Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

After dinner had concluded and a suitable interval had passed, the host of the evening, Viscount Takabata,

“Well then—”

While saying this, he glanced between the guest couple and his wife, then slowly shifted his chair.

“Perhaps I might ask you to come to the study?”

“Please…”

From the far end of the dining table, the waxen-faced Viscountess in old-fashioned gray attire bowed slightly to the entire company.

“I have instructed that drinks be served over there, so…”

“How about it, Mr. Kusakabe—shall we all relax at leisure in the Japanese style, promptly inviting the ladies to join us?”

“Please, after you.”

“Oh no—please proceed from my side…”

After the customary exchange of courtesies at the doorway, Viscount Takabata led the way out of the room.
Kusakabe Taro followed behind.
His glossy bald head—resembling Saint Peter’s with its soft, half-gray hair remaining disheveled only at the back—reached no higher than the subdued poppy-embroidered crest on the slender haori coat of the Viscount proceeding ahead.
His stocky frame—unusually short for a man—was enveloped in a tasteful morning coat.
He angled his stocky frame slightly sideways, paying deference to the Viscountess following close behind, putting deliberate force into each step as he advanced—as though even walking had become a pleasantly measured exercise for him that day.

His demeanor—from his lively gaze to the immaculate gleam of his cuffs—overflowed with a harmonious blend of joviality and refined courtesy. At the sight of him—even before he spoke—people felt both ripples of unpretentious sociability and a warmth suggestive of deep sincerity. Had there been a sensitive and cultured observer present, they might have discerned from his attire and conversation that Kusakabe Taro was a man of considerable refined taste—a quality rather ill-suited to his profession as managing director of N Company.

That particular evening, his distinctive traits were splendidly showcased.
He had voluntarily assumed the role of discussion leader.
He completely abandoned any consideration of how to amuse others and first plunged into topics he himself wanted to discuss, his lively manner of speaking naturally drawing in those around him.
Moreover, the circumstances were in his favor that evening.
It was not merely that there were no complaints about anyone’s physical condition and that the white wine served at dinner had been exceptionally delicious.
Kusakabe Taro had recently acted as matchmaker to wed Viscount Takabata’s twenty-six-year-old eldest daughter into a wealthy family of Ise.
The formal betrothal had just been exchanged about three days prior.
At that time, for Viscount Takabata and his wife, their unmarried eldest daughter was above all else their greatest source of distress.
The young lady who was to become their eldest son’s wife had already been decided.
Though even their second daughter—who had just graduated from Gakushuin the previous year—had her marriage arrangement settled with a prestigious young nobleman, the future of their eldest daughter alone remained entirely unresolved; despite frequently bringing her out to social gatherings and continuing to discreetly seek out suitable candidates, they could find no prospects whatsoever.
Asako was of a quiet, unassuming nature that left everything to others.
While she had not a single clear flaw, she possessed nothing that particularly captured the other party's interest when introduced.
While refined she may be, her looks were utterly average.

Viscount Takabata turned to the Viscountess and,

“She’ll remain colorless and transparent no matter how old she gets.
Even so, she has her merits and flaws.”

She was precisely the kind of daughter he had described.
Kusakabe Taro sympathetically inferred the parental desire to brighten Asako’s fate—to act before she could be placed in the precarious position of a difficult mother-in-law, before she could look upon her sister Shimada and feel herself abandoned in happiness.
He carefully examined the various strands of his extensive social network.
And then, during his Oxford study abroad days—having been close to the father of this young man—he had discovered him.

Viscount Takabata was pleased that the young man was a promising Foreign Ministry secretary.
The Viscountess was relieved that the other party, though lacking a title, was related to Count Ōtsuki.

Kusakabe Taro had received this private invitation tonight as a token of gratitude.

When they entered the study, Kusakabe, without availing himself of the waiting maid’s assistance, casually brought out a chair himself and placed it before the hearth.

“Now then, please take whichever seats you prefer.”
“The ladies should take seats near the fire.”

“Now, now—that simply won’t do, my good sir.”

The Viscount interrupted Kusakabe with feigned seriousness.

“We are at least five or six years older than our wives.”
“The privilege of elders lies in occupying the finest spot near the hearth.”
“Well then—pardon me.”

The Viscount settled heavily into the armchair while amusing everyone.
Coffee and curaçao were brought in.
Kusakabe Taro directed a few harmless jokes toward the ladies and began cheerfully discussing the merits of the liquor with the Viscount.

II

Here, Viscountess Takabata and Miyako were seated side by side on the sofa.

Turning her refined yet faded face—one that had never known a season when its features burst into full bloom—toward Miyako, Viscountess Takabata sighed in admiration.

“Whenever I have the pleasure of meeting you, Mr. Kusakabe’s youthful spirit remains truly most admirable.”

“I’m afraid he’s nothing but a noisy distraction.”

Miyako humbled herself, her formally dressed figure that still retained an air of dignity seeming to shrink beside the petite Viscountess.

“He must always be so terribly troublesome for you.”

“Not at all—his lively presence is most welcome.”
“We too shall soon be Grandfather and Grandmother, but in your household?”

“In our household, with only boys, such prospects remain quite distant.”
“Our eldest is finally supposed to enter university this spring, but how that will turn out…”

While quietly stirring her coffee, Miyako slightly altered the tone of her voice.

“And yet, Your Ladyship must be feeling quite at ease. From now on, we shall simply have the pleasure of enjoying Your Ladyship’s family’s prosperity.”

“Indeed…”

Viscountess Takabata sighed without even attempting to drink the gradually cooling coffee in her palm.

“Everything has become so terribly difficult these days, I must say.”
“Even when we speak frankly, what we do for their benefit does not seem to sit well with the young.”
“Still, when it comes to Asako, we can at last rest assured thanks to Mr. Kusakabe’s kind arrangements.”
“I truly owe it all to Mr. Kusakabe’s efforts indeed.”

“Not at all.”

Miyako forcefully interrupted the other’s gratitude.
And proceeded with the conversation without ever noticing how her own words sounded almost like they concerned a land transaction.

“Though Mr. Kusakabe’s efforts were meager, he did concern himself quite thoroughly with finding a match suited to your esteemed sensibilities… Yet young people these days prove so fastidious in their demands from both sides. Still, Miss Asako will surely find herself most happily situated.”

The Viscountess smiled innocently yet with a lonely air.

“It’s rather peculiar."
“Asako now seems only happy about saying she will go to the West.”
“...She’s just like a child.”
“She carefreely declares that once she goes abroad, she won’t need anything useless over there.”

She moved a hand along her slender shoulders and adjusted her displaced haori.

“...How true the saying is—‘Children never understand their parents’ hearts.’”

It was just as Miyako, responding to this, tried to voice her pent-up agreement further.

She—

“Hmm... this—”

She heard her husband’s excited voice.
Looking over, Kusakabe walked toward the side shelf with his neck craning forward before his legs could follow, as if he had spotted something.
The Viscount also rose to his feet.
And while carrying his body—supple despite being a man, with wrists that appeared not the least bit bulky beneath his elegant sleeves—in a dignified manner, he said with utmost satisfaction:

“Your eye is as quick as ever.—What do you think?
To tell you the truth, I had it specially brought out from the storehouse with the intention of seeking your appraisal, but…”

Miyako asked in a voice stirred by curiosity,

“What could it be?”

Miyako asked the viscountess beside her.
The viscountess answered without shifting the position of her hands resting on her lap, with a listless elegance that subtly tormented Miyako.

“It must be ceramics.”
“How fortunate gentlemen are to have such diversions indeed.”

With this momentum, the conversation drifted away from ceramics.
They intermittently discussed recently fashionable women’s pursuits—swimming, horseback riding, dance.
No matter what topic arose—the viscountess—

“Once one becomes like us…”

She merely faintly furrowed her brows.
Alongside the feeble, nearly tedious conversation that could never command full attention, Miyako’s focus shifted toward her husband and the Viscount before the table.
Before the two men lay an unusual plate glowing with deep crimson luster.
Miyako, discovering she had inadvertently fallen silent, regained her composure and found a new conversational thread.
From climate talk, she proposed travel to Viscountess Takabata.

“Kansai must be quite pleasant this time of year. You could accompany Miss Asako to Kyoto and Osaka while she prepares—it would make for such fond memories.”

“Even without undertaking such measures, this should alter our circumstances for some time.”
“We shan’t be troubled by such concerns for the present.”
“Though unfortunately, there remains no truly suitable villa to speak of...”

Miyako glanced quizzically at the Viscountess.

“As for your villa in Numazu—are you maintaining it?”

“Ah, we’ve not been going there since last year.”
“We shall gradually part with it in due course.”
“We have a small house in Odawara as well, but last year’s earthquake reduced it to utter ruin.”

“I see…”

Miyako blinked hurriedly two or three times for some reason.
A vividly concentrated sparkle flashed in the depths of her eyes that until now had been vaguely surveying the room.
She asked amiably.

“Forgive my impertinence, but is that Numazu property being earnestly requested by someone?”

The Viscountess explained as if murmuring to herself.

“No, it’s simply the Viscount’s caprice.”
“He declares it too dreary and disagreeable for lacking any proper vista.”
“Likely an affectation of that fashionable land redistribution business everyone’s imitating nowadays.”

The two women laughed softly in concert.

“And your household?”
“Yours must already possess some splendid retreat, I presume?”

The Viscountess turned the inquiry back upon Miyako.

“Oh, we’re hardly in a position for such things.”

Miyako, who had inadvertently spoken loudly in her natural voice, averted her face as if to hide it and coughed.
She said in a choked, somewhat forced low voice.

“Though Kusakabe may seem vigorous, his age being what it is, he’s lately taken to saying he’d like to leisurely visit some warm seaside over weekends—but suitable spots have already been properly reserved by someone, you see.”

“Truly—if only your hometown were somewhat closer, that would be preferable.”

Miyako soon murmured as if involuntarily entranced by Numazu's imagined scenery.

“Numazu must be such a delightful area—given that even high-ranking people maintain estates there.”
“As one grows older, such unbecoming selfishness emerges—no matter how respectfully accommodations are prepared, they somehow lack settled comfort...”

The Viscountess Takabata wore a vague expression on her pale, gentle face that hovered between sympathy and bewilderment. She remained silent for a while, then soon muttered as if to herself. “If only...”

The ear Miyako turned toward the Viscountess listened keenly for the next words, as if swelling and growing larger. But Miyako maintained an utterly composed silence, not a single eyelash fluttering, as though completely unaware. The Viscountess did not continue to say anything. Miyako’s downcast bangs faced toward her husband in the distance at that moment, seeming to warn him: "Don’t say anything now. The Viscountess is on the verge of thinking of something important for us."

seemed to be cautioning.

III

Kusakabe Taro, separated by less than ten steps from the settee where the ladies were gathered, was in no position to know what delicate diplomatic pantomime was unfolding among them.

Even if Miyako had sent a coded message through the embers of spousal sensitivity, he at that moment would have done no more than demonstrate his unreliable unresponsiveness and coldness.
For in this moment, he was neither Kusakabe Taro the director of N Company nor was he Viscount Takabata’s advisor.
Moreover, the fact that he was Miyako’s husband had not even crossed his mind.
He had become, from the depths of his soul, a patient, enthusiastic, and deeply passionate antique ceramics enthusiast.

While chatting with the Viscount, Kusakabe Taro—who had been gazing absently at the room’s decorations from his cozy spot before the hearth—suddenly caught sight of a plate on a side shelf. Before he knew it, his eyes widened and he leaned forward from his chair.
Bathed in both the glittering brightness of ceiling-mounted lamplight and the milky soft glow from a desk lamp at one corner of the large table, the high oak wainscoting of the study reflected the color of its wood grain with composed luster.
Before it, supported by rosewood legs and bearing a gleam of purest oriental ruby, a single plate reflected light serenely—as though reveling in noble solitude.
It must have been about nine inches in diameter.
Beneath the deep crimson glaze, the bust of a monk painted on its base shone through with astonishing precision and transparent clarity.

That something of this caliber had remained unseen by him until now was undoubtedly due entirely to his unfavorable vantage point. Kusakabe Taro voiced his emotion aloud and stood up. He had no leisure to catch what Viscount Takabata said from behind. He drew near the side shelf, bent forward, and gazed at the plate as if magnetically drawn. His hand involuntarily reached out, picked up the plate, and he examined it front, back, and inside out again and again. After quietly returning the plate to its original stand, he turned to face the Viscount and spoke as if groaning.

“You have quite a rare piece here. Where did you acquire this?”

Seeming unable to wait for the Viscount’s response, he picked up the plate once more.

“Rare. Can such Majolica be obtained in Japan? — What a fine luster.”

Kusakabe Taro muttered increasingly to himself as he examined the plate.

"Hmm."
"It’s quite a bold composition."
"And yet sufficiently dignified and tender."

He let out a loud voice, intending to address the Viscount.

"Beneath this crimson luster, they boldly used indigo."
"Hmm... Quite splendid."

On the back, within the thinly enameled thread-like base, a signature was inscribed in tea-colored paint. There were two initials—M.S.—crudely written with a thick, blunt paintbrush, and above them, the year 1540 was inscribed. While turning the plate on his palm, Kusakabe searched his mind.

“M.S.,” he noted.
M...S... I’ve seen this somewhere before.
“The S shaped like those written at the start of musical scores...”

Now that he thought of it, the unique pattern on the surface also seemed like something he had seen somewhere before—some days ago. The circular pattern sectioned into a circle on the round plate was ordinary, but this dark red Majolica possessed an elongated heart shape in deep, vivid indigo at its center. Within that heart shape was depicted a monk’s bust: the stern, brown-outlined profile of a hook-nosed hermit with a shaved, rounded head, and behind it, the slightly flattened curve of a halo. These elements mysteriously harmonized with the plate’s circular form, forcefully enhancing the vivid indigo heart shape through their robust compositional effect. The arabesque pattern undulating softly yet with concentrated force around it, and the two masks arranged there—neither struck him as unfamiliar. It felt as though the exact form he had seen in a dream years before was now clearly manifesting before him.

As though his hands were glued to the plate—examining it again and again—Kusakabe Taro suddenly recalled, as if by revelation, the name of the potter bearing the initials M.S.

Maestro Giorgio Gubbio

“Gubbio!
“Gubbio! The Giorgio of Gubbio!”

He must have felt he had seen those two characters before.
Was it not this Giorgio of Gubbio—the creator of those magnificent pieces before which he had stood twenty years prior in the Victoria and Albert Museum’s special exhibition room, literally unable to tear himself away—who made this plate?
Kusakabe Taro’s bespectacled face shone with delight and reminiscence jumbled together.
He set down the plate and spoke in an impassioned voice.

“I’ve beheld something utterly unexpected.”
“If I may say so, I never imagined something of this caliber could be in your possession.”

He pulled out a pure white linen handkerchief from inside his cuffs.
Then, removing his glasses, he wiped his broad forehead and damp eyes all at once.

Viscount Takabata stood beside Kusakabe with composed satisfaction brimming within him, shook his heavy sleeve, and let the cigar ash fall.

“I would be thoroughly delighted if you valued it so highly—this piece has an anecdote attached to it, you see.”

The Viscount removed with his fingertips the dust—whether real or imagined—from the plate.

“In Japan there are still no genuine Majolica pieces—let alone even a single work by Giorgio that has likely made its way here.”
“It must be because ordinary merchants couldn’t handle such things.”
“This was unearthed when I made an expedition to Rome during my trip to Paris the year before last.”

“You know, that Pantheon located quite far to the right from St. Peter’s? I found it while strolling down that side street—a shabby old woman was minding the shop all by herself there.”
“Of course, my going to Rome in the first place, and that plate catching my eye in the fly-speckled display window alongside that dubious wooden statue of Mary—it was all entirely coincidental.”
“When I looked at it, it clearly was no ordinary piece.”
“When I had the lowly old woman—who was shelling beans or something at the doorway’s step stool—come out to show it, I was utterly astonished.”
“Fortunately, having viewed a certain famous collector’s holdings shortly before departing Paris, I was able to form a general estimation.”
“But then came the matter of inquiring about the price. Hahaha!”

Viscount Takabata continued speaking with uncharacteristic volubility, laughing cheerfully as he reminisced.

“Even now, when I think back on that feeling, it strikes me as absurd.
“Since it was such an out-of-the-way place, even if I’d emptied my purse entirely, the sum would’ve been trifling.
“In truth, I asked with trepidation.”

“Oh, I understand that sentiment perfectly well.”
“I do want it, but... well, there’s that hesitation.”
“But that is also quite a fine piece. Hmm... And then?”

Kusakabe Taro nodded along while earnestly reexamining the plate from earlier.

“When I inquired, I was astonished to find it meant the opposite.”
“The old woman kept sizing me up from head to toe, clearly intending to demand an outrageous sum, yet named a price so absurdly low.”
“I pressed her, suspecting a misunderstanding about currency units.”
“She must have thought I was protesting the cost, for she launched into frantic explanations using some southern dialect I couldn’t follow.”
“Phrases like ‘the sole display piece of a shop’ or ‘beautiful,’ ‘rare art object’—those were all I could grasp.”
“So I paid what seemed barely sufficient—in case some shrewder man returned to refuse the price—and promptly made off with it.”

Viscount Takabata could not suppress a welling smile and moved his well-groomed short beard.

“The old woman likely thought it beautiful merely because it glittered crimson.”
“Though I had two or three experts examine it in Paris… fortunately, it appears not to be counterfeit.”

At that moment, a lonely, troubled light lingered in Kusakabe Taro’s eyes as he gazed at the plate.
Throughout the Viscount’s lengthy account, he had scrutinized the glaze and design with ever-deepening attention; just as the Viscount reached his cheerful conclusion, Kusakabe privately arrived at one entirely contrary.
To him, this Gubbio plate—so convincing at first glance—had increasingly come to seem unmistakably counterfeit.

As the conversation continued, Kusakabe Taro vividly recalled how Giorgio’s round plate at the Victoria and Albert Museum had borne nearly identical patterns to this one. Could a master of Giorgio’s stature have possibly created two works of identical design in his lifetime? Undoubtedly, the composition was brilliant. Might Giorgio have loved this piece so deeply that he crafted another for his personal contemplation? While the clay’s antiquity, color scheme, and settled glaze luster were unmistakably period-appropriate, viewing it skeptically made Kusakabe increasingly unable to directly connect the inscribed date of “1540” with Maestro Giorgio’s name. Probing his hazy chronological memories, hadn’t Giorgio ceased producing works by the early 1500s?

To summarize his considerations: this crimson-glazed majolica plate could only be one of two possibilities—either a world-class masterpiece unearthed by Viscount Takabata, or merely a counterfeit produced posthumously by some disciple in Giorgio’s workshop replicating the master’s work.

Kusakabe could not bring himself to shatter Viscount Takabata’s carefully nurtured happiness.
At the same time, needing to study it more deeply, he searched through the pocket of his morning coat and took out a small notebook.
And he asked for permission to sketch it.

“If you don’t mind, might I be permitted to briefly sketch just the shape? Having sketched it and kept [the drawing], revisiting it later when remembered proves quite enjoyable.”

Kusakabe gradually regained his sociable, affable tone and demeanor—now accustomed to social graces—and flipped through pages of his notebook here and there to show the Viscount.

On the small pages were sketches—cup stands, vases, oil jars—rendered with clear shading through skillful fountain pen work. Among them was a Dutch blue-painted bowl whose actual counterpart the Viscount himself had seen.

“Ah—this research of yours is the genuine article.”
“Would this count as what one might call a badge of honor?”

They soon returned to their original seats before the hearth.
However, Kusakabe Taro's gaze kept being irresistibly drawn toward the side shelf.
When viewed from a slight distance, the Gubbio plate of uncertain authenticity made its dull dark-red glaze glow with an ineffable depth of beauty.—

Viscount Takabata shifted his gaze from Kusakabe’s transfixed face to the distant plate and remarked.

“It appears to have stirred quite some fascination.”
“Though unexpected, I must say I feel no compunction about having rescued this single plate through my own efforts.”
“Indeed—through these hands of mine—the sole contribution resembling service to world civilization, past or future, would rest in this Gubbio piece alone. Hahahaha!”

Bound by his natural temperament and the praise he had earlier lavished, Kusakabe Taro received these words with equanimity.

“Ah—even a single plate holds significance.”
“After all, the works of master craftsmen from ages past may diminish but will never multiply for eternity—if genuine, even a fragment remains precious.”
“I, too—if I had a bit more money with this—would truly quit the company and become an ideal art dealer.”
“The pleasure of traveling to every corner of the world and unearthing unexpected masterpieces from unforeseen places—merely imagining it sends shivers down one’s spine… However,”

He sighed, comically deflated.

"The sad truth is I have no money, and first of all, there's little chance my wife would grant permission."

“Hahahaha!”
“That’s not one you would want to be granting yourself now would you?”
“Hahahaha! This is delightful—Madam!”

Viscount Takabata twisted his body and called out to the ladies on the settee.
Kusakabe Taro did not notice at all that his wife’s smile—directed in response—was thoroughly compelled by propriety.
He remained until the very moment of taking his leave,

“Wait.—You go ahead…”

With that, he stood before the side shelf.
In his fleeting glance that begrudged the moment, the disputed Giorgio plate stared back fixedly, blinking with a ruby-red flash that glittered from its depths.

IV

The automobile was driving along the dark moat's edge, where large pine trees gloomily appeared and disappeared in the headlights' pale glow.

As his nerves grew accustomed to the darkness and motion of the outside world, Kusakabe Taro immediately began thinking about the Majolica plate he had just seen.

As he secretly prided himself, he was not troubled by the morbid possessiveness that easily ensnares many antique pottery enthusiasts.
He was, rather, a generous connoisseur.
Because he was keenly aware of his own purchasing power, he rather preferred to view what might be called world-class masterpieces precisely in others’ possession.
And he possessed an innate brightness that allowed him to love and appreciate—without distinction between his own and others' possessions—the masterpieces shown to him in that manner.

However, that brightness carried with it a collector’s neurotic persistence—the tenacious nervousness of a true enthusiast. He possessed a stubbornness where he would not remove his hat until fully convinced of anything his connoisseur’s eye could not approve. Whether in N Company’s office or aboard the train, he never forgot about the pottery that had lodged itself in his mind. He ceaselessly ruminated on its colors and form in his thoughts. And after some time had passed, some trigger would suddenly cause his own conviction regarding the work to take clear shape.

He was being jostled violently up and down along the uneven city roads when he took out the notebook from his coat pocket. Re-examining the sketched Majolica, he began what he called his kneading method.

Wrapped in her black silk scarf, Miyako silently watched her husband’s hands for a while before soon—

“You...”

She called out.
Kusakabe answered without lifting his eyes from the notebook.

“Hmm?”

“Were you aware of this talk about Viscount Takabata opening up the Numazu property?”

“Ah.”
“Yamamura had mentioned once that the Viscount seemed to have such an intention.”

“As the consultant, doesn’t the responsibility lie with you?”

Miyako spoke in a voice much stronger and fuller than when she had conversed in the viscount’s reception room or study.

“I hadn’t heard any such rumors.”

Kusakabe replied irritably.

“Do you think I can remember every trivial detail?”
“They’ll raise it at the consultation meeting sooner or later—but those meetings themselves are fundamentally absurd in this day and age.”

The car emerged onto Yotsuya’s main avenue, both sides brightly lined with shops.
The gaudy colors of kimono shop display windows flickered intermittently across their field of vision.
Miyako muttered in a tone that seemed to entrust something.

“It’s about time we had a couple of villas ourselves, don’t you think?”

“Hmm.”
“Troublesome.”
“I can’t have them being turned into nothing but dens for those sons.”

Kusakabe put the notebook into his morning coat pocket.
At this moment, he had but a single wish.
This was a wish to get home as soon as possible.
He wanted to at least definitively ascertain the era of that Majolica plate before the night was out.

However, Miyako—unaware of his state of mind—for some reason clung tenaciously to her villa proposal.
After making her husband recall even the foothill land they had failed to purchase years ago, she said with a meaningful, happy-looking gaze.

“Well, you—judging by today’s conversation, we can be granted a portion of that Numazu land.”

“Of course we’ll get it.”

Kusakabe interpreted it simply.

“We can get a portion alright, but there’s no use for such a place. Calling it coastal when it’s seven or eight chō from the sea—”

“That—if one were purchasing it, one might call it extravagant, but...”

His body swayed from the sudden curve as he looked at his wife with a puzzled expression.

“If buying—are you planning to take it for free? Ha ha ha! That’s just like your logic. These days you won’t find free land like that even at Africa’s edge—not that I’d want it—”

Miyako did not so much as smile, lowering her voice as she whispered fervently.

“You insist on turning everything into a jest! That’s why people keep missing golden opportunities.—It appears Viscountess Takabata has taken it into her head to grant us that Numazu land gratis as thanks.”

“Hah.—On what grounds? Did you actually broach this with them?”

“How absurd! Such presumption would be utterly lacking in judgment. It seems their side conceived this notion themselves—as recompense for our efforts regarding Lady Asako’s affairs.”

Until now, Kusakabe had been speaking merely as conversational amusement, but with this explanation, he seriously dismissed his wife’s words.

“There’s no way such a thing could happen. Even if there were such an offer, I couldn’t accept it.”

“Of course, their side knows perfectly well that from the very beginning we assisted them entirely without such calculations.”
“That’s precisely why they chose to consider this notion, don’t you agree?”
“I believe if matters were to take that course, it would be proper to accept their prior kindness with grace. To twist it in all sorts of ways would only expose the pettiness in our own hearts, would it not?”

“That’s not it.”
“There are limits to such things.”
“A man is done for once he starts calmly accepting favors he himself doesn’t consider rightful.”

“Why ever would you think that?”

Miyako let out a voice that seemed utterly troubled.

“Despite your busy schedule, didn’t I go all the way to Ise to settle this matter for you?”
“Regarding Lady Asako’s situation—everyone was so terribly worried about it, you know.”

“Stop it. If you want it that badly, I’ll find somewhere in Numazu and buy it for you. Just stop the talk of accepting it—I hate that kind of thing.……”

When Kusakabe Taro had come near enough to see the house gate, he pressed his point, and Miyako—

“I truly beg of you—if Mr. Takabata should mention anything, please do not give an immediate answer.”
“You must think I’m just eager to go there for leisure.”
“…A mother is always thinking of her sons’ future, you know.”

He ignored even her plea uttered in a tearful voice.

When he descended to the entrance, he ordered the houseboy to immediately light the hearth in the study.

He changed clothes briskly and took out several large books onto the desk in Viscount Takabata’s study—not particularly spacious, but compact and thoroughly comfortable.
The late February night air undeniably chilled to the very toes.
Undeterred, he began investigating the chronology of Giorgio’s works with the vigor of an exuberant student.
When he encountered descriptions that matched his intuitive conjectures, the elderly young man became exhilarated and shook his shoulders beneath the narrow arc of light from the desk lamp.
Miyako’s persistent villa talk and the day’s fatigue had vanished without a trace.
Kusakabe Taro did not leave his desk in the dimly lit corner of the study until the antique cuckoo clock announced two o'clock with its "cuckoo, cuckoo" calls.

5

The next afternoon, Kusakabe Taro visited the Takabata residence again, combining it with expressing gratitude for the previous night.

The master was out.
He arranged an audience with the Viscountess and had her show him the questionable Giorgio piece once more.
When he examined it with his freshly acquired knowledge, he could not help but affirm his own appraisal.
The several volumes he had read through last night uniformly concluded that Giorgio’s authenticated works ended in 1537.
None of the books stated that Giorgio had worked until 1540.
Even the most crucial signature served only as further damning evidence in this instance.
Because the real Giorgio had drawn small bubble-like circles above each of the two characters “MS.”
Just as with the inscription on this plate, he had never placed punctuation marks between the two characters in the manner of modern people.

When he finally judged the plate a counterfeit based on his own expertise, Kusakabe Taro felt, strangely enough, an entirely different kind of affection welling up toward it.

This could clearly be called pity for the plate.
He pitied this dish condemned as fake merely through a craftsman's greed—because superfluous characters, whether one or two unnecessary Chinese ideograms or European letters, had been added.
Before being defiled by lettering, after all, it hadn't yet been a counterfeit.
However crude its craftsmanship might be, it still possessed its own beauty and vitality.
Viewed according to its design.
Potentially loved.
Yet through two or three superfluous brushstrokes, the ceramic was cast into counterfeit hell.
Had they voices, when that potter began forging signatures, plates and vases would have cried out in refusal.

“Stop it, stop it.
“Please write your name,” it would have said.

To Kusakabe Taro, the plate was a living thing.
It appeared as a beloved living creature—unresisting yet brimming with emotion within.

Standing by the window, Viscountess Takabata had been watching Kusakabe’s behavior—his approach and retreat from the side shelf, his ceaseless gazing—when she was startled to detect in his demeanor something that nearly matched the adjective “longing.”

The next day was Sunday.

Kusakabe Taro was in the reception room with a guest.

Miyako was writing a letter to Viscountess Takabata while warming herself at the kotatsu in the six-tatami living room.

When she learned that her husband had gone to the Viscount’s house without permission the previous day, she was struck by intense anxiety.
She,

“If you had told me that, you could have taken my business card with you...”

she reproached her husband.
However, her true concern lay elsewhere.
The matter of Numazu was still nothing more than a silent understanding that had flashed between herself and the Viscountess.
Even though her husband had not put it into words, the fact that he alone had appeared before the Viscountess yesterday and today—severing the thread of understanding between herself and the Viscountess—was deeply unsettling to Miyako.

She stopped her husband in the corridor as he was heading to the reception room and asked,
“You didn’t mention anything about Numazu when you went there yesterday, did you?”

He said without even stopping.

“As if I would mention that.”

However, she could not feel at ease.
She came to the living room, unfolded Hambara letter paper, and ground fragrant ink.
And slowly, beginning with expressions of gratitude for the night before last, she turned her brush to write of this occasion’s joy, a parent’s heart, and their own sincerity.
She became intoxicated by her own high-toned prose.
She had so thoroughly become Viscountess Takabata—who would one day receive and read this letter—that tears welled in her eyes as she continued writing.

It was just when Miyako had finished writing the main text, sighed in relief, and taken hold of the edge of the long scroll.
Behind her, outside the sliding door, a student’s voice sounded.

“Madam.”

“Please open it and come in.”

The retainer opened the torinoko-paper sliding door just enough for his shoulders and presented a delivered item along with its accompanying letter.

“A messenger from Lord Takabata has just come to present this.”

“Huh… Takabata-san—”

She examined the back of the sealed letter with a perplexed expression.
Takabata Masachika it read.
Compelled by an inexplicable anxiety, Miyako broke the seal.
From skimming through sections of the text, she deduced that the plate must have greatly pleased him.
"I was informed by my wife that you had graciously visited us again yesterday," it stated.
"In recent days regarding Asako's matter, we have imposed upon your considerable consideration and had been contemplating suitable expressions of gratitude when that plate unexpectedly caught your eye."
"To convey our modest token of appreciation as husband and wife, we believe it most fitting to incorporate this piece into your distinguished collection."
The letter concluded with an earnest request for it to be granted a place in some corner of his display cabinet.

Miyako unconsciously scratched the corner of her forehead with the brush handle she was holding. She suddenly assumed a deflated air,

“Is the messenger waiting?”

she asked languidly.

“Yes.”

“Well then, though it’s rude to my husband, just a moment—”

Kusakabe entered the corridor with clomping footsteps.

“What is it?”

“This has just arrived.”
“We must say something in response.”

“Let me see.”

He snatched up the Viscount’s letter, remaining in an impatient half-crouch.
As he read, his face flushed red like fire.
He dropped heavily to one knee, hurriedly unwrapped the package, opened the box, and removed the padding cotton.
Inside, wrapped in white habutae cloth, was that Gubbio piece that had caused him so much mental strain.
The circular plate by Giorgio—that he alone knew was a counterfeit—lay there, its red-jade glaze’s luster having settled with quiet intensity.
Kusakabe Taro took the plate in his hands and assumed an indescribably complex expression.

Miyako, who had been resting her cheek limply against the kotatsu quilt and watching her husband’s actions from the corner of her eye, lifted her head at the glint of the deep crimson plate.
She cautioned her husband.

“Since you can examine it at your leisure later, just send your reply promptly.”

She neatly severed the letter she had been writing until this very moment—addressed to Viscountess Takabata—with scissors.
Then, after drying the brush, she made her husband hold it.

Kusakabe Taro felt deeply sorry for Viscount Takabata.
The Viscount had treasured this piece without ever suspecting it might be counterfeit; deciding to give it to me must have taken tremendous resolve.
What had driven him to such a decision was nothing more than a single commonplace act: matchmaking.
Kusakabe was profoundly moved by that parental devotion.
At the same time, when he considered how having had it shown to him twice had served only to satisfy his scholarly curiosity, and how inevitably there would come a day when news that this was no genuine piece would reach the Viscount’s ears, he felt rather a pang of remorse.
He wrote a courteous, heartfelt letter of thanks.
He himself went out to the entrance and handed it to the waiting messenger.

About ten minutes later, when he had seen the guest out and came to the living room, Miyako had left the box out and was tidying up the formal documents and decorative cords.

When she saw her husband, she said discontentedly,

“There’s no box inscription or anything.”

He sat cross-legged and removed the lid of the box.

“It’s a Western piece, so there’s no box inscription.”

“Is it valuable?”

“Who knows?”

Kusakabe was unable to lie to his wife when it came to ceramics.
The strong-willed Miyako insisted on determining the truth of most matters through her own judgment and acted accordingly, but ceramics were the exception.
It could be said that she honestly abandoned her own opinion only in this one matter.
Therefore, if Kusakabe were to tell a lie, there was a danger that he would inevitably break into a cold sweat—of what kind, when, and where—sooner or later.

He said nonchalantly.

“It’s likely not top-tier.”

“Where’s it from?”

“Italy—”

“—Is it genuine after all?”

Kusakabe felt a faint irritation at Miyako’s interrogative tone.

“At any rate, it’s certainly quite old.
Still, as long as you regard it as a rare specimen, there’s no mistake.”

“Did you praise it so highly even though you knew it was a counterfeit?
You’re such a pushover.
When people say it’s fine, you just can’t bring yourself to say it’s bad, can you?”

She muttered in an ironic tone.

“These days even aristocrats aren’t lacking in shrewdness.
—It’s instead of Numazu.
Just a single plate!”

Kusakabe Taro made a bitter face and, without a word, stood up holding the box.
Miyako followed him to the parlor, gathering both sleeves to her chest.

He took out the key and opened the glass door of the display cabinet.
Then he removed the red-painted cup stand from the top shelf and placed the newly arrived Majolica there.
He stepped back to the center of the room and looked.
The light was insufficient.
He returned the red-painted pieces to their original place and prepared a spot on the bottom shelf.
The light streamed adequately from the plate’s side, but another issue arose.
The crimson velvet stretched beneath clashed with the plate’s luster.
——

Kusakabe Taro spent a tranquil Sunday afternoon moving here and there without tiring for the sake of a single plate.
Finally he discovered that this plate would not fit into the shelf.
Whether due to his nerves or not, he felt as though the pure antique ceramics of China and Japan—each arranged in their own manner across the eight shelves to his left and right—were rejecting the dubious Majolica attempting to newly join them, like an invisible quivering of the air.

Kusakabe Taro whispered to the counterfeit Giorgio as though addressing a living being.

“It can’t be helped.
“Then you can just enjoy yourself here.”

In the end, the plate was displayed on the hearth shelf where clear sunlight streamed directly from the front.

Bathed fully in the afternoon light, the red-jade glazed plate pressed upon Kusakabe’s heart with an entirely different charm than when he had seen it against the Takabata household’s oak wainscoting.
Its solemnity and majesty may have diminished somewhat.
But the transparency of the red glaze only intensified further, while the deep heart-shaped indentation beneath now rose with an ineffably splendid vividness.
The painted monk’s bust stood three-dimensional—turned sideways with solemnity and melancholy like an enigmatic representative of the medieval era—within a single layer of dark crimson radiance that seemed ready to disintegrate into fine swirling powder at any moment.

To Kusakabe Taro’s eyes, the plate now appeared like a framed ceramic artwork brimming with unprecedented charm and dynamic contrast. He gave an absentminded reply to his wife, who was speaking beside him. The more he gazed at it, the more attached he grew, until he found himself unable to trust his own memory that such a fraudulent inscription lay hidden beneath something of such surpassing beauty.

He took the plate down from the hearth shelf again. Then carried it out to the long table by the bright south-facing window.

Miyako, who had been following her husband’s every move—taking a step here and a step there—since earlier, now looked down at the plate while still adjusting both sleeves and asked her husband:

“You—how much is this worth?”

“Huh?”
“What?”

Kusakabe, while brushing off the bag of the large tortoiseshell-framed magnifying glass, responded absently.

“I’m asking how much it’s worth.—”

“How much—?”

He allowed a flicker of a wry smile to flit across the corners of his mouth.
He said as if soothing a child.

“It’s fine, don’t worry.—It’ll fetch a good price.”

Miyako fell abruptly silent.

Kusakabe Taro took up the magnifying glass and bent intently over the counterfeit Giorgio’s round plate—which had seized and would not release his heart.