Pathway to Japanese Literature

1

Uemine—or rather Minekichi the gardener—was a swarthy, stocky man in his fifties, better known as the deputy captain of the fire brigade.
He would only refer to rain as *oshimeri*, had a single long hair growing from a mole by his nose, and would float that hair copiously in the bathwater while roaring with laughter alongside anyone who came and went.
In spring, the laughter would pass through the window and be absorbed into the low, overcast sky; in autumn, it would entwine with the late-blooming cosmos flowering in the alley alongside.

“When I take a bath, you see, this here cosmos flower—” Minekichi would collar anyone he could and hold forth.
Cosmos—what a desolate, sickly presence they were.
If you lay this one down in the soil, white roots sprout from its stem.
It’s as if they were the nerves of some city lover.
That’s what Minekichi might have said if he’d had the ability to express himself.
And by swaying, swaying the single strand of hair floating in the bathwater, he shattered the color of the azure sky reflected in the window.
In any case, Minekichi was cultivating something akin to a haiku master’s sensibility.
Therefore, Minekichi was nothing other than Minekichi, and likewise could be nothing other than the deputy captain of the fire brigade in this sleeping town.

Now, about three years had passed since Uemine paid off O-Yae’s advance and settled her on the far side of the long brazier.
The long brazier—blackened and glossy from the hand stains of “Mother,” Uemine’s deceased wife who had been called “Uemine’s Mother” by everyone—was something O-Yae initially detested.
As for why she detested it—whether O-Yae had been so infatuated with Minekichi that she feared this would make him recall his former wife (to the extent that people in their world prioritized one-sided infatuation over reciprocal love), or whether it had been her pretense of appearing thus enamored—it must have been one or the other.
To describe her this way might make O-Yae sound like some modern-day fraudster, the kind who could effortlessly play the lover to any young gentleman—but these very skills were but one of the wiles she had unconsciously mastered over time. To put it plainly, O-Yae had spent years working as a barmaid in a dusty, pallid neighboring town that felt like a lodging house where discarded flowers withered in their vases.

Such was O-Yae.
The matter of the long brazier had been settled, but even after three years, there was still no child—a disappointment that had reached even Minekichi himself.
To begin with, since even his former wife had borne no children, Minekichi had more than halfway resigned himself. Still, whenever he saw those shaven-headed “brats” during festival days—dressed in marked happi coats with padded shoulders—he would think: *The Uemine household too will end with me.*
It was because of this childlessness that Mosuke—neither quite an adopted son nor a mere lodger—had been idling around Uemine’s house since even before O-Yae’s arrival; as for Mosuke himself, now on the cusp of eighteen or nineteen, he had taken to thinking of Miss Otome, the bathhouse attendant, and would go for “baths” twice a day, his glossy face erupting in pimples.

“Heave-ho, heave-ho—” and so it went; Mosuke too was a fine young man.
Thanks to Minekichi’s influence, he had also been put in charge of handling the ladder for the fire brigade.
Men such as squad leaders, engineers, scaffolders, hose reel operators, and trumpeters from the fire brigade were constantly coming and going at Uemine’s place, but they were all just country bumpkins putting on airs—and O-Yae had taken to thinking with full matriarchal airs that they were truly impossible to talk to.

And so, O-Yae became pregnant.
The child had not yet been born, but given how slender O-Yae was—so much so it could be a point of pride—it had caught people’s attention early on.
“Hey now, Mosu—Mosu being short for Mosuke—you’re one hell of a bastard, ain’t ya? You’re the one who did that to the mistress.”
Voices spread among the squad leaders, engineers, scaffolders, hose reel operators, and trumpeters—remarks like how Mosu-san had sullied the boss’s reputation by doing something truly outrageous, yet how strangely calm he remained—and these reached O-Yae’s ears, then Mosuke’s, and finally Minekichi’s.
O-Yae was giggling; Mosuke was grinning like a dandy; and finally, Minekichi, tugging at the hair from his mole, recalled an old saying about stacking things to make four and felt a bit like New Year’s rice cakes.
The three of them understood each other without saying a word.
The idea that it was Mosu’s child—what an absurd notion.

But, as if incited by these indecent rumors, O-Yae had unnecessarily conceived of a game.
In truth, it was a plan that could only be called a game—or rather, even before it took on a clear enough form to be called a plan, O-Yae had already begun that game.
To put it plainly, O-Yae had begun diligently putting on a show of being intimate with Mosuke while eluding Minekichi’s notice.
To be sure, this was either O-Yae’s attempt—through such behavior—to provoke her husband’s attention (she ostentatiously referred to Minekichi, twenty years her senior, as “my husband”) and thus remained mere playacting; or perhaps her desire to be cherished even more deeply by Minekichi, concealing a sincerity beyond surface appearances; or else, in the remotest chance, her actual acknowledgment of an affair with Mosuke—the brazen exposure of that audacious liaison. Yet Minekichi, being no deity, couldn’t discern which of these motives held sway. For the aging Minekichi, however, mingling with the itchy delight over the child in O-Yae’s womb was a peculiar feeling of fascination—born from the inky-black animalistic intimacy he sensed each time he saw Mosuke’s face (*This brat might be sharing O-Yae with me*)—that he had no choice but to endure.
Perhaps it was because Minekichi was old that he lingered in such a place; on the other hand, it might have been precisely because he was old and precisely because he was the deputy captain that he could suppress this situation here with a firm grip.
It stands to reason that this was nothing less than a supremely tragic, heroic emotion for Uemine’s Minekichi.
Where there’s no fire, smoke does not rise.
In the whole town, only the husband remains unaware—nah, I know.
I know and am keeping my eyes shut.
"Now, now," he would mutter, floating the hair from his mole on the surface of the bathwater—how many times had Minekichi told himself this very thing?
When he reflected on it, Uemine—the boss—had been laughing with a tormented heart.

Unaware of such things, Mosuke remained his usual self—the Mosuke who chanted “Heave-ho, heave-ho.” Even when walking the roughly twelve-kilometer night mountain path to and from the town with the brothel district, Mosuke kept thinking about Otome sitting at the bathhouse counter. Even if something had happened between him and the boss’s wife, Mosuke would likely have remained unfazed—and he remained unfazed even when nothing had. The only change was that his pimples ripened, turning black or forming craters.

2

And so, it was this very day.

When Mosuke returned from the bath, the tearoom was pitch dark.
As usual, he climbed up from the veranda, tested his wet hand on a nail, entered the tearoom, and turned on the electric light.
Then, to Mosuke’s astonishment, there across the long brazier sat O-Yae, slumped sideways, drinking alone in the dark.

“Ah! You startled me.”
“Oh—it’s you, Mistress.”
“What’s wrong? Not even turning on the light?”

“Who’s there? Mosuke? It’s you, isn’t it.”
“It was so dark—I’m sorry about that.”

“Ah! Drinking again!”

“What’s this ‘again’? That ‘again’ is downright unnecessary! When have I ever drunk that much liquor—what year, what month, what day? Oh come now, sit down already, Mosuke.”

“Oh... Wait—where’s the boss?”

“He’s right there, isn’t he?”

“There?”
“Where exactly?”

“Right there.”
“Ha ha ha, you’re looking around, aren’t you?”
“You’re honest, aren’t you?”

“The boss... Where is he?”
“Where is he?”

“I told you he’s right there!”
“It’s you. You’re my boss.”

“You’re mumbling something...”
“Heheh, you’re such a tease, Mistress. I can’t keep up with you at all.”

“Who made me this way?”
“Sit down.”
“I’ll pour you a drink.”
“Come on now, sit down already!”

“I don’t wanna…”

“Just sit down already.”
“You’re so exasperating!”
“If you’re a child, act like one and take the drink already!”

“If it’s up to the Mistress, I’m just a child――”

“Aren’t you a child?”
“Where did you go?”

“Huh?
“I just took a quick bath.”
“Where’s the boss?”

“So it’s Otome from the bathhouse, huh, Mosuke.”
“I won’t stand for it if you cheat.”
“How about some pickled radish?”

“Yeah.
“Pickled radish really hits the spot with cold sake.”

“You’re being cheeky—but you know the boss has his eye on Otome, don’t you?”
“If you meddle from the sidelines, you’ll regret it, Mosuke.”

“That’s not true.”
“The boss is completely smitten with you, Mistress.”
“He’s head over heels—I’m telling you.”
“Hey now!”

“What’s this ‘Hey now!’? But do you really think that?”

“What do you mean by ‘think that’?”

“What I just said.”
“My husband said to me—”

“Yeah.”
“You bet it is!”
“O-Yae this, O-Yae that—he’s saying it wherever he goes.”
“Thanks for the meal—what kind of sake is this?”
“It really hits the gut.”

“Is that really true…”

“Yeah.”
“It’s really sitting heavy in my gut.”

“That’s not it.”

“Huh?”

“I feel kinda bad about the boss, y’know?”

“Mistress, I’m gonna take a walk round here.”

“Wait.”
“Wait up now, Mosuke—you’ve been hearin’ strange rumors lately, ain’tcha?”
“About you an’ me.”
“All this talk ’bout the child in my belly bein’ yours—ridiculous! The very thought of havin’ a kid with some brat like you turns my stomach.”
“It’s the boss’s, I tell ya.”
“Listen good now—remember this for me: no matter what folks say, it’s the boss’s child, got it?—”

O-Yae put on a slightly theatrical display and collapsed there in a flood of tears.

“I know. Don’t cry, Mistress. If the boss comes back, I’ll be in trouble—quit being such a crybaby.”

“Call me a crybaby all you want—I don’t want your child!”
“I don’t want it! I don’t want it! I don’t want iiiit!”

“So there you go—I’m in a real bind—”

“What’re you gonna do about this, Mosuke? Huh? What’re you gonna do?”

“But Mistress, you’re the one who just said it’s the boss’s kid yourself—even after saying that… I don’t know nothin’, I tell ya.”

“You don’t know?
“You don’t know?”
“You really don’t know?”
“Oh, you heartless bastard—don’t you know? Really?”

“This is such a mess… This is such a mess…”

“Then why did you do something that’d cause trouble?”

“What?”
“What did you say?”
“Why did you do something that’d cause trouble?”
“Where do you push to make that kind of noise—this—”

“Enough already, Mosuke—must you drink so much?”

“What’s the big deal?”
“I’m gonna drink and drink tonight—”

“What’s this? Makin’ such a face and glarin’ at me.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“You tryin’ to kill me?”

“Hmph, as if!”

“I don’t mind gettin’ killed myself, but this belly kid ain’t yours.”
“It’s the boss’s, I tell ya.”

“I know.”
“Yeah yeah, I get it.”

“Mosuke, come closer over here.”

“So red… my face.”

“Handsome man!”
“I said come closer over here!”

“No—like this?”

“Mosuke, hehe… you’re such a child.”

“I dunno nothin’ ’bout that stuff.”

“What’s the harm?”

“What about the boss?”

“I dunno nothin’ ’bout that stuff.”
“Ha ha ha ha!”

“You’re sayin’ somethin’—”

When Mosuke said this bashfully, Minekichi opened the somewhat stylish brushwood lattice gate—befitting a gardener’s shop—and the clatter of geta sandals approached through the path lined with potted plants for sale, heading toward the house.
A distinctive, dragging gait signaled Minekichi’s return.

“Ah! It’s the boss!”

O-Yae stood frozen.
And then,

“Mistress, what are you up to?”

While Mosuke was panicking, she swiftly raised her hand and turned off the light.

In the dimness, he came up to the front of the tearoom’s veranda, and footsteps sounded.
It was Minekichi’s hoarse voice.

“Oh! Dark in here,” he said, then added, “Nobody there?”

“Yes.”
O-Yae answered from behind the shoji.
“Welcome home.”

“Ah, O-Yae. Where’s Mosuke?”

“Well...”

“Yeah.”

“The light was...”

“Yeah.”

“...had him fix it.”

“Light went out?”

“Yes. It broke.
So I had Mosuke fix it.
It’ll come on now.”

“I see... Mosuke!”

“Hmm.”
“It’ll come on now.”
“Any moment.”

After resignedly fiddling with the light for a while, Mosuke judged the timing and twisted the switch.
In the darkness, O-Yae cleared away the sake cups and small dishes scattered about.
Satisfied with her work,

“It’s on—welcome back.”

When Mosuke opened the shoji, the garden had only moonlight filtering through pine branches—no one was there.

3

That very night, not long after.

The bathhouse where the girl worked caught fire, spread to two or three neighboring houses, and burned until morning.

“Yes, it’s on—welcome back.”

Earlier, when they opened the shoji after saying this and looked around, the boss—whose voice they’d heard until moments ago—was nowhere to be found. Both Mosuke and O-Yae felt uneasy, so they left the shoji open and sat together on the veranda, talking about nothing in particular.

Then, as midnight approached, Minekichi returned once more. But since he said he would go straight to bed, each of them set about preparing for sleep.
It was at this moment that the fire bell rang and the sky from the bathhouse to Uemine’s property turned crimson.
Minekichi as deputy captain and Mosuke as ladder handler fastened their uniforms and hurried to headquarters with utmost haste.
From there they assembled in full force and advanced toward the bathhouse that was the source of the fire, but that night a dry northwest wind blew, rendering their efforts futile.
And so it grew relatively large and persisted until dawn.

However, the commotion hadn’t ended there.
The reason was that two charred bodies had been discovered in the bathhouse’s burned-out ruins.
One was the bathhouse attendant Otome, and the other was Mosuke.
Thus it came about that Mosuke would be posthumously honored as a firefighter who died in service.

It was a mysterious fire.
Given that the fire had started in a storage room where there should have been no ignition sources, the police were vigorously investigating the possibility of arson.
As for Otome’s death—she had fled too late, which was unfortunate but ultimately unavoidable—if Mosuke had indeed entered to rescue Otome as public opinion claimed, then regardless of whether they were lovers or not, since he had died as a firefighter in the line of duty, the town could not simply overlook it. Thus, it was decided that he should be given a town funeral and posthumous honors. His uncle and aunt were summoned, and that day—exactly three days after the fire—was when Mosuke’s town funeral took place.

At three in the afternoon, the town’s volunteers and all firefighters were scheduled to gather in front of the town office, form a procession, and proceed to Chigyoji Temple.

If they didn’t hurry, they wouldn’t make it in time.

At Uemine’s residence, Deputy Captain Minekichi hurried O-Yae as he fastened his ceremonial hakama. He wore a striped meisen kimono with a family crest measuring two sun in diameter, beneath which a new meriyasu was visible. While thinking that her husband looked quite dignified like this, O-Yae adjusted the waist panel of his hakama from behind. And yet—since this was Mosuke’s funeral, someone she had thought of as a younger brother—she couldn’t possibly hold back her tears, her eyes bright red as she insisted this. While crying, she wondered why she had ended up giving birth to Mosuke’s child. But if this old man had cherished me as strongly as Mosuke did—that’s right, he’d surely look out for me much more from now on. Then this would be the old man’s child—yes, yes, it’s definitely the old man’s child—but Minekichi had remained silent since the fire.

“Hey, old man.”
O-Yae said.
“What was it like when Mosuke died?”

This was a question O-Yae had asked countless times.
“What? Even if I said how it was—”
Minekichi spoke for the first time.
“I wasn’t even watchin’—”

“Lies! Lies! Lies!”
“That’s a lie!”

“Huh—?”

“Look at that.”
“See? You can’t say a thing, can you?”

“But that’s just it—I wasn’t even watchin’—”

“What a tragedy about the bathhouse’s Otome-chan dying.”

“What the hell are you sayin’?”

“But you know, Otome-chan and Mosuke-san were in love with each other.”

“That’s why I’m tellin’ you.”
“Ain’t everyone sayin’ it was a lovers’ suicide?”
“Cut it out.”
“Ain’t funny.”

“See? You get mad right away when someone says they committed lovers’ suicide.”

“You’re the one who gets damn persistent whenever Mosuke’s involved.”
“I’ll get the reason outta you later. Think up your answer.”

“As if there’s any reason! Someone who ate from the same pot died—and now they’re calling it a lovers’ suicide when it’s nothing of the sort!”

“Hey! You think that’s a damn shame, O-Yae?”

“I’ve got nothing to regret. Nothing to regret—but you’re going too far, old man. You think just because dead men tell no tales—”

“So? Ain’t no one sayin’ it’s a lovers’ suicide for sure. They’re just sayin’ it might’ve been something like that—”

“What ‘something like that’ could there possibly be?”
“Hmph!”
“You killed him and—”

“What the hell are you saying, O-Yae?”

“Old man, you killed him, didn’t you?”

“Who?”

“Mosuke.”
“Was it you who set the fire too, old man?”

“What a hopeless woman.”

“There! You’re already turning so pale! Hey, you killed him, old man. If you ask others, they’ll say Mosuke was up on the bathhouse roof that night holding the matoi, but there’s no way the ladder handler would carry the standard up there, right?”

“Shut up! Gen, the matoi holder, hurt his hand—”

“Don’t you lie to me! Lies! I asked Mr. Gen, you know. The injury to his hand happened during the fire—when you first went there, you took the standard from Mr. Gen, passed it to Mosuke, and said, ‘Mosuke, tonight you take this and come up to the roof with me—’”

“That’s right.
“Then the fire broke through the roof.
“Look—down there, Otome-chan’s burnin’.
“Listen—I told him to stop, but that bastard Mosuke kept peerin’ down and wouldn’t move! So when I said ‘Mosuke! Get down here!’—that damn water… he slipped—”

“Hmph! You must’ve pushed him right there, didn’t you?”

“Who?”

“Mosuke—right when he slipped.”

“What the hell are you sayin’! If there was any savin’ him, he wanted to save her—but he was peerin’ down at that girl below, so I—”

“You pushed him! You did—you shoved him down!”

“Don’t talk nonsense!”

Minekichi had turned ashen.
He was trying his hardest.
With one leg still in his hakama, he spread the sleeves of his haori and demonstrated an imitation of Mosuke slipping.
It was a strange face, one that looked on the verge of tears.

“Like this—see? He slips like this—loses his footing—spins around like this—see? Like this—”

“Did you push him off?”

“But that’s not how it was!”
“It’s just that his right foot got tangled with his left—see? He rolled like this—”

“Haven’t you had enough?”
“What’s this now? Stop it—actin’ so weird… I already said I got it!”

O-Yae finally broke into laughter.

Bewildered, Minekichi was wiping the sweat from his neck when suddenly—*“Excuse me!”*—the shoji slid open, and a policeman poked his head in.

“Ah! Sir!”
Minekichi fell on his behind.

“What’s all this commotion?”
“Ah, this here—the police chief told me to give it to you—it’s a commendation, see. Had the principal write it up, and you’re supposed to read it at the ceremony.”
“Well then.”

As the policeman turned to leave, O-Yae called out, “Um, Sir—”

She called out to stop him.
Minekichi, startled, began reading the commendation document.

“What is it?”

“No, um, thank you for your help.”

When the policeman left, all that remained was Minekichi’s loud voice.

“The late young Ishikawa Mosuke, ladder handler of the fire brigade, was of gentle disposition—of gentle disposition—what the hell is this?—loyal to duty, uh, loyal to duty—lo—lo—”

“The chu—chu— part is so funny!” O-Yae said, clutching her stomach.
And so Minekichi, his face wet with sweat and tears, contorted it as “comically” as he could while tugging at his black hair, continuing to chu—chu—chu—chu— on and on.

(Published in the October 1927 issue of *Shin Seinen*)