Pathway to Japanese Literature

"How unusual—you haven’t come by in ages," Tsuda-kun remarked while trimming the overgrown wick of the lamp.

When Tsuda-kun said this, I sat with my threadbare trousers threatening to split at the knees, rotating the thread-bottomed Soma-yaki tea bowl round and round with three fingers as I pondered.
It certainly was unusual—indeed, since meeting him at New Year’s, I hadn’t once visited Tsuda-kun’s boarding house until this day of blossoming cherry boughs.

“I kept meaning to come, but I’ve been so busy—”

“Naturally you’re busy—it’s nothing like your school days after all. Still working till six in the evening?”

“That’s about the size of it—I go home, eat dinner, and then just collapse into bed. I can’t even manage a proper bath, let alone study,” I said, setting my teacup on the tatami and making a face that seemed to resent my own graduation.

Tsuda-kun seemed to feel some sympathy at these words. “You do look rather thin—it must be quite trying,” he remarked.
Perhaps it was my imagination, but I found it irksome how he seemed to have put on a bit of weight since earning his degree.
Spread out on the desk was a book that looked rather interesting, with pencil notes written on the right-hand page.
When I considered that he had such leisure, I felt both envious and resentful—and at the same time, I grew resentful of myself.

“Still keeping up with your studies, I see. What’s that book you’ve got there?”
“You’ve even got notebooks there and are looking into it quite meticulously, aren’t you?”

"This? Oh, it's just a book about ghosts," said Tsuda-kun with utter nonchalance.
In this busy world of ours, to calmly read and cherish some unfashionable ghost book—I thought that went beyond mere idleness into outright extravagance.

"I’d love to leisurely study ghosts too, but—what with commuting every day from Shiba to the depths of Koishikawa—research is out of the question; I’ll practically turn into a ghost myself just thinking about it."

“Ah right, I’d forgotten about that. So how’s the flavor of your new domestic life? When you set up a household, does it naturally make you feel like a proper master?” Tsuda-kun asked, true to his ghost studies, probing into psychological effects with his question.

“I don’t feel much like a proper master at all. After all, boarding houses seem more carefree and better. Even if I kept everything perfectly organized, I might develop that special master’s mentality—but honestly, how can one feel like a proper master while boiling water in a brass kettle and washing my face in a tin basin?” he confessed truthfully.

“Even so, you’re the master. If you think of this as your own house, it should feel rather pleasant. The principle is that ownership and affection generally go hand in hand in most cases,” Tsuda-kun explained psychologically. Scholars are the sort who will explain things in tedious detail without being asked.

"I don't know how it'd be if I thought of it as my house—but truth be told, I don't want to think of it as mine at all."
"Well, I may be called master in name alone."
"That's why I pasted only my namecard at the entrance."
"A master paying seven yen fifty sen in rent—call him master all you like, he's no proper master."
"I'm practically a subordinate functionary among masters."
"If one's to be a master, one must become an imperially appointed master—or at least a senior civil service master—to take any satisfaction in it."
"It's just that I've more nuisances than when boarding," I declared airily, voicing frivolous complaints without deep thought while gauging his reaction.
If he showed even slight agreement, I meant to immediately deploy the rear guard of my grievances.

“Indeed, the truth may lie in that direction. You and I stand on different ground—I continuing my boarding house life, you newly establishing a household.” Though his phrasing was absurdly academic, he at least agreed with my argument. Given this state of affairs, there was no harm in airing a few more grievances.

First when I returned home, the old housemaid came before me with a side-bound ledger. “Today I bought three sen worth of miso, two daikon radishes, and one sen five rin worth of quail beans,” she gave a precise report. It was utterly insufferable.

“If it’s utterly insufferable, why not abolish it?” Tsuda-kun remarked with the casualness befitting a boarding house resident.

“I could abolish it, but the old housemaid won’t agree—that’s the problem. When I tell her she doesn’t need to report every little thing and should ease up, she insists, ‘But in a household without a mistress where I’m entrusted with the kitchen, there mustn’t be even a single sen or rin unaccounted for!’—and flat-out refuses to listen to her master.”

“In that case, you could just go ‘uh-huh’ and pretend to be listening.”
Tsuda-kun seemed to believe that the mind could function freely regardless of external stimuli.
That was hardly becoming of a psychologist.

“But that’s not all of it. Once she finishes her detailed accounting report, next comes demanding meticulous instructions about tomorrow’s dishes—it’s completely draining.”

“Why not just tell her to use her judgment when cooking?”

“But precisely because she’s left to decide such things herself, she has no clear idea about side dishes—so there’s nothing to be done about it.”

“Then you should just give the orders.”
“Planning a menu should be simple enough.”

“If it were that easy to manage, it wouldn’t be a problem.”
“I’m quite lacking in knowledge about side dishes myself.”
“When she asks what to put in tomorrow’s honorable miso soup, I’m not the sort who can answer right away…”

“What’s this ‘honorable miso soup’ you’re talking about?”

“It’s about miso soup. Because she’s a Tokyo housemaid, she calls it ‘honorable miso soup’ in the Tokyo way. When she asks what ingredients to put in the miso soup, I suppose I have to line up all possible candidates in an orderly fashion before making a selection. The first difficulty lies in having to think up each and every one of them, and the second difficulty lies in having to choose from among the items I’ve thought up.”

“Enduring such difficulties just to eat a meal is pitiful—the trouble arises precisely because you lack any particularly eccentric preferences. When one holds equal degrees of preference or aversion toward two or more objects, it is a principle that this exerts a retarding influence on decision-making capacity,” he proceeded to complicate this self-evident truth with needless complexity once again.

“When I think she even consults me about miso soup ingredients, she meddles in the oddest places.”

“Hmm, so it’s still about food matters after all.”

“Yeah, every morning she brings a pickled plum with white sugar and insists I have to eat one.”
“If I don’t eat this, the old housemaid gets in a terrible mood.”

“Does eating it actually do anything?”

“Apparently, it’s some kind of charm to ward off disease.”
“And the old housemaid’s reasoning is amusing.”
“There isn’t a single inn anywhere in Japan that doesn’t serve pickled plums in the morning.”
“She insists that if the charm weren’t effective, such a widespread custom would never exist—and so triumphantly makes me eat the pickled plums.”

“That certainly has some logic to it—since all customs persist through having corresponding efficacy, you can’t dismiss pickled plums outright.”

“If even you start taking the old housemaid’s side, I’ll end up feeling thoroughly unmasterly!” I threw my half-smoked cigarette into the brazier’s ashes.
Amidst the scattering remnants of the matchstick’s embers, a white thing moved swiftly, forming a diagonal line.

“Anyway, she’s such an old-fashioned housemaid.”

“She’s moved beyond mere old-fashioned ways—she’s a full-blown superstition-ridden crone.”
“Apparently she goes to consult some monk at Dentsu-in Temple two or three times a month.”

“Do you have a monk among your relatives or something?”

“What do you mean? The monks do divination for pocket money.”
“What’s worse, that monk keeps spouting nothing but unnecessary nonsense—makes it impossible to handle properly.”
“When I was establishing my household, they went on about Demon’s Gate directions and all-directional blockages—gave me endless grief.”

"But you hired that old housemaid after establishing your household, didn’t you?"

“I hired her when I moved, but I’d made the arrangement beforehand, you see. The truth is, that old housemaid also came through the referral of Uno of Yotsuya, and since my mother said she’d be perfectly reliable to leave alone at home, that’s how I decided.”

“In that case, since she’s an old housemaid entrusted through your future wife’s esteemed mother’s discernment, she must be thoroughly reliable.”

“There’s no denying her competence as a human being, but her superstitions are astonishing. Apparently, three days before I was to move, she went to have that monk take a look. Then the monk said that moving from Hongo toward Koishikawa now was terribly inauspicious and would surely bring misfortune upon my household—what unnecessary nonsense! What business does a monk have spouting such presumptuous drivel anyway?”

“But since that’s their business, there’s nothing to be done.”

“If it’s their business, I’ll let them off—they can just take the money and spout inoffensive nonsense for all I care.”

“Getting angry won’t settle anything—it’s not my fault to begin with.”

“To top it off, he threw in a bonus about being haunted by a young woman.”
“Naturally the old woman was beside herself! She concluded that if there were any young woman in my household, it must be Uno’s daughter—the one I’m supposed to marry soon—and now she’s stewing over it alone.”

“But she hasn’t actually moved in yet, has she?”

“That’s precisely why it’s needless fretting—agonizing over what hasn’t even occurred.”

“I can’t tell if you’re joking or being serious anymore.”

“It’s not even worth calling a proper story. By the way, stray dogs have started howling around my house lately…”

“Is there some connection between the dogs’ distant howling and the old housemaid?”
“Not even an association comes to my mind,” said Tsuda-kun, furrowing his brows as if to say that even his beloved psychology couldn’t adequately explain this.
I said with deliberate composure,“A cup of tea.”

The Soma-yaki tea bowl was a cheap and vulgar thing.
It was even said they had originally been fired by impoverished samurai as a side job.
When Tsuda-kun poured thirty momme of spent leaves into this cheap bowl with abandon, I somehow grew repulsed and lost all desire to drink.
Looking at the bowl’s base, I saw a horse in the Kano School Motonobu style leaping with vigor.
Though impressed by how spirited the horse appeared despite its cheapness, I reasoned there was no obligation to drink unwanted tea simply because I admired it, and left the bowl untouched.

“Go on and drink,” urged Tsuda-kun.

“This horse has quite a vigorous energy. The way it’s swishing its tail and tossing that mane—now that’s truly wild,” I praised the horse instead of drinking the tea.

“This is absurd—no sooner do I brace for the old housemaid turning into a dog than the dog itself transforms into a horse! That’s beyond excessive.” He pressed insistently for the story’s continuation.
It became perfectly permissible to forgo drinking the tea.

“According to the old housemaid, that howling isn’t just ordinary howling—she insists there must be something wrong around here, so we have to be careful,” I said. “But even if she tells me to be careful, there’s no particular way to do so—I just let it be, though the nuisance is unbearable.”

“Is it really howling that much?” asked Tsuda.

“Nah, the dog isn’t noisy or anything,” I replied. “First off, I sleep like a log, so I’ve got no clue when it barks or how bad it gets. But the old housemaid’s complaints always choose to come when I’m awake, which is such a hassle.”

“Indeed, even the old housemaid wouldn’t deign to take notice while you’re asleep.”

“And then my future wife caught a cold.”
“Just as the old housemaid predicted, events converged until it became unbearable.”

“Even so, Miss Uno is still in Yotsuya—you shouldn’t need to worry about it.”

“That’s precisely why this superstition-obsessed old woman worries—she insists Miss Uno’s illness won’t properly recover unless you deign to relocate to an auspiciously oriented place within this month.”
“I’m stuck with this damned prophet—it’s a huge nuisance.”

“Moving might not be such a bad idea.”

“Don’t talk nonsense! I only just moved here recently! If I keep relocating like this, I’ll go bankrupt.”

“But is the patient alright?”

“Now you’re saying strange things too. You’ve gotten a bit carried away by that Dentsu-in monk, haven’t you? You shouldn’t intimidate people like that.”

“I’m not intimidating you—I’m asking if she’s alright. Even so, I meant to show concern for your wife’s well-being.”

“Of course she’s fine.”
“She has a slight cough, but it’s just influenza.”

“Influenza?” Tsuda-kun suddenly exclaimed in a voice so loud it startled me.
This time, truly intimidated, I stared wordlessly at Tsuda-kun’s face.

“Be careful,” he said in a low voice for the second phrase.

In contrast to his initial loud voice, this low tone felt as though it had pierced through the depths of my ears and seeped silently into my mind. I didn’t know why. A thin needle penetrates to the root; a low yet piercing voice must resonate in the bones. It felt as though a black dot the size of a pupil had been abruptly stamped upon the lapis lazuli expanse of the sky. It might vanish into nothingness, melt away into the flow, or even become Mukoyama oroshi. The fate of this pupil-sized dot would now be determined by Tsuda-kun's explanation. I unconsciously picked up the Soma-yaki tea bowl and gulped down the cold tea all at once.

“You need to be careful,” Tsuda-kun repeated once more in the same tone. The pupil-sized dot grew darker by a degree. However, it neither flowed nor spread, nor did it clear up.

“It’s not Engi—you’re being awfully startling.”
I forced a loud “Wahahahaha!” but stopped abruptly halfway through when I realized my hollow, lifeless voice was echoing meaninglessly.
The moment I stopped, this laugh sounded increasingly unnatural, so I thought I should have laughed it through to the end after all.
I wonder how Tsuda-kun heard this laugh.
When he spoke again, his tone remained unchanged from before.

“Well actually, there’s this story.”
“Just recently, one of my relatives also contracted influenza.”
“Thinking it wasn’t serious and leaving it untreated, by the first week it turned into pneumonia until finally they died within less than a month.”
“That’s when the doctor said—”
“‘The influenza these days is vicious—it quickly becomes pneumonia, so you must take care,’ he said—it was truly dreamlike.”
“‘So pitiable...’” he began, then made a chillingly cold face.

“Huh, that’s quite something.”
“But why did it turn into pneumonia?” I asked, compelled by worry to seek clarification.

“Why? There’s no particular reason—which is exactly why I’m telling you to be careful.”

“It’s true, isn’t it,” I said, packing utmost earnestness into these four words as I stared intently into Tsuda-kun’s eyes. Tsuda-kun was still making that cold, unpleasant face.

“It’s awful—just awful. Even thinking about it is unbearable.”
“Dying at twenty-two or three would be utterly pointless.”
“And her husband is off at war—”

“Hunh, a woman?”
“That’s truly pitiable.”
“A military man, huh?”

“Yeah, her husband was an Army lieutenant.”
“They hadn’t even been married a full year yet.”
“I attended both the wake and the funeral—her mother was crying, you know—”

“She would cry. Anyone would.”

“On the day of the funeral itself, snow fluttered down in the cold, but once the sutras concluded and it came time to bury the coffin, her mother squatted by the pit and wouldn’t move.”
“Because the snow was scattering and speckling her head, I held an umbrella over her.”

"That’s commendable—though it’s rather unlike you to do something so kind."

"Because I couldn’t bear to watch her suffer like that."

"I suppose so," I said, looking again at Hōgen Motonobu’s horse.
Even I myself couldn’t help but think at this moment that his cold expression was undoubtedly contagious.
In that instant, I found myself wanting to ask about the husband of the woman who had died.

"So, that husband of hers—is he safe?"

"Her husband is with Kuroki’s army, but fortunately he seems to be unharmed so far."

“When he received word that his wife had died, he must have been terribly shocked.”

“Well, there’s a strange story about that—even without any letters reaching him from Japan, his wife has properly gone to her husband.”

“She went?”

“She went to meet him.”

“Why?”

“Why? Because she went to meet him, I tell you.”

“But even if she went to meet him—isn’t she dead?”

“She died and went to meet him, I tell you.”

“Don’t spout nonsense! No matter how much she misses her husband, who could perform such a trick?”
“It’s exactly like one of Hayashiya Shōzō’s ghost stories.”

“But she actually went, so there’s no helping it,” Tsuda-kun insisted stubbornly on this absurdity, unbecoming of an educated man.

"You say there’s no helping it—but you’re talking as if you’ve actually witnessed it yourself."
"That’s strange—are you seriously discussing such matters?"

"Of course it’s true."

"Well now, this is astonishing! It’s exactly like my old housemaid."
"It’s just like my old housemaid."

"Whether it’s an old woman or an old man—it remains a fact, so there’s no alternative," Tsuda-kun insisted with growing fervor.
Strangely enough, he didn’t appear to be jesting with me.
Hmm—if he spoke in earnest, there must be some substance to this tale.
Tsuda-kun and I had belonged to different faculties since entering university, though we’d shared classes during our higher school days.
Back then, while I typically languished at the bottom of our forty-odd classmates, Mr. Tsuda had stood unshakably among the top two or three—proof enough that his intellect surpassed mine by thirty-five or thirty-six degrees.
Given how vehemently he defended this notion, it couldn’t be wholly baseless.
As a Bachelor of Laws, I prefer—nay, am compelled—to observe present events as they unfold and address them through common sense rather than indulge in speculative thought.
Nothing repels me more than contemplating ghosts, curses, karmic bonds, and other such vaporous abstractions.
Yet I couldn’t help feeling intimidated by Tsuda-kun’s formidable mind.
When this very mentor whom I found so daunting began discussing specters in deadly earnest, even I felt obliged to reconsider my stance on the matter out of propriety.
Truth be told, I’d always believed that ghosts—like palanquin bearers—had gone permanently extinct following the Meiji Restoration.
Yet judging by Tsuda-kun’s recent demeanor, it seemed this phantom entity had somehow been resurrected without my knowledge.
I distinctly recalled his earlier reply when I inquired about the book on his desk—something about it concerning ghosts.
At any rate, there was no harm in hearing him out.
For one as perpetually busy as myself, such an opportunity might never come again.

At last, I resolved in my heart to at least hear out the story for my own edification before leaving.
When I looked, Tsuda-kun too seemed eager to continue his tale.
If he wanted to speak and I wanted to listen, there was nothing more to discuss.
The Han River continues flowing southwest as it has since ancient times—this immutable law of nature.

"As I pressed further with my questions, it turned out this wife had sworn an oath before her husband departed for the front."

“What?”

“Even if by some misfortune I were to die of illness while you are away, I swear I will not perish in vain.”

“Huh.”

“When she said, ‘I swear my soul will come to your side and appear before you once more,’ her husband—being a soldier with an open-hearted disposition—laughed and replied, ‘Very well, come anytime! I’ll show you the battles,’ then departed for Manchuria.”
“After that, he apparently forgot all about it and never gave it another thought.”

“I suppose so. Someone like me would’ve forgotten even without going off to war.”

“So when the man was about to depart, his wife helped him buy various things for his luggage—among which was a small pocket mirror.”

“Hmph. You’ve investigated this in great detail.”

“Well, after a letter arrived from the battlefield, the whole story became clear.”
“That mirror—the husband always carried it in his pocket.”

“Hmm.”

“One morning, as usual, he took it out and absentmindedly looked at it, they say.”
“But then what appeared within that mirror—just when he thought it would be his usual scruffy, grime-stained face—how strange!—wasn’t that truly an uncanny thing?”
“What are you getting at?”

“They say the pale figure of his wife—wasted by illness—suddenly appeared... though honestly, I can scarcely believe it myself. Tell anyone and they’d call it a lie.”
“In truth, even I wouldn’t have believed it until I saw that letter.”
“But mind you—they’d sent that letter three full weeks before we dispatched the death notice from here.”
“There was nothing to base such a lie on even if they’d tried.”
“And what reason could they possibly have to fabricate it?”
“Not one soul fighting a life-or-death war would spin such novel-like fantasies and mail them home.”

“That can’t be,” I retorted, though in truth I remained half-doubtful.
Half-doubtful I was, yet something monstrous had arisen within me—something eerie, something that felt wholly incongruous with my standing as a Bachelor of Laws.

“She apparently never spoke a word,” Tsuda-kun continued.
“They say she just kept staring fixedly at her husband’s face from within that mirror—not a single utterance. And at that very moment, those parting words his wife had spoken welled up in his heart like a whirlpool. Makes perfect sense, doesn’t it?
“In the letter he writes it felt like his very brains had been seared by Soma-yaki.”

“What an uncanny thing this is.”
When even the exact wording of the letter was cited, I found myself compelled to believe it whether I willed it or not.
There was an ominous tension in the air.
At that moment, had Tsuda-kun let out even a sudden cry, I would have surely leapt into the air.

“When they checked the time, it turned out that the moment the wife drew her last breath and the husband gazed into the mirror were exactly the same day and hour.”

“This grows ever more mysterious.”
By this point, I found myself seriously considering it mysterious.
“But could such a thing really happen?” I asked Tsuda-kun just to be certain.

“There’s a book here that discusses such matters too, you know,” Tsuda-kun replied calmly, removing the earlier volume from his desk. “These days, it seems they’re on the verge of proving that such phenomena are at least possible.”
When I realized that psychologists had resurrected ghosts without us legal scholars’ knowledge, even I could no longer dismiss them as nonsense.
If you don’t know something, you can’t comment on it—ignorance is incapacity.
When it comes to ghosts, I think we Bachelors of Laws must blindly follow Bachelors of Letters.

“At a great distance, if the brain cells of one person and those of another person sense something and induce a sort of chemical change…”

“I’m a Bachelor of Laws, so even if I hear such things, I won’t understand.”
“So essentially, such things are theoretically possible, then?”
For someone with an opaque mind like mine, it was far simpler to swallow only the conclusion than to comprehend the reasoning behind it.

“Ah, so it all comes down to that, you see.”
“Moreover, this book contains plenty of examples—among them, the ghost witnessed by Lord Brougham belongs to precisely the same category as the story we’ve just discussed.”
“It’s quite fascinating.”
“You know Brougham, I suppose?”

“Brougham? What’s a Brougham?”
“A British literary scholar, you see.”

“That explains why I didn’t know,” I said. “Not to boast, but when it comes to literary scholars’ names, I only know Shakespeare, Milton, and two or three others.”

Tsuda-kun, likely deeming academic debate futile with such a man, returned to the original topic: “Which is precisely why Miss Uno should take great care—that’s what I’m saying.”

“I’ll make sure she’s careful,” I replied. “But if something should happen, I’m not vowing to come haunt you or anything, so you needn’t worry on that account,” I quipped with forced levity, though an inexplicable unease lingered within. When I checked my watch, it was nearly eleven. This was bad. Imagining how the old housemaid must be fretting over the dogs’ distant howling back home, I felt compelled to return at once. To Tsuda-kun, who remarked, “I’ll go pay my respects to that old housemaid one of these days,” I responded, “I’ll treat you properly when you come—you must visit,” as I departed the boarding house in Hakusan Gotenmachi.

The Higan cherry blossoms had bloomed unreservedly of their own accord, and I had grown excited that spring had truly arrived—all within the span of mere two or three days. By now, even they must be regretting having bloomed too eagerly. When I thought of how, just the day before yesterday, the tepid wind blowing against my hat had wiped away the sweat oozing from my brow along with the clinging sand and dust, it felt as though it had happened last year. It had grown so cold since yesterday. Tonight was colder still. Though it wasn’t even the season for frost to return—how absurd—I turned up my coat collar and meandered down from in front of the School for the Blind and Deaf alongside the Botanical Garden when a bell tolling somewhere drew waves through the night, undulating as they came through the quiet sky. It must be eleven o’clock, I thought. Who on earth invented the time bell? I don’t know. Until now I hadn’t noticed, but when I listened carefully, it had a strange resonance. A single note split into several fragments, as though someone were tearing apart a stubbornly sticky rice cake. Just when their connection seemed severed from splitting, they thinned out and linked to the next note. Just when they’d thickened into a connected mass, they’d naturally thin out again like the tip of a calligraphy brush. As I walked along pondering how strangely those sounds stretched and contracted, I began to feel my own heartbeat expanding and shrinking in tandem with the bell’s undulating waves. Eventually, I felt compelled to synchronize my breath with the tolling of the bell. Tonight I just couldn’t act like a Bachelor of Laws, I thought as I briskly turned the corner by the police box, when a cold wind ushered in sporadic large raindrops that struck my face.

Gokurakusui was an unpleasantly gloomy place.
Though row houses had recently been built on both sides, making it less desolate than in former times, the way these structures stood silent and vacant-looking to left and right was not particularly comforting.
The poor are never without activity.
Paupers who do not work cannot be recognized as having lived true to their essential nature.
The paupers of Gokurakusui that I passed through were quiet to the point where even if struck, there would be no sign of revival.
They must actually be dead.
The rain, falling here and there, finally grew heavier.
I hadn’t brought an umbrella—might just end up soaked through by the time I get home, I thought, clicking my tongue as I looked up at the sky.
The rain fell steadily from the depths of the darkness, showing no sign of letting up.

About five or six ken ahead, a white figure suddenly came into view. Standing in the middle of the road and craning my neck to peer at this white figure, I found it advancing relentlessly toward me before long. Before half a moment had passed, it brushed past my right side—two men in black kimonos were carrying what resembled a mandarin orange crate draped with white cloth, passing a pole through it from front to back as they went. It must be a funeral procession or a trip to the crematorium. What lay in that box must have been an infant. The black-clad men carried the coffin wordlessly onward without exchanging a single syllable between them. They bore it with a steady clunking rhythm, as if declaring there could be no more ordinary occurrence in this world than transporting coffins through midnight streets. After watching curiously until the coffin vanished into darkness, I turned around to find voices reaching me once more from ahead—neither high nor low, their reverberations grew unexpectedly intense in the depth of night.

“There are those born yesterday who die today,” one said, to which another replied, “It’s fate—pure fate, so there’s nothing to be done.”
The two black shadows brushed past me again and disappeared into the darkness in an instant.
Only the rapid clattering of wooden clogs following the coffin resonated through the rain.

“There are those born yesterday who die today,” I repeated silently in my heart. If there are those born yesterday who die today, then there should naturally be those who fell ill yesterday and die today. A person who has breathed this world’s air for twenty-six years already possesses ample qualification to die, even without contracting illness. Ascending this Gokurakusui at eleven o’clock on the night of April third like this—it might well be that I was ascending to my death.—I somehow don’t want to go up. I stood for a time midway up the slope, watching. However, standing here might well mean standing here to die.—I started walking again. That dying could affect people’s minds so profoundly—until now, I’d never truly noticed. When I came to my senses, I found that whether standing still or walking, I grew uneasy; in this state, even if I returned home and crawled into my futon, I might still be uneasy. Why had I lived so carefree until now? When I thought about it, during my school days, between exams and baseball, I had no time to contemplate death. After graduating, between my pen and ink, my insufficient salary, and the old housemaid’s complaints, I still had no time to think about death. Although even someone as carefree as I was must have understood that humans are mortal, it was only tonight—for the first time since I was born—that I truly felt I too would die. I felt the recklessly vast black entity called night enveloping me from all directions—whether I walked or stood—exerting relentless pressure that seemed to declare it would never relent until dissolving this physical form known as myself within its depths. By nature a carefree man—to be honest, I am indifferent to ambition. Even if I were to die, there is nothing in particular I need to leave behind. There’s nothing I need to leave behind, but dying is truly loathsome—I absolutely do not want to die. It was as though I had realized for the first time that dying could be such a loathsome thing. The rain grew heavier still, so that when I touched my overcoat—now sodden with water—it felt like pressing into a wet sponge, soggy and squelching.

I crossed Takehisa-cho and approached Kirishitan Slope.
I didn't know why it was called Kirishitan Slope, but this incline proved as mysterious as its name suggested.
When I reached the top of the slope, I suddenly recalled how I had laughed at the absurdity of a placard that jutted out diagonally from the embankment into the roadway when I last passed here—one declaring "Japan's steepest slope! Those who value their lives, beware! Beware!"
Tonight was no time for laughter.
The phrase 'Those who value their lives should be cautious' rose in my mind like a proverb from the Bible.

The slope was dark. If you rarely descended it, you’d slip and fall on your backside. Realizing how treacherous it was, I peered down cautiously from around the eight-tenths mark. It was too dark to see anything clearly. The old zelkova tree on the left embankment had extended its branches so boldly that they blocked all sunlight from reaching the slope, making even daytime descents feel as unpleasant as plunging into a valley’s depths. I wondered if I could see the zelkova tree and looked up to check—there was this black mass, so indistinct you might think it existed or didn’t—as the sound of rain pouring down incessantly came from it. Descending this pitch-dark slope, following the narrow valley path, then ascending toward Myōgadani and proceeding seven or eight chō would bring me home to Koishikawa Daichō—but the stretch until reaching that ascent felt somewhat ominous.

About midway up Myōgadani slope, I saw a vivid red fire.
It was unclear whether it had been visible all along or only appeared when I raised my head, but through the rain it remained distinctly visible.
I wondered if it might be a gas lamp at some estate gate when the fire began swaying like a Bon Festival lantern trembling in autumn winds.
——It wasn’t a gas lamp.
As I watched, wondering what it could be, the fire now came threading downward through the rain and darkness like a wave.
Just as I finally concluded this must be a lantern flame—it abruptly vanished.

When I saw this fire, I suddenly remembered Tsuyuko. Tsuyuko was the name of my future wife. What connection there could be between my future wife and this fire might have been beyond even psychologist Tsuda-kun’s ability to explain. Yet it wasn’t necessarily true that I should only recall what a psychologist could explain. This red, vivid fire—resembling a rope with its tail disappearing—had indeed made me recall my future wife in that instant. At the same moment the fire vanished, it conjured Tsuyuko’s death without remorse. When I wiped my forehead, it felt slippery with greasy sweat and rain. I walked frantically.

Upon reaching the bottom of the slope, I found myself on a narrow valley path; just as I thought that path had ended, I turned westward again and continued along a new valley path that clawed its way upward.
This area consisted of what they call Yamate red soil; even a little rain turned it into mud so viscous it could suck the teeth right off your geta.
The darkness was absolute; my boots sank deep into the earth, refusing to move easily.
Winding recklessly through the twists and turns, I abruptly encountered that red fire again at the sharply bent corner of what appeared to be a wolfberry hedge.
I looked—it was a constable.
The constable pressed that red fire against my cheek until it burned out, brusquely saying “It’s dangerous, so be careful,” as he passed by.
When I realized how similar Tsuda-kun’s admonition of “Be careful” was to the constable’s warning of “It’s dangerous, so take care,” my chest grew heavy as lead.
“That fire! That fire!” I panted, dashing upward.

Not knowing where or how I had walked, I rushed into my house like a meteor; it must have been nearly twelve o'clock.
The old housemaid came running out from the back holding a dimly lit lamp in one hand and shrilly cried, “Master! What has happened?”
When I looked, her face was pale.

“Old housemaid!”
“Is something wrong?” I shouted back just as loudly.
The old woman feared hearing something from me while I dreaded news from her; though we kept asking each other what was wrong, neither gave an answer—for a time we simply stood glaring at one another.

“The water—the water is dripping!”
This was the old housemaid’s admonition.
Indeed, from the thoroughly rain-soaked hem of the overcoat and the fedora’s brim, cold droplets dripped relentlessly onto the tatami mats.
Pinching the crease and tossing it aside, I sent the hat rolling beside the old housemaid’s knee, its white silk lining turned ceilingward.
When I took off the gray Chesterfield coat, shook it once, and flung it aside, it felt far heavier than usual.
After changing into Japanese clothes and shivering until I had finally regained my senses, the old housemaid—timing her moment—inquired again, “What happened?”
This time she too had calmed somewhat.

“What do you mean, ‘what’s wrong’? There’s nothing particularly wrong,” I replied, striving not to reveal any vulnerability. “Just got caught in the rain, that’s all.”

“No, that color of yours isn’t merely its usual hue.” As one would expect from a devotee of Dentsu-in Temple’s monks, she was skilled at reading countenances.

“You’re the one acting strange.”
“You were chattering your teeth a bit earlier, I tell ya.”

“I don’t care how much you mock me, Master—however, this is no trivial matter.”

“Huh?” My heart shrank involuntarily.
“What’s wrong? Did something happen while I was away? Did they say anything from Yotsuya about the patient?”

“There you have it—for all your fretting over Miss Tsuyuko!”

“What did they say? Did a letter come, or a messenger?”

“No letters or messengers have arrived.”

“Then was it a telegram?”

“No telegrams have arrived.”

“Then what happened—tell me quickly!”

“The howling is different tonight.”

“What?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? I’ve been worried sick since evening.”
“This is absolutely no ordinary matter!”

“What ‘something’?
“That’s why I’m telling you to hurry up and tell me!”

“It’s about that dog I told you about earlier.”

“Dog?”

“Yes, it’s the distant howling.”
“If you had heeded my counsel as advised, this would never have come to pass—but you dismiss this old woman’s superstitions and mock folk so terribly that…”

“Nothing has happened in any of this or that yet, has it?”

“No, that is not so; you too, Master, must have been thinking about Miss Tsuyuko’s illness on your way home,” the old housemaid struck right on target.
A cold blade flashed in the darkness, and I felt as though struck through the chest by its chill.

“That’s undoubtedly because I came here worried.”

“There, you see? It’s just as I said—a gut feeling tells you these things.”

“Old Housemaid, do things like gut feelings really exist? Have you ever had such an experience yourself?”

“It’s not that such things exist.
“Haven’t people always said since ancient times that a crow’s cry brings ill fortune?”

“Indeed, I may have heard a crow’s cry, but as for the dog’s distant howling—it seems only you have heard that—”

“No, you,” the old housemaid denied my suspicion with utter contempt.
“It’s indeed the same thing.”
“Old women like me understand well from dogs’ distant howling.”
“Proof over theory—whenever I sense something’s amiss, it’s never been wrong.”

“Is that so?”

“You can’t dismiss what old folks say.”

“That’s obviously not something you can brush off as nonsense. I know perfectly well you can’t just wave it away. So I’m not dismissing you—but does distant howling really foretell things that precisely?”

“You’re still doubting this old woman’s words. Whatever may come, go to Yotsuya tomorrow morning and see for yourself—there’ll surely be something there. This old housemaid stakes her word on it.”

"I really don’t want anything to happen."
"Isn’t there some way around this?"

“That’s why I’ve been telling you to come quickly—but you’re so stubbornly persisting that—”

“I’ll stop being stubborn from now on.—Anyway, I’ll go to Yotsuya early tomorrow to see for myself. I could go tonight right now, but…”

“If you go tonight, I cannot stay behind to mind the house.”

“Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’? If I’m this creeped out, I can’t just stay up.”

“Even so, aren’t you the one worried about Yotsuya?”

“I am indeed concerned, but I too am afraid.”

Amidst the sound of rain winding around the eaves, blending with it, a voice—as though something were crawling along the ground while groaning—could be heard from nowhere in particular.

“Ah, that is indeed it,” the old housemaid said in a low voice, her eyes fixed.
It was indeed an ominous sound.
I decided to sleep here tonight.

I burrowed into the futon as usual, but I couldn’t even close my eyes, bothered by this growling sound.

Generally speaking, a dog’s bark was a straight-line sound—like logs chopped with a hatchet and laid end-to-end in one long stretch. The growl I now heard was no such simple, haphazard thing. The sound’s breadth was in constant flux, with visible undulations and a rounded quality. Starting as a slender candle flame, it gradually swelled into a rich glow before fading away like a wick’s final flicker as the oil ran dry. It was impossible to tell where it was howling from. From a hundred ri away, carried on the blowing wind, it faintly resonated—and in the moment one perceived this, it drew near, slipped through the eaves, and seeped thinly into ears blocked against pillows. The low droning hum formed several rounded segments as it circled the house two or three times; then, just as the sound transformed into a chaotic howl, a swift wind swept it away—its tail morphing into a trailing “nnn…”—as it vanished into the dark world. This distant howl was a cheerful voice forcibly oppressed into gloom. This distant howling was a manic resonance forcibly rendered somber through oppressive compulsion. It lacked freedom. The fact that it was a voice forced out under suppression made it even more loathsome than inherent gloom or natural sorrow—grating to the ear. I buried my ears deep within the bedclothes. Even within the bedclothes, it could be heard. Moreover, it was even more unpleasant to hear than when I kept my ears uncovered. I uncovered my face again.

After a while, the distant howling abruptly ceased.
In this midnight world, were one to subtract the distant howling of dogs, there would remain not a single thing in motion.
My house grew so quiet one might think it had sunk to the bottom of the sea.
Unquiet was only my mind.
Only my mind was anticipating something from this stillness.
Yet as to what that something might be, I had not the slightest notion.
The apprehension that some unknown entity might emerge from this dark world did nothing but fiercely agitate my nerves.
I kept thinking it was about to emerge now—now.
I thrust five fingers into my hair and scratched wildly.
Because I hadn’t bathed or washed my hair in about a week, the spaces between my fingers were slimy with grease.
If this quiet world were to change—and it really did seem poised to change.
Before the night ended—before dawn broke—something was bound to happen.
I spent this second waiting.
I lived through this second too in waiting.
If asked what I was waiting for, I’d be at a loss.
The pain intensified because I myself didn’t know what I was waiting for.
I pulled my hand out of my hair and held it before my face, staring at it meaninglessly.
The undersides of the nails appeared crescent-shaped and darkened with grime.
Simultaneously, my stomach ceased its churning, and as if a deerskin drenched by rain had been baked rigid under the sun, my gut contracted into a cramped hollow.
I wished the dogs would bark.

While they were barking, even if unpleasant, I could at least gauge the degree of unpleasantness.
When it grew this quiet, I couldn’t tell what loathsome events might be unfolding behind the scenes—what horrors might be brewing unnoticed.
I could endure distant howling.
If only they would bark, I thought, turning over to lie on my back.
A faint circular shadow of the lamp dimly hovered on the ceiling.
When I looked, that round shadow seemed to move.
As I grew increasingly unsettled by its strangeness, my spine suddenly went limp against the futon.
Keeping only my eyes wide open, I tried to confirm whether it was truly moving.—It was indeed moving.
Had it been moving all along without my notice until now? Or was it moving only tonight?—If the latter, this was no ordinary matter.
But perhaps it was just my stomach acting up.
Earlier that day, returning from work, I’d eaten fried shrimp at a Western restaurant in Ikenohata—maybe that was causing trouble.
To think I’d paid money for such worthless fare—should’ve just tossed it away like a fool.
At times like this, staying calm and sleeping is what matters most, I told myself, squeezing my eyes shut.
Then—as if someone had ground a rainbow to dust and scattered it—multicolored specks flickered across my vision.
This won’t do, I decided, opening my eyes only to fixate again on the lamp’s shadow.
With no other choice, I turned sideways once more and resolved to lie still like a gravely ill patient, waiting for dawn.

As I turned sideways, what suddenly caught my eye was the Chichibu meisen everyday kimono that the old housemaid had neatly folded and placed in the shadow of the sliding door.
The other day when I went to Yotsuya and was engaged in our usual idle chatter by Tsuyuko’s bedside, the sight immediately made me recall how she—troubled by the cotton spilling from a frayed sleeve—had forced herself upright on the futon to mend it despite my telling her not to bother.
At that time her complexion had been only slightly pale, and even her laughter remained unchanged from usual—she herself had even said that since she’d improved considerably, she’d start getting out of bed around tomorrow—yet now, when I tried to conjure Tsuyuko’s form before my eyes—no, not conjure; it arose naturally—there she came leaning over the pillow, an ice bag on her head, her long hair half-dampened, moaning “unh-unh”...
I wondered if it was finally pneumonia.
But if it had turned into pneumonia, some kind of notice should have come.
Judging by the fact that neither messenger nor letter had come, I concluded her illness must have fully recovered—she’s fine—and tried to sleep.
In the depths of my meeting eyes, Tsuyuko’s pale, sunken cheeks and hollow, glassy eyes appeared vividly.
It seemed the illness hadn’t healed after all.
No news had come yet, but the fact that it hadn’t come offered no reassurance.
It might come any moment now; if it was coming anyway, better it came quickly; wondering if it wouldn’t come at all, I turned over.
Though cold for April, with two heavy quilts layered over me, it was already sweltering enough to make sleep difficult—yet my limbs and chest felt leaden and cold, as if no blood flowed through them.
When I ran my hand over my body, it was damp with oil and sweat.
The touch of cold fingers on my skin was as unpleasant as being crawled over by a green snake.
Perhaps a messenger might come tonight after all.

Suddenly, someone began pounding on the front storm shutters hard enough to break them.
There it comes! my heart leapt up and struck against my fourth rib.
It seemed someone was trying to speak, but with the knocking sound assaulting my ears, I couldn’t make out the words.
From beneath the voice that declared, “Old Housemaid—something’s come!” arose the response: “Master—something has arrived.”
I and the old housemaid simultaneously went out to the front entrance and opened the storm shutters.
——A policeman stood there holding a red lantern.

“Didn’t something happen just now?” the policeman asked suddenly, without even a greeting, his face suspicious.
I and the old housemaid looked at each other as if by prior agreement.
Neither of us offered any response.

“Well, you see, while I was patrolling around here just now, a black shadow emerged from your gate, so…”

The old housemaid’s face turned the color of earth.
She tried to speak but found herself too breathless for words.
The policeman looked toward me and pressed for a response.
I stood dazedly like a fossil.

“Ah—terribly rude of me to disturb you at this hour… The fact is, this neighborhood’s grown quite dangerous lately, so we’ve been keeping strict vigilance—and seeing as your gate stood open with signs of something having left, I thought it best to offer a word of caution…”

I finally let out a sigh of relief.
I felt as though the leaden ball that had been clogging my throat had descended.

“That’s very kind of you, officer—no, I don’t recall suffering any burglary here.”

“That’s perfectly fine then.”
“The dogs must be making quite a racket every night.”
“For some reason, thieves have been loitering specifically around this area, so…”

"I answered briskly, 'Much obliged,' since one could interpret the distant howling as being due to thieves,"
The policeman departed.

I intended to go to Yotsuya as soon as day broke and waited without sleeping a wink until six o'clock struck.

The rain finally let up, but the road was in terrible condition.
Speaking of geta—I’d taken them to the clog repair shop and then completely forgotten to retrieve them.
The shoes were impossible to put on due to last night’s rain.
Who cared? I slipped on my Satsuma clogs and dashed at full speed to Yotsuya Sakamachi.
The gate was open, but the entrance still had its door closed.
I wonder if the student lodger is still not up, I thought as I headed to the kitchen entrance.
Kiyo, a rosy-cheeked housemaid born in Shimousa, was cutting thin-rooted daikon freshly taken from rice bran miso on the cutting board.
“Good morning—what’s the situation?” I asked, to which she made a startled face, half-removing her work sash as she replied, “Huh?”
A mere “Huh?” wouldn’t settle anything.
Without hesitation, I jumped up and stomped into the tearoom.
When I looked, Tsuyuko’s Mother was meticulously wiping a long brazier made of scaly-grained wood, her face bearing the look of someone who had just risen.

“Oh, Mr. Yasuo!” she exclaimed, standing dumbfounded with her dishcloth still in hand.
“Oh, Mr. Yasuo! This won’t settle anything.”

“How is she? Is it very bad?” I asked hurriedly.

If the distant howling of dogs could be definitively pinned on thieves, then perhaps her illness had already healed.
"If only she had recovered," I thought, gulping as I looked at Tsuyuko’s Mother’s face.

"Yes, the roads must have been terrible—it rained so hard yesterday."
"You must have had such a hard time."
This was slightly off the mark.
Observing Tsuyuko’s Mother’s demeanor, she seemed somewhat startled but not particularly worried.
I began to calm down somewhat.

“The road was quite bad,” she said, taking out a handkerchief to wipe her sweat, but still concerned, asked, “That Tsuyuko—”

“She’s washing her face now—she went to the charity concert at Central Hall last evening and came back late, so she overslept.”

“And the influenza?”

“Yes, thank you—it’s completely cleared up now…”

“There’s nothing wrong?”

“Yes, the influenza was cured long ago.”

In the not-unwarm spring breeze, the drizzling rain had been swept away, creating a sensation that one could see to the very depths of the blue sky. I seemed to recall a phrase written somewhere—“in the finest of spirits in all Japan”—and thought this must be what it referred to. In contrast to last evening’s eerie unease, my chest now felt even brighter. Why had I tormented myself over such a thing? To realize that even I could be so foolish made the whole affair seem utterly absurd. As I dwelled on its absurdity—though we were close—rushing into someone’s house at dawn without purpose left me acutely aware of my idle restlessness.

“Why have you come so early—has something come up?” Tsuyuko’s Mother asked earnestly.
I didn’t know how to respond appropriately.
Even if I were to tell a lie, I couldn’t come up with a convincing one on the spot.
I had no choice but to say, “Yes.”

No sooner had I said “Yes” than I realized I should have retracted it—that it would have been better to confess the honest truth in one decisive stroke—but once “Yes” had escaped my lips, there was no helping it. If I couldn’t withdraw that “Yes,” I had to make it work.
“Yes” was a simple two-character phrase—not one I often used—and putting it to use now would require considerable effort.

“Is there some urgent business?” Tsuyuko’s Mother pressed.
Since no brilliant ideas came to mind, I answered “Yes” again, then turned toward the bathroom and shouted loudly, “Tsuyuko! Tsuyuko!”

“Oh! I thought it was someone else—how early of you! What happened? Is there some business?”
Tsuyuko, oblivious to my distress, tormented me with the same question.

“Oh, he says some urgent business has suddenly come up,” Tsuyuko’s Mother replied to Tsuyuko on my behalf.

“Oh? What business is it?” Tsuyuko asked innocently.

“Yes—well—I had some business nearby,” I finally managed to say as I found an opening.
I thought to myself what an excruciatingly awkward way that had been to steer the conversation.

“Then, it isn’t business with me?” Tsuyuko’s Mother asked with a slightly suspicious look.

“Yes.”

“You’ve already finished your business? How remarkably early!” Tsuyuko exclaimed with genuine admiration.

“No—I’m actually about to go now,” I replied, attempting modesty though her earnest praise only heightened my discomfort. Yet realizing this excuse changed nothing either way, I found my own words ringing utterly absurd even to myself.
"In such situations, leaving promptly proves wisest—the longer one lingers, the more blunders accumulate—" With this resolve, I began rising from my seat.

“You look quite pale—could something be wrong?” Tsuyuko’s Mother countered.

“You should have your hair cut—with that beard so overgrown, you look positively sickly.”
“Goodness, your hair’s sticking up all over!”
“You must have walked quite roughly!”

“They’re sunny-day clogs, after all—no wonder you struggled walking in them,” she said, turning her back.
Tsuyuko’s Mother and Tsuyuko exclaimed “Oh my!” in perfect unison, as if on cue.

I had my haori dried for me, borrowed a pair of clogs, and left through the gate without even greeting Father, who lay resting in the back.

It was a bright, clear day—and a Sunday at that.
Though I felt somewhat awkward, last night’s worries had vanished like snow on a red-hot brazier, leaving me delighted as willows and cherry blossoms of spring clustered brightly before my path.
I came to Kagurazaka and entered a barber shop.
Even if they said it was to win my future wife’s favor, I wouldn’t mind.
In truth, I want to do everything in a way that pleases Tsuyuko.

“Shall I leave the beard, sir?” asked the barber in white.
Tsuyuko had said I should shave my beard, but I wasn’t sure whether she meant all of it or just the goatee.
Well, I decided on my own to leave just the area under my nose.
Since the barber pressed me to confirm leaving it, I knew even if kept, it wouldn’t be particularly noticeable.

“Gen, there sure are some real idiots in this world, huh?” he said, pinching my chin and holding the razor upside down as he glanced toward the brazier.

Gen had settled by the brazier and was clacking two gold and silver shogi pieces on the board. "Really now—all this talk of ghosts and the dead, that’s ancient history."
"In this day and age with electric lights, there’s no way such nonsense could exist," he said, placing his rook on the king’s shoulder.
"Hey Yuko, why don’t you try stacking ten pieces like this? If you manage it, I’ll treat you to Atakazushi for ten sen."

The young apprentice barber wearing single-tooth high clogs laughed while folding a freshly laundered towel. "I don’t want Atakazushi—show me a ghost and I’ll stack ’em for ya!"

“Ghosts can’t hold much sway if even Yuko scoffs at them,” he said, crisply snipping my sideburns from the temple area.

“Ain’t that too short?”

“Everyone wears them this length nowadays. Long sideburns make you look like a smirking fool—utterly ridiculous. Ah, it’s all nerves.”
“When you’re scared in your own mind, naturally ghosts grow bold enough to appear,” he added, wiping hair from the blade with thumb and forefinger as he addressed Gen again.

“It’s all nerves,” agreed Gen, blowing out a stream of cherry-blossom tobacco smoke through his lips.

“Gen, where exactly are these nerves located?” Yuko asked earnestly while wiping the lamp chimney.

“Nerves? Nerves’re in you lot,” Gen’s reply came out all vague-like.

Matsu-san—who had been sitting at the entrance to the tatami room with its white noren curtain hung, reading a grime-covered, flimsy book—suddenly exclaimed loudly, “There’s something interesting written here!” and began laughing alone as if it were hilarious.

When Gen asked, “What’s this—a novel? Isn’t it *The Epicure*?” Matsu-san checked the cover and replied, “Well… maybe it is.”
The title read *Ukiyo Shinri Kōgiroku* by Uyamuya Dōjin.

“What a long title. Anyway, it ain’t *The Epicure*.”
“What the hell kind of book is this, Kama-san?” asked the barber, who was rotating the razor around my ear.

“It’s a book with all sorts of incomprehensible, daft things written in it.”

“Don’t just laugh by yourself—read some of it out loud,” Gen demanded of Matsu-san.
Matsu-san read out a passage in a loud voice.

“People say tanuki turn folks into old women, but why would a tanuki go around transforming anyone?
That’s all hypnosis, it’s…”

“Well now, this is certainly a peculiar book,” Gen remarked, wreathed in tobacco smoke.

“There was a time when this humble one transformed into an old enoki tree—when along came this young fellow named Sakuzō from Genbē Village to hang himself…”

“What’s this—is the tanuki saying something?”

“Seems so.”

“Then this ain’t nothin’ but a tanuki’s rigged-up book—makin’ fools of folks—what’s next?”

“Just as this humble one thrust out my arm—someone went and hung an old loincloth on it! Reeked something fierce, I tell you—…”

“For a tanuki, you sure got fancy tastes!”

“Just when Sakuzō-kun was dangling from the manure bucket platform, this humble one deliberately went limp in the arm I’d stuck out—made him botch his hanging attempt and flail about helplessly.”
“Figuring this was the perfect spot, I suddenly dropped my enoki tree disguise and let out a laugh—AHAHAHA!—so loud it shook all of Genbē Village.”
“Then Sakuzō-kun—must’ve been scared witless—started hollering ‘Help! Help!’ and took off running for dear life, leaving his loincloth behind……”

“This ain’t bad, but what’s a tanuki gonna do with Sakuzō’s loincloth?”

“Probably wants to wrap up his testicles or something.”

AHAHAHA! They all burst into laughter at once.
As I was about to burst out laughing, the barber momentarily lifted the razor from my face.

“This is great! Keep reading!” Gen urged excitedly.

“Common folk claim that this humble one transformed Sakuzō into an old woman, but that’s rather far-fetched, it is.”
“Sakuzō-kun was trying to be transformed into an old woman—trying to be transformed into an old woman as he shuffled around Genbē Village.”
“In response to Sakuzō-kun’s request to be transformed into an old woman, it was merely this humble one obliging by transforming him a bit—it is.”
“All methods of the tanuki faction are none other than the hypnosis employed by today’s practicing doctors—since ancient times, they have deceived quite a number of gentlemen with this technique.”
“To label techniques directly imported from Western tanuki as ‘hypnosis’ and revere those who apply them as masters is none other than the result of an infatuation with the West—a lamentable state that this humble one can scarcely endure in silence.”
“There’s no need for all this fuss about first it’s the West, second it’s the West, when Japan’s own native magic arts are right here being passed down—it’s utterly preposterous, it is.”
“Since it seems modern Japanese people are somewhat prone to looking down too much on tanuki, I shall take it upon myself—on behalf of tanuki nationwide—to humbly request you all to reflect on this matter.”

“That’s one damn logical tanuki,” said Gen, whereupon Matsu-san laid his book face down and vigorously defended the argument: “It’s exactly as the tanuki says! Whether in the past or present, if you stay resolute, there’s no way you’d get turned into an old woman.”

Realizing he must have been completely tricked by a tanuki last night after all—he left the barbershop alone, thoroughly fed up with everything.

I arrived at my house in Daichō around ten o'clock.
A black-lacquered carriage waited at the gate, and women’s laughter leaked through the narrow gaps in the lattice.
When I rang the bell and stepped into the entryway, a voice declared, “I knew you’d returned!” The shoji swished open to reveal Tsuyuko welcoming me with a face as warm as spring.

“Were you here?”

“Yes—after you came back, when I thought about how strange everything seemed, I came straight by carriage to check. And then I heard all about last night’s events from the old housemaid!” she said, looking at the old housemaid and collapsing into laughter.
The old housemaid also laughed cheerfully.
Tsuyuko’s silver-like laughter, the old housemaid’s brass-like laughter, and my copper-like laughter harmonized to such a merry degree that they seemed to gather all the springtime in the world into our seven-yen-fifty-sen rented house.
Even the tanuki of Genbē Village couldn’t have produced such a tremendous uproar, I thought.

Whether it was my imagination or not, after that, Tsuyuko seemed to behave as though she loved me even more than before.
When I met Tsuda-kun and told him all about that night’s events, he said, “That’s excellent material—let me include it in my book.”
The example of K-kun found on page seventy-two of Tsuda Masakata’s *On Ghosts*—Bachelor of Letters—is about me.