior of the house was beginning to grow dim. Although it was still bright outside, both Kishimoto and Setsuko began to worry about the grandmothers, who were late returning home.

“You should prepare to go home too, Setsu.”

When Kishimoto said this, Setsuko began to rise from her seat, “I’m not going back anymore.” she declared pointedly. At such moments, there was a frankness in Setsuko’s tone so comical it nearly made Kishimoto choke with laughter. “Even so, the grandmothers ought to be returning soon,” he remarked while pacing through room after room. A small skylight on the corridor roof connecting the north-facing room to the kitchen allowed fading evening light to faintly illuminate the shoji screens of an adjoining chamber. Setsuko stood before the dressing table, smoothing her dry hair as she readied to depart. Absentmindedly, Kishimoto positioned himself behind her and observed her feminine form reflected in the mirror. At that instant, Setsuko pressed her head against his chest, her face in the glass mirroring a tender expression that seemed unable to bear leaving this house. The flower-viewing party returned shortly afterward, wearied from their distant excursion.

“Oh, right away.”

Together with Grandmother, the cheerful laughter of Izumi and Shigeru suddenly filled the house with liveliness. “Thanks to your kindness, I had a most enjoyable time,” even the maid returned looking exhausted.

“Father, I really messed up today!” blurted out the impatient Shigeru, who was first to mention the lunch incident during their outing. “Izumi mistook it for a soba shop and barged into a proper restaurant—egg rolls, soup courses—and they charged us a fortune for that!” “I totally mistook it for a soba shop!” Izumi laughed.

“That being said, even if the young lady were to come, I hadn’t prepared any lunch today.” Thus the maid looked toward Setsuko and said. This maid had always referred to Setsuko as “young lady, young lady.”

"No, I partook of what was available." Setsuko replied, and without heeding Grandmother and Kishimoto’s invitation to stay for dinner, she set off for Yanaka, hurrying home while worrying about the darkening path.

Eighty-four

After that, Kishimoto began moving like a traveler guiding his children. Having no lingering attachment to family life any longer, he sought his own dwelling in a boarding house. By the time the Boys' Festival approached—while Izumi and Shigeru delighted in taking out the faded Kintarō dolls and carp streamers they had decorated in their younger days, or celebrating with rice dumplings—he had already begun mentally preparing to leave Takanawa, determined even to bid farewell to these eaves where he had purposefully hung iris leaves.

The people who gathered at the Takanawa house to look after the children—especially Kume, who had misgivings about Kishimoto’s resolve—in the end came to support his decision.

As the time drew near for Grandmother to return to Yanaka, Kume to her own home, and the maid too to go her separate way, everyone in the household began to feel reluctant to part from one another. By mid-May, Kishimoto had managed things to the extent of finding a suitable boarding house in the Atagoshita area. Until that time came, he had found it difficult to tell his two children about taking them to the boarding house. In an environment where every single one of their school friends commuted from home, he wondered if Izumi and Shigeru, in their childlike hearts, would truly accept what he was saying—a thought that made him hesitate repeatedly.

One day, with Grandmother and Kume also gathered together by the dining table, Kishimoto broached the matter to his children. "What do you think—I'm thinking of taking you all to a boarding house." "Uncle Yoshio's side has asked us to send Grandmother back soon, and we really have no choice but to leave this house." "Others have mothers, which is why everyone commutes to school from home, but you don't have a mother." "That's why I thought of a boarding house." "Your father will be moving into that boarding house together with you, I tell you." "How about it—will you go with your father?"

“I’ll go,” said Shigeru. “Father,” Izumi said, cutting off his brother’s words, “will we be able to go to school from the boarding house?” “Of course you can go.” “Will they let us eat meals there too?” asked Shigeru this time. “Of course they will.” “That’s what the boarding house is for.” “But once you enter the boarding house, you’ll have to eat the same food as I do.” “You can’t go around saying ‘I hate this’ or ‘I hate that’ there.” “You’ll have to eat whatever they serve.” “Even so, are you all still alright with this?”

“Oh, sure,” Izumi said casually. “There are other people at the boarding house, you know. If you go there and act up like Shigeru does, that would be truly disastrous. You’ll have to improve considerably. If you were to do something like shouting in such a loud voice or tearing the shoji screens, you’d get kicked out in a single day.”

“Once I’m at the boarding house, even I’ll improve!” Shigeru scratched his head. “Oh my, if only you’d improved sooner,” Kume said with a laugh. Contrary to his expectations, since Izumi and Shigeru had agreed so readily, Kishimoto felt somewhat relieved. Not only that, but the children, who loved change, came to wish to see the boarding house their father spoke of as soon as possible.

Eighty-five

When the time came to leave Takanawa, all that had transpired since his return home—when he had stepped down from the carriage taken from Shinagawa Station and stood alone at this house’s entrance in desolate solitude—somehow welled up in Kishimoto’s heart. His heart remained dim, still ensnared by clinging shadows of secrets—yet this dimness paled beside the darkness of those months spent wandering distant lands. The more he walked, the brighter his heart grew. This joy inexorably urged him onward toward where he must go.

On the day before moving to the boarding house, Kishimoto had managed to mostly wrap up the household. For Grandmother, who had wanted an old chest, he gave one that had remained since Sonoko’s time; for Kume, who had asked for an oil painting frame, he presented the scene of Luxembourg Park that had hung in her room—all distributed as mementos of the half-year they had spent together in Takanawa. In the Buddhist altar where Grandmother never let the lamp go out, an old small memorial tablet glowed with tarnished gold. Kishimoto brought over the commemorative suitcase he had taken on his distant journey and placed the memorial tablet inside it.

“Look, Mother has gone into the suitcase.”

he said to Izumi and Shigeru, then held up the suitcase in front of the children. “Let me carry Mother too!”

The two children took turns carrying the suitcase. The next morning ushered in June. From Yanaka, Setsuko came to pick up Grandmother and help out. Kishimoto divided the roots of the bush clover he had transplanted from his former Asakusa home, gave one clump to Kume, and loaded another onto the Yanaka-bound cart. Whenever old furniture and such were moved, the familiar interior scenery of the house crumbled away. Grandmother, along with Kume and the maid, said they wanted to see the children off to the boarding house, and the whole group set out together toward Atagoshita. Kishimoto lagged a step behind everyone else and was the last to abandon the Takanawa house.

The people who had arrived at the detached room—located deep within a moss-covered garden reminiscent of an old temple—waited for Kishimoto alongside the luggage that had been delivered early. Kishimoto found a new dwelling within an old-fashioned single-story building open to the east and north. There were two rooms; he could assign one as his study and the other as the children’s room. “What—I thought it was a boarding house, but it’s an inn!” Shigeru’s words made everyone gathered there laugh. But both Izumi and Shigeru seemed intrigued by their move to this boarding house and kept bustling back and forth along the corridor connecting the detached room to the main house.

It was exactly lunchtime.

Kishimoto ate with Grandmother and the others, expressed gratitude for their various assistance, and parted with the group. To this boarding house Kishimoto had also brought along a student who had recently come to Tokyo from Taiwan. Through an introduction from his elder brother Minsuke, who had long been living in Taiwan. Even if only temporarily, caring for and living with that young man gave Kishimoto—who had children to manage—more reassurance than anything. By now he was not just a father to Izumi and Shigeru but simultaneously their mother. Though this lifestyle demanded he allocate considerable time, attention, and energy to the children, it greatly steadied his mind. Somehow he felt as if he had left the neighboring house and moved into his own home.

Eighty-six

“Uncle, you are now about to walk the path I traversed in disappointment. “Unlike me, you are sure to be successful—after all, you have nothing to be disappointed about. “When I heard you say the other day that you had developed an interest in things like child-rearing, it struck me as somewhat strange—but perhaps that is simply the difference between men and women. “From the moment I was called a mother, I wished for what I had lost, and then I resolved to give to other children what I had sought and sought but could never obtain. “It was because I believed it to be the true needs of children. “My strength is meager. “But in heart alone, I never intended to be inferior to anyone. “However, it was a family with entirely different ways of thinking; no matter how much effort I exerted, I could not stand on the same path. “Even a foundation I had just managed to build over a month or two would be immediately torn down. “The approach of truly considering children as individual persons and treating them in a way that fosters self-respect, and the approach of wanting to hypnotize them into viewing adults as omnipotent gods—there is no way these two can coexist. “And to abolish that hypnosis, I was too deeply rooted a so-called sinner. “And another thing was this—whether with the young ones entrusted to me by Uncle or with my own younger brother, there were aspects that could not be conveyed unless one were a true parent and child. “I wonder if it might not be something that cannot be helped—not from thoughts like 'because this is my own' or 'because it belongs to others.' “Uncle, your current situation must be quite trying, I imagine. “But since this is a matter of our hearts drawing closer with each step, though there may yet be periods of turmoil for the children, I firmly believe that—with sincere gratitude and trust—they will walk within the light like sunflowers. “I cannot help but feel envious of those who can possess such things…”

Setsuko sent such a letter to the boarding house in Atagoshita. By speaking of her own failures, she comforted Kishimoto, who was trying to raise the children single-handedly as a man.

Kishimoto received this letter once he had thoroughly settled into the boarding house. The profound reasons why he had willingly chosen such a life were known to no one but Setsuko. Time and again, he had considered laying bare to his brother Yoshio the path that had led him to this boarding house—the entirety of his relationship with Setsuko. "Aren't you uncle and niece?" "In the end, isn't what you're doing just a continuation of immorality?"

When he imagined his brother’s response, it was summed up in these words. Each time he thought this, Kishimoto would sigh and retreat back into his habitual silence.

Eighty-seven

At the Atagoshita boarding house, there was not a single thing reminiscent of Kishimoto’s life in a Parisian boarding house. Instead of windows reflecting rows of plane trees in Platanus, here there were shōji through which the garden’s blue pine needles could be seen. Instead of the clatter of trams bound for Montparnasse, the rumble of heavy carts, and the city’s terrifying din that came through windowpanes from stone-paved streets, here—though in Tokyo’s heart—there were only guests’ murmurs and soft clinks of tobacco trays drifting across the garden from the main house’s quiet upper and lower floors. Instead of a French maid who knocked at his door each mealtime announcing “The preparations are ready,” here there was a maid carrying meal trays and a rice container from the main house kitchen. Instead of a picture of Socrates’ final moments hanging in a corner furnished with bed, candlesticks, and washbasin, here there hung a long horizontal frame on the decorative rail, pasted with old fan-shaped patterns. Everything was utterly different. Despite this, Kishimoto tried to evoke memories of his Parisian boarding house life here. Just as he had once engaged in scholarly pursuits alone by that foreign journey’s window, now he drew his desk close to the shōji of this detached room and sought to reclaim the year since returning home—a year when work had scarcely progressed. By autumn, he had resolved to resume his travelogue manuscript. Whether to devote himself to his desk or avoid Yoshio’s sarcastic remarks relayed through Setsuko, he came to think he should stay apart from her awhile.

After about a month had passed since moving to the boarding house, Setsuko sent over a letter scribbled in her usual pencil, combining a summer greeting. "The other day when I visited—not only because your beard had grown longer but you seemed thinner too—I felt terribly guilty for making you shoulder all these worries alone," she had written. "I’d been feeling weak since two or three days before that visit. Yesterday while accompanying Father home from the hospital, I collapsed halfway—though it was foolish to push myself—yet somehow stumbled back to Yanaka in a daze." "Even in such moments, Uncle, I find myself thinking of you—for only when we’re together can I speak so selfishly." "My current circumstances are painful too." "Come to think of it, tonight’s Tanabata. This time last year, how desperately I awaited your return from travels! However much I played the Weaver Maid back then, you weren’t yet my Herd Boy." "I must stop here—I’ve grown unwell. When this reaches you, it may coincide with when we finally met last year—that time when I tasted emotions neither joy nor sorrow could name."

Such letters from Setsuko could not help but draw Kishimoto’s heart—which had been straining to maintain distance—back toward her. At times, they contained passages written with artless candor: “There’s no Herd Boy who fears the Weaver Maid, is there?” This very artlessness, attesting to her youth, only tightened its pitiful grip on Kishimoto’s heart. Since moving to the boarding house, Kishimoto had frequently wished for a woman’s assistance in tending to the children’s needs. In this regard too, Setsuko—who came every Saturday as she had during their Takanawa days—proved a substantial help. Yet through the sweltering summer months, he sought to curtail her visits. He resolved to see her merely twice a month. By whatever means, he would wait until his mental turbulence subsided.

Eighty-eight Kishimoto gave Setsuko a string of prayer beads. Several transparent glass beads were strung together and threaded through a slender blue cord of delicate purity, fashioned into an object befitting a woman’s possession. The neighborhood surrounding his boarding house was an old temple district centered on Zojoji Temple—a place where such things could readily be found. They were inexpensive to procure. This simple yet earnest gift brought Setsuko immense delight. She had accepted it during her visit to Atagoshita in mid-July, just as Kishimoto was attempting to resume work on his travelogue by keeping some distance from her. In a subsequent letter, she wrote of having received this marvelous thing, confessing she had secretly tried wearing it many times even after returning to Yanaka. She added that she would someday find something suitable for a man to carry and offer it in return. Kishimoto took pleasure in envisioning Setsuko within the three-tatami room on Yanaka’s second floor. He found equal joy in imagining his ardent token resting inside the handbox of this woman who faltered yet pressed toward faith.

At that time, Setsuko’s letter was not merely an expression of gratitude for the prayer beads. She interpreted Kishimoto’s irritated silence as some form of dissatisfaction toward herself and wrote to him accordingly. The letter stated that she well understood his dissatisfaction arising from such differences in age and knowledge—perhaps without realizing it, she might have grown rigid over time—and that if he had anything to say, he should speak frankly without reserve.

“What could Setsu-chan have misunderstood? I don’t have any such intention.” He tried saying this, yet such words—seemingly springing from a woman’s constricted heart—held a strange power to draw his own heart back toward her. He sighed as he thought this. Why was it so difficult for scholarship and art to coexist with romantic love between men and women? At such times, the words “Associé filled with love and wisdom” would often surface in his heart. “Associé” meant a lifelong companion. Even if reaching that point was not easy, what he wished to arrive at with Setsuko was, at the very least, a relationship between a man and a woman steeped in “friendship.” Given how their love had begun—and considering the future that lay ahead—his heart had to remain under strict restraint.

However, the Setsuko that existed in Kishimoto’s eyes was no longer the Setsuko of before. Setsuko—who had been like a single flower blooming in his long-desolate life—now appeared to him as an entirely different person even in memory. The astonishingly developed curves of her body, her distractingly soft and feminine expression—not only could he not banish these visions from his eyes to face his desk, but neither could he dispel her voice murmuring things like “I was so desperately lonely—I held your photograph and called out to you.” Kishimoto—who had gone so far as to select prayer beads for Setsuko himself—found himself powerless against this inextinguishable attachment. He tried to encourage himself by imagining those who had sought to transcend “Nature” even while sitting in deep snow. When the second midsummer since returning home arrived once more, it was not only the garden plants that steamed under the heat’s oppression. He burned with such violent passion that he could not touch his work for nearly a week.

Eighty-nine

Setsuko visited Kishimoto’s boarding house with her younger brother at the end of July. It was just when the school’s summer vacation had begun, and welcoming Ichiro during that season was a delight even for Izumi and Shigeru. Although the young man from the boarding house returning home to Taiwan made the summer somewhat lonelier, for the children, it was still the most enjoyable time of the year.

The children had gathered on the veranda of the detached room and were looking at the morning glories that Setsuko and her brother had brought over, one pot each. Kishimoto also went to see the flowers, then called the two children to the room. “Izumi, Shigeru, come here. Since Ichi-chan is here today, let’s all change into kimonos.” Kishimoto had grown quite accustomed to taking care of the children after saying such things. Even though they were brothers two years apart, Izumi and Shigeru managed with kimonos of nearly the same length. The two children distinguished the ones their father had taken out by the attached cords and put them on as they pleased. Setsuko approached their side again, folding the clothes the children had taken off and tidying them away into the corner of the room.

“Setsu-chan, won’t you change into yours as well?”

Kishimoto ventured. After moving to this boarding house, Kishimoto prepared a change of clothes for Setsuko. He had it specially tailored to fit a woman’s body out of consideration for the heat she endured commuting from Yanaka. Changing into that cool-looking unlined kimono and spending time with him became her greatest joy.

That day, Setsuko hesitated. Kishimoto also noticed this, “That’s right.” “Today you’re with Ichi-chan.”

he rephrased. Setsuko came to Kishimoto’s living room carrying a furoshiki bundle. She untied the furoshiki bundle on her lap, took out the return gift for the prayer beads Kishimoto had given her, and showed it to him.

“I found a good one.” As she said this, what Setsuko placed before Kishimoto were prayer beads crafted with a brown cord, looking exactly like those meant for a man to carry. Compared to the ones he had given, the beads were larger in size and darker in color. The children knew nothing. The voices of the three could be heard joyfully from near the fig tree in the garden. Kishimoto first felt glad for the thoughtful consideration with which Setsuko had secretly gone through such pains to find and bring him those beads.

“What do you think—does it suit me?” Kishimoto said to Setsuko with a laugh. Even the sound of the beads touching as he placed them on his palm felt somehow pleasant to his ears.

When Kishimoto hung Setsuko's gift around his neck, he himself felt a strangely solemn mood come over him. To imagine himself as a monk who kept his hair, the blood surging in his chest felt too raw, and the path he had walked was too deeply stained with sin. Within him there existed almost simultaneously a heart that—even with such prayer beads hung upon his chest—regarded his present life as though it were an illusory dwelling, and a heart where blood surged so fiercely he could not sleep at night.

Ninety

Along the corridor connecting the detached guest room to the main house lay a spot that offered an unobstructed view of the garden. For a while, the children gathered and played where the cool breeze flowed through, but soon all three set out together toward Atagoyama. The cicadas' cries from the large Chinese parasol tree in the garden suddenly rendered the children's room silent.

Kishimoto tidied up Izumi’s desk and invited Setsuko there. He placed on top of the desk the writings he himself had accumulated and showed them to her. What he had wanted Setsuko to read were writings he had addressed to her in lieu of letters—disordered jottings of thoughts that had surfaced in his heart. There were also notes with words like how he wrote such things despite being busy to barely console himself, or how he would write again after working until sweat poured from him like a waterfall. There were some written on a single sheet of paper. There were some written on the edges of small scraps of paper. When he gathered them and placed them before Setsuko, they formed a considerable bulk. At times, even he himself was astonished by his own reckless imaginings—such imaginings would shatter the mental strength that strove to suppress them again and again, bursting forth onto the paper. Among them were parts where he had written about going into town to look for a swimsuit for Setsuko while thinking of taking the children to the beach, imagining the pleasure of soaking in seawater together, and abandoning plans to surprise her after hearing the sea was rough. There were also parts where he had written about recalling Setsuko on the corridor along a tranquil garden when visiting a nearby Zen temple with the children. Among them too were parts where he had written down various states of his heart—things he wanted Setsuko to know and keep—arising from his mental struggles since that winter trip to Isobe.

Setsuko remained silent and motionless, engrossed in reading—as though all her nerves were being absorbed into the paper. At times, Kishimoto stood behind her and gazed at her profile—its striking features like the long hair at her nape and distinctly feminine ears—while peering over to see which parts of what he had wanted her to read she was now reading. “Though I keep thinking how busy I am—how busy I am—I still want to write to you. Though I keep thinking how busy I am—how busy I am—I still continue to think of you. I endured and resolved to see you only twice a month, but now I regret it. The two weeks without seeing you are utterly agonizing. Last night was unbearably stifling—I continued to think of you so much that I couldn’t sleep a wink. At that veranda in Takanawa—in the spot facing the dark garden with bush clover leaves—the short summer night sky under which we had stayed up late together, delighting in each other’s company while being bitten by mosquitoes—once again filled me with melancholy. Such summer nights are filled with a heart waiting for you. I can no longer sleep a single night without thinking of you... The night before last, I dreamed you became a mother for the second time—and when I thought your father was beating me—I woke up. The remnants of tears from a sorrowful dream wet the velvet pillow you sewed and gave me……”

There were also parts where he had written such things.

“Well, have you finished reading it all?”

When he stood behind Setsuko while saying this, she turned her face upward as if gazing at him, eyes brimming with tears. He knew that Setsuko’s tears were tears of joy. He saw those tears flow down her mature cheeks. That afternoon, Kishimoto went before Setsuko and stood looking at her. From a heart concerned about Setsuko’s current circumstances, he asked her.

“Setsu-chan, are you really not lonely being all alone like this?”

“I’m not alone, am I? — There are two of us, aren’t there?”

Setsuko’s answer resonated deeply in Kishimoto’s ears. At that moment, he involuntarily pressed her against his chest where the black prayer beads hung. “Ah—darling.” As if exhaling a deep sigh—yet with utmost earnestness—he spoke those words.

Ninety-One

Leaving behind two pots of morning glories, Setsuko and her brother returned to Yanaka that evening. The next morning, and the morning after that, the morning glories Setsuko had left behind bloomed on the veranda of Kishimoto’s room.

"I'm so happy—so happy I can't stand it. Because—" A letter from Setsuko, written in this unreserved tone, reached Kishimoto in early August. She explained it was something she'd started writing after returning home, sending him a brief yet heartfelt note. She wrote that on the night before her recent visit, she too had awoken repeatedly, unable to sleep properly. She wrote that when one week passed and another loomed, she grew despondent—how interminable even a single week felt. After detailing the circumstances that had delayed the letter's dispatch, she closed with: "I long to see you soon." By mid-August, Kishimoto had written only a third of the travelogue continuation he'd hoped to finish. "I do believe aging brings complex stages of love," he'd once confided to the painter Oka while consoling himself during his exile, "but something like romance—it's unlikely to ever come my way again." Yet here he stood midway through life's journey, ambushed by a terrifying passion that left work neglected and nights sleepless. Resolved to breach these fierce waves of passion surging from within, he crossed that summer's critical "mountain pass."

There were days when cool rain would come and wet the veranda of the detached guest room. The rain often poured in as far as beneath the deep eaves. The corridor leading to the main house could not be traversed without wearing geta. On such days, the mood of his boardinghouse life and his longing for this rain under Paris's arid skies would rise in Kishimoto's heart, quietly returning him to self-reflection. He realized he could not maintain his current relationship with Setsuko much longer. He felt the time had come to retrace their starting point and reconsider everything from its foundation. For the position they found themselves in allowed neither true union with her nor complete separation. The more he loved Setsuko, the more profoundly he felt this. To hope for union with her was utterly impossible for her. If so, could they content themselves as spiritual friends maintaining strict solitude? Even that his passion would not permit. At times he even doubted himself, unable to discern whether he guided Setsuko toward any good or whether they both trod a path of corruption. He had walked stealthily like soundless water through valley depths, carrying his pity for Setsuko as far as he could—hiding it from his brother, sister-in-law, Grandmother, Kume, even his own children. Perhaps it had been easily foreseeable that their path would be blocked.

Ninety-Two

Kishimoto had at last moved beyond his former state of confinement—a cramped existence marked by excessive reserve, endless self-consciousness, and perpetual deference to others—to a point where he could no longer resist moving toward a broader, freer world.

After four years of desperately trying to conceal his secret, a turning point finally began to sprout within Kishimoto’s heart. Since the day he had embarked on his distant wandering journey bearing a dark, dark heart, there had been two occasions when he felt he had emerged into some semblance of light. The first was when, having exhausted his journey in foreign lands, his heart turned back toward his homeland once more. He had cast off his worn-out travel clothes at his Paris lodging as if discarding a red garment. In his heart at that time, he had apparently thought he could bury all the failures of his life. Returning to his homeland was something he could be forgiven for. After a fifty-five-day voyage, he set foot on the land he could never forget even in his dreams. And when he returned to his children’s side and looked around, he found himself still within an invisible prison. He discovered that an unfortunate victim existed within the same prison as himself. The day he saw Setsuko’s heartfelt smile—she who had never laughed—was at least the second time he thought he had emerged into a brighter place. Yet his words, deeds, and thoughts remained bound by his past actions; no matter when, they always ended up colliding with that dark secret in the end. Even as he suffered to atone for his past transgressions, he realized he had made no effort whatsoever to rid himself of his own falsehoods. The act of desperately trying to conceal the dark secret had been for his own sake as much as for Setsuko’s—or so he had once thought, back when their hearts remained closed to one another. But now, he had come to think that not concealing it would instead open a true path forward for her as well.

“If I were to confess everything in front of everyone…”

Kishimoto perceived a voice he had never heard before resonating deep within his ears—a voice that seemed to well up from his very core. If I could tear out this life built on lies by its roots, drag my tormented heart from darkness into light, confess everything before all—the good and bad alike—and declare: This is me, Sukekichi... When his thoughts reached that precipice, Kishimoto found himself wanting to smother this inner voice.

Whether it was built on lies or not—after having practically forced Yoshio-san to agree to that extent—how could I possibly do such a thing now?

When he thought that, he could not help but hesitate. A confession tantamount to self-destruction—he wondered whether the term "confession" truly applied in such circumstances—yet when he considered the terrifying consequences such an act would bring upon himself, hesitation became all the more unavoidable. The time when that would become possible would be when he could truly escape his invisible prison, when he felt he could see the blue skies from his heart, when the long-awaited dawn arrived—even so, mustering the spiritual courage to reach that point was no easy task.

**Ninety-Three**

Kishimoto still could not muster the resolve to lay everything bare there, yet in his attempt to return to his painful starting point and fundamentally reconsider matters, he found himself utterly unable to deny that inner voice. To do this, following the examples of various people who had written confessions, he had come to think of publicly revealing it in the form of a humble work. “If I were to write about *that matter*.” Not only could his former self have never conceived of such a thing, but even his past actions—burning or tearing up and discarding letters from Setsuko in his desperate effort to avoid touching upon “that matter”—would have seemed, in the eyes of his former self, nothing short of an act of madness.

What led Kishimoto to this point was deep affection for Setsuko. To confession.

Kishimoto was sometimes surprised at how he had come to feel this way. The mere fact that his heart had turned in that direction made a new future begin to be felt along the path he walked. It seemed various things were likely to arise ahead. There ahead appeared to lie a demand for true resolution of matters he still could not address. The heart seeking to discard its long-clinging dark secret had already given rise to such yearning even before casting it away. That yearning drove Kishimoto's heart—so prone to fixate on the sorrowful dark past—to turn naturally toward what lay ahead. If the day comes when I write my confession. When he thought of that, he had to listen more carefully to his own heart.

Not only had a light that had never before shone now pierced into the depths of Kishimoto’s spirit in this manner, but even his body—which had been prone to fatigue ever since his return to Japan—had finally begun to move toward recovery around that time. Having returned from a distant foreign land where heat and cold, dryness and humidity, wind and rain, frost and snow, and sunlight each varied in intensity, it took Kishimoto over a year before he felt his body had truly become his own again.

The new autumn air had already permeated the room. With a heart as if he had finally returned to his homeland, he went to the veranda from which he could see the garden, where sunlight filtered through the depths of the leaves. It was a time when even crape myrtle flowers—hot and imbued with a lonely feeling—were in full bloom. Even the color of those flowers strangely stung his eyes. And it evoked a familiar comfort, as if from his homeland.

Ninety-Four September 3rd remained unforgettable for Setsuko. She never failed to commemorate that birthday each year for her own child. "I've caught cold again and rested these four days. Though I shan't see you tomorrow, I'll surely call the day after. It being September 3rd, you know. Not that I couldn't force myself today, but let's endure just this one day. Till the day after tomorrow then." Such a letter arrived from Setsuko at the month's start. By now she wrote Kishimoto with this ease of tone.

“So, the day after tomorrow then.”

Kishimoto repeated the phrase to himself and thought: *She* who had once been barely able to speak, like a stutterer; *she* who had become so pitifully accustomed to the restraint and reserve of one living in shadows; *she* who had pleaded to speak freely at last—had her lips finally loosened enough to let that natural tone emerge?

On the promised day, Kishimoto welcomed Setsuko. If he were to write a confession, he thought he should first speak to Setsuko alone and seek her consent, but he had yet to broach the matter with her. After Setsuko spoke of the news that her sister and brother-in-law would soon return from Russia, “Why do you keep staring at my face like that?” Setsuko asked Kishimoto.

The two-room detached guest quarters contained a study, a guest room, and a tearoom all within the same space. Kishimoto led Setsuko to the brazier where he kept the kettle constantly filled, offered her his favorite hot tea, and as he drank it himself, felt his heart grow truly at ease on those tatami mats. “Since you said you were coming today, I shaved my beard for the first time in ages and waited—when it’s grown out, I don’t really notice, but after shaving it clean and feeling refreshed, I can’t help but agree.” “It feels a shame to leave you alone like this.”

Such jokes from Kishimoto made Setsuko laugh. Kishimoto looked at her with that sentiment. Unbeknownst to him, her very being had ripened like a fragrant fruit. He could discern that astonishingly vivid expression in every aspect of her appearance - in her thickened locks, in her lucent eyes. Though not precisely what Brother Yoshio had said upon returning home - that she'd been viewed by others as little more than "half a person" - when Kishimoto considered the unseen struggles that had somehow sustained her even in that withered state, he felt he could take some small comfort in himself.

“That aside, how many years has it been since our little history began?”

“Hasn’t it been over six years now?” “Oh… So it’s already been over six years, has it?”

Kishimoto exchanged these words with Setsuko, just the two of them. At that moment, he asked Setsuko.

“Setsu, I’ve been wanting to ask you for a long time—when did your ‘Creative Work’ begin? “I know you started earlier than I did.”

“I’ll compile it into a letter and present it to you in time.”

Setsuko answered with downcast eyes.

On that day, Kishimoto had Setsuko help him all day with trivial tasks he deemed appropriate to trouble a woman with. In a nearby town, he selected and bought a suitable cane for his brother Yoshio, who had poor eyesight, and set it aside. He had her take the cane and sent her back to Yanaka.

Ninety-Five “I’ve written down the matter we discussed the other day to show you.” “When I first started coming here, you were truly an intimidating person, Uncle.” “Because every single day, you would just sit silent with that stern face of yours.” “And whenever I mentioned Izumi and the others—even if you’d forbidden something before—you’d scold me with ‘Couldn’t you just do it later?’” “I never understood why that was permitted.” “You see, back then you were this considerate yet fearsome figure, but after I began massaging your shoulders and such, you gradually became less intimidating.” “Not only that—until then, I’d never truly experienced kindness from anyone.” “Not at home, in Negishi, nor at school.” “Everything surrounding me felt like... well, this oppressive force.” “So though it can’t compare to now, even back then I cherished how you treated me more gently than anyone else.” “Until recently, I’d always found men rather unsettling and never tried to understand them, but somehow I feel I’ve started grasping things bit by bit.” “Uncle, from when I first began visiting, you yourself seemed to be wearing down day by day.” “With all your worries and such, you were often lying down, weren’t you?” “Though I desperately wanted to move forward, there was nothing I could do.” “Even before that, I’d never considered what might happen if things progressed further—truly, everything was chaos for a time.” “There were moments when I found you utterly detestable—loathsome even.” “This lasted three whole days once.” “But suddenly, various things—things I’d never noticed before—came into view.” “From then on, while part of me hated you, another part remained bound to you.”

“There were times when hatred reared its head even more strongly, and other times when the opposite occurred.” “And from around when I realized I’d become a mother, both feelings grew deeper still.” “When I heard you were going on that distant journey, I found it strangely bewildering.” “By then it had already become something we couldn’t separate ourselves from.” “Oh, I kept wondering how I could’ve come to feel that way.” “Do you remember that night—when your friend from Motozono-cho sent a rickshaw to fetch you?” “You’d been at some meeting and returned terribly late—one or two o’clock—saying you had good news to share. When I came to you, you sighed deeply and held me tight, murmuring ‘What a pitiful girl.’” “I didn’t understand why either, but I just felt so sad and cried.” “Even now I sometimes recall that night.” “Wasn’t it the next day when you first spoke of your journey?” “By the time you departed for Europe, my hatred had lessened considerably—yet still lingered.” “After you’d left for Kobe, all that transformed into something like compassion.” “And over time, only what I found in you—things no one else possessed—remained within me.” “From then on… I came to truly love you.”

“I still have more to write, but Father is always right there in the parlor. I can’t keep my mind at ease. Jiro-chan also comes over and does nothing but mischief—I can’t write at all. I’ll have to finish next time.”

For the first time, Setsuko had divulged such detailed news. When he read this, countless recognitions welled up in Kishimoto's heart. That what Setsuko called her "Creative Work" had emerged within her so swiftly—whether fortunate or unfortunate—even Kishimoto could not tell; yet through their modest shared history up to that day, he could clearly envision how she had passed through the most tender and impressionable era of a woman's life together with him.

The Setsuko reflected in Kishimoto’s eyes still had not found a place to settle. No one but Kishimoto knew what she aspired to. Her youth was already slipping away. And the responsibility for this lay entirely with him. To withhold from opening a true path for her—even at the cost of everything—felt like a lie, he thought.

Ninety-Six

The peaceful scene before his eyes did nothing but restrain Kishimoto’s heart. The two children had already become fully accustomed to their current life and were spending joyful days together with their father.

“Izumi, let’s play rock-paper-scissors—” Not only did Shigeru, who tried to play with his brother in this manner, have no memory of his mother, but even his older brother Izumi scarcely remembered their deceased mother, so the two children relied solely on their father and considered living with him their greatest happiness. “Rock... Paper... Scissors!” “Paper... show it!” “Paper... show it!” “Grit your teeth and show it!” “Paper… show it!” “How about scissors?”

The playful voices of these two children often arose in the hallway, luring Kishimoto’s heart back to the days of his own boyhood. To these children, Setsuko came once every week without fail, mending tears in their kimonos and hakama trousers, and tending to tasks their father couldn’t manage. The children too had come to often go play as far as Yanaka, looking forward to seeing Grandmother, Uncle Yoshio, Aunt Kayoko, and then Ichiro and Jiro. If only Kishimoto continued as he had been, nothing would cloud these children’s innocent hearts. But that was not all. With just one move of Kishimoto’s making, the repercussions seemed poised to reach everyone close to him. And what returned to him from those repercussions appeared to be nothing but things that pained his own heart.

Recently, Kishimoto received a certain magazine. It featured a religious figure who had lost his wife and remarried. The article drew a comparison between this remarried clergyman and the unmarried Kishimoto. Though Kishimoto had never met the man, the wife he’d lost had once been Kishimoto’s student. Katsuko—who often surfaced in his memories alongside thoughts of his deceased friend Aoki—shared the same surname, hailed from the same hometown, and had attended the same school in Kōjimachi. Given these connections, Kishimoto couldn’t regard the article as entirely about strangers. As he read on, it claimed that from the deceased wife’s perspective, Kishimoto—raising children alone in his boarding house—must have seemed far more dependable than the remarried religious man. It even suggested that Kishimoto’s own wife must have been thanking him from beyond the grave. Before he knew it, Kishimoto flushed crimson. The falseness of his current circumstances, laid bare by such articles, only served to anchor his resolve more deeply in secret.

Kishimoto was utterly torn. A voice asking, "Can you not change your current life over something so trivial?" clashed within his heart with another voice demanding, "Would you destroy the present peace over something so trivial?" The two voices waged war inside him. Amidst these lingering emotions, Kishimoto learned through correspondence from Russia that Setsuko's sister—whose return had long been rumored—was finally coming back home with her husband. Teruko and her husband arrived in Tokyo in October, bringing their two children.

Ninety-Seven

On the day when Teruko and her husband were to visit their uncle after many years, there had been prior notice from Yoshio of Yanaka that they would gather together at Kishimoto’s lodging. Yoshio brought Setsuko and arrived at Atagoshita one step ahead of Teruko and the others. Teruko’s husband—Nakane, who from Kishimoto’s perspective was a nephew by marriage—was a man who had once studied in the Russian capital and had long been immersed in Russian life as a young bureaucrat. When Kishimoto had finished his travels in France and was about to depart the port of Le Havre, he had agonized over whether to choose a sea voyage returning home via South Africa or a train journey crossing the North Sea from England, looping through Northern Europe, and returning via Siberia. His inclination toward the latter route stemmed from a desire deep within his traveler’s heart: to visit Nakane and his wife at the distant edge of the Russian territories, see the cheerful household someone had likened to a “bird’s nest,” and savor Russian tea warmed in a samovar—a respite where he might forget the weariness of his travels.

Kishimoto welcomed Teruko—who had brought two children with her—while recalling such travel sentiments in his heart. “Izumi and Shigeru have grown so much,” said Teruko affectionately. First saying this, Teruko made her child—dressed in Vladivostok-tailored travel clothes—stand in a corner of the detached room, then removed the red hat worn by the younger girl. When called “the sister from Vladivostok”—as she had previously returned to the Takanawa house for childbirth—this reunion seemed all the more joyous even for Izumi and Shigeru. Kishimoto’s children gathered around the young visitors from Russia, appearing fascinated even by the sight of their clothing.

“Setsuko and the others have grown up first, haven’t they?” After making this sisterly remark to Setsuko, Teruko came to greet Kishimoto, bringing her children along. “Well, now I can rest easy—having met you again after so long, Uncle.” Teruko said this with a reminiscent look recalling her journey from Vladivostok. Before long, Nakane too appeared. Nakane arrived last and joined Kishimoto where Yoshio was. “Uncle, the only time I met you was in Asakusa.” “This time marks seven years since I last set foot on Japanese soil.”

Nakane’s returnee’s tone struck Kishimoto’s ears with nostalgia. Teruko then spoke up, “When you returned from France, I thought you might visit us—I waited rather anxiously.” she said while extracting travel souvenirs there. Each confection twisted in patterned paper, every folktale book bearing covers of distinctive design—not one lacked Russia’s essence. All he saw and heard reawakened in Kishimoto’s breast memories of that indelible homecoming day.

“Setsuko, I’m counting on you for the tea service.” Kishimoto told Setsuko as he tried to entertain these rare guests. He couldn’t help contrasting his own homecoming image—that of a solitary figure standing despondently at the entrance of the Takanawa house—with the Nakanes now before him. Even when presenting souvenirs before, he would offer them to his brother’s family with a deferential “Please accept these.” What a stark difference it was, he thought, compared to how Nakane and his wife now distributed travel gifts to Izumi and Shigeru with confident declarations of “We brought these for you.”

Ninety-Eight Until dinner, the relatives gathered in the separate room—adults and children alike—shared a pleasant time together. Of Teruko’s two children, the older brother was named Ken and the younger sister Mariko, though Mariko was not as shy around strangers as Ken. Mariko immediately went to Izumi and Shigeru’s side and joined their childlike games. Ken remained cautiously by Nakane’s side, not leaving his father even when Kishimoto’s children called out “Ken! Ken!”—but soon he dashed out and started wrestling with Shigeru. While observing this scene, Nakane was wholly absorbed in recounting stories of his travels in Russia. Yoshio had called Setsuko to a corner of the room to have her write letters to relatives, while Teruko peered at her sister’s writing or drifted toward the children, moving back and forth between the two adjoining rooms as she looked around her uncle’s boarding house with curiosity.

“The clock that was in Asakusa is hanging here too.” Teruko said.

On the wall of Kishimoto’s room hung an old pillar clock. The octagonal timepiece, moved from Asakusa to Takanawa and then from Takanawa to Atagoshita, still measured the hours with its pendulum’s steady swing, just as it had when Sonoko was alive and well. The unchanging clock face itself seemed to celebrate this reunion of long-separated relatives. For dinner, Kishimoto resolved to serve everyone chicken in honor of the Nakane couple’s homecoming. The maid brought over items from the main house one after another—a dining table, dishes, grill pans, and a lit charcoal brazier. Soon even the large platter heaped with poultry joined the assembled feast.

“Setsuko, I’ll leave this meat to you.” When Kishimoto stood before Setsuko and said this, Teruko came over too. “Then Setsuko and I will handle things here.” With that, she began helping. Setsuko was already seated before the charcoal brazier. Hearing the sizzle of poultry fat melting in the heated pot, the four children started vying for seats around the dining table. “Wait a little longer. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”

Teruko waved her hand to restrain the children. "Setsuko, where should we seat Father?" Teruko asked again, looking at her sister. "It would be better to serve Father's portion on a plate." "Then let's have Father sit here and have the children line up in order afterward." "This table is rather narrow," Setsuko remarked. "If the table's too narrow, I'll just take a separate meal tray for myself," said Kishimoto in his role as host, stepping over briefly to direct them.

“Well then.” “Then shall we do it this way?” said Teruko. “Setsuko and I will sit at this corner. Let’s place a pot on the stand. We’ll eat while it simmers.”

“Uncle, it’s about time you took your seat,” Setsuko said, looking at Kishimoto.

With the preparations completed, Kishimoto went to the room where Yoshio and Nakane were,

“Mr. Yoshio, there’s nothing much to offer, but please do come in.” “Now you too, Mr. Nakane – please.”

Kishimoto interjected.

Ninety-Nine The fat in the pots suspended over two charcoal braziers bubbled vigorously. From the tender-boiled leeks and poultry meat now changing color arose a lively vapor, scattering their savory fragrance throughout the room. “Father, please sit beside me.” When Teruko said this, Yoshio seemed to forget his failing eyesight in his pride over his son-in-law and daughter’s return from abroad.

“Since the pot is a bit far from you, Father, I’ll serve you,” Teruko said, smoothing things over. “Very well,” Yoshio replied, feeling for the dishes with his hand as had become habitual since his eye trouble began, drawing them closer to himself. “Now then, Mr. Nakane,” Kishimoto said, looking toward Nakane seated across from Teruko at the table. “I’ve prepared poultry tonight—thinking you might prefer something like this after returning from abroad.”

“It’s been so long since I’ve dined with everyone,” said Nakane, sitting stiffly in his Western clothes, his knees appearing to pain him.

Kishimoto’s children wore expressions of anticipation, waiting for their father to call out to them. Beside them were Ken, with his father-like eyes, and Mariko, wearing a red ribbon in her hair and beaming, lined up like little birds.

“Ken, do you like chicken?” Izumi asked. “I like it,” Ken answered. “I love this too!” Izumi said again. “Let’s eat!” said Shigeru, grabbing his chopsticks even before his older brother. Joyful mealtime sounds arose here and there. The relatives gathered around the dining table were completely absorbed in chewing the hot leeks and poultry meat.

“Serve Mr. Yoshio another helping,” Kishimoto said to Teruko while stuffing his cheek with a piece of meat. “Here, please have another helping. It’s simmering away nicely,” Teruko said, reaching out toward the pot next to her to demonstrate. “Setsu-chan, you should have some too.” Having said this to Setsuko as well, Kishimoto transferred the pale red pieces of raw poultry meat from the plate into the pot one by one. With the constant back-and-forth of children asking for seconds, those cooking and eating simultaneously found themselves quite busy. “Setsu-chan, please don’t add the leeks.”

"I only get konjac." Such requests unhesitatingly made their way to those tending the pot.

“Mr. Nakane, won’t you please have some more?”

Even when told this by Kishimoto, Nakane would occasionally rest his chopsticks on his knees and appear to be enjoying the sight of these familiar adults and children gathered together rather than eating.

Eventually, everyone finished dinner. The satiated people left the dining table and relaxed in their preferred spots.

“Uncle, once things settle down a bit, I’ll brew some Russian tea for you. Please do visit us too.” “I brought the samovar when I came this time. When you brew tea with that, it’s truly delicious.” The alternating voices of Nakane and his wife somehow enlivened Kishimoto’s boarding house.

The stories of their respective foreign journeys shared among reunited relatives could not possibly be exhausted in a single night. The Nakane couple headed toward their new residence in Shibuya while Yoshio and Setsuko departed for Yanaka; after they had all expressed their thanks and begun taking their leave, Kishimoto saw them off at the entrance together with Izumi and Shigeru. Brothers, obligated nephews, nieces from sisters, nephews and nieces—the atmosphere left behind by this collective group continued pressing on Kishimoto's heart with an oddly powerful force even after everyone had returned home. Profoundly, Kishimoto thought how difficult it was to break through his present circumstances.

One Hundred

“Father—is Setsu-chan our second mother?”

One day, Izumi came to his father’s side and asked. Kishimoto gazed at the face of the child who had posed this question. “Why are you asking such a thing? Has someone been telling you that?” “But Big Sis was asking me!”

With that, Izumi made a troubled face. “You all have only one mother, don’t you?” Kishimoto managed to calm Izumi, yet this child’s question—“second mother?”—pierced his chest more deeply than if anyone else had asked such a thing.

Izumi was now a boy old enough to attend the highest grade of elementary school from this boarding house. At times, while gazing at the children’s faces, Kishimoto would find himself contemplating how Setsuko—who came to assist with their father’s work—must appear in Izumi and the others’ eyes, and how she would linger in their memories as a remnant of their boyhood days. He could not help but compare this to his own childhood recollections. Setsuko was most worried about Izumi and the others. Phrases like “I must consider the day when Izumi and the others grow up” or “I wonder what Izumi and the others will think when they grow up” were words Kishimoto had originally heard from Setsuko’s own mouth around the time he began to entrust his heart to her. On the day when these children grew older and sought to read what everyone else read—if they were to open their father’s foolish writings—if they were to read within them of the relationship between their father and Setsuko—if they were to discover that a single half-brother they had never known existed in this world—the thought made Kishimoto feel he must hide this from his own children before hiding it from anyone else, and he could not help but doubt whether the act of confessing everything openly was truly wise.

On the second Saturday of October, Setsuko came over from Yanaka as usual. Kishimoto still kept the idea of fully revealing his relationship with Setsuko as a single thought within himself, to the extent that he hesitated to even speak to her about it.

“Izumi asked a strange question—” Kishimoto mentioned to Setsuko only that Izumi had come to his side and asked, broaching it at the start of their conversation. “Though it seems the maid told him such things and teased him,” he added. Even Setsuko’s complexion changed uncharacteristically when she heard this. “It must be that maid.” Setsuko obliquely referred to the absent woman and frowned as if to say it had been needless to plant such ideas in an innocent child.

However, Setsuko quickly regained her composure. She resumed the cheerful expression she had worn when coming to see Kishimoto. Whether the time had finally come to reap what the two of them had so diligently sown together, whether their affection had ripened to such an extent, or whether it was because Setsuko had at last emerged from years of apathy and Kishimoto from the exhaustion of his long journey that they had reached this moment of recovery—it was impossible to say which was true. Yet only now, at this very time, was he finally able to break free from his ravaging passion. The deep autumn air, too, had somehow begun to seep into his being.

One Hundred One

“Your hands lie open in the long-fresh grass, ―― The fingertips look through like rosy blooms: Your eyes smile peace. The pasture gleams and glooms

'Neath billowingskies that scatter and amass. Allround our nest, far as the eyecan pass, Are golden kingcup-fields with silver edge Where thecow-parsley skirts the hawthorn-hedge.

'Tis visible silence, still as the hour-glass. Deep in the sun-searched growths the dragon-fly Hangs like a blue thread loosened from the sky: ―― So this wing'd hour is dropt to us from above. Oh! clasp we to our hearts, for deathless dower This closecompanioned inarticulate hour When twofold silence was the song of love.” The above translated poem “If you cast your arms there in the green grass, The fingertips glimpsed through—tinged red like budding flowers—so I liken them, Ah, those smiling gentle eyes! Scatter only to gather once more

Under skies where clouds surge like waves, a meadow brightens and darkens beneath. Here where we two nest, as far as eyes can reach, all lies alike— Golden buttercup flowers; the field's edge silver-edged, Where cow parsley grows, bordering the hawthorn hedge.

Truly visible even to silence's eye, tranquil as a water clock. Sunlight hides amidst concealing grasses; a dragonfly descends solitary from vast skies, as if a single strand of indigo thread had come unraveled, Time's wings too alighted upon them both. Ah, let us draw close, breast to breast—this our eternal treasure, This moment—a vow of beauty too delicate for comparison, "Twofold joined silence becomes our song of love."

The abode of life. What rose in Kishimoto’s breast was this poem once translated by Nakano’s friend. He sat before an old chest holding children’s clothes in the corner of a six-mat room, legs stretched out as he gazed at the damp autumn sky through open shoji screens. Beside him, Setsuko paused her needlework, leaning against the chest in mirrored posture, extending legs clad in white tabi socks—together wearing expressions that recalled the modest history they had traversed side by side, like paired pilgrims.

At last, Kishimoto became master of his own passion. He was no longer troubled by it. He imagined the essence of the poem translated by Nakano’s friend as music flowing from the alignment between those who seek to love and those who seek to be loved. He envisioned it as a profound dance of “life.” He envisioned that dance not as the frenzied “schottische”—which one might call intoxication itself—but rather as the realm of the “tango,” where one hand intertwines fingers with the other’s, the other hand lightly embraces their body, and steps align to dance in utter stillness. At last, he reached a world of love where he could find that music. The need to agonize over doubts like whether scholarship and art could ever truly align with romantic love gradually faded away. Occasionally, Setsuko would take out a comb from her obi right before his eyes, showing such intimacy as to smooth down the hair hanging over her forehead or adjust the shape of her tied-up hair. He could now shift his gaze from her thick, lustrous hair to his books and, while keeping her feminine, supple expression nearby, fully concentrate on his own work.

That day, Setsuko spoke as though she truly needed to begin mentally preparing to enter religious life, and spent the day discussing matters of her future. By the time Setsuko began heading back toward Yanaka, an autumn rain cold enough to feel chilly had arrived. The following day, she sent a letter to Kishimoto explaining that during her return train ride, which coincided with the height of the rain, she had gotten thoroughly drenched, but thanks to this, she had reached the house in Yanaka without much trouble. With all that, her hand hurt so badly that she couldn’t even hold chopsticks during meals, ending up using a spoon in her left hand, but she wrote that after applying oil and resting overnight, it had improved considerably by morning. She also wrote of the stagnant air surrounding her—how she sat within it, unable even to raise her voice, thinking No, no as she felt herself being pulled into her current circumstances—and sighed in her letter that this, too, must be due to her own weakness. At the end of that letter, a few tear-blurred lines of text on the left were also written. "How many hours have I been sitting here since this began. "It has grown dim now—I need nothing more—please, let me love you until my final day..."

102

Once a turning point had sprouted in Kishimoto's heart, he found himself unable to maintain even the peace before his eyes, the transient comfort, or those matters that were socially advantageous and convenient for him. The more forces tried to restrain him, the clearer grew the voice he had discerned within his heart. By late November, he had largely finalized preparations for his work. Having completed both the remaining portion of his travelogue begun in autumn and all other lingering tasks requiring attention, he resolved at last to commence writing his arduous confession. That such writings—even if completed—ought perhaps to be published posthumously... This very thought now rose to restrain him once more.

A colder early winter than the one that had been welcomed the previous year at the house in Takanawa was now approaching the doorstep of the boarding house garden in Atagoshita.

The detached guest room facing northeast, where sunlight only reached in the morning, was especially cold. It was Setsuko who came to the room at the end of the corridor without a maid’s guidance and called out from outside the shoji. At that very moment, Kishimoto was waiting for her, intending to speak about the resolution he had made. As was her habit, Setsuko first peeked toward where Kishimoto was from the direction of the children’s room before undoing the strings of her coat. The garden-facing side of Kishimoto’s room was entirely shoji screens. The wooden ceiling that somehow seemed abruptly higher, the fly-specked walls that remained—none failed to evoke the arrival of early winter, but it was particularly the room’s shoji screens that made one feel it. After the soot-darkened ones were repapered in white, they suddenly became bright as well. By the shoji screens that had grown more familiar with the arrival of early winter, Kishimoto attempted to seek Setsuko’s consent after telling her of his intention to write a confession. The notion of exposing the secret they had kept so meticulously hidden until that day did not startle Setsuko nearly as much as Kishimoto had anticipated. Moreover, in her characteristic straightforward manner, she expressed agreement with Kishimoto’s resolution.

“If we just remain silent, it would stay unknown forever, but—” said Setsuko. “With no one left to badger me about becoming a bride anymore, it might actually be better.” Kishimoto kept gazing at Setsuko’s face and said nothing for a while.

“It’s no good because you immediately take it that way—I’m not just thinking about such immediate things,” said Kishimoto. Had he not returned from his journey and conceived a love for Setsuko, perhaps he would never have awakened to this extent. From that heart, he continued speaking, “I intend to have my own children read it when they’ve grown up. “I’ve resolved not to conceal things half-heartedly, you know. “I’ve truly wanted my own children to know what kind of man your grandfather was…”

103 “At your house too—has Grandmother already started using the hibachi?”

Kishimoto began to say to Setsuko and went to look at the earthen hibachi he had warmed and placed in the children’s room. He pulled it to his room and placed it beside the north-facing shoji. “Thinking the children would come home cold from school, I prepared the hibachi today.” Kishimoto declared as he demonstrated, then warmed Setsuko’s body—always quick to feel winter’s chill. “Setsuko, show me your injured hand.” “Starting next year, I want to make healing your hand one of my tasks.”

Told by Kishimoto, Setsuko placed her hand—long unable to handle water—on top of the hibachi's quilt to show him. The disease afflicting her skin had already spread across her entire palm, with blood sometimes flowing from around her hypersensitive fingers. "What a terrible state your hand is in," said Kishimoto. "To leave it neglected until it got this bad... Well, we'll have a good doctor examine it." Setsuko gazed at her own palm before finally withdrawing it into the futon. Kishimoto's talk of wanting to start sending her to the hospital around New Year's next year pleased her immensely. To that end, he intended to discontinue her weekly assistance entirely, have her come only when needed, and tried to comfort her by saying he wanted her to devote herself wholeheartedly to treating her hand.

At that moment, Setsuko—as if recalling something—teared up while warming herself at the hibachi. "I’m often told that by Father at home—how after going to Atagoshita and returning home, I become like a hollow shell for days." "You mustn’t just lie around feeling miserable." "Ever since Sister came back, Father’s manner has grown even stranger." "I was told things…as if I weren’t human…"

“It doesn’t matter what they say—there’s no point dwelling on such things. Cast off that bitter resentment.” “——” “That’s where your penitent heart should reside, no? You needn’t retreat to monasteries or convents—faith exists without such extremes. Why not consider our Yanaka house a sanctuary already? If resistance proves futile, abandon resentment and press onward—that’s my counsel.”

“…………” “You and I have come this far.” “We’ve no choice but to see this through to the end.” “Can we truly manage this while skulking like outcasts?” “Shouldn’t we consider living more boldly—”

Once the children returned from school, the two of them no longer spoke of such matters. Setsuko’s willing consent served to further solidify Kishimoto’s resolve. That day, after Setsuko had returned home, Kishimoto tried to recall the words she had left behind. “I’ve been able to wait three years already…… I’ll wait however long it takes……”

104

March of the following year arrived.

As Kishimoto was finally about to begin preparations for writing the confession he had resolved to make, by the time he attempted to settle the small tasks that still remained even then, his surroundings had already begun changing in various ways. Nakane, who had established a new residence in Shibuya, left only his wife and children in that house and once again departed abruptly for the Russian territories. Kishimoto, who had been staying with Aiko in Osaka—the youngest daughter, Kimiko, whom Kishimoto had taken in to raise—had returned to Atagoshita. With the addition of Kimiko, Kishimoto found himself lodging with three children in tow.

At the Yanaka house, Setsuko's mother had contracted the prevalent influenza and had since taken completely to her bed.

Kayoko’s illness showed no signs of improvement and seemed to grow gradually worse. Kishimoto not only saw this for himself when he visited but also learned of it through various reports from Yanaka— Through Ichiro’s account when he came to borrow a thermometer with Setsuko’s letter. Through Teruko’s account when she would stop by on her way back from Yanaka to relay updates about Kayoko’s condition. Kishimoto began worrying about the patient and grew anxious for Setsuko too, who was tending to her nursing duties day and night. It was around the nineteenth of the previous month that word had come from Setsuko saying she had hardly rested at all for three nights now.

“It is dawn. Just now, Grandmother relieved the masseur, so I came downstairs. I’m writing this in the brief moment while the rice cooks—” The state of mind Kishimoto had felt upon reading Setsuko’s letter lingered within him. He could picture her—rousing the doctor’s house at three on a frigid February night, her younger brother in tow. At the bedside of that chest-racked patient, even helping them turn slightly required her aid—yet there she was, exhausting herself in nursing while begging him not to worry; there she stood before an inkstone frozen solid in the bitter cold, still trying to share that dawn’s fragile mood through words. All this Kishimoto saw clearly in his mind.

By the tenth day of the month, my sister-in-law’s illness had been given the name chest pus. Due to the doctor’s recommendation, it had reached the point where they had to select an appropriate hospital and perform surgery; Yoshio came to Atagoshita to discuss this matter. At the time when the farewell party for Nakane, who was heading to the Russian territories, was held at the Komagata eel restaurant at the end of the previous year, my sister-in-law was still full of life. Kishimoto tried mentioning that matter before his brother.

In the middle of their discussion, Yoshio lowered his voice and, “That business where we made everyone worry might be cursing Kayoko’s illness too, I tell ya.” “Our Grandmother’s that sort of person—she won’t come out and say things plain.” “She won’t say it plain—but old folks being old folks—they’ve got this air like ‘If Kayoko hadn’t left the hometown, she’d never have caught this sickness,’ I tell ya.” Yoshio himself seemed on the brink of voicing it aloud. At that moment, Kishimoto recalled a hospital frequented by a doctor he’d long known, and proposed having Hiro Tanabe—the son of Kishimoto’s benefactor, who had deep ties to that doctor—properly discuss arrangements to admit Kayoko as soon as possible. He promised his brother he’d go see Hiro right away.

By that time, Yoshio’s eyes had improved enough that he could visit Kishimoto’s room alone without assistance and make his way back down the corridor by himself. Kishimoto went out to see Yoshio off to the main house entrance. At the moment of parting, Yoshio muttered half to himself,

"But what a convenient expedient." With these brusque words, he spoke.

105 It was three or four days later that Kayoko, who had been ill at the Yanaka house, was moved to a hospital near Izumibashi. On the day of her hospitalization, Kayoko rode in a palanquin while Teruko and Setsuko followed by rickshaw—Kishimoto only learned this afterward. He also heard that the attending nurse was from their shared hometown and that the patient appeared greatly relieved.

One day, after Kishimoto had sent his three children off to school and was sitting alone at his desk in his room, Setsuko came to visit at an unexpected moment. She had left home saying she was going to the hospital as usual, directed her steps toward Atagoshita, and stopped by briefly to see Kishimoto. She appeared to have come to Kishimoto’s side to find a moment to exhale a mere breath—to escape from a mind that had to remain tense in resistance against the fatigue of countless sleepless nights spent nursing and the worry over her mother’s illness.

“I was worried about you… If you don’t get any rest for so many nights, you’ll break down later.”

Kishimoto said and gazed at Setsuko’s face, which bore a pained look from intense, deep-seated exhaustion. At times, a faint crimson would rise to her pallid cheeks, rendering her expression heartrendingly keen.

“But since you started going to the hospital, you must have found some relief——” Kishimoto said solicitously. “That’s just it—if even I’m not there, Mother becomes so fretful… And at night she grows terribly lonely.” “So I’ve taken to staying by Mother’s side.” “Couldn’t Teruko relieve you sometimes?” “Yes, Sister does come to help, but she has her own children to mind.” “When crisis strikes in our household, there’s truly no one dependable to rely on…”

Having said this, Setsuko inserted her hand into her obi and looked down. “Setsu, how about it? Is your ‘Creative Work’ proving useful in times like these?” “It’s as if I’m sustained by that strength alone…” Setsuko said as if to demonstrate and let out a deep breath. Before long, Setsuko began to tell Kishimoto about her own child—the news she had obtained from that female doctor. When the conversation turned to that child, she seemed to forget everything else. She secretly promised the female doctor that she would meet her child when the time was right—without her father’s knowledge—and bought a children’s pictorial magazine to entrust to the doctor for discreet delivery to the child, and had Kishimoto listen to the doctor’s account that the child had already begun writing letters and was seen as promising by the foster parents.

For a while, Setsuko had lost track of time at Kishimoto’s side, absorbed in talk of her own child. “Speaking of which, you must go to the hospital now,” Kishimoto urged her. “Mother must be waiting for you.” It fell to Kishimoto to prompt Setsuko. His chest swelled with concern—he wanted desperately to strengthen her so she wouldn’t collapse. “Here, drink some wine,” he said abruptly, rising to approach the tea cabinet in the room’s corner. He retrieved a bottle of Bordeaux. Then he made the severely exhausted Setsuko drink that fragrant stimulant—wine he himself had bought and stored away to forget his work fatigue.

106

Worrying about the situation at the hospital and to visit his sister-in-law, who had been hospitalized for about six days, Kishimoto left his lodgings in Atagoshita. He went by train to Izumibashi, and when he visited the hospital, there it stood—the remains of an old, large building that Kishimoto himself recognized. It was still early morning, and men and women seeking medical treatment had gathered by the stone pillars at the entrance. The sister-in-law's hospital room lay at the end of a long hospital-style corridor connecting several buildings. Through the kindness of a doctor who frequented this hospital, an available space in a pediatric ward room had been lent to her. In the room with a black placard bearing Kishimoto Kayoko's name stood a single bed placed against the wall. On it lay his sister-in-law, so ill and emaciated she was nearly unrecognizable.

“Oh, Uncle?” The sister-in-law said upon seeing Kishimoto, who had come to visit. In the room was only the sister-in-law; no attendants were to be seen. “Sister, are you alone?” Kishimoto asked.

“Last night, Setsu also seemed to have some business and went home,” Kayoko said with feigned loneliness. The sister-in-law remained lucid. Kishimoto learned from both the patient herself and the attending nurse making rounds that surgery still hadn’t been performed. He had already participated in medical consultations where they discussed the risks of operating on someone so weakened. “Nurse, Uncle has come visiting—please prepare some tea for him.”

There were times when the sister-in-law, fretting on her sickbed, appeared to regain some vigor—enough to try wiping her sticky mouth with a scrap of paper kept by her pillow. For a while, Kishimoto sat beside the sickbed watching the patient's face. The sister-in-law reflected in his eyes seemed someone who would never return to the Yanaka home. The sight of her lying there against walls resembling an old hospital room stirred a lonely feeling. Near one window sat pots of indoor-blooming plants; these were clearly what Setsuko had bought and brought to comfort the patient.

Setsuko still had not come from Yanaka. Kishimoto spoon-fed ice from the bedside container when requested by his sister-in-law and occasionally went to open the stuffy windowpane. Sunlight lingered outside around March twentieth. Near the window grew red peony buds catching Kishimoto’s eye. Spring had arrived. Patients strolled cheerfully through various parts of the garden. Standing by that window now brought back memories of emotions he’d harbored abroad—why Yoshio had concealed their secret even from his sister-in-law; why Setsuko never confessed solely to her mother despite Yoshio’s reasoning. He also recalled resolving during his homeward voyage that if he ever saw Japan again, he would at least confess everything to his sister-in-law and beg forgiveness.

With that resolve, Kishimoto looked toward the sickbed. He who had resolved to lay everything bare before all—what could he possibly hide from a dying woman? After all, his sister-in-law was beyond saving; he must speak now while this patient still retained her lucidity—this thought urged him on incessantly. At that moment, he worried a nurse might suddenly open the door. Time and again, he paced by the patient's bedside, intending to kneel.

107

“To hide things from someone dying… There’s no such principle.”

With these thoughts, Kishimoto exited the hospital gate. In the end, he left without uttering the confession he had intended, merely spending time nursing at his sister-in-law's side before departing the hospital room. Why couldn't the truth pass his lips? As he pondered this, he let out a solitary sigh after exiting through the hospital gates. Kishimoto returned to Atagoshita near noon, yet even after retreating to his room, the matter clung to his heart for half a day. When night fell and silence enveloped the detached quarters, the weight of it pressed upon him all the more intensely. Even with both the patient's consent and her family's approval, should the attending physician—still hesitating over potential complications—proceed with surgery now, this might already be a moment when opportunity had slipped away. Kishimoto concluded this was no time for indecision. From when his three children sank into sleep, he abruptly resolved himself and began writing a letter addressed to his sister-in-law.

“Please read this letter on your hospital bed—” With such an opening, he wrote each phrase as concisely and briefly as possible for the patient to read. He sought satisfaction solely in writing down this apology he had concealed from his sister-in-law until now. The letter he labored to keep short took until around two o’clock in the morning.

The next morning, Kishimoto slipped that into his coat pocket and headed for the hospital once more. By chance, he arrived at his sister-in-law's hospital room just as Setsuko was attending to her mother. The sister-in-law, observed at Setsuko's side now, displayed far more of a patient's willfulness than when he had seen her alone the previous day - yet here too emerged an intimacy befitting parent and child. Against yesterday's desolate hospital room now stood this gray space where nothing drew the eye save a single potted plant by the window; within it, Setsuko's figure - dressed with studied plainness as she nursed her mother - appeared all the more distinctly womanly.

“Hmm, Setsu-chan’s reading something, isn’t she?” Kishimoto went and stood looking in front of the cupboard in the corner of the room. What appeared to be Setsuko’s diversion while spending nights at the hospital nursing her mother—a dog-eared copy of Rousseau’s *Confessions* with a page left folded—lay atop the cupboard. For some time, Kishimoto remained in that hospital room. He visited an acquainted doctor at the medical office to make a request about the patient before returning. He meant to leave the letter he carried in his pocket for his sister-in-law, having her read it quietly later. With this resolve, he called Setsuko—who had been at her mother’s side—briefly out of the room. Beyond lay another corridor slightly removed from the long wooden floor where nurses passed through. Kishimoto stood with Setsuko by a tall pillar where the glass door of the facing corridor was visible, and spoke of the letter he had written and brought.

“After all, it was better you wrote it down. I couldn’t have said it out loud.” Setsuko said, and as if suddenly drawn into deep thought, stood gazing through the glass door.

“Well, let’s go.” When Kishimoto tried to lead Setsuko toward the hospital room, even she couldn’t suppress a flustered look from crossing her face. Setsuko followed Kishimoto into the hospital room and immediately went to the window. While Kishimoto stood by the patient’s side keeping watch, Setsuko was already beginning to tear up at the window.

“Sister, I wrote this letter intending for you to read it. Please take a look at this later…”

Leaving behind these words, a deeply apologetic bow, and the letter, Kishimoto soon left the hospital room.

108

It was the evening of that day.

Kishimoto had returned to Atagoshita and was summoned to the boarding house’s telephone.

“Dad, a call from the hospital.” Izumi and Shigeru called out to each other, both gathering by the telephone with worried expressions. Kishimoto learned through that phone call that his sister-in-law’s surgery had taken place in the afternoon. The voice on the other end was Setsuko’s, who informed him from the hospital about matters such as the postoperative patient resting in exhaustion and her father having now come from Yanaka. “Did Sister see the letter I left this morning?” Kishimoto asked over the phone.

“She didn’t see it,” came Setsuko’s voice. “Ah... So she didn’t see it—” “Since she asked me to keep it safe, I’ve been holding onto it.”

And again in Setsuko’s voice. After leaving the telephone, Kishimoto returned to his room while regretting that his feelings hadn’t fully reached his sister-in-law. However, it was from the time Kishimoto wrote the letter to his sister-in-law that he truly resolved to publicly confess what he had done for his own sake and seriously began preparing for it. These were not Setsuko’s words, but if one were to remain silent, the matter could be kept hidden. By deliberately confessing my own foolishness like this, what will come of it? This thought had time and again failed to restrain Kishimoto. If Minsuke and his wife in Taiwan or Aiko and her husband in Osaka were to find out about this— If there were a time when it reached even the ears of Sonoko’s birth family living far away in Hokkaido. Even merely considering people who had no direct connection to his own actions was enough to bring him to this state. Each time, Kishimoto’s spiritual courage was crushed, and there had been more than one or two occasions when he tried to abandon his resolutions. The act of writing the letter to his sister-in-law drew actual movement from this Kishimoto. At last, he had finally begun to feel he could act on his own will. He anticipated the ridicule that would converge upon him from all directions. He anticipated condemnation. In some cases, he even anticipated being socially ostracized. As a result, he might have to withdraw from the academic and artistic world he had inhabited for many years—

A terribly sad storm of memories pressed relentlessly against Kishimoto’s chest. The anguished Setsuko of years past—her desperate plea of “Uncle, what will you do with me?”; her silent torment under the weight of secret guilt; the dark shadow across her face that conjured images of drowned pregnant women washed ashore—all these memories flickered vividly before his eyes once more. It was that terrifying specter of “death” on Setsuko’s face that had once driven him to suicide’s brink. From that darkness arose his resolve: to embark on a distant journey, saving her from ruin while attempting his own salvation. To deceive his brother, deceive his sister-in-law, deceive relatives and friends, deceive society itself—even fleeing the nation under the pretense of foreign study—all this too had sprung from that source. To lay bare his relationship with Setsuko demanded starting from its tainted origin. Yet when the moment came to drag his shame into light, Kishimoto faltered again and again.

109

The sister-in-law’s condition, declining day by day, defied both the doctor’s strenuous efforts and Setsuko’s devoted nursing—ultimately proving powerless to alter it. About ten days after the surgery, it had become nothing but waiting for the patient’s death. Today the call might come from the hospital, or perhaps tomorrow—Kishimoto, staying at his boarding house, speculated about this with his three children.

With the arrival of April, Setsuko sent word that her mother’s condition had taken a sudden turn. Upon hearing that, Kishimoto hurried toward the hospital. That day, instead of taking the train, they went by rickshaw, and on the way his sister-in-law purchased handkerchiefs and other items for all the affiliated nurses. From the beginning, Brother Yoshio had disliked placing his sister-in-law in a hospital built for charitable purposes. But there was also a doctor there with whom Kishimoto was acquainted, and his sister-in-law was treated almost like an honored guest. In Kishimoto’s mind, he intended to take full responsibility for his sister-in-law’s hospitalization himself so Brother Yoshio wouldn’t need to worry. He also considered this an expression of gratitude toward his sister-in-law.

Setsuko, her face tired from nursing and swollen from crying, waited for Kishimoto by the hospital room. When Kishimoto joined her at the patient’s side, Yoshio and Teruko too hurriedly gathered. Death had already begun to rise upon his sister-in-law’s body. Those large eyes that stared vacantly could barely distinguish Kishimoto from others. The ceaseless ragged breathing of the patient and sounds of doctors and nurses entering and leaving somehow made one feel death was near.

From Yanaka came Grandmother, bringing Ichiro and Jiro to bid their farewells. “Jiro, come closer.”

Teruko added. “Mother, it’s Jiro.” Setsuko leaned close to her mother’s ear and said. “Can you see Jiro clearly?”

“Ah… I can see.” “You came all this way too, Jiro.”

In labored breaths, his sister-in-law spoke and stretched her emaciated hand toward Jiro. Grandmother remained kneeling beside her, gazing at her own dying daughter while pressing her palms together. By the time Kishimoto went out into the corridor to find the hospital’s young assistant, daylight had already faded. Beyond the tall glass door, darkness loomed thick as impending rain.

Sobbing, Ichiro emerged from the hospital room and, together with Jiro, was led by Grandmother down the long corridor, departing before anyone else. Before long, Kishimoto was joined by Hiro of the Tanabe family at the patient’s side. Among Kishimoto’s relatives, those not gathered there were Teruko’s husband, who had gone to Harbin; his elder brother Minsuke in Taiwan; and Aiko in Osaka. “Is Uncle here?” Kishimoto caught his sister-in-law’s voice amidst the family members gathered around the sickbed. The sister-in-law tried to say something more, but her voice turned into labored breathing. Kishimoto wondered if that was his sister-in-law’s final farewell.

110 Setsuko's mother passed away after twenty-two days at the hospital. Though entrusting even her remains' disposition to the hospital went against Kishimoto's wishes, its regulations dictated that those dying within its wards would be sent directly from hospital to crematorium—their bones later returned to relatives through procedures fully managed by staff. Kishimoto learned of his sister-in-law's remains being sent for cremation while staying in Atagoshita. From that day onward, he commenced drafting his confession.

The narrowing of his world had already begun to weigh upon Kishimoto, even before he reached the point of publishing those foolish writings. After returning to Japan, Kishimoto had been in charge of lectures totaling about two hours a week at a certain private university. Using his writing work becoming busy as an excuse, he discreetly refrained from giving lectures. In various places, there were gatherings of comrades and other kinds of meetings. He had come to refrain from attending such gatherings as well. His resolution had already made himself feel socially constrained in this way. Nevertheless, he discarded the Kishimoto Sekichi of the past and, intending to return to his former self as a mere student, attempted to venture out into a brighter, freer world. The time had come to leave the invisible prison without telling anyone. This thought delighted him. He recalled the time when he had ended that long wandering journey and returned to his homeland. He recalled having likened his unbearable homesickness to the heart of a sailor enduring a long voyage. He recalled having thought that the sailor’s heart—which longed to prostrate himself on the land and kiss the beloved soil—was entirely akin to his own. Now, truly, that time had come. This thought, too, delighted him.

When that time came, the world of love that Kishimoto had reached was quite distant from where it had begun—the suffering of sin.

“When we two burn in silent stillness, all worldly things pass before our eyes.” This was the poem through which Setsuko conveyed her recent state of mind. She possessed all of Kishimoto, and Kishimoto possessed all of her. Yet neither truly possessed anything. Kishimoto now felt he could place Setsuko anywhere. He believed he had nurtured her until her spirit could stand independently. The Setsuko he had perpetually regarded as youthful had already reached twenty-six. If her future aspiration lay in religious life, he resolved to continue supporting her as he always had—ensuring she wanted for neither food nor clothing—and to somehow help her realize that wish.

111 Had Kishimoto’s heartfelt intention in writing that letter and bringing it all the way to the hospital ultimately failed to reach his sister-in-law? Only after her death did he learn this was not so. Before Yoshio left for their hometown carrying his wife’s remains, words had spilled from his brother’s lips: “A letter came from Uncle—it mustn’t be seen by others. Burn it.” These were reportedly her final instructions. When he considered this, Kishimoto found solace in knowing his feelings had indeed reached her—if only through this bitter revelation—and comforted himself alone.

Kishimoto intended to leave the invisible dark prison without even telling his brother Yoshio. At the moment he resolved not to abandon Setsuko even if it meant defying his brother’s will, Kishimoto had already come to feel he stood at the crossroads of parting ways with him. Whenever he contemplated their strange fate, Kishimoto often found himself thinking of Setsuko herself. That a woman like Setsuko had appeared midway through his lonely life was already mysterious enough to him; yet her heart’s attachment—having found in him what she had long sought—stood as another mystery altogether. Had Kishimoto found the object of his sin in someone of a different temperament, they might not have hated him as Setsuko did—but neither might they have clung to him as she did. That Setsuko kept waiting for him even during his three-year journey revealed a woman’s heart he was witnessing for the first time. Without that constancy, those depressive episodes would never have arisen within her upon their reunion; and without those depressive episodes, perhaps Kishimoto would never have approached her again. Because of Setsuko, Kishimoto had come to know such anguish. Because of Setsuko, Kishimoto had come to feel such profound pity. Sin, journey, even the sorrow of entrusting each other with their entire lives—all had indeed arisen with Setsuko herself as their focal point. Kishimoto deeply regretted that his actions were summarily judged by people akin to doctors who tried diagnosing only the illness without scrutinizing the patient’s individuality.

"After all, it's just what humans do." Kishimoto would utter this as if casting himself into the void, then often sigh alone.

However, Kishimoto intended to wait until the day his confession was published before writing a letter to his brother Yoshio. He had resolved to willingly accept disownment and demonstrate contrition—just as he was contemplating this—when Yoshio unexpectedly came to visit him one day. Yoshio had finished holding his sister-in-law’s funeral in their hometown and had recently returned to Tokyo around this time. This brother Yoshio arrived at Kishimoto’s lodging bringing a newly arisen marriage proposal for Setsuko.

112

“Well.” “This seems like an excellent prospect.” “But along with it comes something rather peculiar here.”

With that, Yoshio first brought up the matter of Setsuko’s marriage proposal, then reseated himself before Kishimoto. Setsuko’s marriage proposal had naturally reached the time when it should have arisen. Until then, such proposals had not been entirely absent; not only had Setsuko firmly refused each time, but her mother—the sister-in-law who had not wished to let her daughter go from her side—had in most cases sided with Setsuko and prevented the marriage arrangements from being finalized. That sister-in-law was no longer in this world; Teruko, who worried about quickly securing her younger sister’s future, was now present; and moreover, to those unaware of how Kishimoto had labored both covertly and overtly to sustain Setsuko, she appeared a woman who had regained such vigor that it would be a shame to leave her alone. She was no longer a "ghost" nor a "cripple."

“We won’t understand unless we hash out the details—” Yoshio began in his trademark bulldozing tone. “Fuse dropped by the other day—thick as thieves with me, that one—and says to me: ‘Heard you’ve still got an unmarried daughter on your hands—care to pass her along?’” “When I told him ‘Pass her along? It’s not that simple,’ he goes ‘Fine then—I’ll play matchmaker myself.’” “So there we were—them wanting to take her off our hands, us ready to hand her over—that’s how negotiations started.” “Turns out their family’s sitting on fifty thousand yen at minimum.” “Better yet—Fuse swears they won’t dig into our side of things one bit.” “You won’t find a sweeter setup than this.” “Setsuko’s no spring chicken—with an offer this good, I’d pack her off tomorrow if I could! But she won’t bite.” “Whole mess of complications there—maybe I pushed too hard myself—but get this: last night something felt off about her.” “Heard her rustling around with luggage till all hours.” “Grandmother’s fit to burst thinking she might bolt.” “Then this queer business—Grandmother gave Ichiro a fiver for errands, left it on the long hibachi plain as day... Poof! Gone.” “Ichiro claims he never touched it—Grandmother swears she left it there—can’t picture Setsuko filching it... but if you start wondering...”

“Setsuko isn’t that kind of person,” Kishimoto interrupted his brother’s words. “She of all people would never take anything, even if leaving things behind.” “Well, let’s set that aside—” Yoshio continued. “Given her state, it’s completely unmanageable. This morning I called Nakane and had Teruko come too. Even if Teruko comes, I don’t know if Setsuko will calm down—I left it as is and came to you. When I wondered what Setsuko would say—the fool! Calling this good proposal a false marriage. What’s this ‘false marriage’? Everyone gets married that way. When Nakane took Teruko, they’d never even seen my daughter. Didn’t know Teruko either. Still, marrying made them build a happy home as you see. Anyone looking would call them a perfect couple. Any woman born must marry today. If not, she’s a cripple. My hometown has hundreds of houses—not one unmarried woman. In the whole village, only one woman never married. Just Oshimobasan lived alone her whole life. That’s all. See? Not marrying means being unfit for human company.”

“She has to get married at least once.” “If she goes once and leaves afterward, even that would be acceptable.” “There’s no rule saying she can’t go even once, I tell ya.” “For example—when we sent out notifications about Kayoko’s death—on the back of this postcard where Tanabe Hiroshi is listed alongside Kishimoto Sutehiko as family representatives—even if you go to the countryside, you’re immediately asked whether this Tanabe Hiroshi is Setsuko’s husband or something.” “That’s just how society is, I tell ya.”

“So, Brother, what do you intend to do?” Kishimoto asked. “So even tomorrow, call Setsuko over to your place, I tell ya, and I want you to properly persuade her too,” said Yoshio.

“I cannot be the one to recommend that.”

Kishimoto answered simply. Upon hearing that, Yoshio attempted to continue speaking.

113

Yoshio looked around his brother’s room and continued speaking. “The fact you’re still unmarried affects Setsuko too, I tell ya.” “It’s like centrifugal force—you’re pullin’ her sideways without meanin’ to, I tell ya.” “Setsuko herself once thought about marryin’, y’know.” “While you were off in France, we even had her take one o’ them marriage meeting photos, I tell ya.” “Truth be told, we meant to marry her off proper while you were still away travelin’.” “Lately she’s been actin’ like she wants to ask ‘bout that child she bore.” “Look—remember that nurse who helped us with... you know.” “That nurse works as a hospital assistant now, comes ‘round my place sometimes, I tell ya.” “Seems to me Setsuko’s tryin’ to wheedle somethin’ ‘bout the kid outta her.” “If she hears that kinda talk careless-like, we’re done for.” “Forbidden!” “Forbidden!” “So I made damn sure that nurse keeps her mouth shut.” “Now if our Taiwan brother had a Tokyo house ‘bout now, I’d pack Setsuko off there quick.” “Seems the wisest course to me.” “Either way, this situation’s too dangerous to let lie.” “Setsuko last night—looked ready to make some awful mistake any second, I tell ya.” “When you think on it, every story’s got two sides, don’t it?” “Last year when our Taiwan brother visited—remember how he went on ‘bout you? ‘Sutehiko’s the steady one,’ he said. ‘Most reliable of all us brothers,’ I tell ya.”

“You, the most reliable one—even you have things our elder brother doesn’t know about, I tell ya.” “I found it absurd at that moment.” “I found it absurd how my elder brother could say that and remain oblivious.” “However, I think of the Kishimoto household.” “When I consider the honor of our ancestral Kishimoto household—regardless of the substance—if we uphold Kishimoto Sutehiko’s name, people will remain none the wiser, the family name stays untainted, and we won’t disgrace ourselves before our ancestors, I tell ya.” “I’m thinking on that grand a scale.” “Compared to the honor of the Kishimoto household, a single mistake by Setsuko is nothing.” “In fact, I’d rather there be a mistake in that sort of thing—that’s how I see it.” “That’s how seriously I take the matter of us Kishimoto brothers’ welfare.”

Yoshio’s voice gradually grew louder, echoing from the detached room toward the main house’s sitting room. Until that moment, Kishimoto had been listening to his brother with his head bowed, but he now realized he intended to keep his secret even from this brother. He had even resolved to eventually face his brother’s disownment. He voluntarily sought to assume the position of the defendant. He tried to redirect his brother’s conversation—which had come about Setsuko’s marriage proposal—onto himself.

“Brother, you probably don’t fully know what happened when I went on my journey—” Kishimoto began. “If there hadn’t been children back home, I had no intention of ever seeing you again, Brother.”

“Ha! If that’s what you’re bringing up—” Yoshio glared fiercely at his brother, “First off—entrusting your child to others and going abroad without even meeting those left in charge of the house—that’s something no one with common sense would do! What were you thinking, leaving your child in Kobe before Kayo even came from the countryside? ‘Mr. Sute’s still in Kobe!’—Kayo and the others came out and were stunned when they saw.”

“It’s only natural your wife was angered.” “If I were to speak of that time—I was still in Nagoya when I learned of your misconduct.” “Then I came to Tokyo and saw.” “Kayo pulled at my sleeve and said, ‘Setsuko’s behavior is truly strange—no matter how we ask her, she just keeps crying. This isn’t ordinary. If you say something careless again, who knows what might happen!’” “So I told Kayo, ‘Understood, understood! Don’t you come out here! Don’t you say a thing!’” “By that point—you—Setsuko was already like this—”

“No—even without hearing that story, I too had already resolved to die once.”

“Well, given it’s you, there must’ve been such things—yes, must’ve been—” “I too have children to consider and have returned to the country without protest, but regarding this matter, I believe I have done everything within my power up to this day.” “In that regard, there’s nothing to criticize, I tell ya. "In that regard, it’s flawless." “Since you once resolved to die, didn’t this matter conclude at that time?” “The way you dwell on things like that—that’s just your nature.” “That’s precisely where someone like you would fixate on scholarly pursuits.” “Well, even I don’t fail to understand your feelings.” "The sentiment of you writing to me from the ship in Hong Kong—a letter you couldn’t even write when departing Kobe—is something I understand." “It’s precisely because I understand that sentiment that I took responsibility for your misconduct.” “When you returned from France again and refused all greeters, arriving alone and forlorn at Shinagawa—I saw that clearly.” “Well, sure, if you call it misconduct, then it’s misconduct, but—the way you fret over it like this seems downright laughable to someone like me.” “Everyone does things like this—they’re all doing similar things—what’s the big deal about something like this?”

114

An elder brother determined to thoroughly chastise his younger sibling, and a younger brother who sat with bowed head resignedly accepting the reproach—listening with few words—faced each other across the room. Each time an unnameable shudder coursed through his body, Kishimoto became aware of his own pallor spreading across his features. Moreover, Kishimoto’s uncharacteristic demeanor—voluntarily laying bare vulnerabilities so raw that even glancing references would wound him—had begun to kindle suspicion in Yoshio.

Yoshio gazed curiously at Kishimoto’s face—a face that had never before spoken of having once resolved to die over this matter—and, “I may not match you in scholarly matters, but as a human being, I consider myself far above someone like you.” “I’m far better at it.” “A living philosophy of life—knowing exactly which key to press to produce what sound—is something I’ve trained quite extensively in.” “If you ever find yourself at a loss over something, come consult with me.” “If you keep brooding alone like this and do something reckless—then I’ll be leaving today.”

With that, Yoshio began to rise.

Kishimoto, rubbing his hands together, went out to see his brother off as far as the next room. “Since it’s already time, perhaps we should have lunch—” Yoshio, his eyes not yet fully healed, looked intently at Kishimoto again and again, then turned away as if muttering, “This Atagoshita business feels off too—something’s about to go wrong here as well.” Perhaps he might not see his brother again for some time. This thought flashed through Kishimoto’s mind. He had no intention of arguing with anyone. He simply wanted to cast himself away. To surrender everything to life’s current. Clutching anxiety about his uncertain future, he stood frozen in the corridor long after his brother had bid farewell and left.

A few days later, as Kishimoto anxiously worried about Setsuko, a letter arrived from her. Through it, he learned that the moment she had inevitably been destined to face had finally come upon her. She began by writing how Mr. Fuse had once again raised a marriage proposal that had been discussed before, and how after Mr. Fuse left following this talk, her father had become fully resolved on the matter. She wrote that Grandmother had broached the subject to her, but she had firmly refused. She described how after defying her father’s will—following his furious words asking how she could now spout such amateurish philosophical revelations—there had been talk of how a daughter refusing marriage was nothing but a cripple, how one had no obligation to support such a defective creature, how she was neither parent nor child anymore, and how she must leave immediately. She wrote that when she had ventured to ask, “Will you not listen even after all my pleading?” she had been harshly rebuked with “Of course not!”; that she had resolved to leave home altogether and, after bidding farewell, was about to withdraw from her father’s presence when he commanded, “Wait—sit there,” leading to another round of vehement arguments. That night ended unresolved, she wrote, and the next day around the time Father returned from Uncle’s place, Teruko too had been summoned by telephone, sparking various discussions between Father and her sister. Through her sister, she had heard Father’s answer—that he would not force the matter further—but it was Grandmother who had stood between them and pacified everyone, she added. When she thought of leaving home for good, she had gathered Uncle’s letters and other items together, though they still remained untouched where she left them. She also wrote that those who endure to the end shall be saved, and that she could now maintain a heart steeled with considerable resolve.

115 The confessional manuscripts Kishimoto had written and stored away were being published piece by piece to the world. The initial relationship between Kishimoto and Setsuko had already become known to many people. The ridicule and censure that had long been gathering around him were what Kishimoto had anticipated, and this was also the natural retribution he deserved.

Kishimoto at his lodging had taken to refusing guests for the time being and spent his days in seclusion，meeting almost no one. It was around late May.

To Kishimoto’s place came Teruko, who knew her way without a maid’s guidance, visiting with a businesslike air.

“Excuse me.” The moment he heard Teruko’s voice, Kishimoto was already gripped by that distinctive mental state which follows having laid bare a secret.

“Are Izumi and Shigeru at school?” “Are you having boxed lunches these days—” This talk of children served only as preamble. Teruko appeared to be groping for an opening to address her true purpose, testing the conversational waters. An uneasy silence hung over Kishimoto as well. “Uncle...you know why I’ve come.”

Finally, Teruko broached the subject in this formal manner.

“Have you read what I wrote?” said Kishimoto. “I have read it.” “I was truly shocked.” “I never imagined you would write such things—no one would spare any effort for your sake, Uncle.” “…………” “Unfortunately, in every household I frequent, they’re all reading that.” “Somehow, while I kept thinking how peculiar it all was, that matter suddenly came to light… When a certain lady showed it to me—wasn’t that precisely when Setsuko’s situation resurfaced?”

“But I too had steeled myself properly for this.” “Well, anyone would say that.” “You couldn’t write such things without thorough deliberation.” “Since you yourself are recording deeds you yourself committed, Uncle, that might be acceptable—but everywhere I go, people say my sister is pitiful—they tell me that at every house.” “By truly publishing such things, what will you do for Setsuko?”

"But Setsuko has consented." "After obtaining Setsuko’s consent, I published that." "Well, that may be so—but couldn’t things have been handled a bit better?" "A certain gentleman also said that with this, my sister is pitiful—couldn’t something be done about it?" "‘Can’t we just say it was all a dream?’—that’s what that gentleman also says." "I feel bad about causing you all such worry." "But no matter who claims to be troubled, isn’t it me who’s most troubled?"

“After all, when you yourself, Uncle, have written such things, there’s nothing those around you can do… But what do you suppose people will think when you publish that? Do you think they’ll read it believing these are real events? Or do you think they’ll consider it a fabrication?” “That’s something even I don’t know. There’ll be people who read it thinking there’s such a thing as this kind of life.” “Well, they say gossip lasts seventy-five days—soon enough it’ll vanish somewhere. Let’s stop this talk now.”

Teruko said with a sigh and wiped her tears with the sleeve of her underrobe. Before Teruko, Kishimoto had no other way to greet her than to ask her to read what he had written thoroughly.

116

Several times Kishimoto attempted to write a letter addressed to his brother Yoshio, but each time he would cast aside his brush and sigh. Even if it meant going against his brother's wishes by initiating a public confession, he simply could not remain silent. On one hand bearing that responsibility, and on the other intending to bid farewell to his brother for a while, he faced his desk and spread out paper. He could not express even a tenth of his thoughts in that difficult letter. He wrote that originally, he had returned from his distant journey intending to receive reproach from Elder Brother Yoshio as well as from his deceased sister—yet despite that, he had reached today with composure. He wrote that he, who had gradually come to feel pained by taking advantage of your great kindness in this way, had rather resolved that receiving your reproach was his true intention and had determined to confess before everyone what he had done. He wrote that now was the time when he could at last be rebuked by his elder brother Yoshio. He wrote that there had been talk of preserving the honor of the Kishimoto clan, which had a suitably long history, but that he could no longer bear either concealing his failures for that purpose or enduring the long-standing pain of hiding them. He wrote that for descendants of the Kishimoto household, whose ancestors were people endowed with many virtues, the birth of someone as flawed as himself was a disgrace to those ancestors; yet he thought that having his flaws rebuked would instead serve to manifest the ancestors’ virtue. He wrote that when he once prepared to depart for a distant foreign land, he had left behind a discourteous letter and set off on his journey; now, he wrote of his sorrow at sending such a letter addressed to you, Elder Brother. He wrote that this too had been unavoidable for him. He wrote that various mental experiences had brought him to this point. He wrote that he composed this letter resolved to willingly receive Elder Brother Yoshio’s disownment. He wrote that while his public confession stemmed from a heart that sought to lash itself, he could not claim it would cause Setsuko no trouble, given that she was the very subject of his transgression. He wrote that even if Elder Brother Yoshio and others might temporarily find this act of his troublesome, he considered that there might come a time when, looking back much later, it would perhaps be seen as having been good for Setsuko as well. Then, he wrote that one who would be unable to meet you for some time now bids farewell here. He wrote that he was not one to forget the various kindnesses he had received up to this day. He wrote that he prayed for Grandmother’s well-being, and that of everyone else. He wrote "Elder Brother Yoshio, Sutekichi humbly." Moreover, he wrote that while Izumi, Shigeru, and the others might occasionally come to visit, he asked that you kindly permit just that.

Kishimoto let out a sigh of relief after writing this. He decided to send this letter by mail addressed to Yanaka, but thought that by the time it reached his brother Yoshio, it would also be time to bid farewell to Setsuko for a while. Even from the perspective of her religious training, Kishimoto considered this beneficial for her. He resolved to leave everything to Setsuko's discretion. For he believed that the force which had guided her until today would continue guiding her tomorrow.

117

The conflict with relatives centered on the Yanaka house had come to seem unavoidable. Even so, Kishimoto wanted to clarify Setsuko’s position, and he began composing a letter to Elder Brother Yoshio that was even more difficult to write than the one he had sent before.

Although this letter was addressed to Elder Brother Yoshio, Kishimoto began writing that he would deliberately send it to Shibuya to have Teruko deliver it. He wrote that he earnestly wished Teruko would read it and Yoshio would listen. He wrote that he had decided to have this letter delivered not only because he wanted Elder Brother to fully understand Setsuko's circumstances but also because he wished Teruko to be aware of them. There was no need now to speak of the shame-filled heart I had when departing for France; here, I wrote that I wished primarily to convey the changes that had arisen in Setsuko's heart. I wrote that I had come to know this from the time I was about to leave the country for distant lands. I wrote that when I received and read Setsuko's letter at that Kobe inn, I realized my travel resolve had moved her heart - something I found rather unexpected. I arrived at a French port and reached Paris. I wrote that my traveling heart had been set on making Setsuko abandon all old memories, forget about me entirely, and consider establishing herself independently. When I read Elder Brother Yoshio's message at my Paris lodgings - the one telling me "Forget all this now" - I wrote that it only deepened this resolve further. In the following months, each time I read a letter from Setsuko, I wrote of how severely I felt reproached. Each time, I wrote that not only did I refrain from replying, but I avoided direct correspondence with her whenever possible, sending any necessary messages through Elder Brother instead. Nevertheless, Setsuko's letters continued. The correspondence I thought had ceased resumed its flow. He wrote that she never failed to write throughout those three long years. At last came the day of my homecoming. The journey had not only changed my life but transformed my very way of thinking. I had no intention of stubbornly maintaining singlehood. I myself contemplated remarriage and intended to advise Setsuko to select a suitable spouse and wed. He wrote that when he returned with this mindset, he found Setsuko sinking into melancholy not once but repeatedly. He wrote that the Setsuko reflected in his eyes had become so withered she bore no resemblance to her present self.

I wrote that my coming to approach her again, my coming to abandon thoughts of remarriage, and my resolve to take responsibility for my own transgressions—all arose from my inability to stand idly by and witness her ruin. I stumbled, despaired, and wandered. However, I wrote that I believed my policy of trying to save her had not been mistaken in its general approach. I wrote that having started from the depths of sin, I believed I had guided her to a place where I could reflect on myself without remorse. I wrote that we attempted to wash sin with sin and mistakes with mistakes, and as a result pledged mutual singlehood. I wrote that I thought Setsuko no longer had any hope of becoming part of a family. I wrote that I thought her wish was to enter a quiet religious life, though uncertain. I wrote that I held not the slightest thought of restraining her and could only wish for her future happiness. I wrote that when looking back now, the things I had considered for my own sake were vastly different from how I had felt upon returning home, but that for myself there had been no other path to take. Furthermore, I wrote that I would continue to support Setsuko’s livelihood as I had done until now and considered it my responsibility. I added that for this purpose, I wished to send funds either by troubling Teruko to handle it or by entrusting it to a money order.

Once again, Kishimoto laid down his brush and sighed. The complex and contradictory experiences of the heart could not possibly be fully conveyed in such a letter.

118 Teruko of Shibuya, explaining that she was returning from delivering a letter sent by Kishimoto to Yanaka, stopped by the boarding house in Atagoshita.

“Sister from Uracho!”

The children, knowing nothing of these matters, called out in innocent voices. Teruko was still being welcomed joyfully by the children as "Sister from Uracho" rather than as "Sister from Shibuya." "I came here on an errand to Father's place, so once I finish that business—after that—" Teruko placated Izumi and Shigeru. Kishimoto welcomed Teruko by a brazier where he kept hot water constantly replenished. Until he heard back from Elder Brother Yoshio, he too remained unsettled.

“Father said he will respond to this at a later time—” Teruko said with meaningful emphasis and continued in a decisive tone, “Setsuko will no longer be sent to help at your place, so please proceed with that understanding.” Teruko said to Kishimoto. Teruko said this as if bracing herself for Kishimoto to react badly, but Kishimoto had of course already resolved himself accordingly.

“I understand.”

“I understand,” he answered simply. “And then, Father said to tell you this—‘When I think of you turning pale and red, having to write self-serving things just to make a living, what a pitiful occupation’—he said to tell you that—” Kishimoto accepted these words from his elder brother, conveyed through Teruko, without objection. What he truly wanted to know about was Grandmother. “Did you tell Grandmother as well—” he asked.

“That’s it,” Teruko said with a slight shrug of her shoulders. “I thought it would be wrong to keep Grandmother in the dark, so I was the one who told her about Setsuko. Why, Grandmother just maintained her usual composure even upon hearing such news, with that serene expression as if she’d attained enlightenment… I did read your letter as well, Uncle, but whatever the case, the pitiable one is Setsuko. When one has a child, it seems quite impossible to forget.”

With these words, Teruko laughed. She seemed unwilling to speak further of such matters, appearing to mourn how her uncle’s irrevocable confession had shattered the once-pleasant peace among their relatives. In such situations, even after Teruko said what needed saying, she would immediately reveal her tearful disposition right afterward.

“Well then, my business here is finished—come over to Sister’s side now.”

With that, Teruko called Mariko, who was playing in the next room, steering the adults' awkward feelings toward the child. Left alone, Kishimoto sent Setsuko a letter that could be shown to anyone. In it, he briefly wrote that he had clarified his position to Elder Brother Yoshio in writing, would be out of contact for some time, and urged her to devote herself to serving Grandmother and other elders. Two days later, upon receiving Setsuko’s reply, he found these words: though her father’s heart remained unyielding, she herself had finally grown somewhat calmer—indeed, she had even begun feeling a genuine desire to study—so he need not worry. The reply also stated: "When your first letter arrived at Father’s place, he didn’t show it to me. He wrote something himself and sent it to our uncle in Taiwan." It continued: "Another postcard came from Mr. Fuse. He said he’d read your recent letter and wishes to discuss the matter in person soon—I do wish he’d just let it be." From this, Kishimoto understood that discussions about Setsuko’s marriage proposal still continued between Elder Brother Yoshio and Teruko.

119 “Alas, all is lost! I am filled with heartrending sorrow. While you profess to confess yourself, the traces of your attempt to perpetuate immorality by guaranteeing that woman’s livelihood must be called unspeakable. I am resolved to dispose of my daughter myself. I shall not permit any meddling from you. Herewith, casting off tears, I sever relations with you. Kishimoto Yoshio To Mr. Kishimoto Sekikichi As children bear no guilt, I shall permit Izumi and Shigeru occasional visits.

"I who know both good and evil of this world—" Yoshio sent this to Kishimoto through Teruko as his messenger. This was Yoshio’s prior notice that he would send a formal response later. Teruko placed her father’s sealed letter before Kishimoto and immediately rose from her seat. She walked toward the corridor of the detached room and stood motionless outside the shoji screen for some time. When she judged that Kishimoto had finished reading the severance letter, she returned to where her uncle sat.

“This came from your father’s place.” Kishimoto had merely shown it to Teruko before rolling up the letter—written in his elder brother’s own hand on large-sized official paper, the characters enlarged as might be expected from someone recovering from eye trouble. “Uncle’s kindness becomes Setsuko’s poison.” Teruko’s words shattered Kishimoto’s contemplation. She spoke with evident vexation, but Kishimoto offered no response. He prepared tea himself, showing courtesy to Teruko who had come as messenger.

After Teruko left, Kishimoto reread his elder brother’s writings. He reread his elder brother’s thirty-one-syllable poem that seemed to have been appended at the end of the letter with parabolic intent. “I who know both good and evil of this world—how could one such as I stray from the true path?” Kishimoto compared his elder brother’s accusations with the feelings he had long tormented himself over in his own mind. He thought so. Indeed, what his elder brother denounced had been considered an unforgivable sin even by his former self. That was also something nearly impossible to realize in this world. Yet if one reached a state where self-reflection brought no shame, then even something unattainable in this world could not be categorically deemed sinful. Not only did Kishimoto now differ so profoundly from his elder brother in opinion, but he had also become estranged from his past self. He had simply accepted this letter in silence. The very substance of his confession contained all the answers he needed.

Yoshio had severed ties with Kishimoto on one hand while seeking to pressure Setsuko into marriage on the other. Kishimoto learned of this through a letter from Setsuko. Within the letter she had written to him, Setsuko included another addressed to her father. After skimming both letters, Kishimoto carefully reread the one intended for her father. "I have duly received your recent instruction," "If one follows Father's reasoning, it remains unclear whether I might arrive at such conclusions—" "Yet taking advantage of your gracious command to hear even a million confused words of no merit, I shall lay bare my true thoughts without pretense or ornament."

First, I wish to address the matter between parent and child. Though it is declared that those who disobey parental commands cease to be human, does this not excessively prioritize parental authority? By speaking thus, I risk being misunderstood as heedlessly disparaging parents—yet I solemnly affirm this bears no such intent. To obey every decree without question, or to harbor inner resentment while feigning compliance—this I cannot accept. True obedience imbued with vitality remains my steadfast aspiration. Coupled with our ideological divide and my habitual silence, these matters have found no voice until now.

"You declared that persisting in this a second time without repenting or correcting one's mistakes constitutes bestial behavior," she wrote. "If one judges solely by outward appearances without ever considering the internal changes shifting moment by moment, such a person must humbly be deemed inferior even to the world's foolish women. How much pain have I accumulated through that error born of a heart yearning for truth and thoroughness in all things. There is no need to dwell on that now. As one bearing the rightful duty to drink dry even the last drop of bitter liquid. Yet the eye of my heart, opened through solitude, saw too much of this world's falsehoods; saw people dwelling serenely within them without doubt; heard hollow echoes in my ears—and this revulsion only deepened my appreciation for Bashō's spirit and Saigyō's heart. That I found the truth I constantly seek within the very object of my mistakes may seem unfortunate from one perspective, but it need not be so—rather, the effort to transform those errors into luminous things through self-improvement remains my most ardent wish."

That I have chosen religion as the path I intend to walk arises first from a heart seeking God, and second from having encountered the world's terrifying coldness when emerging from sorrow's depths—thereby discerning how even repentance and fervor would ultimately lead down the path of abandonment trodden by countless sinners. This I solemnly declare. Regarding matters of faith, I shall here confine myself to stating my resolute purpose. "Though these words fall short of conveying my full intent, should you deign to grant even partial consideration to these fragments of my true heart through this missive, I would count it my profound fortune."

120

When Kishimoto held the letter Setsuko had addressed to her father, he keenly felt how clearly her position had now crystallized. He also felt that even the most intense coercive power ultimately could do nothing against a single small soul. Kishimoto reread the letter she had sent him. “Yesterday, Mr. Fuse came, and I have now formally refused.” “When Sister visited three days ago, Father must still have been clinging to that marriage proposal. He consulted with Grandmother and Sister about various matters, making them pressure me into responding.” “At the end of their talk, Sister said Father couldn’t give his answer unless they heard whether I would completely sever ties with Uncle and act alone, or continue my work as before.” “So I told them—even if we don’t meet for years, it makes no difference. Spiritually, I cannot part from you, Uncle.” “Sister must have reported this to Father.” “When I went to pay respects before him, he remained wordless for a long time. Sister finally asked, ‘Don’t you have anything to say?’ Father retorted, ‘I’m too appalled to speak. If they were human, I’d converse—but there’s nothing to say to beasts. They’re equal to animals. Flies like them would frolic before nobility—how can proper humans endure being grouped with such creatures?’ He continued vehemently in that furious tone.” “Sister interjected, ‘If you keep speaking only of yourself, Father, you must hear Setsuko too. Since I can’t relay her words accurately, let’s have her write them down for me to read aloud.’” “Hearing this, Father declared: ‘Parrots chatter endlessly—a million ramblings wouldn’t reach my ears. But I’ll hear once what beasts have to say. Since they’re beasts with human faces, they must’ve written something. Let me see their scrawl.’” “I knew nothing I wrote would be understood.” “Still, wanting to clarify my thoughts at least for myself, I wrote that separate document last night.” “When Sister comes today, I’ll have her read it.” “Though he berates me daily about everything these days, I no longer feel anger.” “I consider it a whip to drive myself forward—applying myself wholeheartedly to studies and housework with clear resolve.” “I deeply contemplate the power of ‘creative work.’” “Yet when I think how Father’s temperament—his belief that everything must bend to his will, his compulsion to force compliance—leads him to console himself by dismissing unfulfilled wishes as mere beastly sighs, I cannot help but pity him.” “Take utmost care of yourself.” “The day of your return from distant travels will come again ere long.”

Setsuko had written and sent this in late June. After all, such a time was bound to come—Kishimoto worried over Setsuko. That from there her true path would open; that she had already stepped into the light through merely confessing her innermost heart to her father—this too he pondered. Kishimoto imagined her contemplating the power of "creative work," imagined her surroundings where none understood her, imagined the tear-filled mornings and evenings of one resolved to live despite defying parental will.

121

“You’ve done a horrifying thing. “If you’d just kept silent, couldn’t it have stayed unknown? “If you’d just kept silent, you’d still pass as a proper relative—be accepted as a decent uncle, wouldn’t you?”

Such voices came and whispered ceaselessly near Kishimoto’s ear.

The exposure of truth did not stop at mere disownment willingly accepted by the younger brother; it led to something like a severance proclaimed by the elder brother. It also disrupted the parents' plans, turned the daughter against her parents, and sowed confusion and panic among the relatives. Kishimoto's attempt to overturn his life from its very roots had also overturned even such things as the notion that one could endure being released from an invisible prison at this late stage, and the idea that leaving lies as lies would cause trouble for those around—indeed, it had overturned all such matters together.

However, Kishimoto strove single-mindedly toward a broader, freer world without glancing aside. Even were a time to come when he would be severed from relatives, ostracized by others, and compelled to live utterly alone—for him, even this was unavoidable. By July’s arrival, he had disclosed to the world every fact: from his motive in attempting overseas flight to becoming a passenger aboard that foreign ship which slipped away from Kobe’s harbor under night’s shroud. Day by day, the matters from those years when his heart had been darkest were laid bare. The secret shadows long clinging to his being, the past transgressions he’d tried again and again yet failed to bury—he felt an anguished sorrow, as though watching himself crumble alongside these dark things.

The path Setsuko used to take to Atagoshita had ceased entirely. Kishimoto suspended both his monthly support to her and his letter-writing, simply expressing his intent to seclude himself through increasingly reclusive behavior. But Setsuko often sent letters from her side. She never failed to convey occasional news to Kishimoto. She wrote that when her sister came, she had her read what she had recently written to their father. Even then, Father’s booming voice from upstairs made her heart race with anxiety, but in the end, she wrote that his reply—conveyed through her sister—had been, “I’ll give it proper thought soon enough.” She wrote that there were times when Father would make a displeased face, and other times when he would look at her as if she had become a complete fool. She wrote that after hearing from her sister about the reply Father had sent to Uncle, she thought it was an unavoidable natural outcome. However, she wrote that when she considered how not a single one of all the painful or sorrowful things she had endured until now had been in vain, even from events like these recent ones she was made to reflect on many matters, and rather, it felt as though she had been granted a time to study with a quiet and clear state of mind. She also wrote about when we might meet again—when that would be, how many years later it might take. She wrote that when that time came, having Uncle see her would be her greatest joy. She wrote that she had begun praying to God every day.

122

“What has become of Miss Setsuko? She hasn’t been coming around at all lately.”

The maid who had brought the meal tray from the main house’s kitchen said this to Kishimoto. It was just lunchtime, and the three children had taken their lunch boxes to school. The maid placed only Kishimoto’s meal tray in the detached room, “If there are any tears in your children’s kimonos, please send them right out.” “We have plenty of hands to help.” With those words, she left and returned to the main house.

For Kishimoto, it was a rainy day in July that reminded him of the season when he had returned to his homeland. By then, he had become the longest-staying guest at this boarding house, and over the year or so spent in the detached room, even the maids' faces had changed. As was his custom, he settled into his usual spot by the tea cabinet in the room and positioned himself before the meal tray. Since beginning his confession and entering seclusion, even the garden's plants and trees had begun to catch his eye. A cool summer rain trickled down the trunk of the Chinese parasol tree visible beyond the fully opened shoji. The old slender pine roots by the veranda, the moss-covered garden stones, the lush green bamboo leaves—all appeared drenched. He pulled the rice container toward himself and casually helped himself with his own hands. He ate his meal alone while watching the rain from that room.

The days when Setsuko used to come to this boarding house to help with work now seemed like yesterday when recalled in quiet reflection. Kishimoto recalled that Setsuko had once visited from the hospital back when bush warblers still came to this garden and sang vigorously, and he also remembered how she had come looking utterly exhausted about ten days after his sister-in-law had passed away. At the end of April, she brought a pot of lilies and left them there. Even after May began she still continued coming until showing her face through that month’s end. The day after she sent a letter saying “There’s truly good news—please call our regular rice dealer first so I may come discuss everything properly,” she arrived. The “really good thing” she mentioned was having obtained her child’s photo from that woman doctor which she brought to show Kishimoto. Then Kishimoto first saw the figure of Chikara—that was how they called her child. He looked at it together with Setsuko. The child’s features closely resembled her mother’s—especially those eyes identical to Setsuko’s—and showed her photographed with a young playmate. “Don’t you want any more children?” Even amidst such marriage talk there came a moment when Kishimoto—speaking from pity at her remaining single—saw her shake her head gravely: “I’ve had more than enough... Another child now would kill me.” That became her final visit.

After the meal, Kishimoto went to retrieve the child's photo he had been keeping for Setsuko and looked at it. The existence of the innocent young one had now clearly risen to Kishimoto's father-like consciousness.

123

Listening to the sound of rain pouring in the garden, Kishimoto continued to think further. When he recalled his subsiding passion in quiet reflection, truly various things emerged from within it.

There was a second floor. There was a window. There was a shoji. Beyond the shoji lay the drying area, and the roofs of the nearby town were visible. In the distance, part of a mixed grove standing on the terrain of a small hill could also be seen. A suburban-like sky could also be seen from there. There was a woman leaning against that windowsill, gazing dejectedly out the window like someone sunk in indescribable unease. This second floor had been Kishimoto’s temporary study near his former house in Takanawa. This woman was Setsuko.

Kishimoto recalled that never had he felt his own weakness more acutely than at that moment. The reason was that even he himself had come to doubt what practical use his three-year ascetic journey had actually served—and this too was at that very time. Because it was also at that time that Setsuko had let slip a tone of worry suggesting she might become a mother again. Never had the powerlessness of human experience made him sigh more deeply than at that moment. Having once endured such bitter anguish that nearly killed him—having once weathered such agonizing pain during his lonely wandering journey abroad—kneeling on the floorboards of foreign inns, pressing his forehead against cold planks, weeping with manly tears that proved insufficient—that experience had proven utterly useless to him. He found himself at that time in a position where he would have to grieve the same thing anew. He said to Setsuko: “I can’t embark on such a journey again. If such a situation were to arise, I would have no choice but to die. Otherwise, I would enter a temple instead. Even just hearing such talk makes me want to shave this head—” He recalled having felt such profound sorrow. What anxious days must have continued to weigh upon them both after that. He remembered how Setsuko had moved from Takanawa to Yanaka while holding that worry in her heart. He recalled that he hadn’t felt at ease until reading the brief words written at the edge of a letter from Setsuko.

“There is no longer any need for monastic life, so please rest assured.” Kishimoto recalled that both his coming to not take lightly his bond with Setsuko and his growing awareness of his own sincerity toward her had arisen after being struck by this sorrow. After the wild passion had passed and he looked back, that matter coalesced and surfaced even more clearly in Kishimoto’s heart. 124

But that was not all—Kishimoto recalled that during the time he had spent with Setsuko, he had been made to change various ways of thinking that had become preconceived notions since his childhood. He recalled that stone statue of Mary created by the hand of a modern French sculptor. He recalled how even without comparing it to the old paintings he had found in Roman Catholic churches and museums throughout his travels in France, that statue lacked even the semblance of Madonna-like features one might find in the Mary image hanging on the wall of that country house in Limoges. What emerged from that block of stone was not the form of peace and harmony seen in common Mary statues, but rather the decayed figure of a virgin who had given birth. Instead of plump cheeks and a full chest, the flesh had been carved into that stone as though gauntly hollowed out. It was precisely the utterly transformed appearance of Setsuko that he had seen upon returning from his long journey. He recalled how Setsuko had visibly changed—changed so much that even her grandmother, who had stayed by her side for three years worrying, had remarked on it. He recalled how everything from her movements to her voice had become vivid. He recalled how in the end, Setsuko had changed so much that she came to him and said, "But I've truly received strength," showing delight. From that time onward, his notion of infidelity had shifted so profoundly that one could say it was utterly transformed. Not only did an otherworldly, marital-like intimacy arise from there, not only did a sorrow emerge that made them wish to entrust their entire lives to each other, but even the sins and mistakes they had agonized over until then came to make them feel a pure and natural power sufficient to save those very sins and mistakes. It was from around that time that he came to think about the purification of sin. It was also from around that time that he came to distance himself from the long-held contempt for the flesh that had dominated him. That he had despised women as he did was partly due to his inherent nature, but he also came to realize that this very contempt had largely made women seem detestable and bothersome to him. He recalled how he had often told Setsuko the story of Abelard and Héloïse. He recalled that during the time when Setsuko still frequented this boarding house, he had found something related to the legend of that monk and nun and had her read it. The two recumbent effigies that slept like the quiet nirvana of love in that Père Lachaise Cemetery in Paris. The characters carved on the side of that old Roman Catholic-style hall which he had once read like a passing traveler. Visualizing that, he came to consider whether such spiritual love as that between the monk and nun—said to have remained unchanged throughout their lives—could truly arise from an Eastern-style disdain for the flesh.

The awaited dawn did not brighten from some distant place; rather, it seemed to unfold right at Kishimoto's feet. Whenever he perceived himself being released from blood and flesh, his once-darkened heart felt as though it were gradually moving toward brightness—toward ever greater brightness.

125

By waiting until the end of July, Kishimoto began to discern the faint glimmer of a path opening before Setsuko’s future. When he pieced together Brother Yoshio’s remarks about wanting to entrust Setsuko to Brother Minsuke in Taiwan—who supposedly kept a house in Tokyo—with Yoshio’s written declaration that “I am resolved to handle my daughter myself,” along with Setsuko’s subsequent letters stating her father’s persistent urging for her Taiwanese uncle to come to the capital, Kishimoto grasped Brother Yoshio’s true intent. This was the same Brother Yoshio who had severed their fraternal ties to force Setsuko’s separation from Kishimoto; having heard her confession, he showed no inclination to let matters rest. Yet Kishimoto sought genuine resolution to his present paralysis through the consequences of their mutual admissions. After all, Setsuko was not one to leap headlong into self-chosen paths.

"Ah, right—eventually Setsuko will end up being sent off to Taiwan—" Kishimoto muttered this to himself—on one hand pitying her, while on the other considering it rather for her benefit. He indeed perceived that a path was beginning to open before her future. At least that she might escape her present circumstances.

While thinking of Setsuko, who had become unable to be seen, Kishimoto often took the children out into the evening streets. Amidst the people passing by on the streets, he would notice women around the same age as Setsuko and find himself comparing her to the fleeting shadows of these strangers. In such instances, he would at most catch sight of someone resembling Setsuko from behind, and would almost never encounter even a single hairstyle identical to hers. Setsuko’s hairstyle was indeed uniquely her own. When seeking something resembling that among her relatives, rather than recalling her deceased sister-in-law who should have been closest to her, it was Kishimoto’s habit to instead think of Grandmother. Grandmother was already advanced in years, with a balding crown and most of her hair having fallen out, yet she still showed clumps of remaining hair at the back. If gathered, she could manage to tie her hair in a style befitting an elderly person. This characteristic had been passed down to Setsuko, and Kishimoto particularly liked the shape of her hair when seen from behind. It was not only her hair—whether in her feminine ears or the shape of her forehead, she resembled Grandmother more than anyone among her relatives. From talk of the Hakata obi arose an occasion where Setsuko had shown Kishimoto herself as a woman. According to her, unless one was born with a slender, delicate build, something like a Hakata obi would not suit them. “For someone like me with such a bulky body, that style wouldn’t suit.” Strangely enough, Kishimoto would find lines so soft and feminine they were almost tormenting flowing from that angular, bulky, tall figure of Setsuko.

From where Kishimoto’s boarding house stood to Atagoyama was close. When he took the children there on such occasions, not only did Izumi and Shigeru delight in walking about with their father, but even Kimiko would follow along happily. When they climbed the steep stone steps of Otokozaka—so sheer one had to crane their neck upward—a panorama-like vista spread before them. On that hilltop where the view stretched from Tokyo’s city center—filled with new buildings—all the way to Shinagawa’s sea, Kishimoto’s mind often wandered toward the skies of Yanaka.

126

"You must be thinking I haven't sent a single letter lately," wrote Setsuko. At a time when thoughts of her weighed heavily on his mind, Kishimoto read the letter by the shoji in his room where the deep, cool chirping of evening cicadas could be heard. She wrote that whenever such times occurred, she wanted him to remember she was now preparing to send him letters written with the pleasant feeling of truly composing proper correspondence. She wrote that once she became unable to meet him like this, Father must have thought she would sink into depression—yet because she studied earnestly, Father looked rather surprised and said all sorts of things. But when told too many things, she wrote that since she wanted to escape even momentarily from the vexations before her eyes, she could even read books she particularly wished to read.

Unusually, she had written down memories from her childhood in that letter. She wrote that although she had been raised quite poor, since there was nothing she later regretted having left as it was, the poverty of her household had not been such a hardship. She wrote that she had convinced herself she wasn’t the type to take coins and buy snacks little by little like other children, but when a vendor came to the countryside selling those triangular rice crackers and all the other children had them, she sometimes found herself wanting them too. When she would ask for them and was told things like, "Then I'll buy it for you if you just contribute a single coin yourself," she wrote that as a child, it had made her happy. When she looked inside what resembled a letter box and saw the wool-knitted money pouch containing mere pittance, she wrote that she had felt such sadness as if she had truly said something inexcusable, and resolved never to make such requests again. She wrote that this had happened when she was ten or eleven years old. When she thought about it, she wrote, she had been prone to worry since childhood.

"This time, even if I do end up going to Taiwan, I don’t think there will be anything left to cloud my heart," she wrote again. She also wrote that the other day, when Father had harshly scolded Ichiro, and afterward Ichiro’s face had turned pale, Grandmother—unable to bear it—had said various things. She wrote that at that time Father had said: No doubt Setsuko is voicing such opinions, but if people would just listen when told verbally, that would be truly appreciated—it’s precisely because there are those who won’t listen even when told that we have prisons and police. There are various types of disobedient people, but such people will be dealt with separately as they are—thus he had implicitly hinted. But I have something solid and reassuring. She wrote that whether she ended up going to Taiwan or Korea, she would not be swayed by such things. "She also wrote: 'We are always together in our hearts, you know.'"

When he read this, Kishimoto could no longer bear envisioning Setsuko in such a heart-wrenching, vexing situation. By whatever means necessary, he wanted to extract her from her current circumstances. From that perspective, he found himself hoping all the more fervently that Setsuko's relocation to Taiwan would come to fruition at the earliest possible date.

127 Before Setsuko would depart for distant lands, Kishimoto found himself unable to suppress the desire to see her one last time. He knew that since her confession, Setsuko lived in near-confinement—her father having strictly ordered, "You must not go anywhere," even forbidding solitary visits to her sister's house in Shibuya. Yet even under these constraints, had Kishimoto truly wished to meet her, he might have found some means of arranging an encounter. But he judged this no occasion for forcing opportunities or stealing furtive meetings. Instead, he resolved to wait until they could face each other openly. "When shall we meet again? After how many years?"—such words had appeared in Setsuko's recent letter. Precisely then did he wish to behold her truly settled in life's station, to see a Setsuko who could recount today's trials and endurance as tales of yore. Now was the moment when all had been cast into the crucible. Now was when both Setsuko and he sought to demonstrate mutual restraint. Now was when they must contemplate long futures and endure.

Kishimoto could not see Setsuko, but he could hear her voice. Every time the boarding house maid announced, “There is a call from Miss Setsuko,” Kishimoto would go to the telephone to listen to that cherished voice. After hearing the automated message stating, “This is an automatic telephone,” Kishimoto came to understand both that Setsuko went shopping in town and that this was only permitted at night. Her implication seemed to be that he need not hold back in their conversations. “You might manage that way, but I can’t proceed like this”—standing powerless to voice even this refusal, with the boarding house mistress in the parlor and maids working in the kitchen listening in, sometimes even people gathered in the owner’s nearby room—playing shogi while cooling off—overhearing as well, Kishimoto received periodic updates from Setsuko and responded to her consultations.

“Is that you, Uncle—”

One evening, Setsuko’s voice came through again.

“What could it be—for three nights in a row now, I’ve been dreaming of you, Uncle—it’s been weighing on my mind so—I thought something might have happened—is everyone all right—” Setsuko asked. At that moment, Kishimoto confirmed only that Brother Minsuke from Taiwan would soon come to Tokyo through her account. However, due to that brother’s business obligations, the exact date for his coming to Tokyo had not yet been set.

“I see. So Brother from Taiwan is finally coming out here, eh?” said Kishimoto. “You should absolutely make the request yourself—take the initiative to volunteer as his companion—”

"I thought so too—" came Setsuko’s voice. "This time, it’s your turn to set out on a journey—"

When Kishimoto said that, Setsuko’s cheerful laughter, unheard for some time, reached his ears.

Kishimoto felt as though he were exchanging words with Setsuko across a large, firmly closed door, she on one side and he on the other.

The profound silence after the call ended drew Kishimoto's heart toward the summer night in Yanaka, toward the brightly lit automatic telephone room in town, toward Setsuko standing at that telephone receiver.

128

He waited until the end of August. Kishimoto kept worrying about Setsuko in secret, anxiously awaiting any word from Taiwan while wondering why there was still no news. He received the following letter from Setsuko.

“Since Father has gone to the hospital today, I am writing this in the three-tatami room on the second floor for the first time in a while.” I feel my presence here might be intrusive—Father keeps reciting things unless he’s napping, so I can’t do as I please either. I’ve been staying downstairs in the four-and-a-half-mat room with everyone for ages now. Lately, my days overflow with satisfaction no one knows and pride I must hide. We feel—we already feel—ourselves standing victorious. How can those around me throw themselves so earnestly into trifles—rejoicing, grieving—yet never grasp what truly matters? One can’t know true fulfillment without giving their all. The only time I’ve felt life worthwhile was around Mother’s passing. Even recalling that, you must imagine how these days weigh on me. Before Mother entered the hospital, she’d repeat: “Were you gravely ill, I couldn’t lift a finger to help.” It breaks my heart—wanting to love those beside me yet being unable. Though Mother and I rarely saw eye to heart, her memory outshines all other bonds. Yet even that maternal love seems pale beside our creative work. I refuse to believe work this profound could perish with flesh. “If God wills it, even death won’t stop our loving well.” Oh, how those foreign woman’s words thrilled me! Now I desire nothing but abundance for our creations. Let winds rage and rains pour—we’ve transcended death itself.

―There is truly no need for your concern regarding my health. "A little hardship means nothing before overflowing hope..." Kishimoto thought how far Setsuko's heart had come—thought of the steadfastness of her love that refused to be trampled by anything—and simultaneously thought of the poignancy of her circumstances that drove her to write such an impassioned letter. When Setsuko felt humorous, she would often bring her face so close that their eyes met as if peering into each other's very souls. With that same sensation of gazing into Setsuko's eyes, Kishimoto read her heartfelt message written in pencil on Chinese-style crimson stationery.

"I truly do not wish to grow old. Even should I become an old woman, I wish never to harbor a cruel heart." These words, like a sigh, were appended to the end of Setsuko's letter.

129

"Oh, were you in the middle of work again?" With these words, Teruko came from Shibuya to visit Kishimoto at his lodgings. Since the peace before his eyes had shattered, Kishimoto found it painful to face Teruko on one hand, while in his current reclusive state—as if living behind locked gates—he nostalgically yearned to meet relatives who now felt abruptly distant. "How do I look? I've been wearing these every day lately while working," said Kishimoto.

As he spoke, Kishimoto—still wearing the dark blue cotton farmer’s culottes from the mountainous region—stood up and went to prepare tea at the hibachi himself. “You hardly ever see anyone in Tokyo wearing culottes like these,” he said. “I hate being seen as eccentric—when visitors come, I rush to take them off.” “But since it’s you, I’ll stay like this.”

“No, it suits you quite well—” said Teruko in the manner befitting a young diplomat’s wife. “It’s not quite as you say. The landlady here is from Tokyo and has probably never seen things like these. Ah, there’s nothing to laugh about—nothing at all. It’s as if I’m about to appear in some farce or something. However, as work clothes, they’re really practical. I thought summer would be a problem, but it hasn’t been particularly hot. For someone like me who sits and works, it’s good not to get bitten by mosquitoes. When you go abroad and return, you come to understand that there are such good things, you know.”

While laughing through such conversation, Kishimoto could sit facing Teruko, momentarily forgetting his status as one disowned by his elder brother. But when Teruko's words grazed rumors from Yanaka, Kishimoto found himself unable to laugh.

“The other day Father came to Shibuya with Ichi,” said Teruko. “At that time too, the matter of Setsu-chan came up.” “Father said to me, ‘Don’t you go to Atagoshita either—if you don’t listen, I’ll disown you too,’ that’s what he said.” “I have my own considerations, and I cannot bring myself not to visit after having received Aunt’s care while she is still alive.” “No matter what Father says, I don’t care about that.”

“Did you know about Setsu-chan from what my confessions left unsaid?” “I knew,” she replied. “Her mother knew… and I knew too. You remember when I had returned from Urajio that one time? There was a period when Setsu-chan had disappeared somewhere. I happened to open a cupboard and saw a letter she’d sent to her mother. It mentioned Uncle in connection with some matter. That’s when I understood. Even before that—how strange it was—no one would tell me where Setsu-chan was staying. I kept thinking how very strange it all was.”

Just by having come to speak of such matters, Teruko’s heart began to thaw. If her younger sister Setsuko took after their current grandmother, her elder sister Teruko had something about her that resembled the mother who bore the Kishimoto brothers. Just as Kishimoto’s mother had always been a harmonizer between people, Teruko too showed the demeanor of one who had come to her uncle’s place as a harmonizer. 130

“I think Setsuko is also at fault—” said Teruko. “It would be good if she showed more remorse toward Grandmother and Father, but she displays no such demeanor at all.” “What is this? She wears an expression as if performing some noble deed, not seeming to feel the slightest regret toward Grandmother or Father—” Hearing this, Kishimoto tried to defend Setsuko, but between “Setsuko surely recognizes her past wrongs” and “she absolutely doesn’t consider her current actions wrong,” there lay a realm beyond words. A realm that could only be felt, not explained. Wanting to heed Teruko’s perspective to some degree, Kishimoto silently smoked his tobacco.

“That’s why Father said the same thing the other day,” Teruko said again. “When it comes to Setsu-chan’s demeanor—it’s as if she’s putting on airs or something—” “When you’re surrounded by people who feel differently,” Kishimoto said pointedly, “that’s how it goes—you stop knowing what’s best.” “When she’s told so many different things—look—there’s nothing else to do but play dumb.”

This time, it was Teruko who fell silent. Kishimoto could not help but think that the divide between Setsuko and her father would soon become the divide between himself and Teruko. He tried saying to her in this manner: "In short, since Father doesn't understand Setsu-chan's feelings, there's nothing to be done." "That may be so," said Teruko, "but Father's feelings aren't understood by Setsu-chan either."

“Well, if I may say so—Setsu-chan got too close to Father.” “At least more than you did—she was the one who tried reaching out to him.” “Come to think of it—she said something like that herself.” “Until they made her ghostwrite for him—she didn’t really see Father clearly… In fact—she even liked him…” “I must say—Setsu-chan takes after you quite strongly.” “Hmm… Do I really resemble her?”

“In everything, this tendency to twist things in her mind—that’s exactly where she takes after you, Uncle.” “Since those two people have ended up together, there’s simply nothing to be done.”

Teruko’s tone made Kishimoto laugh. At that moment, Kishimoto sighed as if... “You all think Setsuko is walking toward hell.” “But Setsuko-chan intends to walk toward paradise herself—her sense of direction has become so mistaken.” “I don’t know what it is, but it’s rather unusual, isn’t it?” Having said this, Teruko sighed in her turn. Kishimoto didn’t want to have this conversation anymore. As long as Setsuko wasn’t mentioned, Teruko remained that easygoing relative who loved unreserved conversation—the kindhearted person who occasionally came to look in on the children. “Is Auntie coming to see you all really such a joy for you?” Those moments when she said this while being surrounded by Izumi and Shigeru showed Teruko at her most natural.

“Is it about time you kids are coming back from school?” “Well then, I’ll take the liberty of imposing a little longer.” With Teruko before him attempting to change the subject through these words, Kishimoto turned instead to rumors about her husband in Manchuria and those concerning Brother Minsuke’s impending arrival from Taiwan to the capital.

“This summer, I too had a sweltering time,” Kishimoto said pointedly to Teruko. “I lived writing my confession, hardly meeting anyone. But the rainy season was short—that alone was a relief though. It was as if this entire summer had been spent streaming hot sweat and cold sweat all along.”

131

In the end, he waited until October's beginning. Each time Kishimoto read a letter from Setsuko, he spent his days waiting—today perhaps, or tomorrow—for some word to come from Taiwan. He worried about Setsuko's state: how her life in Yanaka house grew more strained with each passing month. After her communication with Kishimoto was severed, her path to self-sufficiency too had been cut off. In that situation, he could not help but worry how difficult it would be to nurture the tenacious bud of life that had managed to sprout. If only I had been by her side. Thinking this, Kishimoto felt his chest constrict at the cruelty—the aftermath for one who sought to live by passion and truth after confession.

"It would be good if she could just leave on a journey—or anything, really."

Kishimoto would often say this to himself for Setsuko’s sake. Through Setsuko’s letters, he could vividly imagine—as if seeing before his eyes—the kind of days she was enduring. A rumor about someone obsessed with raising quails and growing flowers had arisen between Brother Yoshio and Grandmother. “That man too fixates on trivial things,” Brother Yoshio began, to which Grandmother responded, “But that’s a fine hobby.” “True enough,” he continued. “Those who obsess over quails or flowers at least bring others pleasure, but those who obsess over men or women must be disciplined.” …Kishimoto could imagine Setsuko being subjected to such veiled barbs even in fragments of conversation like this, forced to listen. At other times, after meals when religion came up—"There’s nothing worthwhile in religions! Only fools believe such things! Tenrikyo, the Nichiren sect, Christianity—they’re all lunatics’ work!”—he could equally picture Brother Yoshio holding forth, and Setsuko nearly speaking out yet restraining herself.

“However, even among female missionaries, there exists a certain type.” “I don’t particularly care for that sort either.” “Speaking of appearances, what I prefer is something that strips away boorishness from refinement and vulgarity from spiritedness.” Setsuko would sometimes write such things in her letters. The reason religious topics came up in the Yanaka house was, needless to say, because that was where Setsuko’s aspirations lay. Among the siblings, there was no one but Kishimoto who considered sending someone from their own family into the religious realm to be a poignant matter. He not only agreed with the direction Setsuko was heading but rather felt he had encouraged her aspirations. At Setsuko’s request, he had even made inquiries about a women’s dormitory established under Christian principles. If Setsuko were to devote herself to religious life, it seemed there would be no shortage of paths available to her. According to Kishimoto, her religious sentiment was, so to speak, a bud in the heart. On the other hand, she had no preconceived notions that had been forcibly instilled in her since childhood. It was in the fact that this bud of the heart had sprouted from transgression that Kishimoto placed his hope. In any case, she was not someone who could act on her thoughts right away. She was someone who had no choice but to wait for the power of “time.”

From such feelings, Kishimoto waited to receive Brother Minsuke's arrival in Tokyo for Setsuko's sake. At last, having waited until just past mid-October, a notice from his brother reached Kishimoto's residence stating he would board a ship departing Keelung on the eleventh of that month.

132

Brother Minsuke from Taiwan stayed a night or two at the home of Aiko and her husband in Osaka, stopped by Shizuoka due to business matters, and then came up to the capital. This brother first arrived at the Yanaka house before coming to visit Kishimoto’s place. Around the time Setsuko began to take action, Kishimoto too was preparing to move. He had found a house not too far from his boarding place near the observatory and was preparing to relocate. Whether renting a detached room in a boarding house to raise three children or leasing an entire house to move out, there remained little difference in his semi-nomadic existence. He was simply transferring everything from his current detached room to the new house. He had even found an elderly woman suitable to entrust with cooking duties. With Izumi, Shigeru, and Mariko growing day by day, he—who had wanted to raise his children with his own hands—had achieved this wish to some degree. The children too had gradually grown accustomed to their simple life of just the four of them with their father.

One morning... around the twentieth of October, Kishimoto was awakened by the sound of heavy rain. Dawn had not yet fully broken. The faint light seeping through the gaps in the rain shutters on the south side of the detached room where he had lived for less than a year and a half appeared before his eyes. When he listened from his pillow, the chirping of insects seemed to drift in from nowhere. They could be heard amidst the sound of autumn rain. For a while, he kept his head on the pillow, listening to the dawn rain pouring on the garden grass outside the window, but he recalled those times in his Paris boarding house when he would often lie awake at night, unable to sleep. Each time, he would get down from his berth, try smoking a French cigarette by the dark train window, and then climb back into bed—he remembered all this. Before he knew it, his heart had gone to the Yanaka house. When he thought of what feelings Brother Minsuke—who was staying there—had as he read his confession, and what feelings he would have when coming to visit this boarding house, his heart—ashamed of himself, pitying Setsuko who was going far away, and wishing to commit fully to this life—all merged together and mingled with the sound of insects he could hear. He welcomed the gradually brightening morning, unable to distinguish whether the insects chirping outside the window were being battered by the autumn rain or whether he himself was experiencing a cold desolation.

Kishimoto waited for Brother Minsuke while making gradual preparations for his move. By the time his brother came visiting that afternoon, the rain had already cleared unnoticed. The previous year, Minsuke had once traveled up from Taiwan to meet his younger brother after a long separation. This was the same brother who had coincidentally encountered Kishimoto at a Kobe inn when he was about to depart for France years earlier—they had exchanged farewell drinks then—and he remained nearly unchanged from that time. Meeting him again now, Minsuke proved as physically vigorous as ever: a man who brought Taiwanese souvenirs like banana sweets and yōkan to delight the children, who calmly spoke of everything from business affairs to the tropical plants in his Taiwan home’s garden where he lived with his wife. Yet Kishimoto found himself wearing an expression he had never shown before. Until Setsuko’s situation arose in conversation, Kishimoto had lacked composure.

133

Kishimoto spent half a day talking with Brother Minsuke. After having sake ordered for the first time in ages, even when dinner was served, the subject of Setsuko still had not come up. The children not only found it novel to dine with their uncle from Taiwan but also grew eager with childlike curiosity about tropical regions whenever they saw souvenirs like the coconut sweet bowl he had brought them, refusing to leave his side even after the meal. “Will you be staying the night?”

Before long, the maid came to inquire. “The children should go to bed early tonight… You all should get to bed now… Izumi and Shigeru too—off to sleep.” When Minsuke told them this, the children went to bed looking inexplicably happy. The maid brought the guest’s bedding and closed the sliding door to the detached room. Though it was still early enough in the main house’s kitchen to be called the beginning of evening, not a single peal of the innkeeper’s laughter reached the detached room.

“Now then, about this confession business.” Minsuke broached the subject. Kishimoto had been waiting for this conversation to begin. Before Brother Minsuke’s visit here, he had already imagined there must have been discussions between his brother and Yoshio in Yanaka. Yet facing this eldest brother—who had come at Yoshio’s request to ‘dispose’ of Setsuko—Kishimoto found himself at a complete loss for words.

“Well, I won’t beat around the bush…” said Minsuke. “I won’t ask about anything up until you departed on your journey." “After returning from your trip—whether you had relations with Setsuko again or not—that’s what I’m asking.” “There were,” Kishimoto replied simply. “That’s utterly inexcusable.” “To resume relations after returning home—it’s truly beyond words.” “You’re a man of weak will, aren’t you?”

“That’s inherently weak.” “I’m well aware that I’m weak.” “I sent a letter to Brother Yoshio.” “I meant for it to convey some of my true feelings—did you read it, Brother?” “When I returned from my journey—the state of Brother Yoshio’s household and Setsuko’s condition—it was all beyond words.” “It was as if Setsuko were half-dead.” “Well—I suppose I developed just enough compassion to pity one person.”

“If you formed such a perspective regardless of your relationship, that’s worth recognizing—that’s admirable.” “But even speaking of relationships—unless it becomes that sort of bond between a man and woman, can one truly feel driven to save the other?" "There was a time when I too deeply scorned such connections." “All manner of suffering arose from that, but now I no longer see it as something base like you brothers do.”

“I don’t know anything about such complicated matters.” “I didn’t come here to talk about such things.” “I came to say you’re drowning in the love of a single woman.”

134 In a tone meant to prompt his younger brother’s reflection, Minsuke laid bare before Kishimoto the hidden aspects of their father’s life—things he had never spoken of to anyone until now. According to Minsuke, even their father—who had been so vociferous about morality—had committed hidden acts he couldn’t resist temptation for, and this too was one of those incidents that had occurred among their relatives. “I have never spoken of such things until now,” said Minsuke with his brother before him, in a tone that seemed to lament how the moral flaws of their father—no longer of this world—had been passed down even to his youngest son, Kishimoto.

“Keeping Sutekichi by Father’s side like that was unacceptable—he absolutely had to be sent elsewhere for training. Because I held that belief, I persuaded Father to send you off to Tokyo.” “You are that father’s child.” “That’s precisely why you must think deeply and be made to go.” “Well, from someone like me, seeing you get so hung up on one woman is just completely absurd.” “Even if you say that, Brother, I’m at a loss,” answered Kishimoto. “To have come this far, even I have gone through various trials in the end.” “Though you call her a single woman, I do not regard her so lightly.” “If you say such a thing, then even a wife who causes mutual lifelong hardship is still one woman, isn’t she?”

“No, that’s precisely where it’s absurd,” said Minsuke. “If you must endure hardships regardless, shouldn’t you endure them for something grander?” “Like becoming useful to society or benefiting all mankind—you know?” “It’s not that I disagree,” Kishimoto replied. “But even speaking of acting for humanity’s sake, I realized there was no path but to start with those nearest me.” “That’s how I came to resolve both to somehow sustain Setsuko’s life and to raise the child myself.”

“Well now, your logic’s gotten mighty twisted, hasn’t it…”

Minsuke burst into laughter. After a moment, as if about to say something, he hesitated slightly before, “So here’s the thing—I intend to take Setsuko to Taiwan this time—what’s your opinion on that?”

This brother’s words were precisely what Kishimoto had been waiting for. “Ah, so you’re taking her with you?” “I too have been wanting to request that very thing from my side,” answered Kishimoto with emphasis. Minsuke widened his eyes and looked at his younger brother. He seemed to find it unexpected that his younger brother did not show any displeasure at his own proposal to take Setsuko far away.

“Ah.” “Well, that’s a relief,” said Minsuke. “If even you agree, then I can rest easy.” “With this, I suppose I can fulfill the duty that brought me here this time.” “Worldly matters are best handled with detachment.” “That’s my principle.” “You must approach everything with detachment.” “You mustn’t dwell on things too much.” “Well, what can I say—once Setsuko here goes off to Taiwan or wherever, after some time passes, she might even come to think herself that she did something downright foolish.”

“No—that’s not quite right. Her state of mind may have settled down, but I don’t believe she’ll think what she did was foolish.”

“Well, whatever’s fine.” “As long as her feelings settle down—that’s all that matters—”

The autumn-like night deepened unnoticed. At his brother’s words of “Let’s leave it at this and go to bed,” Kishimoto laid out the bedding the maid had left behind, spread his own futon beside it, and the brothers lay their pillows side by side to sleep. It was also this brother who had crossed the mountains of their hometown on foot together with Kishimoto during his boyhood when he went to study in Tokyo. When he returned once more from his wandering journey in youth and went together to apologize to his benefactor Tanabe—whom he had once run away from—with an awkwardly shaved head, it was also this brother. All manner of things welled up in Kishimoto’s chest even after he got into bed. What would become of Setsuko—whenever his thoughts turned there, he couldn’t sleep well as he dwelled on his brother’s words.

135

The next morning, Kishimoto went down from the corridor of the detached guesthouse to the garden and went to the fig tree to organize his thoughts alone. From there, he returned to his room and talked with Minsuke while drinking morning tea. From around the time he had sent the children off to school, Minsuke’s conversation resumed and returned to the matter of confession, yet compared to the previous evening, he came to speak in a far more unreserved tone.

“So what made you decide to publish such things?” asked Minsuke, lowering his voice slightly. “Back in Taiwan, Oaki and I speculated Yoshio’s relentless interrogations must have driven you to it—” Minsuke spoke as if something had occurred to him. When Kishimoto heard this, there floated up in his heart the memory of those dark days he had spent with Setsuko. “That is part of it,” answered Kishimoto. “But it wasn’t solely because of that I embarked on it. Various experiences of the heart accumulated until they led me there. As proof—I don’t dislike devoting myself to Brother Yoshio even now. If something requires doing, I still intend to do all within my power. I simply wish to act in the same manner as all of you. That is all.”

“So here’s the thing—we’ve decided to take Setsuko to Taiwan—” Minsuke began, then rose from his seat in front of Kishimoto and tightened his obi. Having declared he needed to accomplish his own tasks during his brief visit to the capital, this brother sat back down and, in a tone suggesting he intended to manage everything smoothly, continued speaking.

“Since I’ve come all this way, I can’t just leave things as they are.” “Brothers being at odds like this is unacceptable.” “Unless I make you and Yoshio reconcile before leaving, my duty here remains unfulfilled.” “That would be rather inconvenient,” said Kishimoto in surprise, cutting off his brother’s words. “From my side, I have already proposed to accept being disowned, and for the time being, I would like you to leave things as they are.”

“That’s impossible—I’ll make you and Yoshio meet somewhere and get you reconciled before I go—Leaving things like this is absolutely impossible—”

Having said this, since Minsuke seemed unlikely to listen, Kishimoto recalled the letter of severance that had come from Yoshio. He retrieved it from where he had stored it away. “This has come from Mr. Yoshio,” said Kishimoto as he placed the letter before Minsuke. “From my perspective, whether I receive and keep such things or voluntarily accept disownment, it amounts to the same as being in seclusion.” “If you feel your duty remains unfulfilled under this consideration, shall I have you take this letter?”

“Very well. “I’ll take charge of it.”

Minsuke relented and unfolded the letter—written boldly in Yoshio’s own hand on a large sheet of formal paper—to examine it. “Cutting the bonds of brotherhood is no easy matter,” said Kishimoto. “Well, I don’t know what the other relatives would think if they heard, but I’m not such a bad person.” “At least by confessing, there’s still some honesty left in you, huh?” Minsuke laughed. “You’d better go do some splendid work and restore this disgrace.”

“You talk of impressive work, but bringing Setsuko this far was no small task for me—after all, these are merely human endeavors; nothing truly remarkable could come of them—well, I entrust Setsuko to you—I’ve somehow managed to make it this far—” “Well, you two can’t marry anyway.” “As long as you keep it in your hearts, think all you want—no harm in that.”

Minsuke, who had assisted an entrepreneur with unwavering dedication over a decade and been honored with a trio of silver cups and gold coins, handled Setsuko's affairs in Taiwan as methodically as administrative paperwork.

“Then I’ll head over to Yanaka now.” “I’ll come back again within two or three days.” With those words, his brother stood up, tucking Yoshio’s letter into his pocket.

136

On the afternoon before Kishimoto was to move to his new residence, Minsuke visited him again. "So the move is finally happening."

Minsuke said as he looked around his younger brother’s room. “This move is as simple as this. Well, please go ahead and speak.” Kishimoto answered thus and, amidst everything that had begun to move, attempted to receive the report his brother had brought.

“Since then, I’ve had thorough discussions in Yanaka. Yoshio said: ‘Why did Sukekichi publish that confession without any prior notice? Why didn’t he consult me first?’ There was that sort of talk. If you had consulted Yoshio, he would have surely stopped you—it’s clear you went through with it without asking.”

Minsuke put on a knowing look as he spoke, then gazed at his younger brother’s face and resumed speaking. “So here’s the thing—” “My way of thinking differs somewhat from Yoshio’s.” “In my view, as long as you keep your thoughts about Setsuko confined to your heart, it’s no concern how much you dwell on them.” “Such things aren’t anyone else’s business.” “But Yoshio doesn’t see it that way.” “He says even thinking it in your heart is forbidden.” “He claims he won’t accept this letter until you renounce Setsuko.” “Since Yoshio takes that stance and you insist on remaining secluded for now, I’ll stand down and return this time.” “Well, keep this letter here.”

After saying this, Minsuke took out the letter he had been keeping from his pocket and placed it before his younger brother. Their conversation was briefly interrupted when a child suddenly came running in from the main house. For Kishimoto, rather than retracting what he had already put forward, his primary concern lay in worrying about Setsuko’s future. “I would like to make a request of you, Brother—” said Kishimoto. “There may come a time when Setsuko’s future plans are discussed. “Please honor her own will above all else. “At least grant her that much freedom.”

“That goes without saying,” answered Minsuke. “I dislike anything that binds people’s will.” “In that regard, I’ll leave it to Setsuko’s own discretion.”

“If you force things through, there’s no telling what tragedy might occur—” “Well, once I take her to Taiwan—it’s not like her feelings won’t change.” “We’ll handle that when the time comes.” “Her hand could have been treated more thoroughly—but with Kayoko’s illness, it ended up as it did.” “If she can properly assist Sister over in Taiwan—that’s what worries me.”

“Well, Taiwan’s climate differs from Japan proper—it’s hotter there—and I believe Setsuko’s hand will naturally improve.” “Whatever happens, I want to ensure she can truly live and emerge—that is my hope.” “As long as she survives and emerges—that alone matters most.”

Kishimoto also tried to inform Minsuke of Setsuko’s aspiration to pursue a religious path, but his brother laughed and refused to engage.

“Well, that settles most of it—” said Minsuke. “One more thing to make clear—even if Setsuko has lingering feelings, it’s not acceptable. I want you to hold off on sending any farewell gifts from your side.” “Understood.” “I’ll refrain from all such matters.” “Having you take her to Taiwan would be best.” “Yoshio agrees, and you agree.” “At least my coming here served some purpose.” “Setsuko’s overjoyed.” “She’s already set on following me—today she was packing her things, for example—”

137

Having thrown himself into that situation, Kishimoto’s responses to his relatives up to this point had been extremely simple. Teruko had come when Kishimoto made his confession and said: “Setsuko will no longer be coming to help you, Uncle—please keep that in mind.” “Very well.” Yoshio next sent over a letter: “I will disown you—bear this in mind.” “Very well.” Kishimoto had no choice but to repeat this simple reply now to Minsuke as well: “You can keep her in your thoughts—we’re taking Setsuko far away!” “Very well.”

After promising to meet once more at the new residence, Minsuke soon returned to Yanaka in due course. A profound sorrow lingered in Kishimoto’s heart. “Father.” When Shigeru returned along the garden path from outside, the room was already dim. “What were you doing in such a dark place, Father?” asked Shigeru.

“I was preparing for the move,” answered Kishimoto. “I thought Father wasn’t here. You didn’t even light a lamp until it got this dark—”

While saying this, Shigeru walked around turning on the electric lamps in the detached room and lit up the two rooms where the bags and willow trunks had been taken out.

The final evening of attempting life at the boarding house arrived. After dinner, Kishimoto found himself especially occupied. The children passed what felt like pre-move hours with the reluctant inn maid while anticipating their new residence. Amidst this disarray, Kishimoto discovered Setsuko had called.

“Is that you, Uncle...”

The voice he heard at the main house’s telephone was one steeped in nostalgia—a voice he might never hear again. It seemed to bid farewell from opposite sides of an impassable door through which they could no longer see each other. “Ah—ah—ah—” After the static from the crossed line ceased, Setsuko’s voice reached his ears once more. “I’d asked Uncle from Taiwan about you—so that when discussions about future plans arise from here on out, I made sure to request they respect your will above all else. Naturally, he replied it would be left entirely to your freedom—”

“Oh—did Uncle from Taiwan say that—” came Setsuko’s voice. At the telephone where people came and went around him, Kishimoto could not convey anything more heartfelt. He had no choice but to cloak the words he longed to speak in phrases so ordinary they would raise no eyebrows. “Let me note down the address of your new residence—” continued Setsuko’s voice. “Before I leave, there’s something I must send you—please wait a moment while I write this down—”

For a while, Kishimoto remained standing at the telephone. In the unseen space, he imagined Setsuko taking out something like a notebook and writing down the town name and address he had provided. “And if there happens to be a telephone in your new neighborhood, I should inquire about its number as well—” came Setsuko’s voice again. “There’s no need for that,” replied Kishimoto. “Let us part here—have a safe journey—go to your aunt in Taiwan and assist her properly—I’m counting on you—well then, farewell—”

“Uncle—”

Finally, Setsuko’s voice came through, as if searching for Kishimoto. Feeling pity for Setsuko, who seemed to be standing there reluctant to part, Kishimoto resolutely hung up the phone.

138

From the boarding house in Atagoshita to the residence he had found near the observatory was only about the distance one would traverse from the valley floor up to the hilltop. Kishimoto led his three children and the old servant, walking together to their new house. Finally, Kishimoto was able to find a place for his study in a residence that truly felt like his own after returning home—a space that had remained unsettled until now. Though not visible from there, the observatory buildings stood close by. Somehow it reminded him of those three years spent living near the Paris observatory. It had a second floor. It brought back memories of the small building where he had alternately lain down and risen for seven years in a town near the mouth of the Kanda River. The children, finding everything novel, ran around the tree-lined paths surrounding the house and the sloping roads that led down to the town in the valley.

On the third day after moving, Kishimoto received a letter and a package from Setsuko. From inside the package emerged four roots of begonias that she had hand-planted in Yanaka. Kishimoto read the letter from her in the new study on the second floor. "I write in haste. "I write this letter without preamble or conclusion; please read it with that understanding. When I still used to visit Atagoshita, there was Grandmother’s tortoiseshell hairpin that I had received, and though I had requested to have it adjusted for a bun hairstyle, it has remained as it was. That is something I no longer have use for. I know this is presumptuous, but I would like to present that to you as a memento; however, due to various circumstances, if you ever find yourself in the Ueno area, please do accept it. I have written down the location of the haberdashery on a separate sheet. Additionally, I have just sent a package, so please accept it.

The letters and other items I received might be seen by others at any opportunity, so I will bundle these together as well and deliver them to you before departing on my journey. Please keep this safe. To protect creative work, I must pay any sacrifice necessary. With the mindset of one receiving the teachings of a new day, I will set out on my journey. Please consider that the times when you do your best for creative work are my strongest times during my journey. Regarding the obi and kimono I previously received from you—since they are of no use here whatsoever, I have decided to allocate them entirely to travel expenses and such. I have long carried your kindness close to my body and heart, so please forgive this formal discourtesy.

"I wish I could present this letter with more composure and at greater length, but even writing this much has taken considerable effort. To speak of farewells feels rather odd. We are always together, after all. There is also news from Uncle in Taiwan, and though we will be out of touch for some time, please take good care of yourself. The sacrifices made for creative work are a joy to me. 'Goodbye.'"

Setsuko wrote all of this in pencil and sent it over. On the paper bearing such gallant words as “The sacrifices made for creative work are a joy,” traces of tears shed at their parting had seeped into the fibers. As he read this, Kishimoto imagined that the first steps toward her true path were now opening before her; he also imagined that her resolve to break free from her current confined existence truly came from her heart.

That day, Kishimoto welcomed Minsuke, who had come from Yanaka, and shared a farewell meal at his new residence. Setsuko entrusted her travel expenses for Taiwan to her brother.

“I will not see you off again—this time I shall refrain.” Having said this, Kishimoto parted with his elder brother. Minsuke did not even attempt to inform his younger brother of the date when he would take Setsuko toward Taiwan.

139

For Kishimoto, all that remained now was to see Setsuko off from the shadows. All he could do now was watch over the path ahead as she voluntarily prepared to embark on this distant journey after spending six tear-filled years.

On the last day of October, Teruko came to visit while approaching Kishimoto’s house and spoke about her younger sister in the second-floor room. “I hear Setsuko and the others will depart from Tokyo Station tomorrow at one in the afternoon,” said Teruko. “Tomorrow I intend to go to Yanaka as well—because it wouldn’t do for Setsuko’s heart to linger behind. Uncle from Taiwan also says that no one should come all the way to the station, so I plan to take even Ichiro along and see her off near Ueno.”

“Oh, I see. I’ve resolved to refrain entirely this time,” Kishimoto answered.

“Yesterday at my house, we only invited those going to Taiwan. I had Uncle from Taiwan and Setsuko come as guests. I thought of giving Setsuko a farewell gift too, so when I said she could ask for anything, she mentioned wanting books. We went all the way to Kanda to look for them. Speaking of which, I heard there are some books that Setsuko received which were left in your care, Uncle. I’ve come with a message from Setsuko asking you to retrieve those for me. If there are any.”

“If you’re going to Yanaka tomorrow too, pass this on to her. “I’m sure Setsuko already knows this, but thinking she’ll have time to leisurely read books once she goes to Taiwan—that’s a grave miscalculation. That’s what I told her. “After all, Yoshio won’t be covering her living expenses there, and to the aunt in Taiwan, it’ll seem like some nuisance has come crashing in. “Men there might be rough-and-ready types, but women are more particular. “I keep worrying—what if there are things making it hard for her to stay? That’s why I’m concerned.”

“Setsuko was worried about that too, you know.”

“Well, I’ll hold off on giving the books for now. I’ll keep them in my care a while longer.” “But I was told to relay that message.” “No—tell Setsuko this instead. ‘Make sure to help Aunt in Taiwan properly.’” As they spoke of such things, a sorrow akin to having what he had long nurtured and raised being torn away root and branch pressed upon Kishimoto’s heart with crushing force.

“Ahhh—even with all these relatives, is there no one who can understand my heart?”

As he said this, Kishimoto rose, went to fetch the tea utensils, and brought them back.

“However, it can’t be helped.” Kishimoto said again while pouring hot tea for Teruko, continuing his words: “My relatives don’t know what I’ve done or what state of mind I’m in—” “Even if I were to write anything, if people simply think Sukekichi scribbled such sleep-talking nonsense, then so be it.” “Well... The ones who might fathom my heart would be your husband and Mr. Hiro Tanabe.” “Even if you can’t grasp my feelings, I believe your husband will understand—”

Hearing these words from Kishimoto, Teruko smiled wryly while inhaling the fragrant aroma of the tea. “Well then, I’ll go have a little chat with Grandma downstairs.” With that, Teruko went downstairs from the second floor.

After Teruko left for Shibuya, Kishimoto walked through his new study alone. When he looked at it now, there was nothing of that sort—no need to be bound by invisible chains, no need to furtively hide himself. Not only did he feel that he emerged into a vast, free world, but he also secretly imagined that the time had now come even for Setsuko. She was already so distant. But at the same time, she was so close.

140

“Not my will, but Thine be done. Setsuko Dear Sukekichi, Thinking of my own fortune in embarking on a distant journey with heartfelt trust, I shall leave that joy here.”

The letter Setsuko had sent from Yanaka reached Kishimoto. The first of November had come—the day she was to depart Tokyo. Kishimoto read and reread this letter until he felt compelled to retrace the years they had spent together. Just as in those song lyrics about clamorous birds gathering on evening branches—their voices gradually subsiding until only a single sparrow’s cry remains—so too would their laughter and tears fade away, leaving only love’s truth behind. Having thought this, Kishimoto resolved to surrender everything to the course of “Life” itself—something beyond his meager wisdom and strength to control.

Kishimoto opened the package that had been separately delivered from Setsuko. The items in the furoshiki-wrapped bundle that Setsuko had asked him to keep for her were none other than expected contents. It was her handbox. From inside came pressed morning glory flowers that seemed like mementos from the Takanawa days, and the familiar male child doll emerged as well. All the things she had used for comfort in her daily life—the faintly scented mementos, those sorts of items—were all there inside. Unbeknownst to him, she had apparently gathered Kishimoto’s old photographs as well, and from within emerged countless images capturing his visage from boyhood through young adulthood. At the bottom of that handbox, she had done something characteristically feminine—placing Kishimoto’s photographs alongside her own. However, what caught Kishimoto’s attention was an old ukiyo-e print by Kazusai Toyokuni. It was a design Kishimoto had never seen before—one modeled after the Thirty-Six Poetic Immortals that depicted women of olden times. She had tried to leave behind, without concealing even the sorrows of the boudoir, her feminine heart that she had attached to that old ukiyo-e print. In that handbox she had sent—with the reasoning that there was no guarantee it might not someday be seen by others—even letters and postcards containing mere practical matters sent by Kishimoto had been carefully placed inside, but the only thing missing was the prayer beads. Kishimoto knew that Setsuko was taking on her journey only what he had sent as those tokens of affection from his side.

The afternoon sun filled the second-floor room of the new residence. Outside the northeast-facing window, slender yet sturdy oak branches extended from the neighbor's garden, their evergreen young leaves glowing with deep hues as if preparing for winter. Time and again Kishimoto went to that window. He gazed at the November sky stretching above the oak's treetops. For Setsuko embarking on her distant journey, he quietly blessed this fair weather. In his mind's eye rose her figure—briskly departing Yanaka's house while accompanying her Taiwanese uncle—the traveler she had become.

“Granny, what time is it now?” Kishimoto called down from beside the window.

“It is exactly one o’clock,” answered the old woman servant, coming to the foot of the ladder stairs with her glasses still on. “The guest from Taiwan is departing Tokyo Station now.” Kishimoto said and gazed out the window again. In the distance beyond the bright blue sky, even the drifting masses of water vapor could be seen with clarity. He recalled his homeward voyage that had called at Hong Kong and Shanghai, remembered the Kuroshio Current, thought of the sea’s color in those waters, and for Setsuko—now setting out toward Taiwan for the first time—he wished that her sea journey might be smooth.

Kishimoto descended the ladder stairs at once. He passed between the children’s room and dining area before stepping down from the engawa into the garden. There lay a narrow patch of earth just spacious enough for planting flowers. Beside the fence were buried the roots of begonias Setsuko had left behind. "As a memento of your distant departure, I place this humbly in your hands." "May you perceive the solace I found in this plant I nurtured morning and evening." These words Setsuko had written lingered in Kishimoto’s mind. Amidst the disarray of moving house, he had buried four roots in the garden—yet now grew uneasy about how carelessly he’d planted them. Somehow it felt as though whether these roots took hold or not might determine something about their shared future. When he experimentally dug them up, all four begonia roots—blackened and revolting, like clumps of sprouting hair—came rolling out from the soil.

“Dad, what’re you going to do?” asked Shigeru, who had come home early from school. “Ah right, Setsuko-chan left it behind,” Izumi also said as he came down into the garden.

“Hey. “I’ll help too!” With these children by his side, Kishimoto replanted the roots deep into the earth so they wouldn’t be harmed by the frost that would soon come. Setsuko was no longer only within Kishimoto—she was in the garden soil too.