Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Miyamoto Yuriko

I

A dark blue noren curtain bearing the character for "three" dyed in mountain-shaped patterns hung at both ends of the elongated tiled entranceway, allowing customers entering from this side to exit through the other into a quiet backstreet with little foot traffic. Shigeyoshi, having come from the slope-side path with a large ditch along one edge and now reaching the alley where the pawnshop’s noren curtain came into view, turned to Mitsui of their group and— "Hey, let's stop here for a bit." Having said that, he readjusted the newspaper-wrapped bundle under his arm. "Yeah." Shigeyoshi parted the noren curtain with his sturdy shoulders and entered. The tiled entranceway stood empty, the familiar shop clerk wearing an expression that seemed both polite and dismissive,

“Welcome.” The clerk adjusted the thin fabric of his apron over his knees and tidied his collar. He flipped over the padded kimono—an old woman’s silk garment that Shigeyoshi had wrapped up and tossed out after having it mended—and said: “Well, sixty sen.” “It’s already been worn quite a bit, and after all, it’s this sort of thing.” Mitsui alone had taken a seat on the tatami mat near the shopfront. Looking at the padded kimono, he remarked: “There’s an awfully blue thread attached here, don’t you think?”

“Well now, this here’s just mending thread.” The mother had sewn the padded kimono in traditional Japanese style with fine blue stitching visible on the surface—so that it resembled a night robe—and sent it over. Shigeyoshi said: “Can’t you make it eighty sen?” “I’m afraid that’s not possible.” “Quit nickel-and-diming and get back to your work! Your work!” Mitsui, who had been methodically handling items like the gold pocket watch that was his father’s heirloom, interjected: “You lot must be drowning in profits till it hurts, huh?”

“You must be joking.”

After tossing seventy sen in silver coins loosely into their trouser pockets, the two exited through the doorway opposite where they entered.

The fish market was closing up, and young workers in large rubber aprons with kasuri-patterned patches were spraying water from hoses with sharp "Ssh! Ssh!" shouts as they scrubbed the wooden floor. Walking while avoiding the foul water that flowed unapologetically onto the narrow sidewalk, Mitsui— "I’ve got enough for coffee at my place," he said. "Yeah. Well, whatever." Just after nightfall, Shigeyoshi and the others walked aimlessly along the still fairly crowded main avenue, then turned at the corner of a small bank that had nonetheless lowered its fireproof shutters. That side street too was lined with shops. Passing between a gloomy dried goods store and a lattice-work house bearing a "Tailor’s Workshop" sign, the path grew narrower still, with this stretch now lined by modest shops. Shigeyoshi opened the wooden door of one of the houses and took the lead, with Mitsui following behind. As they squeezed through the narrow space between houses—barely wide enough to pass through—there came into view another row of back entrances on one side, dimly illuminated by a streetlamp bearing the neighborhood association’s name. After Reimei Shobo began publishing books and putting out magazines, they also started jointly using the three-room house attached to the back of their storefront on the main street. 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 collar of navy and white stripes and the shop’s name stitched in yellow thread rose from the back of the counter. “They don’t seem to have arrived yet.” From the shop’s shadowed staircase, Shigeyoshi climbed as usual, his movements unhurried and shoulders squared. Midway up, Shigeyoshi turned to Mitsui approaching from behind and— “Oh, wait a second.” he said.

“These slippers are weird—they’re broken.” Shigeyoshi stood cramped midway up the stairs, but after removing one broken slipper and clutching it in his hand, he hurried up the remaining steps only to catch his foot again on the slipper he’d dropped with a thud on the landing.

The space was made into a makeshift Western-style room. In the outer corridor as well as along the wall by the opened door, stock books bound with coarse rope lay scattered in disarray. A badly worn rattan settee and several bentwood chairs were arranged around a large oval table with a prominent crack. On both the floor and the table, a great amount of sand and dust had accumulated from the strong wind that had raged through Tokyo from south to north all day. An oddly antiquated lampshade with faintly reddish, undulating edges hung from the plastered ceiling. Though the lighting itself wasn’t particularly dim, the sight of that derelict interior made the two who had entered grow quiet.

Shigeyoshi sniffed through his nose while blinking rapidly and settled onto the settee. Mitsui dragged a rattan chair by its backrest to position himself facing Shigeyoshi directly, then lit up. Following the natural rhythm of his relaxed state, Mitsui started to casually rest his elbow on the table—only to click his tongue in harmless surprise at the thick dust layer. Squinting against cigarette smoke drifting into his eyes with that universal grimace people make, Mitsui rolled up a nearby newspaper and scrubbed at the table. Where the pale sandy dust had been cleared away now lay gritty streaks instead.

Shigeyoshi didn’t usually smoke. Seen in profile, his eyelashes appeared thick and long. Blinking his eyes, Shigeyoshi was silently watching what Mitsui had been doing since earlier. On the wall behind Shigeyoshi, who sat deeply sunk into the settee with his back against it, was pasted a faded advertisement poster designed with a flash-like pattern of "Go-Stop" in black katakana on a red background.

After a while, footsteps sounded from the stairway entrance. Driven not just by courtesy but by what one might call the propriety of student life in those days, they faced the hushed room from outside the door,

“May we come in?” After first calling out and slowly opening the door, Toyama, Yokoi, Yoshida, and other core editors of *New Era*—the central literary study group—entered the room one after another. Finally, Imanaka—slightly older yet physically smaller than anyone else—appeared last, serving as the leader of these young people who, though sharing the same university, belonged to various departments and had markedly different appearances. Imanaka, “Hey.”

He removed his lightly soiled hunting cap and tucked it into the jacket pocket over his brown woolen shirt that reached up to his throat. Shaking his head as if to brush back the hair falling over his pale, gaunt face, he sat down on a nearby chair. Toyama—on duty that night with his kasuri-patterned collar neatly fastened—had been worrying about one unstable leg of the oval table, but soon glanced at his wristwatch and spoke. “What should we do? Shall we start soon?”

Yokoi, wearing a suit, “Aren’t four or five more people still coming? Let’s wait another ten minutes.” Imanaka was reading a pamphlet-like document covered in kraft paper with an adult’s unconcerned attitude toward his surroundings.

“Sorry, sorry. I’m late.” Carrying a heavy briefcase full of documents, Yamahara entered. “What’s wrong?” With a slightly lowered voice imbued with affection, Yamahara looked at Shigeyoshi’s face and dropped down carelessly next to him. After about two more people arrived, the meeting finally began. Opinions were sought regarding the newly published magazine *New Era*. It was distinct from Shinshichō, which carried on the literary department’s traditions—far more radical and charged with energy. Therefore, those gathered here weren’t literature majors by discipline but individuals aligned with the literary movement surging forth—overflowing with new artistic value—driven by personal life experiences and the era’s demands. The members from the literary department were limited to Toyama in German literature, Yokoi in English literature, and Mitsui. There were also those enrolled in agriculture. Yamahara, editor-in-chief of Pravda, belonged to the law department. Given the magazine’s nature of not exclusively advocating proletarian literature, poems and stories occasionally appeared—works whose direction and sensibility stood completely opposite to essays published in the same pages.

Yamahara,

“Chairman.”

“Chairman,” he called out, then continued in a blunt tone, “What’s that poem ‘The Face of the City and Machines’ supposed to be about? What’s this supposed to be—some kind of left-wing Cubism? It’s downright weird.” Everyone laughed. Toyama, who had handled the editing, made an awkward face.

“There were objections, but he does passable work,” he said. Yokoi,

“Did you read that critical essay from two months ago—*The Path of Literature*?” said Yokoi. “They’re the same person—isn’t that strange?” Yamahara wore a look of surprise. “Huh,” he drawled. “Does that kind of thing even happen? If I remember right, didn’t he clearly state that literature’s direction should align with that of the intelligentsia?”

“The concept of literary taste has become fragmented while retaining its old content in its entirety, hasn’t it?” The one who said that was Yoshida. A critique of the novel in the same issue was also published. After the discussion had progressed to a certain point, Imanaka, with an expression where his pale face momentarily flashed a smile like the glint of light on a wave’s underside, raised one hand slightly to signal the chairperson, “Regarding opinions on the details, I think they have been mostly exhausted through our discussions so far." "In my view, *New Era* should gradually take on the duty of more systematically explicating NAPF’s editorials and Ohara’s proposals." “If we pull everything in that direction, I think the submissions will also become more organized.”

Having finished speaking like an external senior who clearly commanded authority from behind the scenes, Imanaka swept his small black eyes—bearing their distinctive gleam—across everyone. This was an era when the issue of popularization in literature was being comprehensively addressed. Within the cramped Western-style room with its closed-off windows, dense tobacco smoke filled the air. The thick smoke swirled around people's heads, pressed against the ceiling, casting a faint glow on the pale red edge of that outdated lampshade. As the problem of making works both accessible to the masses and engaging came up, Toyama spoke earnestly yet in a somewhat lecturing tone,

"I believe Mr. Ohara's view that what constitutes appeal in this new sense must correspond precisely with literary artistic value is entirely correct."

“There were objections, but he does passable work,” said Toyama. Then Yamahara spread his knees wide and leaned forward from the low bench,

“The problem lies in that so-called artistic value,” Yamahara asserted. “We get fed all these reasonable arguments and think ‘Ah yes, that makes sense,’ yet Iwami Shigetaro’s works remain perfectly readable. Damned if I understand why.” Scrubbing his close-cropped head vigorously with exaggerated motions, he turned to his neighbor. “Hey Sato—what’s your take?” Shigeyoshi remained leaning deep in his chair, arms firmly crossed, his sharp features glowing with intellectual intensity but making no move to meet Yamahara’s gaze. Mitsui observed this approvingly from across the room. Imanaka finished exhaling a slow plume of cigarette smoke, his face averted just enough to let contempt curl at the edge of his lips.

“In any case, I think it’s self-evident that those here at least understand Pravda’s critique regarding submissions to the Daily Worker.” “If we do that, shouldn’t we first examine what is being massified rather than how thoroughly it’s being popularized?” The general circumstances following March 15, 1928, marked what might be called an era of top-down expansion and unification. This naturally cast its shadow over literary discourse as well.

“That’s right.” “Therefore, starting from the question of what [is being massified], issues of evaluation and form naturally arise.” “Lunacharsky has stated it clearly too, hasn’t he?” With such phrasing, Imanaka argued vigorously while scattering cigarette ash beyond the empty box spread across the table, shifting his small black eyes as his body shook in a peculiar manner. His extremely slender fingers and entire body—now energized—appeared to contract and expand with nervous tenacity in unison with his mouth. His voice carried an underlying hiss as it seemed to extend limitlessly from his upper palate toward his opponent without easing its restrained force, leaving no opening for others to interject.

Shigeyoshi listened with focused patience. Though the arguments were being presented through numerous intricate combinations, upon closer examination he sensed they remained confined within the parameters of what currently circulated in print through various channels. The artistic sensibility innate to Shigeyoshi's nature—as a reality grasped more viscerally—resided within issues like the interplay between an author's ideology and a work's required sensuous embodiment, or questions of critical evaluation; yet it exposed how profoundly underdeveloped elements persisted within that muddled space where insufficiently comprehended natural phenomena intersected with human praxis.

Shigeyoshi addressed the paper that Oki Hatsunosuke had published in a literary magazine that month. In Shigeyoshi’s demeanor lay both the confident, refreshing simplicity of a young man not seeking to assert himself before the group, and at the same time, a structural rigor determined to pursue the debate to its utmost limits.

With some members not having read Oki'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 jacket, and left. Only those involved in editing remained,

“Shall we go?”

“Ah.”

With Yamahara, who was carrying a document case, now joining them, Shigeyoshi and Mitsui formed a group and emerged again from the narrow back alley onto the main street.

The sky that had threatened rain in the evening cleared after nightfall, leaving the university’s main avenue—swept clean of dust by the day’s fierce winds—appearing more expansive than usual, its vista unobstructed. Stars glimmered. After walking awhile toward the bustling district, Yamahara spoke: “Hey, Sato. That was harsh.” “Declaring grandly before everyone that ‘it’s wrong to drag today’s historical milestones down to our own backward standards’—makes me look like a fool. My Iwami Shigetaro bit was tactical too.” He scratched his cropped head vigorously. “Or maybe I meant to let Sato Shigeyoshi take the credit—ever think of that?”

Shigeyoshi silently pulled down the brim of his soft hat with an expressive motion of his wrist, but— “However, words spoken in such places still carry objective influence as they are.” The tone in which he had spoken contained an even, persuasive warmth.

“And isn’t the problem itself the real issue here? I think it’s rather crucial. It’s probably not something that can be resolved overnight. In a sense, it’s a matter that hinges on the fundamental advancement of human sentiment.”

Yamahara, “Hmm.” he said but abruptly changed the subject,

"I'm really no good with those people." While taking long strides, he spat forcefully on the ground. "In the end, isn't it just a dumping ground for those half-hearted guys who lack any real ability to act?"

Mitsui, who had been walking silently sandwiched between Shigeyoshi and Yamahara, “That’s wrong.” He stated it bluntly and then fell silent once more. An indescribable emotion had been gradually spreading and intensifying in Mitsui’s chest since earlier. That was his sentiment toward Shigeyoshi. When Mitsui looked closely tonight as well, there seemed to be a point where Shigeyoshi—if likened to a swimmer—had pulled ahead by about two shoulders’ length from those around him. Whether Shigeyoshi was aware of it himself or not, through some indefinable natural force within him, he had shown Mitsui such heart-captivating moments before as well. Mitsui had recently found himself unable to look away from this version of Shigeyoshi, harboring a premonition that their friendship since high school days—forged through shared experiences like drinking together—now seemed poised to leap into a bond of immense trust. And though this premonition followed a personal path, it seemed about to brush against something searing, making Mitsui taste an emotion of intense anticipation tinged with something akin to fear.

Shigeyoshi was walking silently with different thoughts of his own, but—

“Shall we grab a bite?” With childlike laughter in his eyes, he stopped before a Chinese-style soba stall.

The three began to eat with truly hearty appetites. "Hmph, completely fogged up." Removing his glasses and wiping them with a handkerchief, Yamahara brought his slightly bloodshot nearsighted eyes closer as if peering intently. "Hey, what're we doing tomorrow?" He addressed neither man directly. "I've got that arrangement with my uncle, so I'll go see him. First and foremost, I need to participate in pivotal matters." Yamahara had an uncle in a significant position at the Chamber of Commerce and Industry, and had long spoken of grand plans that included his own future employment prospects.

Mitsui, separately from those matters, “Going all the way back home?”

Mitsui asked Shigeyoshi.

“I have business to attend to until evening, but I’ll be around after that.”

While replying, Shigeyoshi picked out some coins from the silver coins he had just put into his pocket and placed them beside the crude Chinese bowl painted with red and green flower-like patterns.

II

As they approached the railway underpass, the sounds of trains and automobile horns suddenly roared around them, enveloping pedestrians' bodies from all directions in a clamor. As Hiroko walked straight through the underpass in silence, a look of uncertainty—Where am I going?—would fleetingly appear and vanish on her earnest face, so subtly it went unnoticed. Hiroko did not voice that uncertainty out of a sort of reserve, walking silently beside Haruko as she came.

After leaving their separate lodgings and until they met at the platform of a certain transfer station on the government railway, Haruko had not given Hiroko detailed explanations—a natural sentiment befitting an upperclassman maintaining discipline.

As they drew nearer, that sentiment took on a playful edge, and Haruko involuntarily let out a stifled giggle as she walked. “What’s that supposed to mean!” In a tone tinged with irritation, Hiroko reproached 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. Her earnestness shone through, unable to be concealed by the round face beneath her beret.

Entering through the park's wide gate and approaching near the library, a young man holding the Sunday Mainichi in one hand emerged from a narrow path to their right. With an even, deliberate stride that carried weight behind it, he drew near as if to pass them by—

“Oh!” He said in a voice that wasn’t too loud, lightly touching the brim of his soft hat. “It’s been a while.” Haruko now also greeted him with a serious expression. Just like that, they turned onto a gravel-covered path and walked for a while, then Haruko— “This is—Hiroko-san.”

She introduced. “And this is Mr. Ota.” Not having anticipated meeting someone like this, Hiroko walked silently beside Haruko and gave a slight bow. “Can we slow down a bit?” “It’s fine.” Not only because the narrow path made walking three abreast cramped, but the two of them walked slightly ahead of Hiroko, talking matter-of-factly about something as they went. At one of the sunlit benches along a still-lonely flowerbed lined only with banana plants wrapped in warm-colored straw for frost protection, a middle-aged man with his Inverness coat sleeves flipped up over his shoulders was hunched over, mechanically flicking imaginary cigarette ash with his index finger despite there being no accumulation. Beside him, a woman with pale blue silk wrapped around her neck and her hair parted in a severe 7:3 ratio had her hands tucked into her sleeves. The woman stared unabashedly at the three passersby while noisily sucking at a decayed tooth. At the arbor where late-blooming white plum blossoms could be seen, they sat down. A small square lay beyond a gentle slope, where at the far edge three or four workers wearing armbands were righting trees toppled by yesterday’s wind.

The young man introduced as Ota removed his hat and addressed Haruko in a friendly, unadorned tone, “It’s warm today,” he said, continuing in the same natural tone, “The report you wrote the other day was quite well done.”

he said to Hiroko.

“Was that your first time writing something like that?” Regarding teacher Mita’s forced resignation, the school had been thrown into turmoil but eventually settled in a drawn-out manner. Hiroko had written concisely about those circumstances. It had been published in a corner of *Battle Flag*. Hiroko, having been told this by Ota, looked happy and turned her gaze to Haruko. “You revised it quite a bit, didn’t you?” She laughed. Haruko said in a thoroughly sisterly tone: “But you’re being so elaborate—like you’re writing a novel or thesis or something!”

Shigeyoshi, who was being called Ota, burst out laughing. "If you're going to put it into a novel, then a novel is just fine," he said. Shigeyoshi watched with interest as Haruko acted like a senior. Moreover, he found it pleasing how Hiroko acknowledged that her counterpart had accumulated more experience than herself while maintaining a candid and cheerful attitude. Hiroko's entire being—dressed uniformly in navy-tinged woolen coat and clothes with only her collar pure white—exuded a latent, single-minded quality reminiscent of tree blossoms about to bloom.

Haruko had been reaching out from the natural wood bench to pluck the azalea’s tough leaves reddened by frost, but eventually adjusted her posture,

“I have one question though…”

Having said that, she stared intently at Ota. "Do you think continuing my life like this is right...?" Hiroko’s face tensed with focused attention. After the disturbance regarding Mita had ended in such an inactive result, Haruko began doubting her student life. This matter had also been confided to Hiroko. "I’ve been thinking deeply since my recent experience—do you believe I shouldn’t join a union?"

What would Ota say in response? Hiroko waited with no less anticipation than Haruko herself, but Shigeyoshi said nothing. He merely tightened his mouth more firmly than before, moved his thick eyebrows, and made a sort of restless shift.

“After all, I don’t even know if I can stay in school until graduation anyway…”

In an earnest, pleading voice, Haruko— “I want to grow in a more fundamental way.” she said quickly. Her face even turned slightly red. Shigeyoshi understood well the mental state Haruko was in. Could it truly be said that this kind of painful plea had never welled up in Shigeyoshi’s heart before? Could it truly be said that such feelings had never captured the hearts of some conscientious students? The ideological currents of that time had spread widely and deeply, but regarding avant-garde activities, for instance, people had not yet moved far beyond the period when they were romanticized as heroic tales. The active students were, so to speak, advancing by clinging to the one or two threads they had desperately gathered for themselves, while the overall strategy toward students was itself groping step by step to find its direction. On one hand, there was also a prevailing sentiment—expressed in a rather simplistic form—that if you weren’t a worker, you weren’t considered human, and many young people were abandoning school without hesitation to join other activities.

Shigeyoshi moved his broad shoulders as if to solemnly withstand the complex tides of history,

“I think I understand how you feel.” In the bright outdoor light, he directed his eyes—their delicate eyelashes clearly visible—straight into Haruko’s gaze and spoke. “That idea of yours might not be bad, but why don’t we wait a little longer? Various things are being considered. The school will definitely change too.” “Is that so?” “It’s only been the last month or two, hasn’t it?”

“Oh?” For Hiroko, who sat silently listening nearby, it was naturally impossible to surmise what exactly might be changing or how. Haruko too made no attempt to seek further explanation. Shigeyoshi rose from the natural wood bench and stretched, not turning toward either Hiroko or Haruko where they sat side by side, “Well now, taking it leisurely, aren’t we?”

Having said that, a smile lit up his eyes, shining with conviction. "It's a matter of a lifetime, isn't it? There's no need to rush. If necessary, just do your best where you are now—confident you'll take on whatever work comes your way. Wouldn't you agree?"

While speaking, Shigeyoshi felt emotion welling up in his own chest. How would his own future unfold? He had, since his high school days, been restraining himself regarding both his talent and activities with a certain aim in mind. When and in what form would that quintessence come to life within the new history? That had not yet been revealed before him either.

“Let’s walk a little.”

The three of them walked in silence for a while, each moved by their own emotions, along a narrow path visible through trees with hard-swelling buds under the blue sky. They began to talk intermittently, and Shigeyoshi— “Lately, what books have you all been reading?” he asked. “Do you read Takiji’s works or anything like that?” “I do read them, but when asked for my impressions, I usually just end up saying they’re wonderful.” “You should read something like Mother too. In Shapovalov’s autobiography, there’s an excellent account of the feelings workers had while cherishing that novel by Gorky.”

Comrades from the intelligentsia generally had visitors who came to see them in prison or even fiancés who later vowed to follow them all the way to Siberia. But workers had only their mothers as visitors. They were lonely. Because the mothers who visited did not share their sons' passionate convictions. Before the essential bond between mother and son depicted in *Mother* appeared in the real lives of the masses, Shapovalov wrote with profound insight about how fervently such young workers had awaited and hoped for it.

The sincere emotions laid bare there touched something that lay deep within Shigeyoshi's present feelings. Within him were both unforgettable empathy and boundless compassion. But how much could girls like these truly grasp that emotion as genuine? A shadow fell across Shigeyoshi's eyes. Soon it vanished. The three of them headed toward the moat-side from the park gate opposite where they had entered.

III

The large glass door was closed, and when a figure trying to enter the store appeared, the man stationed there like an attendant opened the glass door. From the stopped car, a young man carrying a document-filled briefcase first stepped onto the sidewalk, then entered through the glass door the guard had opened while half-turning to look back. An older woman wearing a glossy olive coat with fur draped over her shoulders, one hand adorned with a prominent diamond resting on the edge of her fur scarf, entered the same store belatedly.

In the center stood a grand staircase with a gently curving landing. To its right stood wardrobe trunks studded with brass nails, and further ahead past them was the men’s sundries section. The interior of this store was always comparatively quiet. With footsteps that were not particularly hurried, the two new customers stopped at the necktie section. After surveying the contents of the glass case, the woman— “How about this?” “Do any of these catch your eye?”

She asked while keeping her face turned toward the case. The man also did not look toward the woman, “Well…” It was less that nothing caught his eye than that he himself couldn’t discern what might please him. The man placed the document-filled briefcase on top of the case and leaned one elbow on it as he— “Madam, look at this.” he said. “What kind would be good, I wonder?” She looked at the selection arranged on top of the case—items meant to be spun around for choosing—turning them as if adjusting a sash, but nothing seemed to catch her eye.

“Subdued ones suit you better.” Her gaze shifted absently back toward the case. That was Eiko. Since she had never before selected and bought a necktie for anyone, even now—thinking to find one that would suit Tazawa—she somehow found herself at a loss. Eiko’s vibrant face—with its distinctive blend of strength, vulgar charm, and beauty accentuated by makeup heavier than suited her years—was faintly flushed and bore a shyness distinct from the excited demeanor any woman unaccustomed to shopping might display.

A young shop clerk with a slender, supple build stood on the other side of the glass case. Moving her hands—their knuckles softly indented, possessing a natural expressiveness—she quietly tidied the area with considerate movements meant not to fluster the customers. Eiko, “Excuse me.” and called to that female clerk. “Please show me the third one from the right in the second row.”

“Would this be the one?” “Yes, that one.” It was a tweed-like fabric blending brown, green, and yellow threads—not in poor taste—but when Tazawa held it against his collar and turned this way, a discordance arose between his pale complexion behind glasses and the textile. The shop clerk appeared to sense this, “We also have this color if you prefer,” and presented one in a much deeper navy tone. “This isn’t bad at all.”

The two had it wrapped and ascended side by side up the grand staircase to the second-floor book department at an unhurried pace. Their retreating figures became visible from the necktie section just then. Takahama Miho, the shop clerk, lifted her eyes—their upper lids smooth with a combative sort of beauty—and gazed briefly in that direction. When the man examined the navy-tinged necktie and said “This isn’t bad,” and when the woman from their group replied “If you like it then choose it,” something in her voice’s resonance seemed to linger like a farewell to their figures now turning past the shadow of the second-floor railing.

Rather than downstairs, the upstairs was more crowded. A red-faced, white-haired husband with a pipe clenched between his teeth stood beside an old 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 new book display clustered five or six people, while over by the shelves—those there and here lined with bestsellers, film-related books, and popular women’s magazines—a group of mostly young individuals gathered in a ring around the platform, savoring the vivid printing and high-quality paper of foreign periodicals.

Eiko strolled around the new book area with Tazawa for a while, but soon found a small chair placed by the high window just for herself and went to sit there. Tazawa had watched when Eiko took her seat there, but afterward remained fully aware of her without looking directly her way—sometimes placing his briefcase on the edge of a display platform and leaning his jacket against it in a casual posture, picking up books to flip through pages here and there.

For the number of people present, a composed academic quietness characteristic of this store occupied the spacious area. Eiko glanced at the mirror. Then beyond the large windowpane, she gazed at the rows upon rows of windows in the building across the way and the pale blue sky hanging over her daughter—whose activities she knew nothing of—and those two companions of hers in the distant beyond. She gazed for a while at the advertising balloon floating in that midair space. When she grew tired of that, she shifted her upper body slightly and turned her face so that Tazawa’s profile or three-quarter view would always remain within her field of vision.

Though she occasionally shifted the toes of her white tabi socks within their thick-soled sandals in small movements—an unconscious habit of Eiko’s—her large frame and face bore an indescribably relaxed air, as if the present moment’s comfort were reflecting back through her entire being. Her lustrous eyes and lips—where the rouge had dried somewhat—overflowed with a suppleness that seemed ready to respond immediately if called. The window seat where Eiko sat faced directly ahead of everyone ascending the grand staircase—the first place their eyes would naturally rise to with that sense of "well then..." upon reaching the top. And yet Eiko positioned herself there with such complete openness—as though it wouldn’t trouble her in the least no matter who might appear from that direction or when—placing her conspicuously visible self in that very spot.

Eiko paid for the German psychology book Tazawa had selected. In a corner was a compact seating area where tea was served. The two of them sat down at a small table in the shade of palm fronds.

Tazawa lit his cigarette, inhaled deeply with evident relish, and slowly exhaled smoke. “You must be tired?”

“Not really.” With a cigarette clamped between the fingers of one hand and taking a sip of coffee, Tazawa— “—It’s strange when you think about it.”

He laughed with a slightly stiff quality. "What if Ms. Hiroko were to come in here?" Eiko abruptly averted her face and replied in a rigid voice, "That person wouldn't possibly come here."

Eiko returned a look of disgust to Tazawa's face. She hadn't given Hiroko money that would allow her to buy books there. Eiko let that fact flash through her mind with a motherly insistence in that instant,

“Why would you say such a thing?” she said with evident distaste. “It’s not that there’s any particular reason…” Eiko spoke in a harsh tone, restlessly moving the toes of her tabi socks beneath the table. “I came with you to look at Junjiro’s book—what exactly is wrong with that?” After that, both fell silent. Because the name of someone they shared revulsion toward had been mentioned, even in their silence an invisible force seemed to draw their hearts closer together. Tazawa asked after a short while.

“Are you going home today?” “Well…” “It’d be boring to go back after just this.” Tazawa said in a pressed voice, swinging his free arm around as if embracing his own chest. “Let’s go somewhere.”

A faint flush rose to Eiko's cheeks. “…………” “Right?”

“…………”

The stillness of the surroundings. The faintly acrid smell that seeped from dry book paper and printing ink saturated the air. A glint like flame catching on premium coal appeared in Eiko's eyes. She stubbornly kept those eyes averted from Tazawa's face. From her full cheeks down to the jawline, intense inner turmoil showed itself as an indignant expression. It was a dense, fierce tension - richly fragrant expectation straining against its own resistance. Eiko suddenly shifted position, emitted her characteristic cough, and spoke in a voice that sounded serious yet still carried traces of anger,

“The check, please—” Eiko said.

Passing once more by the magazine stand where people had gathered, they approached the staircase. Eiko descended step by step as if pulled by her own weight. Rubbing his shoulder against hers as they slowly descended, Tazawa kept facing forward, “Ah, I just want to go somewhere like this.” he whispered. “—Let’s go.”

“…………” “Let’s go.”

“…………”

Passing straight through the downstairs passageway, they exited the store.

IV

Not only had the female customer styled her hair in a bun rarely seen these days, but after the pair who left behind some lingering impression departed, Miho stood behind the glass case for a while, gazing vaguely outward.

From the underwear section across the way where the sales floor was located, Tokie—wearing the same light-blue mousseline office uniform—noticed this and came over. "So, what should we do about Sachiko-san’s place?" “Huh?” Miho raised her eyebrows as if startled, looked at her companion, and began to ask in return when— “Ah, really now.”

Her slightly dusky features regained a clear expression. "If you're all right with it, why don't we just go today?"

“Well… It’s such a hassle to go out just for that… Then I’ll tell Tomoko the same thing.” “Thank you.” Sachiko, a colleague with whom they had gone to plays in Tsukiji once or twice, had been on leave for over a month due to poor health. The lungs seemed to be bad. She might quit. Such rumors were circulating, and even from the letter that came to Miho, it didn’t seem like they were entirely baseless. The three of them from the same store—who generally formed a close-knit group—would go visit her together. The suggestion had been made four or five days prior.

The five o'clock bell rang, and they began covering the display cases here and there. Out of courtesy toward the few remaining customers, they refrained from scurrying about, yet their suppressed excitement—this sense of "Now it's really happening!"—began to permeate the store with an abrupt fluidity, as if the very air had inverted itself and suddenly started flowing anew.

Tomoko, “Tonight, you say?” she said to Miho, who stood by the passageway spreading out the cover. “What about you? Your family won’t mind?” “Yes. They won’t mind at all.” When the store entrance closed, Tomoko—the youngest—was at the washstand preparing to leave,

“Oh dear, what should I do? I didn’t bring Sachiko-san’s address,” her voice turned nasal. “I know it, so it’s fine. Is it number 19 in Kanasugi 1-chome?” “I know.” While moving her compact over her water-washed face, Tokie spoke in a voice tinged with mild excitement. Stopping somewhere after work was rare enough for them—visiting a colleague’s home being entirely unprecedented. The three exited through the service entrance clutching tightly wrapped furoshiki bundles containing their lunchboxes against neatly fastened sashes, the fair weather creaking around them.

The train was as crowded as usual, and when the three of them lined up to grab the hanging straps, they could barely manage to stand while avoiding the knees of the seated men. “Even just a little something would be fine—I’d like to buy her something.” Miho said to Tokie, who stood beside her pressing the sleeve of her strap-gripping arm with the hand clutching the furoshiki-wrapped bundle. “Fruit or something—she’d surely be pleased.”

Without speaking further, the three got off at Kanasugi. At a fruit shop right beside the tram stop, they bought navel oranges and apples. Even Tokie—who had insisted "It'll be easy to find once we're there"—found herself as directionless as Tomoko after turning several corners, whereupon Miho entered a liquor store with her characteristically diligent stride and politely inquired. Though spirited by nature, Miho’s personality naturally blended kindness with an unsparing disposition honed through labor since her girlhood—not one to intrude unnecessarily, yet whenever those around her faltered, they inevitably turned to her presence.

After going about two *ken* ahead, Miho, who had been peering into a certain photographer’s alleyway, suppressed the urge to call out loudly and—

“Hey, hey.” Miho beckoned to the others who were lagging behind.

“It’s this side. See? Here.” On the side paneling of the photo studio hung an enamel address plate. This was an alleyway where greengrocers’ stalls, electrical goods stores, and beauty parlors—all struggling businesses that couldn’t afford main street storefronts—had set up shop. Beyond an advertisement sporting red and white billiard balls appeared the dust-filmed display window of a geta shop.

“That must be the place over there.”

“I suppose so.” The three of them naturally slowed their pace and walked while looking that way, but Miho’s face took on a pained expression, and she wiped around her nostrils—where no sweat had formed—with a handkerchief she drew from her sleeve. In the dimly lit back of the shop—where two platforms lined with geta priced at fifteen and thirty sen each stood—a middle-aged man who appeared to be the father was hammering metal replacements for thong straps.

“What should we do?”

Tomoko said in a small voice, as if feeling intimidated. “We came all this way—we might as well go up.”

Tokie entered the shop and said, “Excuse me.”

Tokie said. “Welcome.” The father answered with the practiced courtesy of a small merchant long accustomed to business customers as Tokie— “Excuse me, is Sachiko-san here?”

When she said this, he looked startled, “Sachiko is here, but…” With a movement that suggested he had rearranged his knees, “Well now—” He peered toward Miho and Tomoko, who stood with half their bodies leaning against the side of the display window. Miho greeted him. “Um, we just came to visit—” “That’s very kind of you.” The father,

“Hey, hey.” He called out toward the tearoom visible between the dimly lit geta shelves. “Hey, go tell Sachiko...” A small boy and a girl about three or four years older who appeared to be Sachiko’s younger sibling craned their necks and peered out from the shop entrance.

"Oh, go tell Sis we have visitors."

The father, “It’s rather cramped here… but please, do come in…”

In the shop's earthen floor area were two stools.

“Please have a seat.” “Hey, what’s wrong?”

The back of the shop seemed to have only one room, from which came a stifled voice that sounded like a mother’s: “What is this?! Just snagged this here, and you...” They could hear her talking incessantly. Miho could no longer conceal her pitying expression. “Um, we really just came for a quick visit, so...” she said in a soft, stumbling tone. “Since you’ve come all this way, there’s really no need...”

“No, it’s nothing… Hey, hey.”

With an apologetic air toward them, the mother raised her voice slightly, “Really now… well, what am I supposed to say?”

Sachiko, standing right there in the shadow of belongings, appeared to be crying. There was a sound of her body colliding with the metal ring of a chest. "No! I said no!"

Like a dam bursting forth, Sachiko’s shrill voice, drowned in tears, resounded through the shop. “To have the house seen like this…” There came a violent sob followed by the sound of her desperately rushing out through the back door while still trying to say something more. “What is she doing…”

The father stood up and went, and this time together—

“Oh my, after you went out of your way to come here, that girl…”

The mother came out as well, brushing her disheveled hair with a frantic expression. Tomoko looked dumbfounded, and Miho felt unbearable as the bitter tears stung the bridge of her nose. The three of them secretly placed the fruit package beside where the geta shelf had been tied up and knocked over, bowed repeatedly, and left the place.

When they finally emerged onto the sunlit main street with its glittering streetlamps, Tokie— “What’s happened to Miss Sachiko…” she muttered as if her courage had vanished. “Could she have misunderstood something…”

“But… No way.” “Could she have become hysterical from her illness?” “How terrifying that was!” Miho walked silently toward the bus stop, listening to her companions’ chatter, their footsteps growing ever slower as if weighed down.

V

Miho’s residence was in an area that required returning to Yamashita and transferring streetcars again. Because there were few streetcars, the crowding on this line was terrible. Moreover, as the streetcar wound around the pond through continuous curves, whenever passengers leaned their weight to one side and swayed toward her, Miho—pressed against the metal bar by the exit—felt her chest painfully crushed. Next to Miho was a man around forty, also pressed against the metal bar, who looked like an office worker. He held his briefcase up against the metal bar. The smell of lunchbox liquid seeped from the briefcase and lingered before Miho’s face.

Each time the streetcar violently rounded a curve, they were all jolted this way then flung back that way as they rode packed into the car on their homeward journey. What sorts of homes were each of these people returning to? Miho bitterly recalled with sad irony the song's phrase about "the joyful path home."

On summer nights, when she saw the rows of small houses under the thick expanse of starry sky—their backs visible through like insect cages with lamps lit inside—Miho would invariably find herself contemplating the human lives within them and feeling a peculiar kind of desolation. It was strange that Sachiko had burst into tears and run out like that, but then again, who at the store was exchanging home addresses and visiting each other’s houses? Is there anyone who doesn’t harbor a feeling of not wanting to expose their own home to others? Miho found the self-deprecating feelings she herself harbored to be painfully mortifying, and her underarms became damp with sweat.

Miho got off in front of the garage and climbed the gradual slope to the left. She opened the gate adjoining the hedge behind the ornament shop, “I’m home.” Grandmother Omura stretched up to twist the three-tatami room’s light bulb, “Oh my, you’re back! How late you are!” peering at Miho standing in the earthen-floored entryway. “No matter what happened, I couldn’t settle my mind.” “Since you went to visit an ailing friend…” Miho sat sideways before the six-tatami rectangular brazier and immediately removed her tabi socks. Then she untied her obi and involuntarily—

“Ugh.” She clenched her fist and thumped her calves over her meisen kimono. In the store she had been standing almost continuously, and sitting down on the train at that hour was something she couldn’t even imagine. “You must be hungry.” “I simmered your favorite kuruma shrimp.” “Oh...” “Thank you.” Omura—whose sprightliness at her age would startle those unfamiliar with her—bustled about in brown tabi socks, hanging Miho’s discarded clothes on the clothes pole, tidying the obi, and setting the chabudai table upright beside the charcoal brazier.

“Ah, this is delicious!”

“You can have a decent bite with this for ten sen.” Miho pulled the six-tatami room’s light cord to the lintel and washed the dishes. “Now, go take your bath.” Miho flipped through the magazine she had taken out from a furoshiki bundle.

“Grandma, just leave it be,” she said.

“I’m quitting today. It’s just gotten too bothersome.”

“A young woman like you—but Miho-chan, you’ve got such delicate skin! If you’d just take proper baths, you’d always stay truly clean.” “And such splendid hair too…”

Since Miho didn’t respond, Grandmother Omura meticulously gathered everything down to the rice bran bag, changed into her haori, and went to the bath. Until Miho’s father—having suffered a major setback in the Taisho 7–8 market crash that scattered the family—began working at an insurance company in his wife’s rural hometown, Grandmother Omura had taken pleasure and pride in visiting her late husband’s former colleague’s home during Bon festivals and year-end holidays, wearing her crested haori; the colleague now stood prominent in business circles. As Grandmother Omura gazed at Miho—who had graduated with honors from higher elementary school, possessed a slender figure, and maintained a good reputation at work—even scenarios like those sensationalized in newspapers of beautiful department store clerks catching some family’s second son’s eye were not beyond her imagination.

When she was alone, Miho stretched out her legs, leaned her head against the chest of drawers, and sank into thought while wearing the cool, sharp-eyed expression that characterized her upper eyelids. The fact that Miho was a model employee at the store was not because she considered the store some supreme place, content with her circumstances and becoming a good girl within them.

Within Miho’s heart persisted a constant question: Is life supposed to be like this? Is this all there is? The instinctive doubt that perhaps this was all there should be persisted. Driven by these unanswered questions that clung persistently to her heart—questions for which she could find no answers—she threw herself earnestly into the work assigned to her, as if seeking solutions through sheer diligence. At the store, even for the same work, graduates of girls' schools received one yen and ten sen, while those who only completed elementary school got eighty sen—such were the set rates. No matter how she worked, would those set rates remain unchanged? That sentiment was there as well.

Miho, who hadn't become a model employee for that purpose either, still found each day dreary, and on rare days off would sometimes spend the whole day burrowing into the futon, reading books without uttering a single word to Omura.

The six-tatami veranda had its rain shutters closed, with about two orchid pots her father had left behind placed there. The clear sound of the front decoration shop’s craftsman lightly and rapidly tapping some metal came through between the notes of a shamisen playing on a radio further away. The massage therapist’s flute sound drifted down the slope; though the district had been bustling in the morning, evening came early, bringing a heartrending quietness to the backstreets at night.

In Miho’s mind floated the face of today’s last customer—the woman with the high-pompadour hairstyle. And then, through various imaginings and associations, she recalled the novel Osaka Inn. The author’s parents’ home being famous and their status as store patrons had led someone to bring in that rather old book. Through the perspective of a character named Mita, the novel’s author vehemently argued his distaste for these young ladies of the ‘young miss’ class—how they remained utterly sheltered by their parents yet put on airs despite their own lack of capability, how he despised their hollow pretensions. Yet it was written in crisp prose that questioned what exactly was sophisticated or refined about geishas who carried themselves as if their families had wallowed in luxury for generations. As Mita, the protagonist, grew deeply fond of an unconventional, modest working woman he regularly encountered during his commute, these matters came to be depicted.

Miho, owing to the nature of the store, saw many people of the class referred to as noblewomen and young ladies. All the more so, what was being said struck home perfectly. There was a faint sense of reassurance, as though broader segments of society were beginning to properly acknowledge their way of life. After that, the novelist got married—there was talk about how the bride-to-be had brought dozens of obi alone as part of her trousseau. By all accounts, during a sudden downpour he had seen that young lady walking drenched from head to toe without sparing any particular thought for her attire, and been struck by her demeanor.

Miho could understand how a man might find such a woman intriguing. Still, for someone who brings dozens of obi alone, what significance could there be in wearing a kimono modest enough to walk streets without carriages? Getting soaking wet like that must have been nothing more than a youthful diversion. The heart that chooses as wife a girl magnanimous through being so sheltered she needn’t trouble herself with petty vanities; the heart drawn instead to a modest working girl. Both were, from this person’s perspective, preferences exercised through freedom to choose among women. Sensing an upper-class arrogance manifesting in this folded-back manner, Miho felt repulsion within herself and couldn’t join the store others in their curiosity-driven chatter.

Miho took out quince candy from the old tea cabinet and nibbled on it while flipping through a magazine covered in kraft paper. As she looked at the Esperanto class advertisement printed there, her sharp mouth corners began relaxing in an unmistakably amused manner.

About two years ago, Miho was assigned to the cosmetics department at the store. What they handled there was almost entirely imported goods. With so many specialized French terms involved—to memorize the names of face powders and perfumes—Miho had to create katakana-written cards and recite them during her train commute. From both this difficulty and the overwhelming monotony of daily life, she found herself thinking she might as well try studying French properly. Miho went to a well-known language institute in Kanda. She completed the beginner-level enrollment procedures at the reception desk. A somewhat pretentious young man wearing black office cuffs placed a small furoshiki-wrapped bundle at the counter and turned toward Miho, who stood there flushed and unfamiliar with the situation.

“Your name?” he asked. “Um, I’m Takahama Miho, but…” “Is it Madame or Mademoiselle?” “………………” Miho didn’t fully understand what he meant and hesitated, but she bent slightly at the waist and answered earnestly. “Um, either is fine, though…” When she recalled her answer from that time, Miho burst out laughing alone. The clerk in charge initially looked surprised, but soon grinned slyly and,

“Well then, we’ll go with Mademoiselle.”

Having to practice pronunciation by moving her tongue and mouth in various ways felt both awkward and embarrassing to Miho. Moreover, between the image of herself being addressed as "Mademoiselle Takahama" with affectedly lilting pronunciation while staring sweatily at French textbooks, and the reality of a lunchbox-tied existence hidden in her desk, she gradually came to sense an inexplicable dissonance—until she ceased attending after some three months.

Miho now knew the distinction between Madame and Mademoiselle, but if asked again in that way, she still felt—as part of a working woman’s sensibility—that impulse to laugh and say either would do. For a while longer, Miho continued gazing at the Esperanto class advertisement with a friendly look, but then her expression grew more focused as she began reading the workplace newsletter printed several pages back.