Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

It was around autumn of that year when Omasu moved from the initial house in Shitaya where she had been placed to the Kōjimachi area. At the first house where she had settled in Shitaya after gaining her freedom, Omasu spent three hot summer months from late spring onward.

It was a small single-story house located in an alley slightly off the bustling Hirokoji Avenue, with a man’s acquaintance’s home situated right across from it. Omasu, having just emerged, didn’t have many clothes to wear. Because the ways of the pleasure quarters had permeated her, her manner of speaking and daily conduct lacked composure. To Omasu’s eyes—freshly moved there from a spacious building—the damp narrow garden partitioned by a dark wooden fence that clearly revealed the neighboring old man’s bald head from above, complete with wind chimes; the kitchen where opening the water outlet made voices from the opposite house’s living room audible as if within arm’s reach; all felt stifling and unbearably cramped.

During those early days, when Omasu sat before the brazier in that house’s family room during daylight hours, she felt achingly lonely. After scrubbing the rough veranda floorboards, polishing the brazier, and taking a bath, there was nothing left for her to do. The lively house she had grown accustomed to over time rose vividly before her eyes. The man would come by frequently during the day on his way back from work, carrying a briefcase and such. There were also times when he would emerge from his house after nightfall. The man was married.

Omasu tied her hair in a marumage and prepared sake in the kitchen. On the serving tray they had bought together at Hirokoji Avenue lay arranged his favorite sea bream and grilled tai-shaped crackers. They would obtain eel bowls from nearby and eat them together. Compared to when he used to visit wearing suits faded at the shoulders, the man's financial situation had improved markedly. Now dressed in Ryukyu-patterned kasuri lined garments with an embroidered square obi and gold-rimmed glasses, his crisp bearing showed none of his former student-like air.

The man, quick to pour sake and such, rarely appeared sluggish when visiting. Company affairs and money-making schemes perpetually occupied his thoughts. After rising from the futon, he would promptly check his watch and depart. The tightly shut wooden door would clatter open in haste. When the man left, Omasu's heart swung back to its old loneliness. She rued ever coming to a household where the man kept a wife. "To say there's no wife while tricking me—how cruel can you be?"

Shortly after arriving, when Omasu had overheard that matter from the old woman across the way, she vehemently accused the man.

“Who said such a thing?” The man opened his ingratiatingly gentle eyes wide but showed no surprise. “It’s a lie.” “Everyone’s heard about it. I know all about how a woman came to visit you from Kyoto before, and how you were close with some widow somewhere.” “Heh heh,” the man laughed. “And isn’t it true that even now, that woman from Kyoto still sends you things from time to time?” “You’re talking nonsense.”

“I was thoroughly deceived.”

The man sat up from the futon wearing an undershirt. Omasu sat with one knee raised beside him, smoking a hand-rolled cigarette. Her long-lashed eyes—weary-looking—were bloodshot. She grabbed his exposed knee and pressed her cigarette’s ember against it. The man jumped up in surprise.

II

However, the man couldn’t keep feigning ignorance indefinitely. He explained that the wife he had married three or four years earlier was two years his senior and that she had supported him for a long time since his student days when he had been under her care. At that time, the woman had been living with her mother with a small amount of money. “There, you see? You’re just keeping up appearances by staying apart for now, all while deceiving me!”

The two of them came to sit by the long brazier and drank tea. In the lamplight cast upon the serving tray, the woman’s face—its clean contours pale as she bit her thin lower lip and fixed her gaze with thoughtful intensity—stood sharply defined. “But that matter will be settled soon.” “And that woman has chronic asthma—we could never last a lifetime together.”

The man muttered as he put his pipe into its case.

“Asthma, you say?” “What’s asthma?” “A disease that makes the throat wheeze.” “Well, I had clients like that.” “Oh, that.” Omasu laughed as if recalling something.

“They say it flares up from drinking or not taking care of yourself—that’s what it is, right?” “How awful.” “You’re still with that wife of yours?” Omasu scowled and looked at the man’s face. The man was smirking.

“But you can’t just cast aside someone who’s done so much for you. How could you possibly do something so heartless?” “Oh, it’s nothing. In the end, it’s just a matter of money.” “No, she won’t leave just because of money. Moreover, she can’t just go settle somewhere else.”

Omasu’s eyes took on a thoughtful cast. However, she couldn’t press the man any further. “I’d like to see your wife once, you know.”

Omasu said as if trying to probe the man’s heart.

“That’s pointless.” The man snorted derisively. “Besides, if this gets out, it would be awkward even if I paid her off.” “So you’re scared of the wife after all.” “Scared or not, she’s more trouble than anything.” “Then your wife must be the jealous type.”

“And what about you?”

“No, I wouldn’t do that. While we’re at it, you could show me around Tokyo, and then I’d be fine going back to the countryside.” Omasu laughed as she said this, but she couldn’t help feeling the scars from her time in the trade.

When the neighborhood fell silent, Omasu found it unsettling to be there alone. Even after lying down, there were many nights when she couldn’t easily fall asleep. In Omasu’s mind, which had only awakened to the night world, the faces and voices of her numerous colleagues and elderly women still seemed to cling stubbornly to the depths. A night’s bed with nothing to embrace was more exhaustingly painful than her long service. The sounds of drums and shamisen music also came back to her.

The face of the wife beside the man and the state of the room would appear before her eyes.

Three

“Omasu, I’ll be playing flower cards—do come over.”

At the house across where Omasu typically spent her days, whenever Ochiyo-baasan grew lonely, she would call out from the entrance just like that. In that house, the eldest son—who had been friends with the man during his boyhood—was working at a mine in a distant province. Ochiyo-baasan, possessing modest means, now lived comfortably without any specific occupation, overseeing the education of her younger son while keeping one maid. Since arriving here, Omasu had depended on Ochiyo-baasan for all manner of kitchen affairs and shopping matters. She received help with hairstyling, was escorted to the bathhouse, and even got dragged along to comic storytelling shows.

“Since she knows nothing at all, please teach her a thing or two.”

When he brought Omasu here, the man made that request to Ochiyo-baasan. “Mr. Asai, is it really alright for you to do such a thing?” “What will you do if she finds out?” “Even I will earn your wife’s resentment.”

Ochiyo-baasan spoke in a tone that carried slight forcefulness. Having separated from her husband long ago, the old woman had spent years raising her children before living alone. When interacting with Asai and his sort, she would occasionally adopt an oddly rigid manner. Even her eyes took on an irritated glint whenever conversations turned to women. The elderly night owl wore a lonely expression as she toyed with her cherished flower cards beside the elongated brazier.

“Let’s say a year at most, then,” the old woman said with a face like tightened muscles as she looked at Omasu.

“I’ve just managed to squeeze some money out of Mr. Asai regarding the wife—all done quite tactfully.”

Omasu sat down and abruptly said.

“So what does Mr. Asai say about it?” “He says he’ll pay her off.”

“I’m not sure about that.” “She’s been a woman who’s suffered terribly for that man since his student days.” “Moreover, now she’s properly registered as his legitimate wife.” “But he says he’ll pay her off because he can’t stand the asthma.”

“You’d better not do such a thing. Even if you force your way that far in, you won’t sleep with a clear conscience.”

"I don’t care either way. If that person wants to keep her, let him keep her; if he wants to pay her off, let him pay her off." Omasu spoke in a resigned tone and took up the dealer’s position with her slender, knobby hands. "That’s you as the dealer." Ochiyo-baasan passed all the cards to Omasu. "It’s my treat, Auntie." Omasu deftly dealt and distributed the cards with her skillful hands. Her eyes darted restlessly with false excitement, her mind churning without focus. The sensation of being mocked even by this old woman left her deeply unsettled.

“What’s this, you’re at it again?” Hearing the noise, the son who had graduated from middle school came down from the second floor. And sitting down beside his mother, he kept a watchful eye on the game. Omasu’s moves worked recklessly well.

“That won’t do, Auntie—you can’t keep drawing cards in such a half-hearted way.”

Omasu kept silent company but soon cut it short and returned home. And when she returned home, she was crying for no reason.

Four

Just as she was dozing off, Omasu was startled awake by the shrill voice of the neighboring old woman. In her weary mind, she kept seeing nothing but incoherent dreams. Within those dreams, various fragmented things were interwoven in a jumble. She would see Asai—who hadn't shown his face for two or three days—in the Western suit he used to wear when visiting her, or glimpse the clerk from the familiar hat shop in Nihonbashi passing through the dimly lit storefront where Asai sat with another woman, pretending not to notice. Omasu tried to call out to them, but it felt as though someone's large hand were pressing down on her chest, and her voice wouldn't come out.

Thinking it was the shrill voice of a young wife arguing in the hallway, she awoke to find it was actually the neighboring old woman. The old woman, rumored to have come there as a second wife, was harshly berating that bald-headed old man.

“Oh, they’re at it again.”

With that thought, it finally became clear to Omasu that she was lying alone under a mosquito net in the very house where she was being sheltered. When she looked, pale morning sunlight was streaming into the room. Outside, it seemed another scorching day was beginning to blaze. At the water pipe by the roadside came a splashing sound, and the clang of a bucket’s handle rang out sharply. The old woman seemed to be shouting as she moved between the sitting room and kitchen, her voice growing distant then near again. The old man too was muttering something intermittently. The old man and woman had often quarreled late at night before—this much Omasu understood well enough. At that sullen old man’s place—the one with the pallid face—the wife would often run away.

“That old man’s so stingy, no one will ever stick around.” Ochiyo-baasan had said that, but there seemed to be more to it than that.

“No, that old man—it’s definitely because the nights are too noisy.” Omasu had spoken to Ochiyo-baasan, but Ochiyo-baasan simply kept making a strange face.

Omasu, who hadn’t slept well, felt her mind heavy and murky, as though sediment had settled within it. And as she lay smoking tobacco in bed, the neighbor’s clock struck six o’clock. Whenever Omasu slept in and received sarcastic remarks from Ochiyo-baasan, she found herself able to return to the diligent disposition of her younger years—a mindset that had grown markedly stronger recently—and thus had no intention of continuing her former dissolute lifestyle. Even her use of pocket money was tightly controlled.

“How much is your income these days?” Omasu sometimes asked Asai such things. Asai’s income was not fixed each month. “How much are the household expenses?” Omasu was also concerned about that.

“Well, that’s not fixed either, you know.” “But living expenses don’t amount to much.” “But she does drink now and then.” “Then she goes out and plays flower cards.” “That’s her indulgence.” “That won’t do at all.” “Your wife must be careless about something.” Asai, too, was growing weary of this. “If it were me, I’d certainly keep things in order.”

Omasu said with apparent confidence. And she would often calculate living expenses. That was of the greatest interest to Omasu. "Oh—calculating someone else's household expenses won't ever become your own. How absurd. Let's stop this nonsense." Omasu laughed listlessly after saying that.

Five

Since settling here, the face of a friend she had once briefly visited was nostalgically recalled again. The friend named Oyuki was a woman who had lived in the same house around the same time as Omasu. Oyuki, who had once been someone’s mistress and even borne a child, was considerably older than Omasu. Omasu had been closer than anyone to that woman with her unassuming manner and straightforward demeanor.

The woman’s husband had been a fairly well-known up-and-coming actor in his day. He had also been involved in political activism long ago. Omasu knew the man well—the one with a bitter set to his mouth and long, narrow eyes.

“Aoyagi’s come again.” The rumor about that man—who, after quarreling with Oyuki and breaking up with her, had returned from his wandering journey only to plant himself in his mistress’s room—reached Omasu’s quarters first. Aoyagi, having returned from his itinerant work, came tumbling into Oyuki’s place looking as haggard as a vagrant and utterly penniless; yet despite Oyuki’s repeated claims that they were through, she had still been waiting for the man’s return. Even in that house, Oyuki—who had been their top earner—had grown quite self-destructive by then, due to a mother who exploited her own daughter. She would guzzle alcohol in large quantities and, when in a foul mood, curtly dismiss customers. Both of them, had they been just a bit younger now, were so rotten at heart that they might have committed a love suicide. At times, astonishing things would unfold before the eyes of Omasu and the others watching nearby.

When she left that place, there was nothing that could be called clothing on Oyuki’s person. The chest of drawers was completely empty. The good clients who used to frequent her before had all stopped coming around. Oyuki had rushed to the man’s place in the clothes she had on. When Omasu first visited that house behind a certain theater in Asakusa, she couldn’t quite grasp what Aoyagi did for a living.

“My husband has been doing strange things lately.”

Oyuki had Omasu sit across the long brazier, then abruptly began speaking. Her complexion had grown so dull she was nearly unrecognizable, and her hair remained in a makeshift bun. Her tall frame was clad in a striped cotton matching lined kimono with a stiff collar. Oyuki was already a middle-aged woman approaching thirty.

“Huh? What’s he doing?” Omasu asked while taking out a bag of monaka sweets as a gift. From there, the sounds of wooden clappers and musical accompaniment from the theater could often be heard. “Try to guess what it is.” “The market?” “It’s not something that clever.”

Oyuki lit the tobacco and passed it to Omasu. “Company?” “Do you think that man could ever manage honest employment?” While saying this, Oyuki pulled out various items from the sooty closet—a slender box and something wrapped in yellow paper that resembled a grimy incense burner. “Since your husband is so resourceful, have him buy this scroll for you.” “It’s some kind of old thing, and they say it’s good.”

On the soot-stained scroll were depicted rocks and bamboo among other things.

Six

In the sweltering heat of midday, Omasu visited that place again.

Omasu’s body ached with unbearable lassitude from last night’s sleeplessness, yet her mind remained in the same agitated state as before. Emerging from the dim alleyway into the broad street, the intense sunlight seared painfully into her bloodshot eyes, threatening to dizzy her. Inside the hood of the rickshaw she had hired along the way, Omasu continued dwelling on the man’s state of mind.

At Oyuki’s house, both husband and wife were taking an afternoon nap. Aoyagi lay on his back wearing tinted glasses over eyes with red-rimmed edges, his tube-sleeved summer kimono fastened with a shibori-patterned heko sash, long shins propped upright. A short distance away, Oyuki too lay deathly still with her head on a vermilion-lacquered pillow and a round fan pressed against her face. A cool breeze passed through the room while the neighborhood outside stood quiet like a forest. From somewhere came intermittent clangs of iron plates and children’s wails typical of back alleys.

“They’re sleeping so soundly.” “They’re quite carefree, aren’t they.”

Omasu went upstairs but, without sitting down, gazed for a while at the unsightly sleeping forms of the two.

"No matter how much a man insists," she thought_,_ "I would never end up with someone like this." "What could those two possibly intend to do next?"

Omasu, thinking such thoughts, moved closer to the brazier and smoked tobacco. "Oh, Omasu, you're here." With those words, Oyuki soon awoke.

“You’ve caught us in quite a state. When did you get here?”

Oyuki adjusted her collar and smoothed back her hair as she came to sit before the brazier.

Omasu chuckled dryly. “You came all the way here in this heat.”

“I was feeling so dreadfully bored that I came to visit.”

“Well, even you have such moments?” Oyuki stirred the brazier’s embers awake while calling out to Aoyagi, “Hey you! Hey you!” Aoyagi stirred slightly, but after turning over, he fell back asleep as he was. As Oyuki ate ice she had ordered from the neighborhood and the two of them made idle talk, it soon became past three o'clock. The zinc roof of the house, after being under the scorching sun, now cast shadows, and the neighborhood that had been napping until then suddenly seemed to stir awake.

Omasu began talking about Asai’s circumstances and such, but Oyuki wasn’t really listening.

“Oh，he’s got the wife.” “But that’s just fine by me.” “Men like that are exactly the ones with real skill，I tell you.”

“No matter how skilled they are, I can’t stand temperamental people.” “Even a rickshaw puller would do—I’ve truly come to feel it’s better to have an unattached man.”

Aoyagi suddenly opened his eyes. “He’s quite the sound sleeper.” Oyuki laughed vacantly while looking at him. Aoyagi sat up, running his thick, supple hands over his chest and armpits. Then with a puzzled look, he stared intently at Omasu’s face. “It’s been a while, Mr. Aoyagi.” Omasu gave a formal bow.

Aoyagi made an awkward face and bowed deeply.

“As you can see, this ruined house... I’ve fallen completely into destitution.” “But what an impressive business you have.” “Well, this path—it’s one I chose out of passion, so I’m just scraping by bit by bit. I keep worrying this one might end up selling her body again before long.” “It’s hopeless now.” Oyuki laughed.

Before long, Aoyagi took a hand towel and went to the bath.

Seven

“He’s changed quite a bit, hasn’t he. His scalp has started to show through.”

Omasu laughed while talking about Aoyagi. "Oh, he's completely changed," "Going on about 'It's awful, awful' with his balding—even he's self-conscious about it now." "And what's worse, I thought I had more pull in that world, but it's utterly hopeless." "All the people I used to help have stopped coming around entirely." "But since he can do anything, isn't that fine?" "No, everything's half-baked—that's why it's no good." "But I suppose if he keeps up this business of his, he can weasel into all sorts of houses and maybe scrounge up work there." "Not that he'll do anything decent with it anyway."

Oyuki gave a bitter smile.

“Compared to this, you’re fortunate, Omasu. You should endure it as best you can.” Oyuki began recounting how she first became the mistress of a certain man—now a diplomat—back when he was still a student. And Oyuki, who had been destined to become his legitimate wife there, was from a family of considerable standing even in provincial circles. Between them, they had even brought a lovely girl into the world.

“Why don’t you go there?” “It’s no use anymore.” “He wouldn’t even let me near him.” “Even back then, the matter wasn’t settled, you know.”

Oyuki's eyes sparkled as if recalling those days. At that time, Oyuki was just barely past twenty years of age. The image of her own dignified figure—pure-white complexion, slender build, like a noblewoman—nostalgically rose before her eyes.

“That’s how it ended up.” “Kuroda… That man’s name was Kuroda.” “He had a face like a sneezing pug, but that’s precisely what made him imposing.” “He’s now a minister and isn’t in Tokyo anymore.” “Around that time, there was a man who kept coming over to play Go and drink.” “He was handsome.” “He’d corner me whenever Kuroda was away and say nothing but vile things.” “So because I made that man angry—being the sort he was—he turned around and badmouthed me to Kuroda.” “He’d say things like how I’d been bought in the provinces, or that I had other men, or that my chastity was questionable—just kept piling it on.” “Even so, Kuroda was still infatuated with me and had every intention of making me his legal wife, but no matter what, Father wouldn’t consent.” “To make matters worse, my mother was that heavy-drinking libertine, you see.” “Because they’re all trying to exploit me, I can’t bear it.” “Even Kuroda must’ve grown tired of it all.”

“Don’t you want to see your child?”

“Even if I wanted to, they wouldn’t let me see her now. Back then though, I had the ice seller’s wife—the one I’d entrusted her to—bring her to that house about twice. I went there once too. Of course I never breathed a word about being her mother.” “How dreary.” “It can’t be helped. I just don’t have that kind of luck.”

“Why don’t you try asking him for some money?” “How come the wife’s such a paragon of resilience?”

Eight “You’re quite the resigned one, aren’t you.”

Omasu felt a similar memory newly awakened in her chest. Before she had come to Tokyo, she recalled the relationship she’d had with the young master of a teahouse in a rural town where she’d once stayed. At that time, Omasu was still young. In photographs remaining from those days, her resolute eyes, full cheeks, and set mouth were filled with vibrant vitality.

Bundled in a coat with a muffler wrapped up to her nose, her resolute face and petite frame radiated a spirit of perseverance and defiance that would see anything through.

In Omasu’s hometown, girls of fine features were almost all sent into teahouse service as a matter of course, and Omasu too was made to undergo this. Having grown up in a farming family, Omasu had spent her days up to that point working as a nursemaid among other things, leading a life of many hardships. The young master of that teahouse, who had just graduated from middle school, would occasionally quietly make his approaches from other rented parlors. In the red-light district of a port town where the sound of waves could be heard, there stood row upon row of aged, large brothels with pale yellow curtains hanging in their dimly lit earthen entrances. There were stylish Kansai-style sushi restaurants and beautiful bathhouses with pomegranate-shaped entrances. From the snowmelt season when buds sprouted on the willow planted at the center of the pleasure quarter until around November when sleet fell drenching the dark wooden eaves, Omasu spent that time in that house. When rumors spread through the town and she could no longer remain there, even after moving to Tokyo, Omasu had not forgotten the man. She had long envisioned even herself being installed as the wife there. Letters from the man also came occasionally.

“There’s nothing to be done if this person is dead.” About three years prior, when word of the man’s death had reached Omasu, she despaired to find his promises turned hollow. Once again she had to select a man from among her patrons, but none proved suitable. Over time, various men frequented her quarters. Those she initially deemed acceptable later revealed flaws; those who showed kindness somehow repelled her. Their ages mismatched or their occupations displeased her. Those ideal in both respects came with family entanglements. They already served other masters.

In the process, Omasu gradually grew older. As Omasu was about to leave, only two men remained in her heart: a steadfast young shopkeeper and Asai.

In her heart, Omasu compared herself to Oyuki, who had always bared herself for men.

“You’re so undisciplined.” “How long do you think this amusement can last?” From their time together, Omasu had occasionally told Oyuki such things. But Oyuki herself could do nothing about it. One reason was that her mother—who had even lodged with her as an apprentice courtesan for a time, clinging persistently—hadn’t allowed Oyuki to think only of herself. But from her days under Kuroda’s care onward, such blood had flowed in Oyuki’s own veins.

The heartfelt conversation continued unabated until nightfall.

“What’s so great about him anyway?” Omasu teased Oyuki.

“Once it’s come to this，there’s neither good nor bad about it．There’s no helping things．”

Oyuki, who had come out to see Omasu off that far, laughed as she said that.

In the town, lamplight shadows shifted coolly, and from the damp ground rose the scent of earth that reached her nostrils.

Nine

After nightfall, the wind did not stir even once. Omasu alighted from the rickshaw and stepped into the sultry street when suddenly her heart surged with anticipation that Asai might have visited during her absence. The thoroughfare she had grown accustomed to remained as quiet and tranquil as ever. Her mind—agitated by Oyuki’s aimless chatter devoid of future prospects or anxieties—could not help regaining a calmness and delight akin to returning to her ordinary self. Her entire existence seemed bound to Asai alone. The man’s dependability came surging back into Omasu’s heart with greater force than usual.

“I’m home.”

Omasu opened the lattice door of Ochiyo-baasan’s house where she had left the key and called out. The lamp in the tearoom was dimly lit. Outside the water outlet came energetic splashing sounds suggesting the maid was bathing, but there in the earthen-floored entryway lay Asai’s geta as well. “Oh, they’ve started up again on the second floor.” With restless nostalgia that felt both apologetic toward Asai and desirous to show sulkiness, Omasu hurried up the ladder-like stairs.

On the breezy second floor, Asai, the old woman, and a neighborhood doctor who often visited were clustered in the shaded space by a closed shoji window, their eyes sharp as they immersed themselves in flower cards. The doctor—who always teased Omasu about examining her body whenever he saw her—sat with sleeves rolled up in a garishly-patterned yukata, one knee propped up. His thick-featured face carried an unsettling resemblance to Aoyagi’s mannerisms.

“Welcome back.”

The doctor called out. “Where did you go and what were you doing? Since you weren’t here, Mr. Asai was in a sorry state.” Asai let out a private chuckle. Omasu pulled the tobacco tray smoldering with cigarette butts closer to the brazier and calmly smoked. As if probing what he had been up to these past few days, she occasionally glanced at Asai’s face, but found him only slightly more tanned than usual.

“Hasn’t the wife caught on?” After being involved for about two years, Omasu returned home around the same time as Asai and, while opening up the stuffy rooms, began to speak. The maid from across the way brought embers and the like. Asai was grinning.

"So, have you managed to get around Tokyo's streets any better yet?" "No, I was feeling bored, so I went to visit Oyuki's house in Asakusa."

Omasu took the sweat-dampened undergarments clinging to her back and white crepe underskirts, spreading them toward the veranda as she spoke. “Look at this—I’m completely drenched in sweat.”

Omasu stayed naked and cooled herself there awhile. “Do you want to eat something?” “Sure, why don’t we go out for a bite?” “No, it’d be too dreary. Let’s not.”

Omasu wiped her body in the kitchen, wrapped a thin Hakata obi over her yukata, and fetched ice and water sweets from the corner ice shop. Then she tightly shut the wooden entrance door and came inside.

Omasu folded Asai’s haori and put away his belongings in a manner that sought to compensate all at once for the loneliness of these past two or three days—sitting beside the man who sipped his sake in small sips while she fanned him and refilled his cup. And she found Asai’s attitude of occasionally checking the time unsatisfying.

Ten The next morning, Asai, who had stayed there that night, awoke quite late. It was another scorching day. Late into last night, when she heard insects crying somewhere in the grass or beneath stones while lying in bed, it seemed as though cool autumn had already arrived—the pale dawn light cast on the walls, the cup and water pitcher placed by her pillow, even the touch of the tatami felt chill. But to her sleep-deprived head and body, the lingering daytime heat clung all the more oppressively as a sweltering dampness.

After seeing Asai off, Omasu slipped back into the futon that reeked of night’s dampness and lay there listlessly, half-dozing in a dreamlike state as she pondered something. The languor seemed to seep and spread to the very marrow of her bones. The daylight filtering through the shoji screens and the neighborhood noises—Ochiyo-baasan’s chattering voice reaching her eyes and ears—seemed terrifying. “If we keep this up, it won’t end well for either of us.”

Last night"s words Asai had spoken in bed came back to her. "It"s true." "A sin."

Omasu too bared herself from the chest up on the pillow and muttered while smoking tobacco. In Omasu’s eyes appeared the vivid lonely figure of the wife keeping house in Kōjimachi. Painful feelings seemed to constrict her very being.

“It will surely be discovered someday. If we’re discovered, that’ll be disastrous.” On Omasu’s face drifted an expression of anguish and unease, like that of someone rousing from a nightmare.

“Hmph.” Asai snorted through his nose.

“How long do you think this can go on?” “I can’t even sleep peacefully at night anymore.” “First of all, I feel so ashamed, and I’m truly sick of it all.” “You must find it tedious too, splitting finances two ways.”

“But that woman isn’t blameless either.” “If she’d been a proper homemaker with an agreeable nature, I wouldn’t have needed to play the fool like this.” “The situation’s truly impossible.” “Still, they say she tried hard for your sake.” “What effort? Sending her on pawnshop errands hardly counts as trouble. And I’ve compensated her well enough by now.” Asai complained to Omasu about how his wife would frequent acquaintances’ homes during his absences—playing flower cards, drinking sake, indulging in restaurant meals. When she fell ill, he’d had to rise at all hours to nurse her. That alone gave him ample reason to resent her. The mother living with his wife showed him no kindness either. Their rooms stayed perpetually disordered, meals prepared without the slightest care.

To Omasu, Asai seemed pitiable, but the wife also appeared wretched. At times, forcing the wife to leave struck her as heartless; at others, it seemed weak-willed.

Omasu couldn’t stay in bed for long. And just when she seemed about to sink into a drowsy slumber, she would immediately awaken.

From that day on, Asai stayed there for three or four days. He would go out now and then to take care of business and return. Asai began expanding into various ventures around that time.

Eleven

“I think I’ll go check on the house today.” One morning, Asai left his futon and, peering through the gap in the slightly open shoji screens while gazing at the sky, muttered. The sky was a clear, deep blue, and patches of white drifting clouds moved as if alive. In Asai’s exhausted mind rose vivid images—the neglected house now masterless, the despairing face of the wife who couldn’t find rest even at night. Lately, he had also started worrying about the girl he’d brought from elsewhere for the wife to raise, who had now turned four. The image of the wife—her hair disheveled as she surely must be searching through acquaintances’ and friends’ homes—appeared vividly before his eyes.

“If you’re not careful, she’ll come here too.”

Omasu also said while sitting up on the bedding. Eventually, after Asai left for the neighborhood sento with a toothpick between his teeth, Omasu tidied up the area and hurriedly swept out the dust. Then she took out the mirror stand, smoothed her hair, styled her sideburns and bangs, and put on her makeup. Her bloodshot eyes and flushed cheeks appeared beautifully in the mirror to her own gaze, but the prominence of her cheekbones and the sharpening of her nose suddenly cast a lonely shadow over her heart. The sorrow of things being cast aside once their colors fade welled up in her chest.

“Those who’ve been in the trade can never make it work, no matter what.” Asai’s words came back to her.

"I must do something soon…"

The need to make plans for her frail body weighed on Omasu’s mind more heavily than ever before. That this seemed like a man’s infidelity flitting from one thing to the next was something she couldn’t avoid considering either. If she prepared herself to remain untroubled even when cast aside, she felt she might always exploit that weakness in a man’s heart tethered to desire. Omasu couldn’t help but sense something cold flowing through the depths of her own heart.

"If you ask me, that man’s wife is a fool."

Omasu also thought this way. She even felt a pride akin to that of a victor.

Asai returned from the bath with a refreshed expression, finished his breakfast using last night’s leftovers, and promptly got ready to leave. Omasu visited Ochiyo-baasan’s house to distract herself from the unpleasant feeling she always experienced when seeing the man off.

“Well now—even so he managed to lounge around in bed three whole days? Four?”

Ochiyo-baasan’s eyes, which looked as though they might utter such words, were harsh.

Omasu took out the bolt of meisen fabric she had gone out to buy with Asai the day before and showed it there. “I’d like to have this tailored into a lined haori for me.” The old woman took up the bolt of fabric and examined it. Then she cut the thread, took out a shaku ruler, and measured the length. “What do you think of the pattern?” Omasu asked, as if to appease the old woman. “A bit too plain, don’t you think?” “I prefer modest things.” “I’m already an old woman, you know.”

Omasu said with apparent confidence regarding her competence in managing the household.

Twelve

Asai’s wife had suddenly come to visit there.

“Pardon me.”

When Omasu saw the woman’s chignon-adorned figure opening the lattice door while speaking in a voice tinged with stiffness, she immediately recognized who it was. The wife wore a soft unlined kimono, the obi tied in a slovenly manner, making no effort to tidy her appearance. Her tall stature and the large features of her oval face gave her an imposing presence, but her complexion was sallow and forlorn. The wife opened the lattice door, compared the faces of the two people sitting in the visible tearoom, then fidgeted while still holding the umbrella.

Omasu was looking down sideways. "Oh, I was wondering who it could be—aren't you Mrs. Asai?"

Ochiyo-baasan left that spot and came over.

“Please, come in.” “Thank you very much.”

The wife wiped her sweaty forehead with a handkerchief, then soon went upstairs and greeted them. She occasionally stared intently at Omasu.

“This person is from the neighborhood.”

Ochiyo-baasan said while shielding Omasu into the background. “Is that so?”

Omasu, her facial muscles stiffened, could find no suitable words and kept her lonely smile directed outward, yet her eyes were sharply trained on the wife. And she was paying close attention to what the wife would say next.

“Mr. Asai’s business seems to be thriving these days—that’s what really counts, don’t you think?” Ochiyo-baasan maintained her polite tone while preparing tea. “Is that so?” The wife gave a hollow laugh. “I wouldn’t know about his affairs outside, but there’s certainly no comfort in this household.” “And would you believe—this child we’ve taken in lately? The care it demands has become positively exhausting.”

The wife said haltingly. “So that’s how it is, I hear. About taking in that child.” “About taking her in, I hear.” “What do you mean?” “It’s said to be a child born between a maid from a restaurant or meeting house and her lover.” “They say they took her in because they don’t have children, but I simply can’t make sense of it.” “They come around here now and then.” “They do appear occasionally, I suppose.” Omasu was smoking tobacco and listening intently to their conversation, yet the sensation of calmly observing herself placed in such a situation struck her as peculiar.

“I’ll come along later.”

Omasu tidied the fabric bolt into the corner, said that, and left the room. And she quietly entered the house from the slightly opened Mizuguchi entrance. About thirty minutes of anxious, drawn-out waiting passed. The wife soon left. “She’s been going around asking about you everywhere, I tell you.”

After seeing off the guest, Ochiyo-baasan hurriedly slipped into her geta and came over. “Omasu, it was wrong of you to keep her waiting so long, I tell you.” “What did you take me for?”

Omasu furrowed her brows. “You wouldn’t understand that.” “I couldn’t say anything either.”

Chapter Thirteen

After moving to Kōjimachi, Omasu would occasionally catch glimpses from afar of Asai’s wife walking about on errands.

By then, after spending a summer, Omasu’s demeanor had undergone a striking transformation. The crude manner of speech and awkward behavior she had when first entering society had largely faded away. Even in her preferences for combs, half-collars, and geta, a subdued elegance reminiscent of wives from respectable Shitamachi households had begun to emerge. Even the once angular contours of her face had softened to the point of being unrecognizable. “You really do have a hatefully enviable way of dressing.”

Oyuki said enviously while pulling at the obi of Omasu—who had come visiting in her new kimono—and examining the sleeves of her undergarment. “You should wear more flashy things while you still can, don’t you think?” “Nuh-uh, flashy things don’t suit me at all. And besides, those kinds of things will only become a problem down the line.” Around that time, Asai was frequenting the residence of a former Nihonbashi woolen fabric wholesaler—a once sizable merchant who had retreated to a villa in Negishi. The merchant who had closed his shop had decided to entrust the financial reorganization to the capable Asai. Asai had also begun dabbling in various other ventures. He demonstrated exceptional skill in laying the groundwork for companies and smoothly transferring rights to capitalists.

Asai found a house to move Omasu into—considering the convenience of commuting—just four or five chō away from his own home. There, a new chest was brought in, and a stylish tea chest was installed.

“They say it’s darkest under the lighthouse, so this might actually be better.” Asai laughed while having Omasu, who had just settled there for the first time, pour him sake.

It was already the season when one would throw on a lined haori over serge. On the pillars of the new gate, Omasu’s surname was inscribed, and a dog they had received from elsewhere during their time in Hirokoji was kept there. Plush silk zabuton cushions were laid out on the new tatami mats that emitted the scent of freshly replaced rush. Asai’s healthy cash flow was pleasantly evident even in the minor new household implements.

Dressed only in a white shirt and wearing gold-rimmed glasses, Asai sat directly across from her, his animated face appearing to brim with the vigor of enterprise. Never before had he struck Omasu’s eyes as powerfully reliable as in that moment.

Asai’s demeanor still showed no significant change from when he had worn faded Western clothes. The gentle, soft-spoken tone of his voice and his aversion to gaudy attire matched the sensibilities he had honed over many years among women and places of entertainment.

Even after moving here, in Omasu’s eyes, the wife’s face and figure—which she had stared at so intently in Ochiyo-baasan’s house—clung persistently. “I saw your wife—really saw her.”

Omasu often spoke to Asai about such matters during that time. “Huh. My wife didn’t say anything about it. She did seem a bit suspicious, though.” “That’s exactly what makes you an amateur.” Omasu said pitifully.

“I even notice how you act when you’re alone with her.” Omasu gazed at the man’s face—his firm jawline contrasting with gentle eyes—her own eyes blazing with intensity.

Fourteen

Like entering a labyrinth, that section where exits and entrances were hardly discernible became as hushed as a cavern by evening, since no sounds from the streets reached it at all. Occasionally, a nearby doorbell would chime or footsteps could be heard along the path strewn with coal cinders—that was all. When Asai grew weary of sitting alone together in their facing-each-other room, he would take the woman out—attempting cheerful adventures to distant main streets bright with activity, or riding trains to venture as far as Hibiya or Ginza.

One time, Omasu was walking through a quiet town lined with tidy gates and two-story houses, led by Asai. They were walking home along the return path after going out to purchase a bathtub large enough for both of them to use together. Until buying the tub, Omasu had argued about the impracticality of heating bathwater in their small household, but Asai had wanted to observe women positioned in various places. When they reached the town with sparse lamplight, Asai—who had abruptly stopped talking and been walking slightly apart from her along the gutter edge—suddenly halted before a bay window. The circular electric lamp above the lattice door cast its glow on the shoji screens fitted with narrow lattices and the geta box in the dirt-floored entryway. Omasu immediately realized what it was.

“Stop it.” Omasu showed hand gestures from her side, but the man did not leave from below the bay window for some time. The house was silent. “Huh, so that’s the main house?”

Omasu had gone quite some distance before she turned to look back and began to speak. Asai merely laughed with a "Hmph."

“What a fine house.” Omasu said as if talking to herself. “But even if you pass by the front, you still wouldn’t feel good about it.” “You’d feel sorry for her or something.”

“Heh heh,” Asai let out a laugh.

Even after returning home, Omasu asked Asai about various things. “That woman is resolute. She handles interactions with people skillfully and has the competence to manage tasks properly even when I’m not around. I can’t very well refuse to acknowledge that. In that regard, she’s not lacking as my wife—but—”

Asai began to say. “Then why don’t you cherish her properly?” “That’s not how it works.” “A woman can’t just be that alone.” “In fact, it’s better for me if she lacks such skills.” Having said that, Asai laughed.

During the day, Omasu would pass by the front of that house and look around. She had even caught sight of the wife standing at the greengrocer’s storefront. The wife was hoisting a round-faced child—eyes and mouth sweetly endearing—in a cloth sling. Omasu hurried past that place.

When winter came, Asai’s visits to the house grew even more infrequent. Even when he occasionally returned to check on the wife and child, he couldn’t settle there for even a single night. The wife, her hysteria now at its peak, would lunge at his collar the moment she saw Asai’s face or smash pottery onto the tatami mats. Asai fled to Omasu’s place with a pale face, carrying a briefcase containing valuable documents.

“Look at this.” Asai discarded his haori—its chest cord’s toggle torn off—there, and sat down dejectedly before the brazier.

Fifteen

After neglecting it for over a week, Asai happened to drop by the main house one afternoon. He wanted to check the letters that should have arrived there, and as the anger in his chest gradually faded, anxiety and pity toward his desperate wife began seeping through and spreading within him. He couldn’t help considering the kindness and competence of the wife who had supported his impoverished self for so long. “It’s a problem because she hasn’t done anything bad enough toward me to warrant a divorce.”

Asai would occasionally furrow his brows in perplexity, as if suddenly remembering something. Each time, a dark shadow fell across Omasu’s face.

“You’re simply too fickle.” Omasu came to doubt the man’s heart. “Trying to play nice with both sides won’t work.”

Omasu wanted to say that too, but the terror of spiritual retribution after letting him go always dulled her resolve. When Asai returned home, the wife had been sleeping in the back room with their child, but upon hearing her husband’s voice questioning the maid about something, she hurriedly rose and stood before the mirror atop the chest of drawers. She adjusted the sideburns of her bun and hastily applied white powder to her face before coming out. “Welcome back.”

The wife formed a hysterical, lonely smile on parched lips. The uneven traces of white powder on her well-defined nose appeared sorrowfully in Asai’s eyes. The last time that woman Aiko came visiting from Kyoto, it had been like this too.

Asai immediately recalled that time. At that time, Asai’s heart had not yet drifted so far from his wife. His wife’s presence had not yet grown so faint. Her oval face and slender limbs were neither as angular nor as gaunt as they were now. During his time as a law student in Kyoto when he had grown close to her, this woman had amassed considerable savings through securing patrons and similar means. And upon hearing that Asai had acquired a house, she brought those savings and came up to Tokyo with her mother, who had relatives there. Asai entrusted that with Ochiyo-baasan and then explained the relationship between his wife and himself since then. The woman rather sympathized with the Asai couple. After about a month of having men show her around Tokyo here and there, she became satisfied and obediently returned home. The rumors of that exquisite, charming woman lingered as a lasting topic of conversation for Ochiyo-baasan and others.

“Mr. Asai, I must say, managed to send that woman back.” Ochiyo-baasan lavishly praised the woman. Even after the woman returned to Kyoto, Asai consulted with his wife and often sent various gifts. From her side as well, the woman would send Kiyomizu green tea cups and detachable collars to his wife.

“What’s become of Aiko-chan?”

When correspondence ceased, the wife too would occasionally worry about that woman’s circumstances.

“She must have gotten married by now.” Just as she was saying this, an unexpected package arrived from the woman. The woman still seemed not to have settled her own circumstances. It was thought she might be working as a maid at an inn or teahouse.

Asai would sometimes fixate on that woman, but along with the impressions of various women he had met since taking up a life of indulgence, those thoughts too gradually faded.

Sixteen

Asai felt stifled merely imagining his wife sitting beside him watching his face, while the wife too found herself unable to remain seated long beside her husband—who showed no interest in her conversation as he sorted through letters—while organizing documents. “That Shizu-chan of ours...”

The wife watched her husband rummaging through old documents from the closet’s small chest of drawers, adjusting and readjusting her thin, forlorn collar as she drew near again in a voice tinged with nostalgia. “Shizu-chan has had a slight fever since yesterday.” Asai was squatting in front of the closet sorting through letters and documents, but his robust, ragged breaths passed through his nose beneath the short-trimmed mustache. "Does she have a fever?"

Asai’s gold-rimmed glasses glinted when they turned this way, but his restless eyes—showing no deep consideration for the child—soon returned to the documents.

“...Where do you intend to take all those things you’ve suddenly bundled up?” The wife sank down right there and pleaded. “Shizu-chan looks so pitiful being sick like that—wouldn’t it be better if you settled down and stayed home a bit more?” Asai fastened his clothing piece by piece, assumed a relieved expression, drew near the brazier, and began puffing tobacco. The house they had come to occupy since last winter—secured through an acquaintance of the owner—stood spacious enough to include a storehouse. Through glass-paned shoji screens came glimpses of small birds flitting across sasanqua branches in the garden’s pale sunlight.

Asai headed into the back room and touched the sleeping child's forehead while checking her pulse, but the child opened her eyes wide and gazed curiously at Asai's face. "Shizu-chan, it's Papa."

The wife called out from beside them. “Oh, it’s nothing serious. Just give her some patent medicine and she’ll recover right away.” Asai was muttering.

“But I too feel so uneasy—unless you at least tell me where you’re going when you go out, I’ll truly be at a loss.”

Asai was laughing. "If you'd just behave properly, there'd be no issue at all. But if you're going to go rattling the kitchen like that and then claim I'm the one chasing women—well, that changes everything."

That evening by the long brazier, when the two sat facing each other, Asai grew somewhat serious and began to speak. The effects of the three or four cups of sake she had drunk were evident on the wife’s face.

“And until now I’ve kept quiet about this, but you’re rather unskilled at managing the household, aren’t you?” Asai concluded in his customary low, gentle tone. “Don’t just blame others—what exactly have you been doing while I was away?”

“It’s because you’re hiding something that even I go out to play flower cards now and then when I’m bored.” “I’m not saying that’s wrong. I’m saying it’s not good to lose even your own clothes and indulge like that.” Asai brought up things he had noticed for some time—how his wife’s recently purchased ring and the silk kimonos she wore now and then were nowhere to be seen in the dresser—but he did not press the matter with any particular insistence.

“We’re both equally at fault,” he laughed dismissively.

Seventeen

One evening, while Asai and Omasu were away at the year-end market in Shitamachi, Saikun suddenly barged in. The wife’s hardship in tracking down Omasu’s kept house had been no ordinary matter. Whenever Asai left home, she would slip money to rickshaw pullers or—when he didn’t take a rickshaw—hire young men to tail him discreetly; yet the cautious Asai never once headed straight for Omasu’s place under any circumstances.

“It’s quite all right, ma’am...” The young men said this and reported back to the wife. “It can’t be helped.” “He must’ve shaken you off.” Finally, the wife could no longer remain simply compliant. Important stock certificates would be missing from where they should have been, and bonds would disappear. Every time she discovered this, the wife’s eyes changed color. At times she would dress herself as finely as possible and make the rounds to Asai’s acquaintances’ homes; other times—with a despairingly pale face, her hair undone and still in her everyday clothes—she would wander the neighborhood with her child or lie at home for two or three days straight under the futon.

When she occasionally saw Asai’s face as he came to retrieve letters or something, she would suddenly grab him by the lapel like a warrior or rage through the rooms like a madwoman. “There’s no need for such violence—I understand.” Asai finally managed to calm his wife and sat down. The wife, her hair disheveled, threw herself down there and began sobbing like a child.

Because of the wife chasing after him barefoot, Asai—who had finally tried to flee—was forced to turn back toward the house from two or three blocks away.

The quiet town in the early evening still had lights shining from scattered windows and voices could be heard. "I will follow you no matter where." The wife walked alongside Asai, panting heavily. Her tired face and the color of her lips had faded to a deathly pallor. A cold wind was blowing the hair that had fallen over her face and neck.

For two or three days after that incident, the wife remained bedridden like a patient.

“I’ve grown utterly sick of this.” Asai returned to Omasu’s place and let out a sigh, his face pale. “It’s sheer madness.” “There’s nothing to be done about that…” Omasu also furrowed her brows. “There’s no helping it—we’ll just have to leave things as they are for now.”

Asai smiled bitterly.

The wife suddenly found herself drawn to a dog loitering on the street right near Omasu’s house. The dog’s tawny shaggy fur and the spots on its nose looked familiar even to her eyes. It had followed Asai and occasionally shown itself at her own residence too. “Ma’am, that shaggy dog is on the tram street.” She remembered how the maid—when sent out shopping—had once reported this same information. Eventually trailing after the dog into that quiet neighborhood, the wife had come to that area for shopping that day as well.

“Pochi, Pochi, Pochi.”

It was some time after the dog had slipped through the back door of the newly built house that a woman’s voice from within summoned it inside. “What did you do? Look at these filthy paws.” The wife stood at the narrow alley entrance where several dustbins sat clustered, her ears catching fragments of this exchange. That evening, she disguised her features and donned proper attire before approaching the place.

Eighteen Asai and Omasu returned home carrying lavish purchases of decorative battledores and playthings for children along with a box of tempura they’d eaten on their way back, when the young woman distantly related to Omasu—who had been left in charge of the house—heard the lively sound of their approaching footsteps and hurried to appear at the entrance.

“Oima-chan, I’m home.”

While soothing the whimpering dog that clung to them, the two passed into the warm steam-filled dining room—vapor curling from the iron kettle—rubbing their chilled cheeks. “Right after you’d gone out, a woman came calling.”

Oima hurriedly tidied up her needlework that she had brought out there and began describing the wife’s visit. “What kind of woman?” Omasu asked brusquely while removing her new coat. “I couldn’t see clearly, but she had an aged face.” “A tall, thin person.” “When I told her you were both out, she left straightaway without giving any name.”

“It must have been Ms. Yanagi.”

Omasu said without even sitting down. "I thought so too." Oima said while turning her lovely eyes toward the two. Her face was beautifully flushed a rosy hue.

“There’s no way this could’ve been discovered.” Asai tilted his head as he muttered. “You must’ve been tailed.” Omasu’s expression turned deeply contemplative. A faint smile played around Asai’s eyes. “If it’s meant to be found out, no amount of caution will stop it eventually.” “She’s fixated on you, after all.” “Even so, she’ll surely come again.” “For all we know, she might still be lurking nearby.”

Omasu said anxiously.

“Just imagine if they barged in on us like this—that would be real trouble.” “No matter what happens, I won’t meet face-to-face with her.”

The necessity of moving their nest elsewhere came to be considered.

“Shall I go stay at Ms. Oyuki’s place for a while?”

Omasu brought it up.

“Let’s get out of here. If we’re discovered, it will cause all sorts of trouble.”

Entrusting the aftermath to Oima, the two slipped away from there. When they cautiously reached the main street, they hurriedly boarded a streetcar. The streetcar was empty. Then it raced through the dimly lit late-night town at full speed. Jostled in their exhausted state, the two searched this way and that for a house where Yanagi wouldn’t notice them, but they couldn’t shake the feeling that the pale-faced Yanagi would cling to them no matter how far they went. “We have to make a clean break.”

Omasu said with darkened eyes.

Carrying gifts and such, they knocked on the gate of a friend’s house in Hongō—it was already past midnight. That friend was a certain magazine reporter whom they had recently become acquainted with at Ochiyo-baasan’s place.

"My, how terribly late—" The wife, who had known Asai from their past association at Granny’s house, emerged in nightclothes and opened the gate. There stood Omasu, smiling. Asai lingered in the shadows, his face flushed from liquor drunk en route against the cold.

Nineteen

In that house, ill-equipped for nighttime needs, after a restless night passed, that afternoon Asai went out to search for a boarding house nearby where he could temporarily place Omasu. “So they’ve finally found you? How terrifying,” said the friend’s wife as she nursed her three-year-old child, her eyes filled with concern for Omasu’s circumstances. “Well, I suppose it’ll be resolved this time.”

“There’s no telling what will happen.” At that time, the two were engrossed in conversation beside the damp tearoom’s brazier. Even after moving to the temporary refuge of the boarding house they had chosen, whenever the room felt stifling after Asai went out, Omasu would often bring tea snacks to the familiar tearoom there and come to visit. There, she decided to arrange her hair.

“I feel like I’d like to have a child too, you know.”

Omasu said, casually picking up the child onto her lap and rubbing her cheek against its soft face. “Please give me one.” “Where I live, I hear we can have them one after another.” “No way, as if I’d give you one! “You’d have to raise it properly, you know.”

After two or three days had passed, various personal belongings were brought into the previously empty boarding house room. Omasu, growing concerned that something might have happened at her house, quietly went to check on the place. At the house, in addition to Oima who attended sewing and cooking schools daily, there was one reliable-looking elderly acquaintance they had entrusted with looking after the place in their absence. “Ah, there there, it’s just you here.” “You’re the only one who does that for me.”

Omasu sniffled as she petted the head of her beloved pet clinging to her lap and chest like a long-lost master, crumbling the dry sweets she had bought and feeding them into its mouth.

“Hasn’t anyone come since then?”

While inspecting the house, Omasu asked Oima—who was writing a letter to send to the countryside at the bright window—from behind, but there remained no indication that Yanagi had come.

“I wonder what’s going on.” Even when nothing happened, Omasu remained uneasy about it all. She felt something ill-fated lay waiting there specifically for her. “What’s the point of keeping this up, Sis? It’s just dreary.” Oima spoke up from beside Omasu, who was taking clothes from the chest.

“No matter how many kimonos you have, what’s the use when you’re a social outcast?” To Oima’s unseasoned eyes—freshly fledged from a respectable rural household—Omasu’s peculiar lifestyle appeared both burdensome and pitiful. “That’s how you people are.”

Omasu was laughing.

Unable to use the public bathhouse, Omasu descended to the bath chamber herself, working to kindle the bathwater and wipe down the long brazier that had remained untouched for some time. At dusk, Omasu sat alone soaking her body in translucent water, feeling an ease as if concealed at some unknown hot spring, and lingered entranced.

Twenty

It was when the year was drawing to a close that Omasu finally settled into the newly rented two-story house in Akasaka. Until then, Omasu had commuted countless times between the boarding house and her former residence, but the bustling year-end townscapes she glimpsed in passing appeared all the more hectic against her unstable state of mind—as if suspended in midair.

“With things like this, even if New Year comes, there’s nothing to be done.” “It’s just like being on a journey.” Omasu said this as she ate a meal with Oima in the tearoom of a house that might be vacated at any time, savoring her favorite stews that couldn’t be enjoyed in the cramped boarding house.

Asai also came by there, having spent the entire day walking around attending to company business and personal errands.

“I went by the house today for a bit.” Asai approached the brazier with restless eyes.

“The wife said that when you return, please come by, even if just for a moment.”

That said, yesterday morning, a messenger came from Yanagi. Upon hearing this, Asai had made his way there to see. “How was she?”

Omasu asked. Whether the divorce negotiations would conclude smoothly had been needling both their minds since that incident—a constant stimulus—but in Asai’s heart now wholly severed from his wife, faint stings of remorse and pain still lingered like embedded thorns. “Hmm, no particular change.” Asai laughed bleakly as he recalled the desolate ruin of the house he’d cast aside and Oyanagi’s resigned face—hands spread in desperate entreaty as if still clinging to him—exactly as he’d witnessed moments before.

“Did you try bringing it up?” “I tried broaching the subject too, but when it comes to that, women become incomprehensible—you just can’t get through to them.” “That’s true. So what did she say?” “In the end, all she says is that she wants you expelled.” Asai recalled how Oyanagi had asked various questions about Omasu.

“There’s no way things will settle through direct talks between you two. You should bring in someone else.” “Even so, working right under each other’s noses is impossible. I must find a house soon.”

Before long, belongings were quietly carried into the new house. The house, which had two beautiful second-floor rooms, seemed more pleasant in its surroundings and livable compared to their previous home. The utensils that had multiplied considerably in a short time—Omasu spent the entire day from morning putting each one away. And feeling invigorated for the first time in a while, she swept here and wiped there.

When she stepped out onto the second-floor veranda beneath the ornate floral-patterned electric lampshades, she could immediately see the reddish-brick barracks buildings of the Third Regiment before her eyes, while in the neighborhood below—where decorative bamboo and New Year pine decorations stood fully erected—it already seemed as though spring had arrived. From the direction of the bustling street, the music of a band could be heard. "Well now, if it's here, we might be able to stay long-term, don't you think?"

Turning to look at Asai, who was decorating ornaments, Omasu began to speak in a buoyant, delighted tone.

Twenty-One Days filled with restless rustling continued without end from year’s end through spring. Omasu was busy taking Oima—who marveled at the year-end townscape—out to the streets countless times to buy small items, or preparing layered dishes in the kitchen. Yet even to herself, her own manner of attending to various matters as a household’s wife for the first time felt novel. In a second-floor room decorated with items including the silver-ground folding screen painted with mountain landscapes—a housewarming gift from the retired woolen goods merchant—Omasu and her husband spent a lively New Year's Eve staying up late together with Lawyer Kobayashi, Asai's witty chess rival, and his former geisha mistress, merrily drawing their favorite flower cards.

The sound of the gate bell that had rung each time people delivering year-end gifts came and went had finally quieted, and Omasu—who had been called downstairs by Oima with every arrival—was at last able to settle down and join the group. Even the social interactions that had taken place at the main house were now to be entirely transferred here this year. Year-end gifts adorned with ceremonial cords were piled high in the downstairs tearoom. At the company, Asai had such extensive connections—Omasu thought proudly of this even in front of Oima and the others.

“Oh, it’s beer again? I can’t fathom the people who keep bringing in such things, you know.”

Omasu grimaced by the long brazier while settling her head, its marumage hairstyle already meticulously arranged earlier that evening. “Mrs., Mrs., this year you’re entering a fortunate period.” The alcohol-loving lawyer, though thoroughly drunk, still wouldn’t let go of the clinking sake cup in his hand.

“Ms. Yanagi’s side will be fine—I’ll handle the negotiations for you.” “In return, I’ll be the one resented.” “It’s a bit cruel, but I’ll certainly do that much for you.” The lawyer thrust a sake cup toward Omasu with his thick-veined hand. “No.” “There’s no need for that.” “It doesn’t matter about me.” Omasu turned away and was smoking tobacco.

The New Year's Eve bell permeated the damp air of the utterly still night. In the room from which their friends had withdrawn, the couple sat facing each other, quietly talking while brewing tea and such. The white ash in the exquisitely leveled paulownia brazier turned pallid in the harshly penetrating cold of night air nearing dawn, while on both their faces—now sobering from drink—appeared deep weariness mingled with lingering traces of excitement. Outside, laborers still came and went without pause. Dawn remained some considerable time away.

The next morning was splendidly clear—a beautiful day. The hum of kites could be heard in the sky. In the room that remained scattered from last night, the sight of two figures sleeping beneath a fluffy futon appeared curiously novel to Omasu’s weary eyes—like some newlywed couple or such. A pale reddish electric glow drifted through the room like a dream. Somehow, it feels like you and I are having a proper wedding. Having changed clothes, Omasu was sitting face to face with Asai in the lower room decorated with a toso sake decanter when she thought this to herself. There too came Oima, emerging with a beaming smile as she bowed shyly and said, “Congratulations.” Healthy blood had beautifully risen to her made-up, smooth-textured cheeks.

Omasu saw off Asai—dressed in a frock coat and departing in a tug-of-war parade cart—at the entranceway before sitting there reverently with cheeks faintly flushed from toso sake. The house interior abruptly quieted. Battledore echoes now resounded here and there. As she fastened the collar of her New Year visiting undergarment alone—noon having arrived while she worked—the festive atmosphere began imperceptibly waning.

Twenty-Two

The first month of the New Year—filled with games and visitors—peeled away like an illusion from the page of the calendar hanging on the pillar beside the long brazier. In spring, Omasu went once with Asai to visit the retired merchant’s house in Negishi—where the two of them had previously paid a joint visit—and went to see plays with that group. In the villa where Asai had once gone to great lengths to borrow about ten thousand yen using the property as collateral, the retired merchant lived with a mistress named Ofuku. He had been making his monthly livelihood by collecting scattered loans from his wholesale days that lay forgotten here and there, but for the old man who had grown accustomed to luxury, even that still proved insufficient. Occasionally, old scrolls were taken out and antiques sold off. Ofuku—fair-skinned and plump with charming eyes—had only recently come from southern Sagami as a servant when the wife managing household affairs—who would later suffer violent hysterics and retreat to her rural family home near Tokyo while these children already attending middle school remained present—had still been overseeing domestic matters.

The retired merchant in his mid-fifties with a stomach ailment was, as usual, drunk from the morning even when Omasu came to visit. Those eyes, prone to fits of temper, had grown turbid with a dull hue, their condition remaining as erratic as ever. The warm sun shone upon the broad, flat lawn of the garden—where trees and goldfish in the pond were beautifully protected from frost—and the retired merchant’s living room remained tranquil, like the residence of someone wanting for nothing in life.

“You’ve both come together. Why don’t we go somewhere for a decent meal?” The retired merchant made a peculiar gesture, his slender neck swaying unsteadily as he shook it vigorously.

A deliberation began about where would be best. “Moreover, rather than partaking in sake and causing trouble for everyone, wouldn’t it be better to go see a play today?”

Ofuku suggested from beside them.

“Plays are fine too, but let’s go somewhere we don’t know anyone.” “Places we know cost money like there’s no tomorrow.” The retired merchant growled with a rolled ‘r’. “As for me, no matter how far I’ve fallen, I absolutely detest going out to amusement spots and acting stingy.” “Mr. Asai, I’m generally that sort of person.” The retired merchant’s circumstances—now inevitably reaching a dead end—seemed laid bare before both Asai and Omasu.

“What do you suppose will become of Ofuku-san if she keeps on like that?”

Once outside, Omasu asked anxiously. "She doesn’t seem to be setting any money aside for herself." "No matter how many kimonos or things she prepares, it’s only so much." "Still, she’ll last two or three years yet." Asai smirked faintly. The two couples would sometimes invite each other out to stroll through Asakusa or go see sumo matches. Beside the retired merchant—who was always drunk and picking fights with neighboring patrons—Asai and Omasu watched with bated breath, while Ofuku later pressed a handkerchief to her mouth, blushing as she giggled.

“What’s so funny?” The retired merchant’s forehead veins bulged as he yelled at Ofuku. Saying this too was hilarious, Ofuku exchanged glances with the Asai couple and doubled over laughing.

Twenty-Three

“Would it be all right if I imposed on your household for a little while?” After the month had changed—during Asai’s absence while he sought hot-spring treatment in Izu for his hemorrhoids—Oyuki appeared one day at Omasu’s residence still wearing her everyday clothes. When Oyuki had lived at her previous residence, she once came for an overnight stay after supposedly quarreling with Aoyagi, but on that occasion Aoyagi had promptly arrived to retrieve her. Aoyagi—wearing black-framed glasses—had briefly met and greeted Asai during that incident before departing. Though Asai disliked having such an unsavory-looking man frequent his home, Omasu secretly lent Oyuki pocket money from time to time.

“Apparently he’s going to publish a book of songs he made himself.”

Oyuki came to ask Omasu to arrange funds for Aoyagi—who had completely failed in theater—to publish his self-made songs resembling popular tunes. "That man is no good. You'll struggle your whole life." "Instead of that, why don't you cut ties with him and go plead with Kuroda now to have him do something about it?" "If you consult my husband about that matter, I think there might still be a chance he could negotiate with them." Omasu found it exasperating to see Oyuki being dragged along by some hopeless artist, but the relationship between the two—after having festered together for so long—had become utterly depraved beyond any hope of intervention.

Oyuki, wearing an apron over a kimono with a half-collar, slid smoothly over to the brazier, her rough-skinned face wearing a slack smile. Not even a trace remained of the despondent mood she had previously shown this woman.

“Oh.” “Did you have another fight?”

Omasu asked casually.

“No, that’s not it.”

Oyuki smirked while puffing on tobacco. “Aoyagi’s got some work to do.” “What sort of work?” “Important work.” Oyuki kept laughing. “Is he scamming widows now?” “Something like that.” “The mark’s another young lady.” “My, what sinful work.” Omasu thought this as she studied her friend’s face.

Oyuki blushed slightly as she said, “He says it’s inconvenient if I’m at home for that.” “Is he bringing her into his home?” “Probably so.”

Oyuki looked down awkwardly.

“I thought that man wasn’t such a bad person… Why?”

Oyuki muttered. “Since his art failed, resorting to making money through his looks—how low that man has sunk.” “When I think there might actually be some young lady who falls for that man, I can’t help but feel pity—or something like it.” “If that gets into the papers—you know he’s a man of reputation—just see how unbearable it’ll be!” “That’s precisely Aoyagi’s angle.” “Did you see that young lady?” “No.”

Twenty-Four

“But I want to try feeling that way again.” “When we were young, didn’t everyone have those kinds of experiences—some bigger, some smaller?” Oyuki was recalling the composed state of mind of that young lady—whose face and demeanor she could almost picture from the heartfelt phrases in the letters Aoyagi had supposedly received, along with items like rings and hair accessories that had come into his possession. The young lady was the daughter of a minor industrialist, but she understood only that her still-young and flashy stepmother was not a woman of good standing.

“Come on, you remember when the two of us went into the dressing room together, don’t you?” Oyuki vividly remembered their days in the provincial town—how she and Omasu would visit their Tokiwazu music teacher, how her heart raced at the stage presence of local actors who came to socialize there, how she’d delightedly worn a hairpin gifted by one such actor, and how they timidly ventured through dim backstage corridors hand-in-hand to visit his room. The visage of the actor who had played roles like Fukuyuki in Kawaba from *The Morning Glory Diary* left the deepest impression of all.

“…It must’ve been when all three of us went together.” “What was so sad about it that we didn’t even watch the play—just sat there bawling our eyes out?” “Like we thought it’d be wrong not to cry or something.” Oyuki clapped Omasu’s hand and laughed until tears glistened in her eyes. “How stupid we were.” Omasu gave a wry smile. “We were still proper children back then.” “Barely fourteen or fifteen.”

“But we had some allure back then, you know.” When Oima, wearing purple hakama trousers, returned home saying “I’m back,” Omasu was in the kitchen cooking the evening meal over a gas flame, while beside her, Oyuki sat peeling something’s skin and indulging in idle chatter.

“That girl will gradually get better—” Oyuki muttered as she watched Oima’s retreating figure enter her own room.

“If you keep that kind of girl around, it’ll only lead to trouble.” “Uh-uh, don’t be silly.” “Compared to when I first saw her—she’s completely changed now. That age was truly the best time for us all... When we seemed free from any worldly cares.” “When I think how someone like me has spent all these years—to end up dying like this... Doing things like this...” Oyuki’s profile as she spoke appeared wretched through Omasu’s eyes. That listless existence—a life devoid of vigor—stirred within her an involuntary pang of pity.

“When I was still there, I had at least some spirit left. Once I left, everything just turned drearier.” “But if Mr. Aoyagi keeps up these schemes, you can’t possibly feel alright about it.” “It’s nothing.”

Oyuki peeled what needed peeling, put it into the mesh basket, and handed it to the maid by the sink. Then, leaning her back against a pillar, she squatted there.

“Say, what’s the story with this thing between you and your situation here?” Oyuki held up her pinky finger. “Has another one latched on?”

“No, not yet.”

Omasu furrowed her brows. "When the month changes, Mr. Yanagi's brother from the countryside is supposed to come up for that discussion, but..." "I wonder if our Aoyagi couldn't straighten up too and manage something like this."

Oyuki said this as if talking to herself.

Twenty-Five

“Omasu, I’ll go check on my house today.”

One evening, after four or five days had idly slipped by in trivial conversations and flower card games with Omasu, Oyuki—as if suddenly remembering something—took the pipe that lay daily by the brazier, tucked it into its pouch, and left.

“You’re truly fortunate.” Oyuki said enviously while looking at the new kimonos Omasu showed her from the chest of drawers, but as she lingered there, she came to properly understand how much more affluent Omasu’s life had recently become. That day, they had their hair styled together by a hairdresser who came around in the afternoon, but as Oyuki looked at herself in the mirror, she felt uneasy seeing how markedly the base of her scalp—once far more thickly haired than Omasu’s—had now thinned. From the shoji screens of the engawa where the dressing table stood, thin daylight filtered through, and the dull complexion was reflected yellow in the mirror.

“Look how big this bald spot’s gotten!” Oyuki laughed with forced amusement as she combed through her hair to fix its kinks, fingertips circling the thinned patch at her crown.

“In another ten years, there’ll be no hair left around here at all.”

Omasu kept her freshly styled head still，watching while taking slow puffs of tobacco beside her. The dark life of her friend—who since around age sixteen or seventeen had been made a mistress and forced into trade—now came back to her. They used to say drinking the charred remains of baby mice would help，but you couldn’t rely on that.

Omasu recalled such things. “After all—my body’s failing.” “There are times when I find it utterly unbearable.” The two of them laughed together with the hairdresser while trading boasts. By the time Oyuki—having returned home—visited again two or three days later, the house had grown disordered since Asai’s return from the hot-spring retreat. Descending from the guest-filled second floor, Omasu’s face appeared more taut and pensive than usual, but when she saw Oyuki waiting by the long brazier—cluttered with meal preparations—watching sake warm in the copper pot, her eyes glinted meaningfully as she smirked. Oyuki grasped it immediately.

“Because Ms.Yanagi’s brother came up from the countryside, we had to settle things suddenly.” “Oh—so that brother came?”

“No, the intermediary—a lawyer.”

“It seems to be going well.” “Hmm… hard to say.” Omasu took up her pipe and, puffing on her tobacco, wore a deeply contemplative expression.

“I absolutely cannot agree to this.” Omasu held out her pinky finger. “But this brother of hers works as an official in the countryside and is apparently quite greedy.” “That seems like something that could go either way depending on the money.” Omasu muttered anxiously. “And besides, their side’s making it sound all noble and proper.” “So that their future is secure.” Omasu remained composed yet had not settled in that spot. “What happened to that young lady?”

As she was about to stand up, Omasu asked.

“It’s no good—it all came to nothing in the end.” Oyuki gave a bitter smile.

“Who would fall for such an old man? And when you came and saw, you must’ve been appalled by how filthy the place was.”

Twenty-Six

Before long, Omasu—carrying a sake decanter—went upstairs and sat beside Asai and Lawyer Kobayashi as they discussed various arrangements. While pouring sake and listening to their conversation for twenty or thirty minutes, she soon descended again. It emerged that after receiving the telegram about Saikun’s brother’s arrival, Kobayashi had already met twice with the brother at Saikun’s house by the time Asai returned to Tokyo.

“What kind of person is he?”

As Omasu listened to Lawyer Kobayashi describe how the negotiations were progressing from his perspective, she kept wanting to ask questions. According to Kobayashi’s account, Saikun’s chronic hysteria appeared to have grown even more severe since that incident. Since spring had come, she had been spending each desperate day in the desolate house where Asai never once showed himself, though sometimes she would quietly visit Lawyer Kobayashi’s wife under the pretext of inquiring about Asai’s whereabouts while bringing the child along. Each time, she would repeat all the hardships she had endured with Asai up until now.

“Once he starts having a bit more money, he gets tangled up with that woman again. “It’s the woman’s fault.” “Asai will come to his senses before long, you know.” While saying this, Saikun would sometimes show signs of lashing out at Kobayashi—who wouldn’t even reveal his whereabouts—but each time she was comforted by Kobayashi’s wife and went home. It didn’t take long for Saikun to realize that Kobayashi was not her ally.

“Even you, Mr. Kobayashi, are being cruel, aren’t you?” Saikun stormed over to Kobayashi—who was negotiating with her country brother—and launched into him furiously before he could open his mouth. Her face looked haggard from sleepless nights. “Take the money meant for me and give it to that woman instead—then cut ties.” Saikun stated this yet refused consent. “Then why not install that person in your own home?”

Saikun had finally become disheartened even to that extent. Omasu felt Saikun’s anguish as though it were echoing in her own chest. Vividly rose before her eyes were Saikun’s pale face and lonely, slender figure—sights she had glimpsed two or three times at Ochiyo-baasan’s house or along the way.

*After all,* **it’s your fault**. As she gazed at Asai’s face, Omasu thought. Asai’s gentle eyes, which seemed unperturbed by anything, glinted shrewdly.

“Is he her brother?” “I suppose so.” Kobayashi gazed at Omasu’s face. “He’s about my age—forty-seven or eight.” “The tax collector isn’t exactly upstanding either.” “Once you wine and dine him and flash some cash, he’ll handle everything neatly.” “His money-grubbing couldn’t be more obvious.” “The money all ends up lining that man’s pockets, doesn’t it?” Omasu asked.

“That’s just how it goes.” Asai laughed forlornly. “What does it matter whether the money sticks to Saikun or not?”

Kobayashi said.

When she went downstairs, Oyuki—wearing an expression as if she had found herself in an awkward situation—sat with her legs casually folded by the brazier, looking lonesome. As Omasu came and sat before her, the joy overflowing in her heart could not be concealed on her face.

Twenty-Seven Kobayashi—who had a tendency to linger once he started drinking—ended up playing two or three games of Go with Asai before finally leaving quite late. “It’s started again.”

When the crisp sounds of Go stones from upstairs grew distinct—just as Oyuki had been telling her about that young lady—Omasu exchanged glances with Oima, who was doing needlework beside her, and muttered. From Oyuki’s mouth came a story so mortifying that Oima, pressing her sleeve to her flushed face, ended up flopping sideways. “Aoyagi says he wants me to help out this time too, but no matter what, I couldn’t possibly do such a terrible thing.” “In other words, it’s about whether I storm into the scene or not, right?”

“Huh, doing such underhanded things—it’s just like a play, isn’t it?” Omasu widened her eyes.

“I’ve truly grown sick of it all myself.”

Oyuki looked down in embarrassment. "Doing such things—doesn't that count as a crime under the law?" "Who can say?" Oyuki smiled bitterly. At that moment, Kobayashi—who had staggered downstairs—entered the tearoom and left while teasing the women. "Mrs., starting tonight you can rest easy." Kobayashi exhaled alcohol-laden breath,

“In return, now it’s your turn.” “I’ll state this plainly.”

Kobayashi said this while being seen off by the others and left.

“What an unpleasant thing to say.” After Oyuki and Oima had gone to sleep, Omasu came to Asai’s bedside—where he lay in the futon—and while smoking tobacco, dwelled on those words. Vivid before her eyes rose Saikun’s fierce face as she lashed out at Kobayashi in bitter frustration, and the vision of her leaving the Tokyo home she had long inhabited to board a train with her brother and return to the countryside.

"That alone was my blunder." Asai raised his flushed face and began to speak.

“There’s nothing else about me that people could criticize.” “After that experience, I’ve resolved to never get involved with women again.”

“That won’t go as you think.”

Omasu was staring fixedly at his face. “Well, a woman like that’s unusual.” “This outcome’s her natural fate.” “I don’t think she’s pitiable at all.” The fact that he’d been tormented by Saikun for so long rose in Asai’s mind. “But I’ll be cursed by that person my whole life.” “Quit spouting nonsense.” Asai laughed. “She’d regret it—that’s only natural.” “I’ll tell you now—when that woman left home for days on end, parading about with flowers, who knows what she was really doing?” “Her virtue’s ripe for doubting.”

“Did something like that really happen?” “Well... even if that weren’t the case,” “Anyway, this settles everything for me.” “I can’t even count how many times I’ve had blades brandished at me because of that woman.” “And then there’s that chronic illness of hers.” “I believe I’ve endured as much as I could.” “Once her night blindness clears up, she’ll surely come up with some excuse to return again.” “As if I’d ever go along with that!” Asai snorted derisively.

28

The girl who had been raised under Saikun’s care was handed over to Omasu shortly before Saikun and her child were finally to leave Tokyo. When Asai returned from Kobayashi’s house, bringing the child who carried playthings he had bought along the way, Omasu—seeming curious—started talking to her and lifted her onto her lap. “This is your mother.” “From today on, behave obediently and listen to what I say.”

When Asai said this, the child grinned slyly, but what gladdened Omasu was how she showed no shyness toward anyone. The child brought at noon was already playing alone with toys by evening, rolling about the place.

“She’s so carefree,” Omasu said to Oima as they watched the scene from nearby. “She doesn’t look anything like the master at all.” Omasu muttered while gazing at her profile, but she could only think it was her own imagination after all. As Asai had said, it seemed to be true that the child had been born between a woman he knew—who had worked as a maid at a restaurant in Nihonbashi—and her student lover. It also appeared factual that when the woman parted from her lover and began living independently, she had given the burdensome child to Asai before leaving to work at hot spring resorts near Tokyo.

“What does it matter either way? Even you’ll want a child someday. Just think of this one as your own—that’s all that matters.” Asai said this and laughed indifferently.

The child’s precociousness for her age gradually became apparent to Omasu as days passed. The child had come to read Omasu’s expressions. Gradually it became clear to Omasu that she alone could form no real connection with the child. The child seemed to have long been subjected to Oyanagi’s hysterical treatment—beaten when hated, then smothered with cheek-licking and breath-stealing embraces when loved.

“……I find her neither lovable nor hateful.”

When Asai—seated before his evening meal with the child beside him, feeding her bits of food from his own chopsticks—asked about the child, Omasu could only give her usual response. During their outings as a trio, a lonely thought would rise in Omasu’s heart—how both she and Asai would sometimes turn to look at couples walking through places like Hibiya Park, leading children dressed in fine clothes by the hand.

"It’s awkward for just the two of us to walk together now." Asai would say this and then take them out to places like Asakusa or the zoo where children enjoyed themselves. The strange animals and mechanical dolls they saw together with the child appeared novel even to Omasu’s eyes, but watching Asai’s fatherly manner—carrying or steadying the child when boarding streetcars—left her inexplicably lonely.

“Shizu-chan… Shizu-chan…” Omasu would sometimes inadvertently call out the name of the child who was gazing at something and give her soft little hand a tug, but still felt no real inclination.

“Mama—”

When the house grew lonely without her father, the child would remember and draw near to Omasu’s side as if wanting to be held—but Omasu herself found it dissatisfying that she couldn’t summon womanly tenderness or a mother’s sweet words. Omasu took some dried sweets from the canister in the tea cabinet and gave them to the child.

29 A boy about Shizuko’s age would sometimes come to the gate outside and call out things like, “Shizu-chan, let’s play!” “Coming!” Shizuko would call back from inside, then come running out with a rubber ball in hand. But the boy would sometimes be invited into the house as well. The pale-complexioned, frail-looking boy would take out various toys and play with Shizuko for a while, only to seem to quickly grow bored.

“What does your father do, young master?” While being drawn into the innocent sight of the children playing amiably together, Omasu found herself recalling her own harsh upbringing in early years. At her family home in Machihata, her father would go out to work vigorously in what little farmland they owned. When summer came, under eaves shaded by persimmon branches whose nostalgic gloom deepened yearly, her sullen-looking mother would sit at the loom quietly working the shuttle with clacking sounds while a younger brother lay in his cradle beside her—sucking on a teething ring as she herself, his older sister, rocked him. In summer she could also remember herself carrying that child on her back while picking and eating Chinese pepper berries along the banks of the Nogawa.

The boy was soon taken back home by the maid who had come to fetch him. “My father’s a professor!” The child answered Omasu’s question. It was from a maid—who had grown familiar enough to occasionally chat at the gate—that Omasu learned this professor was in fact a famous professor at a certain university. “Even so, does the master come as often as four or five times a year?” The maid who had said this knew nothing about the professor’s residence in Koishikawa. However, it was known only that while working as a live-in servant at the professor’s villa in Zushi, the child’s mother had unexpectedly become pregnant with his child, and that this matter had been kept absolutely secret from everyone except the professor himself—for fear of angering his wife, who hailed from a prestigious family.

The figure of that homely mother with her bobbed hairstyle, who would come out to the gate and occasionally watch her child, had since drawn Omasu’s attention. The professor, around fifty years old, would occasionally arrive there wearing everyday clothes in a street rickshaw, but this was solely to deliver consolidated living expenses and child support in March or April.

The woman had stubbornly maintained her single life for a long time. And as her savings grew year by year—three thousand, then four thousand—she spent each day in tense anticipation, looking forward to the child’s growth. The relationship between the woman and the child was closer to that between a nursemaid and infant than mother and child. The woman’s resolve—to raise the child without ever taking a husband—grew even firmer. “She enforces terribly strict discipline.”

Having grown close with the mother as well, Omasu observed the woman’s oddly affected refinement in her speech toward the child and recounted this to Asai. “See? There’s a perfect example right in the neighborhood,” Asai remarked. “That’s still because of her own desires.” “That’s part of it, but there’s also affection for the child.” “That’s her own flesh and blood—it’s completely different.”

When going out, Omasu always took Shizuko along. The child was becoming more at ease with the mother each day.

Word of Oyanagi’s frequent illnesses since returning to the countryside occasionally reached the couple’s ears. “When she dies, it’ll come to you.”

Asai sometimes teased Omasu.

30

Omasu, who had returned from traveling here and there for less than a month with her husband—he having taken leave from his company after Obon—and bringing Shizuko along, had a face and wrists sunburned by the days, her flesh seeming to have tightened, but her health remained far from robust. On days when she spent hours gazing at lush green mountains and rice fields, drank wine with vibrantly fresh fish, or wove tranquil dreams—ones she hadn’t known in over a decade—in hot-spring inns lulled by streams whose sound refreshed her very soul, it felt as though her withered spirit had revived. But the instant she returned to Tokyo’s murky air, life’s fatigue descended heavily upon her once more.

Even as the train reached the soot-stained summer grove near nostalgic Oji, the sound of water still lingered in her ears, and the shapes of mountains had yet to fade from her sight. The oppressive natural scenery she had gazed upon for so long finally began to churn in her chest with nausea. “Shizu-chan.” “We’re already in Tokyo.”

Omasu felt her heart tense up as it pounded violently. When they arrived at Nippori, lamplights began flickering in the houses. On Omasu’s face—which until yesterday had lingered by rocky ledges where waterfalls dripped or strolled beneath groves of white birches and Japanese walnuts swaying coolly in green-shadowed light—the life she had long led amid clamor now rose wretchedly to mind, while pity stirred for Saikun, who lived in the countryside with her brother and mothers.

"If I could spend my whole life in a place like this, how wonderful that would be." Omasu murmured to her husband with tear-filled eyes.

The image of the quiet mountain temple where her uncle lived—a place she had visited two or three times as a child—rose nostalgically before her eyes.

“If you abandon me, I’ll go there and live out my days.” The mountain life with nothing to distract her drew Omasu deeper into the precariousness of solitude and life’s transience. “Say what you will—there’s nothing like your own home.” Omasu emerged from the bath—which Oima had assisted her with—and stood in her disheveled yukata under the glow of the Gifu lantern on the veranda, fanning herself with an expression that seemed somehow refreshed.

From the eaves where the blind had been rolled up, pale cloud shadows drifted distantly across the visible sky. The starlight glistened too. Omasu neatly combed her damp hair, and on the tray where Asai sat were two or three dishes prepared by Oima. Asai watched with apparent fascination as Oima—whose culinary repertoire had expanded considerably during summer training—efficiently arranged the dishes, then began sipping his sake in small measured draughts. The way Oima’s face and eyes had acquired such radiance and luster over a single summer became strikingly apparent to Omasu’s observant gaze.

“You’ve really filled out quite a bit.” “I’ve become so much more womanly.” Asai gazed contentedly at that face. “Young people really are different, you know.” “No matter how much I travel, it’s useless for someone like me.” “Oh, that’s just because you’ve been looking at nothing but country women.” “I’ve gotten so fat—what am I to do?” Oima poured sake into the cup Asai had set out.

Thirty-One

When winter came, Omasu had Asai send her to the hot springs in Izu once again, but even then she couldn’t stay there long. Omasu, who had been layering multiple waist wraps made of wool and twisted yarn around her slender, cold-prone waist, had occasionally had doctors examine her even before this, but there seemed little hope of improvement through half-hearted treatments. "You’ve got to be decisive and get radical treatment."

Asai told Omasu—who looked pale and sullen during her menstruation—that she needed proper treatment, but Omasu still couldn’t bring herself to commit to it. "Before, I could easily have them examine me, but lately I’ve come to loathe and detest getting up on that table." Omasu said this, and even the hospital visits she was supposed to make daily for a while became something she tended to neglect. Even when departing for Izu, she could not help being preoccupied with Oima, who lately seemed to have awakened to certain matters. The sight of that maidenly bobbed hairstyle and the lively, youthful voice of Oima, serving meals beside Asai, made Omasu fret somewhat.

Omasu had Oima wash Asai’s back in the bathhouse; she herself would then sidle up to the door or suddenly slide it open to check. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” Omasu tried to catch Asai’s attention with remarks like this.

Asai chuckled softly. Oima rubbed his back with all her might, her face appearing completely unconcerned.

Together with Omasu at their usual Mitsukoshi and such places, Asai would select patterns that suited Oima and never failed to dress her in the latest fashions. “Oima, the master bought this for you,” she said. “You should get it tailored and wear it.” Omasu laid out the item and made Oima bow in thanks, but she herself felt both pleased and envious about it. She couldn’t help reflecting on her own life—so full of hardships—that she had lived through by Oima’s current age.

At the hot spring resort in Izu, Asai spent about two days enjoying himself. In the coastal mountains, the treetops were beautifully colored, and the sky was crystal clear every day. In the blue citrus grove on a small hill, golden oranges here and there glittered beautifully under the late autumn sunlight. After emerging from the bath, in the quiet room where the sound of a mountain stream could be heard, between the two of them sitting face-to-face, none of that mental freedom and carefreeness they had felt when first together could be found. And just when they thought they were discussing something or reminiscing, they found themselves speaking either of matters from the past or concerns about the future.

“Hey there—!”

When Asai stood at the foot of the mountain where the sea and houses could faintly be seen, he shouted in a loud voice. And he laughed forlornly to himself. His voice failed to produce even the faintest echo, swallowed forlornly into the mountain air. “Careful there!”

Asai came to a halt on the crumbling mountain path beneath his feet and seized Omasu’s hand. "Oh, you," Omasu pulled back her hand, but her heart was steeped in a certain loneliness. In the surroundings where the scent of oranges lingered, insects chirped incessantly here and there in the grass. Omasu would occasionally fix her gaze on the man’s smirking face. A mischievous scheme seemed to hover there.

Thirty-Two

In the lonely room that Asai had left behind, Omasu spent her days lying down and rising with a body that felt weary from soaking in hot springs, though sometimes she would slip into sandals and go out for walks. From the glass-papered shoji of the room, across the river toward the foothills, a waterwheel turned all day with a creaking lethargic sound; on days when drizzling rain fell, smoke rising from thatched houses among the cedar groves there would blend into the pallid damp air, while children’s cries and chickens’ clucking could be heard scattered about. A fine rain like spring showers seeped through the bright eaves.

From Gin's room came the constant sounds of go stones clacking and pipes striking the rim of a bronze brazier—noises from a carefree elderly couple who seemed like retired country folk. But in the gloomy corner room right next door, the feeble coughing of a young man lounging about would occasionally startle Omasu as she dreamily pondered Tokyo matters. "It's been raining every day—quite tiresome, isn't it?" When she stepped into the corridor to gaze at scarlet carp in the garden pond framed by cycads and banana plants, the man in a padded kimono approached while smoking tobacco and initiated conversation. He appeared under thirty with a pale complexion and agreeable features. Omasu had occasionally glimpsed him strolling riverside paths draped in a haori of noble weave.

“Indeed it is.” Omasu answered politely, but compared to her former self—who had once been so skilled at exchanging casual banter with men—she now found conversing with such strangers surprisingly burdensome. In the late night when all rooms lay hushed, Omasu’s ears would startle at the swollen river’s rushing currents amplified by days of rain. The image of their Tokyo home’s second-floor bedroom flooded with electric light surfaced vividly. There, from the collar of a yuzen-patterned nightgown, Asai’s sleeping face emerged—his mouth set in its usual firm line. Downstairs, visions of Oima’s glossy hair and plump white hands floated up like phantoms. Her exhausted mind would teeter into sleep only for the river’s roar to surge painfully into her ears, or for the gaunt shape of the neighboring man to materialize terrifyingly in the dim predawn shadows.

Then the sound of the night watchman's clappers approached from nearby.

Just before dawn broke, Omasu went out alone toward the bathhouse. In the still-empty bathtub where no figures could yet be seen, only the dripping sounds of hot water filling moment by moment caught her ears, while warm smoke swirled hazily in the lantern’s shadow. Women with what appeared to be women’s ailments and Saikun-like appearances, along with sharp old women, soon began to file in one after another.

By the time Omasu emerged from the bath, outside had already brightened with the pale light of dawn.

"Tomorrow morning—I must return."

Omasu, who had been thinking all through the night, found her spirits somewhat lifted with the arrival of morning, the muddled delusions in her mind vanishing as though wiped away. In the sky after the rain had cleared, the mountains stood out with unusual clarity. In the river course visible from the room, a soft light flowed.

On the breakfast tray lay a postcard from Oima, concerned about the condition of an illness. At home, nothing seemed to be amiss.

Thirty-Three

Having managed to cut short what was meant to be three weeks to just over two, Omasu arrived home as if dragging herself there—impatient with the sluggish trains that rattled along perilous coastal cliffs, passed through desolate rice fields still bearing flood marks, and wound through pine groves. The mind that had grown accustomed to the lonely inn room where silence rang hollow in her ears now seemed to reel under the clamor and commotion of the town at dusk she had returned to.

Omasu wore a disappointed look as she sat down heavily before the long brazier and glanced around the room.

"My, that was quick." Oima brought in the luggage and such. Asai had not yet returned.

“Lately, he’s been coming home quite late. “So I was just unbearably lonely.” “Hey, Shizu-chan.” Oima had been in the kitchen until now, still wearing a white apron, tidying up scattered magazines and such. Shizuko wore a shy expression as she fiddled with the small marquetry mirror stand—a souvenir—that Omasu was taking out from her suitcase.

"My, you received something nice there." Oima too drew her face closer to it, though since winter had arrived, her complexion had grown paler still. Wearing an unsatisfied expression, Omasu left the brazier's side to enter the back room with its anchored chest of drawers for inspection, then ascended to the second floor where she turned on lights in the unoccupied tatami room to examine it. When she slid open the closet door, her eyes caught on the Yuzen-dyed crepe silk nightwear's shoulder pads and the immaculate white bedding cloths swaddling futons.

"Nothing had changed at all."

After changing clothes downstairs, Omasu washed her dusty face and combed her unkempt hair with a hand mirror she had taken out from her bag. "Oh, nothing really... When you're not here, Sis, the house gets so quiet." "And no matter what you do, Brother's often away from home anyway." "He's definitely cheating." "While the cat's away..." Omasu smiled a lonely smile. And as Oima tried to fold up the discarded clothes and put them away in the back, she called out, "Just leave them like that for now." "I'll air them out once," she said.

Omasu, as if the bath's heat hadn't left her body, finished her evening meal of tea over rice and lay down slightly on a zabuton cushion, her form still swaying as if on a train, gazing at the household expense ledger and notes left during her absence that were lying there. "No one came?" "No one at all," Oima replied, pausing her chopsticks with a thoughtful look in her eyes. "Oh wait—that Ms. Kami from Negishi came by twice, you know. It seems some sort of incident arose over there."

“Huh, really?” Omasu looked up, but Oima merely kept laughing with a flushed face and didn’t continue. “You’re such a strange child.” Omasu muttered in frustration. “Sis, are all men really like that?”

Oima turned her serious face toward her, but soon looked away and burst into laughter. "What's that supposed to mean?" "But it's just so absurd." Oima pressed her sleeve to her face and began laughing again. "Ugh. This girl's developed a certain allure." Omasu knitted her brows. "That's a lie." "The master teased you about something, didn't he?" Omasu felt like tormenting her, but Oima's unfazed demeanor left no satisfaction.

XXXIV Until around one o'clock, when Asai returned by rickshaw, Omasu waited, lying down on the bedding and sitting up again. Sometimes she went down to check the lower tatami room. Until just moments before, Oima—who had recently been sleeping with Shizuko—had kept a light on by the pillow and read something, but by that time she had already sunk into deep sleep.

Omasu had questioned Oima twice about what she had mentioned earlier that evening, but Oima—who had a habit of suddenly switching from childlike innocence to putting on adult airs—simply said, "It's nothing important," and refused to elaborate further. After completing her home economics course, Oima was meant to return home, but she would often consult Omasu about whether to live in her rural hometown or remain in beloved Tokyo. Yet even regarding matters like marriage or independent living, she seemed quite conflicted in her own feelings.

"Why don’t you consult the master and have him arrange a good husband for you?"

Each time, Omasu would casually say that. “A skilled merchant or company employee would be best. Things like manly demeanor don’t matter at all.” Omasu had said as much, but even she could fleetingly sense that Oima’s heart had grown considerably distant from her own since first coming to rely on her. The prospect that Oima’s household—which might have allowed them to come and go with the ease of one’s own home—could never be shaped to her will felt both lonely and strangely comforting.

“She’s getting more impudent by the day.”

Omasu would bring it up with Asai during moments when they talked about Oima as husband and wife, but Asai, who listened with a laugh, showed no signs of accepting it. "It's because you pamper her that she's getting worse." "No way." "That's just how the world works." "It's because you prefer young women after all."

Asai smirked. “That’s why it’s better to send her back to the countryside already.” “After all the trouble I’ve taken to look after her, it would be pointless if we ended up quarreling.” “It will surely come to that, in the end…” “That might be for the best.”

Asai did not argue, but excluding Oima left even Omasu with a lonely heart. Despite Oima's repeated attempts to please her, the girl's innocent demeanor struck her as endearing. "She doesn't have such deep intentions." At the very moment Omasu began to feel some regret, the words Asai came out with were found impressive—perhaps precisely because he was a man. Asai, who had stepped into the entranceway, seemed somehow unsettled. The fatigue on his alcohol-flushed face was evident even to Omasu at a glance.

“Isn’t this a bit early?” Asai sat down before the still-warm brazier and began to speak. At the house of a woman he’d been frequently visiting lately, today too he’d been surrounded by those people, playing flower cards and staying up late—but his nerves, steeped in these three or four days of revelry, were now worn thin by both exhilaration and exhaustion. Oima’s youthful bobbed-haired figure was depicted in Asai’s mind at such times—like something pale blue reflected in eyes clouded with a sickly hue.

"I don't care for young women." As Omasu started to speak, Asai—who had been repeating this refrain all along—found his thoughts occasionally turning to Oima.

On the cat board, Omasu cut into the bitter yokan she had bought midway through, and the two drank tea while murmuring together, but soon tidied up the area and went upstairs.

On the cat board, Omasu cut into the bitter yokan she had bought midway through, and while drinking tea together, the two murmured in low voices, but soon tidied up the area and went upstairs.

"For him to get involved with something like that—that old man must be really losing his touch." When Asai recounted the rumors about Negishi's retired merchant—how his young maid had gotten pregnant—with half-truths lacing his words, Omasu frowned and said as much. In Omasu's heart as she spoke with her husband—who had returned late at night after being sent home in a rickshaw by his regular woman—there lingered an impatience akin to what she had felt waiting for Asai to visit her in the past.

Omasu had also caught sight of Negishi’s servant from Tokyo’s outskirts once or twice. The troublesome issue brought by her supposed uncle—who also served as her guarantor—had left both the old man and his mistress Oyoshi pale. Asai intervened and neatly settled the matter. He soon detected that the woman apparently had another man. After meeting once with this uncle—who had failed in business and withdrawn to Fukagawa—Asai turned the tables and resolved the affair cleanly with a modest sum.

“But the retired merchant still seems to think she’s his own child.” “It’s funny because he keeps making faces like my approach is a bit too efficient.” Asai closed his heavy eyelids and laughed languidly. “You’re quite the one to fall for women yourself, you know.” Omasu pressed the cigarette she still hadn’t let go of against Asai’s mouth. “Hmm.” Asai let out a sigh, his face still bearing the expression of someone savoring the scent of the woman he’d been with until just moments ago. Omasu had long since sensed that Asai was involved in a rather deep relationship with that woman, but during such times, his activities only grew more vigorous. His income was substantial, and he could indulge his whims. Omasu did not neglect to either manage the household and prepare necessities or use money to ward off troubles during those intervals.

“You shouldn’t fuss at them too much.” “You can’t make money unless they’re in the mood to play around.” When gathering with other women like Kobayashi’s mistress to swap stories about their husbands, Omasu always spoke this way. “Thinking they’re cheating makes your blood boil, but if you keep them hustling to earn money, what does it matter?” “That’s how I’ve been seeing things lately.” Omasu would say these things too.

By the time they awoke the next morning, the wooden doors of the engawa had already been opened. On the railing hung Omasu’s clothes from the previous night, while the pale winter sunlight had stretched quite long. From downstairs drifted up Shizuko’s familiar singing voice.

Thirty-Six

Soon, due to an unexpected marriage proposal, Oima was to be temporarily called back to the countryside. Before it was decided that Oima must go—even briefly—to that detested countryside of hers, two or three letters had arrived from her brother. Her brother worked at the county office—a position that spared him from venturing into rural fields—yet owned a considerable silk mill and was counted among the local gentry. Seizing the opportunity presented by an eager mediator who pressed to make Oima the bride of such a household, he now abruptly sought to reclaim the sister he had previously entrusted entirely to Asai’s care.

The man who was to become the son-in-law had once spent some time in Tokyo. When tracing the strangely tangled family connections, it appeared that factors such as the distant kinship between that household and Oima’s family, the promising prospects of their silk mill, and the man’s reputation as a rigidly upright individual had fundamentally swayed her brother’s resolve. Upon Oima’s tender heart—which had only just awakened to Tokyo’s alluring lifestyle—the marriage proposal her brother had brought now weighed like a crushing stone. Even the indulgent daily life of the Asai couple that she observed daily began to steep Oima’s heart in an atmosphere resembling a beautiful haze.

“Brother, what should I do?” When Oima showed him that lengthy letter, Asai found her brother’s unreasonable demands infuriating. Omasu, who seemed to agree with recalling Oima to the countryside, had taken the child and gone to visit Lawyer Kobayashi’s mistress’s residence they frequented. “No matter what you say, it’s not my place to interfere...” Asai too, for Oima’s sake, had no choice but to choose the safe path.

“But what do you think, Oima-chan?” Asai gazed at Oima’s face while rolling up the letter. “Me?” Oima looked up with a coquettish gleam in her eyes. "I want to stay in Tokyo." "If I can just become independent in Tokyo, I have no desire to go to the countryside or anything like that." "Do you think I could become independent?" "If that comes to pass, we’ll have to take up that discussion again." "As for that being a matter for later, if you really can’t stand returning to the countryside, I could speak to your brother on your behalf for now." “Even from my perspective, I think your brother’s approach is a bit selfish.”

But what Asai had proposed seemed unlikely to find acceptance in the countryside. "In any case, please send her here once." "Have her depart immediately upon receipt of this letter"—with these words, her brother pressed Asai relentlessly from his side. The letter lay unfolded before Omasu too. The couple had been about to take Oima and head toward Ginza for year-end shopping. The busy rustle of Omasu's clothes echoed as she walked about in new tabi socks over freshly replaced blue tatami mats, while Oima's excited preparations with her geta sandals were visible. Asai sat by the brazier, his restlessness about going out disrupted, staring repeatedly at the letter.

"So he’s still demanding we send her back, isn’t he?" Omasu came closer while adjusting her collar. "You should just send her back." She added with a frown. "This is exactly why country folks are so troublesome."

Asai quietly placed the letter into the brazier drawer and stood up. "In that case, we'll have to make preparations to send her off."

Thirty-Seven When the day before Oima was finally to depart arrived, Asai would go out but return home promptly. There, while Omasu was away at the hospital, Oima sat alone in the downstairs sitting room sewing her new kimono. Shizuko had taken out a box containing dolls of various sizes—along with quilts and kimonos Oima had sewn for each one—and was playing beside her. Inside the box, as usual, a folding screen stood erected with the doll family laid down to sleep.

"Girls start playing these pesky little games from such a tender age." Omasu would occasionally gaze at it curiously and laugh. "Once Sis goes back home, you won’t have anyone to sew doll clothes for you anymore."

Asai, who had come in from the cold outside, stood there and said while removing his gloves.

“That’s not true. Sis will be back soon, you know.” Oima, about to say something to Shizuko who was gazing at her forlornly, brushed off the thread scraps and stood up, then brought out Asai’s change of clothes there. The undergarment to be worn tomorrow morning lay there half-finished. In Oima’s heart dimly floated scenes of pride when entering her hometown dressed in Tokyo fashion, of meeting her brother and mother to declare her unshakable hopes, of becoming free, and of both the joy and unease of returning to Tokyo once more.

“Once you go back, that’ll be the end of it.” Omasu had said as much even in front of Oima, but the path of her own descent remained unclear in Oima’s mind.

“I’ll come back no matter what. I’ll definitely return by New Year’s.” Oima insisted each time. Asai sat beside the brazier intently flipping through the train timetable he had brought back. “This one’s good,” he said, pointing at the page. “The morning express...” He showed the spot to Oima as she prepared tea. She leaned forward with her hands on the tatami, bringing her face close to examine the timetable spread before them. A suffocating tightness rose in her chest, as if some powerful force were crushing her body. Now that her departure for the countryside was settled, whatever had lingered between them suddenly vanished from both their hearts.

“If I come out this time, may I come here again?” Oima abruptly lifted her head as if recalling something.

“Sure thing.” Asai nodded, but a secret wish to place the woman somewhere else had newly welled up in his heart. “However, if I’m to fully support you, Oima, this place might not be suitable.” Asai said while sensing his own dangerous curiosity that seemed to incite the woman.

Shizuko’s figure could be seen from behind the fusuma in the quiet room, turned away as she dressed and undressed the dolls. Her eyes occasionally glanced back this way. The old servant woman who had gone out to buy vegetables and Omasu returning from the hospital happened to arrive together.

The next morning when Oima departed, Asai was still asleep in the second-floor bedroom. The commotion downstairs reached his drowsy ears.

Before long, Oima came upstairs and appeared at the bedside, ready to depart. “Well then, I’ll be taking my leave for a while.” Oima placed her hands there and offered a formal greeting.

Thirty-Eight

After seeing Oima off, Asai felt an uncomplicated loneliness welling up in his heart—a sudden release from the oppressive anxiety that had gripped his chest these past days. While Omasu, who had taken Shizuko to see her off at the station, returned about two hours later, Asai dozed in his bedroom, lost in aimless thoughts; yet the scene felt unsatisfying, like a stage after the curtain had fallen without any development. Soon, a new curtain seemed poised to spread there, all through his own direction.

“I’m back.” “Thank you very much for everything.”

Omasu, on her way back after taking Shizuko’s hand and strolling around, had bought small celluloid dolls and animals in Ginza; she rolled them out one after another at Asai’s bedside and laughed with apparent amusement. “Take a look at this, will you?”

“Heh heh.” Asai laughed as he picked up and examined the animals with weights attached to their rear ends. "When I go out, young women catch my eye."

Omasu murmured as if remembering something as she was about to rise from the bedside.

“No matter what, women’s prime is from sixteen or seventeen to twenty-two or twenty-three, right? Their complexion is entirely different. Men aren’t so bad, but women become completely useless once they age, right?” Asai was still chuckling softly. When Asai left his bed, finished breakfast, dressed himself in his new Western-style suit, and departed the house, the courage and cheer of activity once again surged through the healthy veins of his entire body. In the crowded train, within his mind as he spread out the newspaper, even the impression of Oima who had departed that morning was already beginning to fade, yet he found himself somehow intrigued by what would become of the woman after her return.

As Asai’s gaze fell upon the jarring print of bloodstained tabloid reports about murders and suicides, thoughts of Oyanagi—who had reportedly gone mad after returning to the countryside—suddenly surfaced in his mind. Asai closed his eyes and tried to imagine the tragic fate that had befallen that woman he had parted from. During their time together, her detestable habits—the lewd body, slovenly lifestyle, extravagance, chronic illness, and hysterical jealousy that had clung to his heart—now sent it reeling with violent hatred each time they came to mind.

“Oima too might end up like that once she gets old.”

Asai also considered this. A sense of pity for Oyanagi—who had been dragged down to the brink of despair by her brother, his eyes clouded with greed—began to seep and spread through his chest. The fact that Oyanagi had gone mad was learned through a letter from her brother addressed to Kobayashi. The fact that the severance money she had taken had been quickly depleted could be inferred from the wording of that letter. It had also become clear from Kobayashi’s account that a considerable portion [of the money] had already been expended by her brother during her time in Tokyo. By the time she returned to the countryside, there seemed to be hardly anything left that could be called Oyanagi’s own. Her brother, upon suddenly obtaining a large sum of money, seemed to have been seized by a reckless gambling spirit and ventured into speculation with that cash tucked in his pocket.

It was in the early winter that Oyanagi suddenly one night declared she would go to Tokyo and began making a commotion. Resenting being treated as a nuisance by her sister-in-law, who was burdened with many children, Oyanagi had already started two or three major fights with her brother even before this. “At this point, it seems she’s cursing her own brother more than you or your wife.” Asai had been told such things by Kobayashi as well.

Thirty-Nine

Asai entered the company office and sat down at his usual desk cluttered with ledgers, but his mind remained unsettled. At this firm specializing in construction contracts and real estate brokerage, Asai had recently attained a considerable position, though reaching this point had required various personal transformations. Now able to walk through the company without deep bows to anyone, he would sometimes find himself reflecting on the past or staring at his own feet where he stood. The many women he had been involved with flashed through his mind. Since aligning himself with Omasu—adept at managing finances and soothing his moods—his influence had grown remarkably.

“You’ll never get anywhere staying with someone like Ms. Oyanagi.”

There had been a time when Omasu had told him such things, and Asai found himself nodding in agreement—perhaps she was right.

Moreover, I'm right in my prime working years. If I just avoid getting involved with women from now on, I could build up a decent fortune.

Asai muttered, but even so, it seemed unlikely that just that alone would bring him day-to-day satisfaction. "You should take a little from the women too, you know." Omasu said this as if it were a joke.

“Then that still won’t do.” “It’s precisely because you spend money that it’s enjoyable.” Dealing with customers and writing replies to letters, he soon found it was noon. Engrossed in tangled office work, thoughts of Oima would occasionally surface in his busy mind. He found himself eagerly anticipating what kind of letters the girl might write after their separation, yet even now he could already imagine the vexations—both internal and external—that would arise should he make the woman his own.

Around four o'clock, Asai and a friend who had left the company soon entered a certain newly built street located not far from there. The narrow alley had small food shops lining both sides. Before long, the two removed their shoes at the entrance of a modest restaurant Asai frequented and, guided by a woman in stiffly formal attire, were led to a stylish private room on the second floor. A kaiseki tray bearing chopsticks and sake cups was promptly placed before the two men, and a woman with excessively proper manners served them sake. While exchanging tasteful light banter, they began sipping their drinks slowly, though topics like rumors about company executives and directors also arose. Stories of romantic dalliances added spice to their drinking.

By the time they left that place, lamplights were already flickering across the town. Shortly before leaving, Asai found his thoughts drawn to the woman from Akasaka who had called the company. Asai had not met with that woman for some time. “What do you mean? Whenever I call, you’re never there, are you?” The woman asked after Asai’s well-being with a laugh. “I’ve heard a few things about you from elsewhere.”

“What? What?” Asai replied in a somewhat flustered manner, but he thought it was probably some inside information she had picked up from an acquaintance—perhaps even from Kobayashi’s mistress.

For the first time in years, that evening, Asai quietly visited the house where Omasu had once lived.

As Asai climbed the wide stepped staircase of the house—now nearly emptied of the women who had once been there—the image of his former self, who had made this place his sole playground, rose vividly before his eyes. “Oh my, our mold-covered Guest has arrived! I’m surprised you didn’t forget the way.” Asai stood rooted in the hallway, discovered by the old madam he used to know, wearing a thoroughly bewildered expression.

Forty

Oima, who after returning home had only sent two or three letters before all communication ceased entirely, suddenly returned to Tokyo after January tenth of the following year. From the initial letter, it had been clear that the marriage arrangement—entirely dictated by her parents’ and brother’s will—was unlikely to be dissolved according to Oima’s wishes. But as negotiations dragged on, later correspondence suggested the other family’s parents seemed to be reconsidering. Bridal candidates from families with more substantial financial standing than Oima’s household were being introduced from other quarters as well. In earlier negotiations, there had already been one or two candidates that met her parents’ approval.

“He’s apparently the sort who fusses over trivial formalities—they say he’s given the mediators so much trouble over and over before.” “I did meet him once, but I hardly even looked at what kind of man he was.” “The meeting was at the mediator’s house, but I shut my eyes tight and resolved to marry him…” Such things had been written in the early letters. “…It seems there was some misstep in the negotiations because the mediator acted irresponsibly.” “Trying to arrange my marriage into that so-called wealthy family was wrong from the very start…”

In the letter that came at year-end, such things had been written.

“Wealthy family this, wealthy family that—how much do they really have?” Asai read the letter aloud to Omasu and asked her, but Oima’s wilted demeanor seemed pitiable.

"Even if they call it established wealth, it's just first-generation money—nothing remarkable." The turmoil from those events still churned relentlessly in Oima's mind as she returned to Tokyo. When she arrived wearing Omasu's remade old coat and carrying luggage that had once been sent away, the Asai couple sat laughing boisterously by the dinner table while teasing Shizuko. But Oima lingered awkwardly in the doorway, finding it difficult even to show her face there.

“Look, Big Sister is here.” “It’s your favorite Big Sister.” Omasu leaned against her knees and gazed almost bashfully at Oima’s face as she began to speak to Shizuko, though her own expression remained blank. “Hmm.” As Asai smoked tobacco, he offered casual responses to Oima’s gradually unfolding story before soon retreating upstairs with heavy-lidded eyes. “I’ve never had such a dreary New Year as this one.”

Oima stepped back, took out the souvenirs from her trunk and placed them there, then with a finally composed expression, began to speak. “Moreover, after going there, I thoroughly realized all the things I loathed about the countryside.” “No matter what it takes, I’ve decided I will live in Tokyo.” “Then I guess it’ll settle here after all.” Omasu said offhandedly.

“What kind of person is the groom? Has the marriage proposal been settled already?” The man who still couldn’t put Oima out of his mind—the turbulent rumors surrounding his marriage proposal had also reached Oima’s ears.

Forty-One The fact that the man who had been designated as the groom—after the frayed emotions between him and his parents, among others, had clashed—had fled alone to Tokyo following Oima’s relocation to the capital soon became known through a letter the man sent addressed to Oima. The letter signed "Muro Shizuo" was exceedingly brief in wording, yet between its lines overflowed with passion for Oima. Muro had just barely turned twenty-four. "I wish to meet you directly just once and have you fully hear all that is in my heart. I would be satisfied with that..." Such self-deprecating words were lined up.

“What a foolish man.” Omasu laughed at the letter Asai was reading aloud in a low voice, but Oima seemed to show no emotion whatsoever. “But isn’t it pitiful to make him waver like this?” “You should find a way to help him out, don’t you think?”

Omasu turned to look at Oima. "How does it feel to receive a letter like this?" “Doesn’t feel bad at all.” Asai laughed and placed the letter there.

"If the two of them could talk directly, what would the parents do?" Having said that, Omasu asked Asai. She could not overlook the pensive expression in Oima's eyes—now even more lustrous than before her return home—directed toward Asai.

While sleeping alone at night, Omasu became aware of Asai’s absence and suddenly awoke. The image of a scene she had once seen in a motion picture—now emerging in the dream she had just experienced—rose to her weary mind. Amidst wind-swayed verdant groves, a single pale road stretched endlessly onward. There, she could faintly discern the figure of a man chasing a woman. They seemed to be Asai and Oima. Abruptly, Oima’s large face with hybrid-like eyes and Asai’s well-formed head would materialize floating within a white bed. In the faint red electric light, Asai’s sleeping face—unlike any she had seen before—appeared murky yellow to Omasu’s awakened eyes, seeming eerie.

To Omasu’s eyes, which stared fixedly at the ceiling, the figure of Oyanagi—who had reportedly gone mad and died—appeared vividly.

The notification from Oyanagi's brother—the same Oyanagi who would occasionally break free from her brother and mother’s restraining hands while insisting she would go to Tokyo, thrashing about the house in anguish—had reached Asai only recently. Oyanagi would rush out of her bedroom at night and run through the desolate streets of the countryside town, her obi half-undone and feet bare, until she reached the police box in haste. “I’m terribly sorry to bother you, but a man just barged into my house saying he’s going to kill me…”

As she said this, Oyanagi’s face took on the pallor of a corpse, her sunken eyes gleaming intensely.

There, her brother came chasing after her. A fierce struggle between her brother and Oyanagi began by the roadside. A terrifying strength resided in Oyanagi's emaciated arm. Oyanagi, who had been dragged away, was bound with a heko obi sash and was laid down in her bedroom, but she no longer had the strength to struggle.

In her brother’s absence, Oyanagi would occasionally grow violent, causing trouble for the elderly mother. With the help of neighbors who had gathered, the mother finally managed to tie her daughter to a pillar. When signs of madness arose, they took her to the wellside, and the people poured water over Oyanagi’s head with a loud splash. Oyanagi’s body rapidly deteriorated.

Forty-Two When news of Oyanagi’s death arrived, Omasu sent a separate condolence gift; however, her brother at that time appeared to be in such dire financial straits that he could not even afford to have his bedridden sister seen by a proper doctor. Before she died, countless requests for money came to Asai through Kobayashi. Asai complied with the request once out of every three times.

“If only that money had reached Ms. Oyanagi.” “After all, that would just end up as fertilizer for her brother.” “What does a madwoman know?” Asai gave a wry smile. The tragic circumstances of Oyanagi’s death were imagined in various ways. The deranged woman, who had fallen into a dreadful gloom, rarely spoke to her brother or sister-in-law even in ordinary times. She would only occasionally whisper timidly to her mother—who nursed the patient confined to another room. Her fearful demeanor toward her brother and wary attitude toward her sister-in-law were vividly apparent in every movement. Even the slightest noise outside or murmur of voices would startle her eyes open with anxiety, her sharpened nerves having grown deeply distrustful.

Some time later, when Omasu’s mother—who had come to Tokyo for a visit—relayed such matters through Kobayashi, Omasu began occasionally having dreams of Oyanagi. "There's something off about your nerves too. It’s not impossible that Oyanagi’s curse is at work here." Asai said mockingly. Muro Shizuo, who had received no response from Oima, came to visit Asai after some time had passed. After lingering by the gate countless times, Muro finally entered. When his tall, lanky figure casually appeared before Omasu’s eyes, she immediately recognized him as the sender of that recent letter. But with Asai absent, she couldn’t decide whether to invite him inside. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to simply turn away this young man who knew so much about their household.

After some time, Muro—who had been shown upstairs—left the gift he had bought along the way and departed without any substantive conversation. Yet during their small talk, he hinted at his personal resolve: he would remain in Tokyo for the time being, either re-entering school if permitted or, failing that, selling his body somewhere to establish self-employment.

“Oima, why don’t you bring out some tea or something?” When Omasu went downstairs and whispered to Oima, who had withdrawn to the back room, Oima did not respond. “I hope to meet your husband at some point and hear his opinions on various matters.” Muro said that and left with a somewhat satisfied expression.

“He isn’t such a bad man, is he? If it’s him, he’s a fine catch.”

Omasu later spoke to Oima, who was tidying up the parlor.

"But didn't the other party call off the engagement?" "But acting rashly isn't something we can do." "And it wouldn't be good for that person either." Asai, who had returned in the evening, listened to Oima's story while saying this, but he felt that with just his own approach alone, the fates of the two could be swayed either way.

Forty-Three Asai continued to welcome Muro, who visited from time to time, with goodwill and curiosity—even taking him out to eat in the downtown area once, with Omasu joining them. Muro, who would turn bright red after just two or three cups of sake, was drawn out by the easygoing Asai to dredge up his thoughts and become talkative; however, the dark sentiments of this obsessive, neurotic young man weighed heavily on Asai.

"When you're young, everyone has such experiences," Asai said. "There comes a time when no other woman in the world catches your eye at all." He had responded lightly but disliked appearing unsympathetic. "In any case, why don't you wait a little longer? Watch for the right timing and try talking to your family in the countryside again." Though stating this moderate opinion befitting Oima's guardian, Asai felt his interest grow stronger—this urge to keep the woman's heart tethered to himself. He imagined various scenarios should Oima ever marry this man.

“Excuse me, but according to your thoughts, what about the will of the person in question?” “For me in this situation, that is the primary issue, but—”

Muro inquired. “There’s nothing specific I can say—no clear position to take,” Asai answered. “After all, she’s still young.” Omasu interjected from the side: “If we act now, that girl could be swayed either way.” After leaving and parting with Muro along the way, the Asai couple—who had recently sold their Negishi villa to open a shop selling Western liquor, canned goods, and tobacco on a Kanda street—stopped by the retired merchant’s place before returning home.

"I wonder what it feels like to be so consumed by a woman and finally have your longing fulfilled." Omasu spoke these words on the train, summoning the image of Muro from whom they had just parted. "That man would devote his whole life to protecting Oima alone." Asai chuckled softly at the corner of his mouth.

“But even so, that doesn’t sound very fulfilling.”

At the retired merchant’s house in Kanda, Oika reported that the shop’s business was better than initially expected. The retired merchant had injured his stomach from overdrinking and lay resting in the back room. Two or three young men read newspapers and greeted customers before the counter where Oika sat, but since moving there, her uplifted spirits became evident through her lively face and demeanor. A twenty-four or twenty-five-year-old man named Kiyokichi—who had experience in such commerce—appeared to manage everything; yet for Oika, who had long been disheartened by humoring the difficult retired merchant, setting sales targets and conducting business with these young shop hands felt novel.

“Thanks to you, I must say we’re managing to make it work somehow.” Oika addressed the two who had been seeking out rare foods and such. The gentle-mannered Kiyokichi approached and showed them various wares.

“You see, the master truly doesn’t understand a thing, I must say.” Oika prepared the tobacco and handed it to Omasu while speaking. “If this person weren’t here, we couldn’t run the business at all.” Oika said this while looking toward Kiyokichi, who was wrapping the couple’s purchases beside her. Those large, almond-shaped eyes held a dewy luster. “Oika-san hasn’t even turned thirty yet, you know.” When Omasu left the place, she spoke to Asai.

Forty-Four

After Shizuko—who had developed a rather severe pneumonia from a trivial cold—was admitted to a pediatric hospital within the same district, Omasu found herself stationed there nearly every day without relief. Even when attending work, Asai—whose mind remained tethered to Shizuko's condition—could scarcely focus on his tasks, so unsettled was his mood. For days on end, the chill that had begun softening made an about-face—days when cherry branches bearing spring's tender vitality trembled under winter's lingering stabs. In the hospital room, mist from the ceaselessly hissing nebulizer clung to white ceilings and fogged windowpanes, leaving blankets and futon perpetually damp.

Asai, never neglecting to buy toys on his way, often spent more than half a day keeping watch over the feverish patient drifting in and out of consciousness—lying down and getting up in the hospital room—while Shizuko's body had weakened to the point where she lacked even the strength to mind the fine droplets dripping onto her face and hair as she wheezed through labored breaths. In the thick, swirling water vapor, as the lonely electric lights began flickering on, Asai—who had been gazing at the temperature chart he had just filled out—said goodbye to Shizuko and quietly slipped out of the room.

“Tomorrow Papa will buy you something nice again. Even if it’s bothersome, you must do the compress properly.”

Asai put on his hat and, peering at the child’s face once more, spoke. "After all, was she really my own child?"

The question she had lived without a moment to dwell on now rose again in Omasu’s heart at such a time. She found it difficult to determine whether such natural affection could develop for a child not of her own blood, lacking any experience of childbirth herself. “If you want to see this child’s mother, I can introduce her anytime.” Asai brought up the matter of the woman living in the countryside near Tokyo, but Omasu herself did not find it favorable for Shizuko to start feeling homesick through associating with such a woman.

“Please send Oima here immediately.” Omasu started to say to Asai as he was leaving, sticking her face out the door. The two had become so emotionally entangled that they had even argued once or twice over Oima whenever the nurses were absent by the sickbed. “What are you trying to accomplish by keeping my unmarried daughter by your side?” "Oima has someone named Muro." Asai laughed through his nose, but ever since coming to the hospital, Omasu had grown uneasy about situations where Asai and Oima might be left alone together at the house.

“What were Papa and Sister talking about here?” After Oima—who had been stationed by the patient’s side—left for her shift change, Omasu would ask this of Shizuko with clouded yet keen eyes as the child gazed at her face, but she could glean nothing from the girl. Unable to bear waiting any longer for Oima’s belated arrival, Omasu entrusted the patient to a nurse and emerged from the stifling hospital room where she had been confined since morning.

Outside, it had already grown quite late. Dewy starlight appeared in the sky, and spring night air damply caressed her face.

When she alighted from the rickshaw and slid open the lattice door with a clatter, Oima hurried out from the solemnly quiet depths of the house—but Asai lay sprawled indifferently beside the brazier. The dinner tray still remained laid out there.

Forty-Five By the third week of hospitalization, before Shizuko was brought home on a selected warm day, Muro too had visited the hospital once or twice with unceremonious ease.

Muro supported his monthly living expenses, somehow making ends meet with money he occasionally obtained from the branch office in Nihonbashi. The unexpected funds his mother secretly sent him there, sealed inside clothes and letters, were no small amount either. “Depending on how things go, I’m even thinking of renting a house in Tokyo.” Muro grew so close to Omasu that he would come to the patient’s bedside and share private conversations about how his relationship with his family hadn’t deteriorated into the hostile state he’d initially feared.

"But in the countryside, they probably wouldn’t accept Oima." Omasu would occasionally probe. "Well, that’s not necessarily true." “After all, it’s become known that there’s a patron like Mr. Asai.” “If only the rural negotiations are settled—a husband isn’t someone who would simply cast his wife aside.” “Of course they couldn’t do anything grand, but he likely intends to make proper arrangements.”

Omasu had come to feel such nostalgia that she found herself confiding in the man—with whom she had grown close in Tokyo through distant kinship ties—about her personal circumstances and livelihood. Omasu was shown letters by Muro—letters from his sister who worried about her runaway brother. The phrases carried such childlike innocence and tenderness that they seemed almost painfully raw to someone like Omasu, who had grown up abruptly. When she was still in the trade, the matter of her brother who had died of beriberi heart failure came to mind. The brother from whom she had parted in childhood had devoted himself for many years to a trading company in Kobe. Through occasional news from their mother in the countryside, they could barely discern each other’s survival—so sparse was the connection between them.

“You mustn’t go wasting money like that and worrying everyone.” Omasu saw Muro off at the hospital room doorway as they parted with those words. Their somewhat somber conversation had continued for some time.

Shizuko, who had been discharged from the hospital, was made to sit on the futon laid out in the downstairs tatami room, her face still pale and showing no signs of healthy plumpness. The dolls, household tools, picture books, and other playthings that had been brought in baskets were spread out all over there. Outside, the spring wind kicked up white dust while variegated camellia flowers bloomed beside the dried-earth garden’s washbasin. “Thank you, thank you for your efforts.” Asai gazed at the patient he had finally made his own while addressing the women who had been so busy they hadn’t even had time to properly fix their hair. The child gazed around curiously with large, enraptured eyes that held a bluish tint.

“I should do something for Oima as thanks.”

Asai began to speak. “Since she wants a ring, should I buy her one?” Oima was carrying blankets and merino futons permeated with medicinal scent up to the second floor to air them out in the sun.

Forty-Six After the distribution of bed-lifting gifts was completed, Asai—having chanced to pass by—took out a pearl-inlaid ring from his briefcase one evening before Omasu, saying he had bought it from Ginza.

“Hmm, let me see,” Omasu said, picking up the ring still in its pouch to examine. “How stylish. Eighteen-karat gold, perhaps?” Omasu slipped it onto her slender finger and held it up to the light.

"It's cheap but durable enough. Give it to Oima." Oima, who owned only two rings—one with a small ruby and another heart-shaped—would sometimes compare her hands with Omasu's when going out, growing visibly discontented, and Asai had long been aware of this. Oima's dissatisfied expressions extended beyond just the ring. The contents of Omasu's chests and dressing tables—ever-increasing month by month—gradually began to captivate Oima's heart, which had initially regarded such possessions with scorn. The celle coat that had been altered for her before her countryside trip now struck Oima as appallingly shabby even for casual outings.

“No one wears coats like this anymore.” Oima declared this as though it were somehow Omasu’s fault. The way Oima’s selfishness had been growing was both infuriating and pitiful to Omasu.

“That’s quite enough. What’s the point of wanting all these nice things already? You should think back to when you first came here.” Omasu couldn’t help bringing up how Oima had looked when she first arrived—still unaccustomed to Tokyo—and the kindness that Asai and she herself had shown her up to now. Oima would sometimes scowl at Omasu when she went out with Asai. “Since there’s no pearl one, I’ll keep this as mine.”

Omasu said this and placed the ring back into its pouch. “Then keep that as yours, and I’ll get you one with an elaborate carving instead.” Asai said, laughing. “You mustn’t do that. It’s because you dote on her so much that she’s become insufferably arrogant. She’s grown terribly spoiled lately. It’s your fault.” “But that can’t be helped. When someone counts on me and entrusts me with things, I’ve got to do my part properly. If Muro’s matter gets settled from now on, all the more reason I can’t just leave it be.”

Their arguments escalated from Oima’s usual issues to other matters. “Even that woman in Akasaka—the one you keep visiting under flower pretenses—came up through your own mouth.”

“No matter how hard I try to handle things, it’s just no use. Inside there’s Oima making extravagant demands, and outside there are places where I’m being squeezed—there’s no use in me getting worked up all by myself.”

Omasu’s tone grew slightly more animated. “Don’t be ridiculous. Who do you think you owe it to that you can even wear kimonos properly? No matter what I do outside—whether I go out or whatever—I haven’t done anything so irresponsible that you can complain about it.” For the kind-hearted Asai, an unusual kind of remark came from his mouth.

Oima was in the kitchen, utterly silent, listening to it all.

Forty-Seven

The next morning, Omasu took charge of all tasks Oima usually handled each morning—preparing Asai's meals and such—gathering them into her own hands as she busied herself with an air of confidence. Even in how she sliced and arranged pickles, she felt her methods—honed through long understanding of Asai's temperament—suited his preferences perfectly. "Good morning." Before Oima's eyes, Omasu deliberately adopted an overly earnest expression and gave her husband a formal greeting. Asai had just descended from upstairs. Since her hospital stay, Oima's mood had grown markedly languid. With eyelids still swollen and a sleep-dulled face, she kept standing before the mirror in the dim tea room—fussing with her hair or applying powder.

Oima, who was usually restless, this morning had a face stiff with tension, not even a shadow of her lively expression visible, and her words to Omasu and the others came heavily. Last night, as the argument between Omasu and Asai intensified—even after Asai had gone upstairs—Omasu, still displeased with her, ascended to the second floor in a prickly tone. The ring she had reluctantly declined, which had been discarded near the cat board, had vanished somewhere. These thoughts, along with the hushed stillness of the couple’s subsided quarrel in the late-night upstairs rooms, churned relentlessly in her sleepless mind. Anger and sorrow soaked through her pillowcase until it was drenched.

On a damp, rainy evening—after Asai had locked the front door past midnight, when she assumed he was at the hospital or else with that geisha he frequented named Nanako—the memory of him returning home drunk now rose vividly before Oima’s eyes. By the time she finished hurriedly lighting the fire and boiling water with Asai by her side, they became engrossed in conversation before she knew it, and when they went upstairs to lay out the bedding, it was already past two o'clock. Amidst anxiety and terror, a phantom-like brief night passed.

Secret opportunities were created by Asai two or three times over. Even when facing Omasu’s terrifying visage at the patient’s bedside, Oima felt her heart gnawed by helpless frustration. Her coquettish arrogance and wanton desires had gradually begun forcing her shameless self upon Omasu as well.

Omasu handed Asai a toothpick and powder, then took the metal basin filled with lukewarm water drawn from the copper kettle and the soapbox out to the veranda beyond the glass door. In the garden, most of the camellias had decayed to a rusty hue, while early summer sunlight streamed onto the young leaves of maples and other trees. From somewhere came the languid sound of a distant clock.

During breakfast as well, Omasu sat right beside Asai and was serving him. And whenever Asai started to say something, she would respond politely with a "Yes, yes." Her hair—naturally straight and neatly combed down—along with the light blue headscarf, made her sun-darkened face appear strikingly spirited.

“I’ll handle the second floor.” Omasu began to say while watching Oima—who always hid in the shadows—ascend to the second floor. The second floor’s flooring still remained as it was. "You mustn’t come up here, Shizu-chan—." Oima called down from above in a brusque voice to Shizuko, who had poked her head out halfway up the staircase.

Forty-Eight

In the house without Asai, when Omasu could no longer bear merely facing Oima, she would take Shizuko out to visit places like the home of the mother and child said to be the Doctor’s illegitimate offspring or go to the retired merchant’s shop in Kanda. At such times, Omasu felt a loneliness in her heart, for Oyuki—with whom she could share unguarded personal stories—had gone on a working trip to the Tohoku region with Aoyagi and was no longer in Tokyo. “This time, I’m going to act in plays too,” she said mockingly.

Shortly before departing on her journey, Oyuki had come to Omasu’s place to bid farewell. As usual, she stayed for about two days, and while there made that remark, sneering at her own changing circumstances. Aoyagi no longer had any stages in Tokyo where he could perform. It was autumn—when the harvest had ended and money flowed through the countryside. Evidently some contract had been settled with someone, for Oyuki’s attire appeared comparatively neat. The newly tailored coat and umbrella caught Omasu’s eye. Omasu found herself pondering deeply—as she often did about Oyuki—"How long can she keep living so carefree?" Yet Oyuki showed not the slightest change in spirit; if anything she seemed to take some pride in it.

“So my part’s Akoya, see.” Omasu didn’t really know what Akoya meant. “Oh, you can do that?” “It’s all just pretend anyway.” “Might even take the show up to Hokkaido if things work out.” “Once we rake in the money, I’ll pay you back what I owe—every yen.” With that, Oyuki left and never sent word again. The wretchedness of her clinging to some third-rate performer going nowhere, idly aging year by year—it should’ve been pitiful. Yet during her own vexing days, Omasu found it stifling how she couldn’t lounge carefree like Oyuki even for an hour, shackled by her nature to fret over every little thing.

“I wonder if that woman will end up dead in some ditch.” Omasu occasionally discussed rumors about Oyuki with Asai, but she couldn’t help thinking about her own fate—clinging to a man whose affections drifted among various women. “Are you still thinking about that?” Whenever Asai noticed the clothes in Omasu’s chest or the savings passbook in her utility cabinet—evidence of her relentless preparations for her eventual future—he would say this with his habitual wry smile. Yet during their jealousy-fueled quarrels, those very preparations would be spitefully thrown back at her.

Yet during their reconciliations, those funds would eventually be transferred back to Asai whenever circumstances required.

"The master took it again." Omasu later realized something with a start, but even then she still couldn’t conceal it. As she spent the day wandering outside with Shizuko, the hatred toward Oima that she had felt upon leaving home could not help but gradually melt away within Omasu’s lonely heart. The shop in Kanda was thriving increasingly. Oima’s youthfully vibrant complexion seemed enviable to Omasu. Having settled into the tearoom and passed the time with unpleasant domestic chatter, Omasu boarded the train with a state of mind entirely different from when she had arrived.

Forty-Nine

Omasu felt impatient even on the train when she thought Asai had already returned home, but she found herself repeatedly pondering what the retired merchant had said. "You should send Oima-san away somewhere while you still can." "Depending on circumstances, I might arrange for my relatives to take her in temporarily." The retired merchant, his face still flushed with alcohol, shook it emphatically as he spoke. Oima, who offered no opinions on such matters, would occasionally blush and respond to Omasu's conversation.

“Oima-san is pitiable too.” “She must want a husband, so why not have her marry the son of that wealthy family?” Omasu couldn’t help but consider what would become of the young woman’s life after sending her away. The thought of her husband’s actions being known by someone like Oima’s brother in the countryside was distasteful. She realized she couldn’t simply hate the two of them for their actions. The town with its flickering lamplight and the blue shadows of willows drifted past before Omasu’s eyes—dark thoughts weighing on her—moving dreamlike in tandem with the train’s progress. Through the window came a cool summer evening breeze, leaving withered-looking skin softly moistened.

"What’s the use of thinking so far ahead?" Omasu quickly returned to her usual self. She thought she couldn’t go on forever just enduring these unpleasant feelings. The memory surfaced of how Oima had once been drawn close and squeezed dry. Around that same time, Omasu heard what sounded like an apology—a confession—from Asai. Yet between them, matters did not end there.

“What’s wrong?” “Why don’t you tell me everything without holding back?”

Omasu pressed Oima in a calm tone, but Oima remained silent, keeping her head bowed. Her eyes were clouded with tears.

“...Then Oima dear, isn’t that going too far?” Omasu found herself pitiable for having finally been subjected to such treatment. Out of jealousy, she felt like tearing Oima apart—like sinking her teeth into her and weeping—but she still couldn’t bring herself to lose composure. The hearts of the two, chilled by regret and remorse, were drawn back together once more. At home, the absence of Asai’s figure by her side when they slept would sometimes abruptly irritate Omasu’s nerves in the late-night hours when she awoke. In the lonely shadow of the dawn-lit electric lamp, Omasu had to wait calmly for time to pass, her tormented heart battling cruel, sweet illusions.

"I need to get Oima out of the picture quickly." Omasu fretted with growing impatience as she agonized over the problem, but no solution came to mind. "If it comes to harming that girl, there's nothing I wouldn't do." Omasu poured out her grievances to Asai.

“If you do that, nothing good will come of it for you either.”

Asai was laughing.

Fifty

When Asai went to the countryside for a while to visit his uncle—who had supported him with school expenses during his student days—Omasu seized the opportunity during his absence to consult with Kobayashi and others, finally concealing Oima’s whereabouts. This occurred around the time the cool air began to set in that year. Even before then, there had been no end to occasional disputes between Omasu and Oima. Oima would sometimes gather her belongings in a corner and try to slip out of the house in a fit of anger, or even seem resolved to die—so much so that it unsettled Omasu—and shut herself away for two or three days in the gloomy four-and-a-half-mat room next to the kitchen, her face dark. The marriage proposal Kobayashi had brought for Oima also further confused her rebellious heart.

“I’m sorry for causing you worry, Sis.” “As for my body, it doesn’t matter what becomes of it. Please do as all of you see fit…” Oima spoke in such a resigned manner while tears welled in her eyes.

“Anyway, if she wants to become independent, why not just let her?” “Since I’ve taken it on, I bear responsibility too.”

With Asai’s objections, such arrangements ultimately could not materialize. After Asai departed for the countryside, Omasu conceived the idea of taking Muro along; the three wandered around Asakusa, shared meals, and tried to acquaint Oima with the man. “Even now, you’re still thinking of that person.”

Omasu quietly questioned Muro when Oima wasn’t there, but keeping secrets from this man felt eerily unsettling. “Why?” Muro smirked as though wanting to say just that.

“That person is quite troublesome too, you know.” Omasu couldn’t help but hold back the secret that had nearly come out of her mouth.

“Why don’t you try asking properly yourself for once?” Just then, Oima, who had gone out briefly, entered. The three of them sat in an elegant private room at a poultry restaurant, talking over beer and cider. Beyond blinds draping from the corridor railing, a landscaped garden pond held sprays of cool water and large scarlet carp swimming about. On the blue water’s surface, sunlight had already grown faint. Shadows from azure garden trees fell across their faces—still flushed from bathing. Oima spread a handkerchief over her plump knees, occasionally sipping cider through her throat, but scarcely exchanging words with Muro.

Muro would sometimes fall into a gloomy silence.

“You’re really earnest.” Omasu poured beer for him and such, but Muro only drank occasionally with a pained look.

“How about the two of you going somewhere together this time?” Omasu began to speak in a carried-away manner but ended up blundering it herself.

In the evening, the three left there and soon returned home by train. “No, no.” Omasu entered the house and, without even removing her kimono, plopped down and let out a sigh. “He doesn’t understand a thing about how others feel. What’s the matter with him?”

Fifty-One

It was a considerable time after Omasu had found a seemingly respectable house near Kobayashi's place and had moved Oima there that Asai finally returned from the countryside. The residence belonged to an elderly couple - relatives by marriage of Kobayashi's mistress - who were office workers. Having received a full set of daily necessities from Omasu, Oima - now residing on the second floor of that house - left Asai's home one evening, feeling both the anxiety and curiosity one might experience when first establishing a household.

The items that Omasu had found from around there and tried to gather for Oima were mostly unsatisfactory to her. Oima’s heart lingered on Omasu’s dressing table, comb and hairpin, collar clasp, wallet, and other small personal belongings.

“When I buy a new one, I’ll give it to you, but for now make do with that.” “A mirror stand should be sufficient for now.” Having said this, Omasu smoked tobacco by the long brazier, though Oima’s tenacity seemed to cling to her like an unwelcome weight. Oima, who had been rustling about endlessly in her room, finally left the house dejectedly when the streets grew quiet of passersby. “Goodbye, Shizu-chan.”

Oima called out to Shizuko, who had persistently clung to her side as she packed her belongings, and left through the gate. Early the next morning, Oima came in claiming she had forgotten something and began rummaging through the closets in her familiar room. Omasu watched in silence.

“You can come as many times as you like now, but once Mr. Asai returns, you mustn’t come.”

Omasu drove the point home, making sure she was heard. "Oh, don't worry—I certainly won't come." Oima had spent all last night thinking about her circumstances and hadn't slept properly; the fatigue showed through the rough skin beneath her powdered face. Her eyes were clouded too. Even after the early-rising couple downstairs fell asleep, Oima would sometimes turn the lights back on and sit at her desk, or quietly open the wooden door of her sweltering room to press her flushed face against the night breeze. The room still held the residual heat of the evening sun, making that single night—restless as a sick patient—unbearably difficult to sleep through. The agitation of nerves worn thin by resentful frustration and helpless despair was finally soothed into peaceful submission by the damp coolness of approaching dawn.

Oima played with Shizuko and the others for a time but soon went home.

“Mr. Muro will surely ask about you. I wonder what I should tell him.” Omasu tried to engage Oima by bringing up Muro’s affairs two or three times, but Oima maintained her composure throughout.

“You’re being quite selfish, Cousin.” Oima seemed to want to say as much. Omasu too bought tea sweets along the way two or three times, taking Shizuko with her, and visited the second floor there. From the latticed second-floor window, the neighbors gathering at the water spigot below and the back gates of their houses were clearly visible. By the water spigot, the hot evening sun of lingering summer scorched down relentlessly. Days of tedium dragged on endlessly. When she sat still in the room, Oima sometimes felt her clouded mind might drive her mad.

Fifty-Two “I did consider discussing it with you, but that would have complicated matters, so I sent Oima away while you were out.” To Asai, who had just returned from his trip and remained oblivious to everything, Omasu began speaking in a formal tone. Asai was finally taking out souvenirs he’d received from his uncle’s countryside home—whether his uncle had recovered or not remained uncertain—from his suitcase. Omasu had at some point heard from Asai and knew about his uncle’s household—where long ago, a tragic incident had occurred in which the wife, upon discovering her husband’s affair with her own younger sister, had slit her throat out of anger and shame.

“That’s how it goes.” When Asai told Omasu about the sister who couldn’t sever ties with her brother-in-law despite her elder sister’s admonitions, and about that elder sister who had entered a storehouse wearing a white under-kimono and killed herself with a razor, Omasu had dismissed it all as some old-fashioned rural tale straight out of a joruri play. “What would you do if you were that sister?” Asai posed it as a jest. “If it were me, I wouldn’t go dying or such nonsense. I’d drive them out!” Omasu declared this while laughing.

Omasu laughed as she said this. The incident she hadn’t recalled for so long now rose vividly in Omasu’s mind. The figure of that uncle—cultivating grapes in the village and striving to produce wine—appeared before her eyes. She imagined what kind of woman the one who had committed suicide must have been, and it seemed to her that the same blood flowed through the bodies of the uncle and his nephew. Asai had noticed that Oima’s whereabouts were being concealed, but for the time being he did not press deeply into the matter; however, he felt uneasy that decisions regarding Oima’s future had been settled according to Omasu’s plans.

"If you sent her away, then so be it." "Where did you send her? Let's hear it." Asai would confront Omasu when inebriated, as if suddenly recalling the matter.

“If you hide things from me and try to handle this alone, I’ll refuse any further discussion about Oima.” Asai grew serious as he said this. “No matter how much you conceal her, finding her wouldn’t be difficult. If necessary, I could involve the police or stir up trouble in the countryside to flush her out.” He issued this threat. “Then go ahead and search!”

Omasu insisted, but ultimately she couldn’t keep hiding it. Even when trying to settle matters with Muro, she couldn’t manage without Asai’s help. Without informing him of her whereabouts, it wasn’t long before Oima began visiting Asai’s place.

Fifty-Three

“Coming to your place really clears my mind.” Having grown tired of the stifling second-floor lodging, Oima said while gazing at Omasu’s beautifully furnished room with its expensive implements and meticulously maintained garden. By the sleeve fence, the leaves of the well-branched wintersweet had already begun yellowing this year too. As she stayed there, an autumn breeze rustled through potted pomegranates and carefully shaped zelkova branches that had been well-watered. Lately prone to sentimentality over trivial things, Oima found even these sights tinged with helpless melancholy. At Asai’s house—now livelier with an additional young maid and a boy claiming to be his sister’s child from the countryside—Oima felt mild resentment during her occasional visits from nearby lodgings. In evenings they gathered in the lower parlor to laugh over their newly acquired phonograph. Shizuko’s newfound maturity after one summer made Oima’s own changing circumstances appear starkly vivid through her eyes.

“Oima, I suppose you’ll finally be having your wedding with Mr. Muro?” Asai, who still had not left the dinner table after his evening drink, called out when Oima—who had been avoiding him—suddenly came and sat down nearby. Oima had been on the dewy veranda with Shizuko clinging to her, surrounded by damp floor coverings.

“Does Mr. Muro come around often?”

Asai asked. “No.” Oima felt awkward being asked about Muro, who had come to visit her lodging again today accompanied by Omasu. “Due to certain circumstances, we’ve had to put her elsewhere, you see.” Omasu had initially said as much but could not bring herself to disclose Oima’s whereabouts to Muro; yet seeing the man’s clinging demeanor, she found his apparent distress painful to witness. Even when sitting face-to-face, Oima’s reticent demeanor only further irritated Muro. In Muro’s silent eyes appeared the anguish of one who seemed to harbor doubts about the reasons for being made to live apart. The three who had left the inn parted ways without touching on the matter along the way.

“Oima is to be pitied too.” As Oima lagged behind, Omasu murmured like one posing a riddle, but Muro made no move to question her further. In the drawing room, they changed out the phonograph records. Having read Omasu’s expression, Oima had withdrawn from Asai’s side and now listened intently with the others, but the shrill singing and shamisen notes only churned her lonely heart all the more.

“Let’s all walk you there to get some exercise.”

To Oima, who was about to leave, Asai began to say. Following Asai, who had thrown a haori over his yukata and donned a Panama hat, Omasu also slipped into her zori sandals barefoot and stepped outside.

The three of them strolled through the dark, winding streets. The Milky Way flowed low across the sky, and the night deepened quietly.

“It’s too pitiful to send you back alone—let’s walk you all the way to the villa.” Asai laughed and followed persistently. The three of them had come to within just a couple of blocks of Oima’s lodging. “You mustn’t do this. It’ll be a problem if we overstay.”

Omasu stopped at the corner of a four-way intersection, laughing. A liquid wind blew at the sleeves and hems of the three people.

Fifty-Four To the second floor where Muro would visit Oima from time to time, Asai began occasionally going with Omasu or bringing Shizuko along to make appearances. After a young man overseeing a branch store connected to Muro's relatives started frequently calling on Asai about Oima's situation, Asai naturally found himself unable to remain uninvolved in the matter. "Even the old master isn't absolutely opposed to this marriage arrangement, you must understand."

The man, wearing a merchant's apron and carrying himself with the demeanor of an upstanding merchant, proceeded with his talk in this manner. "It’s simply that it would now be discourteous to the person who arranged another marriage proposal."

Asai accepted each of these accounts without question and took it upon himself to persuade Oima as well. At such times, no contradictions seemed to exist in Asai's mind. He could only think that with time, the cracks in Oima's heart would mend themselves, neatly stitched and pressed into place. Under Asai's direction, the crested formal kimono with hem patterns he wished to see Oima wear was ordered when he went to Mitsukoshi with Omasu and another person—this occurring shortly thereafter at the end of October. Before Oima could clearly state whether she agreed or disagreed, the matter naturally took shape.

Oima would sometimes speak up before Asai alone in an agitated tone, voicing her own desires regarding the preparations. Each of the estimates Omasu had drawn up left the rebellious yet spoiled Oima dissatisfied. At Asai’s place, Oima’s fidgety behavior—how she fretted over her hair and kimono whenever she happened to meet Muro—began to appear hateful even to Omasu’s eyes. Oima would promptly go out, seemingly to flaunt her departure to Omasu, right after Muro left.

“When it gets like that, I just can’t stand it anymore. I don’t care about you at all anymore.”

Later, Omasu spoke irritably to Asai. "It's just greed—wanting to have them prepare as many extravagant wedding items as possible." Until they settled on holding just a private ceremony in Tokyo before year's end, that clerk had visited Asai repeatedly while letters arrived from Oima's brother and funds for the preparations were sent. The arrangements progressed without complications. Each time a new kimono was completed, Asai would summon Oima to have her wear it in the drawing room and gaze at her. Beneath the bright electric lights of the lower room, Oima stood flushed with pleasure, her plump figure smooth-skinned beneath a richly dyed yuzen chirimen under-kimono. The chipped toenails peeking from feet freed of soiled tabi socks appeared alluringly coquettish.

“Good… good…”

Asai gazed at her figure from where he stood and called out. “You look splendid, Oima.” Omasu also gazed from beside him, her eyes entranced.

“Someone like me has never had such a thing even once.” “I haven’t either.” Asai also let out a sigh from beside her. “But you had yours, didn’t you? When you were with Saikun before.” “No.” Asai was smiling faintly. “You mustn’t stare like that.” Noticing the excitement in Asai’s eyes, Omasu hurriedly took it off.

Fifty-Five “Thank you very much.”

After neatly folding the removed kimono and covering it with paper as before, following Oima’s departure, the couple felt a sweet yet restless feeling in their hearts—as though something were lacking. There, atop a chest of drawers covered in light green cloth, a new dressing table had been placed. "Why don’t you try putting this on for a bit?" Asai began to say to Omasu as he folded Oima’s under-kimono. "Me? I could never wear something this flashy."

Omasu, with her slender frame and subdued tastes, slipped one sleeve into the garment over her kimono and quickly stopped. “From a young age, I was always like that.” The vivid figure of Omasu from that time, preserved in the photograph, floated into Asai’s vision. Her spirited mouth was set firmly in a rounded face that seemed far paler than now, with bright eyes—framed by long lashes—that held passion. In the photograph, Omasu wore her voluminous hair in a ginkgo-leaf bun, wrapped a white scarf fashionable at the time up to her chin, and donned a coat. Omasu—who had boldly loved the student son of the provincial household where she worked—was just eighteen or nineteen then.

The old stories between them began to be unearthed again. The story of when she first ventured into her trade and met that man resounded anew in Asai’s ears, which seemed starved of emotional warmth. “Hey, you.”

Omasu began to speak in a heartfelt tone. “Once that person’s wedding is over, why don’t we ask someone to mediate and exchange wedding cups? Before we get too old, don’t you think we should have such photos taken too?” Omasu said that and laughed with a lonely air.

“It feels so uncertain.” Asai let out a hollow laugh that seemed to pity the woman. “We’re not that old yet.” Asai, who had been lying down, stroked the area around his temples where a few strands of white hair glinted as he spoke. After winter arrived, she had put on some weight, but as he gazed at his wife’s face, the cloudiness around her eyes still hadn’t cleared.

“To do that, you must first start by healing your body.” “Why not get hospitalized and go through with the surgery?” “It’s just a month of patience.”

“No way.” Omasu shook her head. The anxiety that the household might fall apart during a month-long hospitalization had persistently dulled Omasu’s resolve until now. “Since both this year and next are ill-omened, let’s wait until the year after next for treatment.”

In their heartfelt conversation, time slipped away. Lately, on her way back from visiting the woman who had quit her work in the trade and opened a cosmetics shop in Shiba with her savings, she would sometimes stop alone at Oima’s second floor to rest her weary body. Oima brought out a padded robe from the closet and quietly laid it over Asai as he lay there. Having stayed up late carousing—the lingering haze of this morning’s sake just beginning to lift—Asai awoke to a chill like festering flesh quivering beneath his skin. Oima sat alone before the bedside brazier, her makeup immaculate and haori freshly changed.

Moistening his parched throat and stomach with the tea Oima had prepared, Asai maintained a composed expression as he discussed her fast-approaching wedding.

Fifty-Six When the winter sunlight around three o'clock began to fade feebly against the dusty window shoji, Asai finally managed to extricate himself from there, but to his nerves wearied by indulgent play, the bright outdoor light and clamorous winds seemed terrifying. The air of the room—along with the padded robe he had been wearing until moments ago, still lying bundled there—grew repulsive to him. “Perhaps I should go out that far as well?”

Oima, too, felt anxious about being left alone in the room where the two of them had shut themselves away until now. "Hey, is this bad?"

Oima said sweetly and fixed her hair before the mirror. Asai stared intently with cruel eyes at that heartrending profile of hers, as though she were trying to suppress the anger and shame she felt toward her own manipulated emotions. “Shall we go somewhere once before we part?” Asai had said as much earlier and urged Oima on with his momentary interest, but Oima seemed to hesitate, her face reddening as she looked down.

“Where are we going?” Asai asked the woman—who seemed to be getting carried away—with a disinterested expression, but a faint sense of dissatisfaction seeped into his heart. “Anywhere is fine. There are still so many places I haven’t seen.” “Once the wedding’s over, you should have Mr. Muro take you around to all sorts of places.” “That may be so, but before that...” When she heard Muro’s name, the grandiose wedding looming near flashed clearly through Oima’s mind, yet even this thought remained unsteady. That marriage proposal—carried along without her knowing when—had been buried beneath each day’s restless preoccupation with preparations and shifting moods, making her feel all the more wretched. Even amidst all this, Oima would sometimes envision the joys of managing a household with her own hands and her pride as a married woman. Just thinking about the day she would inherit the wealthy Muro household made Oima’s anxious heart seem to flutter.

“You really are fortunate,” Asai said. “If you just endure, you can manage a wealthy household worth a hundred thousand yen.” Oima found it odd that Omasu’s words—which could only be interpreted as her disliking Muro—were being told to her, and she viewed Omasu with contempt for growing irritated over the marriage proposal she herself had recommended. As the electric lights began to flicker, the two of them wandered aimlessly along Ginza-dori. In the street where dusk had just fallen, people streamed out in crowds. On the parched pavement, the clamor of geta and shoes resounded noisily while a cold wind whipped up white sand in the cheerful glow of shopfronts.

“It’s always the same here, no matter when you come, isn’t it?”

Oima walked with a frivolous gait and said discontentedly. Her figure, accentuated by the new short coat and muffler she had recently acquired, occasionally made passersby turn their heads. “Take me somewhere more interesting, please.” Oima clung to Asai and said in a low voice.

Fifty-Seven

The next morning when Oima came to visit, Asai and Omasu were still asleep on the second floor.

After Asai’s nephew left for school, the tearoom fell silent. There, Shizuko sat forlornly, cutting up chiyogami paper and such. As if trying to sniff out the state of the house after Asai—with whom she had parted nearby just last night—had returned home, Oima paced restlessly from room to room. The younger maid was diligently wiping the glass shoji on the veranda. After the clock struck nine, Omasu finally came down from the second floor. Her eyes seemed dazzled by the bright light downstairs as she sat before the brazier, wordlessly and vacantly puffing on her tobacco.

Even the night before last, Omasu had lingered for a long time around the vicinity of the mistress’s shop that Asai had been frequenting lately. After it became known that Asai was carrying a briefcase safe containing stock certificates and important documents to his mistress’s place—just as he had done for her back when Saikun was around—Omasu came to realize their affair was gradually deepening. The mistress’s mother, bringing boxes of sweets and toys for the child, came one day when Asai was out to pay a visit—claiming she wished to grow closer to the wife—and this plunged Omasu’s heart deeper into an abyss of suspicion.

“This time it’s genuine.” Omasu could not help believing that Kobayashi’s predictions had finally come true for her. After Oima’s marriage arrangement was finalized, Asai’s heart grew increasingly drawn to his mistress. “She’s truly a hateful old hag. “Trying to flatter me like that—scheming to twist me around her finger!” Omasu refused to resort to crude tactics like some common woman. She had handled the encounter with diplomatic courtesy and seen the visitor out, but the image of that plump, obsequious old woman—her deceptively smiling face—remained stubbornly etched in Omasu’s mind.

“I’ve been saying all along that I must come pay my respects since we’ve received so much kindness from Mr. Asai, but what with the shop to manage...”

The old woman entered the tearoom and addressed Omasu and the child with amiable words. Whenever Asai was out, Omasu would immediately envision that old woman and her daughter being lavished with attention. She could even picture the face of the woman she had never met. “Please do come visit us sometime through this connection. And let’s be good friends.” Omasu felt violently insulted by the words the old woman had spoken before leaving.

“Why, she’s a conniving old hag! That mother and daughter’re scheming together behind the scenes!”

Omasu later confronted Asai resentfully, but Asai merely smirked. As Omasu waited for Asai’s late return, the beautiful mistress’s laughter would reach her ears, and a lewd-eyed white face would float into her mind.

Omasu wandered aimlessly around the vicinity of the shop the old woman had pointed out, buffeted by the cold wind. And sometimes she would circle around to the opposite side and try to peer through from a distance, but the interior of the glass-paned shop remained indistinct. Before long, the shops around there closed, and the quiet, dark town’s night grew achingly late. Omasu still could not bring herself to leave that spot.

Fifty-Eight

The following day, Omasu—intending to spend half the day out—took Shizuko with her and visited Oyoshi’s shop and other places, but weighed down by lingering concerns, the conversations didn’t flow as they usually did.

“This time, no matter what I do, it’s hopeless.”

Omasu spoke to the Oyoshi couple in the usual tearoom. "If I argue with logic, he argues back with logic too, saying he won't put up with such undisciplined behavior. And if I say I'll return to the countryside instead, he retorts that since I'm leaving of my own accord, he won't give me a single penny. I've tried all sorts of approaches." "But once things reach that stage, it's completely hopeless."

The more she quarreled, the more infuriating Omasu found it to touch upon the cold pulse of the man’s heart drifting away from her. One evening, in a fit of frustration, Omasu became so enraged with despair that she took a razor from her dressing table and nearly thrust it into her throat, but then the thought of the mistress who would later intrude flashed through her mind, drawing her attention away.

"No matter what I do, I won't become like Ms. Oyanagi." Omasu quickly steeled both herself and her resolve. "If you mean to turn Mr. Asai into a relic of the past," Inkyo said with a laugh, "you'll have to start by getting your hands on your own flesh first." "Just look at our Oyoshi here—all plump and soft-bodied. Seems an old man like me can't satisfy her appetite anymore. She's taken to making eyes at the young lads in the shop, and there's no stopping her."

Inkyo tilted his head unsteadily and grimaced. Oyoshi opened her dewy, bluish-green eyes wide, her face flushed red. "Strangely enough, when we put this one out in the shop, there's a tremendous difference in sales figures compared to when we don't." As Omasu listened to Inkyo's spirited talk—the old man getting carried away and holding forth about nothing but himself—a quiet, forlorn loneliness began seeping through her chest. The reckless desire that had planned to lure Oyoshi out for lavish shopping had been betrayed by what now seemed like constant, sincere domesticity.

Omasu wandered around Hibiya Park on her way back, and as the sunlight began to fade over the moat’s waters, she boarded the train from there.

“Welcome back.”

Last evening, when Asai returned late, Omasu—who had come out to greet him—placed both hands on the genkan floor and offered a meek bow. Then, after removing the kimono that someone might have dressed him in and putting a dotera robe on him, she stored it away in the clothing chest. Omasu had neatly arranged her hair and put on a juban undergarment adorned with the half-collar that Asai favored. For Asai—who seemed weary from his escapades—stretching out his limbs in the spacious bed of his own bedroom, where he would sleep for the first time in nights, felt pleasant.

After washing her face and combing her hair, Omasu showed Asai the various letters that had been requested from Muro’s parents the previous night, then as usual brought up the topic of the wedding with Oima.

Fifty-Nine

A house for welcoming Oima was soon arranged by the branch shop staff in the Yamanote area. The betrothal catalog and such were written one evening by a knowledgeable man who frequented Asai’s residence, and the beautifully wrapped betrothal packages were tied with ceremonial cords by that man’s hand. Before long, those items were cheerfully arranged in the tokonoma of the lower guest room. The red and white silk floss that Oyoshi and her husband had sent as congratulations also added color there.

“What pleasant things.” Omasu sat in the center of the reception room, murmuring as she gazed at them.

Oima, who had moved back two or three days prior, found herself growing self-conscious whenever such items were brought in. She began doubting her own heart that had been drawn to this precarious edge of anxiety, yet still she couldn't bring herself to avoid it. "I'm truly feeling so repulsed I can't bear it." Oima began saying to Asai with a sigh when Omasu was absent, but Asai remained silent as though indicating there was nothing to be done.

Oima's figure, standing in a corner of the kitchen and sinking into deep thought, would occasionally catch Omasu’s eye. “Oima-chan, you’ve come to hate the idea of getting married, haven’t you?”

Omasu inquired with an apprehensive look. A concern that some unforeseen collapse might occur would sometimes cast a shadow over her heart. "It's not that I'm trying to force something you're reluctant about. If you're going to break it off, now's the time." She stopped her tasks and fretted while settling Oima there. "Just give me a clear answer. If you act recklessly and end up in an irreparable situation later, it would cause trouble for everyone, wouldn't it?"

Oima couldn't help thinking about the unpleasant feelings between herself and Omasu that would follow breaking off the marriage, the increasingly murky dark atmosphere settling over Omasu's household, and her own anxious life. Oima bit her lip, tears moistening her eyes. "I'm getting sick of it—truth be told, I'm the one who feels like crying more than you, Oima-chan."

Omasu stood up again and went toward the back. Asai was supposed to take the betrothal gifts tomorrow morning; he was drinking sake with that meddlesome man in pre-celebration. In the bright room where the wedding furnishings were arranged, a seductive air drifted. Asai was gulping down sake as he listened to the man’s explanations.

“You strange man—Oima-chan is crying.” Omasu sat before the brazier in the lifeless reception room after the man had left, smoking tobacco as she began to speak. Trays and sake bottles lay scattered about.

“You should be the one to properly listen to her feelings—I won’t say a thing about it.” Asai lay limp on the zabuton cushion, his eyes closed. The electric light’s glow coldly illuminated his forehead that seemed to have sobered. “Well, fine.” “Hand me the haori.” With that, Asai heaved himself up and took out his watch from his obi to check the time.

“You should be the one to make that clear.” “It’s not my place to meddle now.” As he said this, Asai was drinking tea. “I don’t care anymore.”

After obediently sending Asai off, Omasu came to the reception room and sat down restlessly.

Sixty

On the day of the modest ceremony attended only by close associates, Omasu and her husband accompanied the mediator couple who had served as go-betweens. The five rickshaws departed from Asai’s house around five o’clock in the afternoon. Through gaps in the rickshaw curtains, Oima’s plump face—heavily made up beneath her Shimada hairstyle and adorned in a white-collared three-layered kimono—was faintly visible in the twilight gloom. The Asai couple followed behind. When Asai returned home dazed after rushing about on company business since morning, he found Omasu and Oima already bathed and seated before the mirror stand in the lower reception room. There, with a hairdresser’s assistance securing their styled hair, they had just finished their makeup. In the room from which the tools had been removed, under-kimonos and accessories accompanying the two formal robes were laid out. The people began their preparations without raising their voices. A solemn quietness filled the room’s air.

Omasu, her hair arranged in a traditional married woman’s bun adorned with pale combs and hairpins, efficiently finished putting on her kimono. She retrieved the tobacco pouch tucked into her obi and silently smoked while waiting for Oima to complete her bridal preparations. “Even if you go through all this fuss, within a year you’ll be running a household and getting grubby.” Omasu muttered this while looking up at Oima—whose seoiage updo was being adjusted by the hairdresser working behind her.

“How very true.” The experienced hairdresser stepped back and gazed at the shape of the obi.

“But it is a once-in-a-lifetime occasion, after all.” “Though for someone like me with poor luck in husbands, going through it twice would be dreadful.” The hairdresser gave a polite smile. Omasu and Asai let out hollow laughter. Oima wore a strained expression tinged with anxious bashfulness and remained silent. The true nature of her marriage to Muro seemed impossible to clearly grasp. The ceremony that day—after the father and mother, who had vacillated endlessly about attending and ultimately couldn’t come due to family circumstances—was an exceedingly modest affair.

After the exchange of sake cups, Oima sat alongside Muro—wearing a black formal kimono—at the front near the alcove decorated with betrothal gifts and ceremonial presents. A pair of hanging scrolls depicting pines and cranes hung there. Relatives of Muro who had come from the countryside as substitutes and employees from the branch shop lined up behind them in rows. Following introductions by the meddlesome couple, once everyone's greetings concluded, the relatives' ritual sake cups were passed around one after another. The oppressive moments when they seemed to exchange glances passed quietly.

Around the time when a man in a frock coat—apparently serving as Muro’s uncle and appearing to be a strict silk manufacturer from the countryside—presented the sake cup he had brought before the Asai couple, the atmosphere of the gathering finally began to loosen. "This time, through a strange twist of fate…" With that, the man placed both hands on the tatami and offered another courteous bow. Asai politely returned the sake cup. Conversation about silk manufacturing soon began between the two men.

The Omasu couple left that place after the gathering had descended into commotion. Oima’s weary figure was no longer visible at the gathering. “It’s just getting started! Let’s drink through the night!” The uncle took Asai’s hand as he was getting up and held him back. They returned quite late. The couple remained in their formal attire, sipping tea across from each other in the silent tearoom where Shizuko and the others had already fallen asleep, lingering there together. “Don’t you want to ask that person to share a ceremonial cup with us once?”

Omasu went to the back to change, her face bright.