Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

An indigo-dyed shop curtain bearing the character 'San' hung down at both ends of the narrow earthen-floored entrance, allowing customers who entered from one side to exit through the other into a sparsely trafficked alleyway. Shigeyoshi came from the path along the slope with a large ditch on one side and, upon reaching the alley where the pawnshop's curtain came into view, said to his companion Mitsui, “Hey, let’s stop here for a bit.” Having said that, he readjusted the newspaper bundle under his arm. “Yeah.”

Shigeyoshi shouldered through the shop curtain with his broad frame and entered. The earthen-floored entrance stood empty save for the familiar clerk, whose expression hovered between formal courtesy and veiled contempt as he straightened his collar. “Welcome.”

and shifted her thin knees beneath her checkered apron to adjust her collar. The clerk flipped over the old woman’s padded silk kimono—repaired and still wrapped as if he were tossing it out—and,

“Well, that’ll be sixty sen.” she said.

“It’s already quite well-worn, and this is simply how such things are.” Mitsui alone sat on the tatami mat at the shopfront while examining the padded kimono, “There’s some remarkably blue thread attached here, don’t you think?” he said. “Ah, this here is just the stitching thread,” The mother had sewn it in traditional style, exposing fine blue binding thread on the surface like a sleeping garment when she sent over the padded robe. Shigeyoshi asked, “Can’t you make it eighty sen?” he said. “That would be impossible.”

“Quit the penny-pinching talk and study, just study!”

Mitsui, who was handling items like his father’s heirloom gold pocket watch with relative composure, interjected. “You lot are making so much profit it’s becoming a problem, aren’t you?” “You must be joking.” Tossing the seventy-sen silver coins into their trouser pockets, the two exited through the opposite entrance from where they had entered. The fishmonger was closing up shop, and young workers in large rubber aprons patched with kasuri fabric were splashing water from a hose—“Shh! Shh!”—as they scrubbed the wooden floor. Avoiding the foul water that flowed unapologetically onto the narrow sidewalk, Mitsui—

“I can cover the coffee money,” he said. “Yeah… well, whatever.”

Having walked casually along the main street—still fairly crowded just after nightfall—Shigeyoshi and the others nevertheless turned into the corner of a small bank that had lowered its fireproof shutters out front. That side street too was lined with shops. Passing between a gloomy dried goods store and a lattice-built house bearing a "Tailor Shop" sign, the road narrowed further, lined here with small tenements. Shigeyoshi opened the gate of one of the houses and took the lead, with Mitsui following behind. After squeezing through a narrow gap between houses barely wide enough to pass through, they found another row of back entrances faintly illuminated by a streetlamp bearing the neighborhood association’s name. Since Reimei Shobo had begun publishing books and launching magazines, they also started jointly using the approximately three rooms in the back connected to the main street store. In the back, the family mainly slept and lived.

As they were taking off their shoes, “Oh,”

A young man in work clothes with a navy-and-white striped collar bearing the shop name stitched in yellow thread stood up from the back office. "He doesn't seem to have arrived yet." Shigeyoshi ascended the shadowed staircase as usual, his movements unhurried and marked by a slight shake of his shoulders. Midway up, Shigeyoshi turned to Mitsui, who was coming up behind him,

“Hey, wait a second.” he said. “This slipper’s odd—it’s broken.”

Shigeyoshi had been in an uncomfortable position midway up the stairs, but after removing one broken slipper and clutching it in his hand, he briskly climbed the remaining steps. At the landing, he stepped back into the slipper he’d dropped onto the floor with a thud. The space had been converted into a makeshift Western-style room. In both the outer corridor and along the wall by the opened door, stock books bound with rough rope lay cluttered. A badly worn rattan couch and several bentwood chairs surrounded a large oval table riddled with cracks. On both floor and tabletop, a copious amount of sand and dust had accumulated from the fierce south-to-north wind that had swept through Tokyo all day. An oddly antiquated lampshade with faintly reddish undulating edges hung from the plaster ceiling. Though not particularly dim, the lighting left the two who entered mostly silent before the room’s weathered appearance.

Shigeyoshi made a sniffling sound in his nose, blinked his eyes, and sat down on the couch. Mitsui pulled over a rattan chair, sat facing Shigeyoshi, and lit a cigarette. Then, in the natural progression of his relaxed state, Mitsui absentmindedly tried to rest his elbows on the table—only to click his tongue without real malice, his face startled by the thick layer of dust. Avoiding the cigarette smoke drifting into his eyes with that peculiarly furrowed brow everyone makes, Mitsui rolled up a nearby newspaper and wiped the table. Instead of the layer of whitish sand dust, gritty streaks had now formed.

Shigeyoshi normally did not smoke. From his profile, one could see that his eyelashes were thick and long. Blinking those eyes, he was silently watching Mitsui’s actions since earlier. On the wall behind Shigeyoshi, who was sinking deeply into the couch with his back pressed against it, was pasted a faded advertising poster with a flash-like design of "GO-STOP" in black katakana on a red background.

After a while, footsteps of several people sounded at the stairway entrance. Not merely out of courtesy but with what might be termed the decorum of student life at the time, they—from outside the door toward the hushed interior—called out first: “Ready?”

After giving a preliminary call, they slowly opened [the door] and entered—Toyama, Yokoi, Yoshida, and other editors of *New Era* magazine who formed the core of this literary study group. Last to appear was Imanaka—slightly older yet physically smaller than anyone else—who served as the leader of these young people who, though all attending the same university, belonged to various departments and possessed markedly diverse appearances. Imanaka, “Hey.”

With that, he removed his lightly soiled hunting cap and tucked it into the jacket pocket over his brown woolen jacket that reached up to his throat. And then he shook his head as if brushing away the hair falling over his pale, gaunt face and sat down on a nearby chair. Toyama, who was on duty that night and wore a neatly arranged kasuri-patterned collar, had been concerned about one unsteady leg of the oval table, but soon glanced at his wristwatch and spoke. "What do you think? Shall we get started now?"

Yokoi, wearing a suit, “Aren’t four or five more people still coming? Wait another ten minutes.”

Imanaka was reading a pamphlet-like material covered with kraft paper, maintaining an adult demeanor indifferent to his surroundings.

“My apologies, my apologies. I’m late.” Yamahara entered, carrying a briefcase heavy with documents.

“What’s wrong?” While imbuing his slightly lowered voice with affectionate resonance, Yamahara looked at Shigeyoshi’s face and plopped down heavily next to him without ceremony.

After about two more people arrived, the meeting finally began. Opinions were solicited regarding the newly published magazine *New Era*. It stood entirely apart from *Shinshichō*—which maintained humanities traditions—being far more radical and charged with energy. Thus those gathered here—though not literature majors—were individuals following a literary movement that overflowed with new artistic value sprung from personal and epochal demands. Among humanities students, there were only Toyama in German literature, Yokoi in English literature, and Mitsui. Some belonged to the agricultural department. Yamahara, editor-in-chief of Pravda, studied law. Given the magazine’s nature—not exclusively advocating proletarian literature—its poetry and fiction occasionally featured works that seemed diametrically opposed in direction and tone to essays published in the same journal.

Yamahara,

“Chairman,” Yamahara called out, then continued in a blunt tone, “What’s that poem ‘The Face of the City and Machines’ supposed to be about? Or maybe you’d call it leftist cubism or something—it’s weird.” Everyone laughed. Toyama, who had edited it, made an awkward face while saying, “There were objections, but he does better work too.”

Toyama said. Yokoi said, “Did you read ‘The Path of Literature’ essay from two months back?” said Yokoi. “They’re actually the same person—odd isn’t it?”

Yamahara wore an expression of surprise, “Huh,” he said, drawing out his voice. “Does that kind of thing even exist? In that case—though I don’t recall exactly—didn’t they clearly state that literature’s direction should align with that of the intelligentsia?” “It seems literary tastes have split while retaining the old content entirely.” It was Yoshida who had said that. Critiques of the novel in the same issue had also appeared. After the discussion had progressed to a certain point, Imanaka—with a pale face and a smile that flashed like white light glancing off the underside of a wave—slightly raised one hand to signal the chairperson,

“Regarding details, I think opinions have been largely exhausted in the discussion so far. In my view, New Era should gradually take on the duty of more systematically explicating NAPF’s editorials and Ōhara’s proposals. If we steer the entire publication in that direction, I believe the submissions will naturally become more organized.” Having finished speaking as if delivering a conclusion in the manner of an external senior who indeed wielded some unseen authority behind him, Imanaka moved his small black eyes—which held a peculiar gleam—to survey everyone.

It was an era when the issue of popularization in literature was being comprehensively addressed. In the not particularly spacious Western-style room with its windows shut tight, tobacco smoke hung thick and heavy. The smoke was dense, swirling around people’s heads, pressed against the ceiling, hazily illuminating the pale red rim of that outdated lampshade. The issue of popularizing works and their entertainment value arose, and Toyama, earnestly yet in a somewhat professorial tone,

“I believe Mr. Ohara’s view is entirely correct—that what we might call ‘entertainment value’ in this new sense must align with literature’s artistic value,” said Toyama.

Then, Yamahara spread his knees wide and leaned forward from the low bench,

“The problem lies in that so-called artistic value, I think. We’re told all sorts of plausible arguments and think ‘Ah yes, that makes sense,’ yet Iwami Jūtarō remains perfectly entertaining to read—frankly, I just don’t get it.” With exaggerated expressions, Yamahara vigorously scratched his closely cropped head while—

“Hey, what do you think, Satō?” Yamahara glanced at Shigeyoshi beside him. When Mitsui looked toward Shigeyoshi, he found him with arms crossed, leaning back deeply into his chair as usual—his resolute face glowing with intellect, yet showing no particular inclination to look in Yamahara’s direction. There was a look in Mitsui’s eyes that said, “That’s just as well.” After Imanaka turned his face slightly aside and slowly exhaled his cigarette smoke, he subtly revealed his contempt for Yamahara at the corner of his mouth while,

“In any case, I think it’s self-evident that those of us here understand the criticism Pravda issued regarding the submission to the *Daily Worker*.” “If we do that, then before considering *how* it’s being popularized, shouldn’t we first examine *what* is being popularized?”

The general circumstances following March 15, 1928, marked what might be called an era of top-down expansion and unification. It naturally cast its shadow over literary debates as well.

“That’s right. Hence starting with ‘what,’ questions of evaluation and form inevitably arise.” “Lunacharsky states this clearly too, does he not?” Imanaka argued in that manner, vigorously flicking cigarette ash onto the spread-out empty box on the table while moving his small black eyes and swaying his body rhythmically. Imanaka, now fully engaged, appeared to have his extremely slender fingers and entire body—charged with nervous tenacity—contracting and expanding in sync with his speech. His voice carried a faint hissing undertone as it maintained restrained force, extending limitlessly from his upper palate toward his opponent and leaving no opening for others to interject.

Shigeyoshi listened intently and patiently. And though they were being discussed through numerous varied combinations, upon closer examination he felt they ultimately remained confined to the scope of what was being printed in various forms that day. The artistic sense inherent in Shigeyoshi’s nature revealed an exceedingly subtle underdevelopment—one contained within more immediate realities such as the interplay between an author’s ideology and the sensuous embodiment a work should manifest as, issues of evaluation, and even confusions like the conflation of insufficiently grasped natural phenomena with human practice.

Shigeyoshi took up a paper that Ōki Hatsunosuke had published in a certain literary magazine that month. In Shigeyoshi’s demeanor there resided both the unassuming forthrightness of a confident young man who made no particular effort to assert himself before the group and a structural rigor that sought to pursue the debate itself to its utmost limits. Since there were those who hadn’t read Ōki’s paper, the issues Shigeyoshi had raised concluded at that meeting with only a few supplementary opinions being offered.

First, Imanaka stood up, put on his hunting cap, turned up the collar of his brown woolen jacket, and left. Only those involved in editorial matters remained,

“Shall we go?”

“Yeah.”

With Yamahara—who was carrying a briefcase—now joining them, Shigeyoshi and Mitsui formed a group and once again emerged from the cramped back alleys onto the main street.

The sky, which had threatened rain in the evening, grew crisp after nightfall, and the main avenue before the university—thoroughly swept clean of dust by the day’s fierce winds—stretched out wider and more starkly empty than usual, its full expanse clearly visible. Stars were out. When they had walked for a while toward the livelier part of town, Yamahara—

“Hey Satō, that’s a bit harsh.”

said Yamahara. “When you grandly declare before everyone that ‘it’s a mistake to drag today’s historical achievements down to one’s own backward level,’ you leave me no way to save face.—My Iwashigeitaro is just another tactic.” “Or maybe they meant to let Shigeyoshi Satō claim all the glory—don’t you think?” Shigeyoshi wordlessly tugged down his soft hat’s brim with an expressive twist of his wrist, but—

"However, words spoken in such a place still carry objective influence in their own right." The tone of his voice contained a calm, persuasive warmth. "And isn't the problem precisely that—the problem itself?" "I believe it's rather crucial." "It's likely not something that can be resolved overnight." "In a sense, it hinges on the essential progress of human emotions."

Yamahara,

“Hmm.”

he said, then abruptly changed the subject,

"I've never been able to handle that bunch," Yamahara said, walking with long strides as he spat on the ground. "When it comes down to it, isn't this just a dumping ground for half-baked incompetents who can't follow through?" Mitsui, who had been walking silently wedged between Shigeyoshi and Yamahara,

“That’s wrong.”

He blurted out bluntly, then fell silent again. An inexpressible emotion had been gradually swelling and intensifying in Mitsui’s chest since earlier—this was his sentiment toward Shigeyoshi. Tonight too, as Mitsui keenly observed, there came a moment when Shigeyoshi seemed to have surged ahead by two metaphorical strokes, as if in a swimming race. Whether Shigeyoshi himself realized it or not, through some ineffable natural composure, he had shown Mitsui such heart-stirring moments before. Lately, Mitsui found himself unable to look away from this version of Shigeyoshi, sensing their high school friendship—forged over shared drinks—now carried a premonition of leaping into profound trust. And though this premonition followed a personal path, it seemed to graze something scorching, filling Mitsui with emotions akin to fierce anticipation and dread.

Shigeyoshi was walking in silence with another impression, but— “Shall we grab a bite?”

With a gaze that held a childlike smile, he stopped before a Chinese soba stall. The three of them indeed began to eat with robust appetites.

“Hmph, they’ve fogged up completely.”

Removing his glasses and wiping them with a handkerchief, Yamahara peered through his slightly bloodshot nearsighted eyes,

“Hey, what’s the plan for tomorrow?” He said without directing it to either of them.

“I’ve secured a connection with my uncle, so I’ll go investigate. First and foremost, participation in pivotal affairs is necessary.”

Yamahara had an uncle in a significant position at the Chamber of Commerce and Industry and had always spoken with grand plans that included his future employment prospects. Mitsui, separately from that, “You coming all the way back to my place?”

Mitsui asked Shigeyoshi.

“I have an errand to go out until evening, but I’ll be here after that.”

While replying, Shigeyoshi plucked some change from the silver coins he had just put in his pocket and placed it beside the cheap Chinese bowl decorated with red and green floral patterns.

II

When they approached under the railway viaduct, the sounds of trains and blares of automobile horns suddenly roared, enveloping pedestrians’ bodies from all sides with deafening noise.

On Hiroko’s earnest face as she passed through in silence, fleeting looks of doubt about their destination appeared and vanished too briefly to catch notice. Hiroko kept that doubt unvoiced out of something like reverence, walking mutely beside Haruko who led the way. That Haruko had given no detailed explanations until their meeting on a Government Railway transfer platform after leaving separate lodgings stemmed from a senior’s natural sense of maintaining discipline. As they drew nearer, that disciplined feeling acquired playful edges until Haruko burst out laughing mid-stride despite herself.

“What’s that?!” In a tone tinged with irritation, Hiroko scolded Haruko without laughing herself, though she understood perfectly well what Haruko found amusing. For Hiroko, going out together with Haruko in this manner was an entirely new experience. The earnestness shone through her round face beneath the beret, impossible to conceal. When they entered through the park’s wide gate and were approaching beside the library, a young man holding a copy of Sunday Mainichi in one hand emerged from a narrow path to the right. With a flat, deliberate stride, he approached them slowly—just when she thought he might pass them by—

“Oh.”

Having said that in a voice not too loud, he lightly placed his hand on the brim of his soft hat.

“It’s been some time.”

Haruko, too, now greeted them with an earnest expression. Continuing on, they turned onto the gravel-covered path and walked for a while before Haruko— “This—Miss Hiroko,” Haruko introduced her.

“This is Mr. Ōta.”

Not having anticipated meeting someone like this, Hiroko walked silently beside Haruko and lightly bowed her head. “Mind if we slow our pace a bit?”

“That’s fine.”

Not merely because the path’s width felt cramped for three people walking abreast, the two walked slightly ahead of Hiroko, conversing in a businesslike manner as they proceeded. On one of the sunlit benches lining a still-lonely flowerbed where banana plants were wrapped in straw of warm hues for frost protection, a middle-aged man sat hunched over with his Inverness sleeves hitched up on his shoulders, repeatedly flicking his index finger against his rolled cigarette’s ash mechanically though there was hardly any buildup. Beside him sat a woman with pale blue silk wrapped around her neck and her hair parted deeply to one side, both hands tucked into her sleeves. The woman stared unceremoniously at the three passersby while sucking noisily on her decayed tooth. At the pavilion where late-blooming white plum blossoms could be seen, they settled themselves. A small square lay beyond a gentle slope where at its far edge three or four workers wearing armbands labored to upright a tree felled by yesterday’s wind.

The young man introduced as Ōta removed his hat and addressed Haruko in a familiar, unpretentious tone, “It’s warm today.”

he said, maintaining his completely natural tone, “Your recent report was quite well written.” he said to Hiroko. “Was that your first time writing that kind of piece?” The school had been thrown into turmoil over Mita, a teacher being forced to resign, but ultimately settled into protracted acceptance. Hiroko had written concisely about those circumstances. It had been published in a corner of *Battle Flag*. Hiroko, having been told that by Ōta, made a happy face and looked at Haruko,

“You revised it quite a bit, didn’t you?” she laughed. Haruko, in a tone that very much played up her seniority, “Well, she fusses over it as if she’s writing a novel or thesis!” Shigeyoshi, who was being called Ōta, laughed and,

“If you’re going to devote yourself to a novel, then even writing one is perfectly valid.”

Shigeyoshi said. He gazed with interest at Haruko’s affectation of seniority. Moreover, Hiroko acknowledged that the other’s accumulated experience surpassed her own, and he found her sincere and cheerful attitude agreeable. In Hiroko’s entire being—dressed uniformly in navy-tinged woolen fabric for both coat and dress, with only her collar pure white—there was also a sense of latent earnestness, like tree blossoms about to bloom.

Haruko had been stretching her hand from the natural wood bench to pluck the hardened azalea leaves reddened by frost, but soon adjusted her posture,

“There’s something I’ve been wondering about…”

Having said that, she stared intently at Shigeyoshi. "Is it right for me to continue living as I am now…"

Hiroko’s face showed intense focus. After the turmoil surrounding Mita concluded with such a lackluster result, Haruko began to doubt her student life. That matter had also been confided to Hiroko. “I’ve been thinking a lot since that recent experience—is it wrong for me to join a labor union?”

What would the man called Ōta answer? Hiroko waited with an expectation that matched even Haruko’s own intensity, but Shigeyoshi said nothing. He merely pressed his lips tighter than before, twitched his thick eyebrows, and made a slight adjustment to his posture.

“After all, I don’t even know if I’ll be able to stay in school until the end anyway…”

Haruko said in an earnest voice laden with entreaty, “I want to grow in some more fundamental way,” speaking rapidly. Her face had even flushed slightly. To Shigeyoshi, Haruko’s mental state was clear. Could it truly be said that such anguished appeals had never once welled up in his own heart? That they had never taken hold of certain conscientious students’ minds? Though ideological currents of the time had spread wide and deep, the period when avant-garde activities were still imagined through ninja-tale heroics had not yet fully passed. Proactive students advanced while clinging to one or two threads they’d desperately reeled in themselves, while overarching strategies for students groped forward step by tentative step. Meanwhile, a simplistic trend persisted—the notion that one couldn’t be truly human unless a worker—driving many youths to abandon schooling without regret for other pursuits.

Shigeyoshi moved his broad shoulders as if to solemnly withstand the complex waves of history, "I think I understand your feelings." In the bright outdoor light, he leveled eyes—their delicately detailed eyelashes clearly visible—straight at Haruko’s gaze and spoke.

“That idea might not be bad, but why not wait a little longer? Various considerations are being made. The campus will certainly change too.”

“Do you think so?” “It’s only been these past month or two, hasn’t it?”

“Is that so?”

For Hiroko, who was silently listening nearby, it was of course impossible to infer what exactly was about to change. Haruko too did not attempt to seek any further explanation. Shigeyoshi stood up from the natural wood bench while stretching—not moving toward either Hiroko or Haruko who sat there side by side— “Well… take your time with it.” Having said that he wore a smile that sparkled in his eyes with an air of conviction— “It concerns your entire lifetime—no need for haste. If necessary—with resolve for any task—do your utmost where you stand now. Wouldn’t you agree?”

As he spoke, Shigeyoshi felt an emotion rising in his chest. How would his own future unfold? He had maintained self-restraint regarding both his talents and activities since high school days, driven by resolute purpose. When and in what form would that essence manifest within new history? This remained unrevealed even to him.

“Shall we walk a bit?”

The three walked in silence along a path where blue sky showed through trees with swelling buds，each moved by their own emotions．Shigeyoshi began speaking haltingly— “What books have you all been reading lately？” he asked． “Do you read things like Takiji’s works？” “I do read them，but when asked for impressions，I usually just end up saying ‘I think they’re wonderful．’” “You should try reading something like *Mother* too．In Shapovalov’s autobiography，it’s written very well—how workers cherished that novel by Gorky，what feelings they had while reading it．”

Comrades from the intelligentsia generally had people who would visit them in prison or fiancés who later even followed them to Siberia. However, the visitors for workers were only their mothers. They were lonely. Because the mothers who came to visit did not share their sons’ fervor. Before the essential bond between mother and son depicted in *Mother* emerged in the real lives of the masses, Shapovalov had written with depth about how fervently such young workers had awaited and hoped for it.

The genuine emotions laid bare there touched upon something residing deep within Shigeyoshi’s present feelings—an unforgettable empathy and boundless compassion welled within him. Yet how far could these girls truly grasp those emotions as authentic?

A shadow fell across Shigeyoshi’s eyes. Before long, it disappeared. The three headed toward the moatside from the park gate in the direction opposite to where they had entered.

III

The large glass door was closed, and when a figure attempting to enter the store approached, the man stationed there like an attendant opened it. From one of the stopped cars, a young man carrying a document-filled briefcase first stepped down onto the sidewalk and then, half-turning to glance back, entered through the glass door opened by the attendant. A much older woman wearing a glossy olive-colored coat with fur draped over her shoulders, one hand adorned with a conspicuous diamond resting on the edge of her fur scarf, followed belatedly into the same store.

At the center stood a grand staircase with a gently curving landing. To its right stood a wardrobe or trunk studded with numerous metal nails, and further past that was the men’s sundries section. The interior of this store was always relatively quiet. With no particular hurry in their steps, the two newly arrived customers came to a stop at the necktie section. After looking over the items in the glass case once, the woman “How about this one? Is there one that catches your fancy?”

She asked without turning her face from the case. The man also did not look at the woman. "Well…" It wasn’t that nothing caught his eye—rather, he himself couldn’t tell which one might appeal to him. The man placed his document-filled briefcase on top of the case and leaned one elbow against it as he— "Madam, please take a look." he said. "I wonder what kind would be good." She looked at the selection arranged on top of the case to be chosen by spinning them around—turning them as if adjusting an obi fastener—but nothing seemed to catch her eye.

“You look better in subdued patterns, don’t you?”

Her gaze drifted absently back toward the case. That was Eiko. Having never before selected and purchased a necktie for anyone, even now when trying to find one that suited Tazawa, she found herself at a loss. Eiko’s vibrant face—its distinctive blend of strength, vulgarity, and beauty accentuated by makeup heavier than her years—was faintly flushed, displaying a bashfulness unlike the excitement any woman unaccustomed to shopping might show.

A young female clerk with a slender, supple build stood on the other side of the glass case. Moving her hands—their knuckles softly indented and naturally expressive—she quietly tidied the area with considerate care to avoid flustering the customers.

Eiko called to the female clerk, “Excuse me.” “Please show me the third one from the right on the second shelf.” “Would this be the one?” “Yes, that’s right.” It was a tweed-like fabric interwoven with brown, green, and yellow—not in poor taste—but when Tazawa held it against his collar and turned toward her, a discordance emerged between his pallid complexion, glasses, and the fabric. The female clerk, appearing to sense this discordance,

“We also have this color available, if you prefer.” She presented one with a much deeper navy tone. “This looks perfectly acceptable.”

The two had it wrapped and, side by side, ascended the grand staircase extremely slowly toward the second-floor book department. Just then, their retreating figures became visible from the necktie section. Takahama Miho, the female clerk, raised her eyes—their upper lids smooth with a spirited beauty—and gazed for a moment in that direction. When the man, looking at the navy-toned necktie, said, “This looks fine,” the woman with him replied, “If you like it, then you should choose that,” and in the resonance of her voice flowed something that naturally compelled one to watch their retreating figures as they now turned the corner of the second-floor railing.

Upstairs was more crowded than downstairs. A ruddy-faced, white-haired husband with a pipe clenched between his teeth stood alongside an elderly woman in an opulent fur coat adorned with jade earrings, who was instructing a clerk in refined English to bring out some graphic materials. Around the platform displaying new releases had gathered five or six people, while over at the shelves—those ones here and there holding popular books, films, and women’s magazines—young folk primarily encircled that same platform, savoring the aroma of vivid printing from foreign periodicals and the texture of quality paper.

Eiko strolled around the new releases with Tazawa, but soon found a small chair placed by the high window and went over to sit down. Tazawa had only watched over Eiko as she took her seat there; afterward, while remaining keenly aware of her presence, he avoided looking directly her way. Occasionally he would place his briefcase at the edge of a display stand and lean it against his coat front in a particular posture, picking up books to flip through pages here and there.

Given the number of people present, an academic calmness characteristic of this store pervaded the spacious area. Eiko glanced briefly at a mirror. Then through the large windowpane she saw across to a building with its multitude of windows and the pale blue sky arching over her daughter—whose activities she knew nothing about—and those two companions in the far distance. She gazed awhile at advertising balloons floating in that midair expanse. When this grew tiresome, she shifted her posture slightly and turned her face so that Tazawa’s profile or three-quarters view would always remain within her field of vision.

Though her white-tabi-clad toes shifted minutely within thick-soled sandals from time to time—an unconscious habit of Eiko’s—her large-framed body and face altogether bore an indescribably relaxed air, as if the present moment’s comfort were reflecting back through her very being. In her lustrous eyes and on lips where the rouge had dried somewhat overflowed a pliability that seemed ready to respond if called. The window-side seat where Eiko sat was positioned directly before the focal point where all who ascended the grand staircase would first lift their gaze with purposeful intent. Yet Eiko placed herself there with complete openness—as though it wouldn’t trouble her no matter who might appear from that direction or when—positioning her conspicuously visible self in full public view.

Eiko paid for the German psychology book that Tazawa had selected. In a corner was a compact seat where tea was served. The two sat down around a small table shaded by palm fronds. Tazawa lit his Airship cigarette, inhaled deeply with evident relish, and slowly exhaled a plume of smoke. “Are you tired?” “Not really.” With a cigarette clamped between the fingers of one hand, Tazawa took a sip of coffee and,

“When I think about it—it’s strange,”

he said with a slightly stiff laugh.

“What if Hiroko-san were to come in here?”

Eiko abruptly averted her face and declared in a rigid tone, "There’s no possibility of that person coming here."

She returned a look of disgust at Tazawa's face. She hadn't given Hiroko the money to buy books here.

Eiko had that thought flash through her mind in that instant with a motherly assertiveness, "Why would you say such a thing?"

She said with evident distaste. “There’s no particular reason why…” Eiko said in a sharp tone, restlessly shifting the toes of her tabi socks beneath the table. “I came with you to have you look at Junjiro’s book—what’s wrong with that?”

After that, both of them fell silent. In a certain sense, because the name of someone they both felt a shared aversion toward had come up, even as they remained silent, their emotions seemed to be drawn closer together by an invisible force. Tazawa asked after a short while.

“Are you returning home today?”

“Well…” “It’d be dull to leave after just this.” While swinging his arm that wasn’t holding the cigarette around as if embracing his own chest, Tazawa said in a strained voice.

“Let’s go somewhere.”

A faint flush rose to Eiko's cheeks.

“...” “Won’t you?” “...”

The stillness of the surroundings. The faintly acrid smell of dried book paper and printing ink seeped out to permeate the air. A sparkle like flames igniting high-quality coal appeared in Eiko’s eyes. She stubbornly kept those eyes averted from Tazawa’s face. From her full cheeks down to her jawline, intense inner turmoil manifested in an expression resembling resentment. That was a dense, fierce tension—a heady blend of strained expectation and resistance to it. Eiko suddenly shifted her posture, cleared her throat in that distinctive manner of hers, and spoke in a serious yet unmistakably irritated voice—

“The check—” she said.

Again passing alongside the magazine display where people clustered, they came to the staircase. Eiko descended step by step, as if drawn down by her own weight. Rubbing his shoulder against hers as they slowly, slowly descended, Tazawa kept his face forward and— “Ah, I just want to go somewhere right now, just like this.” he whispered. “—Let’s go.” “...”

“Let’s go.” “...”

Passing straight through the downstairs passageway, they went out of the store.

IV

Not only had the female customer styled her hair in an old-fashioned chignon rarely seen these days, but after the couple—who left behind some lingering impression—had departed, Miho stood behind the glass case for a while, vacantly gazing outside.

From the underwear sales floor across the way, Tokie—wearing the same light-blue merino office uniform—came over upon seeing this.

“So—what should we do about visiting Sachiko?”

“Huh?” Miho raised her eyebrows absentmindedly, looked at the other woman, and began to respond— “Oh, right...” Her slightly tanned features regained their composed expression. “If you’re willing, why don’t we just go today?” “Well... It’s such a bother to make a special trip just for that... Then I’ll tell Tomo-chan we’ll do that.” “Pardon me.” Sachiko, a colleague they’d gone with to Tsukiji theater once or twice, had been absent for over a month due to poor health. She likely had tuberculosis. She might quit. Such rumors had spread, and judging by the letter Miho received, they hardly seemed baseless. The three of them from the same store—who usually formed the chummier group—ought to visit her together. They’d first suggested it four or five days earlier.

When the five o'clock bell rang, covers began to be put over the cases here and there. Out of courtesy to the few remaining customers, they refrained from rushing about, yet nevertheless the clerks' barely contained anticipation—that sense of “it’s finally over!”—began to permeate the store’s atmosphere with a sudden urgency, as if the very air had flipped upside down and started rushing out. Tomoko, “So it’s tonight?”

Tomoko said to Miho, who was standing by the passageway spreading out a cover. “How about you? Your family won’t mind?” “Yes. They won’t mind at all.”

When the store entrance closed, the youngest of them, Tomoko, was tidying up at the washstand while— “Oh no, what should I do? I didn’t bring Ms. Sachiko’s address.”

Her voice turned nasal. "I know it, so it’s fine." "Kanegasumi 1-chome, number 19, right?" "I know." While applying her compact to her freshly washed face, Tokie said in a voice tinged with mild excitement. Stopping somewhere after work was rare for them, and moreover, visiting a colleague’s house was something that had never happened before. The three of them, having taken more care than usual to neatly arrange their attire with tightly fastened sashes, carried a cloth-wrapped bundle containing firmly packed lunchboxes and exited through the service entrance as the fair weather creaked around them.

The train was as crowded as usual. When the three took hold of the hanging straps side by side, they could barely stand while avoiding the knees of seated men. "I wish we could bring her something—even just a small token," said Miho to Tokie standing beside her, using her bundle-holding hand to adjust the sleeve of her other arm that gripped the high strap. "Fresh fruit maybe—she'd surely be pleased."

Without speaking another word, the three got off at Kanegasumi. At the fruit shop right next to the tram stop, they bought navel oranges and apples. Even Tokie—who had insisted “it’ll be easy to find once we’re out”—found herself as disoriented as Tomoko about the neighborhood’s layout after turning two or three corners without reaching their destination, prompting Miho to enter a liquor store with her characteristically modest diligence and politely inquire for directions. While she was indeed spirited by nature, Miho’s character naturally blended kindness with a disposition toward unstinting effort cultivated since her girlhood—not out of pushiness, but in such a way that whenever those around her found themselves troubled, they would come to rely on Miho as a matter of course.

Miho went a couple of houses down and peered into a photographer's alley, then—suppressing the urge to shout—called out in a lowered voice: "Hey—hey!"

She beckoned to the stragglers.

“It’s this way—look, see?”

On the side panel of the photographer’s shop, an enamel address plate was affixed. It was a street where greengrocers, electrical goods stores, and beauty salons—all struggling businesses that couldn’t afford storefronts on the main avenue—had set up shop in this back alley. Beyond the billiard hall advertisement with its red and white balls came into view a geta shop’s dust-clouded display window.

“That must be the place over there.” “I suppose so.” The three of them naturally slowed their pace and walked while looking in that direction, but Miho’s expression turned somewhat pained, and she wiped around her nostrils—where no sweat had appeared—with a handkerchief she took from her sleeve.

In the dim back of the shop where two platforms displayed geta priced at fifteen and thirty sen each, under the faint glow of a single bare bulb, a middle-aged man who seemed to be the father was hammering metal rivets into replacement straps. “What should we do?”

Tomoko said timidly in a small voice. “We’ve come all this way—if we don’t go up, that’s fine too.”

Tokie entered the shop. “Excuse me,” she said. “Welcome,” replied the father in the practiced manner of a small merchant accustomed to business customers over many years, as Tokie— “Um, is Ms. Sachiko here?” When she asked this, he seemed startled,

“Sachiko is here, but…” With a movement that suggested he had rearranged his knees,

“Well now, this is quite—”

He peered as if trying to make out Miho and Tomoko, who stood with half their bodies leaning against the display window’s edge. Miho greeted him. “We’ve come to pay a visit—” “That’s very kind of you.” The father,

“Hey, hey,” he called toward the tea room visible between the dimly lit geta shelves. “Hey, tell Sachiko…” A little boy and a girl who appeared to be Sachiko’s younger sibling—about three or four years his senior—craned their necks to peer out from the shopfront. “Oh, tell your sister we have visitors.”

The father said, “It’s rather cramped here... Well now, please do come in...” In the shop’s earthen floor area were two stools. “Please have a seat— “Hey—what’s taking so long?” The back of the shop seemed to consist of just a single room, and from there came a stifled voice that sounded like a mother’s— “What on earth?! “Just got this caught here—you really didn’t have to…” The sound of someone talking incessantly could be heard. Miho could no longer conceal her pained expression,

“Um, we really just came by for a moment, you see…” she said in a soft, stumbling tone.

“If you’ve come all this way, there’s really no need…”

“No—it’s nothing… Oh dear…” In a mood of making excuses to them, the mother raised her voice slightly,

“Really now… Well, what could she possibly be saying?”

Sachiko, standing in the nearby shadow of some objects, appeared to be crying. There was a sound of a body hitting the chest's ring, "No! I said no!" Sachiko's shrill voice broke through like a dam bursting, drenched in tears as it echoed through to the shopfront.

Sachiko's shrill voice burst forth like a broken dam, resounding through the shop as it drowned in tears. "To have you see this house..."

A harsh sob broke out, followed by the sound of someone rushing headlong through the back door while still trying to say something more.

“What’re you doing…”

The father stood up and left, this time accompanied by others, "Well, though you've gone to the trouble of coming... That child..."

With a disheveled expression and brushing her hair, even the mother came out. Tomoko stared in astonishment, and Miho felt it unbearable as bitter tears stung deep into her nostrils.

The three stealthily placed the fruit package beside the geta stand where the clogs were tied and rolled up, then bowed several times before leaving.

Finally emerging onto the brightly lit main street where streetlamps glittered, Tokie— “What’s going on with Sachiko-san…?” she muttered as if her courage had deserted her. “Could she have misunderstood something…” “But… surely not. Could her illness have made her hysterical? How frightening that was.” Miho walked toward the station in silence, listening to her companions’ chatter, as if their group’s footsteps had grown even more sluggish.

Five

Miho’s residence was located in a place requiring her to return to Yamashita and transfer trains again. With trains being scarce, this line’s crowding proved unbearable. As the car wound through successive curves along the pond’s edge, passengers would collectively lean their weight whenever it swayed—each lurch pressing Miho painfully against the exit’s metal pole where she stood pinned. Beside her clung a fortyish man who appeared to be an office worker, hoisting his document case onto the same pole. From within it seeped the stagnant odor of lunchbox broth that hung thick before Miho’s face. Every rough curve jerked them en masse this way and that—these people packed tight on their homeward commute—to what sorts of households might they be returning? Miho found herself bitterly recalling that school song phrase “Joyous Homeward Path,” its irony cutting deep.

In summer, when she saw the small houses under the thick night sky - lit up like lanterns in insect cages and stretching transparently to their rears - Miho would invariably find herself contemplating the human lives within them and feeling a strange desolation. It wasn't right for Sachiko to burst out crying like that and run off, but then again, who at the store might be exchanging home addresses and visiting each other? Was there anyone who didn't feel reluctant to expose their own home to others? Miho found these self-abasing feelings she too harbored both painful and frustrating, her underarms growing damp with sweat.

She got off in front of the garage and climbed the gentle slope to the left. She opened the gate in the continuous hedge behind Kazariya, “I’m home.” Stretching up to twist the lamp in the three-tatami mat area at the top of the stairs,

“Oh, you’re back! How late you are!” Grandmother Omura peered at Miho, who had entered the earthen floor.

“No matter what was happening, I wasn’t myself with worry.”

“Because I went to visit a friend who’s ill…”

Miho sat down cross-legged in front of the six-tatami-long hearth and immediately removed her tabi socks. Then she untied her obi and, without thinking— “Ahh.” Clenching her fist, she rapped lightly on her calf through the meisen kimono. In the store she had been standing continuously, and sitting down on the train at that hour was something she couldn’t even imagine.

“You must be hungry. “I’ve simmered your favorite kuruma shrimp, Ms. Miho.” “I see. Thank you.” Omura moved with a sprightliness astonishing for her age—the kind that would startle strangers—busily shifting her brown-tabi-clad feet as she hung Miho’s discarded clothes on the clothes pole, tidied away the obi sash, and set the chabudai table upright beside the long hearth. “Ahh, delicious!” “It’s passable enough to eat, don’t you think? And all for just ten sen.”

Miho pulled the lamp in the six-tatami room over to the lintel and did the washing up.

“Go on and take your bath.” Miho was flipping through the magazine she had taken out from the furoshiki bundle, “Grandma, you go on ahead.”

She said. “I’ll skip today. I just can’t be bothered anymore.”

“A young woman like that—but Miho-chan, with your fine-grained skin, you’d always be truly beautiful if you just took proper baths.” “And your hair is so splendid too…”

Since Miho showed no sign of moving, Omura meticulously gathered everything including even the rice bran bag, changed into her haori coat, and went to the bathhouse. Before Miho’s father committed his major failure during the market crash of Taisho 7-8—an event that scattered their family and eventually drove him to work at an insurance company in his wife’s provincial hometown—Omura had taken pleasure and pride in visiting the home of her late husband’s former colleague, now a thriving figure in the business world, wearing her crested haori coat for Bon and year-end visits. As Omura gazed upon Miho—who had graduated from higher elementary school with honors, maintained impeccable grooming, and enjoyed an excellent reputation at work—it wasn’t impossible that her mind envisioned scenarios like those then sensationalized in newspapers about department store beauties catching the eye of some family’s second son.

When alone, Miho would stretch out her legs, lean her head against the chest of drawers, and—her expression taking on the keen sharpness characteristic of her upper eyelids—sink into thought.

The fact that Miho was a model employee at the store was not because she considered it a supreme place, resigned herself to her circumstances, and became a good girl within them. Within Miho’s heart there constantly lurked the question: Is life supposed to be like this? Is this all there is? An instinctive doubt—Is this all there should be?—persisted within her. Driven by these unanswered yet inescapable doubts that clung to her heart, she threw herself wholeheartedly into the work assigned to her—as if through this effort she might somehow find answers. At the store, even for the same work, there was a rule that girls’ school graduates received one yen ten sen while elementary school graduates received eighty sen. No matter how she worked here, would that remain unchanged? She felt that way too.

Miho, who hadn't become a model employee for that purpose either, still found each day unfulfilling, and on rare days off there were times when she would burrow into her futon all day long, not uttering a single word to Omura and reading nothing but books.

The six-tatami veranda had its storm shutters closed, with about two orchid pots left behind by her father placed there. From the decoration shop out front came the clear sound of an artisan tapping some metal lightly and rapidly, audible between the strains of a shamisen playing from a radio further away. The masseur’s flute drifted down the slope; though mornings were bustling in this neighborhood, evenings fell early, bringing the backstreets’ silence that weighed heavily on her. In Miho's mind surfaced the face of today's final customer—the woman with bobbed hair. Through various imaginings and associations, she recalled the novel titled Osaka Inn. Since the parents’ home of that novel’s author was famous and counted among the store’s clientele, someone had brought in that rather old book written long ago. Through the observations of a character named Mita, the author had vehemently expressed disdain for these privileged young ladies—fully sheltered by their parents yet utterly incapable themselves—and their affected airs of hollow dignity. Yet it was rendered in crisp prose that even geisha bearing expressions as if their families had wallowed in generational luxury left one wondering what exactly constituted their supposed refinement or elegance. These matters unfolded as Mita, the protagonist who regularly encountered an unconventional yet modest working woman during his commute, gradually developed deep affection for her.

Miho, due to the nature of her store, encountered many women classified as noblewomen and young ladies of high society. All the more reason why what was being said resonated so acutely. There was a faint sense of reassurance—as if broader society had finally begun properly evaluating lives like theirs. Afterward, rumors circulated that the novelist had married, and that his bride had brought dozens of obi sashes alone as part of her trousseau. They said that during a sudden downpour, he had seen this young lady walking utterly drenched without sparing any particular care for her attire, and had been captivated by her appearance.

Miho could comprehend how a man might find such women intriguing. But for someone bringing dozens of obi sashes alone, what burden could a kimono—worn merely for walking streets rather than carriage rides—truly be? Getting drenched like that might have been nothing but a passing diversion for her youth. A man’s heart that takes as wife a daughter sheltered enough to disregard petty vanities through sheer privilege; a heart drawn to modest working girls. Both represented mere preferences this man felt entitled to choose between. Sensing an upper-class arrogance manifest through this mirrored duality, Miho felt inner resistance keeping her from joining the store gossip’s voyeuristic thrill.

Miho took out quince candy from the aged tea cabinet and nibbled on it while flipping through the kraft paper-covered magazine. As she looked at the Esperanto course advertisement printed there, her tightly pursed lips gradually relaxed into what seemed an amused smile.

About two years ago, Miho had been assigned to the cosmetics department at the store. What they handled there was almost entirely imported goods. With so many specialized French terms—to memorize the names of face powders and perfumes—Miho had to create cards written in katakana and recite them during her commute on the train. The difficulty of this task and the overwhelming monotony of daily life made her resolve to try studying French instead. Miho went to a certain well-known language school in Kanda. At the reception desk, she completed enrollment procedures for the elementary course. A somewhat affected young man wearing black office cuffs, having placed a small cloth-wrapped bundle on the counter, turned toward Miho—flushed and unaccustomed to such situations—

“May I have your name?” he asked.

“Um, I’m Takahama Miho...”

“Are you Madame or Mademoiselle?” “......”

Miho didn't quite understand what he meant and hesitated, but she answered earnestly with a slight bow of her torso.

“Um, either one is fine, really...” When she recalled her own answer from that time, Miho found herself laughing aloud all alone. The man in charge first made a surprised face but soon smirked,

“Then I’ll put you down as Mademoiselle.” Having to practice pronunciation by moving her tongue and mouth in various ways felt awkward and embarrassing to Miho. Moreover, as she came to feel an increasing dissonance between her own image—sweating over French books while being addressed in that lilting pronunciation as “Mademoiselle Takahama”—and the reality of lunch bundles concealed in her desk, she stopped attending the classes after about three months.

Now Miho knew the distinction between Madame and Mademoiselle, but if asked again in that way, she still felt—as a working woman—that she would likely laugh and say either one was fine.

Miho continued gazing at the Esperanto course advertisement with a favorable look for some time longer, but soon her expression grew more focused as she began reading the workplace newsletter printed several pages further on.