Pathway to Japanese Literature

1 As the Lunar New Year drew near, in this small village abundant with bamboo groves, every evening one could hear the sound of the tsuzumi drum and the kokyū’s voice that seemed to sob. Among the villagers, those skilled at the tsuzumi and kokyū would practice. And when the Lunar New Year finally arrived, those people would form pairs of two—one carrying the tsuzumi drum, another holding a kokyū—and set off on their journey. The skilled ones would go as far as Tokyo or Osaka and not return for a month. There were also those who ventured out to the cold mountainous regions of Shinshu. Those who weren’t very skilled or couldn’t travel far went to towns not too distant from the village. Even so, it was three ri.

At each town gate, the kokyū player would stand playing his instrument while the tayū holding the tsuzumi drum clapped it rhythmically with his palm and sang out in a loud voice. It was a song whose meaning remained utterly incomprehensible, concluding with them singing, "Well, a Happy New Year to you!" Then, most households would hand out a one-sen copper coin. As it was the kokyū player's role to receive these, the kokyū's voice would fall silent only while he accepted the coins. Occasionally there were houses that gave them a large two-sen copper coin. On such occasions they would sing their song longer than usual.

Kinoshige, who had turned twelve this year, had loved the sound of the kokyū since childhood. Whenever he heard that voice—playful yet sorrowful—Kinoshige would feel an indescribable rapture. He had long wanted to learn the kokyū, but his father wouldn’t permit it. It was only this year, upon turning twelve, that permission was finally granted. Kinoshige thus began attending lessons every evening at the home of a cattle herder skilled in the kokyū. In those days before electric lights, an oil lamp hung from the soot-blackened ceiling of the herder’s small house, and beneath it Kinoshige played his beloved instrument under the man’s instruction.

The Lunar New Year finally arrived. Kinoshige formed a pair with his cousin Matsujirō and set out from the village. As Matsujirō was the tayū performer, he wore a black kimono with a large painting of a rising sun and cranes on its back, striped ogura hakama trousers, a black-lacquered eboshi hat, and carried a tsuzumi drum in his hand. Kinoshige wore his formal attire with hakama trousers, hung a bundle of rice balls at his waist, and carried his kokyū. Matsujirō, having gone on door-to-door New Year’s performances about twice before, was perfectly calm, but Kinoshige, experiencing it for the first time, felt a peculiar mix of embarrassment, pride, and anxiety. Before leaving the village, every time he encountered someone he knew, his face would flush crimson, and he wished he had wrapped the kokyū in a large cloth instead. That was the fine kokyū his father had splurged to buy for him.

As the two left the village and approached the mountain pass, a carriage bound for town came rattling noisily up behind them. When he saw this, Matsujirō muttered, "Perfect." "Let’s ride that thing," he said. Kinoshige did not have any coins, so

“I don’t have a single coin,” he said. “You idiot, we’re gonna hitch a ride!” he said. The carriage approached, the clattering of its iron-rimmed wheels resounding noisily around. As always, the deaf old man sat on the driver’s platform. That was the carriage that ran twice daily from a seaside town about five ri west of Kinoshige’s village, passing through Kinoshige’s village to the eastern town. Kinoshige and Matsujirō stepped aside to the roadside and let the carriage pass.

Attached to the back of the carriage was a small board for passengers to step on when boarding or alighting. Matsujirō skillfully jumped onto it and sat down facing backward. There was no longer any room left for Kinoshige, so he had to run after the carriage. Since he was carrying his kokyū and the road was uphill, Kinoshige ran while huffing and puffing, but he didn’t need to run far. The carriage came to an abrupt halt before it had gone even half a block. Matsujirō hurriedly jumped down. The old driver, his eyes peering out from under his hooded happi coat, came down holding his whip.

“I didn’t know! I didn’t know!” Matsujirō shouted, clutching his head. But the old man was stone deaf and couldn’t hear a thing. Through years of experience, he had learned that even a single child boarding the rear plate would make it feel noticeably heavier when upright. “You idiot!” he said, giving Matsujirō a light tap above the ear with the handle of his whip. Then he climbed back onto the driver’s seat and drove away.

Matsujirō faced the back of the carriage and flipped his tongue out impudently,

“Damn old man’s stone deaf!” he chanted in a singsong voice, rhythmically beating his drum. Then he started laughing along with Kinoshige.

The two of them had walked three ri and entered the town around ten in the morning.

II

Starting from the gate of the mochi shop at the town entrance, moving from one house to the next, the two played their kokyū and sang their songs as they went. At the very first mochi shop, Kinoshige messed up. A kokyū player was supposed to abruptly start playing his instrument noisily while crossing the threshold and entering, but Kinoshige, unaware of this,

“Excuse me,” he said as he entered. The old woman at the mochi shop, because of that, mistook Kinoshige for a customer who had come to buy mochi,

“Welcome, welcome! What can I get for you?” she replied. As Kinoshige stood flustered and fidgeting, Matsujirō—accustomed to such situations—startled everyone with his booming voice. While shouting “Akemashite omedetō,” he struck two rapid drumbeats in quick succession, saving the situation. The old woman took out a one-sen copper coin from the coin box. Kinoshige stopped playing the kokyū, accepted it, and slipped it into his sleeve.

When they stepped outside, Matsujirō laughed at Kinoshige and said, “You’re such an idiot.” “Should’ve just walked right in without sayin’ a thing.” After that, Kinoshige managed properly. Most houses gave a one-sen coin. Some gave half a sen. There were those who grudgingly gave blue-rusted coins full of holes. When Kinoshige received a two-sen copper piece, it felt ridiculously heavy. He clutched it tight in his palm until outside, then carefully opened his hand to show Matsujirō. The two exchanged looks and smiled.

It was now a little past noon. Kinoshige's sleeve grew so heavy that it thudded against his side. A thin layer of white sand dust settled on their straw sandal-clad feet. Having walked a considerable distance since morning, they were hungry, but couldn't find a suitable place to eat their lunch. When Matsujirō suggested going to an empty lot he said was up ahead, they followed him there only to find a splendid new house standing with wood still fresh in scent.

When they decided there was no help for it—since you can’t win a battle on an empty stomach—and resolved to duck into an alleyway to eat in the shadow of a house, the two happened to pass before a residence with an imposing gate. There stood a splendid kadomatsu New Year decoration, and on one of the gateposts hung a wooden placard bearing the large characters “Miso Storehouse.” The estate, enclosed by black plank fences, was vast, with three storehouse-like structures standing within. “Oh, here it is! This place gave us five sen last year!” exclaimed Matsujirō. So they decided they would eat their lunch after finishing one more house there.

As Kinoshige took the lead and entered, A low growl rumbled through the air. Kinoshige froze. He had always detested dogs. "Matsu-san, please go in first," Kinoshige pleaded with Matsujirō. "If the kokyū doesn't lead the way, how're we supposed to do this right?" Matsujirō shot back. Even Matsujirō must have been scared. Kinoshige crept toward the entrance like someone treading on a tiger's tail—only for his feet to halt again of their own accord. Beneath the entrance's water bucket crouched a large red dog, its eyes fixed on them.

“Matsu-san, go on ahead,” Kinoshige pleaded tearfully. “Idiot! The kokyū’s gotta go first!” Matsujirō snapped—though his own eyes remained fixed on the dog in terror.

The two of them considered turning back. Yet abandoning those five sen seemed too regrettable. There, Kinoshige mustered his courage and took a single step forward. Then the dog abruptly flipped its tail from where it had been lying on the right side over to the left. Once again, Kinoshige found himself unable to move.

They wanted the five sen and were terrified of the dog, so as they stood there at a loss, someone approached from behind. The man—who appeared to be a servant of the house—wore a happi coat. When he saw Kinoshige and the others,

“Young door-to-door performers, eh? What’s wrong—scared of the dog?” he said with a good-natured laugh. The dog, upon seeing the man, heaved itself up and wagged its tail about three times. The man petted the dog’s head while, “There there, Tora. Good boy, good boy,” he said to the dog, then turned toward Kinoshige and the others.

“This dog’s gentle, so don’t you worry. Don’t hold back now—come on in,” he urged. “Old man—make sure you’ve got ’im tight,” Matsujirō urged. “Yeah, got it,” the old man replied. Tora—what a fearsome name. The old man said he was gentle, but that must be a lie, Kinoshige thought as he stepped through the grand, wide entrance. In the front stood a folding screen, with a ceremonial tray placed before it—a spacious, old-fashioned yet beautiful entrance. The sounds of the kokyū and tsuzumi resonated beautifully, seeming to be drawn deep into the house, and even Kinoshige himself felt pleased.

A man who seemed to be the master of the house—his hair streaked with white and with a kindly appearance—emerged from behind the folding screen, and upon seeing Kinoshige and Matsujirō, smiled gently as he— “Well, you’re both just children,” he said.

III Kinoshige, determined not to be seen as a child unworthy of even five sen, poured even more heart into his kokyū playing.

When they finished a piece, the master—

“Take a little break,” he said. He had an oddly familiar manner about him. Matsujirō had come last year and knew the place, but since this was Kinoshige’s first time, he felt a peculiar sensation. The only one who had ever told them to take a break in such an easygoing way—as if speaking to friends—was this man. Kinoshige stood frozen in a daze. I wonder if he isn’t going to give us five sen. I wonder if I’m bad at the kokyū. “I feel like this lad came last year too,” he said (glancing at Kinoshige), “but the little one here’s new this year, isn’t he?”

Kinoshige found it galling to be perceived as small, so he subtly stood taller on tiptoe to avoid notice. “Where did you come from?” Matsujirō gave the name of their village.

“I see. You set out this morning?” “Yeah.”

“Have you eaten lunch?” “Not yet,” Matsujirō blurted out alone. “We got our lunch packed but ain’t got no place to eat it.” “Then have your meal here. I’ll give you something tasty.” Matsujirō squirmed uneasily. I wonder when he’ll give us the five sen, Kinoshige thought. While the two still wavered undecided, the master settled matters himself. “Wait here a spell,” he said before vanishing into the interior.

Before long, a fair-skinned, narrow-eyed maid who looked mean-spirited emerged from the back carrying a large tray in her hands, but even then, the two of them remained frozen in the dirt-floored entryway, at a loss over what to do.

The maid set the dish down on the step platform with a haughty air, “Eat up,” she said curtly, stepping back slightly and continuing to stand there as she looked down at them with a sidelong glance. The plate was filled with what looked like delicious kelp rolls, sweet dried sardines, and various other dishes. “Let’s take up the invitation,” said Matsujirō. Kinoshige had also grown hungry, so he nodded emphatically and quietly placed his kokyū—bow included—in a corner of the step platform, whereupon the maid shot a sharp glance at the instrument.

Matsujirō and Kinoshige, wishing the maid would hurry up and leave, sat down on the step platform and untied the cloth bundles around their waists. From within appeared rice balls wrapped in bamboo sheaths. The maid shot a sharp sidelong glance at those as well. Once they began eating, both the rice balls and the feast were so delicious that they paid no mind to the maid and stuffed their mouths noisily. The maid had been watching them fixedly but apparently could no longer endure it,

“My, what filthy feet,” she said. While eating, Matsujirō and Kinoshige looked at their own feet and found it was exactly as the maid had said. They wore straw sandals over dark blue tabi socks, now completely white with dust. The two boys had no choice but to silently pick up pieces of the feast with their hands and eat. “My, just like beggars.” After a short while, the maid spoke again in a piercing voice. While using his tongue tip to remove rice grains stuck between his fingers, Kinoshige looked at Matsujirō and saw he indeed appeared as shabbily unkempt as a beggar’s child, exactly as the maid had said. Matsujirō too looked at Kinoshige and thought the same.

“My, how you eat—just like pigs.” When Kinoshige opened his mouth to eat the fifth rice ball, the maid spoke again. Kinoshige, thinking she was absolutely right, took a big bite. “You’ve got earwax built up in there.” After a short while, the maid spoke again. When Kinoshige looked into Matsujirō’s ear, sure enough, grimy wax had accumulated there. Matsujirō, for his part, noticed that grime had accumulated in Kinoshige’s ear as well. When the thudding of footsteps echoed from beyond the screen partition, the maid swiftly spun around and disappeared somewhere, and in her place appeared the kind master from earlier.

“How was it? Delicious?” the master asked as he crouched down beside them. As Matsujirō thumped his chest with his fist to dislodge what was stuck, the master muttered, “Oh, she didn’t bring the tea? But I told her to.” At that moment, the maid brought tea, placed it there with an air of composure, and withdrew once more. “That’s a big rice ball. How many did you bring?” said the master, looking at the one remaining rice ball that belonged to Kinoshige. “Six,” answered Kinoshige. To Kinoshige, this man with half-gray hair now felt even more approachable than before.

When Kinoshige and the others finished eating and bowed their heads with a “Thank you for the meal,” the master continued asking them various questions—where they planned to go next, their family’s trade, what they wanted to become when they grew up. He praised Kinoshige’s kokyū playing as exceptionally skilled. Kinoshige felt happy. “Next time you come, practice harder so you can play more boldly and let me hear all kinds of songs,” said the master, to which Kinoshige replied, “Right.” Then the master rummaged through the depths of his sleeve, pulled out two twisted paper bundles, and gave one to each of them.

The two of them exited through the gate and immediately opened the paper to look. Ten-sen coins appeared one by one.

4

Kinoshige went to town to play the kokyū every New Year as it came. Whenever he went, he would pass through that gate bearing the large wooden signboard that read "Miso Storehouse". The master always welcomed Kinoshige unfailingly and treated him to a feast.

Because Kinoshige loved the kokyū with his whole being, he gradually grew more skilled. At first he learned pieces from the Cattle Herder, but soon mastered all five songs the herder knew—indeed, Kinoshige came to play them more skillfully. So he stopped visiting the Cattle Herder’s house for lessons and instead sought out those who knew different pieces. Whenever he heard of skilled kokyū players in neighboring villages—whether the next one over or two or three beyond—he would finish his daytime work early, make his way there, and earnestly plead to learn new songs to bring back. In time Kinoshige took a wife and had children, but when his nighttime kokyū practice disturbed their sleep, he would go to the pine grove south of the village and play beneath the bright moon. To the villagers, its unhurried tones seemed to be earnestly telling some tale.

But the years flowed by. When a certain year’s Lunar New Year arrived and Kinoshige resolved to go perform door-to-door with Matsujirō once more, he visited Matsujirō’s house the night before—only to find him soaking in the bath, whereupon Matsujirō declared: “Door-to-door New Year’s performances ain’t in fashion these days.” “Reckon we oughta quit this year.” “Up till five-six years back, even them Tokyo-bound folks came home with coin to spare after fares—but last year? Hell’s bells, they couldn’t even cover their travel costs.”

“But there’s no need to let that hard-earned skill go to waste, Matsujirō,” Kinoshige said encouragingly. “Tokyo’s different. City folks ain’t cut out for it.” “But we were no good the year before last and last year either, weren’t we?” “Even if we walked ourselves ragged all day, we didn’t even make one ryō.” “We ain’t even as well-known as beggars.”

When Kinoshige continued to urge him, Matsujirō’s wife, who was tending the fire beneath the bath, spoke up. “Mr. Kinoshige, you’re such a meek one—if you earn even fifty sen, you bring home every last sen you get. But my man here’s a drunkard—he’ll guzzle away all he earns, and when that’s not enough, he’ll even spend the money we brought along. It’s such a hassle.” “That’s why I’m begging you to stop this year.”

Kinoshige recalled how during both the New Year before last and last year’s New Year, after a full day of door-to-door performances, Matsujirō—who knew Kinoshige disliked alcohol—would drag him into an izakaya, drink alone until completely plastered, forcing Kinoshige to half-carry him home along three ri of night road. “I can’t go alone,” Kinoshige mused. Matsujirō emerged from the bath and said, “Yeah. I’ve been doin’ these door-to-door New Year gigs since I was a kid—ain’t like I wanna quit now. But the wife keeps naggin’, and truth is, my kid tore a hole in the drum bangin’ it with fire tongs the other day.” “If I were to go, I’d have to re-stretch that drumhead too, you know.”

Kinoshige found himself with no choice but to go alone. He couldn’t comprehend how someone could neglect to use their hard-won skills—as Matsujirō had done with his own. No matter how he pondered it, he couldn’t understand why anyone would abandon such a thing so casually. True enough, the door-to-door New Year’s performances had been declining year after year. Yet it wasn’t as though every last person who cherished Kinoshige’s kokyū playing, Matsujirō’s drumming, or their duets had vanished entirely. At the very least—and here Kinoshige thought of that wealthy miso storehouse owner—that man understood what the kokyū’s voice truly meant.

The next morning, Kinoshige woke at dawn and left home with his well-worn kokyū. Frost had settled white upon the road, dead grass, and straw piles, while the golden rays of the rising sun promised a fine day ahead—yet the absence of Matsujirō, who for twenty New Years had never failed to accompany him, drew a tinge of loneliness through Kinoshige’s heart.

“Kinoshige, are you heading out again this year?” As Kinoshige climbed the slope in front of his house and reached the wide prefectural road, one of the villagers said these words as they passed each other.

“Ah, just headin’ out for a bit,” answered Kinoshige. “Yusa, Kumasa, Kanesa—even Shikaan—none of ’em seem to be goin’ out this year either. Riki-yan and Kabei were pretty torn about whether to go or not, but they said they’d give it a try once anyway.”

With that, the villager walked off into the distance.

5

As he left the village and approached the mountain pass, a horse-drawn carriage bound for town came clattering up behind him as usual. Kinoshige moved to the side of the road to let it pass. When the carriage drew alongside him and he glanced up at the driver’s seat, an involuntary “Oh!” escaped him—the figure holding the reins was not the long-familiar deaf old man, but a youth with neatly parted hair. This must be the old driver’s son, he thought, noting how closely the young man’s features mirrored his father’s. But what had become of the elder? Had age finally forced him into retirement? Or perhaps death had claimed him? Either way, Kinoshige felt time’s inexorable flow press upon his heart.

However, it wasn’t as though there had been no earnings at all that year. Leaving the wealthy miso storehouse owner for last as a special treat, he visited the other houses throughout the morning. By noon—Kinoshige clearly remembered how many houses had given him gratuities—it was ten. And the total gratuities came to thirteen sen. When he finally came to the miso storehouse, the master—who had aged considerably since those days and was now a kindly old man—emerged at the entrance coughing violently from asthma. Upon seeing Matsujirō was absent, he remarked, “Oh? Alone today?” then warmly added, “Well then, come inside and take your time,” inviting him in with kindness. Kinoshige initially declined, but as he was so insistently urged, he entered the fine tatami room and there played five or six pieces as requested. The master listened to the kokyū with what seemed like genuine nostalgia, nodding along with thoughtful hums, but at times a series of labored coughs would rack his body, interrupting the instrument’s voice. After being treated to a meal as usual and receiving an extra generous gratuity—when he stepped outside while the sun still hung high—Kinoshige no longer felt any desire to make further rounds. As long as the miso storehouse owner listened to him, that alone was enough to satisfy Kinoshige.

Several more years passed, and the door-to-door New Year’s performances fell increasingly out of favor. Up until five or six years ago, you could still spot Kobei lion dancers—said to come from deep in the mountains of Echigo—scattered here and there when the wheat sprouts grew about an inch tall. But these days, not a single one came anymore. The kokyū players and drummers of Kinoshige’s village, too, quit one after another, and even as the Lunar New Year approached, the kokyū’s plaintive, sobbing tones were no longer heard as they once were, nor were the drumbeats that used to reverberate through the cold air all the way to the village outskirts. People said that society had progressed this much. People said that as folks had grown smarter, they no longer cared to listen to the slow, drawn-out foolish songs of the kokyū and tsuzumi. If that were true, then what a trivial thing this so-called progress of society must be, Kinoshige thought.

At Kinoshige’s home, his father—who had lived to eighty-eight—had been bedridden all winter, but on the very morning of the Lunar New Year, as the soft sunlight began to illuminate the highest cypress treetop in the shrine’s forest, he quietly passed away like a tree withering after completing the life bestowed by heaven. Because of this, for the first time in decades, he had to forgo his door-to-door New Year’s performances with his kokyū—if only for this one Lunar New Year. The following year, this time it was Kinoshige himself who had caught a cold and was unable to go out. Lying on his back, Kinoshige said to his eldest daughter sitting by his bedside nursing him, “The master must be waiting, thinking I’d come,” and looked toward the kokyū hanging on the wall.

Kinoshige’s illness had healed. But his health never returned to its former unblemished state. The rice bales he had once been able to lift would no longer budge under Kinoshige’s arms. The single ridge of rice paddy he had cultivated since childhood now felt far longer than before, forcing him to straighten his back repeatedly and wait for his panting heart to settle.

When winter arrived, the asthma that had tormented his deceased father came to visit Kinoshige as well. On cold nights, his cough would not subside until late.

Yet Kinoshige had been steeling himself since a month prior—this New Year, he would go out to play the kokyū no matter what. He said he needed to apologize to the miso storehouse Master. And whenever his health permitted, he would play the kokyū at night beside his wife and third daughter as they sewed kimonos for her wedding preparations. During the day, when he played while basking in the sun with a cat in the sunny southern side of the straw room, the villagers passing by would see that Kinoshige had aged.

The night before New Year’s was bitterly cold. That day, it had been snowing steadily since morning, and only when night fell did it finally let up. Night brought back the itch in Kinoshige’s throat, and a cough rose up. In the bamboo thicket out back, the sound of snow thudding down from the bamboo mingled with Kinoshige’s cough. When the long coughing fit subsided, his daughter,

“Father, how can you go door-to-door tomorrow in that condition?” These were words that had already been repeated many times since daytime. “I’m goin’!” Kinoshige snapped in a fit of temper. “Otsuta’s right,” his wife added.

6

“If you push yourself to go out and end up bedridden again, that pittance won’t cover half what we lose.” And his wife reminded him how last year, when Kinoshige had fallen ill with a cold, they’d paid the doctor—who came three times by motorcar from town—enough to buy ten prime hens ready to lay their first eggs.

“Tomorrow’ll be a fine day.” Kinoshige, feeling deeply sorry in his heart for all the trouble he’d caused his wife and daughter since that time, nonetheless made a stubborn reply. “A day after snowfall’s supposed to turn into a nice warm one.”

“Once the snow melts, walking’ll be hard,” said his wife. “Even if you go through all that trouble, there ain’t nobody these days who’ll seriously listen to a kokyū.” Kinoshige sadly thought his wife was right. But picturing the miso storehouse master, “There’s still folks with ears,” he answered. “The world’s a big place.” While sucking her pricked finger, Otsuta listed those who’d quit door-to-door performances—“Katsuan quit,” “Rikisan quit”—then declared, “You’re the only one still goin’ on about art and kokyū, Father.” “Folks say you’re a fool,” she said.

“I don’t care if they call me a fool or a mossback.” “As long as there’s even one soul left in this world who’ll listen, I can’t give up the kokyū!”

For a while, they remained silent. In the bamboo thicket, snow fell with a heavy thud. “You’re such a pitiable soul too,” his wife said solemnly.

“If only you’d been born a bit sooner… Father.” “Then everyone would’ve listened to you.” “Nowadays there’s these things called radios—that’s why it’s no good.” As he spoke, Kinoshige gradually resigned himself. It must truly be as my wife and daughter say. To trudge through snowy roads to town just to play a kokyū that no one cares to listen to anymore—that must be the height of foolishness. If I were to catch cold again and burden them further, how utterly pointless that would be. Before falling asleep, Kinoshige had already completely given up on going to town tomorrow.

Dawn broke and the Lunar New Year arrived, but for Kinoshige, it was a peculiar New Year. For thirty years, when New Year came around, he had gone to town carrying his kokyū. He hadn’t gone last year or the year before—his father’s death and his own illness had forced him to stay. Yet this time there was no particular reason. First of all—what was he supposed to do with this entire day?

The weather was exceptionally fine. The sun blazed down on the snow, glaring. When a sparrow that had perched on a power line shook off the snow accumulated on that thin wire, the snow fell as glittering powder onto the snow below. The bright reflection from outside reached into the house. Kinoshige was looking at the kokyū. Then he looked at the grandfather clock. Fifteen minutes before 9:00 AM. From afar, the clang-clang-clang of bells came ringing brightly over the snow. The elementary school had begun.

Kinoshige wanted to take his kokyū and go to town again. On a windless day with such clear air, Kinoshige thought, the kokyū would resonate even better. Right, I’ll go. Let them call me a fool or whatever—as long as there’s even one person left in this world who’ll listen to my kokyū, how could I ever quit?

His wife and daughter tried everything to stop Kinoshige, but it was no use. Kinoshige’s resolve was as hard as stone. “Well then, Father, when you go to town, pick up some King Crayons for Yūta at the school supply store while you’re at it.” “He keeps saying—always—he wants the twelve-color one,” said his wife resignedly. “And you need to come back early now. It’ll surely get cold in the evening.” “Once you’re done at the miso storehouse, don’t go anywhere else—come straight back, you hear?”

Acknowledging everything his wife had said, Kinoshige set out. To avoid catching a cold, he pulled a loose hood completely over his head and wore rubber boots on his feet. What a bizarre-looking performer he was. But to Kinoshige, his appearance mattered not at all. Being able to go out and play the kokyū after so long was a source of immense joy for him.

Even though it was New Year's, there weren't many people going from the village to town. That was evident from footprints left in snow piled on roads. Two sets of human footprints trailed alongside bicycle tire marks and thick automobile tracks flanking both sides of road. For five or six years now since replacing horse-drawn carriages, shared buses had been passing through each dawn.

The sun blazed like a living creature. In the roadside rice field, two crows perched starkly visible against the white snow. Thinking how quiet it was, Kinoshige walked briskly onward.

Seven

He entered the town. Kinoshige stopped going house-to-house along the eaves to perform door-to-door New Year's performances. Searching his memory, he picked out and visited only the houses that had always listened to his kokyū. There were not many of those either—including the miso storehouse, they amounted to merely five or six houses.

But upon reaching the fourth house among those he began visiting, Kinoshige had to feel profound disappointment deep within his heart. Every house, as if by prior agreement, refused Kinoshige's door-to-door New Year’s performances. At the hat shop, when Kinoshige had opened the glass door about three inches, the elderly proprietor—who sat hunched over the shop’s brazier with his chin nearly resting on it—waved his gaunt, large hand sideways, so Kinoshige had to close the glass door after opening it just those three inches. At a certain household that had never once refused Kinoshige’s door-to-door New Year’s performances until three years prior, a notice now hung on the latticed glass entrance where he had tried to open the door. It read: “Entertainers, beggars, door-to-door peddlers, extortionists—all strictly prohibited. Police: 150.” At another shop, the moment Kinoshige stepped inside and began to play his kokyū, a loud-voiced proprietor barked, “Not today!” in a shout-like tone, causing Kinoshige to flinch and stop his hands. The kokyū’s notes too came to an abrupt halt, as if startled.

Kinoshige thought it was futile to visit any more houses. So he turned his steps toward the miso storehouse, which he had kept aside as his last pleasure.

When Kinoshige stood before the gate, he thought huh. There, the familiar old wooden signboard reading “Miso Storehouse” was gone. In its place hung a new cedar board bearing a shop symbol—replacing the “kō” component of “dō” with “kichi”—and the inscription “Miso and Soy Sauce Manufacturing and Sales Store.” Because of that alone, Kinoshige felt an unfamiliar, disagreeable sensation as if things had changed from their usual state. As he passed through the gate, that large rainwater barrel was gone. And in the spot where the rainwater barrel had stood, there was parked an auto rickshaw—the very kind Kinoshige detested.

“Pardon me,” said Kinoshige as he removed his loose hood and stepped into the dirt-floored entryway. From deep within came a voice saying “Someone’s here,” piercing through the stillness. Soon came the sense of someone rising and approaching. Kinoshige straightened his appearance slightly. But when a young, beautiful woman he’d never seen before emerged from behind the folding screen and crouched there with one hand on the floorboards, he froze in confusion. “Um,” Kinoshige began, then fell silent. The words wouldn’t come. He cleared his throat once. “Might the retired master be away today? “Would you kindly tell him the kokyū player he’s favored all these years has come to pay his respects?”

The woman withdrew, and their hushed whispers exchanged in low voices sent a jolt through Kinoshige’s already pounding nerves. Before long, footsteps sounded again, and this time the young master appeared—his hair sleekly parted with a glossy sheen, thick black-framed glasses perched on his face.

“Ah, you’ve come again,” the young master said, looking at Kinoshige. “You didn’t know? Father passed away last summer.” “Huh,” said Kinoshige, and for a moment he remained speechless. As he stood there, he profoundly felt the loneliness creeping up from his feet. “I see… So he has passed away at last?” Finally regaining his composure, Kinoshige said just that.

Kinoshige dejectedly turned on his heel. He stumbled on the threshold and nearly collapsed into an undignified crawl. It was a small mercy that he had only hurt his right big toe and hadn’t smashed the kokyū.

As he exited the gate, a woman around fifty carrying a furoshiki-wrapped bundle was knocking snow packed in her geta's teeth against the gatepost's foundation stone to dislodge it. When she saw Kinoshige, the woman said "Oh!" with nostalgic warmth. Kinoshige recognized her as this household's maid. She was that same spiteful maid who thirty years earlier - when Kinoshige first came with Matsujirō for door-to-door New Year performances - had been ordered by the master to bring out a plate of delicacies. Year after year Kinoshige saw her at the miso storehouse. Just as Kinoshige grew from boy to adult and eventually aged into an old man through passing years, so too did she mature and grow older with each observed year. Around twenty-five she had vanished from the miso storehouse and remained absent five or six years, but when returning again appeared to have aged ten years at once. At that time she brought along a girl about five years old. Kinoshige had once heard fragments of her circumstances from the retired master - an unfortunate woman who married only to be widowed, returning to serve at the miso storehouse with daughter in tow. Since then she never left this household. In youth she'd been malicious, glaring scornfully at Kinoshige with pale eyes, but after suffering hardships at her marital home and returning became quiet like a changed person.

VIII

“You haven’t come around in ages,” she said. “The retired master who passed away—both two New Years ago and last New Year—he kept saying, ‘I wonder why he hasn’t come.’” “Ah, last year I was gravely ill, and two years ago my father died right on Lunar New Year’s morning, so I simply couldn’t come.” “So the retired master died last summer too, I hear.” “I just heard and was surprised,” said Kinoshige. “I see… You didn’t know, did you?” said the elderly maid, then continued in a gently reproaching tone. “Last New Year, the retired master truly did speak of you often.” “What could he have been thinking? Had you given up because you found door-to-door performances too dreary? Or were you laid up with illness? He was quite worried about that, you know.”

Kinoshige felt as if something hot were welling up inside him. “Hmm… I wonder,” he murmured repeatedly.

The elderly maid then reconsidered and suggested that he play the kokyū in memorial before the retired master’s Buddhist altar. “But the young master would dislike it,” Kinoshige hesitated, but the maid said, “What are you talking about? I’m here, so it’s fine,” and pulled him along. The maid guided Kinoshige around to the kitchen entrance, had him wait there briefly while she disappeared into the back, then soon reappeared and said, “Please come in.” Kinoshige removed his boots and followed the maid into the Buddhist altar room. The Buddhist altar was large and grand, its well-polished ritual implements and statues gleaming gold in the light of lit candles. Kinoshige sat before it, aligning his chilled knees, and the burning incense emitted a cloying fragrance. He chanted “Namu Amida Butsu” and bowed his head sincerely. From the depths of the grand Buddhist altar, he felt as though the retired master were watching him.

“Well then, why don’t you play something for him,” said the maid sitting behind him. Kinoshige had never played the kokyū before a Buddhist altar before, so he felt a strange sense of incongruity. But when he resolutely began to play, that feeling soon vanished. As was always the case whenever he played, Kinoshige became utterly absorbed in the kokyū. What lay before Kinoshige was no longer anything resembling a Buddhist altar. It was a living creature with ears. It pricked up its ears, listening intently to the kokyū’s voice, savoring its seemingly leisurely yet plaintive tones. Kinoshige played with single-minded focus.

As he stepped out the gate, Kinoshige turned to look back from across the road. He would likely never visit this house again. In Kinoshige’s daily life—a life long filled with vexations and mundane troubles—this house, which had been a place of joy like the Dragon Palace, had now become an ordinary house. In this house, there was no longer the last remaining listener to the kokyū played by Kinoshige. Kinoshige pulled the hood completely over his head and started walking. The sounds of the town and the people passing before his eyes somehow seemed to exist far below. Only Kinoshige’s heart felt like a solitary bird that had left the flock, soaring ever higher into the heavens.

Suddenly, Kinoshige noticed a white signboard that read “Ministry of Railways Surplus Goods, Items Left on Trains, Used Goods.” It stood before a small shop at the street corner, its window displaying various secondhand goods—hats, tobacco pouches, and such—visible from outside. Kinoshige shifted his gaze from the signboard to the kokyū he held. What good was keeping a kokyū that had lost all its listeners?

As if defying someone, without much thought, Kinoshige opened the glass-paned door there.

“How much’ll ya give me for this?”

The pawnshop owner with a bluish-swollen face first spoke in a gruff, masculine manner as she took the instrument: “What in the world’s this? Not a shamisen. A kokyū? This ancient relic’s seen better days.” After inspecting every inch for damage, she thrust it back at him. “Can’t buy junk like this.”

“You can’t just say you won’t buy it,” said Kinoshige, his lips pursing with agitation. “There’s no rule says a pawnshop can’t buy old goods!”

“Even a pawnshop can’t handle stuff nobody uses nowadays.” “We ain’t no antique joint.”

The two engaged in a terse back-and-forth. The pawnshop owner didn’t seem entirely unwilling to buy, “Well then,” “If thirty sen suits you, leave it here,” she said.

Nine

Kinoshige grew furious at the low offer, but in his rage blurted out that he’d sell anyway. When he stepped outside, an inexplicable anger surged through him, yet beneath it gaped a hollow emptiness. After walking a short distance past an elementary school encircled by iron railings, he came to a stationery shop facing the street. He purchased the King crayons requested by his youngest child Yuta. As the shop boy wrapped them in paper, regret began gnawing at Kinoshige’s heart. The moment he’d relinquished the kokyū, a voice in his mind whispered I shouldn’t have done that. That feeling now swelled relentlessly.

Upon receiving the wrapped crayons, Kinoshige hurriedly turned back toward the pawnshop, clattering his rubber boots. Let go of that thing? No way! It’s been accompanying me for thirty years!

The kokyū had already been hung alongside old hats and tobacco pouches in a spot clearly visible from the street, catching Kinoshige’s eye. He felt relieved it was still there. A nostalgic warmth washed over him—like unexpectedly meeting a dear companion after years apart.

Kinoshige went into the shop and, after a moment’s hesitation, spoke up.

“I’m sorry to trouble you, but could you return that kokyū from earlier?” “You see… an unexpected problem has come up.”

The sallow, swollen-faced pawnshop owner fixed Kinoshige with a piercing gaze, staring at his face as if trying to bore holes through him. There, Kinoshige took out thirty sen from his wallet and lined them up beside the brazier.

“I know this is terribly selfish of me to ask, but that kokyū has been with me for thirty years—it’s been by my side even longer than my wife.”

Thinking to soften the pawnshop owner’s heart, Kinoshige said such things. Then the pawnshop owner, “What’s happened to your wife ain’t my business, but this here’s a shop. I ain’t playin’ around here,” she said, propping her chin on the desk cluttered with ledgers and abacuses. And she continued: “Ain’t no way I can just hand back what I bought on a whim.”

“This is one formidable woman,” Kinoshige thought as he said, “Then sell it back to me—I’ll pay whatever you want.”

The pawnshop owner stared at Kinoshige’s face for another long moment,

“If you want to buy it back, I ain’t opposed. Buying and selling’s what we do here,” she said with forced civility. “Ah, well then, go ahead with that. “No, really, I was the one in the wrong. “Then how much more should I pay?” said Kinoshige, taking out his wallet again and half-opening it.

“Well now, for other customers I’d sell it for eighty sen, but since you know its worth, I’ll make it sixty.” The hand holding Kinoshige’s wallet trembled with anger. “Th-that’s such a... such a ridiculous thing. “Don’t you go lookin’ down on my hardship like that!” “You took it for thirty sen, and now before thirty minutes’ve even passed, you’re sellin’ it for double—” “Don’t like it? Then quit it,” the pawnshop owner cut in brusquely.

Kinoshige looked inside his wallet and found only fifteen sen remained. Out of habit, he hadn’t brought any money when leaving home earlier. When he had bought Yuta’s crayons moments before, he had paid using coins received from the miso storehouse. The fifteen sen was what remained of those. After picking up each of the thirty sen coins he had arranged beside the brazier and placing them into his wallet, Kinoshige wordlessly tucked it into his obi. Then he weakly exited the pawnshop.

It was around three in the afternoon. The sky had clouded over again, and the town was growing cold. The freezing cold in his toes suddenly pierced through him. Kinoshige walked on without looking right or left, hunched deeply over.