Pathway to Japanese Literature

And then, along with that, tears of bitter regret and helpless frustration streamed down—tears with nowhere to go—spilling over onto my gaunt, goosebumped cheeks that had dried in the cold evening wind, flowing hotly. Raising my tear-blurred eyes to gaze absently westward, I saw the winter sun had already sunk beyond Ushigome’s heights, its vanished form leaving behind a vast crimson halo—like spokes of a wheel—that reflected beautifully across the pale, clear expanse of cold sky. When I saw such scenes of the day fading away, I sank into an even lonelier despair, yet still—the furious resentment from having been so venomously insulted by Yanagisawa just now throbbed through my entire body like the festering pain of a deep wound that had been slashed and tormented to death.

When I walked from Otowa’s Ninth District to Yamabukicho’s streets, the clamor of countless people hastening through the dusk—their footsteps and the rumble of carts—roared like a raging torrent, overwhelming my already fevered mind. I walked through that chaos alone like a madman. And when I returned to a certain firewood shop in the middle of Yamabukicho, for no particular reason, the physical objects around me began to catch my eye for the first time. And staring fixedly at the gloomy gray firewood piled there,

"I'll go to Omiya's place right now," I muttered under my breath. Omiya with her fair skin and those thick yet soft Jizō eyebrows—she whom I had cherished as my precious secret delight—now left me utterly despondent, my body withering away into vacant abstraction when I thought how that vile Yanagisawa's jealousy had clawed through the sanctuary where my soul found peace and defiled her. "I'm done with this. "I'm done with Omiya." The moment I imagined Yanagisawa having bought that Omiya... all interest drained away. Like some neurotic patient muttering compulsively while swinging up my fist—whether meaning to strike Yanagisawa or not even I couldn't tell—I kept walking while lashing out at empty air beside my head with pure hate-driven fury.

"I'll put an end to Omiya once and for all. 'Because Yanagisawa bought her, it's become utterly uninteresting.'" I kept muttering in bitter regret as I walked here in a daze along this path, and yet—against all reason—a surge of lingering affection welled up, impossible to suppress. And then such thoughts came to mind. "When a robber breaks in and defiles a man's wife, would the husband's affection for her change afterward?" Thinking of that—though it wasn't something actually happening now, but merely my own imagined judgment—the anguish in that husband's heart became so palpable it felt as though this very abominable calamity were befalling me at this very moment.

If that were to happen, what would the husband do? The wife was unbearably adorable and endearing. Yet before his very eyes, that beloved wife's body had been shamefully defiled by a robber. Though she longed desperately to love and be loved, even that desire was now tainted—her flesh violated. Nothing proved more pitiable than a husband's heart in such straits. At such moments, could one do aught but shut reason's eyes and resign oneself? I had entertained such thoughts—Omiya too had been defiled by a robber. Moreover, though it galled me to imagine Omiya—who secretly sold her virtue—being openly purchased by Yanagisawa, I knew she must have lain with countless others unknown to me besides him.

Yet even as I reconsidered this, my aching attachment to Omiya's body—defiled by Yanagisawa—only grew more intense than before. "That's it! I'll go see Omiya right now—tonight." Once I resolved this, the thought struck me that Yanagisawa might go call for Omiya again tonight too, and my impatience flared—I couldn't delay even a moment. And even if Yanagisawa had bought her, when I firmly resolved that my love for Omiya remained unchanged, my mind grew clear only on hurrying home first before setting out anew for Kakigaracho.

When I returned to Kikuicho, the old mother had prepared a meal and brought it before the six-mat desk. While eating that, I arranged for money and was about to head out when— “Are you going out somewhere again?” The old mother called out from behind me as I was opening the gate’s wooden door.

“Yes, just for a bit,” I said and hurriedly started walking. When I went to a small waiting room called Seigetsu—where I had taken Omiya before—and requested her company, she came immediately. After exchanging a brief greeting, I sat silently staring at her face and figure for some time, but detected no change from before Yanagisawa’s interference. Her fine-pored, alabaster face bore light makeup, hair swept into a maidenly bun that exposed her nape beneath a large forelock—a style perfectly suiting Omiya’s childlike features. Then, as was her habit, she remained wordless: vividly painted lips slightly askew, eyes lifted with feigned dazzlement as she smiled.

“What have you been doing?” I continued staring fixedly at her face. Had there been someone nearby observing that face, they might have found it unnervingly unsettling.

“No, no, no!” Omiya said in an inexpressibly soft, adorable voice. This—what had that Yanagisawa done to her? Yet when I considered this—how I felt nothing toward other men, no curiosity or concern—it was precisely this that became an obstacle to affection, filling me with indescribable, shameful defilement I could not endure. “You know... you went to my friend’s place too.—But that’s not really an issue...”

I steadily feigned composure before attempting to speak.

“No. “I don’t know anyone like that.” She shook her head. “Ah, you might not know about that.” “You probably don’t know.” “But you did go out.” “I heard it from that friend.”

“No, I don’t know.” “I don’t know any of your friends or anyone like that at all.” “No—there’s no way you don’t know.” “You don’t know about it—” “…Four or five days ago—a short, dark-complexioned man with a sharp face, around thirty—he came by, didn’t he?”

When I said that, Omiya wore a face as if trying to recall something for a moment, but— “Ah, he came.” “He wore a haori and kimono in matching Kurume kasuri or something like that.” “He’s such a simple man.” “That person—the one who took me to Toriyasu the other day.”

When I heard that, I flared up in rage again, feeling as though my ears had been blocked.

“I knew it. That’s my friend,” I said gently through clenched teeth, forcing down the fire in my chest with those very words. “Ahaha.” Omiya laughed with an embarrassed flush coloring her cheeks—a laugh that somehow carried the vulgar menace of a street tough’s smirk.

After that I fell silent for a while and sank once more into deep solitary thought. When I had last come with Omiya—when we brought Seigetsu's old woman to listen to female gidayū performers at Yakushi no Miyamatei and returned late—I had suggested we have shiruko or something similar but neither of us wanted anything, "If you're hungry why don't you go home and have your aunt prepare some Western food? There's something delicious there," she said while I was eating that with Omiya in Seigetsu's small parlor,

“The grilled chicken at Toriyasu sure is delicious, isn’t it?” Omiya said.

“Do you know Toriyasu?” “Yes, I was taken there by a customer for the first time the other day.” “That was simply delicious!” She had been saying such things—and now I wondered—was that customer Yanagisawa? If I put it this way，you’d understand immediately：while I was constantly struggling even with my pocket money，Yanagisawa walked around with bundles of ten-yen notes stuffed in his coat．While I counted coins and entertained Omiya，Yanagisawa spared no expense—taking her out to distant places or dining out whenever he wished，doing exactly as he pleased．

And so, when I realized that the customer who had taken Omiya to Toriyasu the other day was Yanagisawa, I felt like she would be taken away from me again—and it became unbearable once more.

“When was that?” “Hmm, just the other day.” If she said “just the other day,” when exactly was that? Some time ago, Omiya had claimed a man bound to her by deep karmic ties had suddenly reappeared after detecting her presence in this area, saying she might have to vanish any moment—but after about a week, she declared she wouldn’t go anywhere for now, which was why during my previous visit we’d gone together to hear gidayū performances. Since she’d already mentioned visiting Toriyasu back then, that meant during the week I hadn’t come by, Yanagisawa had visited and taken her there at a time when I still hadn’t even begun taking women out anywhere. Society might label me a hedonist when it comes to women, but Yanagisawa was far more skilled than I. Realizing this made me grow all the more anxious about Omiya. And so I tried to suppress my urge to badger her with petty questions, but ultimately couldn’t resist and asked as casually as I could manage.

“He’s quite a man, isn’t he?”

“He really is such a good man.” “I *adore* men like that!” “He doesn’t wear flashy silk kimonos or anything—both his kimono and haori are in matching Kurume kasuri or something like that. So refreshing!”

“Did something interesting happen?” “Hmm, he’s not much of a talker.” “He stares right at your face while speaking and never wastes a word.” “I just love men like that!”

Yanagisawa truly seemed to have found favor with Omiya.

“Because I thought she was a woman you’d bought, I kept staring at her face and found it rather intriguing.”

Yanagisawa had been saying such things earlier in front of Aiba as well. I—unaware that Yanagisawa would engage in such malicious acts—had never kept Omiya by my side while harboring deceitful schemes. With Yanagisawa, it was different. He had known from the very beginning that this was the prostitute Yukioka visited, and even when speaking, he did so with that intention. When taking her out to places like Toriyasu, he acted with ulterior motives.

If I said this, you would retort that Yanagisawa had stolen away some trivial Kakigaracho woman—stop uttering such shameful-sounding things. "Doesn't this only diminish your dignity?" you would say—and though I knew that well enough, that was precisely how Yanagisawa had first begun summoning Omiya. Come to think of it, I believed even you could mostly discern what Yanagisawa was scheming. Yet despite these loathsome feelings, even as I kept watching beside her, Omiya's lovely features proved so captivating that I ended up procuring the very woman Yanagisawa had bought.

When I returned exhausted from this, my nerves grew even more frayed, and I found myself unbearably preoccupied with thoughts of Omiya. While I was there, I felt at ease, but whenever I wasn't looking, I imagined Yanagisawa must be going over during those times—doing this or that—until I grew exhausted from imagining. After that, I had kept my distance from Yanagisawa, determined to avoid crossing paths with him whenever possible. But if too much time passed without seeing him, I would start thinking he must be visiting Omiya again today. He must be going there. He must be going there. As I turned these thoughts over in my mind, I became utterly convinced he must be there, and unable to settle without seeing Yanagisawa's state for myself, I went to check on him for the first time in a while.

To that familiar one-eyed old woman, “Is the master in?” I asked.

“Yes, he is here.” She seemed to find something disagreeable and replied with a sullen face.

Hearing that Yanagisawa was home, I felt somewhat relieved. Though the old woman urged me to go upstairs immediately, I did not ascend right away. Instead, I had her guide me up the steep stairs. When we reached the top, there sat Yanagisawa—his small frame clad in a brand-new, coarse meisen haori of tea-brown and black with a bold pattern—firmly cross-legged before his desk. Whenever he wrote, he was lavishly praised left and right, and being in the very midst of his rise to prominence, he had already completed his submissions for the New Year’s magazines a full ten days earlier than anyone else. His pockets had surely swollen with fresh bundles of ten-yen bills, the sharp angles of his stylishly cropped cheeks now fleshed out so noticeably it drew the eye, his swarthy face gleaming with vitality.

I, feeling more than anything a sense of being crushed by his vibrant, prosperous air, sat hesitantly beside the brazier,

“Such a manly man.” I recalled Omiya’s words—“I adore men like that!”—and while repeating them in my gut, I compared them to Yanagisawa’s face. From the moment I began climbing the stairs, Yanagisawa had stared at me with a wary, scrutinizing gaze. Without uttering a single word, he maintained his silence. I too felt compelled to engage in this contest of muteness and remained wordless indefinitely. “Well? “Have you been visiting Kakigaracho lately?” He adopted an uncharacteristically gentle expression and spoke with disarming casualness.

“Hmm. I don’t go.” “I’ve quit.” “It’s boring.” “How about you?” “I don’t go much either, but… haven’t you seen Omiya since then?”

Yanagisawa spoke with an uncharacteristically frivolous lightness to his words.

To me, it somehow began to feel as though both parties were probing each other's intentions. And so, in my dealings with Yanagisawa, I found these feelings utterly loathsome and unbearable—but this time around, it couldn't be helped since Yanagisawa had barged into our relationship from the very beginning. "No, I haven't seen her at all. Because I haven't gone back since then..." I said this, but if Omiya had told Yanagisawa about my visit, the truth would immediately be exposed. If he were to see through these lies I told to conceal things—knowing his usual nature, he'd only press his advantage further and retaliate—I thought,

“Oh… I did go once after that, huh?”

he said, as if it were nothing. And yet, deep inside, it felt as though I could be pursued endlessly—a sickening sensation.

“It’s thought she’s in high demand, but whenever I go to see her, she’s never there.” Yanagisawa slightly raised his voice as he continued. So Yanagisawa had been going there frequently since then and keeping Omiya occupied. I secretly thought. “You’ve grown quite plump lately, positively brimming with vigor.”

While watching Yanagisawa’s face, I changed the subject as if shifting gears.

“Hmm.” “Hmm. Lately, everything I eat tastes fantastic.” Yanagisawa said with apparent delight and stroked his cheeks with both hands. “You’ve grown… *translucent* lately.” With a cold laugh, he said this, then stared fixedly at my face while continuing, “And then, you’ll just keep fading away…” Yanagisawa grimaced as though even the sight or mention of wretched creatures was utterly detestable.

“Ah, I suppose I’ve grown translucent.” I sullenly stroked my gaunt cheeks. And then I thought this: I don’t want any sympathy from Yanagisawa, but when it comes to why I’ve ended up like this now, he’s not someone who could possibly understand the reasons. Even if he could understand, I thought he wouldn’t be someone whom this matter would gnaw at as absurdly and bone-deep as it does me; nor could I claim this state stems from being cast aside by you. And since such feelings wouldn’t be comprehensible to those without the experience even if explained, I merely said this much before falling silent again.

“Omiya pities you whenever she lays eyes on you.” “That’s what she said.”

Yanagisawa said that again and laughed. “……” I was silently laughing dejectedly.

“...I wonder if Omiya’s there today.” “...Maybe I’ll go see her now...” I briefly wondered: Was Yanagisawa toying with me? Or beneath his casual words, did he himself harbor real feelings for Omiya? Or perhaps—taking pity on this translucent wretch who couldn’t even glimpse Omiya’s face as he pleased—was this some charitable whim, like stepping out to dump fish bones in the kitchen’s trash and tossing them to a stray dog instead? But in the end, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that if Yanagisawa, Omiya, and I sat together, I’d witness their true dynamic—for there could be no doubt Yanagisawa wanted her. Having thought this through,

“Oh… I suppose we can go.”

From there, the two of them spent some time in unreserved small talk before setting out for Kakigaracho around dusk. Yanagisawa wore an imposing Echigo Yūki or similar kimono—a black ground with a thousand tea-colored stripes, free of gaudiness, paired with a matching haori tailored by Maruya of Suidōchō using funds from his copious year-end earnings—and crowned his head with a 3-yen-50-sen bird-hunting cap resembling Daikoku-sama’s hood. I had gone out still wearing that dark brown meisen with its rustic kasuri pattern.

The streets stretching from Koishikawa’s Suidōchō outskirts past Kudanzaka-shita, through Sudachō toward Ryōgokubashi buzzed with year-end crowds as advertising brass bands blared clamorously from thronged intersections and the upper floors of exhibition halls. I blocked my ears against the street’s din—so oppressive it seemed to fray people’s nerves—and felt myself growing disheartened. Watching Yanagisawa have the conductor punch commuter tickets for two, I left everything to others and leaned my head against the window frame.

“I wonder if she’s there today?”

When they alighted from the train, Yanagisawa walked ahead while tilting his neck slightly and asked, “Where shall we go?” “Well, anywhere’s fine… but how about that place you visited the other day?” I disliked going to Seigetsu—where I intended to sneak into later—with Yanagisawa. “Then let’s go to that house after all… Though I don’t frequent that teahouse much—it’s where I first summoned Omiya.” Having said this, they entered a nearby teahouse from the okiya where Omiya resided.

“…Miyachan will be here shortly.” The maid came to report. “There she is!” I said with a smile.

“Hmm.” Yanagisawa deliberately made a bitter face. “I wonder what face she’s wearing today.” “When I took her out in broad daylight the other day, the powder had flaked off in blotches over the pallid parts of her face—it was disgustingly unbearable.” With that, Yanagisawa grimaced.

“No matter how you look at her, she can’t be seen as anything but a high-class prostitute.” “She’s different from geisha in some way, isn’t she.” “Of course she’s different from geisha.” “The other day when I took her to Tori-an, the maid there silently laughed—she must’ve thought I’d brought a prostitute.” “To someone with discerning eyes, anyone could tell at a glance what she is.” Yanagisawa kept talking about Omiya with persistent focus. 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’d never heard before.

“He’s utterly obsessed,” I thought, and as I came to grasp Yanagisawa’s heart more and more, this unpleasant feeling between us inevitably welled up. This was troublesome, I thought, heaving a deep sigh inwardly. “Even so, when I took her to stand in the gallery at Kabukiza the other day—right during the Shinobu no I Kowakare scene—her eyes turned red, tears streamed down, and she wept silently without a word.” “Well, she does feel some human emotion there, I suppose.”

Yanagisawa said of Omiya’s tears with feigned meekness.

“Did you take her to Kabukiza too?” “Hmm.” “When?” “After all, when I took her to Torian the other day—” Yanagisawa made a guilty face and said, as if to divert the moment, “When we left the standing gallery for outside the theater, it turned out to be such a fine moonlit evening. An indescribably sentimental night.” “I stayed silent, and Omiya trudged along without a word either. But when she suddenly looked up at the moon and said, ‘What a lovely moon,’ turning her pale face toward me—tears still glistened in her eyes. I must admit—she looked beautiful then.”

Even Yanagisawa now spoke with earnest reflection.

As I listened to that, I felt my chest tighten. As I scraped together what little money I could, barely managing even to meet Omiya at all, while Yanagisawa was already carrying out some novel-worthy romantic plot with her—the thought that everything in this world seemed intent on oppressing me made a heartrending resentment surge up from the depths of my chest in waves. And so—to outside eyes appearing dazedly like someone who’d gone vacant—I became absorbed solely in my own thoughts. Then I, devoid of any endurance, began to feel pitiful toward myself, and I suppressed the urge to burst into tears by choking them back with all my might.

After some time had passed with no move being made— “You took her to Kabukiza too?!” I said in a vague, lifeless voice. “We went to Torian on the way back.” And in my gut, I recalled how Omiya had recently— “He seemed like a student—inoffensive.” “After leaving Torian, 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 in my palm before leaping onto the train himself.”

Having said this savoringly, I recalled it again and repeated it pointlessly. At that moment, Omiya quietly slid open the sliding door and entered. A young woman followed her in from behind. "Oh!" Omiya began to laugh nervously upon entering and seeing Yanagisawa—who sat cross-legged directly facing her.

She usually came wearing that maroon arrow-feather-patterned silk kimono and the dark indigo-gray silk haori with light brown interlocking geometric patterns woven into it, but today she wore a thin white rain-patterned meisen haori over a blue ground and what was likely another rough navy-blue meisen padded kimono, looking particularly innocent and beautiful like a maid from a respectable household or a young daughter from a modest family. And so I remembered that Yanagisawa had once said he liked maids. Speaking of which, when he had once been invited to Ōkura Kihachirō’s house as a journalist, a beautiful maid there had caught his eye,

I recalled how he had once said, "I like that sort of woman." Her pale face was lightly powdered with white makeup forming slightly elongated vertical dimples on both cheeks as she smiled—with dazzlingly long eyelashes— “Where have you been?” “You.” “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?”

After all, while saying that toward Yanagisawa, she sat facing him across the serving table. And while glancing briefly toward me sitting silently beside them, “Welcome!” she said in a low tone. “Too busy being popular with customers to come around, were you?” Yanagisawa said while staring intently at Omiya. “Oh! But I did come after that.” “But you never said I came!” “Even if I do come, I don’t go telling anyone about it.” “I don’t go around giving names or anything.”

He spoke as if to say: someone might go around disclosing their name in a place like this, trying to make women like them—but I don’t do such things. “What’s your name?” “I don’t have a name.” Despite making a face so terrifying it looked ready to bite them, Yanagisawa kept cracking jokes and bantering with the women. “Then, ‘Nameless Gonbei’?” said another girl—a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old with a gourd-shaped face and a pert mouth.

“Ah, I am Nameless Gonbei.” “That’s a lovely name, isn’t it?” “Hmm, that’s a fine name, isn’t it?”

Yanagisawa was chatting away with such ease, as though he were an entirely different person.

“Today you’re wearing such plain, natural attire instead of your usual going-out clothes.” I looked up at Omiya and then looked down.

“Hmm. I prefer this style over those silk kimonos and such things…… You have nice clothes.” Yanagisawa said the sort of thing he often said. “Yes. Does this please you so much?” Omiya said, glancing around her chest area while keeping her gaze on Yanagisawa, “You’re wearing such a lovely kimono today, aren’t you? …You didn’t wear that kasuri today. I adore that one. It’s so vibrant. …But this kimono is lovely too. Did you have it made recently?”

“Hmm. “It’s good, don’t you think?” Yanagisawa also looked around his chest area and said contentedly. “I’ve also had a lovely spring outfit made recently—it’s nearly finished, you know.”

Omiya glanced at another young woman in a beckoning manner. "What kind of kimono?" I opened my mouth that had been silent.

“What kind? Well, I can’t really say.” “The haori is crepe silk with a family crest, the kimono has matching upper and lower parts—it’s omeshi silk, of course.” Just then, the ordered sushi arrived. “Won’t you have some too?” I picked at it 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 with his mouth full while hesitating about how to wipe his soiled fingertips.

“Oh, something to wipe with?… Here, use this.” Omiya threw a small woman’s handkerchief embroidered with arabesque patterns.

Yanagisawa used it to wipe his fingertips, then wiped his mouth after drinking tea. “You—why don’t the two of you go over there?” Yanagisawa tactfully gave me a discreet glance. “Hmm.…… Well, fine then.” “……What will you do?” I asked, uttering something whose meaning was unclear even to myself.

"I'm talking with you here right now, aren't I?" Yanagisawa looked at me with a jesting air, yet in a way that seemed to peer into the face of one of the women.

I felt insulted, as though my secret—one I should have guarded—was being exposed for all to see. But since we’d already come to such a place, I saw no need to keep up appearances. Without hesitation, I took Omiya and entered another room. Before long, 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 his words. “Didn’t *you* do anything?” “As if I’d do anything. A piss-stinking brat like that. Omiya calls that girl her junior sister and often recommends her to other clients. Who in the world would buy a girl like that?!”

After letting two days pass, I went to meet Omiya again due to the promise I had made earlier about buying her a coat. When I went to Seigetsu and called for her, Omiya came right away.

“Let’s go buy a coat together today.”

“Today,” Omiya smiled, unable to contain her delight, “right now? “Oh! Isn’t it too late?” She wanted to go yet hesitated as she spoke.

“Let’s go.” “It’s not late.” “Well...” “I’m feeling rather indisposed today…… Please go buy it alone.” “I’m not going anywhere—I’ll wait here…… There are plenty around there,” she said with a cold expression. “No—that won’t do. I’ve been looking forward to going shopping together.” Ever since the other day, “I want a coat.” “You just buy the outer fabric.” “I’ll handle the lining myself.” she had been saying. I had been with you for seven full years, yet I never made you a single coat. And yet here I was, going to such lengths for some Kakigaracho prostitute I’d only met three or four times—buying her a coat at her whim, cheap as it was—until I found myself wondering how I’d come to feel this way, seeming like an idiot yet also finding it absurd as I pondered. Then the first thing that came was tears.

"Ah, I did wrong by Osuma. "For seven years I never gave her a single proper kimono to wear, always making her do menial water chores with her sleeves tied back." Thinking this, even as I bought just one tan of outer fabric for a fifteen-yen coat for some prostitute, it felt like I was doing something inexcusable toward you—my conscience pricked me—but then again, "She remains unaware that I, alone in my heart, feel such remorse toward her—having vanished at September’s end without once stepping foot back to my place. What an unreasonable woman she is…… What a cruel thing she’s done…… What do I care? I’ll buy Omiya that coat! I'll buy it for her! Even if Osuma isn’t watching—I’ll buy it for Omiya out of spite!"

In the empty house of Kikuicho, sitting cross-legged before my desk despondently and muttering such things to myself, I found myself roused by my own words—sadness and pity and regret surging up like a flood—until tears welled so thickly I could see nothing at all. And so here I was in midwinter—a season when one ought to be preparing at least a single set of New Year's clothes—flaying my own skin where there was none left to flay, selling off the very books I'd been reluctant to part with, all to scrape together just enough money to come courting Omiya's favor.

Contrary to my expectation that she would be delighted, she didn’t even say thank you and spoke with reluctance, as if being dragged somewhere unpleasant. "Are all women this selfish? She’ll get what’s coming to her," I thought bitterly, yet remembering how she’d gone out with Yanagisawa to Kabukiza and Toriyasu recently, I found myself desperately wanting to take her somewhere—anywhere—myself. And so I thought, *This sulky whore!*, but her refusal to rise eagerly grated on me, and I resolved to coax her into coming along cheerfully.

"Hey now—let's go," he urged gently. "And we'll get something to eat on our way back." "Well then—shall we?" "They're piled high round every corner here." Her voice carried coarse edges like frayed silk. "So you meant all along—" His words cracked mid-sentence. "—to have me trudge through gutter shops alone?"

“That’s right! Those things are everywhere!” “No, that won’t do. Let’s go somewhere better.” “Toward Nihonbashi?” “Ah.” “Alright then, I’ll just pop back to my place and let the madam know.” With that, Omiya went back. Before long she returned, this time completely transformed from before, breaking into a hearty laugh just like that time we met at the alley entrance beside the house where she lived after not seeing each other for what felt like ages.

“The madam at my place said, ‘Mr.Yukioka is such a kind man. Take your time,’ she told me!” This time, she came out with something like that. What a capricious creature she was—it grated on me—but since I was bursting with desire to take her out somewhere together, and she declared she’d cheer up and go after all, I too felt glad as we stepped outside. “The madam said, ‘You should go to Matsuya in Nihonbashi—it’s cheap and good there.’ Our madam buys from that shop too.”

Omiya walked briskly, speaking in that madam-like tone she often adopted during her buoyant moods. “Even if they say it’s cheap, how much difference could there really be?” I thought, then said, “Fine, let’s go there.” I did as Omiya said. As we crossed the filthy, stagnant canal from Kakigaracho toward Shinzaimokucho, the short winter day had already hidden itself beyond high rooftops, and a cold evening wind whipped parched sand dust from the tracks of cargo carts hauling wholesale goods.

Not to borrow Yanagisawa’s phrasing, but taking her out like this—even if one could excuse it as being that dim evening hour when winter sunlight had already faded—not a trace remained of Omiya’s usual allure. The *omeshi* haori was passable enough, but beneath it she wore some bizarre yuzen merino *awase* robe or padded kimono with an arabesque pattern. As she passed conspicuously before the bustling wholesale district teeming with crowds, I, despite having gone through the trouble of bringing her out, walked briskly ahead alone.

Bringing such a woman into Matsuya had me breaking into a cold sweat, but as I climbed to the second floor with trepidation—wondering whether we might encounter anyone I knew—there, right at the top of the stairs, stood acquaintances shopping as a couple. I gave Omiya’s sleeve a quick tug and swiftly hid us in the shadows. Soon after they had gone downstairs, I embarrassedly led Omiya—dressed in cheap yuzen merino that resembled undergarments—before the sales clerk.

Then Omiya did just what you had done. Why must women always be like that? What happened when I bought you that machine-spun kasuri for a lined robe—when I chose it myself and brought it back? You didn’t like the pattern—what did you say? “You shouldn’t go making pushy statements like that,” you had said. “When you bring something for someone—‘I got this for you; do you like it?’—that’s how you ought to ask first.”

She had said such things. Back then, you would repeat like a mantra that your former husband had been kind—so very kind— "That husband of yours might have spoken that way to dote on you, but I won’t say such things," I said with a laugh. You laughed too then, though your face showed displeasure. But even so—claiming you disliked the pattern after all—you made the clerk bring out other fabrics to compare against the very one I and the fabric store’s son had carefully selected as ideal. And in the end, you too ended up liking the original choice. When I quickly had it tailored and you tried it on, you said: "This is rather a nice pattern. When I wore it to my sister’s, they said ‘How well it turned out!’ and kept pulling at it to look."

Hadn't she said that? Omiya was exactly like that.

For merely buying one serge coat, she had various items shown by the clerk.

“Ah, this one is good!” she exclaimed, picking it up—but no sooner had she done so than a different pattern was brought out. “Oh, this one’s much better!” And then she reached for that one instead. “Then just settle on that one,” he pressed.

“Oh, this one’s better after all!” she said, slipping a finger into her mouth as though deep in thought. I desperately wanted to crawl into a hole before the clerk, “Well, I’ll take that one then.”

“…………” “This one also has quite a suitable pattern.” As the clerk said this, Omiya retrieved the coat she had relinquished and tilted her head to examine it at an angle, “Then maybe I’ll take that one over there?” This was how. “Come on, come on!! Enough already—why don’t you just hurry up and pick one?!” I grew impatient and pressed her. “No, please take your time and look at your leisure.” The clerk offered polite flattery.

“Wouldn’t this be quite suitable?” This time he picked up a different one from before. “Then I’ll take that one!” Omiya took her finger out of her mouth as she said this. And finally she settled on the one the clerk had picked up a second time. Deciding was one thing, but later I heard that after taking it home, everyone had all sorts of opinions; the next day she went back to Matsuya herself to exchange it for another one, but then the housewives and other prostitutes started in with their comments again; this time she called to have them bring over the coats, and though they all compared them together, in the end she apparently settled on the original after all.

After hearing all this, I grew a little disgusted with Omiya—what a fickle thing she was, this prostitute constantly wavering in heart—yet still I couldn't bring myself to stop.

After leaving Matsuya, on our way back we entered Shokushou Alley and went up to that bird restaurant there. Though not much of a drinker even with sea cucumber as a snack, I settled into a leisurely mood and drank a cup while grilling bird for Omiya. “How is it? Is it good?” I asked. “It’s not very good, you know… My tooth’s been hurting since noon.” With that, she made a sour face, twisted her mouth, and produced a sound like slurping.

Late that night,

“I’m getting out of here!” As I kept thinking, it gradually became tedious, so I abruptly sat up and returned without saying much. To say I returned home would be putting it nicely—after barely managing to catch the train and arriving back in Kikuicho on that cold late night, the old woman, perhaps thinking I wouldn’t return again this evening, had long since locked up and gone to bed. When I banged loudly to wake her, “Is that you, coming back late again?!”

And muttering to herself, she opened the door. I opened the closet, burrowed recklessly into the futon cold as ice, curled up like a stray dog beneath the eaves, and fell into a tormented sleep. The old woman—as I had mentioned before—must have had some prompting from you and Yanagicho; she told me to get out of this house and then tried to drive me out with venomous words. I too had been moping through damp days in that Kikuicho house, driven solely by wanting to know where and how you were living—yet even staying there meant ultimately having no means to find out, so I considered renting some other sunlit, tidy room elsewhere. Still, despite having maintained my own household for six or seven long years of constrained circumstances—eating what I wanted when I wanted—the prospect of leasing a single room in someone else’s home now, having to mind strangers bound to me by neither love nor obligation, struck me as unbearably tedious. And so I ended up clinging to that familiar, decaying house in Kikuicho.

Then, the second floor of that Kato residence in Sekiguchi where Yanagisawa’s younger brother had been staying had become vacant some time ago, and to Yanagisawa’s old maidservant— “Mr. Yukioka, are you truly coming? If you are, I’ll keep it open with that intention.” Having been told that the wife of the Kato household had relayed this message, I resolutely cast aside my lingering attachment to the house in Kikuicho and resolved to move into that residence.

It was certainly December 17th. From evening onward, I had Kurata’s retiree from Yarai’s old woman’s place carry my luggage.

Pulling my wilted heart up from within myself while tying up luggage and organizing books—when I looked around, whatever I turned to was preceded by tears of regret.

"Why am I so spineless?" "A man shouldn’t be like this." I tried scolding myself like this, but there was only a helplessly pitiful sadness within me—as if sinking into an abyssal depth—with no patience left whatsoever. Having had Kurata load one cart with my belongings, I stood before my cluttered desk and picked up chopsticks from breakfast my elderly mother had laid out.

“Mother, I’ve imposed on you for so long—but today will be my last day in 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 some terrible things to you and Osuma—but I ask that you forgive me for that.” “……Once I’m gone, I won’t give another thought to Osuma, so you can rest assured.” “……What has Osuma been doing in truth?” “Since I’m leaving so cleanly like this, there should be no harm in you just telling her that much.”

I felt truly apologetic and spoke gently. Old Mother probably remained unmoved by those words—she set down the meal tray and, while leaving, half-concealed herself behind the sliding door. “Osuma has married into an elderly man’s household… one who already has a daughter…” Following her habit of letting words dissolve into silence, she said only that much before shutting the door with a decisive snap and retreating to the kitchen quarters. Hearing this, my arms went numb as if paralyzed—the bowl and chopsticks I’d been holding clattered onto the tray. The mouthful of rice I’d taken seemed to rise back up, refusing to pass down my throat.

And leaving the move entirely to Ogura, I rushed out of the house like a madman.

“Ah, that body which had shared my bed for seven years had already become another man’s possession without my knowing!” “Ah! Had that body truly become irretrievable for all eternity?!” While idly imagining the elderly man’s face—the one said to have a daughter—he wandered aimlessly down streets until recalling the Old Woman from Yarai’s words: “It seems Ms. Osuma is near Dentsuin.” He rushed from Yamabukicho’s thoroughfares toward Koishikawa, reached Dentsuin Temple, and combed through every grimy row house behind it. Dragging exhausted legs through Takebaya-cho and Dōshin-cho’s alleys like a stray dog circling its territory, he finally limped back to Kikuicho.

“Mr. Kurata has already taken everything away.” “There’s nothing left here anymore.” The old woman spoke as if to say, “What have you come here for?”

My dwindling belongings scarcely filled a single small cart. Kurata made two trips to transport them nearby during his free time. The already dim six-mat rooms stood hollowed out; stripped of possessions, they lay as desolate as an abandoned house. Ignoring the old mother’s muttering, I climbed to the tatami room and collapsed with a heavy thud, listless as though my heart had been scooped out.

Outside the house, a quiet warm winter sun shone, and the sky stood crisply clear in a way that made one think how pleasant it would be to walk about those parts.

Finally standing up, I looked around the house. Then, noticing a mousetrap in the kitchen’s plank-floored area,

“Ah, I paid good money for this,” I thought while opening various cupboards to find them filled with all sorts of things. Back when our relationship still held intact—when I would help prepare Western dishes we ate together—the smells of breadcrumbs and suet lingered and overflowed from within those cupboards.

In the small drawer, there were still many new disposable chopsticks. “It’s stingy to reuse disposable chopsticks for customers.” “Those things are dirt cheap.” “Even so, some households still put out ones that’ve turned black.” “I can’t fathom people like that!” With those words—your brisk bustling about the kitchen that never skimped on fresh chopsticks—I suddenly recalled it all, and stood transfixed before the mousetrap for a long while, lost in thought. Then,

“What is it?”

Old Mother peered out from the four-and-a-half-mat room and saw me standing motionless before the mousetrap, lost in thought. “Do you intend to take even that mousetrap?” “Shouldn’t that be given to Osuma? Wouldn’t it be better to give it to Osuma?” She grumbled under her breath as if talking to herself. Because I was annoyed, the thought arose to call a junk dealer and have that thing sold off in a hurry.

It was true there had been talk of giving this to her [Osuma], but even considering what had come up during discussions at the Old Woman from Yarai's place—

“Mother-in-law, when Yukioka comes next, tell him household items are cheap.” “Please tell him to sell everything off cleanly—to avoid any lingering complications.” “Because if those things remain forever and keep catching my eye, I’ll end up being reminded of all sorts of things I’d rather not recall.” Recalling she had said this, I went out to the main street to look for a junk dealer, but at a nearby shop where one had been, the proprietor was out. So, thinking “Ugh, what a hassle!”, I left the house in Kikuicho and came to Kato’s house, leaving everything just as Old Mother said.

At Kato’s house, with the housewife assisting, Ogura and another were working together to carry that large bookcase upstairs and figure out where to place it. The south-facing shoji screens were filled with warm sunlight, and when opened, beyond the Edogawa River flowing below the cliff, the plateau stretching from Akagi to Tsukudo Hachimangu in Ushigome’s hollow lay hazily veiled in mist. In the shadow of noxious soot spewing from the Artillery Arsenal’s chimney, the distant form of what might have been the Bank of Japan building could faintly be seen.

I sat perched on the threshold of the lattice window there, alternately searching in the distance for roof tiles of the Akagisaka house where I had lived until early this spring and gazing out at the dwellings toward Nihonbashi, until I began to feel somewhat unburdened. Back when we were still together, we often spoke about how you had left your previous husband and returned home—and about how that person who had mediated our coming together four years earlier, “Since Ms. Osuma stayed four full years precisely because things weren’t entirely bad between you,” they had said, “you must refrain from remarrying—no matter how favorable any proposals—for half a year to save face for that person.”

Didn’t they say that—after mediating our separation—we should reconcile? Yet though I had stayed with you for nearly seven full years, when I thought how you did such things while I still resided in your parents’ house… No matter how much I told myself *I* was the one who’d done irreparable things, who’d caused hardship, who deserved pity and compassion—the more I dwelled on it, the more your clan’s heartless treatment lodged in my chest until I wrote that very letter in bed, exactly as it happened.

That bastard Shinzaburō from Yanagimachi—what the hell was I supposed to do about him? It was still the hot season then. When I—having resolved to part with you and intending not to return to Tokyo for some time—went to Hakone, stayed about twenty days, then soon found myself returning... Arriving at Shinbashi, I barely caught the blue tram, but by Sudacho station there were no more Edogawa-bound cars left. With only enough for a one-way fare and no money for a rickshaw, I walked all the way back from Sudacho to Kikuicho through the summer night—the warm darkness somehow making the trudge bearable.

Returning to the house I had resolutely left behind—though I thought it would displease Yanagimachi, who had mediated between us—after one o’clock passed, I slipped through the gate and circled around from the garden to avoid being heard by my elderly mother in her four-and-a-half-mat room, then knocked on the door of the six-mat veranda that I imagined as your bedside—

“You?!” Then you woke and signaled stealthily from within in a hushed voice. Thinking Oh joy!, I slipped through the storm shutter you’d opened and entered. The late summer night outside carried a cool dampness that chilled the skin pleasantly, but inside the shuttered room hung a stifling odor—musty mosquito netting blended with your scent—that seeped into my night-walked body. Overcome by that indescribably nostalgic smell, I flung up the net’s hem and tumbled into bedding. There you lay upon the futon, you who’d so tenderly hidden me before—what thoughts filled you now as you reclined—

“Go sleep over there.” “I’ll hang your mosquito net separately… This is my sleeping area.” She rebuffed him with frayed nerves. “Nah, I’m staying here. It’s over.” “‘Over’? That’s your own doing.” “You’re already someone who left this place.” “Once severed, you and I become complete strangers—find an inn elsewhere, go to a friend’s place, stay somewhere else.”

“…………” “Hey, please do that.” “This is my house, not your house.” “What am I supposed to tell Old Mother tomorrow if things stay like this?” “Since you look down on my family, you probably don’t care about such things—but what am I supposed to say to Old Mother tomorrow morning?” “I’ll be thought to have brought you back in again of my own volition…”

“…………” “Hey, please do that.” “Go stay somewhere else.” “No matter what you say, you look down on everything I say.” “Even without that, from my sister in Yanagimachi to everyone in my family—they all think I’m having an affair with you and doing these sorts of things.” “After all, you’re a man with your own money to live independently—you could have affairs if you wanted. But I’ve never once been with you thinking such things.”

As she said this, her eyes gradually grew brighter; sitting up in bed, she began tapping the ashtray incessantly with her long pipe. When he peered closely—gently feigning ignorance—at her face reflected in the dim bean lamp’s light filtering through the mosquito net, her terrifyingly pallid countenance bore a tied-up hairstyle devoid of allure, its strands wildly disheveled.

I let her say all she wanted, then curled up meekly outside the futon like a borrowed cat and sank into sleep.

The next morning, she nevertheless appeared in good spirits, “I’ve made sure that even if I go to Yanagimachi, Old Mother won’t say a thing about you.” “I had told them.” She said.

“Oh, right.” While uttering this, I took up my chopsticks at the meal table as before, the cool morning breeze brushing against me as I ate the freshly pickled eggplant and cucumber—their taste familiar after so long—made by your hands. “You can’t just keep saying ‘Oh, right’ like that. While I keep Old Mother quiet, find a boarding house or rent a room elsewhere within two or three days and leave quickly.” Hearing this, the breakfast I had finally managed to start eating properly turned to bile in my stomach.

On the third day—presumably having heard from Old Mother—Shinkichi came storming from Yanagimachi in a furious temper. As there happened to be a visitor just then, I caught sight of my elderly mother heading up to her four-and-a-half-mat room; deliberately keeping that guest detained with idle chatter to pass the time, I took the edge off Shinkichi’s rage—his temper flaring like some hysterical woman’s.

“You – Mr. Shin says he has something to discuss with Mr. Yukioka and has been waiting in another room since earlier.” You entered my room with those words, forcing a smile onto your stiffened features as though cowed by Shinkichi’s furious demeanor. “Mr. Yukioka, what on earth were you thinking? Didn’t you make a clean break with this woman before heading to Hakone just the other day?” To me, more than Shinkichi’s actual words, it was the sight of his frantic appearance—his face so livid it seemed his blood had momentarily ceased circulating—that felt unbearable to witness.

While staring at that venomous face, I deliberately feigned slyness, letting Shinkichi rant all he wanted before falling silent. "You're being sly—making me ramble on like this," he said. "Well? What are you going to do about it?" "Mr.Yukioka, leave this place now." "You needn't repeat it—I'll leave." "But if I'm to leave, then leave I will—though on my end I must prepare various things first: finding lodgings and such."

Finding it distasteful to confront him directly, I said politely, "You’ve known for days that preparations were needed—that’s your own doing." "That’s none of my business." "Get out of Old Mother’s house already…… Go on, get out!"

When I inadvertently interjected a single word, he seized the opportunity to rattle off ten complaints.

“I’m not some cat or dog—do you think I can just scurry out that fast?”

“You—someone who can’t grasp reason—might as well be a cat or dog.” “All this talk of education—yet you toy with a man’s daughter! Even Education itself would recoil in shame!” “……Hmph! You think us Edokko will endure mockery from some country bumpkin?” He barked savagely, like a backwoods hound confronting its first human.

I smiled and remained silent.

“You must leave today.” “……What Mr. Brother-in-law says is true.” “The very fact that you came back here from Hakone again is what’s wrong.” With that, she turned toward Shinkichi and softened her tone. “I’ll handle it.” “I’m truly sorry to trouble you with such trivial matters each time, Mr. Brother-in-law, especially when you’re so busy.” “Well, no—” “But you’re being very much yourself too, Osuma-san.” “No matter how often Mr. Yukioka returns… you letting him into the house isn’t proper…”

“Yes, that’s entirely my fault.” “I’ve told this person that very thing many times.” “I’m sorry to trouble you when you’re so busy.” “Since this person will surely leave as well, please take him back now.” “…since you’ve undertaken some grand task again.” You said that and tried to divert the conversation elsewhere. “Well, no,” uttered Shinkichi with a triumphant air, gradually growing calm.

“...Since Mr. Shin insists so vehemently, please leave this house under the pretense of parting for his sake.”

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

“What. That way he talks! I find it repulsive that someone like him is your sister’s husband—I’ll find somewhere else and leave without being told.”

“When he first threw open the gate—that fearsome look he had—I didn’t know what to do.” “I thought he might strike me.” “What I can’t bear—it’s Shin-san.” “Well, he *is* my sister’s husband—Brother-in-law—so if I bow and scrape before him, he can show kindness—true kindness—but…”

“What’s this? This ‘education’ nonsense—” “You alone acting all high and mighty.” You said that too and sneered. Despite all that clamor, because I stubbornly lingered on without leaving, you ultimately ended up hiding yourself. And when I heard she had already married into such a place before I knew it, I became so enraged at you all—starting with Shinkichi—that even tearing you limb from limb, boiling and devouring you wouldn’t have sated me, which is why I wrote so vehemently that I’d kill you wherever I found you, in any street, on sight.

In Kato’s attic, unable to sleep from loneliness and futility, I wrote that letter; as I resolved to kill you no matter what, the resentment that had smoldered since morning seemed to subside somewhat.

The next morning—with the same foot that had carried that letter—I went to old Mrs.Yurai’s place. “Auntie, that wench Osuma has gone and married someone else!”

With that, I threw myself down there as if hurling my body.

“Oh! She’s already married? …Who told you that?” When I told her I’d heard it from your old mother yesterday in such and such a way,

“I see… It doesn’t seem that way to me, though.” “But since Mrs. Osuma isn’t getting any younger, she might have rushed into it.”

Old Mrs.Yurai continued pasting envelopes while uttering vague words. Given how withered and honest I had been exposed myself，my old mother wouldn’t possibly tell a lie. Therefore，she must be married. If she had indeed married，it made my bitterness all the more unbearable. When I thought this，my regret and resentment only sharpened my passion for yearning after Omiya. I had grown familiar with the mistress of the house where Omiya resided，

“Mr.Yukioka is a kind man. Take good care of him,” I often heard Omiya say.

“The household mistress says, ‘If it’s Mr.Yukioka’s place, you don’t need to go to a brothel—just head over there and have him put you up.’” “I see. Then come to my place.” Before long, I explained the incident to the mistress of Kato’s house too, and from around lamp-lighting time—with the eager anticipation of a man welcoming his bride that very night—I hurried off to Kakigaracho to fetch Omiya. On the return trip we took a detour by train via Sakanamachi’s Kawatetsu restaurant for roasted fowl dishes before bringing souvenirs back to Kato’s house in two rickshaws.

“That’s perfectly understandable.” “When your wife had been with you for seven or eight years and you suddenly became a single man.” “If someone doesn’t have at least one pleasure, they can’t go on.” The house mistress, who had been saying such things, welcomed the woman I brought in and even took care of bedding arrangements for us.

The next morning, when I awoke, warm sunlight—too mild to call spring—streamed through the fully opened lattice-paned window into every corner of the room, and Ushigome Heights spread out in a single glance through the morning mist.

“What a lovely view, isn’t it? I’ll come play with the house mistress sometime!” Omiya leaned against the window and gazed intently at the distant woods and rooftops. I was immersed in a serene state of mind akin to a newlywed’s morning, and suddenly everything in the world seemed fascinating to me.

The meal we usually ate downstairs was today brought up by the house mistress on a small meal tray, on which she set up meals for two. The turnip miso soup I loved so much wasn't as flavorful as what you used to prepare at home before, but with feminine warmth lingering about the place for the first time in ages, sitting face-to-face with Omiya as she served steaming hot rice straight from the pot, each mouthful seemed to leap down my throat. Women are terrifying creatures, yet how is it that they can improve one's stomach condition like this? Compared to that, I thought the stomach medicine I got from the doctor was no good at all.

When I gave Omiya a five-yen note, she pursed her lips tightly to suppress her delight, escorted me to the entrance, and—while closing the lattice door—put on a coquettish act as though lingering with unspoken longing. “Goodbye!” she said, shutting her eyes and repeating the words several times in a delicate, cat-like falsetto as she departed. I rushed back upstairs, opened the small elevated window on the west side that offered a view of Omiya’s retreating figure, and looked out just in time to see her climbing the stone steps at Tsuyurokuchi and emerging onto the main path while sharply tightening the slackened sash of her obi.

“I’ll go home and get back to work now,” she seemed to declare without words, walking away with a ferocious air—as though she’d captured a demon’s head—casting sidelong glances down at the street below.

Seeing that disgust well up within me—first base thoughts then revulsion churning through my gut. Since moving into Kato’s house with Yanagisawa’s place practically breathing down my neck,I’d grown extra cautious about avoiding his doorstep once Omiya started drifting up to my attic now and then.Occasional visits when he was out—casual chats with his old maid by the tearoom hearth,half-heartedly fielding her questions about *that woman* while she rattled on unbidden about Yanagisawa’s carousing—even after hearing all that filth,Yanagisawa himself seemed less inclined these days toward haunting Omiya’s doorstep.

I had come to feel as though I had made Omiya my own. Three days later, when Omiya sent a postcard saying she was taking time off due to illness, I went to see her under the guise of kindness, playing the part of a good lover. Even for normally bustling Ningyocho-dori Street, its year-end market was exceptionally lively—crimson lanterns strung from eaves to eaves, their fiery glow blending with electric lights to illuminate the thoroughfare’s sky as brightly as noon. At the night stalls of household goods shops lining the street, where nostalgic items like braziers and tea cabinets were displayed, crowds had gathered so thickly before pine decorations and battledore shops that passage seemed impossible.

Even now that we’ve become strangers, were you to hear this, you would surely frown and think *Again?*—but needing funds for year-end expenses, I had bonds sent from my hometown through Kangyo Bank that arrived during the day; clutching in my pocket the cash I’d gotten by taking them to a trusted pawnshop, I made my way through the crowd in good spirits. And with the plum candy bought at Miharado in my pocket, I peered out from the storefront of Omiya’s house. The cramped brothel’s front room had its altar shelf bathed in the brilliant glow of an oil lamp, while the savory aroma of New Year’s dishes simmering in the kitchen wafted all the way to the entrance.

Bathed in the bright lamplight of her early-finished makeup, one of the prostitutes—who had lingered restlessly by the brazier while awaiting the arrival of customers—appeared at the storefront. "Omiya-chan is inside, but..." “Is she unable to come out?” “Is it Mr. Yukioka? “…‘Please come up,’ she said.” A voice called out from the back tearoom.

“Please come up.” “Miyachan is here.” The prostitute said upon hearing the house mistress’s voice. “Come in… Please—lay out the futon.” “…I’ve frequently heard the name Mr. Yukioka from Miyachan.” “And thank you again for that wonderful item you gave Miyachan the other day.” “…Miyachan is here at home now.” “She’s been resting since the other day, saying she’s a bit unwell.” “Miyachan is up on the second floor.” “Mr. Yukioka has come, so tell her to come on down.”

“Miyachan says there’s a nasty wind blowing, so she won’t go.”

The small woman with a gourd-shaped face who had accompanied Yanagisawa previously relayed the house mistress's message and went upstairs. "What nonsense!... Even if there's an ill wind blowing, it hardly matters—he's a regular patron." The house mistress forced a smile. "That willful girl shows no restraint around you people either." "She's been carrying on endlessly since yesterday about toothaches and swollen cheeks.... Go tell her again that Mr.Yukioka has arrived—she may come down exactly as she is."

Omiya descended two or three steps of the staircase, peered downstairs, and laughed, "Ahahaha!" The face I hadn't seen for two or three days - framed by hair tied up in a bun - appeared pale and haggard, yet struck me as even more charming than usual.

“What’s wrong?” “What’s wrong with staying like this?” “Why don’t the two of us go somewhere around here and take a stroll while looking at the year-end market?” “How about it? Now that Mr.Yukioka’s here, your aching cheek must’ve healed.” “Let’s go somewhere around here for a walk together…” “Yes.” “What will you do?” “I’ll go.” “Then I’ll go too—please wait a moment.” While glancing my way with a coquettish air I said this and hurriedly rushed up to the second floor.

I sat facing the house mistress across the long brazier, pretending not to observe the brothel's activities while still keeping a watchful eye. Women who maintained respectable appearances with traditional chignons flowing about them, and others tugging at cheap meisen kimonos with aprons, trooped endlessly up and down the second floor. In the neighboring brothel near the kitchen entrance, a crowd of prostitutes shouted wildly into the night air, casting aside all worldly cares as the year's end pressed close: “Even a wife shared for one night remains a wife...” “Even if replaced by a sandal’s thong...”

They howled like wild dogs in raucous uproar. I listened with self-loathing burning in my chest. Before long, Omiya descended in her earlier disheveled state— “I’ll go exactly like this!” Over that merino-padded kimono from last time, she’d simply thrown her usual omeshi silk haori. “That’s perfectly fine as-is.” The house mistress escorted them to the tobacco-lined entrance, sneering, “Do play the happy couple now.” The street seethed with bodies—a human current so dense it stifled movement.

“Which way are we going?” Omiya spoke in her usual manner, like a mischievous girl with bad manners.

“Well, which way should we go?” “It’s better where fewer people pass by.” I wanted to walk through some dim back alley with Omiya, just the two of us holding hands where no eyes could see. “Let’s go somewhere even more deserted.” “Like toward Zaimokucho’s riverside.” “There’s no point walking around such places.” Omiya pressed her cheek as if in pain and snapped angrily. “Then where do you want to walk?” “Where? Anywhere.”

“Saying that is pointless.” “Where the hell do you want to go?” “I don’t want to go anywhere.” “So you don’t want to go?” “It’s not that I don’t want to.” He said again angrily. “Is that so.” “Then let’s go to a nicer, quieter place to walk.”

I started to turn into an alley again. “No! Not that way!” “Then which way?” At Omiya’s brazen manner of speaking and attitude—like a spoiled child throwing a tantrum—I felt anger surge within me.

“Either way’s fine.” “But you’re saying you hate where *I* want to go!”

With that, I resolutely walked off along one side of Ningyocho Street on my own. Then, turning at the large crossroads before Suitengu Shrine toward Yoroi Bridge where the crowd had thinned somewhat, I waited for Omiya—who had been silently following behind while pressing her cheek—and walked shoulder-to-shoulder with her, “Miyachan, what’s the name of that woman with the marumage chignon who was standing under the stairs at your place earlier?”

I asked in a gentle voice. “Who could that be?” “She had her hair styled in a marumage chignon.” “……There are plenty of women with marumage chignons at the house.”

“Is that so.” “That marumage chignon is lovely.” “With such a slender figure—” “A woman with a face like those in the frontispieces of novels—like the women Eisen draws—with eyebrows faintly brushed.” “Ah, that’s Kikuchan.” “You like that kind of woman?” “Ah, I like her.” “That marumage chignon is lovely.” “Miyachan, you should try putting your hair up in a marumage chignon too.” “I hate it!” While saying this, Omiya nimbly stepped back. Once again, the two walked in silence, going their separate ways. Crossing Yoroi Bridge and turning right past Yamaguri’s large Western-style stone building, the clatter of trams faded away, leaving Kabutoyacho’s night as quiet as extinguished embers. The sound of our clogs clattering on the frozen road echoed with a clattering, startling reverberation against the earthen-walled buildings on both sides, their large doors tightly shut.

Despite my earnest desire to walk together with Omiya, I grew dissatisfied that the woman would not soften and yield to me as I wished; adopting a sulky air myself, I left Omiya—who was trudging along listlessly—behind and hurried off briskly toward Kabutobashi Bridge.

Then Omiya called out from behind while sucking her teeth, “Where are you going?” “Hey, where are you going?... Wait for me.” Hearing her voice, I felt a faint pleasure as I broke into an even hastier run through the darkness where pedestrian traffic had abruptly vanished.

“Hey.” “Hey, you.” “Where are you going?” Omiya appeared to be desperately running after him from behind. When I realized Omiya was behaving that way, my chest—which had been tightly blocked until then—seemed to softly melt away and grow light. And when I came to Kabutobashi Bridge, I leaned on the railing and waited for Omiya to catch up.

“Where do you intend to go?” “You’d abandon me in such a desolate place?” She vehemently drew near to his side.

“I’m not going anywhere.” “It’s just that you were dragging your feet as you walked—I only grew frustrated walking together.” I said coldly.

“…………” “I think I’ll go home now, head over to Seigetsu, and have them call Kikuchan!” I said as if talking to myself. “That woman—unlike you—seems rather kind.” Even as I said this, my heart was growing soft toward Omiya. “If you dislike me that much, why don’t you just call her then? You’ve been going on about Kikuchan this, Kikuchan that—nothing but Kikuchan since earlier!”

Through the desolately wide street lined with towering brick buildings that loomed in the darkness like monstrous creatures, I began walking alone once more. Perhaps due to water main replacement work, black soil dug up from deep below had been piled across half the road’s width, while oily smoke from lanterns illuminating the darkness saturated the air with an acrid odor. “Where are you going again?” Omiya came running after him. Because I couldn’t stand her sullen face as we walked side by side in silence, I found no pleasure in it whatsoever, and without uttering a word, I broke into a run.

“Well then, I’m going home already!” Omiya called out to me from behind like that and seemed to turn back midway. After a while, when I looked back over my shoulder, Omiya had indeed turned around and was already making her way into the distance. When this happened, now it was I who grew anxious and gave chase. “Hey! Going back?” “Then I’ll come with you!” Upon hearing this voice of mine, Omiya broke into a run even faster than before. “Hey! Wait! “I’m coming with you!” No matter how desperately I called after her like this, Omiya kept running further away without end. She desperately raced ahead along Shin-zaimokuchō’s riverbank after crossing Arame Bridge. Then—having charged recklessly through dark places—we both found ourselves on an unfamiliar street where all sense of direction vanished.

Omiya, who had been running three or four meters ahead, halted abruptly and stood still, “Where are you going?” Omiya asked nonchalantly. I felt as though I had finally found an island to land on at that,

“This way,” I said carelessly, taking the lead and walking ahead. “Why are you being so sulky?” “You’re abandoning me and leaving.” “You act completely reluctant to walk with me.” When I finally realized we had reached where Ningyochō became visible from Yoshichō, Omiya— “You, I’m not feeling well, so go home now!” Having thrown out this dismissal, she briskly took the lead and ran off.

I thought about resolutely going home, but how could I just return to Kato’s uninteresting second-floor room as I was? Shamelessly chasing after Omiya once more and arriving a step behind at the brothel,

“What on earth happened? Just now, Omiya-chan came back all out of breath, said she’d had a quarrel with Mr. Yukioka, and then without another word went upstairs.” “…What young people do is beyond us old folk.” The housewife had me sit across the long brazier and said with repeated smiles. “You two get along far too well, I must say.”

“That’s not really the case, I must say.” I laughed too.

“What on earth happened? ‘I hate such fickle people.’ She said. ‘You must have done something.’”

“Ha ha ha ha.” “I see. Now I get it.” “Earlier, after leaving this house, I jokingly praised Kikuchan here as being that sort of woman-loving person.” “That’s why she got upset.” “How trivial.” “Even if you two drag your lovers’ spat’s aftermath to me, I know nothing about it.” “Mr. Yukioka, you ought to treat me to something. ……Ah yes! I’d forgotten to thank you.” “You even gave nice things to the children earlier.” “……Well then, please go on ahead to Seigetsu first.” “I’ll send Miyachan right after you.”

“But you keep saying your tooth hurts or your cheek’s swollen.” “Oh, it’s nothing—since she rested all day yesterday, she’s already feeling better.” “She’s just being selfish all the time… I truly feel sorry for you.” “If you insist on seeing her as that kind of woman, by all means—do go on cherishing her for years to come.” In my gut, I had been struggling to gauge Omiya’s true feelings—wondering if she truly despised me—and had sunk into a vanishing state of mind; but now, revived by the Housewife’s rehearsed tone, I went ahead to Seigetsu.

Omiya came shortly after.

“You gave her own children all sorts of things, didn’t you? The housewife told me that. When you do that much for me, it makes me look good.” Omiya said as she lay down, seeming to have forgotten about that evening’s earlier incident. “It’s been a while, hasn’t it?” “It’s been a while for me too.” “Why did you get so angry earlier?” “Because you wouldn’t stop talking about Kikuchan.”

That night, finding myself in an unusually open-hearted mood, I returned early. When I brought back plum candy to Kato’s house as well, the old man and woman were overjoyed; there, in that house too, all the lamps on the household shrine had been lit, the tatami room with its large long brazier had been neatly tidied up, and the surroundings glowed brightly as befitted a year-end evening.

During all the time I had been with you, I had never once felt anything resembling New Year’s spirit when year-end came around; yet upon seeing the old couple at Kato’s house making their steadfast, carefree preparations for the New Year, even my own heart grew uncommonly bright with a festive mood.

And then on New Year’s Eve the following day, he impatiently awaited sunset and set out for Seigetsu once more. He waited for Omiya to come, then together they ambled through Ningyochō Street, gazing at the storefronts as they walked.

“I want an obi sash.” “Will you buy it for me?” Omiya stopped at a habutae collar shop whose dazzling decorations nearly blinded passersby and said this while twisting one of their intricate display cords between her fingers— “Hmm,” I nodded magnanimously. “Then could you get this cord for Matsuchan too?” “Hmm.” “Why don’t we buy something tasty and eat it together?” “Hmm.” For ten days straight there had been no wind kicking up dust nor any rain—just warmth too persistent for late autumn’s brief respite—and now at this year’s end everything looked prosperous indeed as leftover New Year pine decorations and bitter oranges vanished before our eyes faster than one could watch.

As I walked along looking from one eave to the next, around eight o'clock, large raindrops began to patter down from the sky that had long been without rain. And in the blink of an eye, it turned into a downpour. The crowd, caught unawares, scattered in disarray—restless feet crumbling into rout.

“Ah, what lovely rain.” “Let’s hurry back.” Night market vendors looked up at the sky resentfully, as if trying to push back the rain, “Two hours earlier or later makes a big difference,” someone tsked and muttered—a sound I took in with damp contentment as I brought Omiya back to Seigetsu.

Unlike usual, there were no customers; catching the savory scent of arrowheads being boiled by the old woman downstairs, there had never been a night as restful as that one. Even after the New Year began, I continued occasionally calling Omiya and having her stay over at Kato’s house as before. Yet even if I were to redeem Omiya from her contract, I couldn’t bring myself to take her in and make her wholly mine. “You can’t keep at this line of work forever, you know. Don’t you think it’s time to wash your hands of it and go straight?”

"I really do think so too," Omiya said with a sigh. "Should I redeem you from your contract?" "Even if you did redeem me, it wouldn't make any difference." Whenever the conversation threatened to turn serious, she would deflect it with such remarks. For that reason, I too had stopped seeing Omiya for some time. Then came that unforgettable night—February eleventh. Having spent the whole day sunk in gloomy brooding, that evening I went out for a brief stroll around the neighborhood as usual and returned after circling Suidocho's streets. When they saw me entering the doorway, the old Kato couple—warming themselves at the kotatsu in the entryway room—smiled in unison and,

“Oh! You just missed her by a step.” “What a shame!” “What happened? Did someone come?” “The person you like was just here,” the old woman said with a laugh. “Who is this ‘person I like’ you’re talking about?” Even as I spoke these words, steeling myself inwardly, I wondered if perhaps you yourself had come to visit me under cover of night. When this thought came, there flickered before my eyes—rising from your countenance—the figure in that reddish meisen checkered haori you so often wore.

“So, did Osuma come too?” “No, Miss Omiya. Just before you returned there—she barely had time to stay until the end, if even that. You should have met her though... Did you not meet her?” “No, I didn’t meet her... So did she say anything before leaving?” However many times she had come before, it had always been through my arrangements; that she had never once visited of her own accord made this extraordinary. What was happening? At this realization, his sunken heart suddenly quickened—this must mean she held some affection for him after all, he thought. As soon as this thought took hold, his surroundings seemed to brighten instantly, and a shiver of delight ran through him.

“And then she said ‘I’ll leave this at the house’ and went away.” The old woman held out the apple still wrapped in Omiya’s silk handkerchief. When I took it in my hands, a rich perfume scent—like being with Omiya herself—drifted up from the cloth.

“Ah, I see.” “She must have had some business.”

“Yes, she did seem to have some business.” “When I told her you were out, she stood there pondering for a moment—then said ‘I’ll leave this’ and went away without unwrapping the package.”

“Ah, I see,” “But it’s unusual for her to visit of her own accord today.” While exchanging these words, I spent a while warming myself at the old couple’s kotatsu. “Such a gentle, beautiful person,” “Today she looked even lovelier than usual.” “No wonder you’ve fallen for her.”

“Well, she’s a good person.” Even the old man tonight joined his wife in praising Omiya’s beauty and gentle nature. “Ah, I see. No one would ever think she’s in that trade with how she carries herself.” “That’s exactly right. Not a trace of that shows.” “Why don’t you get her out and make her your wife?” What had gotten into him tonight? The old man kept making such brazen remarks. “Well now, you can’t possibly make a Kakigaracho prostitute your wife, but taking her as a mistress wouldn’t be an issue. Though for me, mistress or wife—it’s all the same…… She must have had some business.”

“She’ll probably come again tomorrow.” “Because she seemed to have some business.”

However, even when tomorrow came, Omiya did not come. I waited in growing impatience, thinking that if she truly had business she would have at least sent a letter, but no letter came. Unable to bear it any longer, I sent a letter myself, but there was no reply to it. Finally unable to endure any longer, I went out all the way to Seigetsu the day after next.

“I heard you came by while I was out—what a shame. Did you have some business?”

Since even face-to-face she remained completely silent and said nothing, I was the one who started speaking. And inwardly, I thought how much this woman resembled Yanagisawa—chattering away freely when it suited her, yet sullen and angry-looking when displeased.

“I had business the other day, but there’s nothing now.” She spoke as perfunctorily as discharging an obligation. “But what was the business when you came?” “If I don’t hear about that, I can’t help feeling concerned.”

I asked gently.

“What’s the use in telling you?” Omiya snapped again.

So I did not try to press her further. And after lying down,

“I might go to Korea,” she said thoughtfully.

“That man’s coming around again with some excuse.” I felt reluctant to let this woman slip away to some distant place, and upon hearing this was immediately overcome with disappointment as I said, “You don’t need to go all the way to Korea. Something could work out in Tokyo.”

"But there's nothing to be done." "I'll just sell myself as a prostitute or whatever, use that money, and finally cut ties for good." Even during this conversation, she showed no sign of consulting me about how we should part ways or anything of that sort, leaving me feeling so hollow that I thought "Do as you please," and left early without staying over. Four or five days later, I called asking her to come to Kato's place, but whether she was out or otherwise occupied, she didn't come that day as usual. And so I went all the way to Kakigaracho myself to fetch her.

"Miya-chan said she had some business or something." "She’s not here now." The maid Okiyo was there alone and said this. Around that time, instead of going to Seigetsu, I would immediately go to the house where Omiya stayed, and it became not uncommon for me to get engrossed in conversation with the madam and Okiyo. "Mr. Yukioka, we don’t have much, but won’t you have a meal? Eat together with Miya-chan." "Eat together with Miya-chan."

I sat at a large dining table lined up with other prostitutes, eating rice and such. When Omiya returned from outside, I forced her to come along despite her protests through the madam's mediation. Then as we climbed the slope in Sekiguchi-daimachi and passed before Yanagisawa's house, Omiya walked shoulder-to-shoulder with me,

“This must be Mr. Yanagisawa’s house,” she said. I had once been asked by Omiya, “Where is Mr. Yanagisawa’s house?” But I hadn’t told her. The reason I hadn’t told her was this: while I was living this threadbare, poverty-stricken existence, Yanagisawa always dressed with rakish elegance—a thirty-year-old man in his prime, his carefree bachelor lifestyle supported by a single elderly maidservant, the kind of setup that seemed plucked straight from Kōyōsan’s novels, one that anyone might consider the pinnacle of worldly success—

"My, what style!" I imagined geishas might sigh something like that. Nor was it that I had kept Yanagisawa's house hidden from Omiya. In any case regarding Omiya, I thought I wanted to avoid complicating matters between Yanagisawa and myself any further than they already were. Around that time Yanagisawa seemed to have found himself some new woman in Kagurazaka, and since New Year's he'd conveniently stopped bringing up Omiya altogether.

One day when I peered into Yanagisawa's house after a long absence, there in the entryway stood a tall, pale, large-framed woman who looked unmistakably like a geisha—wearing an elegant crepe-silk kimono and a waterproof apron as she poured kerosene into a lamp. I thought I was affecting intellectual airs while,

“Is Mr. Yanagisawa out?” I asked. “Yes, he is out,” she replied. “And the elderly maidservant?” “The elderly maidservant also isn’t here—it seems she’s gone to her own home for now.” The geisha, seeing my smiling face, laughed and said.

Given such circumstances, I had thought Yanagisawa wouldn’t go pestering Omiya anymore after that. And so, while feeling somewhat puzzled, I asked, “Do you know Yanagisawa’s house?” “Yes… Well, no—I don’t know.” “That can’t be true.”

“It’s the truth.” “I don’t know.” “I just thought that might be the case, so I asked to check.” Even after coming up to Kato’s second floor, Omiya remained silent from the start, sulkily folding her arms. “What’s wrong… You’re awfully gloomy.” “—” “Is there something worrying you?” “Ugh!… Just don’t say anything to me for a while.…” With that, Omiya clammed up again.

I flared up at her unbearably selfish, dismissive attitude but nevertheless held back and endured it. Then what must Omiya have thought—

“……Mr. Yanagisawa is such a good man,” she said. “Hmm… You met Yanagisawa?” “Hohoho.” Omiya smiled with a bewitchingly suggestive expression. “You did meet him.” I had been staring at Omiya’s face—its features grown dreadfully altered in mere moments. “Well whether I meet Yanagisawa or anyone else—what does it matter…” “I hate you!” “Is that so? Though you’re hardly beloved yourself.” “How pitiful—being forced to visit a man you despise.” “Then there’s no issue if you leave now.”

I said, struggling to suppress the turmoil in my chest.

“Shall we go visit Mr. Yanagisawa together tonight?”

Omiya spoke to me in an insolent, mocking tone. “Well… Why don’t you go by yourself and see?” I retorted using that affected tone Omiya and Yanagisawa always adopted. “I won’t go unless you come!” “If you don’t go—! Wasn’t it you who said you wanted to go see?” “Didn’t you say yourself you wanted to go?” “—” “Then go by yourself.” “I’m going to bed.”

About two hours of awkward silence passed. “Well? What will you do?” “I’m going to bed.” I urged, thinking “Get lost” to Katsuko. “I’ll sleep too. “……Well, you’re the one who won’t go.” I was appalled, thinking what a self-indulgent, insolent woman she was for saying such a thing, “Ha ha ha ha, I never said you should go to Yanagisawa’s place. You were the one who suggested wanting to go of your own accord, weren’t you?” I deliberately let out a loud laugh to mask my discomfort.

While I stood laying out the bedding, Omiya remained seated motionless, sunk deep in thought. Then abruptly, "I love Mr. Yanagisawa," she said with a tearful voice. When I heard this—though I'd assumed it might come to this—my self-serving bias had made me believe that even if Omiya's heart didn't lean toward me, it couldn't possibly be so distant. Yet after her earlier insistence on visiting Yanagisawa's house, hearing it voiced aloud made me feel an indescribable insult—like a monkey shaken from its tree—that grew more unbearable the deeper I dwelled on it. My chest burned with the despair and resentment of being cast aside by everything under heaven.

And I thought—What the hell? Who comes to their current romantic rival's place—mine—declaring love for Yanagisawa and then starts sniveling?

I felt resentful—no, more than angry—utterly dumbfounded and found it absurd, thinking what a woman she was: this indiscriminate spoiled brat born to indulge her every whim. Thinking “Screw you!” and leaving her behind, I briskly went to the toilet and came back, burrowed into bed, and pulled the futon completely over my head. “I’ll sleep too.” Omiya entered stealthily from behind once more, her voice tearful as she spoke.

I abruptly turned my back and pretended to be asleep. I tried to stay silent and fall asleep like that, but my chest burned and my mind stayed too alert for sleep. I held my breath, enduring the compulsion to turn back toward Omiya and say something. After thirty or forty minutes of this, I could no longer endure it and turned back toward her— “Do you truly love Yanagisawa?” “Tell me the truth.” “I won’t get angry.”

I said in a weak voice. Then Omiya,

“Yes, I do love Mr. Yanagisawa.” She replied in the same tearful voice as before.

I felt as though I might vanish into nothingness and endured in silence, but when I could bear it no longer, I suddenly— “Ah, how humiliating!… To be seen as just a friend by that woman I was so devoted to!” I cried out, then flared up and raked both hands through my hair before thrashing about beneath the futon. Then Omiya exclaimed, “Oh, you’re terrifying!” in disgusted tones, retreating to the edge of the futon before twisting around backward to look at me. At that moment, I felt that between Omiya and myself—though our bodies were separated by barely three feet—our hearts had already drifted a thousand miles apart, like enemies bound by fate.

Once things had reached that point, hatred took precedence—even after waking up the next morning, I didn’t speak a word to Omiya. Even so, when the madam brought up the meal tray from downstairs, “Please eat your meal,” she said.

“I’m not eating,” she said, then sank into sullen silence and sat perfectly still. I too made my unappetizing breakfast into ochazuke and gulped it down, then leaned against the desk without saying a word and skimmed through a newspaper I had no desire to read. “I’ll go off to Korea,” she said in a tearful voice again. “Do as you please,” I said. Whether she went to Korea or Manchuria was none of my business—yet— “You should stop with this talk of going to Korea. I’ll help you somehow,” I said gently.

“No matter what I have you do, it’s pointless.” That’s how she phrased it.

I pretended not to notice and continued reading the newspaper for a while. Omiya sat silently, sunk in thought. Then abruptly, "What happened to your wife?" She said such a thing. "Well, she's gone off somewhere." "Has she already remarried somewhere?... Mr.Yanagisawa was saying that."

Hearing that, I could see right through how Yanagisawa had been telling Omiya all sorts of things behind my back.

“What did Yanagisawa say?”

I involuntarily contorted my face into a terrifying expression and glared fixedly at Omiya. "I didn't say anything at all!" She said angrily. I grew increasingly irritated, yet still endured it silently and fell silent once more. "What would you do if I went to Mr. Yanagisawa?" Omiya said in a tearful voice again.

“Then go if you want to.” “There’s no need to hold back on my account.” “Is it really okay if I go to Mr.Yanagisawa’s?” “There’s no need to keep pestering me with questions like this.” “……I have my own considerations too.” “Then what will you do?” “I won’t do a damn thing.” “I can’t stand you.” “I’ll tell Mr.Yanagisawa everything soon anyway.” “What did I tell Yanagisawa?” “Why on earth did you tell Mr.Yanagisawa what I told you?”

“Well, I might’ve said that, but I only told him what you and I discussed—it’s neither gossip about others nor slander.” “Isn’t Yanagisawa the one doing that? Because I consider him a friend, it’s not just about you.” “I’ve even confided in him in detail about more important matters like my former wife.” “That’s precisely what’s so detestable—Yanagisawa turning it into some laughingstock for others.” “I might speak of things that bring shame upon myself, but I would never say anything that causes trouble for others.”

I knew full well that Yanagisawa had been badmouthing me to Omiya—saying things like “Yukioka’s former wife did this or that”—so when Omiya repeated such remarks, I snapped. I thought anyone could see who was right or wrong. Then, “There’s no need to go blabbing about your own business to others.” Omiya said mockingly.

I flared up instantly. Some time ago—who was it that had said Mr.Yanagisawa was lenient with himself yet strict with others? That was absolutely true. And this Omiya was exactly that sort of creature. Since last night she'd been spouting whatever selfish notions came to mind while making it seem as though I were entirely at fault. As this thought struck me, I burned to spit at Omiya's insolent face—to slap those shameless cheeks three or four times and storm out—but I swallowed the phlegm rising in my throat.No, no—if I angered her now and caused a rift here,I'd never retrieve the letters I'd been sending Omiya all this time. Some time back,Yanagisawa had mentioned how Mizuno took letters Mano sent a woman and showed them around. Reading letters another man sent a woman was amusing. Mizuno had skill.

Saying that, Yanagisawa himself had apparently attempted such things before. If I angered Omiya—given her sulky disposition—she would undoubtedly tell Yanagisawa all sorts of things about me. If that happened, Yanagisawa would grow even more smug and undoubtedly intercept the letters I’d been sending to read them. It would be galling to have lost the woman and then have my letters read as well, becoming a laughingstock.

With that—gritting my teeth until they ached while forcing my voice soft again—I said: "If you find me repulsive, then fine. I'll give up."

"I said. But in my heart of hearts—when I realized this creature had come to see me as nothing more than Yanagisawa—any lingering attachment turned to pure loathing for her face. My chest burned with the flames of bitter resolve: how could I make this love rival pay? Then Omiya, ‘Well then, why don’t the two of us go see Mr. Yanagisawa now?’ she suddenly declared. I thought that I wanted to see what the two of them would do if I set Yanagisawa and Omiya side by side, so"

“Ah, let’s go take a look,” I said, and then the two of us went to Yanagisawa’s house. Yanagisawa was sitting cross-legged at his desk on the second floor as usual, but upon seeing us come up, he made a face as if to say he had no desire to laugh and fell silent, staring intently at our faces. “Since it’s a student’s house, there’s probably nothing here.” Seeing Omiya looking around the room, Yanagisawa said that. “What a nice house. You must be able to study so well staying in a place like this.” Omiya said as though speaking from the heart.

Because the tatami was cold, I myself went and took the zabuton cushions stacked in the alcove and laid them out.

Then Omiya saw this and, "You went and took your own cushion but didn't bring mine?" she said sulkily. As I listened in astonishment—wondering if Omiya truly believed I was infatuated enough to grovel for her favor—I looked at Yanagisawa's face. Yanagisawa, perhaps also finding Omiya's remark absurd, exchanged a glance with me and laughed.

"I don't need to go to such lengths to cater to your whims. Ha ha ha." Saying that, I laughed deliberately loud. Omiya puffed out her sulky face and fell silent, but after a while, she stared brazenly at my face with disgust while— "What’s wrong with your face?" Yanagisawa, following her lead, gazed at my face with revulsion and smirked slyly. My face at that time had become so repulsive that even speaking of it felt shameful. It was still last autumn when I went to Omiya’s place for the second or third time—the next morning upon returning home, I realized something terrible had happened. When I had a doctor examine me, he said it was that illness and treated me, but since it didn’t hurt or anything, I just left it untreated. From around late January, because small sore-like swellings began appearing around my mouth, nose, and hairline, when I went to see the doctor again, he grimaced,

“Ah, it’s come…” “It’s just about the time when that starts progressing like this,” he said while performing various treatments. “Your hair will fall out for a while… Though it’ll grow back soon enough.” Just as the doctor had said, the sores on my face gradually worsened until it became one I couldn’t show in public. At that thought, I thought of my aging mother living alone back home. What would become of me if the face on this body my parents gave me were to become so disfigured that I could never show it in public for the rest of my life? There were nights when I couldn’t sleep a wink thinking about that. Between my own condition and the way I betrayed Omiya’s social obligation and human compassion—even if she is a high-class prostitute—and on top of that, if I were to become permanently disfigured from this abominable disease contracted from her, I would have no excuse to face my aging parent.

Even as Omiya betrayed me and turned her affections toward Yanagisawa, I endured in secret, ashamed of my wretched, repulsive face. I thought about killing everyone and then committing suicide. "No matter what you claim, this disease came from you." "Hmm?…" Omiya fell silent for a while after saying that, but—

“What’s that supposed to mean?! It’s because you’re such a debauchee that this happened! ...Your wife left you because you were too much of a debauchee... And isn’t she keeping some lover somewhere herself?”

Having said that, Omiya hurled venomous words at me as I struggled to hold back my own harsh retorts. And what made my irritation flare up again at Omiya’s latest remark was that single line—"And isn’t your wife keeping a mistress somewhere?" I had confided in Yanagisawa alone about that matter because I had a suspicion that you might be doing such a thing. If Yanagisawa hadn’t heard me speak ill of her behind her back, Omiya would never have brought up such a thing.

I thought this and stared fixedly at Yanagisawa and Omiya’s faces. Yanagisawa—rather than taking my past confidences as trust placed specifically in him—must have listened while inwardly ridiculing me as a fool for sharing such things with others, then exploited it to needlingly drive a wedge between Omiya and me. A sudden urge to leap up and kick them both surged through me, but remembering the letters, I rubbed my chest and endured.

The reason I cared so much about those letters I'd sent Omiya was that even regarding this latest business with her, I hadn't uttered so much as a veiled criticism of Yanagisawa to her face. True enough,I'd mentioned Yanagisawa once in passing in my most recent letter. The mere thought of Yanagisawa somehow getting his hands on that letter and reading it filled me with revulsion. Not that there was anything remotely slanderous written there. Yanagisawa had long harbored suspicions that I badmouthed him behind his back just as he did me - but I'd never engaged in such petty behavior. Yet this single letter entrusted to that high-class hell would confirm Yanagisawa's baseless conjectures beyond doubt - an outcome more unbearable than any other.

“No matter how much I ask about Mr. Yanagisawa’s place, you just won’t tell me!” As I stayed silent, Omiya hurled more venomous words at me. Yanagisawa smirked slyly with sharp black eyes that seemed to pierce through the feelings I’d kept hidden. Yet I still couldn’t grasp what exactly bound Yanagisawa and Omiya together. All through Omiya’s stream of abuse toward me, Yanagisawa kept smirking with suggestive amusement.

“Let’s go already.” I urged Omiya. “Yeah,” Omiya said flatly, making no move to rise. “Aren’t you going to the office yet?” “Not leaving yet?” Omiya addressed Mr.Yanagisawa in a gentle tone. “Hey, let’s go already.” After a while, I urged Omiya again. “If you want to leave, then go ahead. I’ll stay longer.” I became concerned about what kind of conversation those two would have afterward if I were to go back alone first. I had no idea that Omiya and Yanagisawa had already been meeting continuously for three days at an inn in Kakigaracho two or three days prior.

Even after being told that by Omiya, I still made no move to get up alone and instead kept urging her as I waited. “Ah, let’s go then,” Omiya said, finally making as if to stand up.

I stood up. “I’ll be right there. Please go downstairs and wait.” With that, Omiya lingered about as though she had some business with Yanagisawa. Seeing this, I too felt self-conscious about being there and hurried downstairs. Before long—after about five minutes—Omiya came down. And yet this same Omiya, who hadn’t even bothered with a proper farewell when leaving Kato’s house where I stayed, now sat primly before Yanagisawa’s elderly maid and greeted her with all the manners of some well-bred young lady.

Through her various gestures, I had already discerned Omiya's true feelings toward both myself and Yanagisawa. With resentment and disappointment constricting my chest, I agonized over retrieving the letters I had sent her. Two or three days later. I couldn't shake the conviction that Yanagisawa and Omiya were meeting somewhere over some trivial matter. When I peered into Yanagisawa's house, only an elderly maid kept watch—Yanagisawa was absent. The growing certainty that he must have finally gone to Omiya's place made my anxiety about the letters intensify. And so I immediately set out for the house where Omiya was kept.

Since it was around eight o'clock, the prostitutes had mostly gone out, and the house was being kept by the maid Okiyo alone.

“Where’s the madam?” I said as I sat down in my usual spot across from the long brazier. “The madam has also just stepped out for a moment.” “Where’s Omiya today?” “She’s just gone out for a bit.” “She won’t come back tonight, will she?” “No, I don’t believe she will be returning tonight.” I came to feel she must certainly be meeting Yanagisawa by now. “Since when has she been going?” “She’s been gone for quite some time now.”

“When you say ‘quite some time,’ how long exactly?”

“Hmm, let’s see… Probably since the day before yesterday, or maybe the day before that.” “Is she really visiting the same customer that often?” “Well… I suppose so. I don’t really know… You’re awfully concerned about this, aren’t you?” “It’s not that I’m concerned, but… which inn?” “Somewhere… I don’t know.” “You must know, Okiyo. Tell me.” “I can’t say.”

“I know you can’t say, but tell me anyway.” While half-jokingly pressing her like this, I suddenly noticed the guest register hanging on the pillar above the brazier during Okiyo’s brief absence toward the kitchen door. Quietly removing it and flipping through the pages, I discovered which inn Omiya had been frequenting continuously since the day before yesterday. This was the very inn Omiya had told me about when I’d consulted her—since Yanagisawa already knew about Seigetsu, I’d asked if there wasn’t some better place elsewhere, and she’d mentioned this particular establishment behind Arima School.

"Ah, so she'd been going there," I thought. Was it someone other than Yanagisawa? Or was Yanagisawa taking her there too? Turning this over in my mind, once I'd discovered where Omiya was going, I no longer had any business with someone like Okiyo.

“Okiyo, where has the madam gone?” “Isn’t she terribly late?” “Yes, she’s terribly late. She must have gone to the moving pictures or something.”

“I see. Then I’ll come again. I’m sorry to have disturbed you while you were away.” “Oh, that’s quite all right. There’s no need to leave so soon just because Omiya-chan isn’t here. The madam will be back soon too.”

When I left that place, I hurried to the back of Arima School with a hollow heart. As late February deepened, a warm night breeze tinged with spring brushed against my cheeks while large raindrops spattered against my face from the restless, cloud-heavy sky. I went to that inn and had Omiya quietly called down without mentioning my name. “I will come here under the pretense of visiting the toilet, so please wait in the room for a while.” A seasoned madam with a Mito accent came out and led me downstairs to a secluded tatami room.

Before long, Omiya entered while pressing cheeks flushed red from alcohol.

“Oh! It’s you.” “I thought it was someone else.”

Omiya showed a slight smile as she entered but immediately put on a sulky expression, “I’m drunk,” she said as if muttering to herself while stroking her cheeks. “Who is it? Your customer?” I asked casually. “Well, it’s no one.” “There’s no way there’s no one.” “Who could it be?” “Or is it your beloved Mr. Yanagisawa?” “Well, would someone like Mr. Yanagisawa even come here?” “…A customer who drinks heavily.” “He’s been hiring geishas and making a commotion since the day before yesterday.”

Considering that behavior, indeed, it wasn’t like Yanagisawa. “I see… Well, never mind that. Since you came to my house the other day, I’ve understood your feelings perfectly. Just return every single letter I’ve sent you.” “The letters I received from you—I’ve brought them all here like this.” “If you return yours from your side, I’ll return everything from mine too…”

With that, I took out from my pocket the folded purple merino wrapping cloth I conveniently had with me, “Here—I’ve got all your letters exactly as they are. If I can just get mine back, I’ll return these too.” “I haven’t brought any of your letters here.” “That’s not what I mean right now. If you think it over again and decide you don’t want to come to me, then I want those letters back. You’re going to choose Mr. Yanagisawa, aren’t you?”

“I’ll think about that, but I have no intention of entrusting myself to someone like Mr. Yanagisawa—your friend.” I wondered what to say next, “If that’s how it is, then fine—I’ll come again in about a week, so think it over carefully until then.” With that, I left the inn. Yanagisawa had not gone. Then—had all my agonizing suspicions been mere conjecture? If they were conjecture, then I must have a truly detestable nature. Nothing feels more unpleasant than being subjected to others’ malicious conjectures. I detest people who make such malicious conjectures more than anything. Thinking these thoughts over and over, that evening I returned to Kato’s attic.

Two or three days later—still unable to shake my concerns about Yanagisawa and Omiya—I went over to Yanagisawa’s house.

Then Yanagisawa was eating his meal in the downstairs tearoom while having the old maidservant serve him,

“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 spoke: “I plan to go to Kamakura for a while.” “That sounds nice. When?” “When? Could be today or tomorrow.” “Haven’t you seen Omiya since then?” I asked with a smile. “Not once.” Yanagisawa said with a bitter expression.

“What happened to that woman from Kagurazaka who was cleaning the lamp?” “That was the end of it.” “But she’s somewhat of a looker, isn’t she?” “Not particularly good… I could let you have her.” Yanagisawa said with a mocking laugh. I thought to myself—what a strange thing to say. The fact that he could let you have her meant there was another woman. That meant Omiya. So Yanagisawa did have feelings for Omiya after all. Thinking this, I—

“Well, it’s not like I particularly want that woman,” I said with a laugh, “I still prefer Omiya,” I said innocently, as though oblivious to what Yanagisawa was thinking. “……Omiya really does give off that housemaid air." “……And that collar of hers is a monkish mandarin collar, isn’t it?” Yanagisawa sneered with derisive precision. “Hmm. “And then those ears—carved-looking, meager, disgusting ears.” I too joined Yanagisawa in demeaning Omiya.

“Anyway, she’s a woman whose face changes so much.” “Hmm, that’s right. You’re quite the observant one, aren’t you? She really is a woman whose face changes so much.” Omiya was truly a woman whose face changed with frightening frequency.

They continued such conversation for some time. “Are you leaving already?” “Hmm, leaving now.”

So I left Yanagisawa's house and returned.

It was the next day—intending to ask once more what Omiya thought about what we’d discussed during our last meeting, I set out for Kakigaracho, this time actually tucking her letters into my pocket.

Since Omiya had been going upstairs to call customers at the Western restaurant two doors down from her house the other day, I thought I would go there again today to properly inquire about her decision, and so without a second thought, I pushed aside the entrance curtain with my head and went in. Hearing “Welcome!” as I tried to ascend the stairs leading directly from the earthen floor to the second floor, I suddenly noticed a pair of men’s and women’s clogs discarded at the foot of the stairs—the wide men’s clogs with their straight, even grain were unmistakably Yanagisawa’s.

I summoned courage with a start—"Yanagisawa was supposed to have left for Kamakura yesterday"—and examined the women's clogs more closely. Their purple thongs looked familiar; these must be Omiya's. They lay exactly as she'd stepped out of them, arranged in a coquettish pose that mirrored her own affectations. At the sight, an inexplicable jealousy seized me. For some time, with a perversely pleasurable sensation like prodding a festering sore, I stared fixedly at the paired men's and women's clogs.

As I listened intently to the movements upstairs, sure enough, I could hear Yanagisawa’s loud voice saying something. As I kept listening intently—wondering what they were discussing—the waiter from the Western restaurant came downstairs. I, making sure not to make a sound, “Hey!” I gestured, “Is Miyachan here?” “Yeah.” “Well then—without mentioning I’m here—go call Miyachan over.”

The waiter ascended two or three more steps of the stairs, “Miyachan—a moment?” he called out, Right after the waiter descended the stairs, Omiya came down. And as she descended another two or three steps and caught a fleeting glimpse of me standing rigidly in the earthen-floored entryway, Omiya— “Oh!!” she exclaimed, pausing mid-step on the stairs. And then she resumed descending. Seeing her like that made one think she was unwell again—her pale face looked somewhat haggard, and her hair tied in a chignon appeared slender.

Once she finished descending the stairs, she slipped into the clogs she had taken off and suddenly came close to me, pressing herself against me as she— “I’m sick,” she said in a voice as gentle as a cat’s, pretending to wilt faintly.

I— "You bitch!" I thought—yet forced a gentle tone and

“Hmm, I see. That won’t do,” I said while looking her over from her hair down to the tips of her tabi socks. She wore a purple-black crepe haori tailored for spring over a layered underkimono of fine silk, the ensemble draped smoothly about her. “So you’re whoring just to wear kimonos like this,” I thought, fighting the urge to spit in her face as I pretended to gently embrace Omiya with my workman’s coat sleeve and peered at her. “Hey—whose clogs are these?” I pointed at the men’s geta.

“……” “Hey—whose clogs are these?” “They’re Mr. Yanagisawa’s.” Omiya let out her usual tearful whimper. “I thought so… Enjoying yourselves at the Western restaurant since morning, eh?” I laughed with bitter satisfaction. “Well then—as I told you before—now that I’ve clearly understood your feelings, please return the letters I gave you.” I softened my voice a notch. “Yes…” Omiya responded hesitantly.

“Hey, hurry up. I wouldn’t want to impose on you two any longer.” “Then please wait a moment,” Omiya said and went back upstairs again. I dropped heavily into a chair downstairs and strove to quell my chest ablaze like fire. Twenty or thirty minutes had passed, but Omiya still hadn’t come downstairs. What was she doing? Had they slipped out from the second floor to the roof and escaped together? If so, seeing Yanagisawa’s face later would be amusing—or should I go up to check? No, that wouldn’t be wise. As I stubbornly kept waiting, Omiya descended wearing a fabricated smile.

“Then I’ll return your letters, so please come to my house,” “The madam says—” “Your house’s madam—I’ve got no business with your place’s madam.”

Saying this, I entered Omiya's house located one building away.

The madam sitting across the long brazier wore an imposing expression fixed with an artificial smile, “What on earth is going on?” she asked, looking up at my face with a disbelieving expression. In the room sat the madam along with the maid Okiyo and Omiya’s fellow prostitutes—Okiku, Oyoshi, Oshige, and others—positioned throughout the space. They stared unblinkingly in silence at my face as I entered. “Oh, it’s nothing serious. Since I won’t be coming to Ms. Omiya’s place anymore, I thought I’d take back the letters I sent.”

“How petty.” “Why would you do such a thing?… What young people do is beyond me.” “That doesn’t matter.” “I brought all the letters I’d received until now, just like this. I’m returning them.” At that moment, Omiya came downstairs from the second floor carrying a small case of gold-embossed paper. It was filled to the brim with letters. And sitting down in the middle of the common room with her back turned toward me, “Well then, if you want this trash so badly, I’ll give you all of it back!” she said, picking out my letters from the mountain of correspondence and flinging them over her shoulder.

“Here, this one too! I’ll give you every last one back, so take them and get out!”

I sat before the long brazier, laughing as I watched it out of the corner of my eye. Omiya threw down seven or eight letters there and,

“You’re so obsessed with people that this is what you get!” she said while running upstairs. After setting down the box, she came back down and,

“We’ve no business here anymore. Let’s hurry to Mr. Yanagisawa’s place,” she said with a dismissive remark and headed out through the back door. I remained silent, laughing.

“What on earth is going on?” The madam repeated the same question with a laugh. In my gut, I thought, Damn beasts—you know everything yet pretend ignorance—while... “Oh, it’s nothing. If I can just get these letters back, I’ll have no complaints whatsoever,” I said with deliberate calm, picking up the letters Omiya had thrown down and tucking them into my pocket. At that moment, Omiya returned again and stood rigidly in the tatami room,

“Mr.Yanagisawa said he has some business with you and wants you to come... But since you're such a coward,' he says you probably won't show up.” When I heard that，my irritation flared white-hot. Gripping the fire tongs stuck in the long brazier until my knuckles whitened，I straightened up and barked，

“What?” “A coward?... Was that Yanagisawa’s words or yours?” “I’d never fight with someone like you—a high-class prostitute.” “But if Yanagisawa called me a coward, I’ll fight him and show whether I am or not!”

Then, seeing that I was serious, Omiya laughed in a conciliatory manner and said, “I was the one who called you a coward. Mr. Yanagisawa would never do such a thing,” suddenly softening her voice. I thought there was no point fighting Yanagisawa over some prostitute, and so, rubbing my chest, I stepped outside.