Pathway to Japanese Literature

And then, along with that, tears of frustration and bitter regret—with no outlet—overflowed freely, streaming hotly down my gaunt cheeks, chapped by the cold evening wind and bristling with goosebumps.

When I raised my tear-blurred eyes and absently gazed westward, the winter sun had already sunk beyond Ushigome's heights, leaving only the vanished sunset's lingering glow—a great crimson aureole like cartwheel spokes—to reflect beautifully across the pale, clear expanse of cold sky. When I saw such scenes of daylight fading, I sank deeper into desolate melancholy—yet still, the furious resentment from Yanagisawa's venomous insult throbbed through my entire being like a deep wound torn by repeated slashes, irritating every fiber of my body.

As I walked from Otowa's ninth district toward Yamabuki-chō's streets, the footsteps of crowds hastening through evening dusk and the rumbling of carriages roared with a resounding clamor that seemed to surge up and overwhelm my already inflamed mind. I walked through it all like a madman. And when I returned to a certain firewood shop midway through Yamabuki-chō, for no particular reason, the objects around me began to catch my eye for the first time. And then, staring fixedly at that gloomy gray firewood piled there,

"I'll go to Omiya's place right now." I muttered inside my mouth.

Omiya—with her pale complexion and those thick yet soft Jizō-like eyebrows—whom I had cherished as my precious secret delight, now left me utterly crushed: my soul's peaceful abode torn asunder by Yanagisawa's malicious jealousy, my body withering away as if defiled, my mind adrift in emptiness, "I'm done. I'm done with Omiya." The moment I thought of Yanagisawa obtaining that Omiya... all interest drained away—like a patient tormented by frayed nerves, I muttered these words under my breath while raising a clenched fist—whether intending to strike Yanagisawa or perform some other act, even I couldn't say for certain—driven purely by the urge to batter this detested man, I kept swiping at the vacant air beside my head as I walked,

"This is it—I'll cut off Omiya completely. Because Yanagisawa had procured her, all interest had withered away." I kept repeating in unbearable frustration as I walked here in a daze, yet still this inescapable attachment seethed up within me. And so these thoughts arose. When a robber breaks in and defiles his wife, does the husband’s affection for her change afterward? When I thought of this—though it wasn’t something actually occurring now, merely my own imagined judgment—the husband’s heart ached so deeply that it felt as though that abominable calamity were befalling me at this very moment.

Then what would the husband do? The wife was unbearably, irresistibly dear. Yet before his very eyes, that beloved wife's body had been disgracefully defiled by a robber. The wife wanted—desperately wanted—to be loved; yet even if he wished to love her, her body had been defiled. In such circumstances, nothing proved more pitiable than the husband's heart. At such a moment, was there truly nothing left but to shut tight the mind's eye and resign oneself? I had thought such things—and Omiya too had been defiled by a robber. Moreover, though the thought of Yanagisawa openly purchasing Omiya—who secretly sold her chastity—rankled bitterly, I could not know how many times she had been with strangers beyond Yanagisawa.

Yet even as I reconsidered this, my heartrending attachment to Omiya's flesh—now defiled by Yanagisawa—grew even more intense than before.

"That's it! I'll go right now—tonight—to see Omiya."

Once I resolved myself, the thought struck me—what if Yanagisawa went again tonight to call for Omiya?—and I grew so impatient I couldn't delay another moment. And once I resolutely concluded that even Yanagisawa having bought her hadn't altered my affection for Omiya, my mind cleared to focus solely on this: quickly returning home first and then setting out again for Kakigarachō.

When I returned to Kikui-chō, Old Mother had prepared a meal and brought it before the six-mat desk. While eating that, I arranged some money and was about to head out when—

"Are you going out again somewhere?" Old Mother called out from behind me as I unlatched the gate's wooden door. "Yes, briefly," I replied and quickened my pace. I went to Seigetsu—the small teahouse where I'd previously taken Omiya for clandestine meetings—and upon requesting her presence, she arrived without delay. After exchanging terse greetings, I sat wordlessly scrutinizing her face and posture for minutes on end, yet detected no alteration from before Yanagisawa's interference. Her alabaster complexion—fine-pored and lightly powdered—framed by hair swept up to expose the nape and arranged in an innocent maiden's chignon with broad sidelocks, accentuated Omiya's childlike affectation. With that habitual twist of her vividly painted lips, she squinted upward as though dazzled by light, maintaining silent coquetry through half-lidded eyes.

“What have you been up to?”

I still stared fixedly at her face. Had someone been watching nearby, they might have found this scrutiny unnerving. "No, no, no," Omiya replied in that indescribably soft, dulcet voice. This—this had been defiled by Yanagisawa. Yet while I remained strangely indifferent to other men's touch, this violation alone became an insurmountable barrier to affection, filling me with an unspeakable, wretched sense of contamination I could scarcely endure. "You've visited my friend's place too—haven't you? Not that I mind…"

I feigned composure for a moment before speaking.

“No.” “I don’t know any such person.” She shook her head. “Ah, perhaps you don’t know about that.” “You probably don’t know.” “But you did go.” “I heard it from that friend myself.” “No, I don’t know.” “I don’t know any of your friends at all.” “No, there’s no way you don’t know.” “You don’t know about it but—” “……Four or five days ago, a short man with a dark complexion and sharp features—around thirty—came to you, didn’t he?”

When I said this, Omiya wore an expression of someone trying to recall something for a while— “Ah, he did come. He wore a haori and kimono in matching Kurume kasuri or something like that. He’s such an uncomplicated man. That person—the one who took me to Toriyasu the other day.”

When I heard that, I felt my ears stop up again in a surge of rage. "That's right—that's my friend." I forced meekness into my voice with those words, trying to quell the fire in my chest. "Ahahaha." Omiya laughed with an embarrassed flush coloring her cheeks. Yet that slight laugh carried an indescribably vulgar malice, like that of a common streetwalker.

With that, I fell silent and sank again into deep solitary contemplation. The other day when I had come earlier, Omiya and I went together to Yakushi no Miyamatei with the old woman from Seigetsu to listen to a female gidayū reciter and returned late; when I suggested having shiruko or something, neither of us wanted anything, “If you’re hungry, go home and have Auntie prepare you some Western food to eat. They have delicious things there.” “They have delicious things there,” she said—when Omiya and I were eating that in Seigetsu’s small parlor,

“The grilled chicken at Toriyasu is delicious,” Omiya said. “Do you know Toriyasu?” “Yes, the other day was the first time a customer took me there.” “That was delicious.” While she was saying such things, I wondered—well, was that customer Yanagisawa? If I put it this way, you’d understand immediately—as for me, I was perpetually struggling even with petty expenses, but Yanagisawa supposedly carried bundles of ten-yen notes in his pocket. While I counted every coin as I entertained Omiya, Yanagisawa—sparing no expense—could indulge his every whim: whisking her off to distant outings or dining out wherever he fancied.

And so, when I realized that the customer who had taken her to Toriyasu the other day was Yanagisawa, I felt as though Omiya was about to be taken away again, and I could no longer endure it. "When was that?"

“Hmm, just the other day.”

When she said "just the other day," I pondered when exactly that meant. Some time earlier, Omiya had vowed to vanish at any moment—claiming a man bound to her by some deep, entangled fate had suddenly sniffed out her return to this district—yet after a week declared she wouldn't go anywhere for the time being, which explained why during my previous visit we'd ended up attending a gidayū recital together. Since she'd already mentioned visiting Toriyasu back then, this meant Yanagisawa had come during that week-long stretch when I hadn't visited—during those days when I still hadn't once taken her out anywhere, he'd whisked her off to places like Toriyasu. Though society brands me a wastrel when it comes to women, Yanagisawa proves far more adept than I. The more this realization took root, the more precarious Omiya's place in my heart felt. And so—though I clenched my jaw against the urge to pry into every insignificant detail—I ultimately succumbed, posing my question as if it meant nothing.

“That person’s quite the catch, isn’t he?” “That person really is a good man. I really like that kind of man. He doesn’t wear silk kimonos or anything—both his kimono and haori are matching Kurume kasuri or something similar, looking so simple.” “Did anything interesting happen?” “Hmm, he’s not much of a talker. He stares intently at people’s faces while occasionally speaking—a man who never wastes words. I really like that kind of man.”

It seemed Omiya had truly taken a liking to Yanagisawa. “Since I thought she was your kept woman, I found it quite intriguing when I stared at her face like that.” Yanagisawa had been making such remarks earlier even in front of Aiba. As for me—unaware that Yanagisawa would act so spitefully—I had never kept Omiya close while nursing any underhanded designs. But Yanagisawa was different. He had known from the outset that this was the courtesan Yukooka patronized, and every word he spoke carried calculated intent. Even when taking her out to places like Toriyasu, he did so with that same hidden agenda.

Were I to speak thus, you would protest—"Yanagisawa has stolen away some worthless Kakigarachō woman"—but cease this disgraceful talk for others' ears. You would say—"This only diminishes your dignity"—but though I know this full well, let me explain: that was how Yanagisawa first summoned Omiya. Now that I mention it, I assumed you could mostly discern what Yanagisawa was up to. Even while enduring such unpleasant feelings, if I kept watching her from nearby, Omiya’s beautiful features were so captivating that I ended up purchasing the very woman Yanagisawa had bought.

When I returned exhausted from this, my nerves grew even more tormented, and I couldn't stop worrying about Omiya. While I was there, I felt at ease, but whenever I wasn't watching, I became convinced Yanagisawa must be going over and doing this or that during those intervals. I had worn myself out thinking. After that, I kept my distance from Yanagisawa as much as possible to avoid meeting him—but when too much time passed without seeing him, I started thinking he must be visiting Omiya again today. He must certainly be going there. He was definitely there. As these thoughts churned through my mind until they seemed undeniable, I found no peace until I went to observe Yanagisawa's situation myself, visiting for the first time in ages.

To that one-eyed old woman, “Is the master here?” I asked. “Yes, he is present.” She replied with a sullen face that suggested she found something disagreeable. Hearing that Yanagisawa was in the house brought me some relief, yet when the old woman urged me upstairs, I did not ascend immediately. Having her lead the way instead, I climbed the steep staircase to find Yanagisawa—his small frame clad in a newly tailored meisen silk robe of tea-brown and black stripes, its sturdy padded fabric befitting a seasoned patron—sitting cross-legged with imposing solidity before a desk. Whenever he wrote anything, it would be lavishly praised everywhere, and being at the height of his popularity, he had already finished preparing materials for New Year’s magazines ten days ahead of others with efficient ease, making it appear that bundles of banknotes had again multiplied in his pockets, while the angular cheeks beneath his freshly trimmed dashing haircut had filled out so noticeably that his swarthy face now glistened with vitality.

I felt more overwhelmed than anything by his vibrant, prosperous demeanor as I timidly sat beside the brazier. "He's such a manly man." Recalling Omiya's words—"I really like that kind of man"—I repeated them inwardly while comparing his face to Yanagisawa's. From the moment I began climbing the stairs, Yanagisawa had been staring at me with guarded eyes. Without uttering a word, he maintained his silence. I too fell into this contest of muteness and kept quiet indefinitely.

“How about it? Still visiting Kakigarachō these days?” He adopted an unexpectedly gentle expression and spoke with disarming frankness.

“Hmm. Not going. I’m done. It’s pointless. What about you?”

“I don’t go much either, but… haven’t you seen Omiya since then?” Yanagisawa spoke with an uncharacteristically casual air, his words carrying a lightness entirely unlike his usual demeanor. To me, it began to feel as though both of us were probing each other’s true intentions. And though I found this state of affairs with Yanagisawa loathsome and unbearable beyond measure, there was no helping it—from the very beginning, Yanagisawa had cut sideways into the space between us two. “No, I haven’t seen her at all. “I haven’t gone since then…”

I had said this, but if Omiya had told Yanagisawa about my visit, my deception would be exposed right away. If he saw through these lies and concealments to my innermost thoughts, I feared Yanagisawa—true to his usual nature—would press his advantage and retaliate all the more fiercely, "Oh… So you did go there once since then, huh?" he said as though it were nothing. And in my gut, it felt sickening—this sense of being pursued endlessly, relentlessly.

“Well, since she’s so sought-after these days, whenever I go looking for her she’s never there.” Yanagisawa raised his voice slightly as he spoke. So he’s been visiting constantly since then and has Omiya reserved after all. I thought privately.

“You’ve grown quite stout lately, positively brimming with vitality.” Keeping my eyes fixed on Yanagisawa’s face, I spoke as if changing the subject. “Hmm. “These days everything I eat tastes splendid.” He said this cheerfully, stroking his cheeks with both hands.

“You’ve somehow grown more faded lately, I must say.”

With a cold laugh, he said while staring intently at my face,

“And then, gradually deteriorating...” Yanagisawa grimaced as though the very sight or mention of wretched beings was utterly detestable to him. “Ah, I suppose I’ve grown more faded.” I resentfully stroked my emaciated cheeks. And then I thought this. I want no sympathy from Yanagisawa, but as for why I’ve ended up like this—the root causes—Yanagisawa is not someone who could possibly understand. Even if he could understand, I thought he wasn't someone whom such matters would burrow into as ridiculously deep as they did me; nor could I claim this state stemmed from being practically discarded by you. Moreover, since those without such experiences couldn't comprehend these feelings even if explained, I simply fell silent after saying this much.

“Omiya feels sorry whenever she sees Mr. Yukooka,” Yanagisawa said with another derisive laugh.

“—” I laughed dejectedly in silence.

“...I wonder if Omiya’s there today... Shall we go see...?”

Was Yanagisawa mocking me? Or despite his feigned nonchalance, did he truly harbor feelings for Omiya? Or perhaps—pitying my faded existence that couldn't freely gaze upon Omiya's face—was this his mercy, like someone discarding fish bones into the kitchen scraps bin who then spots a stray dog and tosses them its way? I briefly considered this, but ultimately it mattered not; should Yanagisawa, Omiya, and I sit together, whatever interactions I might witness between them would undoubtedly confirm his fondness for her. As I pondered this,

“Ah, I suppose we could go.”

From there, the two of us passed time in carefree conversation for a while before setting out for Kakigarachō around dusk. Yanagisawa had summoned Maruya from Suidōchō some days prior to commission a new outfit using the hefty sum from his year-end gifts—a matching haori and kimono set in Echigo Yūki fabric or similar, consisting of a stately black-ground kimono with a thousand fine brown stripes tastefully understated—and crowned himself with a three-yen-fifty-sen toriooshi cap resembling Daikoku-sama’s hood. I remained wearing that rustic kasuri meisen in burnt brown I’d gone out in.

Koishikawa’s streetcar thoroughfare—stretching from Suidōchō’s outskirts past Kudanzaka slope, through Sudachō toward Ryōgokubashi—swarmed with year-end crowds hastening about their business, while advertising bands for clearance sales raised clamorous noise from bustling intersections and the upper floors of exhibition halls. With my ears besieged by the city’s din—that vexing rumble gnawing at human hearts—I sank into despondency, watching Yanagisawa have two fares clipped into the train commuter ticket, and rested my head against the window frame, entrusting everything to others.

“I wonder if she’s in today?”

When we got off the streetcar, Yanagisawa walked ahead while tilting his slender neck,

“Where shall we go?” “Well, anywhere’s fine—but how about that place you went to the other day?”

I disliked going to Seigetsu with Yanagisawa—the very place I intended to stealthily frequent henceforth. “Then let’s go to that house after all. …It’s not a teahouse I frequent much, but it’s where I first summoned Omiya.”

Having said this, we entered a nearby teahouse from the geisha house where Omiya resided. “...Miya-chan will be here shortly.” The maid came to report. “There she is!” I said with a smile. “Hmm.” Yanagisawa deliberately put on a pained expression. “What face will she be making today? The other day when I took her out in broad daylight, those patches where her white powder had flaked off on her pale face caught my eye—it was unbearably filthy.”

With that, Yanagisawa grimaced, “No matter how you look at her, she’s nothing but a high-class harlot.” “She’s different from geisha too, isn’t she?”

“Of course she’s different from a geisha. When I took her to Toriyasu the other day, the maid there silently smirked—she must’ve thought I’d brought a harlot along. To anyone with sharp enough eyes, she’s immediately recognizable as such.” Yanagisawa persisted in discussing Omiya. That Yanagisawa would speak with such interest about women—though we’d known each other for over ten years since our school days—was something I had never heard before.

"He must be thoroughly infatuated," I thought, and as I came to grasp Yanagisawa's heart more deeply, this inevitably gave rise to unpleasant feelings between us that could not be suppressed. This was troublesome, I thought, secretly letting out a sigh within myself. “Still, when I took her to the standing gallery at Kabukiza Theater the other day—right during Shigenoi’s Child Parting scene—she just stood there crying silently with reddened eyes, tears streaming down.” “With that, she does feel human emotions—in her own way, I suppose.”

Yanagisawa spoke of Omiya’s tears with feigned meekness. “Did you take her to Kabukiza Theater too?”

“Hmm.” “When?” “As expected, it was when I took her to Toriyasu the other day.” Yanagisawa made an apologetic face and said this, then continued as if to gloss over the moment: “When we stepped out from the standing gallery, it was such a fine moonlit night—an indescribably sentimental evening. I remained silent and Omiya wordlessly trudged along behind me, but when she suddenly looked up at the moon and said 'What a lovely moon' while turning her snow-white face toward me—tears still glistening in her eyes—well, that was beautiful, truly beautiful.”

Even Yanagisawa spoke as though profoundly moved.

As I listened to this, I felt my chest constrict. That I could barely scrape together enough coins just to meet Omiya, while Yanagisawa was already enacting those novel-like pleasant episodes with her, made a bitter resentment surge up from the depths of my chest—as though the entire world conspired to oppress me. And so, appearing to others like one drained of spirit, I stood dazed, absorbed in my solitary brooding. Then—bereft of all endurance—I grew pitiful to myself, stifling by swallowing hard the tears that threatened to overflow at any moment.

After some considerable time had passed—reaching a point where no resolution could be found— “You took her to Kabukiza Theater too?!” I blurted out in a vague, lifeless voice. “We went to Toriyasu on our way back.” And then, deep within myself, I recalled how Omiya had, the other day— “He seemed like a student—inoffensive. “After leaving Toriyasu, we walked together all the way to Asakusabashi.” “I’ll head back from here. “Here’s your train fare,” he said, smoothly placing a ten-sen silver coin into my palm before leaping onto the train himself.

Having said this—savoring the memory—I found myself recalling it again, pointlessly repeating the recollection.

At that moment, Omiya quietly slid open the fusuma door and entered. From behind, a young woman also followed her in. “Oh!” Omiya exclaimed. As she entered and saw Yanagisawa’s face directly facing her from where he sat cross-legged ahead, she burst into a flustered laugh. She typically came wearing that familiar azuki-red arrow-feather patterned silk kimono with a dark indigo-gray silk haori jacket thinly interwoven with tea-brown latticework, but today she appeared in a meisen silk haori of blue ground finely splashed with white rain-like patterns and what seemed to be another rough violet-tinted meisen padded robe, looking peculiarly innocent and beautiful like a maid from a good household or an unmarried daughter from a modest family. And then I—recalling how Yanagisawa had once professed a liking for maids—went on to recall how when he had been invited as a newspaper reporter to Ōkura Kihachirō’s house long ago, a beautiful maid had caught his eye there,

I recalled how he had once said, "I like that kind of woman." Her pale face lightly powdered with white makeup formed slightly elongated dimples in both cheeks as she smiled, those dazzlingly long eyelashes—

“What have you been up to? You. It hasn’t been that long, has it?”

All the while addressing Yanagisawa, she sat facing him across the serving table. Then, while briefly glancing toward me sitting silently at her side, “Welcome,” she said in a low tone. “They must think you’re always booked—that’s why no one ever comes around anymore,” Yanagisawa said while staring intently at Omiya. “Oh, I did come after that. But you never said you came!” “Even if I come, I never tell anyone that I came. I couldn’t care less about names.”

He all but declared that he himself would never do such things as revealing that name in this sort of place in an attempt to gain even the slightest favor from women.

“What is your name?” “I have no name.” Yanagisawa wore a terrifying expression as if about to sink his teeth into an adversary, all while cracking jokes and bantering with the women.

“Then you’re Nameless Gonbei?” said another woman of sixteen or seventeen with a gourd-shaped face and precocious lips. “Ah, I am Nameless Gonbei.” “What a lovely name!” “Yeah, fine name indeed.” Yanagisawa chatted away with casual volubility, as though he’d become an entirely different person.

“Today you’re dressed in such simple, natural clothes—quite different from your usual outing attire.”

I looked Omiya up and down. “Yeah. I prefer this style over wearing those fine silks or anything like that... You’ve got nice clothes there.” Yanagisawa said the sort of thing he often said. “Right. Do you like this that much?” Omiya said while glancing down at the front of her kimono, her gaze lingering toward Yanagisawa. “You’re wearing such a fine kimono today too... You didn’t wear that kasuri today then. I really love that one—so vibrant... But that kimono’s also fine. Did you have this made recently?”

“Yeah. “That’ll do.” Yanagisawa looked down at his chest area and said with evident satisfaction.

“I’ve also had a fine spring outfit made recently…… It’s nearly finished now.” Omiya shot a glance that seemed to invite the other young woman.

“What kind of kimono?” I opened my mouth that had been silent. “What kind? It’s not something I can just put into words.” “The haori is crested chirimen, the kimono has matching top and bottom—it’s o-meshi silk after all.”

Just then, the custom-ordered sushi arrived. “Won’t you have some too?” I picked up pieces while urging the women. Yanagisawa was already silently stuffing it into his mouth. “Let’s eat, shall we?” Omiya signaled to another woman and ate. Yanagisawa was chewing noisily while hesitating about what to use to wipe his dirty fingertips. “Looking for something to wipe with?…… Here, use this.” Omiya tossed over a small woman’s half-width cloth embroidered with arabesque patterns.

Yanagisawa used it to wipe his fingertips, then wiped his mouth after drinking tea. “You two should go off somewhere together.” Yanagisawa considerately signaled to me with a quiet glance. “Well... Fine then. ……What about you?” I asked, saying something whose meaning even I myself clearly didn’t understand. “I’m here talking with you, aren’t I?” Yanagisawa looked at the woman’s face with a teasing yet appraising gaze.

I felt insulted as though someone had exposed secrets I should have kept hidden, but since we’d already come to such a place and I saw no reason to maintain appearances any longer, I unhesitatingly took Omiya and entered another room.

Soon we left that teahouse and returned.

“Hmph! You brought along such a strange woman.”

Yanagisawa came out to the tram street in Ningyocho and spat out:

“Didn’t you do anything with her?” “As if I would do anything like that! That stinking brat. Omiya calls that wretch her junior sister and pushes her on other customers all the time. Who in their right mind would pay for that trash?!” After letting two days pass, I went to meet Omiya again because of that promise I’d made earlier—to buy her a coat. When I went to Seigetsu, she came immediately.

“Let’s go buy the coat together today.” “Today—” Omiya began with a smile that barely contained her delight, “starting now? Isn’t it too late?” Her voice held both eagerness and hesitation. “Let’s go. It’s not too late.” “Well... I’m just not feeling up to it today.…… Please go buy it yourself.” She stared blankly as she continued, “I won’t go anywhere—I’ll wait here…… They’re all over the place anyway.” “No, that won’t do—I was looking forward to going shopping together.”

Ever since that time when she had said: “I want a coat. You just buy the outer fabric. I’ll handle the lining myself.” Omiya had been saying. I had been with you for a full seven years, yet never once made you a coat. And yet—why had I felt compelled to splurge on some Kakigarachō courtesan I’d only met three or four times? Even if they were cheap goods, to buy her a coat exactly as she demanded—pondering this, I seemed like a fool to myself, yet found absurdity in the situation too. Then came the tears.

"Ah, I failed Osuma. For seven years I had never properly dressed her in a single kimono, always making her do menial water chores with her sleeves tied up." Thinking this, even buying just one tan of coat fabric for fifteen yen for that courtesan made me feel like I was wronging you, my conscience pricked—yet again,

I—in secret with this solitary heart—thought Ah I failed her, yet she remained unaware of this truth, having vanished at September’s end without once setting foot in my dwelling since. What a wretch…… What a merciless wretch…… Why should I care? I’d buy Omiya that coat! I’d buy it for her! Even if Osuma wasn’t watching—I’d buy it for Omiya out of pure spite!

In the empty house at Kikui-chō, sitting despondently at my desk in a cross-legged position while muttering such soliloquies to myself, my own words would suddenly surge up—sadness and pity and frustration all flooding forth—until tears welled like a rising torrent, blurring everything from sight. And so here I was in midwinter—when I should have been preparing at least one New Year's garment—flaying my own skin where none existed to flay, selling off the very books I'd been loath to part with, contriving just enough money through these means to come courting Omiya's favor.

Contrary to my expectation that she would be delighted by it, she offered no thanks and replied listlessly as if being dragged somewhere unpleasant. I thought bitterly to myself—are all women this selfish? She'll get her comeuppance someday—but since she had recently gone out with Yanagisawa to Kabukiza Theater and Toriyasu, I desperately wanted to take her somewhere myself. I thought 'You sulky courtesan wench!' but her refusal to spring up eagerly only stoked my irritation; I resolved to coax her into coming along cheerfully somehow.

“Hey, let’s go. And let’s eat something on the way back,” I said gently.

“Well then, shall we go?” “There are plenty right around here.” She said in a crudely vulgar tone. “Ah, so you intended to buy it right around here all along?” “So you were telling me to go buy it alone all along?” “That’s right! “That sort of thing can be found anywhere, you know.”

“No, that won’t do. Let’s go somewhere better.” “Towards Nihonbashi?” “Ah.” “Well then, I’ll just go back to my place and tell the landlady.” With that, Omiya left. She returned shortly after, her demeanor completely transformed from before, face breaking into a raucous grin like that time we’d met at the alleyway entrance beside her house after nearly a week apart— “The landlady at my place said, ‘Mr. Yukooka is such a kind-hearted man.’ ‘Take your time,’ she told me!”

This time she came out with that sort of remark. What a capricious wretch she was—it grated on my nerves—but with my whole being bent on taking her out somewhere, when she brightened up and agreed to go, I too felt gladness welling up as we stepped outside.

“The landlady said, ‘Come to Matsuya in Nihonbashi—Matsuya’s cheap and good.’” “Our landlady buys from that store too.” Omiya walked briskly, speaking in that landlady-invoking tone she often adopted when buoyant.

"Even if it's called cheap, how much difference could there really be?" I thought, then declared: "Then let's go there." I acted precisely according to Omiya's instructions.

Crossing the filthy stagnant moat from Kakigarachō toward Shinzaimokuchō, the brief winter day had already hidden itself beyond the high rooftops. A chilly evening wind whipped up parched sand from the grooves left behind by creaking cargo carts transporting wholesale goods. Though I loathed to echo Yanagisawa's turn of phrase, having brought her out like this in what remained of the dim winter daylight—already faded from the sky—Omiya's figure appeared more wretched than ever before. While her usual prized haori was passable enough, beneath it she wore some absurd yuzen-patterned merino layered garment or padded robe with strange arabesque designs. As she passed before the bustling wholesale district crowded with people, her appearance stood out glaringly, and I—who had gone through such pains to bring her out—found myself walking briskly ahead alone.

Entering Matsuya with such a woman made me break into cold sweat, but as I climbed to the second floor in trepidation—wondering if I might encounter someone I knew—there, right at the stairway landing, stood an acquaintance couple shopping together. I gave Omiya's sleeve a light tug and ducked into the shadows. Before long, after they had descended, I led Omiya—clad in yuzen-patterned merino that resembled cheap undergarments—before the department head at the sales counter, my face burning with shame.

Then Omiya did exactly as you had done. Why must women be that way? What of that time I bought you spun kasuri fabric to make a lined garment? When I selected it myself and brought it to you, only for you to complain about disliking the pattern—what did you say then? "You shouldn't make such pushy declarations. When buying something—'I got this for you, do you like it?'—that's what you ought to ask first."

She had said such things. At that time you would habitually say—about your previous husband—that he was so kind-hearted, so kind-hearted—"That former husband of yours might have said such things to pamper you, but I hate speaking that way." When I said that and laughed, you laughed back with a displeased face. Yet despite claiming to dislike that pattern, you made us compare it again—after I'd gone through the trouble of selecting what we decided was good between myself and that kimono shop owner's son—by having some clerk bring out different ones. And after all, you ended up preferring the previous one too. Then when we promptly had it tailored and tried it on, she said, "You know, this pattern is quite good. When I wore it to my sister’s place, she said ‘You’ve made a good one,’ and pulled it over to inspect."

Didn't you say that?

Omiya did exactly that. For merely buying one serge coat—the clerk kept presenting all sorts of items, “Oh, this one’s perfect!” she would exclaim, picking it up—only for the clerk to produce another pattern. “Oh, this one’s better!” And then she reached for that one instead. “Then just decide on that one!” I pressed. “Hmm, this one’s better after all,” she murmured, slipping a finger into her mouth as if deep in thought. I felt utterly desperate to crawl into a hole before the clerk,

“Fine—that one then.”

“...” “This pattern is also quite excellent.” As the clerk said this, Omiya picked up the coat she had discarded earlier and examined it at an angle. “Then maybe that one?” “This one!” “Enough already! Just pick one quickly!” I grew impatient and pressed her. “Please take all the time you need to look properly.” The clerk offered this polite encouragement.

“Wouldn’t this one be most suitable?” This time he took out one that differed from the previous ones.

“Then I’ll take that one!” Omiya pulled her finger out of her mouth. And finally she settled on the one the clerk had picked up for the second time. She finally settled on one, but later I heard that after taking it home, everyone had all sorts of opinions. The next day she went all the way back to Matsuya herself to exchange it for another. But then the landlady and other courtesans started complaining about that one too. This time she had replacements brought over by telephone. They all compared them together, but apparently ended up choosing the original after all.

After hearing this, I came to see Omiya as an exceedingly fickle courtesan with constantly wavering affections, and felt somewhat disgusted—yet still I couldn’t bring myself to end things.

After leaving Matsuya, we entered Shokushō Yokochō on our way back and went up to that poultry restaurant there. Though no drinker by nature, I found myself settling into an unhurried mood with sea cucumber appetizers, sipping a drink while grilling chicken for Omiya. “How is it? Does it taste good?” I asked. “It’s not very good, you know... My teeth have been hurting since noon today.” With that she made a sour face, twisting her mouth and producing a slurping sound.

Late that night

“I’m going home!”

As I kept thinking, it gradually became tedious, so I abruptly sat up and returned without saying much on my part either. Though I could call it returning home, when I finally caught the train and came back to Kikui-chō on that bitterly cold late night, the old woman—perhaps assuming I wouldn't return again this evening—had long since locked up and gone to bed. After banging loudly to rouse her,

"You again? Coming back so late!" Muttering complaints under her breath, she opened the door. I slid open the closet, burrowed into the ice-like futon in desperation, curled up like a stray dog beneath the eaves, and fell into an exhausted sleep right there. Old Mother—as I mentioned before—must have had prompting from you and Yanagimachi too, but she told me to leave this house and then tried to hound me out with curses.

I too, driven solely by wanting to know where you were and how you lived, spent gloomy, sodden days moping in that Kikui-chō house—yet even remaining there meant confronting the futility of ever discovering anything. I had considered finding some other rented room in a sunnier, tidier place, but the prospect exhausted me: though for six or seven long years I had kept my own household however meagerly, eating what I pleased, now I would be borrowing a room in a stranger's house, obliged to mind the sensibilities of those connected to me by neither love nor obligation. Thus through endless procrastination, I remained stuck fast in that familiar house in Kikui-chō after all.

Then it turned out that the second floor of that Katō residence in Sekiguchi where Yanagisawa’s younger brother had lived had become vacant some time ago, and through Yanagisawa’s old maidservant, “Mr. Yukooka—do you truly intend to come? If you do intend to come, I’ll keep it vacant accordingly.”

Since the Katō Household Matron had relayed this message, I resolutely cast aside my lingering attachment to the house in Kikui-chō and resolved to move to that residence.

That was indeed December 17th. From evening onward, I had requested the retired man at Old Woman Yarai's place in Kogura to transport my luggage. Mustering my wilted heart from within while tying up bundles and organizing books, whenever I looked around, tears of bitter futility preceded every action. "Why am I so spineless?" "A man has no business being like this." I tried scolding myself thus, but found only a helplessly pitiful sorrow—as if sinking into some abyssal depth—with neither endurance nor resolve remaining.

Having had one cartload sent off to Kogura, I sat before my cluttered desk and picked up the chopsticks for the breakfast the old mother had prepared.

“Old Mother, I’ve long been in your care, but as of today I’ll be leaving this house.” “Once I leave this house, my ties with Osuma and all of you will be severed.” “Over these seven years I’ve said many terrible things to you and Osuma, but I ask that you forgive those.” “…Once I’m gone, I won’t think of doing anything with Osuma anymore, so please rest assured.” “…How is Osuma truly doing?” “Since I’m vacating everything so cleanly like this, there should be no harm in telling her just that much.”

I felt genuinely apologetic and spoke gently. Though what Old Mother thought remained unclear—she likely felt nothing toward such words—she set down the tray and began withdrawing, half-concealing herself behind the sliding door as she moved. "Osuma has married into an old man's household where there's already a daughter..." Following her customary manner of letting words trail off, Old Mother uttered only that before snapping the sliding door shut and retreating to the kitchen quarters. Hearing this, my arms went numb as if paralyzed, and I dropped the bowl and chopsticks I'd been holding onto the tray with a heavy thud. The mouthful of rice I'd taken refused to go down my throat, surging back up as though regurgitated.

And leaving the moving arrangements entirely to Kogura, I rushed out of the house like a madman.

"Ah, that body which had lain beside me for seven years had already, unbeknownst to me, become another man's to possess. Ah, had that body already become irretrievable for all eternity?!"

And so, with my heart hollowed out, I wandered aimlessly down the street, conjuring various imaginings of that elderly man—the one said to have a daughter—and his countenance. And then at some point—Old Woman Yarai— “It seems Osuma-san is near Dentsū-in Temple.” Recalling those words, I hurried from Yamabuki-chō’s main street toward Koishikawa, reached Dentsū-in Temple, and scoured the rows of cluttered tenement houses behind it—inspecting each eaves in turn. And dragging my weary legs heavy with disappointment, I aimlessly wandered from Takebaya-chō through Dōshin-chō’s environs and once again returned to Kikui-chō.

“Mr. Kogura has already taken everything away, you know. There’s nothing left here at all.” Old Mother said in a tone that seemed to ask what I had come for. My belongings, which had been gradually decreasing, did not even fill a single small cart. Kogura, taking advantage of his free time, had transported the nearby items in two trips. Even without them, the two six-tatami rooms—already dimly lit—now lay eerily empty after the belongings had been carried out, desolate as a vacant house. While ignoring Old Mother’s muttering, I entered the tatami room and plopped down as though bereaved, collapsing limply.

Outside, a quiet, warm winter sun shone beneath a crisp clear sky that seemed to taunt how pleasant a stroll through the neighborhood might be. Finally mustering the strength to stand, I began surveying what remained of the house. That's when I noticed them—mousetraps laid out across the kitchen's wooden floorboards,

“Ah, I paid a good sum for this,” I thought while opening various cupboards to look, finding them filled with all manner of items. The smells of breadcrumbs and suet from when our relationship was still intact—those times I helped prepare Western meals we ate together—came wafting forth and filled the cupboards to overflowing. In the small cabinet, there were still many new disposable chopsticks. “Using disposable chopsticks that have already been used on guests is stingy.” “There’s nothing cheaper than those!” “Even so, there are households that put out ones that have turned black.” “I can’t comprehend how people can be like that.”

Recalling how you never neglected to keep fresh disposable chopsticks at hand—your efficient kitchen work—I stood transfixed before the mousetraps, lost in thought. Then,

“What is it?”

Old Mother peeked her face out from the 4.5-tatami room and saw me standing stock-still before the mousetraps, lost in thought. “Are you really taking even those mousetraps with you?” “Aren’t you giving those to Osuma? Wouldn’t it be better to give them to Osuma?” She grumbled under her breath as if talking to herself. Because this irritated me, the thought arose to call a secondhand dealer and have him sell off those things.

It’s true that I did say I would give these to you, but even when discussing with Old Woman Yarai... “Mother-in-law, when Yukio comes next time, tell him household goods are cheap. Please tell him to sell everything without leaving lingering traces. Because if those things remain forever and keep catching his eye, he’ll end up unable to stop recalling all sorts of matters.” Recalling that she had said this, I went out to the main street to look for a secondhand dealer, but at one nearby house that had such a shop, the proprietor was out. So thinking “Ugh, what a hassle!” again, I left everything as Old Mother directed and finally departed from the Kikui-chō house to come to Katō’s residence.

At Katō's house, the matron was helping Kogura carry that large bookcase up to the second floor, the two of them working together to figure out where to place it. The southern-facing shoji screens glowed with warm sunlight; opening them revealed beyond the Edo River flowing beneath the cliff—across Ushigome Hollow—the highlands stretching from Akagi to Tsukudo Hachiman shrouded in haze. Through the shadow of noxious smoke belching from the Arsenal's smokestacks, what might have been the Bank of Japan building could faintly be glimpsed in the distance.

Perched on the lattice window's sill, I searched the distant rooftiles of that Akagisaka house where I'd lived until early spring—scanning here and there—then gazed out at Nihonbashi's clustered dwellings, feeling something akin to unburdened ease settle within me. Back when we were still together, we often spoke of that earlier time—when you had left your previous husband and returned home—and of how even when we came together four years ago, the person who had mediated our union, "Since Osuma-san remained here these four years precisely because her situation wasn't entirely without merit, please save that person's face by ensuring she doesn't remarry—no matter how favorable the match—for a six-month period."

Didn't they say that when parting and returning—that mediator? Having been together with me for nearly seven full years, yet when I think you did such things while I was still staying at your parents' house—no matter how much I told myself 'I've done unforgivable things,' 'caused hardship,' 'how pitiable,' 'how wretched'—the more I dwelled on it, the more I couldn't endure your clan's heartless conduct, until right there in bed I wrote that letter exactly as it was.

That bastard Shinkichi from Yanagimachi—what am I to do about him?

It was still the height of summer. When I, having resolved to part with you anyway, went to Hakone intending not to return to Tokyo for an indefinite period—stayed about twenty days only to abruptly came back soon after— When I arrived at Shinbashi, I just barely caught the blue tram, but upon reaching Sudachō, the Edogawa-bound line was already gone. Since I barely had enough for a one-way tram fare and thus couldn’t take a rickshaw—and fortunately, it being a summer night ideal for walking—I trudged all the way back from Sudachō to Kikui-chō.

Though I thought returning to the house I had resolutely left would displease even Yanagimachi who had mediated between us, after one o'clock I passed through the gate and circled around from the garden to knock on the six-tatami room's veranda door—where I imagined your bedside to be—careful that Old Mother in the 4.5-tatami room wouldn't hear,

“You?!” Then you woke and signaled to me in a hushed voice from within, as though concealing yourself.

I, thinking "Oh joy!", stealthily slipped in through the storm shutters you had gotten up and opened. In the deep summer night, the outside air held a dewy coolness that felt refreshing against the skin, but the tightly shut room trapped a stifling odor—musty mosquito netting mingled with your distinct scent—that seemed to soak into my body, wearied from walking night roads, lingering thickly around me. Overwhelmed by that indescribably nostalgic scent, I flung back the mosquito net's hem and tumbled into the bedding—you who had initially concealed me with such tenderness now lay there in the futon, though what thoughts filled your mind I couldn't say.

“Please go sleep over there. “I’ll hang your mosquito net separately…… This is where I sleep.”

and rejected me with what seemed like overwrought nerves. “Nah, here’s fine. I’m done with this.” “‘I’m done with this’? That’s your own decision.” “You’re already someone who left this place.” “Once our ties are severed, you and I will be complete strangers, so please go stay somewhere else—either find lodging elsewhere or go stay with friends.” “…………” “Look, please do that.” “This is my home, not yours.” “If we continue like this, what will I tell Old Mother tomorrow?” “Since you mock my family members, you probably don’t care about such things, but wouldn’t I have no way to explain myself to Old Mother come morning?” “I would be thought to have willingly taken you back again…”

“…………” “Please, do that.” “Please go stay somewhere else.” “No matter what you say, you’re mocking everything I tell you.” “Even without this situation, starting with my sister in Yanagimachi, all my family members think I’m being unfaithful with you.” “You’re a man after all—properly funded to live independently—so affairs might be permissible for you. But I never stayed with you all this time harboring such intentions.”

As she spoke, her eyes gradually grew brighter; sitting up in bed, she began to strike wildly at the ashtray with her long pipe. Peering through narrowed eyes as if feigning ignorance at her face illuminated by the dim glow of a bean lamp filtering through the mosquito net—that terrifyingly pallid countenance held no allure, with strands from her bunched-up hair sprawling across it like creeping vines. After letting her say all she wanted, I curled up like a borrowed cat outside the futon and fell fast asleep.

When morning came, even so appearing in good spirits,

“I’ve made sure not to tell Old Mother anything about you, even if I go to Yanagimachi. And I made sure to say that,” I said. “Ah, right.” Even as I spoke these words, I sat facing the meal table as before, chopsticks in hand, cooled by the morning breeze while eating newly pickled eggplant and fresh cucumber—preserved by your own hands after so long—their flavors familiar on my tongue. “You keep saying ‘Ah, right’ like that—this ‘Ah, right’ business isn’t good enough. While I keep Old Mother from finding out, within two or three days either find a boarding house or rent a room somewhere else and leave quickly.”

When told this, the breakfast I had finally been managing to eat well churned into bitter reflux within me.

On the third day, presumably after Old Mother had informed them, Shinkichi came storming in from Yanagimachi in a towering rage. Noticing from the corner of my eye that Old Mother had retreated to her 4.5-tatami room because there was a visitor, I deliberately detained the guest with idle chatter to waste time, thereby distracting Shinkichi—whose temper burned as fiercely as a hysterical woman's—until his fury subsided.

“You – Mr. Shin has come saying he needs to discuss something with Mr. Yukooka, and has been waiting in another room since earlier.” You entered my room saying this, forcing a smile that belied your stiffened nerves as though terrified by Shinkichi’s ferocious outburst. “Mr. Yukooka, what on earth were you thinking? Didn’t you cleanly break things off with this woman before going to Hakone just the other day?” To me, more than Shinkichi’s words, the sight of his deathly pale face—so frantic it seemed his blood circulation had ceased—was sickening to watch.

While looking at that venomous face, I deliberately adopted a sly demeanor, letting Shinkichi voice every complaint he wished before falling silent.

“You’re being sly, making me ramble on like this. Well? What’ll you do about this? Mr. Yukooka, get out of here now.” “I’ll leave even without your nagging. But leaving means I need to make arrangements—find a boarding house or whatnot—so…”

Finding it distasteful to engage with him, I said politely, "You've known for days you needed to prepare! That's your own doing." "I ain't know nothin' 'bout that." "Get outta Old Mother's house now—...go on, get out!" The moment I interjected even a single word, he grew emboldened and launched into ten complaints. "I'm no stray mutt—how'd you expect me to scram that fast?"

“Someone as unreasonable as you might as well be stray cats and dogs.” “What’s this talk of education? You dally with people’s daughters and lecture about education—why, even education itself would shrink in shame!” “Hmph! How could a true Edokko like me endure being mocked by some provincial clod like you?!” Like a country cur that had never laid eyes on a human before, he kept up his rabid barking without cease.

I smiled faintly and remained silent. "You must leave today." "...What Brother-in-law says is true." "The very fact that you came fluttering back from Hakone to this house was wrong from the start." With that, she turned toward Shinkichi and softened her tone. "I'll cover the expenses." "I'm truly sorry to keep causing you worry over such trifling matters each time when you're so busy, Brother-in-law."

“Oh, no need. "But you’re not blameless either, Osuma. No matter how many times Mr. Yukooka returns, you letting him into the house isn’t right…” “Yes, that’s already my fault.” “I’ve already told this person about that matter many times.” “I’m truly sorry to trouble you when you’re so busy.” “Since this person will surely leave as well, please just relent now.” “…that you’ve taken on another significant commission again.” You tried to divert the conversation elsewhere with those words.

“No, no,” Shinkichi let slip with smug satisfaction as he gradually quieted down.

“……Since Mr. Shin insists so vehemently… please consider this a parting for his sake and leave this house.”

After Shinkichi had left, you returned to my side and said this.

“What? That way you spoke—I find it detestable that such a man is your sister’s husband, so I’ll find somewhere to leave quickly even without being told.” “When he first came crashing through the gate with that terrifying look, I didn’t know what to do.” “I thought he might strike me.” “It’s Mr. Shin I can’t bear.” “Since he’s my sister’s husband, if I humble myself properly before him as Brother-in-law, he can be kind in his way, but…”

“What? Blathering on about education!” “He’s acting all high and mighty by himself.” You said the same thing with a scornful laugh. Despite all that commotion, since I stubbornly refused to leave, you ultimately chose to disappear from sight. When I heard she had already remarried into such circumstances without my knowing, I became so enraged at Shinkichi and all of you that tearing you all limb from limb, boiling your flesh, and devouring you would still not satisfy me—it was in that state that I wrote those words: that I would kill you on sight wherever I found you, in any street or alley.

In the second floor of the Katō house, unable to sleep through my loneliness with no outlet for its ache, I wrote that letter while steeling myself to kill you no matter what—and found this morning's smoldering resentment had somewhat subsided.

The next morning, with the same feet that had delivered the letter, I went to Old Mother in Yayoi. "Auntie! That Osuma wench has gone and married someone else!"

Having said that, I flung myself down there as if hurling my body. “Huh! She’s already remarried, you say? …And who told you that?” When I explained how I’d heard it from your old mother yesterday by such-and-such means, “Is that so? …Well, it doesn’t quite seem that way to me.” “However, since Osuma-san isn’t getting any younger, she might have rushed into it.” Old Mother continued pasting envelope linings as she uttered vague words.

Since I had been so broken and laid myself bare, your elderly mother surely wouldn't dare lie. Then she must have remarried. If she had indeed remarried, the futility was doubly bitter. When I thought this, that very futility and resentment only honed my desperate longing for Omiya. I had grown comfortable with the matron of Omiya's residence, "Mr. Yukooka is a kind man. You should take good care of him," I often heard from Omiya's lips as something the matron had said.

“The matron at my place says, ‘If it’s Mr. Yukooka’s place, you needn’t come to the tea house—just go over there and have him let you stay.’” “I see. Then come to my place.”

Before long, having explained the situation to the Katō household matron as well, I set out eagerly for Kakigarachō around dusk with the buoyant anticipation of a man fetching his bride on her wedding night to bring Omiya back. On our return journey, we took a detour by train to Kawatetsu in Sakana-chō where we ate some fowl, then came back to the Katō house bringing souvenirs as we rode in two rickshaws in tandem. "That's only natural." "When a woman who's been your wife for seven or eight years suddenly finds herself single again," "If a person doesn't have at least one pleasure to cling to, life becomes unbearable."

The matron, who had said this, welcomed my bringing a woman into the house with good grace and even prepared bedding arrangements for us.

When I awoke the next morning, unseasonably warm sunlight streamed through the open lattice-paned window into every corner of the tatami room, and Ushigome Heights lay spread out in a single view through the morning mist.

“What a lovely view, isn’t it? I’ll come for a visit with the matron from my place sometime!”

Omiya leaned against the window, gazing without distraction at the distant forests and rooftops. I found myself steeped in a serene mood reminiscent of a newlywed's morning, when abruptly everything in the world seemed transformed into objects of fascination. The meal we normally ate downstairs was brought up today by the matron on a small serving tray, with place settings arranged for two. The turnip miso soup I so cherished—though lacking the depth of flavor you once achieved in our old home—held a womanly warmth that lingered palpably after my long deprivation of such comforts. As I sat facing Omiya while she served me rice steaming fresh from the hearth, each mouthful seemed to vault down my throat of its own volition. Women are dreadful creatures—yet how do they simultaneously soothe one's very digestion this way? By comparison, I concluded, the stomach medicine from my doctor proved utterly worthless.

When I handed Omiya a five-yen note, she pursed her lips tightly to contain her delight. After seeing me to the entrance, she displayed a coquettish demeanor through the closing lattice door as though lingering with unspoken sentiments. "Goodbye!" she called in a catlike falsetto voice, squeezing her eyes shut as if entranced while repeating it incessantly during her retreat. I rushed back upstairs and threw open the elevated western window overlooking her departure route. There Omiya stood tightening her loosened obi sash with a sharp tug as she ascended Tsuyu Crossing's stone steps toward the main thoroughfare.

She walked off with ferocious intensity, surveying the street below through half-lowered eyes as if declaring, "I'll go home now and get back to work," her demeanor that of someone who'd captured a demon's head.

Seeing that, I was first struck by despicable thoughts, then overwhelmed by a loathsome feeling. Since moving into the Katō house, Yanagisawa’s residence had been right under my nose, but once Omiya started staying over at my second floor from time to time, I became even more careful to avoid stopping by Yanagisawa’s house. Occasionally I would casually drop into [Yanagisawa’s house] during his absences and chat with his old servant by the hearth in the tearoom about your gossip as she inquired—but even when hearing her volunteer stories of Yanagisawa’s escapades unprompted—it seemed I didn’t grow particularly fixated on visiting Omiya afterward.

I had, in any case, come to feel as though I'd made Omiya my own. After letting three days pass—since Omiya had sent a postcard saying she was resting due to illness—I went to see her face under the pretense of kindness, putting on airs of a devoted lover while ostensibly visiting to check on her health. Even on ordinary days, Ningyōchō Street's year-end market bustled, but today it throbbed with unusual vigor. Crimson lanterns strung between eaves merged their glow with electric lights to illuminate the thoroughfare's sky like midday. Alongside night stalls displaying nostalgic household wares—braziers and tea cabinets—the crowds before shops selling pine decorations and battledores grew so dense you could hardly move through them.

Even now that we've become strangers, were you to hear this you would surely scowl and think "Again?"—but with year-end expenses pressing, I had pawned the Industrial Bank bonds sent from my hometown that arrived by day at a familiar pawnshop. Clutching the converted cash in my pocket, I wove through the crowd in buoyant spirits. And with the pickled plum candy I'd bought at Miharadō stashed in my pocket, I peered into Omiya's house from the storefront. The cramped courtesan house’s shopfront blazed with oil lamp light upon its auspicious shelf, while the fragrant aroma of osechi New Year’s dishes simmering in the kitchen wafted all the way to the entrance.

Having finished her makeup early and bathed in the bright lamplight, restless while awaiting customers in the banquet rooms, one of the courtesans who had been huddling near the brazier appeared at the shopfront. "Omiya-chan is here inside, but..." "Is she unable to come out?" “Is that Mr. Yukooka? “……Please come in,” she said.

A voice came from the back tearoom—the matron’s. “Please come in.” “Omiya-chan is here.” The courtesan said so upon hearing the matron’s voice. “Come now, please… Lay out… the futon, if you would.” “…I’ve heard the name Mr. Yukooka many times from Omiya-chan.” “And thank you again for recently giving Omiya-chan such a splendid gift above all else.” “…Omiya-chan is at home now.” “She’s been resting since a while back, saying she’s feeling a bit unwell.” “Omiya-chan must be upstairs.” “Mr. Yukooka has come, so tell her to come down.”

“Omiya-chan says she won’t come down because there’s a nasty draft.” The small woman with a gourd-shaped face who had come previously when I was with Yanagisawa relayed what the matron had said and went upstairs. “What nonsense!... A little draft shouldn’t matter—he’s a regular patron!...” The matron forced a social laugh. “That girl’s so spoiled, I’m sure she’ll show you no restraint.” "She's been carrying on about a toothache and swollen cheek for days now, making such a fuss... Go tell her again that Mr. Yukooka's here—she can come down just as she is."

Omiya descended two or three steps, peering downstairs while laughing “Ahaha!” The face I hadn’t seen for two or three days—her hair bundled in a comb-wrapped style, showing a pale, gaunt face—appeared even more appealing than usual. “What’s wrong?” “You don’t mind me like this, do you?” “Why don’t we take a stroll around here together—we could browse the year-end market while we’re at it?” “...See? Now that Mr. Yukooka’s here, my aching cheek’s all better.” “Let’s take a walk around here together...”

“Yes.” “What will you do?” “I’ll go.” “Then I’ll come too, so please wait a moment.” While looking my way and speaking in an ingratiating manner, she hurriedly scampered up to the second floor. I sat facing the matron across the long brazier, feigning ignorance of the courtesan house’s activities while carefully observing its comings and goings. Women with proper-looking round chignons dragging their hems alongside others in cheap silk kimonos and work aprons streamed up and down the second floor in an endless procession.

At the neighboring brothel near the kitchen entrance, a crowd of courtesans raised their voices in reckless abandon on this night as the year's end pressed close,

“Even sharing one night makes her your wife – even if it’s just through a sandal’s thong...” “Even if it’s just through a sandal’s thong...” They clamored like yapping dogs. I listened in disgust. Soon Omiya descended the stairs unchanged – “I’m going like this!” Over that merino-padded coat from before, she’d simply thrown her usual silk haori. “You’re perfect as you are.”

The matron offered a perfunctory “May you get along well as husband and wife,” shepherding us to the shopfront lined with tobacco goods. The thoroughfare teemed with bodies until movement became nearly impossible. “Which way?” Omiya asked in her habitual ill-bred manner, like some mischievous child. “Well—which way should we take?” “Somewhere less crowded.” I longed to wander through some dim back alley with Omiya—just us two—our hands clasped tight.

“Let’s try going somewhere even less crowded. Maybe toward the Zaimoku-chō riverbank.” “There’s no point walking around there.” Omiya said her tooth hurt and spoke angrily while holding her cheek. “Then where do you want to walk?” “Where? Anywhere.”

"Saying that won't help anything. Where do you want to go?" "I don't want to go anywhere." "Then you don't want to go?" "I didn't say I didn't want to." She spoke angrily again.

“I see. “Then let’s find somewhere quieter that’s better for walking.” I veered toward the alley once more. “No, not there!” “Then which way?” At Omiya’s brazen manner of speaking and attitude—like that of a spoiled child throwing a tantrum—I burned with anger inwardly. “Any way’s fine.” "But you just said you hate the direction I want to go!"

With that, I set off resolutely along one side of Ningyōchō-dōri. As I turned at the large crossroads before Suitengu Shrine toward Yoroi Bridge—the pedestrian crowd having thinned somewhat—I waited for Omiya, who had been following silently behind while holding her cheek, then walked shoulder to shoulder with her. “Miya-chan, what’s the name of that woman with the traditional rounded chignon who was standing under the stairs at your house earlier?” I asked in a gentle voice.

“Who could that be? “She had styled her hair in a traditional rounded chignon.” “……In the house there are plenty of women with traditional rounded chignons.”

“I see.” “What a lovely traditional rounded chignon.” “Such a slender figure she has.” “A woman with a face like those drawn by Nagara in the frontispieces of novels—you know, with those faintly brushed eyebrows.” “Ah, that’s Kiku-chan.” “You like that kind of woman?”

“Ah, I like it.” “What a lovely rounded chignon.” “Miya-chan, you should try putting your hair up in a chignon too.” “I hate you!” With that retort, Omiya drew back sharply.

The two walked on in silence again, going their separate ways.

Crossing Yoroi Bridge to the far side and turning right past Yamaguri's large stone Western-style mansion, the clatter of streetcars faded away, leaving Kabukichō's night as hushed as extinguished flames. On the frozen road, the clattering of our clogs echoed with startling clarity against the earthen-walled buildings lining both sides—their massive doors sealed tight—producing metallic reverberations through the winter air.

Though I had gone to the trouble of walking with Omiya, my dissatisfaction grew at her failure to yield tenderly to me as I desired. Adopting a sulky air myself, I briskly hurried toward Kabuto Bridge, leaving behind Omiya as she kept trudging along listlessly. Then Omiya called out from behind, hissing through her teeth, “Where are you going?” “Hey… where are you going? Wait for me!”

While feeling somewhat pleased upon hearing that voice, I broke into an even hastier stride through the darkness where pedestrian traffic had abruptly ceased. “Hey… Oh, you! Where are you going?” Omiya appeared to be running frantically after me from behind. When I realized Omiya was acting that way, the tightness that had been constricting my chest since earlier seemed to softly melt away and lighten. And when I reached Kabuto Bridge, I leaned against the railing and waited for Omiya to come chasing after me.

“Where are you planning to go? You’d leave me behind in this desolate spot?” She pressed closer urgently.

“I’m not going anywhere. It’s just that you were walking so listlessly—it made me impatient to keep pace with you.” I said in a chilly tone.

“......” “Maybe I’ll go home now, head to Seigetsu, and have them call Kiku-chan for me!” I muttered to myself after much deliberation, as if soliloquizing. “That woman—unlike you—seems rather kind.” Even as I said this, my heart was softening toward Omiya. “If you dislike me that much, shouldn’t you just call her?” “You’ve been going on about Kiku-chan this, Kiku-chan that nonstop, you know.”

Along a vast, desolate street lined with enormous brick buildings that loomed in the darkness like monstrous apparitions, I began walking alone once more. The black soil deeply excavated—perhaps for water main repairs—lay mounded across half the roadway, while oily smoke from lanterns piercing the gloom saturated the air with an acrid reek. “Where are you going now?” Omiya came running after me. Finding her sullen silence intolerable as we walked side by side, I felt not a shred of pleasure and bolted off without uttering another word.

“Then I’m going home!” Omiya called out to me from behind like that and seemed to have turned back midway through our path. When I glanced back after some time had passed, Omiya had indeed reversed course and appeared to be retreating in the opposite direction.

At this, now it was I who became concerned and chased after her.

“Hey there, you’re going back? Then I’ll go back with you.”

Omiya broke into a faster run upon hearing that voice. “Hey, wait up! I’ll go back with you too!” No matter how desperately I called after her, Omiya kept racing further away. She crossed Arame Bridge and frantically ran along Shin-zaimoku-chō’s riverbank. Having charged blindly through the darkness, they both emerged onto a disorienting street where all sense of direction vanished. Omiya—who had been running several paces ahead—came to an abrupt halt and stood still,

“Where are you going?” She asked airily.

I felt as though I’d finally found an island to land upon,

“This way,” I said carelessly, taking the lead and walking on. “Why are you sulking like that?” “You’re abandoning me here.” “You’re the one acting so terribly reluctant to walk with me.” When I finally noticed we’d reached where Ningyōchō became visible from Ashikachō, Omiya— “You—I’m unwell, so go home now!” With that dismissive remark, she darted ahead and ran off.

I thought about going home resolutely, but how could I possibly return straightaway to that utterly dreary second floor of the Katō house? Shamefacedly chasing after Omiya once more and arriving a step behind at the geisha house, “What on earth happened, Mr. Yukooka? Just now, Miss Omiya came back panting and said she’d quarreled with you—then without another word went straight upstairs. What you young people get up to... us folks can’t comprehend.”

The matron had me sit across from the long charcoal brazier and smiled repeatedly. “You two are getting along far too well.” “It’s not quite like that...” I laughed too.

“What really happened? I hate such a fickle person.” “She said that.” “You must have done something.” “Hahaha.” “I see. Then I understand.” “Earlier, after leaving this house, I jokingly praised Kiku-chan here as someone who likes women.” “So that explains it.” “What nonsense. How trivial.” “Even if you two drag the aftermath of your lovers’ quarrel to my doorstep, I want nothing to do with it.” “Mr. Yukooka, do treat me to something... Ah yes yes, I completely forgot to thank you.” “Earlier you went so far as to give something nice even to the child.” “...Well then, why don’t you go on ahead to Seigetsu first?” “I’ll send Miya-chan along right after you.”

“But she’s saying her tooth hurts or her cheek is swollen, isn’t she?” “Oh, she rested all day yesterday, so she’s quite recovered now. She’s just being selfish… It’s truly pitiful for you. If you think she’s that sort of woman, then by all means keep doting on her forever.” While inwardly struggling to gauge Omiya’s true feelings—tormented by the thought that she might genuinely despise me—I had sunk into a near-vanishing state of despair. Yet revived by the matron’s practiced tone, I went a step ahead to Seigetsu.

Omiya came shortly after. “You’ve given all sorts of things to the child of the house, haven’t you.” “The matron told me so.” “When you do so much for me like that, I can keep up appearances.” Omiya said while lying down, as though she’d forgotten the evening’s quarrel. “It’s been some time, hasn’t it.” “It’s been some time for me too,” she said. “Why did you get so angry earlier?” “Because you kept talking so much about Kiku-chan.”

That evening, feeling more openhearted than ever before, I returned home early.

When I brought back umeboshi candy to the Katō house too, the elderly couple were utterly delighted; there in that household they lit all the altar lanterns, tidied up cleanly the parlor with its large long charcoal brazier, and the surroundings glistened as if illuminated by year-end evening radiance. During all that time you and I spent together, never once had I felt this year-end season—or any New Year's spirit at all. Yet seeing the Katō house elderly couple's steadfast yet carefree year-end preparations, even my own heart grew rarely bright with festive New Year cheer.

And on New Year's Eve the following day, waiting impatiently for sunset, I set out again for Seigetsu. I waited for Omiya to come, then together we wandered along Ningyōchō Avenue gazing at the sights. “I want an obi sash. Will you buy it for me?” Omiya stopped before a half-collar shop whose dazzling displays nearly blinded the eye, and while twisting one of the delicate trimmings hung there in rows, she spoke.

“Hmm,” I nodded magnanimously. “Then you can buy one of these delicate trims for Matsu-chan too, right?” “Hmm.” “Why don’t we buy something delicious to take along and eat?” “Hmm.” For about ten days now—no wind stirring dust, no rain falling, just unseasonably warm weather that couldn’t even be called Indian summer—this year’s end had taken on a visibly bustling air, with leftover pine decorations and bitter oranges vanishing rapidly before one’s eyes on this final night.

As we walked looking from one shop eave to another, the sky—which had long withheld rain—finally began spattering large drops around eight o’clock. And in the blink of an eye, it turned into a proper downpour. The crowd, taken by surprise, lost their footing in complete disarray and scattered away. “Ah, this fine rain.” “Let’s hurry back.”

Night market vendors looked up at the sky resentfully, straining against the rain, “Just two hours late or early makes all the difference,” someone muttered with a click of their tongue. Interpreting this with a soothing contentment, I brought Omiya back to Seigetsu. Unlike usual, there were no customers; while listening to the old maidservant downstairs boiling arrowhead with its savory aroma, there had never been a night as comfortably slept through as that one.

Even after the new year began, I continued occasionally calling for Omiya as before and letting her stay at Katō's house. And yet even were I to redeem Omiya from her contract, I found myself unable to make her entirely mine. "You can't keep at this line of work forever. You must wash your hands of it and go straight." "I truly think so too." Omiya replied with a sigh. "Shall I redeem you?"

“Even if you redeem me, it won’t do any good.”

Whenever I tried to broach a serious topic, she would deflect it with those words. That being the case, I too ceased seeing Omiya for some time.

Then came that unforgettable night of February 11th. Having spent the entire day steeped in gloom, that night too I declared I would take a short stroll about the neighborhood and returned after making a full round through Suidōchō Avenue. When they saw me entering the entryway, the elderly Katō couple—warming themselves at the kotatsu in the front room—smiled in unison, “Ah! She was just moments away! What a pity you missed her!”

“What happened? Did someone come?”

“Your sweetheart was just here,” the old woman said with a laugh. “Who do you mean by ‘sweetheart’?” I asked, though even as I spoke, a sudden boldness surged through me—could it be that you yourself had come visiting under cover of night? At this thought, your face rose before me, along with the image of you wearing that reddish checkered meisen haori you so often favored.

"Then... did Osuma come too?" "No‚ Ms.Omiya." "Just before you returned there—she'd barely reached your doorstep or maybe hadn't quite arrived." "You should've crossed paths." "Didn't you meet?" "No‚ I didn't." "...Did she leave any message?" Through all our previous encounters—always my arrangements‚ my summons—never once had she come unbidden‚ making this unprecedented. What could it mean? My sunken heart suddenly quickened—this must signal some genuine attachment‚ I concluded. With this conviction‚ my world momentarily brightened‚ electric shivers of delight coursing through me.

“And she said she’d give this to the house and left it here.” The old woman presented the apple wrapped in Omiya’s silk handkerchief, still in its wrapping. When I picked it up and examined it, the rich fragrance of perfume—as if I were with Omiya—swirled around me. “Ah, I see. She must have had some business then.” “Yes, she seemed to have some business. When we said you were out, she stood there pondering for a moment, then said ‘Please give this to him’ and left the package as it was before returning home.”

“Ah, I see. But it’s surprising she came to visit today on her own initiative.” As we exchanged these words, I spent some time warming myself at the elderly couple’s kotatsu.

“She’s such a gentle, beautiful lady.” “Today she looked more beautiful than usual.” “It’s no wonder you’ve fallen for her.” “Well, she’s a good person.” Even the old man, joining his wife tonight, praised Omiya’s beauty and gentle nature.

“Ah, I see. One would never think she’s engaged in that sort of business.” “That’s truly so. There’s not a trace of it showing.” “Why don’t you redeem that woman and make her your wife?”

What had come over him tonight—the old man kept making blunt remarks.

“Don’t be absurd—I could never take a Kakigarachō courtesan for my wife, but having her as a mistress wouldn’t pose any problem.” “Though for me, mistress or wife amounts to the same thing... She must have had some business.”

“She’ll likely come again tomorrow.” “Because it seemed she had some business.”

But even when tomorrow came, Omiya did not come. I waited impatiently, thinking that if she truly had business she would at least send a letter—but no letter came. Unable to bear it any longer, I tried sending a letter myself, but there was no reply. Finally unable to endure any longer, two days later I went out to Seigetsu.

“I heard you came by while I was away the other day—how unfortunate. Did you have some business?”

Even when face to face, she remained completely silent, not uttering a word—so I was the one who finally spoke. And in my gut, I thought: this woman—so talkative when it suited her, yet sullenly silent when displeased—was cut from the same cloth as Yanagisawa. “There was something the other day, but now there’s nothing.” She spoke as if compelled by mere obligation. “But what was the matter when you came? If I don’t hear it, I’ll be left unbearably unsettled.”

I asked gently. “Even if I told you, it wouldn’t matter,” Omiya said, her voice tinged with anger. And so I didn’t press her further. Then, after lying down,

"I might go to Korea," she said thoughtfully. "Is that man making excuses to see you again?" Reluctant to let this woman slip away to some distant place, I felt a pang of disappointment at her words. "You don't need to go all the way to Korea—couldn't you manage something here in Tokyo?"

“But there’s nothing to be done.” “I’ll just sell myself to some brothel keeper or whoever, use that money to finally sever our ties for good.” Even as we had such talk, she showed no inclination to consult me about what should be done now or anything of the sort, leaving me feeling so hollow that I thought “Do as you please,” and left early without staying. Four or five days later, I called asking her to come to Katō’s house, but whether she was out or occupied with something, she didn’t come that day as usual. So I went all the way to Kakigarachō to fetch her.

“Omiya said she had some business or something,” “She’s not here now.” Okiyo, the maid, was there alone and said this. Around that time, it was no longer unusual for me to skip Seigetsu and go straight to Omiya’s house, where I would engage in lengthy conversations with the landlady and Okiyo.

“Mr.Yukooka, there’s nothing prepared really, but won’t you have some rice? Eat together with Miyachan.” I sat lined up at a large low dining table with those other courtesans, eating my meal among them. When Omiya returned from outside, I—despite her protests and with the landlady’s urging—forced her to come along. Then as we climbed Sekiguchidai-chō’s slope and passed Yanagisawa’s house, Omiya walked shoulder-to-shoulder with me,

“This is Mr. Yanagisawa’s house, isn’t it?” Once, Omiya had asked me, “Where is Mr. Yanagisawa’s house?” But I hadn’t told her. The reason I hadn’t told her was this: while I lived this bedraggled, poverty-stricken existence, Yanagisawa always maintained a dapper appearance—a man in his thirties at the height of his revelries, appearing to all eyes as some carefree bachelor living a life straight out of a Kōyōzanjin novel, attended by a single elderly maidservant.

"My, how dashing!" I imagined geishas would sigh in lovestruck tones. Therefore, it wasn't that I had refrained from revealing Yanagisawa's house to Omiya. When it came to Omiya, I thought, I wanted above all to avoid complicating matters between Yanagisawa and myself any further. Around that time, Yanagisawa was thought to have found someone suitable in Kagurazaka or thereabouts, and since the New Year he had altogether ceased mentioning Omiya.

One day, when I peered into Yanagisawa’s house after a long absence, there in the entryway stood a tall, fair-skinned woman of imposing stature who looked unmistakably like a geisha. Clad in an elegant silk kimono with a waterproof apron tied over it, she was pouring kerosene into a lamp. I thought to myself that he was playing at being some sort of gentleman scholar, “Is Mr. Yanagisawa out?” I inquired. “Yes, he is away,” she responded.

“Yes, he is out.” “And the Old Maidservant?” “The Old Maidservant has gone to her own house and isn’t here either.” The geisha, seeing my smiling face, laughed as she spoke. Given this state of affairs, I had assumed Yanagisawa wouldn’t go bothering Omiya anymore after that. So, feeling slightly puzzled,

“Do you know Yanagisawa’s house?” I asked.

“Yes... no, I don’t.” “That’s not true.” “It’s the truth. I don’t know.” “I just thought that might be the case, so I decided to ask.” Even after coming up to the second floor of Katō’s house, Omiya remained silent from the start, arms folded in a sulk. “What’s wrong… You’re terribly downcast, aren’t you?” “…………” “Is there something troubling you?” “Hmm!... Please don’t say anything to me for a while.…” With that, Omiya fell silent again.

I flared up at her insolently selfish demeanor that treated me like a fool, but even so, I bore it in silence. Then, what Omiya thought—

“...Mr. Yanagisawa is such a wonderful man, isn’t he?” she said abruptly. “Hmm... You met Yanagisawa?” “Oh ho ho.” Omiya smiled with a bewitchingly coquettish expression that seemed laden with meaning. “You did meet him.” In the brief span since earlier, I stared at Omiya’s face—its visage had altered dreadfully. “Well, whether you meet Yanagisawa or anyone else, it matters not to me...”

“I hate you!”

“I see. Well, it’s not like I’m particularly well-liked anyway.” “How dreadful to have dragged you all the way here to a man you hate.” “Then I’ve no objection if you leave right now.”

I said, clenching my chest as I struggled to contain the unbearable pressure.

“How about we go visit Mr. Yanagisawa’s place together tonight?” Omiya replied in a dismissive tone that treated me like a fool. “Hmm… You could just go by yourself.” I mimicked the condescending manner of speech Omiya and Yanagisawa often used. “I refuse unless you go!” “If you won’t go…” “Wasn’t it you who suggested going in the first place?”

“…………” “You might as well go then. I’m going to bed now.”

About two hours of awkward silence passed. “Well—what are you going to do? I’m going to bed now.” I urged while thinking Drop dead Katsuko. “I’ll sleep too… Well—you’re not going.” Appalled at what a capricious and insolent woman she was— “Ha ha ha ha! I never said anything about going to Yanagisawa’s! You were the one who selfishly brought it up!” I forced out a loud laugh to mask my discomfort.

While I stood laying out the futon, Omiya remained seated motionless the entire time, sunk in deep contemplation. And then, abruptly,

“I like Mr. Yanagisawa,” she said in a tearful voice. When I heard this, though I’d long suspected it might come to this, my own self-bias had kept me from believing Omiya’s heart lay so distant from mine—even if not exactly inclined toward me. Yet after her earlier urgent desire to visit Yanagisawa’s house, now laid bare in words, I felt an indescribable insult—like a monkey cast from its tree—that only deepened the more I dwelled on it. My chest tightened with a rending mix of disappointment and resentment, as if every last thing in existence had cast me out alone.

“What’s this? She says she likes Yanagisawa, comes to me—her current romantic rival—and now she’s sobbing pitifully? Who does that?” I felt resentful—no, more than angry, utterly dumbfounded and driven to absurdity—thinking what a capricious, spoiled child she was, a woman born to indulge her every whim. “Do whatever the hell you want!” I thought, leaving her be as I briskly headed to the lavatory and burrowed into the futon, pulling the bedding over my head from top to toe.

“I’ll sleep too.” Omiya said once more in a tearful voice as she slipped in quietly from behind.

I turned my back sharply and pretended to sleep. I tried to stay silent and drift off, but my chest burned and my mind stayed painfully clear—sleep was impossible. I held my breath, enduring the need to turn back toward Omiya and speak what must be said. After thirty or forty minutes of this, I finally gave in and turned toward her, "Do you truly like Yanagisawa? Tell me the truth. I won't get angry."

“Yes, I like Mr. Yanagisawa,” she replied in the same tearful voice as before. I felt as though I might dissolve into nothingness as I endured in silence, but when I could bear it no longer, I suddenly—

"Ah, how humiliating!... To be reduced to a mere friend by the woman I'd obsessed over—" I snapped, clawing at my hair with both hands and thrashing beneath the futon.

Then Omiya said in disgust, “You’re terrifying!” and retreated to the edge of the futon, twisting around to look back at me. At that moment, I felt that though Omiya and I were separated by barely three feet physically, our hearts stood miles apart—like sworn enemies. Once hatred took precedence, even after waking the next morning, I didn’t speak a word to Omiya. Even so, when the landlady brought up the meal tray from downstairs,

“Please eat your meal,” I said.

“I won’t eat,” she said curtly, then sank into sullen silence and sat perfectly still. I too turned my unappetizing breakfast into ochazuke and gulped it down, then leaned against my desk without a word, skimming through a newspaper I had no desire to read. “I’ll go off to Korea,” she said in a tearful voice. Do whatever you want, I thought. Whether she goes to Korea or Manchuria—it’s none of my concern. And yet, “It would be better if you didn’t go to a place like Korea.” “I’ll find a way to help you,” I said gently.

“No matter what you do for me, it’s pointless.” That’s how she said it. I pretended not to notice and continued reading the newspaper for a while. Omiya sat silent and sank deep in thought. Then, abruptly,

“What happened to your wife?” she asked. “Hmm, she went off somewhere.” “Has she already remarried somewhere?... Mr. Yanagisawa said such things.” Hearing that, it became glaringly obvious to me that Yanagisawa had been telling Omiya all sorts of things behind the scenes. “What did Yanagisawa say?” I involuntarily contorted my face into a fearsome expression and glared fixedly at Omiya. “He didn’t say anything wrong,” she snapped.

I grew increasingly irritated, yet still endured in silence and once more sealed my lips.

“What would you do if I went to Mr. Yanagisawa’s place?” Omiya said in a tearful voice once more. “If you want to go, then go ahead. You don’t need to hold back on my account.” “So it’s really okay if I go to Mr. Yanagisawa’s place?” “There’s no need for you to keep pestering me with these questions...I have my own plans.” “Then what are you going to do?” “I won’t do anything at all.” “I hate you. I’ll tell Mr. Yanagisawa everything soon anyway.”

“What did I tell Yanagisawa?”

“Why on earth did you tell Mr.Yanagisawa what I confided in you?” “Well, I might have told him that—but only what we discussed between ourselves. It’s neither gossip nor slander about others.” “Isn’t Yanagisawa himself guilty of worse? Because I consider him a friend, this isn’t solely about you.” “I’ve even confided in him about far more sensitive matters concerning my former wife.” “That Yanagisawa would then turn such things into jokes for others’ amusement—that’s precisely what I find reprehensible.” “I may speak of matters that shame myself, but I would never utter words that bring harm to others.”

I understood clearly that Yanagisawa had been badmouthing Yukooka to Omiya—saying all sorts of things about what happened with my previous wife—so when Omiya repeated those words, I flared up. And then I thought—let anyone consider which of us was right or wrong. Then, “You don’t have to go telling others about your own affairs.” Omiya said something derisive. I flared up instantly. Not long ago, someone—who was it?—had said that Mr. Yanagisawa was a man lenient with himself yet severe toward others. That’s exactly right. Moreover, this Omiya here was exactly that kind of wretch. Ever since last night, she’d been saying whatever selfish things she pleased, all while making it seem as though I was entirely in the wrong. As this thought struck me, I flared up—ready to spit in Omiya’s insolent face, slap her cheek three or four times, and storm out—but forced down the phlegm that had risen to my throat, swallowing it again. No, no—if I angered Omiya now and parted ways in a quarrel, I’d never retrieve the letters I’d been giving her. Not long ago, Yanagisawa had mentioned how Mizuno took letters that Mano had sent to a certain woman and showed them to others. It would be amusing to take the letters another man sent to a woman and read them. Mizuno had skill.

With that, Yanagisawa himself remarked as if he had tried such tactics. If I were to anger Omiya—given her sulky disposition—she would undoubtedly tell Yanagisawa all sorts of things about me. If that happened, Yanagisawa would become even more self-satisfied and surely snatch up the letters I’d been sending to read them. It would be galling to not only have the woman taken from me but also have my letters read and be made a laughingstock.

With teeth clenched tight in frustration while softening my voice once more, "If you find me repulsive, then so be it. I'll give up." I said. Yet in my heart of hearts—realizing she had compared me so thoroughly to Yanagisawa—it was less lingering attachment than sheer loathing for her very face that took hold, and my chest burned with bitter resentment's flames: How could I take revenge on this romantic rival?

Then Omiya, "Why don't the two of us go see Mr. Yanagisawa now?" she said as if the idea had just occurred to her.

Because I wanted to place Yanagisawa and Omiya side by side once more and see how the two would behave,

“Ah, let’s go see,” I said, and then the two of us went to Yanagisawa’s house.

Yanagisawa was sitting cross-legged as usual at his desk on the second floor, but upon seeing us come up, he made a face that seemed to say he had no desire to laugh, fell silent, and stared intently at the other's face.

“It’s a student’s house—there’s nothing here anyway.” Seeing Omiya looking around, Yanagisawa said this. “What a nice house. You must get such wonderful studying done in a place like this.” Omiya spoke as though from her very core. Since the tatami was cold, I fetched the zabuton cushions stacked in the tokonoma myself and laid them out.

Then Omiya, seeing this, “You went and fetched your own cushion, but couldn’t be bothered to get mine?” she huffed. While I listened in astonishment—wondering if Omiya was so conceited as to think I was infatuated enough to cater to a woman’s whims—I looked at Yanagisawa’s face. Yanagisawa, perhaps also thinking Omiya’s words were too absurd, exchanged glances with me and laughed. “I don’t need to go to such lengths just to cater to your whims. Hahaha.”

With that, I deliberately laughed boisterously. Omiya puffed out her cheeks in a petulant sulk and fell silent, but after a while began staring at my face with contemptuous intensity— “What’s happened to your face?” Yanagisawa followed suit, eyeing my visage with equal disdain as he sneered mockingly. My countenance had grown so repulsive that even acknowledging its existence felt shameful. This wretched transformation traced back to last autumn—my second or third visit to Omiya’s quarters—when I awoke the following morning to discover I’d contracted it. Though the physician diagnosed the malady and prescribed treatment, the absence of pain or discomfort led me to neglect his counsel. Then came late January, when small boil-like eruptions began clustering around my mouth, nose, and hairline. Returning to the doctor, I watched his face contort in professional distaste—

“Ah, it’s here….” he said. “It’s precisely when that starts to progress like this.” He treated me in various ways and added, “Your hair will fall out in clumps for a while... Though it’ll grow back soon enough.” Just as the doctor had predicted, the sores on my face worsened until it became too disfigured to be seen in public. When this happened, I thought of my elderly mother back home. If the face my parents had given me were to become permanently deformed—something I could never show in public—what would I do? Whenever I considered this, there were nights when sleep eluded me completely. Between my own wretched state and Omiya’s betrayal of all human decency—though one might call her world a “high-class hell”—to say nothing of contracting this vile disease from her that might leave me a cripple for life, how could I ever face my aging mother with such shame?

Even if Omiya betrayed me and turned her heart toward Yanagisawa, I endured in silence, ashamed of my wretched, loathsome face. I thought about killing everyone and then myself. "No matter what you claim, this disease came from you." "Hmm...?" Omiya fell silent after that retort, "What nonsense! "You brought this on yourself through your dissolute ways. "...Wasn't your own wife abandoned for her debauchery too?... And isn't it said she's keeping some mistress now?"

With that,Omiya hurled abuse at me while I endured without retorting. What grated on my nerves now about her words was that single remark:"Your wife keeps a mistress somewhere,I hear?" I had once confided this suspicion alone to Yanagisawa,harboring doubts she might commit such acts. Had she not heard this slander about me from Yanagisawa,Omiya could never have uttered those words.

With that thought, I stared intently at Yanagisawa's face and Omiya's face. Yanagisawa—rather than thinking I had confided such matters because he was Yanagisawa—must have listened while inwardly ridiculing me as a fool for divulging these things to others, then exploited them to needlingly pick apart my relationship with Omiya. I was seized by a sudden urge to leap up and kick the two of them, but remembering the letters, I pressed a hand to my chest and endured.

Why was I so concerned about the letters I had been sending Omiya? Even in this recent matter involving her, I hadn't spoken a single disparaging word about Yanagisawa to her face. Though in my most recent letter, I had made one brief mention of Yanagisawa. The thought of that letter somehow falling into Yanagisawa's hands and being read by him filled me with dread. Not that there was any actual slander written in those letters. Yanagisawa had long suspected that I spoke ill of him behind his back just as he did of me - but I had never engaged in such behavior. Yet this single letter entrusted to that high-class hell would confirm all his habitual suspicions, a prospect I found utterly unbearable.

“No matter how much I ask, you won’t tell me where Mr. Yanagisawa is.” As I stayed silent, Omiya talked over me and spat venom. Yanagisawa watched with piercing black eyes that seemed to read the feelings I’d withheld, his lips twisting in a mocking sneer. Yet I still couldn’t fully grasp what footing Yanagisawa and Omiya stood on together. All through Omiya’s stream of abuse toward me, Yanagisawa kept up that insinuating smirk—a knowing leer that never left his face.

“Let’s go back now.” I urged Omiya.

“Yeah,” Omiya said without rising. “Aren’t you going to work yet?” “I’m not going yet,” she told Yanagisawa softly. “Let’s go back now.” I urged her again after a moment. “If you want to leave, go ahead. I’m staying longer.” I agonized over what conversations they might have if I left first. The truth was, I hadn’t known they’d already spent three full days together at a Kakigarachō teahouse earlier that week.

Even after being told that by Omiya, I made no move to rise alone and instead continued urging her while waiting.

“Ah, let’s go back,” Omiya said, finally making as if to rise.

I stood up. “I’ll be right there. You go downstairs and wait there, please.” Having said that, Omiya lingered as though she had some business with Yanagisawa.

Seeing that, I too felt self-conscious about being there and quickly descended. Before long, after about five minutes, Omiya came down. And yet Omiya—who hadn’t even bothered with a proper farewell when leaving the Katō residence where I lodged—now sat primly before Yanagisawa’s old maidservant, greeting her with the decorum of some nobleman’s daughter. Through her various gestures, I had already come to understand Omiya’s true feelings toward both myself and Yanagisawa. Thus, with resentment and disappointment constricting my heart, I began devising ways to retrieve the letters I had sent her.

Two or three days had passed. Some trivial occurrence had left me unable to shake the conviction that Yanagisawa and Omiya were meeting somewhere. When I peered into Yanagisawa's house, only his old maidservant kept watch in his absence; Yanagisawa himself was nowhere to be found. The more certain I grew that he must be with Omiya, the more urgently the matter of those letters consumed me. And so I immediately set out for the house where Omiya lodged.

Because it was around eight o'clock, most of the courtesans had already gone out, leaving the household in the sole care of the maid Okiyo.

“Where’s the Madam?” I asked as I took my usual seat across the long brazier. “The Madam has also just stepped out now.” “Where’s Miya-chan today?” “She’s just gone out for a bit.” “She probably won’t come back tonight.” “Yes, I suppose she won’t be coming back tonight.” I had come to feel that she must inevitably be meeting Yanagisawa.

“Since when has she been gone?” “She’s been gone for quite some time now.” “For quite some time, you say? When exactly?” “Let me see... Probably since the day before yesterday, or maybe even the day before that.” “Has she been going to the same client’s place that often?” “Yes, I suppose so. I don’t really know… You’re really concerned about it, aren’t you.” “It’s not like I’m concerned or anything, but… which teahouse?” “Well… somewhere, I don’t know.”

“Okiyo, you must know something.” “Won’t you tell me?” “I can’t tell you that.” “I know you can’t say, but tell me anyway.” Half-joking about it all, I caught sight of the guest register hanging on the pillar above the brazier while Okiyo briefly stepped out toward the kitchen entrance. Quietly taking it down and flipping through its pages with hurried hands, I discovered which teahouse Omiya had been frequenting since the day before yesterday.

This was that very teahouse which Omiya had told me about when I consulted her—since Yanagisawa had come to know about Seigetsu too, I had asked if there wasn't some better place elsewhere—and she had replied, "Well, there's this teahouse behind Arima School," telling me about it.

Ah, so she'd been going there. Was this place different from Yanagisawa's? Or perhaps Yanagisawa had been taking her there as well? While thinking such thoughts, now that I had discovered where Omiya was going, I no longer had any business with someone like Okiyo. "Okiyo, where has the Madam gone? She's terribly late, isn't she?" "Yes, she's terribly late indeed. She must have gone to the pictures or something."

“I see. Well then, I’ll be back,” I said. “Apologies for intruding while the Madam’s away.” “Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” she replied. “You needn’t rush off just because Miss Omiya isn’t here. The Madam should return shortly too.”

When I left that place, I emptied my mind and hurried to the back of Arima School. As February drew to a close, a warm night breeze hinting at spring evenings brushed against my cheeks, while large raindrops began falling sporadically from the fickle, overcast sky. I went to that teahouse and had Omiya quietly summoned downstairs without giving my name. “I shall go to the lavatory and then come here, so please wait in the parlor for a short while.” A seasoned landlady with a Mito accent emerged and led me to a secluded downstairs room.

Before long, Omiya entered, pressing her alcohol-flushed cheeks. “Oh! It’s you.” “I thought it was someone else.”

As she entered, she showed a fleeting smile, but immediately assumed a look of coquettish defiance, “I’m drunk,” she murmured as if to herself, stroking her cheek. “Who is it? A customer?” I asked casually. “Hmm, it’s no one.” “There’s no way there’s no one. Who is it? Or perhaps your beloved Mr. Yanagisawa?” “Hmm, as if Mr. Yanagisawa would ever come here. ……A customer who drinks heavily. He’s been bringing geisha and making a racket since the day before yesterday.”

Considering that behavior, it certainly didn’t seem like Yanagisawa. “I see... Well, never mind that. Since you came to my house the other day, I’ve understood your feelings perfectly. Just give me back all the letters I sent you.” “I’ve brought every letter I received from you here.” “If you return yours from your side, I’ll return everything from mine as well...”

With that，I took out from my pocket the folded purple merino wrapping cloth I had fortuitously brought with me， “Here，as you can see，I have your letters．If I can just get mine back，then I’ll return these as well．” “I haven’t brought any of your letters here．” “That’s not what I’m asking for right now．If，after giving it proper thought once more，you decide you don’t want to come to me，then I want those letters returned to my possession．You’re going to go to Mr．Yanagisawa’s side，aren’t you？”

“I’ll consider that, but I have no intention of doing something like entrusting myself to your friend Mr. Yanagisawa.” Wondering what to say next, “Then that’s fine. I’ll come back in about a week, so please have it all thought through by then.” With that, I left the teahouse. Yanagisawa had not gone. Had all my agonized pondering been nothing but groundless suspicion? If so, then I must possess a most disagreeable nature. There was nothing more unpleasant to me than being subjected to others’ groundless suspicions. I detested people who harbored such groundless suspicions more than anything. Turning these thoughts over and over, that evening I returned to the second floor of the Katō residence.

After two or three days had passed, still unable to stop worrying about Yanagisawa and Omiya’s relationship, I went to Yanagisawa’s house. There, Yanagisawa was downstairs in the tea room, having his elderly maidservant serve him while eating his meal, but—

“You weren’t at home the other day,” I said as I sat down beside the brazier.

“Hmm,” Yanagisawa said while silently eating his meal. After finishing his meal, Yanagisawa, “I plan to go to Kamakura for a while,” he said. “That’s nice. When?” “When? I don’t know if it’ll be today or tomorrow.” “Haven’t you seen Omiya since then?” I asked with a smile. “I don’t see her.” Yanagisawa made a bitter face and said. “What happened to that woman from Kagurazaka who was cleaning the lamp?” “That was the end of that.”

“But she’s not bad-looking, isn’t she?” “Not particularly… If it’s her, I could pass her on to you.” Yanagisawa said with a mocking laugh. What a strange thing to say, I thought. Him saying he could pass her on to me meant there was another woman besides her. That had to be Omiya. So Yanagisawa was indeed considering Omiya after all. With this realization, I—

“No, it’s not like I particularly want that woman,” I said with a laugh.

“I still prefer Omiya after all,” Yanagisawa said with feigned innocence, as if unaware of his own transparent intentions. “……Omiya really does give off that maid-like impression. “...And that collar of hers might as well be a clerical one,” Yanagisawa sneered, the words dripping from the tip of his tongue.

“Right. And then those ears—whittled-down, scrawny, disagreeable ears.” I too joined Yanagisawa in belittling Omiya. “Anyway, she’s a woman whose face changes so readily.”

“Right. That’s right.” “You’re quite the observant one, aren’t you.” “She really does change her face remarkably often.” Truly, Omiya was a woman whose face changed with terrifying frequency. We continued talking in that vein for some time. “Are you leaving already?” “Yeah, I’m leaving now.” And so I left Yanagisawa’s house and returned.

The following day, intending to properly inquire once more about how Omiya was considering what we had discussed during our previous meeting—and this time truly carrying her letters in my breast pocket—I set out for Kakigarachō.

Since I had previously gone up to the second floor of the Western restaurant next door—one house removed from Omiya's residence—to summon customers from within, today I thought I would go there again to properly inquire about Omiya's decision. Without a second thought, I pushed through the entrance curtain with my head and stepped inside. Hearing someone call out "Welcome!", I was about to climb the stairs leading directly from the earthen floor to the second floor when I suddenly noticed a pair of men's and women's geta discarded at the staircase base. The man's pair—wide with straight, even grain—could only belong to Yanagisawa.

With a start that bolstered my courage, I thought, "Yanagisawa was supposed to have gone to Kamakura yesterday," yet when I looked closer at the woman’s geta, those too—with their purple straps I recognized—appeared to be Omiya’s. The way they had been discarded perfectly preserved the shape of her stride, lingering there with coquettish affectation. At that sight, I was immediately overcome by an indescribable jealousy. And then, for some time, I stared fixedly at the two pairs of geta—the man’s and the woman’s—with a strangely gratifying sensation akin to pressing on a festering sore.

As I listened intently to the movements upstairs, sure enough, Yanagisawa’s loud voice carried down to me. Still straining to catch their conversation, I heard the Western restaurant’s waiter descending the stairs. I held my breath,

“Hey!” I gestured with my hand. “Is Omiya-chan here?”

“Yes.”

“Well then—without telling her I’m here—go call Miya-chan for me.” The waiter climbed two or three more steps up the staircase, he called out, “Miya-chan, a moment?” Immediately after the waiter descended the stairs, Omiya came down. And having descended just two or three more steps, when Omiya caught a fleeting glimpse of me standing rigidly in the earthen-floored entryway, she—

“Oh!!” she exclaimed, halting abruptly midway down the staircase. Then she descended again. Seeing her like this, she appeared unwell once more—her pallid face slightly gaunt, her hair bound in a chignon making it look slender.

Once she had descended the stairs, she slipped into the geta she had taken off and abruptly came to my side, pressing close as she did so.

"I'm ill," she said with catlike gentleness, delicately feigning a wilt. "You damn...!" I seethed inwardly, even as I forced my own voice into gentleness. “Hmm, I see. That’s no good, eh?” As I said this, I looked her up and down from her hair to the tips of her tabi-clad toes. She wore a deep indigo crepe silk haori tailored for spring over two layers of fine silk, the garments draped elegantly about her. "All this whoring just to wear fancy kimonos," I thought, fighting the urge to spit in her face as I used my workman's jacket sleeve to gently pull Omiya closer, peering at her through the fabric. "Hey—whose geta are these?" I pointed at the men's wooden sandals.

“……” “Hey—whose geta are these?” “Those are Mr. Yanagisawa’s.” Omiya emitted her habitual tear-choked voice.

“That’s right. … Enjoying yourselves at the Western restaurant since morning, are you?” I laughed with vicious satisfaction. “Well then—just as I told you before—now that I’ve come to fully grasp your true feelings, please return those letters I gave you.” I softened my voice a notch. “Hmm…” Omiya hesitated. “Hey, hurry up. I don’t want to keep disturbing you two any longer.”

“Just wait a moment, please,” said Omiya as she went back upstairs again. I sank heavily into a chair downstairs and tried to quell my chest burning like fire. Twenty or thirty minutes had passed, yet Omiya still hadn’t come down. What was she doing? Had they slipped out onto the roof from the second floor and fled? If so, seeing Yanagisawa’s face later would be amusing—or should I go up? No, that wouldn’t do. Thinking this, I waited with dogged patience—until Omiya descended wearing a forced smile.

“I’ll return your letters if you come to my house,” “said our landlady.”

“As for your house’s landlady—I’ve no business with your landlady.” With that, I entered Omiya’s house a few doors down. The landlady sitting across the long brazier wore an overly grave expression with an artificial smile fixed on her face,

“What on earth is going on?” she asked, looking up at me with an exasperated expression.

In the room sat not only the landlady but also the maid Okiyo, along with Omiya’s companions—Okiku, Oyoshi, Oshige, and others—all positioned here and there. They stared intently at my face in silence as I entered. “Well, it’s nothing. I’m not doing anything at all. Since I won’t be coming to Omiya’s place anymore, I thought I’d take back the letters I’ve been sending.” “How petty. Why would you do such a thing?… The things you young people do are beyond me.”

“That’s irrelevant. I’ve brought all the letters I had received until now—here they are. I’m returning them.”

At that moment, Omiya came down from the second floor carrying a small box made of gold-flecked paper. Inside it, letters were packed full. And sitting in the center of the tearoom with her back to us, “Fine! If you want this trash so badly, take all of it!” she said, sorting my letters from the mountainous pile and flinging them over her shoulder. “Here—this one too! “I’ll give back every last one, so take them!” I sat before the long brazier, watching it sidelong as I laughed.

Omiya threw down seven or eight letters there and, “This is what happens when you get too obsessed with someone,” she said while running upstairs, then came back down after putting away the box. “I have no business here. I’ll go to Mr. Yanagisawa’s place right away,” she said with a parting jab and slipped out the back door. I sat there silently laughing.

“What on earth is going on?” The landlady asked again with a laugh, repeating the same question.

In my gut, I cursed—you damn beast who knew everything yet played innocent—while maintaining... “No, it’s nothing. I’ll have no complaints as long as I get these letters back,” I said with deliberate calm, then picked up the letters Omiya had thrown down and tucked them into my pocket.

At that moment,Omiya returned again and stood rigidly in the parlor, “Mr.Yanagisawa says he has some business with you，Mr.Yukooka，so you should come…But since he’s a coward，I doubt he’ll actually show up.” Hearing that，a surge of irritation shot through me. And gripping the fire tongs that were stuck in the long brazier with all my strength，I sat up straight and said in a loud voice，

“What? “A coward?… Was that something Yanagisawa said, or you? “I’ve never fought with a high-class whore like you. “But if Yanagisawa called me a coward, then I’ll fight him to prove if I am or not!”

Then, seeing I was serious, Omiya laughed as though relenting, “It was me who called you a coward. Mr.Yanagisawa would never do such a thing.”

and suddenly softened her voice. I, too, supposed I wouldn't fight Yanagisawa over a harlot, and stroking my chest, stepped outside.