Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author's Note This novel takes the form of letters from a twenty-year-old boy battling an illness at a sanatorium called the Health Dojo to his close friend. It is thought that novels in epistolary format have had few precedents in newspaper serials up to now. Therefore, readers too may feel somewhat disoriented by the unfamiliar format for the first four or five installments, but the epistolary style also carries a strong sense of realism, which is why it has been attempted by many authors since ancient times, both abroad and in Japan.

As for the title “Pandora’s Box,” I should have written about it in tomorrow’s first installment of this novel—there remains nothing more I need mention here.

This is a terribly clumsy preface, I know, but novels written by a man who makes such awkward greetings can sometimes prove surprisingly interesting.

(From the author's words addressed to readers during the serialization in the Kahoku Shimpo newspaper, Autumn of Showa 20 [1945].)

The curtain rises.

1

"You mustn’t misunderstand. I’m not the least bit discouraged. When I received that consoling letter from you,I was flustered,and then somehow felt so embarrassed that I blushed. I felt strangely unsettled. If I say this you might get angry,but when I read your letter,I thought,'How old-fashioned.' You see,the new curtain had already been raised. Moreover,a completely new curtain that none of our ancestors had ever experienced."

Let’s drop the old pretenses, shall we? That’s mostly just lies now. I’m not the least bit concerned about this illness in my chest anymore. I’ve completely forgotten about the illness itself. It’s not just about the illness—I’ve forgotten everything. The reason I entered this Health Dojo wasn’t because the war ended and I suddenly grew afraid of dying, wanting to build a strong body and make something of myself through social advancement. Nor was it out of some tearful filial piety like wanting to quickly recover to reassure my father or please my mother. But it’s also not like I flew into some strange fit of despair and wound up coming to this remote place. "Isn’t attaching explanations to every human action already an error of outdated ‘ideology’?" Forced explanations often become nothing but fabricated lies. I’ve had enough of theoretical games—haven’t all concepts been exhausted already? That’s why I insist there was absolutely no reason for me to enter this Health Dojo. One day at a certain hour, the Holy Spirit slipped into my chest—tears streamed down my cheeks as I wept alone until my body grew light and my mind turned cool and transparent—from that moment I became a different man. I’d kept it hidden until then, but I immediately—

“I coughed up blood.” Having told Mother this, Father chose this mountainside Health Dojo for me. That truly was all there was to it. What do I mean by “a certain day, a certain hour”? You must understand what that refers to. It was that day. It was noon of that day. It was when I wept and offered apologies to that nearly miraculous, heaven-sent voice.

Ever since that day, I've somehow felt as though I've been placed aboard a large, newly built ship. Where on earth is this ship headed? That, even I do not know. I still feel completely dreamlike. The ship glides smoothly away from the shore. Though I can vaguely sense that this route seems to be a completely new maiden voyage that no one in the world has ever experienced, for now it simply proceeds obediently along the heavenly sea route, welcomed by this grand new ship.

But you mustn’t misunderstand. I am by no means becoming something like the void following despair. The departure of a ship—no matter what manner of departure it may be—inevitably stirs some faint expectation. That remains one unchanging aspect of human nature since time immemorial. Are you acquainted with the Greek myth of Pandora’s Box? Merely because someone unsealed the forbidden casket, all manner of baleful creatures—sickness and anguish, grief, envy, avarice, mistrust, malice, famine, loathing—crawled forth to shroud the heavens, buzzing furiously as they swarmed about; and ever since that moment, humanity has been condemned to writhe in perpetual misfortune—yet they say that in a corner of that casket remained a gleaming stone no larger than a poppy seed, upon which the faint characters for “hope” were inscribed.

2

That had been ordained since ancient times. For humanity, despair holds no possibility. Though often deceived by hope, humanity equally falls prey to the very concept of "despair." Let me speak plainly. Cast into misfortune's abyss and tumbling blindly, mankind inevitably gropes its way to seize a solitary thread of hope. This truth had been decreed by Olympian gods from Pandora's Box onward. Our new era's ship glides smoothly ahead—leaving ashore those posturing orators of optimism and pessimism who deliver speeches with puffed-up shoulders—advancing one step beyond them. No obstructions hinder its course. Its motion resembles a vine's unconscious growth, akin to nature's heliotropism transcending mortal awareness.

From now on, let us truly abandon this pretentious rhetoric that indiscriminately brands people as traitors and condemns them. It only serves to make our unfortunate world all the more gloomy. Are not those who blame others precisely the ones committing wicked deeds in secret? I can only pray there exist no politicians scheming to hastily fabricate evasive deceptions and pull off some clever trick simply because we lost another war—but since such shallow pretense has been ruining Japan all along, I earnestly wish they would exercise caution henceforth. Should they repeat such conduct, they might become pariahs to the entire world. Let us cease this empty bluster and become more refreshingly simple people. The newly built ship has already slipped out into the open sea.

Well, even I have had my share of hardships up until now. As you well know, last spring, right after graduating middle school, I developed a high fever and came down with pneumonia; I was bedridden for three months, which made me miss the high school entrance exams, and even after I finally recovered enough to get up and walk around, a low fever kept lingering—the doctors said they suspected pleurisy—so while idling about at home, this year’s exam period passed me by too; from around that time, I lost all motivation to attend higher-level schools, and when I wondered what I should do instead, the path ahead turned pitch black; I felt guilty toward Father for just lazing about at home, and toward Mother too—it wasn’t just embarrassing but beyond words; you might not understand since you’ve never experienced being a rōnin, but that truly is an agonizing hell. Back then, I was doing nothing but endlessly weeding the field. By imitating a peasant like that, I was barely maintaining appearances—that’s how it was. As you know, there’s a field of about three hundred thirty square meters behind my house. This has apparently been registered under my name for some reason since long ago. It’s not entirely because of that, but when I step into this field, I feel a sense of relief, as though I’ve momentarily escaped the pressures surrounding me. For the past year or two, I had somehow ended up becoming something like the manager of this field. Pulling weeds, turning over soil just enough not to strain my body, putting up supports for the tomato plants—well, I kept getting through each day by telling myself that even such trivial tasks must contribute a little to increasing food production, but you see, there remained in the depths of my chest a mass of dark-cloud-like anxiety that I simply couldn’t shake off. Spending my days doing such things—what on earth will become of me from now on? It’s nothing—I’m just a good-for-nothing, plain and simple. When I think that, I go blank. I don’t know what to do; I’m left completely at a loss. And then, when I thought that such a slovenly existence of mine being alive was nothing but causing trouble for others and utterly meaningless, it was unbearably painful. “Someone like you, an academic prodigy, probably can’t grasp this, but ‘The fact that I’m alive causes trouble for others.” “I’m just a useless person.” There’s nothing in this world as painful as that awareness.

3

But you, even as I persisted in these cloying, antiquated, feeble worries, the world’s windmills were whirling at a speed too fast for the eye to follow. In Europe, the complete annihilation of the Nazis; in the East, following the Philippines Campaign came the Okinawa Campaign; U.S. aircraft bombing the Japanese mainland—though I understood almost nothing about military strategy, I did possess a young, sensitive antenna. This antenna could be trusted. A nation’s melancholy, its crises—this antenna would tingle sharply with them at once. There was no logic to it. It was pure intuition. From around early summer this year, this young antenna of mine had perceived the roar of a tsunami greater than any before and trembled. But I had no plan. I could only panic. I recklessly threw myself into farm work. Under the blazing sun, groaning and grunting, I would swing the heavy hoe to dig up the field’s soil and plant sweet potato vines. Why I continued working in the fields so fiercely day after day—even now, I don’t truly understand. It seems there was also a somewhat desperate resolve to mercilessly punish my own worthless body out of resentment—Die! Drop dead! Die! Drop dead! There were days when, with every swing of the hoe, I kept muttering low under my breath. I planted six hundred sweet potato vines.

“It’s about time you quit the farm work. It’s too much for your body,” Father told me during dinner. Three nights later, half-asleep in that dreamlike state, I began coughing violently until something started rumbling deep in my chest. Oh no—this is bad, I realized immediately, snapping fully awake. I had read somewhere that the chest rumbles before hemoptysis occurs. The moment I lay prone, it surged up violently. With my mouth full of something metallic and foul, I scurried to the toilet. Blood—of course. I stood there a long time, but no more came out. Stealing to the kitchen on tiptoe, I gargled saltwater, washed my face and hands, then returned to bed. Holding my breath to suppress the coughs, lying perfectly still—I felt strangely calm. This night—it almost seemed I’d been waiting for it all along. The very phrase “life fulfilled” rose in my mind. Tomorrow too, I’ll keep working the fields in silence. There was no alternative. I’m a man with nothing else to live for. I must know my place. Ah—truly, someone like me should die sooner rather than later. Now’s the time to drive this worthless body mercilessly—contribute even a crumb to food production—then bid this world farewell. That’s how I’ll lighten our nation’s burden. The only path of service left for a useless invalid like me. Ah—how I long to die soon.

And then the next morning, I woke up over an hour earlier than usual, quickly folded the futon, and without even eating breakfast, headed out to the field. And then I recklessly worked the fields. Now that I think about it, it was like a hellish dream. Of course, I had intended to keep this illness a secret from everyone until my death. I had intended to secretly let my illness worsen rapidly without informing anyone. This mindset must be what they call decadent thinking. That night, I sneaked into the kitchen and drank a whole bowlful of rationed shōchū. And then, late at night, I coughed up blood again. I suddenly woke up and coughed lightly a few times—then it surged up violently. This time, I didn’t even have time to run to the toilet. I slid open the glass door, jumped barefoot into the garden, and vomited. Blood gushed relentlessly up my throat until I felt it spurting from my eyes and ears. I must have vomited about two cupfuls before the blood stopped. I used a stick to dig up the blood-stained soil and hid it—just as the air raid siren sounded. When I think about it now, that was Japan’s—no, the world’s last nighttime air raid. In a dazed state, when I crawled out of the air-raid shelter, that August 15th morning was breaking pale.

4

But I still went out to the fields that day too. Hearing that, even you would likely force a wry smile. But understand—for me this was no jest. I truly felt there remained no other course for me to take. There simply was no alternative. After all that anguished vacillation, had I not steeled myself to perish as a farmer? To collapse in death amidst fields tilled by these hands, clad in peasant garb—this would be my consummation. Enough! Let me die swiftly regardless. When dizziness and chills and clammy sweat pushed me beyond suffering to near-swooning, as I lay supine in beanstalk thickets—Mother came calling. "Wash your hands and feet at once and come to Father's study," she bid. Mother—who ever spoke smiling—wore a countenance transformed to solemnity.

Made to sit before the radio in Father’s study, I wept at noon when the divine voice from heaven sounded. Tears streamed down my cheeks as a mysterious light poured into my body—it felt as though I had stepped into an entirely different world, or perhaps been placed aboard some great swaying ship—and when I suddenly came to my senses, I was no longer my former self. I don’t flatter myself that I’ve attained some grand enlightenment where life and death are one, but aren’t dying and living essentially the same? Either way, it’s just as painful. Those who desperately rush toward death are often poseurs. My suffering up until now was nothing more than the struggle of trying to keep up appearances. Let’s do away with these old pretenses. In your letter there was a phrase like “grievous resolve,” but to me now, grief seems like nothing more than the exaggerated expressions of some cheap play’s leading man. It can’t even be called grief. That is already a false expression. The ship smoothly slipped away from the wharf. And in a ship’s departure, there must always be some faint hope. I am no longer dejected. I’m not even concerned about my chest illness. Receiving such a sympathy-filled letter from you, I was truly flustered. I now think nothing; I simply intend to entrust myself to this ship and go on. That day, I immediately confessed to my mother. I confessed with a calmness that even I found strange.

"I coughed up blood last night. The night before that, I also coughed up blood."

There was no reason at all. It wasn’t that I suddenly became afraid of losing my life. It’s simply that yesterday’s strained pretenses vanished.

Father chose this "Health Dojo" for me. As you know, my father is a mathematics professor. He may have been good at numerical calculations, but it seemed he had never once handled monetary matters. Since we were always poor, I shouldn't have hoped for a luxurious convalescent life. This simple "Health Dojo" suited me perfectly, at least in that regard. I had no complaints. I heard I would make a full recovery in six months. Since then, I had not coughed up blood once. Not even bloody phlegm came out. I had completely forgotten about the illness. The director here said that 'forgetting about the illness' was the quickest path to full recovery. He was a bit of an eccentric. After all, he was the one who had given a tuberculosis sanatorium the name 'Health Dojo,' devised ways to cope with wartime food and medicine shortages, invented unique treatment methods, and had been encouraging many inpatients. It was certainly an unusual hospital. There were so many fascinating things—a mountain of them—but well, I supposed I would tell you all about them properly next time.

Please do not worry about anything concerning me, truly. Well then, take care of yourself there.

August 25, 1945

Health Dojo

1

Today, as promised, I will describe the current state of this Health Dojo where I now reside. From E City, it took about an hour by bus to Koumebashi, where one would transfer to another bus—though from Koumebashi, the dojo wasn’t far at all. Rather than waiting for the connecting bus, walking proved faster. It was only about a kilometer. Most visitors to the dojo ended up walking from there. To put it plainly: if you went south along the asphalt prefectural road from Koumebashi for roughly a kilometer—keeping the mountains on your right—you would find a small stone gate at the mountain’s base. From there, a row of pine trees continued up the mountainside, and near where that row ended, you could see the roofs of two buildings. That was now the truly peculiar tuberculosis sanatorium called the "Health Dojo" which had taken me in. It was divided into two buildings: the New Wing and the Old Wing. While the Old Wing was nothing remarkable, the New Wing stood as a rather stylish, bright structure. Those who had undergone sufficient training in the Old Wing were gradually transferred to this New Wing. However, being in relatively good health, I had been specially placed in the New Wing from the start. My room was the "Sakura Room," situated immediately to the right upon entering the main entrance. Each sickroom bore names like "Fresh Verdure Room," "Swan Room," and "Sunflower Room"—embarrassingly beautiful titles that felt almost excessive.

The Sakura Room was a Western-style room of about ten tatami mats, somewhat rectangular in shape. Four sturdy wooden beds stood arranged with their heads to the south, mine positioned at the room’s farthest end. Below the large glass window by my pillow lay a thirty-square-meter pond called “Otomegaike”—though I found the name rather uninspired—its cool, clear waters always revealing crucian carp and goldfish swimming beneath the surface. I had no complaints about my bed’s location. It might even have been the best spot. The wooden bed was extraordinarily large, its lack of flimsy springs making it all the more robust. Both sides boasted numerous drawers and shelves—so many that even after stowing away all my belongings, extra compartments still remained empty.

Let me introduce my senior roommates. Next to me was Mr. Ootsuki Matsuemon. As his name suggested, he was a middle-aged man of no mean character or physique. They said he was a Tokyo newspaper reporter. Having lost his wife early, he now maintained a household of just himself and a daughter of marriageable age—this daughter had evacuated together with him from Tokyo to a mountain house near the Health Dojo, and she occasionally came to visit this lonesome father. The father was usually sullen. However, though normally a man of few words, there were times when he suddenly transformed into a fearsomely decisive figure. His character seemed generally noble. He had an air of sagacity about him, but I still couldn’t quite pin it down. His jet-black mustache was impressive, but he appeared terribly nearsighted, his small red eyes behind glasses perpetually bleary. Beads of sweat seemed to constantly well up on his round nose tip, and he would frequently rub it hard with a towel until the skin turned so red it looked ready to drip blood. But when he closed his eyes in thought, he carried dignity. He might have been more impressive than I first assumed. His nickname was Echigo Jishi. I didn’t know its origin, but it felt fitting. Mr. Matsuemon didn’t seem to particularly dislike this nickname either. There was even a theory that he himself had proposed it, though nothing could be confirmed.

2

Next to him was Mr. Kinoshita Seishichi. He was a plasterer. Still unmarried at twenty-eight. He reigned as the Health Dojo's foremost handsome man. His complexion remained immaculately pale, his nose sharply prominent, his eyes coolly composed—every inch the dashing figure. Yet that affected walk of his—tiptoeing while lightly swaying his hips—was something he ought to abandon. Why did he walk like that? Did he imagine it possessed some musical quality? It baffled me. He appeared familiar with various popular tunes, but demonstrated particular mastery of those dodoitsu folk verses. I'd already endured five or six of them. Lord Matsuemon would close his eyes and listen in silence, while I grew increasingly restless. They consisted entirely of nonsensical drivel—saving up a fortune only to spend fifty sen daily—leaving me utterly exasperated. To make matters worse, certain dodoitsu incorporated spoken interjections that proved truly insufferable. Theatrical lines would intrude upon the songs. Phrases like "Oh dearest brother"—I simply couldn't bear them. Yet he never sang more than two consecutively. Though clearly yearning to continue indefinitely, Lord Matsuemon permitted no further indulgence. When two songs concluded, Echigo Jishi would open his eyes and declare, "That's sufficient." Sometimes he'd add, "It strains the constitution."

It’s unclear whether he meant it affected the singer’s body or the listeners’ bodies. But even this Mr. Seishichi was by no means a bad person. It seemed he liked haiku, and at night before bed would present various recent works to Mr. Matsuemon and ask for his impressions, but since Echigo Jishi wouldn’t utter a single word in response, Mr. Seishichi became utterly dejected and promptly went to sleep—it had been quite pitiful at the time. Mr. Seishichi appeared to hold considerable respect for Echigo Jishi. The name of this stylish man was Kappore.

The person stationed next to him was Nishiwaki Kazuo-dono. They said he had been a postmaster or something of the sort. He was thirty-five years old. I liked this person best. A meek-looking, petite wife would occasionally come to visit. Then the two of them would whisper in hushed tones. It made for a solemn tableau. Both Kappore and Echigo appeared to be making a concerted effort not to glance their way out of deference. I considered this too a mark of commendable character. Mr. Nishiwaki's nickname was Tsukushi. Presumably owing to his lanky build? Though no great beauty, he carried himself with refinement. There lingered about him something of a student's air. His bashful smile held peculiar charm. At times I found myself wishing he might have been my neighbor. Yet hearing those strange nocturnal groans of his, I'd conclude it was just as well he wasn't. With that, I believe I have sufficiently introduced my senior roommates, and shall now proceed to brief you on this dojo's distinctive therapeutic regimen. First, let me set down our daily schedule:

6:00　　　　　　　　　　　　 Wake-up 7:00　　　　　　　　　　　　 Breakfast 8:00–8:30　　　　　　　　　 Stretching Exercises 8:30–9:30　　　　　　　　　 Friction Therapy 9:30–10:00　　　　　　　　　 Stretching Exercises 10:00　　　　　　　　　　　　 Director’s Rounds (On Sundays, only Instructors’ Rounds) 10:30–11:30　　　　　　　　　 Friction Therapy 12:00　　　　　　　　　　　 Lunch 1:00–2:00　　　　　　　　　　　Lecture (Sundays: Comfort Broadcast)

2:00–2:30　　　　　　　　　 Stretching Exercises

2:30–3:30　　　　　　　　　 Friction Therapy

3:30–4:00　　　　　　　　　 Stretching Exercises 4:00–4:30　　　　　　　　　 Nature Time 4:30–5:30　　　　　　　　　 Friction Therapy 6:00　　　　　　　　　　　　 Dinner

7:00–7:30　　　　　　　　　 Stretching Exercises

7:30–8:30　　　　　　　　　 Friction Therapy 8:30　　　　　　　　　　　 Report 9:00　　　　　　　　　　　 Lights Out 3

As I mentioned briefly before, many hospitals were likely burned during the war, and even those not directly damaged had apparently closed in no small numbers due to material shortages and lack of staff. This left many tuberculosis patients requiring long-term hospitalization—especially those like us without much means—in a state of displacement. Fortunately, this area saw almost no enemy plane attacks. Two or three influential local philanthropists gathered here and, with official support, expanded the prefectural sanatorium that originally existed on these mountain slopes. They then invited the current Dr. Tajima, establishing here a unique tuberculosis sanatorium independent of material resources. First, I think you would understand just by glancing over this daily schedule that it’s quite different from life at a regular sanatorium. It is designed to make them discard notions of hospitals or patients.

The director was called the field director, doctors below deputy director became instructors, nurses became assistants, and we inpatients were called students. All of this appeared to be Field Director Tajima's original idea. After Dr. Tajima had been invited to this sanatorium, its internal structure was completely overhauled; he administered unique therapeutic methods to patients that achieved such remarkable success it reportedly became the focus of medical circles. Though his completely bald head made him look about fifty, they said he remained a bachelor still in his thirties. He was a thin, tall man with a slight stoop who rarely smiled. Bald people generally have well-proportioned faces, and Dr. Tajima too possessed an elegant countenance resembling an egg with facial features. He also seemed to harbor that peculiar feline fastidiousness characteristic of bald-headed men. He frightened me somewhat. Every day at ten in the morning when this field director made his rounds through the grounds accompanied by instructors and assistants, the entire dojo would fall silent. The students too became extraordinarily meek before this field director. Yet privately they secretly called him by a nickname. They called him Kiyomori.

Now then, shall I explain the daily routine of this Health Dojo in a bit more detail? Stretching Exercises, to put it simply, are exercises for the limbs and abdominal muscles. If I were to describe this in detail you’d likely grow bored, so to put it bluntly: lying supine on your bed in a starfish position, you begin by moving your fingers, wrists, and arms in sequence; then proceed to contracting and expanding your abdomen—this part requires considerable practice and seems to be the most crucial aspect of Stretching Exercises—followed by leg movements where you stretch and relax various muscles until completing roughly one full regimen. And once you finished one round, you had to start again from the hand exercises and continue for thirty minutes as long as time allowed. As per the schedule noted earlier, we had to do this twice in the morning and three times in the afternoon every day, so it was no easy task. According to conventional medical wisdom up until then, having tuberculosis patients engage in such exercise would have been considered utterly dangerous, but this too must have been one of the new therapies born from wartime material shortages. At this Health Dojo, it was indeed said that those who performed this exercise more diligently recovered faster.

Next, I should write about the friction therapy. This too seems unique to our Health Dojo. And this task falls to our cheerful assistants here. 4

The brush used for friction therapy resembled the stiff-bristled barber's brush employed during haircuts, though with its bristles slightly softened. Therefore, at first, when scrubbed with this, it hurt quite a bit, and there were even instances where friction-induced bumps developed here and there on the skin. However, most people usually grew accustomed to it within about a week.

When friction time arrived, the usual cheerful assistants divided tasks among themselves and proceeded to administer friction therapy to all the students in turn. In a small metal basin, they folded a towel and placed it inside, soaked it in water, pressed the brush against the towel to wet it, and with that scrubbed briskly. Friction therapy was as a rule applied to almost the entire body. For about a week after admission only the limbs were treated, but after that it became the entire body. The patient lay on their side; first their hands were rubbed then their feet chest and abdomen. After turning over the process continued with rubbing of the opposite side's hands feet chest and abdomen followed by two applications to their back and finally concluded at their waist. Once I got used to it was actually quite pleasant. Particularly the feeling when having my back scrubbed was indescribable. There were some skilled assistants but there were also unskilled ones.

However, I decided to save writing about these assistants for later. You could say life at the Health Dojo revolved entirely around these two things: Stretching Exercises and Friction Therapy. Even though the war had ended, the shortage of supplies remained unchanged, so for the time being, this seemed a decent way to demonstrate our fighting spirit against illness. The rest included lectures starting at 1 PM, Nature Time at 4 PM, and reports from 8:30 PM onward. As for the lectures, the Field Director, instructors, or various dignitaries visiting the Health Dojo for inspections would take turns speaking through a microphone. Their voices flowed into our room from loudspeakers installed at key points along the hallway outside, and we sat on our beds listening in silence.

This was because the loudspeakers had broken down during the war due to power shortages, so they had been temporarily suspended, but as soon as the war ended and power usage became slightly more lenient, they were immediately resumed. The Field Director had lately been continuing his lectures on what might be called the history of Japanese scientific development. Would you call it an insightful lecture? In his matter-of-fact tone, he provided remarkably clear explanations of our ancestors' hardships. Yesterday he gave us a talk about Sugita Genpaku's Rangaku Kotohajime (Beginnings of Dutch Studies). When Genpaku and his colleagues first opened a Western book but found themselves at a complete loss about how to translate it, passages like "truly like setting out in a rudderless ship upon a vast ocean with no shore to approach, left utterly dumbfounded" were truly excellent. Regarding the hardships of Genpaku and his colleagues, I had been taught about them in middle school by that history teacher Mr. Kiyama Ganmo, but the impression I received now was entirely different from that.

Ganmo would just say trivial things like how Genpaku didn't have a face marred by terrible pockmarks or whatever. Anyway, I greatly look forward to the Field Director's daily lectures. On Sundays, they broadcast Recodo instead of lectures. I don't particularly like music, but listening to it once a week isn't too bad. During breaks in the Recodo broadcasts, you sometimes hear the assistants singing live over the speakers—it makes me feel more anxious and restless than entertained. But for the other patients, this seems to be what they enjoy most. Seishichi-dono listens with his eyes narrowed to slits. I imagine he himself must be dying to broadcast something with dodoitsu lyrics mixed in.

5 As for what they called "Nature Time" at four in the afternoon—well, it was a rest period. At this hour, our body temperatures reached their peak, leaving us physically sluggish, mentally irritable, and utterly miserable; thus, we were granted thirty minutes of freedom under the pretense of 'do as you please,' but in reality, most students simply lay quietly in bed during this time. Incidentally, at this Health Dojo, the use of a quilt on the bed was absolutely forbidden except during nighttime sleep. During the day, we lay sprawled on the beds in just sleepwear without any blankets or covers; but once accustomed to it, a clean feeling set in and it actually became quite pleasant. The 8:30 PM report referred to news coverage about the day’s world affairs. As expected, from the corridor loudspeakers came various news reports delivered in the duty clerk’s terribly tense tone. At this Health Dojo, reading books was naturally prohibited, and even reading newspapers was forbidden. Excessive reading may be bad for the body. Well, even if only while I’m here, escaping this flood of noisy thoughts and simply living and playing with the sole conviction of a new ship’s departure doesn’t seem so bad, I think.

However, having little time to write letters to you had me at my wit’s end. Usually after meals, I would hurriedly take out stationery and write, but there were so many things I wanted to write about, and this letter itself took two days to complete. But as I gradually grew accustomed to life at the Health Dojo, I thought I might become better at utilizing these short periods of time too. I seemed to have become something of an utter die-hard optimist about everything. I had no single worry left. I had forgotten everything. By the way, let me take the liberty of introducing one more thing—my nickname at this Health Dojo was "Hibari." It was truly a boring name. It seemed I ended up with this nickname because my full name, Koshiba Risuke, could also be heard as Koburara (Little Lark). It wasn’t exactly an honor. At first, it had felt utterly disgusting and embarrassingly unbearable, but lately I’d become magnanimous toward everything, so even when people called me Hibari, I made a point of replying breezily. Do you understand? I was no longer the old Koshiba. Now I was but a single lark in this Health Dojo. Cheep-cheep, I noisily chirped and made a racket. So please keep that in mind and read my future letters accordingly. What a frivolous fellow I was—don’t go making a face like that.

“Hibari.” Even now, one of the assistants here called out sharply to me from outside the window.

“What is it?” I answered calmly.

“Are you keeping at it?” “I’m keeping at it!” “Keep it up.” “Alright, here I come.”

Do you understand what this exchange means? This constitutes the Health Dojo's formal greeting. When assistants and students pass each other in the corridor, they invariably appear obligated to exchange these phrases. Though unclear when this practice originated, it surely wasn't instituted by our Director. The assistants must have conceived it themselves. They maintain an intensely cheerful disposition, with a certain boyish ruggedness characterizing all nurses here. The systematic bestowal of scathing nicknames upon every individual—Director, instructors, students, clerks alike—likewise appears their distinctive handiwork. One finds oneself perpetually on guard around them. Regarding these assistants, I resolve to observe them more keenly and furnish detailed reports in subsequent letters.

First, this concludes the overview of the Health Dojo as outlined above.

Farewell.

September 3

Bell Cricket

1

Respectfully yours,

When September came, things really were different, weren't they? The wind swept across as if from a lake's surface, turning chilly. The insects' cries had grown noticeably shriller too, hadn't they? Since I'm no poet like you, I didn't feel any heartrending sorrow just because autumn had arrived—but yesterday evening, a young assistant stood by the pond beneath my window, looked my way and laughed,

“Could you tell Tsukushi that the bell crickets are chirping?” When I heard those words, I realized autumn was cutting deeply into these people, and found myself short of breath. This assistant seemed to have long nurtured feelings for Mr. Tsukushi, my roommate. “Tsukushi’s not here,” I replied. “He just went to the office.” At this, her mood turned abruptly sour, her words growing downright coarse,

“Oh? “It’s not like I care if he’s gone.” ‘Do you hate bell crickets, Hibari?’ she countered with this strange reversal, leaving me completely baffled and thoroughly flustered.

This young assistant had many puzzling aspects, and I had been most cautious around this person from the start. Her nickname was Maabou. By the way, today I shall introduce the nicknames of the other assistants. In my previous letter, I mentioned that the assistants here possessed this unnerving tendency to systematically bestow scathing nicknames upon all the men, but then again, the students weren't about to lose either—they called every single assistant by nicknames too, making it something of a draw. However, the nicknames devised by the students did seem to show some consideration toward women after all, being crafted somewhat more gently. Since it was Miura Masako—Maabou. It was nothing special. Since it was Takenaka Shizuko—"Takesan"—this proved most unimaginative. Completely ordinary. The bespectacled assistant had features reminiscent of a goldfish, yet out of restraint they settled on Kintoto. Because she was thin—Urumé. Because she wore a lonely-looking face—Haichai. In this regard, they might have been on the better side, though still somewhat restrained. Because she was terribly plain yet sported an outrageous permanent wave, painted her eyelids red, and applied bizarrely heavy makeup—Peacock. They likely called her "Peacock" in mockery, but the recipient instead became quite pleased—"That's right, I'm a peacock!"—possibly growing even more self-assured. The satire fell utterly flat. Had it been me, I would have chosen 'Celestial Maiden'. Surely she couldn't have thought, "That's right, I'm a Celestial Maiden!" There were various others—Reindeer, Cricket, Detective, Onion—but all were trite. There was only one called Kakuran, and I thought this one rather cleverly devised.

There was an assistant with a broad face and cheeks that glowed bright red, so much so that they evoked the image of a red oni mask. But showing restraint, they avoided that reference and instead went with 'Oni Kakuran'—hence the name 'Kakuran.' The concept was refined.

“Kakuran.”

“What is it?” she answered composedly.

“Hang in there.”

“Alright, I’m here!” she declared briskly. I can’t keep up if Kakuran gets serious. Not just this person, but all the assistant nurses here seem to be good people—though a bit rough around the edges, they’re truly kind-hearted at heart.

2

The most popular among the students was Takenaka Shizuko’s Takesan. She wasn’t the least bit beautiful. She stood about five shaku two sun tall, with an ample chest and a sun-tanned complexion—an imposing woman. She was twenty-five or twenty-six—in any case, seemed to be getting on in years. However, there was something distinctive about this person’s smile. This might have been the primary reason for her popularity. Her rather large eyes would have their corners drawn upward when she smiled until they became needle-thin, with teeth gleaming white, creating an intensely refreshing impression. Because she had a large build, that white nurse’s uniform suited her well. Additionally, the fact that she was such a hard worker might also have been one of the reasons for her popularity. In any case, her considerate nature and briskly efficient way of handling tasks—though not in Kappore’s words—"truly, the finest housekeeper in Japan." During friction therapy sessions, while the other assistants would chat idly with students, teach each other popular songs—creating what you might call a harmonious atmosphere or, less charitably, working at a leisurely pace—Takesan alone would simply offer a faint smile and vague nod no matter what the students tried to say to her, all while executing the friction with swish-swish motions of her deft hands. Moreover, her friction technique was neither too strong nor too weak—the most skillful—and meticulous at that; always silent with a bright smile, never complaining or engaging in trivial small talk, standing apart from the other assistants with an air of aloofness. This slightly aloof, noble air of solitude may well have been what the students found most captivating. After all, she was tremendously popular. According to Echigo Jishi’s theory, “That child’s mother must have been an exceptionally capable woman.” That might have been the case. She was apparently born in Osaka, and Takesan’s speech retained a slight Kansai accent. For the students, this seemed to have been yet another part of her irresistible charm, but I’d always found that when I saw women with impressive physiques, I ended up thinking of things like sea bream and couldn’t help but let out a wry smile—then I just felt sorry for them and nothing more. For me, cute women were preferable to women of grace. Maabou was a small and cute person.

I was still most interested in that somewhat enigmatic Maabou.

Maabou is eighteen. She apparently dropped out of Tokyo Metropolitan Girls' School and came straight here. She has a round face and fair complexion, with large double-lidded eyes framed by long lashes that droop slightly at the corners—eyes she keeps perpetually widened in apparent surprise, creating wrinkles on her forehead that make its natural narrowness seem even more pronounced. She laughs riotously. Her gold teeth glint. Seeming desperate to laugh, fidgeting restlessly—what? She’ll dramatically widen those eyes, insert herself into any conversation, immediately burst into shrill laughter, hunch forward, and laugh herself breathless while patting her stomach. Her nose sits round and prominently raised, her thin lower lip protruding slightly beyond the upper. She isn’t beautiful but is terribly cute. Though not particularly diligent in her work and clumsy at friction therapy, her lively charm makes her no less popular than Takesan.

3

You know, come to think of it, men are such strange creatures. They lavish mocking nicknames like Kakuran and Haichai upon women they don't particularly care for, but when it comes to someone they genuinely like, they can't conjure up any nickname at all—reduced to utterly plain forms of address like Takesan or Maabou. Well now, I've been going on about women all day today. But today, for some reason, I don't want to talk about anything else. Yesterday's Maabou's...

“Tell Tsukushi that the bell crickets are singing.” I might still have been intoxicated by those delicate words, not yet sobered from that drunkenness. For all her wild laughter, Maabou might truly have been lonelier than anyone. Don’t those who laugh often cry often too? Somehow whenever Maabou came to mind, I found myself growing oddly discomposed. And since Maabou seemed to harbor feelings for Mr. Tsukushi Nishiwaki after all—well, there was no competing with that. At that moment I was hurriedly writing this letter after finishing lunch early when from the neighboring Swan Room came students’ laughter mingled clearly with Maabou’s shrill, flamboyant guffaws. What on earth were they making such a racket about? How undignified. What an idiot—today I really wasn’t myself. There were so many more things I’d wanted to write about too—but those laughs from next door kept distracting me until I couldn’t write another word. I decided to take a short break.

At last, it seemed the commotion next door had settled down, so I tried to continue writing a bit more. I simply couldn't comprehend that Maabou. Not that I was particularly fixated, mind you—but are all seventeen- or eighteen-year-old girls like this? Whether she was good or evil—her very nature defied all understanding. Every time I encountered her, I found myself plunged into a state akin to Sugita Genpaku first opening a Western book with its horizontal script—to borrow his words, "like a ship without helm or rudder cast upon the open seas, adrift without haven, reduced to utter stupefaction." To phrase it thus may sound grandiose, yet truthfully I did shrink back each time. She consumed my thoughts. Even then—forced by her laughter to abandon my letter-writing—I'd thrown down my pen and collapsed onto bed; but finding this restlessness unbearable, I addressed Mr. Matsuemon in the neighboring bed while still prone.

“Maabou is so noisy.” When I said this with a pout, Mr. Matsuemon—sitting cross-legged with perfect composure on the neighboring bed while using a toothpick—nodded with a grunt, then slowly wiped the sweat from his nose with a towel, “That child’s mother is to blame,” he said.

He blames everything on the mother. But Maabou too might have been a child raised by a mean-spirited stepmother or someone like that. Though she acts cheerful and lively, there’s a faint shadow of loneliness lingering somewhere about her. Somehow, today I seem to rather like Maabou.

“Tell Tsukushi that the bell crickets are singing.”

From that moment on, I’ve been acting strange. She’s such an unremarkable girl, though.

September 7

Life and Death

1

Apologies for yesterday’s strange letter. At the turn of seasons, everything appears new and feels dear, until one ends up clamoring “I love you! I love you!” in such a state. Ah, but it’s not like I actually care for anything that much. It’s all this early autumn’s doing. Lately I’ve become like some scatterbrained skylark chirping away noisily, yet I no longer feel any self-loathing over it—none of that intense regret that once made me want to bite through my navel. At first I thought this vanishing of self-disgust strange, but no—there’s nothing strange about it. Hadn’t I been meant to become an entirely different man? I had become a new man. To feel no self-loathing or regret—this brings me great joy now. I consider it a fine thing. Within me now resides the crisp self-assurance of this new man. And thus have I received from our venerable director the privilege to live and play here at this Health Dojo for six months, free of worldly concerns. A skylark’s song. Clear flowing water. Live transparently! Live with lightness!

In yesterday's letter I ended up foolishly praising Maabou, but I want to retract that somewhat. The truth is, since a rather peculiar incident occurred today, I hasten to send this immediate report to supplement the deficiencies of my previous correspondence. A singing skylark, flowing clear water—do not laugh at this scatterbrain. This morning's friction therapy was administered by Maabou for the first time in ages. Maabou's friction therapy was wretchedly clumsy. She might give Tsukushi careful treatment, but with me she's always rough and unkind. To Maabou, someone like me probably seems no better than a pebble by the roadside—anyway, that must be how it is, so well, nothing to be done. Yet since Maabou isn't exactly a pebble to me either, during her friction therapy sessions I grow short of breath and strangely rigid, unable to make proper jokes. Far from joking, my voice catches in my throat until I can barely speak at all. In the end I turn sullenly silent as if in a foul mood, which must make Maabou uncomfortable too—during my sessions she never laughs and stays completely quiet. This morning's friction therapy was another of those stifling, unbearable affairs. Particularly since that incident when she said "Tell Tsukushi the bell crickets are singing," my feelings have been tensing up like a drawn bowstring—compounded by having just written you all that "I love Maabou" nonsense in my letter—leaving me utterly overwhelmed by this awkward, unmanageable mood. Maabou, while scrubbing my back, suddenly whispered:

“Hibari’s the nicest.” I wasn’t happy. What the hell was she saying? I thought. That she could offer such an obviously contrived compliment proved Maabou held me in casual regard. If she genuinely considered me best, she couldn’t have stated it so bluntly and brazenly. Even I understand such social nuances. I kept silent. Then again in a hushed voice: “There’s something troubling me.”

And there it was. I was surprised. What a tactless thing to say. I was disgusted. "The bell crickets are singing" had now completely backfired. I suspected she might be mentally deficient. For some time now, I’d felt her way of laughing seemed idiotic, but as I wondered whether it might actually be genuine, my mood somehow lightened,

“What’s this trouble you’ve got?” I asked in a completely mocking tone.

2

She didn’t answer. She sniffled faintly. When I glanced sideways out of the corner of my eye—what? She was crying. I was finally fed up. Just yesterday I wrote to you that people who laugh often must also cry often, but seeing such a nonsensical prophecy being realized so effortlessly before my eyes only leaves me deflated and fed up. I thought it was ridiculous.

“Tsukushi’s going to leave, I hear,” I said in a teasing tone. In fact, such a rumor did exist. I had heard about the rumor that Tsukushi had to transfer to a hospital in his hometown in Hokkaido due to family circumstances. “Don’t make fun of me.” She sprang to her feet and, though the friction therapy wasn’t finished, grabbed the metal basin and briskly left the room. Gazing at her retreating figure, I must confess my chest fluttered slightly. No matter how conceited I might be, I couldn’t imagine she was troubled over me—but still, when such a cheerful soul as Maabou shed meaningful tears before a man, then stormed off angrily, that might indeed signify something momentous. Or perhaps—maybe—no matter how I suppressed it, a sliver of self-conceit still surfaced, scattering even the contempt I’d felt moments earlier until Maabou seemed unbearably dear. Lying on my bed, I wildly swung both arms with the urge to shout “Wah!” But nothing came of it. I immediately understood the meaning of Maabou’s tears. Kintoto, who had been administering friction therapy to Echigo Jishi next door, casually informed me of it then.

“She was scolded, you know.” “Because she was getting too carried away and making a fuss, last night Takesan told her off.”

Takesan was the head nurse of the assistants. She had every right to scold her. Well now I understood everything. Nothing had happened. It had become perfectly clear. Oh come on! To have such intense worries over being scolded by the head nurse—what a farce! I was truly embarrassed. Feeling like my pitiful self-conceit had been seen through by Kintoto, Echigo Jishi and everyone else who were now pityingly laughing at me, even the new man found himself at a complete loss this time. Truly I understood. I understood everything perfectly. I intended to cleanly give up on Maabou. The new man sure was decisive. Sentimental attachments like lingering regrets had no place in a new man. I fully intended to completely freeze out Maabou from now on. That was a cat. Truly a trivial woman. Ahahaha—I felt like laughing all by myself.

At noon, Takesan brought the meal tray. Usually she would leave promptly, but today she placed the meal tray on the small desk beside my bed, then stretched up to gaze out the window, took a few steps toward it, rested both hands on the windowsill, and stood there silently with her back turned to me. She appeared to be looking at the garden pond. I sat down on the bed and immediately began eating. The new man did not complain about the side dishes. Today’s side dishes were dried sardines and simmered pumpkin. I ate the dried sardines from the head, crunching them vigorously. I had to chew thoroughly, chew thoroughly, and turn it all into nourishment.

“Hibari,” came a whisper formed only of breath—soundless yet shaped by exhalation. When I looked up, Takesan had already turned to face me, leaning back against the window with her hands behind her back, wearing that distinctive smile of hers. Then, in that same whisper thin as breath: “Did Maabou cry?”

3 “Yeah.” I responded in an ordinary voice. “She said she had worries.” Chew thoroughly, chew thoroughly, and make clean blood. “How crude.” Takesan said in a small voice and scowled.

“It’s none of my business.” The new man sure was uncomplicated. I have no interest in women’s fuss.

“I’m all worked up,” she said with a tight smile. Her face was red.

I was slightly flustered. I swallowed the rice half-chewed.

“Eat up now,” she said in a low, hurried voice, passed in front of me, and left the room. My mouth involuntarily formed a pout. Oh, come on. Acting all grown-up yet so undisciplined. For some reason, at that moment, I felt that way and was exceedingly displeased. She's the Head Nurse, isn't she. For someone to scold people and get worked up—what nonsense. I thought bitterly. I thought Takesan also needed to get a grip. But when she served me a third bowl of rice, this time it was my turn to blush. The rice in the tub was ridiculously plentiful. Normally, when I lightly scoop three bowls, it should disappear exactly, but today even after scooping three bowls, a full bowl’s worth still remained at the bottom of that small rice tub. I was slightly nonplussed. I do not like this type of kindness. Nor does the form of kindness taste good. Unappetizing rice won’t turn into blood or muscle. It amounts to nothing. A waste of effort. If I were to imitate Echigo Jishi’s way of speaking, I’d say, "Takesan’s mother must be a terribly old-fashioned person."

I ate just three bowls as usual, leaving that extra favored portion untouched in the rice tub. When Takesan came to clear the tray after some time—wearing a composed expression as if nothing had happened—I said lightly: “I left some rice.”

Takesan didn’t look at me at all, slightly opened the lid of the rice tub, “You horrid boy!” she said in a voice so low I could barely hear it, lifted the meal tray, and then exited the room wearing that same unaffectedly composed expression as if nothing had happened. Takesan’s “crude” seems to have become a habitual phrase with no real meaning, but when a woman calls me “crude,” I don’t feel good about it. It’s truly unpleasant. If I had been my former self, I would have certainly smacked Takesan with a single blow. Why am I crude? You’re the crude one. They say that in the old days, maids would secretly heap extra rice into their favorite apprentice’s bowl—what an ignorant, vulgar display of affection. It’s too pathetic. Don’t take me for a fool. I have my pride as a new man. Rice—even when the quantity is insufficient—can provide sufficient nutrition if one simply chews it thoroughly with a bright disposition. I had thought Takesan was a more reliable person, but after all, women are no good. Precisely because she usually carries herself with such a cleverly composed demeanor, when she commits such a foolish act, it becomes all the more conspicuous and unsightly. What a disappointment. Takesan needs to get a grip. If this were Maabou, no matter what blunder she might commit, it might instead make her more endearing and pitiable—not that such a thing couldn’t happen—but really, when a proper woman bungles things, it’s downright troublesome.

Having written this far during the post-lunch break, the corridor loudspeaker suddenly transmitted an order: "All New Building residents must immediately assemble at the New Building Balcony."

4

When I tidied up my stationery and went to the second-floor balcony, I found that Narusawa Itoko—a young female trainee from the Old Building who had passed away late last night—was now making her silent departure, with everyone gathered to see her off.

The twenty-three male trainees from the New Building, along with six female trainees from the New Building Annex, lined up on the balcony with tense faces in what resembled a four-row formation, waiting for the coffin to depart. After some time, Ms. Narusawa’s coffin—wrapped in white cloth and bathed in autumn sunlight—shone beautifully as it left the Old Building under the escort of close relatives, then slowly descended the narrow slope through the pine forest toward the asphalt prefectural road. A woman who appeared to be Ms. Narusawa’s mother could be seen walking while pressing a handkerchief to her eyes and crying. The group of instructors in white coats and assistants also followed partway, bowing their heads as they went.

I thought it was something noble. Humans are perfected through death. As long as they live, everyone remains unfinished. Insects and small birds are perfect while alive and moving, but the moment they die, they become mere corpses. There is neither perfection nor imperfection—they simply return to nothingness. Humans, compared to that, stand completely opposite. It seems a paradox holds true: humans become most human only after dying. Ms. Narusawa fought her illness and died; now wrapped in beautiful immaculate cloth and descending the slope while flickering between pine rows, her young soul asserts itself most solemnly, most clearly, most eloquently. We can never forget Ms. Narusawa. I reverently pressed my hands together toward the shining white cloth.

But my friend, you must not misunderstand me. Though I say death seemed good to me, this doesn’t mean I treat lives carelessly or cheaply—nor am I one of those sentimental, listless “death glorifiers.” We live separated from death by mere paper-thin walls, so we’ve simply grown unstartled by it now. Do not forget this single truth. Having read my letters thus far, you must have thought that amid Japan’s current grief and melancholy, my surroundings alone remain too carefree—almost irreverent. That would be natural. Yet I’m no fool. From dawn till dusk, I don’t spend my days cackling mindlessly. That much should go without saying. Each night at eight-thirty during report time, we’re made to listen to various news bulletins. Even when I lie silent beneath my blanket, there are nights sleep refuses to come. But I’ve no wish to speak of such obvious things now. We’re tuberculosis patients. All of us might hemorrhage tonight and become like Ms. Narusawa. Our laughter springs from that small stone lying in Pandora’s Box’s corner. For those dwelling beside death, a single flower’s smile pierces deeper than life-and-death debates. We now advance as if lured by faint floral scents—boarded onto some unknowable great ship—entrusting ourselves to heaven’s tidal course. What island this so-called ship of divine will might reach? Even I don’t know. Yet we must believe in this voyage. Whether we live or die—I’ve even come to feel this no longer holds the key to human happiness or misery.

The deceased were perfected, and the living stood on the deck of a departing ship, pressing their hands together toward them. The ship glided smoothly away from the dock.

“Death is a good thing.”

Doesn't that already resemble the composure of a seasoned navigator? A new man has no sentimentality concerning life and death.

September 8th

Maabou

1

Your prompt reply—I read it with reverent gratitude. The other day when I sent you those perilous words that could easily be misconstrued—like "Death is a good thing"—your response showed not an ounce of misunderstanding and precisely grasped my sentiments, which genuinely delighted me. After all, one cannot help contemplating the times. That serene attitude toward death—wouldn't those from a prior era find it utterly incomprehensible? “Today’s youth have all lived cheek-by-jowl with death—this isn’t limited to tuberculosis patients alone. We had already pledged our lives to a certain One long ago—they were never ours to begin with. Thus we can lightly entrust ourselves to that so-called ship of divine will without hesitation or doubt—this being courage’s new form for our new century! Though they say since antiquity that hell lies beneath a single plank of such ships—strangely enough—we remain unperturbed.” This passage from your letter rather disarmed me. Regarding my having crudely dismissed your initial letter as “old-fashioned”—I must offer sincere apologies.

We are by no means treating life carelessly. But neither are we sinking into mere sentimentality over death, nor are we cowering in fear of it.

As proof: after seeing off that beautifully gleaming coffin of Ms. Narusawa Itoko wrapped in white cloth, I completely forgot about Maabou and Takesan, lying on my bed in a state of mind as lofty and clear as today’s autumn sky—and meanwhile in the hallway, the patients and assistants were, as per usual,

“You keeping at it?” “I’m keeping at it!” “Keep at it!” “Here I come!” I heard them exchanging these greetings and noticed that, unlike their usual half-joking tone, there was somehow a serious resonance to it. And yet, in those trainees who were shouting with such earnest tension, I instead sensed something remarkably vital. To use a slightly pretentious expression, the entire Health Dojo had a sacred air all day long. I believed. Death is never something that makes people’s feelings shrivel.

People of the old era who can only understand such impressions of ours as childish bravado or desperate last resorts born of utter despair are truly pitiable. A person who can clearly comprehend the emotions of both the old era and the new era—isn’t such a person rare? We think of life as something light as a feather. But this does not mean we are treating life carelessly; rather, it means we love life as something light as a feather. And that feather flies quite far and swiftly.

Truly, now, while the adults were noisily continuing their loud debates about patriotism this and war responsibility that in their same old predictable way, we left those people behind and promptly set sail exactly according to the direct words of the revered one. I even felt that the characteristic of the new Japan lay in such aspects.

From Narusawa Itoko’s death developed an outrageous “theory,” but I’m really not suited to these kinds of “theories.” A new man would find it easier to stay silent, entrust himself to the newly built ship, and go on reporting about the strangely bright life aboard. “How about it—shall we talk about another woman?”

2 “In your letter, you seem to be foolishly defending Takesan. If you like her that much, you should write to her directly yourself.” “No—better yet, why not meet her once?” “When you find time someday, you should come to this Health Dojo—not to visit me, but to see Takesan.” “You’ll be disillusioned when you do.” “After all, she’s such an exemplary woman.” “Heck, she might even be stronger than you physically.” “According to your letter, you treat Maabou crying as trivial but consider Takesan’s ‘I’m troubled’ a major event—or so your theory goes. Well, I’ve pondered that too.” Regarding Maabou coming to me in tears saying she had troubles and Takesan’s “I’m troubled”—though part of me wanted to indulge the vain notion that this proved Takesan had feelings for me all along—not an ounce of such sentiment stirred within me. Takeshan had an imposing build but utterly lacked feminine charm. She was always swamped with work, the type who had no time for other thoughts. She was simply someone straining under the weight of being head nurse, laboring earnestly. Takesan had scolded Maabou the night before. But upon hearing from other nurses that Maabou became despondent and cried afterward, Takesan began reflecting—wondering if her scolding had been too harsh—until she grew anxious and ended up saying “I’m troubled.” Though terribly gauche, this struck me as the healthiest possible interpretation. That must be it. Women only ever think about their own standing. The new man feels no conceit toward women. Nor is he particularly liked. Everything becomes clear.

When Takesan said "I'm troubled" and blushed, it simply meant she was troubled about having scolded Maabou—but then she suddenly noticed those casually spoken words carried an unexpectedly peculiar nuance, became slightly flustered at her own reaction, and blushed again. It was nothing significant. An utterly trivial matter. And so, whether it was Maabou crying at my place that day, the matter of being troubled, or even the favor of an extra portion of rice—to unravel all the oddities of that day, there was one crucial fact that absolutely had to be taken into account. That was the death of Narusawa Itoko. Ms. Narusawa had died the previous night. That explained why Maabou, who was always quick to laugh, had been scolded. The assistants were young women similar to Narusawa Itoko. Might their impulse not have been quite strong? Women still retained something like old-fashioned sentiments. Feeling lonely and bewildered, then displaying such strange sentimentality as charity equivalent to a bowl of rice—might they not have done so? In any case, everyone's unusual behavior that day seemed deeply connected to Narusawa Itoko's death. Maabou and Takesan didn't have any particular feelings for me. Don't be ridiculous.

“Well, you—do you get it now? Even so—do you still like Takesan? Why don’t you pay an official visit to the Health Dojo and see the real thing for yourself? To me, Maabou seems better than Takesan—she’s got a fresher sensibility about her—but you seem to really dislike her. Why not reconsider? Maabou does have some decent qualities, you know. Let me tell you what happened the day before yesterday—she showed such good-naturedness that I suddenly saw her in a new light again. I’ll share the details today. I’m certain you’ll come to like her too.”

3

Two days ago, our roommate Mr. Tsukushi Nishiwaki finally had to leave the Health Dojo due to family circumstances. It seemed that day happened to coincide with Maabou’s official day off, so she had promised to see Tsukushi off to E City. From around the day before, Maabou had been relentlessly teased by the students, who badgered her from all sides to bring back souvenirs—to which she airily agreed with an “Understood!” Early that morning two days prior, she hurried off after Mr. Tsukushi wearing her Kurume kasuri-patterned monpe trousers. Then around three in the afternoon, as we were beginning our stretching exercises, she returned beaming—showing no trace of someone who had just parted with a dear person—and went room to room distributing the promised souvenirs to the students.

In this era of labor shortages where even daughters from reasonably affluent households had to leave home to work, Maabou too appeared to belong to that group—though she approached her duties half-heartedly as if playing at work. Yet perhaps due to having warm pockets, she was always remarkably generous, which seemed to be one reason for her popularity among the students. Even her souvenirs on such occasions proved rather extravagant. As for the souvenirs—where and how she obtained them—they were toy mirrors about an inch or two in size. On the back, a movie actress’s photograph was pasted. In the past, things like this would have been given away for free as promotional items at candy stores, but nowadays even something like this wouldn’t have been cheap to buy. She might have bought dozens of them from some candy store or toy shop’s stockpile, but in any case, it was just the sort of spur-of-the-moment souvenir idea typical of Maabou. The photographs of movie actresses on the back seemed to greatly please the students, and they made quite a commotion. Kappore received one. I disliked receiving things from women, so I never pestered her for souvenirs from the start; moreover, I had thought that even if I were to benefit from the same trivial favor of a single toy pocket mirror as everyone else, it would amount to nothing worthwhile; and then Maabou came to our room and handed Kappore a mirror,

“Kappore, do you know this actress?” “Don’t know her, but she’s a beauty. Isn’t she just like Maabou?” “Oh, stop it! Isn’t it Daniel Daryu?” “What, American?” “No, she’s French. In Tokyo for a time, she was quite popular, you know. Don’t you know?” “Don’t know. France or whatever—I’m giving this back anyway. Foreigners are boring. Can’t you swap this for a Japanese actress’s photo? I humbly pray you’d do that for me. So you’re giving this to that Mr. Hibari over there instead, huh?”

“You’re being picky.” “I’m giving this specially to you alone.” “Not for Hibari.” “You’re being mean, so no way.” “Well, perhaps.” “Well then, I’ll take it for now. Danie?” “Daniel.” “Daniel Daryu.” Listening to their conversation, I continued my stretching exercises without so much as a smile, but it was truly unpleasant. Was I so disliked by Maabou? I never thought I was liked, of course, but I hadn’t imagined that I alone was so hated and disliked. Even if I thought I had placed my status at the lowest point, there’s still a bottom beneath the bottom. Are humans ultimately just living intoxicated by their own illusions, I wonder? I thought reality was harsh. What exactly is wrong with me? This time, I thought I would seriously ask Maabou. And then, the opportunity arrived unexpectedly soon.

4

That day, a little past four during Nature Time, I was sitting on my bed gazing blankly out the window when Maabou—dressed in her white uniform—came briskly into the garden carrying laundry. I involuntarily stood up and leaned my upper body out the window, “Maabou,” I called out in a small voice.

Maabou turned around, noticed me, and laughed. “Won’t you give me a souvenir?” I ventured. Maabou did not answer immediately, instead quickly glancing around her surroundings. She seemed to be checking if anyone was watching, carefully surveying her surroundings.

The Health Dojo was now in its rest period. It was hushed. Maabou made a stiff smile, briefly cupped her palm beside her mouth, opened it wide with an “ah,” then pursed her lips and drew in her chin. Next, she nodded with her mouth half-open, then nodded again with it two-thirds open. She was communicating solely through the shapes of her mouth without uttering a single sound. I understood immediately.

She was mouthing the syllables "Ah, To, De, Ne." Though I understood immediately, I deliberately mimicked her mouth shapes to ask back, "Ah, To, De?" In response, she repeated "Ah, To, De, Ne" with clear syllable breaks, demonstrating this cute communication through nods like a child's earnest bobbing. Then, shaking the hand she'd held beside her mouth from side to side—as if saying "Secret, secret"—she sharply shrugged her shoulders with a giggle and scurried off toward the annex building.

"Later, huh? Worrying is harder than the doing, I suppose." Muttering such things to myself, I flopped down onto the bed. There was no need to explain my joy. I left it all to your wise discernment. Then during last night’s friction therapy, I received that “Atodene” souvenir from Maabou. Since yesterday morning, she had occasionally acted as if hiding something beneath her apron, prowling the hallway with meaningful air—I’d even wondered whether she might have concealed a souvenir for me there. But were I to shamelessly approach and reach out my hand, only to be countered with “What’s wrong?”, that would bring fresh humiliation, so I’d kept up my pretense of ignorance. Yet it had indeed been a gift for me all along.

Last night’s seven-thirty friction therapy session—being Maabou’s turn after about a week—had Maabou carrying a metal basin in her left hand, hiding her right hand beneath her apron, grinning repeatedly as she approached, then squatting down beside my bed,

“You’re mean. “You didn’t come to get it. “I’ve been waiting in the hallway time after time since this morning, and yet...” Saying this, she opened the bed’s drawer, swiftly slipped the item from under her apron inside, and shut the drawer tight, “Don’t say anything.” “And don’t tell anyone.”

While lying down, I nodded slightly two or three times. As she began the friction therapy, “It’s been a while since I’ve done your friction therapy, Hibari. The turn just wouldn’t come around. Even when I tried to give you the souvenir, I was at a loss about how to do it.” I put my hand to my neck, mimed tying something, and wondered—a tie? When I made a silent inquiry to that effect, “Nuh-uh,” she denied with a laugh, sticking out her lower lip. “Silly,” she added in a small voice.

Actually, I'm a fool. Even though I don't even own a suit, why on earth did I think of something as strange as a necktie? I must say, how absurd. Perhaps I'd unconsciously associated it with that small pocket mirror.

5 I mimed writing with my right hand this time—a fountain pen? I posed the question through gestures. Truly, I am a presumptuous man. My fountain pen had been acting up lately, and this latent desire for a new one must have unconsciously slipped out now. Inwardly, I recoiled at my own audacity. “Nuh-uh.” Maabou shook her head again in denial. I was utterly clueless.

“It might be a bit plain, but don’t go giving it to someone else, okay?” “At the shop, it was the only one left, you know.” “The decoration isn’t high-quality at all, but carry it around with you after you leave here, okay?” “Since you’re a gentleman, you’ll surely need it, you know.” At last, I could no longer fathom it. Surely it can’t be a cane.

“Anyway, thank you.” I said while turning over.

“What are you talking about? “You’re so spacey. “Hurry up and get better so you can leave.” “Thanks for everything. “Might as well die here, don’t you think?” “Oh, you mustn’t! “There are people who’d cry, you know.”

“You mean Maabou?”

“As if I’d take that on! Would I cry over something like that? There’s no way I’d cry.”

“I thought as much.”

“Even if I don’t cry there are plenty of people who would cry for you.” After a moment’s thought she said “Three… no—four people.” “Crying is meaningless.” “There is meaning! There is meaning!” she insisted strongly then brought her mouth close to my ear and whispered “Takesan would cry right? Kintoto would cry? Tamanegi would cry? “Kakuran would cry right?” she said counting them off one by one on her left hand’s fingers then exclaimed “Whee!” and laughed.

“So Kakuran would cry too?” I laughed.

The friction therapy that night was enjoyable. I no longer stiffened up around Maabou as I used to, and now that I’d somehow developed this cool composure—as if looking down on everyone from a height—I could freely joke around too. This might all have stemmed from having completely discarded that suffocating desire to be liked by women over the past half-month, but even I found it strange how carefree I felt while playing about, not a shred of lingering attachment in my heart. Liking and being liked were like leaves rustling in the May wind. Not a shred of selfishness remained. The new man took another leap forward.

That night, having finished friction therapy, I searched through my bed drawer during report time while hearing through the loudspeaker that American occupation forces would finally be coming to this region too, took out Maabou’s gift, and unwrapped the package.

It was a small package about three inches square, containing a cigarette case. The meaning of Maabou’s earlier puzzling words—“Carry this around after you leave here. Since Hibari’s a gentleman, you’ll surely need it”—had now become clear.

As I took it out of the box and turned it over this way and that, I found myself growing terribly sad. I wasn’t happy about it. It seemed this wasn’t entirely due to the world’s news alone either.

6

It was a flat, silver case made of metal—perhaps stainless steel?—like the chrome used in cake knives and such. On the lid was a pattern of thin black lines resembling stylized rose vines—tangled and intricate—and along its edge was something like maroon enamel. If only this enamel weren’t there—due to this enamel’s unnecessary decoration, as Maabou said, it was "a bit plain" and "not high-quality at all." But well—since Maabou had gone to the trouble of buying it for me—I supposed I ought to at least store it away carefully.

But somehow, it wasn’t pleasant at all. It’s wrong to say this after receiving it, but I really didn’t feel happy at all. This was my first time receiving something from another woman, yet it felt strangely suffocating—unbearably so. It left an awful aftertaste. I hid the case in the very back of the drawer. I wanted to forget it quickly. As for the case, I was somewhat at a loss—overwhelmed, even—but given these circumstances, wanting you to understand even a little of Maabou’s good qualities, I have thus prepared the above report. So then—have you come to see Maabou in a slightly better light? Or do you still prefer Takesan? Do let me know your thoughts.

Today, Katapan from the neighboring Swan Room moved into Tsukushi’s bed. His full name was Goro Sugawara, aged twenty-six. He was apparently a law student and seemed quite popular. He had a swarthy complexion with thick eyebrows and large bulging eyes behind Lloyd glasses—an aquiline nose completing features that weren’t particularly appealing—yet despite this, rumor had it he was causing quite a stir among the nurses. Somehow it seemed true—the more unpleasant a man appeared through male eyes, the more women favored him. Katapan’s arrival made the atmosphere in our Sakura Room grow oddly strained. Kappore already appeared to harbor some hostility toward Katapan. During today’s pre-dinner friction therapy session too, nurses bombarded Katapan with English questions—

“Hey, teach me. “How do you say ‘I’m sorry, okay?’ in English?” “Ai, beggu, yuua, paadon.” Katapan answers in an extremely affected manner.

“It’s hard to remember. Isn’t there a simpler way to say it?” “Verii, Soorii,” he said in an utterly affected manner. “Well then,” another nurse asked, “how do you say ‘Please take care of yourself’?” “Puriizu, tekkyaa obu yuaserufu.” He pronounced “take care” as “Tekkyaa.”

It was all so utterly pretentious. Even so, the nurses listened with great interest. For Kappore, Katapan’s English seemed to grate on his nerves even more than it did on mine, and he began softly singing his usual proud dodoitsu— ...singing things like “Will he be a doctor or minister? A proper scholar’s got no money,” and in any case, he seemed desperately eager to keep up his counterattacks against Katapan.

However, I am well. When I weighed myself today, I had gained nearly four hundred monme. Decidedly, I’m in excellent shape.

September 16th

On Hygiene 1

It seems I've been writing so much about women lately while neglecting to report on my senior roommates, so today I will take it upon myself to relay news of the Sakura Room members.

Yesterday, there was a quarrel in the Sakura Room. At last, Kappore resolutely challenged Katapan.

The cause was pickled plums.

That was an exceedingly convoluted affair altogether. Kappore had long kept a Seto-ware bowl in which he stored pickled plums, retrieving it from the cupboard under his bed at every meal to partake of them. However, mold had recently begun growing on those plums. Kappore considered this might stem from an inadequate container. He concluded the ill-fitting lid allowed bacterial infiltration, resulting in mold formation. Kappore was quite fastidious about cleanliness. It nagged at him endlessly. It seemed he'd already been agonizing over finding a suitable replacement vessel. Then during yesterday's breakfast, Kappore glimpsed Katapan's recently emptied pickled shallot jar—which their neighbor had likewise produced at every meal—and thought *That's the one*. The wide mouth allowed secure fastening. No bacterium could penetrate that jar. With it now empty, Katapan would surely lend it readily. Though bowing to Katapan rankled him, preventing bacterial contamination made that shallot jar indispensable. Hygiene had to be valued. Having resolved thus, Kappore timidly requested the empty jar after finishing his meal.

Katapan looked straight at Kappore’s face, “What do you intend to do with this?” It seems that particular phrasing struck Kappore right where it hurt. For some time now, dark clouds had loomed between these two. Kappore had long prided himself as the Health Dojo’s premier ladies’ man, but recently Katapan had remarkably boosted his own reputation as a heartthrob, leaving Kappore’s presence diminished—and he had already been fuming over this very development when it happened.

“This kind of thing? Is that any way to speak, Mr. Sugawara?” Kappore’s manner of speaking was peculiar too. “Why shouldn’t I?” Katapan didn’t so much as smile. The man was insufferably rigid and pretentious. “Don’t you understand?” Kappore, now somewhat cornered, forced a stiff grin. “It’s not as if I asked to borrow a pig’s tail from you. When you call it ‘this kind of thing’ so dismissively, you leave me no footing to stand on.” Things were growing stranger by the moment.

“I never said anything about a pig’s tail.” “You’re impossible to reason with.” Kappore’s tone grew more heated. “Even if you don’t outright call it a pig’s tail, I can read between the lines—there’s no helping that, is there?" “Don’t look down on me.” “Whether you’re some college student or a plasterer, aren’t we both equally subjects of Japan?” “How dare you treat me like some pig’s tail.” “If I’m a pig’s tail, then you’re a lizard’s tail.” “That’s what ‘equality for all’ means.” “I may not have your education, but even I know to value hygiene.” “Humans who don’t know hygiene are no better than dogs or beasts.”

The argument had turned into something utterly incomprehensible—what was what, no one could make heads or tails of it.

2

Katapan paid no heed whatsoever, crossed his hands behind his head, and lay down on his back upon the bed. He seemed a man of nerve. Kappore sat cross-legged on his bed, rocking his body back and forth and side to side—now rolling up his sleeves, now thumping his own knees with his fists—fretting and fuming all the while.

“Hey! You there—college student! Are you even listening?” “You wouldn’t be thinking of using judo on me, would you?” “I’m in awe—there are college students who occasionally resort to that.” “I’ll have none of that!” “Listen here—let me make this clear. This dojo isn’t a place for judo training, nor is it some academy for cultivating ladies’ men.” “Director Kiyomori also said so in his lecture the other day.” “Gentlemen, you are the vanguard.” “You are the vanguard who will demonstrate to all of Japan that tuberculosis can absolutely be cured.” “He earnestly urged us to conduct ourselves with utmost prudence,” he said. “At that time, tears came to my eyes, you know.” “A man who sees righteousness yet does not act has no courage—that’s what it means.” “As they say, there is great courage and petty courage—that’s what it comes down to.” “Therefore, for humans, wisdom, benevolence, and courage—these three are what truly matter.” “Being popular with women is absolutely not something that matters.” It was almost complete gibberish. Even so, Kappore’s face turned pale as he raised his voice further. “That’s why—that’s exactly why it naturally follows that hygiene matters!” “The constant emphasis on hygiene and fire prevention—that’s exactly what he was talking about there, I think.” “To even compare a human being to a pig’s tail is absolutely unthinkable.”

“Stop it, stop it,” Echigo Jishi interjected, stepping in to mediate. Echigo Jishi had been lying silently on his bed until then, but at that moment he abruptly sat up, got down from the bed, tapped Kappore on the shoulder from behind, and declared in a somewhat authoritative tone, “Stop it, stop it.” Kappore spun sharply toward Echigo Jishi and clung to him. Then, pressing his face into Echigo Jishi’s chest as if burrowing into it, he began crying with loud, staccato sobs—each “wah” distinctly separated from the next. In the hallway, five or six trainees from other rooms milled about awkwardly, peering at the commotion.

“You mustn’t watch,” Echigo Jishi bellowed at the trainees in the hallway. Up to that point, he had handled things admirably, but then matters took an awkward turn. “This isn’t a fight! It’s mere... mere... um... mere... mere... um...” he groaned, looking utterly at a loss as he glanced my way. “Acting,” I said in a low voice. “It’s mere,” Echigo regained his vigor and shouted, “a theatrical effect!”

While I couldn’t quite grasp what “theatrical effect” was supposed to mean, it seemed likely that Echigo Jishi, deeming it beneath his dignity to parrot something taught to him by a junior like myself, had improvised that bizarre term on the spot and shouted it out. Adults might always have to force themselves to live like this. Kappore, positioned like a lion cub cradled in the embrace of its parent, shook his head as he sobbed and began complaining in a slurred, incoherent tone that was barely intelligible, droning on and on.

3 “I’ve never suffered such humiliation since the day I was born. "My upbringing ain’t bad.” “I ain’t never been hit even by my old man.” “And yet you treat me no better than a pig’s tail—my guts boiling over—I thought to make a proper address and ended up saying only the best things I could.” “I thought I’d pick out nothing but the best parts to say.” “I really thought I was only saying the best things I could.” “And yet you lie there on that bed pretending not to know—what’s with that attitude!” “It’s so frustrating and disappointing—I can’t stand it.” “What’s with your attitude!” “I’m saying all the best things I can—and that’s how you act toward me!” I’ve truly come to loathe this world. “I’m saying all—”

He gradually began repeating the same things over and over. Echigo Jishi gently laid Kappore down on the bed. Kappore lay facing away from Katapan, covered his face with both hands, and sobbed convulsively for a while before eventually growing quiet as if he had fallen asleep. Even when eight o'clock stretching exercise time arrived, he remained motionless in that position. It was a truly peculiar quarrel. Yet by lunchtime, Kappore-san had already returned to his usual self. When Katapan brought back the empty pickled shallot jar—thoroughly cleaned—and earnestly offered it with a "Here you go," Kappore simply bobbed a quick bow, said "Thank you," and accepted it without fuss. After lunch, he cheerfully transferred the pickled plums one by one from the Seto-ware bowl into the shallot jar. If everyone in the world were as uncomplicated as Kappore-san, I thought, this world would undoubtedly become a much better place to live.

Regarding the quarrel, I will leave it at that for now; taking this opportunity, I have another brief report to make. Today’s afternoon friction therapy was Takesan. I told Takesan a little about you.

“There’s someone who says they really like Takesan.”

During friction therapy, Takesan hardly ever spoke. She always remained silent, smiling coolly. "He said you're ten times better than Maabou." "Who said that?" Even Lady Silence inadvertently asked in a small voice. The compliment about being superior to Maabou seemed to greatly please her. Women are such fickle creatures. "Are you happy?" "I don't like this." Takesan said only that before continuing the friction therapy with rough swishing motions. She frowned, her face clouded with displeasure.

“Did you get angry? That person is a really good guy, you know. He’s a poet.” “How crude. Sparrow, you’ve been acting up lately.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her left hand and said. “Well then, I won’t tell you anymore.”

Takesan remained silent. She continued the friction therapy in silence. When the friction therapy ended and she withdrew, Takesan brushed back stray hair and smiled oddly,

“Very sorry,” she said.

She probably meant to say, "I'm sorry." Takesan's not half bad herself. How about it—why don't you find some time and come visit our dojo? I'll show you your beloved Takesan. A joke—my apologies. The mornings and evenings have grown cool.

Constant hygiene and fire prevention are the watchwords here. I humbly request study materials for the two of us.

September 22nd

Cosmos Flowers

1

I was delighted to read your prompt reply. Now that you’ve entered high school, your studies must keep you busy—writing such a long letter must have been quite an effort. From now on, there’s no need for such lengthy replies each time. I worry whether it might interfere with your studies.

Your reprimand about it being outrageous that I said such things to Takesan—my apologies. However, I cannot agree with your statement that "I can no longer come visit you." You’re being rather petty. If you can’t casually greet Takesan without fixating on her, you can’t call yourself a new man. It’s about abandoning such allurements. There was that saying about The Three Hundred Poems having thoughts untainted by evil, wasn’t there? Let us strive for childlike simplicity.

The other day when I mentioned to our neighbor Echigo Jishi, “I have a friend who’s studying poetry,” he immediately declared with brutal finality: “Poets are pretentious.” This miffed me somewhat, so I retorted, “But hasn’t it been said since ancient times that poets renew language?” Echigo Jishi smirked and answered offhandedly, “Right. Today’s poets need new inventions.” Even Echigo, I thought, had said something not to be taken lightly. “As you are wise,” I wrote, “I believe you’ve already realized this, but I ask that from now on—not only in your poetic training but in all things—you show your true countenance as a new man.” What a strangely conceited, senior-like way of phrasing—but really, I meant only that you shouldn’t trouble yourself over someone like Takesan. “Gather your courage,” I continued, “visit this dojo, and see Takesan for yourself. When you behold the real thing, your illusions will vanish like mist. After all, she’s already splendid through and through—a veritable prize catch.” “Still,” I added wryly, “you’ve truly devoted yourself to Takesan, haven’t you? Even though I extolled Maabou’s charms at such length in my letters, you dismiss her as ‘some failed movie actress’ while obsessing solely over Takesan—I’m in awe.” “I think I’ll refrain from reporting on Takesan awhile,” I concluded. “If you were to grow even more feverish and take to your bed, that would be disastrous.”

Shall I introduce one of Mr. Kappore’s haiku today? This Sunday’s comfort broadcast was to feature a recital of literary works by the residents, and those confident in waka, haiku, or poetry had been instructed to submit their pieces to the office by tomorrow evening. Kappore, as our *Sakura Room* representative, was to submit his specialty—haiku. For two or three days prior, he had sat upright on his bed with a pencil tucked behind his ear, tilting his head as he earnestly composed verses. That morning, he reportedly finalized them, writing about ten haiku on stationery paper before presenting them to us roommates. First, he showed them to Katapan, but Katapan gave a wry smile and,

"I don't understand," he said, promptly returning the paper scrap. Next, he showed them to Echigo Jishi and entreated his critique. Echigo Jishi rounded his back and scrutinized the paper scrap as if taking aim,

“Unacceptable,” he said. If he had said it was bad or something like that, I could have accepted it, but I thought his criticism of 'unacceptable' was too harsh.

2

Kappore turned pale, "Is it no good?" he inquired humbly. “Ask that teacher over there,” said Echigo Jishi, jerking his chin toward me sharply.

Kappore brought stationery to me. I'm an unrefined sort, so I can't grasp the subtleties of haiku at all. I really should have followed Katapan's example and promptly returned them with an apology, but I felt so sorry for Kappore and wanted to somehow console him that despite having no understanding, I went ahead and read through all ten of his verses. They didn't seem so bad to me. Perhaps you could call them clichéd—commonplace verses—but even so, composing them oneself must be quite laborious, wouldn't you think?

"Wild chrysanthemums blooming in disarray—a maiden’s heart," struck me as somewhat strange, but still I didn’t think it was bad enough to provoke such outrage. Yet when I reached the final verse, I gasped in realization. Now I completely understood why Echigo Jishi had been so incensed.

The dewdrop world is a dewdrop world—and yet.

That's someone else's poem. I thought this wouldn't do. But I didn't want to state it so bluntly and make Kappore burn with shame. "I think they're all well-done, but if you replaced this last verse with another one, wouldn't it become even better?" "It's just an amateur's opinion, though." "Do you think so?" Kappore seemed dissatisfied and pursed his lips. "But I think that verse is the best one."

Well, of course it was good—a verse so famous even a haiku layman like me knew it by heart. "It might be good," I conceded, "but—" I found myself at an impasse. "You do grasp it?" Kappore pressed, emboldened. "My sincere devotion to Japan today is woven into this verse—can't you see that?" he added with barely concealed scorn. "What devotion?" I shot back, all pretense of cordiality gone.

“Don’t you get it?” Kappore furrowed his brow as if to say, “You’re quite the fool, aren’t you?” and continued, “How do you view Japan’s current fate—" “It’s a dewdrop world, isn’t it?” "That dewdrop world is a dewdrop world." "Nevertheless, everyone, let us press onward in pursuit of light." "Doesn’t it come to mean something like ‘Do not needlessly despair’?" “This, you see, is what constitutes my sincere feelings toward Japan.” “Do you understand now?”

However, I was inwardly dumbfounded. This verse—wasn't it supposed to be one where Issa, having lost his child, resigned himself to "the dewdrop world," yet still couldn't fully abandon his grief? Well, wasn't that just awful? He'd completely reversed its meaning. This might have been what Echigo meant by his so-called "new invention of today," but it was utterly appalling. While I agreed with Kappore's sincerity, stealing verses from ancient poets and arbitrarily assigning new meanings to toy with them was wrong. Moreover, if this poem were submitted to the office as his own work, I feared it would tarnish the Sakura Room's honor. So I mustered my courage and spoke plainly.

3 "But there's a verse by an old poet that's very similar to this one. You may not have stolen it, but to avoid misunderstandings, I think you should replace this with another." "You mean similar verses exist?" Kappore stared at me with wide eyes. Those eyes were so beautifully clear they took one's breath away. I reconsidered—this strange psychology of stealing without realizing it might indeed exist among haiku virtuosos. He was truly an innocent offender. Absolutely devoid of malice.

“Well, that turned into a pointless mess.” “In haiku, such things happen sometimes—it’s quite troublesome.” “After all, it’s just seventeen syllables.” “That’s why similar verses end up being created, you see.” It seemed Kappore was a repeat offender.

“Well then, let’s cross this out,” he said, using the pencil tucked behind his ear to nonchalantly draw a line through the ‘Dewdrop World’ verse. “How about this instead?” He swiftly scribbled something down on the small desk by my bedside and showed it to me. Cosmos—shadows dance upon the dry mat. “That’s fine.” I said with relief. Even if it was clumsy or whatever, I now felt relieved as long as it wasn’t a stolen verse. “By the way, what if we changed it to ‘Cosmos’?” In my relief, I ended up saying something unnecessary.

“Cosmos’s shadows dance upon the dry mat, you think?” “Ah, I see. The scene becomes clearer now.” “Brilliant,” he said, giving my back a solid thump. “Can’t be left in the shadows!”

I blushed. "Please don't flatter me." I felt unsettled. "Perhaps 'Cosmos and' would be better after all." "I really don't understand anything about haiku." "It's just that I felt using 'Cosmos' would make it easier for us to understand." Such things—what does it matter either way?—my inner voice was shouting. However, Kappore seemed to have come to respect me. He requested with a completely earnest face—not mere flattery—that I continue advising him on haiku matters, then retreated to his bed walking triumphantly on tiptoe with that musical, bouncy gait of his, hips swaying lightly all the while. As I watched him go, I felt utterly out of my depth. Being a haiku consultant was, in reality, more troublesome than dealing with complaint-filled dodoitsu, I thought. Unable to settle down at all, I sat there exasperated,

“This has turned into something absurd,” I couldn’t help complaining to Echigo Jishi. Even that formidable man had been defeated by Kappore’s haiku. Echigo Jishi remained silent and nodded solemnly. But that wasn’t the end of it. An even more astonishing fact came to light. During this morning’s eight o’clock friction therapy session, when Maabou was assigned to tend to Kappore, I was startled to hear him whispering something to her.

“Maabou, that cosmos haiku of yours—it’s not bad, but you’ve got to be careful." “Cosmos and—that’s no good. It should be 'Cosmos's.'” I was startled. That was Maabou’s haiku.

4

Now that I thought about it, there had been something resembling a feminine sensibility in that haiku. If that were true, then that bizarre verse about wild chrysanthemums blooming wildly in a maiden's heart reeked too. After all, might that one also have been created by Maabou or some nurse? Somehow all ten of those haiku had begun to appear dubious. He was truly a dreadful person. It was utterly appalling. Even without making grandiose claims about how this affected the honor of the Sakura Room—whether regarding that "Dewdrop World" verse or this cosmos-themed haiku—I watched with bated breath to see what kind of character crisis this might spell for Kappore. Yet upon overhearing the exchange between Kappore and Maabou afterward, I felt profoundly reassured.

“What was that cosmos haiku again? I’ve forgotten all about it.” Maabou was taking her time. “Is that so? Then was it my verse after all?” He was nonchalant. “Isn’t it Kakuran’s verse? You were secretly exchanging haiku with Kakuran or something once, weren’t you? Yay!” “If that’s the case, could it be Kakuran’s verse?” He remained composed. Should I call it plain? Or perhaps nimble? I found myself at a loss for the right words to describe it. “If it’s Kakuran’s verse, it’s too polished. That bastard went and stole it.” By this point, there was nothing left to do but call it utterly artless. “This time, I’m going to present that haiku.”

“Entertainment broadcast? Include my haiku too! See? I taught you that once before, didn’t I? The one that goes, ‘A maiden’s heart in wild bloom.’” It was indeed so. However, Kappore remained completely unperturbed. “Yeah. That one’s already been included.” “Right. Do it properly.”

“Right.” “Make sure you do it properly.”

I smiled.

This, for me, was what might be called a 'new invention of today'. To these people, the author's name didn't matter at all. It felt like something everyone had worked together to create. And if everyone could enjoy the day together, that was all that mattered. Wasn't the relationship between art and the people originally such a thing? While self-styled "connoisseurs" of that realm argued vehemently—insisting Beethoven alone qualified as supreme while dismissing Liszt as second-rate—the common people had already left such debates behind, briskly turning their ears to whichever musical pieces each preferred. To those people, the author wasn't appreciated in the slightest. Whether Issa composed it, Kappore composed it, or Maabou composed it—if the verse wasn't interesting, they couldn't care less. They didn't force themselves to "study" art for things like social etiquette or taste refinement. They committed to memory only those works that touched their hearts, preserving them in their own way. That was all there was to it. I felt as though I had just been taught something entirely new about the relationship between art and the people.

Today’s letter has turned rather argumentative in tone, but well—thinking that even this little anecdote about Kappore might help spark some “new invention” in your poetic training, I’ve decided not to tear it up and will send it along as is.

I am flowing water. Caressing every bank, I flow. I love everyone. How pretentious.

September 26th

Sister

1

I, who have always written you these inept, tedious letters—time and again I’ve been struck by sudden pangs of embarrassment and resolved never again to write such preposterous letters. Yet today, having encountered someone’s truly prodigious correspondence and marveling at how there will always be those who surpass us, I felt somewhat consoled: in this world where such ludicrous letters exist, the ones I send you must still be comparatively less egregious. Truly—the world contains all manner of things. That someone could produce so dreadful a letter makes me wonder if they’re divine or diabolical. In any case—it’s simply appalling.

Well then, today I shall try writing a bit about that magnificent correspondence.

This morning, there was a major autumn cleaning at the dojo. The cleaning was mostly completed before noon, but the afternoon routine was canceled too, and then two barbers came on-site, making it a haircut day for the students. Around five o'clock, having finished my haircut, I was washing my shaved head at the washstand when someone slipped up beside me,

“Hibari, are you at it?” It was Maabou. “I am, I am.” While smearing soap on my head, I gave a rather careless reply. Lately, these fixed routine greetings and responses had become so troublesome, so annoying, so utterly unbearable. “Hang in there.” “Hey, isn’t my towel around here somewhere?” I did not respond to Maabou’s encouragement and, keeping my eyes closed, held out both hands toward her.

Something resembling stationery was softly placed onto my right hand. Squinting one eye open, I looked—it was a letter.

“What’s this?” I scowled and asked. “Hibari, you’re being mean!” Maabou glared at me while laughing. “Why don’t you say ‘Understood’? When someone tells you ‘Hang in there’ and you don’t reply ‘Understood,’ it means your condition is worsening.” I felt irritated. Sulking further, “This isn’t the time for that. Can’t you see I’m washing my hair? What’s this letter about?” “It’s from Tsukushi. There’s a poem at the end, right? Explain its meaning.”

While taking care not to let soap flow into my eyes, I reluctantly opened both eyes wide and attempted to read the poem at the end of the letter paper. Though we meet not, the days grow long— I thought Tsukushi was trying to be stylish too. “Don’t you get this? This must be a poem taken from the Manyoshu. This isn’t Tsukushi’s own poem.” I wasn’t exactly scorning it, but I did nitpick a little.

“What does it mean?” She said in a low voice and pressed annoyingly close. “Quiet. I’m washing my hair. I’ll tell you later, so just leave the letter there and bring me my towel. I think I left it in my room. If it’s not on the bed, check the drawer by the pillow.” “Mean!” Maabou snatched the stationery from my hand and hurried off toward the room at a brisk trot.

2 Takesan’s catchphrase was “Disgusting,” and Maabou’s was “You’re mean!” In the past, I’d feel a chill whenever they said those words, but now I’d grown so accustomed that it didn’t faze me at all. Now then—while Maabou was away—I had to figure out how to interpret that “how to proceed favorably” line from the earlier poem and prepare my explanation. That part had been tricky, so I’d used the towel as an excuse to dodge giving an immediate answer. As I kept pondering how to parse “how to proceed favorably” while rinsing soap from my hair, Maabou returned with the towel. This time she wore a solemn expression, handed it over without a word, then marched briskly away.

I jolted. I immediately realized it was my fault. The truth was, I had lately become—whether you'd call it jaded or numbed—so thoroughly accustomed to life at this dojo that I'd lost the tension I first felt upon arriving here. Even when Maabou spoke to me, I no longer felt the excitement I once did, having grown utterly insensitive. I'd even reached a state where I thought it perfectly natural for nurses to look after students—that special kindness or whatever didn't matter one bit. In this condition, I ended up brusquely telling her to bring my towel—no wonder Maabou got angry. The other day, Takesan told me, "Hibari, you’ve been no good lately," and truly, there was something a bit "no good" about me these days. During this morning’s major cleaning, all students briefly went out to the new building’s front garden to avoid indoor dust—thanks to that, I actually stepped on soil for the first time in ages. Though I'd occasionally sneaked down to places like the tennis court out back, this marked my first proper permission to go out since arriving here. I stroked the pine trunk. The pine trunk felt warm, as if alive with coursing blood. I squatted down, startled by the grass's pungent scent at my feet, then scooped up soil with both hands. Its damp heft impressed me. The obvious truth that nature lived struck me with visceral intensity. Yet even that astonishment vanished within ten minutes. I ceased feeling anything. Numbness had settled in—I no longer cared. Noticing this—whether you'd call it human adaptability or resourcefulness—I grew appalled at my own unreliability. In that moment, I deeply wished to preserve that initial fresh awe in all things—but Maabou's scolding jolted me into realizing I might already be growing indifferent toward life at this dojo. Even Maabou possessed pride. Perhaps no larger than a violet blossom—yet precisely such pitiful pride deserved cherishing. I now stood accused of ignoring Maabou's friendship. Her act of showing me Tsukushi's secret letter might have revealed Maabou's undeservedly profound feelings—that perhaps she now favored me over Tsukushi himself.

Well, I didn't need to flatter myself that much—in any case, it was certain that I'd betrayed Maabou's trust. Even if I claimed not liking Maabou as much anymore, that was mere selfishness. I'd grown desensitized even to human kindness. I'd even forgotten about receiving that cigarette case. This wouldn't do. I was truly awful. "If someone called out 'Persevere!', needing to feel stirred by their goodwill and shout back loudly, 'Righto!' became my required response."

I must answer, “Righto!”

3 Do not hesitate to amend your errors. A new man makes fresh starts swiftly. Leaving the washroom and returning to my room, I chanced upon Maabou before the charcoal storeroom.

“Where is that letter?” I immediately asked. With a dazed look in her eyes as though gazing at something far away, she silently shook her head. “Is it in the bed drawer?” I had asked, wondering if perhaps when Maabou went to fetch the towel earlier, she might have tossed that letter into my bed drawer or something, but she merely shook her head again without replying. Women—this is exactly why they’re unbearable. She’s like a cat borrowed from someone else. I thought, “Let her do as she pleases,” but I have an obligation to care for Maabou’s pitiful pride. I—yes, precisely—adopted a honeyed tone and,

“I’m sorry about earlier. The meaning of that song—” I began,

“Enough already,” she said sharply, then briskly walked away.

It was truly an unnaturally sharp tone. I felt as though I'd been pierced. Women are formidable creatures, aren't they? I returned to my room, flopped down onto the bed, and roared internally, "All is lost!"

However, at dinner time, it was Maabou who brought the tray. With icy composure, she placed the tray on the small desk by my pillow, then stopped by Katapan’s spot on her way back—suddenly transformed, she began spouting frivolous jokes and giggling shrilly. When she thumped Katapan’s back, he yelled “Hey!” As he tried to grab Maabou’s hand, “Nooo!” she cried, running over to where I was, then leaned close to my ear and—

“I’ll show you this.” “Explain it to me later,” she rattled off, thrusting a small folded sheet of stationery into my hands before whirling back toward Katapan. “Hey! Katapan! Confess!” she barked. “Who was singing ‘Edo Nihonbashi’ at the tennis courts?” “Don’t know! Don’t know!” Katapan protested, flushing crimson. “If it’s ‘Edo Nihonbashi,’ even I know that one,” Kappore muttered under his breath before attacking his meal.

“Please take your time,” Maabou said with a laugh, bowing slightly to everyone before leaving the room. I couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it. I felt like Maabou was teasing me in that half-hearted way of hers, and it left me thoroughly discomfited. And so, a letter remained in my hand. I had no desire to read another person’s correspondence. Yet to humor Maabou’s fragile pride, I felt obliged to glance through it. Thinking this nuisance had fallen squarely on my shoulders, I secretly perused it after dinner—but heavens, what a magnificent epistle this turned out to be. Could this be what they call a love letter? I hadn’t the faintest clue. That Mr. Nishiwaki Tsukushi—who always seemed the picture of level-headed composure—would pen such an absurd letter in secret struck me as profoundly unexpected. Do all adults secretly harbor this sort of foolish sentimentality? At any rate, shall I transcribe the contents of this remarkable missive for your perusal? In the washroom I’d only been shown a fragmentary scrap from the final page, but now she’d entrusted me with all three sheets from beginning to end. What follows is the complete text of that extraordinary document.

4 “In this land of past memories，the Dojo Forest，I lean against the windowsill，quietly envisioning what might be called a new chapter in life while gazing at the ebb and flow of the waves. Waves quietly approach... However，white waves roar fiercely offshore. And because the raging sea wind blows.” This was the opening line. Doesn’t it have any meaning at all? In this state，even Maabou must be perplexed. The text was more incomprehensible than the Manyoshu. Tsukushi left this Dojo and went to a hospital in Tsukushi’s hometown of Hokkaido—apparently one built by the sea. That much I could understand，but as for the rest，I had absolutely no idea what it meant. It was an unusual piece of writing. Let me try copying a bit more. The context grew increasingly baffling and chaotic.

"When the evening moon sinks into the waves, when pitch darkness descends upon the night, there exists starlight guiding my soul to you beyond the heavens; though the world may shift and crumble, let us strive to live righteously! I am a man! I am a man! I am a man!! I'll persevere with all my might!! Here and now, I wish to call you my sister. Should I name this a divine gift bestowed upon me, or how should I phrase it—ah, perhaps it's best to proclaim it a lover whom I must cherish passionately." I hadn't the faintest clue what any of this meant. From this point onward, the text became increasingly bizarre and turbulent. It truly resembled a raging torrent.

"It is neither person nor object—it is scholarship, the root of work; what one should cherish each dawn and dusk is science and nature's beauty. Together these two shall become one to love me ardently from the heart, as I too love them ardently. Ah! I have gained a sister! I have gained a lover! Ah! What bliss this is! My sister!! Mine!! I trust you'll understand this brother's heartfelt sentiments and aspirations. Henceforth I shall regard you as my sister and continue our correspondence. You'll understand me, won't you—sister!!"

I must apologize for this writing becoming so stiffly formal. I must also apologize for presuming to call you—who has shown me such kindness—my sister, but I believe you will understand. When one reaches your age, both men and women begin thinking of various matters, but please try not to strain your nerves—or rather, avoid pondering overly profound things. I too shall depart the secular world. Today brings fine weather, though the wind blows fiercely. O magnificent nature! I shall play while drenched in tears! I believe you understand. I earnestly entreat you to savor this letter—to read and reread it with utmost care. Thank you, Masako-chan!! Stay strong, my beloved sister!!

Now, as your brother, one final word. Since we last met, the days have grown long—how fares my sister now? I wonder. “Ms. Masako / From your brother, Kazuo” Well, that’s roughly how it went. To sign off as ‘Brother Kazuo’—what an odd affectation, tacking ‘brother’ onto one’s own name. In any case, apart from that single Manyoshu poem at the end, I couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it. I thought it was terrible. Even if someone tried to imitate it, it wasn’t something that could be written. It was truly what one might call outlandish. However, Mr. Nishiwaki Kazuo as a person was by no means a madman. He was a shy and kind person. That such a good person could write such a nonsensical letter—the world truly held its share of mysteries. It was no wonder Maabou would say, “Tell me what it means.” It was a disaster for the person who received this letter. They would have had no choice but to be tormented. Should I call it a masterpiece or a cursed text? After transcribing this great epistle, my wrist had grown strangely heavy, and my handwriting had deteriorated. With this, I thought I’d take my leave. I’d try again another time.

October 5th

Ordeal

1 The day before yesterday, I was so overwhelmed by Mr. Tsukushi's masterful writing that my pen trembled and I couldn't write properly, resulting in a disgracefully abrupt letter. That evening after dinner, as I sat there stunned after reading that letter, Maabou peeked her face through the corridor window for a fleeting moment and gave me a silent inquiring look that seemed to ask, "Did you read it?"—so I gave her a slight nod. Then Maabou also nodded solemnly in earnest. She seemed deeply concerned about that letter. At that moment, I felt a strange sense of indignation toward Mr. Nishiwaki as someone who'd committed a transgression. And then, I found Maabou unbearably pitiful yet endearing. To confess, since that moment, I came to feel a fresh new charm in Maabou. It meant I was no longer an insensitive man. Before I knew it, I had become that way. Autumn truly is no good. Indeed, autumn is a melancholy thing. I mustn't laugh. I'm serious.

I'll tell everything. The day after the big cleaning, Maabou appeared at the room's doorway during the eight o'clock friction therapy holding a metal basin, then came straight to me with an expression that seemed to suppress laughter. That Maabou had come around to my turn so quickly was unexpected, so I almost unconsciously—

“That’s good to hear,” I whispered under my breath. I was happy.

“Cut it out,” Maabou said irritably, then briskly began my friction therapy. “It was Takesan’s turn this morning. She had other duties, so I took her place. Got a problem with that?” Her tone was brutally curt. I felt vaguely dissatisfied but stayed silent. Maabou kept quiet too. Gradually my breathing grew labored, the air turning oppressive. Back when I first came to this Health Dojo, I’d always felt strangely tense during Maabou’s friction therapy sessions. Now that same tension had revived, making everything unbearably stifling. The friction therapy ended.

“Thank you.” I said in a sleep-thickened voice.

“Give me back the letter!” Maabou whispered in a hushed voice, yet sharply. “It’s in the bedside drawer.”

I said, lying supine and frowning. Clearly, I was in a bad mood.

“Fine. After lunch, why don’t you come to the washroom for a moment? Return it then.”

Having said that, she briskly withdrew without waiting for my reply. She was strangely distant. When I showed a little kindness, she immediately snapped back like that. Very well. In that case, I too had a plan. Resolved to give her a thorough, merciless thrashing, I steeled myself and waited for the lunch break.

Lunch had been brought by Takesan. In the corner of the tray lay a small bamboo doll. When I looked up at Takesan and wordlessly asked with my eyes—What’s this?—she frowned, shook her head violently in refusal, and gestured as if to say: Don’t tell anyone. I nodded with a sullen expression. It all felt utterly incomprehensible.

2

“This morning, I had urgent business at the Health Dojo and went into town,” Takesan said in her usual Osaka-accented voice. “A souvenir?” I asked in a disheartened tone, my voice hollow. “Cute, isn’t it? Fujimusume. Tuck it away now,” she said with elder-sister firmness before turning on her heel.

I was in a dazed state of mind. I wasn’t the least bit happy. Though I had just the day before renewed my resolve to be sincerely moved by others’ kindness, for some reason, I found this sort of goodwill from Takesan unwelcome. It was a feeling I had carried unchanged since first coming to this Health Dojo, now grown unshakable. Takesan was the head nurse’s assistant—a splendid person trusted by everyone at the Health Dojo—so she ought to behave more properly. She was fundamentally different from someone like Maabou. Buying such a trivial doll and going on about “Fujimusume” and “Isn’t it cute?”—that was just absurd.

While eating my meal, I gazed intently at the bamboo doll called Fujimusume—about two inches tall—in the corner of the tray, but the more I looked at it, the more crudely made it appeared. The taste was poor. This must have been one of those items left gathering dust on display at the station kiosk. Kind-hearted people are invariably bad at shopping, and Takesan seemed no exception to this rule. Someone with a slightly delinquent streak like Maabou would make far more stylish purchases. It couldn't be helped. I was at a loss about how to handle this bamboo doll. I even considered thrusting it back at her, but remembering how I'd steeled myself just the previous day to cherish even the pitiful pride of something as small as a violet blossom, I dejectedly decided to tuck the gift away in my bedside drawer for now. But writing too much about Takesan might make you get worked up again, so I'll stop here. After lunch, I went to the washroom as Maabou had instructed. Maabou stood pressed against the far wall of the washroom facing me, giggling softly. I felt a flicker of displeasure.

“You do this sort of thing sometimes, don’t you?” I said, the words coming out unexpectedly even to myself.

“Huh? Why?” she asked, smiling slightly as she rounded her eyes and looked up at my face. The light was dazzling. “You sometimes bring students here,” I began to say “drag in,” but it felt too crude, so I trailed off. “Oh? Then let’s forget it.” She spoke lightly, then bent forward in a bow-like motion and started walking away. “I brought the letter.” I held out the letter.

“Thank you,” she said without so much as a smile as she took it. “You’re really hopeless, Hibari.”

“Why am I hopeless?” I found myself becoming defensive. “You thought I was that kind of woman, didn’t you?” Her face turned pale as she stared straight at me. “Hibari—aren’t you ashamed?” “I’m ashamed.” I removed my metaphorical helmet in surrender. “I was jealous.” Maabou laughed, her gold teeth glinting.

3

"I read that letter." I had fully intended to reprimand her severely, but receiving that trivial Fujimusume doll from Takesan dampened my initial momentum; even feeling guilty toward Maabou left my spirits low. When I came to this washroom in a mood verging on melancholy, Maabou appeared far too alluring, rousing the most shameful jealousy a man could feel—until I carelessly blurted out something unwarranted, was promptly interrogated by Maabou, and now find myself nearly vanquished.

"I read all of it. It was interesting. Tsukushi's such a good person, isn't he? I've gone and fallen for him." I was just spouting insincere, shallow flattery.

“But this is unexpected.” “Such a letter.” Maabou tilted her head as if pondering something deeply, then unfolded the stationery and stared at it. “Yeah, I was surprised too.” “In my case, it was shockingly bad.” “Truly unexpected.” For Maabou, this appeared to be a matter of grave importance. “You sent a letter too, didn’t you?” Once again I’d blurted out something unnecessary and felt a cold sweat. “I sent it.” She replied with utter nonchalance.

I suddenly became unamused. “Then you were the one who seduced me. You look like a delinquent girl. That’s what we call otanchins. They’re also called Miichan Haachan, chinpira, and Toppinshan. How dare you! You’re outrageous,” I gave her a thorough scolding, but far from getting angry this time, Maabou burst into raucous laughter. “Take me seriously for once. Especially since Tsukushi has a wife. This isn’t a laughing matter.”

“That’s why I sent a thank-you letter to his wife. When Tsukushi was leaving the dojo, I went to see him off to the town station, and that’s when his wife gave me two pairs of white tabi socks, so I sent her a thank-you letter.”

“That’s it?” “That’s all.” “Oh, that’s it?” I regained my composure. “Was that all there was to it?” “Yes, exactly. And yet such a letter had to arrive—I hated it, hated it! I’ve been writhing in torment over it.”

“There’s no need to writhe in agony over nothing. You really like Tsukushi, don’t you?” “I do like him.” “Oh, that’s it?” I was getting unamused again. "You're mocking me." "How pointless." “Even if you fall for someone who has a wife, there’s no helping it, right? That seemed like a happily married couple.” “But what’s the use of falling for you, Hibari?”

“What the hell are you saying? “That’s not the same thing.” I grew increasingly sullen.

“You’re insincere. “I’m not trying to make you like me or anything.”

“You idiot! You idiot! Hibari doesn’t know anything. You don’t know anything about me—someone like you—” she started to say before whirling around with a choked sob, and then, truly writhing in agony,

“Go away!” she said sharply.

4 I was at a loss about how to proceed. While puckering my mouth and wandering around the washroom, I somehow began to feel like crying too.

“Maabou,” I called out, my voice trembling. “Do you really like Tsukushi that much?” “Even I like Tsukushi.” “He was a kind, good person, you see.” “I think it’s only natural that Maabou came to like Tsukushi.” “Cry, cry, cry your heart out.” “I’ll cry right along with you.”

Why did I say such an affected thing? Now that I think about it, it felt like a dream. I thought I would cry. However, though the corners of my eyes grew hot for a moment, not a single tear fell. I opened my eyes wide and silently gazed at the yellowing ginkgo tree beyond the tennis court from the washroom window.

“Hurry.” Before I knew it, Maabou had quietly come to stand beside me. “Return to your room,” she began. “If someone sees us, it’ll be bad,” she said in an unsettlingly quiet, composed tone. “I don’t care if we’re seen. We’re not doing anything wrong.” As I said that, my chest throbbed oddly.

“You’re such a fool, Hibari,” she said, gazing out from the washroom window toward the tennis court beside me as if muttering to herself. “Ever since you came to the Health Dojo, everything’s changed.” “You don’t know anything about this place, do you?” “They say your father’s an important man.” “The director mentioned it once.” “A scholar of international renown, I hear.” “World-class poverty makes world-class scholars.” A terrible loneliness welled up in me. Two months since I last saw Father. I wondered if he still blew his nose loud enough to rattle the shoji screens.

“You have good lineage, don’t you?” “Ever since Hibari came, the dojo has truly become so much brighter.” “Everyone’s feelings have changed as well.” “Takesan also said she’d never seen such a good kid.” “Takesan rarely gossips about others, but she’s crazy about you.” “Not just Takesan—Kintoto and Tamanegi too—everyone’s like that.” “But if unpleasant rumors were spread by the students and you ended up being inconvenienced because of it, everyone’s being careful not to get too close to you, you know.”

I gave a wry smile. I thought it was a miserly sort of affection. “That’s what they call keeping your distance.” “It’s not that they like me.” “Oh, such a thing.” Maabou lightly tapped my back and then gently left her hand resting there. “I’m different.” “I don’t like Hibari at all.” “That’s why I don’t mind us talking alone like this.” “Don’t get the wrong idea.” “I’m—”

I quietly moved away from Maabou’s side,

“At best I’ll exchange letters with Tsukushi.” “Let me be clear—I was appalled by how poorly written Tsukushi’s letters were.”

“I know that.” “It’s precisely because it was a poorly written letter that I showed it to you.” “If it were a good letter, who’d go showing it around?” “I don’t think anything of Tsukushi.” “You shouldn’t look down on people so much.” Her words and attitude became blatantly crude, as if she were a different person. “I’m already ruined.” “You don’t know anything about it, do you?” “Because you’re such a fool, you don’t notice.” “I’m already being told by everyone that you and I are close.” “What are you going to do?” “Are you really okay with them saying that?”

Bowing her head and thrusting out her right shoulder, she giggled while pushing me repeatedly with the tip of her shoulder.

5 "Cut it out," I said. In situations like this, there was no other way to phrase it. I thought something terrible had happened.

“Does it bother you? What do you say? Hey, are you going to embarrass me even more now? Last night, the moon was so bright I couldn’t sleep, so I went out to the garden. Then, since the curtain by your bedside was slightly open, I peeked in. Did you know? Hibari was sleeping there bathed in moonlight, smiling. That sleeping face was lovely. Hey, Hibari, what are you going to do?” She finally pushed me all the way to the wall. I began to feel somehow absurd.

“No way. “It’s impossible from the start. “I’m twenty years old. “This is a problem. “Hey, someone’s coming this way.” The pattering sound of slippers approaching from the washroom could be heard. “Nooo, that’s not it at all.” Maabou moved away from me, tilted her face upward, swept back her hair, and laughed with an “Ahaha.” Her face was flushed red as if she had just stepped out of a hot bath.

“It’s already time for the lecture. I’m out of here. I detest something as sloppy as being late.”

I ran out of the washroom. The moment I did,

“You mustn’t get close to Takesan,” Maabou said in a thin voice. That voice sank deepest into my heart.

Somehow，autumn didn’t sit right with me.

When I returned to the room, the lecture still hadn't begun, and Kappore was lying back on his bed singing his usual dodoitsu. It was a dodoitsu I had heard several times before—one about how grass on the path revives with morning dew even when trampled—but strangely enough, only at that moment did I listen without feeling my usual exasperation, earnestly attending to its melody. I may have become weak-willed.

Before long, the lecture began under the title "Sino-Japanese Cultural Exchange," where a young instructor named Mr. Okaki kindly explained various historical examples concerning medical interactions between the two civilizations through concrete and clear illustrations. The fact that Japan and China had always advanced by mutually teaching one another struck me with fresh profundity, offering many points for earnest reflection; yet even so, today's secret weighed heavily on my mind, and I found myself sincerely wishing to quickly forget all about Maabou and return to being that carefree model student I once was.

Ultimately, it was Maabou who was at fault here. I had thought she might be a somewhat more intelligent woman, but to my surprise, she turned out to be foolish. Just now, she had made all those desperate-seeming gestures, but even I knew there was no real meaning behind any of it. I harbored no foolish self-conceit. Maabou always thought only of herself. Neither Tsukushi nor I were the issue here. She simply wanted to bask in admiration of her own beauty and pitifulness. Though she feigned innocence, her vanity was formidable—she must have loathed losing to anyone—and being so insatiably greedy, she likely coveted everything others possessed. Even someone like me could see through Maabou's schemes.

6 When Maabou showed me that letter from Tsukushi, perhaps she had wanted to flaunt it just a little after all. But she must have keenly sensed how severely I was disparaging that letter, which immediately made her change her attitude—resulting in tears, shoving, and blurting out irrelevant things. Her self-esteem wasn't merely that of a violet—it was regal, like a queen's. It defied all consolation. People were going around saying Maabou and I were on good terms—how absurd. I had never once been teased by anyone about Maabou. She alone was making all the fuss. There was an inherent vulgarity in Maabou's upbringing—a complete lack of refinement. Perhaps it was truly as Echigo said—her mother might have been a bad sort. The more calmly I considered it, the angrier I grew. Maabou lacked the qualifications to be an assistant at the Health Dojo. The Health Dojo was a sacred place. Everyone there devoted themselves single-mindedly to morning and evening exercises, focused on conquering tuberculosis. If Maabou ever displayed such brazen words or actions again, I resolved to resolutely report her to Takesan, our group leader, and have her expelled from the Health Dojo.

Once I had steeled my resolve in that way, I finally ceased to feel so fixated on the nightmare in the washroom earlier.

That was a bad dream. Bad dreams have no connection to real life. Even if I dreamed of punching you, I wouldn't go apologize the next day. I don't have the heart of some sentimental preacher or poet. The new man detests complications.

I didn't intend to dwell on dreams, but the day after that washroom nightmare—in the predawn hours of this morning—I had another dream. And this one was good. Good dreams—I don't want to forget them. I want to forge some connection with life. This is something I absolutely must tell you. It was a dream about Takesan. Takesan really is a good person. This morning, I truly came to think so. People like her are few and far between. I realized it's only natural you'd become so taken with Takesan. You truly live up to being a poet—your instincts are sharp. Your discernment is remarkable. Impressive. I'd been holding back on writing about Takesan lately, worried you might fall ill from being so smitten, but this morning made clear such concerns were entirely unnecessary.

No matter how much you adore Takesan, she isn't the sort to make anyone take to their bed or lead them astray. Please go on adoring Takesan even more—with your whole heart. I too mean to trust her all the more earnestly myself—I won't let you outdo me. And yet Maabou really is an utter fool of a woman. She's the polar opposite of Takesan. Just as you said—a failed movie starlet through and through. Yesterday evening after that business, Maabou came barging into the Sakura Room for the eight o'clock friction therapy—it wasn't even her shift—and started carrying on shrilly with Katapan and Kappore as though she'd clean forgotten about the noon incident. At the time Takesan was giving me my friction treatment; silent as ever, she rubbed with brisk swish-swish strokes of her hands, smiling now and then at Maabou and company's silly jokes until Maabou came stomping over to our side,

“Takesan, shall I help?” she said in a rough, joking tone, even though

“Thanks,” she gave a slight nod and replied composedly, “I’ll be finished soon.”

7 It was Takesan in this composed and dignified state that I liked. When Takesan showed me clumsy goodwill, she became unsightly—something not meant to be seen. When Maabou turned sharply and headed back toward Katapan, I, "Maabou's such a try-hard," I whispered to Takesan.

“At her core, she’s a good kid,” Takesan replied tersely in a nurturing tone.

After all, was Takesan of higher human caliber than Maabou? I secretly wondered at that moment. Takesan briskly finished the friction therapy, picked up the metal basin, and went out to assist with treatments in the neighboring "Swan Room." Then Maabou came grinning slyly to my bedside once more and whispered in a small voice,

“You said something to Takesan.” “You definitely said it.” “I know.” “I said you’re such a try-hard.” “You’re so mean! That’s just how it is.” Surprisingly, she didn’t get angry. “Hey, do you have that?” She formed a square shape with her fingers. “The case?” “Yeah. Where’s it stored?” “It’s in one of the drawers around there. I can give it back.” “Oh, don’t be silly! Keep it forever, okay? I know I’m being a bother, but...” She said with an oddly solemn air, then suddenly raised her voice: “See? The moon looks best from Hibari’s spot after all. Hey, Kappore-san! Come here! Let’s line up here and worship the moon.”

“Let’s make a haiku—‘Bright moon...’ or something like that!” “How’s that?”

It was rather noisy.

That night, having gone to bed without any particular incident arising from these matters, I awoke suddenly near dawn. The room was dimly lit by the hallway's night-light. Checking the clock by my pillow, I saw it was just before five. Outside remained pitch black. Someone was watching from the window. Maabou! The thought flashed through my mind instantly—a white face. She had definitely smiled and vanished swiftly. I got up and flung aside the curtain to look, but found nothing. A peculiar sensation lingered. Had I been half-asleep? However erratic Maabou might be, she surely wouldn't come at such an hour. With a wry smile at discovering myself more romantic than I'd realized, I burrowed back under the covers, yet the thought continued nagging at me. After some time, from the direction of the distant washroom came faint swishing sounds—water noises resembling laundry being done.

That's it! I thought. I didn't know what made me think that. The person who'd smiled and vanished earlier—that was her. She was definitely there now. When that thought came, I couldn't bear it anymore. Quietly rising, I stealthily muffled my footsteps and stepped out into the hallway.

In the washroom, a single blue bare bulb was lit. Peering in, I saw Takesan wearing a kasuri-patterned kimono and white apron, crouched roundly as she wiped the washroom floorboards. With her hand towel wrapped in the older-sister style, she resembled Oshima's Anko. She turned and looked at me, yet kept silently wiping the floorboards. Her face looked terribly gaunt. Every last person at the Dojo still slept quietly. I wondered if Takesan always rose this early to begin cleaning. I couldn't find words, my heart pounding as I watched Takesan wipe the floor. I confess—in that moment, I was tormented by a terrifying desire for the first time in my life. In the pitch darkness just before dawn, something ominous stirred.

8

The washroom had become something of a bane for me.

“Takesan, earlier...” My voice caught in my throat. I said, gasping for breath. “Did you go out to the garden?” “No,” she turned to look at me, gave a small laugh, and said, “Bonbon, what kinda sleep-addled nonsense ya spoutin’? "Oh, you're so gross. You’re barefoot!” When I came to my senses, I was indeed barefoot. I’d been so excited when coming here that I’d forgotten to put on my sandals. “What a worrisome child ya are.” “Let me wipe your feet.” Takesan stood up, washed the rag at the sink with a splashing sound, then came over holding it, crouched down, and scrubbed the soles of my right foot and left foot vigorously with a *kyu-kyu* friction. Not only my feet—even the deepest corners of my heart felt clean. That strange, terrible desire had vanished too. As I had my feet wiped by Takesan, I placed my hand on her shoulder,

“Takesan, let me keep bein’ spoiled by ya from now on,” I said, deliberately mimicking her Kansai accent.

“You must be lonely,” said Takesan without smiling, murmuring as if to herself. “Here now, I’ll lend ya these,” she continued in her Kansai accent, “so go use the lavatory quick-like, then get some rest.”

Takesan took off the slippers she was wearing, aligned them neatly toward me, and offered them.

“Thank you.” Pretending composure, I slipped on the slippers and said, “Was I sleepwalking?” “Didn’t you just get up to use the toilet?” Takesan resumed diligently scrubbing the floorboards as she spoke in her grown-up tone. “Well... yes.” I couldn’t possibly admit something as absurd as seeing a woman’s face outside the window. The vision must have appeared because my own heart was muddied. I felt wretchedly ashamed—how my heart had raced with indecent fantasies, how I’d bolted barefoot into the hallway. All while there were those who rose daily at this ungodly hour to silently devote themselves to scrubbing.

Leaning against the wall, I continued watching Takesan work for a while longer and came to keenly understand life's solemnity. Health must look like this, I thought. Through Takesan's influence, I felt the pure orb at my heart's core had grown more refreshingly transparent. Honest people truly are remarkable. Simple souls are precious beyond measure. Until now I'd held some contempt for Takesan's good nature—how mistaken I was. Your discernment never falters. She stands beyond any comparison to someone like Maabou. Takesan's love doesn't corrupt. This is extraordinary. I too will become someone capable of such true affection. Each day I soar higher. The air around me grew steadily colder and clearer.

A man's lifelong crisis hangs by a thread—or so they say. A new man always dwells in perilous places, then nimbly slips through and past them before flying away.

When I considered it this way, autumn didn't seem so bad either. A bit chilly, and felt nice. Maabou's dream had been a bad one—I wanted to forget it quickly—but if Takesan's dream was indeed a dream, I hoped it would never end. This wasn't some lovesick boasting.

October 7th

Katapan

1

Dear Sir, It was a terrible storm, wasn’t it? Is this what they call a nowaki? Even the American Occupation forces must be taken aback by this. I hear four or five hundred have come to E City too, but they still haven’t shown themselves around here. There was even an admonition from the Director—said we shouldn’t cower needlessly and become laughingstocks—so everyone at this dojo’s keeping relatively calm. Only Kintoto-san, one of the assistants, mopes about getting teased by everybody. Kintoto-san had gone to E City on an errand in the rain two or three days back, but after returning to the dojo that night and bedding down with everyone, he started sniffling quietly. “What’s wrong?” “What’s wrong?” When everyone pressed him like that and listened to his story between sobs, it turned out to be something along these lines.

After finishing her errands in town, Kintoto-san was waiting at the bus stop for her return ride when an American military truck came driving through the downpour. It seemed to have broken down, stopping right in front of the bus shelter. From the cab jumped two young American soldiers—boyish-looking—who began repairs while being pelted by the rain. They kept tinkering with the machinery like soaked rats, showing no sign of finishing anytime soon. Eventually, Kintoto-san’s bus arrived, but she ran out from the shelter and started boarding it. In what seemed like a trance, she pulled pears from her furoshiki bundle one by one and gave them to those American boys. Hearing a “Sankyuu!” behind her, she rushed to the back of the bus—and it departed the moment she scrambled aboard. That was all there was to it, but upon returning to the dojo and gradually calming down, she became indescribably frightened and so unbearably worried that finally, at night, she ended up covering her head with the futon and whimpering alone. This news had already spread throughout the entire dojo by the very next morning. Some argued it was only natural, others declared it outrageous, and still others claimed they couldn’t make sense of it—but in any case, everyone burst into laughter. Even when teased, Kintoto-san didn’t so much as smile, shaking her head and saying her heart was still pounding.

And then there was another person in our room—Katapan-san—who had been looking terribly gloomy lately. He seemed troubled by some distress, but indeed, he too had a peculiar sort of hardship.

This Katapan fellow—whether you'd call him secretive or affected—had always maintained an uncomfortable presence among us, treating everyone with complete disregard and keeping up formal airs indefinitely. But two nights ago during that storm, the power went out just past seven o'clock. With no evening friction therapy and the loudspeakers silenced by the outage, there were no nightly news broadcasts to hear. Thus all us dojo members wound up retiring early. However, the raging wind proved too clamorous for sleep—Kappore hummed faint melodies under his breath while Echigo Jishi rummaged through his bed drawer for a candle, lit it beside his pillow, then sat cross-legged atop his mattress laboring over slipper repairs.

“What a terrible wind, isn’t it?”

With that, Katapan came over to us, laughing strangely. Katapan coming to visit others' beds was truly a rare occurrence.

2

Just as moths yearn for lamplight and come flying, I thought, perhaps humans too might find even the meager glow of a candle nostalgically compelling on such a stormy night, drawn to it despite themselves. “Yes,” I raised my upper body to greet him and said, “Even the Occupation forces must be startled by this storm.”

He laughed increasingly oddly, “Well, you see—it’s just that,” he said in a jesting tone, “the problem lies with those occupation forces.” “Anyway, read this for me.” Then he handed me a sheet of stationery. The stationery was filled with English writing. “I can’t read English,” I said, blushing. “You can read it. “Those your age who’ve just left middle school remember English best. “We’ve already forgotten everything.” Smirking as he spoke, he sat on the edge of my bed and suddenly lowered his voice so only I could hear: “Truth is—this is English I wrote myself. There must be grammar mistakes—I want you to fix them. “If you read it you’ll understand—the people here grossly overestimate my English skills. If American soldiers come to this dojo now, they might drag me out as an interpreter. “The thought terrifies me beyond measure. “Do grant me your understanding,” he added with an embarrassed titter.

“But you really are quite good at English, aren’t you?” I said, gazing blankly at the stationery. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s no way I could ever do something like interpreting. I suppose I got a bit carried away and showed off my English too much to the assistants. If I were dragged out as an interpreter like this and they saw me flustered and confused, there’s no telling how much those assistants would despise me. I’ve never been in such a fix before. Lately, I’ve been so worried about it that I can hardly sleep at night. I leave it to your wise judgment,” he said, and giggled again.

I read the English on the stationery. There were words here and there that I didn't recognize, but the text roughly conveyed the following meaning. Do not be angry, sir. PLEASE FORGIVE THIS RUDENESS. I am a wretched man. For why? In matters of English - whether hearing, speaking, or all else besides - I am as an infant. THOSE ACTS LIE FAR BEYOND MY ABILITY AND ARE LAID OUT BEFORE YOU. Not only that, but also, I have tuberculosis. Sir, beware! Ah, dangerous! To you, the possibility of infection scobule great deal is. However, I deeply believe in you, sir. In the name of God, I acknowledge that you are a gentleman of exceedingly high character. I have no doubt that you will hold sympathy for this wretched man. I am nearly a cripple in English conversation herein, but endeavor to read and write. If you possess sufficient kindness and patience, I want you to write your today's tasks on this piece of paper. However, I wish you to demonstrate one hour of patience. I shall during that period confine myself to my private chamber, study your writing, and then write my reply to the utmost of my ability.

I ardently pray for your health. Do not by any means be angry at my feeble and ugly writing, sir.

3 Compared to Tsukushi's bizarre and unfathomable letters, this one at least followed a proper logical structure. Yet I found myself stifling laughter as I read. From that English text alone, one could clearly discern how dreadfully Mr. Katapan feared being hauled out as an interpreter - how his showman's pride drove him to desperately contrive methods for avoiding disgrace should the summons come, laboring mightily through schemes to avoid disappointing the nurses' expectations.

“This looks exactly like some crucial diplomatic document. It’s positively majestic,” I said, biting back laughter. “Don’t mock me,” Katapan said with a bitter smile as he snatched the stationery from me. “Was there any MISTEKU?” “No, it’s remarkably clear writing—one might even call this exemplary prose.” “The ‘may-be’ sort of *Meibun*, eh?” he quipped, making a feeble pun, yet clearly gratified by the praise as he assumed a mildly self-satisfied, earnest expression. “But when it comes to interpreting, the responsibility becomes rather weighty, you understand. I’ve resolved to politely decline that role and adhere to written correspondence.” “I fear I’ve paraded my English knowledge too ostentatiously—there’s a genuine risk of being pressed into service as an interpreter.” “There’s no evading it now—it’s developed into quite the predicament,” he declared in an uncharacteristically grave tone, exhaling an exaggerated little sigh.

I was impressed that people could have such varied worries depending on the person.

Whether due to the storm or perhaps our meager lamplight, that night we four roommates gathered around Echigo Jishi's candle flame and shared unreserved conversation for the first time in ages. "What exactly is a liberalist—what even is that?" Kappore inquired in an uncharacteristically hushed tone, though none could guess why.

“In France,” said Katapan—perhaps having exhausted his English pretensions—as he now displayed his knowledge regarding French matters. “There were these libertins, you see, who reveled in free thought and ran wild causing quite an uproar.” “Since this was the seventeenth century,” he said, raising his eyebrows with an air of importance, “that would make it about three hundred years ago from our time.” “These fellows were mainly shouting about religious freedom while causing chaos, it would seem.”

“What, just some rowdies?” Kappore said with a look of unexpected surprise. “Well, yes, that’s more or less what they were. For the most part, they lived like ruffians. Take that big-nosed Cyrano who’s famous in plays and such—you know, someone like him could also be considered one of the libertins of that era. They rebelled against the authorities of their time and aided the weak. The French poets of that time were probably mostly like that as well. They seemed to bear some resemblance to what you might call the chivalrous men of Japan’s Edo period.”

“What in the world,” Kappore burst out, “then does that mean even someone like Banzuiin Chōbei was a liberalist?”

4 However, Katapan did not so much as smile, “Well, I suppose one could put it that way.” “Though modern liberalists appear rather different in type, the libertins of seventeenth-century France were generally of that ilk.” “Hanakawado no Sukeroku and Nezumi Kozo Jirokichi might well have been such men too.” “Well now,” Kappore cried out gleefully, “so that’s how it stands, eh?”

Echigo Jishi also grinned slyly while mending his torn slippers. “Now, this so-called liberalism,” Katapan said, growing increasingly earnest, “in its true form, is a spirit of rebellion.” “It might even be called a destructive ideology.” “It is not an ideology that first sprouts once oppression and constraints have been removed, but rather one that arises simultaneously with them as a reaction—an ideology inherently meant to combat them.” “A commonly cited example is when a pigeon one day entreated God: ‘When I fly, the air gets in my way and prevents me from moving forward quickly. Please remove the air.’ God granted its wish.” Yet, no matter how much the pigeon flapped its wings, it could not take flight. “In other words, this pigeon represents liberalism.” “It is only through the resistance of the air that the pigeon can take flight.” “Liberalism without an object of struggle is like a pigeon flapping its wings inside a vacuum tube—it cannot fly at all.”

“There’s a man with a similar name, isn’t there?” said Echigo Jishi, pausing in mending his slippers.

“Ah,” Katapan said, scratching the back of his head, “that’s not what I meant. This is Kant’s example. I know nothing at all about modern Japan’s political world.” “However, you must know at least a little,” Echigo said with the composed demeanor befitting the group’s elder. “From what I hear, they’re going to grant all you young people both voting rights and the right to run for office. I daresay the substance of free thought differs entirely with each passing moment. Every genius who has pursued and fought for truth could be called a free thinker. As for me, I even consider Christ to be the originator of free thought. Do not worry—look at the birds of the air. They neither sow nor reap nor store away in barns. Is that not a splendid form of free thought? I believe all Western thought is founded upon the spirit of Christ—either expanding upon it, simplifying it, or doubting it. However varied people’s theories may be, in the end, they all tie back to a single volume: the Bible. Even science is not unrelated to that. The foundation of science—whether in physics or chemistry—is entirely hypotheses. It starts from hypotheses that cannot be confirmed with the naked eye. It is from faith in these hypotheses that all science arises. The Japanese should have first studied a single volume of the Bible before delving into Western philosophy and science. I am no Christian myself, but I believe Japan’s true cause of catastrophic defeat lies precisely in having studied only the superficial trappings of Western civilization without ever researching the Bible. Whether it’s free thought or anything else—without knowing the spirit of Christ, you can’t even half understand it.”

5

And then, everyone fell silent for a while. Even Kappore wore a thoughtful expression, silently shaking his head and such.

“Furthermore, here is an example of how the substance of free thought changes from moment to moment,” said Echigo Jishi, uncharacteristically eloquent that night. There was even something noble about him—a hermit-like quality. He might actually have been someone of considerable stature. If only he’d been healthy, I thought privately, he might have been doing truly important work for our nation by now. “Long ago in China,” he continued, “there was a free thinker who opposed the ruling regime and indignantly withdrew deep into the mountains. ‘The times are not with me,’ he declared. Yet he failed to recognize this as his own defeat. He possessed a single famous sword. ‘When the moment comes,’ he vowed with great confidence while hiding in those mountains, ‘I shall strike down my political enemies with this blade.’ “Ten years passed. The world changed. When he descended to preach his free thought to the people, it had become nothing but stale, opportunistic ideology. In a final attempt to demonstrate his resolve, he drew that famous sword—only to find it had rusted through. This shows how political ideologies that remain unchanged for ten years as if a single day are mere delusions. “Japan’s own free thought since Meiji first rebelled against the shogunate, then denounced the domain cliques, and now attacks bureaucrats. I believe this is what Confucius meant when he said ‘The noble person changes like a leopard.’ In China, you see, ‘noble person’ doesn’t refer to teetotaling moralists like here—it means geniuses versed in the six arts. Master strategists, if you will. And even these must transform like leopards. They exemplify beautiful change.”

“It differs from ugly betrayal.” “Christ also said, ‘Do not swear at all.’” “He also said, ‘Do not worry about tomorrow.’” “Indeed, isn’t He the greatest predecessor of free thinkers?” “‘Foxes have holes, and birds of the air have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head’—this too might be called the lament of free thinkers.” “They are allowed not a single day’s respite.” “Their claims must be renewed daily—must be made anew each day.” “In Japan today, even attacking yesterday’s military bureaucrats no longer constitutes free thought.” “It is mere ideological bandwagoning.” “If one is a true free thinker, there is something they must cry out above all else now.”

“Wh-what is it? What should we shout?” Kappore asked in a flustered panic. “You know already,” said Echigo Jishi, sitting up straight with perfect posture. “Long live His Majesty the Emperor! That is the cry. Until yesterday, it was outdated. However, in today’s world, it is the newest free thought. This is how the freedom of ten years ago and the freedom of today differ in substance. That is no longer mysticism. It is humanity’s inherent love. Today’s true free thinkers should die under this cry. I have heard that America is a land of freedom. They will surely acknowledge Japan’s cry for freedom without fail. If only I weren’t ill now—if only I could stand before Nijubashi Bridge this very moment and shout, ‘Long live His Majesty the Emperor!’ I want to shout it!”

Katapan removed his glasses. He was crying. Through this stormy night, I had come to like Katapan completely. Men are such good things, aren't they. Maabou and Takesan—they're not even worth considering as problems.

End of the Health Dojo report titled "Stormy Lamplight."

So long.

October 14th

Lipstick

1

Thank you for your reply. I was glad to hear my recent letter about the "Stormy Night Conference" had met with your approval. While your esteemed opinion suggests Echigo Jishi might be a rare statesman of our time or even some renowned master, I found myself unable to share that view. Now was rather an age when ordinary, nameless citizens spoke truth. The leaders merely panicked and scrambled about in disarray. If this continued indefinitely, it was clear they would soon be left behind by the masses. A general election seemed imminent, but if they kept delivering nothing but absurd speeches, the public would only grow more contemptuous of Diet members.

Speaking of elections, a most peculiar incident occurred today at this dojo.

Today around noon, the following circulated notice was issued from the neighboring "Swan Room": It read: “While women being granted suffrage rights is cause for celebration, the heavy makeup recently worn by nurses at this Health Dojo has become unbearable to behold; if this continues, even suffrage itself will weep. We have heard that the American Occupation forces mistake women with garish lipstick for prostitutes—indeed, this must be so. This brings shame not only upon our dojo but ultimately upon all Japanese women.” Following this, the nicknames of overly made-up nurses were exhaustively listed: “Among the aforementioned six individuals, Peacock’s adornments are the most grotesque. Like Sun Wukong who has devoured horse meat. We have repeatedly attempted to advise them, yet there remains no indication of remorse. They should be properly expelled from this dojo.” was appended.

The neighboring "Swan Room" had long housed an assembly of hardliners, such that even Katapan-san—popular among the nurses—had seemingly reached his limit there and fled to our "Sakura Room." The Sakura Room was, perhaps through Echigo Jishi’s moral influence, a space imbued with vernal serenity. When this circulated notice arrived too, Kappore first voiced disapproval—“This goes too far.” Katapan responded with a wry smile of support.

“This is too harsh, don’t you think?” Kappore sought agreement from Echigo Jishi as well. “Since humans are to be treated with impartial benevolence, I don’t think we need to expel them.” “Humanity’s inherent love is not something that can be forgotten under any circumstances.”

Echigo Jishi silently gave a faint nod. Kappore, emboldened by that,

“See? That’s how it is, right? Free thought isn’t supposed to be such a petty thing. What about you, young sir? I don’t think my argument is wrong,” he urged me to agree. “But surely the people next door don’t actually intend to expel them, do they? Maybe they’re just trying to show everyone the extent of their resolve,” I said with a laugh.

“No, that’s not it,” Kappore flatly denied. “Fundamentally, I don’t believe there should be any fatal contradiction between women’s suffrage and lipstick. Those guys are never popular with women to begin with, so they must be plotting to get back at them now by taking advantage of this situation,” he declared emphatically.

2 And then he began laying out their strongest argument, "In this world there exists both great courage and petty courage—they’re clearly the latter." "They’ve been calling me Pai-pan, the bastards." "I’ve been stewing over this for ages." "Even ‘Kappore’ isn’t a nickname I particularly fancy, but when they call me Pai-pan? That I won’t stand for." He flew into an inexplicable rage, climbed down from his bed, and retied his sash. "I’m taking this notice straight back to them. "Free thought’s been around since Edo times." "That people still cling to wisdom, benevolence, and courage—that’s where we find ourselves now." "So you’ll all leave this to me, yes?" "Mark my words—I’ll shove this right down their throats." His face had gone pale.

“Wait, wait.” Echigo Jishi wiped the tip of his nose with a towel and said, “You mustn’t go. Leave this matter to the young sir over there.”

“To Hibari?” Kappore appeared greatly dissatisfied. “With all due respect, this burden is too heavy for Hibari.” “There’s been friction with those next door since long ago.” “This didn’t just start now.” “Being called Pai-pan—I can’t stay silent.” “Freedom and restraint—that’s what it comes down to.” “Freedom and restraint—it aligns with the principle of ‘the noble one transforms like a leopard.’” “Those fools don’t grasp an ounce of Christ’s teachings.” “If need be, I’ll have to demonstrate my capabilities.” “Hibari can’t handle this.”

“I’ll go.” I got down from the bed, slipped past Kappore, and simultaneously took the circulated notice from him before leaving the room.

In the Swan Room, they seemed eager for the Sakura Room's response. When I entered, all eight students came swarming around me noisily, "What do you think? Quite a daring proposal, eh?" "The pretty boys from Sakura must be sweating now." "You're not planning to betray us, are you?"

“All members must unite and demand that the director expel Peacock.” “Suffrage is too good for the likes of Son Goku.” They said such things one after another, making a great commotion. They all looked innocent, like mischievous children. “Won’t you let me handle it?” I said in a voice louder than anyone else’s. For a moment, they fell silent, but soon erupted into commotion again.

“Don’t meddle, don’t meddle!” “Is Hibari our compromise messenger?” “The Sakura Room lacks seriousness!” “This is a crucial moment for Japan!” “You don’t even realize our country’s fallen to fourth-rate status, yet here you are drooling over beautiful faces, aren’t you?”

“What’s this? Out of nowhere, you’re asking us to let you do something?” “By tonight, before bedtime—” I stretched up and shouted. “I will inform you, so if my approach doesn’t meet with your approval, then I will comply with your proposal.” It fell silent again. 3

“Are you opposed to our proposal?” After a while, a thirty-year-old man with fierce eyes—nicknamed “Blue General”—asked me. “I wholeheartedly agree. Regarding that matter, I have a terribly interesting plan. Please let me handle it. I beg you.”

Everyone seemed a bit deflated.

“Is that agreeable?” “Thank you.” “I’ll retain custody of this circulated notice until nightfall.”

I quickly left the room. This was how it should be. There was nothing complicated about it. All that remained was to ask Takesan.

When I returned to the room, Kappore— “You’re no good, Hibari. “I went out into the hallway and was listening. “That ain’t gonna get you anywhere. “You should’ve come out and said it straight—invoked Christ’s teachings and the principle of ‘the noble person changes like a leopard.’ “Freedom and restraint! “You could’ve even said— “They’ve got no sense of reason—laying out a proper argument’s your best bet here. “Why didn’t you tell them free thought is air and doves?” he kept lamenting.

"Please leave this to me until evening," was all I said as I lay down on my own bed. I was indeed a bit tired. “Leave it to us, leave it to us,” Echigo Jishi declared in a dignified voice from where he lay, so Kappore, saying nothing more, seemed to reluctantly settle down to sleep. I didn’t really have any plan. I was simply optimistic that if I showed this circulated notice to Takesan, she would handle it appropriately. At the two o’clock stretching exercises, when Takesan passed through the corridor in front of the room and glanced my way, I immediately beckoned her over with a small wave of my right hand. Takesan gave a slight nod and immediately entered the room.

“Do you need something?” she asked seriously. I was doing leg exercises while—

“Pillow side, pillow side,” I whispered softly. Takesan saw the circulated notice by the pillow, picked it up, and after reading it silently through, “I’ll take this,” she said in her composed manner, tucking the notice under her arm. “When correcting an error, one must not hesitate. Swift action is best.” Takesan nodded faintly with complete understanding, then moved to the window near the pillow and stood gazing silently at the view outside.

After a while, she turned toward the window. “Gen-san, thank you for your hard work,” she murmured in a completely unadorned, natural tone. Under the window, the old gardener Gen-san had begun weeding two or three days prior. “After Obon,” Gen-san answered from below the window. “Even though I weeded them once, they’ve grown back like this.” I was so impressed by the resonance of Takesan’s “Thank you for your hard work” that I could only marvel in admiration. I was impressed by her calm, clear attitude that seemed not to care in the least about the circulated notice—but even more so, I was struck by the dignity resonating in that caring voice. It was a tone so truly leisurely and unhurried, as if the mistress of a grand house were calling out to the old gardener from the veranda. It gave a strong impression of refined upbringing. As Echigo Jishi had once mentioned, Takesan’s mother must have been a truly remarkable person. If left to Takesan, this heavy makeup incident would surely be resolved neatly and effortlessly, I felt even more greatly reassured.

4

And so, that trust of mine was rewarded more splendidly than I had anticipated. At four o'clock during the scheduled natural period, suddenly, from the corridor's loudspeaker— A clerk’s voice was heard saying, “Please remain in your current positions and listen at ease,” followed by: “Regarding the matter of the assistants’ makeup—which has long been an issue—it has now been reported that the assistants themselves have voluntarily proposed to discontinue it effective today.”

A cheer of "Whoa!" could be heard coming from the neighboring "Swan Room." The temporary broadcast continued further, "It has been reported that after this evening’s meal, they will each wash off their makeup and, by no later than seven-thirty tonight during friction therapy, appear before all students in simple attire that will not cause any strange misunderstandings among the American people." "Furthermore, next, Nurse Makita wishes to offer a few words of apology to all students. Please kindly understand her sincere intentions."

Makita-san was none other than the Peacock. Peacock gave a small cough and, “This one,” she said. From the neighboring room came a roar of laughter. In our room as well, everyone was smirking. “This one,” It was a thin, delicate voice, like the chirping of a cricket. “This one failed to properly discern the season and place, and despite being the eldest among them, acted ineptly to regrettable effect.” “I deeply apologize.” “In the future as well, I humbly ask for your continued guidance.”

“There, there,” came voices from the neighboring room. “Poor thing,” Kappore said solemnly, glancing sideways at me. I felt a twinge of pain. “Finally,” the clerk continued, “this is a request from all assistants: we ask that Nurse Makita’s current nickname be changed immediately.” “That concludes today’s special announcement.”

From the “Swan Room,” a circulated notice immediately arrived. “All are satisfied.” “Hibari’s efforts are highly commended.” “The Peacock shall be renamed ‘Watakoto.’” Kappore immediately voiced opposition to that nickname proposal. “Bestowing the nickname ‘Watakoto’ is simply too cruel by any measure,” he argued. “That’s too heartless!” “Even so, she spoke with all her might.” “Didn’t they tell us to understand her sincerity?” “It’s like that teaching—‘Look at the birds of the air.’” “Isn’t this impartial benevolence?” “Curse others, dig two graves—that’s how it goes.” “I absolutely oppose this.” “Since Peacock sheds her white powder to reveal black skin beneath, we should rename her Crow instead.”

This was actually even more scathing and cruel. It all came to nothing.

“Since Peacock has become plain, let’s just omit one character from ‘Peacock’ and make it ‘Sparrow’.” Echigo Jishi said that with a quiet chuckle. Though “Sparrow” felt too logically contrived to be amusing, I wrote on the circulated notice that “Watakoto” was excessively cruel while “Sparrow” lacked appropriateness—it being the elder’s opinion after all—and had Kappore deliver it. Proposals for nicknames had reportedly flooded into the Swan Room from various wards, but ultimately they might settle on “Watakoto.” That moment when Peacock gave a small cough before uttering “Watakoto” was truly impeccable and unforgettable. All other nicknames seemed faded by comparison.

5

At seven o'clock during friction therapy, Kintoto, Maabou, Kakuran, and Takesan each came to the Sakura Room carrying metal basins. Takesan composed herself and came straight to me. Though Kintoto and Maabou had been counted among those cautioned about their makeup this time, when observing their appearance upon coming to our room that night—while their hairstyles seemed slightly altered—they still somehow appeared to be wearing makeup.

“Doesn’t Maabou still have lipstick on?” I whispered to Takesan. She started scrubbing vigorously during the friction therapy. “They’ve been frantically scrubbing and washing all day.” “Expecting them to change overnight is unreasonable.” “They’re still young.” “Your efforts have been extraordinary, Takesan.”

“The Director had given warnings many times before as well.” “The Director listened to today’s broadcast from the office and was in quite a good mood.” “When he asked whose idea today’s broadcast was—because I told him it was Hibari’s brainchild—that Director who never smiles said ‘What a delightful fellow,’ and gave a little chuckle.” Takesan too must have gotten somewhat worked up over today’s lipstick incident, for she was being uncharacteristically talkative.

“It wasn’t my invention.” The attribution of military credit needed absolute clarity. “It amounts to the same thing,” she said. “If you hadn’t spoken up, I wouldn’t have moved either. Who’d willingly play the villain?” “Did they grow to resent you?” “No.” She shook her head with that characteristically cool smile. “Not resented. But it weighed on me.” “Peacock’s apology weighed on me too.”

“Yeah. Nurse Makita—she’s the one who came forward herself asking to make the apology.” “She’s a good person, without any ill will.” “She’s not very good at makeup.” “I’m wearing a little lipstick too, but you can’t tell, right?” “Oh, so we’re accomplices?” “If it’s not noticeable, then it’s fine,” she said with a calm face, continuing the friction therapy with a scrub-scrub-scrub.

She’s a woman, I thought. And then, for the first time since coming to this dojo, I thought Takesan was cute. Even a prize sea bream can’t be treated carelessly.

How about it, you? I once again recommended that you visit this dojo. Here exists a woman worthy of respect. This belongs neither to me nor to you. This is Japan's sole treasure that can still take pride in the world today. To put it that way made it sound like exaggerated praise - even I found myself at a loss - but in any case, isn't it rare to find a young woman who inspires affection without any sensuality? You too should by now harbor no such thing as sensual desire toward Takesan. I believe it's only feelings of affection.

Herein lies our victory as new men. This friendship between men and women founded solely on trust and affection can only be understood by our kind. It is the divine fruit that only those called new men can savor. If you wish to taste this essence of purity, O young poet, you must visit our dojo. Though perhaps you already partake of an even greater fruit of divine purity in your own sphere.

October 20th

Hanayoi-sensei

1

Your visit yesterday was truly a delight. On that occasion, there was again a bouquet for me. For Takesan and Maabou, you brought gifts of one small red English dictionary each—such a poetic and thoughtful gesture, and I was particularly grateful you remembered them. From those people I had received a cigarette case and a bamboo Fujimusume craft that left me rather overwhelmed. Just as I was privately fretting about needing to reciprocate eventually, your considerate gifts arrived and put me at ease. You seem to possess a more modern sensibility than I do. I find myself feeling oddly particular about exchanging gifts with women—I find it distasteful. This might be some lingering old-fashioned part of me. I’ll strive to emulate your unaffected way of giving. I felt I’d learned another lesson from you—that day, I thought I glimpsed your refreshing virtue.

When Maabou said, “You have a visitor,” and ushered you into the room, my chest thudded so hard I thought I might hemorrhage internally. Would you understand? The joy of seeing your face after so long was immense, but more than that, I was stunned to see you and Maabou walking side by side, smiling like old acquaintances. It felt like something from a fairy tale.

I had also experienced a similar feeling once last spring.

Last spring, right after graduating from middle school, I came down with pneumonia. Drifting in and out of consciousness from the high fever, I suddenly looked toward my bedside to find Mr.Kimura, the head teacher at my middle school, and my mother chatting and laughing together. At that time too, I was terrified. The two people who lived in completely separate worlds—school and home—were talking by my bedside as if they were old acquaintances, which felt so strange that my heart leaped with a terribly confused, fairy-tale-like happiness, like discovering Mount Fuji from Lake Towada.

“You look completely well now,” you said as you handed me the bouquet. When I fumbled awkwardly, you turned to Maabou with perfect composure and requested, “Even a plain vase would do—please let Hibari borrow one.” Maabou nodded and went to fetch it, leaving me in a dreamlike daze. Nothing made sense anymore—

“Have you known Maabou for a while?” I even blurted out an awkward question like that, “I know her from your letters, don’t I?” “Oh, right.”

And then the two of us had a good laugh, didn’t we?

“Did you realize it was Maabou right away?”

“I knew at first glance. She’s much more pleasant than I expected.”

“For example?” “You’re being persistent. You still have feelings for her, don’t you? She’s not as vulgar as I expected. She’s just a child, isn’t she?” “I wonder.” “But she’s not bad. She’s got a delicate frame, don’t you think?”

“I wonder.”

I felt good. 2

Maabou brought a slender white vase. “Thank you,” you said as you accepted it, casually arranging the flowers, “I suppose we’ll have Takesan rearrange these later.” But that was a bit ill-advised, I thought. Even when you immediately took out that small dictionary from your pocket and gave it to Maabou, she didn’t look particularly pleased—just silently bowed with excessive politeness before briskly leaving the room. Clear evidence she’d taken slight offense. Maabou isn’t the kind to make such coldly formal bows. But since anyone besides Takesan means nothing to you, there’s nothing to be done.

“The weather’s nice, so let’s go to the second-floor balcony and talk.” “It’s lunch break now, so it’s fine.” “Everyone knows from your letters.” “I timed my visit for that lunch break.” “Plus, today’s Sunday, so there’s also the comfort broadcast.”

Laughing as we left the room and climbed the stairs, from that point we suddenly grew stiff and began earnestly debating matters of state—what was that all about, I wonder. Though we had already entrusted our lives to the revered one and were fully resolved to lightly fly anywhere according to divine command—with nothing left to discuss—we nevertheless grew excited and confided in each other our sincere intentions regarding this so-called rebuilding of a new Japan. I suppose boys, no matter how close, when meeting after a long separation, must feel compelled by that impatience to have their progress acknowledged through exchanging such lofty statements. Even after stepping onto the balcony, you kept raging that Japan’s elementary education system was fundamentally flawed,

“Because what education one receives as a child determines their whole life.” “We ought to assign more distinguished individuals.” “Exactly.” “People fixated on rewards won’t do.” “Precisely, precisely.” “Utilitarian deceptions can’t succeed.” “I’ve had my fill of adult maneuvering.” “Absolutely.” “Surface-level posturing’s antiquated.” “Doesn’t it lay everything bare?”

You seemed just as poor at debating as I was. We kept repeating the same things over and over, it seemed.

And then, our clumsy debate gradually began to falter, with words like "merely," "in short," "anyway," and "in the end" flying about in abundance until it petered out—when suddenly Takesan appeared on the lawn in front of the entrance below. I instinctively—

“Takesan!” I called out. You tightened your trouser belt at the same time. What did that mean? Takesan put her right hand to her forehead and looked up at the balcony. “What’s this?” she laughed, but her posture wasn’t half bad then. “There’s someone here who really likes you, Takesan.” “Stop it, stop it,” you said. Truth is, in moments like that, all you can muster are those half-hearted words. I’ve been there myself.

3 "How crude!" Takesan said. She then tilted her head more than forty-five degrees sideways and, facing you, laughed while saying, "Welcome"—at which you turned crimson and gave a quick bow. You then grumbled under your breath: "What's this? She's a real beauty. Making a fool of me. You wrote she was just some big, imposing respectable person—that's why I felt safe praising her—but damn! She's Sugochin!"

“Was it different from what you expected?” “No, no—completely different! You said she was grand and imposing, so I pictured some horse-like woman, but no—she’s what you’d have to call slender instead. Her complexion isn’t even that dark. I don’t want such a beauty. Dangerous,” he rattled off, and as Takesan began to leave with a slight bow toward the old building, you frantically—

“Wait—you there—go stop Takesan for me. I’ve got a souvenir,” he said, rummaging through his pocket and producing a compact dictionary.

“Takesan!” I shouted loudly to stop her, and—

“Excuse me, but I’ll throw it now. "This was requested by Hibari. It’s not from me,” you said, swiftly tossing the cute red-covered dictionary—a moment that remained strikingly vivid. I secretly admired you. Takesan deftly caught your immaculate gift against her chest, “Thank you,” she said to you. No matter what you claimed, Takesan knew perfectly well it came from you. As you gazed at Takesan’s receding figure heading toward the old building, you heaved a sigh,

“It’s dangerous, that is dangerous,” he muttered with utmost seriousness, which I found amusing. “Dangerous? Not a chance. She’s the kind of person you could be alone with in a pitch-black room and still be perfectly safe. I’ve already put it to the test.” “You’re hopelessly clueless,” he said in a pitying tone, “and you probably can’t even tell a beauty from a plain face, can you?”

I frowned. You’re the one who doesn’t understand a thing. If Takesan appeared so beautiful to you, it was because the beauty of her heart was reflected in your honest one. When I observed calmly, Takesan wasn’t a beauty at all. Maabou was far prettier. It was simply that the radiance of Takesan’s character made her appear beautiful. When it came to women’s appearances, I believed I possessed a far stricter aesthetic eye than you. However, at that time, discussing things like women’s faces had seemed vulgar, so I had remained silent. Somehow, whenever it came to Takesan, we all became too vehement and ended up feeling slightly awkward. That wasn’t good. Truly, you had to trust me. Takesan wasn't a beauty. There was nothing dangerous about it. Calling it dangerous was just absurd. Takesan was just as earnestly sincere as you were—simply a straightforward person.

We stood silently on the balcony for a while, but when you suddenly brought up that our neighbor Echigo Jishi was the famous poet Ootsuki Hanayoi, everything about Takesan was swept clean away.

4

“No way.” I was in a dreamlike state. “It does seem to be the case.” “When I glanced at him earlier, it struck me.” “All my older brothers were fans of that man, so I’ve known his face well from photographs since I was little.” “I was a fan of his poetry too.” “You must at least know the name.” “I know that.” I’ve never been good with poetry, but even so, I know Ootsuki Hanayoi’s Princess Lily poems and Seagull poems well enough to recite them from memory even now. That the author of those poems and I had been sleeping side by side in adjacent beds these past several months was something I found impossible to believe all at once. I don’t understand poetry in the slightest, but as you well know, when it comes to respecting genius poets, I have no intention of lagging behind anyone.

“That person, you know...” For a while, I was overwhelmed with emotion. “No—I can’t say anything for certain,” you said, slightly flustered, “I only caught a glimpse earlier.” In any case, this led us to decide to observe more closely, and as the time for the Sunday entertainment broadcast was drawing near, we returned to the “Sakura Room” downstairs. Echigo was sleeping. To me, there had never been a time when Echigo looked as impressive as he did then. He looked exactly like a sleeping lion. We exchanged glances, quietly nodded, and together let out an involuntary deep sigh—I remember it well. Our nervousness left us unable to speak properly; standing with our backs to the window, we simply listened in silence to the recorded broadcast—I remember that too. When the program reached its main event—the assistants’ duet of “The Maid of Orleans”—you jabbed my side hard with your right elbow,

“You know, Hanayoi-sensei composed this song,” you whispered to me with intense excitement, and hearing this, I too remembered. When I was a child, this song had been introduced in boys’ magazines with illustrations as one of Hanayoi-sensei’s masterpieces and became all the rage. We secretly gazed at Echigo’s expression. Echigo had been lying on his back in bed with his eyes lightly closed until then, but when the chorus of “The Maid of Orleans” began, he opened his eyes, slightly raised his head from the pillow to listen intently, then slumped back down and closed his eyes again—ah, with eyes still shut, he smiled faintly with profound sorrow. You made a strange gesture with your right hand as if punching the air, then asked me to shake hands. We exchanged a firm handshake without so much as a laugh, I remember. Looking back now, I can’t make sense of what that handshake was even for—but at the time, I couldn’t stay still. It was like if we didn’t shake hands, the feeling wouldn’t settle. You and I were both quite excited. “When ‘The Maid of Orleans’ ended, you—”

“Well, I’ll take my leave,” Hanayoi-sensei said in a strange, hoarse voice. I nodded and saw him out into the hallway. “That’s certain!” we both shouted at the same time.

5

You must already know all this, but when I parted from you and returned alone to my room, my emotions had transcended mere excitement and reached a state of terror so intense it nearly drained the color from my face. Deliberately avoiding looking at Echigo, I lay down on my back on the bed, but with a restless feeling of anxiety, fear, and impatience strangely intermingled, I could no longer bear it and finally called out in a small voice, “Hanayoi-sensei!” I ended up calling out.

There was no reply. I resolutely twisted my face toward Hanayoi-sensei. Echigo had silently begun his bending and stretching exercises. I too hurriedly began the exercises. I spread my legs wide in a "dai" character pose and, starting with my little fingers, folded each finger of both hands inward one by one, “You must have been singing that song without knowing who wrote it at all,” I managed to ask with relative composure. “The likes of the author should just be forgotten,” he answered calmly. I became certain beyond doubt that this person was indeed Hanayoi-sensei.

“I must apologize for my rudeness until now,” “A friend just told me, and I’ve only now learned of it.” “Both that friend and I have loved your poetry since we were children.”

“Thank you,” he said solemnly, “but Echigo lives more freely now.” “Why have you stopped writing poetry?” “The age has turned,” he replied with a quiet laugh.

My chest tightened, and I could no longer make flippant remarks. For a while, the two of us continued our exercises in silence. Suddenly, Echigo— “Don’t worry about others! You’ve been acting cocky lately!” he started angrily. I was startled. Echigo had never once spoken to me in such a rough tone before. In any case, I had to apologize quickly.

“I’m sorry.” “I won’t say it again.”

“That’s right. Don’t say anything. You people wouldn’t understand. You understand nothing.”

It had truly become an utterly awkward situation. Poets are a fearsome lot. I have no idea what even counts as rude anymore. That entire day, we did not exchange a single word. When the assistants came for friction therapy and tried to talk to me about various things, I kept a sullen face the whole time and barely gave any proper replies. Inwardly, I was itching to inform Maabou and startle her by revealing that our neighbor Echigo was indeed the author of "The Maid of Orleans," but with Echigo having sealed my lips through his "Don’t say a word," I had no choice but to swallow my tears last night.

However, this morning, I was unexpectedly able to easily reconcile with this enraged Hanayoi-sensei and felt relieved.

This morning, for the first time in a long while, Echigo’s daughter came to visit him. Her name was Kiyoko-san—a slender young woman about Maabou’s age, with a pale complexion, upturned eyes, and a quiet demeanor. We were right in the middle of breakfast. The daughter began untying the large furoshiki bundle she had brought with her, “I made some tsukudani and brought it with me, though.” “I see. Let’s have it right away. Serve it. Give half to the neighbor Hibari-san.”

Huh? I thought. Until now, Echigo had only ever called me things like "that teacher over there," "student," or "Koshiba-kun"—he had never once used an oddly familiar form of address like "Hibari-san."

6

The daughter brought tsukudani to me.

“Do you have a container?” “Oh—no,” I flustered, saying “It’s in that cupboard there” while beginning to climb down from my bed when— “Is this it?” The daughter crouched down and pulled out an aluminum lunchbox from the cupboard beneath my bed. “Yes, that’s it. Sorry.” “I’m sorry.” Hunched under the bed as she transferred the tsukudani into the lunchbox— “Will you be eating now?”

“No, I’ve already finished my meal.”

The daughter put the lunchbox back into the cupboard and stood up,

“Oh, how pretty!”

she praised those chrysanthemum flowers that you had haphazardly thrown in. Because you had to go and say something unnecessary back then about getting Takesan to fix them, I somehow felt too embarrassed to ask Takesan myself, and asking Maabou would have seemed forced too—so those flowers ended up staying just as they were. "A friend carelessly arranged them yesterday." "And there’s no one to fix them." The daughter glanced briefly at Echigo’s expression.

“Go ahead and fix them.” Echigo, who seemed to have finished his meal, said while picking his teeth with a toothpick and grinning. Somehow, his excessively good mood this morning felt unsettling. The daughter blushed and hesitantly approached the bedside, pulling all the chrysanthemums from the vase to begin rearranging them. I felt deeply glad that someone kind had fixed them for me. Echigo sat cross-legged on his bed in an exaggerated manner, watching his daughter’s deft flower arranging with evident pleasure,

“Maybe I’ll write poetry again,” he murmured. Afraid that if I said something clumsy I’d get yelled at again, I kept quiet. “Hibari-san—my apologies for yesterday,” he said, ducking his head with a guilty grin.

“No, I’m the one who spoke out of turn.”

Truly, we had achieved an unexpected and effortless reconciliation. "Maybe I'll write poetry again," he repeated once more. "Please write." "Truly—please write for us too." "What we want most right now is to read poetry that's light and pure like yours." "I don't fully understand these things, but we're seeking art that's both lively and noble—like Mozart's music." "Works with exaggerated gestures or false profundity feel outdated now." "Is there no poet who can sing beautifully of even the sparse grass growing in burnt ruins?" "We're not trying to escape reality." "The pain is already understood completely." "We're ready to do anything now without flinching." "We won't run." "We've put our lives on hold." "We travel light." "Only art that matches our feelings—art with the touch of a swift, clear stream—feels genuine now." "The kind that needs neither fame nor lifeblood." "Otherwise, we'll never survive this crisis." 'Consider the birds of the air.'" "It's not about ideology." "You can't paper things over with that sort of pretense."

“You can discern someone’s purity through touch alone.” “The issue lies in the touch.” “The rhythm.” “If that isn’t noble and clear, they’re all fakes.” I strained to voice this reasoning I was ill-equipped to handle. Having said it, I burned with embarrassment. I wished I’d kept silent.

7 “Has such an era arrived?” Hanayoi-sensei wiped the tip of his nose with a towel, lay down on his back, and said, “Anyway, I need to get out of here soon.” “That’s right, that’s right.”

For the first time since coming to this Health Dojo, at that moment, I secretly burned with anxiety—Oh, to quickly build a robust body. It felt wasteful, but I perceived the heavenly voyage as tediously sluggish. “You all are different,” the teacher said, having seemingly sensed my feelings with his usual acuity. “There’s no need to hurry. If you simply live here calmly, you will surely recover.” “And thereby become capable of contributing splendidly to Japan’s reconstruction.” “But I’m already growing old,” he began to say just as his daughter appeared to have completed her flower arrangement,

“It seems worse than before,” she said in a bright tone, then approached her father’s bed and whispered in an extremely small voice, “Father! You’re complaining again. That sort of thing isn’t in style nowadays.” She was fuming. “So even my reflections find no place in this world?” Echigo said this, yet still laughed very happily, chuckling to himself.

I too had cleanly forgotten my earlier moment of panic and smiled with an intensely happy feeling.

You—the new era has indeed come. It is light as a feathered robe, clear as a stream babbling over white sand. I learned from the monk Teacher Fukuda in middle school how Basho late in life praised this "karumi," placing it far above concepts like wabi, sabi and shiori—yet here we find ourselves having naturally attained this supreme spiritual state that even such a master could only dimly foresee in his twilight years. This lightness (karumi) differs utterly from frivolity. One cannot grasp this mindset without abandoning both desire and life itself. It is that gust of wind arriving after painful exertion leaves you spent—a bird born from air strained through global chaos, so light its wings turn translucent. Those who fail to understand will be cast from history's current. Ah—all grows old. You—there's no logic here. The serenity of those who've lost and abandoned everything—this alone is karumi.

This morning, after expounding what amounted to a thoroughly clumsy artistic theory to Echigo and then feeling terribly self-conscious about it, I nevertheless realized that Echigo’s daughter too seemed to be our secret supporter. Having gained considerable confidence from this, I proceeded to assert my vigor here as a new man and thus endeavored to supplement my previous argument.

By the way, your reputation at this Health Dojo is quite favorable. I’d like you to take heart from this. It would hardly be an exaggeration to say the atmosphere here brightened the moment you visited. First off, Hanayoi-sensei shed ten years from his age. Both Takesan and Maabou send their regards. Maabou said: “You’ve got such lovely eyes.” “Like a genius.” “Your lashes are so long—I could hear them snap each time you blinked.” Maabou’s words are exaggerated. It’s best not to believe her. Shall I share Takesan’s critique? I ask that you listen without getting defensive. Takesan said:

“Hibari makes quite the pairing.” That was all. Though she said it with her face reddened.

End.

October 29th

Takesan

1

Respectfully, Today I had to inform you of sad news. Though I say it's sadness, this peculiar feeling resembled annotating the character for "longing" with a phonetic gloss reading "sadness"—a strange kind of sorrow. Takesan was getting married. To tell you where she was marrying—it was to the Director. She was to be wedded into the household of Dr. Tajima, Director of this Health Dojo. I heard the news from Maabou today.

Well, let me start from the beginning. This morning, Mother came to the dojo bringing a whole bunch of things—changes of clothes and whatnot. Mother came twice a month to organize my belongings. Peering into my face, “Starting to feel homesick?” she teased. It was the usual routine.

“Maybe so,” I replied, deliberately playing along with the lie. This too was part of our usual routine.

“I hear you’ll be seeing Mother off to Koumebashi today.” “Who?” “Well, who could it be?” “Me? “Can I go outside?” “Was permission granted?”

Mother nodded, "But if you don't want to, it's quite all right." "Not a chance! I can walk even ten ri in a single day now."

“Maybe so,” Mother said, imitating my words.

For the first time in four months, having changed out of my sleepwear into a kasuri-patterned kimono, when I stepped out to the entrance with Mother, there stood the Director, silent with his hands clasped behind his back. “Can you walk, I wonder?” Mother said as if to herself and laughed.

“Boys should be able to stand and walk by their first birthday,” the Director declared without smiling, delivering his awkward jest before adding, “I’ll assign an attendant to accompany you.” From the office emerged Maabou, her white nurse’s uniform partially covered by a red haori patterned with camellias, who hurried out at a brisk pace and offered Mother a flustered, hasty bow. Our attendant was none other than Maabou. I slipped on my new geta sandals and stepped outside first. The wooden clogs felt unnaturally weighty, making me stagger.

“Whoa there, look at those steady steps!” the Director called out from behind. In that tone, I sensed not affection but a cold, strong will. “Slovenly!” I felt as if I had been scolded and became dejected. Without even turning around, when I walked briskly for five or six steps, once again the Director’s voice came from behind:

“Start slow. Start slow,” he said this time in a harsh tone that seemed meant to scold me outright, yet I sensed a joyful affection in those very words.

I walked slowly. Mother and Maabou followed behind me, whispering something to each other in low voices. When I passed through the pine grove and emerged onto the asphalt prefectural road, I felt a slight dizziness and stopped. "It's huge." "The road is huge." Though the asphalt road was merely glowing dully under the soft autumn sunlight, to me it momentarily looked like a vast, chaotic river. "Too much for you?" Mother said with a laugh. "What do you think? Should we save the farewell for next time?"

2 "I'm fine, I'm fine." Making my new geta clatter noisily on purpose as I walked, I had just said "I'm used to them now" when a truck came roaring past me with terrifying force. Before I knew it, I cried out "Wah!" "It's big," Mother said immediately mimicking me in teasing tones. "The truck's big."

“It’s not big, but it’s strong.” “It’s got incredible horsepower.” “It really did have about a hundred thousand horsepower.” “Ah, so that was an atomic truck just now?” Mother, too, was in high spirits this morning.

Walking slowly, as we neared the bus stop at Koume Bridge, I heard something truly unexpected. Mother and Maabou, walking while engaged in mundane talk, after various topics,

“I heard Mr. Director is getting married soon—is that true?” “Ah, um—with Ms. Takenaka… very soon.”

“With Ms. Takenaka? You mean… the assistant?” Mother also seemed surprised, but I was a hundred times more shocked. I felt an impact as if knocked down by a hundred-thousand-horsepower atomic truck. Mother immediately calmed down, saying with a bright laugh, “Ms. Takenaka is such a good person, after all. Mr. Director truly has such discerning taste,” not pressing further and calmly shifting to other topics.

I can’t clearly remember how I parted ways with my mother at the bus stop. My vision was blurred at the edges, and my heart pounded with a steady rhythm—that feeling was truly unbearable.

I confess. I like Takesan. I've liked her from the very beginning. Maabou wasn't the issue at all. I had been trying hard to forget Takesan by deliberately getting closer to Maabou and striving to fall for her, but no matter what I did, it just wouldn't work. In the letters I sent you as well, I listed only Maabou's virtues and wrote many bad things about Takesan, but that was never meant to deceive you; by writing in that manner, I wanted to erase the feelings in my heart. Even this new man of mine—whenever I thought of Takesan—found his body growing heavy, his wings shriveling, until he felt destined to become some trifling man akin to a pig's tail. Desperate to preserve this new man's dignity here and now, wanting to neatly sort out my feelings and become utterly indifferent toward Takesan, I had relentlessly criticized her—calling her merely good-natured, a pompous sea bream, hopeless at shopping—and so I beg you, please understand even a fraction of this anguish. And so I secretly hoped that if you had agreed with me and joined in criticizing Takesan, perhaps I too might have truly grown to dislike her and become unburdened—but my hopes were dashed when you instead became utterly infatuated with her, leaving me in an impossible bind. And so this time, I changed tactics—going out of my way to praise Takesan extravagantly, talking about platonic affection and new models of male-female friendship—all in a calculated attempt to check your infatuation. Such was the pitiful reality of these circumstances thus far. Far from lacking romantic intentions, I was brimming with them. It was truly a wretched state of affairs—one might even call it a wild horse and a restless monkey of the mind.

3 You insisted Takesan was stunningly beautiful, and I vehemently denied it—but truth be told, I too had thought her astonishingly beautiful from the very start. The day I first came to this dojo, that initial glimpse made me think so. Understand this—someone like Takesan embodies true beauty. Illuminated by the washroom's dim blue bulb, crouching silently in that pre-dawn darkness thick with strange portents as she wiped the floorboards—Takesan in that moment held a terrifying beauty. This isn't some sore loser's excuse, but only someone like me could have withstood it. Anyone else would surely have committed some crime in that situation. Kappore's always spouting nonsense like "Women are fiends," but perhaps there are moments when women unwittingly shed their humanity and become demonic beings.

Now I confess. I was in love with Takesan. There’s no old or new.

After parting with Mother, I walked on with my knees trembling uncontrollably from the emotion, then felt an unbearable thirst come over me.

"I'd like to rest somewhere for a bit," I said, but my voice came out so hoarse it surprised even me—it felt like someone else was murmuring those words from far away.

“You must be tired. If we go a bit further, there’s a house where we sometimes stop to rest.”

Under Maabou’s guidance, we entered a house that had likely been something like Miyoshino before the war. In the dimly lit, spacious earthen floor area, broken bicycles and things like charcoal sacks lay scattered about, and in one corner stood a single crude table with two or three chairs. And then, on the wall beside that table hung a large mirror, its eerily white gleam leaving a strong impression. Though this house had ceased business operations, it still seemed to serve at least tea to regular patrons, and likely served as a place to idle for the dojo assistants during their outings; Maabou unceremoniously went to the back and brought out a bancha teapot and cups. We took our seats facing each other under the mirror and drank lukewarm bancha together. Letting out a deep sigh of relief, my heart felt a little lighter,

“Takesan is getting married?” I managed to say lightly. “That’s right.” Maabou had seemed oddly lonely lately. Hunching her shoulders as if chilled, she stared straight at me. “You knew already, didn’t you?” “I didn’t know.” My eyes suddenly burned. Flustered, I looked down. “I understand. “Takesan was crying too.” “What nonsense are you spouting?” Maabou’s solemn tone felt so repulsive, so utterly repulsive, it churned my stomach with anger. “Stop saying such irresponsible things.”

“You’re being unreasonable.” Maabou was tearing up. “So I told you before, didn’t I?” “I warned you not to get close to Takesan.” “We’re not close at all.” “Stop acting like you know everything.” “You’re disgustingly unbearable.” “Takesan getting married is a good thing.” “Shouldn’t we celebrate?” “It’s pointless. I know everything.” “Pretending won’t work.” Tears welled from her large eyes, pooled on her lashes, then began rolling down her cheeks. “I know.” “I know.”

4 “Stop it. This is meaningless,” I said. The thought of someone seeing us in a place like this troubled me. “There’s no meaning to any of this.” Even the words I had repeated didn’t seem to hold much meaning.

“You’re really so carefree, Hibari,” Maabou said with a slight smile, wiping tears from her cheeks with her fingertips. “You didn’t know about Dr. Tajima and Takesan all this time?” “I don’t know about vulgar things like that.” I suddenly grew intensely uncomfortable. I wanted to punch everyone. “What’s vulgar about it? Is marriage vulgar?” “No, that’s not what I meant—” I stammered, “For a while now, something...”

“Oh, come on.” “That’s not true at all.” “Dr. Tajima is a serious person.” “Without telling Takesan, he went to ask her father.” “Takesan’s father has evacuated here now, I hear.” “And then Takesan’s father recently had a talk with her, and Takesan cried for two or even three nights.” “She said she didn’t want to go off to be a bride.” “Then that’s fine.” I felt relieved.

“What do you mean it’s fine? Because she cried, it’s fine?” “Oh, Hibari,” she laughed, tilting her head sideways as her eyes took on a strange sparkle. She thrust her right arm forward and tightly grasped my hand on the table. “Takesan was crying because she missed you, Hibari. It’s true,” she said, squeezing even harder. I gripped back without understanding why. It was a meaningless handshake. I quickly grew embarrassed and pulled my hand back,

“I’ll pour you some tea,” I said awkwardly.

“No,” Maabou refused in a strange way, lowering her eyes timidly yet firmly.

“Well then, shall we go?” “Yes.”

She nodded slightly and raised her face. That face was beautiful. Unquestionably beautiful. Her utterly expressionless face bore faint, weary-looking fine wrinkles on both sides of her nose, her underbite slightly parted, with large eyes that were coldly deep and clear—this somewhat pallid countenance possessed a staggering dignity. This dignity belonged uniquely to those who had cleanly relinquished everything. Maabou too, having endured such suffering, had at last become a woman capable of manifesting a new beauty—so transparently desireless it seemed to shine through. This too was one of us. Entrusting ourselves to the newly built great ship, we advanced mindlessly yet lightly along heaven’s sea route. A faint wind of 'hope' brushed our cheeks. At that moment, astonished by Maabou’s beauty, I recalled the phrase "eternal virgin." Though I’d always considered that term affected, in that instant it felt not the least bit pretentious—rather, it struck me as vibrantly fresh.

"If someone as unrefined as me uses a high-collar term like 'eternal virgin,' you might laugh at me, but truly, it was Maabou's noble face that had saved me in that moment."

Takesan’s marriage now seemed like something from the distant past, and suddenly my body felt light. It wasn’t a willful act like giving up or anything; rather, it felt as though the scenery before my eyes had rapidly receded and shrunk, as if I were looking through an inverted telescope. In my heart, there was no longer anything to cling to. Now I, too, was left with nothing but a refreshing sense of satisfaction that I had been completed.

5

An American airplane circled in the clear blue sky of late autumn. We stood before that Miyoshino-style house and gazed up at it.

“It looks like it’s flying so listlessly.” “Yes,” Maabou smiled. “However, airplanes have a new kind of beauty in their form. I wonder if it’s because there’s not a single unnecessary ornament.”

“I suppose so,” Maabou said in a small voice, watching the airplanes in the sky with childlike innocence. “A figure without unnecessary decorations is such a good thing, isn’t it?”

It was a quiet contemplation not just about the airplanes, but about Maabou's guileless posture that seemed almost trance-like. As we walked in silence, I studied the face of every woman we passed along the way. Though varying in degree, all their faces now appeared to share uniformly that same selfless, translucent beauty Maabou possessed. Women had truly become more womanly. Yet this didn't mean they'd reverted to their prewar femininity. This was a new "womanliness" forged through war's crucible. How to describe it? If I said it resembled a bush warbler's song through bamboo leaves, would you grasp what I mean? In other words—"lightness."

I returned to the dojo a little before noon, but having walked over two kilometers round trip, I was thoroughly exhausted. Finding it too bothersome to change into sleepwear, I lay down on the bed without even removing my haori and drifted into a doze.

“Hibari, it’s mealtime.” When I opened my eyes slightly, Takesan was standing there holding a meal tray with a smile. Ah, the Director’s wife! Immediately I sprang up, “Oh, sorry,” I said, instinctively giving a slight bow. “Still half-asleep, are we? Sleepyhead,” she muttered as she placed the tray by my pillow. “Who sleeps in their day clothes? “Catch a cold now and it’ll be trouble, y’know. “Get changed already.” Frowning irritably, she pulled sleepwear from the drawer. “Such a handful. “Come here—I’ll help you change.”

I got down from the bed and untied my hyakko-obi. It was the usual Takesan. The idea of her marrying the Director had come to seem like a lie. Oh—I had dozed off and been dreaming. For a moment I felt relieved, thinking both my mother’s visit and Maabou crying at that Miyoshino-style house had been dreams—but that wasn’t the case. “That’s fine Kurume kasuri,” Takesan had me take off my kimono, saying “It suits Hibari perfectly.” “Maabou’s a lucky one, eh?” “On the way back we stopped by the old lady’s place for tea together.”

After all, it hadn’t been a dream.

“Congratulations, Takesan,” I said. Takesan did not respond. Silently, she put the sleepwear on me from behind, then slipped her hand through the sleeve opening and pinched the base of my arm quite firmly. I gritted my teeth and endured the pain.

6 As if nothing had happened, I changed into my sleepwear and began my meal while Takesan folded my kasuri kimono beside me. We didn’t exchange a single word. After a while, Takesan said in an extremely small voice, “Forgive me,” she whispered.

In that single phrase, I felt as though all of Takesan's emotions were contained. "What a terrible one you are," I muttered under my breath as I ate, mimicking Takesan's dialect.

And in this single phrase too, I felt as though all of my emotions were contained. Takesan started giggling,

“Thank you kindly,” she said. A reconciliation was achieved. I felt a sincere desire to wish for Takesan’s happiness from the bottom of my heart. “How long will you be staying here?” “Until the end of the month.” “Shall we have a farewell party?” “Oh, how indecent!”

Takesan gave an exaggerated shudder, briskly put away the folded kimono into the drawer, and left the room with composure. Why is it that everyone around me is such an uncomplicated, good person? Right now, as I write this letter while listening to the one o'clock afternoon lecture, can you guess who is giving today's broadcast? Please rejoice. It is Mr. Ootsuki Hanayoi. Mr. Ootsuki has become tremendously popular at this dojo lately. We could no longer call him by such a disrespectful nickname as Echigo Jishi. After you made the discovery, I managed to keep it secret from everyone for two or three days, but when I finally told Maabou in confidence, the rumor instantly spread like wildfire. Being none other than the author of *The Maid of Orleans*, he came to be unconditionally revered—so much so that even the Director offered an apology during his rounds, saying to Mr. Hanayoi, "I must beg your pardon for my earlier ignorance."

Requests for corrections of poems, waka, and haiku flooded in not only from the New Building but also from the students of the Old Building. However, Mr. Hanayoi showed not a trace of such shallow pretensions as suddenly putting on airs or the like; he remained the taciturn Echigo Jishi, entrusting most of the students' poetry corrections to Kappore. Kappore had been quite pleased with himself lately. Under the pretense of being Mr. Hanayoi's top disciple, he put on a self-important air and arbitrarily made sweeping corrections to others' painstakingly crafted works. That day, at the office's request, Mr. Hanayoi was to give his first lecture—a talk titled "Devotion"—and as I listened to his voice flowing through the loudspeaker like this, I began to feel a solemn reverence, as though being instructed by someone of immense nobility. It was a truly composed, dignified voice. Mr. Hanayoi might have been a far greater person than I had thought. The content of his talk was truly excellent. It wasn't old-fashioned in the slightest.

Devotion is by no means merely destroying oneself through reckless, despairing sentiment. That is entirely mistaken. Devotion is to eternally enliven one’s self in the most brilliant manner. Humanity becomes immortal solely through this pure devotion. However, devotion requires no preparation of oneself. Today, right now, in this very state, we should offer up everything. Those who take up hoes should devote themselves as they are, in their work clothes from the fields. One must not falsify one’s own form. Devotion permits no respite. Every moment of human existence must be devotion. He forcefully and earnestly expounded that devising ways to splendidly devote oneself is the most meaningless act.

While listening, I blushed repeatedly. I realized I had promoted myself too vigorously as this 'new man' until now. I had overprepared myself for devotion. There was indeed a time when I'd obsessed over appearances. The facade of being a new man—I resolved to abandon it cleanly here. My surroundings had now grown as luminous as myself. Hadn't every place we appeared always spontaneously brightened until now? Henceforth I would speak no more—neither hastening nor delaying—but walk straight ahead at nature's own pace. Where does this path lead? Better ask the vine stretching sunward. The tendril will answer.

"I know nothing. However, it seems the sun shines in the direction it grows."

Farewell.

December 9th