Pathway to Japanese Literature

No matter how humble the garment, there was nothing as fleeting yet melancholy as walking through town in a newly tailored kimono only to be caught in untimely rain.
No—my neurosis induced in me an unbearable sense of disgust even at the slightest perspiration, even when buffeted by gritty dust-laden winds, or indeed even at the filth of public conveyances or others’ seats.
One summer day, in the slums near Asakusa—where this novel would attempt to chronicle the man I came to know—I witnessed something startling: in a cramped tin-roofed house within a maze of back alleys, a half-naked man was sewing what could only be described as an extravagant geisha’s ceremonial kimono.
It was regrettable that I lacked the kimono expertise to detail that parlor kimono’s quality or pattern, but regardless—this garment possessed an uncanny allure that instantly evoked trailing hems, a woman’s glossy limbs, even the scent of cosmetics. Yet here it lay carelessly across the thighs and arms of a grime-blackened man whose hands likely oozed sweat the color of rust, his skin glistening stickily. I found myself assaulted not by irony, but an unbearable revulsion that forced my gaze away.
There were times when I thought my fastidiousness was futile—after all, who knew how much sweat and grime from others had already seeped into this kimono without my knowledge? Yet even so, when first wearing it, I found myself trembling with such exaggerated caution that one might have called it timidity, determined to avoid every possible contamination.

But that... that too was only at the very beginning.
After wearing it for a while and letting it naturally accumulate grime, I no longer cared.
Whether I got drenched by rain or splashed with muddy water, I could sprawl out on the tatami mat—stained black with footprints—without a second thought.
It was a transformation so peculiar that even I found it bizarre.

Though I was an unparalleled devotee of bathing—possessing even the habit of darting into unfamiliar public bathhouses two or even three times a day while running errands, chanced upon them mid-task—and though each time I would scrub myself clean with foolish fastidiousness, should circumstances keep me from bathing for a day or two, I would already find myself as though having forgotten that precious post-bath sensation: my entire body refreshed and lightened, luxuriously unbound.

As days passed, bathing became exponentially more bothersome and tedious—until nail grime accumulated, my skin grew clammy, a greasy sheen oozed from the sides of my nose down to my chin, sleep crusted freely in my eyes, and nasal discharge hardened into pitch-black clumps. Though moving my body must have emitted a foul stench, I grew even less inclined to care.

No—at times I would even goad myself into further defilement, as if taking perverse pleasure in letting some moss-like substance accumulate thickly upon my skin.

Do my readers know about my teeth?
Two of my upper front teeth had completely fallen out down to the roots, while the other two were mostly decayed and barely remained.
Cavities had formed from within my lower incisors—it was unclear how long they would last.
As for my molars? Their state proved even more dire; those not yet destroyed could be counted on one hand.
Either I would die before they all rotted away or resign myself to full dentures' inconvenience.
My teeth had originally been sound until one cavity emerged—then multiplied relentlessly.
I did initially seek treatment, but irregular visits left repairs half-finished—until those very dental interventions hastened corrosion instead. They were ravaged at such speed that anxiety multiplied exponentially within me.
Then my fatal habit surfaced—what I'd maintained with ordinary care now seemed absurdly futile—and I cast it aside carelessly once more.
Once decay takes root and visibly worsens after all—what difference does stalling make? Fifty steps or a hundred?
Better to endure all repairs collectively than suffer each tooth's tedious mending separately—so I concluded.

Such tendencies could not help but manifest in other areas of my life.
From elementary school through early middle school years, I had maintained perfect attendance—enduring minor hardships to avoid any tardiness or early departures—but after my mother’s sudden death caused my first absence, I grew indifferent to skipping school without reason.
In the end, throughout all three years of high school, I nearly failed due to insufficient attendance.

Those acquainted with my daily affairs expressed surprise at finding me unexpectedly earnest and diligent, like some model student.
They would likely have conceded that I even possessed a talent for handling diverse tasks with rigorous methodicalness.
I rose at dawn like any laborer, devoted myself to the family trade, adhered to orderly routines, and not merely moderated but completely abstained from my beloved drink without experiencing the slightest hardship.
In ordinary times, I passed my days as a genuinely unpretentious townsman, an active worldly pragmatist, and the benevolent sustainer of my numerous family dependents.

Yet, through some trivial incident—the trigger could be anything, for even the slightest thing can serve as pretext—if that discipline was even slightly disrupted or veered off track even a little, then, as I’d said many times before, it became utterly uncontrollable.
With my usually hidden wandering habit also contributing, I neglected both work and family obligations completely, acted on every passing whim, and found myself unable even to foresee where such caprice would lead.
No matter how I tried to redirect this desolate course, to readjust to a normal state—until the opportune moment arrived, no remedy could be applied.
No—in truth, even this pretense of striving was merely a facade I maintained for myself, having surrendered completely to blind momentum with a “let come what may” abandon.
I covered my eyes from the fact that these tedious days were in truth a life rich with meaning and substance—pretending, Ah, I’ve had enough, I’m sick of it all—and wished to cast away everything, every last thing, to flee far from all these vexations.
At times, I abandoned everything—even lost all attachment to life—and found myself in a state where I wanted to simply give it away to someone.
Realistic hopes vanished like lies—ephemeral—and I sometimes conceived the unattainable ambition to merge with clouds or water.

In this way, I distanced myself from my proper life for days on end, wasted the time of my life, and felt no regret.
And as punishment, a moss-like grime thickened on my skin and accumulated oppressively deep in my heart—yet where an ordinary person would have found this unbearable, I feigned insensitivity and remained numb.

When escaping from work, family, friendships, and other real-world obligations to indulge both body and mind, there were times when I wandered capriciously along the flows of the Tone, Tama, and Sagami Rivers or through desolate post towns in neighboring prefectures.
This aspect remained relatively healthy; in another scenario—mimicking someone’s adage that “the great recluse hides in the city”—after drifting from pleasure quarter to pleasure quarter, I would find myself in some corner of a flophouse district.
Setting aside whether such wanderings were justified, that I drifted ever further from my sphere of daily life and ground down my soul in idleness was, by any measure, a trivial yet contemptible endeavor.
Particularly in how I sentimentally convinced myself that this vagrant path served as preliminary training—a way to steel myself against future ruin—one might say.

But, to put it plainly… despite all that, it remains an inescapable fact for me.

At the end of a certain year—no, even at the close of December last year—I had fallen into a state of mind resembling such an episode.
Until then, I had calculated and accounted for the exact number of days remaining until New Year’s Eve, determined the amount of work required, and diligently toiled away.
I had to ensure my many family members had a happy New Year.
I used to take pride in bearing the weight of multitudes upon my back.
If I could have managed without such burdens, nothing would have been better—but since it was an unavoidable fate anyway, resolving to accept whatever came to weigh upon me felt tragically heroic, and that very satisfaction spurred me onward.

The work started smoothly, so I was utterly delighted.
But then midway through, my rhythm went awry; I could no longer leave it to willpower alone, and gradually I began to balk.
Once it reaches that state, continuing only leaves pain, and even an exaggerated sense of despair sets in.
After spending a long, tedious stretch of time, what finally takes shape amounts merely to the unpleasantness of a simple failure—something like dissatisfaction.
The result of my distorted work twists my entire being—body and mind—into ugliness.
I stagger under my own unbalanced weight, and being all too aware of this pitiful state, my footing grows all the more precarious.
In my chest—as though packed with countless rubble—they clatter desolately, lurching to one side and tumbling to the other.
To take on the next job, everything lies in far too much disarray.

For my work, I received rightful compensation—but in this state, it felt like tainted money obtained through some wrongdoing.
Conversely, I could not help but feel some irritation that what was paid as compensation for this suffering came too cheaply.
In any case, a melancholy as though the human spirit were being mocked rose to the surface.

I felt sorrowful toward the money I had just obtained and wanted to cast it away as soon as possible.
And it seemed destined not for any meaningful use, but rather for utterly trivial waste.

My year-end work had thus stumbled from the very beginning.
Despite being utterly exhausted, I indulged in the most unhealthy forms of consumption throughout that time, never once considering anything else.
That my body had endured at all would later strike me as miraculous—yet when I finally discovered myself dazedly lingering in a flophouse near Asakusa Park, face still slack with sleep—considerable time had already passed since completing that wretched work which had reduced me to such decadence.
Until then, when I twisted my hazy mind to trace my steps—where I had wandered or what I had been doing—only shameful deeds could be dredged up, as was always the case.
I couldn’t help but feel complacent with myself—yet rather than anger, it was all so absurd that I found myself filled with contempt.

Moreover, while I wallowed in futile, irretrievable regrets in such a place, time once again slipped away.
The work I had painstakingly scheduled with deadlines ended one after another without being touched.
While driven by anxiety, I could do nothing but remain still.
Though I had stumbled at the first step, if I could quickly regain my posture, I might manage with minimal sacrifice.
Though logically understanding this, I dramatically told myself—as if chanting—that it was hopeless, that there was nothing more to be done.
And though it was certain that with each passing day, recovery became exponentially more difficult—this too had its limits—there finally came a moment when, now, no matter how much I resolved to work, it became unmanageable.
As if I had been waiting for it, I finally gained a lonely composure and collapsed in utter exhaustion.
The angry expressions of those to whom I had to deliver my work and the perplexed faces of my family members would surface to reproach me, but I would feign ignorance and yet timidly avert my gaze.

Disliking encounters with acquaintances... yet were I to meet someone by chance, I would likely grow sociable—liberated from prolonged solitary silence, driven by the joy of lively conversation with a friend after so long—chattering away all at once about this and that, and doubtless refusing to release those busy with year-end tasks for hours on end... In any case, I wandered with apparent purpose through the soiled hems of the city—Senju, Mikawashima, or from Ogu to Itabashi—where I rarely saw familiar faces, though without any particular business to attend to.
Thus, when the short winter day ended, I would return to Asakusa Tanakacho—swarming with vagrants in the twilight—wearing an expression as though heading home.
The cheap eateries and awamori liquor shops were packed and raucous; the stench of boiled and grilled pig and horse innards mingled with human body odor, and at the street corners stood women in earthen and brick-red hues, their bodyguards hidden behind them.

Once I had spent down to just a few coins, I would use them for meals or alcohol.

At the lodging house, with shared rooms accommodating two or three people in a space of about three tatami mats, I ended up lying pillow-to-pillow with all sorts of unfamiliar men.
Migrant laborers, runaways, country bumpkins who had squandered their money around Kakigaracho, hucksters, itinerant performers, and even those who clearly resembled thieves—I ended up sharing a room with them all.
When I woke in the morning, even though I had gone to bed alone the night before, I would sometimes find myself flanked by large men with vicious features on both sides.
There were cases where men seeking a night’s lodging would sleep with their bodies pressed nearly flush against the bedding—strangers unaware of each other’s circumstances, parting ways never to meet again; but equally common were instances of prolonged stays where they became thoroughly familiar faces, regaling one another with old tales more than half fabricated from lies and tall stories.
This was because they, living in such depths, invariably insisted they hadn’t been born to dwell in places like this from the start.
They could vividly recount memories of having grown up in fine homes and once lived in opulent luxury as if these were yesterday’s events.
Some were genuine, while others were stolen from people’s tales and embellished.
In any case, having fallen into ruin to reach this state, they harbored much foolish vanity—forgetting today’s misery or trying to conceal it.
Regardless of their veracity, being made to listen to these tales, I felt compelled to chime in with agreement or feign admiration for their nonsensical aspects, yet there was also a man who—resentful despite their earnest delivery of seemingly faultless accounts—wanted spitefully to derail them.

The story was fundamentally rooted in its teller, and in that way seemed to take on various impressions.…

That year’s end too found me sharing a room with two men, compelled time and again to listen to their motley tales.
The man about my age styled himself a "High-class Beggar," while the other—a short-statured old man who peddled fortune slips using a fox—boasted of having even held court rank, claiming descent from priesthood at Fushimi Shrine.

New Year’s Eve loomed.
While bearing the leaden obligation to return home, each morning I would resolve that today was the day—only for nightfall to find my thoughts shifting sloppily: it was already too late, surely I would go early tomorrow instead, dawdling endlessly.
This seemed an inexorable cycle—I feared even the thirty-first would arrive and leave me hearing the New Year’s Eve temple bells after all.
Or rather, perhaps my mind’s hidden recesses had already settled on that very outcome.

The money I had became nonexistent after paying for last night’s flophouse.
Today, having no other choice, I steeled myself to go to a friend’s house and borrow money or something—but with the thin futon, it was cold to leave the bedding, so I curled my head and limbs, afraid of drafts, and lay perfectly still.

The other rooms, whose occupants had left early in the morning, were wrapped in a hushed silence, and soon enough, the lodging house’s old woman began her cleaning rounds.
And yet, in this room alone—since no one had any business to attend to from morning—no one made any attempt to rise.

A drowsy half-sleep attacked me again.
I had surrendered myself to that comfort, but when my stomach growled loudly, I startled myself awake.
I was getting hungry.
When I forced a wry smile, this time it growled even louder.

――Is this hunger? If hunger comes, then death cannot be far behind.

That I was muttering such foolish things with a foggy head was because I hadn’t yet fully awoken from sleep.

—Hungry, hunger, Hungarian... Wait, isn't there a term 'Hungarian Rhapsody'? Ah yes—the mad song of the starved, I suppose.

“What’s the matter? Your stomach’s growling awfully loud, is it not?”
“It’s even reaching over here… Could it be your stomach’s acting up?”

Suddenly, the “High-class Beggar” next to me called out, startling me fully awake.

I never much cared for this man’s overbearing catchphrases, so without replying, I silently kept up the pretense of sleep.

“Ha ha ha… Aren’t you hungry? … I shall undertake a relief program for starving children.”

“And he continued,” said the “High-class Beggar” in good spirits.
His cheerfulness stemmed from having completed his “New Year’s preparations” the previous day.

This too was highly dubious—whether a lie or truth—but he claimed to be the son of a famous party politician who had lived until the early Showa era. After his father’s death, burdened by massive debts and forced to drop out of school, he had grown thoroughly rough, becoming a delinquent before ultimately sinking to this state—or so he claimed. In the past, even those who had once been helped by his father and prospered not only failed to extend a hand of gratitude to the struggling family but instead went so far as to pester them over trivial loans they had lent. His ailing mother had died in the midst of all this, and his only sister was now bedridden.

“My wife is also in poor health, so we live apart… No—rather, since I have to send medical funds to both of them, being a High-class Beggar is quite taxing.”

That must have been his politician-like laugh; he would arch his somewhat slender frame backward and laugh heartily, only to start coughing midway and bend over as if in agony.
The illnesses of his sister and wife were, according to his description, money-devouring tuberculosis—and his own lungs were clearly ravaged as well.
The coughing stemmed from this affliction, yet he even used it as an opportunity to adopt affected poses.

The High-class Beggar would visit not only party members connected to his deceased father but all manner of politicians, renowned officials, businessmen, actors, and even companies to make modest appeals for funds.
Some had even started giving regularly—he boasted of having made a name for himself to that extent—but,

"Well now, I show up repeatedly and pester them for pocket money with all sorts of outlandish excuses... The trick is to annoy them enough—so they'll think to give me a little something just to get rid of me quickly."

he once confided in me.
And,

“Violence and threats won’t do—absolutely not… That’s not our line of work, and the police get too nosy… If you’re working solo, you’ve got to follow my school of thought—softness conquering hardness…”

His statement—coming from one who seemed to lack both strength and courage—was perfectly reasonable.

It didn’t seem like a particularly novel method, but he carried it out with full confidence.
However, if he could manage to get by each day and send whatever paltry sum it might be for his wife’s and sister’s medical expenses, then perhaps he had a right to boast.

Since his appearance was his capital, he would regularly head out properly dressed in a black suit, white shirt, and striped trousers.
Despite his bombastic demeanor, he possessed a notably feminine aspect—personally maintaining his Western clothes, frequently laundering his undergarments, and always keeping himself neatly attired.
As for his body, when exposed naked to this frigid sky, he would do nothing but scrub it vigorously.
His face—meticulously tended with a razor and appearing thoroughly washed with soap—bore thin cheeks tinged an unnatural red, smooth and glossy…

When I finally stuck my head out from the damp futon, the "High-class Beggar" turned his cheekbone-protruding face energetically toward me and the fortune-teller,

“Well now—how about this? Today I shall treat you both to a meal. Fortunately, the war chest is full to bursting, so follow me without worry.”

Yesterday, he had finished sending this month’s remittance to his wife and sister, even adding New Year’s pocket money.
Since there was more than enough left over, he likely intended to treat us.

“There now—that’s truly splendid! A right blessing, ain’t it? You…”

Then, the old man lying by the shoji screen beamed with satisfaction and called out to me.

"Since he's gone to the trouble of inviting us, why don't we all take him up on his offer?"

"Ha ha ha—go right ahead! Ain't no shame in that belly rumblin'... Just gimme a sec before we head out."

The "High-class Beggar" flew out of his futon and, as was his custom, went to the washroom to wipe down his body.

“That gentleman—though still young—is quite an accomplished man, I tell ya. Even if one were to properly care for patients far away, it’s not something just anyone can manage… Truly remarkable.”

The Fortune-teller with Fox shook his round, short neck with an impressed air.
Then, lowering his voice,

“The way he’s goin’, he’s already squirreled away quite a sum, I tell ya…”

Before long, the much-discussed “High-class Beggar” returned, grunting rhythmically as he flexed his spindly limbs like a schoolboy performing calisthenics, then changed into his formal attire.

The trousers were properly creased and laid under the futon.
After taking them out, he dried the futon—stepping over my feet—at the small window.

“It’s cloudy—a snow-laden sky. This won’t do for sunlight sterilization,”

he muttered to himself, then

“Come now, shall we depart?… You there—great sloth of the realm—rise.”

He stripped off my futon.

"What's this? You've got a physique like a sumo wrestler yet won't even go out to work... Should I find you some employment somewhere? Though perhaps it's unnecessary—any thriving munitions factory would welcome you with open arms..."

I smirked.

The old man clasped his hands in prayer toward the caged fox in the corridor corner outside the shoji and murmured something.
Listening closely,

“Well then, I’ll have you let me take you out for a bit now, O-Fox-sama… Please endure it for a while.”

In the dim light, the fox’s phosphorescent eyes were visible.
The characteristic unbearable stench had filled the corridor.

“Now then, let’s be off! You—what do you want to eat? …Ah yes, nothing too extravagant—we mustn’t let luxury spoil our palates. O-Inari-san, since you’re fond of drink, shall we start with a round first?”

From behind the High-class Beggar, who was chattering away energetically, we followed.
The lodging house owner was organizing the guest register at the front desk but peered suspiciously over his reading glasses at the three of us leaving together—a rare sight.

I remained smirking as ever—there was nothing to do but keep up that evasive expression.

The snow-laden night sky hung darkly overhead while beneath it, people swarmed about with year-end urgency. New Year decorations already adorned housefronts everywhere. I muttered coldly, "Ah, so the New Year comes," pretending to have forgotten my duty to usher in an auspicious year for all these people.

The three drank their way through working-class establishments—places called Such-and-Such Diner or Such-and-Such Bar, where a country-accented girl shrilly called out orders—and grew thoroughly drunk.
The liquor we’d been drinking since morning—and poor-quality stuff at that—had accumulated between the scalp and brain, creating an unbearable discomfort.
The Fortune-teller with Fox had turned sickeningly drunk and pale—his legs and hips giving out, nearly toppling him from his chair—yet he still stubbornly pursed his lips as if sucking in liquor, refusing to relinquish his cup.
He lavished transparent flattery on the High-class Beggar, prattling on about this or that food with his awkward teeth while mumblingly chewing.

“Ahh, you’re truly no ordinary man—magnificent!… Once I interpret that dream of yours, mark my words: you’re destined to rise above others—a born paragon of wisdom and talent! Riches’ll gather of their own accord, I tell ya—what mighty fortune!… Eh? No mistake here! I guarantee it! This here’s the dream divination of Kyoto’s O-Fushimi Inari!… Though I say so, I won’t charge a penny—truth be told, I ain’t gotten a single coin from ya!”

He seemed to be in distress, yet he articulated his points well.
It appeared to relate to the auspiciousness of a dream the High-class Beggar had supposedly seen.

“Ever since earlier, I kept thinking something felt off—really off—but listening to O-Inari-san’s talk reminded me of the banzai cheer.”

The "High-class Beggar" interjected with satisfaction. He, too, had been flattered excessively and was acting somewhat bashful.

“—Banzai?”
“Ah, that’s a fine thing indeed… But y’see, I’ll tell ya straight—you’re bound for greatness, you are… If ya don’t mind me askin’, where’s your father at?”

“Hmm, I see. That’s not very reliable… O-Inari-san—take a look at this one too. As payment, I’ll let you have another flask on me.”

The old man had shown some dissatisfaction at the other party’s apparent lack of trust, but when the sake flask arrived,

“Well now… What kinda dream’d you have last night, ‘round dawn?”

he turned toward me.

“Hmm, I do have quite a variety of dreams.”

Feeling weary, I answered rather sullenly.

“That’s why I’m askin’ what kinda dream ya had!… You—grindin’ yer teeth all night, moanin’ like yer scared stiff… Terribly disturbin’ the whole neighborhood, ain’t it?… Can’t ya show a bit more consideration?”

“It’s your fox that’s disgusting.”

I retorted in turn. That stench was truly unbearable enough to induce vomiting. When I'd get up to use the toilet in the dead of night and nearly collide with the cage, the fox would fix me with its eerie phosphorescent eyes—staring with deeply suspicious hostility—sending chills down my spine.

"We're talkin' 'bout dreams here... Badmouth O-Fox-sama again, you cursed fool, and I won't stand for it!"

The old man suddenly turned domineering. Normally concealed behind a dull-witted countenance and Kansai dialect, this shift revealed something coldly cruel that had settled deep within his expression—a characteristic more or less common among those infesting cheap lodging houses.

“Ha ha ha, no fighting, no violence… As they say—a rich man doesn’t brawl…”

The "High-class Beggar" returned from relieving himself and inserted his lanky body between us.

“No… It’s nothing, really…”

With that, the old man stammered while peeling off his stiffened face like a mask,

“Well, this one’s been impudent from the very start, so…”

“Hmm, well… Fine. Let’s have one more drink and be off…”

As for me, I was trying to seize the memory of that vivid dream I’d surely had last night.
Dreams—even when you find them riveting upon waking or while still immersed—vanish from memory in an instant.
And even when trying to recall them later, they stubbornly refuse to surface, leaving nothing but frayed nerves growing ever more irritated.

Even so, I had finally managed to grasp the frayed end of memory’s rope.

……Anyway, I had come to a battlefield.
Suddenly, as if out of nowhere, the grand mansion before my eyes was shattered by cannon fire or bombs, and bricks and reinforced concrete chunks came crashing down in scattered pieces.
After some time, when all had settled into quiet, the mansion lay exposed in its ruinous state like a wretched carcass—yet amidst this desolate scene, a single grand piano remained undamaged, gleaming blackly with a peacefulness utterly incongruous to its surroundings. Then, from somewhere, a white butterfly came fluttering lightly to dance around the piano.
Though the faint smell of gunpowder still drifted through the air, the butterfly remained utterly indifferent.
I waited in secret anticipation—soon the butterfly would alight upon the keys, and beneath its tiny feet, the keys would surely begin to move, playing music…

Generally speaking, it had been such a trivial thing.
The scene’s imagery must have been an association from newsreels, and the butterfly surely derived from impressions near the end of All Quiet on the Western Front.
Yet what meaning the piano held—I couldn’t grasp.

Then there was another—something I seemed to witness just as sleep approached, yet which also felt like a waking delusion.
...A motorcycle or truck came charging blindly from afar with terrifying momentum.
I tried crossing the road, noticed it, and attempted to dodge the danger.
But though I meant to avoid it, sheer panic at the looming threat made my faltering legs pull me closer as if drawn in.
No good—no good—I desperately fought to stop myself, but my legs kept moving, and the speeding machine too swerved decisively toward me as though we shared some gravitational pull, lunging ferociously……

“Alright, let’s get out of here.”

The High-class Beggar finally lost patience and spoke up, as the old fortune-teller—who had initially been reserved—gradually grew bolder after the alcohol took effect and kept insisting on drinking endlessly.

“Now now, Professor… Mr. Politician… It’s still early yet, ain’t it? Stick around a bit longer.”

The fortune-teller raised his cracked hands and held him back.

"This won't do—such lack of discipline... Well then, we shall take our leave. You alone may remain here."

When told this, he hung his head dejectedly,

"No—I'll be goin' too—ain't no fun drinkin' alone."

He stood up, shook the nearby empty sake bottle, then was first to exit the shop.

It turned into small snowflakes.
Dancing in the wind and falling to the ground only to vanish ephemerally—but undeterred, the old man cheerfully began singing "Yuki no Shingun," his voice rasping about snowy marches and treading on ice.
His figure staggered across Namidabashi's widened roadway, disappearing and reappearing between rushing automobiles and bicycles.
Though I thought it dangerous—unlike in a dream—I paid it little mind,

“Ah… I want to go to war.”

"I muttered.
While squandering such meaningless hours, I wanted to march beneath artillery fire with a rifle on my shoulder.
Through that act, I wanted to escape from this absurd, futile mire I'd sunk into.
And I wanted to die in one decisive stroke."

“Hmm… Indeed, why haven’t you been conscripted? How strange. My body is utterly useless for such things, but…”

A snowflake flew into my eye.
As if trying to seize what had vanished, I frantically thrust my finger.

New Year’s Eve hung bleakly overcast.
Under the High-class Beggar’s arrangement, I sat blankly in a room of the lodging, hugging my knees with forced patience.

At last, the final evening came.

“I’m really not feeling well.”

Perhaps affected by his heavy drinking two days prior or walking through snow-laden winds, the High-class Beggar lay in bed—unusually letting his stubble grow—a rare sight of unkemptness.
He had a fever and kept up a feeble, continuous cough.

“Why don’t you have a doctor come?”

I advised.

“Don’t talk nonsense… If I were declared ill and made to rest—who’d look after my sister and wife then?”

The logic behind his indignant words was absurd.
Yet for no reason at all, I felt crushed by his bearing and stayed silent.

“How’s it goin’? Feelin’ any better?”

The old fortune-teller had been preparing to go out for business; saying this, he bent down by the bedside.

“Ah… I’m fine… Go on—earn your keep.”

The High-class Beggar looked up with clouded eyes.

Indeed, with the year changing tomorrow, even this place of our existence bustled with even more restless commotion than usual.

I was peering into the patient’s face, and every time a loud noise occurred, I found myself startled alongside him—he who had just managed to fall into much-needed sleep would jolt awake, and I too would start in response.

Before I knew it, time passed.

The old man returned reeking of alcohol, and I was startled—Oh, was it already that late? He showed his usual simple vigor,

“Well now—that’s this year done for! Next year’s comin’ right up! I was thinkin’ of keepin’ shop open all night today, but business was pretty good, see… And I was worried ‘bout the Professor’s sickness too, so I closed up early and came back...”

When he plopped down beside the High-class Beggar, temple bells—starting with Sensō-ji’s—began ringing here and there.

“Oh! The New Year’s Eve bells—that’s right, that’s right… Since it’s my trade, I had next year’s fortune told—been thinkin’ ‘bout that all the way back here, I have.”

He stood up and, while saying "Yes, yes, O-Fox-sama," carried the fox’s cage into the room.
He thrust the tube filled with numerous fortune slips right up to its nose,

“O-Fox-sama, please, I humbly beseech you—divine our fortunes of good and ill.”

As soon as he said this, the fox—rigged to snatch one of them with a bite—did just that.

“Well, whether the illness will heal quickly or not—the oracle of O-Inari-sama is most divine, I tell ya!”

He made a preface and set to work.

“O-Fox-sama, come now, I humbly beseech you—divine our fortunes of good and ill.”

I—Ah! Wait, that’s—" I tried to stop him.
I worried—if his condition worsened and a fortune slip came out, how would the patient, prone to nervousness, take it?
However, the dingy fox—its fur now lacking luster, coarse to the touch—had already bitten off a piece.

“Yes, yes—thank you ever so much.”

With an exaggerated bow, the old man picked up the paper.

“Oh, how auspicious! Rejoice!… No need to fret at all—it says your illness’ll soon take a turn for the better! It’s a minor blessing, I tell ya!”

and thrust it before the High-class Beggar’s eyes.

“Well then, next—it’s your turn now.”

Even if by chance, I rejoiced that no ominous judgment had emerged.

“Come now, O-Fox-sama—I’m beggin’ ya proper… Come on now, take one quick-like… Ah! See what happens when you’re always badmouthin’ ‘im? Cursed business, this is! Look here—the Fox-sama’s turned away, pretendin’ not to notice at all!”

It was exactly as the old man had said.
The animal thrust the tip of its thick tail outside the cage’s wire mesh and settled into perfect stillness with an air of indifference.

“Come on, let’s try one more time… O-Fox-sama…”

And so the fortune-teller tried again and again.
Finally, with palpable reluctance, the fox nonchalantly selected a single slip of paper.
“Well, well, much obliged. Here—this here’s your fortune for the comin’ year.”

The old man unfolded it on my behalf but finally let out a tremendous shout.

“What in blazes is this? It’s come up ‘Great Curse,’ I tell ya! Huh…”

And—utterly dumbfounded—he stared unblinkingly at my face,
“Ridiculous—this can’t be happenin’—absurd—just plain unnatural!”

An impossible event had occurred, and he appeared utterly terrified. Placing both hands behind him,

"My fortune slips here—you see, even though they're used by proper clients in the pleasure quarters and stockbrokers—I absolutely don't put in any 'bad luck' ones! And yet... and yet what's this? Not just bad luck—a 'Great Curse' no less!"

As if still unable to believe it, he kept reviewing the fortune slip again and again.

“Ah… Still a Great Curse—no mistake… I don’t recall putting this one in—damn, this is O-Inari-sama’s punishment, I tell ya…”

The fortune-teller, who had been excitedly muttering to himself, finally unable to unravel the inexplicable mystery, resorted to his own method of converting anxious frustration into anger directed at me.

“You cursed fool! You damned fool! Look here—this Great Curse ain’t just for next year—it’s your whole damn life that’s cursed, I tell ya! …Spoilin’ my fortunes like this…!”

The New Year’s Eve temple bells were still tolling dismally.
Amidst it all, he roared like a beast.

(September 1939)