Pathway to Japanese Literature

Letters

Kyōzō returned home after his customary post-dinner walk around the village.

It had been over a month since his homecoming. Due to the heat both day and night and the abundance of mosquitoes, he couldn’t manage even a bit of the studying he’d long planned to do. Not a single friend came to talk with him, and he suffered through a monotonous and flavorless life day after day. As for his daily tasks, they consisted of taking naps, a daily dip in the sea, writing letters to friends who had each returned to their hometowns, and this customary post-dinner walk around the village. He hardly ever skipped any of these tasks each day. Among these, he never failed to write letters and take walks. He wrote in turn to friends scattered here and there. Mostly they were postcards. He lamented the lonely monotony of country life to each and every one of them. And he wrote about each day’s happenings, no matter how trivial. Even the number of snails on the neighbor’s bamboo fence became material for his letters. When there was nothing left to write, he would sometimes send postcards bearing just two- or three-character compound words. He did this partly to distract from his lonely, mundane life, but more than that, it was because he wanted replies from friends every day. There were messages from friends nearly every day, but at times they wouldn’t come for three or even five days straight. At such times, he felt unbearably lonely. The mail was delivered once a day around eight o'clock in the afternoon, so it was usual for him to find it had arrived when he returned from his walk. He circled the narrow village, pausing here and there to make the walk take as long as possible. And it was his custom to return home while forcing himself to cling to a kind of expectation—no, rather, a certainty—that a letter from someone would be waiting, all the while savoring that anticipation.

Tonight was no different.

The family members seemed to have just entered the mosquito net. A Western-style lamp had been turned down low at the storehouse entrance. “Have you all gone to bed already?” “We’re not asleep—we’re just standing by!” said his younger brother Asahi jokingly.

“If we stay up, the mosquitoes attack, so there’s nothing for it but to sleep,” Mother said from inside the mosquito net, fluttering a fan as she let out a loud yawn.

Kyōzō was about to head to his room when, “Did any letters come?” he asked. “Oh, they’re here,” Kyōzō’s father answered in a congested voice. He had helped with the ridgepole of Sasadoya’s storehouse today and was quite drunk.

Upon hearing that letters had arrived, Kyōzō’s heart leaped. “What?! Where?!” He blurted out in haste, then immediately rephrased with forced composure: “Where are they?” “They didn’t come for you.”

“Oh….”

Suddenly deflated, Kyōzō stood blankly in the hall. After a brief pause, “Did they come to the house?” “Yeah.” “Where from?” “From Yae at the main family’s place and from Seizaemon’s younger brother’s place,” his younger brother interjected in reply. “Could you read them for me? Not that you’ve got anything better to do,” Father said gently. “Asahi, didn’t you read them?” Kyōzō said discontentedly. “Hmm, I ain’t readin’ nothin’.”

“What are you dithering about? If Asahi’s already seen ’em, I ain’t gotta ask you to read ’em! Just read it straight and be done with it!”

The father’s tone had turned rough. Kyōzō jolted. He thought things had taken an unexpected turn. But given the awkward turn of events, he couldn’t bring himself to read them straightforwardly. And so, “Where are they?” he asked, though he generally knew their location but inquired all the same.

Father did not answer. “They’re on the hearth edge, you know.” “They came after Asahi had gotten into the mosquito net, so we didn’t read them, you see.” “Even if it’s a bother, do read them for us.” Mother said gently.

Kyōzō turned up the Western-style lamp and went to the kitchen. On the corner of the hearth edge lay postcards and letters. Kyōzō took them in hand while remaining half-kneeling. The lukewarm scent of ash clung to his nostrils. Two or three mosquitoes whined near his ear. Kyōzō grew agitated. His breathing quickened until his chest felt constricted. Sweat dampened his armpits. First he read the postcard. It was a summer greeting from Yae, a daughter of the main family branch who had gone to Kyoto. The letter came from the second son of a kimono merchant named Seizaemon in Tomari Town—over one ri from the village—a man recently adopted into a Nanao kimono shop. Before being adopted, this man had come daily to peddle silk goods in the village—so familiar that mentioning “the younger brother” would immediately identify him to any villager. Being close with Kyōzō’s family, he used their home as his base—leaving merchandise there each day to shoulder at dawn for his rounds. This was his thank-you letter regarding his adoption to Nanao, apologizing for having imposed on them so long.

Kyōzō had finished reading both, but through some sudden impulse found himself oddly out of rhythm—though the matters were trivial, he now felt incapable of explaining them gently. So, intending to respond if spoken to, he lit a cigarette. The mosquitoes swarmed in relentlessly. Kyōzō made a show of slapping his thigh. “Damn mosquitoes!” he exclaimed. “If only the mosquitoes weren’t here, this would be paradise,” Mother said, repeating her nightly refrain.

Because Kyōzō remained silent indefinitely, Father,

“Did you read them?”

“Oh, I read them,” he answered clearly. “What did they say?”

“It’s nothing special. Miss Yae’s is just a summer greeting, and the younger brother’s is a thank-you letter.” “Is that all?” “Oh, that’s all there is.”

“Hmm.” Kyōzō’s curt reply seemed to have deeply wounded his father’s feelings. Moreover, tonight’s drinking was adding fuel. Even so, for a while, he said nothing.

After a moment, he let out another “Hmm,” then muttered as if talking to himself, “So that’s all it says, eh?”—his voice laced with resentment and complaint.

Kyōzō discerned his father’s state of mind. Though he felt guilty, he could find no words to say. “That’s enough, enough! I won’t have you read for me anymore, from now on…” “Hmph—what’s this?” “That’s too….” Kyōzō made a deliberate effort to appear unperturbed,

“What are you saying, Father? There’s truly nothing beyond that.” “There’s truly nothing beyond that.” Father flared up crimson with anger. “Don’t talk nonsense!” “Then I don’t need you readin’ it to me! I know full well what’s what!” “But one’s just a summer greeting, and the other’s a thank-you letter for all the trouble we went through over the years.” “There’s no other way to say it, is there?” “If that’s all there is, I’d know even if I were blind.” “When the post came earlier, I asked the postman where they were from. He said one was from Miss Yae and t’other from the younger brother’s place. So then I knew there wasn’t any real business—hah! If it’s Yae, it’s just seasonal greetings, and if it’s the younger brother, it’s some thank-you letter. I’d have figured that much out on my own!” “If I gotta have you tell me such things, I won’t ask you to read nothin’ for me no more.”

“But…” “Enough! I said enough!” “I’ll have Asahi read them tomorrow morning instead.” “Go on to bed then—what a splendid service you’ve rendered,” he said with biting sarcasm. At this rebuke, Kyōzō found himself cornered. He could neither retreat into silence nor muster the detachment to yield gracefully. He knew full well that a simple apology—“My mistake”—followed by a proper explanation of the letters would smooth things over effortlessly. Yet actually voicing those words felt impossibly daunting. Trapped in this absurd stalemate, he squirmed under the mosquitoes’ assault, his discomfort growing with each passing moment.

“Then what am I supposed to say?” he retorted helplessly. “How should I know? Ask your own damn heart!”

The mother, who had remained silent until now, spoke up for the first time at this moment.

“Don’t bother with ’em anymore—the mosquitoes’ll eat you alive. Just hurry into the net.” “Father’s drunk, so he’s started his usual grumbling again, you know.” “What’s that?! “Me drunk? “Where d’you see me drunk, I ask ya?” “Isn’t that so, dear? You’re right there drunk and grumbling again, don’t you see?” “When have I been grumbling?” “You call this grumbling?” “When someone’s readin’ a letter for another person—where in all creation does that kinda readin’ exist?”

“Can’t you see that? You’re being impossible!” “I’ll throw it at you! Even you…!” Father’s face twisted into a terrifying snarl. As if he meant to hurl a pillow, Asahi— “Father, what’re you doin’? That’s dangerous… And Mother’s just sittin’ there silent again,” he interjected, trying to mediate.

“It’s like he’s gone clean out of his mind,” Mother said in a slightly softer voice.

From the direction of the back room, the cat meowed and sluggishly approached. This seemed to irritate Father even more,

“Eat shit!” he bellowed. Mother and Asahi burst out laughing. Kyōzō remained silent. The cat paused briefly before Kyōzō, meowed once more with a “nyan,” and then sluggishly descended into the garden.

The father muttered as if to himself, “Maybe I’m just some uneducated fool spoutin’ complaints, but I don’t think letters are supposed to be like that. Even with summer greetings, there’s all sorts of ways to write ’em, I tell ya. ‘It’s grown terribly hot, but are you all well there? I’m keeping healthy myself.’ They probably wrote something like ‘It’s hot out, so take care of yourself,’ but if you just dismiss it all in one breath as ‘summer greetings’ or ‘thank-you letters,’ do you think the one hearing that would feel satisfied? For someone like you who can see, that might be enough—but for a blind fool like me, you’ve got to read every last detail proper.” He said this in a considerably gentler tone of admonishment.

Kyōzō had already resolved not to argue any further, but “Because Father, these are just full of formal phrases like ‘Dear Sir’ and ‘Respectfully yours’—no matter how long they are, it’s all meaningless stuff. I only said that because I thought even if I explained each one, you wouldn’t understand.” “If I was out of line, I apologize.” “That’s why I’m askin’—’cause I don’t understand!” “You say that, but that’s just sore loser’s pride! Maybe someone like me can’t grasp fancy things, but if you’d just read out every single thing—‘Oh, it says this here,’ ‘Ah, it mentions that there’—like you’re chantin’ some ballad from start to finish, I’d be grateful.” “When someone asks ya for somethin’, do ya think that’s good enough? Just chew on that.” “Uneducated folks don’t understand a lick—that’s why we need every detail spelled out plain.” “Even if we don’t catch half of it, hearin’ every last word read proper settles the mind,” he said, softening slightly. “The letters from your city friends—nothin’ but ‘Send money,’ every time—still we have Asahi read ’em out proper from first word to last.” “Hearin’ that read straight through—why, even I feel better about things, and Mother too.”

“Well, my letters are written in colloquial style, so anyone can understand them as they are—” he began, but before he could finish—

“Enough!” Father snapped sharply. And after that, he said nothing more. Kyōzō became filled with an indescribably strange feeling and remained for a while longer, but eventually went silently to his room.

Festival Viewing

“Father still isn’t back?” Asahi said as he came in from outside. The inside of the house was dark. In the hearth, green pine needles for repelling mosquitoes smoldered.

“Not yet,” the mother answered indifferently while slicing pickles. “What’s taking him so late? Everyone else’s already back.”

“He can’t have much longer now,” said Kyōzō, pressing down on the smoldering pine needles with fire tongs. Smoke filled the room. The oil lamp’s light was dimly visible through the smoke. “I just can’t tell—he must’ve been dragged off by the Shichikai bunch to drink,” Mother said.

“This year, since Shichikai bought a mikoshi for their debut at the Tomiki Festival, they must’ve got Father drinking with them too.”

Asahi took two or three pine needles from the hearth, aligning and cutting them with his nails as he spoke. “He oughta come home by now proper-like, but once that man starts drinkin’ he forgets himself… Well now, you two should eat without waitin’.” “Who knows when he’ll drag himself back.” Mother began laying out the meal trays. “Let’s give it a bit longer,” said Kyōzō, choking on the smoke as he coughed twice.

“Have the folks from Rokuhei come back yet?” Asahi asked. “Rokuhei’s still out too—someone went to fetch ’em earlier, but neither’s come back yet,” Mother replied while slicing pickles. “Since they’ve got a whole bunch of kids with ’em, they’re probably fine, but I went out worried they might’ve left the children behind again to go drinking around since it’s so late.” “That bald drunkard from Rokuhei’s lot’s a real boozer too, ’cause of course he is,” Asahi said, cutting pine needles with his nails. “You see, sir, back when we went to that Sake Viewing Festival before—remember how they’d just put Jōbō on the packhorse and he went rollin’ right into the rice field?”

While they were having this conversation, a voice called out from outside—“Got anything good to eat?”—and someone came in.

"Who's there?" Kyōzō's mother sat up straight and looked toward the garden. "It's me! Blimey! What's with all this smoke? It's chokin' my throat!" "Ah, Mrs.Gonroku." "The mosquitoes are swarmin' fierce here already." "How about your place?" "They're here too—proper nuisance."

After saying this, she peered into the house and saw Kyōzō and Asahi there. “Y-you didn’t go see it?”

“What?” Asahi said. “They went to see the night festival last night, sir—and tomorrow they gotta go to the wrestling too, ’cause.” “That’s right, that’s right—our household’s got young folks to handle things, ’cause.” “Well, ain’t you comin’ in?” “Nah, can’t stay like this.” “There’s somethin’ I gotta ask, see,” she said with her usual air of importance, “has the master of this house come back yet?”

“Still ain’t back—we’re still talkin’ ’bout that very thing right now.” “I see. Our old man ain’t back yet either—’cause it’s so late, I got worried an’ came over, see.” “Tch! So your master went too? So that’s how ’tis, huh? Well, what in tarnation’s goin’ on here!”

Kyōzō’s mother said in a thoroughly surprised manner. “Truly, with that body of his—he should know better—what on earth possessed him to go out?” “He’s probably drinkin’ with Kyō-san from the Hitsuzen house,” Asahi cut in. “Maybe so,” said Gonroku’s Wife, changing the subject. “This year’s festival was apparently quite lively—they say there were twenty-one mikoshi and thirty large banners, no less.”

“No wonder it’s so lively! What with this being the best harvest we’ve had in years.” “You know, now that you mention it—our old man went rushing out too, see.” “Though he oughta be back any time now.” “Still, even if that house’s master drinks himself blind, least he don’t turn soft in the head like our old man does.” “Well… wouldn’t go that far myself… Let’s just wait a spell longer.”

With these words, Gonroku’s Wife left.

Some time later, the neighbor Rokuhei returned home, bringing his children. It seemed the wife who had gone to meet them earlier had taken a different path, so they hadn’t encountered her. “Poor dear—why ever didn’t you come by the seaside road?” Kyōzō’s mother said sympathetically to the wife. “I thought so too, but since I went all the way to see Sannō Forest, it was too much trouble to head back to the seaside road from there, and with night falling, I came via Uchiura Road,” she replied with a flustered look.

“By the way, you didn’t run into our old man, did you?” “Um, when the mikoshi procession had gathered throughout the town, he was with Mr. Gonroku at Hidaya’s shop, but I don’t know anything after that.” Rokuhei turned back to go fetch his wife, so he asked them to look after the children for a while and left. The three children entered Kyōzō’s house and began eating souvenir manju by the hearth. A six-year-old girl picked up some spilled bean paste that had fallen into the hearth ashes and ate it.

Kyōzō pretended not to see and turned away.

About thirty minutes later, Rokuhei returned home with his wife. Kyōzō’s father had still not returned. However, the fact that he had come together with Rokuhei’s wife as far as the village entrance became clear from her account.

When Rokuhei’s wife came to a point about eight chō short of Tomiku Town beneath Kogama Forest, Kyōzō’s father was walking alone in the darkness singing a song. By this hour most festival-goers had returned home, and along Ichiri Beach Road she encountered no one from the village. Anxious at finding neither her husband nor children, she endured the loneliness until reaching Kogama Forest. This place had been famous since ancient times for foxes appearing.

As Rokuhei’s wife walked on, feeling utterly desolate, she started violently when a singing voice came from ahead. Discovering it was Kyōzō’s father startled her even more. He stood swaying drunkenly, barely keeping his footing. When he spotted her, he suddenly roared, “What’re you doing here?” making her leap back in fright. When she explained she’d come to fetch the children, he barked, “Fool! What’re they lazing about this late for? They went home ages ago! There’s no one left in Tomiku now—get gone, I say!”

“Do you think I’ve been sittin’ around alone all this time doin’ nothin’?” “Hmph! Don’t let looks fool ya—I ain’t a drop drunk.” “Listen here—” “I checked every last one o’ them villagers had cleared out ’fore headin’ back—drunk or not, I stayed put till now worryin’ somethin’ mighta happened to you.” “Ain’t a soul left in Tomiku now, I tell ya.” “C’mon—move it, move it!”

Rokuhei’s wife walked along behind him. Kyōzō’s father staggered again and again, nearly collapsing each time.

“Ahh, drunk… on five shō of sake…” “If I’d drunk a whole gō…”

No sooner had he sung this than,

“Hey! Woman! Rokuhei’s whelp! What the hell’re you doin’ here?” he barked, then shifted tones: “Heya—Kogama’s fox! Red fox! If they trick you, trick ’em back! I’ll have you lot… Eat this, you stupid fox bastards!” He kept spouting whatever nonsense came to mind. In this manner they reached the village entrance together, but when he told Rokuhei’s wife to go home ahead of him, she refused. He joked that returning together might make people think they’d been carrying on an affair—but no matter how much he insisted, she wouldn’t budge. It was during this standoff that Rokuhei arrived. Rokuhei tried every persuasion to bring him home together, but he remained planted on the new road’s bridge, immovable as stone. The villagers later agreed he must’ve hated the idea of people thinking he needed fetching. Asahi had lit a lantern and was about to slip out the back entrance when Mother stopped him cold. A full ten minutes later, Father returned.

“I’m back! Behold, the master’s return!” he announced cheerfully as he entered through the back door.

“Welcome back.” Mother and Asahi said in unison. Asahi went down to the garden and drew water for washing feet. “Go on, wash them.”

Father sat down on the step and lay flat on his back. Asahi untied the laces of the straw sandals and placed both feet into the tub. Mother hung the pot of cooling soup over the hearth and lit the fire. Kyōzō remained silent, resting his chin on a raised knee.

“Kyōzō! Why aren’t you washing my feet?” Father roared. Kyōzō was startled but kept silent, only laughing nervously. “How’s a man come home without his feet washed? Asahi’s doin’ it right here—get to it! One foot each!”

Kyōzō could not readily obey his father’s command. But he couldn’t simply remain silent either. Of course, he didn’t think Father was serious in saying such a thing. But he thought that no matter how drunk Father was, he couldn’t simply laugh it off. Kyōzō knew well that it was only when drunk that Father would direct complaints and roundabout admonishments at him. Father, too, knew that Kyōzō had grown older and educated enough that he could not voice his opinions to him openly. And so there were times when he would voice roundabout grumblings under the guise of drunkenness. In many cases, that was out of obligation to Mother.

Mother was not Kyōzō’s biological mother. Thus even in this situation—with his own biological son Asahi washing his feet like this—Father might have spoken out of genuine resentment at what he saw as Kyōzō’s unjust aloofness despite being the elder brother. One could never know how much Father had restrained himself for Mother’s sake on account of Kyōzō alone over all these years. Kyōzō knew this well. He had experienced many times how precisely in such drunken moments Father’s true feelings would come spilling out. Or perhaps it stemmed from a simpler notion—taking drunken advantage to have both sons wash his feet and savor some twisted satisfaction from it—Kyōzō thought. Yet he believed that no matter how drunk Father became, he never completely lost self-awareness. Even if others saw it that way, to Kyōzō alone it never felt true. Though merely an uneducated fisherman, when drunk Father would utter words carrying unexpected depth. His paternal affection was no mere doting. Behind those forceful words lurked a lonely, sorrowful tenderness. This Kyōzō understood keenly. And likely none but Kyōzō ever did. Facing his drunken father always left him with a pang of sorrow. Now when Father ordered him to wash his feet—though he doubted any real intent behind it—Kyōzō found himself at a loss for how to navigate this gracefully.

“I asked my younger brother to do it. Asahi, take my place and do this for me,” he said without thinking. Hearing this, Father appeared thoroughly satisfied. “I see, I see. Then that’s fine.” Having said this, he began singing in a strange voice. Even after having his feet washed, Father still did not come up for some time.

“That’s enough now, let’s go upstairs,” Mother said as she set out the meal trays. Everyone turned toward the trays. Yet Father refused to pick up his chopsticks. “Kyōzō—were you waiting for me without even eating?”

“Huh?” “Asahi too?” “Oh, we were waiting.”

“I see. You waited properly.” “Alright, I’ll eat my meal now, okay?” “Why don’t you all eat together now?” Mother said as she took the chopstick box. Father chuckled “Hmm...” but made no move toward the meal tray. Facing the hearth, sitting cross-legged with his hands crossed on his knees and leaning slightly forward, he snorted through his clogged nose. Whenever he drank, it was his habit for his nose to become clogged. “Come on, why don’t you all hurry up and eat?” Mother urged again.

“I don’t want to eat. You all go ahead.” “You lot eat first.” “Don’t say such things—let’s all eat together now, dear. Everyone’s been waiting here starving.” “Oh, I see, I see. Much obliged.” “I’ll eat now,” he said, yet made no move to start. “Top hats are in fashion,” “Bald heads sure are handy, eh? Oppekepe…” Having sung this, he burst into loud “Ha ha ha!” laughter. Mother looked on impatiently, “Why don’t we just eat without him?” she said to Kyōzō.

“Father, if you don’t eat a little now, you’ll get hungry again tonight,” urged Kyōzō.

Father turned only his head slightly and glared sharply at Kyōzō’s face. His bloodshot eyes were mostly half-closed. On his glistening red-lit forehead, three or four large wrinkles were etched so deeply that they caught Kyōzō’s eye.

“Hurry up now—the soup’s getting cold.” Mother said impatiently and took the chopsticks.

“Hmm…” Father, having convinced himself, laughed again. “That was a truly wonderful festival today.”

“Could you tell us a bit about the festival?” Kyōzō said while serving rice. “Right, right.”

By the time Father began telling stories about the festival, everyone had already finished their meal. Even so, he still hadn't started eating. And he told all sorts of stories about the festival. He kept repeating the same things over and over. "The fact that Shichikai—a piddling hamlet like that—bought a mikoshi and got into the Fukurai Festival's procession? Now that's impressive." "What pleased me most was that." "Didn't care two straws 'bout seein' any festival myself—but hearin' Shichikai's mikoshi'd be there? Had to go take a look." "When I showed up—you shoulda seen—the Shichikai lot had their mikoshi parked in fronta the post office takin' a breather. Spot me? 'Oh! Asajirō's come!' they holler." "So then Hashimoto's old man lugs over a three-shō cask—'Drink up!' he says. And get this—soon as that happened, them drummers and flag-wavers all recognized me too! 'Oh! Asajirō's here! Asajirō's here!'" "Next thing you know they're pourin' more sake down my throat—like some kinda drinkin' punishment!" "Them Shichikai folk ain't half bad—imagine that runt village mixin' with big towns for festivals now! Makes a man proud! So I toss 'em two yen—bam! They write 'Five Yen Donated' in their ledger and slap it right on the mikoshi roof!" He gestured broadly as he boasted about being treated like some savior everywhere he went—'specially by them Shichikai villagers who welcomed him like their personal benefactor.

Asahi then skillfully drew out threads of conversation. He recounted repeatedly—the scuffles among young laborers, the bustling crowds, the grandeur of over twenty mikoshi lined up, how beautifully the metal ornaments glinted under the sunset’s reflected glow. He spoke with evident pride about how he’d pestered the policeman into keeping him company as he drank. Kyōzō too maintained a facade of keen interest on the surface, occasionally chiming in and making efforts to ask questions he thought would please his father.

Father was overjoyed. Seeing Kyōzō and the others listening to his stories with such apparent interest, he seemed thoroughly satisfied. Before anyone noticed, he lay down right there and began snoring loudly. The three of them didn't even know how to get him into the mosquito net—it was like dragging him between them.

Mother kept muttering about how he hadn’t eaten. (Meiji 43)