Pathway to Japanese Literature

I stood motionless,

When I pondered,

All things resembled stories, (Nagatsugu Ikuta)

Well, what kind of novel should I write?
I live amidst a flood of stories.
If I had become an actor, it would have been better.
I can even sketch my own sleeping face.

Even if I died, there existed someone sorrowful who would beautifully make up my death face.
K would do that for me.

K was two years older than me, making her thirty-two this year.

Should I tell of K?

Although K and I shared no blood relation, from childhood she had shuttled between her home and mine until we became like family.
Now K too had come to think like me: “I wish I’d never been born.”
Within ten years of my birth, I had already seen the most beautiful thing in this world.
Whenever I died—and I would die—there would be no regrets.
Yet K lived.
She lived for her child.
And she lived for me.

“K, you must hate me, don’t you?”

“Ah,”
K solemnly nodded.
“There are even times I think it’d be better if you died.”

So very many of my family members had died.
The oldest sister died at twenty-six.
Father died at fifty-three.
The youngest brother died at sixteen.
The third brother died at twenty-seven.
This year, the next sister died at thirty-four.
My nephew died at twenty-five, my cousin at twenty-one—both of whom had been attached to me—and yet they too died in succession this year.

“If there’s truly a reason you must die, then tell me. I may not be able to do anything, but let’s talk it through together.”
“Even one word a day would be enough.”
“Even if it takes a month—even two months—that’s fine.”
“Stay and spend time with me.”
“Even if you still can’t find a way to go on living—no, even then—you mustn’t die alone.”
“When that time comes, we’ll all die together.”
“Those left behind would be pitiable.”
“You there—do you know the depth of love harbored by those who have resigned themselves?”

And so, K lived on.

This year in late autumn, I visited K, wearing a checkered hunting cap that gleamed brightly.
When I whistled three times, K quietly opened the back gate and came out.

“How much?”
“It’s not money.”
K peered into my face.

“Did you want to die?”

“Yeah.”

K lightly bit her lower lip.

“When this time of year comes around, every year without fail, you seem to lose your will to go on.”
“Is the cold getting to you?”
“Aren’t you wearing a coat?”
“Oh my, you’re barefoot.”

“They say this sort of thing is stylish.”
“Who told you that?”

I sighed. “No one told me.”

K also let out a small sigh.

“Isn’t there someone good?”

I smiled.

“I want to travel with K, just the two of us.”

K nodded earnestly.

She knew.
Everyone understood.
K took me on a journey.
She mustn't let this child die.

That very midnight, the two boarded the train.
The train started moving, and both K and I finally felt some inexplicable relief.

“What about your novel?”

“I can’t write.”

The sound of the train in pitch darkness went clackety-clack, clackety-clack, clackety-clack-clack.

“Want a smoke?”

K took out three different kinds of foreign cigarettes from her handbag, one after another.

Once, I wrote such a novel.
Once, I wrote a novel in which a protagonist who had resolved to die, in his final moments, tried smoking a single highly fragrant foreign cigarette—and because of that faint glimmer of joy, he reconsidered death.
K knew it.

I blushed.
Even so, pretentiously feigning composure, I tried smoking each of the three kinds of foreign cigarettes impartially, one by one in order.

In Yokohama, K bought sandwiches.

“Not eating?”

K deliberately ate crudely, making a show of heartily devouring the food herself.

I too calmly took a bite of the sandwich. It tasted salty.

“The mere act of speaking a single word makes me feel like I’m causing everyone pain—like I’m pointlessly tormenting them. It would be better to just stay silent and smile, but I’m a writer. Because I’m a writer who can’t survive without saying something, it becomes quite a struggle.
I cannot even love a single flower properly.
Merely cherishing a faint scent is something I simply cannot endure.
I snap it off like a sudden gust, place it on my palm, pluck its petals, then crush it to pieces, weep uncontrollably, shove it between my lips, chew it to pulp, spit it out, stomp on it with geta clogs, then find myself at a loss with myself.
I want to kill myself.
I might not be human.
I’ve really come to think that way lately.
Am I not, you know, Satan?
Sesshōseki.
Poisonous mushroom.
Surely you’re not going to call me Yoshida Palace.
But I’m a man, after all.”

“Hard to say.”
K made a stern face.

"K hates me. She hates my people-pleasing ways. Ah, I see now. K believes in my strength. She overestimates my talent. And she doesn’t know about my efforts—those foolish, unseen efforts. Peel off layer after layer of a rakkyo, down to its core, and find nothing. There must be something—there has to be—and clinging to that belief, I peel another rakkyo’s layers, strip them away, only to find emptiness again. Do you understand this monkey’s sorrow? To indiscriminately love everyone means loving no one at all."

K pulled my sleeve.
My voice was unusually high-pitched.

I said with a laugh, “Here too lies my fate.”

Yugawara.
We alighted.

Disembarked.

“The idea that there’s nothing—that’s a lie.”
K said as she changed into the inn’s cotton robe.
“The pattern of this robe—these blue stripes—aren’t they beautiful?”

“Ah,”
I was tired.
“The earlier rakkyo talk?”

“Yes,”
K changed clothes and settled quietly right beside me.
“You do not believe in the present. Can you believe in this very moment?”

K laughed with childlike innocence and peered into my face.

“The moment isn’t anyone’s sin.
“It’s no one’s responsibility.”
“I know that.”
I sat properly on the cushion like a master, arms crossed.

"But for me, that does not become life’s joy. Only the purity of death’s final moment can I believe in.
"But the moments of joy in this world—"

“Are you frightened of what comes after?”

K was getting a little worked up.

“I simply can’t manage the aftermath.”
“Fireworks vanish in an instant, yet this body won’t die—it just keeps lingering on forever in all its wretchedness.”
“If only when I saw that beautiful aurora, my flesh could burn away completely without a trace—that would bring salvation. But such grace isn’t granted.”

“How utterly spineless.”

“Ah, enough! I’m sick of words.”
“Anything can be argued.”
“Ask an advocate of moments about moments.”
“They take me by the hand and show me.”
“Everyone boasts about their own seasoning method.”
“It’s seasoning for life.”
“Whether one lives in memories, surrenders to this very moment, or—clings to future hopes, perhaps it’s from such choices that the distinction between human foolishness and cleverness unexpectedly arises.”

“Are you a fool?”

“Cut it out, K. There’s no such thing as fools or the wise. We’re worse.”

“Tell me!”

“Bourgeois.”

And that too—fallen bourgeois.
We live only in memories of sin.

The two of them, thoroughly disillusioned, hurriedly stood up, took their hand towels, and went down to the large bathhouse downstairs.

We vowed not to speak of the past or tomorrow.
In silence, we firmly pledged to preserve this moment—this moment steeped in passion—and both I and K proceeded.
We must not speak of family circumstances.
We must not speak of personal suffering.
We must not speak of tomorrow's terror.
We must not speak of people's ulterior motives.
We must not speak of yesterday's shame.
Praying, "Let there be stillness—if only for this moment," the two of them quietly washed themselves.

“K, there’s a scar around here on my stomach, don’t you think? This is my appendicitis scar.”

K smiled gently, like a mother.

“Even your legs are long, K, but mine—see how much longer they are? Off-the-rack pants just don’t work for me.
“A man who’s inconvenient in every way.”

K gazed at the dark window.

“Hey, isn’t there a phrase like ‘good evil deeds’?”

“Good evil deeds.”
I murmured rapturously.

“Rain?”

K suddenly pricked up her ears.

“It’s a mountain stream.”
“It’s flowing right below here.”

When morning came, the bathhouse window was filled with maple leaves. Right before my nose stood a mountain so high it made me gasp.

"Do you come here often?"

"No. Once."

“To die?”

“That’s right.”

“Did you have fun back then?”

“I didn’t play.”

“What about tonight?”
K kept a straight face.

I laughed.
“Oh, so that’s your ‘good evil deed,’ K?”
“Oh.”
“I also—”
“What.”

“I thought you were going to die with me,” I said with resolve.

“Ah,”
This time, K laughed.
“There’s also the phrase ‘wicked good deeds,’ you know.”

As they climbed each step of the bathhouse's long staircase—step by step, slowly, slowly—good evil deeds, wicked good deeds, good evil deeds, wicked good deeds...

They called a geisha.

"When the two of us are together, it's dangerous—we might commit a love suicide. So tonight, please stay awake and keep watch," she said.
"If Death comes, drive him away."

When K delivered this seriously,

"Understood," replied the geisha.
"Should the worst come to pass, we could always make it a triple suicide."

They lit a twisted paper cord and began the game—name the designated thing before the flame dies out and pass it along.
Something utterly useless.
Here.

“A clog broken on one side.”

“A horse that doesn’t walk.”

“A torn shamisen.”

“A camera that doesn’t take pictures.”

“A light bulb that won’t light.”

“A plane that doesn’t fly.”

“And then—”

“Hurry, hurry.”

“Truth.”

“Huh?”

“Truth.”

“How uncouth.”
“Then, patience.”

“It’s so difficult,” she said. “My hardship.”

“Ambition.”

“Decadence.”

“The weather from the day before yesterday.”

“Me.”
It was K.

“Me.”

“Then I’ll also—me.” The fire went out.
It was the geisha’s loss.

“But it’s so hard.”
The geisha was genuinely relaxing.

“K, you’re joking, right? Truth, ambition, even K herself—it’s a joke to say they’re useless, right?” Even a man like me—as long as I was alive—was thrashing about, desperate to live splendidly somehow. “You’re a fool.”

“Welcome back.”
K stiffened.
“Do you want to parade your seriousness—your earnest anguish—before everyone like this?”

The geisha’s beauty was lacking.

“I’m going back.”
“To Tokyo.”
“Give me money.”
“Back.”
I stood up and removed my padded robe.

K was crying while looking up at my face. She was crying while maintaining a faint smile.

I did not want to go back.
No one would stop me.
Enough! Let me die, let me die.
I changed into a kimono and put on tabi socks.

I left the inn.
I ran.

I stopped on the bridge and gazed at the white mountain stream flowing below.
I thought I was a fool.
Idiot, idiot, I thought.

“I’m sorry.”
K was standing quietly behind.

“You should moderate this compassion of yours—this endless fretting over people.”
I burst into tears.

When I returned to the inn, two beds had been laid out.
I took a dose of Veronal and immediately pretended to sleep.
After a while, K quietly got up and took a dose of the same medicine.

The next day, I drifted in and out of sleep in bed until past noon.
K got up first and opened one of the corridor’s rain shutters.
It was raining.

I also got up and, without speaking to K, went down to the bathhouse alone.

Last night’s matters are last night’s matters.
Last night’s matters are last night’s matters.
While forcibly convincing myself, I swam lightly around the wide bath.

I crawled out of the bath, opened the window, and looked down at the white mountain stream winding and flowing below.

A cold hand touched my back.
Naked K stood there.

“Wagtail.”
K pointed to a small bird moving on a rock along the bank of the mountain stream.
“To compare wagtails to walking sticks—what lazy poets they must be.”
“That wagtail is far more austere, far more admirably earnest—fundamentally, it doesn’t concern itself with trivialities like humans.”

I had been thinking that too.

K slid her body into the bath,

“Maple leaves are such showy flowers, aren’t they?”

“Last night, —”
When I faltered,

“Did you sleep?”
K’s eyes, as she asked with guileless focus, were limpid as lake water.

I plunged into the bath with a splash. “As long as K is alive, I won’t die.”

“Is being bourgeois a bad thing?”

“They’re contemptible,” I thought.
“Loneliness, suffering, gratitude—all just affectations.
Self-indulgent.
Living on nothing but pride.”

“Caring only about others’ gossip,”
K smoothly stepped out of the bath and briskly dried herself while saying, “You think your body exists there.”

“For the rich to enter heaven—”
I began as a joke but was sharply cut short.
“Ordinary happiness seems rather difficult.”

K was drinking black tea in the salon.

Perhaps because of the rain, the salon was bustling.

“If this trip ends safely,”
I sat down next to K in a chair by the window overlooking the mountains.
“Should I give K something?”

“Cross.”
As she murmured this, K’s neck appeared slender and fragile.

“Ah, milk.”
After instructing the maid, I said, “K, you’re still angry, aren’t you? Last night, when I said something as crude as going home—that was just an act. I—I might be stage-addicted. Once a day, I have to put on some kind of—how should I say—pretentious airs, or I just can’t settle down. I can’t go on living. Even now, sitting here like this, I’m putting on airs to death.”

“What about love?”

“There was even a night I ended up heartbroken because I couldn’t stop worrying about the tear in my tabi socks.”

“Hey, how’s my face?”
K brought her face squarely close.

“What do you mean, ‘how’?”
I grimaced.

“Pretty?” she asked as if appraising a stranger. “Do I look young?”

I wanted to strike her.

“K, are you that lonely?”
“K, remember this.”
“K is the virtuous wife and mother, while I’m just some delinquent—human scum.”

“You’re the only one who—”
Just as she began to speak, the maid arrived with milk.
“Ah, thanks.”

“To suffer is freedom.”
I sipped the hot milk. “To rejoice is also one’s freedom.”

“Yet I’m not free.”
“Neither applies.”

I let out a deep sigh.

“K, there are five or six men behind us. Which one do you like?”

Four young people who seemed to be employees were playing mahjong.
Two middle-aged men were reading newspapers while drinking whiskey soda.

“The middle one.”
K gazed at the mist flowing across the mountain faces, wiping their surfaces as it drifted, and murmured slowly.

When I turned to look, another young man was now standing in the middle of the salon, hands tucked into his sleeves, gazing at the chrysanthemum arrangement in the right corner of the entrance.

"Chrysanthemums are difficult," she said.
K had once held a respectable position in a certain school of ikebana.

“Ah, old, old.
“That guy’s profile—doesn’t it look just like Brother Shosuke?
“Hamlet.”
That brother had died at twenty-seven.
He’d been skilled in sculpture.

“It’s just that I don’t know that many other men, you see.”
K looked embarrassed.

Extra edition.

The maid went around handing them out one by one to everyone.
——Eighty-nine days since the incident began.
Shanghai Encirclement Fully Accomplished.
Enemy forces routed; total retreat on all fronts.

K glanced briefly at the extra edition,

“And you?”

“Class C.”

“I’m Class A, then.”
K burst into laughter with startling loudness.
“I wasn’t looking at the mountains, you know.
“Look, I was watching the shapes of these raindrops right before my eyes.
“Each one has its own character, you see.
“Some drop with pompous plops; others fall impatiently while staying slender; some descend pretentiously with high-pitched plinks; still others flutter down listlessly at the wind’s mercy—”

Both K and I were completely exhausted.
By the time we left Yugawara and arrived in Atami that day, the town was shrouded in evening mist, and the lights of the houses flickered dimly, casting an uneasy air.

After arriving at the inn, we decided to take a stroll before dinner. Borrowing two oil-paper umbrellas from the inn, we went out to see the beach.
Beneath the rainy sky, the sea heaved listlessly, sending up cold spray that scattered through the air.
It felt graceless and resigned.

When we looked back at the town, there were only sparse lights scattered here and there,

"When I was a child,"
K stopped walking and spoke.
"Don't you remember taking a needle to poke holes in a picture postcard, then holding it up to lamplight? The Western mansion, forest, and warship on that postcard would light up with beautiful illumination—don't you recall that?"

“I’ve seen this kind of scenery...” I said in a deliberately dull tone.
“I’ve seen this in a magic lantern show.
“Everything was hazy and blurred.”

We walked slowly along the coastal road.
"It's cold, isn't it?
We should have come out right after getting in the bath."

“We really don’t have anything left to want anymore, do we.”

“Ah, I’ve already received everything from Father.”

“Your desire to die—”
K squatted down, wiping mud from bare feet. “I know.”

“We,”
I acted spoiled like a twelve- or thirteen-year-old boy.
“Why can’t I manage to live on my own?
Even if I ran a fish shop, it’d be fine.”

“No one will let me do it. They take such spitefully good care of us.”

“That’s right, K.”
“I want to do some rather vulgar things myself, but everyone just laughs and—”
The figure of a person fishing caught my eye.
“Maybe I should just spend my whole life fishing and live like a fool.”

“You can’t.”
“You understand the hearts of fish too well.”

The two laughed.

“You mostly understand, right?”
“The fact that I am Satan.”
“The fact that everyone I’ve ever loved ends up ruined.”

“I don’t see it that way.”
“Nobody hates you.”
“Pseudo-villainous affectation.”

“Naive?”

“Ah, like this shrine’s stone monument.”
By the roadside stood a stone monument to Konjiki Yasha.

“I’ll say the simplest thing.”
“K, this is serious.”
“Are you listening?”
“Me,—”

“Stop it!”
“I know already!”

“Really?”

“I know everything.”
“I know I’m an illegitimate child too.”

“K.
“We—”

“Ah, look out!”
K shielded my body.

With a violent ripping sound, K’s umbrella was snatched by the bus wheels, then her body—pale and straight like a diver’s plunge—was dragged in a single line beneath them, the vehicle spinning round like some grotesque flower.

“Stop!
Stop!”

With the sensation of having my skull smashed by a log, I flew into a rage.
I kicked the side of the bus that had finally stopped with all my strength.
K lay beneath the bus, as beautiful as a bellflower battered by the rain.
This woman is an unfortunate person.

“Don’t anyone touch her!”

I picked up the unconscious K and cried out loud.

I carried K on my back to the nearby hospital.
K was crying in a small voice, saying, "It hurts, it hurts."
K stayed at the hospital for two days and then returned home by car with the people from her household who had rushed over.

I returned alone by train.

K’s injuries didn’t seem to be anything serious.
Day by day, she was recovering.

Three days ago, I had some business in Shimbashi and on my way back walked through Ginza.
Suddenly noticing a silver cross in a shop’s display window, I entered the store and purchased not the silver cross but a single bronze ring from the shelf.
That night there was a small amount of money in my pocket that I had just received from the magazine company.
The bronze ring had a narcissus flower adorned with a yellow stone.
I sent it to K.

K sent me a photograph of her eldest daughter who turned three this year in return.
This morning, I saw that photograph.