Pathway to Japanese Literature

I As the Old New Year drew near, in this small village abundant with bamboo groves, every evening one could hear the sound of tsuzumi drums and the wailing voice of kokyū. Among the villagers, those skilled in the tsuzumi drums and kokyū would practice. And when the Old New Year finally arrived, those people would form pairs—one carrying tsuzumi drums and the other kokyū—and set out on their journey. The skilled ones would go as far as Tokyo or Osaka and not return for a whole month. There were also some who ventured into Shinshū’s cold mountainous regions. Those who were not very skilled or couldn’t go far went to towns not too distant from the village. Even so, it was three ri.

At each town gate stood kokyū players performing on their instruments while Tayū-san holding tsuzumi drums rhythmically tapped them with their palms and sang out loudly. The song’s meaning remained obscure until its conclusion with an emphatic “Ah—congratulations!” Most households then offered one-sen copper coins. Receiving these fell to the kokyū players—their music pausing only during this exchange. Occasionally homes proffered larger two-sen coins. On such occasions they extended their singing beyond measure.

Kinosuke, who had turned twelve this year, had loved the sound of the kokyū since he was little. Whenever he heard that voice—playful yet tinged with sorrow—Kinosuke would be filled with an indescribable, rapturous feeling. Thus he had wanted to learn the kokyū from an early age, but his father hadn’t permitted it. It was because he had turned twelve this year that permission was finally granted. There Kinosuke went every night to the house of a cowherd skilled in the kokyū to receive lessons. Since this was a time before electric lights, in the cowherd’s small house an oil lamp hung down from a ceiling blackened by soot, and underneath it Kinosuke played his beloved kokyū under the cowherd’s instruction.

The Old New Year had finally arrived. Kinosuke formed a pair with his cousin Matsujirō and left the village. As the Tayū-san performer, Matsujirō wore a black kimono with a large painting of a rising sun and cranes on its back, striped Ogora hakama trousers, an eboshi hat, and carried a tsuzumi drum in his hand. Kinosuke wore his finest formal attire with hakama trousers too, hung a bundle of rice balls at his waist, and carried his kokyū. Matsujirō, having gone on kadotsuke two or three times before, remained completely unperturbed, but Kinosuke—experiencing this for the first time—felt a peculiar mix of embarrassment, pride, and unease. Especially before leaving the village, each time he encountered someone he knew, his face would flush crimson, and he wished he had wrapped the kokyū in a large cloth bundle instead. It was a high-quality kokyū that his father had gone to great lengths to buy for him.

As the two left the village and reached the mountain pass road, from behind came the clattering sound of a carriage heading to town. When he saw that, Matsujirō muttered, “Aha!” “Let’s ride that thing,” he said. Since Kinosuke had no coins, “I don’t have a single coin,” he said. “You’re such a fool—we’ll hitch a free ride!” Matsujirō retorted.

“I don’t have a single coin,” he said. “You’re such a fool—we’re hitching a ride for free!” he said. The carriage approached, its iron-rimmed wheels clamorously echoing around them. The usual deaf old man was seated in the driver’s perch. This was the carriage that ran twice daily—from the coastal town five ri west of Kinosuke’s village, through his home settlement, onward to the eastern town. Kinosuke and Matsujirō pressed themselves against the roadside embankment to let it 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. Since there was no longer any room for Kinosuke, he had to run after the carriage. Carrying the kokyū and facing a slope, Kinosuke ran while panting heavily, though he didn’t need to run far. The carriage came to an abrupt halt before it had even gone fifty meters. Matsujirō hurriedly jumped down. The old driver—his eyes peering out from under a hood that left only them exposed—descended holding his whip.

“I dunno nothin’! I dunno nothin’!” Matsujirō hollered, clutching his head. However, the old man was profoundly deaf and couldn’t hear a thing. Through years of experience, he had learned that even a single child boarding the rear board would make it feel noticeably heavier when upright. “You damn brat,” he said, lightly tapping Matsujirō’s ear with the handle end of his whip. Then he climbed back onto the driver’s seat and drove the carriage away.

Matsujirō stuck out his tongue mockingly at the back of the carriage. “Damn old man, stone-deaf!” he chanted mockingly, thumping his tsuzumi drum. And he and Kinosuke burst into laughter together. 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 of them played their kokyū and sang songs as they went.

At the very first mochi shop, Kinosuke made a blunder. A kokyū player was supposed to abruptly start playing their instrument and step noisily over the threshold while entering, but Kinosuke—unaware of this— “Excuse me,” he said as he went in. Because of that, the mochi shop proprietress mistook him for a customer who had come to buy mochi,

“Why, welcome! What can I offer you today?” she replied. As Kinosuke stood flustered and fidgeting, Matsujirō—accustomed to such settings—saved the moment with a startlingly loud “Happy New Year!” while striking two quick thumps on his tsuzumi. The old woman took out a one-sen copper coin from the money box. Kinosuke stopped playing the kokyū, accepted it, and put it into his sleeve.

When they stepped outside，Matsujirō laughed and said to him， “You’re such a fool. You should’ve just walked in without a word.” From then on，Kinosuke managed well. Most houses gave one sen. Some gave five rin. There were even those who reluctantly handed over verdigrised holed coins. When Kinosuke received a two-sen copper coin，it felt unexpectedly heavy in his palm. After gripping it tightly and stepping outside，he carefully opened his hand to show Matsujirō. The two exchanged glances and smiled.

It was already a little past noon. Kinosuke’s sleeve had grown so heavy that it thudded against his side with each step. Straw sandal-clad feet were lightly coated with white sand dust. They had walked quite a distance since morning, so their stomachs were empty, but they couldn’t find a suitable place to eat their lunch. When Matsujirō suggested they go to a vacant lot a little further ahead, they followed him only to find a splendid new house there, its wood still fragrant.

Since you can’t fight on an empty stomach, they had no choice but to settle on eating in some alleyway’s shadow—and just as they made this decision, the two of them happened to pass before a house with an imposing gate structure. There stood an imposing kadomatsu New Year decoration, and on one of the gateposts hung a wooden placard bearing the large characters “Miso Shop.” The estate, enclosed by a black plank fence, was spacious, with as many as three storehouse-like structures. “Ah, here it is! This is the place that gave us five sen last year!” Matsujirō said. So the two of them decided to finish one more house there before having their lunch.

Kinosuke took the lead and entered. “U... u... u...” came a low growl. Kinosuke flinched. He absolutely detested dogs. “Matsu-san, please go ahead first,” he pleaded with Matsujirō. “If the kokyū ain’t leadin’ the way, it ain’t gonna work,” he retorted. Matsujirō must have been terrified too. Kinosuke approached the entrance as if stepping on a tiger’s tail, trembling nervously, but his feet came to a natural stop again. A large red dog was crouched under the entrance water bucket, staring this way.

“Matsu-san, go ahead first,” Kinosuke pleaded tearfully. “Idiot! The kokyū player’s gotta lead!” Matsujirō spat out, yet his own eyes were fixed on the dog with terror.

The two of them thought about turning back. But the thought of those five sen made them hesitate. There, Kinosuke gathered his courage and took a step forward. Then the dog flicked its tail from where it lay on the right over to the left. Once again, Kinosuke found himself frozen in place. They wanted the five sen but feared the dog, so as they stood there at an impasse, someone approached from behind. It was a man dressed in a happi coat who looked like the house's manservant. When he saw Kinosuke and his companion,

“A small kadotsuke group has come, eh? What’s wrong—scared of the dog?” he said with a good-natured laugh. The dog, upon seeing the man, heaved its body 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 Kinosuke and his companion. “This dog’s tame—no need to worry.” “No need to hold back—come in, come in,” he urged. “Old Man, make sure you’ve got a good grip on him,” Matsujirō urged.

“Got it,” the old man answered. Tora—what a terrifying name. Though the old man had called it tame, that must be a lie, Kinosuke thought as he stepped through the magnificent, spacious entrance. Before him stood a folding screen, with a sanbō offering tray placed in front—a grand yet antiquated entryway that retained its elegance. The tones of the kokyū and drum resonated beautifully here, their sound seeming to be pulled deep into the house’s interior, and he couldn’t help but feel pleased with the acoustics. A kindly man with silver-streaked hair—evidently the household master—emerged from behind the folding screen. When he saw Kinosuke and Matsujirō, he broke into a warm smile.

“Well now, you’re both just children,” he said.

III Kinosuke, not wanting to be thought that there was no need to give even five sen because he was a child, played the kokyū with even greater heartfelt intensity. When they finished one piece, the master

“Why don’t you take a little break?” he said. He had a strangely overfamiliar air about him. Matsujirō had come last year and knew the place, but since it was Kinosuke’s first time, he found it peculiar.

The only one who ever told them to take a little break in such a casually friendly way, as if speaking to friends, was this man. Kinosuke stood blankly. I wonder if they aren't going to give us five sen. I wonder if I'm bad at playing the kokyū. "I feel like this kid here came last year too, but this one"—he looked at Kinosuke—"the smaller one's new this year, eh?" Kinosuke, irritated at being perceived as small, subtly stretched himself upward to appear taller without letting it show.

“Where did you come from?” Matsujirō said the name of their village. “I see—you set out this morning?” “Yeah.” “Had lunch yet?” “Not yet,” Matsujirō blurted out alone. “We got our lunch, but ain’t got no place to eat.” “Well then, eat here. I’ll give you something tasty.” Matsujirō fidgeted. Kinosuke wondered when they would give him the five sen. While the two were still wavering, the master took charge. “Well then, wait here for me,” he said and vanished into the back rooms.

Before long, a fair-skinned, narrow-eyed maid who looked mean-spirited came out from the back carrying a large plate in her hands, but even then, the two of them remained rooted in the dirt-floored entrance, at a loss over what to do. The maid placed the plate on the reception platform with a stiff air,

“Eat up,” she said curtly, stepping back slightly and continuing to stand there as she looked down at the two of them with a sidelong glance. Inside the plate were savory kelp rolls, sweet dried sardines, and various other dishes piled high. “Let’s take them up on it,” Matsujirō said. Kinosuke also wanted to eat, so he answered with a nod and quietly placed his kokyū along with the bow in the corner of the reception platform, whereupon the maid glared at the kokyū. Matsujirō and Kinosuke, wishing the maid would just retreat already, sat down on the reception platform and untied the cloth-wrapped bundle at their waists. From inside appeared rice balls wrapped in bamboo sheaths. The maid also glared at those with a sidelong glance.

When they started eating, both the rice balls and the feast dishes were so incredibly delicious that they completely ignored the maid and stuffed their mouths noisily. The maid had been staring fixedly at this, but apparently unable to endure it any longer, "My, what dirty feet!" said the maid. Matsujirō and Kinosuke looked at their own feet as they ate, and it was exactly as the maid had said. They wore straw sandals over dark blue tabi socks, but the dust had turned them pure white. The two had no choice but to silently pick up the feast dishes with their hands and eat.

“My, just like beggars.” After a while, the maid spoke again in a piercing voice. While using the tip of his tongue to remove rice grains stuck between his fingers, Kinosuke looked at Matsujirō, and just as the maid had said, Matsujirō appeared disheveled like a beggar’s child. Matsujirō, too, looked at Kinosuke and thought the same. “My, how you eat—just like pigs.” When Kinosuke opened his mouth to eat his fifth rice ball, the maid spoke again. Kinosuke, thinking this was truly the case, took a big bite.

“Going around with earwax built up in your ears.” After a while, the maid spoke again. When Kinosuke looked into Matsujirō’s ear, sure enough, there was a filthy buildup of grime. Matsujirō, for his part, noticed the grime that had built up in Kinosuke’s ear. Before long, when thudding footsteps could be heard from beyond the folding screen, the maid swiftly turned and went off somewhere, and in her place appeared the kind master from earlier.

“How’s it taste?” said the master as he crouched there. As Matsujirō pounded his chest with a fist to dislodge what was stuck there, the master muttered, “Ah—that one didn’t bring the tea. Even though I told her to.” At that moment, the same maid brought tea, placed it there with a blank expression, and retreated again. “That’s a big rice ball. How many did you bring?” said the master, looking at the one remaining rice ball belonging to Kinosuke. “Six,” answered Kinosuke. This man with the half-white head felt even more familiar to Kinosuke than before.

When Kinosuke and Matsujirō finished eating and lowered their heads with “Thank you for the meal,” the master continued asking them questions—about where they were headed next, their family’s trade, what they wanted to be when they grew up. He praised Kinosuke’s kokyū as being exceptionally skillful. Kinosuke was happy. “Next time you come,” said the master, “make sure you can play even more impressively—let me hear all sorts of pieces.” Kinosuke replied, “Yeah.” Then the master rustled around in his sleeve’s depths, took out two twisted paper bundles, and gave one to each of them.

The two stepped outside the gate and immediately unfolded the paper to look. Ten-sen coins appeared one by one.

IV

Kinosuke went to town to play his kokyū every single New Year. Whenever he went, he would pass through the gate where the large wooden signboard labeled "Misotame" hung. The master always welcomed Kinosuke without fail and treated him to a feast. Because Kinosuke loved the kokyū from the depths of his being, he gradually grew more skilled. At first he learned pieces from a cowherd, but he soon mastered all five tunes the cowherd knew, and what's more, came to play them even more skillfully than their teacher. So he stopped going to learn at the cowherd's house and instead sought out people who knew different pieces. Whenever he heard there was a skilled kokyū player in a neighboring village or one two or three villages over, he would finish his daytime work early, make his way to that village, earnestly entreat them, and return having learned a new piece. In time Kinosuke took a wife and had children, but when at night the sound of him practicing his kokyū would disturb the children's sleep, he would go into the pine grove south of the village and play under the bright moonlight. To the villagers, that unhurried tone sounded as though it were earnestly recounting some tale.

But the years flowed on. When a certain Old New Year arrived, Kinosuke—who had planned to go perform kadotsuke with Matsujirō again—went to Matsujirō’s house the night before only to find him soaking in the bath, where he declared: “Kadotsuke’s gone outta fashion these days.” “Reckon we oughta quit this year.” “Up till five-six years back, even the Tokyo-bound crews came home with spare coin after travel costs. But last year? Hell—they couldn’t even cover their fares.”

“But there’s no need to let the skills you worked so hard to learn go to waste, Matsu-an,” Kinosuke said encouragingly. “Tokyo’s different—city folks just aren’t made for this.” “But we were no good the year before last and last year either, weren’t we?” “Even walking till our legs gave out all day, we never made one ryō.” “Might as well call ourselves beggars now.”

As Kinosuke continued to urge, Matsujirō’s wife, who was tending the bath fire, spoke. “Kinosuke, you’re quiet-natured, so even if you only get fifty sen, you bring home whatever you earn, and that’s fine. But my husband here’s a drunkard—he drinks up everything he gets and still it’s not enough, so he ends up spending even the money we brought along. It’s a real problem.” “That’s why I’ve been begging him to stop this year.” Both the year before last and last year’s New Year’s, after a day of kadotsuke performances, Matsujirō had taken Kinosuke—who disliked alcohol—to a tavern, drank alone until completely plastered, and Kinosuke had ended up half-carrying him back along twelve kilometers of night road—this was what Kinosuke now recalled.

“I can’t go alone,” Kinosuke said pensively. Matsujirō stepped out of the bath and replied, “Yeah. I’ve been doin’ kadotsuke every Old New Year since I was a kid—don’t wanna quit now. But that wife of mine keeps naggin’, and truth is, my damn kids tore up the tsuzumi playin’ around with fire tongs the other day.” “If we go, I’d have to re-skin that thing too.” Kinosuke had no choice but to decide to go alone. He could not comprehend how one could fail to put to use the art they had mastered, as Matsujirō had done. He couldn’t understand why someone could do such a thing so nonchalantly, even when he thought about it. Indeed, year by year, kadotsuke performances had been declining. However, not all those who loved Kinosuke’s kokyū playing, Matsujirō’s tsuzumi drumming, and their duet had disappeared. At the very least—Kinosuke thought of that wealthy miso shop owner—that person knew what the sound of the kokyū truly was.

The next morning, Kinosuke woke early and left home with his well-worn kokyū. The road, withered grass, and straw piles were all covered in white frost, and the golden rays of the rising sun promised a fine day—but the fact that Matsujirō, who for twenty years had never missed accompanying him on New Year’s outings, was no longer by his side cast a thread of loneliness through Kinosuke’s heart. “Kinosuke, are you heading out again this year?” When Kinosuke climbed the slope in front of his house and reached the wide prefectural road, one of the villagers said this as they passed each other.

“Ah, I’ll just go and come back,” answered Kinosuke. “Yosaa too, Kumasaa too, Kinsaa too—even Shikaan don’t seem to be goin’ this year.” “Chikara-yan and Kabei weren’t sure whether to go or not and were pretty torn up about it, but anyhow they said they’d give it a try once.”

With that, the villager walked away.

V

When Kinosuke left the village and reached the mountain pass road, a carriage heading to town came clattering from behind as usual. He moved to the side of the road to let it pass. As the carriage went by and he glanced up at the driver’s seat, a jolt of surprise struck him. The figure sitting there was not the long-familiar old man with profound deafness but a youth sporting a cropped modern haircut. This must be that old driver’s son. The young man’s face bore an uncanny resemblance to his father’s. But what had become of that old-timer? Had age finally forced him into retirement? Or might he have passed away? Either way, Kinosuke found himself acutely aware of time’s relentless flow.

However, that year was not entirely without earnings. He saved the wealthy miso shop Master for last as a treat and spent the morning making rounds to the other houses. By noon—Kinosuke clearly remembered how many houses had given him gratuities—it was ten houses. And the coins given as gratuities totaled thirteen sen. When he finally went to the miso shop, the Master—who had aged considerably since those days and was now a kindly old man—came out to the entrance coughing from asthma, and upon seeing Matsujirō was not there, said warmly, “Oh, you’re alone today? Well then, come on up and take your time.” Kinosuke initially declined, but being so insistently urged, he went up to the fine tatami room and there, as requested, played five or six pieces. The Master listened to the kokyū with a truly nostalgic air, nodding along with deep hums, but at times his labored coughing fits would persist and interrupt the instrument’s voice. After being treated to a meal as usual and receiving a generous gratuity, when he stepped outside, the sun was still quite high in the sky, but Kinosuke no longer felt like making rounds elsewhere. As long as even the miso shop Master listened to him, that alone was enough to satisfy Kinosuke.

Several more years passed, and the New Year’s door-to-door performances grew ever more unpopular. Up until five or six years prior, one could still occasionally glimpse Kakubei-jishi performers—said to come from the mountains of distant Echigo—around the time wheat sprouts reached an inch tall, but these days not a single one came anymore. In Kinosuke’s village too, the kokyū players and tsuzumi drummers had been quitting one by one and two by two, so that even as the Old New Year approached, there were no longer any sobbing-like voices of the kokyū to be heard as before, nor any sharp tsuzumi beats reverberating through the cold air beyond the village. People said society had progressed this far. People said that since folks had grown cleverer, they no longer lent their ears to those drawn-out foolish songs of kokyū and tsuzumi. If that were true, Kinosuke thought, what a pitiful thing this so-called progress must be.

At Kinosuke’s home, his father—who had lived to eighty-eight—had been bedridden all winter. Then, precisely on the morning of the Old New Year, as the rising sun began to softly illuminate the highest cedar treetop in the shrine’s forest, he quietly passed away like a tree whose heaven-granted life had reached its end. Because of this, for the first time in decades, he had to forgo the New Year’s door-to-door performances with his kokyū that year. The following year, Kinosuke himself came down with a cold and was unable to go out. Lying on his back, Kinosuke said to his eldest daughter sitting by his pillow and nursing him, “The Master of the miso shop must be waiting, thinking I’d come,” and then looked toward the kokyū hanging on the wall.

Kinosuke’s illness had healed. But his former unclouded health did not return. The rice bales he had once been able to carry no longer rose with Kinosuke’s arms. The single ridge of the rice paddy he had tilled since childhood now felt much longer than before, forcing him to repeatedly straighten his back and wait for his heaving heart to settle. When winter arrived, the asthma that had tormented his deceased father came to visit Kinosuke as well. On cold nights, the cough wouldn’t stop until late.

However, Kinosuke had been determined since a month prior that he would go out to play the kokyū this New Year no matter what. He said he must apologize to the Master of the miso shop. And whenever he found his physical condition good, he would play his kokyū at night beside his wife and third daughter as they sewed kimonos for her wedding preparations. During the day, when Kinosuke played the kokyū while basking in the sun’s warmth with a cat in the sunny southern part of the straw storage room, the villagers passing by would see that he too had aged.

The night before New Year's was bitterly cold.

That day, it had been snowing steadily since morning, and only ceased when night fell. That night, Kinosuke’s throat grew itchy again, and a cough emerged. In the bamboo grove behind the house, the sound of snow thudding down from the bamboo mingled with Kinosuke’s cough. When the long fit of coughing subsided, his daughter, “Father, in that state, can you really go out for tomorrow’s door-to-door performance?” It was a statement she had been repeating many times since daytime. “I’m going!” Kinosuke barked irritably. “Otsuta’s right,” the wife said.

VI “If you push yourself to go out and end up bedridden again, it won’t make up for the meager earnings.” “And then,” his wife continued, “last year when you came down with a cold, we had to pay the doctor who made three house calls by automobile from town enough money to buy ten of the most valuable hens—ones that were about to start laying eggs.” “Tomorrow’ll be a fine day.” Kinosuke, feeling deeply sorry in his heart for having caused his wife and daughter so much trouble since then, nonetheless made a defiant remark. “The day after snow, you know—that’s when you get a nice warm day.”

“The snow will melt and you’ll have a hard time walking,” said the wife. “Even if you struggle all the way there, nowadays there’s no one left who’ll seriously listen to a kokyū anymore.” Kinosuke sadly thought that his wife was right. But as thoughts of the Miso Shop Master floated in his mind,

“There are still those who will listen! The world’s vast.”

he answered. Otsuta sucked at the back of her finger pricked by a sewing needle while listing off the names of those who had quit kadotsuke—Katsu-an, Riki-san—and finally declared, “You’re the only one still going on about art and kokyū forever, Father.” “They say you’re a fool,” she said. “Whether they call me a mossback or a fool, it makes no difference.” “As long as there’s even one person left in this world who’ll listen, I can’t quit the kokyū.”

For a time, they all fell silent. In the bamboo grove, snow fell with a heavy thud. “You’re such a pitiable man too, Pa,” said the wife solemnly. “If only I’d been born a bit sooner… Pa.” “If that had happened, everyone would’ve listened.” “Nowadays, with this thing called the radio around, it’s no good.”

As he spoke, Kinosuke gradually resigned himself. It must truly be as the wife and daughter said. To trudge through snowy roads to town to play a kokyū that no one cared to hear anymore—that would be the height of foolishness. And if he were to catch a cold again and end up burdening his wife and daughter even further—how utterly pointless that would be. Before falling asleep, Kinosuke had already completely given up on going to town tomorrow.

Dawn broke and the Old New Year arrived, but for Kinosuke, it was a strange 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 that—his father’s death and his own illness had made it unavoidable. Yet this time there was no particular reason. What was he to do with this entire day today?

The weather was exceptionally good. The sun blazed down on the snow, dazzling. When a sparrow that had alighted on a power line shook off the snow accumulated on the thin wire, the snow fell as glittering powder onto the snow below. The bright reflection from outside shone into the house. Kinosuke was looking at the kokyū. Then he looked at the pillar clock. Before 9:15 AM. From afar, the clang clang clang of a bell came ringing brightly over the snow. The elementary school started.

Kinosuke wanted to go to town again carrying his kokyū. On this windless day of crystalline air, he thought the instrument would resonate all the more clearly. Yes, he would go. Mossback or fool—what did it matter? As long as one soul remained in this world willing to hear his kokyū, how could he ever stop? His wife and daughter tried every argument to deter him, but to no avail. Kinosuke's resolve stood firm as stone. "Then Pa," his wife conceded, "when you go to town, pick up those King Crayons for Yuta at the school store." "He keeps pestering for the twelve-color set." "And come back early now—it'll turn bitter cold by evening." "When you're done at the Miso Shop, come straight home. No dawdling elsewhere."

Acknowledging all his wife’s words, Kinosuke set out. To avoid catching a cold, he pulled the coarse hood snugly over his head and wore rubber boots on his feet. What a bizarrely dressed performer he was. But to Kinosuke, appearance mattered not at all. Being able to go out and play the kokyū after so long was an immense joy.

Even though it was New Year’s, there weren’t many going from the village to the town. That could be seen from the footprints in the snow that had accumulated on the road. Two sets of human footprints, two bicycle tracks, and the thick tire marks of an automobile ran along both sides of the road. For five or six years now, auto rickshaws that had come to replace horse-drawn carriages passed through early in the morning.

The sun blazed like a living creature. Two crows perched in the roadside rice fields stood out sharply against the white snow. Thinking how quiet it was, Kinosuke quickened his pace.

VII

He entered the town. Kinosuke stopped going house to house performing New Year’s door-to-door performances. Searching through his memory, he selected only the houses that had always listened to his kokyū and made his way to them. Even those were not many—including the Miso Shop—amounting to no more than five or six houses.

But upon reaching the fourth house among those he began visiting, Kinosuke sank into profound disappointment within his heart. Every house refused Kinosuke’s New Year’s door-to-door performance as if by prior agreement. At the hat shop, when Kinosuke opened the glass door about three inches, the elderly owner—sitting with his chin propped on the shop’s brazier—waved his gaunt hand sideways, forcing Kinosuke to close the door after barely parting it. At a household that had never once refused his performances until three years prior, a notice was pasted on the latticed glass entrance he tried to open: “All performers, beggars, peddlers, extortionists prohibited. Police: Dial 150.” At another shop, the moment Kinosuke stepped inside and drew his bow across the kokyū strings, a loud-voiced master barked “Not today!” in a shout-like tone, startling him into stillness. The kokyū’s sound halted mid-note as if equally shocked.

Kinosuke thought it was futile to visit any more houses after this.

So he turned his steps toward the Miso Shop, which he had kept as his final hope. When he stood before the gate, Kinosuke thought, Oh? There, the familiar old board sign reading “Misotame” had disappeared, replaced by a fresh cedar plank bearing the inscription “※” (a merchant house emblem substituting the “工” in “仝” with “吉”) followed by “Miso and Soy Sauce Manufacturing and Sales Store.” That alone made Kinosuke feel as though the place had taken on an unfamiliar, unsettling air. As he passed through the gate, the large rainwater barrel was gone. And where the rainwater barrel had once stood, the detested auto rickshaw was parked.

“Pardon me,” said Kinosuke as he removed his coarse hood and stepped into the earthen-floored entryway.

From the depths of the house, a voice announcing “Someone’s here” pierced through the stillness. Soon came the sense of someone rising and approaching. Kinosuke adjusted his appearance slightly. But when a young, unfamiliar woman emerged from behind the screen—placing one hand on it as she crouched—he found himself flustered anew. “Well...” Kinosuke began before trailing off. His words stuck in his throat. After clearing it once, he managed, “Might Master be away today?” “Would you kindly inform him that the kokyū player who’s enjoyed his gracious patronage these many years has come to pay his respects?”

The woman withdrew, and their hushed whispers exchanged in low voices pricked at Kinosuke’s nerves as his heart began to pound. Before long, footsteps sounded again, and this time the Young Master appeared, his hair styled in a gleaming pompadour and wearing thick black-framed glasses.

“Ah, you’ve come again,” said the Young Master, looking at Kinosuke. “You didn’t know? Father passed away last summer.”

“Huh...” Kinosuke stood with his mouth clamped shut, unable to speak. As he remained standing there, he felt loneliness rise from his feet and seep deep into his bones. “So it’s true... He’s really gone then?” Only after regaining his composure did Kinosuke manage to utter those words.

Kinosuke dejectedly turned on his heel. He stumbled on the threshold, nearly collapsing into an undignified crawl. It was fortunate enough that he had only injured his right big toe and hadn’t shattered his kokyū. As he exited the gate, a woman around fifty carrying a furoshiki bundle was knocking snow from her setta sandals against the gatepost’s foundation stone. When she saw Kinosuke, the woman said “Oh?” with nostalgic warmth. Kinosuke looked and recognized her as this house’s maid. She was that ill-tempered maid from thirty years prior—the one who’d been ordered by Master to bring out treats when young Kinosuke first came kadotsuke-performing with Matsujirō. Year after year, Kinosuke had seen her at the miso shop. Just as Kinosuke had grown from boy to adult to old man, she too had aged year by year. At around twenty-five, she’d vanished from the shop for five or six years, returning looking a decade older. She’d brought a girl of about five then. Kinosuke had once heard snippets of her story from Master—an unfortunate woman who’d married only to be widowed, returning to service with her daughter in tow. Since then, she’d never left this house. In her youth she’d been spiteful, glaring down at Kinosuke with contemptuous eyes, but after suffering hardships in marriage and returning, she’d grown quiet as if reborn.

VIII “You haven’t been around for a while, have you? Both the year before last’s New Year and last year’s, Master—before he passed—kept saying, ‘I wonder why he isn’t coming.’” “Ah, last year I was laid up with a serious illness, and the year before that my old man happened to pass away on Old New Year’s morning. I just couldn’t come either time.” “I hear Master passed away last summer too.” “I just heard about it now and was shocked,” said Kinosuke. “So you didn’t know after all,” said the aged maid, then continued in a tenderly chiding tone. “Last New Year’s, Master truly did speak of you.” “He wondered what had happened—whether you’d given up thinking door-to-door performances weren’t worth doing anymore, or if you’d fallen ill. He seemed quite concerned about it.”

Kinosuke felt something hot welling up inside him. “Hmm... I see, I see,” he murmured, listening intently. The aged maid then urged him once more, suggesting he play the kokyū before Master’s Buddhist altar as an offering for his memorial. “But the Young Master will disapprove,” Kinosuke hesitated, but the maid said, “Nonsense. I’m here—it’ll be fine,” and pulled him along. The maid guided Kinosuke through the kitchen entrance, had him wait there briefly while she disappeared into the back, then soon reappeared and said, “Come in now.” Kinosuke removed his rubber boots and followed the maid into the Buddhist altar room. The Buddhist altar was large and splendid, and in the light of the lit candles, the well-polished Buddhist implements and statues glittered golden. Kinosuke sat before it with his chilled knees neatly together, and the burning incense emitted a cloyingly heavy fragrance. He chanted “Namu Amida Butsu” and lowered his head from the depths of his heart. Kinosuke felt as though Master was watching him from the depths of the deep Buddhist altar.

“Well then, why don’t you play something for him?” said the maid sitting behind him. Kinosuke felt an odd sense of mismatch, for he had never played his kokyū before a Buddhist altar. But when he began playing resolutely, those feelings soon vanished. As always happened when he played, Kinosuke became utterly absorbed in his kokyū. What lay before Kinosuke was no longer anything resembling a Buddhist altar. It was a living creature with ears. It pricked up its ears and listened intently to the kokyū’s voice, savoring its leisurely yet plaintive tones. Kinosuke played with single-minded focus.

When he exited the gate, Kinosuke looked back from across the road. He would never visit this house again. This house—which through long years had been like a dragon palace amid Kinosuke’s daily life of troubles and trifles—had now become an ordinary house. No longer did this house hold even one last listener for Kinosuke’s kokyū.

Kinosuke pulled his hood down low and started walking. The town’s noises and people passing before him somehow seemed to lie far below. Only Kinosuke’s heart felt like a solitary bird that had left the flock, soaring ever higher into the heavens.

Suddenly, Kinosuke noticed a white sign that read “Ministry of Railways Surplus Goods, Lost Items from Trains, Antiques.” It stood in front of a small shop at the street corner, where various antiques such as hats and tobacco pouches were visible from outside. Kinosuke shifted his gaze from the sign to the kokyū he held. What was the use of keeping a kokyū that had lost all its listeners? As if defying someone, Kinosuke opened the glass door there without much thought. “How much would you take for this?”

The antique shop owner with a bluish, swollen face first, “What in the world is this?” “It’s not a shamisen.” “A kokyū, huh? Damn old thing,” she said in a gruff, almost masculine tone as she took the instrument. And after checking all over for damage, “I can’t buy this thing,” she said, thrusting it back. “You can’t just say you won’t buy it!” Kinosuke retorted, his lips pursed in agitation. “An antique shop ain’t got no right to say it can’t buy antiques!”

“Even if it’s an antique shop, things nobody uses these days are worthless.” “We ain’t no fancy curio dealer.” The two haggled back and forth awhile. The shop owner seemed not entirely opposed to buying, “Well then,” “If thirty sen’s good enough for ya, leave it here,” she said.

Chapter Nine

Kinosuke was angered by the low price he was quoted, but in the heat of anger, he blurted out that he’d sell it. When Kinosuke stepped outside, he felt overwhelmingly furious, but beneath that fury lay a yawning void of emptiness.

After walking a short distance, there was a large elementary school surrounded by iron fences, and in front of it, a store selling school supplies faced the road. He bought the King crayons he had been asked to get by his youngest child, Yūta. While waiting for the shop boy to wrap them in paper, regret began gnawing at Kinosuke’s heart. The instant he let go of the kokyū, a voice sprang up in some corner of his mind: I’ve made a mistake. It had been growing steadily louder now. When he received the wrapped crayons, Kinosuke hurriedly turned back toward the antique shop, his rubber boots clattering against the ground. I can’t let that thing go! That thing’s been with me thirty years!

The kokyū had already been hung alongside old hats and tobacco pouches in a spot clearly visible from the street when it caught Kinosuke’s eye. He felt relieved it was still there. A nostalgic warmth washed over him, as if he’d unexpectedly encountered a dear companion he hadn’t seen in years.

Kinosuke entered the shop and said after hesitating for a moment: “Excuse me—could you return the kokyū from earlier? Well... an inconvenient matter has come up.”

The antique shop owner with the bluish-swollen face stared at Kinosuke as if trying to bore holes through him with her sharp gaze. Then Kinosuke took thirty sen from his wallet and laid them beside the brazier. “I’m right sorry for this selfish askin’, but that kokyū—I’ve used it thirty years. Been with me longer’n my own wife.”

Thinking to soften the antique shop owner’s heart, Kinosuke said such a thing. Then the antique shop owner, “What’s become of your wife or whatever—I don’t know or care—but this here’s a business. Ain’t got time for games,” she said, propping her chin on the desk cluttered with ledgers and abacuses. And she said again. “Ain’t no way I can just hand back what I’ve bought on a whim.” Thinking this woman was something else, Kinosuke said, “Then sell it back to me. I’ll pay whatever it takes.”

The antique shop owner stared at Kinosuke’s face for another long moment,

“If you’re askin’ to buy it back, ain’t no reason I can’t sell it. Buyin’ and sellin’s what we do here,” she said with a slightly calmer tone. “Ah, well then, go ahead with that.” “Truth is, I was the one at fault here.” “So how much extra should I pay?” Kinosuke said, taking out his wallet again and half-opening it. “Well now, I’d sell this for eighty sen to others, but since you know its roots, I’ll make it sixty for you.”

The hand holding Kinosuke’s wallet trembled with anger. “Th-that’s... such nonsense! Don’t you go lookin’ down on folks like that! You took it for thirty sen, and not even thirty minutes later, you’re charging double—” “If you don’t like it, then quit it,” the antique shop owner interrupted curtly. When Kinosuke looked inside his wallet, there was only fifteen sen left. Out of habit, he hadn’t taken any money with him when leaving home. And when he had bought Yūta’s crayons earlier, he had paid with the coins he had received from the miso shop. The fifteen sen was what remained of that.

After picking up each of the thirty sen coins lined up beside the brazier and putting them into his wallet, Kinosuke silently placed the wallet inside his obi. And he listlessly left the antique shop.

It was around three in the afternoon. The sky clouded over again, and the town grew colder. The numbness in his toes suddenly pierced through him. Kinosuke walked on without looking right or left, hunched deeply over.