Pathway to Japanese Literature

Peony

The pathos of humanity had begun to well up in Ishikawa’s chest as a vague emotion.

Ishikawa was originally a man who had lived a rough life in his youth.
He had even engaged in poaching on uninhabited islands in the South Seas.
After coming to live in ××町 and witnessing various ways of life during that time, he had through chance become acquainted with a family—or rather, a household with most extraordinary circumstances.

××町 was one of those residential areas situated about one and a half ri further into the countryside from Tokyo's northwestern edge.
An old suburban railway line had long cut through the entrance to ××町.
The terminus itself remained unremarkable year-round; come summer however, it transformed into a famed amusement park.
××町 was the residential area jointly planned and developed by a certain trust company and the electric company that was known among specialists in a negative sense.
The residential area, with its orderly plots that utilized the natural undulations of the land, tree-lined eastern and western main streets, and automobile roads, possessed a relatively settled charm; thus well-known actors and wealthy individuals built villas there.
Ishikawa had settled in that area from the pioneering days of ××町’s gradual development—at the town entrance where, much like one often sees at the entrance to small villa districts, greengrocers, hardware stores, food shops, and even geta sellers stood clustered along half a cho of road.
On the elevated ground to the right of the thoroughfare stood a wooden colonial-style Western house, which had remained a rental property for many years.
From that point onward stretched the town's main street - a cherry tree-lined avenue.
On clear winter days when one looked out beneath those trees whose branches stretched hazily into the distance from both sides—shops bustling with cluttered red banners below, and beyond them a Western-style house with a 'For Rent' sign pasted on its glass front door—one might almost feel unburdened from the city's weight, as though having arrived at some genuine villa district.

Ishikawa, after ceasing to pluck bird feathers on uninhabited islands to sell to America, came to be employed under a certain contractor.
This contractor conducted business on a large scale and had connections with the trust company as well.
In the elaborately constructed mansions now found within ××町, there remained considerable work for that contractor.
The houses had been built to near completion, and both the trust company and the contractor withdrew from the residential area.
Afterwards, only Ishikawa remained.
Due to connections from his contractor days, not only carpenters and gardeners but also well-diggers, ditch cleaners, and various other labor needs came to be funneled entirely through Ishikawa.
In the intervals between the several substantial construction projects that came each year, he had lived there for nearly fifteen years without ever being too idle.

Five years ago, when the cherry blossoms were about to bloom, Ishikawa took on an unexpected construction project. He was home during a fifteen-day break. Out back by the pump, he was fooling around with the geta shop's dog. Then his wife abruptly peeked out from the water outlet,

“Hey!
You!”

and beckoned him over with unusual eagerness. Ishikawa kept fending off the dog that kept wagging its tail and darting around him,

“Shoo! Go on, get out of here!”

While handling the dog, he casually stepped into the front entryway.
On the zabuton cushion at the edge of the raised flooring sat a man and woman.
As Ishikawa entered, the woman turned toward him—her features and attire appearing strikingly sophisticated and extravagant.

“Welcome.”

Seki remained standing in the earthen-floored entryway,

“They came from the office to make inquiries, I hear.”

she said.
The elderly gentleman in an Inverness coat,

“I know this is an intrusion during your busy hours, but there’s something I’d like to discuss briefly.”

he said.
Ishikawa initially assumed the man and woman to be in a relationship of caregiver and charge.
Among the mistresses of houses in ××町, such situations were quite common.
However, as they talked, it became clear that the woman was the one planning to build a new house this time, with the man merely occupying the position of guardian.
The woman in her forties,

“Since we’ve been living downtown all this time, I imagine we may find it lonely and difficult at first, but as neither my son nor I are particularly robust in health, we’ve resolved to retreat to some quiet place and live leisurely.”

she spoke clearly and calmly.

"If we decide to proceed, you'll need to consult me regarding all matters."
"Even if someone were to show me blueprints, I wouldn't have the faintest idea which way to face the entrance until it's actually built before my eyes."

There was something naturally magnanimous about the woman.
After Ishikawa asked about the number of rooms and general preferences and noted them in his ledger, they went together to inspect the land.
It was a vacant lot situated deep along the main street before turning right.
Ishikawa involuntarily,

“Ah, this way?”

he said, parting the weeds and stepping through them.

“This is good ground here.
“Since the north side’s entirely enclosed by pine woods along that road, while opening up to the south like this.”
“Five hundred tsubo?”

“Oh, was that so? ... The trees around here seem to have grown thicker since we came last year.”

“Even within the same trust-owned land, that side lies lower and hasn’t a single mature tree to its name. When you consider building there, the garden alone would prove quite troublesome.”

The woman stood at the vacant lot’s entrance, her sleeves drawn together in that peculiarly urban gesture of unease. From the pine grove behind them came intermittent whispers of wind through needled branches. Amidst the weeds bloomed violets of deep purple hue.

The estimate was settled without complications, and work on shaping the terrain commenced.
In Ishikawa’s experience, the work progressed almost too smoothly.
Truth be told, until he took the estimate and received the deposit, Ishikawa hadn’t placed much stock in it.
From the very outset of negotiations, there was a certain simplicity to everyone’s disposition—unlike those people who, having fulfilled a long-held ambition to build a house with their saved money, fret about being swindled or haggle over every yen to secure cheaper materials, Mrs.Iida displayed none of that grating, miserly behavior.
But was she truly a "Mrs." in the societal sense, this woman whom guardian Tezuka Junnosuke kept referring to as "that person"?
Was "Mrs." merely a convenient title for lack of better ways to address a middle-aged woman with a son?

Seki declared with a single decisive word, "An expert like you should see it at a glance."

Ishikawa had developed sailor-like eyes—slightly heavy upper lids that drooped at the corners—ever since his days spent staring at distant horizons on deserted islands in the South Seas. With those broad eyes of his, he looked down at his lively, barren, round little wife.

“I know that… but…”

“But… what about it…?”

"...Hmm!"

"Oh, this woman..."

The wife, after a moment,

“But she does dress well, doesn’t she?”

she said.

“I wish I could be in a position to wear such a ring so casually.”

As construction progressed, Tezuka from Harajuku began making inspection rounds approximately every two days.
Eventually, the son named Yukio began accompanying him as well.
He was a young master of twenty-three or twenty-four who resembled his mother.
He was wearing a square cap.

“Young Master—are you at university?”

“Yeah.”

“In Hongō?”

“Yeah.”

“When will you graduate?”

“If they let me out, next year.”

His face was oblong, its pallor too pronounced for a young man. Though dressed in fine clothes that showed his mother’s meticulous care and sparing with words, he seemed drawn to the construction work—appearing unannounced on Saturday afternoons at times and lingering until evening. Like his mother, there was something both shy and disarmingly warm about this university student. He would sit on lumber piled with torn grass, serve soba to the artisans, and eat alongside them.

“This soba tastes awful.”

“When you come from the city, you can’t expect good soba or sushi here.”

“Is this all there is?”

“After all, there’s only one shop in these parts.”

“Hmm… Even if someone opened a decent shop here, it probably wouldn’t last long.”

“The number of customers here is fixed, you see—Young Master, will you be working locally after graduating?”

Yukio watched as numerous artisans struggled to secure the roots of a pine tree they were planting.

"I hate jobs," he answered.

"What? Is law your specialty?"

"It's economics."

"...An industrialist then."

"......"

When Yukio spoke to Ishikawa about his mother, he never used terms like "Mother" or the casual "Mom" typical for a youth his age.
"Shinbashi, Shinbashi," he would say.

"Shinbashi wants to spend this summer here too, I hear. Will it be ready in time?"

Ishikawa wondered if he called her that because she was currently living in Shinbashi.

Then one time, Tezuka from Harajuku said,
"That person also used to make quite a name in Shinbashi back in the day—went by Taro."
Yukio was the only son born to someone of high standing, and after that person's death had lived on ample allowances.

“This house too was built considering that Yukio would eventually establish his own household.”
“Since he was separated from her when he was young, Yukio probably doesn’t have much attachment, but for the one who bore him, it’s the situation of being parent and child alone in the world.”

Now it made sense—that must have been their state of mind, Ishikawa thought as he re-examined the blueprint, feeling a certain fondness for the two adjoining detached rooms.

Three days later came the evening of the roof-raising ceremony.

After clearing away dinner and taking a break,

“Good evening.”

A young woman’s voice rang out.

“Who is it?”

His wife responded from in front of the sink.

“Is Mr. Ishikawa available?”

“Yes, he’s here—may I ask who’s calling?”

Wiping her hands as she came out to see, it was Mrs. Iida accompanied by a maid.

“Oh my, how rude of me! Please, come in.”

At the sound of her voice, Ishikawa also appeared.

“Oh, you’re out very late tonight. Where might you be returning from?”

Mrs. Iida removed her black lace shawl with an air of weariness.

“Thank you for all your help during this time.
“I do think of coming by often myself, but it’s just so far away, you see.”

They offered tea and such, but Mrs.Iida’s complexion appeared unusually pale to Ishikawa.

“The ridgepole-raising ceremony will finally be on the eighteenth—we must hope for good weather… Please do come too, Mrs.Iida. After all, having the young master himself present makes all the difference on such occasions.”

“Actually, that’s precisely why I came here so urgently—can we definitely hold the ridgepole-raising on the eighteenth?”

Ishikawa, not understanding her meaning, fixed his gaze on Mrs.Iida’s vividly pale profile.

“Our preparations are proceeding slowly... Has something inconvenient happened on your end?”

“I never even dreamed it would come to this.”

Mrs.Iida wore an expression that made even the shoulders of her black vertically pleated summer haori appear abruptly hollowed.
"The crucial matter is Yukio's condition has deteriorated," she said.

“No wonder you haven’t come around lately. What’s happened?”

“For some reason, his mind seems to be unwell... Unless I tell you the shameful details—he suddenly began raging about, in such a state that he might take up blades... It’s truly...”

Ishikawa found this hard to believe, knowing Yukio’s rather feminine mannerisms.

“Had he shown such tendencies before?”

“No, on the contrary—though shy, he did so well in school you’d never think him the child of someone like me.” While pressing back welling tears with the silver-gray sleeve of her tie-dyed crepe silk kimono, Mrs. Iida added, “To have this happen right when he was supposed to graduate university next year...” and smiled forlornly. Ishikawa felt at a loss for how to respond. Mrs. Iida appeared to have had her child when very young, and with Yukio dressed in those flowing kimonos, they hardly seemed like mother and son. This made the mother seem all the more pitiable. The doctor insisted he was too dangerous to keep at home and must be hospitalized, but since he wouldn’t heed ordinary appeals, they had arranged to bring him here under the roof-raising pretext so they could forcibly take him to the hospital from this side.

“This has turned into quite an unexpected predicament, and I know it must be terribly inconvenient, but we’ll manage whatever needs doing with the artisans, so please take care of things.”
“Since he’s quick to catch on, please absolutely pretend not to notice—just make sure to keep any blades well out of his reach.”
“...because if by any chance he does something outrageous, it would be inexcusable...”

The eighteenth dawned with a perfectly clear sky whose hue burned the eyes.
It was May, and the azaleas were in bloom.
Deep crimson flowers blazed against the raw earth unaccustomed to the freshly cut lumber and garden stones, their brilliance reflecting back.
The artisans who had been informed of the circumstances by Ishikawa that morning,

“Well, ain’t that somethin’.”

they exclaimed in surprise.

“Ain’t this some story – the Young Master chasin’ his own mother around.”
“Looks like he ain’t even gonna get expelled from university either.”

“The ridgepole can’t be raised anyway—just keep tinkering with the sides for now.”

Around nine o'clock, the roar of a car engine echoed from the pine grove behind.

“What’s that?”

“It’s the hospital car.”

Just before noon arrived Yukio accompanied by Harajuku.

“Good work.”

“It’s fortunate the weather is so fine.”

“So it’s time?”

To Ishikawa’s eyes, nothing seemed amiss in his behavior or manner.
Yet upon closer inspection, only slightly bloodshot eyes and a somewhat hurried demeanor stood out.
Tezuka, on the other hand, appeared unable to conceal his agitation.

“Everything’s prepared?”
“The young master didn’t want to come – we’re quite at a loss.”

he said.

“Since you’re the master of this house now, you must attend for propriety’s sake.”

Ishikawa unobtrusively coordinated the proceedings.

"What has happened to Mrs. Iida?"

With a walking stick tucked at his waist, Yukio watched over the working artisans.

“She should be here soon,” he answered vaguely.

“Hey, let’s go!”

Onto the main house’s crossbeam climbed the artisans.
The work began with boisterous shouts.
Tezuka spoke to Yukio with unusual persistence.

“Once they cleared away that oak over there, the view improved remarkably. What do you suppose that is?... It's rather too spacious for a private residence.”

Yukio gazed toward where a Western-style house with a blue roof stood alone at the foot of a distant hill visible through the clearing, but offered no response.

“Standing too long makes one tired now, doesn’t it?”

Tezuka lowered himself onto one of the garden stones as they had been brought in.
Before long Yukio too came and sat down beside him.
Unnoticed, a sturdy man in a high-collared coat had blended in among the gardeners behind the hedge and begun squatting there, basking in the morning sun.
They were erecting stone gateposts; the solidified concrete foundation had been covered with straw mats.

From there, a man in a suit, around forty, sauntered in.

“Oh.”

Tezuka began to rise but reconsidered, remaining seated.

“Well, well.”

He touched his hat.
The man in the suit,

“As I was passing by, I caught a glimpse and thought it might be you, you know.”

he said.

“It’s shaping up quite splendidly.”

“No, the main character here is this one.
“This is Mr.Hama—a gentleman I hope you’ll become acquainted with—Iida Yukio.”

Yukio peeled off his light-colored fedora with one hand and returned a formal bow.

“Pleased to meet you.—About how large is the floor area here?”

Yukio looked troubled,

“Roughly about thirty-five tsubo.”

he answered.

"Hmm... From here, about where would the train station be?"

Yukio remained silent.
Then Tezuka, as if suddenly remembering,

"You—what about today? The train?"

he asked.

"I came by automobile... What is it?"

Tezuka stroked his half-gray beard with one hand's fingers while lightly tapping Yukio's shoulder—Yukio who was looking away toward where the artisans worked.

“You—I hear this gentleman came by automobile. Perfect timing—why don’t we get a ride back and stop by the hospital on our way?”

Yukio whipped his head around to glare at Tezuka, who wore an unnatural smile devoid of conviction, but as he looked, his countenance altered.
His lips grew ashen,

“No!”

He flatly refused.

“It should be fine to just make a quick detour—it’s merely the next stage.”

“If I say no, it’s no.”

It was a loud voice that echoed across the daytime construction site. Yukio stood. Next, Tezuka shot upright. While glaring fixedly at the man, Yukio groped blindly to seize his cane. The cane was no longer there.

“Damn you!”

Yukio looked undeniably frustrated, and sympathy welled up in Ishikawa’s heart. The man in the suit seized Yukio’s upper arm.

“What are you doing?!”

“If you just come quietly to the hospital, nothing will happen.”

“You tricked me! How dare you! Get back! Get the hell back, I said!”

The more Yukio thrashed, the tighter the hands gripping his arms seemed to clamp down; grimacing, he began kicking Tezuka and the medical staff as he strained with all his might to break free. Leaving the morning sun behind, the man in the high-collared uniform approached.

“Hey kid, I’m begging you—quit pinning him down!”

Even the man who had been up on the beam came down and crowded around to watch.

“How’s this?—You won’t find tighter—Just two or three minutes! Lend a hand wrapping this around him till it’s done!”

When Yukio saw the white cotton cloth glittering in the bright sunlight, he grew even more enraged.

“Move! Let go! Let go!”

The three men couldn’t handle him. When one man grabbed his waist, there was a ripping sound as the unlined haori tore. Tezuka, desperately hanging onto one arm, glared murderously, panting heavily,

“Don’t hold back! Don’t hold back!”

Tezuka shook his head.

“No time for restraint! Hey!”
“Ishikawa!”

Ishikawa firmly gripped Yukio’s shoulders from behind,

“Young Master!
Young Master!
You must calm yourself!”

he said.

“If you’d just be quiet, you’d understand! —Young Master!”

The man in the high-collared uniform, with an air of complete expertise, began tightly wrapping Yukio’s legs from above the ankles in white cotton cloth, as though trussing a parcel.
Because his legs had become like sticks, he couldn’t gain footing to struggle; each time he nearly toppled over, he would right himself and thrash about violently.
They mercilessly tightened around his abdomen; finally, both arms too were tightly wrapped beneath the white cotton cloth.
Yukio now breathed in ragged gasps, his goosefleshed pale cheeks beginning to stream with tears.
The men fell silent as if seeing off a funeral procession.
Finally hoisted up, they advanced a few steps.
Suddenly, a high, keening wail—like a child’s choked-up sobs—shattered the surrounding silence.

“Ishikawa!
“Ishikawa!”

Ishikawa, whose composure had finally been shattered, stumbled frantically toward the patient’s head.

“Help me! Somebody help me!”
“Ishikawa!”

With his head tilted back, the patient stared at Ishikawa as if clinging to him; tears brimming with raw truth streamed endlessly from both eyes.

After moving into the new house, Mrs.Iida lived alone for three years.
There were only a maid and an old servant.

“We simply must make a garden where he can take walks.”
“Just the other day, the doctor was saying we have to make him live as regimented at home as he did in the hospital, as much as possible.”

Contrary to the original plan, a lawn had been created while keeping the garden flat, and a frame facing south had been built.
The mother’s heart, quietly and ceaselessly waiting for Yukio, seemed to reach Ishikawa.

The patient returned after nearly four years.

The residential area had many hedges.
Some hedges were made of sasanqua.
Chestnut leaves deepened their color and grew increasingly dry under the broad blue sky of early winter.
White and red sasanquas bloomed thickly in low-lying spots.
Smoke from burning leaves drifted up to the cherry-lined avenue that stretched unobstructed into the distance.
Ishikawa walked along the gentle slope toward the inner reaches of the residential area.
He was headed to the storehouse construction site he'd contracted when—

“Hey!”

A woman’s voice called out.
As he walked on, crunching through fallen leaves,

“Hey!”

The calls could be heard.
The one walking was Ishikawa.
To the right stood a neatly trimmed boxwood hedge, and sunlight struck a vivid red cushion on the veranda.
Puzzled, he turned around to see a young woman—only her gaudy obi visible from a distance—hurrying toward him.
When Ishikawa stopped, she raised her hand and beckoned frantically, then gathered her strength and broke into a run.
There was something strangely clinging about her demeanor.
As both drew closer, Ishikawa—

“What is it? Oh, Miss Okimi,” he said. She was the Iidas’ housemaid. “Do you need something?” She was out of breath and couldn’t speak. Still unable to speak, she grabbed the creased sleeve of Ishikawa’s woolen coat and pulled with all her might in the direction she had come from. “Please come right away. Hurry! Hurry!” Suddenly Ishikawa wondered if there had been a fire through carelessness.

“Fire?” he asked.
Okimi shook her head so violently that the bangs of her plumply coiled hair seemed about to tear loose.

“Mrs.Iida is in trouble.”

Suddenly, large tears rolled from Okimi’s eyes.

“Please come quickly! Mrs.Iida is truly in a terrible state!”

While striding back, Ishikawa kept asking questions, but seventeen-year-old Okimi—trembling and weeping—

“It’s terrible—she’s apparently gone completely mad.”

That was all Okimi said.
The way the crystal-clear tears sparkled and streamed down her maiden-like cheeks was charming.

"There's nothing to be done about it. You've got to stay strong."

"This way, this way"

From beside the large planted fatsia shrubs, Ishikawa went around to the kitchen.
The glass door stood open, with a man in an overcoat lingering there.
When the man saw Ishikawa, he gave a quick bow and stepped aside.

"Oh! Please don't go! You!"
"You!"

At Mrs.Iida’s voice—Ishikawa,

"Oh," he said as he stood at the entrance. But upon taking one look at her disheveled figure—sprawled directly on the bamboo slats in front of the sink without even a cushion—and the items scattered about the area, he understood why Okimi had burst into tears.

Ishikawa crouched on the entrance step.

"What’s happened to you, huh? Mrs.Iida," he said encouragingly.

In Ishikawa’s chest revived the same emotion he’d felt three years earlier when witnessing Yukio being forcibly taken to the hospital—a sour, marrow-deep ache in his nostrils that stung like vinegar.

Mrs.Iida brought out all the stock certificates, government bonds, bank passbooks, and jeweled accessories she had on hand to the bamboo slats,

“With all these assets I have, truly, I won’t cause you any trouble—so please become our relatives starting today... You see, we’ve been living so lonely, just the two of us—Yukibō and me—just the two of us.”

she pleaded earnestly.
Beside her, the older maid looked terribly anxious as she tried to shield those items from others’ eyes.
When she saw Ishikawa, Mrs. Iida leaned forward and spoke even more kindly, as though utterly unable to endure her wretched circumstances.

“Now Mr.Ishikawa, you agree, don’t you? You’ll become our relative too, won’t you? Just the two of us, you see—Yukibō and me—and we do have assets, after all…”

The one being entreated in such fashion to become their relative was the Electric Company Bill Collector.
Ishikawa stepped up into the kitchen,

“Mrs. Iida, I’ll make sure to properly discuss becoming relatives with that person myself, so for now let’s put these things away.”

he said.

“We can’t have them disappearing before we become relatives.”

She followed behind Ishikawa like a child, moving back and forth between the kitchen and the room.

“Then please put that ring in the right drawer.”
“But Mr. Ishikawa, he really will come tomorrow, right? If he won’t become our relative, whatever shall I do...”

“It’s all right, Mrs. Iida. Now then, keep your eyes open and watch closely.” “Hey, Miss Okimi, you come here too.” “The stock certificates and ledger are here, inside this black cloth wrapper. Do you understand?”

Mrs. Iida gathered the sleeves of her striped crepe haori from both sides in front of her chest and kept nodding while standing, when suddenly—

“Oh dear, this is terrible! Mr. Ishikawa, that diamond obidome—where could it have gone?”

As soon as she dropped to her knees, she frantically began pulling open the drawer of the small chest of drawers.
"Oh if I lose that obidome it'll be disastrous! Without that I—what should I do?"
"Didn't I put it away here?"

She suddenly began to worry.
Ishikawa—
“Here it is, Mrs.Iida. It’s right here.”
—pressed it into her hand.

“Oh, thank you.”
“Now Mr.Ishikawa, you’ll really become our relative starting today and give me advice on all sorts of things, won’t you?”
“Taki and Okimi have already become ones for me... right?”

Through arrangements made by Harajuku, a nurse was brought in.
Mrs.Iida sat before the long brazier,
"My goodness, why are there so many dolls in here?"

As if her eyes had gained power beyond human capacity, she discovered even the tiniest fragments of embers within the ashes.

“Look, here again—it’s a doll, a doll!”

She haphazardly put whatever she found into the nearby teacup.

“Oh my, there’s something on that wall too—now that you mention it… Miss, come here for a moment.”

A large-framed nurse with pale reddish, immaculate hands,

“Is there something you require? I shall take care of it.”

“Is there something you require? I shall take care of it,” said the nurse.

“No, you see—when I went to wash my hands earlier, I remembered there was a big doll over there—so come along now, Miss.”

Mrs.Iida would poke and pry at walls and bathroom tiles for hours on end without rest. There would inevitably be traces of fly specks, dust, and particles no larger than a needle’s tip clinging there—things that appeared as dolls to her eyes. She would soak the stylish hem and sleeves of her crepe kimono until they dripped, trembling violently from the cold as she flooded the entire veranda with washroom water in her cleaning attempts. When Ishikawa happened to visit during one of Mrs.Iida’s rare moments of lucidity, he was overcome by an uncanny feeling. Could there even exist in this world a parent and child bound by such fate? Mrs.Iida called Yukio, who was nearly thirty, “Yukibō, Yukibō.”

“Please get better soon and return to school, Yukibō—I’ll let you ride whatever you like, rickshaws or automobiles or anything. And just once, show your mother money you’ve earned through work—ten yen or fifteen yen would be fine.
“...Yukibō, I’m begging you.”

The mother’s tears steadily streamed down her hollowed cheeks.

“Were you listening?”
“Yukibō—”

Yukio was listening.
In the six-mat room one space over lay Yukio’s brass-gleaming bed.
On it lay Yukio—supine in perfect repose, Yukio who would never regain his sanity—visible through the sliding doors,

“It’s fine—I’ll go without you worrying. Really now—you should head back to Shinbashi too, Fuku-chan.”

He would respond like this.
The act of calling him "Fuku-chan" seemed to perfectly sum up the mother's futile existence.
When she heard this reply, Mrs.Iida lamented all the more.

“Why must it never come true—Yukibō.”
“Do take your walks properly.”

“Ah.”

“Mr.Ishikawa—it’s unbearable when I hear such things—Mr.Ishikawa.”

She would cry and cry, only to lose her grip on reality once more.

The only visitor to the unfortunate parent and child’s home was Harajuku.
And even that was limited to making obligatory appearances just a few times each year.

Mrs.Iida contracted pneumonia from being excessively drenched in water and shivering during the cold season, and passed away.
Yukio appeared to sense in some corner of his being that he had become a completely solitary being.
He managed everything from the chest of drawers to the tea cabinet with abnormal carefulness.
Because he even meddled in the kitchen, Ishikawa on one occasion,

“The kitchen is women’s domain—please leave such matters to the maid.”

he instructed.

“Since you are the Young Master, properly stay in the inner quarters and order what you wish to eat.”
“Then anything can be prepared.”

“Is that so? Can it really be done?”

“I’m certain it can be done.”

Ishikawa was the sole person who, through some inscrutable appeal, commanded the trust of Yukio—Yukio who heeded no one else.

He woke up in the morning and drank milk in bed.
He changed into a kimono, washed his face, and went out to the garden.
He would put on his worn-down geta and wander around until noon.
He would take an afternoon nap.
He would take another walk.
After dinner he would take a bath and go to bed precisely at eight o’clock.
At nine o’clock the maid would turn off the lights and make her rounds, but during that time he only spoke when the morning errand person came.
He never laughed.
Yukio took walks—though these amounted to nothing more than pacing around the garden—but did he truly live with such dignity for that reason alone?

What Ishikawa understood of the patient's state of mind was simply that he loved flowers.
Frost still lingered in the garden.
From around that time, the patient began walking over the withered lawn,

“Hey Ishikawa, bring me some dahlia bulbs.”

he ordered.

“It’s a bit too early.”

“It’s fine, it’s already fine—they’ll bloom.”

Ishikawa took some rotten bulbs that were lying around nearby and buried them in the soil to demonstrate.

“They mustn’t dry out—if they wither, that’ll be trouble.”

Despite it being the wrong season with no buds likely to emerge, the patient would wake each morning with delight and water the soil. Even during his evening walk, he would water them. Throughout the day, he would stand gazing for long periods, waiting for them to grow. Around the spring equinox, Ishikawa finally brought real bulbs this time and planted them in the flower bed.

“Young Master, this one is better.
“Those are no good anymore, I’m afraid.”

“Is that so?”

Because they were overwatered, when summer came the dahlias grew tall and lush with nothing but stems and leaves. Nevertheless, atop the lush blue growth, a few red flowers bloomed. Impatiently waiting for Ishikawa to arrive, the patient,

“They’ve bloomed—look—how well they’ve bloomed!”

he would admire them as though they were meager blossoms, doing so with genuine delight.
His voice brimmed with delight.

In the garden stood a special flowerbed with burnt wood embedded around its edges.
There, two clumps of peonies had been planted.
Ishikawa also diligently tended to them with winter fertilizer and other care, so each year when the season arrived, the two clumps of peonies would bloom splendid pale pink flowers, each in its own way.

In early May on a day after the rain, Ishikawa went to check on the patient's condition for the first time in a while.

“Where is the Young Master?”

“He must be out for a walk.”

As Ishikawa attempted to enter the garden from the dragon's beard-lined path, the peonies suddenly came into view before him, with Yukio standing transfixed before them, lost to the world. When he had come last time, the buds had still been quite tight. During the night, breathing deeply of the rich spring air, one had bloomed nearly to fullness while the other bore a half-opened blossom so enchanting it seemed to melt the heart, dewdrops clinging to its fragrant petals. In the house and garden that had lost the vibrant flow of life and laughter over the years, an inescapable stagnation had settled unhealthily, blackened and murky. And there, in that single spot, the fervent beauty of a peony—its petals seeming to crystallize concentrated vitality—stirred even in Ishikawa’s heart a kind of awe and wonder.

“They’ve bloomed splendidly, haven’t they, Young Master?”

Yukio said slowly, as though he had known all along of Ishikawa’s arrival.

“Isn’t it beautiful, Ishikawa—it’s lovely.”

“When did they start blooming?”

“—About three days ago— Hey Ishikawa, isn’t it really beautiful?”

“They’re splendid.”

To Ishikawa, the sight of the patient being utterly captivated by the innocent beauty of the flowers seemed pitifully touching.
He appeared to have been walking and gazing, stopping and gazing; as usual, the stubby wooden clogs were caked with soft garden soil up to his toes from the rain earlier.
Ishikawa,

“If you stand too long, it’s not good for your health.”

Ishikawa cautioned.

“You should go to the veranda—you can see them just as well from there.”

Yukio turned around in silence, took the lead, and began walking.
Yukio was extremely fastidious about his hands; even after merely toying with a small branch, he washed them with soap.
When it came to his feet, he remained unbelievably unconcerned.
No matter how filthy they became, he would slip them as they were into the pristine white bedding.
Even now, with soles still caked in mud like a beast’s, he stomped heavily up onto the veranda.

“Bring tea.”

The tea arrived.

"Bring some tea sweets as well."

Yukio urged, "Ishikawa, go ahead and have some sweets." Even as he spoke, his entranced gaze remained fixed on the peonies. When viewed from a slight distance, the full splendor of those stately pale pink blossoms—their glossy petals harmonizing with crumbly black soil and tastefully arranged leaves—revealed a charm surpassing close inspection. While accepting a sakura mochi in his palm, its dried skin exuding fermented bean paste odors, Ishikawa suggested: "Next year let's divide one of the clumps."

Ishikawa said.
No matter how many days had passed since Ishikawa’s previous visit, Yukio would neatly store away the leftover sweets he had made him buy that time and diligently bring them out again next time.

“Tomorrow morning, that one will bloom too.”

“Once they open that far, it’ll be just a breath now.”

“...So lovely...”

Yukio, his eyes softened in ecstasy and brimming with boundless satisfaction as he gazed, appeared utterly incapable of distancing himself from those magnificent flowers. He slipped on the wooden clogs once more. Advancing quietly toward the flower bed, he moved as if relishing each individual step. After staring transfixed for some time, he gently stepped into the flower bed with one clog still on his foot. Like someone stealing into a sacred inner chamber, he took another furtive step forward before bringing his face toward the blossom with meticulous care. The grand peonies—nearly fully bloomed to bursting—warmed by the late May morning sun past eleven o'clock, saturated the air with a fragrance so intense it threatened to induce headaches. Yukio buried his face in the stamens and drank in their scent.

As Ishikawa watched Yukio's disheveled black nape, he had been distracted but was suddenly seized by anxiety.
Ishikawa set the spoiled sakura mochi on the veranda and stood up.

“……What’s wrong?――”

Yukio slowly raised his face and turned toward him.
At the sight, Ishikawa felt a visceral shock.
Yukio’s even more pallid oblong face burned like white flame in the peonies’ intense reflected glow.
What divine and monstrous rapture quivered through that pale fire!
In the dark depths of the patient’s mind—ah—the peonies now bloomed and spread with unearthly beauty.
—A face that compelled such thoughts.
Ishikawa was struck by something akin to terror.
The madman’s psyche pressed crushingly against his own.