Pathway to Japanese Literature

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 it was that I found so appealing about her, explaining each and every point would have been difficult. But more than anything, what I liked was her unaffectedly quiet manner—her way of speaking, her daily conduct. And she was, by birth and in every aspect, a Kyoto woman. To speak of Kyoto women—many tend to have faces lacking definition—but that woman's features were finely chiseled, her mouth never slackening into the loose shape often seen in women of that region. Her fair complexion grew even paler in summer; when her skin grew damp with sweat, it naturally took on a faint rosy hue unlike those women who conspicuously relied on heavy makeup as their selling point—not that she took particular pride in avoiding powder... Since she showed no such affectation... She never engaged in what many women do—pulling out a mirror from her sleeve whenever hands were free to check their appearance, adjusting sidelocks, or patting their faces with paper powder—remaining instead refreshingly unadorned, privately composed in all matters, a woman one might even call lacking in sensuality.

And above all else, that woman’s most outstanding quality was her pleasing figure. Though her actual height was not particularly great, what made her appear taller at a glance was how her figure was so slender and well-proportioned. Down to the shape of her fingers—tapered gracefully—and even where pale blue veins showed through her white skin, every detail made her seem all the more gentle. In winter, her ashen-pale complexion sank into deeper somberness, the full side-locks of her customary ginkgo-leaf hairstyle veiling slender cheeks, while the long-draped hair at her nape cascaded from a crane-like neckline over the half-collar.

Her face bore the same gentle expression as her manner of speech and daily conduct, yet the thick, straight eyebrows drawn upon her white forehead—not so harsh as to be severe—stood out as strikingly as white sand against green pines. But what I could never forget were those eyes. They were large, intelligent eyes—somewhat nervous-looking with their double lids and utterly black depths. Though she never cried with coquettish displays meant to manipulate others, there were moments when some turn of conversation would make her reflect on her misfortunes. Then she would fall silent, those dark-pupiled eyes swelling with tension until they reddened at the edges, suddenly glistening with moisture like dewdrops. I thought I wouldn't have minded throwing away my life to love her for those eyes alone. At that time she was still young—twenty-three or twenty-four—but despite her profession, she showed unexpectedly modest taste, often wearing gold-footed 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 where white clouds billowed from ancient cedars into azure skies, by mid-August I began sensing autumn's chill in morning and evening breezes—a shift that stirred restless longing for city life within me. In early summer before ascending to the mountains, whenever I came from Tokyo to Kyoto I would stay at her house for over a month; when I mentioned my impending descent from the mountain, her brief reply came: certain circumstances kept her unfree, and discreetly keeping a man at her residence would raise complications with various parties; that summer visit—after a year and half apart—had been specially permitted by her patron as an exception, but frequent visits remained impossible; until she could send word herself, I must refrain from coming to Kyoto and return directly to Tokyo.

But I could not bring myself to return directly to Tokyo like that. In late September, I descended the mountain and spent two or three days traveling from Kii toward Osaka until one evening beneath dreary autumn skies, I entered Kyoto's nostalgic streets. Having departed for the mountains from her house that early summer—weary from long inhabiting charmless solitary quarters—I found myself unable to forget the tender rhythm of life during my brief stay with her. Though I yearned to return immediately if possible, she had by early September closed the rented second-floor residence where she'd been living, entrusting Mother to distant relatives in Kamigyō while declaring she wished to eliminate unnecessary expenses until attaining freedom. Though I had personally assured her I would manage such matters—having both instructed her before leaving and reiterated through frequent letters to keep Mother at the house and maintain the household until my late summer return—she ultimately wrote that they had shuttered the residence. Clutching this pulsing nostalgia, I arrived in Kyoto at dusk. Leaving my luggage temporarily at the station, I wandered through Kamigyō seeking an inn of quiet dignity but found none suitable. As I lingered, autumn's day faded early, and just as I noted the clinging humidity, fat raindrops began pattering down from leaden clouds.

Is there nowhere that would take me in with some semblance of friendly welcome? Why had she closed down those second-floor rented quarters? During the month I spent at her place from May through June, I had regained my health and even gained some flesh. But if she was no longer there, going to check now would be futile. Where could her mother be? Though if I truly wished to meet her, I could do so at once—but such a meeting would feel hollow.

As I pondered these things, I resolved to at least find lodging where I could stay undisturbed for a while—yet having no other prospects, I reluctantly emerged from the backstreets toward where the streetcars ran. The approaching carriage happened to be headed in the direction of her former residence, and though she might no longer be there now, I felt myself pulled toward that quarter regardless. With rain beginning to fall, I simply boarded the streetcar. And circling around Higashiyama and proceeding a short way along Gion’s streets brought me to where her house had stood; alighting from the streetcar at the nearby stop, I entered the dark alleyway whose layout I knew from spending time there before summer—but found the gate shut tight, no sign of the elderly landlady below, and the upstairs where she had lived—where I too had shared a room with her for about a month—closed off with not a sliver of light escaping.

"Well, but that can wait until tomorrow."

Thinking this, I wanted to secure lodging as close as possible to that place; feeling reluctant to be far from the nostalgic location where I had spent even brief moments with the woman I loved, I decided to stay at a certain inn located slightly uphill toward Higashiyama. The reason for this was that the inn was a deeply familiar establishment where I had often stayed with that woman. The area was located near Gion district, where such women resided, and was known either as Sanjō no Kiyamachi or Shimogawara—a stylish quarter that served as the recruiting ground for Gion’s women. It was situated on elevated ground near the base of Higashiyama, and even within refined Kyoto, its exceptional tranquility made it a place people found pleasing.

III

The previous winter, when I had gone from Tokyo to see the woman after a long absence, I had stayed at that house as well, but I cannot forget that time. It was mid-January when she sent me a letter saying she suddenly wanted to meet and talk, asking me to come; I set out on a night train. After passing a night of fitful sleep in the steam-heated carriage, I awoke early the next morning to find fields and mountains beyond the window frosted as if with powdered makeup, all bathed in the radiant glow of a madder-red dawn. As we emerged from snowbound Sekigahara into Ōmi province, the Hira and Hiei ranges came into view—distant peaks bathed in direct sunlight, their forms blurred through pale morning mist where they stretched across Lake Biwa’s western sky. Realizing Kyoto now drew near, my heart began racing of its own accord. And yet—no matter how far removed I was—those thoughts that should have settled had I remained quietly in Tokyo gradually intensified with the train’s advance, until anxiety assailed me to the point of torment.

"Is she safely at home? Had she been away in Osaka since earlier? There was a man in Osaka who cared deeply for her.... It was summer when I first came to know her. Once, when she had been invited by that man to a parlor across the way, I saw them from four or five houses away at an upper Kiyamachi teahouse—both freshly bathed in yukata, as she came to sit beside him. In that moment, I felt a torment as if my flesh were being seared. Even remembering it now, no pain pierces deeper than love's anguish. If only she were home and I could meet her at once. Last night I had spent on the train like this, coming all the way from Tokyo to see her. Where had she gone? To whose parlor had she been summoned? It was still early morning. In the late-rising pleasure quarter, they'd still be asleep now."

Such thoughts continued endlessly, rising one after another, until I could hardly bear to remain still in the train seat. I took out a telegram form from around there and sent a message saying I would certainly arrive at a house by the Kamo Riverbank by eleven o'clock. Though I arrived at Kyoto Station still around eight o'clock, the gloomy dawn mist blended with morning meal smoke. Standing in the station square and gazing nostalgically at mountains I hadn't seen in nearly a year, Higashiyama lay wrapped in white haze while Kiyomizu Pagoda floated dreamily halfway up Otowa Mountain's slope. The distant stretch from Atago to Nishiyama was bathed in the morning sun and stained a pale indigo. With light steps, I set off directly from there toward a certain restaurant by the Kamo Riverbank that I had informed via telegram earlier. However, as this establishment too was located within the pleasure quarter, when I arrived before the house, the staff were just beginning to open the front door. Soon after ascending the stairs and entering the second-floor room overlooking the riverbank, while ordering food and such, the white river mist tinged with crimson—neither quite haze nor smoke—that had heavily shrouded the river surface gradually dissipated in the morning sunlight rising through midair, until only the loud footsteps of people crossing Shijō Ōhashi could be heard; then, like shadow puppets, their figures gradually came into full view. The shadow of the tranquil day shone softly upon the houses on the opposite shore, while Higashiyama, visible beyond the roofline, remained perpetually enveloped in the quiet morning mist.

After instructing the maid that a phone call in the woman's voice might come through shortly, I sat alone eating from the warm hot pot,

"I had sent that detailed telegram," I thought, "but there's no knowing whether she'd be home at just the right time—she being such an unhurried woman, particularly lacking in quick responsiveness...though that moist-eyed quietness is precisely her virtue... Even if by chance she'd returned home this morning from last night's outing, seeing that telegram wouldn't likely make her promptly hurry to the telephone." "That creature truly doesn't grasp human hearts at all."

As I thought such things and grappled with anxiety, within less than an hour, the maid entered the room,

“Ah, there’s a phone call for you,” she said. With a start, I immediately stood up and hurried down to the telephone. “Hello? It’s me,” I said, and on the other end, “Ah, hello?” a voice called out. What a nostalgic voice—this woman’s voice I hadn’t heard in so long. Looking back, it had been eight or nine months since last May that I hadn’t heard that voice. Though letters had passed between us dozens of times each month, when I considered it had been since last May, even the memory of her face had grown hazy.

“Ah, I— Did you read the telegram?” “Yes... just now finished reading.”

“Well, you were actually at home.” “You must know how things stand on my end.” “I know full well.” “Then come right away.”

“Yes, you could stay here, but there are many people who know you at that place.” “Since my face mustn’t be seen there.” “And where might you be going from there today, sir?” “Where to?” “Somewhere to stay?” “Aye, that’s right.” “That hasn’t been settled yet. I thought it would suffice to decide after meeting you once.” Then she continued: “In any case, let us first meet at a certain discreet restaurant in Higashiyama. We’ll both go there between two and three o’clock and wait for each other.” As we tried concluding the call after making these arrangements, the woman pressed insistently,

“Hello? Make sure you don’t get it wrong now, sir.”

She repeated in a somewhat hoarse, natural voice. I suddenly felt such an urge to press my mouth tightly against the telephone receiver— “Don’t be absurd. You’re the one who mustn’t get it wrong. I’m different from the people here in Kyoto, you know. Last night, I came all this way by night train—hundreds of miles on purpose. Since she’s such an unhurried person, you can’t rely on her timing. If you make me wait, I’ll get angry.” With only a soft laugh on the other end, the call disconnected.

When I eventually returned to the original parlor, the maid was stationed beside the pot that had been boiling away, but—

“Is she not coming after all?” she asked. “It seems she won’t be coming here.” Having said that, I hastily finished my meal. When I let my gaze wander from the south-facing window toward the riverbank, the short winter sun had already tilted slightly westward from its zenith, and perhaps through this contemplative viewing, the warm sunlight seemed to cast spring-like heat shimmers over Higashiyama—where the roofline of houses beyond Shijō Ōhashi Bridge and Yasaka Pagoda stood visible. I hurriedly left there so as not to miss the appointed time. The quiet desolation of Kyoto’s winter days was beyond compare. Unusually for me, having grown somewhat tipsy from a small amount of sake, I no sooner left there than I boarded a waiting rickshaw, crossed the river eastward, followed Kenninji Temple’s bamboo grove-shaded earthen wall to turn at the back gate, and was gradually drawn up the sloping road toward Higashiyama. And walking through the streets of Shimogawara under the quiet winter day approaching dusk, when I visited an inn I vaguely recalled from years past, they kindly showed me in. Using that connection, I came to stay there frequently thereafter. Though the parlor was simply constructed, the proprietor, being a man of refined taste, had adorned it pleasantly without ostentation. I sat down on the thick Hattan-fabric zabuton cushion regardless, and after drinking the warm tea the maid had quietly poured and brought out—since the meeting place I had arranged earlier over the phone with the woman was right nearby—I took out my pocket watch, checking it repeatedly to avoid being late, announced I was just stepping out for a moment, and left. The area was already near the precincts of Kōdaiji Temple, where lush pine-covered hills loomed close enough to brush one’s eyebrows, and a bamboo grove—its nodes straight and true, its blue-green stalks vivid—stretched behind the houses. I walked along a quiet narrow street that climbed toward the mountains, arriving at the entrance of the teahouse at Makuzugahara where we had arranged to meet, and waited there for some time. As this place stood considerably elevated above the lowlands along the Kamo River, when I turned to look behind me, Mount Atago—bathed directly in the radiant winter midday sun—stretched across the distant western sky beyond a golden-glowing atmosphere, like indigo mist. And then, as I wandered about the area for a while without venturing too far—standing there watching—the figure coming up the narrow slope amidst the flow of passersby was unmistakably her. This was a figure I had not seen in eight or nine months since last May. As she drew nearer, she seemed to recognize me and smiled. Her hair, styled in a ginkgo-leaf twist, remained unsmoothed; wearing a black scarf and an Oshima-patterned half-coat beneath which the hem of an Oshima apron could be seen, she appeared exactly as she always did.

“You remembered me well,” he said with a laugh. “Why, of course I remember.”

“I’ve just settled on lodging there. You know the place—that house right there. Had they noticed sooner, I would’ve had you come straight over. Well, never mind—let’s go in.” With that, I took the lead and entered the teahouse. We were then led to a secluded annex room that extended beyond the garden into deep bamboo groves at Higashiyama’s base, where I ordered a few dishes and we talked awhile. “Look at this thing I’ve got here…” she said in a coquettish nasal tone, persistently worrying at small pimple-like blemishes on her face.

“I’ve put on a little weight, don’t you think?”

“Hmm, your complexion looks good.” “It’s wonderful you’re in good health.” “And what was this matter you suddenly wanted to discuss that made you ask me to come?”

Even when questioned thus, the woman remained silent and did not answer. When I pressed further,

“I’ll tell you about that later,” she said.

“Well then, shall we head to the inn now?” he 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? Why don’t we go together?” Though I urged her like that, she explained she couldn’t leave immediately since she’d slipped away from another appointment to meet me. After making her promise firmly to come later, I accompanied her from that house and we left together. While parting in front of the inn’s entrance, I said, “Arrange your schedule so we can eat together—come as early as you can.” “Yes, I will,” she replied, then turned and left.

The winter night deepened quietly as I warmed myself by the gas heater installed in the room against the severe cold that pressed in ever more intensely. Settling into a calm mood, I looked through my half-read newspaper while waiting impatiently for the woman's arrival, each moment stretching endlessly. Since the woman still had not arrived, I finally gave in to my hunger and ate a meager supper alone. Even so, she still showed no sign of coming. Growing increasingly restless in my slightly intoxicated state, I finally tossed aside the magazine I'd been reading to pass the time, wrapped myself in a padded robe by the hearth, and lay sideways using my arm as a pillow. I resolved to feign sleep and remain silent even if she came. As I lay there thinking this, ten o'clock passed and approached eleven. When quiet footsteps sounded in the distant corridor—this time clearly different from a maid's tread—I sensed movement outside the sliding door. The maid knelt from the hallway and gently opened the partition, revealing her slender figure standing there. Now, with her hair neatly arranged and wearing light makeup—unlike before—she appeared far more striking. Looking at her like this, she was indeed a striking woman. It was no wonder I had thrown myself wholeheartedly into loving this woman. The pleasure of making her my own was an instinctual joy more intense than possessing an entire country.

The woman entered with a composed demeanor,

“I’m terribly late,” she said simply, offering no further excuses. When I asked if she had eaten dinner, she replied she had already eaten and wanted nothing. The next day, fearing the cold, I stayed indoors all day while she leaned against the desk, busily writing on scrolls she said were for a distant aunt. Dressed in a black crepe haori sparsely embroidered with cherry blossoms, a muted blue-gray checkered silk kimono, and an underrobe of creped habutae silk with faint crimson accents at the cuffs, she extended slender white wrists where sleeve hems tangled—holding scroll paper in her left hand and brush in her right. Though a woman of disreputable trade, there lingered something antiquated about her, an essence found only in Kyoto—this I mused as I reclined against bedding pillows, gazing sideways at her form with rapt attention...

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

IV

What people that woman was meeting besides myself, and what true feelings she truly held toward me. Even when physically near, I could never truly know the inner workings of someone who made prostitution their trade—how much more impossible to discern the truth of her heart when separated by distance, when over a year, nearly two years had passed without meeting, with only handwritten letters exchanged between us. Yet once such doubts took root, no amount of suspicion could ever reach their limit. At times, I would conjure unbearable imaginings—attachments so intense I could neither sit still nor rise, jealousy, anxieties that seared my chest—but I would forcibly deceive myself, striving to extinguish those unpleasant visions and banish anxious thoughts from my heart.

And yet, despite years of consideration spanning three or four years—which by all rights should have long since brought resolution to her circumstances—her continued evasiveness eventually led me to send numerous pressing letters; but regarding these, she never provided a single clear response that might satisfy me. And so it was that even after finally coming to Kyoto to meet her at last—after a year and a half apart—I had grown dissatisfied with merely seeing her through our usual routine; though I sent letters and telegrams as signals just as before, she would not send a single satisfactory reply in return. If I were to follow our usual routine, I could see her immediately—but I resolved to wait until she took the initiative to reach out. Even if I were to calmly consider this as someone else’s matter, the obligation would still lie with her to take the initiative and say something. Even if I conceded a hundred or a thousand steps—no matter how base her profession might be—such a thing was simply not possible.

Having resigned myself to this thought, I set out on a brief trip to Yamato Road in late spring to clear my mind. That was an area I had long wanted to visit, but for the past four or five years, my mind had been entirely occupied by that woman, leaving everything else postponed. In truth, I had come to think that unless I made that woman my own, I wanted nothing else. I needed neither fame nor treasure—only those jet-black eyes like lacquer, large and somber; that demure face; those neatly arched eyebrows reminiscent of white sand and green pines; those plump, full sideburns; that slender figure. Unless I made my own a creature that comprehensively possessed every beautiful aspect capable of captivating my heart, there would be no existence for me in this world. I had spent those years in such a state of obsession—until my body had deteriorated considerably—as if afflicted by a fever.

Therefore, my entering into the late spring of Yamato—that treasure trove of beautiful nature and ancient art—was akin to when Werther had sought to soothe his sorrowfully wounded heart by being cradled within nature’s beautiful embrace.

And when I returned to Kyoto after nearly a month's brief journey through Yamato, the ancient capital's nature was already fully in early summer.

The tormenting hue of daylight plunged my weary eyes and flesh into deeper anguish. From Nara, from Yoshino, from every place I visited, I had written and sent picture postcards. I had thought she would say something to me, but she continued to feign ignorance and sent no word whatsoever. In the end, having given in once again, I went out myself and, reluctantly following our usual routine, had word sent from a certain house without mentioning myself—whereupon it seemed she happened to be in and promptly came over. It had been a year and a half since I last saw her. Whether it was due to the more pleasant season compared to when I last saw her in winter, or perhaps because she had applied beautiful makeup for a formal teahouse engagement, her body now appeared fuller—making her originally slender figure all the more striking and her stature seem even taller. They were thought to be dressed in the manner of those suddenly summoned to such parlors, and she wore a subdued black crepe haori over a gaudy Yuzen-dyed underrobe. She looked toward me from the foot of the stairs, yet her facial expression did not so much as twitch; composed and collected, her demeanor was like that of an utterly unfeeling person. And even when she came to my side, she said neither "It’s been a while" nor anything else, simply sitting there in silence. No matter what occurred, I refused ever to recognize her as harboring calculated malice; yet when faced with excessively irritating or tedious remarks from you, she would seal those lovely small lips like a Kyoto doll and turn silent as stone. Being well aware of her temperament, I too remained silent for a while, deliberately staring at her face, but in the end, I relented,

“Kyoto doll, Kyoto doll—I hadn’t seen that face in two years, so when you came in just now, I thought you were someone else.” When I said that teasingly, she still did not smile; on the contrary, “Aren’t you being a bit much yourself?” With her beautiful brows tensely furrowed, she spoke resentfully. I had expected her to at least say something like “I’m terribly sorry,” but here she was voicing complaints of her own. Thinking what a self-centered woman she was, I felt a flicker of irritation rise within me. Yet at the same time, I found myself perversely appreciating her refusal to offer any sweet-talking excuses.

“It’s been a year and a half since I last saw you.” “And what exactly are you going to say about this?” “Isn’t it precisely because you’re saving the best for later that I’ve endured wanting to see your face all this time?” Having said that, I pressed her again about the resolution of her circumstances—something I had inquired about countless times in every letter—but the woman merely, “I’ll tell you about that later,” she said, and then refused to say another word. “There’s no more ‘later’ for that, is there? “How many years do you think I’ve been saying that?”

The two of us sat properly facing each other and repeated such back-and-forth for a while, but after remaining silent and thinking it over, she finally said mysteriously: "I can't speak of that here, so I'll be going back."

I narrowed my eyes slightly,

“You’re saying strange things. If you can’t say it here, where can you say it?” “You go on ahead to the Shimogawara house and wait for me there.” “Then I’ll come afterward.” “It wouldn’t be proper toward this house for us to leave together, would it?” “Then I’ll leave this house first and come from there.” The woman delivered these lines in her characteristically brusque manner. Though I again felt uneasy about her words, since I didn’t truly believe her nature to be malicious, my doubts gradually dissolved until I found myself resolved,

“Then I’ll do that—but you must come there without fail,” I pressed, taking care not to belabor the point further. After tactfully handling matters at that house, we left separately. Then I went again to that Shimogawara house and waited. It was late May when days stretch long—still around three o’clock—yet she did not readily appear. Knowing her leisurely patience well, I steeled myself to endure the wait, but ultimately could bear it no longer. As I sat tormented by indescribable anxiety, the sun began waning over the quiet garden enclosed by high walls, shadows deepening in the shrubbery’s corners while the once-warm air turned faintly cold against my skin. Still her face remained unseen. Anxieties assailed me one after another—I doubted her every way imaginable—yet given how vehemently she’d insisted, surely she wouldn’t fail to come. She couldn’t possibly be such a wretched woman as to turn her back and flee through deceit. Had I stubbornly obsessed over and pined for such a creature these four or five long years, I’d have no choice but to feel ashamed of my own folly. By any moral measure, I’d done nothing warranting such heartless treatment. ...She must come any moment now. I waited, smothering anxious thoughts.

However, it was an inexpressibly pleasant late spring evening. My heart remained unchanged from that previous winter as I waited for her arrival, yet now it was early summer. Wrapped in a soft cotton-padded robe after bathing, I lay sprawled on my elbow pillow, legs stretched toward the open shoji facing the garden. Beyond the wall—so near Gion Shrine’s entrance connecting to Maruyama Park—the lingering warmth of departing spring carried boisterous laughter from strolling couples, their voices brimming with revelry. Though the season of blossoms had long passed, the fragrance of fresh greenery flowed smoothly into the parlor with the evening breeze, while somewhere unseen, young frogs croaked—their nostalgic chorus tinged with impatience. As I listened,

"That woman I want to cling to until I devour her—will she ever truly become mine in the end? How much longer must I endure being tormented by this anxious agony? I can’t keep suffering like this forever—I need to find peace soon." When I thought I heard faint footsteps down the long corridor and looked up, a maid soon appeared kneeling outside the sliding door,

“You’ve been waiting quite a while.” “How shall I prepare dinner? Would you care to wait a little longer?” the maid asked. After this exchange repeated two or three times, I finally lost patience and, in a fit of irritation, thought that if I ate first alone as I had done once before, she would surely come—that eating first would serve as a charm to make her appear sooner—and so,

“Bring it here,” I ordered. In my own heart, a sorrowful resentment welled up so intensely that tears blurred my eyes. It was not merely that my feelings of attachment to this woman of disreputable trade remained unfulfilled—why did this ardent affection of mine fail to reach her? If my ardent attachment held even a spark of spiritual power, it should have pierced her heart and elicited a livelier response—yet she remained as leisurely as ever.

At that moment, the maid brought in a meal tray. “Thank you for waiting,” she said while arranging an array of dishes on the lacquered tray. They consisted of seasonal Kyoto essentials: grilled sturgeon, minced crucian carp roe, salt-cured Akashi sea bream, Koya tofu simmered in white soy sauce, tender egg-colored yuba, and vivid green snap peas stewed in their pods. I ate the dishes that suited my taste, swallowing them along with tears that kept surging up my throat. Just as I was nearly finished, footsteps unlike those of other maids sounded in the hallway—from behind the sliding door, the woman abruptly appeared. Unlike earlier, she now wore a pale golden-brown ro-omeshi silk haori jacket for formal occasions, her customary light makeup leaving her beauty undiminished.

"I waited until now, but you were too late—I ended up eating." "Still?" "Yes…"

“Well then, Miss Ima, prepare it at once.” “This will suffice.” When I instructed the maid, the woman— “I don’t want it.” “I’ve no need to eat.” “Come now—don’t say such things. Let’s eat together. I’ve been waiting.”

The woman, without answering me, turned to the maid,

“Sister, please—really, just leave it there.”

She refused with those words, but I had the meal prepared and brought regardless. However, she did not even attempt to pick up her chopsticks and remained seated properly on the far side of the meal tray. Even viewed from such close proximity, hers was a radiant countenance perfectly suited to this refreshing early summer evening. Her attire with its delicate makeup was striking, and the comb marks in her hair glistened with a liquid sheen under the electric light. The woman ultimately did not touch the arranged dishes, and as the maid withdrew the meal tray,

“Sister, I’m terribly sorry to trouble you, but if there are strawberries, could you bring them later?” Having placed the order herself, after the maid had withdrawn, the woman seemed to have been silently lost in thought since earlier—though truth be told, she was always a woman of few words, brusquely silent whenever there was nothing pressing to say. I liked that—and then, as was her habit, she would abruptly act without going into lengthy explanations about her reasons,

“You see, I need to head back for a while,” she uttered enigmatically.

My chest tightened involuntarily as I stared fixedly at the woman’s face, “You’re leaving? But you’ve only just arrived now.” “Why would you say that?” “If I went back to Sodegiku—you know how hard it is to talk there—you told me to come wait at this house, didn’t you? So I came here.” “What exactly is happening with your circumstances?” “I’ve spent four years—five years now—worrying about you. Yet here we are today, stuck in the same endless limbo as five years ago—utterly beyond my power to resolve.” “As I’ve written repeatedly in my letters from home, I didn’t come here today merely to pass time with you.” “That’s what I came to ask about.” “How long do you plan to keep at this business?”

I inquired in a tone that blended feigned anger with genuine concern for her—a muddled mixture of both. But she, as if stammering, did not answer, “That will become clear later,” she said with a troubled, resigned laugh. “You keep saying ‘I’ll tell you later, I’ll tell you later’—that’s your habit.” “Haven’t we reached the point where you could tell me that already?” I, too, had no choice but to mask my persistence with a laugh.

“I can’t say it here.” She said it like a child. “If you say you can’t speak here—if you can’t say it now here, then when will you ever? Why do you say you’re going back?” Even as I pressed her like this, the woman offered no proper explanation and simply remained stubbornly silent. Her appearance bathed in the bright electric light was striking—the longer one looked, the more beautiful she became. When I suddenly noticed after this long absence, her seated posture now carried a sisterly composure about it, while her features held an ineffable quality that undeniably revealed she had aged somewhat. That much was true. The first time I met her had been five years ago at this very season—in a second-floor tatami room along the Kamo River where refreshing early summer breezes stirred fresh green willows—where I kept her by my side for days on end lamenting time’s passage. Looking out from that tatami room across to the riverbank’s lawn sprouting vivid blue-green, from that direction too came lively voices of beautiful women with their kimono hems neatly tucked—laughing in merry conversation. At that time she often wore a subdued black crepe haori jacket with tightly cinched waist and favored lined garments with distinct white vertical stripes slightly coarse—a combination that accentuated her slender figure. But looking back now from today’s perspective, she still possessed a youth not far removed from twenty at that time. For me too—preoccupied with petty thoughts solely for this woman...precisely only for this woman—five years had slipped away as if flowing like yesterday and today until she had already turned twenty-seven this year. As I thought this and continued staring at her face—from the watery pale yellow collar of her underrobe there emerged a certain mature resoluteness about her.

The woman was quietly bringing to her mouth the crimson strawberries arranged on the white Western plate that the maid had brought earlier, prodding them with a silver spoon.

“Do you have someone you simply have to meet tonight?” I asked. “That’s not it.” “If there’s no one expecting you, shouldn’t you stay here? You know perfectly well I’ve got countless things to discuss—we exchanged letters monthly, yes, but haven’t met properly in nearly two years.” “So I’ll tell you after I go back.”

“What on earth are you talking about? I don’t understand a single thing.” “You mean you’ll tell me after going back?” “Then why not say it right here and now?” “In that case, I’ll send a messenger with a letter as soon as I return.” “I can’t fathom why you’d come all this way only to leave again so soon.” “You don’t mean to stop seeing me altogether?”

“That’s not it.” “I’ll see you again later.” “What on earth are you going on about? It doesn’t make a lick of sense to me.” “But fine.” “Then do as you please.” “I’ll be waiting for your letter to see what you have to say.” “You’ll send a messenger without fail, right?” “Yes, I’ll call a rickshaw from the stand in about two hours.” “Well then, you wait for me now, alright?” Having said that, she quietly stood up and left, disappearing down the corridor. While harboring a strange uneasiness, I thought that insisting too obstinately on keeping her would be unbecoming of an adult, and so I left things as the woman said. In the small garden outside the open veranda—surrounded by high earthen walls—a damp night mist had risen like a pale haze around the lushly overgrown shrubs, while cool night air continuously flowed in from the mountains into the faintly warm atmosphere. I shifted my body away from the dining table where the scent of food still lingered, went to the edge near that small garden and plopped down again, breathing in the flow of night air that carried a nostalgically familiar vegetal fragrance—all while my heart remained in a state of waiting—filled with unbearable anxiety about what form her promised message would take two hours later, yet also brimming with an indescribable anticipation.

Though the surroundings seemed quiet, being so close to the bustling nightlife district meant that a step outside would immediately plunge one into its vibrant energy, where the occasional murmur of passersby echoed faintly from afar. Yet paradoxically, this seemed to deepen the hush all the more. The sensation was so pleasant that I remained lying there with my elbow as a pillow, tucking my feet into the hem of my padded robe, drifting in and out of sleep.

Just then, the maid came in,

“Wouldn’t you care to take a bath? Shall I prepare your bed now?... Um, did you perhaps... go somewhere?” “Ah, Oima-san. I was dozing off from how pleasant it felt…… No—wait, just a little longer.” “Is that so? In that case, please feel free to call me whenever it suits you.” Oima-san quietly withdrew as she was. Time passed gradually, and with the shōji left open like that, the night had grown so late that the cold became almost too much to bear. She said that, but when would the woman ever truly send a messenger?

It was nearly time for them to close the gate here and retire for the night. If she were to abandon things as they were, what would I do? Might as well have them prepare the bed and sleep like this. Lying half-awake, I could think of nothing else—the torment became unbearable—I had to sleep and forget. While thinking such thoughts and beginning to doze off again, I was jolted awake by hurried footsteps in the corridor—the maid knelt outside the sliding door,

“A letter,” she said. When I took the sealed envelope she handed me, it contained a hastily scribbled note: “I must apologize for my earlier rudeness. Though it be a truly squalid place, I humbly entreat you to accompany me there. The rest I leave to your esteemed discretion,” it read. I flipped over the envelope, but there was no address or anything written. “Oima-san, what sort of messenger brought this?” When I asked the maid,

“Well now, I... couldn’t rightly say, but seemed like it was an older woman.” “An older woman. She must still be waiting out there.” It made no immediate sense to me.

“Yes, she’s waiting.”

So, when I hurried out to the entrance and heard she was outside the gate, I walked the long stone-paved path from the entrance to the gate, and there in the darkness stood her mother. "Oh! Mother? It's been so long since I last saw you," I said involuntarily, my voice tinged with nostalgia. Because the messenger was her mother, I felt completely at ease and settled into a pleasant state of mind.

“The reply came shamefully late—my daughter told me to give you her proper apologies,” Mother said, concealing herself in the shadow of the electric lamp above the gate entrance. “I appreciate you going to such trouble this late at night. I’ll come with you right away—just wait a moment while I change.” I returned to the parlor, changed my clothes, informed the maid I might stay out overnight, then hurried back.

“Thank you for waiting.” “Let’s go now.”

V

I then followed behind mother as she led the way.

The hour had long since passed midnight, and being near Higashiyama’s edge, all traces of human footsteps had vanished from the streets. In the pale mist-laden sky, a moon some sixteen or seventeen days old shone brightly, and when I tilted my head back to gaze upward, its halo appeared hazed like silver smoke drifting into a warm-looking glow. Despite walking outside so late, there was no chill at all—it was an indescribably pleasant night. I walked shoulder to shoulder with Mother, nostalgically drawing close to her side,

“Mother, it’s truly been so long. Let me see—when was the last time we met?” I said, trying to recall something from the past. When I first came to know the woman, though I asked about her family home—where it was, how her parents fared, whether she had siblings—anyone would hesitate to speak truthfully without properly sizing up their interlocutor first. But as we gradually grew closer, I learned her parents consisted solely of a mother nearing sixty, that while she had many siblings in childhood, all had died young save for one brother who remained until adulthood—and even he had passed away last year at twenty. Because of this, needless to say her mother—and even she herself—had become so disheartened that in this world today there remained not a shred of joy. Even when speaking of uncles and aunts, they were all relatives on her mother’s side—and even those were merely half-siblings who shared only her mother’s womb. There were no relatives on her father’s side anywhere, and after losing the brother they had relied upon as their lifeline, staff, and pillar, it became truly a mother and daughter left to rely solely on each other in their precarious existence. She rarely spoke of other matters, but when it came to her brother, she seemed genuinely unable to forget him and would often reminisce fondly. Upon hearing her circumstances, my naturally compassionate disposition immediately brought to mind Koharu from Ten no Amijima saying, “Mother, who relies on me alone, does menial work in the southern part and lives in a back alley. After my death, would my mother become a street beggar and starve? That thought alone breaks my heart”—and I found the woman all the more pitiable in her loveliness.

Originally, from the time her father was alive, they had lived in the Kamigyo area, but after she entered service at a teahouse, her mother moved with her to a nearby location, settling into a humble dwelling in an alley off one side of Gion-machi. It was there that I visited and met her mother for the first time. And we spoke even of matters that would come later. She was a fearsome old woman who made one wonder how such a woman could have produced a daughter as elegant as a crane, yet in her manner of speaking there remained an innate simplicity unbefitting a teahouse worker.

“Being but a mother and child with no one else to rely on, I humbly ask for your continued kindness,” she said in a sorrowful, nasal voice, then went on to tell me—in complaint-filled tones—of times before their current ruin, when the household still faced no hardship. According to her account, their family home had originally been in the mountains at the foot of Washūzan near Ōkawara in Minamiyamashiro—still within Kyoto Prefecture—but twenty or thirty years prior, her father had relocated to Kyoto. In their mountain homeland, they had once owned considerable fields and forests, but that was long ago—the person entrusted with their management had put them up as loan collateral and lost everything.

“If we still had all those things, we wouldn’t have to put this child through such a base trade—and you could live quite comfortably.” Mother said such old things in a faint voice. The woman sat there silently listening to Mother and me talk, her large black eyes growing wider of their own accord until they reddened and glistened with dewdrop-like tears. “That’s all in the past now, isn’t it?” she said quietly in one breath, and with that Mother’s story ended.

After that, during the time I remained in Kyoto until late summer’s end, I occasionally visited Mother’s place as well, and each time I would repeat our discussions about what would become of the woman. Looking back and counting on my fingers, I realized nearly five years had passed since that time. “Mother, how you’ve been faring—it weighed on my mind constantly.” “Every time I asked after you in my letters, knowing nothing of your whereabouts or any details... I’d been utterly out of touch.”

“Not at all. “I’ve been the one remiss in keeping contact, I’m afraid. “My daughter’s always told me you’ve been well through it all. “Truly, we’re ever so grateful for your constant kindness—there’s no proper way to repay it, I’m afraid.”

Beneath the moon, talking of such things as we walked, we made our way down Higashiyama Street where the sound of streetcars had long since ceased. And after walking for some time, Mother turned into a certain side street toward the rear gate of Ken'nin-ji Temple while— “Come this way,” she said, and after walking a short distance, she entered a dimly lit, squalid alleyway, her footsteps making a dry, clattering sound. I followed silently from behind, and immediately at the alley’s dead end, she quietly pushed open the gate door and entered first,

“Please come in,” she said, then slid the latch shut with a clatter behind me as I followed inside, took the lead again, and swung open the entrance’s sliding door to enter. I followed her inside to find yet another narrow passageway partitioned by a small sliding door just large enough to squeeze one’s body through—utter darkness save for the faint glow of an electric lamp leaking through the sliding doors of the front room. Mother once again opened that small sliding door with a rumble and entered beyond. And in the same manner,

“Please, do come all the way in here.” “It’s dark here, so please watch your step.” With that, she stood before the threshold of the inner tearoom and waited for me to enter her side. I entered again while feeling around that area with my hands. And there, beside the old long hibachi in that tearoom, sat a refined and neat-looking old lady of about sixty-five or sixty-six, quietly smoking tobacco. Mother, while nodding slightly to the old lady, turned toward me,

“It’s no trouble at all—please do come up from there.” “Grandmother, kindly excuse us,” she said, then took the lead past the long hibachi and moved toward the staircase visible through the open fusuma panels at the far end of the three-tatami tearoom. Through this, I finally began to understand piece by piece.

"So they're renting the second floor of this refined old lady's house and living together," I thought inwardly while politely bowing to the old lady and following Mother up the stairs. Then at the immediate top of the stairs was a six-tatami room that was dirty, where in the far corner stood items like a long hibachi and tea shelves. And beyond that lay another room—an eight-tatami space. No sooner had Mother climbed the stairs than—

“There you are,” Mother called toward the darkness, and from the glaring electric light that stung my darkness-accustomed eyes emerged the woman, standing quietly in her unchanged form. Transformed utterly from her earlier pensive demeanor, she smiled with disarming warmth, “Welcome. I behaved dreadfully before. Forgive this wretched place—I thought you’d find it less stifling here than there.” In that artlessly candid tone, she led me to the eight-tatami reception room.

Now completely relieved and overjoyed, I stood at the threshold between tatami rooms looking around. Along Yatsuhone's right wall stood two tall stacked chests placed side by side, while across to the left in a single alcove space hung a modest scroll with a brazier placed beneath it. At first glance, it was a well-worn and shabby room, but being an eight-tatami space that was both spacious and neatly kept, it somehow seemed bright and comfortable. In the center of the tatami room stood a large ceramic brazier with pristine zabuton cushions neatly arranged beside it - all seemingly prepared in anticipation of my arrival. I looked around in deep admiration,

“This is a fine place—so this is where you’ve been staying.” “How long have you been here?” “Well, if you were in a place like this all along, then even while I was far away and we didn’t meet for so long, my worrying for you—feeble though it was—must have had some effect after all.” “Hmm—such splendid chests you’ve acquired.” As I spoke these words, I remained standing there, “Oh please, do sit down here,” both mother and daughter said together.

Before long, having taken seats on the zabuton cushions beside the brazier, Mother would bring freshly brewed Uji tea from her long hibachi in the adjoining room, while the woman took sweets from the confectionery box to offer, and there they sat facing each other, talking for some time. “Thanks to you looking after us all this time, I’ve found some ease at last.” She, who often called herself inarticulate, offered no long-winded compliments and spoke those words in simple terms.

I said in a somewhat reproachful tone, "If that’s how it was, then why didn’t you tell me sooner to come here and talk things through?" "It wasn't just since coming here a month ago—from the beginning of this year onward, I kept sending you those pestering messages precisely because I didn't know about this situation, making all my words end up being unnecessary remarks that only bred resentment—things I shouldn't have said." "Now that I’ve come here like this, I feel relieved, but…"

Then Mother called out from behind the sliding door in the next room: "My girl did say that." "'Mother, I'm no good with words—if you'd come yourself, I could give proper thanks,' she told me." "...And about this house too—we should've written sooner, but my girl here was poorly for nigh a month come February, poorly enough to fret over, so proper replies never got sent, you see."

While turning my head in that direction,

“Well, now that I’ve come here and seen for myself, it wasn’t as bad as I’d feared, so I’m relieved,” I called out in that direction.

The climate being so perfectly temperate, we could stay awake endlessly without realizing how late the night had grown. Then Mother once more,

“It’s long past two o’clock, you know.” “...You must be exhausted too, you know.” “Good night, you know.”

Having been told this, I finally came to my senses and prepared for bed.

VI

The place was so comfortable that I, having grown weary of my long years of solitary living, ended up idling away over a month immersed in an unfamiliar warmth of domestic affection, all while being treated with meticulous care by the mother and daughter despite their limited means. Because of this, my health, which had been ailing since the cold days of early spring, was fully restored with the assistance of the gradually warming climate.

The woman attended to errands and stayed home resting for about a week during that entire month. Even when I invited her by saying, “Shall we go walk somewhere together?” “I’ll do that once I’ve truly quit this trade,” was all she would say, and she spent each day quietly shut up at home, venturing out only late at night to visit the nearby bathhouse. And like the whim of a capricious young girl, she would suddenly remember to boil water in the brazier’s kettle, prepare thin tea, and serve it. And then, pointing to the lacquered confectionery box there,

“When I was laid up sick in February, the person who brought this to visit me suggested I quit ’em then and there.” “Huh, so there was someone that thoughtful?” “Wasn’t nothin’ thoughtful or such.” “And when he told you to quit, what did you say?” “I told him I had some things to settle and turned him down.” “What sort of man is he?” “What does he do?” “He’s a merchant through and through, you know.” “Still young?” “He ain’t young. He’s already got a wife and three children, you know.”

“What can you do with a man like that?” “That’s why there ain’t nothin’ to be done about it.” “But over there, he likes you, doesn’t he?” “How should I know?” During times when her mother was absent, we would play alone in the tatami room and sometimes talk about such things. The woman always appeared quiet and serious, yet once she warmed up to someone, she would often make absurd, playful jokes. When her mother was away somewhere, from early evening I had claimed fatigue to have bedding prepared for me, and as I lay there with a comfortable pillow, she came to sit by my side—then suddenly turned solemn.

“I really ought not tell you yet,” she said，“but truth be told—I’ve had a child.”

At first doubting her words, I stared fixedly at the woman’s seemingly truthful eyes. “That’s a lie,” I said. “No,” the woman shook her head, “it’s the truth, you know.” “That—even if you were in that trade, it’s not something entirely unheard of.” “Really?” “It’s the honest truth, I tell you.” “Hehe,” I said, but as my irritation flared uncontrollably, a chill ran through my entire body as if my blood had frozen. I propped myself up on my stomach atop the bedding,

“When?” “Recently?” I pressed further and asked.

Then the woman grew increasingly composed, “Yes, the child’s about six months old now.” “So that happened during the year and a half I wasn’t coming around,” I said, deliberately steadying my voice as it threatened to rise, “So Mother must be pleased.” “Whose child is it?” “Do you even remember?” “Mother’s been delighted.”

“Of course she has.” “Is that the person who came to make you quit when you were sick that time you spoke of?… And where’s that baby now?” “Have you had it fostered out somewhere?”

I had already resolved everything thus in my mind. Then my chest seethed with a nameless turmoil, and my mouth grew parched with an unbearable dryness. Lying there with these thoughts, I looked anew at the woman—her usual lustrous composure unchanged, wearing that everyday russet meisen silk kimono with its mottled checkered pattern, stray hairs escaping from her disheveled ginkgo-leaf hairstyle left untamed, sitting close beside me with that pale face verging on bluish, its delicate oval shape meek about the jawline, lovely. In my mind,

What man could have fathered a child with this woman who was my very life? Why hadn't my child been born? It was precisely because such a thing might occur that I had wanted her to quit her trade at the earliest possible day. It had finally come to pass—the very thing I feared.

As I was thinking such things, the woman—

“Shall I show you the child, you know?”

“Hmm, show me. “Where is it? “Is it a boy or a girl?” “It’s a girl, you know.” “Then I’ll bring her along, you know,” said the woman, standing up. As I wondered where she would bring the child from and watched intently at her retreating figure, she took down a long box that had been placed atop the stacked chests, opened the lid, and pulled out a large Kyoto doll. “Oh, come on—you’re making a fool of me.” At that, my chest—which had been tightly constricted—suddenly lightened as if sinking away, and I burst into loud laughter.

The woman’s gentle face softened into a quiet laugh. “She’s a lovely doll, isn’t she?” I answered with a noncommittal “Uh-uh,” but beyond the doll and lacquered confectionery containers, I thought I could see the shadows of various men. The woman would often sit before the two chests placed side by side, rattling the keys, but—

“Would you like me to show you?” she said, taking out various garments from the wardrobe and spreading them out to show me. She had numerous matching sets of Oshima tsumugi silk, fine omeshi silks, and high-quality summer jōfu linens, among other things. “You’ve amassed quite a collection. “That’s more than enough as it is.”

“All of these were made from things you gave me, you know.” Mother was there too, saying such things while watching from the next room, but it didn’t seem to be entirely the case. “This one is also yours…” she said as she continued moving each garment aside one by one. When her hand reached the gold-cha omeshi lined kimono with its threaded pattern—the one she had worn just the other night, which seemed newly made—I interjected,

“That one too?” I asked, but for some reason, both she and Mother remained silent about it. “If you have this many, shouldn’t you feel at ease?” When I said this, Mother— “You still had plenty back then—but when we went up to the capital and moved to Gion Town, we sold everything off.” “Because disasters struck us for others’ sake—even having all our things taken wasn’t enough—we ended up having to put this child out into such a place.” Mother’s sorrowful grumbling began anew.

“Even after comin’ here, we still had a fair bit left when we first arrived, you know.”

“You see—this girl here’s always been one for giving things away—so when we first came to this place… Well! Folks who end up there are at their lowest, you know? Awful sorts—why, some barely had clothes on their backs! So she’d say, ‘Take whatever you fancy,’ and ended up giving away everything she had, you know.”

“When I first came here, I was terrified of the people.” “That must have been the case.” “After all, she was a complete innocent who’d wandered into a den of strangers with unknowable natures.” “Even so, if she remains unharmed, there will still be good things ahead.” “All I have left is this body of mine, you know.” She said that and laughed. “All that’s left is that long brazier and that hanging inkstone, you know.”

I looked around the room 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 that, “What about that Buddhist altar?” “That one’s new too, you know.” “Mother found it too painful to sell the old Buddhist altar when we came here, you know.” The woman said that and laughed softly again.

I too stood up with a laugh, opened the door of that small Buddhist altar, and peered inside at what was enshrined there. In the very center stood the small memorial tablet of her younger brother who had died five or six years earlier—now the mother and daughter’s most sorrowful remembrance. And beside it stood enshrined a small Amida Buddha. When I casually reached out to take it, the two photographs that had been propped up behind—as if hidden there—fell over. So rather than examining the Amida Buddha, I took those into my hands for closer inspection. They appeared to show neither the woman’s deceased father nor bear any resemblance to her beloved brother. One showed a man around forty years old in fine Western attire; the other depicted a man of about thirty in haori and hakama, standing with a short mustache beneath his nose. Still holding them,

“Hey—who’re these people?” I called in a low voice from behind her as she folded the kimono. At this, the woman immediately turned around while rising to her feet and said, “You’ve no business looking at such things,” snatching the photographs from my hand with a sullen glare.