Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

On a morning when oppressive clouds hung low over Keijō, the disheveled novelist Genryū emerged from a brothel in Shinmachi Ura Alley—that infamous red-light district—as though hurled into the cluttered backstreet. He stood before the gate for some time with an air of utter bewilderment, pondering how he might find his way out to Honmachi Street, then suddenly strode purposefully into a narrow lane ahead. But given the nature of the neighborhood—its labyrinthine alleys where low-hanging eaves snarled at one another—he couldn’t discern any path that might lead him out. He would turn right only to veer left again. When he finally emerged from the left, the alley would fork into two paths only to dead-end. Lost in deep thought, he trudged onward until hitting a cul-de-sac, when he started and looked around. Houses with gates smeared haphazardly with red and blue paint—fronts and sides alike—every one of them with earthen walls that looked ready to crumble at any moment. And so, doggedly retracing his steps and weaving through various paths, he finally became hopelessly lost. It wasn’t particularly late in the morning, but every alley lay hushed save for occasional morning revelers slinking past with hunched shoulders and unsteady gaits. An old salt seller who had wandered in from who-knows-where was frantically,

“Salt here! Salt!” he shouted as he wandered.

When Genryū finally reached the three-way fork, he slowly took out a Midori cigarette, placed it between his lips, and muttered irritably while scanning his surroundings. Just when he thought he’d slept with some insufferable woman, here he was grumbling about how even the walk back was giving him such grief. But more than that, there lingered in some corner of his mind an inescapable clot of black clouds—something he couldn’t brush away. At times it felt as though they tightened around his chest with crushing force. The truth was this: due to unavoidable circumstances, he had to shave his head and enter monastic training at the temple within two days. Thus convinced his worldly pleasures were ending—and in a fit of excitement—he’d shouted “Melon! Melon!” and bitten a rival courtesan’s cheek the previous night. But she’d made no effort to understand this celestial artist’s ways and simply fled in shock. Recalling this unpleasantness with a muttered “Damn it all,” he resolved to first reach higher ground for a better view and began trudging toward a sloping alley. After dead ends and serpentine turns, he finally reached the summit—the blue-painted gate of a place called Yōshunkan. All around him rippled the roofs of Korean brothels—thousands crammed along countless slopes—undulating right and left, above and below. Standing there in tepid early summer winds like some poetic mountaintop sage, he could do nothing against waves of futile loneliness lapping at him. The area lay eerily silent now—unimaginable as last night’s brothel quarter where men had scurried and courtesans’ shrill voices echoed. But while thousands of young women sprawled like washed-out sweet potatoes within these teeming houses—must I live confined within Myōkō Temple’s gloom within two days? Genryū took out his second cigarette there, lit it, and exhaled smoke. Shimmering through heat haze far west rose a Catholic cathedral’s bell tower amid iceberg-like high-rises. That was precisely his destination. Yet pondering where to descend from here made him chuckle involuntarily. Looking south over Korean rooftops toward foothills—there! At Honmachi 5-chōme stood an odd utility pole laden with black transformers. He suddenly remembered seeing an advertisement there once while searching for a urology clinic. That’s right—use that as a landmark to descend—he told himself.

Honmachi Street was Keijō's most bustling Japanese quarter—a slender thoroughfare winding east to west through what colonists called Nihonjin-machi. Having finally found the red-light district's exit, Genryū lumbered into Honmachi 5-chōme past ten o'clock, where crowds now animated the streets. Though yearning to encounter any familiar face—literati or bureaucrat—he walked bowlegged down the avenue's centerline, eyes downcast and outer eyelids drooping like wilted petals. Whether his shoulders had truly hollowed from being too broad for a judo black belt remained unclear—as he often claimed—but this crab-legged gait had persisted since first noticing that peculiar utility pole. Now more than ever, hopeless loneliness and profound anguish ensnared him. Yet not a soul crossed his path until reaching Meiji Seika's vicinity. There, memory resurrected last night's gathering at this very confectionery: critic Ri Myeong-sik's razor-sharp features flashed before him—that face which had screamed "You're Korean culture's monstrous tumor!" before hurling a plate. Genryū paused pensively at the entrance. Hmph—that sanctimonious prick should be moldering in a jail cell by now... He smirked thinly. Then came decision—chest thrust forward, shoulders squared—as he shoved through rattling doors. The hall gaped empty save two salesman-types whispering conspiratorially in a corner. Genryū advanced to dead center, collapsed into a chair, and summoned the waitress with a crooked finger. For three full minutes he stared upward until her uncomfortable blush triggered eruption: "Coffee!"

“Coffee!” The girl, startled, darted away. Then, thoroughly satisfied, he grinned smugly, lifted his hips, and this time—for reasons unclear—began crawling dog-like toward the kitchen.

“H-hey, sorry ’bout that,” he said with an obsequious grin, darting out his hand. “A hand towel…” Judging from these overly familiar antics, he must have reasoned that the cooks had long since known who he was. Indeed, they remembered Genryū because they knew about the unfortunate incident that had occurred upstairs the previous night. Just as a gathering of Korean literati had been fervently discussing something, Genryū suddenly began cackling in a corner—whereupon a young man hurled a plate at him, striking his head and knocking him down. Yet even as he lay on his back, Genryū continued his sullen cackling without cease. On the spot, that young man named Ri Myeong-sik had been taken away by the attending police officers on charges of assault. The cooks had been greatly taken aback by Genryū’s brazenness during the earlier incident, but now that he had appeared in an unusual place like this kitchen, they grew even more flustered and exchanged bewildered looks. No one laughed; one among them merely shook his head in apparent surprise, gesturing that there were no towels. With that, he gave them a sidelong glare—his posture slack and awkward—then suddenly darted toward the faucet like a rat. No sooner had he turned on the water full blast than he thrust his head under the stream, spluttering and splashing as he washed his face. Everyone was utterly dumbfounded, but as he left, laughing sheepishly with a “heh heh”—

“Is he a lunatic?” one of them tilted his head in puzzlement. “No—that’s Genryū! Genryū!” “Yes, that’s definitely him!” “It’s Genryū the novelist.”

With such exchanges, they all gathered around the dish pass, whispering among themselves as they peered out. Looking over, Genryū had already returned to his seat and was clutching the morning newspaper left beside him, vigorously wiping his face and neck with it. With a sidelong glance noticing the cooks crowding closer and fixing their eyes on him, thoroughly pleased with himself, he grandly tossed the newspaper—now blackened and thoroughly soaked through, crumpled—onto the table with a fling. When he casually cast his eyes upon it, he stared in astonishment at a large bedbug lumbering along one of the paper's creases. Involuntarily breaking into a faint grin, he leaned forward ever so slightly. Perhaps having gorged itself too greedily on blood, the bedbug had abruptly turned to flee—its crimson-swollen body now overwhelming its legs into unresponsiveness. At times slipping perilously close to tumbling off, it would panic and scurry away again whenever a fingertip neared. He had always liked bedbugs. Was he perhaps thinking their ground-hugging crawl bore resemblance to his own state? Or maybe found their bold cunning appealing? Moreover—oh!—this must have been crawling about his neck all along; when it struck him this was likely the very creature that melon-cheeked woman had saddled him with, he felt an inexplicable irritation akin to being tickled. He suddenly twisted his shoulders and snickered. But upon thinking 'Huh?' and looking again, the bedbug was already scurrying dejectedly toward the crease's underside. Quickly pinching one end to flip it over gently, he watched its every move with rapt fascination. Yet within a mere two or three minutes, he suddenly widened his eyes and jolted upright in exaggerated shock. The bedbug had nonchalantly guided him to read each character of a certain headline it traversed. What in God's name was this? In that instant, he thought—this was Divine Providence itself. He even considered it Christ's resurrection. Though mere small print in the arts section's corner, it had informed him that Tanaka—a Tokyo literary circle writer sharing extraordinary ties with him—was staying at Chosen Hotel in Keijō en route to Manchuria.

"I must go."

Genryū shuddered and stood up, heaved his shoulders heavily once, then began scuttling toward the exit like a bedbug. He had formed an ironclad resolution. Just as he nearly collided with a girl carrying coffee on his way out, he snatched the cup from her hands and gulped down the scalding liquid in frantic swallows, then stumbled out in disarray—leaving the dumbstruck girl and cooks gaping after him.

Honmachi Street was perpetually flooded with crowds—even in the morning—from around Meika to its exit, thronging to overflowing. Clumsy geta-clad Japanese clattering along; white-clad country folk gaping slack-jawed at shopfronts; old women startling each other at window-displayed dolls with rolling eyes; Japanese housewives out shopping; errand boys pedaling bicycles with shrill bells; Jikae Army men scrambling over luggage for a mere ten-sen fare—all these swarmed together. Genryū hurried through this human tide and emerged into the plaza before Senkin (Chosen Bank), where he halted. Trams shuttled incessantly while automobiles swarmed like hornets around the rotary. In flustered panic, he scurried across the plaza and slipped into the quiet Hasegawa-chō district opposite. After some walking, an aged high wall ran along his right until an imposing gate weathered by time loomed before him. Beyond it lay a spacious garden housing a grand Western mansion—reputed former legation of some nation during the Korean Empire era. Genryū reached this spot almost unconsciously, then pressed against the revolving door with pounding heart and stumbled inside as though propelled.

“Please inform Mr. Tanaka,” he said as he materialized before the front desk, mustering every shred of dignity to open the conversation. “I am Genryū.” The bellboy—hair neatly parted and combed—looked him up and down in a manner that screamed This bastard’s back again, then drawled: “He’s gone out…” “Gone out?” Genryū affected an air of astonishment befitting someone entitled to find this development utterly inconceivable. “With whom?”

“Hah.” The bellboy, somewhat overwhelmed, shrank back apologetically. “Well, I believe it might be someone from a magazine company?” “Someone from a magazine?”

Struck by a bad premonition, Genryū hurriedly pressed for clarification—and across his face flashed the unmistakable shadow of flustered, feverish anxiety. That must certainly be Omura. If it was Omura, this was serious, he thought. And so he pressed urgently for answers.

“Isn’t it Mr. Omura from U Magazine?” “How should we know?” snapped another middle-aged bellboy from the side, his voice tinged with irritation. Whenever notable figures from mainland Japan’s art world visited, these indolent literary failures would descend upon the hotel pretending to represent Korean literati—a spectacle that left the bellboys thoroughly exasperated. Tanaka had just departed moments earlier with Omura and a technical school professor in tow, trailed by four or five such Korean literary rejects shuffling behind them in a disheveled pack. Genryū’s compulsive guest-hounding had grown particularly egregious—his near-daily intrusions now tried even the bellboys’ patience to its limits. “We can’t possibly memorize every trivial detail like that.”

“Heh, well I see how it is... heh-heh-heh, yes, I suppose so.”

And so saying, Genryū put a hand to his head and laughed obsequiously. But try as he might to dismiss it from his mind—he simply couldn’t stop worrying—he repeatedly nodded emphatically to himself: “...Probably not Mr. Omura... No—that’s right—it must be him.”

And then he suddenly thrust his neck forward and, with his hand pointing toward the inner lobby, “I’ll be borrowing the sofa for a bit.” With that, he sharply turned his back. And with an air that seemed to proclaim just how well he knew the lobby’s usefulness for waiting on people, he advanced slowly toward the lobby, swaying his shoulders. Come to think of it, his novels were always packed with hotels and lobbies, dance halls and salons, noblewomen and black chauffeurs. Now, what had he recalled? He abruptly came to a halt, then turned around and shouted.

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

II

Genryū lay sprawled across the spacious lobby sofa, having slept soundly for a full four or five hours with thunderous snores, then feebly rose while brushing dust from his suit. The lobby now stood dim and cavernously empty. He spread his arms wide in a languid stretch, releasing several cavernous yawns. Suddenly gripped by hunger and seeing no sign of Tanaka's return, he resolved to depart for now—thrusting his sleep-swollen face forward to scout the front desk. Finding it miraculously unmanned through some twist of fortune, he darted out like a flushed hare into the open air. The afternoon sun already cast pallid, forlorn shadows across the boulevard as a parched wind sent dust devils swirling. He would find cheap fare somewhere first, he decided, then comb through every likely haunt where Tanaka and his entourage might be found. Yet though he himself couldn't fathom why, he set off again muttering indignantly at this outrage—likely fuming over Tanaka's failure to send even a postcard announcing his Korea visit. Hadn't he repeatedly boasted to that very man about his triumphant return home as an established literary master?

Our Gyeongseong had Golden Boulevard as its boundary line, with the area north of it being a purely Korean district. When Genryū emerged from Hasegawa-cho onto Golden Boulevard and happened to pass by Café Lila, he thrust his head inside intending just a quick glance as he scanned the haze of violet-tinged smoke within—but the moment he did so, he involuntarily let out a dry chuckle. Amidst the densely coiled crowd, the poetess Mun So-ok—resplendent in dazzling white attire—sat with lily-like grace. He suddenly felt happy and stumbled into their midst. Because the notorious Genryū had appeared, people began poking each other, bursting out with stifled laughs, and deliberately turning away in scorn. The poetess had indeed been waiting for her young college-student lover, but in her delight at having this much-scrutinized novelist approach her, she ended up forgetting everything and greeted him with a slightly twisted smirk on her somewhat large lips.

“Oh my, Mr.Gen, what a rare occasion!” “Heh heh, now this is most amusing...” No sooner had he approached than Genryū plopped down heavily in the seat across from her. All curious eyes focused upon the two of them. Though truth be told, they had all been bored for quite some time. But when it came to boredom, this was the same crowd day after day. They were what you might call one of those peculiar breeds spawned by contemporary Korean society—the café crowd. Men with just enough education to be unemployed, idly styling their hair Clark Gable-style; unshaven movie ruffians scratching their heads over potential funders; gold mine brokers hatching schemes in corners; third-rate literary youths convinced that carrying manuscript bundles made them artists—even these types found their topics exhausted after two or three hours of forced conversation. Thus Genryū’s sudden appearance opposite the beautiful poetess undeniably made for a fascinating spectacle. In Gyeongseong’s cultural circles, there wasn’t a soul unfamiliar with these two—and here they sat face to face through sheer coincidence. Moreover, they knew full well Mun So-ok was no mere poetess to Genryū.

“And what might be the matter today?” She deliberately pressed a handkerchief to her mouth as if feigning shyness. “Actually—I went to He-noie Shtat (New Town),” said Genryū, smirking in a way that piqued curiosity. Of course, the poetess had no way of knowing the meaning of that German phrase, “Huh?” As her eyes widened in surprise, he laughed all the more triumphantly, his belly quaking with mirth. And then, as if remembering something again, he chuckled under his breath. A faint blush rose to her cheeks, which bore the shadow of decadence, and her crimped bangs appeared to sway like rippling water. Genryū suddenly stiffened as if seized by a spasm and stared at her face with piercing eyes.

The frivolous poetess Mun So-ok revered Genryū beyond measure. He not only knew exquisite poetic diction along with Latin and French—she clung to the conviction that he differed from her beloved Rimbaud and Baudelaire solely in nationality. Genryū himself had indeed circulated such boasts. After all, as a poet she had merely managed feeble parodies of Rimbaud's verses, yet Genryū had elevated these in third-rate magazines while extolling both her beauty and literary promise. From that time she began attending every publication gathering without exception, affecting full airs of having become a poetess. Whenever she materialized at venues in eye-dazzling splendor, Genryū would invariably start upright—"Here! Over here!"—drawing her to his side. Might she too be counted among modern Korea's legion of tragic women? That watchword 'overthrow feudalism' ever on her lips, she had abandoned even marriage prospects upon girls' school graduation to study in Tokyo. But upon completing specialized schooling on the mainland, she became feudality's first vengeful casualty—the very system she'd sworn to destroy. For in those days no unwed youths remained thanks to early marriages. Her youthful fervor finding no outlet, she gradually sank into promiscuity through mounting male associations. Yet she fancied herself pioneer of free love defying old conventions, proactively acquiring lovers in succession. Genryū numbered among these paramours. The sole distinction lay in their mutual revelry—these two comrades satiating each other's madness through perfect symbiotic delusion.

“Last night Mr.Omura from U Magazine came to my place again, you see—Mr.Omura brought whiskey,” Genryū continued. “He said he absolutely wouldn’t leave unless I wrote it for him by tonight—well, even I was at a loss then.” “Because I was right in the middle of writing a manuscript for Tokyo.” “It’s rather damn splendid, I tell you.” “It’s yours truly who’s been hounded by this first-rate magazine D for over three months now!”

"I look forward to it." The poetess was utterly moved, her small eyes glistening. "I’ve had my fill of writing in Korean." "Korean can go eat shit." "Because that’s the curse that brings ruin!" While recalling last night's gathering, he struck an absurd pose. "I intend to make my comeback in Tokyo literary circles." "All my friends in Tokyo are enthusiastically urging me to do so as well." But in reality, a woman like Mun So-ok had no way of knowing that there had been a gathering the previous night at Myeonggwa among earnest literary figures truly striving to protect Korean literature. Genryū himself had somehow gotten wind of this gathering of literary figures and lumbered in just as it was nearly ending. There, lined up in rows, were precisely those men and women who detested and rejected him as a terrifying parasite upon Korean culture—their faces brimming with excitement and tension as they fervently debated general issues of Korean culture and the merits of literary composition in the Korean language. He let out a "heh" of laughter and, looking awkward, moved to a corner where he perched himself. They were arguing that they should indeed establish Korean culture with their own hands and develop its uniqueness—that this would ultimately contribute to all Japanese culture, and furthermore benefit both Eastern and world cultures. Genryū kept glaring at each face one by one while sneering in a thoroughly mocking manner. He remembered that for an instant, his eyes had met the sharp gaze of the young, fiery critic Ri Myeong-sik. He involuntarily flinched at that moment. Somehow Ri seemed to have every single one of his nerves quivering. Suddenly Ri, overcome with excitement, began gulping convulsively at his throat,

“It’s self-evident!” he shouted. “I’m not saying literature can’t be created without Korean. I don’t make this claim solely for linguistic artistry’s sake. Isn’t today precisely when we—who for centuries couldn’t behold culture’s light under hidebound Chinese learning’s weight—have gradually awakened to our precious script culture? To unearth cultural treasures buried beneath five centuries of Joseon misrule and inherit past traditions—what blood-drenched efforts have we made these thirty years to establish even this meager Korean literature? By what reasoning should we again bury this literary light, these cultural sprouts with our own hands? Yet I don’t speak from mere sentimentality either! The true crisis lies in eighty percent of Koreans being illiterate—and ninety percent of those who read understanding only the Korean script!”

At that moment, Genryū suddenly let out a shrill, staccato laugh.

“Shut up!”

“Shut up!” A tempest of voices surged forth.

“Well, very well,” Ri said, closing his eyes and striving to suppress his agitation as he pressed on with his argument in a trembling voice that seemed to groan. “Is it not self-evident that composition in Korean is absolutely necessary both to bestow the light of culture upon these people and to bring them enjoyment? Even now, the three major newspapers in Korean script steadfastly fulfill their cultural role, and Korean-script magazines and publications continue to enrich the hearts of the people. The Korean language is clearly distinct from dialects such as those of Kyushu or Tohoku. Of course, I am not opposing writing in the mainland language either. At least I am not a linguistic chauvinist. Those who can write must be made to work vigorously to widely convey our lives, hearts, and art. And for those who are dissatisfied with writing in the mainland language or cannot actually write in it—for their art’s sake—they should strive to establish a robust translation institution under the support and patronage of understanding mainland cultural figures to introduce their works. Arguments by certain factions insisting one must ‘either write in the mainland language or break their brush’ are utterly preposterous.” Thereupon he suddenly knocked the table and stood up.

“That’s precisely why! Genryū, how do you consider this issue?” The eyes glaring at Genryū seemed to shoot flames. He froze up in that instant. In truth, Genryū was one who skillfully concealed himself beneath the noble name of patriotism while going about slandering that even the mere existence of the Korean language itself—let alone literary works in it—constituted political silent rebellion. Even setting that aside, it could be said that such purely cultural literary activities—owing to Korea’s unique circumstances—were prone to being misunderstood by the authorities as things whose very artistic essence all too readily took on political overtones. Especially since the Incident, that apprehension should be all the more severe. Genryū exploited this to swagger about, flaunting patriotism while peddling people out. And just how many innocent people had been plunged into the abyss of anxiety, restlessness, and torment because of this? In reality, this gathering was a critique session targeting the discourse of the Genryū faction. Genryū, at that moment, arched his body back in an utterly mocking manner,

“The Korean language?”

He dismissed it with a single remark and sneered contemptuously. At this, Ri Myeong-sik's heart finally blazed up; he seized a plate and hurled it. Everyone erupted into commotion. But even after being struck on the head and collapsing onto his back, he kept cackling in sulky defiance—as you're well aware, Ri Myeong-sik was subsequently arrested on assault charges. Afterward, he left the venue alone and drifted into Shinmachi's pleasure quarter; gulping down multiple whiskeys at some cheap tavern, he immediately staggered through a brothel's gate. Recalling this incident brought him both vague shame and absurd amusement, forcing him to suppress a snicker. Then, as if to obscure this reaction, he hastily began rising from his seat.

“About what time is it now?” “Oh, don’t be so impatient,” Mun So-ok said while glancing at her wristwatch. “It’s not yet six o’clock, you know.” “Hey now, bring the coffee quickly!”

“Well then, I’ll have some toast while we’re at it,” he said, and as though pulled back in, Genryū settled back into his seat.

“...And so,” “After all, when President Mr.Omura himself came here in person, I finally caved and wrote it for him.” “Then that bastard got all delighted, dragged me out, got me completely plastered, and hauled me off to that Neue Stadt.” “But turns out she was a woman with melon-yellow cheeks...” Then finding this “like a melon” expression intensely sensual, he seemed thoroughly pleased with himself and repeated it again for emphasis.

“Like a melon, you know.” Even the poetess finally seemed to grasp the implication of his brazen account—she flushed involuntarily, yet upon reconsidering that showing her discomposure would surely make her appear cheap, she responded in a tone suggesting she had long been intimately familiar with such matters. “How fortunate... How splendid.” “And yet the one determined to put you in a temple still dragged you off to such places in the end...”

“That’s exactly why!” the novelist shouted, his facial muscles twitching in panic. “That’s precisely why I say I just can’t grasp the bureaucrats’ minds! It’s a kind of whim, you see. In short, Mr. Omura still doesn’t understand who I am. In other words, they can’t comprehend an extraordinary artist.”

"I suppose so." The poetess nodded sorrowfully, then suddenly burst into a tittering laugh.

“Ah, this is no laughing matter. “Just try to recall even a little how much Rimbaud and Baudelaire were denounced by the common philistines!” Genryū grew increasingly eloquent and raised his hand. “The Korean artist—what a tragic existence that is! “Nature lies desolate; the masses wallow in ignorance; and intellectuals remain blind to art’s nobility. “Here I recall how Gogol lamented the Petersburg painter. “Everything is dull and joyless, and not a single person values Korean artists. “They’re just floundering about in the discarded refuse. “In other words, I too am but a victim swept out into the refuse. “Indeed, no one has been closer to Mr. Omura than I, and we’ve consulted each other on every matter. “But now he tells me—me!—to go to the temple and practice Zen meditation. “I can understand his feelings on that, but for an artist, that would mean suicide. “Becoming a monk—of all things! “But well, I had my reasons for deeming it acceptable and thus spoke. “Baudelaire too, with his poetic words, yearned—‘O serenity! O serenity!’”

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

“That’s exactly how it is,” he said in a quavering voice, wiping his tear-streaked face. “I have to become a monk and enter the temple by the day after tomorrow.” At that, he shuddered violently and leaned forward. “But you see, the truly marvelous thing is that Mr.Tanaka—a Tokyo writer and my dear friend—has come to Keijō. “I went to the Chosen Hotel earlier because I absolutely wanted to meet him, but I was so late that that bastard apparently grew impatient and went out somewhere with Mr.Omura or the like. Feeling terribly sorry for him, I’m just about to go search for him now.” “Shall I introduce you then—as the Korean George Sand and my Liebe…”

“…………” The poetess closed her eyes and smiled bewitchingly. She had completely forgotten about her appointment with the young university student. “Oh, thank you—I’d be delighted to have you introduce me.” “Then—” Genryū stared fixedly at her smiling face for a moment—then, right then, he resolved inwardly that tonight he would take this woman home for the first time in ages,

“If she heard this, Mr.Tanaka’s sister would be jealous, heh heh.” “Oh, was that so? You mean your Tokyo lover is that gentleman’s sister? Ohoho, how amusing!”

"That's right, that's exactly right!" he cried out with evident delight, as if having finally gotten his way. "When I left Tokyo, she insisted on chasing after me—it was quite the ordeal." "In any case, Mr.Tanaka has now fully blossomed and become an established mid-career writer." "How about this—if we gather around him once, please do come then as well." "Oh, of course I’ll go." "By the way, actually, Mr.Tanaka and Mr.Omura are university classmates and very close friends," he said, leaning back sharply and suddenly adopting a serious expression. But upon it floated a faint bright shadow so pitiful it verged on wretchedness. "That’s precisely why I intend to have Mr.Tanaka persuade Mr.Omura." "In other words, to make him understand the artist." "That's right—this is undoubtedly more crucial than even meeting that Parisian girl Anna." "Then I’m certain I’ll be able to avoid going to the temple."

“That would be good, yes. That would be good.” The poetess displayed heartfelt delight, her shoulders quivering as her breath came in hurried bursts. “I do hope that truly comes to pass.”

In truth, even the novelist Genryū was not such a bad person; his nature was that of an utterly weak coward, and he had been somewhat blessed with literary talent. Yet it was prolonged inescapable poverty, loneliness, and despair that had thrown his mind into disarray. Moreover, the peculiar society of Korea now plunged him ever deeper into confusion. Due to a kind of character collapse, he had been disowned by his father and brother, failed in his studies, and found himself without any means of livelihood. His fifteen years of life in Tokyo had been, indeed, precisely like that of a wretched stray dog. To make matters worse, no matter how he tried to conceal his Korean identity, his bone structure and facial features were unmistakably those of a Korean, so even when attempting to secure lodging, his face—the first thing noticed—combined with his tattered trousers meant he was invariably turned away without ceremony. And so, as if suddenly struck by divine revelation, he resorted to a desperate measure—he abruptly decided to proclaim himself not only as the son of a Korean noble and a literary genius but also as a first-rate writer in the Korean literary world. By doing so, he intended to somewhat mitigate the additional contempt and awkwardness he had to endure for being Korean, and to make his livelihood somewhat more flexible. However, miraculously, that method proved entirely successful, and he was able to be kept by two or three women in quick succession. Thus, over the course of a year or two, he had completely deluded himself into believing he was truly both a Korean noble and a literary genius. But the literary path alone remained utterly unmanageable, leaving him tormented until one year when, having been compelled to repatriate to Korea for slashing a woman, he finally withdrew there in a spirit of reckless abandon. From then on he composed articles in Korean that either flaunted outlandishness or reached the pinnacle of lewdness, peddling them to vulgar magazines. He would carry around a cloth bundle stuffed with manuscripts; whenever apprehended by patrol officers after causing disturbances in bars and cafés—questioned about his occupation—he would proudly declare himself Genryū the writer. He would appear at uninvited gatherings and spout haphazard strings of half-remembered French, German, and Latin words before puffing out his chest to declare himself at least a first-dan judoka. And he would endlessly recount self-aggrandizing tales as though he had been tremendously active in Tokyo literary circles—as if this somehow enhanced his existence in Korea. Since everything continued thusly, people gradually ceased engaging with him as a madman; yet the more they ignored him, the more elated he became at this perceived validation, proclaiming that true geniuses were never accepted by common masses. But as his true nature gradually surfaced, even vulgar journalism rejected his writings until cultural figures united to expel him from their circles. From that moment of immobilization onward—whenever drunk—he ceased all judo boasts and instead began threatening anyone within earshot: "You're the one who ought to be thrown in jail!" Simultaneously people began fearing him as a man capable of anything.

That even such a man had to cower whenever ideological rhetoric pressed upon him—what a lamentable thing this was for Korean cultural figures!

As this progressed, Genryū’s mind grew increasingly reckless, and he began to roam the streets committing ever more assaults, extortions, and sordid deeds—yet even when reprimanded by patrol officers this time, he would cackle and roar, “If it’s about me, ask Mr.Omura!” This Mr.Omura—whom he always addressed with "-kun" before others—was in fact the editor-in-chief of Current Affairs Magazine U, a publication edited expressly to deepen patriotic thought among the Korean populace. Having just arrived from mainland Japan as a former bureaucrat still unfamiliar with Korea and its cultural affairs, he stubbornly came to believe that Genryū—who had first approached him—was indeed the novelist shouldering Korean literary circles as claimed, and that those traits bordering on character collapse only further proved him an extraordinary artist. Thus did Genryū, in his despair, come to ingratiate himself with Omura and be favored by him for no discernible reason. However, as the saying goes—“good fortune invites calamity”—not long after this, Genryū found himself accused of espionage under exceedingly peculiar circumstances and was apprehended by the Kempeitai.

On one splendid afternoon, he spotted a young, bewitching woman calling herself French Anna on his usual Honmachi Street. He excitedly approached her while spouting fragments—"Bonami," "Mademoiselle," "Wimelci"—in a jumble of mangled French. The blue-eyed woman was quite adept; though in broken Japanese, she said she had come on a pleasure trip and was getting lost, then laughed softly. He, growing ever more pleased with himself, paraded her about everywhere while ostentatiously shouting all the French he knew—"Bonjour," "Très bien," "Beau garçon," "S'il vous plaît"—for passersby to hear. And deliberately dragging her into a used bookstore, he hunted down a third-rate magazine featuring his profile, opened it to the gravure page, and triumphantly pointed at his own photograph, asking if she knew who it was. "Oh!" she put on a surprised look. Then, pleased with himself, he suddenly stole the photo away from prying eyes and forcibly stuffed it into her handbag. Afterward, Anna was arrested as a spy at the Tumen River border, and he too was detained under suspicion when that very photograph was found in her possession. Thus, just as things were about to become disastrous, Omura used his government connections to work tirelessly in explaining matters and secure his release, which is why he came to feel a lifelong debt of gratitude toward Omura. As it was, now that he had been cast aside like a stray dog even by the general Korean populace, were Omura too to abandon him, he would have no choice but to perish in the gutter. 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 brandished patriotism to disrupt public order and commit misdeeds everywhere—would damage Omura’s authority. In fact, as far as Genryū was concerned, the criticism and attacks against the judicial authorities had become so severe that even the police were beginning an internal investigation. Therefore, out of reluctance to hand him over to the police and his own inherent devoutness, Omura commanded him to go to the temple, practice Zen meditation, and promptly demonstrate some gesture of contrition. With matters having reached this point, Genryū could no longer afford to defy that command. At last, he had to depart within these two days. Therefore, at this juncture, he pinned all his hopes on the arrival of Tanaka—a Tokyo-based writer and Omura’s university classmate—and sought to have Tanaka persuade Omura in various ways so that he himself could move about freely. Therefore, this was of course a matter far more significant than even meeting the French Anna from Paris.

“I’m going to search for Mr.Tanaka in Jongno Backstreets now. Well then, shall we set out?”

With that, Genryū suddenly perked up, stuffing two pieces of toast into his mouth at once as he rose from his seat.

“I’ll go too… Oh, that’s just fine.” 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 acting timidly. When Genryū turned at the sound, he found a lanky college student standing at the entrance—square cap pulled low over pale, contorted features—glaring sharply at him. At that instant, the mournful Spanish folk record screeched to a halt as every eye turned toward the trio. Mun So-ok suddenly darted past, yanking open the door to drag the student outside. Genryū stood shattered, staring blankly while snickers rippled through the room. Yet within minutes she came rushing back, gasping out “He’s my cousin!” in a strained whisper before adding: “I’d completely forgotten our theater plans.”

And in the moment she realized—

“I’ll go tomorrow morning.”

and whispered into his ear before darting out again. “Wait, wait!”

And then, suddenly flustered, he came shouting from behind while waving his hands and dashed out. But outside was already a dark night, and their figures had vanished without a trace, leaving no clue as to where they had gone.

III

Damn it all, you bastard! You'll pay for this.

And so, muttering these words to himself repeatedly while shrugging his shoulders, the novelist Genryū walked off with an airy gait toward Jongno Street—the liveliest thoroughfare in the Korean district. "Even that whore is making a fool of me—she’s gone too far," he told himself. He couldn’t help feeling as though some precious jewel he’d held in his grasp had been wrenched away. Then, as always, her incongruously long torso gave way to misshapenly large buttocks that flickered before his eyes, and toward this vision surged a thick flow of warm blood's turbulence—he felt this agonizing pleasure. He spontaneously choked up, audibly gulped, and swallowed hard. At that moment, for some reason, he suddenly thought he heard her whispering voice by his ear and, startled, whirled around to look. But of course there was no trace of Mun So-ok there—only a single passerby who had stopped to watch him with a suspicious look. "Goddamn it," he muttered again.

Passing by the large Korean-operated bank housed in a white plaster building, he found himself drawing near Jongno Crossroads. Suddenly the surroundings grew clamorous; rickshaws dashed about, automobiles streamed by, and trams blared their horns impatiently. With the Washin Department Store and Kancho Building’s high-rises as starting points, impressive structures flanking the main avenue stretched toward Dongdaemun like a strait. When he emerged before the Bell Pavilion—a relic from the previous century standing at the crossroads—the decrepit beggars huddled there stretched out their hands; filthy beggar children swarmed forth from nowhere like locusts. This year there were noticeably more beggars. He raised his hand with exaggerated flourish and scattered the children. From around the front of the Kancho Building, night stalls had spread out onto the sidewalk, and with the flow of people creating a jostling crowd, the vendors' calls echoed clamorously. Right at the entrance to those night stalls, a farmer wrapped in a white headcloth—appearing to have collapsed drunk—was waving his hands while shouting something incessantly in a choked voice, surrounded by curious onlookers. Wondering what was happening, he craned his neck to look and saw that beside the man stood a support frame, upon which rested branches heavy with large peach blossoms. Thus buried in bouquets, the support frame stood with flowers drooping their heads in pitiable fashion.

“The year I took me a wife, we planted this peach tree together, we did.” “That wife o’ mine went an’ died.” “That wife o’ mine!” the farmer bellowed. “She wanted t’eat some white rice gruel, so while I went t’borrow from th’landlord, she went an’ died.” “Come now, I’ve cut down these peach branches an’ carried ’em here m’self! Buy ’em—twenty sen per branch! Don’t need more’n that—twenty sen’ll do!” The crowd as thick as a mountain exchanged amused glances and roared with laughter.

Genryū, keeping his hands tucked in his sleeves, pushed through the crowd and abruptly emerged at its center. There he stood for a time with softened eyes, gazing intently at the peach branches with an air of boundless contemplation. For some reason, he felt a sorrow that cut keenly through his chest. As though possessed, he strode resolutely to the support frame, seized a branch, and stared upward at it with fierce concentration. Pale crimson flowers now blooming in full splendor covered the branch with some twenty blossoms spiraling along its length.

“Come now, sir! Buy them!” “I’ll flog these here, drink up, an’ drop dead—eh? Why’s ever’one laughin’? Buy ’em!” “Don’t laugh—just buy ’em!” “Oh... thankee kindly, thankee kindly!”

Genryū, who had been fumbling for loose change with one hand, grabbed two or three white copper coins and tossed them out with a plop. The farmer bowed ecstatically, pressing his head to the ground. Ignoring this, Genryū silently slung the peach branches over his shoulder and pushed through the crowd to reemerge into the throng. At that moment—whether due to his own appearance or through some sudden caprice—he recalled Christ bearing the cross and tried to summon within himself that martyr’s grievous fate. He couldn’t help feeling that he alone stood shouldering all Korean anguish and sorrow in some fundamental sense. Indeed, only within Chosen’s reality could creatures like him be born and permitted to run rampant through society. Chaotic Chosen had needed to create someone like me, he realized—and now that my purpose was spent, sought to make me bear its cross! As this awareness took hold, sadness surged so violently through his chest that he nearly burst into wails. But such feelings proved fleeting—the instant he noticed sidewalk crowds gaping at his bizarre appearance, he straightened up with renewed composure and even a flicker of pride. You third-rate poet whore—had you followed me here, you’d have witnessed my celestial visage! Stupid bitch! he cursed Mun So-ok venomously in his heart.

The area before the night stalls was a crush of people jostling and shoving. The beggar children from earlier, looking amused, followed behind—five or six of them. In the midst of this, a commotion suddenly broke out ahead—apparently a fight had started—so he retreated slightly to avoid it, then turned off beside Yesu Bookstore and entered a dimly lit alleyway. The beggar children, seizing this moment, swarmed around him once more, stretching out their hands.

“Mister, please give us alms.” “Please, give us alms.” they pleaded in pitiful voices. He finally grew disheartened and scattered five or six copper coins. The children shrieked and began struggling in the darkness, knocking their heads together. Genryū turned back and started to snicker thinly, but tears suddenly welled up, making him hastily raise his sleeve to wipe them away.

When he emerged into the back alleys, there lay what they called Jongno Backstreet—cafés, bars, standing bars, oden shops, mahjong parlors, brokerages, restaurants, and inns with glittering lights, gaping entrances, shrinking facades, and forms crouched low as if glued to the earth. Screeching records clamorously droned all around while figures in Western suits and white traditional garments wandered about. Prosperous merchants, Korean clerks from around the Government-General, unemployed youths with money, modern boys, café musicians, and bartenders—all made their presence known in this district at night. Among them were gold mine men come to throw around large sums. At last—I've reached my destination, Genryū thought. Even if Tanaka hadn't been guided by Omura, he must have been brought here by someone—undoubtedly to immerse himself in this district's Korean essence. While fervently wishing to avoid encountering Mr.Omura... he resolved to check each drinking establishment one by one, poking his head inside. The children still followed after him, snickering all the while. He firmly resolved that even if admirers tried dragging him along, he'd never get sidetracked. Therefore when he opened Café Jongno Hall's door and someone shouted "Mr.Gen!", he merely chuckled "heh heh heh" before turning heel; when he peered into Bar Shilla through an open window came the cry: "Hey lunatic! Beggar bastard!" Even when showered with abuse by all present, he simply recalled his judo first-dan rank and laughed vacantly as he left. At one spot he carelessly barged in only to be assailed by women in hanbok and motley Western dresses demanding "Flowers! Give us flowers!"—yet without once smacking their backsides, he tossed two or three blossoms while scrambling away in disarray. Though he combed the district west to east with methodical thoroughness, Tanaka's group remained unfindable. He found himself increasingly driven by frantic urgency, powerless against the directionless resentment and fury swelling within him.

Genryū once again began searching aimlessly, his bowlegged legs dragging heavily as he wandered about. This time, he even thrust his head into various places and tried asking the women. But despite walking around for over two hours, there was no progress at all; intense fatigue set in, and he felt nothing but hunger. When he finally reached the rather desolate area behind Yūbikan, he had become so utterly exhausted that he couldn’t take another step, and so he slipped into some rundown standing bar there for the time being. In the dusty light, seedy-looking people formed groups of two or three each, huddling together clamorously as they exchanged cups. Genryū, still shouldering the peach branches and bathed in everyone’s astonished gazes, lumbered toward the center of the room. At the front, a long plank counter had been set up, and beyond it sat a woman with a neat face perched primly. He took the large cup set out on the counter, had the woman pour him a serving of pale yellowish herbal liquor, and downed it in one gulp. It was a strangely sour taste. He raised his face and glared around once, but there was not a single person he knew. The other people, upon meeting his gaze, abruptly fell silent as if startled and turned their faces away. Genryū grew even more sullen because of this, shuffled over to the wire-mesh shelf set beside him, pulled out a pig's foot, and began munching on it noisily. It was a uniquely Chosen-style economical drinking establishment where one could drink from a bowl-sized cup complete with snacks for a mere five sen. He didn’t have a moment to spare even for uttering 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 to monitor his emergence finally gave up and vanished somewhere without a trace. He had a constitution that demanded drinking until thoroughly plastered—ears ringing, legs immobilized—once he started imbibing like this. Yet reaching complete inebriation would require at least sixty cups of this herbal liquor. As he kept draining cup after cup, intoxication seeped listlessly through his limbs until a chest-constricting melancholy overwhelmed him. Tonight he absolutely had to apprehend Tanaka. Right—get utterly soused here then storm the Chosen Hotel again. Everything would surely fall into place if he begged Tanaka for help. This notion of temple confinement now struck him as nothing but pitiful farce—him becoming one of those gourd-headed monks draped in kesa robes, forced to mime Zen piety day and night before that snot-sniffling abbot Shōgaku with a rosary around his neck! He emitted a strangely strangled cackle to dispel the anguish. Startled by his own laughter, he frantically clutched the peach branch from his shoulder to his chest and held his breath. As he remained motionless, his spirit gradually settled until his body seemed to dissolve—then suddenly faintly luminous phantoms of women began flickering incoherently before him. ××××× melon-cheeked woman. In the shadows, the poetess stifled a laugh. Her slightly pursed lips seemed to whisper "I'll come tomorrow morning." Right—tonight he must return to that damp lodging-house hovel and wait for her... Then her water-washed ×××××××× floated through space, arms spreading wide as it blew suffocatingly hot breath toward him—an illusion attacking his body. Where in blazes was Tanaka anyway? Wavering between reality and delusion, he found himself recalling Tanaka's sister Akiko without clear reason. Back then Tanaka had struggled as a mere literary youth while his sister attending women's college had been a beauty.

At the time, he had believed himself to be pouring all his passion into loving her, but whether it was Tanaka or her, they not only harbored no goodwill toward him but even held him in contempt. He would often walk the full ri to Akiko’s place and try every manner of boldness imaginable, but she would only mock his brazenly excessive passion. The fact that he was a Korean noble and genius had no effect on her whatsoever. Every day when he was coldly dismissed by her like this and on his way back, he would go stay at the lodging of a waitress he had known for some time. The night he slashed this waitress was upon returning after his resolved attempt to assault Akiko—seizing the moment of Tanaka’s absence—had ended in failure. He was consequently expelled from the mainland and returned to Chōsen, where he somehow managed to secure a foothold and began contributing to entertainment magazines. However, indulging in wild fantasies, he mystified this youthful romantic experience, persistently writing in various quarters as though it were a love story akin to that of the Balkan revolutionary Insarov and the Russian maiden Elena from Turgenev’s *On the Eve*—depicting himself as having been fervently loved by Akiko, a beautiful and pure maiden. Thus people came to believe this at least couldn’t possibly be a lie, and in writing it himself time and again, he even began misremembering it as truth—until now it had transformed into a beautiful memory. Ah—what is that Akiko doing now? I want to meet Tanaka quickly and ask him. Everything now amounts to nothing but seeds that sadden me, doesn't it?

His head suddenly began to spin, and he felt he might end up doing something reckless. Suddenly, the desperate cry of that peasant from earlier seemed to reach him again. I myself am undoubtedly one who has been plunged into the abyss of hopeless despair, floundering like that peasant. Lewd phrases had long been exhausted in his writing, and not a soul believed his boasts anymore. The scant German words he barely knew had already been written over countless times; the thirteen half-remembered Latin phrases uttered more than thirteen times; as for French—all the more—he'd religiously appended FIN to every article's end, but now that commissions had dried up completely, even that was gone. The intimidation of being at least a first dan in judo proved utterly ineffective—not just second or third dans but even dangerous boxers swarmed about. He had no home, no wife, no children, no money. In the end, what he'd conceived as his last resort was not only plotting revenge against all under the noble guise of patriotism but also seeking protection from the formidable Omura. Yet even among Chosen literati, a surging current affairs movement had risen mightily, leaving him behind in their vivid spray. When he thought of that, hatred for those others made his teeth grind. Now he couldn't even threaten "I'll have you thrown in prison." All that remained was his knack for shaking down places and drinking without coin. Because such behavior was deemed outrageous—wasn't it Omura ordering this very me to enter the temple? Now that even Omura had abandoned him, he was a man with nowhere left. He couldn't help loathing Omura—who'd used him up completely before issuing this fresh decree banishing him to the temple. But now utterly drained of strength, he let the peach branch thud to the floor and—tears welling—began sinking deeper as he stacked cup upon cup.

IV

Perhaps it was around ten o'clock when Genryū collapsed in a drunken stupor. The customers kept noisily coming and going, but suddenly, from behind him, there was a sense of new patrons entering, and crisp mainland Japanese reached his ears.

"For an extremely leisurely Korean, he has a somewhat amusingly hurried aspect about him." "Oh? That voice sounds familiar," he thought, and Genryū pricked up his ears intently.

“Well, you could say it’s like a scaled-up yakitori place in mainland Japan, I suppose.” “With this refreshing sense of liberation from those Chōsenjin riffraff, care to sample some Chōsen liquor for a round?” “Truly, it was quite an ordeal.”

The two newly arrived men stood side by side next to Genryū. The man being spoken of was undoubtedly one of those sycophantic literary dropouts—Koreans who had been trailing obsequiously after them all this time, fawningly addressing Tanaka as “Sensei, Sensei.” Genryū warily drew his head back.

“Still, isn’t it rather amusing? Meeting and talking with such people… it truly evokes a continental atmosphere, you know.” With the realization that this affected, gruff voice could only belong to Tanaka, Genryū pricked up his ears in surprise.

“Oh, are you serious about that?” “And,” protested their guide with evident displeasure. "You take interest in the strangest things again." “Not exactly... But in reality, are those people truly as active in literary and theatrical circles as they claim?” "That’s right—those fellows are first-rate figures," the man impatiently distorted the truth. “When I read those Chōsenjin’s works translated into Japanese this time, I felt immense relief.” "Complete relief." "If that’s their level, even an amateur like me could write it." "The regional culture of Chōsen should naturally be rebuilt through our hands now that we’re here." “Now then—how about a drink?”

He took up the cup.

Finally at that moment, Genryū timidly stuck his head out from the side, hurriedly rubbed his bleary eyes and stared, then opened his mouth wide. Indeed, it was unmistakably Tokyo’s Tanaka who was being guided by Kadoi, a professor at a government technical school. The two men, who had been raising their cups to their lips, noticed Genryū and started in surprise.

“Tanaka! Tanaka!” Genryū shouted while spreading his arms wide and embracing the lanky frame standing right beside him. The other customers and women all stared wide-eyed in shock, utterly flabbergasted by this bizarre spectacle. They even felt a creeping unease at whether it was acceptable to handle a mainlander in such a manner. Tanaka realized in an instant that this was Genryū, whom he had just been discussing with Omura and Kadoi as one of three, but he was utterly taken aback by both the wholly unexpected location of their encounter and the outlandish embrace. More than anything, he felt suffocated and in agony. Genryū continued spinning round and round like a madman while clutching him.

“Outrageous, outrageous! I resented it—greatly resented it.” “What kind of rule lets you show up without warning?” “My apologies, my apologies.” With a faint voice like a plea for salvation, Tanaka groaned. “Come now, let’s drink there! Take the cup!” Genryū nimbly sprang back and seized the cup. “Ah, Mr. Tanaka! I’m grateful you stopped by Korea—truly overjoyed!” The absence of Omura by Tanaka’s side undoubtedly multiplied his delight. He nearly embraced him again. “You came after all.” “Observe this new Korea thoroughly for me.” “I’m counting on you!” “Now—down a cup in one go!”

And then, having gotten completely carried away,

“Come now, Mr.Kadoi! You drink up heartily too!”

and proceeded to pound his back hard enough to hurt. Kadoi had only met Genryū once or twice at U Magazine gatherings and considered being treated with such familiarity by this man detrimental to his social standing. Originally, after graduating from the university’s law department and coming to the remote reaches of Korea, he had straightaway become a professor; but lately he had begun encroaching upon artistic gatherings too—a figure one might call the Genryū of mainlanders. Like those migrant-minded scholars who came to Korea—a breed plagued by chronic flaws—he too mouthed Japan-Korea Unity (one of Japanese imperialism’s colonial policies aimed at assimilating Koreans into Japanese), all while nurturing an ethnically charged superiority complex twice as vulgar as others’, convinced of his chosen status. Yet when attending artistic gatherings, he felt inferior at producing no creative work like the Korean literati—a lack that rebounded into bitter resentment. Thus he made special efforts to mock them; whenever artists came from Japan, he skipped classes with Genryū-rivaling zeal to meet them; squandered his supplementary salary dragging them through drinking spots; and at every turn denounced Koreans in academic jargon, habitually muttering phrases like “Ah, seeing that puts my mind at ease.” Tonight’s encounter with this most contemptible of writers—Genryū—swelled his self-esteem further still. With an ostentatious shrug and gruff bark, he turned his back. But Genryū—no ordinary man—ignored this entirely and kept shouting while maintaining his grip on Tanaka.

“Oh Tanaka! I’ve been searching all over for you and worn myself out completely—I was drinking here while cursing you something fierce.” “Finally got to meet you.” “Hasn’t it been six years? By the way—how’s your sister Ms. Akiko doing?” “I still haven’t forgotten Ms. Akiko, you know!” The timid Tanaka kept nodding along halfheartedly to the torrent of words spilling from his mouth while pursing his lips in a feigned attempt to sip at the medicinal wine. Kadoi, who had just been about to bring his second cup to his mouth alone, burst out laughing when Akiko’s name came up. And then, as if that weren’t enough, he let out a “Hahaha!” and roared with laughter. Earlier, while they had been discussing Genryū, he had heard from Tanaka about how this man had caused trouble by acting recklessly toward his sister. The story went that Genryū would always time his visits to her for when Tanaka was absent—change into Tanaka’s cotton-padded kimono—and persist at the desk with full master-of-the-house airs; then when Tanaka himself returned home, he would greet him as if receiving a guest, remarking things like “How unusual this is.” This too had happened one evening when Tanaka chanced upon Genryū in the street and was robbed of all the money he had on him under the pretext that something terrible had happened. And when he returned home later, Genryū had bought a heap of apples and cream puffs and was cackling gleefully while force-feeding them to his sister. Kadoi had recalled that. But now that Genryū had met Tanaka, all his sorrows and sufferings had dissipated—he found himself growing elated and increasingly voluble. Especially since Kadoi was also nearby—and given that he had always acted arrogantly whenever he took up his pen before—he came out boldly.

“When you return, give my regards to Professor S too—tell him that guy’s been keeping quite busy since coming back to Korea.” “Or,” “How’s Professor T doing?” “And then,”

“How’s Mr. R doing?” “What about Mr. D’s wife?”

However, unfortunately, Tanaka was not the sort of novelist who moved in circles familiar with S or T either, so he fumbled through vague responses. After all, he had merely departed thinking that since he was currently in a creative slump and couldn't write, wandering through Manchuria—then all the rage—might earn him a different reputation and open up new professional avenues. Nevertheless, having been commissioned by a magazine before his departure to write about Korea's intelligentsia, he had observed with detached interest those lowly literary youths who until moments ago had been fawningly addressing him as "Professor"; after parting from them, he had proceeded to collect reference opinions from Omura and Kadoi. According to Kadoi's thoroughly anthropological analysis, Korean youths constituted a breed universally cowardly and resentful by nature, moreover brazenly clannish in their factionalism. He had declared Genryū—whom Tanaka also knew from Tokyo—to be the perfect specimen of this type. Thus when Ogata—a certain renowned Tokyo writer—had stopped in Keijō and through Omura's mediation convened a gathering of Korean literati, they marveled at how within thirty minutes at that very table he had discerned all Koreans embodied in Genryū—truly demonstrating a sharp artist's discerning eye. When Ogata pointed at Genryū while proclaiming "Here stands a true Korean!", the Korean literati could only stand dumbstruck. Yet Genryū himself had grinned smugly, basking in the attention. Though Tanaka's stay had lasted barely a day or two—and what with being dragged about drinking had allowed little proper observation—having just resolved to send back observations as caustically distinctive as Ogata's, he felt some satisfaction at unexpectedly encountering Genryū again, this man certified by Kadoi as Korea's quintessential representative. He entertained not the slightest doubt toward Kadoi's malicious pronouncements. Eager at last to demonstrate his intuitive acumen, he now initiated conversation with the demeanor of one conducting an ethnic inspection.

“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. “The moment I returned to Korea, I churned out brilliant works one after another. At first those bastards gaped wide-eyed, yammering about how even Korea had spawned a genius Rimbaud. But when my readers multiplied and my stature grew, those literary jackals grew jealous—tried to bury me alive! Look here—any fool can see Koreans are hopeless! Listen—they’re cunning yet cowardly! Form their little cliques just to drag down anyone rising up!” At this, Kadoi twitched his face toward Tanaka as if shouting “See?” without words. Tanaka nodded.

“Those bastards don’t even know I was making waves in the Tokyo literary circles, gaining everyone’s attention!” Then, stealing a glance at Kadoi, he said, “Ignorant! Utterly ignorant!” When facing mainlanders, he could not help but prattle on with criticisms of Koreans out of a servile impulse, firmly believing that only through this could he finally speak as an equal to them. At last Genryū, burning with fiery passion, shouted between heaving breaths.

“When I think of this irredeemable national character, I’m overcome with sorrow—Tanaka! Oh, you there! Do you understand my feelings?!” He thought about letting out a sob but merely covered his face and convulsively heaved. Tanaka was thoroughly moved, “I do understand! I truly do!” He felt like weeping alongside him and found himself thinking that coming to Korea had indeed been worthwhile. The notion that one could only produce insular literature while languishing in the mainland was absolutely true. Here lay the suffering countenance of continental peoples. Even Genryū—that man beyond all redemption—now trembled bodily in anguish over some greater essential matter. Yes—this was precisely the Korean intelligentsia’s self-reflection he must report to the homeland. Straining not to be outdone by Ogata’s discernment, I felt profound joy seeping through me. Those who claimed not to understand Chinese were utter fools. If Koreans could be comprehended in two days at this rate," I inwardly roared, "I’ll grasp them fully in four! At any rate, he’d even begun properly formulating plans to position Genryū as Korea’s representative intellectual for his writings. But Kadoi found Genryū’s antics too absurdly comical; finally itching to claim victory, he glared pointedly at him before—

“Ridiculously late, isn’t Mr.Omura? Perhaps he’s gone home alone.”

he said to Tanaka. He knew that Genryū feared Omura like one fears thunder. “Huh? Mr.Omura?” Sure enough, Genryū’s eyes flew open as if his drunkenness had evaporated in an instant, and he jerked upright. “Mr.Omura—you were with Mr.Omura?”

“Yeah, he said something about going shopping around there.” Hearing Tanaka’s reply—first making a puzzled face before answering—Genryū panicked: Oh no, this won’t do— “That’s it!” he shouted nonsensically. “That’s why I’ve been striving together with Mr.Omura to improve the Korean people.” "The problem is simple." "All Koreans must break away from their hidebound ideas of the past, acknowledge the new state of affairs in East Asia, and wholeheartedly receive the baptism of the Yamato spirit—that’s what it’s about." "That’s precisely why I kept writing sensational papers for Mr.Omura’s U magazine, even as people called me a madman." Then he suddenly lowered his voice and thrust his head forward,

“Did Mr.Omura say anything about me?” he asked. “No, not really...”

Tanaka evaded the question, but Genryū suddenly reverted to his former tone: “Mr.Omura is truly a splendid fellow rarely seen in our time. That’s why someone like me, though just a civilian, takes the lead in devoting all efforts to assist him. But alas—even the stalwart Mr.Omura doesn’t grasp artists! What a true artist is… That’s why Tanaka, a writer like you should enlighten him properly. It’s absurd—ordering me to enter the temple as if I’m Hamlet! If it were a nunnery I might endure, but some bald monk’s place? Hey—you think I’m Ophelia? I may look disheveled, but with all due respect, my mind remains perfectly sound!”

Kadoi sneered at Tanaka in a show of pity while attempting to slip away, tugging at the hem of his Western suit. However, just as Genryū was blustering with a strangely hoarse, raised voice, Omura himself calmly entered through the doorway. He was an imposing, splendid gentleman who looked to be around forty. Genryū, completely flustered, touched the back of his neck with a hollow laugh and bobbed his head in a bow. Kadoi, standing nearby, suddenly let out a mean-spirited cackle. Omura, seeing Genryū here, suddenly became displeased and barked.

“What’s the matter? Are you here again spouting nonsense?” “H-heh, Mr.Omura, h-heh, thank you,” Genryū stammered obsequiously while clinging to him and bending at the waist. “Well, you see… I’ve been searching all day for Mr.Tanaka.” “So I ended up getting starving… I just, uh…” “Hey! What’s the hold-up with the temple? Don’t dawdle—get yourself there as soon as possible!” “Y-yes,” Genryū replied fearfully, fidgeting awkwardly. “I already understand perfectly.”

Omura exchanged knowing glances with Kadoi and Tanaka, then—considering there was also a visitor from afar—resolved that he must demonstrate through his own actions how deeply he cared for Koreans while stationed in Chosen. “Show me proof of your seclusion immediately!” “It is precisely because I cannot bear to hand you over to the police that I’m telling you to go to the reverend monk’s place and fix your head.” “In short, it’s to elevate the souls of people like you.” “You must sever earthly desires—earthly desires!”

“Ah, so I too…” “Understood? Good.” There, he proudly threw his shoulders back. The guests all stared at this spectacle in blank bewilderment, but Tanaka—maintaining an air of boundless emotion—kept his eyes shut tight as he listened.

“Do you even grasp what era this is? You must properly comprehend the current political climate! Drinking bars dry, kidnapping women, extorting people—such behavior is utterly inexcusable! You may scream about Japan-Korea Unity like a lunatic, but not one Korean gives you any heed! Reflect more deeply! I’m ordering you to become a decent human being again! Do you understand? Exploiting my support to manipulate people’s kindness is absolutely intolerable! Imbecile! I never imagined you could be this ungrateful!” Then, swept up by his own eloquence, he grew truly impassioned. “You’re nothing but a thankless wretch! Do you still not recognize your own wickedness? Japan-Korea Unity means uplifting souls like yours until they equal mainland Japanese!”

“That’s exactly right, which is why I’ve been advocating for it with such fervor that people even call me a madman.” “Absolutely! After all, when Japan as the husband extends its hand to marry Chosen as the wife in harmony, there’s no reason to spit on that hand.” “Only through becoming one body can the Korean people finally be saved.” “I am so overwhelmed with passion that I’m even misunderstood by Korean people.” “Because Koreans as a whole are a distrustful inferior race.”

“Hold it right there,” Omura interjected, raising his hand with deliberate gravity to halt him. “You Koreans are far too prone to self-deprecation. All the Koreans around me do nothing but speak ill of their own race—that very tendency is what’s most unacceptable in the first place. Do you understand now? Of course reflecting on and correcting your own flaws is crucial. But you must value yourselves. Value yourselves. That you cannot do this is precisely where you fall short compared to other ethnic groups. Behold the mainland Japanese! Mainland Japanese would never do such a thing.”

“That’s right! I mean, isn’t that obvious?” Genryū began shouting incoherently while in a panic. He had recalled the highly academic phrases he had once written, and his mind was completely occupied by them. “At least geographically speaking, archaeologically speaking, anthropologically speaking—that is to say, from an anthropological perspective—biologically speaking…”

As Genryū kept rattling off these terms, Kadoi abruptly collided with his scholarly conscience,

“That’s not ‘Anthropologie,’ it’s ‘Anthropology,’” he corrected. “That’s right! Whether viewed anthropologically or philologically, Japan and Chosen differ only as man and woman do…” Omura found his pedantic panic so absurd that he couldn’t help smirking to himself, but when Genryū suddenly noticed this, he became convinced that Omura must have taken a renewed liking to his fervor, and so he abruptly thrust his entire body forward,

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

But Omura, in a tone that suggested he had said his piece, swiveled back toward Tanaka and Kadoi and spoke. “Well then, I suppose it’s about time we took our leave.” “You’ve likely grasped the general nature of things by now.”

“Oh, Mr. Omura, are you leaving already?” Genryū started, then suddenly sprang toward Omura’s arm as if launched by a spring mechanism—a lion lunging for its prey. But his feet caught on the fallen peach branch at that very instant, making him reflexively scoop it up and clutch it to his chest while gasping. “Mr. Omura! Mr. Omura!” “What’s this now?” Omura leaned back suspiciously, staring fixedly before snapping, “Are you wandering about in that state again? I wash my hands of you!”

“Mr. Omura! Mr. Omura!” Genryū suddenly went limp at the waist and cried out mournfully. "I simply bought them from a farmer in town because the flowers were in too pitiful a state." Seeing that Kadoi had even settled his drinking tab, he—perhaps out of embarrassment—hurriedly came around to Tanaka, tugging at his sleeve while urgently imploring, “Mr. Tanaka! Mr. Tanaka! There’s something I urgently need to discuss with you.”

He moaned imploringly. “Spend more time with me! More!” “Hmm, these are fine flowers.” Then Tanaka muttered distractedly, his words tumbling over themselves. At that instant, Genryū suddenly straightened with triumphant vigor and swung the peach branch onto his shoulder, “You see? Splendid flowers, aren’t they? Peach blossoms! These are peach blossoms!” he roared in a brassy voice, marching forward like a child leading imaginary troops. Truth be told, he’d been desperate to stay glued to these eminent men and wander the streets in their company. Omura, Kadoi and Tanaka trailed behind, snickering with forced amusement.

A pale moon hung swollen in the sky, though the alley remained as dim as ever. He marched forward several yards with playfully exaggerated movements, swaying his body while shouldering the peach branch, but suddenly halted to thrust out his chest and gaze skyward. Then, abruptly dragging the branch beneath his crotch as if mounting it, he raised his hand heavenward like signaling the divine and cackled once. The other three pretended not to notice him and passed dejectedly by his side. He panicked and shouted loudly, declaring:

“I’m ascending to heaven! Ascending to heaven! Genryū is ascending to heaven riding on peach blossoms!” Thereupon, like a warrior astride a hobby horse, he swiftly charged past them as if demanding they behold this most fantastical mystic. The flowers were ruthlessly snapped at their stems, petals soiled and scattered about. But when he turned as if suddenly remembering, Tanaka stood alone urinating into a dark rubbish pit. Seizing this moment, Genryū rushed back panting heavily, whispering in a choked voice, “Mr.Tanaka... I’ve already spoken to Mr.Omura about me. Make sure I don’t have to go to the temple—to the temple!”

The voice was trembling with such despairing sadness that Tanaka, startled, stared at Genryū’s face. The visage, which had been contorted in shudder-inducing tension, suddenly collapsed, and a ghastly smile surfaced. Then one of his hands struck his own shoulder in a servile manner. “You’ve got to kowtow to those bureaucrats or they won’t be pleased. They don’t understand what it means to be an artist… I’m going to the hotel tomorrow.”

Having spat out these words, he once more ostentatiously straddled the peach branch and began dragging it along while howling up at the sky. “Genryū is ascending to heaven! Ascending to heaven!”

At that moment, Omura and Kadoi pulled Tanaka toward the side alley and emerged onto the main street, where they raised their hands to hail an automobile. In the alley, Genryū's increasingly elated bellowing continued.

5

In the end, he failed to ascend to heaven.

The next morning, he awoke in his hovel just as he always did—with a pained scream. He had been seized by a nightmare in which someone was strangling him with a rope. His body was drenched in sweat. In any case, he seemed too terrified to move his body, closing his eyes again as he panted violently with ragged breaths. He wondered if his neck was truly unharmed, trembling with nervous anticipation as he attempted to check. The moment he tried to move his hand, his fingertips brushed against something hard, startling him. Thinking It’s true, he kept his eyes shut and held his breath. Overcome with something like prayer, he now hesitantly extended his other hand and cautiously tried to bring it toward his neck. Oh—perhaps that wasn’t it after all— Just as this thought struck him, something brushed against his fingertips again. Startled, he froze rigid like a Buddha statue. After two or three minutes had passed—or perhaps it only felt that way—he finally managed to calm himself enough to tentatively probe once more at what this thing might be. Perhaps it was his imagination, but this time the thing he touched seemed to sway ever so slightly. Thinking something was amiss, he tried pinching it between two fingers—oh?—as he let himself be drawn along fumbling with the object—

"What the—?!" he cried in exasperation, hastily brushing off whatever clung to his neck while leaping upright in one motion. It went flying with a dry rustle to sway atop the ondol—none other than the mud-caked peach branch. He exhaled sharply and wiped sweat from his nape, then suddenly burst into a cackle as if possessed. But finding even his own voice—cracked like shattered pottery—unchanged, he finally patted his chest in relief, convinced all was well again.

The squalid room remained dim enough that morning still seemed early. Though it was a burrow-like space where not a sliver of sunlight reached all day, for him, the paper sliding doors' faint glow served as a makeshift clock. In the earthen-floored kitchen stretching behind, the elderly woman appeared to be quarreling with her husband again today, shrilly haranguing something while feeding the firebox. Smoke that had filled the kitchen came billowing through torn ondol paper, holes in the shoji screens, and cracks in the walls. He choked back his breath, coughed two or three times in distress, and kept his features twisted into a severe grimace as he glared sullenly at the peach branch. All flowers had vanished completely, every branch tip broken off, leaving it unrecognizable and caked in mud. Genryū—whom all men feared under the adage "let sleeping gods lie"—suddenly grew furious realizing mere dreams could provoke this state. The peach branch exposing its wretched remains now seemed to mirror his own form. Then last night's pitiful flower seller loomed large before him, and he could hear the man's voice desperately bellowing while waving both hands.

“Why’s everyone laughin’? Quit it—I’ll drop dead right here!” “Quit laughin’!”

The room was exactly as if a smoke screen had been laid. Genryū, trying to escape this despairing voice, suddenly clamped his head between his arms and covered his ears. Then he collapsed with a thud, writhing in agony. That's right—I'm finally going to fall! I'll get crushed between a car and streetcar right at Jongno Intersection and be blown apart like a bomb! In truth, he'd thought of nothing but his own death since last night. To die—nothing beat traffic suicide! Only by dying horribly in the main street's center could he achieve his ultimate final revenge, he believed. With that, I'll close my eyes forever! Suddenly the room plunged into total darkness. From every direction—ceiling, walls, the ondol's depths—the jeering laughter of crowds mocking his wretched remains erupted in roaring waves. Unable to endure it, he sprang up as if to scatter them,

“I won’t die! I won’t die!” he screamed like a devil. As if engaged in fierce combat, he wildly flailed his arms in panicked frenzy. By now the smoke blinded his eyes and made even breathing painful. He finally began crawling in circles atop the ondol in a manner beyond sanity, his knees rattling. The roaring laughter blocked his path while crimson flames surged hungrily from all directions. He was assaulted by hallucinations. At last consumed by terror, he kept shouting something as he thrashed about seeking an exit. The elderly woman came toward the doorway wondering what had possessed this madman now, and began trembling violently. But just as his fleeing body collided with the shoji door, he was suddenly thrown onto the bright floor. The elderly woman let out a shrill scream and leaped back. His breathing eased somewhat, and as he lay there awhile the terrifying hallucinations subsided. He simply stared vacantly ahead, rolling his large eyes.

The clouds streamed violently across the sky.

At that very moment, as promised, the poetess Mun So-ok appeared in crisp neat attire. She stopped in surprise at the sight, but immediately began clapping her hands and shaking her hips with exaggerated motions, breaking into shrill laughter before—

“Oh my, what has happened?” Mun came running over. But Genryū merely stared up at her wide-eyed—as if beholding some strange apparition—or perhaps having gone mad.

The elderly woman disappeared toward the kitchen, muttering complaints as though utterly startled. Mun So-ok found herself perplexed, but finally regaining her composure, she mustered all her strength and lifted him up. He had come home dead drunk last night and immediately collapsed face down on his bed, falling asleep amid wailing sobs—leaving him still in his Western clothes. The poetess brushed the dust off his Western clothes as she asked, “What on earth happened?” “Hmm, Mr.Genryū, it seems you’ve received some sort of inspiration again today. “Let’s go quickly—it’s almost time!”

Genryū had been sitting there like an imbecile, grinning with an eerie grin all the while, but perhaps a fragment of consciousness had flashed through him at that moment, for he craned his neck forward with a puzzled look and asked: “What?” “Oh my!” She recoiled in shock at Genryū’s expression and fidgeted nervously. “...Today isn’t a holiday. We’re going to the shrine.” “Shrine?” He asked back as if recalling something burdensome.

“...That’s right.” Then Genryū suddenly burst into a cackling laugh. The word "shrine" abruptly filled him with loathing. Back when no one visited to worship—for shrine deities belonged to mainlander Japanese—he who had first thrown himself into their crowds and prostrated at altars had been a truly significant figure, even haloed with various duties. But now this was no longer true. Rather, he found himself hating beyond endurance those Koreans who now swarmed like clouds to shrine after shrine—to every last Uzōmuzō Shrine.

Mun So-ok shuddered with every hair standing on end and cowered—

“I’ll be back!”

She faintly uttered a single word and fled in disarray. Seeing this, Genryū cackled creepily but suddenly stood up as if startled.

The sky grew increasingly oppressive as clouds pressed ever northward. In an instant, he was seized by lust for Mun So-ok’s warm, clammy body and thought, “I must grab hold of her now!”

With that, he hurriedly passed through the sagging low gate and rushed into the garden. In the damp back alleys, houses jostled like squabbling garbage cans while sewers spewed ashes and filth, their foul stench swirling upward as fierce winds scattered dust and grime. Beyond the alleyway fluttered the figure of poetess Mun So-ok fleeing panic-stricken into the distance. Genryū began chasing her maliciously, cackling as he desperately splayed his legs in a grotesque waddle. Already fleeing at full tilt, she glanced back only to see Genryū flailing his arms wildly—her panic redoubled as she ran as if about to shriek. As he gradually closed the gap, his amusement grew until he began howling incoherent threats. Children playing by an earthen wall clapped and jeered. At last, stumbling headlong, Mun So-ok broke free from the alley onto Golden Boulevard. It happened precisely then. The moment Genryū tried rounding the final alley corner, a trumpet's brazen blare erupted from the main street. Genryū froze mid-stride before his body began quaking violently. The next instant—as though fleeing himself—he pressed flat against a neighbor's chimney, breath held and eyes blazing as he glared toward the avenue. A lengthy procession led by a brass band marched shrineward. Somehow it seemed to encircle and advance upon him. Middle schoolers in gaiters and technical students marched endlessly onward while behind trailed teachers in national defense uniforms, followed by journalists and familiar literati shuffling in disorderly ranks.

When the procession passed by, he suddenly panicked and dashed out to the exit. If he gazed with dull eyes from the shadows, it was already quietly fading into the distance. Having completely forgotten about the poetess—who by now seemed to have vanished into the procession—Genryū fled in the opposite direction of its advance, as though pursued by unseen forces. His mind was in a dizzying chaos, as if packed full of sand. At times, thoughts of hotels and temples would block his path like sheets of mica glinting fiercely, only to be immediately engulfed by violent sandstorms. It was a somewhat chilly day.

It seemed as though some other being in a corner of his mind thought this was a morning when even the moon might soon appear. But instead of the moon, a light rain began to fall. The footsteps of passersby grew increasingly hurried. Genryū advanced down the center of the streetcar tracks like a rabid dog, aimlessly. His disheveled head, now drenched by the rain, matted into swirling locks, and his shoulders sagged heavily under the downpour. Cars grazed past him as they raced by, while a streetcar blared its horn violently from behind. When the sound finally reached his ears, he would avoid it quietly, remaining silent. At times he would dodge while simultaneously whirling around to shake his fist and scream like a madman, “You bastard! Trying to kill me?!”

But after walking for over half an hour and arriving near the Teacher’s College, he suddenly turned right as if possessed and entered a dark alley. Mud splattered onto his shoes; the shoes kicked up water. Amidst this, the rain began to fall in earnest.

The people who had been clattering through the back alleys stopped in surprise, turned to look back, and shook their heads. On and on he went, weaving through the back alleys in a mindless frenzy—turning left where they bent left, veering right where they branched right—as long as the labyrinth stretched. Now I’m going to search for the temple, whispered one of his frayed and scattered nerves as if from afar. It was believed that climbing that alley to its end would lead to Myōkō Temple. He had once again entered the spiderweb-like maze of Shinmachi Ura Alley. In Genryū’s hallucination, it appeared as a broad tree-lined avenue with poplars standing tall and stately. The mud-covered sewer seemed like a clear, sparkling stream. There, he heard a deafening auditory hallucination—as if countless frogs had gathered, croaking in raucous unison. Moreover, the wind howled fiercely, and the poplar branches looked ready to snap. By now, his legs were stumbling and lurching forward, mistakenly plunging into puddles. But he frantically clawed his way up. At that moment, the frogs at his feet suddenly—

“Korean!” “Korean!”

It sounded as though they had begun raising a commotion. He suddenly covered his ears and fled in terror while screaming.

“I’m not Korean!” “Not Korean!” He must have wanted to escape—even if it meant his whole body convulsing—from the tragedy of this day born from being Korean. Suddenly his eardrums seemed to burst with a thunderous roar, yet mysteriously the earlier cacophony of frogs vanished completely as some strange sound abruptly began rising from all around. It gradually grew louder, clearer, more complex. Before he knew it, the Buddhist chant—Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō, Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō—as if intoned by tens of thousands in unison, had spread around him like a sea, borne on drums and wooden fish. He wandered through it as though struggling to swim, flailing in panic as if seeking salvation. But the maze drew its coiling paths as it pleased—walk as he might, there was no end. Though engulfed in chaos, Genryū—driven by extreme agitation—ran wildly while screaming “Those damn monks’ sutras and chants are all cursing me!” He would sometimes stumble and collapse heavily. Laboriously crawled back up. Thus with only his eyes burning crimson, he took on a terrifying aspect like a maddened mud-ox. Yet this time buffeted by sutra-laden sea winds, he felt himself floating gently heavenward. But that was not so. In his heart’s deepest recesses he knew full well he’d entered the brothel district. In truth he was desperately searching through houses where he’d once stayed. But everywhere showed only similar red-and-blue daubed buildings that vanished behind curtains of rain now pouring down in torrents. He raised his arm and shouted a few words loudly. Then suddenly—with the ferocity of a bull in its death throes—he dashed off and began pounding on each house gate one by one.

“Save this Mainlander Japanese! Save me!”

He bellowed, wheezing for breath. And then he would dash to another house and slam its gate.

“Open up! Let this mainlander in!” He dashed off again. He knocked on the gate. “I’m not a Korean anymore! “I’m Gen no Ue Ryūnosuke! Ryūnosuke!” “Let Ryūnosuke in!”

Somewhere, thunder rumbled low and long.