Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The haze swelled and enveloped the surroundings.
From within the streetcar, a young woman—her lightly made-up figure elegant as if neatly emerging from the mouse-gray clouds—swiftly slipped through the glass door and appeared at the driver’s platform; her attire and belongings allowed one to roughly discern the day’s weather pattern.

During the day, the fragrance of plum blossoms and the sleeves of women hung gently warm—a scarf might leave one slightly flushed—but by evening, when willow-borne breezes sent black hair chillingly permeating one's very being.
A little longer, and though the sky bore the hazy pallor of cherry blossom season, winter’s lingering chill still seemed to cling—not in the dimness itself, but in how clouds swirled unpredictably like ink marbling, layering upon themselves until something glimmering white appeared poised to mingle among them.
……A couple of days.

This morning had dawned beautifully clear—so much so that Ueno’s higan cherry blossoms seemed poised to bloom any moment—but around noon, a fierce wind had suddenly arisen and still showed no sign of abating.
Around four in the afternoon.

Just moments earlier, the main road had seemed enveloped in mist, leaving Western umbrellas soaked through… Yet Japanese umbrellas bore not a single droplet, while rickshaw hoods gleamed with such luster that one could tell a sudden shower had just passed.

Though the break in the clouds—scattered as if by some great exhalation across the sky—seemed poised to clear into full sunshine, the faintly damp sunbeams wavered at their roots, drifting capriciously into shadow… making one think another downpour might come at any moment.

Some were fully prepared for rain, while others clattered past in *setta* sandals. Those who spread their umbrellas wide over their shoulders pressed forward with *ōzatsuma* swagger, ostentatiously flaunting their meticulous appearances, while those who folded theirs lightly to carry—dejectedly drenched yet affecting composure—sang *kouta* as if declaring, “A little soaking suits me just fine.” Their unhurried footsteps, not seeming busy at all, lent a somehow spring-like air to the water-sprinkled flower-lined path.

The streetcar came to a brief stop at the red pillar of Nihonbashi-dori 3-chome.

The woman who had vividly emerged onto the driver’s platform mentioned earlier—wearing Nanbu-style outer silk, thin raised-base komageta sandals with glimpsed white tabi socks, her red silk crepe underrobe’s hem adjusted elegantly, her willow-slender waist swaying—lightly stepped down.

She wore no coat, and in her hand lightly held the slender, lustrous indigo snake-eye umbrella.

Standing there waiting for the streetcar was my acquaintance named Funazaki—what I heard from him afterward, I will record here.

Funazaki’s given name was Kazuharu. He worked at a local insurance company in a somewhat respectable position—officially making company visits before returning home.
In truth, due to lingering effects from last night’s drinking, he had left early rather than wait for his four o’clock departure—with some funds discreetly tucked away.

He could return home first and start afresh, or head out immediately without issue—either would do. While mulling over vague notions like whether to invite someone along, he lingered at the aforementioned third block, not forgetting his usual boarding spot. Though without an umbrella, he paid no mind to the occasional drop falling here and there, adopting an attitude of neither refusing what comes nor chasing what leaves.
He let five or six Ueno-bound and Asakusa-bound streetcars pass by, peering past people gazing through the glass doors at Western-style passengers, watching others turn into side streets—all the while stirring up increasingly rebellious impulses.

Just then…

Upon catching a glimpse of her allure, he—for some reason—impulsively stomped over and rushed to board from the conductor’s platform side opposite where the woman had alighted. Gripping the iron bar just as the streetcar began moving, he nimbly hopped on and entered with feigned composure.
But as for why he had done so, he himself did not fully understand.

Was it vanity—not wanting the woman to see him standing there vacantly—or fear of appearing to others as if he’d been lying in wait for her?
……However, in truth, it was neither, he says.

Though the passengers had crowded in considerably, what his searching eyes—seeking an empty seat somewhere—first caught sight of above all else was the elegant figure at the driver’s platform, still not alighting from the front, her profile and collar crisply visible through the glass door.

II

As everyone knows, this third block and Nakabashi area served as a hub along the avenue where streetcars came and went without much congestion.

When it stopped, there were probably two or three others who had alighted as well.
But being distracted by the woman, he hadn't noticed it in the slightest.

From every entrance, only Kazuharu had boarded.

No sooner had he entered than it abruptly lurched forward.

The woman opened the front glass door from outside—and what do you know!

With an air as though she’d plucked her shadow from a full-length mirror, she turned back and reentered the streetcar—what do you know!

And then, with her wide-open, dewy, cool eyes—though slightly downcast—she opened them wide and scrutinized the face of Kazuharu standing there from across.

The moment she saw him, the seat where he had just been standing now sat empty.
She slipped into it, and the high shimada hairstyle disappeared into the jumble of passengers.

The woman wore a long kimono with a silver flat hairpin at the back—her attire incongruous with what one might expect of a purebred lady from an elite household—yet her high shimada hairstyle, its glossy side locks dripping like lacquer, struck the eye so forcefully that even the muted silk crepe inexplicably took on a purple cast.

There was one vacant seat, but it lay on the same side where the woman had settled; Kazuharu hurriedly lowered himself into it with barely contained agitation.

Though he aligned his chest and shoulders with the tightly packed row of passengers and discreetly leaned forward, he could no longer glimpse even the woman’s toes. Yet the force of her gaze—which had met his for but an instant—seemed carved into his mind, vividly imprinted upon his heart. At Shirokiya’s storefront, where a tomozome-dyed underrobe hung like azaleas blazing in rapids, he half-imagined the woman had flown across to peer back through the glass—obi loosened, appearance disheveled—as if scrutinizing him from some mirrored realm.

When he finally noticed, the sign was chartreuse—this streetcar was bound for Asakusa.

For Kazuharu to reach his residence, he should have boarded the Ueno-bound line and transferred around Sudacho—yet here he was, having turned that same corner at Honcho and emerged at Asakusabashi, still drifting absently.

Though not intentionally, he kept an eye out at every stop, but there was no sign of the woman alighting.

And once it had gone that far—not alighting at Umayabashi, Kuramae, or Komagata along the way—he became convinced they would surely ride together all the way to Kaminarimon.

What was it—the way her hair was arranged wasn't that of a geisha. But her nails showed no signs of respectability.—What was it.

Such thoughts.
In that crowded space—where people pressed in like packed grains—he found himself thinking myriad things about those sharing the streetcar, as if he'd spent half a year entangled in continuous troubles.
Once more clouds thickened and streamed turbulently across the vast sky—even as the glass windows grew dim, he couldn't properly register it.

But as they passed through Kuramae, the sky darkened so intensely that one might think smoke billowing like a black mountain from that famous great chimney would come swirling down to engulf the streetcar.

When he suddenly became aware of his neck, droplets raced down like scattered beads trailing tails. Even through the window glass he knew their icy chill seeped into his flesh, yet maintained such practical composure he wouldn't acknowledge this as rain.

Now at Asakusa, Kaminarimon Gate roared with commotion fit to shake its thunder deities awake.

Passengers cascaded from the streetcar in a clamorous avalanche—yet compared to this disembarking frenzy, Nakamise Street resounded louder still, men and women scattering vivid hues across an ink-wash monochrome.

Gathered amidst the rising wind, they scattered swiftly in great numbers from the temple grounds to Hirokoji Street.

In the sudden rain of a maddening day, the crowd was driven wild by the wind.

Amidst the chaos, the woman’s figure vanished.

The streetcar’s interior stood starkly empty—a glass box submerged in water. The conductor and driver appeared like divers braving the rain, not even dust settling for a fleeting moment—while outside, the crowd thrashed as though chased by a mythical sea creature.
――

Kazuharu disembarked last of all.
Since no one else remained, the woman must have exited as well.

III

However, anticlimactic moments abounded.

With a heart sinking like a stone into a gutter, he alighted from the streetcar—the rain not coarse but fine and clinging—too listless even to deflect it with his fedora’s brim.

The hat’s mouse-gray rim hung limp as he endured without glancing toward Azumabashi or Honganji Temple, cutting straight across Hirokoji Street toward Niohmon Gate as if drawn by fate.

Soaked yet starkly white, mottled patches bloomed where raindrops shaped themselves into fallen hairpins, box fastenings, and prayer beads—patterns evoking bustling crowds across Nakamise’s paving stones—unnoticed by passersby as they stretched toward the temple hall.

At a bean shop there, the smell of beans crackling as they roasted steamed through the rain, warmly enveloping his face.

At that moment, on Hirokoji Street, the trailing end of a net cast swiftly from the streetcar entrance vanished once into the waves of congestion, and soon—as if drawn smoothly toward Nakamise on the opposite side with slender hands—the woman from earlier appeared, shoulders slightly drooped, her collar narrow as if dusted with snow. She hooked her indigo snake-eye umbrella over her willow-like figure, holding it elegantly aloft as she hurried forward with light raised-base geta steps, the hems of her kimono fluttering faintly.

The moment he saw this, she approached swiftly from the left side without hesitation, closing in toward the center until her shoulder aligned with Kazuharu’s.

With her slender white hand half-revealed, swiftly grasping her tomozome-dyed sleeve, she held the indigo snake-eye umbrella over them—

“You’ll get wet, you know.”

She said.
Her eyes shifted and curved into a gentle smile.
The fragrance of Ryuunanki, softly enveloped in the misty rain shimmering like heat haze, merged with the umbrella’s translucence to amplify her beauty.

Kazuharu’s wet forehead turned into a pleasantly cool sweat,

“No, I don’t mind.”

he said—though there was no genuine indifference in his words.

“But my clothes…”

“Oh, you’re wearing a coat.”

Exchanging words with this woman who was practically a stranger—and finding nothing strange in it—they took five or six steps together beneath her umbrella even as they spoke these few remarks.
Holding a flower branch in her hand, they walked under the same shelter with a sensation like one sleeve growing heavy.

“People will see.”

Far from being seen, they ascended the path toward the temple hall against Nakamise’s flow, sending up beautiful splashes amidst the current of legs.

Even if no one was watching, from the main hall there would be a clear line of sight through the gate—and though it wasn’t the shrine’s deity, if there were a mirror, their figures would surely be reflected there in vivid detail.

“Am I troubling you?”

She murmured in a low voice, as if sensing his thoughts—her tone still tinged with coquetry—and tilted the snake-eye umbrella slightly.

As if a blindfold had been lifted, his mind grew clear—

“It’s beyond bothersome… but this isn’t peaceful.”
“And there are quite a lot of solitary figures passing through.”

He finally managed a wry smile.

“Well then, let’s part ways…” No sooner had she spoken than she slipped away with a sulky air.

Then, tilting her sleeve diagonally in a somewhat concealed manner, she showed Kazuharu her slender back beneath the snake-eye umbrella and peered into the picture book store there.
Gaudily colored chiyogami papers became entangled in the rain as though dyed, and among them, the red stood out, faintly tinting the woman’s eyelids.

This time, Kazuharu moved to approach her side,

“Where are you heading?”

“Me?…”

She placed her left hand on the umbrella’s handle.
As if bearing a weight, her figure bent.

“Anywhere.”

Having dismissed her words, he began walking slowly—but amid the rain floating lightly at the breeze’s whim, his footing too grew unsteady.

IV

When he looked back under the gate, he wondered whether she had stopped at some shop or strayed from his side.
The crowds along Nakamise were sparse in the rain’s haze, yet the woman’s figure was nowhere to be seen.

While he didn’t consciously think This is the last time we’ll meet, Kazuharu suddenly felt lonely. With an oddly focused mind, forgetting everything for a while, he ascended the temple hall’s stairs… passed beneath that great lantern… traced the solemn eaves… followed the railing, turned left along the corridor, paused at the corner giboshi ornament, took a breath that felt like a kiss—removed his damp hat—though not soaked through—and wiped his forehead firmly with a handkerchief.

“Because I’m sober.”

He muttered to himself with a sigh, kept the hand that had stroked his cheek in place, leaned an elbow on the railing, and gazed across the entire temple grounds.

Before long, there were already those strolling leisurely in high geta with oil-paper umbrellas tucked under their arms. No sooner had one thought this than now there were others dashing off in haste. His mind wandered to myriad places—the temple hall’s rear lies ahead, a realm beyond society’s surface—and as he steeled himself alone, shoulders squared in defiance of any cowardice that might lag behind shared umbrellas, the rain too grew hazy, its chillingly cool touch brushing his cheeks. Not a single drop resembled sobering water; thrillingly, his chest pulsed with pleasure... But nowhere within his line of sight did the woman’s figure draw near.

"Ridiculous! Is that all? No—of course it is," he dismissed with a wry grimace.

Wings flapped against the great lantern as dark clouds loomed. From beneath purple eaves where celestial maidens dwelled, two or three pigeons burst forth—tumbling through the air—and flew toward Yadaijinmon Gate’s roof over ginkgo branches now clearing.

There she was—arching her back to gaze skyward before the bean-selling crone. With modest gait narrowing her robe and snake-eye umbrella tilted forward, those slender shoulders brushed past unmistakably.

Swoosh—she closed her umbrella and approached the basin. Whether her garment’s hues shimmered in the brimming water, a distant heart observed from the railing. On that path now—only her solitary figure remained.

When she coquettishly held the pale blue handkerchief fluttering between her lips, she arched her back over her shoulder and glanced up briefly toward the corridor. Having waited there shamelessly yet feeling her intentions had become too transparent, she swayed into motion the moment she was noticed, turning sideways with her back to him. With a *pat pat*, a country man rolled a cigarette butt into his palm, his pipe sizzling with a greasy *zuzu* sound. *Coo coo*—the cry of a pigeon somewhere. Three or four of Akane’s sisters mingled with Lady Turmeric and Granny Vegetable Field, all of them gaping.

But with an “Ah!”, they recoiled in surprise and scattered back—and from the side door there, the resplendent one glided out.

Having visited the main hall and circled around, she appeared before Kazuharu.

Hiding her hands behind the closed snake-eye umbrella,

“Were you waiting?”

Again, a faint floral fragrance.

“Not at all… You should take your time with your prayers.”

“You’re the one who should have gone ahead and waited properly, sir. Yet here you’ve come barging out, making the spray feel cold, haven’t you?”

It wasn’t as though he should have hurried ahead.
She had said, “If you would wait,” but where was this waiting to occur? No promise had been made, yet now that things had come to this, his resolve steadied,

“But could I walk alone through this rain and end up soaked to the bone?”

“Yet you claim to prefer that approach…”

Having said that, while striking a coquettish pose with her shoulder that didn’t seem forced, she pressed her obi lightly with one hand.
The fastener shifted with a faint snap... Her chest—slender yet gently curved—showed the satin lining of her red-dappled underrobe peeking through its eight pleats like an overflowing cascade.

In that moment—had she tightly clamped a pipe case? No.
She inserted an ivory-framed women’s fan.

The hand that pressed down was not adjusting a loosened obi—it seemed to have inserted the fan with a searching breath.

V

The purple arrow-feather pattern and the fluttering silver of box-fastened accessories were one thing; in the darkness where what they called dark cherry blossoms—a faint pink flickering as if forgotten—revealed a fearsome aesthetic, neither did her high shimada hairstyle resemble it, nor did her pale komageta sandals or indigo snake-eye umbrella bear any likeness. But that could be attributed to the weather, he supposed. Yet nowadays, a fan was far too ceremonial… Had this been on her way back from dance lessons, such an accessory might have suited—yet from the very start, the peculiar nature of her background had grown all the more mysterious.

But that made sense—when he later inquired about her background, she claimed to be a performer.
And no ordinary performer at that—a female magician, she had declared.

Though unexpected and rather altered, there was no use in denouncing the woman’s self-proclaimed identity as suspicious, dubious, or outright lies.
He thought, *Surely not…*—but after all, it was her profession.
Since he couldn’t definitively conclude this or that from his own perspective, Kazuharu reluctantly nodded in acknowledgment—though this was not when they stood side by side at the railing of Kannon’s corridor.
It was when they found themselves seated across from each other in a four-and-a-half tatami sukiya-style room behind the temple hall, within the Ōgane rice fields, with meals laid out before them.
……

However, before matters reached that point, there had been a somewhat disquieting interlude during their journey.

Kazuharu had already had a single large bill taken from his wallet by the woman at the temple hall.

"It must be skilled trickery after all."

At that moment, pressing the fan in her hand, she said, "You, walking alone, sir—"

"...Even though you prefer it..."

And because she said that, Kazuharu shook his shoulders,

"Now that it's come to this, I don't care anymore.
"I absolutely insist we share this umbrella," he declared, laughing mock-threateningly.

“My, you’re acting just like a spoiled child!”
She smiled gently,
“You—” she began, adopting a slightly more formal tone.

“Huh?”
“Might you have some money on you?”

She said with perfect composure.
Kazuharu had been somewhat prepared for this.

“Yes.”

With deliberate nonchalance,
“How much do you need?”

“Ten bills.”

She squared her shoulders earnestly, yet even so, her figure remained lovely.
“I just need to do a bit of shopping, you see.”

“Take it.”

At this moment, Kazuharu turned toward the country bumpkin standing behind him.
They all gazed about restlessly, eyes darting here and there.
The woman, without tucking it into the obi and keeping the single bill in her palm, silently brushed past Kazuharu, rounded the corner’s giboshi ornament, and disappeared toward the main hall’s front staircase.

She had likely returned to Nakamise, given that she mentioned shopping.

Now, what should I do? This isn’t some trifling matter that can be settled quickly.

The old man—having grown tired of smoking, his slackly crossed arms repeatedly readjusted as they went limp, leaning back with a heavy slump and licking his lips—and the young woman—crouching and standing up to let out an ungraceful yawn—neither seemed to be merely taking shelter from the rain.
However, having apparently grown weary of waiting for the beautiful lady, they noisily began descending the side platform,

“That was one hell of a wait, eh?”

As the old man uttered this with an overly solemn expression—not even a hint of a smirk—the women burst into raucous laughter and squelched their way into the throng of people amid black coils of incense smoke and white wisps of rising foam.

Startled, he thought: These rascals—are they pickpockets putting on country airs or decoys? Even considering my lightened wallet, these days one could not afford to let down their guard.

He stood vacantly waiting in the same spot until that time.

Six

Urging one to descend quickly, the platform waited there diagonally, its stairs laid bare.
Ashamed of himself, he had reached the point where he could no longer wait.

Even stepping to the edge carried an air of begrudging reluctance—as if dragged back by that banknote—so he didn’t venture out to the corner either.
For some reason, feeling disappointed and deflated, he descended from the side, finding it too bothersome to circle around the path. For the first time, he staggered forward, circling around the main hall’s corridor and leaning against the railing. The vigor from his earlier arrival had shifted entirely—his hat’s brim now pulled low, his face lowered—and even the wind sweeping through there felt awkward to his own mind.

Startled as though the large lantern had swung before his eyes like a temple bell, he raised his face—now captivated—straight ahead to find her standing alone in an immaculate corner at the hall’s forecourt’s right side, where a brocade tree stood planted out of season. With her umbrella half-open, she revealed a pure white profile, her thick hairline beautifully framing her face as she met his gaze with a gentle smile.

“I’ve kept you waiting so terribly long,” she said with affected familiarity, though her tone carried resentment rather than apology.

Resolving not to engage in verbal sparring, he spread his arms wide and resolutely approached,

“Where shall we go?”

“Wherever you deem suitable, sir.”

“Well then, come along to wherever we’re going.”

“After you.”

Now seemingly ready to share the umbrella, she pressed one sleeve against her chest—her figure appearing more slender than the handle itself.

Her tall frame crowned by a high shimada hairstyle; standing side by side beneath the snake-eye umbrella, they faced each other.

When they stepped into the grand hall’s precincts, Funazaki boldly took charge of holding the umbrella.

Yet later realizing his posture—the way he had deferentially extended its long handle toward her like one serving a headlining female storyteller—struck an improper figure.

The place they were shown to was a small sitting room—the very four-and-a-half-tatami space mentioned earlier. To the side of the corridor, a passageway lay slightly concealed—there stood a room in an inconspicuous spot...

Tastefully constructed with a low ceiling. The vivid green of fresh tatami mats. The alcove post likely bore its own name... In a wall-mounted basket, plump white pea flowers bloomed, their vines cut short and casually arranged. They glowed like lamps kindled by the window's light, making the room feel warmer still—softer than peach blossoms.

After the maid with her hair in a round chignon had gracefully closed the door and withdrawn upon attending to them, Funazaki—whose perspiration from the walk had grown stifling in the enclosed space—removed his haori while seated before the brazier.

Taking it, he deftly handled and neatly folded the garment.

“How improper—no, I couldn’t possibly.”

“Oh, do let me have my way.”

To the wall’s corner—to his side she moved with knees slightly lifted, gliding smoothly while managing a handkerchief in one hand—

“It’s truly grown rather warm here.”

“When I become flustered, it becomes all the more unbearable.”

“The season’s influence, no doubt.”

“No—this is for your sake.”

“If you speak so boldly, come nearer.”

and shoved the brazier toward him,

“In return for working, I’ll open it a bit for you.”

Just below the drum-shaped knot of her informal kimono’s obi—which hung feebly twisted askew—there was, precisely partitioning the rear wall, a narrow crawl-window shoji. With a click, when pulled open, there immediately appeared in the enclosed garden—where the spread pine needles had apparently been swept away—five or six stepping stones arranged like budding butterbur leaves. A willow-woven gate, a checkered lattice fence.

Over that fence she climbed, and there—slanting askew across the clean-lined profile of the woman who had just peered through—the great ship’s prow suddenly appeared, like plum branches reflected in moonlight.

“My, how lovely!”

She looked delighted and, for some reason, broke into a guileless smile.

Seven

“There’s a pond here.”

Bracing herself against the wall, she peered upward until her slender chin tilted sideways—yet from that cramped angle, no water could be seen. Only the ship’s prow emerged abruptly, lending an air of poetic charm.

With wooden clogs clattering across stone, a willowy geisha passed through the earthen floor one level above—her retreating figure adorned with hemmed patterns, likely the promised entertainer.

In the far sitting room came a clamor of voices.

Outside the lattice door, beneath the willow tree, someone scratched a broom across the ground—the round back of a worker in a patterned happi coat had been visible all along, crouched there.

The woman peered unabashedly at this scene but snapped the shoji shut with a soft click upon glimpsing the geisha’s figure.

When her forward-turned face met the diagonally white pea flowers, she relaxed her brow and gazed intently.
Yet she shifted her eyes back and stared sharply at the closed shoji of the high elbow-rest window to her right.

The interplay of her bewitching features in that fleeting instant—as though crimson lipstick had been splashed against white powder to trace lightning—was both alluring and sharp; had an enemy drawn near, she might have transformed into jade and seemed poised to leap through the window.

Kazuharu involuntarily sat up straight.

Just then, the maid brought a meal tray.

“One, please.”
“How’s the weather?”
“It’s cleared up perfectly… Though perhaps it’s grown a bit too warm?”
“No, this is fine.”

“Pardon me… you.”

It came as no surprise that the woman accepted the sake cup with practiced ease, but when she took one,

“Pray leave it and withdraw—if you would be so kind.” That she dismissed the maid struck him as unexpected.

Kazuharu became entranced after a while.

“Allow me to pour another cup for my dear companion.”

“How dreadfully awkward.”

“What of it? So that’s your way of being?”

She slumped her knees limply and shook her head,

“Excuse me, but your address?”

“Oh, a lantern.”

With a smile in her eyes.
With a clink, she set down the sake cup as if dropping it, then pressed a handkerchief to her mouth—perhaps finding herself amusing—and giggled softly.

“The town name, the town name—that’s all I need.”

Kazuharu had mistaken it for the town name.

“No, it’s a lantern.”

“Oh, Chōchin-chō.”

And there he sat，looking utterly foolish with vacant eyes．

She laughed again，

“That’s not it．”
“My home is a lantern．”

“Where？”
“Lantern？”

“My home is inside that large lantern above Kannon-sama’s stairs．”

“Yes,” he said, though he had mostly grasped it. To inquire further would be futile.

“Your name?”

“I? My name? Girl…”
“Miss Young Lady—indeed fitting. And your age?”
“As for age—Granny.”
“Age: Granny. Name: Girl. Residence: Inside a lantern… Hmm—no, I see… But your occupation?” he asked.

Later, as Funazaki would recount—

However mortifying it was for a grown man to be led by the nose—though he hadn't asked about parents, brothers, or sisters—to inquire of a young woman, "Your occupation?"
With a click, he made up his mind.

However base it may seem, there were banknotes in the corridor for that purpose.

At that moment, she responded as if slightly composing herself,

"I practice magic."

Lately, with only moving pictures drawing crowds and places like small theaters and vaudeville halls seeing no patrons at all, she had been granted private room performances.

"Kindly become a baby for a moment."

Unexpectedly, as a token of gratitude, she presented a preliminary performance.

“I detest being made sport of,” she said.

“I must see this!” he blustered with exaggerated bravado—though in truth, he thought it a lie.

Then she lightly braced her knees, slid the quilt aside, and glided toward… the doorway. Though he’d matched her cup for cup, even the fragrance of robes had turned cold.

She drew a folding fan, propped it against the tatami, and lowered her head—yet appeared dejected, her bow slumping heavily.

“Though I say it’s for making a living… receiving gratuities in advance and…”

She trailed off,

“I find this most shameful,” she said—though what precisely she meant remained unclear—as her eyes glistened faintly.
That beauty permeated his very essence; even now he cannot forget it, not even in dreams.

No—far from it.

That—the white flowers in the basket—I shall not forget.

She pulled it out smoothly, offered it on her palm, and without hesitation, opened the latticed paper window.
When she opened it, in the courtyard’s pond—unexpectedly again—a single boat floated, cutting through the water like a whale adrift on the Sumida River.

The sky cleared, mist drifted across, and the golden half-moon—like a great torch studded with stars—cast faint shadows of pale violet gauze-like trees upon the water alongside electric lights, while the wind’s aftermath rippled into waves of silver satin.

ト瞻めながら、

“Ha,” a voice rang out—she squeezed her sleeve, adjusted her hem to her shoulder—had the single white flower at her side slipped from her hand? No—unfurling leaves on a green vine, she tossed it fluttering down onto the boat.

A single handful had been snatched—when it fell into the boat, they danced in unison like pebble-struck water’s rings, and the flowers spilled into bloom up to the bow like crane feathers.

At that moment, with a crisp motion, she opened a plain silver fan and waved it from her sleeve’s edge—beckoning the pond with fluttering gestures. The translucent water mirrored this, shimmered and rippled as though lifting waves or shedding mist across its expanse—until a snow-white butterfly, about the size of the fan itself, appeared floating above the boat. Neither landing nor departing, it danced among the pea blossoms.

Soon, the butterflies formed a pair.

The interior fell silent.

The geisha-like figure reached toward the lattice door.
Along the corridor encircling the pond, beyond the railings, maids stood aligned in numbers matching the lanterns—each visible only from the waist up.

The butterflies multiplied to three.
Casting shadows beneath them, six flowers swirled in comma-like patterns, crisscrossing in swastika formations.

At that moment, she stilled her faintly rustling fan and leaned wearily against the elbow-rest window with the pond behind her. In that same space where Kazuharu—dumbstruck—had propped his elbows and met her gaze, she now flushed crimson, turned the fan sideways to conceal half her face behind her chest, and looked downward. With fluid grace, she gathered the disheveled hem of her robe and delicately adjusted the toes of her tabi socks.

When he abruptly returned to awareness, the woman had already vanished.

When he asked the maid,

“By carriage, just now…”

Meiji 44 (1911), February