Pathway to Japanese Literature

Chapter 1

I ended up spending one summer on the coast of Kōzu. Through a friend’s introduction, I had intended to rent a room at a certain temple. However, when I went to inquire, they were occupied with various matters and said they couldn’t accommodate guests that summer. So through the head priest’s referral, I ended up being placed in a layperson’s household. Because I wanted to write a somewhat intricate script, I avoided noisy inns and such. Because the place next door was a restaurant that employed a geisha, it got quite rowdy whenever guests came over. However, since I didn’t dislike the cheerful tones of the shamisen, I actually came to find the place appealing.

The room I occupied was on the second floor, and there was no other room on that floor besides this one. From the ground of the neighboring restaurant, a tall fig tree grew thickly, even surpassing the roof of my second floor. Though the fig tree’s broad blue leaves look fragile, watching them somehow brings a calm, pleasant feeling—so I’ve come to like them just as much as banana leaves or Chinese parasol foliage. Moreover, it could be seen right beside the room where I worked.

Moreover, from the shade of those leaves, I could see the neighboring restaurant’s beautiful garden. There were stone lanterns, branching stone paths, a gourd-shaped pond—a form that Westerners might compare to something they’d never mention in polite company—along with low pines and willows pruned into delicate shapes. Though I found this miniature garden style rather stiff and contrived, its immaculate upkeep was another pleasing aspect. The part of the garden closest to my side—which had a kitchen entrance—was partitioned from the rest by a low bamboo fence. The well located there—also visible from my room—was one that the people in my household were permitted to use as well.

As for the neighboring family, there were the master and his wife with two children, plus the master’s sister and a geisha. The master and his wife were extremely kind-hearted and wholly devoted to their family business, working diligently from morning till night on cleaning and cooking. The master’s sister—named Osada—was a formidable figure of longstanding repute who held de facto authority as proprietress. When attending banquets hosted by local notables, she commanded considerable clout as “Proprietress Osada of Izumoya.” Yet at home, she dismissed the master and his wife outright; if even the slightest thing failed to suit her spiteful disposition, she would throw tantrums akin to a stubborn customer berating the household staff.

O-Kimi, their niece—that is, the daughter of the household—was sixteen years old but shared her aunt’s temperament. Though shy and charmless in front of guests, she could hardly bear the frustration of watching her foolish parents bumble about. Whenever free from tasks, she would sit before the brazier, never taking her eyes off them, using her long chin to command her parents like a puppeteer. Last year, for instance, a geisha they employed had thrown herself into the sea and died, unable to endure this daughter’s sarcastic punishments. After that, it suddenly fell into disrepute, and many people began saying they wouldn’t set foot in Izumoya as long as that old woman and the daughter remained there. It stood to reason that it wasn’t a particularly thriving restaurant.

Because I could speak English, through the people in my household, the master of Izumoya came to request that I teach his children English. Nor was this a sincere request—he simply wanted me to teach specialized phrases like "Please come in," "What shall I bring you?" "Would you like sake or beer?" "Shall I call a geisha?" "You seem quite cheerful, aren't you?" and "Please visit us again," because Westerners occasionally visited and he struggled with hospitality. I wasn’t keen on the idea, but thinking it might be interesting to teach them during breaks from my work, I made them compile a list of conversational phrases and decided to gradually work through those, along with having them read parts one and two of the National Reader they were studying elsewhere. O-Kimi and her brother Sho-chan came every afternoon at a fixed time for their lessons. Sho-chan was twelve years old and, being sickly, was somewhat slow-witted.

One day, since there was no school, Sho-chan came around eleven in the morning. Because I begrudged losing my precious time, after finishing a half-hearted lesson, "Our geisha says she wants you to teach her too," he said. "It's too troublesome. I refuse," I replied—though looking back now, that geisha had already begun deceiving me from that very moment. Sho-chan, being innocent,

“Even if I did learn, I’m too stupid to understand anyway.” “Why?” “The other day during a big cleanup, when I tried reciting gidayū narrative, I called Kumagai no Jirō Naozane ‘Kumagai no Tarō’ and got laughed at—oh, that’s our geisha over there, the boss of sleepheads.” So when he pointed outside, I too turned in that direction. From the shade of the fig leaves came into view a slovenly figure in a nightgown with just a sash, holding a toothpick in her mouth as she looked this way from the wellside and laughed.

“Sho-chan, want me to give you something nice?” “Oh,” he stood up and held out both hands.

“Here goes!” she called—and as her body bent lithely yet vigorously, a black object came flying. It slipped past Sho-chan’s hands and struck my shoulder. “Ho, ho, ho! Forgive me!” she dissolved into laughter, but immediately spat out a mouthful of white saliva and began washing her face. What came flying was my wallet.

“This is mine. I must’ve dropped it earlier when I went to drink water at the well.” “At least that fox didn’t take it—so it’s all right.” “How cruel of you to say that—what was your name again?” “My name is Yoshiya.” “When you go back, tell her thank you,” I said, opening my half-read Merezhkovsky novel. Since Sho-chan had come through the back way, he left through the back entrance. As he walked home chatting with her about something, I caught a glimpse of Yoshiya’s bare face when she entered the house—her complexion was so dark it repelled me.

II

That evening, I went to Izumoya to soothe my weary head. Moreover, I deliberately went around the back to avoid causing friction.

“Oh, Sensei!” Osada was the first to notice and stood up. “Even coming through such a shabby place—”

“Ah, well, I don’t stand on ceremony—”

“Oh, please do come in.”

“Excuse me,” I said, stepping up from the wooden floor of the kitchen area and sitting down beside the large hearth. I could see the master cleaning the garden with his kimono tucked up. The mistress had the air of a maid and was working in the wide kitchen area. Behind where I sat was a spacious room with a large full-length mirror installed there. O-Kimi stood before it, constantly fussing over her appearance. In the long, narrow hearth—cut to about the size of a single tatami mat—despite the sweltering heat, four or five logs were burning, and an iron kettle hung from the ceiling on a ganegi hook bubbled vigorously.

“We’re always obliged to you for looking after the children,” said Auntie Osada formally from across the hearth where she sat facing me. “I don’t have time to teach them properly anyway, so there’s no need for thanks.”

"In this heat, you're so diligent—studying from morning till night?" "If I didn't work like that, I couldn't earn my keep." "Oh, you flatter me—even so, Sensei, it's splendid how you can work while enjoying yourself, unlike others." "I suppose it's what they call 'poverty leaves no time for leisure.'" "Not at all, Sensei—hey, O-Kimi, why don't you serve Sensei some tea?" Before long, Sho-chan returned from somewhere, sat down beside me, and began recounting the rumors he had just heard around town. O-Kimi brought tea. Osada doted on the two children as if they were her own, and I had heard that her boasting about them was one reason why people in the neighborhood disliked her—so I handled things accordingly.

“These foolish children are such a trouble,” she said.

“Ah well, both of them are clever by nature—quick learners with promising futures,” I praised. “Auntie—truth is I’ve gotten downright gloomy. How about letting me have a drink? Could you open up one of your nice rooms?” “Thank you kindly,” said Osada, signaling to O-Kimi with her eyes, “The third room on the second floor has good airflow—that should do.” “Please show me the way there.” “Ah, anywhere’s fine,” I said, standing up to follow O-Kimi. The tobacco tray arrived; fresh tea was served.

“What would you like to have?” Hearing what seemed to be O-Kimi’s stock phrase, it occurred to me that if I were a Westerner, she would likely try out the broken English I’d taught her—and with that, the thought arose: what an irritating, cheeky girl. I perfunctorily ordered her to bring out whatever she could scrape together and, putting a cigarette in my mouth, lay down. First came the nori. After O-Kimi briefly poured a drink and left, I sipped slowly until two or three dishes had been served—then Osada appeared to keep me company.

“You must be lonely alone—even this old granny will keep you company.” “No need—but I’ll have a cup,” I said, offering my sake cup. The old woman talked about various things—how this house had thrived until two or three years ago; how lately customer traffic had dried up completely; how cold-hearted the locals were; and how, oblivious to the world’s criticisms of their own shortcomings, she indulged in nothing but self-serving laments. Then came footsteps climbing the stairs—a different rhythm in the hallway—and Yoshiya appeared carrying a sake flask. Gone was the bare face I’d seen that morning; now she stood transformed into an ordinary geisha.

“I must apologize for my rudeness this morning,” she said with a demure yet mocking bow. “Perhaps I’m the one who came to say thank you.” “If you’re only saying ‘might be,’ that’s no thanks at all!” “No—well then, thank you very much.” With that, I deliberately lowered my head in an exaggerated bow.

“Well then, I’m satisfied now—there.” Yoshiya looked at Osada and brandished her fan like a victor’s standard.

“What in the world,” said Osada, who had maintained a strange air from the start, “what’s all this? Did you catch something sneaky?” “Well now, Madam—this morning, I had someone pick up the purse I dropped,” I said, and then Yoshiya’s laughter explained the rest.

“Then you should’ve kept quiet—we’d have turned a profit.” “Honestly, I really should’ve.” “Too bad it was just two or three sen in coppers—even you’d be shocked, Yoshiya-san.” “This girl’s downright greedy.” “Oh Auntie, that’s simply not true!” “Well then, let’s have one,” I said, handing the cup to Yoshiya. “Is the banquet room free now?”

“Auntie, what do you say?”

“At the moment, there are no bookings.” “Well then, I’ll treat you as thanks for this morning.”

“That’s very kind of you,” said the old woman, pouring sake into my cup as a sign of acceptance before going downstairs.

III

“Where were you born?”

“Tokyo.” “Where in Tokyo?”

“Asakusa.” “Where in Asakusa?” “You’re persistent, aren’t you? Senzoku-cho.” “Ah—that place with the ditch-like pond, right?”

“I’m afraid that pond was filled in ages ago.” “So after they filled it in, they built a rickety cheap rental house—that’s the second one, right?” “You’re such a mess,” she shot back mockingly. “But yes—even like this, I can pass for a proper young lady when I go home.”

“Long live the young lady geisha!” I made a show of raising my sake cup. When I had her play the shamisen, she would just pluck away with those half-hearted "plink-plonk" notes. Although it wasn’t interesting in the least, I even sang in my drunken haze. “Enough already!” I snatched away the shamisen and tossed it aside. "Let me see your palm lines," I said, making her hold out her right hand—but the fingers were thick and stubby, truly awkward.

“How old are you exactly?” “Twenty-five.”

“That’s a lie. You’re at least twenty-seven, aren’t you?” “Fine—have it your way!” “Do you have a father?” “I do.”

“What do you do?” “A geta shop.” “And your mother?” “A geisha at Katsu-an.” “Your brother?” “A clerk at the bazaar.”

“What about your older sister?” “I don’t have one.” “What about your younger sister?” “She’s supposed to retire from being a geisha.” “Where does she work?” “Ōmiya.” “What will she do once she retires?” “That person’s wife.” “Nonsense—she’s a mistress, isn’t she?” “Being a mistress isn’t worth it.” “Then how about I make you my wife?” I pulled her closer, and with a laugh, she pressed against me. “Yes, please.”

IV

The next morning, after finishing breakfast, I sat at my desk and thought about the previous night’s events. Watching Yoshiya cover the light bulb with an empty “Yamato” bag and press her ear to the staircase, I felt a surge of disgust—what a fragile creature, the very embodiment of reckless impulsiveness. Yet it was human nature that anything under one’s control—be it pets, as with dogs or cats—became all the more endearing if it was human, no matter how homely they were. While in Kōzu I’d dote on her; if I took her back to Tokyo, that might be interesting—my mind kept spinning these fantasies one after another.

A seductive voice sounded from the lower room, gradually making its way up to the second floor. It was Yoshiya. I had been about to open my book but found myself not entirely displeased. “Good morning, Tamura-sensei.” “Is that you?” “Am I not allowed to come?” She pressed her body right up against mine and sat down. That was all—her eyes did the talking. When I tried to embrace that neck and plant a kiss, she deliberately turned her face away,

“You’re such a nuisance, aren’t you?”

“If you hate it that much, then don’t come, I tell you.”

“Even so, I came—I like someone like you.” “Businessman?” “Ah, businessman.” “What kind of business?” “The book-writing business.” “Is there even such a business?” “Well, I guess not.”

“You’re mocking me, aren’t you?” she said, tapping my shoulder. Seeing me as a businessman irritated me again, but even if I’d boasted about becoming some great literary figure who’d sweep the nation someday, there was no way she’d understand—so I deliberately scowled to brush it off. “Ouch!” “Oh come on, does that really hurt?” she laughed. She fiddled with a fortune-telling turtle charm. “What the hell are you still doing stuck here?”

“I want to go back to Tokyo.”

“If you wanna go back so bad, why don’t you just hurry up and leave?” “I told Mom that, you know—‘I’ll die if you don’t come get me!’” “How dreadful.” “But with just that, your mom wouldn’t be one to cower.” “My mom dotes on me so very much, you know.” “You’re getting full of yourself all on your own.” “Who would ever dote on someone like you?” “What the hell can you even do?” “I can do anything, I tell you.”

“First off, your shamisen playing is terrible, your singing’s off-key, and even from here, all I hear is you just squawking noisily.” “The truth is, I hated the shamisen—I always loved dancing.”

“Then go ahead and dance,” I said—yet when our eyes met, I felt an urge to embrace her. To avoid seeming clingy, I lay back distractedly, clasping my hands behind my head. Resting there, I watched Yoshiya’s profile as she fiddled with things on the desk: dark-skinned, with a prominent nose bridge and large eyes and mouth. Moreover, since she was tall, it occurred to me that if she became an actress, her stage presence would stand out well. Let me clarify: I had come to Kōzu to organize material for a script—one that would determine my future—and at that time, I believed that at least one actress would be necessary to perform it when the stage came.

“If you like dancing so much, how about becoming an actress?”

"I'm all for it, I tell you. When I was in Kōshū, I performed Gorō and Jūrō with my peers." "I bet that backside of yours must've been huge, huh?" When I slapped her backside from behind, "Stop it, I tell you—you'll make me spill the tea," she said, brushing my hand away. "If you're serious about becoming an actress, I'll fully arrange it for you, I tell you."

“Where to—Hongō-za? Tōkyō-za? Shintomi-za?” “Anywhere’s fine, right? That’s my secret to keep.” “If I become an actress, my sister’ll want to follow suit for sure. And then there’s my kid—” “Huh? You’ve got a kid?” “A daughter from my old patron.” “How old?” “Twelve.” “So even a gutless wonder like you got stuck raising a brat?” “That ain’t how it was! He’s from Aomori—even after we split up, he still shows up once a year tossing money for her keep. She’s a real firecracker that one.” “Been dancing since she was knee-high—five or six—so good that teahouses come borrowing her. She’d swan into the guest room all prim-like with ‘Good evening,’ finish her number, then badger ’em with ‘Big sis! Where’s my tip?’ Cheeky little thing! But she loves theater something fierce—I’ll whip her into shape proper.”

Yoshiya immediately grew enthusiastic and began listing demands as she lay sprawled out—if this were truly settled, she’d need to announce it to acquaintances at teahouses and geisha houses so they’d gift her a stage curtain, or that her announcement tour would require such-and-such expenses for clothes—but I replied that I’d manage things when the time came, deciding first to let her consider it for two or three days.

5

From then on, I went to Izumoya to drink almost every night. I wanted to see Yoshiya’s face and confirm her resolve, but once her determination began to appear genuine, I immediately had her go seek her parent’s opinion. Yoshiya said her parent had replied they would come to town soon and discuss it properly then. Acting alone, I also sent a letter to a certain friend connected to a theater, explaining there was this woman with such-and-such qualities—intending not to exaggerate her flaws and strengths—and requesting their consideration, adding they should come see her under the guise of leisure. When I made this request, they came under the pretext of having business in the area. I introduced Yoshiya to a friend one evening, but by then I had already gotten too deeply involved; rather than consulting about the actress matter, it must have appeared to my friend as though we were flaunting our affection. The friend, who was far younger than I, had arrived asking, “Is Mr. Tamura here?” and upon leaving had paid that evening’s bill of around five yen. Feeling sorry, I promptly visited his lodging, only to be told he had not yet returned. Thinking he was probably drinking shochu somewhere again, I waited until the next morning and visited once more, only to find he still hadn’t departed. I felt strangely disenchanted. After that, even when a week, then two weeks had passed, there was no word from the friend. However, no matter what difficulties I faced, the fervor to make this woman into an actress arose within me.

6 I had been using Izumoya’s bath, but on rainy or cool days when they didn’t heat it, I naturally began frequenting a nearby public bathhouse. Yoshiya too would go to the bathhouse, claiming that even if her own bath was ready by evening, it wouldn’t be in time for her engagements. When I went, Yoshiya would have already come; when Yoshiya came, I would have already gone. Though we hadn’t arranged it, she sometimes invited me from her side. I hadn’t paid much attention before, but there was this man I kept encountering in the baths—the type who’d get soap from the women’s side—and I always thought him a repulsive, smirking creep. Once, a distinctly unladylike hand reached out from the men’s side,

When I heard a voice say “Sir, your soap,” I was certain it was Yoshiya’s. The man always washed near the women’s bath. Even after getting out of the bath, these two always stood talking. The man, wearing only a loincloth and using a fan, leaned one hand on the edge of the bath attendant’s platform and turned toward the woman. She, dressed in a white gauze Western-style nightgown with pleats—wherever she had acquired it—stood nearby, cooling herself. Her face, made up after bathing, was faintly tinged with red, so beautiful it was almost unrecognizable.

There were many other geishas coming to bathe, but what always stood out was how this woman would joke and laugh with this man. At first, I had thought this man was merely a regular patron, but upon learning of the soap incident, I realized he was my romantic rival. No—I didn't need to compete with him as a lover—but I now understood that Yoshiya's desire to become an actress was nothing but an outright lie. A sudden wave of nausea rose up in my chest unbidden. She might have noticed my condition, but I resolved not to let it show on my face as I hurriedly dressed and left the bathhouse. What I regretted was having slammed the sliding door too hard on my way out.

Today, resolved to go early to Izumoya before that man or anyone else could call for her, determined to haul Yoshiya out and give her a proper scolding. It was right after I’d gotten back from the bath.

“Auntie.” I too had decided to follow the family’s custom here and call her Granny Osada!—

“Today I’m calling Yoshiya-san over right now, and we’re going to drink our fill!” “We’re ever so grateful for your continued patronage, but is it truly acceptable for Sensei to indulge in such amusements?” “Nah, it’s no trouble at all.” “However, though I’ve yet to have the pleasure of meeting your wife, she must be worrying herself alone at home.” “That’s so pitiable.” “The old lady doesn’t know a thing.” “No—with a disposition like yours, one can generally imagine what it’s like to be your spouse.”

“Even if she finds out, it doesn’t matter.” “Sensei may be fine with that, but we who are nearby cannot face your wife.” “No need to worry, I tell you.” Though I responded cheerfully, upon reflection, it occurred to me she might have noticed my growing infatuation with Yoshiya—that her remarks could be taken as implying, “Since she has a patron, it’s utterly hopeless.” Moreover, it might also mean she’d begun worrying—what if I kept drinking and accumulating debt without paying? I deliberately feigned composure with a forced smile and made small talk with Osada, O-Kimi, Sho-chan, and the others to pass the time. It was because I secretly knew Yoshiya still hadn’t returned from the bath.

“Yoshiya went to the bath and still hasn’t returned—though she should’ve been back by now, I tell you,” Osada said to O-Kimi.

“It’s already been an hour and a half—almost two hours,” Sho-chan interjected, glancing at the clock.

“She’s probably gone off to that soba shop with Aoki again.” O-Kimi moved her long chin. When I heard “soba shop”—having been tricked by Yoshiya there myself and knowing the situation well—I could fully surmise why she’d gone there, and thought this was useful information. However, though I was teaching this clever but impertinent girl, I intensely disliked her. Despite her age, she scrutinized people’s flaws from the sidelines, and when something displeased her, would say nothing but take it out harshly even on her parents.

“She’s so strong-willed it’s a problem,” her mother had once told me. When it came to employees and others, she would make the most sarcastic remarks, so Yoshiya would always bristle with irritation whenever she saw this girl. Yoshiya would often voice those complaints to me. However, when you get down to it, it seemed her parents were at fault for raising O-Kimi with such a disposition. According to public rumors, before she had even removed her shoulder pads, they had her extract a large sum of money from some lecherous old man at a Hakone inn and make her debut. Given that she was such an impertinent girl, it was only natural she’d grow increasingly resentful over time.

“That Aoki bastard—next time he shows up, I’ll give him a proper talking-to! Can’t pay back his debts, so he sneaks around stealing meals elsewhere instead of coming here!” Both children burst out laughing. “Yoshiya’s being Yoshiya—she doesn’t need to cling to that bastard to find customers. They’re everywhere. But having him around just interferes with our business.”

That thought was indeed justified. Even from what I’d observed since arriving, there didn’t seem to be many catering orders to speak of, and customers coming in were even fewer. The only thing they could rely on was Yoshiya’s earnings alone. Every evening, the family would gather around the hearth, eagerly awaiting the arrival of Yoshiya’s earnings.

Eventually, Yoshiya slouched back. “What kept you dawdling so long?” “The banquet room’s waiting.” Osada did not press her as harshly as one might expect. “I see.” Yoshiya replied nonchalantly, sat down by the hearth, and said, “Welcome.” She had greeted me but was fumbling about where to put the rolled-up hand towel and soap; she placed them on the edge of the hearth,

“How about one?” she said, reaching for the cigarette case by my side. At that moment, Yoshiya seemed to meet the sharp gaze of O-Kimi, who was sitting behind me. She suddenly made a fierce face. “What’s with that glare? You’re no frog! If you hate me leaving the hand towel here so much, go hang it wherever you damn well please yourself! You insufferable little runt!” “What on earth is going on?” I snapped at Yoshiya and turned to O-Kimi, who remained silent, looking down.

“If you can’t stand me being here—go on and throw me out anytime! Hmph, I’m no spineless coward like that geisha who drowned herself last year. Even if I die, I’ll come back to haunt you! You think this dump of a restaurant’s so special? Just wait and see!” Yoshiya declared fiercely. Feigning ignorance, I shut her up, at which point Osada—who’d been fidgeting all along—cut in.

“Oh, enough of that!” “Oh, enough of that!” “It’s just a squabble between children—please don’t take offense.” “Now then—Yoshiya! Get ready! Get ready!” “Fine—I’ll go then,” Yoshiya said reluctantly, rising to her feet and shuffling toward the dressing room with its towering mirror.

Seven “The banquet room was you, Sensei, right? —I’m sorry for saying such things,” Yoshiya said as she entered holding her shamisen.

“…”

I had been sitting alone since earlier, kept thinking about how I should tear into her, but when she came to me with that gentle voice and soft manner, all those shapes of anger that had been clogging my chest vanished like mist hit by sunlight.

From the sake bottle she offered with “A drink,” I accepted the sake I had resolved in my heart not to take. However, since the knot in my chest still hadn’t quite unraveled, I didn’t speak properly.

“Are you angry?” “...” “So, are you angry?” “...”

“I don’t know!” Yoshiya flushed crimson and stood up. If she went downstairs just like that and told them I was angry, and if those downstairs found out I was jealous of what I’d seen at the bathhouse, I’d lose my dignity as a man for life—that’s what worried me, so— “Hey, hey!” I barked in a commanding tone. Even so, she left, but since I thought there was no way she wouldn’t come back at all, I waited alone, pouring myself drinks. Sure enough, she returned immediately with a sake bottle in hand. Since she was acting cold, I felt compelled to speak up myself this time.

“How about it—shall I have you treat me to another bowl of soba?”

“Oh, you already know?” “Hmph, you think I’m some fool who wouldn’t? You put on this act about wanting to become an actress and beg for favors, then go sucking up to some hick farmer or shit-collector you’re shackled to!” “Now that’s just pitiful, I tell ya. If that man weren’t around, I couldn’t go back to Tokyo, could I?” “Why’s that?” “Then who’s gonna take me out? You?”

“Mine’s an issue for after you become an actress.” “Didn’t I tell you there’s nothing to worry about? Your mom will come settle the redemption!” “That’s exactly why she’s coming—” Then I understood—her mother’s visit wasn’t about the acting proposition at all, but rather negotiations for that man Aoki to take her out.

“Even if someone like that takes you out, you’ll just end up rotting away in this backwater town anyway.”

“Thanks for nothing—I’ll be returning to Tokyo before you do.” “And then what?” “I most certainly will get married.”

“Who’d ever want someone like you?” “Pardon my boldness, but even I’ve got folks waiting with clothes ready.” “Then poor Aoki’s in for it.”

“What’s there to feel sorry about? That guy’s already poured a ton of money into this—he won’t be able to cut his losses easily, I tell you.” “No matter how much of a fool he is, there’s no man that sluggish!” “Anyway, the proprietress is such a nag—she won’t keep me here forever. So in the end, I’ll just have to come out to Tokyo from there, that’s all.”

When I realized he was dismissing such matters lightly, my revulsion surged anew. “To marry off, become a mistress, and still greedily chase after being an actress—you’re truly shameless.” “That’s right! With this plump body of mine, I’ll earn all I can while I’m able!” “Then I’ll wash my hands of this,” I said, straightening my posture. “Aoki will come summoning you—get downstairs.” “He won’t come tonight—don’t be so cruel, now,” Yoshiya cooed, leaning against me coaxingly. “Everything I just said was lies.” “I’ve made my resolve—make me an actress.” “Even Mom’s bound to agree if I ask her.”

As long as I could forget about the actress issue—since there was no resentment or bitterness otherwise—drinking like this wasn’t so bad. Yoshiya wanted to quickly escape this detestable Izumoya and become free once more. It seemed she was lobbying to quickly extract the redemption money from Aoki, and having recently bent entirely to his whims, had instead established some sort of arrangement in return. If there was just a single letter of request from her mother addressed to Aoki, she claimed she could become free as soon as tomorrow—and so I found myself being asked to forge a document—something I’d never have imagined.

VIII Aoki had opened antique shops in Hakone and Atami catering to foreign tourists and ran an expansive business, but being entirely illiterate, he had nearly fallen into bankruptcy after blindly stamping others' loan documents; however, he seemed to have recently begun recovering somewhat. His current wife was none other than a geisha he had taken out of Izumoya. With a twenty-year-old daughter as the eldest, she already had three children. When they first established their household, it was through Osada of Izumoya's consideration (her husband being alive then as Izumoya's proprietor) that they received nearly all essentials for housekeeping—starting with kitchenware—and were even taught rice-cooking without lifting a finger. Yet as years passed, this new couple grew distant as if forgetting that debt. Even now, Osada still cites this matter as ammunition for scorn and slander, but since Aoki had lately become the most frequent patron of the restaurant—which had languished for a year or two—she would disparage him privately while reluctantly showering him with effusive flattery to his face.

Aoki served as Izumoya’s rice bin and took pride in being Yoshiya’s patron. However, his actual financial difficulties were something I had learned from the temple’s head priest when I first visited him upon arriving in town. There was no need to involve the head priest in this story, but regardless, he often came to my room and I often visited his. When he arrived drunk, he became quite the entertaining monk, launching into all sorts of chatter. When I casually probed about Yoshiya’s reputation, locals had once told me—due to her dark skin—they called her the “Crow Geisha.” The day I heard this, I returned and advised Yoshiya to scrub her face more diligently. It struck me that her darkness stemmed more from neglect than nature.

“There’s no man in this Kōzu I’m so devoted to that I’d polish myself up for him,” was her reply at the time. I had also learned from the head priest about Tajima—an acquaintance of his who served as an executive at a small bank—being infatuated with Yoshiya. But judging him not worth serious concern, I dismissed him from my mind. There had been a request through Yoshiya for someone to meet me, but deeming it troublesome, I refused outright. Since she clearly wasn’t the type to remain in this provincial town long-term—and kept declaring she’d become an actress upon returning—I once urged the head priest to counsel him against squandering money on foolish schemes like trying to make her his wife. Here I was dispensing such virtuous advice while simultaneously forging documents—the glaring contradiction of my actions at that time became apparent in retrospect. My eyes had grown nearly completely clouded by then.

Yoshiya had always looked down on even Aoki—the man who had done the most for her—so she coolly tried to exploit my penmanship. The attempt to use this for neatly processing her departure from Ishido-ya came the next morning, but it didn’t succeed quickly. While I was eating lunch, Yoshiya came to my room and, while serving the meal, happily fiddled with a gem-studded ring glittering on her thick finger.

“What’s up with that?” I grew suspicious. “I took it as collateral.” “Your mom’s letter got exposed—?” “Nah, lost to this last night—” she jabbed a thumb at her nose “—so no cash, see.” “You idiot! Don’t try conning me!” I found myself blaming even my own failure to deliver what she’d asked. “Honest! You’re no master liar yourself!” “Quit your damn boasting—you’re one lousy show-off of a geisha.” “Here—show me.”

“It’s quite something, isn’t it?” I took the ring she pulled out and examined it, but seeing it was merely gold-plated, “Idiot!” I flung it away as if scolding. “That’s harsh!” Yoshiya turned bright red and resentfully picked it up. “If such a thing could buy your freedom, you’d be no better than the daruma dolls around here.” “Even if I were a daruma, with all due respect, I ain’t need your help—so, how about this?” She took out a single koban from her obi. “With this, even if you had it made into a ring, wouldn’t it be splendid?”

“Here,” he said, reaching to snatch it when— “No way!” she retracted it. “Showing you would just mean getting criticized—no point.”

“Then do whatever the hell you want!” I finished my meal, had tea poured, and put away my chopsticks. Yoshiya stretched and, “Ah, ah, I just want to die already.” “When will Mother bring the money? Should I send another letter, I wonder?” “Even though you have a good patron, she’s not going to bring it, you know.”

“But with all that, who knows when it’ll fall through.” “If that doesn’t work out, you can always go back to that young man again, right?” “If that doesn’t work out—you?” “Don’t spout such nonsense! I’m no spineless Tamura-sensei—I’ll vouch for that. But someone as fickle as you will end up never leaving this place.”

“What a pain!” She stood up, picking up a tray and teapot with both hands,

“Come by later,” she said, descending the stairs from the second floor.

Downstairs, O-Kimi’s voice could be heard calling, “Ki-chan, dinner!”

Nine

That afternoon, a telegram arrived at Ishido-ya. The telegram was from Yoshiya’s mother, informing them she had just left Shinbashi. When I casually went to check, Yoshiya’s behavior showed her acting like a delighted child. Despite me sitting by the hearth, she hardly seemed to notice—restlessly pacing about without any composure. Aoki arrived—likely having been notified. He approached the hearth and gave brief greetings to me and the household members, his greeting delivered with equal restlessness.

“Though I haven’t yet informed your household—today I will finally redeem Yoshiya.” “Since her mother’s arrival concerns this matter too, I’d ask you to prepare a full accounting statement for Yoshiya with that understanding.” When Aoki said this and looked my way, my eyes caught in his a look that might be called triumph—conquest—vengeful pride—so sharply that I wondered whether he’d guessed at my relationship with Yoshiya and was now flaunting his financial power over me through this ostentatious display.

Moreover, if I considered it further, I began to suspect Yoshiya was feeding Aoki all manner of half-baked lies about me—calling me a dimwit, a bumbling oaf, some jealous fool—just to butter him up. Even if she’d never come clean about us—now that she’d fully become Aoki’s creature—those two were probably snickering behind my back about what a clueless, ham-fisted, lecherous idiot I was. The thought turned my stomach.

However, showing a displeased expression would make me look jealous—something I couldn’t do—and even if I couldn’t do that, I found myself utterly unable to rid my heart of it. Enduring this was truly agonizing even for the carefree attitude I had maintained until now. However, that immediate pain was quickly lifted. This was because Aoki immediately stood up and headed upstairs, and as he rose, he signaled to Yoshiya beside him, so Yoshiya, after glancing at me with a flushed face, followed after Aoki.

I pretended not to notice and sat facing Osada. “Well, Miss Yoshiya would be just fine if she’s redeemed,” I said, blowing out tobacco smoke. “I thought as much,” Osada said, forcefully tapping her long pipe, “but he’s an utter fool.” “Even if he scrapes together what little money he has to redeem Yoshiya, she’s not a woman who’d settle down in Kōzu. And even if he tried keeping her here, his wife would never allow it.” “If he’s got that kind of money, he should first pay back our debts.” “Sensei, isn’t that so?”

“Well, what you’re saying makes sense, Auntie—but once a man’s smitten, he’d want to do that sort of thing, so…” “Yoshiya’s a fool too.” “She’s clueless with men and reckless with money.” “She takes ten sen here, a yen there—what are we supposed to do with all the things we hand out? The mess from all those places always ends up back here.” “Let those who’ll leave just go ahead and leave.” From beside them, O-Kimi interjected resentfully.

“They say the more foolish the child, the more endearing they are—and truly, that mother of hers dotes on her all the same,” Osada said to me resentfully. “Even someone like her makes do if she stays, but once she’s gone, we’ll have to go through all the trouble of finding a replacement. —Hey, O-Kimi—go pour sake for those fools.”

O-Kimi, sneering, ordered her mother, who was working in the kitchen area, to prepare warmed sake. I had grown sick of Yoshiya, sick of Ishido-ya, and sick of myself as well. As I was about to leave, two cars pulled up to Ishido-ya’s entrance. Then alighting were a plump woman in her late forties—likely Yoshiya’s mother—and a man who appeared to be her husband. Not only her mother—her father had come as well. I returned halfheartedly, the discomfort I had been suppressing now compounded by a sort of dread.

Ten Surely Yoshiya wouldn't have forgotten how I'd repeatedly urged her and how she herself had declared being fully resolved. Even if her parents refused consent and overturned that resolve—though truthfully unreliable—she must have told them about it at least once. If she'd just told them, her parents would surely have come to consult me. Had they shown interest in my proposal, they'd likely have come immediately. No—if Yoshiya still hadn't informed them about me, she couldn't possibly bring it up with Aoki present. That guy being such a dimwit himself—she probably lacked the presence of mind to even hint at it to her parents when Aoki wasn't around. All manner of thoughts and fantasies about how this situation might unfold came rushing through my head, leaving me agitated and unable to settle my mind.

Facing the desk by the window one evening, sinking into solitary brooding and gazing absently outside, the fig tree I had momentarily forgotten—with its large, dewy green leaves and clinging fruit—roused my weary eyes, guided my weary heart, and made me remember home. If I were to return to Tokyo, there would be a fig tree in my garden even larger than that one, and my child would always sneak over to it and knock down the fruit while they were still green with a bamboo pole—but my wife, hearing the noise, would rush out and scold them. At such times, the name "Father" would be invoked, but when I myself had complaints, pains, or feelings of loneliness, my wife—who had a child—offered almost no comfort at all. In essence, women of our country—unlike foreign women—tend to believe that once they have a child, they need only pour all their spirit into that alone, while toward their husbands, merely maintaining dutiful fidelity is sufficient. In that case, don’t they lack the means or exertion—what I call truly living love—to fully occupy the hearts of men striving to be active in society? I could only think of my wife as a half-paralyzed animal. I even considered making Yoshiya my mistress and abandoning the whole actress idea.

Yes, yes. For me now, the actress proposal was a secondary concern—hadn't I long since melted into Yoshiya's heart? Though I was acting tough with Yoshiya—demanding she show resolve and such—wasn't my heart in truth bending to her will? If I was already letting her have her way, I thought, wouldn't it be better to devote myself fully to swaying her true feelings rather than raising difficult, uncertain issues only to be kept at arm's length by Yoshiya or secretly resented by her parents?

My chest was softer than a fig fruit, and my heart had grown more fragile than a fig leaf.

Suddenly, the sound of the waves reached my ears. Having gone swimming before, I recognized it as waves washing over the long, gently curving coastline. The sound of waves—swiftly rushing in, then smoothly receding—came from afar. As I listened intently, during the pause between those swift sounds and their ensuing silence, I felt as though my very soul were being stolen away. I wondered if this wasn’t precisely what Yoshiya’s heart was like.

Rather than sinking into these pointless brooding thoughts, I considered going for a swim—something I’d neglected for a while—to refresh my mind entirely. First, I tried hauling up my slouched body, thrusting my elbows out vigorously, rubbing my chest, and slapping my arms, but still feeling no motivation, I went limp and collapsed onto the desk.

“Huh?!” I raised my head to find Ishido-ya in full swing—the shamisen’s notes rang out just as Yoshiya’s flighty singing voice came through clear and bright. I recalled Aoki’s face and the figures of the parent couple when they had emerged from the car earlier.

Eleven

That night, I didn’t sleep a wink. The shamisen’s notes sometimes sounded like waves, and the waves sometimes sounded like the shamisen’s notes. In that twilight between sleep and wakefulness, my nerves grew unnervingly sharp—my chest tightened as though something were prodding at my mind. By dawn, I must have exhausted myself and fallen asleep without realizing it, for when I awoke, it was already nearing noon.

There was a letter by my pillow. Taking it from under the covers, I saw it was from my wife. Wondering if the money I'd told her to send had arrived, I hurriedly opened it—but with no money order inside, I couldn't muster the will to read her complaints. I tossed it aside dismissively and got out of bed.

With a toothpick in my mouth, I went downstairs to find the landlady pausing her hands at the sink where she had been washing something. “Good morning, Sensei,” she said with a laugh. “I just overslept,” I said casually as I headed to the well, but that particular morning, crossing into Ishido-ya’s fence felt unnerving—tedious even—and altogether unpleasant. Halfheartedly washing my face, I returned to my room and tried reading the letter from my wife while eating a meal that served as both breakfast and lunch. The place I was staying was next to a geisha house—I had informed her of this—and since I had frequently requested portions of the manuscript fee I’d left behind, she seemed to have caught on that I was wasting money on something. Of course, this wasn’t the first time I’d done such a thing; with every trip, my wife anticipated this worry. She told me to cut it out and come home.

I couldn’t help wanting to return home when I thought I was being ridiculed, but at the same time, I felt I didn’t want to go back without confronting Yoshiya. Even if I thought she was a hopeless woman based on appearances, from some corner of my heart came a command to cherish Yoshiya. Let it be as it may—since I’d been impetuous from the start—I stubbornly wrote my wife a deliberately cheerful letter about how *I* wouldn’t vanish no matter what crisis hit, how I’d only gain more experience from it. Though I’m being looked after by that passionate woman next door (a geisha—though in truth that’s a bald-faced lie), I told her I could get far more deeply involved with *her* than I ever could with *you*.

After I went out to mail that letter, Yoshiya had brought her mother up to my room.

“Sensei, this is my mother.” “So… you’re her mother?” I greeted. “I’m sorry for intruding while you were out,” she said, politely lowering her head before raising it again. Whether intentional or not, there was something undeniably venomous about her expression. Her body, unlike her daughter’s, was squat and corpulent in width—a pig’s torso crowned with a human head. Moreover, her mouth twisted sideways with every word she spoke. It was later explained by the woman herself that this contortion stemmed from a nervous condition.

This was my third time in Kōzu, but her mother’s talk—about how it was quite a nice place, how ideal it was for studying while escaping the heat, how enviable it was to have work one could do while enjoying oneself—was so roundabout that it hardly touched on the point I had been waiting for.

Yoshiya, smiling all the while, alternated her gaze between my face and her mother’s, but then leaned her body against the desk with an air of boredom and began fiddling with one hand across its surface. And then, picking up the letter I had just finished reading and put away, no sooner had she glanced at the sender’s name on the back of the envelope than her expression shifted slightly, “Nah—” she blurted out, “it’s from your wife.” “What do you think you’re doing?!” Yoshiya’s Mother smoothly glossed over the situation. “Sensei, this child truly doesn’t understand how disrespectful she’s being to others—it’s quite troubling.”

“Nah,” I replied, but found myself at a loss for how to handle what came next, feeling slightly flustered. “Well, actually,” I began reluctantly, taking the initiative, “if her parents have no objections—and if she herself is willing—I propose making Yoshiya an actress.” Then I briefly explained that actors aren’t the vulgar profession society imagines them to be—or even what actors themselves have long believed—though I doubted she’d understand even if I told her. “Moreover,” I added, “when the time comes for me to write a new script and stage it, I’ll need to have at least two or three actors—particularly actresses—under my wing. This would serve as the starting point.”

“That’s quite reasonable,” her mother chimed in, nodding. “I’ve heard about this from the child herself, but if Sensei will take care of everything and it’s a matter of raising her name, we have no objections.” “What does your father think?” “As for my husband, well, he’s already indifferent to such matters. I’m the one constantly fretting over household affairs—though I may cause worry, there’s not a single thing that can be relied upon.” “I’m afraid I’ve been left to worry myself over things like the household and the children all on my own.”

“Well, that’s not such a big deal.—Yoshiya-san needs to give you a little peace of mind too—”

“This child, Sensei, is the most spineless thing—it’s truly vexing.” Her mother moved her shoulders with exaggerated care and glared at the girl as if denouncing her weakness. “She thinks she can just cling to me for everything, sending demands like a spoiled brat—‘Come here, come here!’—all the time.” “But what else can I do if you won’t come?” Yoshiya puffed out her cheeks in a sulk. “Didn’t I tell you to come quick since you said you’d handle things once you got here?”

“Mom’s got all sorts of things to do too.” “Even your sister’s had to start working in the park again—I can’t afford to keep fussing over you all the time.” “You’re not some apprentice geisha anymore—can’t you handle a simple redemption negotiation of fifty or a hundred yen directly between yourselves?” “Your sister’s far more resourceful than you.” “Fine, do whatever the hell you want!” “Well, you see, Sensei, it’s truly troubling.” “If Sensei doesn’t thoroughly train her from now on, she’ll be utterly useless.”

“Oh, I’m practically too old to become an actress anyway. If I’m really gonna commit to it, I’ll come up with my own ideas.” “Kii-chan, you need to get your act together,” said Yoshiya’s mother, though her tone still softened when addressing her daughter. “Even I have a soul, you know.” Yoshiya came to my lap, using his lap as a pillow, and looked up at my face, saying, “The person I like most.”

I felt awkward, but since I was reluctant to have her mother see through me as a naive fool, I pretended not to notice,

“Since I’d like to meet your father as well, shall I take you to the eel restaurant across the way for dinner? Please come along too, Mother.” “That’s my favorite thing in the world.—But Sensei, even so, my hardships never cease. You may have heard from your daughter, but the work of a geisha at Katsuuan isn’t something just anyone can manage. Even if items priced at two hundred, three hundred, or five hundred yen go for twenty or thirty percent off—so the profits aren’t bad—when I run all over town buying things and take them to clients, they demand replacements for what’s ‘no good’ or ask for deeper discounts on what’s ‘not bad,’ leaving those of us in the middle without a moment’s peace. When it comes to trips to the countryside, there are matters that require making multiple round trips. Even this time, I came to secure a replacement for this child—otherwise, how could I idly come out in this merciless world?”

“They shouldn’t bother finding some replacement for such a dreary house,” Yoshiya said, sitting up. “That’s just how it is, you see, Sensei—it’s business.” “Well, that’s perfectly reasonable.” “Now, as you’re aware, there’s also the matter with Mr. Aoki—he’ll be arriving shortly today, and we’ll finally know how things will settle. But until that’s decided, first and foremost, this child’s release can’t be secured, you see.” “Exactly. My concern lies solely in her becoming an actress—whether Yoshiya continues her relationship with this Mr. Aoki or not is of no consequence to me.” My words, having yet to broach the financial matter, were at least superficially noble.

“However, when this child becomes an actress, Sensei will be covering all the expenses, won’t you?” Yoshiya’s mother pressed without missing a beat. “Well, of course!” I answered energetically, but since I had no actual preparations in place for when the time came, feeling somewhat cornered, I unwittingly added, “I’ll handle it somehow when the time comes, so rest assured.”

I was resigned to let things take their course. Her mother then began making small talk, never once letting up on flattering me while boasting about herself—how she never saved money yet always wore silk, how various playwrights (I found it most regrettable how they lumped me together with those theater types) often came to visit her, and how her work had taken her to places like Kōzu, Nikko, Shizuoka, and Maebashi. That demeanor of hers—at once disarming yet clearly scheming—along with the way her mouth twisted with every word she spoke began to unsettle me. Once again, I felt a surge of disgust: could Yoshiya truly be a child raised by such a mother?

12

Thinking it was already dinnertime, I left the house, called out briefly to Yoshiya’s parents at Izumoya’s corner entrance, and went ahead to the eel restaurant. The eel restaurant was across the street, and since I’d gone there occasionally and the proprietress was a flatterer, I didn’t hold back. “Proprietress,” I said as I entered, “I have two guests today, you see.” “Ah, I’ve already been informed of that by Yoshiya-san earlier,” said the proprietress as she untied one of her sashes.

“Oh, she’s already notified you? What a hasty one, huh?” I started heading up to the second floor.

The proprietress, flustered for some reason, called out to stop me and guided me to a lower room that wasn’t the usual one,

“Please wait here for a moment—the second floor will be ready shortly.”

“Guests, huh,” I remarked casually as I settled into the spot.

After the proprietress left, I suddenly noticed Yoshiya’s voice coming from the second floor. It’s not particularly strange for a geisha to be summoned to a restaurant, but according to Yoshiya’s own admission, the proprietress here had secretly been arranging recent meetings between Yoshiya and that small-bank executive Tajima. Tajima had incurred significant debt to this household because of this, and in other areas as well, he had become unable to keep his head above water due to his financial burdens. When I rebuked Yoshiya,

“I do let him spend his money, but…” she answered. “I have no other relationship with Mr. Tajima. If you think about it, you’d understand, wouldn’t you? If I were to become your wife and stayed in Kōzu, people from all over might come out to ambush me, you know.” “Have you been wronging people all over like that?” I once pressed. However, since it was clear that she wasn’t a woman who would remain in this area, my suspicions were somewhat eased, and I had even conveyed an indirect warning about Tajima to the head priest. However, even after that, they appeared to meet every day or every other day without fail. Under these circumstances, it was indeed a fact that the men were growing increasingly desperate—and just as Yoshiya had calculated, becoming ever more unable to let go. Moreover, one day, when Yoshiya was gazing outside from the second-floor window of my room,

“Psst, psst,” she gestured, so I stuck my head out and, “What is it?” I said loudly. “Keep quiet,” she hushed me, then whispered, “That’s Tajima.” Indeed, I caught a glimpse of a somewhat cocky but smirking man’s profile as he passed by. I had long been told he was quite the manly figure, but here was a fair-skinned fellow who looked like he had smooth skin. At that moment, I had such a perverse desire—even if it meant turning that coarse-pored crow of a geisha into a man, I wanted to see Tajima made into a woman—that not only before my time but even now, I could no longer believe Yoshiya was truly uninvolved with him. Of course, there was no need to lecture about chastity—but when I considered how she took me despite being involved with Aoki and Tajima, and how she refused to discard Tajima even while entangled with me and Aoki, my partiality only made me dwell all the more bitterly on the spinelessness of this itinerant performer.

Convinced Tajima must have arrived, I sneaked up the stairs to the second floor. There were two eight-mat rooms; I slipped into the one at the far end and hid behind a propped-up shoji screen, straining to listen. "So what's your mother really planning to do?" "How should I know what she'll do?" "Are you actually not involved with Sensei Tamura?"

“You’re so persistent!—What if there were?” “Then doesn’t that make Aoki pitiful?” “Pitiful or not—well, I won’t give you indigestion over it.” “Are you really going to become an actress?”

“Of course I will.” “Even if you become one, you’ll turn useless quick enough and get cast aside for sure. Then you’ll have no choice but to crawl back to being that wretched geisha of yours!”

“Well, I’ve been thinking about that too, you know.” “If that’s all it takes, you should’ve made up your mind from the start and just do as I say.”

Tajima’s voice carried a tone that seemed to mock the fly-by-night geisha, yet it wasn’t entirely frivolous. Moreover, it seemed he had broached a proposal—if possible, to keep Yoshiya from leaving and make her his own. In particular, his final lines seemed to carry a weighted breath. That “Isn’t that pitiful?” was likely Tajima talking about himself using Aoki as a pretext, but Yoshiya showed no such consideration and struck back with remarkable force. Given her shallow nature, she had already convinced herself that leaving Kōzu—whether today or tomorrow remained uncertain—was a settled matter, clinging to devil-may-care optimism. Even if she felt lingering attachment toward Tajima, it would amount to nothing more than trying to squeeze out twenty or thirty yen as a parting gift—a mere incidental perk on her way out. That’s how I interpreted it.

“I’m really going to get married—who knows if I’ll ever become an actress,” she said, voicing what needed no saying. “What sort of man?” “A ward office clerk. He’s got clothes ready and everything waiting for me.”

Rather than imagining the scene in the adjacent room, I found myself reacting more to this remark. If this were indeed true—and since I had heard her mention “getting married” before—it now seemed that Yoshiya’s parents were bringing forward this settled arrangement. Given that scheming mother, she wouldn’t hesitate to hatch such a scheme. “Even if he’s just some twenty- or thirty-yen-a-month salaryman, what do you think you’re doing becoming his wife?”

“Better than a debt-ridden fool like you, I’d say.” “Shut up, you idiot!” “He’s someone I’ve known since childhood who’s been saying he wants to take me in for ages—even if his salary’s forty yen, his father’s house is good enough.” “The house might be decent, but you’re lying about the salary—but hey, if that’s how it’ll be, we’ll part with no hard feelings.”

“Then let’s settle it that way.” Yoshiya irritably yanked out her shamisen and began plucking it with harsh,jangling strokes. “Enough! Enough!” Tajima barked, slapping his palm against the instrument’s body. “Then go home already. Like I’ve told you a hundred times—there’s an offer waiting.” “If you want me gone, make me leave.” “What do you expect me to do?” “This.”

“That hurts!” “Shut up!” The force of this remark was like that of a robber charging in with a drawn sword.

“…”

I couldn’t bear it and came downstairs from the second floor.

After a while, someone clattered down the stairs. When I peeked out from the lower room, I saw Yoshiya’s back as she entered the bathroom. When I thought that anyone would feel the same way, I was reminded once again of that coarse skin, and as my own hair stood on end, I realized my heart had already become a hairy beast—its sharp nose now sniffing at another beast’s rear.

13

At the same time as Tajima left, Yoshiya’s parents entered in his place. “The room is ready now, so please go upstairs,” the proprietress here came to inform me this time, so I left my room and was about to climb the stairs again when I encountered her parents. “If you insist,” her mother said with a warm smile, “Sensei, we’ve all come together.”

“Well, please come up,” I said, leading the way to the back room on the second floor.

The old man, unlike the mother, seemed good-natured but lacking in backbone—the type content to idle about with his hands in his pockets all day. Because he had such manly appeal, in their youth it must have been the mother who fell for him—even as she poured all her hard-earned money into covering his gambling losses, she likely fretted endlessly that some other woman would steal him away. Even in old age, he hadn’t broken the habit—still making the mother do all the work, just as you’d expect of the old man. I’d heard his job was making geta soles, but that couldn’t be too strenuous. (I’d almost forgotten—the mother had said she’d definitely bring geta that would suit me when she came, but there seemed to be no such gift.) He appeared incapable of even exchanging initial greetings, sitting stiffly with his knees apologetically drawn together, his rear never quite settling into place.

“Father’s behavior—it’s beyond help!” When her mother said this, “I’ve always lived by throwing formalities out the window,” the old man chuckled, his sly grin exposing red gums. “Please make yourself comfortable. Don’t stand on ceremony,” she urged, and I was the first to settle into a cross-legged position. “Father,” Yoshiya’s mother said with unexpected bluntness, “well, he was born a geta maker. He should just sit cross-legged facing his workbench every day.”

“You shouldn’t make fun of me like that,” the old man said, stroking his head. “Once you’ve eaten your fill, you should leave quickly,” Yoshiya said with a laugh.

The only one not laughing was me alone. Having served them drinks and laid out a feast—then suspecting all three might be mocking me—I found myself wanting to leave without another word. Worse yet, recalling what had just happened in this room made my chest tighten until even my own body seemed to have become some filthy hairy creature. Even the dish that should have smelled savory brought to my nostrils that dim room’s faint skin-like odor from when Yoshiya had covered the bulb with a Yamato bag, leaving me unable to touch my chopsticks despite myself.

My brooding mind had suddenly confined itself like an ascetic monk to rigid discipline, seeming completely shut off from all bright avenues of sweetness, joy, or pleasure.

Suddenly, I noticed the sun hadn’t set yet. The three were munching away without restraint. I was once more bringing the sake cup to my mouth. "Sensei, you’re only drinking sake," Yoshiya’s mother said, settling into her seat, "and you haven’t eaten a thing?"

“We’ll get to that eventually—well, how about a drink, Father?” I turned the sake flask toward him. “That’s quite enough now, Sensei. Once my husband has two or three cups, he ends up like that.”

"But it’s still fine, isn’t it—?" "Ah, as you can see," the old man said, stretching out the knees he’d been patiently keeping folded until now before flopping onto his side. "Ah, if only I could be here like this tending to flowers—it’d be perfect…" "Father’s going to start that any moment now—it’s such a nuisance." "Even just the flowers give me endless worries, Sensei." "Even if you say that—I’ve got no other pleasures left. Can’t be helped."

“Is that person coming too?” Yoshiya directed a meaningful look at her mother. “Ah, he’ll come.” Her mother answered lightly and turned toward me. “Sensei, should we send Father home now?”

“You may proceed as you see fit—if you’re uncomfortable, Father, I’ll have them bring your meal here first,” I said, clapping my hands to call for rice. “Once Father finishes his meal, he’ll be leaving immediately,” her mother said, managing the arrangements. I’d nearly resolved to retract the whole actress proposal altogether; seeing how pointless it would be to discuss such matters with this old man, I’d cut things short at a natural pause.

After the old man—having finished his meal alone—disappeared down the stairs, the phantom that filled my vision was what Yoshiya referred to as "that person." It struck me that this might indeed be the ward office clerk awaiting Yoshiya’s return to Tokyo—perhaps someone who’d become the old man’s favorite through his frequent flower-gathering visits.

14

Left behind were the three of us: Yoshiya’s mother, Yoshiya, and me. “It’s better this way—just us without outsiders,” Yoshiya’s mother said, looking at her daughter. “Did Aoki come?” Yoshiya stared intently at her mother’s face. “Ah, he came.” “Has the discussion been settled?” “It’s not going well, you see.”

“I’m fed up, I tell you!” Yoshiya’s complexion changed. “That’s why I told you to handle it properly, didn’t I?” “There’s no use getting so disheartened, I tell you.” “Mom ain’t careless, but if the other side’s still bein’ difficult, it’s only natural to think things over, I tell you.” “What’s so natural about that, I ask you?” “From the start, they said they’d take you in—and even though you’ve been treated like a mistress every single month—they’ve barely given you any allowance to keep you from spendin’ as much as you’d like, haven’t they?” “If they think they can make a fool of someone—I won’t stand for it, I tell you.” “I’ll storm into that junk shop and give ’em a piece of my mind!”

“Come on, don’t get your eyes all wild—we’re before Sensei here, huh? Actually, he says he’ll hand over half tomorrow.” “Half’s all we’ll squeeze from that cheapskate!” “That’s how it goes—if I’m pulling you out, I want you focused solely on Aoki-san—” “Don’t be daft!”

“Now listen,” her mother said, making a gesture like a beckoning cat to restrain her daughter, “isn’t that just following their order? You think you can just keep saying yes to everything? —‘That’s perfectly reasonable,’ I replied—and then they mentioned having some doubts about you—” “But I already told them Sensei has nothing to do with it!” “No, he’s not an issue—but as for that—” “I told Tajima I cut things off ages ago!”

“Damn it!” I screamed inside. “That’s just your jealousy talking, isn’t it?” her mother said with an innocent-looking smile that left it unclear whether she truly understood the situation or not. “While we’re on duty, we can’t afford to pick and choose which customers we entertain at banquets—but even so, one must show some tact. Right, Sensei? Isn’t that how it should be?”

“That’s right, I suppose,” I replied reluctantly.

“Well, you see,” Yoshiya said with a carefree grin, “there was this thing that happened. Aoki-san was up in the banquet room while Tajima came downstairs. See, I was juggling both of them, and got stuck dealing with their jealous tantrums up there. Tajima must’ve deliberately come at me from behind—started a drunken brawl, then belted out ‘Aoki’s a damn fool!’ loud enough for everyone to hear once he was good and sloshed. Since Aoki-san’s older and more meek-like, I just had him head home early, I tell you.”

Even as she spoke like this, Yoshiya showed no sign of suspecting I already knew what had just transpired, appearing completely at ease around me. I wanted to bare my heart and show them my resolute side—to outdo both Yoshiya and her mother—but fearing I’d be seen as a third stingy man joining the existing two, I maintained an air of nonchalance.

“Preventing such things,” her mother said, turning to me, “isn’t that a geisha’s duty?” “Absolutely, I suppose.” I answered like this, but in my heart I was sneering, “She’s not even a proper geisha—a wretch without the skills of a prostitute or hell itself.” “Even if you keep blaming *me*, what’s the point, isn’t there?” Yoshiya narrowed her eyes sharply. Moreover, the way her mouth sometimes twisted appeared just like her mother’s.

“Now then—what’s done is done,” her mother said in a placating tone to her daughter, “but you’d best keep your wits about you from here on out. “—And I’d like to ask Sensei as well, you know. “I trust there’ll be no negligence, but until Mr. Aoki settles matters with Izumoya—he says he’ll certainly hand over the remaining amount by the end of this month—this entire month will be a crucial time. “Let’s both be careful, you see, so they don’t catch on—” Her manner of looking around at me and Yoshiya with concern indeed had the dignity of a parent.

“That’s certainly the case,” I replied again. The alcohol I’d downed in resignation had fully taken effect—the tension in my mind suddenly eased, the unpleasant smell no longer registered on me, and the elderly woman’s presence began to feel like that of my own mother. Moreover, Yoshiya’s seated figure appeared to sway unsteadily, as if Fugen Bosatsu himself dwelled upon distant clouds; and with her drunkenness now evident, the faint red hue glowing beneath her powdered cheeks struck me as so beautiful, so charming, that it made me recall events from fourteen or fifteen years earlier.

I took my current wife fourteen or fifteen years ago. She was slightly older than me and, precisely because of that, a woman of usually steadfast character; yet when I think of my wife at our wedding—how she turned red after just a cup or two of celebratory sake, becoming such an adorable bride that she could hardly bear to remain there—I was now seeing the shadow of my former wife before me.

I hadn’t even noticed when the lamp was lit.

“You’re lost in thought, aren’t you, Sensei?” Her mother’s words made me feel as though my pleasant dream had been shattered.

"I'm quite drunk," I said, flopping my body sideways. "Kii-chan," her mother said, signaling to her daughter with her eyes. "Get a grip, Sensei." Yoshiya stood up and came over to pour me a drink. Perhaps thinking she already had me twisted around her finger, she casually picked up her chopsticks while leaving the drink-pouring almost entirely to her mother.

“Kii-chan, play for us—Sensei, shall we liven things up a bit?”

Yoshiya's boisterous strumming began. I didn't want to listen, so, "Wait," I cut in, "since I've never seen you dance before, have your mother play and let me watch one." "I haven't danced in ages," Yoshiya said, looking at me while twisting sideways with the shamisen still resting on her knees.

………

I found myself imagining young girls throwing tantrums on their way to and from dance practice, "Why don't you perform something you remember?" "But—" she protested, shaking her body again while raising her left hand toward the ceiling, then fell silent for a moment before adding, "I can't dance in this bulky getup, I tell you." "Why don't you pretend you're serving drinks?" was a remark I blurted out, drawn in by her increasingly innocent demeanor.

“Requests like that are troublesome, I tell you.” Yoshiya gazed imploringly at her mother. “Well then,” her mother said, glancing between her daughter and me, “if I can’t play for you either way, that’d be a problem. Try something simple then—let’s do *Waga Mono*. Pretend you’re holding an umbrella.” She took the shamisen from her daughter and tightened the tuning. “I’m just like a child, aren’t I?” Yoshiya smiled bashfully as she stood up and took position. Her mother’s strings remained perfectly taut.

To the song of *“Waga—a mono—o to,”* Yoshiya began to dance, but even as she danced, “I feel kind of awkward, I tell you,” she said.

Her bashful demeanor showed not the slightest trace of the woman who had deceived countless men until now, instead radiating the gentle tenderness of a pure maiden having her garments peeled away layer by layer. Could this woman—whom I had dismissed as nothing but a beast—truly possess such tenderness? Without even the presence of mind to judge her skill, I simply kept staring in a daze as "Matsu u mi ni i, tsuraa ki, oki i gotaatsu" drew to its close, the dancer pressing her hands to the tatami and bowing gracefully. When I considered that there had been a time when she danced like this, I wanted nothing more than to throw my arms around her neck.

“No more, I’m through!” Yoshiya—having made her first remark worthy of a mature woman—returned to her own tray and picked up her sake cup. “Mom, pour me one as my reward!” “Here—I’ll do it,” I said, grabbing the nearby sake bottle.

“Even so,” Mother said, setting the shamisen aside, “It’s impressive how well you remember.” “Sensei—when this child went off to her teacher’s place back then—it was such trouble.” “Even though it’s practice that benefits her own self, she demands payment as if she’s done someone else’s work, I tell you.” “Even now, that habit hasn’t changed, I tell you.” “As soon as something comes up, she says ‘Send me money right away!’—”

“I don’t beg like that, I tell you,” Yoshiya smiled.

………

"Not this money talk again," I thought. Since I didn't want to hear any more of that, we all quickly had our meal.

15 Since her mother had left a step ahead, it became a face-off between Yoshiya and me. At this point, the emotions I had been holding back suddenly surged up within me. “I’m sorry for putting Sensei out like this, I tell you, huh?” Yoshiya said, gazing at me with those adorable eyes, to which I responded—

“Idiot!” I hurled the word with thick, seething resentment. “Those terrifying eyes!” Yoshiya stared at me for a moment before scrunching her face and sidling closer. “What’s wrong with you?” “Ugh! You’re contaminated!” I shoved her away and glared. “How far will you mock me while pretending ignorance? What was this disgraceful spectacle here before I arrived?”

Yoshiya seemed momentarily flustered but adjusted her posture,

“Were you listening?” she asked awkwardly. “I didn’t just listen—it was no different from watching from the neighboring room!” “I don’t like Mr. Tajima one bit, I tell you.”

“It’s not about liking or disliking anymore—it’s about catching a disease.” “That’s already healed, I tell you.”

“How the hell would I know? The sores at the corner of your mouth are from being poisoned by some no-good bastard of unknown origin!” I hadn’t mentioned it before, but the way the sores at her mouth would heal only to reappear was something I’d been concerned about from the start. What’s more, Osada of Izumoya had spitefully claimed that those occasional clouds over her lively eyes were caused by syphilitic keratitis—a memory that now resurfaced and made me shudder.

“Forgive me, please!” Yoshiya cried, throwing herself against my chest. I pushed her away, sprang to my feet, and said, “Let Mom hear that from you. I’m a man too—if you follow through on your end of what we agreed with Mom, I’ll keep my promises. But the rot in your very being won’t ever heal unless it’s purged from your soul.—And I’m not saying this out of jealousy. I’m saying it for your own good.”

Though I was angry, tears spilled from my eyes. Casually taking out a handkerchief to wipe them away, I left the room. After stepping out I glanced back—she remained where she’d been pushed aside, left hand pressed to tatami while her right brought a sleeve’s edge to her mouth. Her eyes stayed fixed on the matting.

The next morning, Yoshiya’s parents came to bid their farewell. As for my scolding of Yoshiya—whether she had informed her mother of this or not—there was no particular acknowledgment from them. In any case, I felt as though I had been freed from a certain unpleasant pressure, and I resolved to avoid letting the actress matter come to mind as much as possible. Moreover, I thought that from now on there was no need for me to take a weak stance and say this or that—if Yoshiya had any resolve, she would surely come to me with something, and there was nothing better than waiting for that.

“You’re not one to overlook things, Sensei—but this month is crucial, you see,” were Mother’s parting words once more.

“Of course,” I replied, but afterward a rebellious thought arose—what nonsense there was in that “of course.” And yet, in truth, even though I thought Yoshiya would surely stop by on her way back from seeing off her parents, I waited without going out—but she never came. My hopeful waiting from noon onward proved equally futile. That night too, she never appeared. The next day as well, I waited until sunset, but she didn’t come. Since she must have gone to her appointments—and though Izumoya wasn’t thriving, their sole geisha became quite popular whenever she went out—I resigned myself and picked up Merejkovsky’s novel *The Forerunner*, which I’d already read more than halfway through, thinking I might as well do some reading. When I first settled in Kōzu, I had read through it in one go out of casual interest, making progress up to that point—but once my mind grew restless, I’d nearly forgotten about it entirely. The bachelor life of Leonardo da Vinci, this book’s protagonist, now struck me with an unexpected nostalgia.

Lying on my back with a pillow, I had just started reading when I suddenly noticed the moon had spread its light throughout the room. Since the window facing the front had its paper screens removed, the thought that this was dangerous crossed my mind. It was a thought I had been harboring for some time now—since the number of people connected to Yoshiya was unknown, as a traveler, I was the easiest target to incur the most resentment. I might be attacked from the shadows by anyone at any moment. When there were no passersby—even if it was just a spur-of-the-moment mischief—I thought how troublesome it would be if someone threw a stone and injured me, so I got up, closed the window screens while leaving them slightly open on both sides, then lay back down on the pillow again.

My mind was scattered and unable to focus on a single point, so my eyes remained fixed on the open page, yet nothing I read held together. Even so, as I kept reading intently, no new incident arose—Leonardo and Yoshiya alternated in passing through my heart. One was the visage of an old bachelor who had wrapped his overflowing thoughts and emotions in classical actions. The other was the figure of a harlot whose temperament was utterly unclassical and whose heart lay worn down, even if not quite deemed insensitive. These two flickered before my mind’s eye like a revolving lantern.

One had wrapped his blazing new ideas within a vessel of multifaceted talent, yet ended unable to express even a love steeped in lifelong solitude. His existence was truly noble, elegant, and pure. When I consider the hassles of family, entanglements with women, and the various pains and fatigue accompanying such matters, I feel an inexplicable longing—might I have found happiness living like Leonardo, remaining single and upholding integrity throughout? Yet upon reflection, this noble and disciplined semi-monastic life was something I had already traversed through thought and experimentation over a decade ago. With such artless purity, it stands perfectly clear that my present self could never find satisfaction. My nerves must have become fivefold—tenfold—more hypersensitive than Leonardo’s.

When I thought this, the stench from within my chest—as desolate as an ancient temple’s graveyard—rose once more, and in that foul air, Yoshiya’s figure surfaced with timely opportunism. The smile of her delicate figure turned into blood cells circulating through my veins; my muscles slackened, an overwhelming fatigue set in, my hands felt heavier than usual, and my legs wearier than normal. My overly sensitive heart and body were worn down. They were languishing. As if something that had solidified was melting away—the strength to hold firm had vanished, and weight kept pressing downward. Decay, ruin, weariness, fatigue—I began to feel that wandering in the realm of decadence was something I should rather take pride in.

When I let *The Forerunner* slip from my hand, Leonardo vanished—yet Yoshiya alone still would not leave me. She was decadence in form alone—devoid of effort, devoid of sensitivity—unlike our conception of it, lacking substance, lacking depth, lacking a core. When I thought this, this too became unbearable, and I half-rose from my lying position. When I did that, Yoshiya too ceased to come and go within my mind’s eye. The heat was unbearable, so as I frantically waved my fan, from somewhere—

I could hear a gentle voice saying, “Forgive me, please!” However, the owner of that voice still had not come.

16 Because I had pushed so hard, she was left reeling, “Then do as you please!” Had she perhaps come to feel this way? In that case, if I didn’t go to her, we would never meet again. If we didn’t meet, then it was better for me that we didn’t—but surely she wasn’t such a decisive woman. That idiot woman—where was she and what was she up to now? I decided to do a little detective work on her and went out for a walk, still holding my fan.

Yoshiya was nowhere to be seen at Izumoya’s entrance. Probably because I had been lying down, my head felt heavy, and my eyes were bloodshot and puffy. Moreover, lately I hadn’t been exercising—just shutting myself indoors, either brooding at my desk or else drinking—so my legs had grown spindly. In the cool blowing wind, my body felt as though it might float away.

Treading firmly on the uneven path, step after step, I walked along, but every figure passing along the main street seemed like an enemy to me. My shadow, cast out in the moonlight, also seemed somehow frightening to me.

Avoiding passersby as much as possible, I first passed in front of that eel restaurant. The sound of the shamisen and singing could be heard, but it was not Yoshiya's. Wondering if she wasn't there, I went past two or three other nearby restaurants where she might be. I had a feeling she wouldn't be there either.

What could be called Aoki’s headquarters was Satomi-tei, two or three blocks ahead. He had initially been a patron of Izumoya due to his relationship with Yoshiya, but as his debts mounted and he grew unwelcome there, he became a regular at that eel restaurant instead. However, after discovering that the proprietress there had introduced Yoshiya to Tajima, he returned to Satomi-tei. If things went wrong there, he would likely move to another, slightly more distant establishment. To an outside observer, it looked like a gradual retreat. According to what Yoshiya had said, Aoki himself—

“Because I’m uneducated and old, I get ridiculed by youngsters and even betrayed by the woman I’ve devoted myself to,” he had reportedly wept like a man. Once, attempting to test his beloved’s loyalty, he ordered Yoshiya to arrange a meeting with a much younger colleague in their trade—someone she associated with. Yoshiya unperturbedly persuaded the girl as instructed and drew Aoki aside to report the matter.

“If elder sister agrees—it’s fine.”

“...” However, upon hearing this, Aoki instead regretted it—this not being his true intention—and while thinking “Are you such a heartless woman that this means nothing to you?”, he reportedly embraced the standing Yoshiya’s shoulders tightly, trying to show his utmost sincerity with all his might. When I considered it, even this dissolute old man had sincerity—it was pitiable. Yoshiya was precisely the kind of person who—though through such absurd means—could not even feel the warmth of sincere affection—an insensitive creature—a faithless being—.

While thinking such things, I too chased after that insensitive creature—that faithless being—and arrived before Satomi-tei. It was always a shabby establishment, yet it remained as hushed as ever. She didn’t seem to be there. But then the thought that they might be sneaking around groping each other suddenly made my blood boil, and my head grew hot as if about to burst into flames. With the image of a giant serpent—dozens of feet long—flicking its crimson tongue and coiling around this house in my mind, I circled around to the back.

The rear was rice fields. The ears of rice, standing in rows stretching far into the distance, swayed in the wind and glittered. I wanted to become light like a cool breeze, formless as moonlight, and steal my way up to the rear second floor of Satomi-tei. However, the black shadow of my own self reflected on the wooden wall was unbearably in the way. As if trying to rid myself of that shadow, I timidly circled around once and emerged back onto the main street.

As I walked back along the path toward my house—where dark patches and bright patches alternated, where lamplight spilled and electric light glared—even these shifting contrasts of shadow and illumination formed unevenness in the path itself. Through my nearsighted eyes peering behind flickering glasses and across my precarious footing, an entirely different world unfolded.

The black shadows standing and working at every doorway were like hellish soldiers—the metalware, sundries, and vegetables uniformly lined in black before each shop were like demon possessions or food—and I found myself wondering in amazement when I had managed to sniff out this graveyard, this kitchen of Yomi. Occasionally, when I encountered someone humming a tune as they passed by, it was as if the stench of rotting flesh seeped from their very voices. I—as if I had become Izanagi no Mikoto—felt as though I were chasing a woman to the dimly lit kitchen entrance of a hell that reeked of corpses, and returned home.

When I looked at the clock, it was already 10:30 PM. However, since it was still hot, I had no inclination to lay out the bedding. I fell onto my back, my entire body drained of strength slumped limply, and stretched out my limbs.

Just then, something came flying in from the front, struck the back window wall, bounced off, and went clattering down the ladder steps. For a stray bird, it was far too reckless and seemed far too heavy.

Startled, I quickly opened the front window, ... Who's there? Just as I was about to call out in my usual loud voice—from below, a woman was visible making a hushing gesture—not with her voice, but only with her hands—repeating "Quietly, quietly." It was Yoshiya.

I immediately descended the stairs and went outside.

“...”

She still had not spoken. “Did I startle you?” First, she spoke in her usual carefree tone, her drunken figure casting a delicate, gentle outline on the ground in the moonlight.

“Is it Aoki again?” “No, I’m on my way there now.” “Then hurry up and get out of here!” I deliberately pushed that woman away harshly and resigned myself to another failed night. “Would you like another one?” She took out another apple she had.

“...” I snatched it in silence and stomped into the house.

17 After that, whenever I met Yoshiya, I would feign anger, mock her, laugh with her, or shower her with affection—and if I couldn’t grasp her angle, she too would adopt whatever professional manner suited the occasion. I had grown utterly indifferent to the earnest warnings my mother had given when she departed.

From Tokyo came no more money—only my wife’s complaints that seemed half-scorched with spite. Though I couldn’t help picturing her bloated with rage, an unwarranted rebelliousness surged through me—it felt as though this affair contained a love that breathed new life into me, something my wife could never hope to provide. So I wrote back: even if I brought home a geisha as my mistress, I’d never burden you all with worry (having informed my parents too—the implication clear enough).

I always frequented Izumoya, but the one who first sensed the relationship between Yoshiya and me was O-Kimi there. Ironically, she had apparently sneaked into the adjacent room, investigated everything, laid out the bare facts, and tormented Yoshiya to her face. Apparently, Yoshiya took offense at this and retorted to her customers that eavesdropping was rude, but since her method of torment differed from O-Kimi’s usual behind-the-scenes bullying,

“That little runt’s at that age where she’s all fired up, I tell you,” Yoshiya struck my chest.

“Surely that can’t be true,” I replied. Yet after that, O-Kimi truly stopped coming for English lessons. Partly motivated by this awkwardness, I too grew reluctant to visit places where my beloved was being bullied by some young girl. Moreover, whenever Osada saw my face she’d disparage Yoshiya—likely because while she’d tolerated me elevating that vulgar woman’s status, she’d never imagined actual involvement between us. But knowing what she now knew—and realizing she must consider me equally vulgar—I decided staying away was best. Thus when summoning Yoshiya, I’d call her to the eel restaurant instead—though our drinking outings never regained their former frequency.

I now had time to study, but I could not put pen to paper for my intended script at all. Instead, I began writing an introductory account of the noble yet embittered life of Leonardo da Vinci—a great classical artist imbued with novel ideas—by condensing the novel by Merezhkovsky that I had finished reading. One evening, as I was writing with an open mind, Yoshiya came clattering up the ladder steps. “...”

Without saying a word, she immediately clung to me and burst into tears. Because it was so sudden, “What’s wrong?” I exclaimed without thinking, raising my voice as I took her hand. “...” She remained lying on my lap for a while, her hand entrusted to me, then finally raised her head, released the sleeve she had been biting, and said, “I had a fight with Aoki.” “Oh, that’s it?” I let go of her hand. “A fight after getting all handsy with each other, huh? You’ve brought that mess to me—what the hell am I supposed to do?”

“He found out, I tell you.” “What of it?” I feigned ignorance, but I instinctively sensed that Aoki had sniffed it out.

“What do you mean? Last night, he sneaked in through the eel restaurant’s back door and eavesdropped, I tell you.”—So now, the me from that previous night had become last night’s Aoki. Again, the crimson tongue of that serpent seemed to flicker before my eyes. I pressed this vision against my chest and feigned composure,

“Is that what hurts?” “He kept doubting me no matter what—it pissed me off, so I spat it all out: ‘I don’t need your help anymore.’” “Then isn’t that just fine?”

“So he says he’ll stop helping from now on—that all right with you?” “Absolutely.” “You’ll handle the fallout?” “Done and done,” I resolved.

I had considered ending things quickly before it came to this, but with the money that was supposed to arrive not coming, I found myself at a standstill. However, now that things had come to this, I could not bring myself to withdraw cleanly. I found myself unexpectedly resolute.

“I’ll come once I write a bit more, so go on ahead,” I sent Yoshiya on her way.

18

When I eventually went to Izumoya, Yoshiya, Osada, and the master sat encircling the hearth. O-Kimi and Sho-chan appeared to be sleeping, oblivious to everything. The master looked anxious about how matters would develop, while Yoshiya remained surprisingly composed. Osada spoke first.

“Sensei, what an unforeseen predicament,” she said, maintaining her pretense of ignorance, “though I must apologize for troubling you with this matter—” “Well, now that it’s come to this, I’ll take care of it.” “I’m terribly sorry about this—Yoshiya is the one at fault, but if only you hadn’t provoked him and just let things be...”

“Since they’re the ones who dug it up, there’s nothing to be done.” “Once something’s done, there’s no taking it back no matter what’s said.” “Leave it all to me,” I declared with masculine resolve.

“However,” the master said in a stiff tone, “if word gets out to society that she’s someone’s kept woman, our geisha won’t be able to work—and if another impossible situation arises, we’ll be the ones left in trouble—” “Oh, that’s already settled,” I replied breezily, though his remark that so plainly underestimated me grated on my nerves. Yet considering the master wasn’t particularly street-smart and that his charmless, pinched face was simply his natural state, I tried to reason he’d only spoken his mind—and in doing so, I found myself growing a bit more honest.

“I must find a way to manage this,” I pressed. “I assure you I’ll cause no concern, but even if Aoki-san gets his affairs in order, it’ll still take through month’s end—so do be flexible about those deadlines.” “That goes without saying.” The master flashed a fleeting smile before his face twisted back into its usual scowl. He turned to Osada. “If only Aoki had paid up properly back then, eh?”

“That guy’s a stingy bastard, you see.” Osada tapped her pipe. “Want to have a drink?” Thinking she must have understood by now, I urged Yoshiya and went upstairs. “Were you surprised that I cried?” Yoshiya said this when she sat facing me. “Ah, it’s nothing.” I found Yoshiya’s exaggerated attitude affected, so I answered composedly. “Your eyes had not a drop of moisture in them.” Calling for an inkstone and scroll paper, I wrote a letter addressed to a certain senior while drinking, asking him to arrange funds. The letter described a geisha: twenty-seven years old—not particularly attractive, unskilled at the shamisen but adept at dancing (I took Yoshiya at her word here)—considerably taller than average women, with large eyes and a wide mouth that, with proper training, would make her an ideal actress. Moreover, she had one child and a younger sister. There was hope I could bring them into my care. Since I wanted to take her back fully prepared for failure, I asked to temporarily cover the necessary 150 yen for that purpose. The entire letter maintained a composed tone, having cooled in fervor compared to when I had introduced her to a friend at the theater. Naturally, my attitude toward the friend and sentiments toward the senior differed. The only concern was whether they would consent or not.

“Are you done writing already?” Yoshiya asked impatiently. “Ah,” my reply lacked force. I lay down and gulped down three or four cups by myself.

“I’ll write too,” said Yoshiya, taking up the brush this time. Using my outstretched leg as a cushion beneath her, she propped her elbow and began scribbling something intently. I clapped my hands to call someone and, thinking they were still awake, ordered them to buy stamps and mail the letters. One was to reassure the family there, but my heart clenched painfully at the thought of what I would do if a refusal came. “...” Yoshiya also finished writing a short letter and looked proud—

“Let me see that,” I said, taking it to look. The kana characters were clumsily written, but their meaning was just barely comprehensible. Earlier, when I had asked her mother whether Yoshiya had graduated elementary school, she answered that they hadn’t sent her to school—she could only barely pick out words in newspapers, and even if she became an actress, she’d likely struggle to memorize lines. Then Yoshiya, from beside me, I recalled her answering, “Surely I wouldn’t freeze up on stage, I tell you.”

"I have long neglected our correspondence. First, I rejoice to hear through whispers that your duties continue undisturbed. Now regarding the matter recently proposed—having received word through my mother—I write with gladness to accept." I realized beyond doubt this was meant for that Mr. Nozawa from the ward office. "The 'gladness' must mean their union is settled," I thought. Though truthfully, I'd already resolved that should he consent to let her become an actress, I could abide it.

The letter continued:— “As I too shall return ere long, I shall relay all particulars when we meet in person.” Respectfully yours, “From Kiku”

Kiku was Yoshiya’s real name. As expected, she hadn’t written the addressee’s name.

“You idiot! Flauntin’ your lovey-dovey talk in front of people, huh?” “Ain’t no flauntin’, I tell ya. Just an apology letter since I been slackin’.” “‘Received from Mother, delighted’—Put the name! The addressee’s name! Try hidin’ it all ya want—we both know!” “Fine, I’ll scribble it, I tell ya.” Laughing through her teeth, she said “Address the envelope for me,” then scrawled “Mr. Nozawa” with her brush. I wrote on the envelope’s face: “To Mr. Nozawa, c/o Watarase, Senzoku-cho ○-chome ○-banchi, Asakusa Ward” (this being Yoshiya’s home). She swore she’d known the man since childhood, yet couldn’t recall his proper name or where he lodged.

“...” The forged letter from before had seemed advantageous for me, but this one was ghostwriting that involved matters detrimental to myself. I resolved to let things take their course, suppressing the pain in my chest. But not wanting to appear so despondent outwardly, I teased half-jokingly, “You must be longing most for the ward office, eh?” “No.” Yoshiya smiled faintly but twisted her mouth. “I tell ya, Aoki-san’s still my favorite—he’s got real substance—been lookin’ after me forever.”

“Then what becomes of me?” “From now on, your—” Yoshiya leaned her body against my chest as I lay there, even resting her shoulder on me, moving her neck syllable by syllable. “Me—ga—ne—” When we lingered until midnight, Osada came out and asked us to leave, saying it was time. I stood up, and my head spun; my legs gave way.

Probably because she thought it dangerous, Yoshiya came to escort me to my entrance. In the moonlit sky above the ground, I remember we cast two shadows.

XIX From my theater friend, whom I had been urging for a reply, finally came word that he had spoken to one of the troupe’s principal members and that we would address the remaining matters after my return to Tokyo. When I reported this to Yoshiya, she said she felt awkward. When I pressed her for the reason, it turned out that if she were to join that troupe, an acquaintance who had been taken on in Tokyo several years earlier had since become a prominent female-role actor there—unlike back then. She truly was a geisha who had grown thoroughly disillusioned.

Moreover, the most crucial senior’s reply proved thoroughly disappointing. She was too old to be fashioned into an actress, and someone who had once been a geisha would never possess the fortitude to endure the rigors of stage training. It was advice that I should resolutely sever ties instead—advice that matched exactly what the depths of my heart had been whispering all along. Yet I too was a man; for the sake of appearances, I had no intention of breaking a promise once made. There was nothing left but to stop relying on others and shoulder full responsibility myself.

When it came to this, I had to begin by ransacking my own home first. So I wrote a letter to my wife telling her to pawn our household belongings and procure a certain sum of money. Though I said "pawn them," since most of my own possessions had already been pawned, the target became my wife's clothes and accessories; I added that for any shortfall she should go to my father's house and have them provide what was needed.

My wife seemed to have anticipated this outcome. In truth, when Yoshiya’s mother came, I had acted preemptively by asking a friend near my Tokyo residence to procure funds. Not only had it been invalid, but the friend had also cautioned my wife about most things. My wife, not wanting to be called negligent for remaining entirely unaware of this, first informed my father and then ran around frantically; while walking along the tramway with her child in her arms, she was nearly knocked down.

The older boy had picked up the phrase “How ridiculous!” from somewhere and had been repeating it incessantly around that time. My wife took this as an omen of what was to come now. And this was only natural, for before I had left Tokyo, I had nearly been forced to quit my job as an English teacher—a position that provided part of my livelihood—due to the publication of my *Decadence Essay*.

My father had sent a stern admonishment. Since he was ordering me to return immediately, it appeared my final letter had crossed paths with his. This time, after consulting with my father, my wife came in person.

As I stepped out of the entrance to take a walk, my head feeling heavy, my wife came from the opposite direction holding a nursing child on a rickshaw. The thinness of her face was strikingly apparent, and her complexion was deathly pale. All that had happened up to now suddenly welled up in my chest, and I couldn’t help but be startled. “You fool!—You idiot!” My wife’s fury as she stepped down from the rickshaw was extraordinary. This was the first time I had heard such vulgar insults from my wife.

“...” Thinking she must be thoroughly flustered and that it wouldn’t do to agitate her further, I calmly led her upstairs.

The proprietress, who had come to serve tea, and my wife exchanged ordinary greetings, but the proprietress wore a somehow apologetic expression from the very beginning. When she went back downstairs, my wife continued her torrent of insults in a shrill voice loud enough to be heard outside.

“Have you gone mad with lust? — Have you lost your very soul? — Have you forgotten your home? — You don’t know that Father is furious, do you?—”

“…”

I could do nothing but force a bitter smile.

“Even with a child like this,” she said, deliberately placing the wailing infant before me as if discarding it, “if it’s not cute enough, just throw it away or do whatever you please!” “……” Though I’d never held my own child before, the relentless crying made me pick it up—yet the timing felt wrong, and I couldn’t muster the will to comfort or appease it. “It’s still a child—at least let it have some milk,” she insisted, thrusting it into my hands.

“Really, really—what kind of demon has possessed you, making people worry like this?” my wife glared at my face as if claiming her rightful privilege to do so. I too—though it seemed imprudent to speak ill of the woman I’d been obsessed with—tried to reassure her through veiled words that I wasn’t hopelessly infatuated, explaining how the actress issue was merely the initial step in my endeavors and would surely succeed. My wife refused to believe even this.

In any case, my wife declared that instead of pawning the house and household items, since she had come herself as a hostage, if I intended to make this work, I should return and procure the money myself. And so, I decided to return to Tokyo the next day for the time being. Even so, I thought it would be convenient for my wife after I was gone to introduce Yoshiya now—and also because it would be advantageous to have her monitor Yoshiya’s subsequent actions—so I forced Yoshiya, who was reluctant, to come by insisting she join us for dinner. I had the meal brought from Ishido-ya. Even as we spoke to each other, my wife kept rolling her eyes. Yoshiya kept looking embarrassed. Acting as mediator, I alternated between sympathizing with the former and the latter, and so the three of us finished our meal. My wife, who normally didn’t drink, had downed two or three cups of sake and turned red, so when I teased her that it must be cheap liquor, she replied that before leaving Tokyo, her father had told her at his house to stop worrying so much and have a little drink instead—and that this was the first time she had ever gotten drunk.

After putting my wife to bed, I went to Ishido-ya and drank. It was to ascertain Yoshiya’s feelings and to bid her farewell. Around eleven o'clock, when I was about to leave, she stopped me at the staircase landing and said: “When you return to Tokyo, will you start philandering again right away?” “Don’t talk nonsense. For your sake, I’ve been going through hell.” “I’ll make it hurt even more.” Yoshiya pinched my shoulder with all her strength. When I returned to my wife, my breath reeked even more strongly of alcohol than in the evening, so I was subjected to another round of scolding. But by offering an apology, I managed to settle things without incident. However, that night, my wife’s body felt stiff and cold, almost like a corpse.

20 The next day, Yoshiya came early and did not leave my side.

“She’s quite the jealous woman,” my wife said spitefully to me, but—

“Madam, Madam”—if she were addressed this way, she didn’t seem quite so hateful. When they exchanged amicable conversations, they would then join forces to speak ill of me—my wife’s remarks sharp, Yoshiya’s feeble—right before my eyes. “Have you been coming here long?” “No, last September.” “Are you popular?” “Yes, they call me Kiichan everywhere.” “Oh,” she sneered, “you’re quite the popular one, aren’t you? —How old are you?”

“Twenty-seven.” Hearing this, I thought Yoshiya was being relatively honest. “Did you go to school?” “No.” “Can you read newspapers?” “I can sound out kana.” “And with that, you think you can become an actress?”

“Well, I can’t say for sure, but I have been on stage with my fellow geisha before.” The two also had such exchanges. Because I thought that once I returned to Tokyo I might not come back again, I took out only the most necessary books from those I had brought and prepared a bundle wrapped in a furoshiki as my luggage. I was urged repeatedly—“It’ll get late, it’ll get late”—but since I just wasn’t in the mood, I kept putting it off with “Ah, it’s fine, it’s fine,” until—after lunch had passed—and after dinner was eaten—I finally departed. From around that day she stopped addressing Yoshiya. Because it was a small town word must have spread quickly. I thought to take my wife to the coast but since Yoshiya had taken charge of that as well I left it to her.

My home in Tokyo was in Akebunecho, Shiba Ward. I arrived there past ten o'clock at night—after dismissing the car, I was knocking on the locked door when someone passed in front of the house, then turned back and approached me, "Yoshio, is that you?" It was my father.

“I’m home,” I answered hurriedly, feeling somewhat awkward. Realizing he must have come specifically to check if I’d returned today—out of considerable worry—my body shrank with guilt. But as he said, “Well, come in then,” I waited for the door to open and showed my father into the sitting room.

The snores of the two children my wife had left behind could be heard from the next room. When I asked for tea,

“I’ll start the fire right away,” my wife’s mother replied.

“You needn’t make tea now, Granny,” he said, and then Father adopted an exceedingly stern attitude toward me,

“What do you have to say about this matter?” “……” After steadying myself slightly, I answered while looking directly at Father’s face. “Please don’t ask anything about this—I intend to bear the suffering and resolve it myself.” “I see,” Father said, likely discerning my determination to remain silent, “Well, it’s late today—I’ll take my leave.” “Come to my house first thing tomorrow.” With these words, Father departed.

Perhaps because it reminded me of my wife’s emaciation, Father too seemed to have grown thinner, and now Mother, sitting across from me, also had hollowed cheeks. I felt as though I had been withholding bread from my family while amusing myself to no end. When I entered my study-bedroom, the many gold- and silver-lettered books lining the shelves each took on the forms of their authors or protagonists, appearing one after another to reproach, mock, or flatter me. Among their number were white-bearded old men like Tolstoy and dapper young gentlemen like Maeterlinck. There were vigorous middle-aged men like Hyneka and women of unrivaled wit like Mrs. Browning. They were all famous or obscure scholars, poets, critics, creators, and the like from foreign countries or our own. Those various people, seeking similarities in what they said and discussed, became this person and that person among my acquaintances. Just when I thought I had finally stepped out into the wide world after so long, I was actually awake in a dark sickbed. From the bundle I had brought back, Leonardo peered out with a solemn expression.

I realized my nerves were unusually acute for the first time in ages. ...Bismarck’s head...Gladstone’s head...the heads of women I’d once loved...my old man’s head...the heads of hated friends...the heads of demonesses and Takiyasha...these things circled one after another around the lintels of the room where I lay awake on my back—when even my breath felt both labored and fortifying—it was then I’d recited in my *shintaishi* verse: “Demons! Rakshasas! Yasha heads! Are you night-visiting phantoms?...With dark chalices brimming darkness, I sink into abyssal gloom!”

Various thoughts continued to well up uncontrollably, and it felt as though the “me” I knew had vanished somewhere. Amidst all this—though I was prepared for the inevitable mix of praise and censure in this world—the thought struck me deeply: if I were to quit my teaching job (a role that partially sustains my livelihood for publishing *Decadence Theory*, though I teach English merely as a technical skill and take no pride in being mentored by modern students who view such skills as commodities to purchase), just as my wife had heard rumors of, I would immediately face yet another hardship.

However, I steeled myself with the resolve that when that time came, I could compensate by wielding my pen with even greater diligence. Then again, from the depths of my heart, the interrogation arose: *What will you do about the money for Kōzu?* This was the most urgent task. Yet even regarding this, I possessed a determination as brutally clear as it was cruel. Because of this, my own home felt as cramped as a stranger’s house. After a lonely all-nighter unlike any recent ones—where even the swish of summer fans seemed restrained—I finally greedily claimed the long-awaited sleep I’d been saving.

21

Children wake up early. The next morning, by the time I washed my face, they had already finished their meals.

Without saying “Welcome back” or anything else，they seemed to regard me with contempt. It seemed that the talkative grandmother，having gotten worked up，must have been talking about my misdeeds nearby，and they had likely been listening. When I sat down at the meal，the children came near and stood there，and the older sister— “School starts next month already，you know，” she said. I couldn’t forget the matter of needing to settle things with Yoshiya by the end of this month. As for the younger brother，

“Dad, get me some figs,” he said. Being told about figs cut through me as though my second-floor lodgings in Kōzu were being ridiculed.

“I can’t eat any more right now,” I said, distributing the souvenirs I’d brought back. My wife’s mother looked concerned but didn’t ask me anything about myself. Instead, she talked about how the grandchildren had gotten into mischief during my absence—how they’d tried to pick the figs ripening in the yard and, when no one was watching, started climbing the tree only to fall partway down. Both children made unpleasant faces.

“Mother, where are the keys to the chest of drawers?”

I finally began to carry out my cruel decision.

“I don’t know,” Mother replied evasively. “There’s no way you don’t know. “There’s no way you’d treat any key carelessly while managing my house.” “It’s true that I’ve kept them stored away safely, but since Chiyo told me not to hand them over—” “Chiyo is my wife. Such an argument doesn’t hold water.”

“Then I’ll bring them out,” Mother said, bringing the keys and curtly placing them before me before heading off toward the kitchen.

I went to the chest of drawers, opened each one in turn, and took out the main clothing to examine. Most of them were my wife’s belongings. There were crepe-lined garments and mouse-gray crepe clothing—a shu chin maru obi, a Hakata satin day-and-night obi—a black crepe haori with a jeweled obi clasp—white crepe bought on a trip to Nagahama that had been tucked away unused, and a lined aqua crepe underskirt, among other things. The figure of my wife in her going-out clothes floated before my eyes. And even the nostalgic scent of old times struck my nostrils.

The voice and figure of my wife saying “I’m off now” when leaving home—which had grown more composed and dignified as she aged—came back to me. There were still long underrobes. A geisha from Osaka—a middle-aged woman—came to Tokyo searching for her lover. Unable to find his whereabouts, she stayed at my house for a time. Once she located him, they set up a makeshift household. However, when her partner fell ill and their income dried up, driven to desperation, she pawned this underrobe using my family’s account as collateral. After that, both of them disappeared without a trace, and since I thought it would be a waste to discard it, I took this out for my wife. It was slightly flashy, but there were times when my wife wore it and her usual gloom seemed to lift.

And there was still one more—a much flashier underrobe. This was something I had bought for her when we first got together. My wife, who was older than me, had preferred plain styles from the start, so I had deliberately bought it to make her look younger. Now an unused item, it had been stored away under the pretext of waiting until the children grew older, but its color remained unchanged—the vivid scarlet crepe still seemed to carry the scent of my wife’s former youthful skin, so I secretly sniffed it.

A voice seemed to ask, “Which is better—my current wife or Yoshiya?” “Of course, Yoshiya”—I wanted to declare outright, but I felt as though someone deep within me were eavesdropping, making even the thought itself too shameful to entertain. In any case, I bundled up all the items that seemed to have some value and got into the hired carriage. I had the carriage driven toward the pawnshop. With the dread of possibly encountering an acquaintance, I moved through the familiar streets of Tokyo in a detached, shameful manner, feeling as though I were going to sell off the wife who had been by my side for over a decade.

I had resolved from the start not to return to Kōzu again—for if I were to go, there was no telling whether rumors might spread that some traveler had caused trouble in the town, and I might not escape being mobbed—and so I immediately wired a telegram addressed to Yoshiya, sending only the money.

22 In Kōzu, as I had surmised, a backlash against me occurred. My initial reputation, true to being a schoolteacher, was apparently that of an upstanding man who wouldn’t even approach a geisha sitting nearby. But as my private conduct gradually came to light—how my wife had met Yoshiya’s parents and come to assist with her redemption—they immediately began spreading rumors both true and false throughout that small town.

Moreover, because Yoshiya was an idiot, she likely spoke half-boastfully about becoming an actress and sending me money—which provoked the townspeople’s suspicions until they came to believe I was using her to squeeze money out of them. In this case, Aoki and Tajima, nursing their bitter disappointment, must have exaggerated or fabricated the incident; had I fled quickly enough, it would have caused an uproar demanding they beat the monk who’d summoned me. My wife too had been in danger, though she seemed unaware of it at first. With Yoshiya as her guide, she toured around various places.

On the evening of the day after I departed, Aoki went up to the second floor of Izumoya and negotiated with Yoshiya to take back the koban coins he had given her previously. “When a man says he’ll do something, he does it!” “You think I didn’t struggle?!”

“You’ve toyed with people to your heart’s content—and now you don’t return what you’ve taken!” “What’s this?! You heartless wench!” He tried to seize them by force. She resisted being robbed. Chased down, she descended the stairs from the second floor and was caught at the entrance to the dressing room—the man thrust his hand into her obi. Trying to stop him, she struggled—perhaps realizing her own strength was no match—then barked, “Fine! Take it then—wait!” She yanked out the old gold from her obi herself, hurled it down with a “Here! Pick it up and scram!”, and snarled, “Bastard! Even touching that filth defiles you!”

My wife happened to be at Ishido-ya, so she witnessed this scene by the hearth with the family, or so she said.

“I’ll never set foot in this house again!” Aoki picked up the thrown object, glared at Yoshiya, and left. “Thieving old man!” Yoshiya took a step forward with one foot while thrusting out her chin spitefully in frustration. The sight was so comical that everyone burst out laughing in unison. Drawn into the moment, she turned a smile to those around her and came to sit by the hearth.

To my wife, the kettle bubbling vigorously on the stove appeared to perfectly mirror the agitation simmering in Yoshiya's heart.

In the large kitchen area was a large hearth—even though the firewood fed into it was burning, the good ventilation kept it from feeling hot. "What a stingy bastard, huh?" Osada said this to comfort Yoshiya.

“You should’ve thrown it right in his face!” Sho-chan also took Yoshiya’s side. “The way Kiichan looked was just pitiful,” said O-Kimi, and everyone burst out laughing again. “Anyway, it’s because I’m a fool, right?” Yoshiya turned away. “What in the world happened here?” My wife interjected in a mediating tone. “He came to take back what he gave me.” “He got angry because you deceived him too much, didn’t you?”

“It’s his own fault for getting fooled.” “Is that so?” My wife felt awkward upon realizing her own husband was also being deceived, but she quickly shifted her tone and said half-mockingly, “Poor thing—you thought you’d received it, but ended up losing big time, didn’t you?” “Really,” Yoshiya laughed, “I was going to have it made into a ring—but he took it back.”

While they were having this conversation，Yoshiya’s mother arrived with a woman. Yoshiya，suspecting that I too might become unable to help，had sent a telegram to Asakusa—which was why her mother had now come alone. The woman she had brought was a geisha candidate.

While O-Kimi glared sharply at the assembled people, Yoshiya’s mother listened to the situation from Osada and Yoshiya and was introduced to my wife as well. My wife too told Yoshiya’s mother her thoughts and demands regarding Yoshiya’s future while cross-examining her. Unintentionally, it became a solemn, stiffly formal meeting. Yoshiya’s mother concealed her anxious state behind a polite smile. Meanwhile, Yoshiya had gone out somewhere—she had left to repay the debts she had defaulted on all around town.

The proprietress joined the meeting in her stead, “There ought to have been some reply by now…” “Yes, that’s right,” said my wife, feeling the full weight of final responsibility as she experienced the loneliness of standing alone beneath an unfamiliar sky. At the time of my departure, I had told the owner of Izumoya that if I did not return promptly, I would send the money by telegram. Sho-chan had also been missing since earlier, but he came rushing back home,

“Kiichan is paying around to various places right now,” Sho-chan reported.

“So the telegraphic transfer has arrived, hasn’t it?” my wife exclaimed involuntarily. “That’s no good—we must call her back!” The proprietress hurried out with Sho-chan in tow and soon returned having summoned Yoshiya. “Has the telegraphic transfer arrived?” my wife demanded angrily.

“Yeah,” Yoshiya replied dejectedly. “Well, if you don’t say so, it’s a problem, isn’t it?” “Show me,” said the proprietress as she intervened and checked, only to find twenty or thirty yen had already been used for payments. My sending it directly had been the mistake. After my wife, the proprietress, and Yoshiya’s mother went through the detailed accounting—deducting my lodging fees and the portion meant for Izumoya—enough remained to still cover the debts Yoshiya had carelessly accumulated elsewhere. However, even that was diverted toward payments for places like my eel restaurant.

“Paying even the customers’ share is ridiculous, isn’t it?” said Yoshiya, acting as if she were managing her own money. My wife explained—though for reasons she never disclosed to me—that such matters couldn’t be handled that way, negotiated with her mother, and arranged through an urgent telegram to Asakusa to have only Yoshiya’s external debts assumed by her mother.

Two or Three That evening, Izumoya sent over a feast to my wife’s place, and Yoshiya’s mother, Yoshiya, and the new geisha came to visit.

“Where were you employed before?” came Yoshiya’s mother’s peculiar question. “I’m hardly such a seasoned sufferer,” my wife replied, flushing crimson as she laughed. “Well now, there’ve been incidents like this before too—what with all sorts of geishas being brought in—so I’ve become quite the veteran of hardships in that regard.” “How true. When I was young, I was made to endure no small share of such trials.” “Now I face fresh hardships for my children—they say making your daughter a geisha lets parents live at ease, but with such useless children? No, no—the suffering never ends.”

After this conversation, Yoshiya and her mother left. Still clinging to the hope of receiving some parting gift from Aoki, she had gone to summon him, but he fled, and it seemed she couldn’t meet him. My wife listened to the tragic backstory of the new geisha—fair-skinned but round-faced—who had stayed behind, and as a counterreaction to her hatred for Yoshiya, she felt sympathy for the woman’s pitiful circumstances. Having come all the way from Tokyo, there was no sign that the master would take a liking to her.

From this woman, my wife learned about Yoshiya’s household situation and confirmed there was indeed a man waiting for Yoshiya’s return—just as I had surmised—(this being Mr. Nozawa from the ward office), and she even discovered that this time too, her mother had brought a complete set of newly tailored clothes he had prepared for her. They must have been meant for when she would be paraded around to make the formal announcement.

"Someone who said, 'I want to meet Tamura-san's wife,' suddenly arrived." That was the aforementioned priest.

So, amidst these circumstances, because I had fled, local toughs—two or three of them—began moving to take revenge on the priest instead, but by asking someone, I managed to have them quelled. “Since there’s no telling when or what kind of danger might reach even you,” came his warning. “It would be best for you to return hastily to Tokyo tonight.” My wife turned pale, holding her child. When the reply to the telegram sent by Yoshiya’s mother arrived, they had planned for the three of them to return to Tokyo together; but since that was no longer possible, my wife lent Yoshiya a small amount of pocket money as requested, hastily arranged their luggage, entrusted my leather briefcase to two people, was seen off to the station by Izumoya’s owner and the priest, and returned to Tokyo that night.

“The one I hate is Yoshiya, the fool is you, and the one to pity is the geisha who went in my place,” my wife said to me through tears.

From the very next day, my wife’s hysteria—which she had been suppressing all year long—erupted, confining her to a sickbed. The nursing infant could no longer drink its mother’s milk. Moreover, during our absence, the old mother had overfed her grandchildren, leaving them listless and alternating between lying down and getting up. My house had transformed into a dwelling for the sick and emaciated; aside from the baby’s occasional feverish wails, we no longer spoke to each other. Summer noons fell hushed, and in the tepid scent of leaves and oppressive air, it seemed the shadow of my own sweat-soaked anguish hung perfectly still. Now that things had come to this, I had grown utterly sick of fickle Yoshiya.

I sat alone at my desk, filled with the most unpleasant feelings, nearly choking on a sudden surge of shame, but resolved that until I had completely settled this matter, I would not visit friends nor go to my father’s house. This house, now utterly abandoned, rests solely on my efforts, but the first problem that came to mind was: "What am I going to do about the end of the month?" Moreover, it was now just two or three days away.

24

Since panicking wouldn’t change what was already lost, I resolved to first finish the manuscript I had begun and continued transcribing my abridged version of Merezhkovsky’s novel. Leonardo’s life was truly noble and tragic. That the power of unspoken love persisted unwavering until his dying breath goes without saying; among those who called him master, some grew frustrated by their teacher’s lackluster progress and betrayed him to join his rivals, while others—overwhelmed by his colossal presence, unable to discern whether he was demon or saint—wandered in confusion until they hanged themselves. There were also those who, in their fervor to test their master’s aerial flying machine—defying his explicit warnings against riding it—plunged to earth, sustaining injuries that left them crippled for life. And Leonardo himself, without nationality or fixed abode, laboring yesterday for allies and today for enemies, upheld the sanctity of work as he calmly applied his scientific genius to fortifications, architecture, designs, inventions, sculpture, painting—particularly painting, which secured his eternal renown though nearly all remained unfinished—until he was eclipsed by successors and disciples who doubled as rivals: Michelangelo and Raphael.

I deeply envied his tremendous energy and absolute patience, but I found it somewhat lacking that he remained content with a classical attitude until his death. Decadence sets out precisely by embracing anxiety as it is. As I dashed my pen across the page while entertaining these logic-driven thoughts, from somewhere high above— "Because I am indulging myself," something seemed to cry out. And again, from some profound depth,

“Decadence is life,” groaned a voice from within. In any case, this mind of mine—detached from its decadent state—was merely concocting rationalizations, while my present predicament and frayed nerves seemed destined to torment me endlessly for as long as I drew breath. On the second day after resuming my writing, I completed the manuscript and mailed it to a certain magazine publisher. True to my initial intentions when starting, I avoided philosophical arguments and confined myself to pure exposition. This would form part of this month’s incoming funds.

That evening, thinking Yoshiya must have returned by now, I went to Asakusa to retrieve the leather briefcase that held what I currently needed. Partly, I intended to check on her condition. I got off the train at Kaminarimon, passed through the park, and searched the neighborhood around Senzoku-cho and behind the Twelve-Story Building as directed. There was a house called Watase, but convinced it couldn’t possibly be the place, I walked right past it. It stood in a corner of a two-story tenement—a narrow, old, grubby spot that looked like where tobacco pipes and kiseru might reside. Nothing like the address of that mother who prided herself on wearing silk year-round. Yet with no other Watase residence in sight, I doubled back and lingered out front—though truthfully, I was too hesitant to go inside—

“Oh, Sensei!” Yoshiya came out to the entranceway. She had styled her hair into a large round chignon. “………” After stepping over the threshold, I stood there in silence,

“Oh, do come in,” said Yoshiya.

When I looked, my leather briefcase sat in the right corner of a dim eight-tatami room that had likely once been part of a shopfront. Opposite this along the wall stretched a slightly lower wooden floor—evidently the old man’s workspace. Half-finished geta and paulownia lumber lay scattered about. At the back of the eight-tatami space, opening directly into the living area without shoji screens, a low dining table stood with a man whose baldness outpaced his years and a plump woman around forty seated beside it—they had finished their drinking and were now eating rice. The bald-headed man sat beyond the long brazier, putting on airs as master of the house; this must be Nozawa.

I stepped up into that room and bowed to no one in particular; the woman greeted me politely, but whether the man had noticed me or not, he kept his eyes averted under the pretext of his meal. Yoshiya sat facing the man across the brazier, her demeanor listless. “Oh, do finish your meal.” When I, feeling awkward, said this,

“I’m already done,” Yoshiya smiled. “Where’s your mother?” “She went to Akasaka and isn’t here.” “When did you return?” “Yesterday.” “Did you bring my leather briefcase?” I asked pointedly. “It’s over there,” she said, gesturing. “I need it—that’s why I came.” “Oh?” Yoshiya tapped her long pipe with feigned nonchalance. While we spoke, the remaining two diners finished their meal and ascended to the second floor via a ladder resembling those used by roofers. A potbellied old woman resembling a sumo wrestler approached,

“Kiku-chan, are you done already?” she said, clearing the tray. Indeed, she was no longer Yoshiya; her real name was Kikuko. She moved to where the man had been standing and, with her pipe, pointed to her own spot. “Come here,” she commanded.

I obediently did as I was told. On the second floor came sounds of them handling those flowers again. "That's them up there, isn't it?" When I asked this, "Yes," Kikuko replied with affected delight. Though I thought her a fool—having so little attachment left I might say none remained—I pressed my questions half out of morbid curiosity. The old man was upstairs along with two others. The woman who came up last (having arrived around noon, they said) ran that Machi-ai ○○ in Asakusa Park.

The sores around Kikuko’s mouth seemed to have completely healed, but her eye disease had grown worse instead. While she was working, the strain of her duties had kept the virus somewhat suppressed, but once that tension faded, it must have suddenly flared up. Just as Osada of Izumoya had said, when I realized she might truly be a syphilis patient, the hairs on my body stood on end. When she was examined at Inoue Eye Hospital, they apparently said it would be difficult to determine whether it could be cured unless she was hospitalized for one or two months.

She put on black glasses. I said nothing about the actress matter.

A twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl came back from outside. “Sis, give me something,” she said, stretching her legs out by the brazier. Her face was unpleasantly flat, with two or three front teeth missing—a child who, even at a glance, was utterly devoid of charm. Kikuko had said she was born to someone from Aomori and made into a sister—this must be the one. Contrary to having only heard stories and imagined things, if I had seen this child from the beginning, not only might the desire to train her as a child actor or flower actress never have arisen, but perhaps the whole actress issue with Yoshiya might never have occurred either. I wanted to see my real sister now, but since she had become a park geisha, she wasn’t there.

“Sensei is here now，isn’t he? Sit properly.” When Kikuko said this，the child reluctantly sat back down. “Kei-chan，do you want to become an actor?” “I hate actors，” Kei-chan said，shaking her body. Even if I turned a blind eye to Kikuko’s promise to make that child into an actress too，I didn’t have the courage to blame her for it.

25

“Here, take this and go play,” said Kikuko as she tossed out a two-sen copper coin, whereupon Kei-chan picked it up and left. Kikuko also left me behind and went up to the second floor.

On the second floor— “Alright, make your move!” “It’s coming! It’s coming!” “What a lech you are, eh—?”

“Fold!” “You should just go—it’s red.” “There it is!” “Damn it!” The sound of cards being slapped down continued. When Kikuko was still in Kōzu, trying to make me happy, “When you go back, our second floor will be free, so come every other day and study there,” she had said, but that second floor was probably always in that state. I was helplessly cast into the abyss of decadence. Because I had no lingering attachments, I now felt fortunate—yet at the same time, somewhere else, I found myself wanting to slip into that kind of society without their knowledge, become stained by that kind of corruption, taste those kinds of pleasures, and breathe in the stench of that kind of decadence. Like an emaciated dog scavenging through a garbage dump, my nose had grown keenly sharpened, and I pursued the object of my decadence to the bitter end.

Before long, Kikuko came downstairs.

“Father is completely engrossed in the card game,” she said. He still retained a degree of modesty and had apparently suggested showing his face briefly—though he must have said he didn’t want to meet. I was reminded how the old man at that eel restaurant had once remarked, “If we played cards here…”, likely trying to draw me in and gauge my interest. “Ah, whatever—it’s not like I ever play cards anyway—”

Mother wasn’t there, and Father was avoiding me. The old woman had gone to the narrow counter area and was nowhere to be seen.

Memories of Kōzu—which felt as though a decade had passed—suddenly surged up within me, and I appeared to focus all my silent resentment into a glare through narrowed eyes. “That terrifying face!” Kikuko stiffened her body solemnly, but her diseased eyes stared fixedly this way, oozing sticky discharge as they remained bleary and swollen. Yet when this bleariness spread to me too and I involuntarily blinked, she produced a scrap of crimson silk and wiped the viscous matter from both her eyes herself.

Since the mother would eventually come by to greet me, I had someone call a rickshaw and loaded my leather suitcase onto it. As I was leaving, she said, “Could you leave a little spending money here for me?” so I handed over the one-yen note I had. “Will I ever come back here?” My heart screamed these words within my chest. When my wife saw I’d brought home the luggage, she kept asking about Yoshiya’s condition from her sickbed, but I found explaining it all distasteful.

“Since we’ve done that much for her, her mother should come at least once out of obligation—right?”

“Probably.” I gave a noncommittal reply. “Even Yoshiya’s like that—see, she’s got her allowance sorted, and she said she didn’t have a hairpiece to style her hair right away, so I lent her one. She should bring it back, you know.” “If she goes blind, she can’t come—see.” My reply was noncommittal, but my wife’s eagerness pivoted her body as if leaping at the word “blindness,” “Huh?!” “Has it already come out?” she asked back.

Even if Yoshiya’s illness wasn’t that severe, the hostility we felt—this sense that she deserved divine punishment and public disgrace—was something my wife and I shared. But if hers was syphilis, mine was hysteria—no matter where I turned, I encountered mementos of my own decadence. How far did I intend to sink? “There’s still not enough decadence.” This was the cry of my burning gut. Opening my leather briefcase and examining the books and half-finished manuscripts inside, I realized with bitter clarity that the work of this entire summer—though I had gone there with various ideas—had amounted to nothing more than introducing Leonardo. That too would become just another means of sustenance for the month. As for the scriptwriting I had most eagerly anticipated—it was fair to say I had barely laid a hand on it.

I had received word that the school matter had been settled through a colleague’s mediation, but to retrieve my pawned belongings, I would have to labor furiously on manuscripts for some time now.

I rubbed my arm and looked at it, but somehow it didn't seem like my own.

26 After that, for forty or fifty days, I did nothing but go to school to deliver those unpleasant lectures and sit at my desk, devoting myself to contemplation and creation. To both pleasant problems and unpleasant doubts, I felt as though an exact replica of myself slotted perfectly into them—from the farthest reaches of heaven to the depths of the earth, through light and shadow, my nerves seemed to flow and permeate everything. Every action I took progressed with ease, as if in a dream or illusion. Yet all I had to show for it were a few short pieces and two or three brief novels. While financially worthless, I became convinced these works would prove far more masterful than any script I might have completed—had that script ever materialized.

My body had weakened just as it had when I fled to Kōzu early in the midsummer break, and my thoughts wouldn't come together at all. And it struck me that the reason I so cruelly seldom thought of my wife and children and home was precisely because they had sunk so deeply into my heart that I could no longer bring them to mind. "Alright, I'll go have myself a little fun!" Having resolved this, I tucked my meager wallet into my pocket and left the gloomy, unpleasant house as always. No—it wasn't that I'd left the house; rather, I'd set out walking with the house still weighing on my shoulders.

I boarded the train from Toranomon but ended up at Asakusa Park half-unconsciously. Strolling along the pond’s edge, when I saw the Twelve-Story Tower, I was reminded of Yoshiya—that is, Kikuko’s—house. Thinking I might encounter someone from among them, I walked through the area with heightened attention. I was always lost in thought when going out, so such restless walking was something I rarely did.

Kikuko never came to my house in the end. Her mother hadn't come either. Had Kikuko's eyes gone completely blind? Or perhaps Nozawa, having run out of money, had begun keeping his distance? And had she gone back to work a second, third, fourth time? While turning these thoughts over, I met a friend who lived near Azumabashi as I passed before Tamamawari where the ball-balancing act used to be.

“Where are you going?” “Just a walk.” “You’ve come all the way out here, huh?” “Ah, well—I just came here without any real reason.” It was decided that we would go drinking somewhere, and we headed together to Okunotokiwa in the back. Perhaps my friend had already heard vague rumors, for he began interrogating me about the incidents of that summer, and I ended up recounting the truth to some extent. Then, when my friend proposed going to Yoshiwara, I thought it might soothe my tangled frustration and agreed; the two of us dashed northward along that road by car.

The next morning arrived—I had no money, and my friend carried only a little as well. With no other choice, I stayed behind while my friend went to a place where he had connections to retrieve what was needed. “Absurd, isn’t it?” “Truly absurd.” They exchanged glances and burst into laughter. After leaving Daimon, we drank morning sake at a cheap tavern and resolved to head for Hyakkaen in Mukojima. But since I wanted to stop by Senzokucho, we decided to go that way first.

I found myself resolved to go out with my friend as if setting out for revenge. Admittedly, it was the alcohol’s momentum that had given me the push.

Since it was nearly eight in the morning, Kikuko’s mother was still there. “Sensei, I’m terribly sorry for not being in touch—I do intend to visit you properly someday,” but I paid no heed to her mother’s polite greetings. “How’s Kiku-chan’s illness?” I felt as though I’d charged into enemy headquarters. “As you can see, it keeps getting worse,” her mother said with feigned concern. “They say she won’t recover without hospitalization—that’ll cost nearly a hundred yen each month—”

“You should have Mr. Nozawa cover it,” I said, directing a sardonic smile at Kikuko. “It’s not that simple, I tell you,” she laughed, steadying her glasses with one hand. Though not entirely devoid of pitiable aspects, I ate the sweets brought out with my friend and proudly recounted last night’s absurd incident of being left behind through this morning. I wanted to subtly convey that I had already forgotten about the Watase family—those who disregarded propriety. Then, whether her mother had realized it or not,

“Sensei, you really mustn’t stay behind any longer, you know.” “We had our share of troubles in Kōzu, you know.” “Sensei wasn’t there, your wife had gone home—you can’t imagine how much she and I fretted over it, I tell you.”

“Well, it’s fine since it ended safely,” I said, remaining thoroughly cold. “Why, Sensei, my situation is anything but settled! Ever since then, every single day, with talk of this child’s eye disease, the worry never lets up, I tell you.” She still seemed to be trying to win my sympathy. “Serves you right!” However, my heart rejoiced at these words—but when I thought about it, my wife at home was also suffering from a serious illness. The heart that sneered at Kikuko’s illness soon became the heart that ridiculed my wife’s. My heart was too desolate—and I myself was too exhausted—to find satisfaction in simple mental distractions or trivial linguistic pleasures. Even sympathy had lost its roots, making it impossible to use as medicine.

I traded my wife’s hysteria for Kikuko’s venomous eyes, fertilizing the soil of my own decline with both afflictions. Failure, fatigue, regret—since even my lifelong efforts brought no solace, it felt akin to exhuming unmarked graves in an ancient temple. Only the stench of decay held life. As this thought took hold, my entire existence flickered before me like a half-awake dream—that elusive form now lapped steadily into what constituted my being. All tangible things seemed severed from me.

Before my eyes, there floated nothing but the phantom of myself.

“Come on, let’s go,” urged my friend. “We’re heading to Hyakkaen now,” I said, standing up.

“Heartless! “Cruel!” This voiceless voice registered in my head, but I secretly defended myself against it. If even the unpleasant stench of my wife and children had permeated the depths of my chest, then the loathsome stench of Kikuko would surely never leave my heart either. Hereafter, no matter how many women I might engage with or how many bitter aftertastes I would experience from them, I could not—on their account—construct a cramped, formulaic grave. It might be cold-hearted or cruel, but weakened nerves demanded an overstimulating injection. What I sought was an injection with immediate efficacy. Like alcohol, like absinthe, it was most potent while its scent remained strong. And that which naturally compels us is our love, our longing.”

While thinking about such things, before I knew it, I had descended the entranceway.

“Please give my regards to your wife,” said her mother. Kikuko—as if acutely aware of her physical limitations—showed us a lonely smile tinged with lingering reluctance,

“Sensei, if only my eyes were better, I would accompany you—” I did not answer that and, with my friend,

I left that place, thinking "Goodbye" as if it were a victory hymn.