Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

On a morning beneath oppressive clouds that hung low, from a certain brothel in Shinmachi Ura Alley—a notorious red-light district in Keijō—the disheveled novelist Genryū emerged into a cluttered alleyway as though flung out. He stood dejectedly before the gate for some time, trying to figure out how to reach Honmachi Street, then suddenly marched into a narrow lane ahead. But in this neighborhood of tangled alleys where eaves clawed at the ground and jostled one another, no path seemed to lead out—turn right only to veer left again. When he finally emerged leftward, the alley would fork into dead ends each time. Plunged deep in thought, he kept trudging forward until hitting a dead-end alley, where he’d startle and look around. Everywhere—fronts and sides alike—houses bore gates slathered haphazardly in red and blue paint, their earthen walls threatening to crumble any moment. Retracing his steps silently through this maze, he became utterly lost. Though not yet late, every alley lay hushed save for occasional customers from last night’s revelries slinking past with hunched shoulders. From some unknowable direction came a salt-peddling old man who’d wandered astray, desperately shouting—

“Salt!—Salt here!” The salt-peddling old man was going around shouting. Genryū finally emerged at a three-way fork, slowly took out a Midori cigarette, put it between his lips, and while glancing around, grumbled something under his breath with evident displeasure. When he thought about how he’d ended up sleeping with some disagreeable woman, he grumbled that even the way back was giving him this much trouble. But more than that, there lingered in a corner of his heart an oppressive black cloud he couldn’t shake off—no, that had been lurking there since earlier. At times it even felt like something was constricting his chest intensely. Indeed, due to inescapable circumstances, he was now in a position where he had to shave his head and enter temple training within these two days. Thus thinking his worldly pleasures were ending here, in his excitement last night he had shouted “Melon! Melon!” and bitten the cheek of a rival prostitute, but the woman—making no attempt to understand this otherworldly artist—had fled in shock. Recalling such unpleasantness, he cursed under his breath—“Damn it, how infuriating”—and resolved that at the very least he needed to reach some elevated spot. With this determination, he began trudging once more toward a slightly sloping alley. After repeatedly hitting dead-ends and winding through twist after twist, he finally reached the summit of the slope—the blue-painted gate of a place called Yōshunkan. All around, the roofs of hundreds upon hundreds of Korean brothels clustered along slopes surged like waves—to the right, to the left, above, below. As he stood there in the tepid early summer wind—poised like that line from someone’s poem, “I now stand upon the mountain peak”—the lapping waves of helpless loneliness left him utterly powerless. The area lay in such profound stillness that one could scarcely believe this was the same brothel district where just last night men had scurried about and prostitutes’ shrill voices had echoed off the walls. But while thousands of young women sprawled like washed-out sweet potatoes within these teeming houses, must I—in just two days—be confined to waking and sleeping in the dim confines of Myōkōji Temple? Genryū took out his second cigarette there, lit it, and blew out a puff of smoke with a soft exhale. Hazily blurred by heat shimmer, far off in the western distance rose the towering bell tower of a Catholic church, with high-rise buildings clustered around it like icebergs. Exactly the destination he was aiming for. And yet, no sooner had he turned over in his mind where he should descend from than he involuntarily let out a soft chuckle. When he looked over the roofs of Korean houses toward the southern foothills, an unusual telegraph pole loaded with several black transformers suddenly caught his eye in what appeared to be Honmachi 5-chōme. It was because he suddenly remembered—when was it?—that during his wandering search for a urology clinic, an advertisement for some establishment had hung there.

That’s right—using that as a landmark to make his way down would work, he told himself—

Honmachi Street—Keijō's most bustling Japanese quarter—stretched long and narrow in an east-west serpentine curve. Past ten o'clock when Genryū finally located the brothel district's exit and lumbered into Honmachi 5-chōme, the thoroughfare now teemed with figures. He began walking bow-legged down the street's center, eyes downturned with lowered outer corners, thinking he wanted to meet someone familiar—be they literati or official. Whether his shoulders had truly sunken excessively from being at least a first-dan judo practitioner—as he himself claimed—remained unclear, but his bow-legged gait had begun after noticing that peculiar telegraph pole. Now especially, he found himself trapped in hopeless loneliness and profound anguish. Yet until reaching Meiji Confectionery's vicinity, he hadn't encountered a single soul. Then suddenly he recalled last night's gathering at this very confectionery. "You're Korean culture's true pestilence!" flashed the sharp face of critic Ri Meishoku who'd shouted this while hurling a plate. Pausing pensively before the entrance, he twisted into a thin smirk—Hmph. That pretentious fool. Now rotting in jail... Then as if deciding Maybe I'll go in after all, he abruptly squared his shoulders and shoved open the door with hurried force. The hall stood cavernous empty save two salesman-types whispering conspiratorially in a corner. Genryū advanced slowly to the center, thudded into a seat, beckoned the waitress over and stared fixedly upward at her face—but when he saw the girl redden uncomfortably, suddenly barked:

“Coffee.”

The girl, startled, darted off. Satisfied, he smirked smugly, hoisted his hips, and then—with unclear intent—crawled dog-like toward the kitchen. “Hee, pardon me,” he said with a grin, and briskly thrust out his hand. “One hand towel…” From this presumptuous familiarity, he must have concluded that the kitchen staff already knew him well. Indeed, they remembered Genryū because they knew about the scandalous incident that had occurred upstairs last night. Just as the Korean literati were gathered for a meeting, earnestly debating something in their fervor, Genryū suddenly burst into cackling laughter from a corner. No sooner had this happened than he was struck by a plate hurled by a young man, collapsing with a head wound—yet even as he lay sprawled on his back, he continued his petulant cackling without cease. On the spot, that young man named Ri Meishoku was taken away by the attending police officer on charges of assault. The cooks had been thoroughly taken aback by Genryū’s brazenness during the meeting, but when he now appeared in this strange place like a kitchen, they grew even more flustered and exchanged baffled looks. No one laughed; only one person shook their head in apparent surprise and gestured that there were no hand towels. With a sheepish sidelong glare at them all, he suddenly darted rat-like toward the faucet and noisily gushed water forth, then thrust his head under the stream to wash his face with spluttering sounds. They were utterly dumbfounded from the start, but when he went out hee-hee-heeing with an embarrassed smile,

“Is he a lunatic?” one of them tilted his head in puzzlement. “No—it’s Genryū, Genryū!”

“That’s right—it must be him.” “That’s Genryū the novelist.”

With such exchanges, they all whispered among themselves as they huddled around the dish window and peered out. When they looked, Genryū had already returned to his seat and was snatching up the morning paper that happened to be beside him, vigorously wiping his face and neck. He cast a sidelong glance and noticed the cooks crowding closer with their eyes fixed on him—then swelled with self-importance as he grandly tossed the thoroughly soaked and crumpled newspaper, now inky black, onto the table. When he casually glanced at it, his eyes widened upon seeing a large bedbug lumbering around a fold of the paper. Involuntarily, he broke into a faint smile and leaned forward slightly. Perhaps having gorged itself too greedily on blood, the bedbug now scrambled to flee—its body swollen crimson to such excess that its legs seemed unable to obey, leaving it overwhelmed by its own bulk. Though it often slipped and nearly tumbled down, whenever fingertips approached, it would panic and scramble away. He had always been fond of bedbugs. Was he perhaps thinking that its manner of crawling flat against the ground bore some resemblance to his own state? Or maybe its audacity and cunning were what he found appealing. Moreover—oh!—this must have been crawling around his neck all along, he thought, and when it occurred to him that this might be the very creature that melon-cheeked woman had saddled him with, he felt an inexplicable, ticklish sort of irritation. He suddenly writhed his shoulders and snickered. But when he thought "Oh!" and looked, the bedbug was already hurriedly trying to retreat into hiding on the other side of the fold. He swiftly pinched one end of it, flipped it over with care, and watched its every move with evident amusement until the very end. However, within mere two or three minutes, he suddenly widened his eyes and jolted up in startling surprise. As the bedbug passed over a particular headline, it nonchalantly made him read each character one by one. What in the world was this? In an instant, he thought—this was a golden opportunity, what could be called divine intervention! He even considered it Christ’s resurrection. Even though it was small print in a corner of the cultural section, it had informed him that Tanaka—a writer from Tokyo’s literary circles with whom he shared truly extraordinary ties—was staying at the Korean Hotel in Keijō en route to Manchuria.

I must go.

Genryū shuddered to his feet. Once upright, he gave an exaggerated shrug of his shoulders and began scuttling toward the exit like a bedbug. He had steeled his resolve. Just as he nearly collided with a girl carrying coffee on his way out, he snatched the cup as if seizing stolen goods and guzzled the scalding liquid heedlessly, then scurried off in a fluster—paying no mind to the stunned girl and cooks gaping in his wake.

Honmachi Street overflowed with swarming crowds even in mid-morning—from Meika all the way to the thoroughfare's exit. Mainland Japanese (Japanese, hereafter the same) clattered along in geta, white-clad country visitors gaped at shopfronts, old women startled each other over mechanized dolls with rolling eyes in display windows, Mainland Japanese women out shopping, errand boys cycling past with shrill bells, and military police scrambling over luggage for mere ten-sen fares—all these teemed through the artery.

Genryū hurriedly threaded his way through this wave of people and emerged into the square before Chōsen Bank (Bank of Chosen), where he came to a halt. Trams passed incessantly back and forth, and cars swarmed around the rotary. He crossed the square in a flustered panic and headed into the quiet Hasegawa-chō on the opposite side. After walking for some time, a tall old-fashioned wall stretched along his right side, and an imposing gate, weathered with age, came into view. Upon passing through it and entering, within the spacious garden stood a splendid Western-style mansion—said to have been a legation of some country during the Korean era. Genryū arrived there in a trance-like frenzy, then—heart racing—pushed through the revolving door and entered as if compelled.

“Please inform Mr. Tanaka of my arrival,” he declared the moment he appeared before the front desk, mustering all possible dignity as he opened with these words. “My name is Genryū.” The boy with neatly combed and parted hair—in a manner that seemed to mutter “That bastard’s back again”—scrutinized him from head to toe before, “He has gone out…” “Has he gone out?” Genryū appeared genuinely surprised—indeed, with the air of one who had every right to find it thoroughly unexpected—“With whom?”

“Ah…” The bellboy, somewhat intimidated, bowed apologetically. “He went out with someone from a magazine company, I believe.” “Someone from a magazine company?” When abruptly struck by a bad premonition and hurriedly pressing for answers, a clearly flustered shadow of restless anxiety flickered across Genryū’s face. That must be Ōmura. If it was Ōmura, this was serious, he thought. And so he hurriedly asked.

“Isn’t it Mr. Ōmura from U Magazine?”

“I don’t know!” shouted another middle-aged bellboy from the side, as if angered.

Indeed, whenever some notable figure from Mainland Japan's art world would visit, lazy literary dropouts would come barging in while putting on airs as if they represented all Korean literati—so the bellboys were thoroughly sick of it. Even now, Tanaka had just departed accompanied by Ōmura and a technical school professor, followed by four or five of those Korean literary dropouts trailing out behind them. Genryū’s habit of such visits was particularly severe, and since he came calling on guests nearly every day, even the bellboys were thoroughly exasperated by him. “We can’t possibly remember every little detail like that.”

“Heh, well now, this is quite—heh heh, yes, I suppose so.” With that, Genryū said while putting a hand to his head and laughed obsequiously. But he couldn’t stop worrying about that matter, so he muttered to himself several times with emphatic nods: "...Probably isn’t Mr. Ōmura—no, that’s right, it must be him."

Then he suddenly thrust his neck forward and, pointing toward the inner lobby with his hand, “Just borrowing the sofa for a bit!” With that, he spun around and turned his back. And with an air that all but declared how thoroughly he knew the lobby’s utility for waiting on people, he slowly advanced toward it while swaying his shoulders. Come to think of it, his novels were always crammed with such things as hotels and lobbies, dance halls, salons, noblewomen, and black drivers. Now, as if remembering something, he suddenly came to a halt, then spun around and shouted.

“When Mr. Tanaka returns, I have a favor to ask.” “Heh, I’m sleepy, you know.”

II

Genryū—who had lain down on the spacious lobby sofa, snoring loudly and indulging in four or five hours of deep sleep—brushed the dust from his suit and rose unsteadily. The lobby now stood dim and deserted. He spread his hands wide in a slow stretch and yawned repeatedly. Then suddenly feeling not just hunger pangs but realizing Tanaka showed no sign of returning, he resolved to leave for now. Thrusting out his sleep-addled face, he peered toward the front desk. Finding it miraculously unmanned, he darted out like a startled hare into the open air. The afternoon sun cast thin, desolate shadows across the main street while a parched wind whipped up dust devils here and there. He decided to grab cheap food somewhere before combing every likely haunt for Tanaka's group. Yet even he couldn't fathom why—as his feet resumed their shuffle—he growled through gritted teeth: "Outrageous." This likely meant Tanaka hadn't sent even a postcard announcing his Korea visit. After all those preposterous boasts he'd made about returning home an established literary master—and yet...

Our capital Keijō had Hwanggeum Street as its boundary line, with the area north of it constituting purely Korean districts. When Genryū emerged from Hasegawa-cho onto Hwanggeum Street and passed before Tearoom Rira, he resolved to merely peek inside—thrusting his head into the violet-tinged smoke haze to glance about—but the moment he did so, he let out an involuntary dry chuckle. Amidst the dense swirl of people, the poetess Bun Sogoku—dressed in pure white so dazzling it could wake the eyes—sat delicately like a lily. He suddenly felt happy and stumbled into their midst. When the renowned Genryū appeared, people began poking each other, snorting with suppressed laughter, and deliberately turning away in feigned disdain. The poetess had been waiting for a young college student lover, but in her delight at having such a scrutinized novelist approach her, she forgot everything else and welcomed him with a twisted smirk on her slightly large lips.

“Oh my, Mr. Gen—what a rare occurrence.” “Heh heh, now this is an exceedingly amusing scene—” No sooner had he approached than Genryū plopped down heavily opposite her. All curious eyes focused in unison on the pair. To be fair, they had all been thoroughly bored for quite some time. But when it came to boredom, day after day brought only the same tedious crowd. These so-called tearoom patrons were yet another peculiar breed spawned by contemporary Korean society. They comprised those with scraps of education but no employment who tried parting their hair Clark Gable-style out of idleness; film delinquents with stubble scratching their heads over finding fools to fund productions; gold mine brokers huddled conspiratorially in corners; third-rate literary youths convinced carrying manuscript sheaves defined artistry. Yet even these types found their topics exhausted and minds wearied after two or three hours—so when Genryū suddenly appeared facing the beautiful poetess Bun Sogoku, it undoubtedly became a genuinely intriguing spectacle. In Keijō’s cultural circles, there was none who didn’t know these two—and now by chance both luminaries sat face-to-face. Moreover, they well knew Bun Sogoku was no mere poetess to Genryū.

“And what brings you here today?” She deliberately pressed a handkerchief to her mouth as if feigning shyness.

“Actually—I went to He-noie-shtatto (Shinmachi), you see,” said Genryū, grinning mischievously to pique her curiosity. Of course, the poetess had no way of understanding the meaning of that German word,

“Huh?” Her eyes widened in surprise as he laughed ever more triumphantly, his belly quivering with mirth. Then he chuckled again, as if recalling some private joke. A faint blush bloomed across her cheeks—cheeks that bore the pallor of dissipation—while her curled bangs trembled like unsettled shadows. Genryū suddenly stiffened as if gripped by convulsions, his eyes locking onto her face with voracious intensity.

The frivolous poetess Bun Sogoku respected Genryū to the utmost. Not only did he possess an exquisite command of poetic diction, Latin, and French, but she firmly believed he differed from her beloved Rimbaud and Baudelaire only in nationality. Genryū had gone around making such claims himself. After all, as a poet she had merely imitated a few of Rimbaud’s verses—yet Genryū had promoted this in second- and third-rate magazines while extolling her beauty and future prospects. It was from that time she began putting on airs as a full-fledged poet and attending every so-called publication party without fail. When she appeared at venues in such resplendent attire that made eyes swim, Genryū would always shudder to his feet and beckon “Over here!” to draw her to his side. Could it be said she too was ultimately one of contemporary Korea’s unfortunate women? From youthful passion for “Feudalism Destruction”—a mantra spilling from her lips—she had departed for Tokyo studies immediately after girls’ school graduation, casting aside marriage prospects. But upon graduating technical school in Japan proper, she became first to suffer revenge from the very feudalism she had vowed to destroy. At that time—due to early marriage customs—nowhere could one find unwed young men. Unable to channel youthful vitality elsewhere, she gradually fell into illicit liaisons through male acquaintances. Yet she convinced herself she alone pioneered rebellion against old systems while forging new free-love paths—proceeding to cultivate paramours one after another. Genryū stood as none other than one such partner. The sole distinction lay in how with Genryū alone—one must say—the two comrades had grown thoroughly accustomed to and satisfied with each other’s deranged folly.

“Last night Mr. Ōmura from U Magazine came to my place again, you see—listen—Mr. Ōmura brought whiskey with him,” Genryū continued. “He was saying something like ‘If you don’t write it by tonight, I absolutely won’t leave,’ you see—well, even I was at a loss there. I was just in the middle of writing a manuscript for Tokyo, you see. It’s absolutely brilliant, I tell you! It’s the piece that first-rate magazine D has been hounding me for since three months ago!”

“I certainly look forward to it.” The poetess was profoundly moved, her small eyes glittering. “I’ve had enough of writing in Korean. Korean can eat shit! Because that’s the curse of extinction, you see.” While recalling last night’s gathering, he struck an absurd pose. “I intend to make my triumphant return to the Tokyo literary scene. All my friends in Tokyo are urging me relentlessly.” But a woman like Bun Sogoku couldn’t possibly know there had been a gathering of earnest literati safeguarding Korean literature at Myeonggwa the previous night. Genryū had sniffed out this meeting of writers and lumbered in just as it was concluding. There they sat in rows—men and women who reviled him as a vile parasite on Korean culture, their faces taut with fervor as they debated cultural preservation and the merits of Korean-language literature. He let out a hollow laugh and retreated awkwardly to a corner perch. They insisted Koreans must forge their own cultural identity through their hands alone, that this would ultimately enrich pan-Japanese culture and thereby benefit Eastern and world civilizations. Genryū leered at each face in turn, his sneer dripping with contempt. He remembered locking eyes momentarily with Ri Meishoku—that young firebrand critic. An involuntary twitch seized him then. Every fiber of Ri’s being seemed aquiver. Suddenly Ri’s throat convulsed mid-speech,

“That’s self-evident!” he shouted. “It’s not that literature cannot be created without the Korean language. I’m not saying this solely for linguistic artistry’s sake. Is this not the very day when we—who for hundreds of years could not behold culture’s light under rigid Chinese classical studies’ weight—have gradually awakened to our precious literary heritage? For five hundred years under Yi Dynasty misrule, cultural treasures lay buried—to inherit traditions by unearthing them, what desperate efforts have we poured over thirty years to establish even this much Korean literature? By what reason should we again bury this literary light, this cultural bud, with our own hands? But I don’t say this from mere sentimentality either. The critical issue is eighty percent of Koreans being illiterate—nay, ninety percent of literate ones only reading Korean script!”

At that moment, Genryū suddenly let out a sharp, derisive snicker.

“Shut up!”

“Shut up!” Voices erupted like a storm. “Well, enough,” Ri pressed on in a trembling voice that quivered like a groan, squeezing his eyes shut as he struggled to suppress his agitation. “Is it not beyond dispute that literary works in Korean are absolutely necessary both to bring the light of culture to these people and to bring them enjoyment? Even now, the three major Korean-script newspapers continue to admirably fulfill their cultural role, while Korean-script magazines and publications enrich the hearts of the people. The Korean language is clearly distinct from dialects like those of Kyushu or Tohoku. Of course, I am not opposed to writing in the mainland language either. At least I am not a linguistic chauvinist. Those capable of writing must be compelled to labor extensively to disseminate our lives, hearts, and art. And for the sake of art by those who do not hesitate to write in the mainland language or those who cannot actually write it, they should strive to establish robust translation institutions under the support and patronage of understanding mainland cultural figures to introduce their works. Arguments such as those of the faction that insist one must either use the mainland language or break their brush are utterly outrageous.” Thereupon, he suddenly slammed the table and stood up.

“So there you have it! Genryū, how do you think about this problem?”

The eyes glaring at Genryū seemed to shoot flames. He froze completely rigid in that instant. In truth, Genryū—hiding under the noble name of patriotism—was one of those who went around slandering not only literary works in Korean but even the very existence of the language itself as a form of silent political rebellion. Even setting that aside, such purely cultural literary activities—owing to Korea’s unique circumstances—could indeed be said to risk inviting the authorities’ misunderstanding, as even their inherent artistic spirit tended all too easily to take on political overtones. Particularly after the Incident, that apprehension should have grown all the more severe. Genryū exploited this to brandish patriotism, selling people out while swaggering about. And just how many innocent people had been plunged into the abyss of anxiety, agitation, and anguish? In reality, this gathering had been a critical meeting targeting the rhetoric of Genryū’s faction. Genryū, at that moment, arched his body and sneered as if making a complete fool of himself,

“Korean language?”

He dismissed them with a single scornful remark and sneered. At that moment, Ri Meishoku’s anger finally flared up; he grabbed a plate and hurled it. Everyone burst into an uproar. But even after being struck on the head and falling onto his back, he continued cackling with petulant defiance—and as you are well aware, Ri Meishoku was arrested on charges of assault. Afterward, he left the venue and drifted alone into the red-light district of Shinmachi, downed several glasses of whiskey at some cheap bar, then immediately crossed the threshold of a brothel. When he recalled that incident, he felt somehow both embarrassed and amused, and ended up stifling a laugh. Then, as if to distract himself, he hurriedly started to stand up.

“What time is it around now?”

“Oh, really now, you’re being so impatient,” said Bun Sogoku while glancing at her wristwatch. “It’s not even six yet. Come on, hurry up and bring the coffee.” “Well then, let’s get some toast too while we’re at it,” he said, and as if being pulled back in, Genryū settled into his seat once more. “So… you see,” “After all, when President Mr. Ōmura himself came all the way here, I finally caved and wrote it for him.” “Then that bastard, all pleased with himself, dragged me out, got me completely plastered, and hauled me off to that Neue Stadt.” “But then, you see—it turned out to be a woman with cheeks as yellow as a melon…”

Then this phrase "like a melon" struck him as intensely sensual, and apparently quite taken with it himself, he repeated it once more for emphasis.

“Like a melon, you know?” Even the poetess finally seemed to grasp the meaning behind his brazen declaration, her face flushing hotly of its own accord. Yet upon reconsidering that revealing her discomposure would surely make her seem vulgar, she responded in a tone suggesting she had known exactly what he meant all along. “How lovely for you… How delightful.” “And yet the very one who’s packing you off to a temple actually took you to such a place? How very curious.”

“That’s exactly why!” the novelist cried out, his facial muscles contorting in a flustered manner. “That’s precisely why I tell you I can’t make heads or tails of these bureaucrats’ intentions! It’s a kind of whim. In short, Mr. Ōmura still doesn’t understand the person that I am. In other words, he can’t comprehend an extraordinary artist.”

“I suppose so.” The poetess nodded with feigned solemnity, then suddenly burst into a tittering laugh.

“No—this isn’t a laughing matter. Just try to recall how Rimbaud and Baudelaire were denounced by the common philistines!” Genryū grew increasingly eloquent and raised his hand. “Korean artists—what a wretched existence they must lead. Nature lies in decay, the masses are ignorant, and intellectuals know nothing of art’s nobility. Here I recall how Gogol deplored the painters of Petersburg. Everything is sluggish and devoid of joy—not a single soul values Korean artists. They’re just writhing together in discarded refuse. I too am but one victim swept into this garbage heap, you see. It’s true—I’ve been closer to Mr. Ōmura than anyone else; we’ve consulted each other on every matter. But now he tells me to go sit zazen at some temple! I understand his reasoning, but for an artist, that would mean suicide. To become a monk! Still... I said I’d accept it because...” He trailed off before rallying: “Baudelaire too yearned with his poetic words—‘O tranquility! O tranquility!’”

But even as he concluded this with a smile playing at his lips, his face trembled as though seized by a strange spasm. “It’s a form of protective supervision, isn’t it? Even if you’re not a political prisoner…”

“That’s right,” he sobbed while wiping his tear-streaked face with a trembling hand. “I must become a monk and enter the temple by the day after tomorrow.” There he shuddered violently and leaned forward. “But you see, the truly marvelous thing is that Mr. Tanaka—a Tokyo writer who’s also my dear friend—has come to Keijō.” “I absolutely had to meet him, so I went to the Korean Hotel earlier, but arrived terribly late. He’d apparently grown impatient and gone out with someone like Mr. Ōmura. Feeling wretched about it all, I’m just about to go search for him now.” “Shall I introduce you? As Korea’s Georges Sand… or my Liebe……”

“…………” The poetess closed her eyes and smiled bewitchingly. She completely forgot about having an appointment with the young college student. “Oh, thank you, I’ll have you introduce me.”

“Then,” Genryū stared intently at her smiling face when—That’s right, tonight I’ll finally take this woman home with me after so long—he resolved firmly to himself, “If she hears this, Mr. Tanaka’s sister will get jealous, heh heh.” “Oh, was that so? So your Tokyo lover is that person’s younger sister?” “Ohoho, this is amusing, isn’t it?” “That’s right, that’s right!” he cried out with evident delight, as though his will had prevailed. “When I left Tokyo, she made such a fuss about chasing after me.” “Anyway, Mr. Tanaka has now risen to prominence and is already an established writer.” “How about this—if we gather around him for a meeting, please do come then.”

“Oh，I will certainly go to that.”

“By the way, actually, Mr. Tanaka and Mr. Ōmura are university classmates and very close friends,” he said, suddenly leaning back with an earnest expression. But across his face flitted a faint bright shadow so wretched it could be called miserable. “That’s why I mean to have Mr. Tanaka convince Mr. Ōmura. To make him understand the artist. Yes, this matters more than meeting that Parisian girl Anna. Then I’m sure I won’t need to enter the temple.”

“Indeed, that would be splendid. That would be splendid.” The poetess displayed heartfelt delight, her shoulders quivering as her breath came in rapid bursts.

“I truly hope that comes to pass.”

In truth, even the novelist Genryū was not such a bad person; at his core, he was an utter weak coward yet somewhat gifted with literary talent. However, prolonged helpless poverty, loneliness, and despair completely disrupted his mind. Moreover, Korea’s peculiar society now plunged him into ever-deeper turmoil. Due to a personality collapse, he had been disowned by his father and older brother, failed to complete his studies, and found no means of supporting himself. The fifteen years he spent in Tokyo were exactly like those of a pitiful stray dog. To make matters worse, try as he might to conceal being Korean, his very frame and facial features were undeniably those of a Korean—so even when seeking lodging, first his face and then his tattered trousers ensured rejection without ceremony. And so, as if struck by divine revelation, he resorted to a desperate measure: abruptly proclaiming himself not only a Korean noble’s son and literary genius but also a first-rate writer in Korean literary circles. By this means, he aimed to partially alleviate the contempt and awkwardness endured for being Korean while making his livelihood more flexible. Yet miraculously, this method succeeded entirely—he managed to be taken in by two or three women in succession. Thus over a year or two of such circumstances, he deluded himself into believing he truly was both a Korean noble and literary genius. But literature alone remained unmanageable until one year—forced into repatriation for slashing a woman—he withdrew to Korea in desperate resignation. From then on, he wrote Korean articles flaunting eccentricity or sensuality while trudging to sell them to lowbrow magazines. He carried manuscripts in his Shingen bag slung over his shoulder; after causing disturbances in bars and cafés only to be apprehended by patrolmen asking his occupation, he’d proudly declare himself Genryū the literary man. Crashing uninvited into gatherings, he’d spew half-remembered French/German/Latin words at random before puffing out his chest to proclaim himself at least a first-dan judo practitioner. He’d endlessly ramble about his supposed prominence in Tokyo’s literary circles—as though this elevated his standing in Korea. As everything continued thusly people gradually dismissed him as mad—yet this only made him more ecstatic at having his wishes fulfilled; true geniuses like himself were precisely what commoners couldn’t grasp. But as his true nature surfaced even lowbrow journalism rejected his writings until cultural figures united to expel him from their circles. From that immobilized moment onward whenever drunk he ceased mentioning judo instead bellowing threats at anyone nearby—“You’re the one who deserves jail!” Simultaneously everyone began fearing him as a man who could accomplish anything.

That even such a man could make them cower with mere current-affairs rhetoric—how lamentable this was for Korea’s cultural figures! As Genryū’s mind grew increasingly desolate, he began committing ever more assaults, extortions, and lewd behavior throughout the streets. Yet now when patrolmen reprimanded him, he would only cackle and bark, "If it concerns me, go ask Mr. Ōmura!"

The "Ōmura" whom he always addressed as "Mr. Ōmura" in front of others was in fact the editor-in-chief of Current-Affairs Magazine U, published to deepen patriotic thought among the Korean populace. He—a former official who had just arrived from mainland Japan and still knew little of Korea or its cultural affairs—stubbornly believed that Genryū, who first approached him, was indeed the novelist shouldering Korean literary circles as claimed, and that his near-personality collapse only proved him to be an extraordinary artist. Thus did the despairing Genryū inexplicably come to ingratiate himself with Ōmura and be favored. However, as the saying goes, no good deed goes unpunished—not long after this, Genryū found himself suspected of espionage under exceedingly strange circumstances and was apprehended by the Kempeitai. It was on a certain beautiful afternoon that he spotted a young, bewitching French woman who called herself Anna on his usual Honmachi Street. He excitedly approached while spouting broken phrases like “bon ami,” “Mademoiselle,” and “merci.” The blue-eyed woman, quite adept herself, laughed softly and said in halting Japanese that she had come traveling and was lost. Feeling increasingly pleased with himself, he led her about various places while shouting all the French phrases he knew—"Bonjour!", "Très bien!", "Beau garçon!", "S'il vous plaît!"—loud enough for passersby to hear. Then he deliberately dragged her into a used bookstore, hunted down a third-rate magazine featuring his profile, flipped to the gravure page, and triumphantly pointed at his photograph while asking if she knew who it was. “Oh!” She acted surprised. Thereupon, pleased with himself, he suddenly tore off the photograph while stealing glances from others and forcibly stuffed it into her handbag. Afterward, Anna was arrested as a spy at the Tumen River border, and he was detained under suspicion when the photograph in question was found in her possession. Just as things were about to take a disastrous turn, Ōmura leveraged governmental authority to work through various explanations and efforts to secure his release, which led Genryū to feel a lifelong debt of gratitude toward him. As it was, he—now cast aside by ordinary Koreans like a stray dog—would have no choice but to die in the streets if even Ōmura were to abandon him. But now that patriotic fervor had gradually risen even in Korea and their initial objectives were nearly achieved, it had to be said that continuing to employ Genryū—who waved the banner of patriotism while disrupting public order and committing misdeeds everywhere—would affect Ōmura's own prestige. In reality, as far as Genryū was concerned, the denunciations and attacks against the judicial authorities had grown so severe that even the police were beginning their own internal investigation. Thus, out of reluctance to hand him over to the police and his inherent devoutness, Ōmura commanded Genryū to go to a temple, practice Zen meditation, and quickly show some sign of repentance. With matters having reached this point, Genryū could no longer go against that command. At last, he had to depart within these two days. Therefore, at this juncture, Genryū pinned all his hopes on Tanaka—a Tokyo-based writer and Ōmura’s university classmate—having come to the city, intending to have him persuade Ōmura in various ways so that he could move about freely.

So it was of course more significant than meeting Anna the Parisian girl. "I'm going to search for Mr. Tanaka in Jongno's back alleys now." "Well then, shall we head out?" With that, Genryū suddenly perked up and raised his hips while stuffing two pieces of toast into his mouth at once.

“I’m going too,… Oh, that sounds lovely.” With that declaration, the poetess snatched the bill from his hand and stood up—but then her expression suddenly stiffened, hardening like stone. Soon she began to act somewhat hesitantly. “Huh?” thought Genryū as he turned to look—there at the entrance stood a college student with a lanky, towering frame, his square cap pulled low over eyes shadowed by a pale, contorted face. And [the college student] glared sharply at Genryū. At that moment, the plaintive Spanish folk song record abruptly stopped, and all the people’s gazes turned toward the three of them. Bun Sogoku abruptly sidestepped and headed toward the entrance, opened the door, and pulled the young college student along as they went outside. Genryū stood rooted in place, blankly gazing at the scene as though shattered. At the back, everyone was snickering and laughing together. However, within another three or four minutes, she came rushing back to him and exclaimed breathlessly in a small voice, “He’s my cousin.” “I completely forgot I had promised to go to the play with him.”

And in that sudden instant—

“I’ll go tomorrow morning.” She whispered those words in his ear and darted out again. “Wait, wait!”

With that, he suddenly shouted in a flustered manner from behind while waving his hands and rushed out. But outside was already a dark night, and the two figures had vanished without a trace—gone who knows where.

III

“Damn it all! Bastard!” “You’ll pay for this.”

With such words, novelist Genryū walked toward Jongno Street—the liveliest thoroughfare in the Korean district—his shoulders perpetually hunched as he muttered repeatedly to himself with an affectedly buoyant gait. That harlot's making a fool of me too—she's pushing it this time, he told himself. He couldn't shake the feeling that some precious jewel had been snatched from his grasp. As always, even amidst her discordant form, the misshapenly large buttocks extending beneath her long torso flickered before his eyes, and toward them surged a pulsing rush of warm blood—an ache of bittersweet pleasure coursing through him. He choked up involuntarily and gulped audibly, swallowing hard. At that moment, for some reason, he suddenly thought he heard her whispering voice by his ear and, startled, turned to look. But of course there was no trace of Bun Sogoku there; only a passerby had stopped to gaze suspiciously at his figure. "Goddamn it," he muttered aloud again.

Passing before the grand white-plastered Korean-operated bank, he had somehow drawn near Jongno Yotsuji. Suddenly the surroundings grew clamorous; rickshaws dashed, cars streamed, and trams blared their horns impatiently. Starting from the high-rise buildings of Washin Department Store and Kansai Building, grand structures lined the avenue toward Dongdaemun like a channel. When he emerged before the Bell Pavilion—a decaying relic from a past century standing precisely at the crossroads—the hunched old beggars stretched out their hands, and filthy beggar children swarmed forth like locusts from nowhere. This year, beggars increased markedly. He pompously raised his hand and scattered the children. From around the front of the Kansai Building, night stalls had even spread onto the sidewalks; the stream of people bustled with activity, and the vendors’ calls echoed raucously. Right at the entrance to those night stalls, a peasant man wrapped in a white headscarf—seemingly drunk—waved his hands while surrounded by curious onlookers, incessantly shouting something in a choked voice. Wondering what on earth was happening, he craned his neck to look and saw a support frame erected beside the man, upon which large peach blossom-laden branches were piled. Thus the support frame lay buried in bouquets, the flowers bowing their heads in a pitifully endearing manner.

“The year I took my woman, we planted this peach tree together.” “That woman up and died.” “That wife!” the peasant shouted. “She kept beggin’ for white rice gruel, so I went to borrow from the landlord—and she died while I was gone.” “Now look—I hacked these peach branches down and hauled ’em here! Buy ’em, won’tcha? Twenty sen apiece—don’t need more’n that, twenty sen’ll do!”

The mountainous crowd exchanged amused glances and roared with laughter. Genryū, keeping his hands tucked in his sleeves, pushed through the crowd and suddenly emerged into the center. There he stood for a time, eyelids drooping with an expression of immeasurable emotion as he gazed intently at the peach branches. For some reason, he felt a piercing sadness welling up in his chest. As if possessed, he stomped over to the support frame, plucked a branch, and gazed up at it with every fiber of his being. Pale pink flowers blooming in full splendor now covered the branch in some twenty cascading clusters.

“Come on, sir! Buy one.” “I’ll flog these off, drink myself to death—eh? Why’s everyone laughin’? Buy ’em, won’tcha?” “Don’t laugh—buy one, won’tcha?” “...Oh! Obliged, obliged!”

Genryū, who had been fumbling for loose change with one hand, grabbed two or three white nickel coins and tossed them out with a clink. The peasant man ecstatically pressed his forehead to the ground in prostration. With this in his peripheral vision, Genryū wordlessly shouldered the peach branch and shouldered his way through the crowd back into the throng. At that moment—whether due to his disheveled appearance or some abrupt impulse—he recalled Christ bearing the cross and tried to feel within himself that same martyr's burden of anguished destiny. He couldn't help sensing that he alone stood bearing all Korean anguish and sorrow upon his back. Indeed, only within Korea's reality could creatures like him be born and permitted to lord over society. This chaotic Korea had needed and created someone like me, yet now sought to make me bear its cross once my usefulness ended. As this awareness crystallized, sorrow surged so violently through his chest he nearly erupted in convulsive sobs. But such sentiments proved fleeting—when he noticed sidewalk crowds gaping at his bizarre appearance, he instead straightened up with renewed pride. "You hack poet whore! Had you followed me, you'd have witnessed this celestial vision! Stupid bitch—" he inwardly snarled at Bun Sogoku. The night market entrance seethed with jostling bodies. The beggar children from earlier trailed five or six paces behind, visibly amused. When a sudden commotion erupted ahead—likely a brawl—he backtracked to avoid it, veering past Yesu Bookstore into a dim alleyway. The beggar children seized this chance to swarm him again, hands outstretched—

“Sir, spare us some alms!” “Spare us some alms!” they pleaded in pitiful voices. He seemed to finally lose heart and scattered five or six copper coins. The children let out shrill cries and began thrashing about, bumping their heads against each other in the shadows. Genryū turned back at them and started to snicker, but tears suddenly welled up, and he hurriedly raised his arm to wipe them away.

When he emerged into the back alley, there lay what they called Jongno Backstreet—cafés, bars, standing pubs, oden stalls, mahjong parlors, employment brokers, eateries, and inns all glinting their eyes, gaping their mouths, shrinking back, or crouching low as if clinging to the ground. The records screeched noisily as they writhed across the entire area, while people in Western suits and white kimonos wandered about. Prosperous merchants, Korean employees from the Government-General vicinity, moneyed idle youths, modern boys, café musicians, and barmaids would often strut their stuff in this district at night. Among them were also gold mine men who had come to lavish their wealth. "At last, I've reached the destination," Genryū thought to himself. Even if Tanaka hadn’t been guided by Ōmura, someone must have brought him to this district without fail to indulge in Korean local color. If at all possible, he wished to avoid being with Mr. Ōmura... With this fervent hope, he resolved to peer into each drinking establishment one by one and investigate. Behind him, the children still followed along, smirking. He firmly resolved that even if someone who respected him tried to pull him aside, he would never be sidetracked. When he opened the door to Café Jongno Hall and someone shouted “Hey, Mr. Gen!” he merely chuckled “Heh heh heh” and turned on his heel; when he peered through the open window into Bar Shilla—Hey lunatic! Beggar bastard! Even when everyone showered him with jeers, he merely recalled that he himself held at least a first-dan judo rank and walked away with a foolish grin. At one place he carelessly rushed in and was assailed by women in Korean attire and assorted Western dress clamoring “Flowers! Give us flowers!”—yet even then he didn’t slap a single one of their behinds, instead tossing them two or three blossoms as he scrambled away in a fluster—but though he combed nearly every inch of that district from west to east in this manner, Tanaka’s party remained nowhere to be found. He found himself increasingly driven by a frantic desperation, powerless to contain his aimless resentment and fury.

Genryū once again searched aimlessly, dragging his bow-legged feet heavily as he combed the area. This time, he not only stuck his head into various places but even questioned the women. But after wandering around for over two hours, no progress was made; intense fatigue set in, and he felt nothing but hunger. By the time he finally reached a rather desolate area near the back of Yuukan, he was utterly exhausted to the point of being unable to take another step, and so he ducked into some rundown-looking standing bar in the vicinity. In the dusty brightness, seedy people formed groups of two or three each, clustered together clamoring noisily as they passed around cups. Genryū, still shouldering the peach branch, lumbered toward the center-front under the weight of everyone's astonished stares. At the front, a long plank had been set up as a liquor counter, and beyond it sat a neat-faced woman perched primly. He took the large cup placed on the counter, had the woman pour him a pale yellowish medicinal liquor, and downed it in one gulp. That was a strangely sour taste. He raised his head and once glanced sharply around, but there wasn’t a single familiar face. The other people, when their gazes met his, would shut their mouths abruptly as if startled and turn away. Genryū grew even more sullen because of this; he lumbered over to the wire-rack shelf set beside him, pulled out a pig’s foot, and began munching noisily. It was a distinctly Korean-style cheap bar where one could drink from a bowl-sized cup complete with a side dish for just five sen. He didn’t even have time to utter a single one of his beloved Akesuke’s lewd jokes—he simply kept downing cup after cup in rapid succession. The beggar children who had been poking their heads in and out from beyond the curtain, probing for any sign of his emergence, had finally given up and vanished somewhere without a trace.

He was of a disposition where once he started drinking like this, he had to get dead drunk until his ears rang and his legs stopped moving. But for him to reach complete intoxication, this medicinal liquor required at least sixty cups. As he drank cup after cup in this manner, a leaden intoxication spread through his entire body, and gradually a sorrow that tightened around his chest came assaulting him. He absolutely had to catch Tanaka before the night was through. "That’s right—I’ll get completely drunk here and leave," he thought,"then barge into the Chōsen Hotel once more." "And if I ask Tanaka for help," he resolved,"everything will surely go smoothly." When he thought this,the fact that he was to be entrusted to the temple suddenly struck him as nothing more than a pitiful comedy. "That I too must become one of those gourd-shaped bald monks draped in kesa robes," he lamented internally,"day and night wearing prayer beads around my neck to sit in solemn Zen meditation before Shōkaku the Bald Monk—that sniveling snot-snorter—is beyond endurance." He let out a strangely choked high-pitched voice as if to dispel this anguish and attempted to laugh by himself. But he was startled by his own laughter and hurriedly clutched the peach branch he had been carrying on his shoulder to his chest,frozen breath suspended. As he remained like this for a while,a calmness gradually settled over his spirit while his entire body seemed to melt away—then suddenly,various women’s phantoms,faintly glowing,flickered about without coherence before his eyes. ----- melon-cheeked woman. In the shadows,the poetess laughed with a sly smile. She pursed her lips slightly,and it even seemed possible to hear her whisper,"I’ll go tomorrow morning." "That’s right—tonight I must return to that damp,cramped boarding house room and wait for her..." Then her water-washed ×××××××× floated into space,and an illusion arose where it gradually spread its arms and came attacking his body while exhaling hot choking breath. "Where on earth could Tanaka be?" As he wavered between reality and illusion in this manner,the image of Tanaka’s sister Akiko now surfaced unbidden. At that time,Tanaka too had been struggling as a mere literary youth,but his sister who accompanied him was a beautiful young woman attending women’s college. Back then he had poured all his passion into loving her,burning with conviction,yet whether Tanaka or Akiko herself—they not only held no goodwill toward him but even regarded him with contempt.

Time and again he would walk the full four kilometers to Akiko's place, trying every bold gesture imaginable, but she only mocked his shamelessly excessive passion. The fact that he was a Korean noble and genius had no effect whatsoever on her. Every day, after being coldly dismissed by her like this, on his way back he would go stay at the lodging of a waitress he'd known for some time. The night he slashed this waitress was when, having finally steeled himself and waited for Tanaka's absence to assault Akiko, his attempt had failed—on his way back that very evening. Having been expelled from mainland Japan for this reason and returned to Korea, where he somehow managed to secure connections and began writing for entertainment magazines, he would persistently spin this youthful romantic experience into mystified tales—always modeled after the love story of Balkan revolutionary Insarov and Russian maiden Elena from Turgenev's *On the Eve*—perpetually depicting himself as having been fervently loved by Akiko, a beautiful pure maiden. And so people came to believe this at least couldn't possibly be a lie, and through writing it so many times himself, he had even begun to mistake it for reality—until now it had become a beautiful memory. Ah, I wonder what that Akiko is doing now. I want to meet Tanaka soon and ask him. Now, hasn't everything become nothing but seeds of sorrow for me?

His head suddenly began to spin, and he felt he might do something outlandish. Suddenly, the desperate cries of that peasant from earlier seemed to reach his ears again. I myself am undoubtedly a man who, like that peasant, has been plunged into the bottomless pit of hopeless despair and struggles there. I had long since exhausted all my lewd words, and no one believed my boasts anymore. The few German words I barely knew had already been written over and over; the thirteen half-remembered Latin phrases had been uttered more than thirteen times; as for French—I'd even taken to appending FIN at the end of every piece—but now that no more writing commissions came, I'd bid farewell to that too. The threat of being at least a first-dan in judo had apparently proven ineffective; not to mention second or third dans, even dangerous boxers were swarming about. No home, no wife, no children, no money. The final recourse I had thought of was not only plotting revenge against everyone under the guise of the noble title of patriot but also being protected by the powerful Ōmura. But even among Korean literati, the current affairs awareness movement had surged forth with vigor, and they had overtaken me, sending up vivid sprays in their wake. When I thought of that, I couldn't help but loathe those bastards so intensely it made my teeth grind. Now I can't even make threats like 'I'll throw you bastard in prison!' anymore. All that remained for me was a mouth that could drink liquor without money by shaking down every place I wandered. Because that's deemed improper, isn't Ōmura ordering me to go to the temple? Now that even Ōmura has abandoned me, I'm a man with nowhere left to go. I could no longer contain my hatred for Ōmura - this man who had wrung every last drop of use from me, only to now issue fresh orders banishing me to the temple. But now utterly drained of strength, I dropped the peach branch onto the floor with a thud, and with tears even welling in my eyes, began sinking deeper as I poured myself more cups.

IV

Around ten o'clock or so, Genryū had collapsed dead drunk. Customers had been noisily coming and going all along, but suddenly he sensed new patrons entering from behind him, and the crisp cadence of mainland Japanese reached his ears.

“For such supremely leisurely Koreans, this place has a rather amusing hustle and bustle to it.” Hmm, that voice sounds familiar, he thought. Genryū strained his ears intently. “Well, in mainland terms, you might call this an oversized yakitori joint.” “Why don’t we try some Korean liquor in this refreshing liberation from those worthless Koreans?” “It was truly exhausting, wasn’t it?”

The two newly arrived men lined up beside Genryū. The man being spoken of was none other than those sycophantic Korean literary castoffs who had been trailing after them all this while, bowing obsequiously to Tanaka with endless cries of "Mr. Tanaka! Mr. Tanaka!" Genryū drew his head into his shoulders like a wary tortoise.

“Even so, isn’t it rather amusing?” “Meeting and talking with those people… it really does give one that continental flavor, you know.” Indeed, this affectedly gruff voice could be none other than Tanaka’s—Genryū pricked up his ears with a start.

“Oh, do you truly mean that?” The guide shouted with evident displeasure. “You take interest in the strangest things.” “Well, not exactly… But in reality, are those people truly as active in literary and theatrical circles as they claim?” “Precisely! That rabble represents what passes for first-rate here,” the impatient man lied, twisting the truth. “When I read those Koreans’ works translated into Japanese this time, I felt immense relief.” “Utter relief.” “At that level, even an amateur like myself could write them.” “This provincial Korean culture should indeed be built up through our own hands here.” “Now then, how about a drink?”

He took up the sake cup. Finally at that moment, Genryū timidly thrust his head out from the side, rubbed his bleary eyes in a flustered manner to stare, and opened his mouth wide. Indeed, it was unmistakably Tokyo's Tanaka who was being guided by Kadōi, a professor at a government technical school. The two men who had been bringing their cups to their mouths also noticed Genryū and were startled.

“Tanaka! Tanaka!” Genryū bellowed as he spread his arms wide and flung them around the lanky frame beside him. All the other customers and women were startled, their eyes widening in astonishment at this bizarre spectacle. They even felt a creeping unease at whether it was permissible to dispose of Mainland Japanese in such a manner. Tanaka knew at a glance that this was Genryū—the very man he had just been discussing with Ōmura and Kadōi—but was utterly flustered by both the wholly unexpected location of their encounter and the outlandish embrace. More than anything, it was suffocating—he could barely breathe. Genryū spun round and round like a madman while clinging to him.

“Outrageous, outrageous! I resented it—I resented it deeply! You think there’s some law that lets you just show up without a word?!”

“I’m sorry… I’m sorry…”

And Tanaka groaned in a faint voice as if pleading for help. “Come on, let’s drink over there! Get me a cup!” Genryū swiftly dodged and snatched up the cup. “Oh Mr. Tanaka! I’m grateful you came to Korea—truly delighted!” The fact that Tanaka wasn’t with Ōmura must have made him all the happier. He moved in close again, nearly embracing him, and said, “So you really did come after all.” “Take a good look at this new Korea.” “I’m counting on you!” “Come on, down a cup in one go!”

And then, having gotten carried away beyond all restraint, “Come now, Mr. Kadōi, you drink heartily too!”

and slapped his back hard enough to hurt. Kadōi had only met Genryū once or twice at U Magazine gatherings, and considered such familiarity from this man beneath his dignity. Having graduated from the university’s law department and come straight to the Korean hinterlands to become a professor, he now encroached even into art circles—a Mainland Japanese counterpart to Genryū of sorts. Like many scholars who had migrated to Korea with mercenary ambitions, he paid lip service to Japan-Korea Unity—that slogan of Japanese imperialist policy aimed at assimilating Koreans—while privately nurturing a vulgar sense of superiority more intense than most, seeing himself as ethnically chosen. Yet whenever he attended artistic gatherings, his inability to produce creative work like the Korean literati made him feel inferior—a lack that rebounded into bitter resentment. Thus he particularly strove to mock Korean literati, skipping classes with zeal matching Genryū’s whenever artists visited from Japan, squandering his stipend to drag them through drinking establishments while systematically disparaging Koreans in academic jargon, habitually muttering phrases like “Ah, seeing that reassures me.” Tonight, encountering this most contemptible of literati—Genryū—his self-importance swelled further. With exaggerated pomp, he squared his shoulders, barked curtly, and turned away. But Genryū—ever shrewd—ignored him completely, continuing to shout while maintaining his grip on Tanaka.

“Hey Tanaka! I’ve been searching all over for you—completely worn myself out—drinking here while cursing you to hell!” “Finally caught up with you.” “It’s been six damn years, hasn’t it? That’s right—how’s your sister Akiko?” “I still haven’t forgotten about Ms. Akiko!” The timid Tanaka nodded absentmindedly at his unchecked torrent of words while pursing his lips to feign sipping a bit of medicinal liquor. Kadōi had just been about to bring his second cup to his lips alone when Akiko’s name came up, causing him to burst out laughing. And perhaps thinking that alone wasn't sufficient, he let out a “Hahaha!” and roared with laughter. This was because earlier, while discussing Genryū, he had been told by Tanaka about how this man had caused trouble with his sister. The story went that Genryū would always time his visits to her for when Tanaka was absent, change into Tanaka’s padded kimono, put on a masterly air as he worked diligently at the desk, and when the man himself returned, would greet him as if receiving a guest, remarking on the rarity of such visits. It happened one evening when Tanaka chanced upon Genryū in the city streets and was relieved of all his cash under the pretense of some urgent matter. And when he returned later, Genryū had bought loads of apples and cream puffs and was gleefully giggling while force-feeding them to his sister. Kadōi had remembered that. But now that Genryū had met Tanaka, all his sorrows and sufferings had dissipated; he grew spontaneously cheerful and increasingly voluble. Especially with Kadōi right beside him, and given how he had always swaggered whenever putting pen to paper, he boldly stepped forward with grandiosity.

“When you return, give my regards to Professor S—tell him that fellow has been keeping quite busy since coming back to Korea.” Or,

“Is Professor T doing well?” Then, “How’s Mr. R doing?” “What about Mr. D’s wife?” But unfortunately, Tanaka wasn’t the sort of novelist who moved in circles with S or T, so he floundered incoherently to keep up appearances. After all, he had merely set out thinking that since he was currently in a slump and couldn’t write, wandering around Manchuria—then in vogue—might allow him to acquire a different label and perhaps find work in a new field. Nevertheless, since a magazine had requested an article about Korea’s intellectual class before his departure, he had been observing with interest the lowly literary youths who until moments ago had presumptuously trailed after him calling “Professor! Professor!”; after parting with them, he had just finished hearing various reference opinions from Ōmura and Kadōi. According to Kadōi’s thoroughly anthropological explanation, Korean youths were an utterly cowardly and resentful breed—moreover brazen yet fiercely factionalist. He had stated that Genryū—whom Tanaka also knew from Tokyo—was precisely that prime specimen. Thus, when a certain renowned Tokyo writer named Ogata stopped by Keijō, and under Ōmura’s mediation shared a table with some Korean literati, he had discerned within Genryū—in less than thirty minutes at that gathering—the entirety of Koreans. Kadōi praised this as nothing less than the penetrating gaze of a sharp-witted artist and added the anecdote. When Ogata pointed at Genryū while shouting “Here’s a Korean!” there, the Korean literati truly could not help but be utterly dumbfounded. But Genryū himself was smirking smugly, thoroughly pleased with himself. Though Tanaka’s stay had lasted barely a day or two—and being chased around by alcohol left little room for proper observation—he had resolved to send back a uniquely scathing perspective rivaling Ogata’s. Thus, he found some pleasure in unexpectedly meeting Genryū again—a man Kadōi had certified as a quintessential Korean. He harbored not the slightest doubt toward Kadōi’s malicious words. Now frantic that the time had come to demonstrate his sharp intuition, he initiated the conversation himself this time with a demeanor as though inspecting the Korean people.

“I hear you’ve been writing novels in Korean since returning home.” “That’s right! Exactly right!” Genryū shouted ecstatically, as if he’d been waiting for this moment. “I returned to Korea and immediately began churning out splendid works one after another. At first those bastards said a genius like Rimbaud had appeared even in Korea, their eyes popping out in surprise. But as my readers multiplied and my stature grew, those literary bastards grew jealous—they even tried to bury me! As you can plainly see just by looking, Koreans are hopeless. Listen. Because they’re cunning and cowardly, they form factions and push down anyone trying to rise up!” At that moment, Kadōi twisted his face toward Tanaka as if to say, “See that?” Tanaka nodded.

“Those bastards don’t even know I was making waves in Tokyo’s literary circles—commanding everyone’s attention!” And stealing a glance at Kadōi, he added, “Ignorant! Absolutely ignorant!”

When facing Mainland Japanese, he could not help but endlessly badmouth Koreans out of a kind of inferiority complex; he was utterly convinced that only through this could he speak as an equal to the Mainlanders. By now ablaze with fiery passion, Genryū shouted between heaving breaths.

“I can’t help but feel utterly despondent when I contemplate this incorrigible national character! Tanaka—oh, Mr. Tanaka—do you understand how I feel?”

He thought about bursting into loud tears but merely covered his face and let out a sob. Tanaka, thoroughly moved,

“I do understand! Of course I do!” He felt like crying along with him and truly thought coming to Korea had been the right decision after all. That saying about only producing insular literature if one stayed cooped up in the mainland was absolutely true. Here lay the suffering visage of continental people. Even Genryū—a man utterly beyond redemption—wasn’t he now shaking his entire being in anguish over some grander existential matter? Yes—this! He must report this to Japan proper as the Korean intelligentsia’s self-reflection! I won’t let Ogata surpass my insight! he exulted inwardly while steeling himself. Those fools who claimed not to understand Chinese were idiots of the highest order. If that man could comprehend Koreans in two days like this, then I’ll fully grasp them in four! he vowed silently. At any rate, for this purpose he needed to position Genryū as Korea’s representative intellectual—he even began meticulously structuring this concept in his mind. But Kadōi found Genryū unbearably absurd; finally overcome by triumphant glee, he shot him a meaningful glare before—

“Ridiculously late, isn’t Mr. Ōmura? Perhaps he went home alone?” he said to Tanaka. For he knew that Genryū feared Ōmura like thunder.

“Huh? Mr. Ōmura?” Sure enough, Genryū’s eyes flew open as if his drunkenness had suddenly lifted, and he jerked his body upright. “Mr. Ōmura? You were with Mr. Ōmura?” “Yeah, he said he was going to buy something around there, though.” Listening to Tanaka’s reply—delivered after making a puzzled face—he panicked, thinking Oh no, this won’t do—

“Is that so?” he shouted something incomprehensible. “That’s why I’m joining forces with Mr. Ōmura and striving to improve the Korean people.” “The problem is simple.” “Every last Korean must break free from stagnant ideologies like before, confirm the new realities of East Asia, and wholeheartedly receive the baptism of Yamato spirit.” “That’s why even when people called me crazy, I kept penning sensational papers for Mr. Ōmura’s U Magazine.” Then suddenly lowered his voice and thrust his head forward,

“Did Mr. Ōmura say anything about me?” he asked.

“No, nothing in particular…”

Tanaka dodged the question, but Genryū abruptly reverted to his earlier manner,

“Mr. Ōmura is truly a splendid fellow rarely seen in our time. “That’s why even someone like me in the civilian sector is taking the lead and devoting all my efforts to help.” “But alas, even the fine fellow Mr. Ōmura doesn’t understand artists—what a true artist really is… That’s why Mr. Tanaka, I think a writer like you should greatly enlighten him.” “Even though I’m not Hamlet, it’s absurd they’d tell me to go to a temple—that’s what makes it so amusing!” “I mean, if it were a nunnery I could understand, but they’re sending me to some bald monk’s place!” “Hey—am I supposed to be Ophelia?” “I may look like this, but if I may say so, my mind is perfectly sound!”

Kadōi laughed at Tanaka in a show of pity while tugging at the hem of his Western-style clothes as if to slip away.

However, just as Genryū was shouting bravado in a strangely hoarse voice, Ōmura himself calmly entered through the entrance. He was an obviously fortyish, imposing and distinguished gentleman. Genryū, completely flustered, let out a strained "hee-hee" laugh while touching his neck, then ducked his head in a deep bow. Kadōi, standing nearby, suddenly let out a mean-spirited cackle. When Ōmura saw Genryū there, he suddenly became displeased and barked.

“What’s wrong with you? Are you here again spouting nonsense?” “H-heh, Mr. Ōmura, uh... th-thank you,” Genryū said while clinging obsequiously and bowing deeply. “...Well, the truth is, um... I’ve been searching for Mr. Tanaka all day.” “So because I was starving... I just... uh...” “Hey! What’s the holdup with the temple? Quit dawdling and get there as soon as possible!”

“Haa,” Genryū reverently responded, squirming awkwardly. “I already understand perfectly well.” Ōmura smirked and exchanged meaningful glances with Kadōi and Tanaka, then—considering there were guests who had come from afar—thought he must demonstrate through his very being how deeply he cared for Koreans while residing in Korea. “Present your statement of penance quickly!” “It is precisely because I find it unbearable to hand you over to the police that I’m telling you to go to a proper monk’s place and fix your head.” “In short, it’s to uplift the souls of people like you.” “Sever your earthly desires—your earthly desires!”

"Haa, that's why I..." "Understood? Good." At that, he proudly squared his shoulders once. The customers all stared at this spectacle with utterly bewildered eyes, but even Tanaka kept his eyes closed and listened as though filled with boundless emotion.

“What kind of times do you think these are?” “You must clearly recognize the current times.” “Drinking bars dry, abducting women, extorting people—such conduct is utterly unacceptable!” “You go around screaming ‘Japan-Korea Unity! Japan-Korea Unity!’ like a lunatic, but not a single Korean pays you any mind, do they?” “You need to reflect a bit more.” “Return to being a proper human!” “Do you understand? Taking advantage of my support to exploit people’s goodwill is absolutely unforgivable.” “You damned fool!” “I never realized you could be this ungrateful!” Then, moved by his own tone, he ended up getting excited. “You utterly ungrateful wretch!” “Do you still not understand your wrongdoing?” “Japan-Korea Unity means uplifting even the souls of people like you to make you equal to Mainland Japanese!”

“That’s exactly right! That’s precisely why I’ve advocated for it with such passion that people call me a madman!” “Absolutely! When husband Japan extends his hand to wife Korea for a harmonious marriage, there’s no reason for her to spit on it!” “Only through becoming one body can the Korean people finally attain salvation!” “In my excessive zeal, I’ve even been misunderstood by Koreans!” “Because Koreans are fundamentally a suspicious and inferior race!”

“Wait.” Ōmura raised his hand to stop him with affected solemnity. “You Koreans wallow too deeply in self-loathing. Every Korean around me does nothing but disparage their own people—that’s precisely your fundamental flaw. Understood? Of course self-reflection and correcting faults matters. But you must cherish yourselves. Cherish yourselves! This inability is exactly where you lag behind other races. Observe the mainland Japanese! Mainland Japanese would never stoop to such things.”

“That’s right! Because that’s exactly how it is, isn’t it?” Genryū began shouting in panic, his words utterly disconnected from the preceding conversation. He had recalled some excessively academic phrases he had once written, his mind now completely consumed by them. “At least geographically speaking, archaeologically speaking, anthropologically speaking—that is to say, anthropologically speaking—and biologically speaking…” As he kept rattling off these terms, Kadōi found himself confronted by his scholarly conscience and—

“That’s ‘anthropologie,’ not ‘anthropology,’ you know,” he corrected. “That’s right! From an anthropologique perspective and even from a philologique perspective, Japan and Korea have only the difference between man and woman…” Ōmura found his pedantic flustering so absurd that he was smirking to himself, but when Genryū suddenly noticed this, he became convinced Ōmura must have regained favor with his passion, so he abruptly thrust his entire body forward,

“But Mr. Ōmura!” he shouted. “Mr. Tanaka and I are irreplaceable friends!”

But Ōmura, in a tone suggesting he had said all there was to say, swiveled around to face Tanaka and Kadōi and spoke.

“Well then, I suppose it’s about time we made our exit.” “You’ve likely grasped the general situation by now.”

“Ah, Mr. Ōmura! Are you leaving already?” Startled, Genryū lunged at Ōmura’s arm as if sprung from a trap, pouncing with leonine ferocity. But his feet caught on a fallen peach branch mid-lunge, and he gasped while instinctively scooping it up to clutch against his chest.

“Mr. Ōmura! Mr. Ōmura!”

“What’s gotten into you now?” Ōmura leaned back suspiciously and stared intently, then snapped: “Are you wandering around in that state again? I wash my hands of you!”

“Mr. Ōmura! Mr. Ōmura!” Genryū suddenly went limp at the hips and cried out sorrowfully. “Because the flowers were too pitiful to leave be, I merely bought them from a farmer in town.” Noticing that Kadōi had even settled his own drinking tab, he—perhaps out of embarrassment—hurried over to Tanaka’s side, tugging at his sleeve while pressing urgently,

“Mr. Tanaka, Mr. Tanaka—there’s actually something pressing I must discuss with you!”

he groaned imploringly.

“Spend more time with me. More!” “Oh, these are nice flowers, aren’t they.” Tanaka mumbled incoherently, as if trying to divert the conversation. Thereupon Genryū suddenly perked up in a triumphant manner, hoisted the peach branch onto his shoulder, and— “Right? See? Fine flowers, aren’t they! Peach blossoms, I tell you—peach blossoms!” he boomed in a gong-like voice, charging ahead like a child leading a game of soldiers. After all, he too had wanted to stick close to these great men and walk about together with them. Ōmura, Kadōi, and Tanaka filed out from behind, snickering with an air of resignation. Although a pale moon hung heavily in the sky, the alley remained dim as ever. He marched forward about two ken while swaying his body with the peach branch still slung over his shoulder in a slightly playful manner, but suddenly stopped—puffing out his chest and looking up at the sky—then abruptly dragged the peach branch beneath his crotch as if mounting it before raising his hand toward heaven in a signaling gesture and letting out a single cackling laugh. The three others passed by his side, feigning ignorance as they slunk dejectedly away. He panicked and loudly declared:

“I’m ascending to heaven! Ascending to heaven! Genryū rides peach blossoms to ascend to heaven!” Thereupon, like a warrior astride a wooden hobby horse, he charged swiftly past them—as if demanding they witness this mysticism sprung from sheer absurdity. Blossoms snapped at the neck mercilessly, petals sullied and scattered everywhere. But when he glanced back as if suddenly remembering, Tanaka stood alone pissing into a shadowed midden pit. Seizing the moment, Genryū flew back panting—“Mr. Tanaka”—the whisper clotting in his throat. “I pleaded with Mr. Ōmura about me. Don’t make me go to the temple—to the temple—”

The voice trembled with such despair that Tanaka, startled, stared at Genryū’s face. The chillingly contorted visage suddenly collapsed, and a ghastly smile surfaced. Then one of his hands struck his own shoulder in a servile manner. “That one’s a bureaucrat through and through—you’ve got to kowtow or he won’t be pleased. Doesn’t understand artists at all… I’m going to the hotel tomorrow.” With that abrupt declaration, he once more ostentatiously straddled the peach branch and began shouting while dragging it along and looking up at the sky.

“Genryū will ascend to heaven! Ascend to heaven!” At that moment, Ōmura and Kadōi pulled Tanaka toward the side alley and emerged onto the main street, where they raised their hands to hail a car.

In the alley, Genryū’s increasingly elated shouts continued to ring out.

Five

In the end, he had failed to ascend to heaven. The next morning, he awoke in his usual hole-like room with a pained scream. He had been seized by a nightmare of someone strangling his neck with a rope. His body was drenched in sweat. Moving his body seemed terrifying regardless, so he closed his eyes again and gasped violently, his breath ragged. Trembling nervously as he wondered whether his neck was truly unharmed and tried to touch it—just as he moved his hand toward it—his fingertips brushed against something hard and he startled. Convinced it was real, he kept his eyes shut and held his breath. Feeling truly prayerful now, he hesitantly extended his other hand and cautiously attempted to bring it toward his neck. Just as he thought Oh, maybe it's not that after all—something touched his fingertips again, startling him into freezing like a Buddhist statue. After what felt like two or three minutes, he finally calmed himself enough to resolve probing once more at whatever clung to his neck. Perhaps it was his imagination, but this time the touched object seemed to quiver slightly. Thinking something was wrong, he tried pinching it between two fingers—and before he knew it found himself muttering "Oh dear" while being dragged along fumbling with the thing.

“What the—?!” he exclaimed in utter exasperation, and in the same moment frantically brushed off whatever was clinging to his neck and bolted upright. It flew off with a dry rustling clatter and swayed on top of the ondol. None other than the mud-caked peach branch. He let out a long exhale and wiped the sweat from his neck with his hand, then suddenly cackled like someone possessed. But since even his own voice—which sounded like broken pottery—remained completely unchanged, he patted his chest in relief, convinced he was finally all right.

Judging by how the squalid room remained dimly lit, morning still seemed early. It was indeed a hole-like den where not a single ray of sunlight reached throughout the day, but for him, the faint light filtering through the paper-patched shoji screens served as his timepiece.

In the dirt-floored kitchen extending to the back, the old woman seemed to be arguing with her husband again today as she stoked the firebox with kindling while shrieking miserly complaints. Smoke that had filled the dirt-floored kitchen came seeping through tears in the ondol paper, holes in the shoji screens, and cracks in the walls. He choked on his breath, coughed painfully two or three times, and with his features twisted into a fierce scowl, glared fixedly at the peach branch in evident displeasure. The flowers had completely vanished, every branch tip broken and reduced to a mud-caked wreck beyond recognition. Genryū—who had been feared by every man like an untouchable deity bringing no curse—suddenly found himself disgusted when even such a trifling dream made him think, *What fresh hell is this?* The peach branch lying exposed as a miserable remnant seemed to mirror his current state. Then the pitiful figure of last night’s flower vendor loomed large before him, and he heard that man’s voice desperately crying out while waving both hands.

"Why does everyone laugh? Don't laugh—I'll collapse right here!" "Don’t laugh!"

The room was as if shrouded in smoke. Genryū tried to escape these voices of despair by suddenly clutching his head between his arms and covering his ears. Then he collapsed in a heap and writhed there. That's it—I'll be the one to finally perish! I'll get myself crushed between an automobile and streetcar right at Jongno Crossroads and burst like a bomb! In truth, he had thought of nothing but his own death since last night. The only way to die was through traffic suicide. Only by dying gruesomely on that main street could he achieve his ultimate revenge. And with that—I too shall close my eyes forever. At that moment darkness swallowed the room completely—from ceiling walls ondol floor—as laughter erupted everywhere mocking his remains. Unable to endure it he bolted upright trying to scatter them,

“I won’t die! I won’t die!” he screamed like a demon. As if locked in combat, he swung his arms wildly while panicking uncontrollably. Smoke stung his eyes and choked his breath. Finally abandoning sanity, he began crawling in circles across the ondol floor, his knees clattering like loose machinery. Roaring laughter blocked his path while crimson flames licked upward from all directions, closing in. Phantoms assailed him. Driven beyond terror’s edge, he thrashed about screaming incoherently as he scrambled for escape.

The old woman came toward the entrance wondering what this madman was up to now and began trembling violently. But just as his fleeing body collided with the shoji door, he was suddenly thrown onto the sunlit floor. The old woman let out a shriek and recoiled.

His breathing eased somewhat, and as he lay there for a while, the terrifying hallucinations subsided, leaving him in a daze with only his large eyes rolling wildly. The clouds raced fiercely across the sky. At that moment, as promised, the poetess Bun Sogoku appeared crisply dressed. She stopped in her tracks, startled by the sight, but immediately began clapping her hands and shaking her hips in an exaggerated manner, cackling shrilly before— "Oh dear, what on earth has happened?"

she came running up. But Genryū merely stared up at her fixedly—as if deranged—regarding her with vacant curiosity. The old woman vanished toward the kitchen muttering complaints under her breath, thoroughly scandalized. Bun Sogoku stood utterly perplexed before finally regaining her composure; summoning all her strength, she hauled him upright. He had returned dead drunk the previous night and collapsed face-first onto his bedding while wailing “Oo-oo,” which explained why he still wore his Western suit. As she brushed dust from his jacket, the poetess demanded: “What on earth happened?” “Oh Mr. Genryū—inspired again today, I see.” “We must hurry now—it’s nearly time.”

Genryū sat like an imbecile, doing nothing but grin creepily, but perhaps a fragment of consciousness had flashed through him then—he craned his neck and inquired with a puzzled look.

“What?” “Oh my!” She recoiled at Genryū’s expression and fidgeted nervously. “...Today isn’t a festival—we’re going to the shrine.” “Shrine?” He retorted as if trying to recall some difficult matter. “...That’s right.” Then Genryū suddenly burst into a cackle. The word “shrine” struck him as loathsome. Back when no one visited shrines housing mainlanders’ gods, he who had first thrown himself into crowds of mainlanders to prostrate at shrine gates had been a truly significant figure—one who even bore a halo of significance while performing various roles. But now he was no longer such a man. Rather, he found himself utterly repulsed by the Koreans swarming like clouds toward Usō-Musō Shrine, flocking there in droves. Bun Sogoku shuddered as if her hair stood on end and cowered,

“I’ll be going now.” She murmured the faint words and fled in disarray. Seeing this, Genryū cackled ominously but then jolted upright as if startled. The sky grew increasingly oppressive as clouds surged northward in endless waves. In that instant, carnal desire for Bun Sogoku’s warm, damp flesh overwhelmed him—he must seize her now. With that impulse, he scrambled through a crumbling gate and burst into the garden. In the muggy alleyway, houses snarled at each other like trash bins while sewers spewed ash and filth, their stench swelling in the air as fierce winds sent dust devils swirling. Through the narrow passage, the poetess’ figure fluttered frantically into the distance. Genryū cackled as he paddled his bowlegs with desperate strokes, launching his malicious pursuit. The moment the fleeing woman glanced back at Genryū flailing toward her, she nearly screamed and redoubled her pace. As he closed the gap, his amusement grew wilder—he began shouting incoherent threats. Children playing by an earthen wall clapped and jeered. At last, Bun Sogoku tumbled through the alley’s mouth onto Kōgan Avenue. It happened precisely then. As Genryū rounded the final corner, a trumpet’s blare suddenly rang from the main street. Genryū froze mid-stride before his body began trembling violently. The next instant, he pressed himself flush against a chimney’s sooty bricks—breath held, eyes blazing—and glared toward the thoroughfare. A military band led a long procession marching shrineward. Somehow it seemed to encircle and advance upon him. Middle schoolers in gaiters and vocational students marched endlessly onward while behind them trailed teachers in national defense uniforms, pressmen, and familiar literary figures trudging in their wake.

When the procession had completely passed, he suddenly panicked again and dashed out to the exit. When he peered out from the shadows with clouded eyes while holding his breath, it had already grown quiet and was fading into the distance. Having forgotten all about the poetess who had seemingly disappeared into some procession, Genryū fled in the direction opposite to where the procession had advanced, as if pursued by someone. His mind was reeling dizzily as though crammed full of sand. At times thoughts of hotels and temples would block his path like glittering mica flashing before him, only to be immediately engulfed by violent sandstorms. It was a somewhat chilly day. It seemed as though there was another being in some corner of his mind thinking that this was a morning when even the moon might soon appear. But instead of the moon, a light rain began to drizzle down. The footsteps of passersby grew increasingly hurried. Genryū moved through the center of the streetcar tracks like a mad dog, aimlessly. His disheveled head had become drenched by the rain and coiled into spirals while his shoulders sagged heavily under the weight of the downpour. Cars grazed past him while the streetcar blared its horn fiercely from behind. When the sound finally reached his ears he would step aside quietly without a word. At times he would dodge while simultaneously whirling around to shake his fist and scream like a madman, "You bastards trying to kill me!"

But after walking for over half an hour and arriving near the Normal School, he suddenly veered right as if possessed and entered a dark alleyway. Mud splattered onto his shoes as they kicked up water. Amidst this, the rain began pouring in earnest. People who had been clattering through the alley stopped in surprise, looked back, and shook their heads. For as long as the alleys stretched endlessly onward, he kept weaving his way mindlessly—turning left here, darting right there—in a desperate frenzy. Now I'm searching for a temple, one of his frayed nerves whispered as if from afar. It was believed that climbing this alleyway to its very end would lead to Myōkōji Temple. Once again he had entered that spiderweb-like maze of Shinmachi Ura Alley. In Genryū's hallucination, this appeared as a broad tree-lined avenue with poplars standing stately. The mud-covered sewer seemed like a clear stream with pristine water flowing. There he heard a deafening hallucinatory cacophony—as if countless frogs had gathered to croak in raucous unison. Moreover, the wind howled fiercely while poplar branches appeared ready to snap. By now his feet kept stumbling, lurching, and accidentally plunging into puddles. Yet he kept crawling upward desperately. At that moment, suddenly at his feet, the frogs—

"Korean!" "Korean!" It sounded as though they had burst into uproar. He suddenly covered his ears in fright and fled while shouting.

“I’m not Korean!” “I’m not Korean!”

He must have wanted to escape—even if it meant shuddering through his entire being—from the tragedy of this day brought on by his being Korean. But suddenly came a deafening roar as if his eardrums had exploded—yet miraculously, the earlier chorus of frogs vanished, and from all directions at once, some strange new sound abruptly began to be heard. It gradually grew louder and clearer, swelling in complexity. Before he knew it, the Buddhist chant of "Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō, Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō"—as though chanted in unison by countless thousands—had spread around him like a sea, borne on drums and wooden fish. He wandered through it all, thrashing like a swimmer in panic, flailing as though seeking salvation. But the maze endlessly coiled its paths at will—no matter how far he walked, there was no end in sight. Though engulfed in chaos, Genryū—driven by extreme agitation—ran wildly while screaming, "Ah! The monks' sutras and chants are all cursing and chasing after me!" There were times he stumbled and collapsed with a thud. Laboriously, he clambered back up. Thus, with eyes alone blazing crimson, he became a terrifying figure like a mad mud-ox. But in truth, this time—buffeted by a sea breeze thick with sutras and chants—he felt himself floating upward, ever upward toward heaven. But that was not the case. In his heart's deepest recesses, he knew full well he had entered the red-light district. In truth, he was floundering about searching through houses where he'd once stayed. But everywhere lay identical red-and-blue painted homes, now blurred into obscurity by curtains of torrential rain. He raised his arm and shouted a few loud words. Then suddenly—with the terrifying momentum of a bull in its death throes—he began dashing about and pounding on every house gate.

“Save this mainlander! Save this mainlander!” He gasped for breath as he shouted. Then he dashed to another house and slammed the gate. “Open up! Let this mainlander in!” He dashed off again. He knocked on the main gate. “I’m not Korean anymore!” “I’m Gen no Ue Ryūnosuke! Ryūnosuke!” “Let Ryūnosuke in!” Somewhere, thunder rumbled ominously.