Pathway to Japanese Literature

“—Pike Amida Buddha! Chant ‘Hamo Buddha’ and be born into the Crucian World of Rapture… Come, flatfish, come… Let Buddha dwell among minnows.”
“Thus… the Dried Bream Sutra decrees: Octopus Enlightenment and Cod Dharma—”

……One ought to be mindful of the times.
Even if soba prices dropped by two sen, in those harsh times—had one earnestly chanted Buddhist prayers while thinking of tomorrow’s sustenance, that would have been one thing—but to instead play with idiotic puns like “Octopus Enlightenment and Cod Dharma” seemed ripe for reproach. However, as this was indispensable to the main narrative and could not be severed like vinegar-pickled fish, I had to beg your indulgence for a while longer.

“...Dried Bream Sutra... Let’s see—Octopus Virtue and Cod Dharma, bought for three hundred and three mon to present as offerings to Yellowtail Bodhisattva—is that it?”
It feigned ignorance yet possessed a certain charm.
“Would you kindly indulge me in just this first act?”

Thus, having been invited by my companion, this became the story that followed.
“Octopus Enlightenment and Cod Dharma.”
“Indeed, considering you’ve acknowledged this alone as being worth three hundred and three mon, I think there should be no cause for regret.”

My companion was an illustrator by the name of Mouri Kazuki, and I imagine his esteemed name was likely listed among the members of the Illustrators' Association.
On that day, I had accompanied him to arrange location references for a tenant-farmer illustration commission, traveling from Azabu Gazenbo to the Tanuki-ana area—though I feared this mention of 'Tanuki' might immediately draw complaints from our companions about shape-shifting wordplay.
However, with all due respect, that was not the case.

Even I myself found it somewhat modest to think so.
Once, when I was a boy serving as gatekeeper at my master’s household, I accompanied his beautiful wife to gather chestnuts at a certain viscount family’s villa in that aforementioned area.
Needless to say, since these were chestnuts we gathered, most remained in their spiny husks.
With the sickle lent by the villa caretaker, we worked in the garden’s rear—built into the mountainside—a ravine-like space.
As you may know, this involved pressing down on the prickly husks with one’s toes and pulling the handle toward oneself to scrape.
Though she was clumsy at this, the student handled it more skillfully.
The beautiful wife, finding that even when she pressed down with her wooden clogs the chestnuts would roll away, smoothly adjusted her kimono hem and removed her white tabi socks—yet still, the husks rustled their needles and bared their spines to repel her, so infuriating… that she took off the socks entirely. With bare feet smooth as kneaded snow, she nimbly pinched the chestnut husks between her toes, her kimono hem flowing supplely without spilling a single dewdrop from its edge.
It was to capture this very scene that I had asked the illustrator to accompany me.
In this case, one couldn’t entirely dismiss the thought that leaving it to ukiyo-e as-is might suffice.
But if one did that—though it might seem petty—the author wouldn’t make a living.
One should leave it be.

Granted, this was a memory from over thirty years ago.
Of course, the villa had long since vanished without a trace.
However, around Tanuki-ana and Gazenbo—resembling seaweed left behind by the receding tide—the woodlands remained in every corner of the land.
Since Mochiya had grasped the composition and stowed his sketchbook in his breast pocket, the task was roughly complete as dusk settled here and there…Ōwada was still far off…A touch of arrogance crept in…Best not to make a show of it—this would do, this would do.
At Nagasaka Sarashina.
My Kazuki could hold his liquor quite well; between the two of us, we had downed four or five bottles.

The time was approaching Obon, and in the downtown area, a grass market was likely set up.

Just when one might expect a touch of poetic melancholy, the heat hung so sweltering one could tear through the clouds—but we decided to cut through Jūban, a route we hadn’t taken in years, and though it wasn’t Soga, we found ourselves setting out in mutual agreement.
After descending the slope and entering a depression that dropped sharply where the streetlights’ light had been cut off midway, there lay a road as black as a sleeping whale.
From below the cliff of Torii-zaka, it appeared to be near Hikagubo.
At one spot, on the bent corner of a wooden fence, a single Hira was pasted like a white bat spreading its wings.
Kazuki came to a halt beneath the shade of a thick oak, peering through the faint light from the main street, and uttered those words: “—Dried Bream Sutra… Octopus Enlightenment and Cod Dharma—”

“It’s called *Fish Sermon*—there’s a kyogen play, you see.”
“The timing’s right too—there’s a place just over here to the side.”

As if to immediately turn the corner, when a tree branch was pointed out, there was an arrow marker at the end of a faint program. Even classical Noh kyogen plays seemed to project avant-garde clusters into society. However, even the willow at the crossroads ahead—not fifty paces away—remained untouched by their arrows. Not only was the ink on the arrow bamboo splotchy and thick, but when one observed its shape—resembling straw raincoat hairs arranged like feathers—it recalled what old haikai verses called “the bamboo-stalk bow used to intimidate raccoon dogs.” This too… was fascinating.

“I shall accompany you, as you wish.”

Until he spoke those eager words, I had been pleasantly intoxicated.

“We are passersby. …We wish to request temporary admission to view [the performance].”

“It shall be as you wish.”

And so it was that the middle-aged reception attendant—positioned to the side of the main entrance platform with a small table at hand, wearing a crested hemp robe and dance hakama—declared with an air of eager welcome, as though embodying hospitality itself.
This was definitely not like us, who had alcohol on us.

The tickets were fifty sen.
First, an elderly woman with white hair—likely over sixty—was managing the footwear storage. For the two of us, she added a Western cane and a bat umbrella at no charge. Even when Kazuki twisted open his drawstring purse to offer a tip, she didn’t lay a hand on it.

Even for this attendant’s honorable hakama—(It’s just half a yen; I’ll play magnanimous and ask forgiveness.)—it was far too meager. Low tables had been arranged with a few chant books and folding fans—appearing as a token as slight as a pine needle—and Kazuki received the sky-blue one adorned with Hōshōun clouds and handed that single fan to me,

“How about this?”

“This too is as desired.”

I couldn’t help but smile wryly.
On the lintel directly above the fan shop, the evening’s program was displayed in large characters.
What I had glanced over was not about the current scene beneath the fence, but the matters here.

Altogether five acts.
Among them were interspersed Noh dances, and while I roughly remember them from the beginning—but as this would turn into a raccoon dog’s spiel—I shall refrain from recording each one in detail.
I will state only what is necessary.

What was necessary was—following *Fish Sermon* as the third act—Act I: Mushroom (Kusabira)—Sagi Gen’an’s piece.

I did not know much about the way. However, I had heard that Sagi’s form cast no shadow upon recent kyogen traditions. An old retiree, perhaps? There were skilled practitioners who had honed their craft through training in the old-fashioned style; their performance might have been considered an amateur production, so to speak. Such a production was fitting for the vicinity of Tanuki-ana. But what I referred to wasn’t the style. It was a piece.

This mushroom—

There was particular reason to think Kazuki's feverish attempt to watch the kyogen had been for this program alone. Even as he parted the fan's pleats with one hand, stroked the area near his nipple—or perhaps his chest—with his fingertips, then pressed those same fingers against his left eye, one understood...

None who knew Kazuki well could have missed this mannerism of the artist. This swift gesture—executed furtively, meant to escape notice—nonetheless revealed itself as something evoking precious jewels: an act combining worship and caress, humility and self-possession; a stilling of countenance and clarifying of gaze that suggested profound depths within him—a character of gem-like facets harbored in his breast.

Even amidst this, the stage—the stage seemed to be on the second floor—the patron of the one-*ken*-by-four-sides hall grew enraged at the corrupt monk’s *Fish Sermon*,

“—You! What do you think you’re doing—”

“If you must strike, strike me down—with a dried cod or belt fish as your rod.”

“—You! Shall I have you beaten again—”

“Ah—unbearable! Even *Kanagashira* cannot endure this—”

“Well—what a repugnant fellow…”

“—With a face like a dried shrimp, you stare with those red eyes—”

“Now then, you hateful fellow—”

He appeared to be a skilled actor.
His voice carried clearly to the entrance hall, punctuated by the audience’s laughter erupting in a booming wave.

“Now then, please come this way,”

“My profound apologies.”

The staircase stretched wide.
As we ascended side by side—the attendant leading ahead with Kazuki following behind—the man paused at the stairhead and knelt on one knee. “This is merely a temporary stage,” he said, “our arrangements being most inadequate.”

While offering this greeting, he peered down at the steps.
Through gaps in the crowd swaying below, his head aligned strangely with two others emerging from beneath—a sight that now revealed, beyond them, the stage’s pine tree and three pines near the bridge approach swaying vividly close… And there amidst those pines, mushrooms from the next act seemed to thrust through soil in absurd profusion… No—rather than evoking Takasago’s shore, they more resembled plump pine mushrooms bulging from earth.

Across that scene, the cornered monk—flapping the sleeves of his priest’s robe like fins with stiff clatter—

“—Here, seems there were nothing but flying fish—”

“—Are you still harping on that—”

“Flying fish shō, flying fish shō—”

He leapt midair toward the lifting curtain—dropped cleanly—and through the curtain’s gap, old tatami mats and torn shoji screens appeared before vanishing… One might recall how in moral tales, Mito Kōmon would recline on his campstool beneath the dragon god’s white-haired visage, then suddenly cut down the villain Montayu… The sight of dilapidated fixtures suggested this was likely a performance staged in some rundown rental hall or makeshift club.

Upon seeing it, the great hall spanned sixty to seventy tatami mats, with the stage occupying about twenty. Though not packed to capacity, the audience created a lively atmosphere.

In this heat, some remained impeccably formal, never removing their five-crested haori, while others lounged in yukata with sleeves rolled up.
――Noblewomen with kimonos of patterned hems and young ladies in dresses could be seen, but those who appeared to be tenement dwellers from the neighborhood were also not few.
Even those in happi coats were packed in, and there was no division of seats.

and the attendant who had guided us―threading along the staircase railing―

“There’s an opening there. … Please.”

he said.

At the side front, before the pine by the bridge approach—where shoulders and knees showed through gaps—the crimson rug flowed. Though the atmosphere—reminiscent of a rehearsal space or downmarket vaudeville where one might expect color cards and poetry slips—had indeed recommended seating of a different caliber, hem-patterned ladies and suit-clad men now occupied most seats, while two or so widows with bobbed hair waited demurely in white collars, even gold-painted and silver-ground dance fans unfurled among them.

We initially thought to follow protocol—no, here would suffice—and immediately took seats on the board flooring attached to that railing, whereupon the attendant provided chintz zabuton cushions for both of us,

“This spot is the coolest around here.”

The attendant descended the stairs.
But it was stiflingly hot and humid.

“Excuse me.”

“Now then, let’s take it off.”

Kazuki, having meticulously folded and held his hand towel, wiped his sweat and removed his haori to tuck it away… The haori fared better than the cheap straw summer hat—that item universally deemed for headwear—which guests shifting positions kicked aside and nearly trampled…

During the intermission, the crowd’s comings and goings grew hectic, and having unfortunately taken seats on the board flooring along the thoroughfare, it became unbearable.
If placed on one’s lap, they would step over it.
If placed on the threshold, they kicked it; if moved aside, they tried to step on it.

“Watch it!”

According to Kazuki’s whispered explanation, the boorishness of these Noh-Kyōgen spectators—though perhaps dependent on the venue—stood beyond comparison to that found in theaters, movie houses, or even downmarket vaudeville halls.
Men and women, when standing, considered those seated to be servants—in other words, they seemed to regard anyone beneath their chins as less than human.

Among them, children in Western-style dresses and boys in modern tailored suits ran wild in particularly large numbers.
……

The same boy, within a short span of time, once straddled over their knees, once jabbed their flanks, and on the third occasion kicked their waists.
He darted back and forth to the tea station.

Kazuki placed a finger on his chest—then, with that same finger, pressed his left eye—when suddenly,

“Chestnuts are blessed things.”

While giving me a wry smile, he wrapped his summer hat deftly in his haori—producing a crisp *mishi* sound—tucked it against his hip, crossed one knee casually, and turned his palms upward.

“Better this than letting street urchins trample it—much more freeing.”

By no means was this Mr. Artist’s fault—had some cooper or tinkerer meddled?
……Quiet?—Far from it!……Before the earthquake, at sixteen or seventeen, he’d been a gambler’s errand boy.

—The house—no, that tenement—was in Tsumakoizaka-shita, in an alleyway behind Myōjin Cliff: an old two-story building with a single room upstairs, but they say only the clothes-drying area stood newly erected.—
Upon hearing this, they must have already known—perhaps from prior awareness.
The odd thing was that this railing we now found ourselves doing nothing but lean against—surrounded entirely by board flooring, its stair-platform pierced through by a rectangular great hole winding around it, and newly constructed besides—had from the very start seemed uncannily reminiscent of the lookout at Tsumakoizaka-shita described in Mouri Kazuki’s memoir.

“—This originates from these very grounds—”

Clad in indigo nagakamishimo robes and yellow noshi-me sashmanship，proficient with tanto dagger and gripping an ougi fan，he proclaimed his presence onstage—a squat figure with trapezoidal shoulders，whether rigidified through discipline or neurasthenic tension，his cervical axis listing faintly askew.

“—At yonder manor，this very annum witnessed fungal excrescences arise—though culled and cast aside through daylight’s span，by night’s veil they burgeoned afresh；however oft expunged，they regenerated per original configuration—such thaumaturgical proliferation defies all precedent—”

Before Sagi Gen’an, the shite actor, made his entrance, this story necessitated recounting Kazuki—his real name being Kanjiro—and the events of his Tsumakoizaka days.
Initially, when particularly drunk, the artist had spoken of it many times, so we remembered nearly every word verbatim.
But once his name became known and he found himself in demand, he no longer showed any sign of it and even avoided touching upon any aspect of the matter.
He had come to realize that tales of hardship and ambition often devolved into their opposite—self-aggrandizement, veiled self-praise, and arrogant humility.
Within his narrative—the central element being mushrooms—even when evading discussion of the program’s fungi to expound on Hira’s octopus and that Kutara, one could discern his nearly unwavering attitude.

It should be noted that the following scene is presented almost exactly as Kazuki—Kanjiro—once recounted it.

"—The lingering summer heat that year was relentless."
"Everyone inside was completely naked."
"It was a hovel with a six-mat main room and three-mat annex—the second floor being six mats—so when opened up, everyone could see inside, but with neighbors being what they were, nobody minded such things.—These were folks full of lust and worldly desires, mind you; they weren’t putting on such a state merely because of some trifling heat."
The truth was they had virtually no clothing.—Had this been winter, they’d have frozen to death ages ago—those speaking to you now would have vanished from your presence long since.

The men were deplorable enough, but the women too.
The young madam—an antiquated form of address these days.
……Since her husband was a failed physician, she remained a wife despite that failure.
……With petty gambling being their immediate mark, even third-rate gang infiltrators called her 'sis'.
Incidentally—that large naked man with yellowed buttocks was her husband, wearing a soiled straw-basket loincloth; had the loincloth been an actual basket, sister wouldn't have gone near him.
Even so—though one might have called her 'sis'—what everyone referred to as 'the young madam' was—

Across Manseibashi—in the backstreet shops of the town—there was Kanroku, also known as Chara-kin: a fellow who resembled a street entertainer, having abandoned his former trade as a Western tailor to run a sly go parlor. This man would frequently appear calling her “young madam”—until the term itself became habitualized among them.
—As if suspending something from her waist to conceal her thighs, she merely wrapped her breasts.
……The rest was pure white……cold.
Though it seemed strange to definitively call it ‘cold,’ given they were starving and famished, even in summer there could be no warmth in them.
If she didn’t develop a fever in her final moments—but being young, she hadn’t wasted away to that extent.
Moderately built, with slender legs and neat short strides; an oval face with a straight nose and large eyes; taciturn yet decisive in speech, her words carrying a slightly rising inflection; a voice that held a jagged edge yet a gentle disposition—a woman four or five years my senior who seemed more striking than beautiful.
Given her disheveled state, she had combed her hair back into a simple bun, but her hairline appeared faintly bluish, the nape of her neck translucent enough to vanish under southern sunlight—only stray locks retained their glossy sheen, damp as if with tears.
The pitiful thing was that since she drank nothing but water, her belly swelled as if pregnant, while the area below her navel appeared cinched tight beneath her breasts.

When hunger offered no relief, she would tighten her obi fiercely—even men…

Oyuki-san—he said.
That old hand towel concealing her precious breasts—fastidious in its fit against her skin—had been washed repeatedly at the same spot on her waist until, in the scorching summer heat, it fluttered like gauze against sweat seeping like silver dust.
If dried, I thought it might transform into wings and fly through the transom.
No—comparing it to celestial beings? Such extravagance.
This was a back-alley tenement—such places spawned heat-haze phantoms from weedy shadows.

That hand towel—distributed during dance rehearsals in her maiden days—had remained at the bottom of an old trunk or some such place; how pitiful.

It was Chiba, apparently.
The elder daughter of Mansuirou, a large restaurant in Chiba Town, had mistaken her current husband for a medical student back then.
……But that wasn’t all, it seemed.
For a student, he acted disgracefully, became merchant-like, stood out conspicuously, and played gambling go.
In that case, he couldn’t avoid being expelled.
Being from Sawara and precisely because his hometown was nearby, he fled to Tokyo for appearances’ sake.
The elder sister chased after him and fled here—though I heard the restaurant’s side was actually a stepmother—the man refused to release his hold on her demands to return home.
Because the woman too refused to return out of pride, both were disowned by their parents—cut off by their relatives—in the end.

When made to don a straw-basket loincloth over one layer, he cut an imposing figure—tall of stature, broad-shouldered, and dignified in bearing—so much so that he was apparently hired here and there as a substitute physician at dubious hospitals. But since he would look straight at patients’ faces before taking their pulses, he couldn’t maintain his position, hence his current state of affairs… The clothesline was oddly new, and their ending up in Tsumakoizaka-shita too stemmed from acquaintances connected through overdue payments on Western clothing installments. Under the guidance and patronage of Chara-kin from the town’s right side, using the young madam’s vulnerable position as a pawn, they had schemed to establish a small inn doubling as a mahjong gambling den under the guise of a go parlor—but before they could even raise the go board’s scaffold, the tenement’s castle had already fallen. In any case, it was a castle destined to fall—but what hastened its downfall was their being driven by greed and launching a suspicious scheme.

Pawned items—in these pledges lay the young madam’s undergarments… No *chirimen* crepe remained—only blue-ground *meirinsu* silk and a single short sword.
A string of prayer beads.
Since fleeing Chiba, she had kept those two items reserved for emergencies—what could one call it? Like some three-part morality play, yet astonishingly real… But it was truth itself.
She entrusted both her token of chastity and a woman’s very lifeblood.
"—(Can’t crawl back to Tsukiji like this.)"—"No idea what this means," he said, bullying the pawnbroker’s clerk, and so I—Kazuki, Kanjiro (referring to myself)—was sent on the errand.
Cold sweat dripping, the haggling yielded three *bu*—though when calculated through scientific arithmetic, it came to seventy yen and five sen.

If you were in Oyuki-san’s position—how would you feel? Since she had pawned her bare skin and her very suicide. If you’ve pawned your own suicide—that must be harder than dying.—

—Such was the state of things back then. The pawnshop errands, buying pickled vegetables with a basket… this carried more fragrance than liquor.—They dispatched someone to purchase measured charcoal and powdered rice with loose coins.—To the struggling apprentice (again, Kazuki—Kanjiro—referring to himself) who had stumbled into this life clinging to the barest thread of connection, the full picture remained unclear—but Chara-kin had been ensnared.

There—beginning with the master of this place, who possessed some know-how, and two companions who perpetually loitered about—one was a middle-aged scholar who had failed certification exams for ten years and now fixated solely on speculative ventures for instant wealth. The other was a chronic political fanatic—now too late even to seek janitorial work—and their scheme involved costuming three men as a gentleman, master, and doctor to deploy as *sakura* decoys, aiming to fleece their marks down to the marrow.

For some time now, Chara-kin had been coming frequently—like a revolving lantern in daylight—flitting his shaved head around the second floor, the damp veranda, and figures in light haori while holding hushed consultations.

On that day, they had the apprentice carry a bundle of clothing—it was a damage fee.
A black ro silk gauze with five family crests, a similarly iron-black solid-colored coarsely woven garment, a worn-out obi and such—the outfit was complete down to the tabi socks.
Since their funds wouldn’t hold out that way, the politician wore a serge kimono informally.
Instead, this person had a top hat—oh, wait—I forgot—the hat meant for the iron-black solid-colored master.
……So they made the apprentice take off his hat and replaced it with a bird-catcher cap.

――I recall how Chara-kin presented to the young madam homemade side dishes—crude fare indeed—layered boxes of tofu lees… stir-fried unohana seasoned with slivered ginger for flair, sardines pickled in vinegar to show generosity, all arranged in a single tier.—“Uncut! Connected! What fine presentation! Auspicious alignment!”
Saying such things—but being famished—they grabbed at the five-crest kimono and Sendai-hira silk with their hands, devouring greedily…

And so, ever since—until that particularly sweltering day when the incident occurred—hardly anyone had eaten enough to fill their stomachs.—……Though one might assume they’d accumulated some notoriety, they were such bumbling villains—their names unfit to appear even in kōdan tales, detective stories, or films—that their ineptitude defied measure.
The ants from a single hole ended up devoured by the ducks instead, flipped onto their backs.—……Come nightfall, Chara-kin faced the three sakura decoys who returned mud-caked like rats scorched by the blazing sun—eyes and mouths sealed shut—and whether he was furious or not—it was beyond description.—……Far from turning a profit, they’d incurred substantial debt to their marks—now what?
……And so, the damage fees… they extorted them right on the spot.
Among them, the failed speculator was drenched in sweat and moreover suffered from beriberi—so this shame alone must have been excruciating.

At that moment… every last one of Oyuki-san’s cast-offs—the prayer beads and short sword—became human sacrifices—

And what made it crueler still—there was a four-year-old boy who kept chanting like a nursery rhyme: “I’m hungry—I’m hungry—”

(How sad…)

Oyuki-san spoke in that resonant, decisive voice of hers.
……At times, even when the rain pours too heavily,

(—How sad…—)

She had this one habit of saying it.
Her voice would rise in pitch, tinged with sorrow… She couldn’t help it—couldn’t help it—but it was a bad habit.
One must not fail to be mindful.

When I was young, I heard—though my memory of the details is hazy—a folktale from my hometown: (Camellia Demon—*thud*.) It told of a farmer’s only child who, when he first spoke, would say (Camellia Demon—*thud*.) Though not quite a cry from a mute, no amount of scolding could break him of it.
Skilled with a bow, he later stepped forward of his own accord when a specter appeared at the castle and the lord of the land was tormented by a dreadful transformation—suddenly nocking an arrow toward the great camellia tree in the inner garden.
“(Camellia Demon—thud.)” he loosed the arrow, and the branches and leaves wilted limply with a thud.
And so, the darkness over the land lifted—that was the meaning, I think.
One must be careful with words.

Due to food shortage, the boy who had been twitching and trembling in distress thrashed about violently.
I rushed to various doctors.
But not a single one came.
As Oyuki-san was cradling him, rubbing him, in near-frenzy—the defeated warrior from earlier came clattering in, utterly routed… The sheer wretchedness of it defied description.

It was food poisoning.
The doctor’s father had just finished his examination, but with it being a quagmire, they could do nothing.
The next morning, he was gone.
The meat—simmered whole without cutting—had such ferocity it could bite off a pinky; I received a share of two or three pieces, and everyone else ate it too, so it was all due to the anchovies on the signboard.
Since it was their first fish in months, the adults yielded theirs to the boy.
Despite that, upon leaving: "Boy, there’ll be eggs tonight."
They had left saying the souvenir would be a train, and yet.
——

Oyuki-san, looking like an ama from Utamaro’s paintings, would gently pick up abalone—no, pebbles—and pile them beneath the rain gutter positioned away from ill omens.

*(—How sad…—)*

Since she wasn’t the type to snivel and weep, the stones—and the days—piled up little by little.

Well, amidst that lingering summer heat—scorching drought from morning onward—a postcard arrived. Even in such dire straits—when one rarely glanced at letters—I recall it bore a vermilion mark reading “Urgent”. A package addressed to Oyuki-san had arrived from Chiba. It had come from a transport company near Ryogoku, asking whether they should deliver it or whether she would come to retrieve it.

As for goods—even if they were just bent nails—someone would want them to sell to the junk dealer……Since they couldn’t afford postcards to send a reply, the idea of having it delivered never even crossed their minds……they hurried to retrieve it. As for this errand boy, for about two days now, he hadn’t had a single proper meal—just scraps of pickled vegetables, without even a single black bean. True hunger cannot be fully conveyed through words; your claims of an empty stomach can be feigned according to convenience. No, it’s not that we’re starting a quarrel—but since you likely wouldn’t understand, I’ll stop here.

To be fair,the day before that as well,the errand group had been dispatched for Kanemushin all the way to Shiba Tomoe-chō.There was no way they could have managed it.Naturally,since they made both trips on foot,during their return journey—staggering with dizziness—they were just crossing Hitotsu Bridge when-"Noon cannon!"That sound made their knees give way.They ended up clawing at dirt to rise—such wretchedness revealed humanity's frailty....Like dusk-stranded travelers drawn to any glimmer—be it bandit dens,gambling parlors,pompous strangers or labyrinthine alleys—they felt compelled toward shelter.Peering into Chara-kin's town shop revealed bay-window decor:a standing board from Chūshingura's snowy night raid flanked by two go boards.No patrons lingered.Chara-kin sat flipping through an aged ledger before a go board."Ah!Enter!"he beckoned,gold teeth glinting,and offered them buckwheat noodles since his wife was out.The mori soba sat heavy as waterfall asceticism,yet he entrusted Madam—Oyuki-san—with violet envelope:"Strictly confidential."His archaic phrasing persisted:"Time Tokiwa Gozen considered her own welfare."Such over-sodden noodles brought poisoning;groaning through Matsuzumichō streets,the letter slipped lost.

——This time，where will they collapse?
Off they went on their errand.

They had nothing to wear—

They stripped off the single-layer kimono my aunt from the countryside had sent—the one we’d put on the patient.
As for that stench… In any case, they emerged from the hole beneath Tsumakoizaka.

Going on like this, what would become of them? When they saw the clothes-drying rack resembling a watchtower—ah—there too, in a corner, pebbles had been piled up unnoticed. What was it—the sky above Myojin-sama’s forest had grown utterly dark with clouds.

The Kanda River by the eel shop—though they had no acquaintance with it then or now—as they passed through its front area and tried to cross the main road, those black clouds that seemed to race toward the forest of Seidō suddenly loomed overhead, whirling into a cyclone toward Ueno as ash came streaming down like rain. The scrawny errand boy, as if struck down, rushed under the eaves of the picture book shop across the way. He didn’t mind getting wet. Because he dreaded being blown over, he grabbed onto a pillar.

Next door stood a roasted sweet potato shop.
Moreover, this back-alley tool shop marked where I first removed my straw sandals in Tokyo—where they let me stay.
On that very day when they fed us dinner, the tool shop owner picked up a slice of horse mackerel sashimi with his chopsticks, dangled it before his nose, and lectured us: “In Tokyo now—this isn’t a whole plate we’re talking about—just one slice costs real money... More than two days’ worth of your festival pocket money.”
From then on—we never tasted hunger’s bitterness again.
Yet we’d often stand there vacantly peering into this shop.—Since winds blew sideways through that old-fashioned place—they’d lowered half their lattice shutters.
Darkness fell... In that dimness—suddenly whipped by wind—what seemed like a seductive woman’s skirt aflame revealed itself instead as a stark white enormous belly—pallid face dangling upside-down midair.
...You might recognize it—the lonely house from Yoshitoshi’s *One Hundred Aspects of the Moon*: Adachigahara scene—a vertical diptych they’d covered with another painting face-down on a window pillar for propriety’s sake—until stormwinds tore through like a ripped obi.
Ah—under that stinging spray—my shoulders and heels trembled violently...

“I was drenched by the rain, and thinking of Madam’s naked circumstances…”

(—When speaking of that place, he would stroke his chest and press his eyes.)

Large teardrops overflowed from the eyelids, trailed down the bridge of the nose, and sweetly moistened the lips.
Sweet tears.
It may sound somewhat affected—these tears transcending mere joy or sorrow: tears of bitterness, astringent tears, leaden tears; none of those flavors borne of men and women’s desperate yearnings—only the tears of hunger: potato tears, bean tears, anpan tears, golden-crusted tears.
When I refer to “sweet tears” here—
Whether it was conjunctivitis or bloodshot eyes—in any case, it was surely misfortune compounding weakness.
When the left eye turned crimson, astringent and painful to the point of distress, Oyuki-san squeezed out her breast milk and poured it into me.

(—How sad—)

She didn’t run—only moved at a dripping pace.
Since he was an only child, he would drink occasionally, but with scant food, it often ran dry.
Laying me on my back, she bared her chest from the side—still wearing layered robes in late spring, Oyuki-san’s skin faintly flushed crimson.
Trying not to look away, she timidly twisted her waist—her topknot and sidelocks clinging coolly to her forehead… her pale torso appearing inverted.
…In this day and age… In this day and age… Would you claim there still exist those practicing such archaic treatments—such forbidden rites?
Yes—speak your mind.
Such things did persist back then—the Seisei Yakkan pharmacy maintained enough margin to arrange one or two items on credit, as they say.

This state of affairs became somewhat controversial.
With the master away.
The speculator who peered down from the second floor had caused quite a stir, but whether it was a young swallow or an errand-drone—such debates could wait until after eating, for they were utterly famished.

Ever since then, my tears have been sweet.
Even now, whenever those tears spill over, I seem to see before my eyes the nipple of that woman from the solitary house—upside-down suspended—and thus feel Madam’s circumstances might one day meet the same fate, yet never did. —Do such things as premonitions truly exist?

Within that very day, indeed, the same kind of thing occurred.—It was a delivered package… The contents were a basket of mushrooms. First mushrooms of the season. That was why the incident occurred.

Because it was a passing shower, immediately—crimson and dazzling—the sun began to shine.

With the momentum of having tasted those candy-like sweet tears, I staggered from there through Akihabara—along Sakumacho’s riverside street, Mikura Bridge, Saemon Bridge.—And from that area onward, deep wholesalers with long-established shops lined both sides.
In their midst—now that I think of it, it must have been a boat inn—
I saw fishing nets neatly hung from the ceiling.
At a general store in my hometown’s market that handled such goods, I remembered my grandfather—a provincial kyogen actor struggling to make ends meet—taking these finished nets he had woven through side work and carrying them off with a fishing pole—Should I return home now?—tears welled up again. And those tears were sweet.
Is it mochi or dango? Oyuki-san must be waiting.

(One sen and five rin.
(The postage fee has been advanced.)

(Well, um, I didn’t bring it.)

(It’s a trivial matter, but rules are rules.)

The young shop clerk turned away.
The errand boy guffawed.

(Please lend it to me.)

(It isn’t that I won’t lend it.)

(“I’ll leave this mark here.”)
(“Please lend it to me.”)

I took out a sweat-stained handcloth from my pocket—whether it betrayed my hunger, I leave to your imagination—and as I withdrew it from my pocket, the shop clerk, as if gaining a fine anecdote for his life’s repertoire yet with evident disgust, pinched and spread it open.

“Hey!” he threw back his head and barked,

(Midoriya, Yuki.—Shipment from Chiba.)
Ah, Mansuirou.
“So you’re the errand boy for this Madam who ran off with a doctor?
“I went on store business and found out… You’re a lucky one, aren’t you?… She’ll dote on you, I suppose.”
“The snow-white-skinned gauze maiden’s a bit of a philanderer, they say.”)

Just as he was saying...

That gauze-clad maiden—her underrobe visible through the hand towel, shoulders slumped as she leaned against the pillar of the damp veranda in the three-tatami room at the back, her figure appearing almost bound in place—had spread open a children’s illustrated magazine on her lap. The red paint from its pages looked so much like blood seeping from her abdomen that she shuddered, bowing her head deeply and covering her face with both hands.
—It was when the errand boy had finally returned.—

(They’re here—the package.)

And then—a feeble, nasally loud voice from the second floor.

“First mushrooms of the season.”

When Madam replied decisively, as if tossing her words upward,

“Agh—won’t turn into cash—I’ll eat them.”

And then—with another outlandish cry—a large man appeared fully on the staircase, his loincloth worn front and center.
Next to descend with brisk, measured steps was the political fanatic’s black loincloth.
With a creaking sound, the sallow-faced, swollen speculator—dragging his hips heavily like an engorged leech—clung to the railing using his frayed heko obi as a lifeline and descended while steering himself down as if dangling.
Beriberi had swollen his legs until he could no longer walk.

Because the child’s chamber pot had been taken up to the second floor, watermelon rinds lay scattered beside it, swarmed by flies—never had I felt such despair as when I saw that sight. As for what those three were doing on that second floor—they might have been playing *hana o hiku* or perhaps playing go on that mud-stone paper board.

There was one chipped Seto hibachi. But even if they tried to boil them, soy sauce was beyond imagining. For burning, there wasn’t even any charcoal dust. While the Political Fanatic was crushing the decayed gutter beside the toilet—a single rainstorm would dry it right up—and bringing back the pieces, Oyuki-san inserted the mountain grass she had laid beneath the mushrooms in front of that small stone. She lit a fire with old newspaper and placed a wire mesh over it. Now, whether the flames would reach them or spill over, everyone was intent on grabbing and stuffing their mouths, so they piled about twenty first mushrooms of the season together in one spot. Every last one had pale birch-colored caps inverted and white stems upright, and when those around the middle creaked… blue rust floated and shifted like the mushrooms’ voices.

“What about the salt?”

“There isn’t any.”

*Fish abstinence, vegetable abstinence, grain abstinence, tea abstinence, salt abstinence… At this rate, we’ll have to stand on our heads like shachi.*

And then—the master thudded down onto his back and splayed his legs wide in a ‘dai’ character pose—

“Ahh, wait—if you turn upside down, it might somewhat alleviate the hunger. Experience tells me.”

The Political Fanatic entangled himself with the pillar and thrust his buttocks upward.

"As for me, this way was easier—I was already doing it, though."

...he hung his beriberi-swollen legs—like waterlogged logs—bulgingly on the torn shoji frame.

“Kan, you try it too.”

And then—the master inched forward on his buttocks like an inchworm and thrust out his legs again—

(I see—changing one’s disposition does help. Let the mushrooms burn; I’ll burn myself out.)

At the moment when he placed that raised leg onto Oyuki-san’s shoulder with a thud and gripped her soft, slender neck.

“Ah—if hunger inverted were hollowed stomachs... I suppose.”

Bent fully forward—cheeks pressed to tatami, feet pressed firm together midair—she resembled a swan with closed eyes.

Before I knew it, I too had lifted my legs toward the ceiling.
——Right before my eyes—

“Men lack spine—must keep spinning endlessly.”

A single small snow-white Bodhisattva—its lines blue-carved by a master’s drawn blade—spun twice, thrice, circling like Six Jizō statues… Thick lashes fluttered rapid-fire as pale plum-blood surged at earlobes and throat.

(If only I could burn up together with the first mushrooms.)

The beriberi patient wheezed, licking his white tongue; the political fanatic’s eyes glowed yellow; and the master cackled.
Everyone was upside down.
And then, as if provoked by Oyuki-san’s words, they shook their shoulders and hips unsteadily and thrashed about upside down.

Unbidden, within the tears flowing to the crown of my head, the first mushrooms on the wire mesh similarly swelled and shifted their caps and stems—and I thought of the burning fire beneath them.

In that fleeting moment—though everyone was thrashing—the swirling milk floated soft and smooth, lining up white as a row of Bodhisattvas, I thought…

“Don’t worry.”

Oyuki-san’s words, spoken with a faint smile, sounded reversed—as if saying “Flee, it’s dangerous”—and guided by the figure nearest the frame’s edge in that white Bodhisattva procession, my head and feet scraped forward unbidden. Before I knew it, I cried out—“Waaah!”—and fled weeping.

I jumped onto the stone platform at the alley’s entrance—under a sky where cloud peaks loomed—where Tsuma Goi Slope’s earth jutted up like a pier. In that moment alone, I felt strangely detached from it all—not some young gang lackey—no—but as my agitation peaked in isolation, I slammed my feet down and collapsed onto my hips.

Heaven and earth quaked; tiles fell; stones crumbled; walls collapsed. Amidst the blood-smoke, when Kazuki regained his senses, roofs had already caved into roofs—and below his eyes, the clothesline pole lay crushed like a three-legged pot stand. That area too—for the fire spread swiftly—was engulfed in flames.

This—the Great Earthquake of September 1st of the twelfth year (1923).

“I, before the window of the Nine Consciousnesses, at the edge of Myōjō’s platform, filled myself with the Dharma water of yoga—”

At this moment on stage: the shite—a certain one.
——Mushrooms that ought to grow on mountain grasses and decaying trees instead sprouted indiscriminately in human dwellings, causing their occupants to lament and fret. There, they turned toward the bridge approach and called out to entreat a mountain ascetic of proven spiritual power to perform prayers.
In response to this, the mountain ascetic first intoned from behind the *agemaku* curtain.
But even upon merely hearing “Sagi Gen’an,” [the voice] was unexpectedly youthful and resonant, yet profoundly subdued.

Curtain—rises.
——

“—In the place where I purify the moon of Three Mysteries—who seeks guidance?”

Smoothly shifting her steps and brushing off dew from her suzukake robe and tokin headdress—her bearing held a ferocity less like Benkei or Yoshitsune than Shin-Chūnagon departing as a mountain ascetic—and withal her fair complexion was beautiful.
The first two pines gathered shadows; hakama trousers rode the mist; the voice of Three Mysteries rang clear yet shadowed; moon pure, wind white. The melody of transformed birds held piercing clarity.

“Ah—a woman... The Sagi school?”

Though I had secretly heard,

“Now…”

After uttering just that single word, Kazuki stared with such intensity that his complexion visibly changed before our eyes—then twice in quick succession, he stroked his chest and covered his eyes.

He pressed onward.

……Let me simply outline the plot of the kyōgen.
On the stage appeared thirteen mushrooms.
But in truth, the more they attempted to exorcise this anomaly—wielding the spiritual power of three mountains, forming secret mudras, rubbing sacred prayer beads—the more abundantly mushrooms sprouted across the ground, steadily increasing in number.

The mushrooms formed an assembled crowd—each wearing masks of Mitori, Ubuki, or Kamahige according to their whims—wrapped in tied hakama, gaiters, obi belts, and water robes, all uniformly donning sedge hats.
Lacquered sedge hats, cypress hats, bamboo hats, sedge hats.
Matsutake, shiitake, tobitake; mist-woven hats—nameless mushroom folk.
As for the hat shapes—may the audience envision them freely as they will.

“——Well, well,”
the female mountain ascetic’s gentle voice,
“Perhaps it’s my imagination, but upon the stems of the mushrooms, things resembling eyes, noses, hands, and feet appear.”
she said.
As the incantation progressed, the ritualistic mushrooms—goggling their eyes, sticking out their tongues, and jeering—grew so hatefully venomous that even amidst her dignified bearing, the mountain ascetic appeared frail.

Serpent mushrooms, shimeji mushrooms, raincloak mushrooms, monk mushrooms, bear mushrooms, boar mushrooms, komusō monk mushrooms, drunkard mushrooms—growing, multiplying.
Steaming up, gushing forth.
……Like Jizō statues transformed into monks on alms rounds beneath patchwork moonlight, they lined up dimly visible in the haze—and when they did, a gloom overwhelmed the crimson-carpeted seats, darkening even the autumn grass embroidered on folding fans flickering gold and silver, their dew and gold dust turned shadowed.

The female mountain ascetic was beautiful—all the more so.

Ah, lightning flashed at the window.
His chest pounded.

In an instant—at this very moment—a large mushroom of sinister visage appeared: wearing an oni hood and ferocious mask, supremely venomous and wicked, it held its umbrella half-open to conceal its face while brandishing it aloft.
After a moment, it threw the umbrella wide open—snarling through its nose, exhaling breath, spewing poison—and lunged forward with a cry of, “I’ll seize and bite! I’ll seize and bite!”
Clinging and dragging relentlessly—though by convention these thirteen mushrooms should have tormented Ado without respite and driven even the mountain ascetic into retreat—
——

“Look there—a loathsome half-open mushroom has appeared! Should that one fully unfurl, it would undoubtedly unleash a multitude.”

As the mountain ascetic spoke, the poisonous mushroom pressed against Ni-no-Matsu.

From the hem of the curtain emerged a slender form—a frail girl with cropped hair wearing white sleeves, her fair-skinned round face suggesting perhaps two or three years given how she crawled, her clothes rustling at the knees. This was a mountain dwelling conquered by mushrooms. The stage lay desolate, saturated with the ascetic’s spiritual presence.

Then—into this place where until now none had left footprints, where roofs burned and ceilings steamed without wind—came a rustling sound. Along the zigzag mountain path, an infant crawled out alone through bamboo grass and kumazasa. So unforeseen was this apparition that eerie dread seeped through the air.

Ah, upon seeing the mountain ascetic, she grinned slyly with her mouth.

A chill ran through him.

“Sagi school?”

The crawling child was fast.
Like a pillow adrift in mountain stream waters, she scurried forth and tangled with the mountain ascetic’s skirt—just as the poisonous mushroom’s umbrella sprang open with a *snap*, startling her, poised to seize and bite—when—

“I’ll burn and eat you!”

As the mountain ascetic spoke in unison—without using her hands—she swung her prayer beads and struck with a snap; suddenly startled, the poisonous mushroom fell to its knees in its umbrella-like form.

With a returning swing,

“I’ll burn and eat you!”
“I’ll burn and eat you!”

Her nose bridge sharp, cheeks pale as alabaster, black hair disheveled beneath her hood—amidst mushrooms jostling for life, dimly visible in their haphazard rows—the prayer beads she swung flashed through the air like red roof snakes in flight.
But then, seizing one of the mushrooms that had frozen in place, the mountain ascetic took it with both hands and—with a thud—planted the sedge hat upside down.
Two, three, four.
——

Many of them seem to have been child actors.
They were afraid, yet captivated.

Chōjōge sat idly in the side seat, doing nothing but tilt his head sideways.

“Kazuki-san.”

As Kazuki turned deathly pale, his body trembling violently, the white robe struck my hand—the one that had taken hold of his sleeve—with a sensation like dead leaves—no, like mushrooms.

Their faces overlapping with those stagehands’, five or six figures emerged from behind the stage curtain.
At the stage door too, a stagehand’s head peeked out, but it had merely become a mushroom with eyes and a nose—there was nothing to be done.
Those two or three seconds—
A lightning-flash instant.

In the audience seats, two or three boys—their *tabi* socks pointed skyward as they tumbled upside down—and there was a girl whose skirt, which reached her knees, was flipped up, leaving her lying on her back.
They must be a type of mushroom.
The adults took defensive stances, turned to flee, and choked their voices.

I also tried to stand.
Is there a fire starting under that stage?
"Earthquake!" He grabbed the railing and turned his gaze. Beyond the forest, at the cloudline where a brick structure—what appeared to be a church's spire—rose, snake-like lightning streaked vertically through the clouds.

In the silence—resembling deep mountains—the crawling child burst into tears, clutching the mountain ascetic’s robe as though ignited.

With a *thud*—she stamped her feet, settled onto her knees, slipped her left shoulder free—her skin visible through the pale pink underrobe.
Parting her eyebrows, clearing her gaze, she turned squarely—

“Kanjiro-san.”

“I am prepared.”

Responding to his companion while nodding to guests—cutting off words left and right all at once—Kazuki Kanjiro emerged swiftly and perched one knee on the edge of the stage, about a foot from the woman’s hem. Then, as if solemnly receiving an offering, he abruptly pressed both hands down.

“How sad... Even now, I’m still starving.”

When she smiled with melancholy and bared her chest, the nearly translucent nipple upon her snow-white flesh rivaled a jewel.

“Look here—it’s the punishment for an illegitimate child. Even at five years old, he can’t stand on his own.”

“Hmm, stand up. … Stand—I’ll make you stand.”

With a firm motion, he took the crying child into his arms, and as Kazuki pulled himself upright, he cradled the boy against his chest.

“You tofu girl.”

While mocking, beneath words spoken as though unable to contain her affection,

“You’ll receive bones from your young father. Mother will give you blood.”
“Mother will give you blood.”

Bending forward, she placed the nipple into her own mouth, then with fierce intensity wrung out that pure white life.
Clatter-clatter, squelch-squelch—the sound of the boneless child's blood being sucked resounded from the stage.
But in an instant, from the child's mouth and the mother's chest, a pomegranate of rubies spilled.

As the colors faded and clarified with a rustle—as she began collapsing sideways—the mushrooms crawled into her upturned fingers and vanished entirely. He picked up the lacquered sedge hat, but—

“Ladies and gentlemen—this is not human.—It’s a crimson mushroom.”

With that declaration, she covered her face and fell. Her features hidden beneath trembling hands—the crimson nail polish on ten fingers convulsing like white swastikas scattering through the world—Oyuki bit off her nipple.

It happened the year before last.
This child received flesh and blood from his mother’s breast.
Now, in Kazuki’s hands, he was growing plump and thriving.

Miraculously, the sole woman who survived was driven and driven by the earthquake’s kalpa-fire until, through some fateful connection, she was saved by one called Gen’an.
Whether she was his mistress or his adopted daughter didn’t matter.
Since he was an old man, and because a sudden illness had struck backstage—leading skilled dancers to perform an imitation of the stage—I believe you will understand well.
What, what—why, with such beauty, didn’t she go work in a bar?
Are you asking that?
That’s a problem—this is vexing.
Even Kazuki wouldn’t understand.
Ask… the late Oyuki-san of Midoriya.

Showa 5 (1930), September