Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The Haruo Yamada I am about to speak of was a truly peculiar child. He never tried to join the other children, always loitering timidly around their periphery. He was constantly bullied yet would secretly bother girls and younger children himself. And whenever someone fell, they would clamor in uproar as if they had been waiting for it. He neither tried to love nor was he ever loved. He had thin hair that made his large ears conspicuous, and his eyes held a slightly whitish tint that appeared somewhat eerie. He wore dirtier clothes than any child in that neighborhood, still clad in a tattered gray speckled garment even as autumn deepened. Perhaps because of this, his gaze seemed even gloomier and more skeptical. But strangely, he never revealed where he lived. On my way back from the university to S Association, I encountered him two or three times in front of Oshiage Station. Judging from the direction he came walking, it seemed he lived near the marshy area behind the station. And so one day I asked him this question.

“Do you live behind the station?”

Then he hurriedly shook his head. “Wrong!” “My house is right next to the S Association.”

Of course, it was an outrageous lie. After school, he would go out of his way to take a detour here to play and would never try to go home until the night session ended. When asked, it seemed he had more than once received meals in the old woman’s room. At first, I hadn’t paid him much attention. But one evening, when I saw him shoveling food in the dimly lit old woman’s room, I stopped in my tracks, startled. “That’s strange,” I said to myself. But as for what I meant by that, I wasn’t entirely clear. And once again, I muttered, “That’s strange.” That appearance of his somehow seemed to hold some significance I couldn’t quite recall—whether it was his hunched round back, his face, the shape of his mouth, or even the way he handled his chopsticks. In the end, I grew suffocated and left his side without a word. But after that, I stopped paying much attention to him.

In the midst of this, a truly strange event occurred between him and me. ——

At that time, I was a resident (boarder) at this S University Association. As for my work, all I had to do was teach English for about two hours each evening at their Citizens’ Education Department. Even so, given that the location was near Koto in a factory district and the people coming to learn were laborers, even a two-hour class was exhausting. Given that they were utterly exhausted from their daytime labor, unless we maintained exceptional intensity in our teaching, everyone would end up dozing off drowsily.

When it came to the night sessions, the Children’s Section was naturally the most lively. Our classroom was situated directly above theirs, and we could always hear the raucous uproar of their commotion. My students would startle at the noise and adjust their seating. When the old piano began clanging, the children all at once raised their voices in a song—"Let us grow strong and healthy"—with such vigorous force it seemed to lift the roof.

"(It’s about time)," I had barely thought when a commotion like grinding beans erupted from below. The children came scrambling up the stairs, each vying to outpace the others. Having finished class and about to leave the classroom, I would immediately be caught by the children and become like some pigeon-tending old man. One climbed onto my shoulders, another clung to my arm, while a third kept hopping excitedly before me. Several pulled at my clothes and hands, others shouting from behind as they pushed me toward my room. When I tried to open the door there, children who had slipped in earlier now desperately tried to keep it shut. On this side too, the children swarmed like ants, frantically straining to open it. At such times without fail, Yamada Haruo would interfere from the sidelines.

“Leave it alone!”

“Leave it be!” “Aah! Aah! Aah!”

While shouting, he performed an uncannily comical dance right before my eyes. When we finally raised a victorious cheer and came flooding in, six or seven girls who had been lying in wait inside the room since earlier began shrieking shrilly in delight. “Mr. Minami! Mr. Minami!” “Me too! Pick me up!” “Me too!” “Me too!”

Come to think of it, within this association, I had come to be called Minami-sensei before I knew it. As you know, my surname should be read as Minami, but for various reasons, it was pronounced in a Japanese-style manner. My colleagues were the first to refer to me in that Japanese-style manner. At first, I had been very bothered by that way of being addressed. But later, I came to think that perhaps it was actually better this way for playing with such innocent children. That is why I had repeatedly told myself that this was neither hypocrisy nor servility. And needless to say, I had justified to myself that if there had been even a single Korean child in this Children’s Section, I would have insisted on being called Minami even if it meant forcing the issue. Because that would undoubtedly have had an emotionally harmful effect on both the Korean children and the Mainland Japanese children.

However, one evening, as I was causing a commotion with the children, one of my students came in with a face as pale and twisted as though seized by a spasm. That was Ri, an energetic young man who worked as a driver’s assistant during the day and came to study English and mathematics at night. He closed the door and planted himself before me in a confrontational stance.

“Sensei.” That was Korean.

I was struck. The children didn’t understand what it meant either, but overwhelmed by the oppressive air, they kept alternating their gazes between his face and mine. “Come on, we’ll play again later. The teacher has things to do now,” I said, feigning composure as I even managed a smile at the corners of my mouth. The children trudged out dejectedly. But only Yamada Haruo’s gaze burned with an eerie light, fixed on me as though probing. Even now, I cannot forget those eyes that glimmered faintly. He slipped out sideways like a crab, bumping into things here and there.

“Now, please have a seat.” When we were alone, I quietly spoke to him in Korean. “We never really had the chance to talk with each other before now.”

“Yes.” Ri remained standing and shouted. “I truly didn’t know which language to use when addressing you.” In his words writhed a youthful anger.

"My answer—'Of course I am Korean'—seemed to carry a faint quiver." I had likely been anxious about him, at least concerning the matter of my surname. Or perhaps my inability to remain composed was, in that very aspect, clear proof that I carried something servile within me. So instead, I found myself asking while somewhat flustered: “Was there something that bothered you?”

“There is!” He declared defiantly. “Why would even someone like you, Sensei, try to hide your surname?”

I was at a loss for words in that instant. “Now, why don’t we calm down and sit?”

“For some reason, I wanted to ask about that.” “From your eyes, cheekbones, and the shape of your nose, I was certain you must be Korean.” “But you never showed even a hint of that demeanor.” “I work as a driver’s assistant.” “In fact, people like me in the workplace must face many awkward situations regarding surnames.” “But—” He began to stutter from the surge of emotion overwhelming him. Why was he getting so worked up? “But I refuse to acknowledge any such necessity. “I don’t want to be spiteful, nor do I want to act servile.”

“You’re absolutely right.” I said in a faint, almost moaning voice. “I also feel the same way about what you’re saying. But for my part, I simply wanted to get along pleasantly with the children.” In the hallway, the same children as before were still clamoring together, occasionally sliding the door open to peek in with snot-nosed faces or closing their eyes and sticking out their tongues.

“For example, if I were Korean, I believe that within those children’s feelings toward me—beyond mere affection—there would arise what might be called a negative curiosity, or rather, an entirely different kind of sentiment taking precedence.” “As a teacher, that would be profoundly isolating.” “No, rather, it must be terrifying.” “That being said, I am not trying to hide that I am Korean.” “It’s just that everyone referred to me that way.” “Moreover, I simply didn’t acknowledge any need to go around proclaiming that I’m Korean.” “But if I gave you even the slightest such impression, I have no way to explain myself...”

As I spoke these words, among the children peering through the open door, one suddenly let out a loud shout.

“Hey, Sensei’s a Korean!”

It was Yamada Haruo. The hallway fell silent in an instant. I too couldn’t help being slightly taken aback. There, I tried hard to compose myself and said this.

“We’ll meet again another time and talk properly.”

Ri left with his hands trembling uncontrollably. Yamada and a few other children seemed about to flee.

I stood dumbfounded. For an instant, the thought flashed through me like a bolt of lightning—am I not the hypocrite here? From downstairs came clanging bell sounds. The children went down clamoring like a cloud, their noise sounding as if from a distant place. Then the door opened quietly, and Yamada, who had sneaked in on tiptoe, hunched his back and peered into the room through the gap. And then,

“Hey, Korean!” he taunted, flicking out his tongue, then fled again as if pursued.

From then on, Yamada Haruo grew increasingly spiteful and began clinging to me. It was after that that I began paying even closer attention to him.

Now that I thought about it, it seemed he had been following me around with a suspicious gaze for quite some time. At times when I would stumble over my words or get tongue-tied, it was he who would often mimic me and make a show of laughing uproariously. He must have suspected from the very beginning that I was from Korea. And yet he would always cling to me, coming to my room to play pranks. Could it be that he had been feeling something akin to affection toward me? However, since that incident, he seemed to be avoiding me intensely; he wouldn’t come near me easily and instead just kept loitering restlessly around me. As if he were poised in some corner, ready to gleefully take pleasure in my slightest misstep. Yet I always approached him with what was likely the most affectionate attitude of anyone. I rather wanted to appease him. And I resolved to study him as much as possible and gradually guide him. I had first thought in this way: His poor family had until now continued living as emigrants in Korea. At that time, he too must have been made to harbor a warped sense of superiority like the children of ordinary settlers who had crossed over to the colonies, and then returned with it. But one day, I could no longer overlook it and became furious. At that time too, I had gone down to the classroom and was playing with the children, but after two or three times ostentatiously showing concern for me, he suddenly grew angry over nothing and swung his arm to strike a small girl beside him with such savagery it bordered on cruelty. The girl ran away crying. He chased after her as she fled,

“Korean, zabare, zabare—!” he bellowed.

“Zabare” was a Korean term meaning “catch him,” frequently used by mainland Japanese settlers in Korea. Of course, the girl wasn’t Korean—he must have been putting on that display purely for my sake. I lunged forward, seized Yamada by the scruff of his neck, and slapped him across the face without a second thought.

“What a terrible thing to do, you wretch!”

Yamada kept his voice low and said nothing. He had become like a wooden puppet, submitting to whatever I did. He didn't even cry. And with ragged breaths, he stared up intently at my face from below. His eyes glared starkly white. The children had formed a circle around me, swallowing their spit. In his eyes, a single tear seemed to well up. But he shouted in a voice that seemed to quietly choke back tears.

“You Korean idiot!”

II

Originally, the S Association was a neighborhood welfare initiative centered around Imperial University students, comprising departments such as a nursery section, children’s section, Citizens’ Education Department, purchasing cooperative, and Free Medical Department. In this slum district, it had become a familiar and cherished presence. For babies and children, of course, but even down to the minutiae of daily life, it maintained an inseparable bond that could not be severed. And among the mothers of the children who attended here, there was also a “Mother’s Association,” and in order to foster mutual spiritual exchange and fellowship, they would gather two or three times each month. But until now, Yamada Haruo’s mother had never once shown her face. If she knew her child was coming here to play until late at night—even if not out of warm gratitude toward the involved university students like the other mothers—wouldn’t she at least come occasionally out of parental concern? Alongside my growing interest in this troubled child, I concluded that I needed to understand his family background.

When soon the children began going out to camp on a plateau during the three-day weekend holiday, I called Yamada to my room. I knew Yamada had never been able to participate in such opportunities until now. “How about it—will you go too?”

The boy remained stubbornly silent. In such cases, no matter how gently I approached him, he would always grow suspicious. “This time, you’ll come along too.” “…………”

“What’s wrong? You could bring your mother along. Your father would be fine too—any guardian who comes to give permission will do.” “…………” “Are you thinking of bringing someone?”

Yamada shook his head. “So you’re not going?” “…………” “I’ll cover the expenses.”

He looked up at me with hollow eyes. “Let’s do that then.” “…………” “Then shall Sensei go together to your house and talk to them?” He shook his head again in a flustered manner. “But since you’ll be staying three whole days, you can’t go without getting permission from your dad or mom, right?” “Are you going to the mountains too, Sensei?” Only then did the boy finally ask slyly. “You’re not going?” “No—Sensei can’t go. I ended up having to stay behind this time.”

“Then I won’t go either.” He formed a quiet smile on his lips. “Why is that?”

Then he bared his teeth with a "hee" sound and thrust out his chin like an idiot.

In this way, though I had long thought of visiting his home even once, I ultimately couldn’t bring myself to do it. For some reason, he wouldn’t give me that opening.

At last Saturday arrived, and over a hundred children from the S Association’s Children’s Section set out in a lively, chattering line toward Ueno Station, but even as the time came, Yamada never appeared. But later, when I remembered something I needed to do on the rooftop and went up, I was shocked. Leaning against the pillar of the drying platform, Yamada Haruo was staring fixedly at the distant line of children proceeding in formation. I felt, for some reason, the base of my eyes grow hot. Noticing the sound, he turned around and appeared terribly flustered. I forced a smile and gently hugged his shoulders from behind.

“Look, there’s an ad balloon floating up over there.”

“Yeah,” he said in a voice so faint it seemed ready to vanish. Beyond the sooty chimneys and blackened buildings, two or three of them floated trailing their tails in the distance around Ueno Park. I was suddenly overcome with the urge to show him some warmth.

“Hey Haruo, since I’m free now, why don’t we go to Ueno together?” The boy looked up and grinned sharply.

“Let’s go then.” “Sensei has school business too, so it’s perfect.” Of course, saying I had school business was a lie. Was I really being so guarded—showing such consideration for Yamada in my heart—that I’d say things I didn’t mean to this extent? “Huh.” He stared wide-eyed. “Are you from Imperial University too, Sensei?” He must have been genuinely surprised. “Do they let Koreans in too?” “Why, they’d let anyone in if you pass the exams…”

“You’re lying.” "My school teacher clearly said, ‘You Koreans should be grateful they even let you into elementary school!’"

“Oh? There are teachers who say such things?” “So did the student cry?” “As if I’d cry! Ain’t gonna cry!” “I see. What a child you are.” “Bring them to Sensei’s place once and see.” “No way!” He broke into a fit of coughing. “There’s no such person! There’s no such person!” “That’s a strange thing to say.” “I won’t tell anyone, I won’t tell!”

He vehemently retracted his statement. What a strange child, I thought. It happened almost exactly at that same moment. The thought that perhaps he was that Korean child suddenly occurred to me. I stared at his face as if surprised. He stiffened his face and stepped back warily. And then, suddenly breaking into a headlong rush down the stairs, he shouted. “Okay, I’ll go put on my hat.”

I quietly shook my head and went down the stairs.

But as I was nearly down the stairs near the entrance, I realized something extraordinary was unfolding below. Holding their breath while jostling against each other, doctors from the medical department, nurses, and men from the purchasing cooperative were carrying a shabbily dressed woman from a car that had been hastily parked at the entrance. Behind them came Assistant Ri, appearing extremely agitated as he entered heaving his shoulders with ragged breaths. The woman’s head was drenched in blood and hung limply backward. Haruo, trembling violently, had taken two or three steps alongside them but froze in his tracks when he noticed me. I immediately approached Ri and asked with concern what had happened. Then he gnashed his teeth and shouted.

“She was struck in the head with a blade by her husband.” The people who had been chattering at the medical department’s entrance all turned toward him in surprise. “That woman is Korean.” “Her husband’s Mainland Japanese—a complete scoundrel!” Then, just as he tried to wipe his neck with a handkerchief, he spotted Yamada Haruo panicking nearby and lunged at the boy with terrifying force.

“This one’s father! “It’s this one’s father!” He twisted Yamada’s wrist as if capturing a criminal himself, foam gathering at his mouth as he shouted, “This one’s! This one’s!” His voice had already turned into a sob from sheer agitation.

Yamada let out an agonized scream, and— “It’s not true! It’s not!” he screamed. “Some Korean isn’t my mother! It’s not true! It’s not!”

The men entered and finally managed to pull the two apart. I was nearly in a daze. Ri-kun, worked up into a frenzy, lunged again and kicked Yamada’s back with full force—making Haruo stagger and cling to me. And he wailed and burst into tears. “I’m not Korean! I’m—I’m not Korean, Sensei!” I hugged him tightly. I felt something hot welling up intensely in the corners of my eyes. Whether it was Ri’s frantic self-destructive rage or this boy’s pitiful cries—I found myself unable to condemn either. I felt so limp I might collapse right there. Because the old woman had taken Yamada away for now—the commotion was finally brought under control. Ri-kun began vehemently berating everyone present.

“That guy’s father is a gambler and a scoundrel.” “He just got out of prison the other day.” “All that time—you can’t imagine how that poor woman suffered without eating or drinking, I tell you.” “All that time, since my place was nearby and familiar to her, she kept coming over to get meals.” “Yet that bastard, when he got out of prison, found out his wife had been coming to my place and took it out on her something fierce.” “She ain’t gonna make it—she just ain’t!”

He sniffled loudly and wiped his nose. Someone emerged from the medical room and urged them to quiet down. I led Ri a short distance away and inquired.

“You know where Yamada Haruo’s house is, don’t you?” “It’s not about knowing or not knowing,” he said resentfully. “That bastard lives in the marshland behind the station too.”

“I see. That’s quite a terrible situation.” “Why would he abuse her just because she kept coming over to your house?”

He clenched his teeth. “Th-that’s because my mother wears Korean clothes.” “So he’s ordering her not to go near Koreans.” “Hmph, screwing around like that—what the hell does that ex-convict bastard think he is?” “He’s just a damn half-wit!” he shouted as though confronting his enemy face to face. “You bastard, better remember this! If we ever cross paths again, I’ll make sure you lose that damn head of yours! You hear me, you Hanbee bastard!”

“Huh? Hanbee?” I asked back in surprise. “That’s right.” He said, gasping for breath. “He’s a rotten villain—a cruel bastard. Hmph! But mark my words—this time I won’t let it slide, you bastard! I’ll pin your wife’s murder on you, hear me?” “Hanbee.” I tried muttering it again. No matter how I thought about it, that name remained utterly unfamiliar to my ears.

“Hanbee, Hanbee.” I tried humming it over and over, but my thoughts just spun emptily through my memory, and no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t recall it.

At that moment, Dr. Yabe came out, so we rushed over to him and asked about her condition. According to him, there was no immediate danger to her life, but given the severity of the stab wound, she would absolutely require a month of inpatient treatment. Once she regained consciousness, they would have to move her to another hospital. When Ri heard this, he turned deathly pale, his voice trembling, and pleaded desperately while clinging to them—saying that since her husband was Hanbee, a penniless ruffian without a single coin to his name, hospitalization was completely impossible—begging them to let her stay here until she recovered.

“Sensei, please… I’ll handle things like rice porridge and all that on my end, Sensei…” But in truth, though called a medical department, it was merely a place where two or three volunteer doctors came during daylight hours to provide basic care—nowhere equipped to admit gravely injured patients. Dr. Yabe too tilted his head grimly and asked me what we should do. I recalled Dr. Yun at nearby Sōsei Hospital and decided to call him for help. It functioned as a charity hospital for the poor, funded through the meager earnings of Korean laborers, which meant Koreans received certain privileges there. Fortunately, an available bed allowed arrangements to fall smoothly into place. And so she was carried out once more. By now her head and face lay buried under thick layers of white bandages. She resembled nothing so much as a dragonfly stripped of its wings—utterly pitiful. Guarded by our group, she was transported through back alleys to the dilapidated Sōsei Hospital. Even when laid upon the operating table, she seemed barely conscious. She appeared to moan a few words, though none could be clearly discerned. A small woman she was, frail in build. Her fingertips gleamed waxen pale, as though drained of blood. Beside her, Dr. Yun listened to Dr. Yabe’s account while readying his instruments. Seeing them begin to unwrap her bandages again, I quietly left the room.

Outside, the sky was gradually taking on a threatening aspect. The wind picked up. The leaves of the wisteria trellis were shaking violently.

Neither Hanbee nor Haruo appeared at the hospital.

III

By the time the sun set, it was already pouring. The wind grew increasingly violent, and the rain began falling in torrents. The windows rattled violently, and the electric light flickered. Not a single child came. Only a math class was being conducted quietly on the second floor.

In the cafeteria, I shared worries with a few colleagues and the old woman about the Children’s Section that had gone to the mountains. But in my mind, the shock of what had just happened remained seared and refused to fade. Even so, I made no effort to examine it directly. Perhaps I myself had been crushed beneath that terror. I simply wanted to cover my eyes.

At that moment, a ferocious wind howled in with a roar, and a thunderous crash—as if the kitchen door had been blown off its hinges—echoed eerily. Everyone flinched and held their breath. The old woman who had approached let out a startled scream and recoiled. When he ran over to look, the door had fallen, and there stood Yamada Haruo, rigid in the rain and wind. At that very moment, lightning flashed brightly, and it appeared to tremble like a ghost.

“What’s wrong, Haruo?” I embraced him and brought him inside. Then I went straight up to my room on the second floor. It was an indescribable feeling. I removed his drenched kimono, dried his body with a towel, and laid him down on the bedding. His body trembled violently. When I gave him hot tea, he gulped down several cups in quick succession. There, he finally regained his strength and looked up at me with sorrowful eyes. I felt something warm and comforting in my chest—as if a barrier had melted away—a quiet, heartfelt sensation. What could have driven this boy to come out again on such a storm-lashed night?

“Did you go to the hospital?” His mouth twitched, then he suddenly let out a drawn-out “E-e—” as he began to cry. “Silly boy, crying like that.” “No! I didn’t go! Didn’t go to the hospital!” “Oh, never mind.” My voice came out hoarse. “It’s alright.” “Yeah.”

He immediately nodded as if relieved. There, he stretched out his legs cozily into the futon and pulled in his neck. To me, that looked poignantly endearing. His eyes sparkled, and his lips formed a gentle smile. He must have completely opened his heart to me. I thought that such beautiful things must lie hidden in his inner world as well. Even when it comes to instinctive love for a mother, why should we assume that only this boy lacks it? It was nothing more than having been distorted. I imagined a woman of our kind being tormented and ostracized by the neighbors. And then I contemplated the tragedy of an irreconcilable dualistic split within this boy who had inherited both Mainland Japanese and Korean blood. Unconditional devotion to "the father’s side" and blind rejection of "the mother’s side"—those two must perpetually be in conflict within him. Especially given that he was buried in the alleyways of poverty, he must have been prevented from straightforwardly immersing himself in the world of his mother’s love. He cannot openly cling to his mother. But even in his blind rejection of all that was "Mother," a warm breath toward her must have been teeming within him. I could not entirely fail to vaguely comprehend why he felt compelled to impulsively shout "Korean! Korean!" whenever he saw one of our people. But he had clung to me persistently all along, hadn’t he—even while suspecting from our first meeting that I might be Korean? That was certainly affection directed toward me. It must have been an unconscious longing for his mother’s essence. And that must be a distorted expression of his love for her channeled through me. In truth, he might have come to me instead of going to visit his mother at the hospital.

What difference was there between this and the urge to visit his mother? As I came to think this way, I was filled with an indescribably sad feeling, and while stroking his chestnut-burr head, I forced a smile,

“How about we go see your mom at the hospital?” I asked.

He shook his head sadly. “Why?”

He did not answer.

The storm must have been gradually subsiding. Light rain occasionally pattered against the eaves as if it had just remembered to do so. I opened the window and gazed at the sky that was beginning to clear. In the distant northern sky, between breaks in the scattered clouds, even two or three stars began to shine.

“Looks like it’s clearing up now. Hey, you—how about we go visit her together?” There was no answer. When I looked, he was completely covered by the futon. “Did Dad go?” “As if I’d go,” he added somewhat defiantly from under the futon. “What a strange dad I have. “Isn’t Mom pitiable?” “…………”

“Then I’ll go back to Dad’s place.” “Dad must be worried back home too.”

“…………”

He showed his face and put on a sulky look. "I'm fine here." "Yeah... well..." I stammered helplessly. "It's fine here... but..."

Just as math class seemed to have ended, the hallway erupted into a bustling commotion. After a moment, there was a knock at the door and Ri appeared despondently, but upon seeing Yamada asleep, his face stiffened in surprise. I suggested we talk outside and led him out to the hallway with some haste.

“You’re troubled about being called a Korean, Sensei!” he shouted in a berating manner. “So you’re finally trying to co-opt that guy, huh?” “Don’t be so rude.” I don’t know what came over me, but I lost my temper and yelled. Certainly, I must have been confused by his sudden appearance. “Yamada came here in this terrible rain. “And he has nowhere to return to.”

“Who says he has nowhere to return to? That pitiful woman is precisely the one! That brat should just go back to his own damn father! Ah, damn that villainous bastard!” Then suddenly he went limp and began to sob imploringly. “Why don’t you feel any sympathy for that poor woman, Sensei? You never think about that poor woman…” “Please stop,” I said pleadingly. My words were trembling. I didn’t know what to do—my head was spinning.

“Sensei…” “Won’t you stop?!”

I suddenly let out a scream like a death throe. I felt like I was going completely mad. He staggered away.

I collapsed limply against the wall like someone who had been in a fierce struggle.

Of course I can understand pure-hearted Ri, I told myself. Because I myself had gone through such a period in the past. But in the very next moment, I felt the fact that I was now called Minami reverberate through my five senses like an electric bell. So, as if startled, I tried to summon up the usual array of excuses. But it was already too late.

“You hypocrite bastard—so you’re trying to play the hypocrite again.”

I heard a voice beside me. “You’ve lost your stamina and turned servile now too, haven’t you?”

I was startled, then retorted scornfully.

Why must I always be straining myself like this—trying not to become servile, trying not to…? Isn’t that very effort itself proof I’ve started sinking my feet into servility’s quagmire……

But I didn’t have the courage to say it all the way to the end. Until now, I had convinced myself that I had completely become an adult—that I was neither sulking like a child nor acting fanatically like a youth. But after all, had I been lying there, cheaply burdened with my own despicableness? And so this time, it confronted me again: It said you wanted to maintain not the slightest distance from those innocent children. But in the end, what difference was there between you and that Korean who comes to the oden shop desperately trying to hide himself! So, as if in protest, I tried to rebuke Ri—then what difference was there between you bastard and that man from the oden shop shouting “I’m Korean!” whether out of momentary sentimentality or raging passion? In essence, there was no difference between this and Yamada Haruo screaming that he wasn’t Korean. I saw even Turkish children of different complexions innocently wrestling with local boys. But why was Haruo—who carried Korean blood—the only one unable to do this? I knew the reason all too well. That was why whenever I became conscious of being Korean in this land, I always had to arm myself. Yes—it was true—I was exhausted from this solitary charade of mine.

I remained in a daze like that for some time. Ri was no longer there. I staggered back to my room.

The room was dim. I approached Haruo’s bedside. At that moment, I started and my eyes flew open. The sleeping figure of Yamada Haruo, curled up shrimp-like with his right arm as a pillow and eyes half-open. I involuntarily covered my mouth and stifled a cry.

“Ah, Hanbee’s son!” At last I had remembered. Hanbee—the one who had flickered before my eyes all this time yet whom I couldn’t recall no matter how hard I tried. “Hanbee’s son!” I was shocked nearly out of my wits. Ah—what in the world was this? How long had I been watching Hanbee sleeping like this? The slackly gaping mouth and even those large eyes rimmed with shadows like an old man’s—weren’t these a perfect copy of his father? Now that very child lay beside me again in exactly the same manner. Indeed, I had lived and slept in the same detention cell as that Hanbee for over two months. Just thinking of him sent a cold shiver down my spine. That was because I cared all the more deeply for Haruo. For an instant, a terrifying premonition raced through my mind—that this warped Haruo might ultimately become a man like his father—and I shuddered violently.

Looking back, it was November of last year—that I met Hanbee in the detention cell at M Police Station. At that moment, he leaned toward me with a sly grin. He was a creepy man with a wrinkled, horse-like face and large, bulging eyes. But wait—he’s Korean, I thought. “Oi! Lend me your shirt!” He started to undo the buttons of my suit. Since I was somewhat agitated, I roughly shook him off and sat down in the corner. The others all watched us alternately with eyes that seemed creepily expectant of something.

“You bastard! You actually did it!” He launched into a rehearsed tirade. “You Korean bastard, you looked down on me!”

He rolled up his sleeves. At that moment, the guard who had been walking down the hallway peered in through the barred window and,

“Yamada, sit down!” he barked, and hearing this, I realized for the first time that he was Mainland Japanese.

He grinned baring his teeth and obediently returned to his seat. Then, without any particular purpose, he took off his coat, hung it on the wall so it couldn’t be seen from outside, and acted nonchalant. He broke the chopsticks from his bento and stuck them in like nails. I barely managed to stifle a laugh that threatened to escape. At that moment, as soon as the scruffy-bearded little man dozing right beside him leaned his head toward him, he suddenly brought his rough fist down on the man’s head with a thud. And then he glared with a truly fearsome demeanor. That evening, he did not give me my meal. He greedily shoveled it into his mouth, devouring it. I feel as if I can still see his appearance from that moment as clearly as if it were before my eyes. So much so that there was a time when, upon seeing Haruo eating, I even nearly recalled Hanbee.

He was a cowardly tyrant. Feared by all yet deeply hated in secret. While cowering excessively before the guards’ gaze, he compensated by brutalizing newcomers and weaker inmates with particular viciousness. Among these behaviors, his true specialty lay in unleashing blistering tirades with terrifying bravado. “Listen up—I’m a man who’s walked every damn street of Edo!” “Don’t push your luck—ain’t no two-bit thief like you fit to lick my boots…”

Judging from the state of the detention cell, there were six or seven others who appeared to be his accomplices besides him. If one were to follow his bluster, they were the Takada-gumi gang that claimed Asakusa as their territory and extorted large sums from famous actors. In their midst, he went around proclaiming himself as if he were the fiercest of them all. But it soon became clear that even among them, he was being called “Hanbee” without any honorifics—a term meaning “half-wit.” I still do not know his real name. In that environment, I grew accustomed to him and came to understand his background almost entirely. At the same time, my seat gradually moved closer to him. This was because within the detention cell, the longer one had been there, the closer they would end up to the barred door. Finally, I came to sit facing Hanbee, and when sleeping, we ended up right next to each other. He became docile toward me by now, but sleeping together was excruciatingly painful for me. His bad breath was unbearably foul, but what was even worse was that he would spend the entire night scratching his crotch. He himself said it was syphilis. I thought that it must have already reached his head. One midnight, he became strangely solemn and asked me.

“Where in Korea are you from?” “North Korea.” “I was born in southern Korea.” He peered slyly at my expression. Then he snorted dismissively through his nose. But I tried not to let my expression show any surprise. “I see.” Then he bared his teeth. “It’s true.”

Of course, such conversations were whispered furtively between the two of them. “My wife’s a Korean woman too.” “Hmm…” I involuntarily widened my eyes.

He smirked with evident satisfaction. I thought there must be some reason he had.

“Did you have her go to Korea?” “So damn funny—what a pain in the ass. Went straight to Suzaki’s Korean restaurant to hash it out with the boss—told ’em ‘Hand this woman over to me,’ and if they refused? Threatened to torch their damn shoji screens.” “Then those bastards went and turned white as sheets on me, see?”

He shot me a sharp sidelong glance. In the pale moonlight of dawn that streamed in at that very moment, those eyes held an even more ghastly shadow.

But by the next morning, he was behaving nonchalantly, as if wondering when he had ever said such things. As usual, he bullied the weak and took away the newcomers’ meal boxes. But since that night, I had grown increasingly suspicious of him. Nevertheless, given that he was referred to as Yamada within the police, he must have been a mainland Japanese. So I had considered that his mother might be Korean, but without ever being able to confirm it, I was released with a suspended indictment. ——

And now I had finally recalled him. How careless I had been! Given that even their surnames matched, shouldn’t I have realized that much long ago? From the moment I first saw Yamada Haruo, the image of Hanbee should have flickered before my eyes with a faint glimmer. But I had been unable to realize that it was Hanbee. Or perhaps out of my affection for Haruo, I had secretly feared that he was Hanbee.

“Hanbee.”

I muttered quietly once again.

But Haruo had fallen into a peaceful, sound sleep. On my retina, the servile grinning face of Hanbee, who had said, “My wife’s a Korean woman too,” rose up layer upon layer. Then, before I knew it, that image superimposed itself onto Haruo’s sleeping form. At that moment, Haruo seemed to let out a faint groan. No sooner had his face twitched convulsively than he let out groans, turned over, and opened his eyes wide in surprise.

“What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?”

While wiping his sweat-drenched neck, I asked. He closed his eyes again and murmured deliriously. “Dad says he’s going to get rid of me this time.”

IV

I, too, had spent the whole night dozing in and out of consciousness, seeing nothing but disjointed dreams.

In the morning, when I awoke, Haruo was already gone from there. I told myself, as if surprised, that I should go check Sōsei Hospital. That day was Sunday, so Haruo shouldn’t have school either.

Before I knew it, I was standing at the entrance there, ringing the doorbell. Just then, Dr. Yun came out and, while leading me to Haruo’s mother’s hospital room, said: “Apparently, it’s under the name Yamada Teijun.” “So she’s not Korean, then.” “I thought her speech patterns and the look of the characters in ‘Teijun’ seemed odd, so I tried asking about the moment she was injured in Korean, but she just clammed up and wouldn’t answer.” “She just says in Japanese that she fell.”

“Hmm… I see,” I stammered incoherently. “Is the wound all right?” “Well, it’s all right. But no matter what, I’m afraid a sword wound scar will form on her face. A truly pitifully severe wound will form right at the temple. There, that’s the place… Ms. Yamada, the teacher from your child’s S Association has come.”

Haruo was not there. In a room roughly twelve tatami mats in size, five beds stood spaced apart, each bearing a patient lying motionless. She lay in the corner. Only her mouth and nose showed faintly through the white bandages swathing her face. She stayed silent and still. Dr. Yun had stepped away to make his rounds.

I was somewhat perplexed about how I should speak to her.

“You must be in such pain. Haruo-kun seemed quite worried too,” I found myself impulsively bringing up Ms. Yamada’s situation. “Actually, since I’m the teacher at the Association that Haruo-kun attends… I’m Minami.” She seemed to have shifted slightly, perhaps unconsciously. I thought she must have been startled that I bore a Korean surname. “Ah… ah…” She moaned, her fingertips trembling in tiny, rapid quivers.

“Haruo... Does Haruo truly... care about me...” “…………”

I had no words to answer. “Ah...” She sobbed, overwhelmed by emotion. “My Haruo… Did he truly… say he was worried about me…?” I felt a bittersweet emotion. But now I had to comfort her about Haruo.

“I spend time with Haruo-kun every day. There may be times when he feels discouraged. But he’s still just a child—within that, I believe he will surely become a Haruo that even a mother could be proud of.” I genuinely thought so. Reflecting on the various things that had shaped his present character, I believed that if one were to extend a warm hand and guide him, he would gradually awaken to his own profound humanity.

But she did not answer. She held her breath, focused entirely on what I had said. I continued. “At first, I still thought there was no choice but for you to take Haruo and return to Korea.”

She flinched. “For your sake and for Haruo’s future as well, I thought that would be best.” “But you still have feelings of cherishing Hanbee-san even now, don’t you?” “Oh… Please don’t ask me anything.” She said in a quiet, plaintive voice. “He is my husband, after all…”

“I don’t think there’s any need for you to hide anything.” “I’ve known Hanbee well for quite some time.” “Ah—” She gasped in genuine surprise. She moaned as though drowning. “…But he… set me free. …And I… am a Korean woman…” By the end, her voice had dissolved into sobs. Was she still clinging to this slave-like gratitude to survive? As I recalled the ruthless Hanbee, I felt an inexpressibly desolate ache. The woman he had once threatened at a Korean restaurant in Susaki and dragged home must have been her. For someone as cowardly and cruel as Hanbee, wasn’t this helpless Korean woman exactly the sort he’d target? She had been nothing but a sacrificial lamb chosen from the start. What a pitiable creature she seemed compared to that half-witted monster. I could almost see their daily life together— her being tormented each day, collapsing to her knees in prayer, hands pressed together. It was from such wretchedness that a child like Haruo—so alienated from others—had been born.

“I am Korean,” she had said with such sorrow. Perhaps she had even come to think of her marriage to a mainland Japanese as a kind of pride, making it her small consolation for enduring this adversity. I had rather expected her to harbor fierce hatred toward that Hanbee, and as someone from the same homeland, I had wanted to bask in the righteous indignation of it all. But hadn’t I been utterly outmaneuvered?

“Sensei.” “Eh...”

“I have a request.” “Please tell me.” “Please... I beg you.” “Don’t... interact with my Haruo... I implore you.” “…………” I stayed silent, watching her intently. Her voice trembled at the edge of tears. “...Haruo... plays well alone...” But perhaps because her wound throbbed anew with pain, she became corpse-like again. Yet through faint moans—“Alone... he mimics many children’s... voices... plays so lively... He dances beautifully.” “It pained me so—” “He’d go watch somewhere... then dance alone with all his might... until he made himself cry.”

“Is it because he’s called a Korean and bullied outside?” “But now he does not cry.” She denied it forcefully with all her strength. “Haruo is mainland Japanese… Haruo thinks so… That child isn’t mine… For Sensei to interfere with that… I think it’s wrong…” “I’ve heard that Hanbee-san was also born in southern Korea…” “Oh… Yes… My mother was Korean like me. …But now… even just the word ‘Korea’… he gets angry…”

“But Haruo-kun has grown remarkably attached to me, a Korean.” “In fact, last night that child stayed in my room.” “…………” “In time, I believe that child’s attitude toward you will gradually change.” Then he insisted encouragingly: “Haruo will surely rekindle his affection for you in the near future.” “The fact that Haruo has grown attached to me isn’t solely from affection toward me—it’s actually a different expression of his love for you.” “Haruo must be starving for love.” “He couldn’t honestly show affection toward you, nor innocently accept your love.” “But I believe that will gradually heal over time…”

“Do you think so?” She instead heaved a sigh of profound despair. “...That child...”

At that moment, an old woman in Korean clothing came stumbling in through the doorway. I realized almost casually, at a single glance, that she was Ri’s mother. And so I stepped a little away from the bed and stood there. The old woman let out a breath the moment she caught sight of Teijun’s pitiful state and exclaimed in Korean. “What a horrible thing!” “That scoundrel will surely get divine punishment, I tell you.” “Hey, Haruo’s mom.” “You know who I am—I’m Ri-chan’s mother.” “Ri-chan’s.” “Keep your spirits up and heal quickly, you hear?”

Teijun, her fingertips trembling, groped around her. The old woman took her hand.

“Once your wound heals, make sure to escape back to your hometown this time so you won’t be found, I tell you.” “You won’t ever come back lookin’ like that again, I tell you.” “Ain’t nothin’ good left for you here nohow, I tell you.”

Teijun groaned. The old woman, seeming to suddenly remember something, hurriedly untied the cloth bundle and took out about two summer mandarins. “It’s summer mandarins, I tell ya.” “If you eat ’em, your dry throat might get a bit better, I tell ya.” There, she began peeling the skin with all her might. “Ri-chan bought these for you and brought ’em over, I tell ya.” “He’s been rejoicin’ all day ‘cause he finally got his license and became a full-fledged worker today, I tell ya.”

“Please take good care of yourself.” Thinking it better to remove myself from the situation, I said this and moved toward the doorway. Just then, hearing Haruo’s mother’s strained, faltering Korean, I stopped short. She began speaking imploringly to the old woman in Korean.

“Auntie… I… I still won’t go back… And they say my face will get a terrible scar… If that happens… he… he won’t even be able to speak of selling me off… And no one would buy someone like me anyway…” Then, as if seized by convulsions, she suddenly tried to sit up.

“Ah!” “What’s gotten into you, I tell ya?” The old woman hurriedly grabbed her and settled her back into bed.

“I… heard something…” She gasped for breath as if deranged. “Auntie… Haruo is coming.” “There! He’s coming to see me…” Then she suddenly began screaming in a shrill voice. “Auntie, please leave.” “…Hide!” “There’s no one coming, I tell ya! Can’t you see there’s no one here?” The old woman sorrowfully choked back a sob.

I slipped out through the doorway on tiptoe, though I found myself drenched in sweat for some reason. At that moment, I thought I saw someone’s small shadow dart hurriedly across the hallway corner. I couldn’t clearly make out who it was—but then, oh—the thought flashed through me: Could that actually have been Haruo? I rushed to the bend in the corridor and scanned the area suspiciously. Indeed, my suspicion proved correct. There in the dimness behind the stairs leading to the second floor crouched Yamada Haruo, frozen in hiding, his eyes gleaming.

“What’s the matter?” I approached.

In a flurry, he shook his head. And he cowered further into the corner as if frightened. As if he were hiding something, he swung his right hand firmly behind him and wouldn’t let go. He looked like he was about to let out a scream at any moment.

“You came to visit your mom, didn’t you?” I felt my throat grow hot as I said. I was deeply moved. “Your mom said she still wants to see you.”

He shook his head even more vigorously. I grew frustrated and pulled him closer. He did not release what was behind his back. It was something he was desperately trying to hide—a small white paper packet crumpled in his hand. In that instant, I thought Haruo had brought something for his mother. How tragic that even while visiting his own mother, he had to shrink from others’ eyes and conceal himself. I found the boy’s demeanor at that moment unbearably pitiable in a way that defied description. I said.

“Your mom will be happy for sure.” At that moment, he suddenly buried his head against me and began sobbing. “Silly boy.”

He cried even more violently. At that moment, perhaps from some sudden movement, a small white paper packet that had been crumpled slid down. Seeing that, I felt a distinctly peculiar sensation. It was a paper packet of cut tobacco.

That was the old Hagi packet I had searched for all over my desk and through the drawers when I woke up this morning but ultimately couldn’t find. “Oh! So that’s why you were scared of Sensei?” “You should’ve just told me and brought it along.” “From now on, just be careful about such things.” “There now—your mom’s waiting. Take it to her. It’s the third room on the left.” Then I patted his shoulder to encourage him. “What? This isn’t like Yamada at all.” “Now then—I’ll go back to the association and wait.” “When you come, we’ll go to Ueno together like we promised yesterday.”

He wailed and began to cry. My heart wavered. But thinking that remaining in the hospital would only make him more ill at ease, after telling him where the room was, I hurriedly left. And I pondered why he had brought tobacco from my place. I could only imagine his mother smoked it. What an unexpectedly brazen boy he was—at that moment, I found myself recalling Hanbee hanging his coat on the prison cell wall, grinning slyly.

V

About an hour later, Yamada Haruo appeared before me once again. But he kept his finger in his mouth and stared at his feet. Could there be some sort of clear relief as well? The corners of his mouth even seemed on the verge of breaking into a smile. He also seemed like a child who had done something wonderful, acting shy in front of an adult. Had such an honest, childlike expression ever appeared on his face before? He must have completely trusted me by now. But I, too, merely formed a quiet smile and asked nothing. “Well, shall we go?” was all I said while putting on my hat.

It was a somewhat chilly afternoon in the wake of last night’s storm.

When we disembarked from the city tram at Hirokoji—it being Sunday—the place was a jostling crush of people pushing and shoving. Before I knew it, we had been swept along to Matsuzakaya’s entrance, and though I had no particular business there, I took his hand and went inside. The interior too was packed. When Haruo proposed riding the escalator and we lined up to board it together, even he looked genuinely happy, his face bright. I too felt joy overflowing through my entire body. The thought that Haruo now stood among all these people filled me with such strange, inexplicable happiness I could hardly bear it. He was Haruo yet also stood by my side—Haruo who now existed among others. Side by side we were carried up to the third floor. There again, weaving through the crowds, we climbed to what must have been the fifth or sixth floor before settling at a corner table in the cafeteria. Yet in truth we exchanged scarcely more words than necessary. He got ice cream and curry rice; I drank soda water.

“Is it good?”

“Yeah,” he kept his face pressed to the plate and looked up at me from beneath his brow. “The department store’s curry rice sure is tasty, huh?”

When we came down via the elevator from there, we bought his undershirt for one yen at the first-floor bargain sale. He came out grinning, dangling the package’s string at length.

The park was also unusually crowded. We climbed the stone steps and emerged onto the main street.

The dense grove of trees, bathed in the pale afternoon light, swayed quietly with languid heaviness. The sky hung turbid and dull; the wind now and then sent a rain-like murmur through the high treetops. Along the desolate breadth of the main street, women and men who might have been country pilgrims trudged in a straggling procession. The boy had changed into his new undershirt unnoticed and, still clutching his tattered coat under one arm, occasionally blew a thin whistle through his teeth. I found myself at a loss to describe how meekly subdued he had become. But I could not bring myself to speak to him. Suddenly he tugged at my sleeve and spoke.

“Sensei, are you going to tell?”

“What are you talking about?”

When I looked, his eyes held their usual glint of suspicion and defiance. I suddenly realized—he was talking about the tobacco incident. “As if I’d tell anyone! I won’t breathe a word to a soul. You took it for your poor mother’s sake, didn’t you? Why, today of all days, I’d say you’ve done a truly good deed.” “I take it your mom likes tobacco?” “She doesn’t like it at all,” he muttered dejectedly, his voice thick with reluctance. “Whenever Mom bled... she’d always put cut tobacco on her wounds. I knew all about it.”

I involuntarily caught my breath in understanding, yet somehow I couldn’t show even a flicker of surprise on my face. My vision blurred hazily as if misted over. ××××××××× Whenever she bled, she must have pitifully kneaded cut tobacco with her saliva and pressed it onto wound after wound—there could be no doubt of that. Just as the villagers in her hometown would try to heal wounds in that manner. “I see.” Before we knew it, we had come near the police box. Beside it sat a sturdy-looking scale. When I saw it, I turned as if to mask my feelings and asked with a lonely smile whether he wanted to try measuring himself. Then he gleefully leapt onto it. The needle began spinning wildly from the sudden force. It seemed unexpectedly heavy. At that moment Haruo, apparently startled by something, lunged toward me and pointed a small finger at the main street. Wondering what it was, I turned to look just as an automobile glided to a stop beside us.

"Oh?" I thought, and when I looked, Ri in the driver’s seat raised his finger slightly to the visor of his new hat and gave a cheerful nod. I too felt happy and moved closer to him.

“Congratulations! Earlier at the hospital, your mother mentioned it went well.” “I heard it went well.”

Haruo sidled up to my side without any trace of awkwardness. Seeing this, Ri averted his eyes uncomfortably.

“Oh, I went to the hospital earlier today too.” “In that case, you should’ve met Haruo there too.” Blinking his beautiful black eyes, even he couldn’t contain his joy and acted uncharacteristically giddy. “I’ve finally become a full-fledged driver myself. This is quite a nice car, don’t you think? It’s a 1937 model but still relatively new, and the engine’s solid.”

There, he nonchalantly stepped on the starter motor. To my eyes, it seemed like an ordinary Ford model and not particularly good, but I replied, "It certainly is a nice car." "Today I've come out with Haruo-kun here for some fun," I continued, ushering the boy along. "Even now, I hadn't noticed, but Haruo-kun pointed it out to me."

“How about taking a ride? You’re going to the zoo or somewhere, right?” He opened the door and urged them insistently.

The two reluctantly took each other’s hands and got in. It wasn’t far to the zoo entrance. “How about it? The ride’s comfortable, isn’t it?” He said as he let us out. For this pure-hearted young man, today must have been utterly exhilarating. “All the other passengers said the same thing.” “Yes, it’s new and comfortable.” I said honestly. There, satisfied, he skillfully maneuvered the steering wheel to execute a U-turn, then raised a finger slightly in farewell as before, honked the horn—honk-honk—to scatter people, and drove off like a puffed-up pufferfish. Haruo stood motionless, watching the car depart with a gaze full of longing. I thought to myself what a blessed, happy day this was.

“Ri-kun has become a splendid driver.” “And what do you plan to be when you grow up?” I looked back at Haruo and cheerfully asked. “I’m going to be a dancer.” He suddenly shouted in a bright voice. “Oh?” I stared at him in surprise. It suddenly seemed as though his body began radiating light. “So you want to become a dancer?” I suddenly thought—he might truly become a splendid dancer.

“I see.”

“Yeah, I like dancing.” “But it’s no good in bright places.” “Dance is something you do with the lights off in the dark.” “Do you hate me, Teacher?” “Nah, that must be splendid, I bet.” “Seeing it that way, you really do have an excellent physique.” I mused. “Teacher, you really love dancing too…” Before my eyes flickered an image of this boy—born of an extraordinary origin, battered and twisted by life—standing on a stage, legs spread and arms outstretched, chasing clashing red and blue beams as he danced wildly amidst the radiance. I felt my entire body brimming with fresh joy and overwhelming emotion. He too watched over me with a satisfied smile.

“Teacher’s even created dances before, you know.” “Teacher, you like dancing in the dark too, you know.” “That’s right.” “From now on, let’s practice dancing together, Teacher.” “Once we get better, I’ll take you to an even greater teacher, okay?”

"I wasn’t merely arranging fabrications at all. I too had even thought of becoming a dancer once and attempted creative choreography."

“Yeah.” His eyes were shining like blue stars. (That’s right—I should move to an apartment near the S Association soon. There, we’ll be alone for now—) I told myself. I didn’t know how he might transform from here on out. Rather, he would undoubtedly betray me again in an instant. But I thought I must not let slip this opportunity that had begun to loosen, even just a little, the feelings that had grown stubbornly rigid and withdrawn.

For some reason, at that moment, the two of them—buoyant with excitement—wound their way through ancient trees and passed by Benten-sama. Here and there remained traces of last night’s storm—broken branches hanging precariously, scattered leaves lying here and there on the rain-washed ground. A flock of pigeons swirled busily around Benten-sama’s roof and the five-storied pagoda. When they came out beside the lantern, through gaps in the thicket below, Shinobazu Pond spread into view. It reflected the evening sun like a smoothed-out mirror, glinting now and then with a golden light. Five or six boats were floating. Leaning against the railing of the stone bridge spanning the pond, a crowd of people gazed at the water’s surface. It seemed that a light mist was beginning to rise. It must have been gradually approaching evening. It felt as though it was gently spreading along the pond, gradually expanding toward this side. As this occurred, their hearts grew ever more serene and clear.

“So we’ve reached what they call the zoo after all.”

“But I kinda want to ride a boat.” He said bashfully. “I see. Then let’s head down.” From there, a long flight of steps continued. Haruo and I descended each step one by one. He walked one step below, cautiously tugging me along by the hand as though leading an elderly person. But when he had descended to the middle of the stairs, he suddenly stopped, pressed close to me, looked up, and said in a coaxing manner.

“Teacher, I think I know your name.” “Do you?” I laughed awkwardly to mask my fluster. “Go on then.” “It’s Minami-sensei, isn’t it?” The moment he said this, he tossed the jacket he’d been clutching under his arm into my hands and went bounding down the stone steps alone, brimming with delight. With steps light as if some weight had lifted—yet nearly stumbling—I staggered down after him.