Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Chikamatsu Akie

I That woman was, among the countless women I had seen up to that point, the one I liked best. Even if asked what exactly made her so appealing to me, explaining each point one by one would prove difficult. But more than anything, what appealed to me was her unaffected and composed manner—the way she spoke and carried herself. And innately, she was a Kyoto woman through and through. To speak of Kyoto women—many tend to have faces lacking definition—but hers was finely sculpted around the eyes and brows, her mouth never slackening into the lax shape often seen in local women. Pale-skinned, she grew even whiter in summer, her dampened complexion naturally taking on a faint rosiness—unlike those who flaunted garish makeup—though she took no pride in eschewing powder altogether... But since she lacked such affectations... she never engaged in what many women do: peering into hand mirrors at every idle moment, adjusting their sidelocks, or patting their faces with paper powder. A woman of crisp demeanor, reserved in all matters—one might even call her lacking in sensuality.

And more than anything, that woman’s most outstanding quality was her pleasing figure. Though her actual height wasn’t particularly great, what made her seem tall at first glance was how her figure was so svelte and well-proportioned. Even down to the slender elongation of her fingers and toes—the faint blue veins visible beneath her white skin—every detail rendered that woman all the more delicate. In winter, her deathly pale complexion grew dismally sallow, the voluminous sidelocks of her perpetual ginkgo bun spilling over both slender cheeks, while the long sweep of hair at her nape cascaded from a crane-like neck down to the half-collar beneath.

Her face bore the same gentle expression as her manner of speech and comportment, but her eyebrows—thick yet not harshly so, drawn straight across her pale forehead—stood out as vividly as white sand against green pines. What remained unforgettable to me were those eyes. They were large, intelligent-looking eyes—double-lidded, utterly black, with a touch of nervous intensity. Though she never resorted to coquetry or tears when seeking others' attention, on those rare occasions when some turn of conversation led her to reflect on her wretched fate, she would fall silent as sudden tears welled up. Then those large, dark-pupiled eyes would swell even larger of their own accord, reddening with congestion before suddenly glistening with moisture. In those moments, I thought I wouldn't have minded throwing away my life to love her for those eyes alone. She was still young then—twenty-three or twenty-four—but despite her profession, maintained unexpectedly modest tastes, often wearing hair ornaments like golden filigree hairpins adorned with small jade beads...

II

It was now the fourth summer since I had met that woman. I spent the entire summer on a mountain in Kinai near Kyoto. High on the mountain, white clouds billowed from the crowns of ancient cedars into the cerulean sky, and by mid-August I already began sensing autumn’s chill in the morning and evening breezes—with this came an increasing nostalgia for city life. At summer’s start, before heading to the mountains, I had stayed at her house in Kyoto for over a month after arriving from Tokyo. When I informed her I would soon descend from the mountains again, she sent a brief reply: due to certain circumstances she remained bound by obligations, and keeping a secret man at her residence would cause complications with various parties. That summer reunion—after a year and a half apart—had only been permitted through her master’s special public arrangement, but such visits could not be repeated frequently. Until she could formally notify me herself, I was to refrain from coming to Kyoto and return directly to Tokyo.

However, I couldn't bring myself to return straight to Tokyo just like that. Then in late September, I descended from the mountains and spent two or three days traveling from Kii toward Osaka, until one lonely autumn evening at dusk, I entered the streets of Kyoto I had longed for.

When I set out for the mountains in early summer, I had departed from her house. Having grown weary of my long, dreary solitary dwelling, I couldn’t forget the comfort of those days spent at her home—however brief—and wanted nothing more than to return to her immediately. But she had declared that come early September, she would close down the rented second-floor household she’d been keeping elsewhere, entrust her mother to distant relatives near Kamigyo, and eliminate all unnecessary expenses until she regained her freedom. Though I had assured her I would manage such arrangements myself—having left both verbal instructions and repeated letters urging her to keep her mother at their house and maintain the household until my return from the mountains at summer’s end—she ultimately wrote that she had shuttered the home temporarily. With my heart pounding from longing, I arrived in Kyoto that evening, deposited my luggage at the station, and wandered through Kamigyo seeking an inn that promised quiet comfort. Finding nothing suitable as the autumn day faded with alarming swiftness, I became acutely aware of the stifling humidity just as fat raindrops began pattering down from the leaden gray sky.

Is there nowhere that might take me in with a welcoming touch? Why had the woman closed up that second-floor rented residence? During the month I spent at her place from May through June, I had regained my health and put on a little weight. However, if she was no longer there, going now would be pointless. Where was mother? Of course, if I wanted to meet the woman, I could see her right away—but meeting her like that would be pointless.

While thinking such thoughts, I at least wanted to find a place where I could stay leisurely for a while—but having no other leads, I reluctantly emerged from the backstreets toward where the streetcars ran. Since this streetcar happened to head in the direction where the woman had previously lived, I felt drawn toward that area regardless of whether she was there now or not—and with rain beginning to fall, I simply jumped aboard. Then, circling around Higashiyama and proceeding a short way along Gion’s streets—where her former house stood—I got off the tram at the nearby stop and entered the dim alleyway I had come to know well during my stay there before summer. But the gate was shut tight, with no sign of the elderly landlady downstairs, and the second floor where the woman had lived—where I too had spent about a month sharing a room with her—was closed up, not a glimmer of light escaping.

“Well, but that can wait until tomorrow.” Thinking this, I wanted to secure lodging as close as possible to that area; reluctant to stray far from the nostalgic place where I had spent time with the woman I loved, however briefly, I decided to stay at a certain inn located slightly uphill toward Higashiyama. The reason was that this inn held deep familiarity for us—a place where I had often stayed with that woman. That area was near Gion—where such women resided—and was known as either Sanjō Kiyamachi or Shimogawara, a chic district considered the originating place for Gion women. It occupied an elevated position near the base of Higashiyama, and within Kyoto’s refined elegance, its exceptional tranquility made it a place people cherished.

III

The winter before last, when I went to see the woman after a long absence from Tokyo, I had stayed at that house again—but I cannot forget that time. It was mid-January when she sent a letter saying she urgently wanted to meet and talk, so I departed on a night train. After spending a restless night in the steam-heated carriage, I awoke early to find fields and mountains beyond the window frosted like powdered makeup, bathed in the gentle crimson light of the morning sun. When we emerged from snowbound Sekigahara into Ōmi Province, there stretched a broad country road where distant sunlit peaks—the Hira and Hiei mountains—loomed through pale blue mist along Lake Biwa’s western shore. Seeing this, it struck me that Kyoto drew near, and my heart began racing unbidden. And though those thoughts should have remained resigned and calm had I stayed quietly in Tokyo—no matter how far apart we were—they grew more urgent with each mile the train advanced, until I found myself tormented by unbearable anxiety.

"Is she safely at home? Could she have gone to Osaka or somewhere and be away? There’s a man in Osaka who’s deeply infatuated with her... It was the summer when I first came to know her. When she was invited by that man and went to the opposite parlor, I once saw them from afar—four or five houses away on Kiyamachi’s upper floor—both in yukata fresh from the bath, the woman sitting down beside him. At that moment, I felt a torment as if my very flesh were being scorched away. Even now when I recall it, nothing pierces deeper than love’s agony. If only she’d stay home so I could meet her immediately. Last night I’d spent the night on the train like this, coming all the way from Tokyo to see her. Where could she have gone—to what sort of person’s parlor had she been summoned? The morning was still early. ‘In the late-rising pleasure quarters, they’d probably still be asleep at this hour.’"

Such thoughts stretched on endlessly, welling up one after another until I could hardly bear to remain seated in the train carriage. I took out a telegram form from my belongings and sent a message stating I would certainly arrive at a house by the Kamo Riverbank by eleven o'clock. And though I arrived at Kyoto Station around eight o’clock, the leaden dawn mist mingled with morning meal smoke. Standing in the station square, when I gazed nostalgically at the nearby mountains I hadn’t seen in nearly a year, Higashiyama was wrapped in white haze, and Kiyomizu’s pagoda floated faintly like a dream on Otowa Mountain’s midslope. The stretch from distant Atago to Nishiyama was bathed in the morning sun, stained a pale indigo. With light steps, I set off from there straight for a certain restaurant by the Kamo Riverbank that I had just notified via telegram—but as it was a house within the pleasure quarter, when I reached its front, the shopkeeper was only just beginning to open the entrance. Soon after ascending the stairs to a second-floor room overlooking the riverbank, and while ordering food, the heavy crimson-tinged white mist—neither quite haze nor smoke—that had blanketed the river’s surface began dissolving under the morning sun’s rays rising into the midair. What had until then been only the heightened sound of footsteps from people crossing Shijō Ōhashi Bridge gradually resolved into silhouette-like figures coming into view. The quiet sunlight cast soft shadows that reflected brightly upon the houses across the shore, while Higashiyama, visible beyond their roofline, remained perpetually enveloped in the tranquil morning mist.

Having asked the maid to inform me if a call came through in the woman’s voice, I sat alone eating from the warm hotpot... "I had sent that detailed telegram, but whether she happened to be home at just the right moment remained uncertain—especially given her unhurried nature, this woman who never rushed about... Though to be fair, that very calm and composed demeanor was precisely what made her appealing... Even if by chance she had returned home this morning from last night’s outing, seeing that telegram wouldn’t likely send her scurrying straight to the telephone." "Truly, that bastard knows nothing of human hearts."

As I thought such things and was tormented by anxious thoughts, in less than an hour, the maid entered the room and—

“Ah, there’s a phone call for you,” she said.

Feeling as if I might spring up, I immediately rose and went down to the telephone. “Ah, hello? It’s me,” I called out, and on the other end,

"Ah, hello?" called out a voice.

What a nostalgic voice—hers—that I hadn’t heard in so long. When I looked back, it had been eight or nine months since last May that I’d heard it. Though we’d exchanged letters over ten times a month since then, my memory of her face had grown so faint it might as well have blurred. “Oh—it’s me. “Did you get my telegram?” “Yes—I just read it.” “So you were actually home after all.” “I know that already.”

“I know full well.” “Then come right away.” “Yes, I could stay, but there are many people there who know me, you see.” “My face might be recognized.” “And you—where are you going from there today?” “What do you mean, ‘where’?” “You mean where I’m staying?” “Yes, that’s right.”

“I haven’t decided that yet. “I thought it would be fine even after meeting you once.” Then we settled on meeting first at a certain discreet restaurant in Higashiyama. Having agreed we’d both go there between two and three o’clock and wait for each other, we were about to hang up when she insisted— “Hello? Don’t you get it wrong now.” She repeated this in her naturally husky voice. I suddenly felt such an intense urge to press my lips against the telephone receiver that,

“Don’t joke around. You’re the one who mustn’t get it wrong. I’m different from the people here in Kyoto. Last night, I took the night train and went out of my way to travel over a hundred-odd *ri* to get here. You’re so patient that time becomes unreliable. I’ll get angry if you make me wait.” With that, there was only a soft chuckle on the other end before the line went dead.

When I returned to the parlor, the maid was stationed by the thoroughly simmering pot. “Isn’t she coming after all?” she asked. “She doesn’t seem to be coming here.” Saying that, I hurriedly finished my meal. When I gazed out from the south-facing window toward the riverbank, the short winter sun had already shifted slightly west from directly overhead, and perhaps because I viewed it with such thoughts, the warm sunlight seemed to cast a spring-like shimmer over the area around Higashiyama—where the rows of houses beyond Shijō Ōhashi Bridge on the opposite shore and Yasaka Pagoda stood. I hurriedly left there so as not to miss the appointed time. The quiet desolation of a Kyoto winter day was beyond description. Unusually for me, having grown slightly tipsy from a small amount of sake, upon leaving there I immediately boarded a waiting rickshaw, crossed the river eastward, followed the earthen wall along Keninji Temple’s bamboo thicket, turned at the back gate, and was gradually pulled up the ascending road toward Higashiyama. And walking through the quiet winter afternoon of Shimogawara, when I visited an inn I had known from several years prior, they kindly showed me in. Using that connection, I often went and stayed there afterward. Though the parlor there was simply constructed, the owner was a man of refined taste who had tastefully decorated it without ostentation. I sat down on a thick figured cushion and, after drinking the warm tea the maid had quietly poured, checked my watch repeatedly to avoid being late—since the meeting place I’d arranged earlier with her over the phone was just nearby—then announced I’d be stepping out briefly and left. The area was already near the precincts of Kōdaiji Temple, where lush pine-covered hills loomed close enough to graze one’s brow, and a straight-jointed, deep blue bamboo grove stretched behind the houses. I walked along a quiet narrow street leading up into the mountains, came to the entrance of the appointed tea house at Magukahara, and waited there for a while. The spot stood considerably elevated from the lowlands along the Kamo River, so when I turned to look back toward the distance, Mount Atago—bathed directly in the gently shining winter afternoon sun—spanned far across the western sky beyond a golden-glowing atmosphere like an indigo haze. And then, as I wandered around there for a short while, careful not to go too far, I stood watching—and there she was, unmistakably her—approaching along the narrow slope amidst the passing crowd. That was a figure I hadn’t seen in eight or nine months since last May. As she gradually drew nearer, she seemed to recognize me from afar and smiled. Her hair was styled in a ginkgo bun without a strand out of place, a black neck scarf wrapped around her collar. Beneath her Meisen silk half-coat, the hem of her Meisen apron could be seen—she remained her usual self.

"You remembered me well," he said with a laugh.

“Of course I remember.”

“I’ve just decided on an inn there.” “You know the one—that house right there.” “If you had noticed that place sooner, I was supposed to have you come there right away.” “Well, never mind. Let’s go in.” Saying that, I led the way and entered the tea house.

And then we were led to a secluded back room—its garden extending into deep bamboo groves at Higashiyama’s foothills—where I ordered a few dishes and we talked awhile. “Look at these things that’ve come up,” she said in a coquettish nasal voice, fretting over small blemishes dotting her face. “I’ve put on a bit of weight, haven’t I?”

“Hmm, your complexion looks good.” “What matters most is that you’re healthy.” “And what did you mean earlier when you suddenly said you wanted to talk and told me to come?”

Even when I pressed her like that, the woman remained silent and did not answer. When I pressed further, "I'll explain that later," she said. "Well then, shall we head to the inn now?" I said, "I can't go right now... Please go back ahead of me... I'll come when night falls." "Why can't you go now? Let's go together." Though I urged her like that, she said she couldn't come immediately as she had slipped away from another engagement, so after firmly promising to meet later, we left that house together and returned. And then, while parting at the entrance of the inn,

“Arrange things to come as early as possible so we can have dinner together.”

“Yes, I will,” she said, then turned and left.

The winter night deepened quietly, and as I warmed myself by the gas heater installed in the room against the intensifying cold, I settled into a calm mood, glancing through a half-read newspaper while anxiously awaiting her arrival moment by moment. The woman showed no sign of coming, so I finally succumbed to hunger and ate a meager dinner alone. Even then she still hadn’t arrived. My tipsy state gave way to acute restlessness, and I finally threw aside the magazine I’d been reading to pass the time. Wrapped in a padded robe by the heater, I lay on my side using my arm as a pillow, resolved to feign sleep and stay silent when she came. As I lay there thinking this, ten o’clock passed and neared eleven. A quiet footstep echoed from the distant corridor—this time clearly different from the maids’ usual tread. Sensing movement outside the sliding door, I watched as the maid knelt in the hallway and gently opened it. There she stood—her slender figure poised in the doorway. Unlike before, with her hairstyle neatly arranged and light makeup applied, she appeared far more striking. Seeing her like this, she was undeniably a beautiful woman. It was no wonder I had devoted myself entirely to being infatuated with her. The pleasure of making such a woman my own was a more intensely instinctive joy than possessing an entire nation.

The woman entered with an unhurried demeanor,

“I’m terribly late,” she said simply, offering no further explanations. When I asked if she’d had dinner, she replied that she’d already eaten and wanted nothing.

The next day, I spent the entire day there, too daunted by the cold to venture outside. She leaned against the desk, claiming to write scroll letters for a distant aunt while briskly moving her brush. Clad in a black crepe haori sparsely embroidered with cherry blossom motifs and a muted kimono of pale indigo-checkered silk, she extended her slender white arm—its underkimono sleeve cuffs faintly tinged red from habutae-silk shibori dyeing—grasping a scroll in her left hand and brush in her right. Though a woman of disreputable trade, she carried an anachronistic grace that could only belong to Kyoto. Lying on my bedding with arm propped as a pillow, I gazed sidelong at her form in rapt absorption……

At that time, I returned to Tokyo on a late-night train, seen off by the woman all the way to Kyoto Station. For about a year after that, though we constantly exchanged letters, we did not see each other's faces.

Four

What kind of people was that woman meeting besides me, and how much genuine emotion did she truly hold toward me? Even when nearby, I had no way of knowing the inner truth of someone who made their living through prostitution—let alone when separated by distance, not meeting face-to-face for nearly two years, exchanging only letters. Yet if I dwelled on such doubts, they multiplied endlessly without resolution. There were times when unbearable imaginings would take shape in my mind—attachment so fierce I could neither sit still nor rise, jealousy and anxiety that burned in my chest like embers. Yet I forced myself into self-deception, striving to erase those unpleasant visions and expel disquieting thoughts from my heart.

And yet, despite three or four long years of my consideration—under normal circumstances her situation should have been resolved long ago. But since nothing came of it no matter how much time passed, I eventually sent her several demanding letters. Still, she never provided any clear reply that could satisfy me. Even though I had finally come to Kyoto to meet her after a year and a half—this long-awaited reunion—I had grown weary of following our usual routine. Though I sent signals through letters and telegrams as before, she offered no response that could satisfy me. If I were to follow our customary practice and seek a meeting, we could have seen each other immediately. But I resolved to wait until she took the initiative to say something herself. Even if I were to calmly consider this as another person’s affair, propriety demanded that she should have been the one to speak up first. Even if I conceded a hundred or a thousand steps—no matter how lowly her profession might be—such conduct simply defied reason.

Having resigned myself to this thought, I set out on a brief trip toward Yamato Road in late spring to clear my mind for a while. That was an area I had long wanted to visit, but for these past four or five years, my mind had been entirely occupied by her, leaving everything else postponed. In truth, I had thought that if I could not make that woman my own, I wanted nothing else. I needed neither fame nor riches—only those lacquer-black, large somber eyes; that docile face; those brows like white sand and green pines splayed elegantly; those plump sideburns; that slender figure. Unless I made my own this creature that possessed every beautiful part capable of captivating my heart, there could be neither life nor world for me. I had spent these past several years in such torment—to the point of ruining my health—as if afflicted by a fever.

Therefore, my journey into Yamato’s late spring—that treasury of beautiful nature and ancient art—mirrored Werther’s own attempt to heal his sorrow-scarred heart through nature’s embrace.

And when I returned to Kyoto after nearly a month of traveling through Yamato, the ancient capital had fully entered early summer. The harsh daylight tormented my eyes and body already exhausted from constant brooding. From Nara and Yoshino and every place between, I wrote and sent picture postcards. I had thought she might send some word, but she maintained her pretense of ignorance without offering any response. In the end I yielded again—visiting her neighborhood where through customary channels, without identifying myself, I had a local house notify her presence. Finding her home by chance, she came promptly. A year and half had passed since our last meeting. Whether owing to the kinder season compared to our winter encounter or the formal makeup applied for banquet engagements, she appeared fuller in figure—her naturally slender form now more pronounced, her stature seemingly heightened. Her attire followed the fashion of women abruptly summoned to such gatherings: a gaudy Yuzen-patterned underkimono beneath a subdued black crepe haori. She glanced toward me from the stairway entrance without altering her expression—her composure remained unshaken like that of an insensate being. Even when settling beside me she sat wordless, offering neither greeting nor acknowledgment. However provoked I might become, I refused to deem her truly malicious—yet when confronted with vexing persistence she would seal her delicate lips like a Kyoto doll and turn silent as stone. Knowing this temperament well, I too kept silent awhile—deliberately scrutinizing her face—until at last conceding,

“Kyoto doll—it’s been two years since I last saw that Kyoto doll face of yours. When you came here now, I thought you were someone else.” When I said this teasingly, she still did not smile—instead, “Aren’t you being rather unfair yourself?”

While nervously furrowing her beautiful brows, she retorted resentfully. I had expected her to at least say something like "I'm terribly sorry," but when she instead voiced such dissatisfaction, I thought What a self-centered woman! and felt a flicker of anger rise within me. Yet at the same time, I found myself appreciating that she refrained from offering any of that saccharine sweet talk. “It’s been a year and a half since I last saw you.” “And what exactly are you going to tell me?” “Enduring not seeing your face for so long must be because you’re looking forward to what comes next, isn’t it?”

Having said that, I pressed her again about securing her freedom—a matter I’d inquired about countless times in every letter—but she merely, “I’ll explain that later,” she said, then made no move to speak further. “There’s no ‘later’ left for explanations.” “How many years do you think you’ve been saying that?” The two sat properly facing each other and continued their back-and-forth for a while, but she fell silent, pondered deeply, and then—enigmatically—

“Since I can’t speak of that here, I’ll take my leave.” My eyes hardened. “You say such strange things. If you can’t say it here, where else can you say it?” “You should come to the Shimogawara house now and wait for me there. Then I’ll come afterward. Leaving together from this house wouldn’t be proper toward this house, would it? Then I’ll leave this house once and come from there.” The woman said this in her characteristically aloof manner.

Once again, I felt some unease about what the woman had said, but since I didn’t truly believe her nature to be so ill-intentioned, my doubts gradually dissolved, and I found myself swayed. “Alright, I’ll do that—but you must come there without fail,” I insisted, careful not to press further. After tidying up matters at the house, we left separately and returned.

Then I once again went to that Shimogawara house and waited. It was around three on a drawn-out late May afternoon, yet she did not readily appear. Knowing her to be a woman of unhurried patience, I steeled myself accordingly and endured—until endurance failed me. As inexpressible unease tormented me, sunlight gradually withdrew from the quiet walled garden, shadows pooling beneath shrubs until their corners dimmed. The once-warm air shifted, now carrying a thin chill that brushed my skin. Still her face remained unseen. Anxiety bred fresh anxiety; I conjured suspicions only to dismiss them—she had spoken so earnestly that surely she would come. She couldn’t be the sort to turn her back in deceitful flight. Had I blindly clung for four or five years to such a woman—yearning, burning—I’d have no choice but to shame myself for my own folly. By no means had I acted in ways deserving such coldness, even by obligation’s measure. ……She must come soon. I waited, smothering disquiet with such logic.

However, it was an indescribably pleasant late spring evening. My heart remained unchanged from that previous winter as I waited for her arrival, yet unlike then—now that it was early summer—I lay sprawled with my post-bath body wrapped in a soft cotton-padded kimono, using my arm as a pillow, legs stretched out toward the open shoji screens facing the garden. Beyond the wall lay the entrance to Gion Shrine connecting to Maruyama Park, from where drifted the boisterous laughter of sauntering men and women clinging to the warm dusk of departing spring. Though the flower season had long since passed, the fragrance of fresh greenery flowed in with the evening breeze, carrying the achingly nostalgic sound of young frogs croaking somewhere unseen. Listening to it,

"That woman I want to cling to until my teeth sink in—will she ever truly become mine?" "How much longer must I endure being flayed by this anxious torment?" "I can't keep suffering like this forever—let me find peace soon."

When I thought I heard quiet footsteps from the far end of the long corridor and looked up, eventually a maid knelt outside the sliding door, “You’ve waited quite a while. How shall I prepare dinner? Would you like to wait a little longer?” she asked. After such exchanges repeated two or three times, I finally could wait no longer. In a fit of irritation, thinking that if I ate first alone as I had done once before, she would surely come—as a charm to make her appear sooner—I resolved to go ahead and eat.

“Bring it here,” I ordered. Into my own heart welled a sorrowful resentment so intense it brought tears to my eyes—all on its own. It wasn’t merely that my feelings—this stubborn attachment to a woman of disreputable profession—remained unfulfilled; why did this ardent affection of mine fail to reach her? If even a shred of spiritual sensitivity existed within my ardent attachment, surely it would have reached her heart and elicited a more responsive warmth—yet she remained as composed as ever.

At that moment, the maid brought in the meal tray. “Thank you for waiting,” she said as she arranged an array of dishes on the meal tray. It consisted of dishes indispensable to Kyoto in this season: grilled chum salmon, crucian carp roe salad, Akashi sea bream cured in salt, freeze-dried tofu simmered in white soy sauce, tender egg-hued tofu skin, and vivid green snap peas stewed to perfection. I ate those dishes that suited my taste, swallowing them along with tears that kept rising in my throat. Just as I was nearly finished, footsteps unlike those of other maids sounded in the hallway—and from behind the sliding door, the woman abruptly appeared. She now wore a pale golden-brown gauze silk haori coat suitable for outings, her usual light makeup making her look as beautiful as ever.

“I waited until now, but since you were too late, I went ahead and ate.” “Still?”

“Yes…” “Then, Miss Imako, prepare it right away.” “This will do.” When I ordered the maid, the woman, “No need.” “It’s fine without eating.” “Come now—don’t say such things. Let’s eat together. I’ve been waiting.”

The woman did not answer me and turned to the maid, “Miss, please, truly just leave it be.” She refused with those words, but I had them prepare and bring it regardless. But she did not even try to pick up her chopsticks and remained sitting properly on the far side of the meal tray. Even when viewed from such close proximity, her face retained a refreshing openness perfectly suited to this crisp early summer evening. Her subtly fragrant, lightly made-up attire stood out vividly, and the comb marks in her hair glistened with a liquid sheen as they reflected the electric light.

The woman never touched the arranged dishes, even as the maid began clearing the meal tray.

“Miss, I’m terribly sorry to trouble you, but if there are strawberries, could you bring them later?” Having placed the order herself, once the maid had withdrawn, the woman fell into a pensive silence—though truth be told, she was always a woman of few words, bordering on curtness when there was nothing pressing to discuss. I liked that—and then again, as was her habit, without chattering about the reason, abruptly,

“You,” she said cryptically, “I’ll be going back for a moment.” My chest tightened involuntarily as I stared fixedly at her face. “You’re leaving? You just got here! Why would you say such a thing? If we’d gone back to Sodegiku, we couldn’t have talked properly there—but you told me to come wait at this house, so here I am! What’s really going on with your situation? I’ve spent four or five years worrying about you now, but even today—just like five years ago—if this keeps dragging on endlessly, it’s beyond what I can endure. As I’ve written repeatedly in my recent letters from home—I didn’t come here today just to amuse myself with you again. I came here to ask about that. How much longer do you plan to keep working in this trade?”

I asked in a tone that was part anger, part concern for her—a conflicted mixture. But she, as if mumbling, did not answer,

“You’ll understand that later too,” she said, laughing in a troubled, helpless manner. “You and your ‘I’ll tell you later’—that’s your go-to line.” “Isn’t it about time you told me that already?” I, too, forced a laugh to mask my frustration and pressed her further.

“I can’t say it here.” She repeated herself like a child. “You say you can’t speak here—if you can’t say it now in this place, there’ll never be another chance to speak of it. Why do you say you’re going back?”

Even as I pressed her, the woman offered no proper explanation, merely maintaining her stubborn silence. Her figure bathed in the bright electric light stood out exquisitely—the longer I looked, the more beautiful she grew. Then I suddenly noticed—after not having seen her for so long—an older sister-like composure in how she sat there, and I realized her face had indeed aged somewhat in ways I couldn’t pinpoint. That was true. I had first met her exactly five years ago at this same season, in a second-floor tatami room along the Kamogawa River where a refreshing early summer breeze rustled through willow leaves still tender with new green. Day after day I kept her by my side, begrudging time’s passage. Looking out from the tatami room, I saw the opposite riverbank’s grass sprouting vivid blue-green, while from that direction too came bright laughter—beautiful women in kimonos tucked at the hem enjoying themselves. In those days she often wore a subdued black crepe haori with tight sleeves and favored lined kimonos of crisp white vertical stripes slightly coarse in texture—a combination that accentuated her slender figure. But back then, compared to now, she still retained a youthfulness not far removed from twenty. For me too—as I spent those five years fretting over this woman, over her alone—the years had slipped by like mere days until she turned twenty-seven this year. Staring fixedly at her face with this thought, I noticed from her underkimono’s pale yellow-green collar an undeniably matronly composure about her.

The woman was quietly bringing to her mouth the crimson strawberries heaped on the white Western plate that the maid had brought earlier, prodding them with a silver spoon. “Do you have someone you absolutely must meet tonight?” I asked her this. “That’s not it.” “If there’s no one you’re supposed to meet, can’t you just stay here? Though we did exchange words many times a month through letters, since we haven’t met in nearly two years, you should well understand that I have many things I want to discuss.”

“That’s why I’ll tell you after I go back.”

“You—I don’t understand a single thing you’re saying.” “You’ll tell me after you go back?” “Then why don’t you tell me right here and now?” “Well then, I’ll go back and send a messenger with a letter right after.” “I just don’t understand why you’d come all the way here only to leave again so soon.” “Are you planning not to see me anymore?”

“That’s not it.” “I’ll meet you again later.”

“What on earth are you talking about? I can’t make heads or tails of it.” “But fine.” “Fine, do as you please.” “I’ll be waiting to see what you have to say in that letter you’re sending over.” “You’ll send the messenger without fail, right?” “Yes, I’ll send for a rickshaw service in about two hours.” “Well then, you’ll wait for me, won’t you?”

Having said that, she quietly stood up and left, disappearing down the corridor. While harboring a strange sense of unease, I decided it would be unbecoming of an adult to persist in detaining her and let things be as she wished.

Beyond the opened veranda, in the small garden enclosed by high earthen walls, damp night mist rose whitely around thickly grown shrubs, while cool night air ceaselessly flowed in from the mountains into the faintly warm atmosphere. I shifted my body away from the dining tray still fragrant with remnants of our meal, moved to the edge near the small garden, and lay down again. Breathing in the night air that flowed like a nostalgic vegetal incense—though there was no reason for such nostalgia—I waited with a heart torn between unbearable anxiety over what her promised message in two hours might contain and an expectation brimming with indescribable pleasure.

Though the surroundings seemed quiet, given that a mere step outside would lead to the bustling nightlife of the district, the occasional murmur of passersby echoed faintly in the distance. However, this very fact seemed to make the stillness feel all the more profound. The feeling was so pleasant that, with my elbow as a pillow and my feet tucked into the hem of my padded robe, I drifted in and out of sleep. At that moment, the maid entered, “Would you care to take a bath now?” “Shall I prepare your bed now? Um... did you perhaps go somewhere?”

“Ah, Oima-san. I’d been dozing off from how pleasant it felt…… No, wait a little longer, please.” “Is that so? In that case, please call me when it suits you.” Oima-san withdrew quietly once more, just as she was.

Time gradually passed, and the night had deepened to the point where leaving the shoji open made it too cold. She had said that, but when would she actually send the messenger? It was nearly time for even this house to close its gate and retire for the night. If she were to abandon me like this, what would I do? I might as well have them prepare the bed and sleep like this. When I woke up halfway and stayed awake, I couldn't stop thinking about it—the torment became unbearable, so I resolved to sleep and forget. As I drifted off again while dwelling on these thoughts, I was suddenly roused by hurried footsteps in the corridor. When I looked up, the maid knelt outside the sliding door,

“Here’s a letter,” she said, handing me a sealed envelope. Taking it in hand, I saw it was a hastily written note: “I apologize for earlier. Though it is truly a wretched place, I humbly ask that you accompany me there. The rest I leave to your kind consideration.” I turned the envelope over, but there was nothing written on it—no address or anything. “Oima-san, what kind of messenger brought this?” When I asked the maid,

“Well, I... I don’t rightly know, but they said it seemed to be an elderly woman.”

“An elderly woman. She’s still waiting, I suppose.” I couldn’t immediately make sense of it.

“Yes, she’s waiting, sir.”

So I hurried out to the entrance, but upon hearing she was outside the gate, I made my way from the entrance to the gate along the long stone-paved path—and there, in the darkness, stood her mother. “Oh, Mother? It’s been so long since we last met,” I couldn’t help saying nostalgically. Because the messenger was her mother, I felt completely at ease and in good spirits.

“My daughter said to tell you she’s terribly sorry for replying so late, so she asked me to apologize properly on her behalf,” Mother said, hiding herself in the shadow of the electric light overhead at the gateway. “Thank you for your trouble at this late hour. Then I’ll go with you right away—please wait a moment while I change my clothes.” I hurried back to the parlor to change clothes, told the maid I might not return that night depending on how things went, and rushed back out again.

“My apologies for keeping you waiting. Let us go now.”

V I then followed behind as my mother walked ahead. The night was long past twelve o'clock, and being near Higashiyama's edge, people's footsteps fell completely silent. In the pallid mist-laden sky hung a moon nearing its sixteenth or seventeenth day—when I tilted my head back to gaze up at its bright light, I saw what looked like a warm lunar halo around it, hazed like tarnished silver. It wasn't cold at all walking outside so late—the night felt indescribably pleasant. Nostalgically drawing up alongside mother until our shoulders nearly touched,

“Mother, it’s truly been so long. Hmm, how long has it been since we last met?” I said, trying to recall something from the past. When I first became acquainted with her, I asked about her family—where they lived, how her parents fared, whether she had siblings—but as with anyone, one does not readily divulge such truths without first sizing up the other person. Yet as we gradually grew closer, she revealed that her parents consisted solely of a mother nearing sixty now living alone; that though she had many siblings, all had died in childhood save for one brother who survived into adulthood—only for him too to perish last year at twenty. Because of this, not only Mother but even she herself had now lost heart to such an extent that there remained not a shred of joy left in this world. Even those called uncles and aunts were all relatives on her mother’s side—every one of them half-siblings from different mothers. There were no relatives on her father’s side anywhere, and after losing the brother they had relied on as their lifeline, staff, and pillar, it truly became a helpless existence of just a mother and daughter alone. She rarely spoke of other matters, but regarding her brother—whom she seemed unable to forget from the depths of her being—she would often reminisce fondly as she told his story. When I heard of her circumstances, my naturally sympathetic disposition immediately brought to mind Koharu from *The Love Suicides at Amijima* lamenting, “My mother relies on me alone—doing menial work in the southern outskirts, dwelling in back-alley tenements—” Recalling how Koharu lamented, “After my death, will my mother become a beggar and starve? That alone breaks my heart,” I found the woman all the more pitiable.

Originally, from the time her father was alive, they had lived in the Kamigyo area, but when she entered service at a geisha house, her mother also moved nearby with her, and they came to live in a humble dwelling in a back alley on the outskirts of Gion. It was when I visited there that I met her mother for the first time. And we talked about matters concerning the future.

She was a coarse-featured old woman—one would wonder how such a woman could have borne a daughter as graceful as a crane—yet her manner of speaking retained an artless simplicity that betrayed no fundamental roots in the pleasure quarters. “Being just a mother and daughter alone with no one to rely on, I humbly beg your kindness,” she said in that sorrowful nasal voice, then proceeded to recount—laced with complaints—stories from better days when the family hadn’t yet fallen into ruin. According to her account, their home had originally been in the mountains at the foot of Washūzan near Ōkawara in Minamiyamashiro, Kyoto Prefecture—though still within Kyoto—but twenty or thirty years ago, her father had moved to the capital. In their mountain homeland, they had once owned considerable fields and forests, but that was long ago—the person they’d entrusted with their management had put everything up as collateral for a debt and lost it all.

“If we had all those things back then, I wouldn’t have to make my daughter do such base work—you could’ve lived comfortably yourself.” Mother recounted these old matters in a wavering voice. The woman sat there too, silently listening to Mother and me talk, but her large black eyes had involuntarily widened and reddened as dewdrop-like tears glistened. “That’s all in the past now,” she said quietly in one breath, and Mother’s story ended there.

After that, until around summer’s end while I remained in Kyoto, I would occasionally visit Mother’s place too, each time repeating discussions about the woman’s future and such matters. When I look back now and count on my fingers, it has already been five full years since that time. “Mother, I’ve constantly worried about how you’ve been faring.” “Though I asked after you in every letter—since I knew nothing of your whereabouts or any details—I completely failed to keep in touch.”

“You mustn’t say such things. “I’m the one who’s been neglecting to write. “My daughter’s always told me you’ve been keeping well. “Truly, we’re forever in your debt—there’s no proper way to thank you.”

Under the moonlit night sky, conversing about such things as we walked, we made our way down Higashiyama-dori, where the sound of streetcars had long ceased. And after walking some distance, Mother turned into a side street toward the rear gate of Kennin-ji Temple while— “Do come this way,” she said, then walked a short distance and entered a dimly lit, squalid alleyway with crunching footsteps. I silently followed from behind, then immediately pushed open the door of the gate at the alley’s dead end and entered first,

“Please come in,” she said, then slid the bolt shut with a clatter behind me as I followed her in, before taking the lead again to swing open the entrance’s sliding door and step through. When I followed her inside, there was yet another narrow passageway partitioned by a small sliding door just large enough to squeeze through—utterly dark save for the faint electric light’s glow seeping through the sliding doors of the front room. Mother opened the low passage with a rumble and entered through to the other side. And in the same manner,

“Please do come all the way in here. It’s dark here, so do take care.” With that, she stood before the threshold of the inner tea room, waiting for me to enter her side. While groping around with my hand, I entered further. There, beside the old long hibachi in the tea room, sat a refined and tidy-looking elderly woman of about sixty-five or sixty-six, quietly smoking tobacco. Mother gave a slight bow to the elderly woman, then turned toward me,

“Please don’t mind her—do come up from there.” “Granny, please excuse us,” she said, then passed before the long hibachi herself and began ascending the staircase visible through the open fusuma panels at the far end of the three-mat tea room. Through this, I finally began to understand.

“So they’re renting the second floor of this refined elderly woman’s house and living together,” I thought to myself, then politely bowed to the woman and followed mother up the stairs. Then, immediately at the top of the stairs was a six-tatami soiled room, with a long hibachi and tea shelves placed in the far corner. And beyond that was another room—an eight-tatami space. Mother had no sooner climbed the stairs than—

“There you are,” Mother called toward the back, and from the dazzling electric light at the rear—blinding to eyes adjusted to darkness—the woman appeared standing quietly in her unchanged attire. Transformed into someone wholly different from her earlier pensive self, she smiled with disarming warmth. “You’ve come.” “I behaved terribly earlier.” “Forgive me for bringing you to this wretched place,” she said in artless candor, “but I thought you’d feel less constrained here than over there,” then guided me to the eight-mat room.

I was now completely relieved and overjoyed, standing at the threshold between the tatami rooms as I looked around to see two tall stacked chests placed along the right-hand wall of the eight-mat room, while in the tokonoma alcove of the single bay on the left side across from me hung a modest scroll with a furo kettle and other items arranged beneath it. At first glance, it was a well-worn and shabby tatami room, but being eight mats in size—spacious—and neatly cleaned gave it a somehow bright and comfortable atmosphere. In the center of the tatami room sat a large ceramic hibachi, with pristine zabuton cushions arranged beside it—apparently prepared in anticipation of my arrival. I stood there profoundly impressed,

"This was a fine place—so this was where she had been. How long had she been here? Well, even so—if she had been in such a place all along, then my inadequate worrying from afar, despite our long separation, had at least borne some fruit."

“Hmm... They’ve placed such fine chests here.” I was still standing there saying this when,

“Oh, please do sit here,” they both said. Before long, having taken seats on the zabuton cushions beside the hibachi, Mother brewed fresh Uji tea at her long hibachi in the adjoining room and brought it over, while the woman took sweets from the confectionery box to offer, and for a time they sat facing each other there talking. “Thanks to you looking after me for so long, I’ve managed to find a bit of relief.”

She, who often said she was awkward with words, had spoken these things without any long-winded flattery, using simple language.

I said in a somewhat reproachful tone, "If that's how it was, then why didn't you tell me to come here sooner and talk? It wasn't just since coming here a month ago—since the start of this year, I'd been pestering you with all those incessant complaints. Since I didn't know about this situation, it was like I'd spoken all those unnecessary hateful words for nothing. Now that I've come here and seen for myself, I'm relieved, but—"

Then Mother called out from behind the sliding door of the adjoining room, "My daughter said that." "'Mother,' she said, 'I'm no good with words—can't say it proper myself—so if you'd come here instead, then I could thank you proper.'" "...And about this house—we should've given you word sooner proper-like—but my girl here took poorly for near a month come February, worrying enough to fret over, so we couldn't rightly send word neither."

I turned my head in that direction while, “No—now that I’ve come and seen for myself, it wasn’t as bad as I’d imagined. I’m relieved,” I called toward her.

The weather was just right, so no matter how long I stayed up, I hardly noticed how late the night had grown.

Before long, Mother,

“It’s long past two o’clock now.” “…You must be tired as well.” “You should rest now.” Having been told this, I finally came to my senses and prepared for bed.

Six

Because the atmosphere there was so pleasant, I—having grown weary of my long years of solitary living—ended up spending over a month immersed in an unfamiliar yet warm familial affection, enveloped by the mother and daughter’s attentive hospitality that they managed despite their limited means. For that reason, even my health—which had been impaired since the cold days of early spring—completely recovered, aided by the gradually warming climate.

The woman, having arranged her affairs, spent about a week of that entire month staying home and resting. Even when I invited her to walk somewhere together,

“I’ll do that once I’ve properly left this trade behind,” was all she would say, staying quietly shut indoors all day except for late-night visits to the neighborhood bathhouse. And then, like a capricious young girl, she would suddenly remember to boil water in the furo kettle, prepare thin tea, and have me drink it. Then, pointing at the lacquered confectionery box there, “When I lay ill in February, someone brought this when they came to visit—and told me then to quit the trade.”

“Oh, there’s someone that devoted?”

“There’s nothing that deep about it.” “And when he told you to quit, what did you say?” “I said I had some circumstances and refused.” “What kind of person is he?” “What does he do?” “He’s a merchant after all.” “Is he still young?” “He isn’t young.” “He already has a wife and three children, isn’t he?” “There’s no helping such a man, is there?” “So there’s nothing to be done about it, isn’t there?” “But he likes you, doesn’t he?”

“How’m I supposed to know?”

During times when Mother was absent, we would play alone together in the sitting room, and sometimes talk about such things. The woman, though always quiet and seemingly serious, would often come out with playful banter once she warmed up. When Mother was away somewhere, I had claimed fatigue early in the evening and asked her to prepare my bedding; she came to sit beside me as I lay with a comfortable pillow, but suddenly turned serious, “I haven’t told you yet, but the truth is I’ve had a child.”

At first doubting her words, I stared fixedly at the woman’s seemingly sincere eyes, “That’s a lie,” I said.

“No,” the woman shook her head. “It’s true.”

“That—even if you were in that trade—it’s not entirely unheard of.” “Really?” “It’s true, I tell you.” “Heh heh,” I said, but a surge of irritation flared up in me until my entire body felt as though my blood had frozen, and I pushed myself up onto my stomach from the bedding. “When?” “Recently?” I pressed further.

Then the woman grew even calmer,

“Yes, it’s been about half a year now.” “So that happened during the year and a half I wasn’t coming here,” I said, deliberately suppressing the natural rise in my voice. “Then your mother must be pleased. Whose child is it? Do you even remember it?” “Mother is pleased.”

“Of course she would be.” “Is that…the man who told you to quit when you were sick? …And where’s that baby?” “Have you put it out to foster care somewhere?”

I had already made up my mind about everything. At this, my chest churned with an unbearable turmoil, and my mouth grew unpleasantly parched beyond endurance. And even as I thought this, lying there while taking her in anew, she sat right beside me with her usual composed demeanor—her appearance unadorned, wearing an everyday russet-checkered meisen lined kimono, the disheveled strands of her ginkgo bun left untamed, her face so pale it seemed almost bluish, its delicate oval shape gentle around the jawline, lovely.

In my heart, What kind of man could have fathered a child with this woman who shares my very life? Why had no child of mine ever been born? It was precisely because such a thing might happen by any chance that I had wanted to make her quit her trade as soon as possible. It had finally come to the worst possible outcome.

As I was thinking such things, the woman—

“Shall I show you the child?” she said. “Alright, show me. Where is it? A boy or a girl?” “It’s a girl. Well then, I’ll bring her here,” the woman said as she stood up. Wondering where she would bring it from, I kept my eyes fixed on her retreating figure. She took down a long box resting atop the stacked chest, opened its lid, and pulled out a large Kyoto doll from within.

“Oh, come on—you’re making a fool of me!” At that, the tightness in my chest suddenly lightened as if sinking away, and I laughed out loud.

The woman too let her gentle face soften into a quiet smile with a soft chuckle. “Isn’t she a lovely doll?” I simply answered “Uh-huh,” but beyond that doll and the lacquered confectionery containers, I felt I could see the shadows of various men.

The woman would often sit before the two chests lined up side by side, jangling the keys, “Shall I show you?” she said, taking out various garments from the wardrobe and spreading them out there. She had an array of fine garments—matching Oshima tsumugi silks, Omeshi silks, and exquisite summer linens.

“You have quite a collection, don’t you?” “That’s more than enough.” “All of these were made with things you gave me.” Her mother was there too, saying such things while watching us from the next room, though it didn’t seem entirely true. “This one’s also yours…” she said as she continued moving each garment aside one by one, until her hand reached the golden-brown Omeshi silk lined kimono with metallic threads that she had worn just the other night—the one that looked newly made—and I,

When I asked, “That one too?” both she and her mother fell silent for some reason. “You should feel secure with this many, shouldn’t you?” With that, the mother— “We still had plenty more back then—but when we moved from Kamigyō to Gion, we sold them all.” “We suffered calamities because of others—even after everything we owned was taken, it still wasn’t enough, so we ended up having to send my daughter out to a place like this.” The mother’s sorrowful complaints began again.

“Even after coming here, we still had quite a lot when we first arrived.”

“You see—my daughter here loves giving things away so much—when we first came to this place—everyone who ends up here has fallen on hard times anyway—poor souls wearing whatever rags they had—so she just let them take whatever they fancied until everything was gone.” “When I first came there, the people terrified me so.” “That must have been so.” "A complete innocent wandered into a den where every face turned her way belonged to someone of dubious character." “…Even so, as long as you’re safe and sound, there will still be good things ahead.”

“Truly, all I have left is this single body, I tell you.” She said that and laughed. “What remains is that old long hibachi and that hanging inkstone,” she said. I looked around the area again. On top of the chest of drawers, various small items were neatly arranged, and there was also a small Buddhist altar. I fixed my eyes on it,

“What about that Buddhist altar?” “That’s new too.” “Mother—when we came here, we couldn’t bear to sell the old Buddhist altar.” With that, the woman smiled gently once more.

I too stood up laughing, opened the door of the small Buddhist altar, and peered inside at the enshrined objects. At the very center stood a small mortuary tablet for her younger brother who had died five or six years ago—now the mother and daughter's most sorrowful memento. And next to it stood a small Amida Buddha statue reverently enshrined. As I absentmindedly reached out to take it, two photographs that had been propped up behind the statue as though hidden toppled over. I picked these up instead of the Buddha and examined them closely—they appeared to show neither the woman's deceased father nor her cherished younger brother whose face I remembered. One depicted a man in fine Western attire who looked about forty; the other showed a man around thirty wearing haori and hakama formal wear, sporting a short mustache beneath his nose. I remained holding them in my hand,

“Hey, who are these people?” I called out in a low voice from behind her as she folded her kimono. Then the woman immediately turned around while rising to her feet and said, “You shouldn’t look at those things,” snatching the photographs from my hand with a huff.