Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The Yamada Haruo I wish to tell of was indeed a peculiar child. He did not try to join the other children's group, always loitering timidly around their periphery. Though constantly bullied himself, he would secretly bother girls and smaller children. Whenever someone fell, he would raise a clamor as if he had been waiting for it. He neither tried to love nor was loved. At first glance he had thin hair, large ears, and eyes with a whitish cast that made him somewhat unsettling. He wore dirtier clothes than any child in the neighborhood—still clad in a gray tattered speckled garment even as autumn deepened. Perhaps because of this, his gaze appeared all the more gloomy and skeptical. Yet oddly enough, he never tried to reveal where he lived. Returning from university to the S Association two or three times I encountered him before Oshiage Station. From his direction of approach it seemed he lived near the marshland behind the station. And so one day I asked him this.

“Do you live behind the station?”

Then he frantically shook his head.

“No way! My house is right next to the Association!” Of course this was a preposterous lie. On his way home from school, he would make detours to come play here, never attempting to return until the night session ended. I heard he’d often been given meals in the old maidservants’ rooms. I hadn’t paid him much mind initially. But one evening when I saw him wolfing down food in a dim maidservant’s room, I halted in shock. “How odd,” I told myself. Yet I couldn’t grasp why I’d said it. “How odd,” I murmured again. Something about his appearance teased my memory—the hunched round back, the face, the mouth’s shape, even his chopstick grip. Eventually I grew breathless and slipped away wordlessly. After that, I stopped paying him much heed—until that truly bizarre incident occurred between us.

――

At that time I was a resident (lodger) at this S University Association. As for my work, it was sufficient to teach English for about two hours each night in their citizens' education department. Even so, given that the location was near Koto's factory district and those coming to learn were laborers, even a two-hour class proved exhausting. Given that they were completely exhausted from their daytime work, unless we maintained an intense level of engagement, they would all end up nodding off drowsily.

The most energetic part of the night session was indeed the Children's Department. Our classroom sat directly above that instruction space, where we could always hear the explosive din of their commotion rising up through the floorboards. My adult students would startle at the noise and shift uneasily in their seats. When the ancient piano began clanging out its tinny notes, the children would erupt in unison with their anthem—"Let us grow up healthy and strong!"—bellowing with such roof-shaking vigor it seemed the rafters might burst apart. No sooner had I thought Time must be up than a new commotion would erupt like beans being ground in a millstone. The children came stampeding up the stairs in a race to be first. Whenever I tried leaving the classroom after lessons, they'd mob me until I became like some old man scattering grain for pigeons—Child A clambering onto my shoulder, Child B clinging to my arm, Child C bouncing circles around my legs. Some tugged at my Western-style jacket sleeves while others shoved from behind, herding me down corridors until we reached my quarters. When I tried turning the doorknob, those who'd slipped inside earlier would throw their weight against it from within, while their comrades outside swarmed like ants trying to force it open. At these moments Yamada Haruo invariably meddled from the periphery.

“Leave it alone. “Leave it alone.” “A-a-aah!” While shouting this, he performed an uncanny yet clownish dance right before my eyes. When we finally raised a triumphant cry and came flooding in, six or seven girls who had been lying in wait inside the room shrieked with delight. “Mr.Minami! “Mr.Minami!” “Me too! Hold me!” “Me too!” “Me too!”

Come to think of it, within this Association I had unwittingly become known as Mr. Minami. My surname should properly be read as Minami, as you know, but for various reasons it was being rendered in a Japanese style. My colleagues were first to address me this way. Initially I found this manner of address deeply troubling. But later I came to think it might actually be preferable when interacting with such innocent children. Therefore I repeatedly told myself this was neither hypocrisy nor servility. And needless to say, had there been any Korean children in this Children's Department, I would have justified myself by insisting they call me Minami too. Because this would surely have had an emotionally harmful effect on both the Korean and Japanese children alike.

However, one evening as I was roughhousing with the children, one of my students entered with a face gone deathly pale and twisted taut. That was Ri—an energetic young man who worked days as an auto mechanic's assistant and came nights to study English and mathematics. When he shut the door, he planted himself before me with a confrontational stance. “Teacher.” He had spoken in Korean. I stiffened. The children didn’t grasp the meaning, yet cowed by the charged air, kept shifting their wide eyes between his face and mine.

“Alright, we’ll play again later,” I said while feigning composure, even forcing a smile at the corners of my mouth. “I have things to do now.” The children left dejectedly. But Yamada Haruo’s gaze alone burned with an uncanny light, staring at me intently as though probing. I still cannot forget those faintly glowing eyes. He managed to slip out while sidling crab-like and colliding with various objects.

“Please, have a seat.” When we were alone, I quietly addressed him in Korean. “We simply never had the opportunity to talk with each other.” “That’s correct.” Ri remained standing as he shouted. “I actually didn’t know which language to use when speaking to you.” His words seethed with youthful anger. My own response—“Of course I am Korean”—carried a slight tremor. At least where he was concerned, I must have been preoccupied with the matter of my surname. Or perhaps my inability to remain unperturbed was proof that I carried servility within myself regarding that very matter. So it was that I, rather flustered, ended up asking: “Was there something that offended you?”

“There is.” He declared defiantly. “Why would even someone like Teacher try to hide your surname?”

I was momentarily at a loss for words. “Now then, why don’t we sit and compose ourselves?” “For some reason—I needed to ask this.” “From your eyes, cheekbones, the line of your nose—I was certain you must be Korean.” “Yet you never showed a single trace of it.” “I work as a mechanic’s assistant.” “If anything, people in workplaces like mine should feel most constrained about their surnames.” “But—” He began stammering under the weight of surging emotion. Why was he growing so agitated? “But I refuse to acknowledge such necessity.” “I’ll neither nurse resentment nor play the servile fool.”

“That’s true.” I groaned faintly. "I share your opinion. But for my part, I simply wanted to get along pleasantly with the children." In the hallway, the same children as before kept making noise together, occasionally opening the door to peek in with snot-streaked faces or squeezing their eyes shut and sticking out their tongues. “For instance, if I were Korean, I think that in those children’s feelings toward me—beyond what you might call affection, or rather a morbid curiosity—something of an entirely different nature would take precedence.” “As a teacher, that would first be a lonely thing.” “No—or rather, it must be terrifying.” “That said, I’m not trying to hide being Korean.” “It’s simply that everyone addressed me that way.” “Nor did I particularly feel compelled to go around declaring myself Korean.” “But if I’ve given you even a hint of that impression, then I truly have no way to explain myself…”

Just as I said this, from among the children who had opened the door and were peering in, a voice suddenly shouted out loudly.

“Hey! Teacher’s a Korean!”

It was Yamada Haruo. In an instant, the hallway fell silent. I too could not help being somewhat flustered. So I made an effort to calm myself and said like this.

“We’ll meet again later and have a proper talk.” Ri left with his hands trembling. Yamada and a few other children seemed about to flee.

I stood there dumbfounded. For an instant, like a bolt of lightning, the thought flashed through my mind—am I not the hypocrite here? From downstairs came the clanging sound of a bell. The children clamored down like a cloud, their noise echoing as if from somewhere far away. Then the door opened quietly, and Yamada came stealing in on tiptoe, hunched his back, and peered into the room through the gap. And then, “Hey Chosun person!” he jeered, sticking out his tongue, then fled once more like someone pursued.

From that point on, Yamada Haruo grew increasingly malicious and began clinging to me relentlessly. It was after this that I began paying closer attention to him. Now that I considered it, he had apparently been following me all along, watching with suspicion from much earlier. When I occasionally stumbled over my words or spoke haltingly, it was he who would mimic this and laugh exaggeratedly. He must have suspected me of being Korean from the very beginning. And yet he persistently followed me about, often coming to my room to play pranks. Could it be that he felt something resembling affection toward me? Yet since that incident, he seemed to be thoroughly avoiding me—never drawing near, merely prowling restlessly around my periphery. As if lying in wait in some corner, poised to maliciously revel should I make any blunder. Still, I always approached him with what was likely more affection than anyone else showed. If anything, I wanted to placate him. And so I resolved to study him closely and guide him gradually. This was how I first conceived of it. His impoverished family had until then been living as emigrants in Korea. At that time, he too must have returned bearing the same warped sense of superiority as other children who had gone to the colonies. But one day I finally could no longer overlook matters and flew into a rage. That time too I had gone down to the classroom and was playing with the children when, after two or three ostentatious displays of concern toward me, he suddenly grew angry over nothing and swung his arm with truly cruel force to strike the little girl beside him. The girl fled weeping. He gave chase as she ran,

“Korean sabare, sabare—!” he bellowed.

“Sabare” was a Korean word meaning “capture,” one often used by Japanese immigrants in Korea. Of course, the girl wasn’t Korean. He must have been saying it ostentatiously for my benefit. I flew over and seized Yamada by the collar, slapping him across the face without restraint. “What do you think you’re doing?!” Yamada kept his voice low and said nothing. He had turned into a wooden puppet, yielding completely to my handling. He didn’t cry. With ragged breaths, he stared fixedly up at me from below. The whites of his eyes glared unnaturally bright. The children encircled me, swallowing their spit. A single tear seemed to well suddenly in his eyes. But he cried out in a voice that softly choked back tears.

“Korean fool!”

II

The S Association was originally a neighborhood relief organization centered around Imperial University students, containing departments ranging from nurseries and children's services to civic education programs, purchasing cooperatives, and free medical clinics—all of which had made it a familiar and trusted presence in this slum district. For babies and children, of course, and even down to the minutiae of daily life, it maintained an inseparable connection that could not be severed. And among the mothers of the children who attended there existed a "Mother's Association," where they would gather two or three times a month to cultivate spiritual exchange and mutual fellowship. But until now, Yamada Haruo’s mother had never once made an appearance. If she had known her child was coming here to play until late at night—even if not out of warm gratitude toward the university students involved, as with the other mothers—wouldn’t she have come occasionally out of parental concern? Alongside my growing interest in this troubled child, I had come to realize I needed to understand his family circumstances.

Before long, when the children began going out to camp on some plateau during the three consecutive days off over the weekend, I called Yamada to my room. I knew that Yamada had never been able to participate in such opportunities until now. "How about it? Would you like to go?" The boy remained stubbornly silent. In such cases, no matter how gently approached, he would always grow suspicious.

“This time you should come too, okay?” “...” “What’s wrong? You could bring your mother along. Or your Dad would be fine too—we just need a guardian to come give their approval, you see.” “...” “Do you intend to bring them?”

Yamada shook his head. “So you’re not going?” “...” “I’ll cover the costs.” He looked up at me with vacant eyes. “Let’s do that.” “...” “Then shall I go to your house with you to talk?” He shook his head again in panic. “But since it’s a three-day stay, you can’t go without getting Dad and Mom’s permission, right?” “Are you going to the mountains too, Teacher?” It was only then that the boy finally asked slyly. “Aren’t you going?”

“Yeah, I can’t go. This time I have to stay behind.” “Then I won’t go either.”

He let a quiet smile play on his lips. “Why is that?” Then he hissed through bared teeth and thrust out his chin like an idiot. In this way, though I’d long wanted to visit his home at least once, I ultimately couldn’t manage it. He simply wouldn’t give me the chance.

When Saturday finally arrived, over a hundred children from the S Association’s Children’s Department set out in a buzzing procession toward Ueno Station, but even as the appointed time came, Yamada never appeared. But later, when I went up to the rooftop after remembering something I had to do there, I was shocked. Leaning against the pillar of the drying platform, Yamada Haruo was staring fixedly at the distant procession of children lining up to depart. I felt my eyes growing hot for no particular reason. He turned around at the sound, appearing terribly flustered. Forcing a smile, I gently embraced his shoulders from behind.

“Look, you can see the ad balloons floating up over there.” “Yeah,” he said in a voice so faint it might vanish. Over soot-blackened smokestacks and inky buildings, far off near Ueno Park, two or three of them floated trailing their tails. I suddenly felt like I wanted to warmly care for him. “Hey Haruo, since Teacher has some free time now, shall we go to Ueno or somewhere?” The boy looked up and grinned sharply. “Then let’s go. Since Teacher has business at school too, that works out perfectly.”

Of course, my claim about having school business had been a lie. Was I really being so considerate of Yamada that I would go so far as to say something I didn't mean at all?

“Huh.” He opened his eyes wide. “Teacher, are you from Imperial University too?” He must have been genuinely surprised. “Will they let Koreans in too?” “Of course they’ll let anyone in, as long as you pass the exams...” “Quit lying.” “My Teacher at school clearly said it—‘This Korean can’t be helped,’ and that I should be grateful they even let me into elementary school.” “Oh? So there are teachers who say such things? So did the student cry?”

“As if he’d cry! He wouldn’t!” “I see. What a child you are. Bring him to Teacher’s place once.” “No way.” He broke into a fit of coughing. “There’s no one! There’s no one!” “That’s a strange thing to say.”

“I won’t tell anyone, won’t tell anyone.”

He vehemently retracted his statement. What a strange child, I thought. It was almost exactly the same moment. That was when it suddenly occurred to me—could he be that Korean child? I stared at his face as if startled. He stiffened his face and stepped back guardedly. Then suddenly he broke into a headlong dash down the stairs while shouting. “Okay, I’ll go put on my hat.”

I quietly shook my head and went down the stairs.

But when I had descended to the stairs near the entrance, I realized something extraordinary was happening below. Holding their breath and 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 carelessly parked at the entrance. Behind them, Assistant Ri appeared to be terribly agitated and was seen entering while heaving his shoulders with each breath. The woman's head was drenched in blood and hung limply back. Haruo, trembling all over, took two or three steps along its side, but when he noticed me, he froze in shock. I immediately approached Ri and asked with concern what had happened. Then he shouted while grinding his teeth.

“Her husband attacked her head with a blade.”

The people who had been making a commotion at the medical department entrance all turned toward him in surprise. "That woman is Korean." "The husband is Japanese—a complete scoundrel!" As soon as he tried to wipe his neck with a handkerchief, upon noticing Yamada Haruo panicking nearby, he lunged at the boy with terrifying force. "It's this kid. "It's this kid's father!" He twisted Yamada’s wrist as if presenting a captured criminal, foaming at the mouth as he shouted, "This kid’s! This kid’s!" His voice had already transformed into a sob from excessive agitation.

Yamada let out a scream of terrible agony while—

“It’s not true! It’s not!” he screamed. “She’s not my Korean mother! It’s not true! It’s not true!”

The men entered and finally managed to pull the two apart. I stood there almost in a daze. As Assistant Ri flew into a rage and lunged again, kicking Yamada's back with all his might, Haruo staggered and clung to me. And then he wailed.

“I’m not Korean! I’m not Korean! Teacher!” I held him firmly. I felt hot tears welling up at the corners of my eyes. Whether it was Ri’s frantic agitation or this boy’s pitiful cries, I found myself unable to condemn either. He looked about to collapse limply on the spot. The old maidservants took Yamada away for the time being, so it was as if the situation had finally been brought under control. Assistant Ri shouted vehemently in front of everyone.

“That guy’s father is a gambler and a scoundrel.” “He just got out of prison the other day.” “There’s no telling how much that poor woman suffered without food or drink all that time.” “All that time, since we were neighbors and close by, she would come to my place to get meals.” “Yet when that scoundrel got out of prison, just because his own wife had been coming to my place, he went and gave her a terrible beating.” “She ain’t gonna make it, she just ain’t gonna make it no more.”

He blew his nose loudly. Someone came out from the medical room and told us to quiet down. I took Ri a short distance away and asked.

“You know where Yamada Haruo lives, don’t you?” “It’s not a matter of knowing or not knowing,” he said resentfully. “That bastard lives in the swamp behind the station too.” “I see. That’s quite terrible,” I said. “Why did he abuse her just because she was visiting your house?”

He clenched his teeth. “Th-that’s because my mom wears Korean clothes.” “So he tells her not to go to Koreans’ places.” “Hmph, you think that ex-con bastard is joking around? What do you take him for?” “He’s just a mixed-blood brat!” he let out a yell as though confronting an adversary before him.

“Bastard! You better remember this real good! If we ever cross paths again, I’ll make sure you lose your fucking head! Hanbei bastard, ya hear!” “Huh? Hanbei?” I asked again in surprise.

“That’s right.” He said breathlessly. “He’s a wicked villain, a cruel bastard—hmph! But this time I won’t have it, you hear me bastard!” “I’ll slap a murder charge on your woman!” “Hanbei.” I muttered the name again. No matter how I racked my brain, it remained utterly unfamiliar to my ears.

“Hanbei, Hanbei.” I murmured the name repeatedly, but my thoughts just spun through my memories—no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t recall it.

At that moment, Dr.Yabe came out, so we ran up to him and asked about her condition. According to him, while there was no immediate threat to her life, the severe stab wound would absolutely require a month of hospitalization. Therefore, once she regained consciousness, she would need to be moved to another hospital. Ri turned deathly pale upon hearing this, his voice trembling as he pleaded desperately—since her husband was none other than Hanbei, a penniless ruffian without a single sen to his name, hospitalization was utterly impossible—begging them to let her stay here until she recovered if they truly wanted to save her.

“Teacher, I beg you—I’ll bring rice gruel and such from my side—Teacher…” But in truth, though this was called a medical department, it amounted to nothing more than two or three volunteer physicians coming by during daytime hours to provide basic care—hardly a place equipped to admit seriously injured patients. Dr.Yabe looked grim as he tilted his head in puzzlement and asked me what we should do. I immediately recalled Dr.Yun at nearby Soisei Hospital and decided to call him to make arrangements. It was known as the Hinmin Kyūsai Byōin (People’s Relief Hospital), and since its funding came from the meager pockets of Korean laborers, Koreans received various privileges there. Fortunately there happened to be an available bed, so matters were conveniently settled. Thus she was carried out once again. By now her head and face were thickly swathed in layer upon layer of white bandages. She looked exactly like a dragonfly stripped of its wings—utterly pitiful. Guarded by our group, she was transported to the dilapidated Soisei Hospital beyond the alleyway. Even when laid upon the operating table, she seemed barely conscious. She appeared to moan a few words, but nothing could be clearly discerned. She was a small woman who looked terribly frail. Her fingertips were deathly pale like wax, as if no blood flowed through them.

Beside her, Dr.Yun listened attentively to Dr.Yabe’s explanation while preparing various medical instruments. I quietly left the room upon seeing them attempt to unwrap her bandages once more.

Outside, the sky was steadily growing more threatening. The wind began to blow. 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 had already become a downpour. The wind grew increasingly fierce, and the rain began pouring down with the force of upended buckets. The window rattled and the light flickered. Not a single child had come. Only a math class was being conducted quietly on the second floor.

I was in the cafeteria exchanging worries with two or three colleagues and the old maidservants about the Children’s Department that had gone to the mountains. But the shock of what had just occurred remained seared into my mind and would not leave. Even so, I made no attempt to properly consider what had happened. I myself may have been overwhelmed by that terror. I simply wanted to cover my eyes.

At that moment, a fierce wind howled in with a roar, and a thunderous crash—as if the kitchen door had been blown off its hinges—echoed ominously. Everyone startled and held their breath. The old maidservant who had approached let out a startled scream and recoiled. When they ran to look, they found the door blown down—there in the lashing rain and wind stood Yamada Haruo, rigid with fear. At that very moment, lightning flashed brightly, making him appear to quiver like a specter.

“What’s wrong, Haruo?” I said, gathering him in my arms and bringing him inside. Then I went straight up to my second-floor room. I felt something beyond words. I peeled off his drenched kimono, toweled his body dry, and laid him down on the futon. His frame kept shuddering violently. When I brought hot tea, he gulped down several cups in quick succession. At last recovering his bearings, he looked up at me with mournful eyes. A peculiar warmth blossomed in my chest—something tender and sincere that seemed to dissolve barriers. What circumstances could have compelled this boy to come through such a storm-ravaged night?

“Did you go to the hospital?”

His mouth twitched spasmodically before he suddenly began crying with a drawn-out "Eee-" that seemed to pull taut from his throat. "You fool," I said, "crying like that."

“That’s not it!” “I never went to the hospital!” “I didn’t go… I didn’t…” “Well, never mind.” My voice was hoarse. “It’s fine.” “Yeah.” He quickly nodded as if relieved. There, he stretched out his legs into the cozily warm futon and pulled his neck in. To me, that appeared poignantly endearing. His eyes sparkled, and his lips formed a gentle smile. He must have completely opened his heart to me. I thought that even in his heart, such beautiful things must lie hidden. Even when it comes to instinctive maternal love, why is it acceptable to think that only this boy lacks it? It is nothing more than having been distorted. I imagined a woman of our own ethnicity being tormented and ostracized by the neighborhood people. And I contemplated the tragic split of unreconciled duality within a boy who had inherited both Japanese and Korean blood. Unconditional devotion to "the father's things" and blind rejection of "the mother's things"—these two must always be in conflict. Especially as he was one who buried himself in the alleys of poverty, he must have been prevented from sincerely immersing himself in the world of his mother’s love. He cannot openly cling to his mother.

But even within his blind rejection of "the mother's things," that warm breath toward his mother must have been seething nonetheless. That impulse of his—how whenever he saw Koreans he could hardly help shouting "Korean! Korean!"—I found myself almost able to comprehend in some vague way. Yet hadn't he clung to me constantly from our very first meeting, all while suspecting I might be Korean? That could only have been affection directed at me. An unconscious yearning for things connected to his mother, perhaps. And through me, that must have been one distorted expression of love for her. In truth, he might have come to my place instead of visiting his mother at the hospital. What difference lay between these feelings and those that would drive him to visit his mother? Pursuing this train of thought brought me inexpressible sorrow, and as I stroked his chestnut-burr head while forcing a smile,

“Shall we go to Mom’s hospital?” I asked. He shook his head sorrowfully. “Why?”

He did not answer.

The storm must have gradually begun to subside. Light rain occasionally tapped against the eaves as if remembering. I opened the window and gazed at the sky that looked like it was beginning to clear. In the distant northern sky, even two or three stars had begun to shine through breaks in the scattered clouds.

“Looks like it’s clearing up now. Hey there, want to try going to visit her together?”

There was no answer. Looking over, he was completely covered by the futon. “Did Dad go?” “As if he’d go,” he said somewhat defiantly from under the futon afterward.

“What a strange dad you have. “Isn’t your mom pitiful?” “…………” “In that case, you intend to go back to your dad’s place then.” “I’m sure your dad’s worried at home too.”

“…………” He poked his face out with a sulky-eyed look. “I’m fine here.” “Well, that...” I stammered helplessly. “It’s fine to stay here, but…”

Just as mathematics class had apparently ended, the hallway erupted in a noisy commotion. After a while came a knock at the door, and Ri appeared looking dejected, but when he saw Yamada sleeping, his face stiffened in surprise. I led him out to the hallway with some haste, suggesting we talk outside. "You're troubled about being called Korean!" he shouted accusingly. "So you're finally trying to recruit him, is that it?"

“Don’t say such rude things.” I don’t know what came over me, but I flared up and shouted. Certainly, I must have been flustered by his sudden appearance.

“Yamada came here in this terrible rain. And he has nowhere to go back to.”

“Who says he has nowhere to go? That pitiful woman is precisely the one! That brat should just go to his old man’s place! Damn you, you rotten bastard!” Then suddenly he went limp and began to sob imploringly. “Why don’t you sympathize with that pitiful woman? You don’t even think about that poor woman…” “Please stop this,” I said pleadingly. My words trembled. My head spun dizzily and I didn’t know what to do.

“Teacher…” “Won’t you stop?!” I suddenly let out a death-rattling scream. I felt my sanity slipping away entirely.

He staggered away unsteadily. I went limp like someone who had been in a fierce struggle and leaned against the wall.

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 reverberating through my five senses like an electric bell. So I tried, as if startled, to think up my usual excuses. But it was already no use.

"You hypocrite! Trying to act hypocritically again?" I heard a voice beside me. "Haven't you too lost your endurance and grown servile now?" I started, then retorted with scorn: "I mustn't become servile, mustn't—so why must I always be so worked up? Isn't that precisely the proof I've begun sinking my feet into servility's quagmire......"

But I didn't have the courage to say it through to the end. Until now, I had convinced myself I'd fully become an adult. That I was neither whining like a child nor raging wildly like a youth. But had I really just been lying there all along, cheaply saddled with my own vileness? So now I turned on myself. You claimed it was because you wanted no distance from those innocent children. But ultimately, what difference is there between you and that Korean at the oden shop desperately hiding himself! There, as if making some defense, I tried to corner Ri. Then whether from temporary sentiment or passion—what exactly makes you different from that man bellowing 'I'm Korean! Korean!' at the oden shop? In essence, that's no different from Yamada Haruo screaming he isn't Korean. I've seen even Turkish children with different coloring innocently wrestling and playing with ours. But why can Haruo alone—who carries Korean blood—not do this? I knew that reason all too well. That's why whenever I became conscious of being Korean in this land, I always had to stay armed. Yes—I was truly exhausted by this solo farce of mine now.

I remained in a dazed state 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 gasped and my eyes flew open. There lay Yamada Haruo’s sleeping form—body curled like a shrimp, his own right arm serving as pillow, eyes half-open in slumber. I instinctively clapped a hand over my mouth to stifle the cry. “Ah! Hanbee’s child!” I had finally remembered. Hanbee—that face that had flickered at the edge of my vision all this time yet stubbornly eluded recollection. “Hanbee’s child!”

I was utterly dumbfounded. Ah—what in the world was this? I couldn't tell how long I had watched Hanbee sleeping in this very manner. The slack-jawed mouth agape, the large eyes rimmed with dark circles like an old man's—even these were perfect copies of his father. That child now lay sleeping beside me in exactly the same posture. Indeed, I had shared living quarters with that Hanbee for over two months in the detention center. Just remembering him sent an icy shiver crawling down my spine. This was precisely why I loved Haruo all the more. A dreadful premonition raced through my mind—that this warped Haruo might ultimately become a man like his father—and I shuddered violently.

When I think back, it was in November of last year that I met Hanbee at M Police Station's detention center. At that moment, he leaned toward me with a smirk. He was an uncanny man with a wrinkled horse-face and large bulging eyes. But wait—he's Korean, I thought. “Hey!

“Lend me your shirt!” He began to unfasten the buttons of my suit jacket. I was somewhat agitated, so I roughly shook him off and sat down in the corner. The others all watched us in turns with a gaze that seemed creepily expectant. “You bastard, you actually did it!” He delivered the line in a stiff, formal tone. “You Korean bastard—you underestimated me!” He rolled up his sleeves. At that moment, the jailer who had been walking down the corridor peered in through the barred window,

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

He bared his teeth in a sneer and meekly returned to his seat. There, without any particular reason, he took off his jacket and hung it on the wall where it couldn’t be seen from outside, then acted completely nonchalant. He broke the bento chopsticks and drove them in like nails. I barely managed to stifle a laugh. The moment the scruffy-bearded little man dozing beside him leaned his head toward him, he suddenly slammed a rough fist onto the man’s head with a thud. And he glared with a truly terrifying intensity. That evening, he did not give me my meal. He greedily shoveled it into his mouth and devoured it all himself. I could still see his demeanor from that moment as vividly as if it were happening before me now. There was a time when I saw Haruo eating and had even come close to being reminded of Hanbee.

He was a lone, cowardly tyrant. While feared by all, he was deeply hated behind his back. He feared the jailers' gaze more than necessary, but in return, he was violently abusive toward newcomers and weaker inmates. Among these, cutting in with a fearsome demeanor seemed to be his greatest specialty. “Let me tell ya, I’m a man who’s walked every damn street in Edo.” “Don’t get too cocky—ain’t the same as some two-bit thief like you…”

Judging from the detention center's conditions, there were six or seven others who appeared to be his associates besides him. Following his bluster, they would have been the Takada-gumi gang that claimed Asakusa as their territory and extorted large sums from famous actors. Among them, he went around proclaiming himself as the fiercest of all. But it soon became clear that even within their ranks, he was being called simply "Hanbee"—a term marking him as a good-for-nothing. I still do not know his real name. In that environment, I had grown accustomed to him and come to understand his background almost completely. At the same time, my seat gradually moved closer to his. This was because in detention cells, those who'd been there longest ended up nearest the barred door. Finally, I came to sit facing Hanbee, and when we slept, found myself right beside him. He had become docile toward me by then, but sharing sleeping space remained excruciating. His breath reeked unbearably, but worse still was his ceaseless nighttime scratching at his crotch. He himself said he had syphilis. I thought it must have reached his brain by then. One midnight, he grew uncharacteristically solemn and questioned me.

“Where in Korea are you from?”

“North Korea.” “I was born in South Korea.” He peered slyly at my expression. Then he snorted dismissively through his nose. But I fought to keep any surprise from showing on my face.

“I see.” Then he bared his teeth.

“It’s true.”

Of course, the two of them exchanged these kinds of stories in hushed whispers.

“My wife’s a Korean woman too.”

“Oh…” I involuntarily widened my eyes. He smirked with evident satisfaction. I thought there must be some connection to him. “Did you have someone go to Korea for you?” “Funny? What a pain in the ass. “Went straight to Susaki’s Korean restaurant to hash it out with the boss—told ’em hand over this woman to me, or else I ain’t gonna take it lyin’ down—threatened to set fire to their damn shoji screens.” “Then those bastards went pale on me, I tell ya.”

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

But by the next morning，he was acting nonchalantly，as if wondering when he had ever said such things. As he always did，he bullied the weak ones and confiscated the newcomers' lunchboxes. But since that night，I had grown increasingly suspicious of him. Even so，since he was called Yamada by the police，he must have been Japanese. So I had considered that his mother might be Korean，but I was released with a suspended indictment without ever being able to confirm it. ――

And it was now that I had finally remembered him. How careless I had been. Given that the family names matched, shouldn't I have noticed that much long ago? From the very first moment I 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 this was Hanbee. Perhaps out of affection for Haruo, I had secretly feared that this was Hanbee.

“Hanbee.” I muttered quietly once again. But Haruo was falling into a peaceful slumber. In my retina, Hanbee’s servile grinning face—the one who had said, “My wife’s a Korean woman too”—rose up in layers before me. Then before I knew it, that image had transferred onto Haruo’s sleeping form. At that moment, Haruo seemed to let out a faint groan. His face twitched spasmodically, then with moans of “Ugh... ugh...” he turned over in his sleep and his eyes flew open in apparent surprise.

“What’s wrong? Did you have a nightmare?” While wiping his sweat-drenched neck, I asked.

He closed his eyes again and muttered deliriously.

“Dad’s going to get rid of me next time.”

IV

I too spent the whole night dozing off and on, seeing nothing but disjointed dreams.

When morning came and I opened my eyes, Haruo was already gone from there. I told myself, as if surprised, that I should go check Sōsei Hospital. That day was Sunday, and Haruo shouldn’t have had school. Before I knew it, I was standing at the entrance ringing the doorbell. Just then, Dr.Yun came out and, while leading me to Haruo’s mother’s hospital room, said: “Anyway, it’s registered under the name Yamada Teijun.” “She’s not Korean, then.” “I thought there was something odd about her speech patterns and how the characters for ‘Teijun’ looked, so I tried questioning her in Korean about how she got injured, but she just clammed up and wouldn’t answer.” “She just said in Japanese that she collapsed.”

“Hmm, I see,” I stammered incoherently. “Is the wound healing properly?” “Well, it’s okay—don’t worry. But no matter what, a sword wound scar will form on the face. A wound so severe it’s truly pitiable will form at the temple. There—that’s the place... Mrs.Yamada, the teacher from your child’s Association has come.” Haruo was not there. In a room about twelve tatami mats in size, five beds were alternately arranged, each with patients lying sunken into them. In that corner she lay. Only the areas around her mouth and nose were slightly exposed within the face swathed in white bandages. She remained motionless and did not answer.

Dr. Yun left to make his rounds. I was slightly perplexed about how I should address her.

"How terribly you must be in pain." "Haruo-kun seemed quite worried as well," I blurted out, inadvertently bringing up Yamada. "Actually, since I'm the teacher at the Association that Haruo-kun attends... my name is Minami." She seemed to have moved her body ever so slightly, as if by some unconscious impulse. I thought she must have been surprised that I had a Korean family name.

“Ah... ah...” She moaned while trembling her fingertips in tiny spasms.

“Haruo… Did Haruo truly… about this humble one…” “……” I had no words to respond. “Hah…” She sobbed, overcome with emotion. “Did my Haruo... truly say... that he worries about this humble one...?” I too was filled with a bittersweet emotion. But now I inevitably had to comfort her through Haruo. “I spend every day with Haruo.” “There must be times when he feels disheartened by various things.” “But he’s still just a child, and within him lies a Haruo who will surely become someone you can be proud of as his mother.” I had genuinely thought so. Reflecting on what had shaped his present character and continuing to offer warm guidance, I believed he would gradually awaken to the depths of his own humanity.

But she did not answer. She simply held her breath and focused on what I was saying. I continued. "At first, I thought there was no other way but for you to take Haruo and return to Korea." She flinched. "I believed it would be best both for you and for Haruo's future. But I suppose you still harbor feelings of care for Hanbee-san even now?" "Oh... Please don't ask anything." She said pitifully in a small voice. "He is my husband, after all..."

“I don’t think there’s any need for you to hide anything.” “I’ve long been familiar with Hanbee-san.”

“Ah,” she finally gasped in surprise, swallowing her voice. She moaned as though utterly submerged. “...But he... set me free... And I... am a Korean woman...” By the end, her voice had become choked with sobs. Was she still clinging to this slave-like gratitude to survive? As I recalled the merciless Hanbee, I was overcome with an indescribably desolate feeling. The one who had once intimidated a Korean restaurant in Susaki and brought her home must have been precisely this woman. From the perspective of that cowardly and cruel Hanbee, wasn’t this precisely the kind of story where he would set his sights on such a defenseless Korean woman? She had merely been chosen as his sacrificial victim from the very beginning. Compared to that terrifying half-wit Hanbee, what a pitiful woman she was. To me, even their daily life as a couple seemed imaginable. She must have been bullied every day. She must have been praying with hands clasped while tumbling down flat. It must have been from such circumstances that an unusual child like Haruo had emerged. She had said with profound sadness that she was Korean. On her part, perhaps she even took some pride in being married to a Japanese person, finding in that at least some comfort to keep living through these adversities. Rather, I had hoped that she harbored a fervent hatred toward that Hanbee, and as someone from the same homeland, I wanted to revel in the pleasure of righteous indignation. But wasn't I splendidly thwarted?

“Teacher,”

“Huh?” “This humble one has a request.”

“Please tell me.” “Please... I beg of you.” “Please... don’t interact with... this humble one’s Haruo... I beg of you.” “…………” I remained silent and kept watching her intently. Her voice trembled on the brink of tears. “...Haruo... plays well enough... even by himself...” But perhaps because the wound throbbed and began to hurt terribly, she once again became like a corpse. But again letting out a faint moan, she continued: “Alone... he mimics... several children’s voices... plays so lively... he’s good at dancing...” “This humble one was sad.” “He watches somewhere... then dances desperately alone... and even makes himself cry...”

“Is it because he’s being bullied outside for being called Korean after all?” “But he doesn’t cry now.” She denied it forcefully with all her strength. “Haruo is Japanese… Haruo believes that… That child is not my own… And you… interfering with that… This humble one thinks it’s wrong…” “I’ve heard that Mr. Hanbee was also born in southern Korea...” “Yes… That’s right… His mother was Korean like me… But now… even just mentioning Korea… he flies into a rage…”

“But Haruo has grown deeply attached to me—a Korean.” “In fact, that child stayed overnight in my room last night.” “…………” “Through this, I believe his attitude toward you will gradually change.” He insisted with forced encouragement. “Haruo will surely regain his affection for you before long.” “His attachment to me isn’t purely fondness for me—it’s actually a different expression of his love for you.” “He must be starving for affection.” “Haruo couldn’t show honest feelings toward you, nor could he innocently accept your love.” “But I believe this will gradually mend...”

“Do you think so?” She let out a deep, despairing sigh.

“...That child...”

At that moment, an old woman in Korean clothes came stumbling in through the doorway. I realized almost casually, at a glance, that she was Ri’s mother. So I stepped a little away from the bedside and stood there. The old maidservant took one look at Teijun’s wretched state, let out a sigh, and lamented in Korean. “What kinda horrible thing is this!” “That villain’ll get divine punishment for sure!” “Hey, Haruo’s mom.” “You recognize me? I’m Ri’s mom.” “Ri’s.” “Keep your spirits up and get well soon, ya hear?”

Teijun trembled her fingertips and groped around. The old maidservant took that hand. “Once that wound heals, you should escape back to your hometown and make sure you’re nowhere near Mitsuke this time, you hear?” “Don’t you ever come back lookin’ like that again.” “Ain’t nothin’ good here for ya anyhow.”

Teijun moaned. The old maidservant suddenly seemed to remember something and hurriedly unwrapped her furoshiki bundle, taking out two or so summer citrus fruits. “It’s summer citrus.” “If ya eat ’em, maybe that dry throat’ll get a bit better.” There she began earnestly peeling the rind. “Ri-chan bought these for you and brought them over.” “That one’s been celebrating all day since getting his license today, says he’s a full-fledged man now.” “Please take good care of yourself.”

Having concluded I should indeed remove myself from the situation, I spoke those words and moved toward the doorway. At that moment, hearing Haruo’s mother’s labored, threadbare Korean, I stopped short. She spoke to the old maidservant in Korean in a pleading manner.

“Auntie… This humble one still won’t return… And they say a terrible scar will form on this humble one’s face… If that happens… that man… won’t even speak of selling this humble one off… No one would buy someone like this humble one anyway…” Then she suddenly tried to sit up as if seized by convulsions. “Ah!” “What’s happened to you?” The old maidservant hurriedly grabbed her and settled her into bed. “...I... heard a sound...” She gasped for breath as if deranged. “Auntie... Haruo is coming. So he’s coming to visit this humble one…” Then she suddenly let out a shrill scream.

“Auntie, please leave. ...Hide!” “There’s nobody coming, nobody here to see you.” The old maidservant choked back her sobs sorrowfully. I slipped out through the doorway stealthily, though I was drenched in sweat for some reason. At that moment, I thought I saw a small shadow dart across the hallway corner. I couldn’t clearly make out who it was, but the thought flashed through my mind—oh, could that really have been Haruo? I hurried to that bend in the corridor and scanned the area suspiciously. Indeed, my conjecture wasn’t wrong. In the dim corner behind the staircase leading to the second floor, Yamada Haruo crouched hidden as if pinned in place, his eyes glinting.

“What’s wrong?” I approached. Flustered, he shook his head. And he cowered further into the corner, as if terrified. As if hiding something, he swung his right hand tightly behind his back and wouldn’t let go. He looked about to let out a scream at any moment. “You came to visit your mom, didn’t you?” I said, feeling my throat grow hot. I was deeply moved. “Mom was saying even now that she wants to see you.”

He shook his head even more vehemently. I grew dissatisfied and pulled him closer. He kept his hands tightly behind his back. He was crushing a small white paper package in his grip while desperately trying to hide it. In that instant, I thought Haruo had brought something for his mother. How sad that even when coming to visit his own mother, he had to shrink from others' eyes and try not to be noticed. I found the boy's appearance in that state poignantly heartbreaking beyond words. I said.

“Your mom will surely be happy.” At that moment, he suddenly buried his head against my body and began to sob.

“Silly you.” He cried even more violently. At that moment, by some chance, the small white paper package that had become crumpled slipped down. When I saw that, I felt no small sense of peculiarity. It was a paper package of cut tobacco. It was the old "Hagi" package that I had searched for extensively on the desk and in the drawers when I woke up this morning but ultimately couldn’t find.

“Oh, so that’s why you were scared of me.” "You should’ve just told me first before bringing it." "From now on, just mind that sort of thing." “There now, your mom’s waiting. Take it to her—third room on the left.” Then I patted his shoulder to buck him up. “Not like you at all, Yamada.” “I’ll head back to the Association now and wait.” “When you come, we’ll go to Ueno together like we promised yesterday.”

He wailed and burst into tears. My heart wavered too. But thinking that staying in the hospital would make him even more uncomfortable, after telling him where the hospital room was, I hurriedly left. Then I turned over in my mind why he'd brought tobacco from my place. I could only imagine his mother would smoke it. What an unexpectedly brazen boy - even then I remembered Hanbee in his prison cell, hanging his jacket on the wall and grinning that creepy grin.

Five

About an hour later, Yamada Haruo appeared before me again. But he kept his finger in his mouth and stared at his feet. Could there also be some unburdened relief? The corners of his mouth even seemed about to break into a smile. He looked like a child who had done something wonderful, being bashful before adults. Had such an innocent, childlike expression ever appeared on his face before? He must have already completely trusted me. But I too merely allowed a quiet smile to surface and asked nothing. "Well then, let's get going," was all I said while picking up my hat.

Following the previous night's storm, it was an afternoon that felt slightly chilly.

When we disembarked from the city streetcar at Hirokoji—it being a Sunday—the place was a jostling throng of people pushing and shoving. Before I knew it, we had been swept along to the entrance of Matsuzakaya, so although I had no particular business there, I took his hand and went inside. Inside was just as crowded. When Haruo suggested riding the escalator and we both stepped onto it side by side, even he seemed genuinely happy and radiant. I too felt joy overflowing through me. The thought that young Haruo now moved among all these people filled me with an inexplicable joy I could scarcely contain. He remained Haruo while standing beside me, yet also became part of the human stream around us. We stood side by side as the escalator carried us up to the third floor. There too, weaving through the crowd, we made our way up to what might 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 ordered ice cream and curry rice while I drank soda water.

“Is it good?”

"Yeah." He kept his face lowered over the plate as he looked up at me from under his brow. "The department store curry rice is delicious, I tell you." When we came down by elevator from there, we bought his undershirt for one yen at the first-floor sale area. He came out grinning, letting the package string dangle long.

The park too was unusually crowded. We climbed the stone steps and came out onto the main street. The thick grove of trees, bathed in the afternoon's pale light, swayed quietly with a languid air. The sky hung leaden and murky; the wind moaned through the high treetops with a sound like rain. The vast main street was filled with men and women who looked like country visitors trudging along in a steady stream. The boy had changed into a new undershirt at some point and, with his tattered jacket tucked under his arm, occasionally let out a whistle. I found him growing inexpressibly meek. But I couldn't bring myself to say much to him. Suddenly he tugged at my sleeve and spoke.

“Are you going to tell, Teacher?” “What do you mean?” When I looked, his eyes were lit with their usual gleam of suspicion and rebellion. I suddenly realized. He had been referring to the tobacco incident. “As if I’d tell anyone! I won’t say a word to anybody—you took it for your poor mom’s sake. Why, today I think you’ve done something truly good.” “Does your mom like tobacco?” “She doesn’t like it at all,” he muttered dejectedly, his voice tinged with reluctance. “When Mom bled... she always used to put shredded tobacco on the wounds—I knew all about it.”

"I see," I thought, involuntarily holding my breath—but somehow, I couldn't even let a look of surprise show on my face. My vision suddenly grew hazy—or so it felt. Whenever blood flowed, she would piteously mix shredded tobacco with saliva and apply it to wound after wound—this must have been what happened. Just as the villagers in her hometown would try to heal wounds in that manner. “I see.”

Before we knew it, we came near the police box. Beside it sat a sturdy-looking weighing scale. When I saw it, I turned around as if to cover my feelings and asked with a lonely smile if he wanted to try measuring. Then he gleefully hopped onto it. The needle started spinning wildly from receiving too much force at once. It appeared surprisingly heavy. At that moment, Haruo seemed startled by something; lunging toward me, he pointed a small finger toward the main street. Wondering what it was, I looked back where he was indicating—just then, a car smoothly drew up beside us.

When I noticed “Oh?” and looked over, Ri in the driver’s seat raised a finger slightly to his new hat’s visor and grinned in greeting. I too felt gladdened and moved closer to him. “Congratulations—your mother mentioned you earlier at the hospital.” “I heard it went well.” Haruo came to my side without any particular hesitation. Seeing this, Ri averted his eyes uncomfortably. “Oh—actually I went to the hospital just now too.” In that case, he should have encountered Haruo there as well. Fluttering those dark beautiful eyes, even he couldn’t suppress his joy and grew uncharacteristically lively.

“I’ve finally become a proper driver myself. This is quite a decent car, don’t you think?” “It’s a ’37 model but still fairly new, and the engine holds up well.” With an air of nonchalance, he pressed the starter motor. To my eyes it appeared just an ordinary Ford model—nothing special—but I replied, “Yes, it certainly seems a fine car.” “Today I’ve brought Haruo-kun here for an outing,” I continued, gently nudging the boy forward. “Truth be told, I hadn’t even noticed it myself until Haruo-kun pointed it out.”

“How about it? Why don’t you take a ride?” “You’re headed to the zoo, aren’t you?” He opened the door and eagerly urged them on. The two reluctantly took each other’s hands and got in. It wasn’t far to the zoo entrance. “How’s the ride? Comfortable, isn’t it?” He said as he let us off. For this pure-hearted young man, today must have been unbearably joyful. “All the other passengers said the same thing.”

“Yes, it’s new and feels good,” I said honestly. There he maneuvered the steering wheel with satisfaction and executed a sharp turn, then raised a finger in farewell just as before—honking the horn twice—scattering people as he drove off like a blowfish. Haruo stood perfectly still watching the car leave, his gaze filled with envy. I thought about what a blessed, happy day this was. “Ri-kun has become quite the fine driver now,” I said cheerfully while looking back at Haruo. “What do you plan to be when you grow up?”

“I’m going to be a dancer!” He abruptly shouted in a bright voice. “Hoh!” I stared at him in surprise. All at once, his body seemed to emit a radiant glow. “You want to become a dancer?” Suddenly I thought this one might truly become a remarkable dancer. “I see.”

“Yeah, I like dancing. But bright places are no good. Dance is something you do by turning off the lights in a dark place. Do you hate it, Teacher?” “Nah, that must be something truly wonderful. Now that I look at you, your physique is truly well-suited.” I said musingly. “Teacher also really likes dancing…” Before my eyes flickered an image of this boy - born of unusual circumstances, battered and warped - legs taut and arms outstretched on a stage, dancing wildly through the light while chasing clashing reds and blues of every hue. I felt my entire body overflowing with fresh joy and emotion. He too watched over me with a satisfied smile playing on his lips.

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

I was not merely inventing stories. I too had once thought of becoming a dancer—I even recalled attempting creative dance. "Yeah." His eyes shone like blue stars. (Right—I should move to an apartment near the Association soon.) (There we could be alone first) I told myself. I didn't know how he might transform from here on. No—he would undoubtedly betray me again immediately. But I resolved not to let slip this chance that had begun softening—if only slightly—those feelings that had grown so stubbornly rigid and withdrawn.

How it came to pass that just then, the two of them passed buoyantly through the ancient trees and by Benten-sama’s side. There and everywhere remained traces of last night’s storm—broken branches dangling precariously, scattered leaves lying here and there across the rain-washed ground. A flock of pigeons were flitting busily around Benten-sama’s roof and the five-story pagoda. When they came out beside the lantern, through gaps in the thicket below, Shinobazu Pond could be seen spreading out. It reflected the sunset like an unfurled mirror, at times glittering gold. Five or six boats were floating. On the railings of the stone bridge spanning the pond, a crowd of people were leaning and gazing at the water's surface. It seemed that a light mist was beginning to rise. Dusk was gradually approaching. It felt as though dusk was slowly creeping along the pond, gradually expanding its reach toward them. As this occurred, their hearts grew ever more serene and clear.

“The zoo has ended up coming all the way here, hasn’t it.”

“But I want to ride a boat, though.” He said bashfully. “I see. Then let’s head down.”

From there stretched a long flight of stone steps. Haruo and I descended them one by one. He walked one step below, cautiously pulling me along as if escorting an elderly person. But when we reached the middle landing, he suddenly stopped, pressed his body flush against mine, and looked up at me with coaxing eyes as he spoke. “Teacher, I think I know your name.” “Do you?” I laughed to mask my fluster. “Go on then—tell me.”

“It’s Mr.Minami, right?” No sooner had he said this than he threw the jacket he’d been carrying under his arm into my hands and went bounding down the stone steps alone, brimming with delight.

I too, with the relieved gait of someone saved yet nearly stumbling, clattered down the steps after him.