Pathway to Japanese Literature

On a late autumn evening, the ashen-faced O-naga sat dejectedly on a straw mat spread beneath the eaves. On the dried stems laid out in rows, not even a thread's width of sunlight now reached. It was I who had come up the hill in Western clothes. O-naga looked up at me with those familiar eyes that seemed perpetually on the verge of tears. The thumb and pinky gesture, and then the sash-tying motion—those were Hatsu-ya's doing. She waved her hand to indicate that all three of them were out. I couldn't grasp what she meant by pointing inward with her chin while making a pillow gesture. The loosened strands of her straw-tied hair kept falling back over her face whenever she pushed them up.

Even after entering the parlor, there was no vitality—no one came out. I went out into the corridor and trudged off toward the detached room. From the houses at the foot of the mountain came the sound of white cotton being woven in various places, resembling the chirping of bell crickets. Along the corridor stretched a flower bed as wide as a woman’s obi. Two or three varieties of flowers were blooming. The flower border ended at a single clump of daffodils, and when I climbed the low stairs, there lay the six-mat mezzanine. The surie print I had left as a memento still hung dimly on the wall. When this caught my eye, I felt nostalgic as though I'd returned to my own home after a long absence. On the alcove shelf stood a small vase holding four or five gentian stems. During my two-month summer stay, I had never let this vase go without fresh flowers that changed with the season. From the closet beside the alcove protruded something like a red chirimen sash. When I gave it a slight tug, it slid out smoothly. When I kept pulling to see how far it would come out, it slid out smoothly until it was completely free.

I folded it into several layers, wrapped it around the back of my hand, and fiddled with it. Afterward, I draped it from my head to my chin like the cord of a crown, tied it, and while gripping the dangling end, knelt on one knee to gaze at the surie print on the wall. It was a picture taken from *Nations Picture*. The single flower tucked into the woman’s white garment spread like blood. When I squinted my eyes and looked, the woman seemed to gradually emerge from the painting and draw closer to me.

Then, before I knew it, a young woman was sitting behind me. She was a proper young lady. She greeted me gracefully. Flustered, I discarded the crown-like sash. The woman smiled,

“Dear me, we’ve been waiting day after day since you left,” she said. “Since this is such an inconvenient island,” she said nostalgically, “we thought that even if you had said you would come, you might not actually visit us after all—and in the end, everyone grew quite despondent.” I felt as though I’d been bewitched by a fox. In the twilight of that solitary house on the hill, a woman I had never imagined emerged lingeringly and approached me as though we were intimately acquainted. I had never seen her before, and couldn’t even begin to guess who she was or where she came from. I was just fidgeting with folding the sash when finally,

“I hear Auntie and everyone else are out,” I spoke for the first time.

“Well, today everyone went to pull daikons since after noon.”

“Which field did they go to? —I’ll go check.” “No need—we sent O-naga just now, so they’ll be making quite a ruckus coming back.” “Earlier I thought nobody was here and marched right up alone,” I said, remembering how O-naga had mimed that pillow gesture. The woman explained she’d been resting in back with a slight headache when O-naga circled round to the rear entrance, rapped on the shoji, and woke her.

“It’s nothing at all now,” I said, lowering my eyes. She apparently got up, properly arranged her kimono, and came out. After a while, “Are you feeling any better lately?” she inquired. She spoke as though she knew everything about me. “No, my head still isn’t clear at all. Actually, I’ve decided to take a year off from school.” “Auntie says that’s how it is.” “Auntie spends every day worrying about nothing but you.” “Since it was decided that you would come here again this time, there’s no telling how delighted she was.” “…When you think about it, it’s such a mysterious bond, isn’t it?”

“It’s a curious thing, isn’t it?” “This summer—I’m not sure what came over me—I suddenly felt like coming here to escape the heat. But you see, I can’t stand crowded places.” “—I knew from the start there were no inns here, but when I disembarked and tried asking at the houses nearby, wouldn’t you know it—everyone turned me down.” “It was a real problem.”

The woman smiled. “So there was no other choice—I toddled off to the village office.” “The village head here is quite the Curly Baldy, isn’t he?”

“Oh yes, ho ho ho.” “Then that person kindly worried about me.” “And then that person said to Auntie here, ‘Since I have no mother, it would be good if I were placed in such a household,’ or so I’ve heard.”

“Hmm, was that how it was? Anyway, from the moment I saw Auntie, I felt somehow nostalgic.” “Since you spoke so warmly about her, Auntie apparently thought you were being modest and decided to take care of you.” “I’ve come to think of Auntie as my own mother now. Even when I’m at my own home, somehow it feels like I’m staying at some traveler’s lodging.” “Auntie jokes that Mr. Aoki might be my secret child, you know.”

“Ah, has the injury Auntie got on her finger the other day already healed?” “Yes, it’s just that she only cut it with a knife a little while ago.” The two of them waited while conversing in this manner. Horse bells descended along the foot of the embankment. A woman leading a horse sang a song.

When he slid open the shoji screen, the mandarin orange grove at the foot of the hill resembled a chintz pattern. Women with white head coverings flitted about within it. Horses loaded with mandarin oranges came out one after another, four or five in total. Sure enough, women were leading them. Across the way, a single column of smoke rose from the striped-like mountain fields. The flames flickered fitfully. The smoke spread obliquely, its trailing end dissolving into the evening hues. The woman also came close to him and looked outside as well. Horses descended here and there across the mountain fields. The horses were smaller than dogs. When he stuck out his head, beyond the pine trees in the garden, the sea was darkly pooled. Shadow-like fishing boats streamed back one after another. On the faintly pale sand of the nearby tidal flats, that which resembled scattered black beans—could it be a flock of crows alighting? If he looked where the woman was pointing, a man wearing a cheek cover and shouldering bundles of fresh pine needles clomped along the ridge path. No sooner had he turned his back to them and made an oblique turn along the path than that man became nothing more than two legs in workman's leggings moving beneath a massive bundle of pine needles. The color of pine needles darkened rapidly. When that had gone into the mandarin orange grove, for a time, though some still passed nearby, all traces of movement vanished. From the darkness of valley after valley, the hurried sound of a loom summoned the twilight hues that pressed gradually closer.

“Why is Auntie so late?” the woman said comfortingly. The surroundings grew gradually dimmer as we kept watch. When the woman went out briefly and returned to sit down again, even facing each other, her facial contours were no longer clearly discernible.

The woman stood up, took a bamboo oil lamp from the closet, shook it to check the oil, took out paper from her sleeve, and trimmed the wick. A scrap of paper with something written on it was stuck to the sedge hat placed below. When I read it, written in what appeared to be Shōbō’s childish katakana were the words: "FUJISAN GA MATA NAKU" (Fuji-san is crying again). “Oh my,” the woman said with an embarrassed smile as she peeled off the paper.

“It’s Shō-chan who plays these pranks.” “Oh, it’s all lies, everyone,” she said as if to deny it. “What’s this all about?” “Oh ho ho.” “So, this ‘Fuji-san’...” “That would be me.” “Ah, so you are called Fuji-san?”

“Yes,” Fuji-san said with a smile, then stood up to search the closet.

It was in this way that I came to know the name Fuji-san.

“And why did you cry?” “No, that’s not true—nothing like that.” “Are you looking for matches? I have them.” “Oh, it was merely a jest. That was Shō-chan who…” she said, misunderstanding. Taking matches from my pocket and lighting the oil lamp, “Oh my, how thoughtful of you,” Fuji-san said as she sat down. Seen by lamplight, she looked like a lustrous figure from an oil painting. Her face was slightly flushed.

“My legs are the best!” Shōbō dashed out clutching a kimono，and as they passed each other，Auntie entered and helped drape the garment over a shirt. “Here，let me give you this，” she said，untying the undersash. After tying it and emerging from the dimly lit bathroom，Fuji-san，wearing a red-lined haori，moved around behind.

“Are you going to make me wear such a thing?”

“But there’s nothing else available, you see,” she said, placing it on my shoulders.

“Even so, Western clothes are comfortable, aren’t they?” said Hatsu-ya as she fanned the hibachi. The haori was of yellow Hachijō silk. That it was Fuji-san’s went without saying.

“The kimono’s a bit long. Look, my heels are completely hidden,” I said.

“It’s Mom’s, you know,” said Shōbō from the kotatsu.

“I wonder if Auntie is really this tall.”

“Nothin’ like that—you’ve just gotten a bit shorter is all. ’Twas the sickness doin’ it,” Hatsu-ya joked. “Women tie their undersashes at the waist when wearing kimonos,” said Fuji-san as she adjusted the haori collar from beside me. “Why do they do that?”

“They all do it that way.” “Oh my, there’s no cord on your haori.” “No, that’s quite all right,” I said, whereupon Hatsu-ya,

“My, ain’t you two gettin’ along well,” she said, then suddenly began fanning vigorously with loud flaps.

“Oh my,” Fuji-san said, her face flushing red. When you painted a mandarin orange box with ink, made a round hole in its bottom fitted with a hollowed tin can shell through which light could pass freely placed upon a footstool and covered with furoshiki wrapping cloth—that became Shōbō’s camera.

“Are you going to turn everyone into your playthings again?” Auntie laughed. It was said he had begged the barber Tora-kichi to make this contraption. Shōbō, “I’m going to take your picture, Big Brother, so come on—please get out of the kotatsu,” he said in a wheedling tone, and then—

“It’ll be ready soon. It’ll take the picture soon,” she said with complete seriousness, treating this makeshift setup as a proper photo studio. “You’ll come out better in the photo if you stay by the kotatsu, Big Brother.” “But Big Sister’s in the way!” he said, sticking his head into the furoshiki. “Big Sister, if you keep dawdling, your back will show up in the photo!” “Yes, yes,” Fuji-san said with a laugh as she moved next to me.

“Big Brother, sit up straighter!” “Can you see my face?” “Of course I can! There, smile!” “Ta-da!” He shook the box with a clatter. Before long, he assumed an exaggeratedly solemn posture, “All right, I’ll take it now,” he said, staring intently our way. “Oh my, whoever heard of closing your eyes during a photo?” “Here we go. Taking it now.” “……And… now!” “Yes, thank you,” he said, placing the cardboard lid he held onto the tin can, then took out a piece of wood from the box, carried it proudly, and went before the closet.

“Shō-chan, you shouldn’t be getting into closets like that at night anymore,” Auntie said, stopping him. “But Mom, you develop photos with chemicals, don’t you?” he said, making a tearful face. “Instead of that, Mr. Photographer,” Fuji-san asked, “when will the photo you took of me the day before yesterday—or was it?—be ready?” Auntie chimed in, “I’ve had my picture taken five or six times by now too, haven’t I? When will they be ready, I wonder? You still haven’t given me a single print, have you?” she pressed further. Then Auntie began telling a story about crossing over to the opposite region and taking photos with Shōbō. Shōbō,

“This time it’s the telephone!” he said, coming out carrying two cardboard tubes. The bottom of each tube had paper pasted over it, with a long blue thread connecting their centers. They had apparently bought them at a craft market. Shōbō made me hold one of the tubes and said something for a while, “See? You get it now, right?” he said. “Ah, I got it,” I said, humoring him with a noncommittal response. “Hooray!” he exclaimed with a grin, dashed over, shooed Fuji-san aside, and plopped down next to me.

“Here. “Big Sister too,” he said. “There, there.”

“What was that about?” Fuji-san smiled. “There’s a call coming through now...” “Oh, you mustn’t say that now, Big Brother.” “Because that’s not something Big Sister would say.” “What could it be? You’re being mean.” “You’re being mean.” In the midst of this exchange, Hatsu-ya returned with fox-shaped buns. When the small lantern was put out, white smoke wafted up softly from the candle. “Madam, this time’s fox looks just like ’em too, I tell ya!” Hatsu-ya guffawed.

As I ate the bun and listened to the story, I learned that at the front of this bun shop had stood a papier-mâché fox disguised as a girl, wearing a hand towel on its head. The fox's face bore such an uncanny resemblance to the young wife of that household that it had become the talk of the neighborhood. The wife herself remained completely unaware of this matter, but a certain horse trader picked a quarrel with her over whether he had repaid his debt for the buns or not, "You fox!" "Why am I a fox?"

“You’re the fox!” “Don’t you know?” “Take out a mirror and compare it with this signboard.” “You idiot!” From such exchanges, when the wife later told her husband about it, he—being what passed for a remarkably reasonable man in those parts—explained that this wasn’t some new story that had only just begun now. When he quipped about wondering why their shop’s buns had become so famous, she demanded to know if that meant he’d been listening to people’s gossip about her all along—to which he simply replied, “Yep.” The wife burst into tears, furious at him for having feigned ignorance until now. It was all because he’d been making a fool of her, she wailed. Declaring she’d finally return to her parents’ home and die, she began yanking kimonos from the chest. Soon they were in a full-blown brawl—the wife fled with disheveled hair to the boatman’s house across the way, and matters grew quite tangled—but eventually the boatman mediated, saying, “You two—when you think back—aren’t you the couple who joined sleeves that night at the dance?” “Come on now—make up with a dance!” he urged, fetching about five gō worth. Under the terms agreed upon with his wife that day, the shop’s fox vanished from view starting the next morning. It was only recently that another fox—this one shipped in a box from a doll maker in the castle town—had taken its place at the shopfront. Though they’d likely requested this one be made weasel-sized with a slightly different face,

“No matter what sorta fox they make, it’s no use at all long as O-kō-chan’s face stays th’ same, I tell ya. Heh heh heh,” Hatsu-ya finally cut off her ramblin’ tale an’ moved away. Fuji-san said since she’d heard it all before, it wasn’t so funny tonight—but still she laughed like it was fresh as mornin’ dew.

The conversation came to an end. Fuji-san picked up the bean paste that Shōbō had dropped onto the futon in her palm. A shadow was projected on the wall. The head moved. When it finally settled neatly sideways, I mentally drew eyes, a mouth, and eyebrows. Auntie’s arm would appear now and then. She was combing through her hair with a hairpin.

In the back, Hatsu-ya pounded rice. I lined up futons with Auntie and the others in the Japanese-style room and went to sleep. When I said I was happy because the pillow was large and soft, Auntie replied that while she had been careless this summer, such a pillow was bad for one’s head. Fuji-san said that after hurriedly preparing this pillow, she had idly waited over ten days in vain. Fuji-san patted the hem of Auntie’s futon, then her own. She sat by my shoulders and pressed down the sleeves of the nightwear. I felt a sort of heaviness in my chest. Before long, I became aware of Fuji-san undoing her obi over there. Shōbō soon fell into a soft snore. I felt reluctant to drift off to sleep for no particular reason.

"Hey, Auntie," I called out again. "Huh?" Auntie opened her eyes that had been closed. "Um, what kind of person is Fuji-san, exactly?" I asked.

“Why?” she said.

When I asked about it, I learned this house had been adjacent to Fuji-san’s family home back when they were stationed at the Etajima naval quarters. At that time, Auntie had not yet taken in Shōbō—it was still far in the future—and she doted on Fuji-san so much that later, rather than sending her home at night, she often had her stay by her side. It was perhaps the day after they had first moved there when Fuji-san suddenly popped her face over the sennari hedge bordering the property,

“Auntie.” “Today...”—it all began when she started to say this. Fuji-san was probably no more than seven or eight years old at the time. Then, four or five years later, when the master of this house passed away, Auntie decided to settle here. At the time of parting, both Fuji-san and Auntie cried. Fuji-san continued to pine for Auntie ever after, calling her name over and over, and to this day has never once missed sending letters once or twice a month. Fuji-san’s family is now in Sasebo, it is said, and her father is a colonel, they say.

“So did she come all the way from Sasebo?” “No—that girl alone has been staying on this opposite shore since about two months ago. Even you are the same—once it comes to this, the bond is no different from that of real parent and child.”

“And yet this summer，we never spoke of that person at all.”

“Was that so?” “Oh, was that so?”

“And it seems you’ve already told that person all about me.” “Ohoho—you see, at home, your name comes up whenever anything gets mentioned. That person too—she’d already been saying ‘Aoki-san, Aoki-san’ before even laying eyes on you. Now that you’re here, she acts as though you were siblings or something,” she said, adjusting Shōbō’s pillow. “Earlier too—Hatsu-ya teased her by saying something like ‘The young lady isn’t one to feel shy around strangers,’ didn’t she?” “So then—she said it’s because she already knows you quite well, I tell you.” “And yet for all that, she still has such childlike qualities about her.”

“I don’t feel as if we’re meeting for the first time either.—Are you planning to stay here long?” “That girl? Well… just what brought her here this time…” She trailed off mid-sentence. When I saw her hand rest on the pillow, Auntie stopped speaking altogether and burrowed into the futon up to her eyebrows. Even after waiting some time, she didn’t resurface. The ariake lantern cast a hazy light over the chintz futon cover, its red floral pattern lying dull and murky.

I felt rather unsettled. What was the reason for Fuji-san coming this time? Could there be some unpleasant circumstances involved?

Auntie started to say something but suddenly fell silent. Why had Fuji-san been away from home since September? What kind of person’s place on this opposite shore was she staying at, I wondered. The faint sound of mountain water flowing into the pond reached my ears. Auntie had by now uncovered her face and was sleeping peacefully. She might have been tired from pulling radishes. As I kept gazing steadily at Auntie’s quiet sleeping face, my own eyelids gradually grew heavy.

The plover story saw a night pass into dawn.

I was writing a long letter on the mezzanine. Fuji-san, “Big Brother,” she said as she entered. “The boatman has just brought the luggage,” she said.

“That’s mine,” I said, continuing to write without pause. “That may be true, but it still needs to be brought over here, doesn’t it?” “Yes.” “In that case—since the lower section of this closet contains some of my things—you’ll have to manage with just the upper shelf for now.”

“…”

“Say,”

“Yes.”

“My, you’re so absorbed in it,” she said.

Having just reached a stopping point, I turned around. Fuji-san was kneeling a little distance away. “Your clothes have arrived, haven’t they? —Then you must change quickly. It’s odd for you to be wearing a woman’s kimono,” she said with a smile. I laughed and held up my sleeve.

“Earlier…” Fuji-san said, putting her hand into her sleeve as she came toward the hibachi.

“Look at this,” she said and produced from between the crimson silk lining of her sleeve a single white flower with a long stem. “Lately, such flowers…” “Is this a dandelion?” I asked, taking it in hand. “Where did you find it? Was there just a single one blooming?” “How about it? The girl who brought the eggs earlier gave it to me, you know. It was apparently blooming on some stone wall somewhere. Hatsu-ya said that since it had been so warm lately, this one was tricked into coming out.”

Fuji-san was twirling the returned flower with her fingertips. “It really feels like spring already here, doesn’t it?” “It’s a warm place, isn’t it.”

I gazed fixedly at the sunlit shoji, and something like heat haze drifted through my mind. “Am I disturbing you right now?” “What do you mean?” “Isn’t the letter urgent?” “That’s true.—The mail boat leaves at noon, doesn’t it.”

“Yes.” “Then I’ll have the luggage brought over here shortly,” Fuji-san said listlessly as she stood to leave.

“Ah, what about this flower?”

“Huh?” she turned around at the exit,

“That was something I gave to you.” After Fuji-san left, there seemed to be an emptiness. I placed the dandelion on the desk. I didn’t want to write any more letters. I wondered if Fuji-san would come again. I picked up the torn scribbled scraps—crumpled them into a messy ball, spread them out again, smoothed the wrinkles, folded them up, spread them out once more—then began biting off pieces from one end and rolling them into spheres in my mouth. Before I knew it, I began seeing various dreams. —I remained awake yet saw dreams. I have named it a dream.

The sound of a horse’s bell could be heard approaching. A woman’s singing could be heard.

I suddenly stood up and went out to the corridor. Fuji-san was crouching by the pond. “Have you finished already?” she called out. I gave a half-formed reply.

Several canaries were fervently chirping to each other on the main house’s veranda. The yellow sunlight filling the garden seemed to be spewed forth by them. “Do come over and take a look, won’t you? There are so many little crucian carp here,” Fuji-san said, squinting my way. “But there are no geta!” “I’m only wearing tabi socks too.”

I climbed down in my own way and stepped over the flower bed. The hem of my clothes brushed against some fragile remnant of blooming flowers whose name escaped me, sending their white petals scattering down. The garden lay completely carpeted in withered grass. Beside the annex's mezzanine grew a cluster of pine trees. There stood two large female pines. Between them formed a small pool of water. Everything had been preserved in its natural state when this residential plot was developed. Fuji-san crouched on a moss-covered stone by the water's edge. Along the bank grew scattered haze saplings bearing three or four leaves each, their forms dyed a vivid crimson. As I approached, the water's surface rippled as though fine sand had been cast across it.

“Oh, they’d all sunk,” said Fuji-san. I sat on the grass diagonally across the water. Had I stretched out my hand, it would have barely reached Fuji-san’s knee. The water was murky and dark, yet harbored the color of Fuji-san’s sleeve where she held it aloft. My figure was reflected darkly, severed by the shadow of a pine trunk. “They’ll surface again,” said Fuji-san. When I stared fixedly at where she pointed, the water moss at the bottom stirred like miso soup, and faint-hued crucian carp came swarming upward. As they rose toward the light—as though awakening from illusion to reality—their coloration gradually darkened to a dusky shade. They gathered together and lingered motionless. Then two or three at a time began slipping from the edges, forming ranks as they swam briskly toward sunlit waters. Some flickered past with bellies upturned. At the pool’s bottom, mud-cloaked aquatic leaves lay like carvings in sediment. After a moment—just as the school of carp blended with the water’s hue—large black shapes came swarming through the depths below.

“There are large ones too, aren’t there? Ah—over there!” I pointed at...

“Where?” Fuji-san asked. However, it was merely a reflection. The crucian carp were still swimming upward in small motions. I gathered up the pine needles at my feet and threw them. The crucian carp sank as if startled by a reverberation, scrambled chaotically, and vanished into the miso-like broth.

Fuji-san laughed.

Domesticated white doves, five or six in number, descended from near the annex roof with a flapping of wings to the lawn. “That seagull is such a beautiful bird,” Fuji-san said.

“That’s a pigeon, isn’t it?” “Ohohoho, that’s not it, you see.” “I—you know, ohohoho...”

“What’s the matter?” “No, I simply recalled something rather absurd,” she said, smiling to herself.

“What?” “It’s nothing. “—The other day when I was coming over here, a seagull had perched on a little broken branch and was drifting lightly over the waves. “It looked exactly like a specimen from some school that had been set adrift.” As if noticing something, I gazed out toward the sea. In the far distance, provincial mountains were faintly visible. In the shadow of a small island, boats gathering asari clams formed a cluster of sails.

“Look, the pigeons are picking up their food, aren’t they?” said Fuji-san. “Is there something on the lawn?” “I scattered some earlier.” “I always scatter feed over there.”

“Ah, that one seems to have something wrong with its leg.” Hatsu-ya came briskly over. She was wearing a dark blue work apron tied over her pants, her figure rounded out. “Miss.”

“What?”

“Nah, you’re the Male Miss, y’see.”

“My goodness.” “You’re changin’ your clothes now.”

“What did I do?” “Jokes aside—you ever eaten crab ’n’sa?” “When?” “Ohoho, a story about seagulls, eh? So if you’re going to have crab, I’ll go buy some?” “Aye, I’ll go buy some for ya, I will. I’ll boil ’em up come noon, ’n’sa. ’Cause it bein’ noon early on. —Have you ever even eaten crab ’n’sa?” “I do eat them, but they’re nothing but trouble.” “They’re delicious, though.”

“That’s already been settled ’n’sa.” “And what’s more, since it’s the moonless time ’n’sa now, they’re all the tastier for it, I tell ya.” “No, it’s God’s honest truth, I tell ya.” “On moonlit nights, see, they get all jittery ’cause they’re scared of their own shadows, so they end up skinny-like, I tell ya.”

It was the same expression she wore when expounding the divine virtues of the village’s Lord Suitengū. “Hohoho.” “That’s interesting.”

“Then you’ll be eatin’ ’em ’n’sa?”

“I’ll eat them.”

“Well, that’s good then,” she said, and briskly walked off in that direction, the geta’s heels dragging short shadows.

The pigeons showed no fear of people. I felt like going outside.

Fuji-san was alone in the Japanese-style room, sewing. When I invited her to come out toward the beach together,

“Yes,” she said with a smile, though a hint of hesitation showed in her expression. Even if we two went together, who would find fault? I thought. “But that would be improper,” she said after a pause.

“What?” “But I’ve only just started this now.” “Do you want to finish it while you’re at it?” “No, that’s not it, but I feel bad toward Auntie.” “I do want to go, but…” “Then why don’t you just go?” “Such things don’t matter, but ever since I came here, I’ve just been moping around and haven’t properly helped out with a single thing, have I?”

I sat with one knee raised, holding a ruler as I rhythmically tapped the needles in the pin cushion, gradually working them deeper one by one. But then I tapped too hard, driving one needle completely out of sight. Fortunately, there was a bit of thread attached to it, so when I gave it a firm tug, the needle slid out smoothly. “Even though it’s been nearly a month now—since I’ve been like that all along—and today I’m feeling better, so I was the one who suggested it and got told off for it, but…”

“It’s fine—such things don’t matter.” “But a woman can’t just…” she said, threading the needle. I obediently stood up and went down to the entrance alone, but somehow feeling deflated, I stood blankly in the doorway for a while.

— “Big Brother,” Fuji-san called out as she appeared. “You can see Lord Suitengū over there. There are plenty of pretty shells on that beach, so do go and collect some.” Though not particularly enthusiastic, I couldn’t refuse now, so I wandered out through the rows of dried stalks.

After taking five or six steps, Fuji-san called out again. “You have some lint stuck to your back, I think.” “Where?” “Lower.” “Is it around here?” “No.” “Is it big?” “Ah, a bit higher,” she said as she came out and took it off for me. It was a wisp of silk floss entangled with red silk thread that had stuck there. Fuji-san kneaded it in her hands while,

“It’s lovely weather,” she said. The desire to go together showed in her demeanor. When I turned back after exiting the gate, Fuji-san was still standing there, pacing restlessly.

“Please do return early.” “Yes,” I replied, utterly unaware of what was to come as I swung my cane and walked briskly off—yet this became our final parting.

Of course, by this time I had already changed out of the borrowed clothes. Until changing, I hadn’t given it any thought, but realizing that I—a guest lodging on this island—had borrowed and worn a woman’s clothes, a sensual feeling arose when it came time to remove them. Somehow I felt I wanted to wear them a little longer. And for a while, I watched the red-lined interior of the haori where it had been turned inside out. In my own home, such an ornate garment discarded carelessly would never be seen. My elder sister died at eleven. After that, there was never so much as a scrap of red cloth anywhere in our house. I found myself thinking deeply that my home was like a winter-scorched field. Then suddenly, the image of a snake’s shed skin floated into my mind. When I began pondering an absurd notion—what does a snake think of the skin it sheds?—Hatsu-ya came and took away the changed clothes.

Now I wound my way down the hill path that coiled like a snake around a plate. With each bend descended, a woman’s singing grew clearer— “Sleep now, sleep, prithee sleep. Rest now, rest, prithee rest,” she sang. “When the rooster crows, prithee rise.” Her voice was rich and honeyed. “Prithee go now—the east pales white; The manor fowls crow.” By the time I’d finished descending while singing these lines, I realized it was O-sen from the corner tofu shop who’d been singing all along.

All the women on this island often sang songs. Whether weaving at looms, tilling fields, rowing boats, or leading horses—when they worked, they always sang. They sang from morning till night. If songs were not heard in a place, it was because there were no young women there. All young women sang. And O-sen and her group appeared to be the most skilled.

O-sen had her back turned to the outside as she ground beans. Two young men in field trousers, who had left the farm tools rolled by the entrance, squatted in front of the soot-blackened stove and smoked tobacco. Behind the torn karakami paper sat an old man wearing a Daikoku hood, hugging a brazier like a doll. A pure white long beard was far too stylish for the tofu shop’s old man. “How strange, how strange—the oak leaves are white.” “Today’s girls’ teeth are white.”

O-sen was singing proudly because there were young men present. When I turned at the house,

“Mr. Aoki!” called a voice. A forehead broader than most sat plastered with headache plasters, resembling yesterday’s crows on the tidal flats. “Would’ve come yesterday, see,” “But I was off exchangin’ horses,” she said, pausing her work. “Get on now.” “This ’un’s quiet too,” they urged—then burst into song again: “Parent’s twenty, child twenty-one— Where’d th’ countin’ slip ’n’ come undone?”

“Heave-ho!” chanted one of the field-trousered youths. I peeked into the stable next door but found no horse inside. From its edge stretched fig trees lining one side of the road. Walking along their shadows, I passed barley fields stepped lower on both sides. O-sen’s song gradually faded from hearing. Suddenly Fuji-san came to mind. It was said she’d already been staying over a month, and that she’d done nothing but brood daily. There must be some reason, I thought—last night when Auntie fell silent, it hadn’t seemed mere sleepiness. I kept trying to puzzle out what this meant.

From behind came the sound of a bell. I wondered whether it was ringing within my own thoughts.

A man carrying straw on his back approached from ahead. Afterwards, “Pardon me,” someone said. When I turned around, the horse’s nose was peeking at shoulder level. I hurriedly took shelter under the eaves of a farmhouse. There, someone was weaving at a loom in the dirt-floored area. [Someone] was singing a song in a low voice.

“Hey,” said the man leading the horse as he came to a stop. The straw-carrying man quickly took shelter under the same eaves. The horse passed through. The horse was loaded with mandarin oranges. When—

“Well, who’s there?” exclaimed the woman weaving at the loom in a shrill voice. The straw-carrying man stood blocking the entrance; looking at me and laughing, he shuffled backward step by step while pushing the straw on his back further inside.

“It’s dark in here, ain’t it,” the woman said. “Fufufu,” the man chuckled. They might have been on familiar terms. I walked on, thinking of Fuji-san once more. Hatsu-ya might know the circumstances. I wondered if I should try getting her to talk.

This entire area consisted of fishermen’s dwellings. There was a wife who had put a baby in a bamboo basket, hung it swaying under the eaves, and while occasionally raising her hand to poke at it, was mending tears in a net. On the mat on the veranda where sliced potatoes had been spread out, flies swarmed in a black mass—there was one that looked as if someone had laid out flies to dry. But the idea of asking Hatsu-ya felt somehow strange—like trying to circle around and pry into what Auntie had chosen not to say. I wouldn’t ask. It would become known when the time came. Why did I care so much about Fuji-san? Was it merely curiosity and nothing more?

At this moment, I walked through an area where reeds taller than my height—withered and densely grown without gaps—lined both sides of the seaside embankment. Waves lapped against the rock cliff. After some time, O-naga came up leading a white horse from a side path. She gestured that they were transporting something round and asked if I wouldn't come along. I felt inclined to follow. The horse's belly rustled through the reeds' leaves.

When we emerged from there, Suitengū Shrine stood before us. Looking back later, if only I had turned back here—yet I kept following the horse’s hindquarters past five or six mountain fields until reaching wherever O-naga was going. In the valley field were O-naga’s parents and her brother Tsunekichi. They were digging potatoes from between the wheat that had grown a few inches.

“My, you really came all this way for us!” they all rejoiced. Grandfather wrinkled his entire face,

“After you’d gone, we kept talkin’ ’bout nothin’ but you for ages, y’know,” he said with a smile.

“Why, I’d thought we’d never meet again until death!” said the mother. I felt as though I’d met a wet nurse from my childhood. For a while, we talked about all sorts of things.

Eventually, the parents began digging. When they thrust a hoe into the roots of the withered stems and pulled it up, a glimpse of a color resembling a monkey’s buttocks peeked through from within. When they grabbed the stems and pulled them up, beneath lay potatoes layered crimson. Tsunekichi snapped them off one by one from behind and put them into the basket. When a basket was filled, he hefted it up with a grunt and transferred it into the net bags hanging on both flanks of the horse let loose on the ridge. The horse cast its shadow over the field as it ate bamboo grass leaves. I sat beside O-naga on a mat at the edge of the field, smoking tobacco. The parents turned toward me and talked every time they rested their hoes. O-naga too would occasionally pull at sleeves and communicate through gestures. Pointing to the boats raking cockles offshore, every vessel had three sails set sideways. Because two anchor ropes were extended from both ends, even when their sails caught the wind, the boats did not move. Because the sails were taut, the anchor ropes did not slacken. They said things like cockles were dried in the sun and packed into straw bags. Waves broke against the cliff beneath the field. The sunlight soaked thickly into my hair.

Eventually, Tsunekichi’s young bride came leading a red horse. That horse belonged to the tofu shop. The bride also dug. I said I wanted to try digging too, but the mother wouldn’t hear of it, saying the kimono would get dirty. The bride sang a song. The mother also sang softly. Unable to sing, O-naga bowed down and frayed the edge of the mat.

When Tsunekichi clapped his hands, O-naga stood up and led the white horse away. The net bags were full of potatoes. When the white horse returned, the bride’s red horse went out. When the red returned, the white went out. “Pa, ah, let’s call it a day,” Tsunekichi said as he removed his headband—by then, the horse’s shadow had already vanished from the ground. I had no idea how many hours I’d spent there. The white sails of the cockle boats had all vanished without exception. “You should go on ahead, sir.” “Hatsu-ya can go look for you,” said the mother. I remembered the shells for the first time and hurried back to Suitengū Shrine right then.

The setting sun began sinking into the shadow of the distant opposite island. I considered stopping with the shells but, feeling somehow unsatisfied, went down to the tidal flats thinking to gather at least three or four more. So-called 'bride's plate' shells lay scattered everywhere. Once I started collecting them, I found I couldn't stop. I kept gathering until one sleeve was nearly full. When I climbed back up, two snaking lines from my geta tracks continued between the moored fishing boats. Upon returning, Fuji-san would surely be first to come out and say, "My, what have you been up to?" And when I spilled the shells at the entrance, she'd likely exclaim "Oh!" with delight. Imagining this as if it had already happened, I hugged my sleeve and hurried back.

When I came to the front of the tofu shop, O-sen was at the entrance adding oil to the lantern.

As I climbed the hill, though I had only just had the geta bought this morning, the front thong snapped with a pop. It was likely due to their being cheaply made and fragile from the start, but were Hatsu-ya to say something about it, she'd claim this was an omen of some disagreeable event to come. Having no alternative, I removed one tabi sock and became half-barefoot.

When I returned home, I called out for Fuji-san from the doorway and lingered in the entrance for a while, but there was no response. I called out loudly once more, this time trying "Auntie," but again there was no response. The entire house was silent, and it seemed I could see the trail of my voice dissolving into emptiness. I went around to the kitchen and called for Hatsu-ya, but Hatsu-ya wasn’t there either. Thinking it strange, I picked up some nearby geta and went out to the wellside to wash my feet when I heard someone sniffling and sobbing behind the shoji screen. When I slid open the shoji, there was Shōbō. He sat with his legs stretched out, looking dejected.

"What's wrong?" I asked, but he didn't answer and merely wiped his tears. "Is your mother not here?" I asked, and he shook his head. "Is she here?" I asked, but he still shook his head sideways.

“What’s wrong? Where did Big Sister go?” I asked. Shōbō widened his tear-filled eyes and burst out crying, “Big Sister’s already gone home.” “Oh, when?” “Some uncle came to take her.” “What sort of uncle?” “Just some uncle,” he sobbed. I felt as though I’d been abandoned alone at the bottom of a deep ravine. Fuji-san had suddenly gathered her belongings and left, they said. This uncle was apparently quite elderly, with pockmarks dotting the tip of his nose. Auntie and Hatsu-ya had reportedly accompanied her to the neighboring village’s port. Evening boats didn’t depart from this village. Hatsu-ya had carried off a large cloth-wrapped bundle on her back. It was said to have happened just a short while earlier—the uncle had apparently arrived by the time Shōbō returned from school.

I imagined Fuji-san's circumstances swirling through my mind like shadows from a revolving lantern. If I rushed to the port now, the ship might still be there. Though it was twenty chō to the neighboring village's center, borrowing a farmer's horse would make it trivial. Somehow I wanted to meet her and exchange just one word of farewell. This ending felt incomplete. It seemed cruelly abrupt, like I'd been tricked. I considered rushing there, but recoiled at being seen by that man who came to fetch her. He struck me as inherently unsavory-looking. The thought of him staring with those suspicious eyes made my skin crawl. If the ship had already left, I'd look foolish. And if Auntie thought I shouldn't have come... The indecision paralyzed me. For a long moment I stood vacantly, reconstructing that uncle's face - dredging up every spiteful mug I'd ever seen, crowning them with white wigs, stippling their noses with pockmarks.

Eventually, I plodded over to the storage shed, then from there briskly ran up the lightning-shaped mountain path, still half-barefoot. When I reached the high ground, the open sea became visible far into the distance. And if there was a sail leaving from the neighboring village’s port, I thought that would be Fuji-san’s ship. I climbed as high as I could—even one step higher—forcing my way up through the miscellaneous trees to the base of the bamboo fence encircling the boundary, grasped the trunk of a young pine, and exhaled.

I spotted a white sail. In the twilight sea, clear as a pond, a single white sail floated motionless. I was certain it had to be Fuji-san’s ship. Vessels without sails were all fishing boats. One could picture Fuji-san sitting slightly askew, lost in thought. The man who had come to fetch her likely sat there wordlessly picking at his pockmarked nose with a pinky nail—or so it seemed to me. What state of mind must Fuji-san be in? From what circumstances had she been taken away so abruptly? As I wondered why she had stayed at Auntie’s for a full month, countless possibilities flooded my mind at once, leaving me with this hollow, restless feeling. Though the distance from ship to neighboring village shore appeared far greater than from here to that previous bank when viewed by eye, it hadn’t yet sailed even one ri out. If only I hadn’t lingered so long in the fields—I might have returned in time to at least see Fuji-san off. Or why hadn’t I tried from the start to prevent her departure? While we were together I’d felt nothing particular, but now that matters had come to this, I found myself wishing I’d said something—that I’d found you somehow endearing. This permanent parting as things stood felt deeply unsatisfying. As for my true feelings—Fuji-san likely remained unaware. Should she revert to regarding me as a stranger after our separation, all meaning would drain from this. I realized I couldn’t stop worrying about you.

The view across this area seemed at this moment alone to hold some kind of meaning. The darkening sky and water, the shadows of islets that might or might not be there, the mountains and mandarin groves, the forests and houses—every visible thing seemed to me as though Fuji-san’s white sail were gathering whispered words and conveying them to me one by one. And then, unexpectedly, there was another white sail. Around the distant mountain’s bend, a white sail faded into the haze as it departed. Wondering if it was a trick of my eyes, I strained my gaze—but it remained unmistakably a sail. Yet I had to insist that Fuji-san’s ship was the earlier white sail. The distant one could not be clearly seen. And before long, it vanished into the haze. The ship that remained clearly visible and enduring must have been Fuji-san’s.

Pine needles fluttered down despite the absence of wind. The sound of looms from all around resembled that of distant insects. I gazed down at my lodging at my feet. The lodging resembled an empty cage from which a small bird had fled. On the roof of the detached building, leaves lay piled and decayed all over. In the attic of the storage shed, a pigeon cooed softly. From the withered branch before my eyes, a nephila spider descended. When I raised my hand to brush it off, the spider smoothly retreated to the branch. At that moment, the shells in my sleeve rustled. I had completely forgotten about them until now, but thinking it pointless to keep these shells any longer, I took them out one by one and hurled them toward the roof of the detached building. None of them reached the roof. All fell midway. As they fell, the leaves rustled faintly. Just when I thought there had been no response to that at all, after a while came a thud as if remembered. Closing my eyes, I hurled one sideways with all my might, then tried to guess where the sound would come from. If I didn’t succeed, I’d keep throwing until I did. In the end, I grasped three or four at a time and hurled them wildly. In the end, only dried seaweed fragments and small sand grains remained at the bottom of my sleeve.

I saw the white sail again. Fuji-san’s remained fixed in one place. The distant one had already vanished. And near the shore, at the edge of the reeds, there was another sail returning this way. At first I wondered where it had returned from. Before long, I began suspecting this might actually be the very first sail drawing closer. It rapidly approached shore. Then—the ship I thought was Fuji-san’s—wasn’t that actually one returning here? Could Fuji-san’s current ship be the one emerging from the haze? I felt discomfort, as though my theory had been scornfully dismissed. If that distant sail too were returning here, which one could truly be Fuji-san’s? In present conditions, sails wouldn’t serve for heading out there. Yet there were no sail-less ships making that journey. No matter how thoroughly I searched from right to left and back again, not a single one appeared. My impatience grew. In that case, the one that earlier vanished into haze must have been Fuji-san’s. Now having rounded the mountain, it was making toward the regional cape. I had to settle this conclusively—otherwise nothing would resolve. "Even forcibly, it must be so," he insisted, clinging to his theory as he began furtively descending the mountain.

As I descended, the shells I had thrown earlier lay scattered here and there along the path. Because they were beautiful shells, I felt compelled to gather them again out of lingering attachment. I gathered every last one that remained, but in the end, there was barely enough to fill one hand.

When I went down, I found Shōbō standing and peering into the goat pen with a lonely air.

“Where did you go, Big Brother?” he asked. “Hey, want some shells, Shōbō?” I offered, but he curtly refused. I have unexpectedly come to the necessity of returning. The reason you will hear in due course, I trust. I fear we shall not easily meet again. Your Lordship shall forever remain my elder brother. I humbly pray that Your Lordship may quietly convalesce. I humbly deem it contrary to my true intentions to depart without uttering a word. I humbly beseech Your Lordship’s gracious forgiveness.

This was the letter I composed in my mind while washing my feet. And I began to think that perhaps such a letter had actually been left behind. Just as she was about to leave, Fuji-san clattered into the detached room and hurriedly scribbled a single brushstroke. At the main house, they called for Fuji-san. Saying "Yes" repeatedly, hurriedly finishing her writing, placing the inkstone lid as a weight, and leaving.—If I were Fuji-san, I would absolutely find some way to leave a written message at a time like this. If I were to go check, I felt that there might actually be something left on the desk.

However, in the end, there was no such letter. Yet when I abruptly opened the desk drawer, something unforeseen came forth from within. A single underrobe sleeve of crimson crepe silk with red lining—measuring one shaku eight sun—lay folded eight times and crammed deep in the drawer. Naturally, at first this bizarre discovery defied comprehension. With no particular evidence to go by, I found it hard to readily accept this as some secret keepsake Fuji-san had left me. But though Hatsu-ya had cleaned the drawer that morning, I myself had stored away the items taken from the trunk. This sleeve must have been placed there afterward. And this sleeve could belong to none but Fuji-san. Neither Auntie nor Hatsu-ya—women who'd been young twenty or thirty years prior—would possess such a vivid garment nowadays. While I couldn't state definitively that Fuji-san had put it there, there remained no conceivable way for anyone else to have mistakenly deposited such an item in my drawer. It stood confirmed as Fuji-san's doing. Thus it followed she hadn't merely tucked it away thoughtlessly without purpose. She had bestowed it upon me with deliberate intent. To draw such a conclusion could scarcely be deemed unreasonable. Holding up the sleeve, I found myself inexplicably misty-eyed.

Yet in the end, this was all I ever knew of Fuji-san. As for why she had left so abruptly like that—I couldn't even bring myself to ask. Where she went or what became of her afterward—that too remains unknown to me. I know nothing at all.

To put it that way might not make complete sense, but it was because I deliberately fretted over it and ended up making it this way. It was because the plover story held significance. The plover story meant those two days' memories: beginning with O-naga's gestural pillow, continuing through the painted woman drawing near me, the fox shrinking to weasel size, the chintz futon's floral pattern pooling stagnant, the crucian carp sinking and needle burying itself, the geta cord snapping and Nephila spider descending, then culminating in the sleeve emerging from the desk drawer. I kept the sleeve on my lap, sat still until darkness fell, tormented by various thoughts until finally arriving at this conclusion. The story must end with these two days to preserve its essence. To let it drag lingering traces behind would render it dull, I decided. At a lodging on a small island in the western provinces, I met a young woman called Fuji-san. The woman vanished unnoticed, leaving behind a single sleeve as keepsake from conversations as fleeting as water over two days. What became of her after departure remains unknowable. That suffices.

It was better not to hear anything beyond what had manifested in those two days. If by chance I were to hear unnecessary things and mar her in the Plover Story even slightly, it would be a pity. Having thought this, that evening I grew uneasy about encountering Auntie and Hatsu-ya. I fretted that they might speak of Fuji-san’s circumstances and end up tarnishing the Plover Story.

Auntie had no sooner returned than she said, "You must be hungry. I was so worried that I hurried back," while giving instructions about the dishes to Hatsu-ya, then added, "It must feel rather lonely here from now on for a while. It all happened so suddenly." As she seemed about to say more, I quickly interjected, "What on earth makes that tofu shop owner grow such a long beard? It's really something," thus nipping the conversation in the bud.

Ever since then，whenever Auntie and the others so much as began to mention Fuji-san，I would immediately flee while holding close those two days' memories．I would flee without exception．When escape proved impossible，I desperately kept thinking of other matters，ensuring not a single word reached my ears．Afterwards，even Auntie stopped mentioning Fuji-san entirely in my presence，as they began avoiding the subject themselves．Perhaps Hatsu-ya too had been cautioned—she strangely refrained from even uttering Fuji-san’s name．I thought they might have devised this together，but such things mattered little．So long as I wasn’t told，it sufficed．Even in letters Auntie has sent since，though she reminisces at length about my time there，to this day not a speck regarding Fuji-san has ever been written．

From then on, I never thought of Fuji-san even once. I did think often—but it was not Fuji-san that I thought of. It was Fuji-san within the plover story that I thought of. Even now, I sometimes take out that sleeve and look at it. On nights when sleep eluded me, I invariably took it out and looked at it. To look at this sleeve required the night to be well advanced—otherwise it held no charm. As the night deepened, I pinched both corners of the sleeve, raised my arm diagonally, and dangled it before the lamplight. When lamplight suffused the red sleeve's hue and the flame grew dim at its center, I slipped unbidden into the plover story, moving with Fuji-san as though in a motion picture. I watched my own drama as its sole spectator. Until I finished watching the plover story in detail from beginning to end, I remained unaware of my raised hands growing weary. As I folded the sleeve, I thought this: That within this sleeve lay Fuji-san at seventeen or eighteen and myself around twenty—forever preserved agelessly, sealed away. It does not matter where Fuji-san now resides or what she does. My Fuji-san is the Fuji-san within the sleeve. Fuji-san can always be seen vividly within this.

The reason it was so often called "plover, plover" lay in the plover-patterned design of that figured silk crepe.