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 Institute" to his close friend. It is thought that novels in epistolary form have had few precedents in newspaper serials up to now. Therefore, readers too may find themselves somewhat disoriented for the first four or five installments, but the epistolary form—being rich in realism—is one that has been attempted by many authors since ancient times, both abroad and in Japan.

As for the title "Pandora’s Box," it should be written about in the first installment of this novel tomorrow, and there is nothing more I wish to state here. It’s no good to start with such a curt preface, but then again, novels written by men who make these brusque greetings can sometimes turn out to be unexpectedly interesting.

(In autumn 1945, from the author’s words addressed to readers during serialization in the Kahoku Shinpo.)

Act I

Scene 1 "You mustn’t misunderstand. I’m not the least bit discouraged. Receiving such a consoling letter from you left me flustered—then somehow embarrassed enough to blush. 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, a new curtain has already been raised. Moreover, a curtain none of our ancestors had ever experienced."

Let’s drop the old pretenses. Because they’re already lies for the most part. As for this chest illness of mine now, I’m not the least bit concerned. I’ve forgotten all about my illness. It’s not just my illness. I’ve forgotten everything.

The reason I entered this Health Institute wasn’t because the war’s end suddenly made life precious to me—certainly not because I wanted to build a robust body now and claw my way up the social ladder, nor was it out of some pitifully earnest filial piety like wanting to quickly cure my illness to reassure my father or delight my mother. But neither did I come to this remote place out of some self-destructive spite. Isn’t attaching explanations to every human action already an error of obsolete “ideology”? Forced rationalizations often end up being nothing but false pretexts. Enough with intellectual games. Haven’t all concepts been wrung dry? That’s why I want to say there was no reason at all for my entering this Health Institute. One day, at a certain hour, the Holy Spirit slipped into my chest—tears streamed down my cheeks as I wept alone for ages until suddenly my body grew light and my mind turned cool and transparent. From that moment, I became a different man. Until then I had kept it hidden, but I immediately—

"I coughed up blood."

After telling my mother, "I coughed up blood," my father chose this Health Institute on the mountainside for me. That’s really all there was to it. What is this "certain day, certain moment"? That must be clear to you too. That day! It was noon that day! That time when I cried at the almost miraculous, heaven-sent voice and offered my apologies.

Ever since that day, I’ve felt as though I’ve been placed aboard some newly built, enormous ship. Where on earth is this ship headed? That I don’t know either. Still, it all feels like a dream. The ship smoothly departs from the shore. As for this route—it seems to be a completely new maiden voyage that no one in the world has ever experienced—this much I can dimly sense. But for now, it’s simply a matter of being welcomed aboard this new, enormous ship and proceeding obediently along the celestial tideway.

However, you mustn’t misunderstand. I am by no means becoming something like nihilism born of despair. The departure of a ship—no matter what kind of departure it may be—inevitably stirs some faint expectation. That is one of the unchanging aspects of human nature since ancient times. You are familiar with the story of Pandora’s Box from Greek mythology, aren’t you? Merely because the forbidden box was opened, all manner of baleful insects—sickness, sorrow, jealousy, greed, suspicion, malice, hunger, hatred—crawled out to blanket the sky and buzz furiously about. From that moment, humankind was condemned to writhe in eternal misery. Yet in a corner of that box remained a poppy-seed-sized glowing stone, upon which the characters for “hope” were faintly inscribed—or so the tale goes.

Scene 2

It had been ordained since time immemorial. Humans cannot know despair. Though often deceived by hope, they are equally deceived by this notion called despair. Let me speak plainly. Plunged into misfortune’s abyss, tumbling blindly through darkness—yet still they grope for that faint thread of hope. This truth was decreed by Olympus’ gods when Pandora’s Box first opened. Leaving ashore those pontificators who square their shoulders to preach optimism or pessimism with feigned fervor, our new era’s ship glides smoothly onward—a full stride ahead. No impediments remain. Like vines stretching toward sunlight through some unconscious heliotropism, it moves beyond mere will.

Let’s stop with the pretentious rhetoric of arbitrarily branding people as traitors and condemning them from now on. It only serves to make this unfortunate world even gloomier. Aren’t those who blame others the very ones doing bad things in the shadows? It would be fortunate if there are no politicians scheming to hastily fabricate temporary evasions and deceptions—trying to pull off something clever—just because we lost the war again this time, but since such shallow cover-ups have been ruining Japan, I truly want us to be careful from now on. If we repeat such a thing again, we might become the world’s outcasts. Let’s stop blowing such hollow boasts and become simpler, more straightforward people. The newly built ship had already glided out into the ocean.

Well, even I have had my share of hardships until now. As you know, last spring—immediately after graduating from middle school—I developed a high fever and came down with pneumonia. I was bedridden for three months, which made it impossible to take the entrance exams for high school. Even after I managed to get up and walk around again, a slight fever persisted. The doctor said he suspected pleurisy. While idling away my days at home, this year’s exam period passed me by too. From around that time, I lost all desire to attend higher-level schools. When I wondered what to do instead, everything before my eyes turned pitch black. Just lazing around at home felt inexcusable toward my father and terribly embarrassing before my mother. You’ve never experienced being a ronin, so you might not understand—but that truly is a hellish ordeal. Back then, I did nothing but obsessively weed the field. By pretending to be a farmer like that, I barely kept up appearances. As you know, there’s a field of about 330 square meters behind my house. This had apparently been registered under my name since long ago, for some reason. Though not entirely because of that, whenever I stepped into this field, I felt relief—as if momentarily freed from surrounding pressures. For the past year or two, I’d become something like the supervisor of this field. I pulled weeds, turned soil without straining myself, staked tomato plants—figuring such work might marginally help food production—and muddled through each day like this. But try as I might to deceive myself, a mass of anxiety like a black cloud clung stubbornly to my chest’s depths and wouldn’t leave. Living like this—what would become of me? It’s nothing but this: I’m plainly just a useless invalid. When I think that, I go blank. I don’t know what to do—losing all sense of direction. And when I thought how this slovenly existence only burdened others with no meaning at all—it became truly unbearable.

“Someone like you—a brilliant scholar—probably can’t understand this,” I thought, “but ‘the fact that I’m alive causes trouble for others.’” There’s no greater torment in this world than the awareness that “I’m just a burden.”

3

But you see, even as I persisted in these indulgent, old-fashioned, feeble worries, the world’s windmills were whirling round at a speed too fast for the eye to follow. In Europe—the annihilation of the Nazis; in the East—the Philippines Campaign followed by the Okinawa Campaign; American planes bombing the Japanese mainland. I understood almost nothing about military strategies, but I had a young, sensitive antenna. This antenna was reliable. The nation’s melancholy, its crises—this antenna immediately sensed them keenly. There was no logic to it. It was pure intuition. From early summer that year, this young antenna of mine had perceived the sound of an immense tsunami—unprecedented in scale—and trembled. But I had no plan at all. I could only panic. I frantically threw myself into the field work. Under the blazing sun, grunting as I swung the heavy hoe to turn over the soil, I planted sweet potato vines.

Why I kept doing such intense field work every day—even now, I don’t fully understand. It seems there was also a feeling akin to reckless abandon—resenting my worthless body and wanting to mercilessly punish it—so die. Die. Die. Die. There were even days when, with each swing of the hoe I brought down, I kept muttering low under my breath. I planted six hundred sweet potato vines.

“It’s about time you stopped with the field work. It’s too much for your body,” Father told me during dinner. Three nights later, in the haze between sleep and waking, I coughed repeatedly until something began rumbling deep in my chest. Ah—this is bad—I realized immediately and woke up fully. I had read in some book that before hemoptysis, one’s chest would rumble. The moment I lay face down, a violent surge welled up. With my mouth full of something metallic and raw, I half-ran to the toilet. It was blood after all. I stood in the toilet for a long time, but no more blood came out. Stealthily going to the kitchen, I gargled with salt water, washed my face and hands, then returned to bed. Holding my breath to stifle coughs and lying still, I felt strangely calm. I even sensed I’d been waiting for such a night since long ago. The very word “fulfillment” drifted into my mind. Tomorrow I’ll continue the field work without a word. It can’t be helped. I’m someone with no other purpose in life. I must know my place. Ah—truly—it would be better if someone like me died sooner. While I still can, I should drive my body hard—contribute even a little to food production—then bid this world farewell to lighten our nation’s burden. That’s the least service a worthless invalid like me can offer. Ah—how I want to die soon.

And then the next morning, I woke up over an hour earlier than usual, briskly folded my futon, and went out to the field without even eating breakfast. And then I worked the fields frantically. Looking back now, it was like a dream of hell. Of course, I had no intention of confessing this illness to anyone until I died. I intended to let my illness worsen steadily in secret without informing anyone. This feeling—exactly this—must be what they call decadent ideology, I suppose. That night, I sneaked into the kitchen and drank a whole bowl of rationed shochu. And then, late at night, I had another hemoptysis. I suddenly woke up and coughed lightly two or three times—then it hit me. This time, I didn’t even have time to run to the toilet. I opened the glass-paned door, jumped down barefoot into the garden, and vomited. The blood surged relentlessly up my throat—so much I felt it might gush from my eyes and ears too. I must have vomited about two glasses’ worth before the blood stopped. I dug up the blood-stained soil with a stick to conceal it—and just then, the air raid siren sounded. When I think back now, that was Japan’s—no, the world’s last nighttime air raid. In a daze, when I crawled out of the air-raid shelter, that August 15th morning was breaking palely.

4

But I still went out to the field that day too. Hearing that, even you would surely give a wry smile. But for me, it was no laughing matter. Truly, I felt there was no other course I could take. There was simply no alternative. After all that agonizing, hadn't I resolved to die as a farmer? To collapse in the field I'd tilled myself, dying in a farmer's guise—that would be true fulfillment. To hell with everything—I just wanted to die quickly. Overcome by dizziness, chills, and clammy sweat until I nearly fainted, I lay face-up in the bean thicket—then Mother came calling. She told me to wash my hands and feet quickly and come to Father's study. Mother, who always spoke smilingly, wore an uncharacteristically solemn expression.

Made to sit before Father’s study radio, then at noon I wept at the divine voice—tears streaming down my cheeks, a strange light piercing my body—as if stepping into another world or being placed aboard some great swaying ship, until I realized I was no longer my former self.

I’m certainly not conceited enough to think I’ve achieved some grand enlightenment about life and death being one, but isn’t dying and living pretty much the same thing? Either way, it’s just as painful. There are many posers among those who rush headlong toward death. My suffering until now had been nothing more than the effort to keep up appearances. Let’s drop these old pretenses. In your letter there was talk of ‘grievous resolve,’ but to me now, such grief seems like the expression of some cheap theater matinee idol. It’s not even grief. That’s already a false expression.

The ship slid smoothly away from the quay. And in any ship’s departure, there must always reside some faint glimmer of hope. I was no longer disheartened. I wasn’t even concerned about my chest illness anymore. When I received that letter from you—so full of sympathetic words—I found myself truly at a loss. I now resolved to think nothing more and simply entrust myself to this ship’s course. That very day, I confessed everything to Mother. I confessed with a calmness that surprised even myself.

“I had hemoptysis last night. “I had hemoptysis the night before as well.”

There was no reason at all. It wasn’t that I had suddenly become afraid of losing my life. It was just that the forced pretenses from yesterday had disappeared.

Father chose this “Health Institute” for me. As you know, my father is a mathematics professor. He may be good at numerical calculations, but it seems he’s never handled money matters even once. Since we’ve always been poor, I shouldn’t expect any luxurious convalescent life. This simple “Health Institute,” in that respect alone, suits me perfectly. I have no complaints whatsoever. I have heard that I will fully recover in six months. I haven’t had a single hemoptysis since then. I don’t even cough up bloody phlegm anymore. I’ve completely forgotten about my illness. That “forgetting about your illness” is the quickest path to full recovery—that’s what the Director here said. He’s a bit of an unusual man. After all, he’s the one who went so far as to name a tuberculosis sanatorium the “Health Institute,” dealt with wartime food and medicine shortages by inventing a unique treatment method, and has been encouraging numerous inpatients all this time. Anyway, it’s an unusual hospital, you know.

There are mountains of fascinating things I could tell you, but let’s save them for next time when we can talk at leisure.

As for me, please truly do not concern yourself with anything. Now then, please take care of yourself as well.

August 25, 1945

Health Institute

1

Today, as promised, I set out to describe the current state of this Health Institute where I now reside. From E City, it took about an hour by bus to reach a place called Koumebashi, where one would transfer to another bus—though from Koumebashi, it wasn’t much farther to the Institute. Walking was faster than waiting for the transfer bus. It was only about ten chō. People coming to the Health Institute usually ended up walking from there. To put it plainly—from Koumebashi—keeping mountains to your right as you walked south along an asphalt prefectural highway for about ten chō—there appeared at the mountain’s foot a small stone gate; from there stretched a row of pine trees up to the mountainside; and near where those pines ended lay visible two buildings’ rooftops. That was now the truly unconventional tuberculosis sanatorium called the “Health Institute” that looked after me. It was divided into two buildings: the New Wing and the Old Wing. The Old Wing wasn’t much to speak of, but the New Wing was a very stylish, bright building. Those who had undergone considerable training in the Old Wing were successively being transferred to this New Wing. However, I was exceptionally placed in the New Wing from the start due to being in good health. My room was the “Sakura Room,” immediately to the right upon entering through the main entrance of the Health Institute. Rooms like the “Fresh Verdure Room,” the “Swan Room,” and the “Sunflower Room”—each sickroom had been given such embarrassingly beautiful names.

The "Sakura Room" was a Western-style room of about ten tatami mats, slightly rectangular in shape. Four sturdy wooden beds with south-facing pillows were lined up, my bed being at the very back of the room. Below the large glass window by my pillow lay a pond—about ten tsubo in size—called “Otome Pond” (a name I found rather uninspired), always cool and clear, where crucian carp and goldfish swam visibly through the water. Well, I had no complaints about my bed’s placement. It might even have been the best position. The bed was wooden and extremely large; the absence of flimsy springs made it all the more sturdy. Both sides were fitted with numerous drawers and shelves—so many that even after stowing away all my personal belongings, there were still extra drawers left over.

Let me introduce my senior roommates. My neighbor is Mr. Otsuki Matsuemon. He was a middle-aged man of dignified character and bearing, just as his name suggested. They said he had been a Tokyo newspaper reporter. Having lost his wife early, he now maintained a household with just his teenage daughter, who had evacuated with him from Tokyo to a mountain cottage near this Health Institute and occasionally visited her lonely father. He was usually sullen. Yet even one so habitually taciturn could suddenly transform into a fearsome man of action. His character seemed generally noble. There was something almost sagely about him, though I couldn't quite define it. His jet-black mustache was impressive, but those small red eyes behind thick glasses squinted perpetually from severe nearsightedness. The round tip of his nose constantly beaded with sweat, and he would rub it so vigorously with a towel that the skin turned crimson enough to seem on the verge of bleeding. But when he closed his eyes in contemplation, an undeniable dignity emerged. He might have been someone far more remarkable than he appeared. His nickname was Echigo Jishi. I didn't know its origin, yet it felt peculiarly apt. Mr. Otsuki himself didn't seem particularly averse to the epithet. Some claimed he'd proposed it himself, though I couldn't verify this.

2

Next to him was Mr. Kinoshita Seishichi. He was a plasterer. Still unmarried at twenty-eight, he reigned as the Health Institute’s foremost handsome man. His complexion remained flawlessly pale, his nose sharply aquiline, his gaze refreshingly cool—every inch the dashing figure. Yet that mincing walk of his, tiptoeing with hips swaying lightly, ought to have been abandoned. Why did he walk like that? Did he imagine it possessed some musicality? Baffling. Though versed in popular tunes, his true specialty lay in dodoitsu ballads. I had already endured five or six of them. Mr. Otsuki Matsuemon listened with closed eyes, but I grew restless. Songs about amassing Mount Fuji-sized fortunes only to squander fifty sen daily—such preposterous, meaningless ditties left me utterly defeated. To make matters worse, certain dodoitsu incorporated verses— lines that might as well have been lifted from stage plays. "Oh brother," and such—simply unbearable. Yet he never sang more than two consecutively. However eager he might have been to continue, Mr. Otsuki Matsuemon permitted no further indulgence. When two songs concluded, Echigo Jishi would open his eyes and declare, “Enough.” Sometimes adding that it “affected one’s health.”

It remained unclear whether he meant it was bad for the singer's body or the listener's body. But Mr. Seishichi wasn't a bad person at all. They said he loved haiku, and at night before bed he would show Mr. Matsuemon his latest compositions seeking feedback—but when Echigo didn't utter a single word in response, Mr. Seishichi became utterly dejected and promptly went to sleep. It was truly pitiful to see. Mr. Seishichi appeared to hold considerable respect for Echigo Jishi. This dashing man's name was Kappore.

The person stationed next to him was Mr. Nishiwaki Kazuo. I heard he had been a postmaster or something. Thirty-five years old. I liked this person the most. A meek-looking, petite wife would occasionally come to visit. Then the two of them would whisper together about something. It made for a somber scene. Both Kappore and Echigo seemed to be making an effort to tactfully avert their eyes. I thought that too showed commendable consideration. Mr. Nishiwaki's nickname was Tsukushi. I supposed it was because he was lanky? He wasn't a handsome man, but he carried himself with refinement. There was something vaguely student-like about him. His bashful smile held charm. I sometimes found myself thinking how nice it would have been if he were my neighbor. Yet since he sometimes let out strange groans in the middle of the night, I also felt relieved he wasn't my neighbor after all.

With this, my introductions to my senior roommates were more or less complete. Next, I shall report a little on the unique regimen of convalescent life at this Health Institute.

First, let me write out the daily schedule of routines:

6:00　　　　　　　　　　　　Wake-up 7:00　　　　　　　　　　　　Breakfast 8:00 to 8:30　　　　　Stretching Exercises 8:30 to 9:30　　　　　Rubbing Therapy 9:30 to 10:00　　　　　Stretching Exercises 10:00　　　　　　　　　　　　Director's rounds (On Sundays, only instructors make rounds) 10:30 to 11:30　　　Rubbing Therapy

12:00　　　　　　　　　　　Lunch 1:00 to 2:00　　　　　　　Lecture (Sundays: Comfort Broadcast) 2:00 to 2:30　　　　　Stretching Exercises

2:30 to 3:30　　　　　Rubbing Therapy 3:30 to 4:00　　　　　Stretching Exercises 4:00 to 4:30　　　　　Nature Time

4:30 to 5:30　　　　　Rubbing Therapy 6:00　　　　　　　　　　　　Dinner 7:00 to 7:30　　　　　Stretching Exercises

7:30 to 8:30　　　　　Rubbing Therapy

8:30　　　　　　　　　　　Report

9:00　　　　　　　　　　　　Retire for the night

Three

As I mentioned briefly the other day, many hospitals were burned during the war, and even those spared from direct damage had to close due to shortages of supplies and staff—so tuberculosis patients requiring long-term care, especially those like us without much means, were left with nowhere to go. Fortunately, this area saw almost no enemy air raids, and two or three influential local philanthropists gathered here. With approval from the authorities, they expanded the prefectural sanatorium that originally stood on these mountainsides, recruited Dr. Tajima, and thus established this unique tuberculosis sanatorium—one not reliant on material supplies.

First off, I think just by glancing at this daily schedule you'd already understand how vastly different it was from life at an ordinary Health Institute. It was structured to make one discard notions of hospitals or patients. The director was referred to as Director, doctors below deputy director as Instructors, nurses as Assistants, and we inpatients as Residents. All of this appeared to be Director Tajima's brainchild. Since Dr. Tajima had been invited to this Health Institute, its internal structure had been completely renewed through unique therapies applied to patients with remarkable results—it was said to have become the medical world's focal point. Though his completely bald head made him look about fifty, he was said to still be a bachelor in his thirties. A slender man of height with a slight forward stoop who rarely smiled. People with bald heads generally have well-proportioned faces—Dr.Tajima too possessed an elegant countenance like an egg given eyes and nose. And like others bereft of hair he seemed imbued with that calico cat-like reserved fastidiousness peculiar to such individuals. He frightened me somewhat.

Every day at 10 a.m., the Director made his rounds through the Institute accompanied by instructors and assistants, and during that time, the entire Health Institute fell completely silent. The residents too were awfully well-behaved before the Director. But in private, they secretly called him by a nickname. They called him Kiyomori.

Now then, shall I explain the daily regimen of this Health Institute in a bit more detail? Stretching Exercises, to put it simply, are exercises for the limbs and abdominal muscles. If I were to write it out in detail you'd likely grow bored, so to put it in the broadest strokes—well, you lie flat on your back in a spreadeagle position on the bed, begin exercising your fingers, wrists, and arms in sequence, then move to contracting and expanding your abdomen. This part requires considerable practice and seems to be the most crucial aspect of the Stretching Exercises. Next comes leg movements—stretching and relaxing the muscles of your calves and thighs in various ways—and with that, you've more or less completed one full set of exercises. Once you finish one set, you must start again from the hand exercises and continue for thirty minutes—for as long as time allows. As per the schedule I wrote earlier, we do this twice in the morning and three times in the afternoon every day—no easy task by any measure. According to conventional medical wisdom up until now, tuberculosis patients engaging in such exercise had been considered utterly dangerous, but this too must be one of those new therapies born from wartime material shortages. At this Health Institute, they say recovery comes faster precisely for those who throw themselves most earnestly into these exercises.

Next, I will write a bit about the Rubbing Therapy.

This too appeared to be something unique to our Health Institute. And this task fell to our cheerful assistants here.

4 The brush used for the Rubbing Therapy was akin to the stiff-bristled barber’s brush used during haircuts, but with its bristles ever so slightly softened. Therefore, at first, being rubbed with this was quite painful, and in some places on the skin, friction-induced bumps would even appear. However, they usually grew accustomed to it within about a week. When the time for Rubbing Therapy arrived, the usual cheerful Assistants each took their assigned sections and went around to all the residents one by one to perform the therapy. 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, then used it to scrub-swish back and forth rhythmically. The Rubbing Therapy was, in principle, applied to almost the entire body. For about a week after admission, it was administered only to the limbs, but thereafter, it became full-body. You lay on your side while they rubbed first your hands, then feet, chest, and abdomen; next, you turned over, and they moved to your opposite hand, foot, chest, abdomen, back (twice), and waist. When you grew used to it, it became quite a pleasant feeling. Especially, the sensation when having your back rubbed was indescribable. There were skilled Assistants, but there were also unskilled ones.

However, I decided to save writing about these assistants for later. Life at the Health Institute could be said to revolve entirely around these two things: Stretching Exercises and Rubbing Therapy. Even though the war had ended, the shortage of supplies remained unchanged, so for the time being, I supposed it wasn’t so bad to demonstrate our fighting spirit through these routines. Beyond these, there were activities like Lectures starting at 1:00 PM, Nature at 4:00, and Reports from 8:30 onward—though what we called Lectures involved the Director, instructors, or various dignitaries visiting the Health Institute taking turns speaking through a microphone. Their voices were piped into our rooms from loudspeakers installed at key points along the hallway outside, and we sat on our beds listening in silence.

This had been temporarily suspended during the war when the loudspeakers became unusable due to power shortages, but as soon as the war ended and power usage was slightly relaxed, they were promptly resumed. The Director has lately been continuing his lectures on what one might call the developmental history of Japanese science. If I may call it an insightful lecture, he explained our ancestors’ hardships to us in an even tone with remarkable clarity. Yesterday, he graciously spoke to us about Sugita Genpaku’s Rangaku Kotohajime. Genpaku and his colleagues opened a Western book for the first time but were at a complete loss as to how to translate it—the passage where he writes, "It was truly like setting sail on a vast ocean in a ship without helm or oar, adrift with nowhere to land, leaving us utterly dumbfounded"—was particularly excellent. Regarding Genpaku and his colleagues' struggles, I too had been taught about them by that history teacher Mr. Kiyama Ganmo during my middle school days, but the impression I received now was entirely different from that.

Ganmo kept saying trivial things like how Genpaku didn’t have a face marred by severe pockmarks, I recall. In any case, I greatly looked forward to the Director’s daily lectures. On Sundays, they broadcast records instead of lectures. I wasn’t particularly fond of music, but listening to it about once a week wasn’t so bad. Between the records, there were times when the assistants’ live singing was broadcast, but listening to this tended to make one feel more nerve-wracked and unsettled than entertained. But to the other residents, this seemed to be what was most welcomed. Mr. Seishichi, for one, listened with narrowed eyes. I supposed he himself couldn’t help wanting to broadcast those segments featuring folk songs with dodoitsu lyrics.

5

The 'Nature' at 4 PM was, well, a rest period. At this hour, our body temperatures were at their peak, leaving us lethargic, irritable, and edgy—utterly miserable—so this thirty-minute free period seemed granted under the premise of 'You may do as you please,' though in reality most residents simply lay quietly in their beds during this time. Incidentally, at this Health Institute, using futons on beds was absolutely prohibited except during nighttime sleep. During the day, I sprawled out on the bed in just my sleepwear without any blankets or covers, but once you grew accustomed to it, a clean feeling came over you that actually became quite comfortable. The 8:30 PM Report referred to coverage of that day's world affairs. As expected, news of all sorts was reported through corridor loudspeakers in the duty clerk's terribly tense tone. At this Health Institute, reading books was naturally prohibited—even newspapers were forbidden. Voracious reading might be bad for one's body. Well, even if only while I stayed here—escaping that deluge of noisy thoughts and simply living—playing even—with nothing but the conviction of a new voyage—I thought it wasn't so bad.

The only problem was that I had so little time to write letters to you—I was struggling with this. I would usually hurriedly take out my stationery after meals to write, but there was so much I wanted to say that even this letter took me two days to complete. Still, as I gradually grew accustomed to life at the Health Institute, I figured I’d become better at making use of these short periods. I seemed to have turned into an incorrigible optimist about everything—not a single worry remained. I’d forgotten them all. By the way, let me share one more thing: my nickname here at this Health Institute is “Hibari.” A thoroughly dull name, if you ask me. Apparently, my full name—Koshiba Riosuke—can be heard phonetically as “small skylark,” hence the moniker. Not exactly an honorific title. At first, I found it utterly distasteful and mortifying—unbearable even—but lately, having grown more tolerant of everything, I’ve taken to answering breezily whenever someone calls me Hibari. Do you get it? I’m no longer the old Koshiba you knew. Now I’m just a lone skylark at this Health Institute—peep-cheep peep-cheep—chirping noisily away like some nuisance bird. So please keep that in mind when reading my letters from now on. And don’t go wrinkling your nose at what a frivolous fellow I’ve become.

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

“What is it?” I answered calmly. “Are you keeping at it?” “I’m at it.” “Hang in there, you.” “Righto.”

Do you have any idea what this exchange was about? This was the Health Institute’s greeting ritual. It appeared to be an established rule that whenever an assistant and a resident passed each other in the hallway, they had to exchange this greeting through clenched teeth. When this practice began remained unclear—it certainly wasn’t something our Director would have instituted—but I suspected it must have been devised by those very assistants themselves. Their cheerfulness verged on manic intensity, paired with a boyish brashness that seemed common among all nurses here at the institute. The merciless nicknames they bestowed upon everyone—Director Tajima, instructors like Takenaka-san, even us residents and clerks—stood as further proof of their mischievous nature. There was something about them that demanded constant vigilance. I resolved to observe these assistants more closely and deliver a full report in my next letter.

First, let this overview of our Health Institute suffice as previously described. Later.

September 3

Bell Cricket

1

Respectfully, When September comes, it truly feels different, doesn’t it?

The wind passed over us like it had swept across a lake’s surface, bringing a sudden chill. The insects’ cries had grown noticeably shriller too, hadn’t they? I’m no poet like you, so autumn’s arrival didn’t bring me any particular heart-wrenching sorrow—but yesterday evening, a young assistant stood by the pond beneath my window, looked up at me and laughed— “Tell Tsukushi the bell crickets are singing.”

Hearing those words made me realize how deeply autumn was piercing these people, and I felt my breath catch.

This assistant seemed to have been harboring feelings for Mr. Nishiwaki Tsukushi，who shared my room，for some time.

“Tsukushi isn’t here. He just went to the office a moment ago,” I answered—and she suddenly turned sullen, her words turning quite curt—

“Oh?” “So what if he’s not here?” “Do you hate bell crickets, Hibari?” she countered with this peculiar reversal, leaving me thoroughly disoriented.

There were many inexplicable things about this young assistant, and I had been most cautious around her from the start. Her nickname was Maabo. By the way, today I’ll introduce the nicknames of the other assistants as well. In my last letter, I mentioned that the assistants here—with their need for vigilance—had been bestowing scathing nicknames upon every last man, but then again, the residents weren’t losing out either, since they were calling all the assistants by nicknames too. So really, it was pretty much an even match. However, when it came to the nicknames devised by the residents, they did seem to show a certain consideration toward women, crafted with somewhat gentler hands. Miura Masako’s nickname was Maabo. It was nothing special. Takenaka Shizuko’s nickname being Take-san showed absolutely no wit at all. Utterly commonplace. As for the bespectacled assistant—though she had features one might liken to a bulging-eyed goldfish—they had shown restraint and settled on “Kintoto.” Because she was thin—Urumé. Because she had a lonely-looking face—Haichai. This area might actually have been one of the better ones, though they did seem to be holding back a bit. Despite being terribly unattractive, with an outrageous permanent wave, painted red eyelids, and strange, heavy makeup—Peacock. They had likely meant it mockingly when dubbing her “Peacock,” but the recipient herself seemed rather pleased—declaring “That’s right—I am a peacock!”—and may have grown all the more self-assured. The sarcasm didn’t come through at all. If it had been me, I’d have gone with celestial maiden. That’s right—I’m a celestial maiden!—she would surely never have thought. There were various others—Reindeer, Cricket, Detective, Onion—but they were all trite. There was only one called Kakuran—I think this one had been rather cleverly devised.

There was an assistant with a broad face and cheeks that shone bright red—features so reminiscent of a red demon’s mask—but here they had tactfully avoided that direct comparison, instead naming her “Demon’s Cholera,” hence Kakuran. The conception was refined.

“Kakuran.” “What is it?” she answered with a straight face.

“Hang in there.” “Alright, I’m coming,” she declared spiritedly. If Kakuran was going to push herself like that, I couldn’t keep up. Not just her—all the assistants here might have had a somewhat rough edge to them, but they seemed to be genuinely kind-hearted, good people at core.

2

Among the residents, the most popular was Takenaka Shizuko—Take-san. She wasn’t beautiful in the slightest. She stood about five shaku two sun tall—around 157 centimeters—with a full chest, dark complexion, and imposing stature. She was twenty-five or twenty-six—in any case, seemed quite advanced in years. Yet there was something distinctive about her smile. This might have been the primary reason for her popularity. Her rather large eyes would lift at the corners when she smiled, narrowing to needle-like slits as her teeth gleamed white—an effect that felt refreshingly cool. Her large frame made that white nurse’s uniform suit her perfectly. That she was such a hard worker might also have contributed to her popularity. In any case, her considerate nature and brisk efficiency—though it wasn’t Kappore’s usual way of speaking—"She’s truly Japan’s best wife." During rubbing therapy sessions, while other assistants chatted with residents or taught popular songs—generously put, fostering harmony; less kindly, dawdling—Take-san alone would respond to whatever the men began saying with just a faint smile and vague nod before finishing the rubdown with brisk, precise motions. Moreover, her rubbing technique was neither too strong nor too weak—the most skillful and meticulous—and she always worked silently with a bright smile, never complaining or engaging in trivial chatter, standing apart from other assistants with an air of quiet detachment. This slightly aloof, solitary grace might have been what the residents found most captivating. In any case, she was tremendously popular. According to Echigo Jishi’s theory: "That girl’s mother must’ve been an exceptionally capable woman." Perhaps that was true. They said she was born in Osaka—Take-san’s speech still carried traces of Kansai dialect. This too seemed an irresistibly appealing trait for the residents, but ever since childhood, whenever I saw a woman with such an imposing physique, I’d recall things like sea bream and involuntarily grimace—leaving me only able to pity her, never feeling any interest beyond that. Rather than women with dignity, I preferred cute ones. Maabo was petite and cute.

I was still most interested in that somewhat enigmatic Maabo.

Maabo was eighteen. She had dropped out of Tokyo Metropolitan Prefectural Girls' School and come straight here. She had a round face and fair complexion, with large double-lidded eyes framed by long lashes—their outer corners slightly downturned—eyes she always kept opened wide in apparent surprise, creating wrinkles that made her already narrow forehead appear even narrower. She laughed uproariously. Her gold teeth glinted. So eager to laugh she could hardly contain herself—what was that about? She'd widen her eyes dramatically, butt into any conversation, immediately burst into shrill laughter, hunch her body forward, and laugh herself breathless while patting her stomach. Her nose was round and slightly raised, her thin lower lip protruding a bit beyond the upper one. She wasn't a beauty, but she was terribly cute. She didn't put much effort into her work, and her rubbing technique was clumsy, but being so lively and cute, she was no less popular than Takesan.

3

You know, when I think about it, men really are strange creatures. They eagerly slap mocking nicknames like Kakuran and Haichai on women they don’t particularly fancy, yet when faced with good people, they can’t devise any such names and simply resort to utterly plain terms like Takesan or Maabo. Oh dear—today I’ve been doing nothing but prattle on about women. But today, for some reason, I don’t want to talk of anything else. Yesterday’s Maabo’s—

“Tell Tsukushi that the bell crickets are chirping.” I might still be intoxicated by those charming words, not yet sobered from that drunkenness. For all her constant wild laughter, Maabo might actually be lonelier than most. Don’t people who laugh often cry often too? Yet whenever it comes to Maabo, my thoughts go askew. And since she’s clearly set her heart on Mr. Nishiwaki Tsukushi, there’s no competing. Right now I’m writing this letter in haste after finishing lunch early, but from the neighboring Swan Room comes residents’ laughter mingled with Maabo’s shrill, showy guffaws. What could they possibly be carrying on about? Disgraceful. Are they imbeciles? But today I’m not quite myself. There were other things I wanted to write about too, but I’ve grown unable to continue with this racket from next door.

I’ll take a short break.

At last, it seemed the commotion next door had quieted down, so I decided to continue writing a bit more. That Maabo—I simply couldn’t figure her out. No—not that I was particularly fixated—but were all seventeen- or eighteen-year-old girls like this? I couldn’t tell at all whether she was a good person or a bad one; her character remained completely inscrutable. Whenever I met her, I found myself in a state akin to Sugita Genpaku first opening a Western book of horizontal script—to borrow his words, “like a ship without rudder or oar setting out on the open sea, adrift without direction, left utterly dumbfounded”—which might sound slightly exaggerated, but it was true I faltered somewhat every time. It weighed heavily on my mind.

Even now, I was made to interrupt writing this letter due to that person’s laughter; I threw down my pen and lay on my bed, but growing increasingly restless until it became unbearable, I complained to Matsuemon-dono next door while lying there.

“Maabo is so noisy.” When I said this with a pout, Matsuemon-dono—sitting cross-legged with perfect composure on the adjacent bed while using a toothpick—nodded in acknowledgment, then slowly wiped the sweat from his nose with a towel,

“That child’s mother is to blame.” He blames everything on her mother. But then again, Maabo might have been raised by someone like a mean-spirited stepmother. She may have been frolicking cheerfully, yet here and there one caught fleeting glimpses of loneliness. What am I saying—it seemed today I’d taken quite a liking to Maabo.

“Tell Tsukushi that the bell crickets are chirping.”

From that moment on, I felt strangely off somehow. She was an unremarkable woman, though.

September 7

Life and Death

1

My apologies for yesterday’s strange letter. At the turn of seasons, everything appears new and dear—so much that I end up impulsively blurting things like “I love you! I love you!” in this ridiculous commotion. Oh come now—it’s not as if I’m that smitten. It’s all this early autumn’s doing. Lately I’ve become like some scatterbrained skylark chirping away nonstop, yet I feel no self-loathing or gut-twisting regret over it anymore. At first I thought this vanishing aversion strange, but no—there’s nothing strange about it. Hadn’t I become an entirely different man? I had transformed into someone new. That absence of self-reproach and remorse has become my greatest joy now. I count it a blessing. Here I stand—no, here I chirp—with the crisp pride of this reborn self. And thus some august personage saw fit to grant me six months in this Health Institute, this qualification to live and play without thought, simple as birdsong.

A chirping skylark. Flowing spring water. Let me live transparently, just lightly and swiftly!

In yesterday’s letter, I lavishly praised Maabo, but I’d like to retract that somewhat. In truth, because a rather peculiar incident occurred today, I hasten to send you this prompt report to supplement the deficiencies of my previous letter. A chirping skylark, flowing clear water—pray do not laugh at this scatterbrain. This morning’s rubbing therapy was administered by Maabo for the first time in a while. Maabo’s rubbing was clumsy and careless. She might perform the therapy meticulously for Mr. Tsukushi, but with me, she’s always rough and unkind. To Maabo, someone like me probably isn’t seen as anything more than a roadside pebble—and I suppose that’s just how it is—ah well, there’s nothing to be done about it. But since Maabo isn’t exactly a mere pebble to me either, during her rubbing sessions I grew breathless, strangely rigid, and couldn’t manage to joke properly. Far from joking, my voice caught in my throat, leaving me barely able to speak. In the end, I turned sullen and withdrawn; then Maabo must have felt awkward too, for during my therapy sessions alone, she never laughed and stayed silent. This morning’s rubbing was similarly stifling and unbearable. Above all, since that incident when she said, “Tell Tsukushi the bell crickets are chirping,” my mind has been tightening like a drawn bowstring—compounded by having just written to you about liking Maabo so much—leaving me in an unbearably awkward mood.

Maabo suddenly said in a small voice while rubbing my back.

“Hibari’s the best.”

I wasn’t happy. What the hell was she saying? I thought. The fact that she could spout such forced flattery proved Maabo saw me as someone she could treat carelessly. If she’d truly thought I was the best, she wouldn’t have been able to state it so clearly and brazenly. Even I could grasp such subtleties. I remained silent. Then, again in a small voice,

“There’s something troubling me.” She came out with it. I was surprised. What an awkward thing to say. I was fed up. “The bell crickets are chirping” had now completely lost its charm. I began to suspect she might be a simpleton. I’d long thought her laugh had an idiotic quality to it, but as I considered that perhaps it was genuine after all, my mood began to lighten,

“What kind of trouble do you have?” I asked in a tone dripping with ridicule.

2

She didn’t answer. She sniffled faintly. When I glanced sideways out of the corner of my eye—what? He was crying. I was finally appalled. Just yesterday I had written to you that those who laugh often must also cry often—but seeing such a nonsense prophecy materialize so effortlessly right before my eyes left me deflated and irritated instead. I thought it was ridiculous.

“Tsukushi’s leaving the institute, I hear,” I said in a teasing tone. In fact, such a rumor existed. I had heard—and knew—the rumor that due to some family circumstances, Tsukushi had become obliged to transfer to a hospital in his hometown region of Hokkaido.

“Don’t make fun of me.”

She stood up abruptly and, though the rubbing therapy wasn’t finished yet, grabbed the metal washbasin and briskly left the room. Gazing at her retreating figure—I must confess—my heart fluttered a bit. No matter how self-conceited I might be, I could never imagine she was troubled over me—but for Maabo, usually so cheerful, to weep meaningfully before a man, then get angry and leave like that—that might indeed signify something momentous. Or perhaps—try as I might to suppress it—a trace of vanity still surfaced, sweeping away even the contempt I’d felt moments earlier until Maabo suddenly seemed unbearably dear. Lying on my bed, I felt like shouting “Wah!” and wildly swung both arms about. But nothing came of it. I immediately understood the meaning of Maabo's tears. Kintoto, who had been administering the rubbing therapy to Echigo Jishi next door, casually informed me of it at that moment.

“She got scolded, you know,” Kintoto said. “She got carried away making too much fuss, so last evening Ms. Takenaka gave her a talking-to, you know.” Ms. Takenaka was the assistant group leader. She had every right to scold. Well now, I understood everything. There had been nothing to it. I clearly saw through it all. Oh please! To claim having troubles over a group leader’s scolding—what melodrama! I felt thoroughly ashamed. My wretched self-conceit must have been laid bare before Kintoto and Echigo Jishi and everyone else, all pitying and laughing at me—even I, the vaunted new man, found myself utterly confounded in that moment. I truly understood. I comprehended everything completely. I resolved to cleanly renounce Maabo. The new man acts with decisive resolve. Sentimental attachments hold no place for the new man. From now on I would give Maabo the complete silent treatment. That creature was a cat. Such a trivial woman she was. Ahahaha—how I wanted to laugh alone.

At noon, Ms. Takenaka brought the meal tray. Normally she would leave promptly, but today she placed the tray on the small desk beside my bed, then stretched up to peer out the window. She took two or three steps toward it, rested both hands on the windowsill, and stood silent with her back turned to me. She seemed to be looking at the garden pond. I sat on the bed and began eating immediately. The new man does not complain about his side dishes. Today’s meal consisted of dried sardines and stewed pumpkin. I crunched through the sardines head-first. Chew thoroughly, chew thoroughly—I must transform it all into nourishment.

“Hibari.” A voiceless whisper formed only by breath made me look up. Ms. Takenaka had already turned to face me, both hands placed behind her back as she leaned against the window. Wearing that distinctive smile of hers, she then asked in a voice so quiet it seemed woven from breath itself: “Did Maabo cry?”

3

“Yeah.” I replied in an ordinary voice. “She said she had worries.” Chew well, chew well—I must make clean blood. “Disgusting.” Ms. Takenaka said in a quiet voice and scowled.

“It’s none of my business.” The new man cuts through things cleanly. I’ve no interest in women’s trivial fussing.

“I’m all flustered,” she said with a smirk. Her face was red.

I was a little 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 pursed. Oh, come on. She acts all grown-up but has no self-control. For some reason, at that moment, I felt that way and found it thoroughly disagreeable. She’s the Group Leader, isn’t she? There’s no reason for someone who scolds others to get flustered—what nonsense. I thought bitterly. I thought Ms. Takenaka also needed to get her act together more. But after serving the third bowl of rice, this time it was my turn to blush. The rice in the container was absurdly plentiful. Normally, when I casually served three bowls, it should have emptied completely, but today even after three servings, a full bowl’s worth still remained at the bottom of that small container. I was slightly exasperated. I do not like this kind of kindness. Nor does the form of kindness taste good. Tasteless rice does not turn into blood or flesh. It’s utterly useless. It’s pointless. If I were to mimic Echigo Jishi’s way of speaking, I’d say, “Takenaka’s mother must be a terribly old-fashioned woman.”

I ate my usual three bowls lightly as always and left the extra bowl she’d favored me with untouched in the rice container.

When Ms. Takenaka came to clear the tray a while later with her usual composed expression as if nothing had happened, I said to her in a light tone.

“I left some rice.” Ms. Takenaka, without looking at me at all, slightly opened the lid of the rice container and peeked inside. “Disgusting brat!” she said in a voice so low I could barely hear it, then lifted the tray and left the room with the same composed expression as if nothing had happened.

Ms. Takenaka’s “disgusting” seemed to have become a habitual phrase devoid of any real meaning, but still, I didn’t feel good when a woman called me “disgusting.” Truly detestable. Had I been my former self, I would have surely slapped Ms. Takenaka right then. Why am I disgusting? You’re the disgusting one here. They say that in the old days, maids would secretly pack extra rice into their favorite apprentices’ bowls—what an ignorant, repulsive form of affection. Too wretched. Don’t mock me. I do have my pride as a new man. Even if a meal is lacking in quantity, it can still provide sufficient nourishment if eaten cheerfully and chewed thoroughly. I’d thought Ms. Takenaka was more dependable, but women really are hopeless after all. Precisely because she usually carries herself with such clever composure, when she commits such folly, it becomes all the more conspicuous and unsightly. Regrettable indeed. Ms. Takenaka must become more resolute. Had this been Maabo, any blunder might have made her more endearing and pitiable—but when a proper woman bungles things, it’s truly vexing.

Having written this far during the after-lunch break, I was suddenly interrupted when the corridor loudspeaker announced: "All residents of the New Building are to assemble immediately at the New Building balcony."

4

After tidying away my stationery and going up to the second-floor balcony, I learned that Narusawa Itoko—a young female resident of the Old Building—had died late last night, and that we were now all gathered to silently see her off. Twenty-three male residents from the New Building and six female residents from the New Building annex lined up on the balcony with tense faces in what resembled a four-row horizontal formation, waiting for the coffin to depart. After a while, Ms. Narusawa’s coffin—wrapped in white cloth and gleaming beautifully in the autumn sun—emerged from the Old Building, escorted by close relatives as it slowly made its way down the narrow pine-lined slope toward the asphalt prefectural road. I could see a woman who appeared to be Ms. Narusawa’s mother walking with a handkerchief pressed to her eyes, weeping. A group of white-clad instructors and assistants followed partway with bowed heads.

I thought it was a good thing. Humans are perfected through death. While alive, everyone remains unfinished. Insects and birds achieve perfection through their living movements, yet become mere corpses upon dying. They return to nothingness—neither complete nor incomplete. Humans stand as their exact opposite. This paradox holds true: we become most human only after death. Ms. Narusawa fought her illness to the end; now wrapped in a cloth of immaculate white, descending the pine-lined slope where sunlight filters through needled branches, she proclaims her youthful soul with utmost solemnity, clarity, and eloquence. We shall never forget Ms. Narusawa. I pressed my palms together in sincere prayer toward that radiant white shroud.

But you mustn’t misunderstand. Even though I said I consider death a good thing, that doesn’t mean I’m treating human life carelessly or cheaply, nor am I one of those sentimental and apathetic “death praisers.” We live right next to death, separated by only a sheet of paper, so we’ve simply grown unstartled by it. Please do not forget this one point. Looking at my letters up to now, you must have surely felt—during this time of Japan’s grief, remorse, and melancholy—that the atmosphere around me alone is too carefree and bright, almost irreverent. That’s only natural. However, I’m no fool. It’s not as if I spend my days from morning till night laughing boisterously. That goes without saying. Every night at eight-thirty report time, we are subjected to hearing various pieces of “news.” Even when I lie down silently covered with a blanket, there are nights when sleep won’t come. But I don’t want to tell you any of those obvious things now. We are tuberculosis patients. We are all people who might suddenly start hemorrhaging tonight and end up like Ms. Narusawa. Our laughter comes from a small stone that lay in the corner of that Pandora’s Box. For those living side by side with death, the smile of a single flower pierces deeper than any question of life or death. We are now, so to speak, lured by the faint fragrance of flowers, boarded onto an unfathomably large ship, and thus proceeding while entrusting ourselves to the course of the heavenly tides. As for what kind of island this so-called ship of divine will will reach—that is something even I do not know. But we must believe in this voyage. Whether one dies or lives—I’ve even come to feel that this is no longer the key determining human happiness or misery.

The deceased are perfected, and the living stand on the deck of a departing ship and press their hands together in prayer toward them. The ship glides smoothly away from the quay.

"Death is a good thing."

Doesn’t that already resemble the composure of a seasoned navigator? The new man has no sentimentality regarding life and death.

September 8

Maabo

1

I read your prompt reply with nostalgic warmth. When I sent you that perilous phrase—“Death is a good thing”—the other day, liable to be misconstrued so easily, I was truly gladdened to see you’d grasped my meaning without a trace of misunderstanding. Still, I can’t help contemplating our era. That equanimity toward death—wouldn’t those from the previous age find it utterly incomprehensible? “Today’s youth have all lived cheek by jowl with death,” you wrote. “This applies not solely to tuberculosis patients, mind you. Our lives had already been consecrated to a certain figure—they were never truly ours to begin with. Thus we may entrust ourselves unreservedly to that so-called ship of divine will. This constitutes courage’s new form for our new century. Though they say hell lies beneath a single plank of such vessels, strangely enough, we feel no unease.” Your words, if anything, left me utterly disarmed. I must offer sincere apologies for having rashly dismissed your initial letter as “old-fashioned.”

We are by no means treating life carelessly. But neither are we wallowing in sentimentality over death, nor cowering in fear of it. As evidence of this, ever since seeing off that beautifully gleaming coffin of Ms. Narusawa Itoko wrapped in white cloth, I had completely forgotten about Maabo and Takesan, lying in bed with a mind as high and clear as that day's autumn sky—while in the hallway, the residents and assistants exchanged their usual,

“You keeping at it?” “We’re keeping at it.” “Hang in there.”

“Alright, here we go.”

I heard them exchanging these greetings and noticed that, unlike their usual half-joking tone, there was somehow a serious resonance to it. And in those residents shouting with such earnest intensity, I instead felt something remarkably vital. To put it in slightly affected terms, the entire Health Institute had a sacred atmosphere throughout that day. I believed. Death never makes people’s hearts shrivel.

People of the old era who can only understand these feelings of ours as childish bravado or desperate recklessness at the end of despair are truly pitiable. People who can clearly understand both the old era’s and new era’s emotions must be rare indeed. We think of life as something light as a feather. But this doesn’t mean we treat life carelessly—it means we cherish life precisely because it’s light as a feather. And that feather flies swiftly to distant places. While the adults noisily persist with their stale debates about patriotism and war responsibility, we leave them behind and promptly set sail according to the direct words of a revered figure. I’ve even come to feel this embodies the defining trait of new Japan.

From Narusawa Itoko’s death had developed an outlandish "theory," but I found myself utterly unsuited for this sort of "theory." The new man would still fare better quietly entrusting himself to a newly built ship and reporting on that strangely bright life aboard—it’s far less burdensome that way. How about it—shall we have another story about women?

2 In your letter, you seemed to be foolishly defending Takesan. If you liked her that much, why didn't you just write to her directly yourself? No—rather than that—why didn't you meet her once and see. When you had a moment, instead of coming to visit me, you should have come to this Health Institute to pay a visit to Takesan. If you saw her, you'd be disillusioned. After all, she was such an impressive woman. Even her physical strength might have been greater than yours. According to your letter, you appeared to hold the theory that while Maabo crying wasn't an issue at all, Takesan's "I'm troubled" was a major event—but I'd given that some thought myself. Regarding how Maabo came to me crying about "having troubles," one might have wanted to indulge in the foolish self-conceit that Takesan's "I'm troubled" remark was proof she'd had feelings for me all along—but not even a speck of such feeling arose in me. Takesan was all imposing stature and had not a shred of allure. She was always swamped with work, the type who had no time to dwell on other matters. She was simply someone who, tense under the weight of her responsibilities as assistant group leader, worked diligently and earnestly.

Takesan had scolded Maabo the previous night. After doing so, when she heard from other assistants that Maabo had become terribly dejected and was even crying, she began to wonder if her reprimand had been too harsh, grew worried, and ended up saying, “I’m troubled”—a sequence that struck me as rather clumsy in this instance, yet still the most sensible way of thinking. That had to be it. Women, after all, are creatures who think only of their own standing. The new man feels not a shred of self-conceit toward women. Nor does he expect to be liked. It’s all perfectly straightforward.

When Takesan said “I’m troubled” and turned red, it simply meant she was concerned about having scolded Maabo—but then she suddenly noticed how her own offhand remark carried an unexpectedly strange resonance, became slightly flustered at this realization, and blushed again. Nothing more to it. It was an utterly trivial matter. And so, whether it be Maabo crying at my place that day, or the matter of someone being troubled, or even the special favor of an extra bowl’s worth of rice—to unravel all the strange atmosphere of that day, there was one crucial fact I had to take into account. That was the death of Narusawa Itoko. Narusawa-san had died the previous night. That explained why Maabo—who’s usually so quick to laugh—got scolded. The assistants were young women, much like Narusawa Itoko. Might their impulses not have been strong? In women, there still remained something like old-fashioned sentiment. Could it be that in their loneliness and bewilderment, they had displayed some strange sentiment like charity equivalent to an extra serving of rice? In any case, everyone’s unusual behavior that day seemed strongly connected to Narusawa Itoko’s death. Neither Maabo nor Takesan had any particular feelings for me. Don’t be ridiculous.

So, have you figured it out yet? Even so, do you still like Takesan? Well, you should make an official visit to the Health Institute and behold her in person sometime. To me, Maabo seems better than Takesan in having a more modern sensibility—but you appear to profoundly dislike Maabo, don’t you? Why don’t you reconsider? Maabo does have some decent qualities after all. Just the other day—was it two days ago?—Maabo showed such good-naturedness that I suddenly saw her in a new light again; today I shall recount that episode to you. I believe you’ll surely come to like Maabo too.

3

The day before yesterday, it was decided that our roommate Nishiwaki Tsukushi-dono would finally be leaving the Health Institute due to family circumstances. As it happened, that day coincided with Maabo’s official day off or something of the sort, so she had apparently agreed to accompany Tsukushi-dono all the way to E City. Starting from the day before, the residents had teased her relentlessly, demanding souvenirs from all sides until she cheerfully acquiesced—then early that morning, dressed in her Kurume kasuri-patterned monpe trousers, she hurried off after Tsukushi-dono. Around three in the afternoon, just as we had begun our stretching exercises, she returned—not at all like someone who’d parted with a cherished person—smiling cheerfully and making rounds through every room to distribute the promised souvenirs to the residents.

In this era of labor shortages where even daughters from fairly well-off households had to leave home to work, Maabo too seemed to belong to that group—treating her work like a game, yet perhaps because she was comfortably off, always being remarkably generous, which appeared to be one reason for her popularity among the residents. Even her souvenirs on such occasions were rather extravagant. The souvenirs—where and how she obtained them I never knew—were toy mirrors about an inch or two in size. On the back was pasted a photograph of a movie actress. In the past, things like this were the sort of trinkets candy stores would give away for free, but nowadays, even something like this wouldn’t have been cheap to buy. She might have bought several dozen of these from some candy store or toy shop’s stock, but in any case, it was just the sort of souvenir idea you’d expect from Maabo. The residents seemed to have taken a great liking to the movie actress photos on the back, making quite a commotion about them. Kappore too received one. I dislike receiving things from women, so from the start I hadn’t pressured her for any souvenir; moreover, even had I partaken in the same benefit of a single toy pocket mirror as everyone else, I would have thought it trivial; and then when Maabo came to our room and handed the mirror to Kappore,

“Kappore-san, do you know this actress?” “I don’t know her, but she’s a real looker. Doesn’t she look just like you?” “Oh, stop it! It’s Daniel Duryu, isn’t it?” “What, an American?” “No, she’s French. In Tokyo for a time, she was quite popular, you know. You don’t know?” “Don’t know. Whether it’s French or whatever, I’m returning this anyway. Foreigners are so dull. How about swapping it for a Japanese actress photo? Well then, I’d like you to do just that. Are you going to give this to that Koshiba Hibari over there or something?”

“You’re being too picky.” “I’m giving this specially to you alone.” “Not to Hibari.” “You’re being mean, so no.” “Who’s to say?” “Well then, I’ll take it for now. Danie?” “Daniel.” “Daniel Duryu.” Listening to their conversation, I continued my stretching exercises without so much as a smile, but couldn’t help feeling displeased. Was I truly so disliked by Maabo? Of course I never imagined being liked, but I hadn’t conceived that I alone was hated and detested to this degree. Even when believing I’d positioned myself at rock bottom, it seems there were still depths below that foundation. Are humans ultimately creatures who live intoxicated by their own illusions? Reality felt harsh. What exactly was wrong with me? This time, I resolved to ask Maabo properly. And then—the opportunity arrived surprisingly soon.

4

That day, a little past four—the natural time—I was sitting on my bed absently gazing out the window when Maabo, dressed in white, came briskly into the garden carrying laundry. I involuntarily stood up and leaned out the window, “Maabo,” I called out softly. Maabo turned around, found me, and laughed.

“Aren’t you going to give me a souvenir?” I ventured.

Maabo did not answer right away, instead swiftly scanning her surroundings. She appeared to be checking whether anyone was watching. The Health Institute was in its rest period. It lay perfectly still. Maabo forced a stiff smile, briefly held her palm beside her mouth, shaped her lips into a large “ah,” then pursed them and pulled in her chin, next opened her mouth halfway and nodded once, then opened it two-thirds of the way and nodded again. She made no sound whatsoever—communicating purely through lip movements. I grasped her meaning at once.

She was saying, “A, To, De, Ne.” Though I understood immediately, I deliberately mimicked her mouth shapes to ask back, “A, To, De?” In response, she soundlessly formed “A, To, De, Ne” again—pausing between each syllable with childlike nods—before waving the hand she’d held beside her mouth side to side in a “secret, secret” gesture. Then she hunched her shoulders tightly in a laugh and scampered off toward the annex.

"Later, huh? Worrying is harder than the doing." Muttering this 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 rubbing therapy, I received that "Ato De Ne" souvenir from Maabo. Since yesterday morning, she had occasionally been acting as if hiding something under her apron while prowling the corridors meaningfully—I’d even wondered if she might have concealed a souvenir for me there. But should I brazenly approach her myself and extend my hand only to be rebuffed with something like “What’s wrong?”, that would’ve been another great humiliation, so I’d kept pretending not to notice. Yet after all, it truly was a gift for me.

Last night’s seven-thirty rubbing therapy was Maabo’s turn for the first time in about a week. Carrying a metal basin in her left hand and hiding her right beneath her apron, she came grinning slyly and squatted down beside my bed, “You’re mean.” “You never came to get it, you know.” “Since this morning, I’ve been waiting in the hallway so many times.”

With that, she opened the bed drawer, swiftly slid the item from under her apron into it, and snapped the drawer shut, “Don’t say it.” “Don’t tell anyone.” I nodded two or three times in small motions while lying down. She began the rubbing therapy, “It’s been a while since I did Hibari’s rubbing therapy.” “My turn just wouldn’t come around, you know.” “Even when I tried to give you the souvenir, I was at a loss about how to go about it.”

I brought my hand to my neck, mimed tying something, and thought: A tie? When I made this silent question to ask if it meant a tie,

“Nuh-uh,” she denied with a smile, puckering her lower lip, then whispered, “Silly.” Actually, I’m a fool. Even though I don’t even have a suit, why on earth did I think of something as strange as a necktie? Even I find myself ridiculous. Perhaps I had unconsciously associated that small pocket mirror with a necktie.

5 This time I mimed writing with my right hand—a fountain pen? I tried asking through gestures whether that was what she meant. Truly, I am a self-absorbed man. My fountain pen had been acting up lately, so some latent desire for a new one must have taken root—slipping out unconsciously at moments like this. Inwardly, I recoiled at my own audacity. “Nuh-uh.” Maabo 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?” “It was the last one left at the shop.” “The trimmings aren’t anything fancy, but carry it around with you after you leave here, okay?” “Since you’re a gentleman, you’ll surely need it.” I was completely at a loss. Surely it couldn’t be a cane. “Anyway, thank you.” I said while turning over in bed.

“What are you talking about? You’re so absent-minded. Hurry up and get better already so you’ll just be gone.”

“Much obliged for your trouble.” “Might as well just die here, huh?” “Oh, you mustn’t. Someone will cry.” “Someone will cry.” “You mean you, Maabo?” “Don’t flatter yourself.” “As if I’d cry.” “There’s no way I’d cry!”

“I thought as much.” “Even if I don’t cry, there are plenty who’ll cry for you, Hibari.” After a brief pause: “Three—no, four people.”

“There’s no point in crying.” “There is meaning! There’s meaning!” she insisted vehemently, then brought her lips close to my ear. “Takesan would? Kintoto would? Tamanegi would? Kakuran would?” She counted them off one by one on her left-hand fingers, then laughed with a gleeful “Whee!” “Would Kakuran cry too?” I laughed as well. The rubbing therapy that night felt pleasant. I no longer tensed up around Maabo like before; now I’d developed a cool detachment that seemed to look down on everyone from some lofty height, allowing me to banter freely. This change likely came from having completely discarded—over these past two weeks—that suffocating desire to be liked by women. To my own astonishment, I played along without the slightest lingering attachment in my heart. To like or be liked was like leaves rustling in a May breeze. Not an ounce of self-attachment remained. The new man had made yet another leap forward.

That night, after finishing the rubbing therapy, I rummaged through my bed drawer while listening through the loudspeaker during report time to news that American occupation forces would finally be coming to our region too—pulled out Maabo’s gift and unwrapped it.

It was a small package, about three inches square, containing a cigarette case inside. The meaning behind Maabo’s earlier puzzling words—“Carry this around after you leave here—since you’re a gentleman, Hibari, you’ll surely need it”—finally became clear to me. As I took it out of the box and turned it over in my hands, I found myself growing terribly sad. I’m not happy. It seemed my melancholy wasn’t entirely due to the world’s news after all.

6 It was a flat, silver case made of metal—perhaps called stainless—like the chrome used in cake knives and such. The lid bore a pattern of tangled, thin black lines resembling stylized rose vines, and its edges were painted with what looked like maroon enamel. If only this enamel hadn’t been there—because of this unnecessary enamel decoration, as Maabo had said, it was "a bit plain" and "not high-quality at all." Still, since Maabo went to the trouble of buying it for me, I supposed I should at least store it away carefully.

But really, it wasn't pleasant. Having received it, I shouldn't say this, but I truly didn't feel happy at all. Receiving something from another woman was a first-time experience for me, but it felt strangely oppressive in a way I couldn't bear. It left an extremely unpleasant aftertaste. I hid the case in the very bottom of the drawer. I wanted to forget it as soon as possible. As for the case, I too was somewhat overwhelmed by its cumbersome shape; however, given these circumstances, I composed this report in hopes that you might come to understand even a little of Maabo's good qualities. So what do you think? Have you come to see Maabo in a slightly better light now? Or do you still prefer Take-san after all? Please share your thoughts with me.

Today, Katapan from the neighboring Swan Room moved into Tsukushi’s bed. His full name was Sugawara Gorou, twenty-six years old. He was apparently a law student and seemed to be quite popular. He had a swarthy complexion with thick eyebrows, large bulging eyes behind Lloyd glasses, and an aquiline nose—not particularly appealing—yet even so, the assistants reportedly made quite a fuss over him. Truly, it seemed the more unpleasant a man appeared to other men, the more he was liked by women.

With Katapan’s arrival, the atmosphere in Sakura no Ma had taken on an oddly strained quality. Kappore already seemed to harbor some hostility toward Katapan. During today’s pre-dinner rubbing therapy too, the assistants asked Katapan various questions in English, “Hey, tell me.” “How do you say ‘I’m sorry’ in English?” “Ai, beggu, yuua, paadon.” Katapan answered in an extremely affected manner.

“It’s hard to remember. Isn’t there a simpler way to say it?” “Verrry ssoorry.” He said in an extremely affected manner.

“Well then,” another assistant said, “how do you say ‘Please take care of yourself’?”

“Puriizu tekkyaa obu yua serufu.” He pronounced “take care” as “tekkyaa.” It was truly, utterly pretentious. The nurse assistants nevertheless listened with great interest. To Kappore, Katapan’s English seemed even more grating than it did to me; in a small voice he began singing his prized dodoitsu— He sang things like, “Will he become a doctor or a minister? A proper student has no money,” and in any case, seemed frantically intent on countering Katapan at every turn.

However, I am in good spirits. When I measured my weight today, I had gained nearly 400 monme (about 1.5 kilograms). Decidedly, I am in excellent condition.

September 16

On Hygiene 1

As I had apparently been writing solely about women lately while neglecting reports about my senior roommates, today I shall relay news of the residents in Sakura no Ma. Yesterday saw a quarrel break out in Sakura no Ma. At last, Kappore made a resolute challenge against Katapan. The cause lay with pickled plums.

It was an exceedingly messy affair. Kappore had long possessed a small Seto bowl in which he kept pickled plums, and at every meal would take it out from the cupboard under his bed to poke at them. However, lately mold had begun growing on those pickled plums. Kappore considered this might be due to an unsuitable container. Since the small bowl's lid fit poorly, he concluded bacteria must have crept through the gap - this being why mold developed. Kappore was quite fastidious. He couldn't stop fretting. Such was the situation - Kappore had been racking his brains for some time over whether a better container might exist. Yet during yesterday's breakfast, he noticed from the corner of his eye that Katapan next door - who similarly took out his rakkyo jar at every meal - had just emptied it, and thought that would be perfect. The mouth was wide, and the stopper could be tightly secured. No bacteria could infiltrate that jar. Since it was now empty, Katapan would likely lend it readily. Though bowing to Katapan rankled him, preventing bacterial growth made that rakkyo jar absolutely necessary. Hygiene must take precedence. Thinking thus, Kappore timidly requested to borrow the empty bottle after finishing his meal.

Katapan looked straight at Kappore’s face, “What are you going to do with this?” That way of speaking hit Kappore hard, it seemed. For some time now, dark clouds had been lingering between these two. Kappore had long considered himself the Health Institute’s foremost ladies’ man, but recently Katapan’s reputation as a charmer rose so spectacularly that Kappore’s presence now paled in comparison—and this friction reached its peak just as he was stewing with irritation.

“This thing?” “Mr. Sugawara—is that any way to speak?” Kappore’s manner of speaking was equally peculiar. “What’s wrong with that?” Katapan didn’t crack a smile. He was such a stiff, pretentious man. “Don’t you understand?” Kappore, slightly on the defensive, forced a grin and said, “It’s not as though I meant to borrow a pig’s tail from you. But if you dismiss it as ‘this thing’ so coldly, I’d have no ground to stand on.” This was becoming truly absurd.

“I did not say anything about a pig’s tail.”

“You really don’t get it, do you.” Kappore grew slightly fiercer. “Even if you don’t say ‘pig’s tail,’ I can read between the lines—there’s no getting around it. Don’t mock me. Whether you’re a university student or a plasterer, aren’t we all subjects of the same Japanese nation? How dare you treat me like a pig’s tail. If I’m a pig’s tail, then you’re a lizard’s tail. That’s what they call impartiality. I may be uneducated, but even so, I know enough to value hygiene. If humans don’t know hygiene, they’re no different from beasts.”

The argument devolved into something utterly incomprehensible.

2

Katapan didn’t respond at all, crossed his hands behind his head, and lay down on his back on the bed. He appeared to be a man of courage. Kappore sat cross-legged on his bed, rocking his body back and forth and side to side, rolling up his sleeves and pounding his knees with his fists as he fidgeted restlessly, “Hey! You! Are you listening there, college boy? You wouldn’t actually use judo on me now, would you? There’s college boys who pull that sometimes—terrifying stuff. No thank you to that! Listen up—let me make this clear: this dojo ain’t no judo hall or charm school for pretty boys. Director Kiyomori himself said it in his lecture—you’re athletes! Athletes showing all Japan how TB gets cured proper! Said he’s counting on our self-restraint—and damn if I didn’t tear up hearing that! A man who sees right but won’t act’s got no courage—that’s what it means! Valor’s got its big and small kinds too! So wisdom, mercy, guts—that’s what makes us human! Being some ladykiller? That’s no proper concern!” It was nearly gibberish. Still, Kappore’s face paled as he shouted louder: “That’s why—that’s exactly why hygiene comes natural! ‘Stay clean, watch fires’—they’re telling us straight!”

“There’s absolutely no way a proper human being can be compared to a pig’s tail!”

“Stop it, stop it!” said Echigo Jishi as he intervened. 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 in a somewhat dignified tone said, “Stop it, stop it.” Kappore whirled around to face Echigo Jishi and clung to him. Then, pressing his face into Echigo Jishi’s chest, he began to sob—each “wah” punctuated and distinct.

In the hallway, five or six residents from other rooms were loitering and peering at the commotion here.

“You mustn’t look,” bellowed Echigo Jishi at the residents loitering in the hallway. Up to that point, he had been admirable, but from there, things went slightly awry. “This isn’t a fight! Merely…merely…hmm…merely…merely…hmm,” he groaned, looking utterly perplexed as he shot a glance my way.

“An act,” I said under my breath. “Merely,” Echigo rallied, his vigor returning as he shouted, “the effect of a performance!” Though what exactly “the effect of a performance” meant remained unclear to me, I suspected he’d invented that bizarre phrase on the spot—unwilling to lose face by parroting advice from a junior like myself. Perhaps adults always strain themselves living this way.

Kappore, in a posture like a lion cub being cradled in its parent’s embrace, shook his head while sobbing convulsively and began to complain in a drawn-out, slurred, incoherent tone that was barely intelligible.

3

“I’ve never been so mortified since the day I was born.” “My upbringing ain’t shabby.” “I ain’t even been walloped by my old man.” “And yet here I am treated like a pig’s tail—guts boiling over—so I figured I’d make a proper speech, only saying the finest things.” “Tried picking out nothing but the choicest bits to say.” “Swear I meant to speak only the very best.” “But he just lies there on his bed playing dumb—what kinda attitude’s that!” “Makes me so mad and sorry I could burst.” “What kinda attitude’s that!” “When a man’s speaking his finest words, that kinda attitude!” “Thoroughly sick of this whole damn world I’ve gotten.” “When a man’s speaking his finest—”

Gradually, he began repeating the same things over and over. Echigo gently laid Kappore down on the bed. Kappore lay facing away from Katapan, covered his face with both hands, and shuddered with sobs for a while, but eventually grew quiet as if he had fallen asleep. Even when eight o'clock came for the bending exercises, he remained still in that position.

It was a truly peculiar quarrel. However, by lunchtime, Mr. Kappore had already returned to his usual self. Even when Katapan brought back a clean empty leek-pickling bottle and earnestly offered it with a "Here you go," he simply said "Thank you," bobbed his head in a bow, and accepted it without fuss. Then, after finishing lunch, he cheerfully transferred the pickled plums one by one from the Seto-ware bowl into the leek-pickling bottle. If everyone in the world were as uncomplicated as Mr. Kappore, I thought, this world would undoubtedly become a more livable place.

Regarding the quarrel, I will leave it at that for now, and take this opportunity to provide another brief report.

Today’s afternoon rubbing therapy was administered by Ms. Takenaka. I told Ms. Takenaka a little about you. “There’s someone who says they’re quite fond of you, Ms. Takenaka.” Ms. Takenaka hardly speaks during rubbing therapy. She always remained silent, smiling coolly. “They said you’re ten times better than Maabo.” “Who’s that?” Ms. Silence also inadvertently said in a small voice. The praise of being better than Maabo seemed to greatly please her. Women are such frivolous creatures.

“Are you happy?” “I don’t like it.” Ms. Takenaka said just that one thing and continued the rubbing with rough, vigorous scrubbing sounds. She frowned, her face looking displeased. “Are you angry? That person’s really a good guy, you know. He’s a poet, I tell you.” “Disgusting. Hibari, you’ve been acting strange lately.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead with the back of her left hand as she spoke. “Is that so? Then I won’t tell you anything more.” Ms. Takenaka remained silent. She continued the rubbing without speaking. When the therapy ended and she withdrew, Ms. Takenaka brushed back her stray hairs and smiled oddly,

“Velly solly,” she said. She must have meant to say, “I’m sorry.” Ms. Takenaka isn’t half bad, you know. How about it—why don’t you find some time to come visit the Health Institute? I’ll show you your beloved Ms. Takenaka. Just kidding—my apologies. Mornings and evenings have grown cool. Constant hygiene and fire prevention—that’s what matters here. I humbly ask that you study for the two of us.

September 22

*Cosmos*

1 I read your prompt reply with pleasure. When you enter high school, your studies must keep you busy—writing such a long letter must be quite a task. From now on, there’s no need for such lengthy replies each time. I worried it might hinder your studies. You scolded me for saying such things to Ms. Takenaka. I stand corrected. Yet I find myself unable to agree with your declaration: “I can no longer come to visit you.” You’re being rather timid yourself. Unless one can greet Ms. Takenaka lightly without reservation, one cannot be called a new man. It means discarding vanity. There was that saying—“The Three Hundred Poems harbor no wicked thoughts”—or something of the sort, wasn’t there? Let us strive for artless simplicity.

The other day, to our neighbor Echigo Jishi, "I had just started to say, 'There's a friend of mine—a man who studies poetry—' when Echigo immediately," “Poets are pretentious,” he declared with brutal finality, so I grew slightly irritated, “But hasn’t it been said since ancient times that poets renew language?” I retorted. Echigo Jishi smirked and,

“Right—today’s new inventions are indispensable,” he answered offhandedly, but I thought even Echigo had said something not to be taken lightly. Given your wisdom, I’m sure you’ve already realized this, but I beg of you: from now on, in your poetic practice and indeed in all things, show us the true countenance of your new man. What a strangely high-and-mighty, senior-like tone I’ve taken there—but really, it’s just me saying you shouldn’t worry about someone like Ms. Takenaka. Gather your courage and come visit the Health Institute to see Ms. Takenaka for yourself. When you lay eyes on the real thing, your illusions will vanish like mist dispersing. After all, she’s already thoroughly proper and splendid—quite the imposing figure. Still, you’ve really become fixated on Ms. Takenaka, haven’t you? Even though I’ve written at such length emphasizing Maabo’s adorableness, you go on declaring that “a woman like Maabo is no better than some failed movie actress,” refusing to acknowledge her at all while obsessing solely over Ms. Takenaka—I must say I’m impressed. I think I’ll hold off on reporting about Ms. Takenaka for a while. If on top of everything else, you were to catch a fever and take to bed over this, it would be disastrous.

Shall I introduce one of Mr. Kappore’s haiku today? For this Sunday’s recreation broadcast, it was decided to hold a literary presentation by the residents. Those confident in waka, haiku, or poetry had been instructed to submit their works to the office by tomorrow evening. Kappore, as our Sakura-no-Ma room’s representative, was to submit his specialty haiku. For two or three days prior, he had sat formally upright on his bed with a pencil tucked behind his ear, tilting his head as he earnestly composed verses. This morning he finally completed them—scribbling about ten haiku in a row on stationery—which he then presented to us roommates. First he showed them to Katapan, but Katapan smiled wryly and,

“I don’t understand,” he said, and immediately returned the paper. Next, he showed them to Echigo Jishi and requested his critique. Echigo Jishi hunched his back and stared intently at the paper as if taking aim at it,

“Outrageous,” Echigo Jishi said.

If he had just said they were clumsy or something like that, that would have been one thing—but to denounce them as "outrageous" struck me as too harsh. 2

Kappore turned pale,

“Is it no good?” he humbly inquired. “Ask that expert over there,” Echigo said, jerking his chin sharply toward me. Kappore brought the stationery to me. I’m uncultured, so I have no earthly idea about haiku’s finer points. I really should have followed Katapan’s example and returned them at once with apologies, but feeling sorry for Kappore and wanting to console him somehow, I read through all ten verses despite my ignorance. They didn’t strike me as particularly awful. You might call them trite or commonplace, but even so, composing them yourself must be quite laborious, don’t you think?

"Wild chrysanthemums blooming in disarray—a maiden's heart," or something like that was a bit odd, but even so, I thought it wasn't so poorly done as to warrant outrage. But when I came across the last verse, I was startled. I fully understood why Echigo Jishi had been so indignant. This world of dew— Someone's verse. This won't do, I thought. But I didn't want to say it outright and make Kappore burn with shame.

“I think they’re all skillful,” I said diplomatically, “but wouldn’t this last haiku improve if you swapped it with another? Just an amateur’s thought.” “Is that so?” Kappore pursed his lips in displeasure. “But I maintain this verse stands superior.”

“Of course it’s good.” Even a haiku layman like me knew how famous that poem was. “If it’s good, it’s good,” I offered. I found myself at a loss. “Don’t you get it?” Kappore visibly swelled with confidence. “Can’t you see my sincere devotion to present-day Japan woven into these lines?” he added, his voice dripping with contempt for me.

“What kind of sincerity?” I retorted, no longer smiling. “Don’t you get it?” Kappore frowned as if calling me a hopeless fool, then pressed on: “How do you view Japan’s current fate? It’s a world of dew, isn’t it? That world of dew is a world of dew. Yet even so, everyone—let us advance in pursuit of light! It comes to mean something like ‘Do not despair needlessly,’ don’t you think? This is none other than my sincere devotion to Japan. Do you understand, huh?”

However, I was inwardly dumbfounded. This verse—my friend—after Issa lost his child, he wrote of resigning himself to this world of dew while still being unable to fully abandon his grief—wasn't that the sentiment it was supposed to convey? Well, isn't this just appalling? He's completely reversed its meaning. This might be what Echigo calls his "new invention of today," but it's utterly egregious. While I agreed with Kappore's sincerity, stealing an ancient poet's verse to arbitrarily assign new meanings and treat it as a plaything was wrong—and moreover, submitting this verse as Kappore's own work would damage our "Sakura no Ma" room's reputation. So I mustered my courage and spoke plainly.

3 “But there’s a verse from an old poet that’s very similar to this one. It’s not that you stole it, I suppose, but to avoid any misunderstanding, I think it would be best to replace this one with another.” “You mean there’s a similar verse?” Kappore widened his eyes and stared at me. Those eyes were so beautifully clear they could make one sigh. I reconsidered that such a strange psychology—stealing without even realizing it—might indeed be possible among haiku virtuosos. He was truly a guileless offender. He was truly without a trace of guile.

“That turned into such a dull affair. “In haiku, there are often such cases—it’s quite a problem.” “After all, it’s only seventeen characters, you see.” “That’s how similar verses end up being made, you see.” It seemed Kappore was a habitual offender. “Well then, let’s erase this,” he said, using the pencil tucked behind his ear to strike a line through the “world of dew” verse. “How about this instead?” He quickly jotted something down at the small desk by my bedside and showed it to me.

“Cosmos flowers—” “That will do.” I said with relief. Even if it was awkward or anything else, as long as it wasn’t a stolen verse, I now felt relieved. “Why not change it to ‘cosmos flowers’ while you’re at it?” I blurted out, carried away by my relief. “Shadows of cosmos flowers dance upon the dry mat, you think?” “Ah, the imagery is becoming clearer now.” “Ah, you’re impressive,” he said and gave my back a light pat. “You’re impossible to overlook!”

I blushed. "You should not flatter me." I grew restless. "Perhaps 'cosmos—' would be better." "I don't understand a thing about haiku." "It's just that I thought using 'cosmos' instead would be easier for us to understand." A voice inside me was screaming—what does it matter either way?

However, Kappore seemed to have come to respect me. He earnestly asked me to keep advising him on haiku—not entirely flattery, it seemed—with a straight face, then withdrew triumphantly to his bed with that musical, bouncy walk of his: tiptoeing with hips swaying lightly in rhythm. I watched him go, feeling utterly outmatched. Being a haiku consultant was, in fact, even more troublesome than dealing with contentious dodoitsu folk songs, I thought. Unable to settle down at all and feeling overwhelmed, I—

“This has turned into an outrageous mess,” I inadvertently complained to Echigo. Even this New Man had been bested by Kappore’s haiku.

Echigo Jishi silently gave a heavy nod. But the story didn’t end there. An even more astonishing fact then emerged. During this morning’s eight o’clock rubbing therapy session—when Maabo was assigned to Kappore’s turn—I overheard Kappore whisper something to her and nearly jumped in surprise.

“Maabo, that cosmos verse of yours—it ain’t bad, but… you better watch out.” “Cosmos—that won’t do. It’s gotta be ‘cosmos’s,’ get it?”

I was startled. That was Maabo’s verse.

4 Come to think of it, there had been something in that verse resembling a woman's sensibility. If so, that peculiar verse about "wild chrysanthemums blooming in disarray—a maiden's heart" also smelled suspicious. After all, might that one too have been composed by Maabo or some assistant? Somehow, all ten of those haiku were growing dubious. Truly, he was an outrageous person. It was utterly beyond exasperation. Though I wouldn't go so far as to call it a matter affecting Sakura no Ma's honor, I'd fretted over what this might mean for Mr. Kappore's character—whether regarding that "world of dew" verse or this cosmos one. Yet having later overheard the exchange between Kappore and Maabo, I felt relieved and rather uplifted.

“What was that cosmos haiku like? “I’ve forgotten all about it.” Maabo was taking her time.

“Is that so? Then was that my verse after all?” He was being nonchalant.

“Isn’t this Kakuran’s verse?” “You once secretly exchanged haiku or something with Kakuran, didn’t you?” “Yay, that’s it!” “So does that make it Kakuran’s verse?” He remained utterly composed. Whether to call it plainness or briskness—it nearly defied description. “For Kakuran’s verse, it’s too polished.” “That bastard stole it!” At this point, there was no other way to describe it than as unapologetically audacious.

“This time, I’m going to submit that verse.” “The entertainment program? Submit my verse along with yours. Look, I did teach it to you once before, remember? ‘In disarray bloom a maiden’s heart—’.” Indeed it was. However, Kappore remained completely unperturbed,

“Yeah. That’s already been included.” “Right. Do it properly now.” I smiled.

This, for me, was what might be called "today's new discovery." To these people, the author's name didn't matter in the slightest. They felt as though it were something they'd all created together. And if they could all enjoy the day together, that was what mattered. Wasn't that originally how the relationship between art and the people was meant to be? While the so-called connoisseurs of that field were vehemently debating claims like "Only Beethoven counts!" and "Liszt is second-rate!", wouldn't the common people have left those arguments behind to promptly enjoy the musical pieces they each preferred by listening attentively? To those people, the author's name didn't matter one bit. Even if Issa had written it, even if Kappore had written it, even if Maabo had written it—if the verse wasn't interesting, they couldn't have cared less. They didn't force themselves to "study" art for things like social etiquette or improving their tastes. They memorized only the works that touched their hearts, in their own way. That was all there was to it. I felt as though I'd just been taught something new about the relationship between art and the people.

Today’s letter turned oddly philosophical, but well, I thought that even this little anecdote about Kappore might help you in your poetic training by sparking some “new invention,” so I decided not to tear it up and will send it to you as is.

I am flowing water. It flows, caressing every shore.

I love everyone. How pretentious.

September 26

Sister

1

Time and again I’ve resolved never to write you such clumsy, foolish letters—those moments of awkwardness would seize me mid-sentence, making me vow to quit—but today, upon encountering someone’s truly astonishing epistle and marveling at how there are always greater heights (or depths), I felt a measure of relief. After all, if this world contains people capable of crafting such outlandish missives, then the letters I send you must be relatively minor offenses. Really now—you wouldn’t believe the things that exist in this world. That someone could produce such a dreadful letter—it makes one wonder whether they’re divine or demonic. Truly, it’s beyond words.

Well then, today I shall attempt to write a little about that great epistle.

This morning saw a major autumn cleaning at the institute. Though mostly finished by noon—leading to canceled afternoon routines—two barbers arrived onsite later that day for residents' haircuts. Around five o'clock I finished my trim and was rinsing my shaved head at the washroom sink when someone slipped up beside me,

“Hibari, still at it?”

It was Maabo.

“I am, I am.” I gave a rather perfunctory reply while smearing soap on my head. Honestly, lately these fixed routine greetings had become so troublesome, so grating, I couldn’t bear it. “Hang in there, you.” “Hey, isn’t my hand towel around here somewhere?” Without responding to the “Hang in there,” I kept my eyes shut and stretched both hands toward Maabo.

Something like stationery settled softly on my right hand. When I squinted one eye open, it was a letter. "What's this?" I asked with a grimace. "You're being mean, Hibari!" Maabo glared at me through her laughter. "Why don't you say 'Right away'? When someone tells you 'Hang in there' and you don't answer 'Right away,' it means their illness is getting worse." An unpleasant feeling washed over me. My sulking intensified,

“I’m busy here. Can’t you see I’m washing my head? What’s this letter?” “It’s from Tsukushi. There’s a poem at the end, see? Tell me what it means.” Keeping my eyes narrowed against the soap, I peered at the poem written on the stationery’s final lines. Not meeting you makes days grow long—how might I bid farewell? My sister—

I thought Tsukushi was being pretentious too. “Don’t you get this? This must be a poem lifted straight from the Manyoshu. This isn’t Tsukushi’s own composition.” I wasn’t exactly scorning him, but I did point out the flaw. “What does it mean?” she asked in a hushed voice, pressing uncomfortably close. “You’re annoying. I’m washing my head here. I’ll explain later—just leave the letter there and fetch my hand towel. Must’ve left it in my room. If it’s not on the bed, check the drawer by the pillow.”

“You’re so mean!” Maabo snatched the stationery from my hand and trotted off toward the room.

2

Takenaka-san’s catchphrase was “Disgusting,” and Maabo’s was “You’re so mean!” In the past, every time I heard those words, they’d send a chill through me, but now I’d grown so used to them they barely registered. Now then—with Maabo gone—I needed to figure out how to interpret that “How might one depart well?” line from the poem while I still could. That part had tripped me up, which was exactly why I’d used the towel as an excuse to dodge giving an immediate answer. As I kept pondering how to parse “How might one depart well?” while rinsing soap from my head, Maabo returned with the towel. This time, her face serious, she wordlessly handed it over and promptly strode away.

It hit me. I immediately thought I was at fault. The truth was, lately I’d grown jaded—or perhaps numb—having unwittingly acclimated to life at this institute, losing the tension I’d felt upon first arriving. Even when Maabo spoke to me, I no longer felt the same excitement as before; I’d become utterly insensitive, thinking it only natural for assistants to look after residents, that notions of special favor or whatever else were trivial. In this state, I’d ended up curtly ordering her to fetch my hand towel—no wonder she’d gotten angry. The other day, Takenaka-san had told me, "Hibari’s been off his game lately," and truly, there really was something a bit ‘off’ about me these days. During that morning’s major cleaning, all residents briefly went out to the new building’s front garden to avoid the indoor dust, and thanks to that, I was actually able to step on soil for the first time in ages. Though I had occasionally sneaked down to places like the tennis court out back, this was the first time since arriving here that I’d obtained proper permission to go out openly. I stroked the trunk of the pine tree. The trunk was warm, as if alive with blood coursing through its veins. I squatted down, startled by the grass’s intense scent at my feet, then scooped up soil with both hands. I marveled at its damp heft. The obvious truth that nature lived struck me with visceral intensity that felt almost raw. Yet even that awe had vanished within ten minutes. I stopped feeling anything. I’d grown numb and indifferent. Noticing this, I felt appalled at my own helplessness—whether you called it human adaptability or flexibility. In that moment, I deeply wished to preserve that initial fresh thrill in all things—but being scolded by Maabo made me realize with a jolt: toward life at this Health Institute too, I might already be nurturing careless feelings. Even Maabo had her pride. It might’ve been pride as small as a violet blossom, but precisely such pitiable pride deserved tender care. I now stood guilty of disregarding Maabo’s friendship. Her act of showing me Tsukushi’s secret letter might’ve been a gesture revealing her precious innermost feelings—that she now held greater affection for me than Tsukushi did.

No, even if I shouldn't get carried away with such self-importance, it was certain I had betrayed Maabo's trust. Even if I claimed it was because I didn't like Maabo as much as before, that was just my selfishness. I had grown numb even to people's kindness. I had even forgotten receiving a cigarette case. This wasn't right. I was truly terrible.

"If someone were to call out 'Hang in there!', I must get fired up by their kindness and answer loudly,

“Alright then!” I must answer.

3

Do not hesitate to amend your errors. The new man is quick to start over.

Exiting the washroom, on my way back to the room, I happened to meet Maabo in front of the charcoal storage.

“What about that letter?” I immediately asked.

With vacant eyes as if gazing at something far away, she silently shook her head. “In the bed drawer?” It occurred to me that perhaps when Maabo went to fetch the hand towel earlier, she might have tossed that letter into my bed drawer or something, so I asked her about it—but again, she just shook her head without a word. Women—this is why I can’t stand them. She’s like a borrowed cat. I thought, “To hell with her,” but I had an obligation to tend to Maabo’s pitiable pride. I adopted what could only be called a coaxing voice,

“I’m sorry about earlier. About that poem’s meaning—” I began to say, “Forget it,” she snapped and briskly walked away. It was an unnervingly sharp tone. I felt as though I’d been stabbed through the chest. Women—they’re truly formidable. I returned to my room, flopped onto the bed, and roared internally: All is lost.

However, at dinner time, the one who brought the meal tray was Maabo. With cold composure, she placed the meal tray on the small desk by my pillow, then stopped by Katapan’s spot on her way back—suddenly, as if she’d become a different person, she began making silly jokes, giggling loudly as she slapped Katapan on the back, prompting him to shout, “Hey!” When he said that and tried to grab Maabo’s hand, “No way!” she cried, fleeing until she reached me, then brought her mouth close to my ear,

“I’ll show you this. I’ll explain the meaning later,” she said rapidly, handing me a small folded sheet of stationery before immediately turning back toward Katapan. “Hey! Katapan, confess!” she shouted loudly. “Who was singing ‘Edo Nihonbashi’ at the tennis court?” “I don’t know! I don’t know!” Katapan vehemently denied, his face flushing red. “If it’s ‘Edo Nihonbashi,’ I know it too,” Kappore muttered resentfully under his breath and started eating.

“Please, everyone, take your time,” Maabo said with a laugh, bowing to those present before leaving the room.

I couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it. I felt like I was being toyed with by Maabo, and it wasn’t very pleasant. And so, a letter remained in my hand. I didn’t want to read someone else’s letter. However, to tend to Maabo’s fragile pride, I had to look through it. Thinking this had become quite a nuisance, I secretly read it after dinner—but no, my friend, this was truly a magnificent letter indeed. Could this be what they call a love letter? I couldn’t begin to guess. That Mr. Nishiwaki Tsukushi—who seemed so sensible and mild-mannered—writing such an absurd letter behind the scenes was truly beyond expectation. Do all adults secretly harbor such foolishly sentimental aspects within themselves? In any case, shall I transcribe part of this letter’s contents for you? At the washroom I’d only been made to read a tiny fragment from the final sheet, but this time I was handed all three sheets of stationery from the very beginning. What follows is the full text of that magnificent letter.

4

"The land of past memories, the forest of the Dojo—I lean against the window, quietly picturing in my mind what could be called a new page in life while gazing at the ebb and flow of the waves." "Waves quietly approach... yet offshore, whitecaps fiercely howl." "'And because the sea wind blows wildly.' That was how it began." It meant absolutely nothing. No wonder Maabo had been perplexed. This was more impenetrable than the Man'yōshū. Tsukushi had left this Dojo for a hospital in his native Hokkaido—one that appeared to be built along the coast. That much I could grasp, but beyond that, I hadn't the slightest notion what any of it signified. An extraordinary composition indeed. Let me attempt transcribing a little more. The context now careened about in ever more bewildering confusion.

"When the evening moon sinks into the waves, when black darkness assails the night—there exists starlight in yonder sky to guide my soul! Though the world may shift and capsize, let us strive to live our lives rightly!" A man! A man! I am a man!! Let's press onward. I now humbly ask that you permit me to call you my sister here. "As for what has now been bestowed upon me—should I name it a talent? How should I phrase this? Ah, perhaps it would be better to declare it a lover and love it ardently."

I haven't the faintest idea what any of this means.

And from this point onward, the context grew increasingly strange and raged wildly. It was truly like furious waves. "That is neither person nor object—it is scholarship, the root of work; what must be loved day and night is science and nature's beauty. Together these two shall become one to ardently love me from the heart, and I too ardently love them. Ah! I have gained a sister! I have gained a lover! Ah, how blissful I must be! Sister! Mine!! I believe you will understand this feeling—this aspiration of your brother's from your very soul. Therefore I consider you my sister, and wish to keep sending you letters henceforth. You'll understand me, won't you, sister?!"

I must apologize for this letter's stiff formality. Moreover, though I feel remorse for presuming to call you 'sister' despite your kindness to me, I trust you'll understand. At your age, when both men and women naturally ponder many things—though perhaps one might call it straining your nerves—please avoid dwelling on overly profound matters. I too shall depart the secular world. Today brings fine weather, though the wind blows strong. O magnificent nature! I shall play, drenched in tears! You surely comprehend. I earnestly entreat you to savor and reread this letter time and again. Thank you, Masako-chan!! Persevere, my beloved sister!!

Now, as your brother, a final word. Without meeting, the days have grown long—how I wonder if you fare well these days, my sister. “Miss Masako, From Brother Kazuo”

Well, that’s more or less the gist of it. Signing off as ‘Brother Kazuo’—what a peculiar idea, tacking ‘brother’ onto one’s own name like that—but putting that aside, I couldn’t make heads or tails of any of it except for that final Man'yōshū-style poem. I thought it was dreadful. Even if you tried to imitate it, it wasn’t something anyone could write. It was truly what you’d call outlandish. But Mr. Nishiwaki Kazuo, as a human being, was by no means a madman. He was a shy and kind person. That such a good man would write such a nonsensical letter—truly, there were strange things in this world. It was no wonder Maabo had said, “Explain the meaning.” The person who received such a letter was in for misfortune. They couldn’t help but be troubled. Should I call it excellent writing or cursed writing? After copying this magnificent letter, my wrist had grown strangely heavy, and my handwriting became clumsy. I’ll take my leave here. I’ll come back to this later.

October 5th

Trial

1

The day before yesterday, I was so overwhelmed by Tsukushi-dono's masterful writing that my pen trembled and I couldn't write properly, resulting in an embarrassingly truncated letter—my apologies. That evening after dinner, as I sat there dumbfounded after reading that letter, Maabo peeked her face through the corridor window and gave me a silent questioning look that seemed to ask, "Did you read it?" So I gave her a slight nod. Then Maabo also nodded solemnly. She appeared deeply troubled by that letter.

At that moment, I felt something like a strange righteous indignation—that Mr. Nishiwaki too was a culpable man. And then, I found Maabo unbearably touching. To confess, from that time onward I had come to feel a fresh new charm in Maabo. It meant I was no longer an insensitive man. Before I knew it, that’s how it had come to be. Autumn truly was insufferable. Yes indeed—autumn was a sorrowful thing. I mustn’t laugh. This was earnest.

I'll lay it all out. On the day after the big cleaning, Maabo appeared at the doorway of our room holding a metal basin for the eight o'clock morning rubbing therapy, her expression as if stifling a laugh, and came straight to me. The fact that Maabo had come around to my turn so quickly was unexpected, so I almost unconsciously—

“That’s good,” I whispered without thinking.

I was glad.

“You’re being ridiculous.” Maabo said irritably, then promptly began my rubbing therapy. “This morning was Takenaka-san’s turn.” “Takenaka-san had other duties come up, so I took her place.” “Is that a problem?” It was an extremely curt and matter-of-fact tone. For me, that was a bit dissatisfying, so I didn’t answer and remained silent. Maabo also remained silent. Gradually, it became hard to breathe, and the air grew stifling. When I first came to this dojo, I would feel strangely tense and experience an uncomfortable sensation whenever Maabo performed my rubbing therapy; now that same tension had revived, and I found it unbearably stifling. The rubbing therapy was done.

“Thank you.” I said in a groggy voice.

“Give me back the letter!” Maabo whispered in a low voice, yet sharply.

“It’s in the bedside drawer.” I said, frowning while lying on my back. I was clearly displeased. “Alright, after lunch, why don’t you come to the washroom? Return it then.”

Having said that abruptly and without waiting for my response, she briskly left.

She was strangely distant. When I showed her even a little kindness, she immediately became so curt. Fine—if that’s how it would be, I had my own plan. Resolved to give her a thorough thrashing with full force, I steeled myself and waited for the lunch break.

Lunch was brought by Takenaka-san. In the corner of the tray lay a small bamboo-work doll. When I lifted my face to silently ask Takenaka-san with my eyes—What's this?—she frowned, shook her head vehemently in refusal, and gestured as if warning me not to tell anyone. I nodded with a clouded expression. It was completely baffling.

2 “This morning, I had urgent business at the Institute and went into town,” said Takenaka-san in her usual tone.

“A souvenir?” I asked in a disheartened tone I couldn’t quite place, my voice devoid of energy. “Cute, isn’t it? It’s Wisteria Maiden. Keep it safe,” she said in a sisterly, mature tone and walked away. I was left feeling dazed. I wasn’t the least bit pleased. Though I had just the day before renewed my resolve to be sincerely moved by people’s kindness, for some reason, I found Takenaka-san’s goodwill like this unwelcome. That was a feeling I had continued to hold unchanged since first coming to this Health Institute, and now it had become something unshakable. Takenaka-san was the assistant group leader and a splendid person trusted by everyone at the Institute—she ought to be more responsible. She was nothing like someone like Maabo. Buying this worthless doll and calling it a Wisteria Maiden—cute, isn’t it? What a joke.

As I ate my meal, I intently gazed at the bamboo craft doll called Wisteria Maiden—about two inches tall—placed in the corner of my tray, but the more I looked, the more crudely made it appeared. Her taste was truly awful. This must be some shopworn item that had been left out gathering dust at the station kiosk. Kind-hearted people are invariably bad at shopping, but Takenaka-san also appeared to be no exception to this rule. Someone like Maabo, who carried herself like a bit of a delinquent, did much more stylish shopping. That’s just how it was. I was at a loss about what to do with the bamboo craft. I even considered rejecting it outright, but given that just the day before I had steeled myself to cherish and nurture even a pitiful shred of pride as fragile as a violet’s bloom, I dejectedly decided to tuck the souvenir away in my bed’s drawer for the time being.

But if I write too much about Takenaka-san, you might get all worked up again, so I’ll stop here for now—and so, after lunch that day, I went to the washroom as Maabo had instructed. Maabo was standing with her back pressed tightly against the far wall of the washroom, facing this way and giggling. I felt a flicker of unpleasantness. “You do this kind of thing sometimes, don’t you?” I said, the words surprising even myself.

“Huh? Why?” she asked, laughing a little as she widened her eyes into perfect circles and looked up at my face. I was dazzled. “You sometimes bring residents here to—” I started to say “drag them in here,” but even I had to admit it sounded terribly vulgar, so I trailed off.

“Oh? Then let’s drop it,” she said lightly, bending her upper body in a bow-like motion as she started to walk away. “I brought the letter.” I held out the letter. “Thank you,” she said without smiling as she took it. “Hibari, you really are hopeless after all.” “Why am I hopeless?” I found myself put on the defensive.

“You thought I was that kind of woman.” “Hibari,” she said, her face pale as she looked straight into mine, “Aren’t you ashamed?” “I’m ashamed.” I readily admitted defeat. “I was jealous.” Maabo laughed, her gold teeth gleaming.

3

“I read that letter.” I had fully intended to confront her with righteous fury, but after receiving that ridiculous Wisteria Maiden doll from Takenaka-san—which dampened my initial resolve—and even feeling vaguely guilty toward Maabo, I arrived at this washroom in a mood bordering on melancholy. Yet when I found Maabo here, radiating such alluring charm, the most shameful jealousy a man could feel welled up inside me. Before I knew it, I’d let slip something utterly unwarranted, was immediately interrogated by Maabo about it, and now everything lies in ruins.

“I read all of it. It was interesting. “Tsukushi’s a good guy, isn’t he? “I’ve come to like him.” I kept spouting empty, shallow flattery—none of it from the heart. “But this is unexpected. “Such a letter.” Maabo tilted her head thoughtfully, opened the stationery, and examined it. “Yeah, I found it rather unexpected too.” “In my case, I was surprised at how poorly written it was.” “Utterly unexpected.” To Maabo, this seemed like a matter of genuine significance.

“You sent a letter too, didn’t you?” Once again I said something unnecessary and felt a chill. “I did send it.” She was unfazed.

I suddenly found it unpleasant. “Then you were the one who did the seducing. “You’re like a delinquent girl. That’s what they call an otanchin. They’re also called miichan-haachan, chinpira—heck, even topping-shan. You’re downright shameless.” I lashed out at her, but Maabo, far from getting angry this time, burst into raucous laughter. “Take me seriously. Especially since Tsukushi has a wife. This isn’t some joke.”

“That’s why I sent a thank-you letter to his wife. When Tsukushi left the Institute, I saw him off to the town station—that’s when his wife gave me two pairs of white tabi socks, so I sent her a thank-you letter.” “Is that all?”

“That’s all.” “Oh.” My mood lifted. “So that was all?”

“Yes, that’s right. But for him to send such a letter! It’s unbearable—I was beside myself!” “There’s no need to get so worked up. You actually like Tsukushi, don’t you?” “I do like him.” “Oh.” I grew displeased again. “You’re making fun of me. How petty. What’s the point of falling for a married man? They seemed like a harmonious couple.”

“But even if I fell for you, there’d be no point in that either, would there?” “What the hell are you talking about? You’re twisting the story.” I grew more and more displeased. “You’re insincere. I’m not trying to get you to like me or anything.”

“Idiot! Idiot! “Hibari knows nothing at all.” “‘You don’t know anything, Hibari—’ she started to say, then spun around and let out a sharp wail.” And then she truly writhed in agony, “Go away!” she said sharply. 4

I was at a loss for what course to take. While pursing my lips and wandering about the washroom, I somehow found myself wanting to cry along with her.

My voice trembled as I called out, “Maabo.” “Do you really like Tsukushi that much? I like Tsukushi too. He was a kind, good person. I think it’s only natural that you came to like Tsukushi. Cry, cry, cry your heart out. I’ll cry with you.”

Why did I say something so affected? Now that I think about it, it feels like a dream. I thought about crying. However, though the corners of my eyes grew slightly hot, not a single tear fell. I opened my eyes wide and silently gazed at the ginkgo trees beginning to yellow beyond the tennis court through the washroom window. “Hurry—” Before I knew it, Maabo had quietly positioned herself beside me and said, “You should return to your room. It would be bad if someone saw us,” she added in a disquietingly quiet, composed tone.

“I don't care if someone sees us.” “It's not like we're doing anything wrong.” Even as I said this，my chest throbbed strangely.

“You’re such a fool, Hibari,” she murmured as if to herself, standing beside me at the washroom window and gazing toward the tennis court. “Ever since you came here, the dojo’s changed so much.” “You don’t know anything, do you?” “Your father’s such an esteemed person, I hear.” “The Director said that once.” “He’s a world-class scholar, they say.” “Because we’re poor, that makes him world-class.”

I grew terribly lonely. I hadn't seen Father in two months already. Was he still blowing his nose with that tremendous noise loud enough to make the shoji screens vibrate? "You have good lineage." "When you came here, the dojo truly brightened up all at once." "Everyone's feelings changed too." "Ms. Takenaka said she'd never seen such a good child." "Ms. Takenaka rarely gossips about others, but she's completely taken with you." "Not just Ms. Takenaka—Kintoto and Tamanegi too, everyone's like that." "But we can't have the residents spreading nasty rumors and causing you trouble, so everyone's being careful not to get too close."

I smiled bitterly. I thought it was a miserly sort of affection. "That's what you call keeping someone at arm's length. They don't actually care for me." "Oh, don't be silly." Maabo gave my back a light knock and let her hand rest there. "But I'm different. I don't like Hibari one bit. That's why I don't mind talking alone like this. Don't go misunderstanding things now. I'm—"

I stealthily moved away from Maabo’s side, “At best I’ll just exchange letters with Tsukushi. I’ll be frank—I was appalled by how poorly written Tsukushi’s letters were.”

“I know.” “It’s because they’re poorly written letters that I showed them to you.” “If they were good letters, who would show them?” “I don’t think anything of Tsukushi at all.” “You shouldn’t look down on people like that.” Her words and attitude grew blatantly vulgar, as if she’d become a different person entirely. “I’m already done for.” “You don’t know, do you?” “It’s because you’re a blockhead that you don’t notice.” “Everyone’s already saying we’re close, you know.” “What will you do?” “Do you really not mind them saying that?”

Lowering her face and thrusting out her right shoulder, she giggled while pushing me repeatedly with the tip of that shoulder.

5 “Stop it, stop it,” I said. In moments like this, there truly was no other way to respond. I thought this was getting out of hand. “Does it bother you? What will you do? Are you going to humiliate me further?” “Last night—the moon was so bright I couldn’t sleep. I went to the garden, then noticed your bedside curtain was slightly open. I peeked in. Did you know?” “Hibari was sleeping there bathed in moonlight, smiling.” “That sleeping face of yours was beautiful.” “Well, Hibari? What will you do?”

She finally pushed me all the way to the wall. I somehow began to feel absurd.

“It’s impossible. “It’s utterly impossible. “I’m twenty. “This is a problem. “Hey—someone’s coming this way!” The pitter-patter of slippers approaching from the washroom reached my ears.

“Nuh-uh, that’s not how it works.” Maabo moved away from me, tilted her face upward, swept back her hair, and burst out laughing. 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 hate sloppy things like being late.”

I ran out from the washroom. The moment I did, “You mustn’t get close to Ms. Takenaka,” Maabo said in a thin voice. That voice sank deepest into my heart.

Autumn really doesn’t sit well with me.

When I returned to the room, the lecture still hadn’t begun, and Kappore was sprawled on his bed singing his customary dodoitsu. It was a dodoitsu whose meaning went something like "Even if the grass on the path gets trampled by people, it revives with the morning dew"—one I had been made to hear several times before—but what felt strange was that only this time, instead of finding it bothersome and tiresome as usual, I found myself listening attentively and reverently. I may have grown weak-willed.

Soon the lecture began, titled *Sino-Japanese Cultural Exchange*, in which a young instructor named Mr. Okagi explained—focusing primarily on medical exchanges—by citing various historical examples in a concrete and accessible manner. The fact that Japan and China had always advanced by mutually teaching one another was something I found myself deeply nodding along to—as if realizing it anew—and being compelled to reflect upon in many ways. Yet even so, today’s secret of mine grew so preoccupying that I earnestly wished to quickly forget all about Maabo and return to being that untroubled, model resident I once was.

Really, that Maabo was the problem. I'd thought she might be a somewhat more perceptive woman, but she turned out to be surprisingly foolish. Just now she'd shown all those desperate-seeming gestures, but even I knew there was no real meaning behind any of it. I had no foolish self-conceit. Maabo was always thinking only of herself. Neither Tsukushi nor I were the issue. She simply wanted to be enraptured by her own beauty and pitiable state. Though she put on an innocent act, her vanity was formidable—she likely couldn't stand losing to anyone; and being so terribly greedy, she probably wanted everything others had; even someone like me could see through Maabo's schemes.

6

Wasn't Maabo ultimately trying to flaunt herself by showing me Tsukushi's letter? But she must have keenly sensed how harshly I was ridiculing it, immediately changing her attitude until she ended up bursting into tears, pushing me, and blurting out nonsense. Far from having a violet's modesty, her self-esteem stood as lofty as a queen's—something that simply couldn't be fully sympathized with. The absurd notion that everyone was going around saying Maabo and I were close made my blood boil all the more calmly I considered it. I'd never once been teased about her by anyone; Maabo alone was making the fuss. There was an inherent vulgarity to her upbringing that lacked all refinement—it might really have been true what Echigo said about her mother being no good. The angrier I grew, the clearer it became: Maabo lacked any qualifications to be an Institute assistant. This was a sacred place where we all devoted ourselves wholeheartedly to daily exercises aimed at conquering tuberculosis. Should Maabo ever display such blatant behavior again, I steeled myself to resolutely appeal to our group leader Ms. Takenaka and have her expelled from the Institute.

Once I had steeled my resolve in that way, I finally came to not feel so much fixation regarding the nightmare I’d had earlier in the washroom.

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

I didn't intend to dwell on dreams, but the day after that washroom nightmare—that is, this morning in the predawn hours—I had another dream. And this was a wonderful dream. A wonderful dream was something I didn't want to forget.

I want to forge some connection with life. This is something I absolutely must share with you. It was Ms. Takenaka’s dream. Ms. Takenaka is such a good person. This morning, I truly came to think so. That kind of person is rarely found. I thought it was no wonder you were smitten with Ms. Takenaka. You truly live up to being a poet—your intuition is sharp. You have excellent taste. Impressive. I had been holding back on reporting about Ms. Takenaka afterward, thinking it would be troublesome if you became so smitten with her that you fell ill, but this morning I clearly realized such worries were entirely unnecessary.

No matter how much you adore Ms. Takenaka, she isn’t the sort of person to make anyone take to their bed or become depraved. Please, like Ms. Takenaka even more—as much as possible. I too intend to trust Ms. Takenaka even more—so much more—not to be outdone by you. That said, Maabo really is such a foolish woman. She’s the complete opposite of Ms. Takenaka. Exactly as you said—she was a failed movie actress through and through. Yesterday after that incident, Maabo came to the “Sakura Room” for the eight o’clock evening rubbing therapy—though it wasn’t her shift—and began squealing noisily with Katapan and Kappore as if she’d completely forgotten about the noon affair; at that time, Shizuko was administering my therapy, and true to form, she rubbed my back in silence with brisk swish-swish motions of her deft hands, occasionally smiling faintly at Maabo and the others’ inane jokes—then Maabo stomped over to our side and,

“Ms. Takenaka, want me to help?” she said in a rough, teasing tone. “Thank you kindly,” she replied with a light nod, answering composedly, “I’ll be finished shortly.”

7 I liked Ms. Takenaka when she was composed and dignified like this. When Ms. Takenakan showed me her clumsy affection, she became awkward—it was unseemly to behold. When Maabo turned sharply and headed back toward Katapan, I— “Maabo’s such a pretentious person,” I whispered to Ms. Takenaka.

“At heart, she’s a good girl,” Ms. Takenaka replied quietly in a tender tone.

After all, was Ms. Takenaka truly of higher caliber as a human being than Maabo? At that moment, I secretly thought to myself. Ms. Takenaka briskly finished the rubbing therapy, lifted the metal basin, and went to assist with the therapy in the neighboring "Swan Room." Then Maabo, grinning slyly, came to my bed once again and said in a small voice: "You said something to Ms. Takenaka." "You definitely said it." "I know." "I said she's a pretentious girl." "You're so mean!" "That's just like you." Surprisingly, she didn't get angry. "Hey, do you still have that?" She formed a square shape with her fingers and showed it.

“You mean the case?”

“Yeah.” “Where have you put it?”

“It’s in one of the drawers around there. I can give it back.” “Oh, no way! Keep it forever, okay? I must be disturbing you, but...” She said with an oddly solemn air, then suddenly shouted, “See? Hibari’s spot really does give the clearest view of the moon! Mr. Kappore, come here! Let’s line up here and admire the moon together! A bright moon—let’s compose a haiku or something! How about it?”

It really was too noisy.

That night, I went to bed without any particular incident arising from such matters, but near dawn, I suddenly awoke. The room was dimly lit by the residual light from the hallway. When I looked at the bedside clock, it was a little before five. Outside still seemed pitch black. Someone was watching from the window. Maabo! It immediately flashed through my mind. A pale face. It definitely smiled and vanished in an instant. I got up, flung back the curtain and looked, but there was nothing. It was an uncanny feeling. Was I half-asleep? No matter how reckless Maabo might be, surely she wouldn’t come at this hour. I mused with a wry smile that I was more of a romantic than I’d realized as I burrowed into bed, but I just couldn’t get it out of my mind. After a while, from the direction of the distant washroom came the faint swishing sound of water—as if someone were doing laundry—drifting to my ears.

That's it! I thought. I didn’t know what made me think that. The person who had smiled and vanished earlier was that. She was indeed there right now. Once that thought took hold, I couldn’t bear it any longer. I quietly rose, muffled my footsteps, and slipped out into the hallway.

In the washroom, a single blue bare light bulb was lit. When I peered inside, there was Shizuko wearing a kasuri-patterned kimono with a white apron tied around her waist, crouched low and wiping the washroom floorboards. She had tied the hand towel around her head in the older sister style and resembled a mound of Oshima red bean paste. She turned around and looked at me, yet continued wiping the floorboards in silence. Her face looked terribly emaciated. The people of the Health Institute were all still sleeping quietly. I wondered if Shizuko always started cleaning this early. I couldn’t find the right words and simply watched Shizuko’s cleaning with my heart racing. I must confess—at that moment, I was tormented by a terrible desire, the first of its kind in my life. In the pitch-black darkness just before dawn, something ominous seemed to stir.

8 Somehow, the washroom has become my bane.

“Take-san,” I began, my voice caught in my throat. I managed to gasp out, “Did you go out to the garden?” “No,” she turned to look at me, gave a small laugh, and said, “Silly boy, what nonsense are you spouting half-asleep? Oh, how indecent. You’re barefoot!”

When I came to my senses, there I was—completely barefoot. In my excitement, I had forgotten to put on my sandals. “You’re such a worrier, aren’t ya. Let me wipe your feet.” Shizuko stood up, washed the rag at the sink with a splashing sound, then came to my side holding the rag, crouched down, and wiped both the soles of my right and left feet, scrubbing them firmly. Not only my feet—I felt as if even the deepest corners of my heart had been cleansed. That strange, terrifying desire had vanished. While having my feet wiped by Shizuko, I placed my hand on her shoulder,

“Shizuko, let me keep indulging in your kindness from now on,” I said, deliberately mimicking her Kansai accent. “You must be lonely,” Shizuko said without smiling, murmuring as if to herself, “Here, I’ll lend you these, so go to the toilet quickly and then get some rest.” Shizuko took off the slippers she was wearing, aligned them neatly toward me, and offered them.

“Thank you.” Putting on a nonchalant front, I slipped into the slippers and said, “Was I half-asleep?” “Didn’t you get up to use the toilet?” Shizuko began diligently wiping the floorboards again and said in a grown-up tone. “Well, yes, but...”

There was no way I could admit to seeing a woman's face outside the window—it sounded too absurd. My heart must have been clouded for such an illusion to appear. I felt wretched and ashamed of myself—barefoot in the hallway, stirred by indecent fantasies. Yet here were those who rose daily in this pitch darkness to clean with silent devotion. Leaning against the wall, I watched Shizuko work awhile longer and came to truly grasp life's solemnity. This must be what health looks like, I thought. Through Shizuko, the pure sphere deep within my chest seemed to grow clearer and more luminous.

You know, honest people are truly wonderful. Simple people are truly noble. Until now, I had looked down a little on Shizuko’s kindness, but that was a mistake. As expected, you have a discerning eye. There’s absolutely no comparison between her and someone like Maabo. Shizuko’s affection does not corrupt people. This is truly remarkable. I too intend to become someone capable of that right kind of love. I fly higher day by day. The surrounding air gradually grows cold and clear.

A man's life is said to be a succession of hairbreadth escapes. The new man lingers in perilous places，then nimbly ducks through，slides past，and flies onward. When I thought about it this way，autumn didn't seem so bad after all. A bit brisk，yet pleasant.

Maabo's dream was a bad one that I want to quickly forget, but if Shizuko's dream is indeed a dream, I wish it would never end.

It's not like I'm boasting about some romance or anything, you know.

October 7th

Katapan

1

Dear Sir,

“It was a terrible storm, wasn’t it. Could this be what they call an autumn typhoon? In this situation, even the American occupation forces must have been taken aback. I heard there were four or five hundred of them in E City too, but it seemed they still hadn’t made a single appearance around here. The Director had admonished us not to panic excessively and make fools of ourselves, so the people at this institute remained relatively composed. Only the nurse assistant Ms. Kintoto looked somewhat dejected and was teased by everyone. Ms. Kintoto had gone to E City in the rain on an errand two or three days prior, but after returning to the institute that night and going to bed with everyone else, she wept quietly. ‘What’s wrong?’ ‘What’s wrong?’ When everyone pressed her with questions and listened to Ms. Kintoto’s story through her sobs, the circumstances were said to have been roughly as follows.”

Ms. Kintoto had finished her errands in town and was waiting at the bus stop for her return ride when a U.S. Army truck came driving through the pouring rain. It apparently broke down right in front of the bus stop, and two young, boyish American soldiers jumped down from the cab. Soaked to the skin like drowned rats in the rain, they began repairs on the vehicle, tinkering silently with the machinery for what seemed an eternity without making progress. Eventually, Ms. Kintoto’s bus arrived, but she ran out from the shelter and started boarding it—then, as if in a trance, she took pears one by one from her cloth bundle and gave them to those American boys. Hearing a “Thank you” behind her, she rushed to the back of the bus just as it pulled away. That was all there was to it, but after returning to the institute and gradually calming down, she became indescribably terrified and so overwhelmed with worry that she finally reached the point of burrowing under her futon at night and bursting into quiet sobs all alone. The news had already spread throughout the institute by the next morning, with some saying it was only natural, others deeming it outrageous, and still others claiming they couldn’t make sense of it—but in any case, everyone burst into laughter. Ms. Kintoto, even when teased, did not so much as smile; she shook her head and said her heart was still pounding.

And then, another person—our roommate Mr. Katapan—had recently been looking terribly gloomy. He seemed troubled by something, and indeed, he too had a peculiar kind of hardship.

Now this Katapan fellow—whether you'd call him secretive or just putting on airs—had always been an awkward presence among us, never engaging with anyone and maintaining formal distance at all times; but two nights ago during that storm, a power outage struck shortly past seven o'clock. With no evening rubbing therapy session and the loudspeakers silenced by the blackout leaving us without nightly news reports, we residents all ended up turning in early. However, with the wind howling so fiercely no one could sleep—Kappore was singing softly under his breath while Echigo Jishi pulled out a candle from his bed drawer, lit it by his pillow, and sat cross-legged on his bed diligently mending his slippers.

“What a terrible wind, isn’t it?”

Then Katapan came toward us, laughing oddly. For Katapan to come visiting others’ beds was truly a rare occurrence.

2

Just as moths are drawn to lamplight, I thought, perhaps humans too find themselves nostalgically drawn to gather around even the meager glow of candles on stormy nights like these. “Yes,” I raised my upper body to greet him and said, “Even the occupation forces must be taken aback by this storm.” He laughed even more strangely, “Oh, no—it’s not that,” he said in a slightly theatrical tone. “The problem is those occupation forces.” “Anyway, just read this.” Then he handed me a sheet of stationery.

The stationery was covered in English writing. “I can’t read English,” I said, blushing. “Of course you can read it. “People your age, fresh out of middle school, retain English best. “We’ve already forgotten ours.” Grinning as he spoke, he sat down on the edge of my bed and suddenly lowered his voice so only I could hear: “Truth is, this English composition’s mine. There must be grammatical errors—I want you to fix them. “You’ll understand when you read it, but everyone here at the Health Institute seems to have absurdly high expectations of my English skills. If American soldiers ever visit, they might haul me out as an interpreter. “The mere thought makes me unbearably anxious. “Do comprehend my position,” he said, laughing with an embarrassed “ufufu” meant to disguise his awkwardness.

“But you really do seem to be quite proficient in English, don’t you?” I said, gazing absently at the stationery. “Don’t be ridiculous." "I can’t possibly do that kind of interpreting!" "I suppose I got a bit carried away and showed off my English too much in front of the assistants." “If I were dragged out to interpret or something and they saw me floundering in confusion, there’s no telling how much those assistants would despise me.” “I’ve never been in such a bind before.” “Lately, I’ve been so worried about that, I can’t even sleep well at night.” “I’ll leave that to your wise judgment,” he said with another bashful chuckle.

I read the English text on the stationery. There were words here and there that I didn’t know, but the English text generally had the following meaning. You, I beseech you, do not deign to be angry. I beseech you to forgive this discourtesy. I am a wretched man. For why? In matters of English, whether hearing, speaking, or all other things, I am as an infant. Those actions lie far beyond the extent of my abilities. Not only that, but furthermore, I have tuberculosis. You, take heed! Ah! Danger! The possibility of contagion scoburu great upon you. Nevertheless, I deeply trust you. In the name of God, I acknowledge that you are a gentleman of exceedingly high character. I have no doubt that you will surely hold sympathy for this wretched man. I am virtually a cripple in English conversation, yet I can read and write. If you possess sufficient kindness and patience, I wish for you to write down today’s business on this scrap of paper. However, I want you to demonstrate one hour of patience. During that period, I shall confine myself to my private chamber, study your text, and then, with the utmost exertion of my abilities, endeavor to write my response.

I fervently pray for your health. Do not deign to be angry at my poor and ugly composition.

3 Compared to Tsukushi’s bizarre and incomprehensible letter, this one was indeed properly coherent in its reasoning. Yet as I read it, I couldn’t help finding it utterly absurd. From this English composition alone, one could fully deduce how dreadfully Mr. Katapan feared being hauled out as an interpreter, and how—driven by his habitual showmanship—he was desperately contriving all manner of schemes to avoid humiliation should he ever be summoned, straining not to betray the assistants’ expectations.

“This looks exactly like some crucial diplomatic document. It’s quite magnificent,” I said, biting back laughter. “Don’t mock me,” Katapan said with a pained smile as he snatched the stationery from me. “Were there any mistakes?” “No, it’s remarkably clear—wouldn’t this qualify as a masterwork?” “The ‘Bewildered’ version of ‘masterwork,’ perhaps?” he quipped with a feeble pun. Yet clearly not displeased by the praise, he assumed a mildly self-important expression. “When it comes to interpreting, the responsibility becomes rather weighty, you understand—so I plan to politely decline and stick to written exchanges.” “I’m afraid I’ve flaunted my English knowledge too extravagantly, so they might drag me out as an interpreter.” “There’s no escaping it now—it’s developed into quite a nuisance,” he declared in an uncharacteristically grave tone, heaving an exaggerated sigh.

People really do have all sorts of worries depending on who they are, I found myself marveling.

Whether due to the storm or perhaps our meager lamplight, that night we four roommates gathered around Echigo Jishi’s candle flame and shared a heart-to-heart talk for the first time in ages. “What exactly is this thing called a liberalist?” Kappore inquired in an oddly hushed voice for some reason. “In France,” said Katapan, perhaps having exhausted his English repertoire, now proceeded to expound on French matters. “There were these libertines—well, they went around celebrating free thought and raising quite a ruckus.” “Since it’s the seventeenth century we’re talking about, that would be about three hundred years ago now,” he said with pretentious gravity, raising his eyebrows. “These fellows mainly went around clamoring for religious freedom and causing all sorts of disturbances, it seems.”

“What? So they’re just troublemakers?” said Kappore with a look of genuine surprise.

“Well, yes, more or less.” "For the most part, they lived like ruffians." "That big-nosed Cyrano—you know, the one famous for plays—he too could be counted among the libertines of that time, don’t you think?" "They rebelled against the authorities of their time and protected the weak." "Most French poets of that time were probably much the same." "They seemed to bear some resemblance to what they called the gallant figures of Japan’s Edo period."

“What on earth,” Kappore burst out laughing, “so does that mean even someone like Banzuiin Chōbei was a liberalist?”

4 However, Katapan did not even smile, “Well, I suppose you could put it that way.” “However, modern liberalists seem to be a somewhat different type, but the French libertines of the seventeenth century were generally that sort of thing.” “Hanakawado no Sukeroku and Nezumi Kozō Jirōkichi might have been such as well.” “Heeey, so that’s how it works, eh?” exclaimed Kappore with glee.

Echigo Jishi, mending the torn slippers, smirked. “To begin with, this so-called free thought,” Katapan continued with increasing seriousness, “in its original form is a spirit of rebellion." "It might even be termed an ideology of destruction." "It isn’t some philosophy that sprouts only after oppression and restraint are removed—rather, it’s one that arises simultaneously with them as a reactionary force meant to combat those very things." “Take this oft-cited example: A pigeon once entreated God, ‘When I fly, this air hinders my swift progress forward. Please remove it.’ And God granted this wish.” “Yet despite all its flapping, the pigeon couldn’t take flight.” “This pigeon represents free thought.” “Only through air’s resistance can a pigeon soar.” “Free thought without an adversary is like that pigeon flapping in a vacuum chamber—utterly incapable of flight.”

“There’s a man with a similar-sounding name, isn’t there?” said Echigo Jishi, pausing his mending of the slippers. “Ah,” Katapan scratched the back of his head, “that’s not what I meant.” “This is Kant’s example.” “I don’t know the slightest thing about modern Japan’s political world.” “However, one must know at least a little. “I hear that from now on, all young people will be granted both voting rights and eligibility for election,” said Echigo with the composed demeanor befitting the group’s elder, adding, “It’s fair to say that the substance of free thought differs entirely with each passing era.” “The geniuses who pursued and fought for truth can all be said to be free thinkers.” “As for me, I even consider Christ to be the true originator of free thought.” “Do not worry—look at the birds of the air. They neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns—is that not a splendid form of free thought?” “I believe all Western thought is rooted in the spirit of Christ—whether expanding upon it, simplifying it, or questioning it—and that despite people’s myriad theories, they ultimately tie back to the Bible.” “Even science is not unrelated to it.” “The foundation of science, whether in the realm of physics or chemistry, is entirely composed of hypotheses.” “They begin with hypotheses that cannot be confirmed by direct observation.” “It is from faith in these hypotheses that all science arises.” “The Japanese should have studied the Bible first before delving into Western philosophy and science.” “I am not a Christian myself, but I believe the true cause of Japan’s great defeat lies in having studied only the superficial aspects of Western civilization without ever engaging with the Bible.” “Whether it’s free thought or anything else, you can’t understand even half of it without knowing the spirit of Christ.”

5

Then, everyone fell silent for a while. Even Kappore wore a thoughtful expression, silently shaking his head and fidgeting.

“Moreover, here is an example of how free thought’s substance changes moment by moment,” said Echigo Jishi with uncharacteristic eloquence that night. There was something almost sublime about him now—a hermitic aura. He might truly have been an extraordinary man. If only his health had held, I thought privately, he might have been doing significant work for our nation by now. “Long ago in China,” he continued, “there lived a free thinker who opposed his era’s regime and indignantly withdrew into mountain seclusion. ‘The times do not favor me,’ he declared. Yet he never recognized this retreat as defeat. He owned a famed sword. ‘When opportunity arises,’ he vowed with confidence while hiding in those peaks, ‘I shall strike down my political foes with this blade.’ Ten years passed—the world transformed. When he descended at last to preach his free thought to the people, it had decayed into stale opportunism. Drawing his sword to demonstrate resolve, he found—tragically—the steel had rusted through. This tale teaches that political ideologies clinging to permanence—as if ten years were but a day—are mere delusions. Japan’s own free thought since Meiji first rebelled against the shogunate, then denounced clan cliques, now assails bureaucrats. When Confucius said ‘The noble man changes like a leopard,’ I believe he meant this very truth. In China, ‘gentleman’ denotes not abstemious rigorists like ours, but geniuses versed in the Six Arts—master tacticians all. These too must transform—must reveal beautiful metamorphosis.”

“It is not an ugly betrayal.” “Christ also said, ‘Do not swear at all.’” “Do not worry about tomorrow,” He also said. “Indeed, is He not the great 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 could well be called the lament of free thinkers. “They are not permitted a single day of peace.” “Their assertions must be renewed daily, and must be renewed anew each day.” “In Japan today, attacking yesterday’s military bureaucrats is no longer free thought.” “It is bandwagon ideology.” “If one is a true free thinker, there is something they must shout above all else now.”

“Wh-what is it?” “What should I shout?” Kappore asked in a flustered panic. “You know already, don’t you?” said Echigo Jishi as he sat up straight in formal seiza posture. “Long live the Emperor! That’s the cry. “Until yesterday, it was outdated. “But as of today, it is the newest free thought. “This is how the substance of freedom from ten years ago differs from today’s freedom. “It 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 recognize Japan’s cry for freedom without fail. “If only I weren’t ill now—I would stand before Nijūbashi right now and shout, ‘Long live the Emperor!’ “‘Long live the Emperor!’ I want to shout.”

Katapan removed his glasses. He was crying. Through this stormy night, I came to like Katapan completely. Men are such wonderful creatures. The likes of Maabo and Takenaka-san were no problem at all.

The above was the institute report titled *Stormy Lamplight*.

Later.

October 14th

Lipstick

1

Thank you for your reply. I was glad to hear my recent letter about the “Stormy Night Discussion” had pleased you so. While your view suggests Echigo Jishi might be a great statesman rare in our time or perhaps a renowned teacher, I cannot see him that way. Ours is rather an age where nameless commoners in the streets voice sound arguments. The leaders merely panic and scurry about in confusion. If this state persists, they’ll clearly be left behind by the people before long. A general election seems imminent, but if they keep spouting nonsensical speeches, the people will only grow to scorn diet members all the more.

Speaking of elections, a most bizarre incident occurred today at this institute. This afternoon, a circular notice of the following nature was issued from the neighboring "Swan Room." It stated: "While the granting of suffrage to women is a cause for celebration, the heavy makeup of the assistants at this institute as of late is unbearable to behold; under such circumstances, even suffrage would weep. It has been whispered that the American occupation forces also mistake women with garish lipstick for prostitutes—and indeed, this is likely true. This brings disgrace not only upon this institute but ultimately upon all Japanese women." There followed a thorough listing of the nicknames of assistants whose makeup was overly conspicuous, with the note: "Among the aforementioned six, Peacock’s adornment is the most grotesque. Like Son Goku who has eaten horse meat. We have often attempted to advise them, yet there remains no sign of reflection." had been appended: "They should be duly expelled from this institute."

The neighboring "Swan Room" had long been home to a group of hardliners, and Katapan-san—who was popular with the assistants—had found staying in that "Swan Room" so unbearable that he had fled to our "Cherry Blossom Room," or so the circumstances suggested. "The Cherry Blossom Room was—perhaps owing to Echigo Jishi's moral influence—a place of gentle harmony." As for this circular notice too, "This is terrible," was first declared by Kappore in disapproval. Katapan also grinned slyly and supported Kappore.

“Isn’t this terrible?” Kappore pressed Echigo Jishi for agreement. “Since humans must be treated with impartial benevolence, I see no need for expulsion.” “This love inherent to human nature cannot possibly be forgotten under any circumstances.”

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

“Right? That’s how it is, isn’t it? Liberalism isn’t supposed to be such a petty thing. What do you think over there, young sir? I don’t believe my argument is wrong,” he pressed, seeking my agreement. “But surely our neighbors don’t actually intend to expel them? They’re probably just trying to show everyone their resolve,” I said with a laugh.

“No, that’s not it at all,” Kappore flatly denied. “Fundamentally, there shouldn’t be any fatal contradiction between women’s suffrage and lipstick. They’re just a bunch of guys who can’t get any women normally, so they’re definitely plotting to take revenge now,” he declared.

2

And then he began to make his strongest point about the example, “In this world there’s great courage and petty courage—so those guys are just showing petty courage.” “They keep calling me Hairless in that nasty way.” “It’s been eating at me for ages.” “I don’t even like the nickname Kappore much, but when they call me Hairless, I can’t just take it lying down.” Working himself into a rage over nothing, he climbed down from his bed and retightened his sash. “I’ll send this circular right back to them.” “Liberalism’s been around since the Edo period.” “This is exactly where we can’t forget humanity’s wisdom, benevolence and courage.” “So everyone—you’ll leave this to me, right?” “I’m going to send this right back where it came from.” His face had gone pale.

“Wait! Wait!” Echigo Jishi wiped his nose with a towel and said: “You mustn’t go.” “Leave this matter to our young sir over there.” “To Hibari?” Kappore looked thoroughly displeased. “No offense meant—but this burden’s too heavy for Hibari! I’ve had dealings with those bastards next door since way back.” “This ain’t some new quarrel.” “Call me Hairless and expect me to sit quiet? Not happening!” “It’s freedom versus restraint!” “Freedom and restraint—the wise change swift as leopards!” “They don’t grasp one lick of Christ’s spirit!” “Time comes—I’ll show ’em my true mettle!” “Hibari can’t handle this!”

“I’ll go.” I got down from my bed, slipped past Kappore, and at the same time took the circular notice from him as I left the room.

In the Swan Room, they had apparently been waiting impatiently for a response from the Cherry Blossom Room. When I entered, all eight students came swarming over,

“How’s that for a brilliant idea?” “The pretty boys from Cherry Blossom Room must be squirming.” “You’re not thinking of betraying us, are you?” “All us students are banding together to demand the director expel Peacock.” “That Son Gokū doesn’t deserve voting rights.”

They were saying such things in unison, carrying on in a wildly excited manner. They all looked innocent, like mischievous children. “Will you let me do it?” I said in a voice louder than anyone else’s.

They fell silent for a moment, but soon started making a racket again. “Don’t meddle! Don’t meddle!” “Is Hibari an envoy of compromise?” “The Cherry Blossom Room lacks urgency! Japan stands at a critical juncture now!” “Without even knowing our country has fallen to fourth-rate status—are you just drooling over pretty faces?” “What’s this? What are you asking us to let you do out of nowhere?” “Tonight—by bedtime—” I shouted, stretching myself up straight. “I’ll inform you all then! If my approach doesn’t meet your approval, I’ll follow your proposal without fail.”

They fell silent again.

3 “Are you opposed to our proposal?” After a pause, a fierce-eyed thirty-year-old man they called Blue General asked me.

“I fully agree. Regarding that matter, I have a truly interesting plan. Please let me handle this. I beg of you.”

They all seemed a bit deflated.

“Is that acceptable?” “Thank you.” “I’ll hold onto this circular notice until tonight.”

I quickly left the room. This was fine. There was nothing difficult about it. All I needed now was to ask Bamboo.

When I returned to the room, Kappore was—

“You’re no good at this, Hibari. I was out in the hall listenin’. That ain’t gonna get you anywhere. You should’ve just declared the spirit of Christ and the gentleman’s timely transformation with one bold statement. ‘Freedom and restraint!’ You could’ve even said that! Since those idiots don’t understand reason, givin’ ’em a proper logical argument works best. Why didn’t you tell ’em liberalism’s air and doves?” he kept grumbling bitterly.

“Just leave it to me until evening,” was all I said as I lay down on my bed.

I was indeed a bit tired. "Leave it to me, leave it to me," Echigo said in an authoritative voice from his bed, so Kappore stopped arguing and reluctantly went to sleep—or so it seemed. I didn't really have any sort of plan. But I'd been optimistically assuming that if I showed this circular notice to Bamboo, she'd handle things properly. During the two o'clock stretching exercises, when Bamboo passed through the hallway in front of our room and glanced my way, I immediately beckoned her over with a small motion of my right hand. Bamboo nodded lightly and came straight into the room.

“Do you require assistance?” she inquired formally.

While doing my leg exercises, “By the pillow, by the pillow,” I said in a low voice.

Bamboo saw the circular notice by the pillow, picked it up, skimmed through it silently, and then— “I’ll borrow this,” she said in a calm tone, tucking the circular notice under her arm. “In rectifying errors, let there be no hesitation. “The sooner, the better.” Bamboo nodded faintly with an air of understanding everything, then went to the window by the pillow and appeared to be silently gazing at the scenery outside. After a while, she turned toward the window, “You’ve been working hard, Gen-san,” she murmured in an utterly natural tone devoid of pretense.

“Gen-san, thank you for your hard work,” she murmured in a completely natural tone. Under the window, an old groundskeeper named 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 again.” I was deeply impressed by the resonant quality of Bamboo’s “Thank you for your hard work.” I admired her calm attitude that seemed utterly unconcerned with matters like the circular notice, but more than that, I was struck by the dignified resonance of her caring voice. It was a leisurely tone, like the mistress of an estate addressing her gardener from the veranda. It conveyed an air of refined upbringing. As Echigo Jishi had once remarked, Bamboo’s mother must have been an extraordinary woman. Entrusting this makeup matter to Bamboo would surely lead to a brilliant and effortless resolution, I felt increasingly assured.

4

And that trust of mine was rewarded far more splendidly than I had anticipated.

At four o'clock during the natural therapy hour, suddenly, from the hallway loudspeaker,

"Please remain in your current positions and listen at your ease," came an office worker's voice over the loudspeaker, followed by: "Regarding the long-standing issue of the assistants' makeup, they have now voluntarily submitted their intention to discontinue this practice effective today."

A cheer of "Whoa!" came from the neighboring "Swan Room." The temporary broadcast continued further, “After tonight’s dinner, each will wash off their makeup and, by no later than the seven-thirty rubbing therapy, appear before the students in simple attire that won’t invite strange misunderstandings from the Americans.” "Next, Assistant Ms. Makita would like to offer a brief apology to the students. Please try to understand the sincerity behind her words."

Ms. Makita was none other than the Peacock in question. Peacock gave a small cough, "I..." she said.

From the neighboring room came a burst of laughter. In our room too, everyone was smirking. "I..." Her voice was slender and delicate like a cricket's chirp. "I failed to properly discern the season or place, and though I am the eldest among us, regrettably acted in an unrefined manner." "I deeply apologize." "I humbly ask that you continue to guide me from now on." "Alright, alright," called a voice from the neighboring room.

“Poor thing,” Kappore said solemnly, glancing at me sideways. I felt a twinge of pain. “Finally,” the office worker continued, “this is a request from all assistants: we ask that Ms. Makita’s current nickname be changed immediately.” “That concludes today’s special broadcast.”

From the “Swan Room,” a circular notice immediately arrived.

“All were satisfied.” “Hibari’s efforts are to be highly commended.” “Peacock shall be renamed ‘I Myself.’” Kappore immediately voiced opposition to that nickname proposal. He argued that bestowing the nickname “I Myself” was too cruel by any measure.

“That’s too cruel, ain’t it? Even so, she said it with all her might! Didn’t they tell us to understand her sincerity? ‘Look at the birds of the air,’ I tell ya—that’s how it goes! Ain’t that equal treatment for all? Curse someone and you’ll dig two graves—that’s how it works! I’m dead against it! Since Peacock scrubbed off her powder to show her dark skin, we oughta rename her Crow or somethin’.”

This was actually harsher and crueler. It was pointless.

“Since Peacock has become plain,” Echigo Jishi said with a soft chuckle, “we’ll just remove one character from ‘Peacock’ and make it ‘Sparrow.’” Though “Sparrow” felt too literal and uninspired, I deferred to the elder’s judgment. On the circular notice, I wrote that “I Myself” was excessively cruel while “Sparrow” lacked appropriateness, then had Kappore deliver it. Proposals had reportedly flooded into Swan Room from every ward, yet they seemed likely to settle on “I Myself” regardless. There remained something incomparably exquisite about how Peacock had cleared her throat before uttering “I Myself” – a moment etched indelibly in memory. All alternative nicknames paled beside it.

5

At seven o'clock during the rubbing therapy, Kintoto, Maabo, Kakuran, and Bamboo each carried a metal basin and came to the Cherry Blossom Room. Bamboo composed herself and came straight to me. Kintoto and Maabo had been counted among those cautioned about their makeup this time, but observing their appearance when they came to our room that night—while their hairstyles seemed slightly altered—they still somehow appeared to be wearing makeup.

“Maabo still seems to be wearing lipstick, doesn’t she?” I whispered to Bamboo. When I did, she began scrubbing with a swish-swish sound, “Even so, they really went to great lengths wiping and washing—quite the commotion.” “Even if you tell ’em to change all at once, that ain’t possible.” “They’re young, that’s why.” “Bamboo’s efforts are truly remarkable.” “There’d been plenty of warnings from the Director before too, you know.” "The Director listened to today’s broadcast from the office and was in a good mood." “When the Director asked whose idea today’s broadcast was, y’see, and I told him it was Hibari’s idea, he went all ‘What an amusing child you are,’ and there he was—that man who never smiles—grinning away.” Bamboo too, perhaps having gotten somewhat worked up over today’s lipstick incident, was chattier than usual.

“It wasn’t my idea,” I said. “The attribution of military merits must be clearly established.” “Same difference,” Bamboo replied. “If Hibari hadn’t spoken up, I wouldn’t have wanted to act either. Who’d go outta their way to make themselves hated, I ask ya?” “Were you hated?” “Nah.” With her signature cool smile, she shook her head. “Ain’t hated or nothin’, but it was hard on me.” “Peacock’s apology was hard for me to bear too.”

"Yeah. Ms. Makita—she came asking to let her make the apology herself." "She’s a good person at heart." "She just isn’t very skilled with makeup." "Even I’ve got a bit of lipstick on now—can you tell?" "Oh? So we’re accomplices?" "If you can’t notice it, that’s good enough," she replied calmly, maintaining the rhythmic swish-swish of her rubbing.

She’s a woman after all, I thought. And so, for the first time since coming to this training hall, I found Bamboo charming. Even a great sea bream cannot be made light of.

“How about it, you? I once again recommend that you visit this training hall. Here exists one woman worthy of respect. This belongs neither to me nor to you. This is Japan’s sole treasure in which it can now take pride before the world.” To put it that way ended up sounding a bit grandiose as praise—even I found myself at a loss—but in any case, were there not few young women who inspired feelings of affection without any sensuality? You too, by now, should have harbored no such feelings of sensuality toward Bamboo. I thought it must be only feelings of affection. Herein lay the victory of us new men. The friendship between men and women based solely on trust and affection was something that could only be understood by us. It was the divinely bestowed beautiful fruit that only the so-called new men could savor. “If you desire the sublime taste of this purity, O young poet, you must visit this training hall.”

Of course, you may already be savoring an even more excellent beautiful fruit of purity in your surroundings, but—

October 20th

Master Hanayoi

1

Your visit yesterday brought me such delight. Once again, there was a bouquet for me. For Bamboo and Maabo, you brought small red English dictionaries as gifts each—such a poetic and thoughtful gesture. I was particularly grateful you brought presents for them too. From those two, I'd received a cigarette case and a bamboo wisteria maiden craft that left me rather perplexed. Just as I began privately worrying about needing to return the favor somehow, your considerate gifts arrived and eased my mind. You seem to possess a more modern quality than I do. I must confess feeling particular about receiving or giving things to women—it strikes me as distasteful. This might reveal my old-fashioned side. I'll endeavor to practice gift exchanges as effortlessly as you do, without awkwardness. I feel I've learned another lesson from you. In that moment, I glimpsed your refreshing virtue.

When Maabo said, “We have a guest,” and led you into the room, my chest thudded so hard it felt like internal bleeding might burst forth. Will you understand? Though my joy at seeing your face after so long was immense, what truly astonished me was watching you and Maabo walk in together, smiling as if you were old friends. It felt like something from a fairy tale. I had tasted a similar feeling once before—last spring.

Last spring, right after graduating from middle school, I came down with pneumonia. Drifting in and out of consciousness due to the high fever, I suddenly looked toward my bedside and saw my homeroom teacher Mr. Kimura and my mother talking and laughing about something. At that time too, I was startled. The two people—living in entirely separate worlds of school and home—were talking at my bedside as if they were old acquaintances, which felt so strange that my heart leapt with a profoundly disorienting, fairy-tale-like happiness, like spotting Mount Fuji in Lake Towada.

“You look completely recovered now,” you said, handing me the bouquet. When I fumbled awkwardly, you turned to Maabo with perfect composure and requested, “A plain vase will do—please let Hibari use it.” Maabo nodded and went to fetch one while I—well, it all felt truly dreamlike. My thoughts tangled into knots until I blurted out that clumsy question: “Did you know Maabo before?”

“You told me in your letters, didn’t you?” “Oh, I see.” And then the two of us had a good laugh about it, didn’t we? “Did you realize immediately that it was Maabo?” “I knew at first glance.” “She’s much nicer than I expected.” “For example?”

“You’re relentless.” “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?”

“Is that so?”

“But she’s not bad. She has a delicate-boned look, doesn’t she?” “Is that so?”

I felt good.

2

Maabo brought a slender white vase. “Thank you,” you said as you took it, carelessly arranged the flowers, and added, “I suppose Bamboo will have to redo this later.” You said that, but it was a bit tactless. Even when you immediately took out the customary small dictionary from your pocket and gave it to Maabo, she didn’t look particularly pleased—just silently bowed with exaggerated politeness before briskly leaving the room. That was clear proof she’d taken slight offense. Maabo isn’t one to make such coldly formal bows. But since anyone besides Bamboo barely registers on your radar, I suppose there’s no helping it.

“Since the weather’s nice, let’s go to the second-floor balcony and talk. It’s lunch break now, so no one will mind.”

“Through your letters, everyone knows.” “You timed your visit for that lunch break.” “Also, since today is Sunday, there’s the comfort broadcast too.” Laughing, we left the room and climbed the stairs, but from that moment we suddenly grew stiff and began endlessly debating affairs of state—why did that happen, I wonder. Our lives had already been entrusted to the revered one; we were fully prepared to fly lightly wherever commanded, so there should have been nothing left to discuss—and yet we grew excited and poured out our so-called earnest thoughts on rebuilding a new Japan. I suppose boys, no matter how close, when meeting after long separation, always end up exchanging such lofty talk that way, driven by an anxious urge to have their progress acknowledged by the other. Even after stepping onto the balcony, you kept raging about how Japan’s elementary education was fundamentally flawed,

“The education you receive when you’re young determines your entire life from the very start.” “I believe we ought to assign more distinguished individuals.”

“Exactly.” “People who only think about rewards are no good.”

“That’s right, that’s right. There’s no way things will work out with this utilitarian deception. We’ve had enough of adults’ scheming!”

“Seriously. Surface-level bluster is so old-fashioned. It’s completely transparent, isn’t it?”

You seemed just as bad at debating as I was. We kept repeating the same things over and over in some strange loop. Gradually our clumsy arguments grew fragmented, filled with empty phrases like "merely" and "in short" and "anyway" until we'd exhausted ourselves—and that's when Bamboo appeared on the lawn below the entrance. Without thinking,

I called out, "Bamboo!" You tightened your trouser belt at the same time, didn't you? What did that mean? Bamboo placed her right hand on her forehead and looked up at the balcony, Bamboo laughed and said, "What now?" but her posture at that moment wasn't bad at all.

“There’s someone here now who says they really like Bamboo.” “Cut it out,” you said. In moments like that, all that comes out are half-baked words like "Cut it out, cut it out." I’ve had that experience too. 3 “How rude!” Bamboo said. Then she tilted her head sideways at forty-five degrees or more, faced you, and said with a laugh, “Welcome,” whereupon you turned bright red and gave a quick little bow. Then you said in a disgruntled whisper,

“What? She’s a real beauty.” “You’re making fun of me.” “You wrote in your letters that she was just some big, imposing, respectable person, so I felt safe complimenting her—but what’s this? She’s a real stunner!” “Not what you expected, huh?”

“No, no—completely wrong! You said she was imposing and respectable, so I was expecting some horse-like woman, but no—she’s what you’d describe as slender and elegant. Her complexion isn’t even that dark. I can’t stand that kind of beauty. Dangerous,” I kept blurting out in rapid succession, and as Bamboo gave a slight nod and started to hurry off toward the old building, you panicked and— “Hey—you! Go stop Bamboo for me! I have a souvenir!” [he said,] rummaging through his pocket and pulling out a small dictionary.

“Bamboo!” I shouted loudly to stop her. “Excuse me, but I’m tossing it. This was requested by Hibari. It’s not from me,” you said, swiftly throwing that cute red-covered dictionary—a moment that was indeed striking. I secretly admired you. Bamboo deftly caught your pristine gift against her chest, “Thank you kindly,” she said to you. No matter what you may claim, Bamboo knows full well it was a gift from you. While watching Bamboo’s retreating figure walk toward the old building, you sighed,

“It’s dangerous. She’s dangerous,” you muttered with deadly 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 safe. I’ve already put it to the test.” “You’re such a clueless fool,” he said in a pitying tone. “Can’t you even tell the difference between a beauty and a plain Jane?”

I was miffed. You were the one who didn't understand a thing. If Bamboo appeared so beautiful to you, it was because the beauty of her heart was reflected in your sincere one. When I calmly observed her, Bamboo wasn't a beauty at all. Maabo was far prettier. It was merely that the radiance of Bamboo's character made her appear beautiful. When it came to women's appearances, I believed I possessed an aesthetic eye several degrees more exacting than yours. However, at that time, because discussing women's faces and such seemed like a vulgar thing to do, I remained silent. Somehow, whenever it came to Bamboo, we ended up getting too worked up and tended to feel a bit awkward. It wasn't good. Truly, I begged of you to believe me. Bamboo wasn't a beauty. There was nothing dangerous about her. Calling her dangerous—wasn't that ridiculous? Bamboo was just as earnest a person as you were.

We stood silently on the balcony for a while, but when you suddenly mentioned that our neighbor Echigo Jishi was the famous poet Ōtsuki Hanayoi, all thoughts of Bamboo were swept away.

4

“No way.” I felt like I was dreaming. “It seems so.” “Just now, when I glimpsed him, I suddenly realized—oh!” “All my older brothers were fans of his, so I’ve known his face from photographs since childhood.” “I was a fan of his poetry too.” “You must at least know his name.”

“Of course I know that.” Though I’d never been any good with poetry, I still knew Ōtsuki Hanayoi’s Princess Lily Poem and Seagull Poem well enough to recite them from memory even then. That the author of those poems and I had been sleeping in adjacent beds these past few months was something I suddenly found impossible to believe. Though poetry remained utterly incomprehensible to me, as you well know, when it came to revering genius poets, I had no intention of lagging behind anyone.

“That person, you know...” For a while, we were overcome with emotion. “No, I can’t say for certain,” you said, slightly flustered, “I only caught a brief glimpse earlier.”

In any case, we decided to observe more closely, and since the time for the Sunday comfort broadcast was approaching, we returned to the "Sakura no Ma" room downstairs. Echigo was sleeping. To me, Echigo had never looked as magnificent as he did at that moment. He looked exactly like a sleeping lion. We exchanged glances, nodded secretly, and before we knew it, both of us let out a deep sigh together, I recall. So tense we could barely manage a proper conversation, we stood there with our backs to the window and simply listened in silence to the broadcast from the record player, I recall. As the program progressed and the day's main attraction—the assistants' duet of "The Maid of Orléans"—finally began, you jabbed your right elbow hard into my side,

“This song was composed by Hanayoi-sensei,” you whispered to me in a highly excited manner, and when you said that, I too remembered. When I was a child, this song had been all the rage—introduced in boys’ magazines with illustrations as Hanayoi-sensei’s masterpiece. We secretly watched Echigo’s expression. Until then, Echigo had been lying on his back in bed with his eyes lightly closed, but when the chorus of “The Maid of Orléans” began, he opened his eyes, slightly lifting his head from the pillow to listen intently, then eventually sank back limply and closed his eyes—ah, with his eyes still shut, he smiled a faint, sorrowful smile. You made a peculiar gesture as if striking the air with your right fist, then requested a handshake from me. We exchanged a firm handshake without laughing at all, I recall. Looking back now, I can’t fathom what purpose that handshake served—but at the time, we simply couldn’t remain still; we had to clasp hands or else our unsettled feelings would never subside, I suppose. You and I were both quite excited. When “The Maid of Orléans” ended, you—

“Well, I’ll take my leave,” you said in a strange, hoarse voice, and I nodded, escorting you out into the hallway.

“That’s it!” we both shouted in unison.

5

You must already know everything up to this point, but let me tell you—when I parted from you and returned alone to my room, my excitement had given way to a terror so intense it nearly turned me pale. Making a deliberate effort not to look at Echigo, I lay down on my back on the bed, but with this restless feeling—an odd mixture of anxiety, fear, and impatience—I could no longer endure it, and finally in a small voice, “Mr. Hanayoi!” I called out.

There was no reply. I resolutely twisted my face toward Mr. Hanayoi. Echigo wordlessly began his bending and stretching exercises. I, too, hurriedly began the exercises. Spreading my legs spread-eagled and folding the fingers of both hands inward starting from the little fingers,

“You were singing that song without knowing who composed it, weren’t you?” I managed to ask with relative composure. “The author? Such things are better forgotten,” he answered calmly. I became certain beyond doubt that this man was indeed Mr. Hanayoi. “I’ve been disrespectful until now.” “I only learned of it moments ago when my friend told me.” “Both that friend and I have loved your poetry since we were children.”

“Thank you,” he said gravely, “but Echigo lives more lightly now.” “Why haven’t you written poetry lately?” “The age has turned,” he replied with a dry chuckle. My chest constricted—I could no longer offer platitudes. We continued our calisthenics in silence. Suddenly, Echigo— “Quit minding others’ affairs! You’ve grown insolent these days!” he barked. I flinched. Never before had Echigo addressed me with such roughness. Apologizing swiftly was paramount.

“I’m sorry. I won’t say it again.”

“That’s right. Don’t say anything. You wouldn’t understand. Nothing. You understand nothing.” It had truly become an utterly awkward situation. Poets are terrifying creatures. What even counted as rudeness anymore—I had no earthly idea. That whole day, we didn’t exchange a single word. Even when the assistants came for the rubbing therapy and tried talking to me about various things, I kept sulking the entire time and barely gave any proper replies. Inwardly, I was itching to tell Maabo that our neighbor Echigo was actually the author of *The Maid of Orléans* and shock her with the revelation—but since Echigo had ordered me not to breathe a word, well, last night I’d had no choice but to choke down my frustration.

But this morning, unexpectedly, I was able to reconcile easily with the enraged Mr. Hanayoi 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 quiet young woman around the same age as Maabo—slender, pale-complexioned, with upturned eyes. We were right in the middle of breakfast. Kiyoko-san was untying the large furoshiki bundle she had brought while,

“I made some tsukudani simmered preserves and brought them.”

“I see. Let’s have it right away. Serve it. Give half to our neighbor Mr. Hibari as well.”

Huh? I thought. Echigo had until now only ever called me by terms like “that teacher over there,” “student,” or “Koshiba-kun,” and had never once used such an oddly familiar form of address as “Hibari-san.”

6 The daughter brought tsukudani simmered preserves to me. “Do you have a container, perhaps?” “Oh, no,” I flusteredly said, “In that cupboard there,” and started to get down from the bed when— “Would this be the one?” The daughter squatted down and took out an aluminum lunchbox from the cupboard under my bed.

“Ah, that’s right. I’m sorry.” She crouched under the bed and transferred the tsukudani simmered preserves into that lunchbox,

“Are you having your meal now?” “No, I’ve already finished my meal.”

The daughter put the lunchbox back into the cupboard and stood up, “My, how pretty.” she praised those chrysanthemum flowers that you had thrown in so haphazardly. Because you had to go and say something unnecessary back then about getting Bamboo to fix them, asking Bamboo ended up feeling too awkward, and asking Maabo would’ve seemed forced too—so those flowers just stayed like that in the end.

“A friend stuck them in carelessly 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 as well, said with a smirk while using a toothpick. Somehow, he’s in too good a mood this morning—it’s actually unsettling.

The daughter blushed, hesitantly approached the bedside, pulled all the chrysanthemums from the vase, and began rearranging them. I was so happy that someone kind had fixed them for me.

Echigo sat cross-legged on his bed and watched his daughter’s skillful flower arrangement with evident enjoyment,

“Maybe I’ll write poetry again,” he muttered. I kept quiet, not wanting to say something clumsy and get yelled at again. “Hibari-san, my apologies about yesterday,” he said with a guilty grin.

“No, I’m the one who said something presumptuous.”

Truly, we managed to reconcile—unexpectedly and with such ease.

“Maybe I’ll write poetry again,” he repeated the same words once more. “Please write. “Please—truly—write for our sake as well. “Right now, what we want to read most are poems that are light and pure like yours. “I don’t fully understand these things myself, but we’re seeking art right now that’s light and brisk, yet noble and clear—like Mozart’s music. “Works with oddly exaggerated gestures or those that put on airs of profundity are already antiquated and thoroughly understood. “Is there not a poet who can beautifully celebrate even the sparse green grasses in the corners of burned-out ruins? “It’s not that we’re trying to escape from reality. “The suffering—we’ve already come to fully understand it. “We’re already prepared to do anything without flinching. “We won’t run away. “We have entrusted our very lives. “We are light. “Only art that perfectly matches our feelings—art with the touch of a swiftly flowing clear stream—feels like the real thing to me now. “It’s the kind that needs neither life nor fame. “Otherwise, I don’t think we can possibly overcome this crisis. “Look at the birds of the sky. “Ideology isn’t the issue. “Even if you try to cover it up with such things, it won’t work. “You can gauge someone’s purity through their touch alone.”

“The problem is touch.” “Rhythm.” “If it isn’t noble and clear, then they’re all fakes.” I strained to voice arguments I was ill-equipped to make. After speaking, I burned with shame. I wished I’d never opened my mouth.

7 "So we've entered such an era after all." Hanayoi-sensei wiped the bridge of his nose with a towel, lay flat on his back, and said, "At any rate, I must leave this place soon." "That's right. That's right."

It was then—for the first time since coming to this dojo—that I secretly felt anxious: Oh, how I wanted to quickly become robust. It felt almost sacrilegious, but I perceived the heavenly tide as tediously sluggish. "You all are different," said Sensei, who seemed to have keenly sensed my inner turmoil. "There’s no need to rush. If you simply live calmly here, you will surely recover." "And then you can make a splendid contribution to Japan’s reconstruction." "But I’m already getting old," he had started to say when his daughter seemed to have completed her flower arrangement,

“It actually seems worse than before,” she said brightly, approaching her father’s bed, then added in an exceedingly small voice, “Dad! You’re complaining again, aren’t you? Nowadays, that sort of thing—it’s not in style anymore.” She was fuming. “Are even my musings unwelcome in this world?” Echigo said this, yet still laughed with great delight, chuckling softly.

I had completely forgotten my earlier unthinking agitation and smiled with a profoundly happy feeling.

You see, the new era has indeed arrived. It is as light as an angel’s robe and as pure as a stream rippling shallowly over white sand. I learned from Teacher Fukuda Osho in middle school that Bashō, in his later years, extolled something called *karumi*, placing it far above notions like *wabi*, *sabi*, and *shiori*. Yet here we find ourselves—without even realizing it—naturally attaining that supreme state of mind which even a master like Bashō could only faintly glimpse and yearn for in his twilight years. Try though I might to resist pride, I cannot. This *karumi* is categorically distinct from frivolity. Unless you relinquish desire and life itself, you cannot comprehend this mindset. It is that gust of wind arriving after one has agonized and sweated out every last drop. A bird so light its wings turn translucent, born from the strained air following the world’s great chaos. Those who fail to grasp this will be eternally severed from history’s current and left behind.

Ah, this and that—everything grows old with relentless haste. You see—there’s neither logic nor reason to any of it. The tranquility of those who’ve lost everything and cast everything away—that alone is what this *karumi* truly is.

This morning, I presented some dreadfully clumsy art theory to Echigo and afterward felt intensely embarrassed; however, upon realizing that Echigo's daughter too appears to be a covert supporter of ours, I gained tremendous confidence and—allowing myself here to raise the blazing spirit of a new man—have thus endeavored to supplement my previous argument. Incidentally, your reputation at this institute remains most favorable. Please accept this as hearty encouragement.

Just your brief visit to this dojo had made the atmosphere suddenly brighter—it wouldn’t be entirely an exaggeration to say so. For one thing, Hanayoi-sensei had rejuvenated a full ten years. Bamboo and Maabo both sent their regards to you. Maabo had this to say: “You have such lovely eyes.” “You’re like a genius.” “Your eyelashes are so long that every time you blink, I hear this soft snapping sound.” What Maabo said was exaggerated. You’d better not believe it. Shall I share Bamboo’s critique? I ask that you not take this too seriously and calmly let it pass. Bamboo said: “Hibari—now that’s a good pairing.” That was all. Though she said it with a reddened face. Finis. October 29th Bamboo 1 Dear Madam, Today brings sorrowful news. Though “sorrowful” feels like labeling longing with misplaced kana—a peculiar ache. Bamboo is getting married. To whom? To Director Tajima himself. She’ll be wedded to Dr. Tajima, director of this Health Dojo. I heard this today from Maabo. Let me start properly. This morning, Mother came to the dojo bringing my change of clothes and whatnot. She visits twice monthly to organize my belongings. Peering at my face: “Getting homesick yet?” she teased.

“Hibari—now that’s a good approach.”

That is all. However, she said, her face red. End of letter.

October 29th

Bamboo,

1.

Dear Bamboo, Today, I have sad news to share. Though I say “sad,” it’s a peculiar kind of sadness—like writing the kana *kanashii* beside the character for “longing.” Bamboo is getting married. As for where she is getting married—it’s to the Director. She is to be wedded into the household of none other than Dr. Tajima, Director of this Health Institute. I heard about it today from Maabo.

Well, I suppose I should start from the beginning.

This morning, Mother came to the dojo bringing a great quantity of my change of clothes and all sorts of things. Mother came twice a month to organize my belongings. Peering into my face,

“Starting to get homesick?” she teased. It was the usual routine. “Maybe so,” I replied, telling a deliberate lie. It was the usual routine. “I hear you’ll be seeing your mother off to Komoebashi Bridge today.” “Who says?” “Well now, who could that be?”

“Me? Am I allowed to go outside? Was permission granted?” Mother nodded. “But if you don’t want to, that’s perfectly fine.” “No way! I can walk ten ri in a day now!” “Maybe so,” said Mother, mimicking my words. After four months—having taken off my nightclothes and put on a kasuri kimono—when I went out to the entrance with Mother, there stood the Director, silent with his hands clasped behind his back. “Can you walk? How about it?” Mother muttered to herself and laughed.

“Male children can stand and walk from the age of one,” the Director said without smiling, making that clumsy joke before adding, “I’ll have an assistant accompany you.” Maabo emerged from the office wearing a red haori patterned with camellia blossoms over her white nurse uniform. She trotted out hurriedly and gave Mother a flustered, awkward bow. The companion was Maabo. I slipped into my new geta and stepped outside first. The geta felt strangely heavy, making me stumble.

“Whoa there, such fine walking,” the Director called out from behind. In that tone, more than affection, I felt a cold, strong will. How undisciplined! Feeling as though I’d been scolded, I grew dejected. Without even turning around, I hurriedly took five or six steps, and then from behind me, the Director— “Start slowly. “Start slowly,” he now said in a harsh tone that seemed ready to scold outright, yet paradoxically those very words carried a warmth that felt almost tender.

I walked slowly. Mother and Maabo followed behind me, whispering to each other in hushed voices. When I passed through the pine grove and emerged onto the asphalt prefectural road, I felt a slight dizziness and stopped. "It's big. The road is wide." Though the asphalt road was simply glowing dully under the soft autumn sunlight, to me it momentarily appeared like a vast, chaotic river. "Is it too much?" Mother said with a laugh, "What do you think? Shall we have you see me off next time instead?"

2 "I'm fine, I'm fine." I walked on, deliberately clattering my geta loudly, and the moment I said, "I'm used to them now," a truck roared past me with terrifying force, making me shout "Wah—!" "It's so big. "The truck is so big," Mother immediately mimicked me and teased.

“It’s not big, but it’s strong. Amazing horsepower—must’ve been a hundred thousand at least!” “It’s got incredible horsepower.” “Definitely about a hundred thousand horsepower.” “So was that an atomic truck just now?” Mother was in high spirits too that morning. Walking slowly as we approached Koume Bridge’s bus stop, I heard something utterly unexpected. Mother and Maabo had been chatting idly while walking when, toward the end of their conversation,

“I heard that the Director will be getting married soon?”

“Ah, well, with Ms. Takenaka… very soon.” “With Ms. Takenaka? That assistant?” Though Mother also seemed surprised, I was a hundred times more shocked. I felt an impact as if I’d been plowed down by a hundred-thousand-horsepower atomic truck.

Mother quickly composed herself. “Ms. Takenaka is such a fine person. The Director truly has discerning taste,” she said with a bright laugh, and without pressing further, calmly shifted to other topics. At the bus stop, I can’t clearly recall how exactly I parted ways with Mother. Just that my vision grew hazy at the edges, and my heart clattered away like some ungovernable machine—that feeling was utterly unbearable.

I confess. I am in love with Bamboo. I had loved her from the very beginning. Maabo was never really an issue. I tried everything to forget Bamboo—deliberately drawing closer to Maabo, striving to grow fond of her—but none of it worked. In the letters I sent you, I listed off nothing but Maabo’s merits and wrote all sorts of bad things about Bamboo—but that was never meant to deceive you. By writing in that manner, I was trying to erase the feelings in my heart. Even someone like me—this so-called new man—found his body growing heavy when thoughts of Bamboo arose, my wings shriveling until I felt myself becoming as trivial as a pig’s tail. Desperate to uphold my pride as a new man here, I tried relentlessly to tidy away these feelings, to become utterly indifferent toward her. I spurred myself on, over and over, ranting about how she’s just too kindhearted, how she’s like some pompous sea bream, how terrible she is at shopping—I beg you to at least try to understand the anguish behind all this. And so, I secretly hoped that if you too would agree with me and join in criticizing Bamboo, perhaps I might truly grow to dislike her and feel unburdened—but my hopes were dashed when you became utterly smitten with her instead, leaving me at my wit’s end. And so, this time, I changed my tactics—lavishing praise on Bamboo instead, invoking platonic affection and this new model of friendship between men and women—scheming all the while to check your advances. Such was the pitiful truth of how things unfolded. I was far from devoid of passion—I was brimming with it. It was a mind like a wild horse and restless monkey—a truly wretched state I was in.

3

You called Bamboo an astonishing beauty, and I vehemently denied it—but the truth was, I too had thought her an astonishing beauty from the start. On the day I first came to this institute, I'd thought so at first glance. You must understand—someone like Bamboo embodies true beauty. That time in the washroom, when she was dimly lit by the blue bulb, quietly crouching to wipe the floorboards in that strange pre-dawn darkness—she looked terrifyingly beautiful then. This isn't some petty excuse, but I believe only someone like me could have withstood that sight. Anyone else would surely have committed some crime in that moment. People like Kappore often claim women are demons, but perhaps there are times when women unwittingly shed their humanity and become something truly fiendish.

Now I confess. I had been in love with Bamboo. There’s no such thing as old or new.

After parting with Mother, I walked on with my knees quivering, feeling unbearably thirsty. "I'd like to rest somewhere," I said, but my voice came out so hoarse that even I was taken aback—it sounded like someone else murmuring those words in the distance. "You must be tired," she said. "A little further on, there's a house we sometimes stop by to rest at."

Under Maabo’s guidance, we entered a house that had likely been a Miyoshino or something before the war. In the dimly lit, spacious earthen-floored area, broken bicycles and what looked like charcoal sacks lay scattered about, while in one corner stood a crude table and two or three chairs. On the wall beside that table hung a large mirror, its unnervingly white gleam leaving a deep impression. Though this house had ceased business operations, it still served tea to familiar faces—likely functioning as a loafing spot for dojo assistants during their outings. Maabo unhesitatingly went to the back and brought out an earthenware teapot and teacups for bancha. We took seats facing each other under the mirror and drank lukewarm bancha together. Letting out a deep sigh of relief, I felt somewhat unburdened,

“Is Bamboo getting married?” I managed to ask in a light tone.

“That’s right.” Lately, Maabo too had seemed lonely for some reason. Hunching her shoulders as if chilled, she looked straight at my face. “Didn’t you know?” “I didn’t.” Suddenly my eyes burned. Flustered, I looked down.

“I understand. Bamboo was crying too.” “What the hell are you saying?” Maabo’s earnest tone felt so repulsive, so utterly repulsive, that a churning anger welled up inside me. “You mustn’t say such careless things.” “I’m not being careless.” Maabo was tearing up. “That’s why I told you, didn’t I? I told you not to get close to Bamboo.” “I’m not getting close to her or anything. Don’t act like you know everything about how I feel. You’re unbearably repulsive. Bamboo getting married is a good thing. That’s something to celebrate, isn’t it?”

“It’s no use. I know.” “Even if you try to cover it up, it’s no use.” Tears welled up in her large eyes, gathered on her lashes, then began to trickle down her cheeks in steady drops. “I know.” “I know.”

4 “Stop it. This is meaningless.” I worried someone might see us in such a place. “None of this means anything.” Even as I repeated those words, they felt hollow. “You’re truly carefree, Hibari,” Maabo said with a faint laugh, wiping tears from her cheeks with fingertips. “You really didn’t know about the Director and Bamboo until now?”

“I don’t know about such vulgar things.” Suddenly, I was overcome with intense disgust. I felt like smacking everyone. “What’s vulgar about it? Is marriage something vulgar?” “No, that’s not it, but...” I stammered, “For a while now, something—”

“Oh, don’t be absurd! That’s not true. The Director is a serious person. Without saying a word to Bamboo, he went to her father to make the request, you know. I hear Bamboo’s father has evacuated here now. And then Bamboo’s father spoke to her the other day, and Bamboo had been crying for two or three nights straight. She said she didn’t want to get married.” “Then that’s fine.” I felt relieved.

“What do you mean it’s fine? Just because she cried?” “Oh, Hibari,” she said with a laugh, tilting her head sideways. Her eyes took on a strangely vivid gleam as she swiftly extended her right arm and tightly gripped my hand on the table. “Bamboo was crying because she missed you, Hibari. Truly,” she said, squeezing even harder. I returned her grip without understanding why. It was a meaningless handshake. I soon felt foolish and withdrew my hand,

“Shall I pour you some tea?” I said, trying to mask my awkwardness. “No,” Maabo refused in a timid yet decisive manner, eyes cast downward—an odd way of declining. “Then shall we leave?” “Yes.”

She nodded slightly and lifted her face. That face was splendid. It was absolutely splendid. Her face was completely expressionless, with faint delicate wrinkles that seemed weary on both sides of her nose; her underbite slightly parted; her large eyes cold, deep, and clear—and in that somewhat pale face, there was a terrifying degree of dignity. This dignity was something unique to those who had cleanly given up and discarded everything. Maabo too, having endured such suffering, had for the first time become a woman capable of manifesting a new beauty—one so transparently selfless. This too was one of us. Entrusting oneself to a newly built great ship, one proceeded mindlessly and lightly along the heavenly sea route. A faint wind of "hope" caressed my cheeks. At that moment I was struck by Maabo’s beauty and recalled the phrase "eternal virgin." Though I had always found those words affected, in that instant they felt not the least bit pretentious but rather remarkably fresh.

"If someone as uncouth as me uses a modern-sounding phrase like 'eternal virgin,' you might laugh at me, but truly, in that moment, I was saved by Maabo's noble face."

Bamboo’s marriage now seemed like something from the distant past, and my body felt light as a feather. It wasn’t a matter of resignation or anything so willful—rather, it felt as though the scenery before my eyes was rapidly retreating into the distance, shrinking as if viewed through the wrong end of a telescope. There were no more lingering attachments in my heart. Now, all that remained for me was a refreshing sense of having been completed.

5

American airplanes were circling in the clear blue sky of late autumn. We stood in front of that Miyoshino-style house and looked up at them, "They look so bored flying up there," he said.

“Yes,” Maabo said with a smile. “Yet there’s a new beauty to the form of airplanes. Perhaps because they lack any superfluous ornamentation?” “I suppose,” Maabo replied softly, gazing at the aircraft in the sky with childlike absorption. “A form free of useless decorations—that’s truly fine, isn’t it.”

It was not only about the airplanes, but also a quiet reflection on Maabo’s dazed yet unreserved demeanor. The two of us walked in silence, and I carefully examined each woman’s face we encountered on the road. Though varying in degree, it seemed to me all women’s faces now uniformly displayed that selfless, transparent beauty like Maabo’s. Women had become truly womanly. Yet this didn’t mean they’d reverted to prewar womanhood. It was a new “femininity” forged through war’s crucible. How to describe it—a beauty like the bush warbler’s song among bamboo leaves. If I put it thus, would you comprehend? In other words—“karumi,” you see.

I returned to the dojo a little before noon, but having walked over two kilometers round trip, I was thoroughly exhausted. Finding it too much of a bother to change into my nightclothes, I lay down on the bed still wearing my haori and drifted off to sleep.

“Hibari, it’s mealtime.”

When I opened my eyes slightly, Bamboo was standing there holding a meal tray, smiling. Ah, the Director's wife!

Immediately, I sprang up, “Oh, I’m sorry,” I said, instinctively giving a slight bow. “You’re still half-asleep.” “Sleepyhead,” she muttered as if to herself, setting the meal tray by my pillow. “Who in the world sleeps in their clothes? “If you catch a cold now, it’d be a disaster!” “You should hurry up and change into your nightclothes.” Frowning and speaking in a displeased tone, she took out nightclothes from the bed’s drawer. “You’re such a handful.” “Come here. Let me help you change.”

I stepped down from the bed and untied my hyogo obi. It was the same old Bamboo. The idea of her marrying the Director had started to feel like a lie. Oh—I must have dozed off and been dreaming just now. For a moment I felt relieved, thinking my mother’s visit had been a dream and Maabo crying in that Miyoshino-like house too—but that wasn’t the case. “That’s fine Kurume kasuri,” she said. Bamboo helped me out of my kimono. “It suits you well, Hibari.” “Maabo’s a lucky one.” “On their way back, they stopped by Auntie’s for tea together.”

It was not a dream after all.

“Bamboo, congratulations,” I said.

Bamboo did not respond. She wordlessly draped the nightclothes over me from behind, then slipped her hand through the sleeve opening and gripped 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 nightclothes and began my meal while Bamboo folded my kasuri kimono beside me. Neither of us spoke a word. After a while, Bamboo said in a very small voice, "Forgive me," she whispered.

In that single phrase, I felt as though all of Bamboo’s emotions had been poured into it. “You’re terrible,” I muttered under my breath while eating, mimicking Bamboo’s regional accent.

And in this single phrase too, I felt all my feelings were poured into it. Bamboo began giggling and said, "Much obliged." A reconciliation was achieved. I felt from my heart a desire to pray for Bamboo's happiness.

“How long will you be here?” “Until the end of this month.” “Should we hold a farewell party?” “Oh, how improper!”

Bamboo gave an exaggerated shudder, briskly put away the folded clothes into the drawer, and left the room with composure.

Why are all the people around me such straightforward, good people? Right now I'm writing this letter while listening to the one o'clock afternoon lecture - but can you guess who's giving today's broadcast? Rejoice with me. It's Master Ōtsuki Hanayoi. Master Ōtsuki's recent popularity at this institute has become extraordinary. We could no longer call him by that disrespectful nickname Echigo Jishi. You discovered it first, and though I managed to keep quiet for two or three days afterward, I finally told Maabo in secret. The rumor spread like wildfire instantly, and since he was the author of *The Maid of Orléans*, people began respecting him unconditionally. Even the Director apologized during his rounds, saying to Master Hanayoi something like, "I've been rude to you all this time without knowing."

Requests for editing poems, waka, and haiku were flooding in from both the New Building and the Old Building's trainees. Yet Master Hanayoi showed not a trace of such shallow pretenses as suddenly putting on airs, remaining instead the taciturn Echigo Jishi of old—he had entirely entrusted the trainees' poetry revisions to Kappore. Kappore was in high spirits these days. Acting as if he were Master Hanayoi's foremost disciple, he put on a solemn face and freely made arbitrary revisions to others' painstaking works. Today, at the office's request, Master Hanayoi was giving his first lecture titled "Devotion." As I listened to his voice flowing through the loudspeaker, I grew solemn, as though being instructed by someone of immense nobility. It was truly a calm, dignified voice. Master Hanayoi might be a far greater man than I had thought. The content of his talk was truly excellent—not old-fashioned in the slightest.

Devotion was never merely the act of destroying oneself through reckless despairing sentiment. That was a grave mistake. Devotion meant keeping oneself eternally alive in the most glorious manner. Humanity became immortal solely through this pure devotion. Yet devotion required no preparation. At this very moment, in one's present form, everything must be devoted. Those who wielded hoes ought to devote themselves just as they were in their field attire. One must not falsify one's true self. Devotion permitted no postponement. Every moment of human existence had to be devotion. "To devise how one might splendidly devote oneself was the most meaningless thing," he forcefully expounded. As I listened, I blushed repeatedly. I realized I had promoted myself as some 'new man' far too zealously until then. I had overprepared for devotion. There seemed to have been a part of me clinging to cosmetic posturing. The pretense of being a new man needed resolute retraction here and now. My surroundings had already grown as bright as myself. Hadn't every place we appeared until then spontaneously become luminous and vibrant? From then on I resolved to say nothing more, walking straight ahead at an utterly ordinary pace—neither hurried nor sluggish. Where did this road lead?

That is better asked of the stretching vine of a plant. The vine will answer.

“I know nothing at all. However, it seems the sunlight shines in the direction it grows.”

Goodbye.

December 9th