Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

From the beginning of the second lunar month through the end of March, during that interval before the gentle spring rains had arrived, the wind blew day after day.
The wind raged north and south—rattling shoji screens, shaking pillars, clattering roofs, snapping clotheslines—while along rocky shores and mountain hamlets, in lands far from cities, people hunted bears and harpooned whales before barricading against cursed blizzards to hibernate through winter... Yet Tokyo too fled this swirling dust war, every household burrowing into shelter like wartime evacuees.

Even the morning purification water at the spirited little houses where people lingered contained gravel that grated unpleasantly.

The walls and ceiling had dried out completely, parched to the bone—if gravel were to strike the soot-coated tinder, it would instantly burst into crackling sparks, creating an atmosphere thick with imminent danger.
In Shitamachi and Yamanote alike, fire outbreaks day and night had the fire bells clanging as incessantly as timekeeping bells—everywhere people clamored "Arson! Arson!"—and in towns where night patrols' wooden clappers echoed through pillows, it became that sort of year when even sleep brought no peace.

March 7th brought an unusual morning calm that lingered through a placid day's end... The sky hung thickly overcast, yet even this rain-laden gloom appeared almost merciful to eyes wearied by weeks of dust... A damp shroud of clouds blotted out stars, leaving only an evening moon to cast its hazy glow over streets and alleys.
At the crossroads, the strains of naga-uta could also be heard.

This seventh day marked the temple festival at Nifuku Fudo in Banchō—famous along with its great ginkgo tree—one of its six monthly services.
On the second day, large raindrops pattered down in lukewarm gusts just as the night stalls reached their peak bustle—though the skies soon cleared—rendering them completely deserted... Since then, unrelenting winds had whipped through, leaving even the ginkgo's highest branches wildly disheveled and overgrown. Now tonight, veiled in haze's evening makeup, it stood slender beneath faint light.

About a block away from the temple hall, from where this tree stood, plant nursery workers began clearing paths through primroses, violets, and kerria—a scene of tranquil spring evenings where young women ventured out wearing butterfly hairpins.
From Hōzuki-ya’s shop came lit lanterns, and together with picture bookshops and sundries shops, they wove crimson into the night’s tapestry, creating a lively bustle.

However, due to the continuous fires, there lingered an indefinable restlessness in people's hearts—the fire watchtowers of Mitsuke visible through distant haze, their lights reflecting upon the stalls, failed to conjure images of festive messengers, instead evoking sensations of being scorched by distant flames. Though only nine o'clock, the mansion district's walls stood emptied of people, and before the temple hall reigned profound desolation.

The paper lanterns too eventually went out.

There came the plip-plop of water dripping from leaves—drawn up and scooped out again and again—and the sound of drops leaking from the ladle’s handle could be heard.
Behind the darkened purification basin, there was an old well.
...When one speaks of old wells in Banchō, a drenched, blood-covered woman holding a dish might appear—though there’s nothing particularly noteworthy about it.
...For in the late hours after pilgrims have dispersed, there are sometimes those who take cold water ablutions in secret to avoid prying eyes—so one might think this could be that.

Now when the temple grounds stood deserted, there in a corner of that well—especially within the darkness—a shadowy figure stood forlornly as though freshly drawn from water, its form faintly silhouetted in the feeble glow of two or three remaining candles before the main hall, their hazy light scattered like a fragmented Big Dipper.

Squelch-squelch... Someone—whether in sandals or barefoot—sank steps into the sodden wellside, clung gloomily to the purification basin's post, exhaled there, gave a single shake of their shoulder, then staggered onto the paving stones.

The hollow-cheeked man revealed his unkempt bluish-bearded face beneath the main gong—mouth agape, lips crimson, as though he'd abruptly sucked in a candle flame. He gave a weak, inward cough, furrowed his brows, then with sunken eyes looked down into the temple hall and peered in. "The sacred candle."

II

Having said this, he—his frayed white indigo-patterned yukata barely held together at the collar by its torn hem, the heavy fabric collapsing downward in ponderous folds, its soiled and wilted cotton-padded sleeves spilling slack—thrust his right hand, wrist bent and shoulder slumped, into the slovenly sleeve opening, apparently searching for offering coins.

But there came no clink of coins.

At that moment, the large-headed figure—pitch-black like a sea monk—heaved up in the main hall. Reaching toward the ritual tray from above, his hand caught in the lamplight as he attempted to take a fresh candle.

Leaving a narrow gap, behind the sliding doors burned a bright lamp that cast shadows of what appeared to be two or three lingering congregation members, yet before the principal image stood only this hired priest. Already having removed his stole and left only his undergarment, he was now about to close the temple doors. When this shabby pilgrim stood dripping wet before the offering box—a sound too desolate for mere fanning went flap-flap, like some great moth’s wings—the priest extinguished what remained of the candles’ flickering flames, those will-o’-the-wisps burning vertically in the offshore darkness, smothering them two or three at a time in sequence with his broad palms.

“Well,”

The man restrained himself and said in a low, pleading voice.

"I'm terribly sorry, but I don't have any on me at the moment."
“Ah, I must respectfully decline the new candles.”
“Ah.”

“Hah.” was all the priest said, merely muffling the volume of his voice.
His nose was large, his mouth was wide, the mole on his forehead resembled a great mountain monk, and he waggled his bushy eyebrows as he countered.

Because of this, the emaciated man hesitated to speak,

“Therefore, I must ask that you please refrain from lighting any candles.”

“Is that so?”

He pressed again, but couldn’t simply send him away—there the man stood fidgeting restlessly, clearly still wanting to say something.

The priest had been watching intently, but as this showed no sign of ending, he tilted his large ear and pressed a hand against it—positioning himself before the ritual lamp to fully expose that mole—in a manner reminiscent of someone hard of hearing. Yet now he was clearly demanding that the man speak plainly.

“Ah.”

And he said again, the man shook his shoulders as if even speaking required effort...

“Regarding that matter, I truly find it difficult to say—it concerns those candles.”

“I’ve grasped your candle matter.”

With nostrils wrinkled and web-like lines etched into his mole,

“Because of your circumstances, I say not to give you any candles."
“You may do as you please.”
“Perhaps you possess some item and wish to borrow a candle? That too you may do as you please.”
“But it’s already late, I tell you.”

“No.”

“Hah,” he snorted impatiently.

“That is not the case—it is not such a matter. Therefore, though it pains me to ask... might I humbly request that you lend me one sacred candle through your kind consideration?”

“Therefore, therefore you may do as you please.
“But it’s late now… As you see, I’ve extinguished the ritual lamps—do you mean to light them again?”

“That is precisely the case.”

Exhausted, he heavily propped both hands on the offering box’s rim while lowering his small head—thick hair hanging over both ears—dejectedly.

“Please lend me one candle… What I mean is, it’s not for placing before the deity.”
“I wish to humbly take it and return home.”

“You intend to take away the sacred candle?”
“Hmm,” he snorted loudly.

“What’s more, I wish to request those burnt remnants that were once offered.”

Ah, these are perilous times indeed.

III

“Wait, wait, just a...”

The paper lanterns along the street had already been extinguished, yet there remained—in the midst of this lonely town where houses on both sides had locked their doors—Banchō-dori Avenue after the temple festival’s end, its Rokudō no Tsuji crossroads marker standing like an iron rod planted by demons.
At the corner where the slope met the retaining board, a man in a workman’s coat with a cloth over his head emerged from the darkness beneath the lowered eaves of a small house on the right, his straw sandals slapping softly against the ground.

Silently lining up beside that road marker and planting his feet firmly stood *that* man—the gaunt, pale specter-like figure who had staggered out from behind the old well to beg the priest for candle remnants (why hadn’t he stolen the ladle from the purification basin? one might wonder).

The man in the workman's coat approached with shoulders askew, stomping briskly forward,

“Wait, damn it—I said wait!” he rasped out in a gruff voice, taking an aggressive step forward as the jaw protruding from his cloth-covered face took on a menacing cast.

Yet there was no resistance... The man being told to wait simply stood there motionless beneath the torn curtain, his limp body hanging as if even the wind refused to stir.

“Where are you going,”

He remained silent and fixed him with a sharp stare.

“Where are you going?”

“Ah, I am returning to my residence.”

“Where’s this residence of yours?”

“Ichigaya-Tanimachi.”

“Your name…”

He lowered his voice and pressed closer,

“Now get this—when I ask for a name, cocky bastards usually squawk about me introducing myself first. […] But me? I ain’t obliged to give my name just ’cause I’m asking yours. Clear?”
“I’m with the investigative division.”
“Understood?”

“Ah, so you are the officer?”

Even through his tattered cloth robe—his emaciated chest so thin one could almost feel the bones pressing painfully—he unclasped his tightly folded hands with a creak and performed a deep kowtow.

“You’ve gone to great trouble.”

“Hmph, ‘gone to great trouble,’ huh? ……But hey, you don’t need to say unnecessary things.”
“Ain’t you gonna give your name?”
“I’m asking what the hell your name is!”

“My name is Shindo Nobukazu.”

“What’s this—Shindo Nobukazu? Hah! Some fancy educated-sounding, Western-style name you got there, ain’t it?”

His words tangled as he drew in his chin—no wonder he cut such a pathetically dejected figure.
The man in the workman’s coat who’d posed as a detective was actually a local youth called Kinhachi from Shitaji.
This was the same fellow who’d watched intently as that scholarly-looking man—left behind as caretaker after organizing a mutual aid gathering in one temple hall to liven up the fourteenth-day memorial service and celebrate auspiciousness during the festival night—had appeared beneath the temple gong during the gradual dimming of votive lights like some demon-possessed wraith with wild hair and gaunt frame; who’d received those burnt candle remnants offering no grounds for refusal; and who’d then vanished through the gate like snuffed smoke.

“You can’t just leave it be—this ain’t some damn joke.
“You fiend.
“Can’t you see how you went home with flames licking your back under the main Buddha’s gaze, hauling that fire?
“Ever since, the downtown’s been burning nonstop.
“Lucky for us Yamanote’s stayed quiet—or has it?
“When the noon wind shifted, flames started crawling up from the wellside—clear case of arson.
“Let you slip now, and Banchō’ll be cinders by dawn.
“I’ll nab you first—just watch! I’ll bottle arson’s seed in glass like some lab specimen, then show you the goldfish shop sign as final proof.……”

“Truly, the concerns are boundless,” the head priest of this temple also remarked, shaking his wire-rimmed glasses.

The lecture leader,

“Kinhachi, don’t let your guard down.”

“Very well.”

IV

“Ah, delicious.”

He blew tobacco smoke in vigorous puffs.
Squatting on gutter stones with his hips lowered, crouching as if in meditation, the stem of the pipe clenched between his teeth clattered against them, his misshapen hat swaying unsteadily.…

The night had deepened, but he wasn't trembling from the cold—thoroughly intoxicated to the marrow, he clung to the base of a roadside utility pole with one hand, barely maintaining his stance as he teetered on the verge of collapse.

“Sir, you’re quite the drinker.”

The rickshaw driver—hugging his lap blanket in a futile attempt to warm himself—had turned stiff as ice while waiting for the intoxicated customer, who had just settled on a fare and was about to board, to finish his quick smoke under the paper lantern’s glow. Impatiently, he rubbed his legs together against the frost-covered ground.

“What?
“You can hold your liquor quite well… Seems you’ve been drinking with a server pouring for you, but that’s enough booze.”
“Next up is women, eh?”
“See? Even dead drunk, you’re still true to form—can’t argue with that, can we?”

“If you wish, I shall accompany you, yes, Sir.”

“Accompaniment?”
“Where to?”

“Why, our esteemed regular we have here, sir.”

“Don’t mock me! I was supposed to transfer to the outer moat route at Mitsuke, but I fell fast asleep and got carried straight ahead. When someone roared ‘Enma!’ at me, I startled awake and jumped out.”
“Accompaniment? Don’t be absurd!”
“What do you think this place is?”

Since there were no streetcars, he humbly agreed to pay the exorbitant fare and board—just as had been insisted.
“Barreling past four or five houses only to say ‘Well then!’—that’s Akogi-style greed for you!”

Twisted his mouth and smiled wryly in the signboard’s light,

“Well… you’ve really outdone yourself.”
“Though he puts on such airs, he actually has no sense of direction.”
“Which is it—the right side or the left?” he murmured hazily, gazing up at the stars.

“From Ōkido Gate, it’s on the left side when facing away.”

“So you crossed the streetcar tracks after all.
“If you’d just turned back there, that would’ve been fine—what madness possessed you to cross over?”

He leaned forward earnestly.

“Rickshaw driver! Rickshaw driver! You call out to me, yet come sidling up like this.”

“...You’re completely out of it.”
“Seems you’re really done in.”
“You thought you were crossing some splendidly long, wobbly bridge, didn’t you?”
“Ah, you’re drunk.”
“But what a pleasant state,” he slurred, slumping forward limply.

“Sir, sir—come now—you must partake... This is no street performance.”

Half-muttering to himself, he climbed onto the stone where the sign was placed and nimbly snatched it.

As the lamp swiftly rose through the darkness before his nose—Achoo!—the drunkard gaped upward, eyes wide open, as though a thin-hooped, murky yellow soul had been yanked from his mouth.

“Ah, wait!”

“It’ll burn, Sir—you mustn’t mishandle the lantern.”

“Lend it here—I’m going to take another puff.”

“I’ll give you matches.”

“The flavor’s different... A sobering smoke is perfected when lit with candle flame. But... if you’ve any spirit... tear a nose tissue, light the oil lamp’s flame, and use a spill to light it for me?”

Standing half-crouched, he thrust his pipe forward—the bowl flared up large and bright, then collapsed like paper being sucked inward.

“You put it out.”

He clicked his tongue discreetly. In the frosty night, a fragrance and aroma rose sharply as thin smoke hung hazily.

“Rickshaw driver.”

“What’s this now?”

“...Is there an inn called Kikyoya—where is it?”

“That’s why I’m asking to come along—hey, it’s right over there, Sir—divine favor! Please consider this a celebratory gift and warm yourself up with one—it’s so cold I can’t bear it anymore,” he said with exaggerated servility, teeth chattering theatrically.

“Rickshaw scum.”

Laughing,

“I hired you to Ichigaya—I’ll pay the fare—…don’t need the rickshaw.”
“In exchange, I’ll take the burnt candle remnants.…”

V

The drunkard—in the clamorous guise of a pheasant’s nest and an owl—crossed the railway tracks once more; winding through the latticed core of the inn while etching “Kikyoya” in matching dye-work, the atmosphere thickened excessively—as if moon-backed, the side-stall electric lights shimmered—as he fluidly shouldered through the noren curtain.
Even this Yoshikoko—though renowned for Musashino’s grasses blooming with flowers—saw eaves’ frost as faint powdering, midnight’s dread dissolving into foxfire, becoming mere dewdrops of sentiment.

“Lads,”

“Step right in!”

“Let’s have some fun.”

“How very kind of you, sir,” he said, bending at the waist of his apron—the sleeve of his rubbing hands snapped upward, the knot of his Hakata obi resembling an Akasaka servant’s beard.

“I must ask you not to refuse.
You’re a customer without rain gear.”

“Properly now,”

and brushed down the front of his karazane robe,

“Three fingers’ breadth at the collar… Heh heh… An old establishment, but quite familiar… Heh heh… Please come up.”

From the accounts desk,

“Honored guest.”

The ladder steps thudded under footsteps that weren’t entirely unwelcome.

“Welcome.” Though one might expect a voice as crisp as water being thrown to scoop up tidal pools, what emerged instead was a muddy-toned utterance—its thrown syllables sticking to the tongue like foamy waves soaking through sea sponge—from the brothel madam who sat with one knee casually raised, her tea-stained mouth clotted with buckwheat noodles, slurping noisily at cooled udon whose hem-like strands seemed to crawl downward.

The folding screen to the side stood in Inazuka fashion, the brazier's kettle shaped like a bamboo shoot hat—at this sight, the warm noodles writhed like earthworms. When contemplated whole, a sharp-beaked white fox seemed poised to emerge—clad in a tattered straw cape as vestments, grasping the hem of its tail with practiced grace. Just then came the whoosh of a midnight gale—the house's perforated shoji papers fluttered wildly, their rattle mimicking hailstone patter.

Overwhelmed by the force, the guest recoiled in shock. His feet became entangled, and as he leaned against the railing, a flimsy section gave way beneath the weight, sending unsteady vibrations through the entire structure.

“Ahh, help me!”

“You’re in such high spirits.”

The Brothel Madam grinned, revealing the yellowness of her teeth.
Beside her, a small toothpick crunched grittingly between teeth.

The young men came flying over, braced themselves, and on tiptoe—inadvertently—

“Over here, quickly.”

Eight tatami mats of old straw—toward the center evoking a raccoon dog—a lifeless, tattered red woolen carpet.
Neither square nor round, the brass lion-mouthed brazier resembled an old temple’s study—and there, stuck in the ashes, were cedar chopsticks split for kindling.

Under the pretense of using this as a cane, the guest split chopsticks, spread his elbows wide, feigned a posture, and plopped down into a wide cross-legged sit.

“Yeah.”

In rapid-fire tones that rose in pitch, the young men positioned themselves at the threshold, half-crouched by the ladder steps’ sightline.

“Our regular patron—who might you be… Heh heh… Forgive me for not recognizing you at once, sir.”

“I’m no regular here.”

“The ritual, if you please.”

“Absolutely.”

“Well then, uh… heh heh,”

“What’s so funny?”
“No, um—regarding the old establishment… Given your familiarity here, please allow me to make a selection for you.”

He puffed out his chest and raised his face.

“I hate that.”

“This may seem uncouth of me, but another round of entertainment? This isn’t what you’d call a matchmaking in Hibiya.”

“What a colossal blunder—quit posturing,”
“Might be tactless of me, but I want this house’s courtesan.”

“By name, sir?”

“Got a problem with that?”

“Certainly, given your acquaintance with our humble establishment…”

Six

The other party had settled on Shiratsuyu—the Kikyoya’s Shiratsuyu, whom they called Oshoku…… If one imagined earthworms in the procurers’ room, they became somehow like Ominaeshi flowers at Kitsunezuka.

Yet when specifying this name, the guest uttered something peculiar.

“You lads—the order is Oterashi.”

“Right away,”

“She’s inside, isn’t she?”

“Is Oterashi present?”

with an uncomprehending expression.

“Well, it’s not that she isn’t here, but…”

“Don’t hide it—reveal her properly!” he said, glaring with bloodshot eyes.

“There’s nothing we’re concealing, but as you can see, this establishment has had electric lighting for quite some time now.”
“...You won’t mistake her for anyone else—the courtesan with that stiffened smile.”
“Especially for an esteemed guest such as yourself with such discerning taste, sir—heh heh heh.”
“Though, well—since matters have shifted somewhat to that area—if that’s your desire—”

“So, because it’s my wish—bring out Oterashi.”

“Whether it’s Oterashi or the oil lamp arrangements, we’ll accommodate however you wish—but in any case… The night grows late. Please proceed quickly to the courtesan’s quarters.”

With that, they glanced furtively toward the procurer’s room, their manner making clear this fellow was nothing but trouble.

“I don’t get it.”

He thrust his pipe into the ashes, placed it down with a thud on the red woolen carpet, and as it bubbled, the imitation Inden tobacco pouch floated like some creature swimming through an ancient pond.

“The woman is a candle, I’m telling you.”

The madam emerged wearing clogs, one hand tucked in her kimono while fiddling with a toothpick at her collar, carelessly stepping over the charcoal brazier to stand frozen at the threshold, glaring sharply through her stained forehead.

“If the courtesan’s beauty and docility are properly attended to, there should be no cause for complaint.”
“Too slow! You!”

She delivered a single rebuke, then wordlessly pressed down the guest’s raised head—which had begun to voice some objection—with a jut of her chin.

“Okatsu,” she called out.

“Right away!”

Suddenly, rats clattered noisily. [...] A voice sounded from the ceiling, and the fifteen- or sixteen-year-old maid in question—trailing soot as if lowered from that very ceiling—came scurrying along the second-floor corridor with a face that looked thoroughly sleepy.

“Miss Shiratsuyu… It’s your first appointment.”

“Right away!”

As if a dream had flipped inside out, she spun around to face the opposite direction and darted off again.

“Sir, this way… We have a room available right now.”

“Wait,”

he said, but with seven parts terror at the madam’s ferocity, grabbed his tobacco pouch and managed to stand—only for his still-drunken knee to give way with a thud.

“What happened to the candles?”

“There’s nothing to discuss here—take it up with the accountant,” she bluntly stated.

……He stood up with a bitter expression, and of course in the narrow corridor—as if pushing against the shoji screens on either side—glaring at the backs of the young staff, he strode briskly through with evident displeasure.

Yet upon entering the room—with the corridor at her back and the long brazier before her—she assumed the posture of awaiting a guest: her soft white hand draped gracefully over the iron kettle’s handle, neither fully looking nor looking away as she placed a half-read picture book upon her lap, dressed in thin striped silk crepe.
Arms tucked within her kimono with shoulders draped languidly, collar slipped to reveal crimson underrobe sleeves enveloping one hand beneath her chin—pure ears sharply defined—she seemed to bite a crimson silk sachet fresh from the bath between alabaster teeth, cheeks pale as she tilted her face downward, neck cold as sculpted snow against black satin. To think this was Shiratsuyu—one glance at her retreating figure sent shivers down the spine.
——

“Ka... wa... hara... It’s written as Kawahara Senpei.”

Before long, when the young man returned holding the ledger, he scratched his ear with the scroll and laughed—heh heh heh.

“Esteemed guest, please tell me your real name.”

While in the shadow of a table that looked fit for butchering dogs, the hand resting on her knee was white, her intently gazed-upon eyes dark……

Unintentionally, emotion resonated through his entire body, and at that moment he spoke.

“Shindo Nobukazu... Arms... Engineer.”

VII

“Even if I tell you these things, you likely won’t believe me. To begin with—if I claim that in such a low-class establishment there exists a woman named Shiratsuyu with fair skin and beauty unmatched in both appearance and temperament—everything following would ring false, wouldn’t it? Moreover, you’ll surely rebuke me for spouting madness precisely because—though she’s a courtesan—that woman seems like an untouched maiden at her core. Yes, others may think what they will—but for me alone, this was absolute truth.”

“It must still seem suspicious… Especially since you officers, by nature of your profession, are doubly inclined to doubt.”

With each word he exhaled, his bony chest quivered; pressing his gnarled, black-nailed palm against it, he moved the hand up and down rhythmically to force out his voice.

At the base of Sanaizaka cliff—a back tenement in the narrow alley branching off Ōmizo Street, at the tip of a partitioned four-unit row… A single makeshift room where the terraced slope behind the cliff threatened to collapse snow through its sliding window.

There was nothing—only the damp, worn tatami mats, their moldering humidity creating mottled patches that in shadow and light appeared as swarms of yellow and gray, a teeming mass of vermin.

Along the edge of a box brazier damp with fallen iron-leaf ash, a gloomy candle sputtered relentlessly. Licking at it like a tongue, sallow and slumped, wild-haired—this shack’s… occupant one might call him—was Shindo Nobukazu, his appearance that of a corpse risen from the grave.

He clutched his chest once more,

“However, excessive suspicion itself becomes a transgression.”

Each time he spoke, his shoulders darkened incrementally, only his eyes gleaming preternaturally in the candlelight.

“To claim doubting’s my profession—you’re no fox by nature. First off, I’m not exactly official in this line of work.”

...he emitted a faint, inexplicable sound......Sliding down opposite [him], Detective Kinhachi—crouching with splayed knees in his hanten coat—ventured deep into the earth spider’s den with wind-catching momentum, his posture aping patrol retainers’. Though he hitched shoulders to mask frailty and feigned vigor, a senryū might liken him to trowel-smoothed cloud banks shifting form—his form now frantically waving hands to block the monster’s eyes coiling within candle shadows......

“Listen here—working as a bit of a bounty hunter means handling agile, brisk work.”
“You’re neck-deep in this endless string of fires.”
“You’re the one doing weird shit like prowling fire sites for arsonists—figured I’d test you out a bit.”
“Acting like I’m about to tie you up right this instant—you get all serious, ranting about ‘establishing proof’ over and over.”
“Of course I intimidated you with that ‘I’ll arrest you’ crap—no denying that. Consider it a motivational push.”

“Since you kept ranting about 'establishing proof' over and over—dragging me all the way here—I couldn’t even take a piss along the way. That’s what it boils down to.

“They say the neighboring house’s empty, and…”

With his head still wrapped in cloth, he glanced back over his shoulder and squared his shoulders.

“Didn’t they tell you the place next door’s a massage parlor?
“They say the folks running that oden joint next door—glugged down some courage like cheap booze—got big ideas overnight. Started going out every damn night, left some crotchety old geezer minding their brat.
“Look—cutting through the crap—inside this pitch-black hulk of a four-unit tenement…”

sweet-talking,

“Well now, alright then—you’re not suspicious or anything, see… Since we’re both just humans here, I figured we’d part ways quick.”
“But the story starts with a brothel courtesan.”
“And since she’s a real beauty—to cut it short.”

“So anyway—what was I saying—I’m no amateur myself,”

the grit of ash that could blind.

“Thought I’d stay and poke around a bit before leaving… Don’t fret.”
“Not like I’m gonna flip you inside out and scrub you clean.”
“Enough.”

Even as he spoke, he glared—those eyes shone fiercely—and kept coaxing,

“I’ll let it slide. Look, to cut it short.”
“I’m going home now—don’t you worry.”

“Ah, no—as long as you don’t mind, it won’t be a problem on my part.”

Kinhachi, startled,

“Is that so… Hmm… What manner of things are Tokami and Emitame?” he said with forced composure, plucking an imaginary string.

VIII

“And on that first night together, she made a show of calling me an engineer.”
“Though at that time, I was actually employed in Koishikawa’s artillery corps—”

“Ah, ordnance work? I’ve got four or five mates in that field myself.”
“One of them was at Lord Fudo’s place tonight too, wasn’t he?”
“Is that so? Well, that’s comforting.” Kinhachi moderated his tone slightly.

“As you can observe, even I must admit this haste makes me appear rather unreliable.”
“Though I’ll confess—on those drunken nights when I’d rip down rickshaw signs and shove through shop curtains shouting ‘Let’s carouse!’—why, I cut quite the vigorous figure then.”

While tossing his head, he let out another sigh.
He stared fixedly at the candlelight,

“Now, regarding the crucial matter of those burnt candle remnants.”

It was unclear whether it was lie or truth.
Long before this—something his drinking companions had mentioned over simmering beef hotpot and steadily consumed sake—that beyond the Ōkido gate one could get drunk on the cloying fragrance of candles—now thrust itself into his brain here, causing a peculiar impulse to flutter hotly within him like some flame-drawn moth.

There was a gentle wife at home.
There was no particular lack in life... yet when entering the brothel, it became solely about the candles.
Therefore, when being abruptly assigned some arbitrary woman through their arrangements, I thought it utterly absurd—yet such was the fated beauty of that woman.

Indeed—Shiratsuyu of Kikyoya? She might as well have been dew formed from jewels.

But between the brothel's architecture and its location... Being excessively beautiful, that initial encounter was truly terrifying.
But indeed—due to that affliction of hers—this beauty, this skill that faintly resonated through the three-stringed lute—when realizing she had fallen into what amounted to a refuse heap fit only for kicking about, the joy of thinking this beautiful one-night wife might... even in my current state, I felt neither shame nor concern for appearances.
My muscles and bones melted away to a pulp.
......

In the shadow of the bedside oil lamp—yes—that woman, without summoning the brothel attendants, was folding the sleeves of my Yuuki cotton sleepwear or some such coarse garment I had changed into, handling it as gently as silk.

The shadow from the torn oil lamp’s hole fell upon the sash of her night robe like butterflies; while I gazed in rapture, my shuddering shoulders wrapped in thin bedding, she smoothly handled one folded sleeve, her fingertips pausing at the hem’s edge.

Her profile faintly revealed moist eyes and soft brows,

"You know—"

Shindo Nobukazu emitted three rasping coughs in quick succession,

"When you told me you'd come knowing everything about me—please let me tend to this. Isn't it precious?—"

"After pressing the point, what she drew from that sleeve was precisely that candle."

“Hey,” Kinhachi leaned forward.

“But that beauty—”
she appeared to be holding something sacred—perhaps a ritual vajra carved from jade.

The madam understood too—to conceal as much as possible, arranging our meetings without stating it explicitly—this is what I think.……

“Which sacred candle might this be—”

"I would say that asking in such manner had become customary," he continued. "Even amidst declaring that three daily meals mattered less than candles—more than water itself—that woman found the fragrance of burnt remnants, those very charred stubs, inexpressibly more pleasing than fresh ones.

There were those burnt remnants too.

Having long heard how hands tremble and bodies quake with joy when offering candles before the gods and buddhas, that very night I lavishly treated friends to beef at Matsuki in Ginza—with that same mouth—"

“It’s from Suitengu-sama—the one in Ningyocho—”

“I did say so,” he replied. “In the direction of the streetcar tracks, I suddenly thought of it. ‘In Ginza there’s also Jizo-sama,’ but I wanted to use a term everyone would recognize with a single word.”

“Yes...”

He looked around furtively in all directions.

Kinhachi similarly shook his head restlessly.

Nine

“I beg you to listen.”

With a pained expression on his emaciated knees, Nobukazu settled himself defiantly,

“Having heard rumors beforehand, I thought to bring burnt candles from Suitengu-sama as a gift for the courtesan,” I said, whereupon she composedly adjusted her posture—her plump breasts resonating with the motion—until the movement permeated her entire being, drawing a sharp breath to the pit of her stomach,

Oh, how delightful—

When I properly received and accepted the candle, it seemed to radiate a halo-like brilliance from her pale forehead framed by disheveled hair—this, I would say, was due to the woman’s meticulous devotion.

“What was I to do? Isn’t this the one from the rickshaw driver’s signboard right nearby—where he just now smoked tobacco and spat that sake-sticky spit, with the fire still clinging to it?”

No matter how earnestly she took delight in it to that extent, I couldn’t just tap the ash tray and stick out my tongue.

“To tell the truth—after explaining the gist of this—forgive me, it was a momentary impulse. In return for that, when I said I would even make the trip out to Narita this time,” he said, “the woman smiled gently and replied.”

“When one risks life itself for their love,” she murmured, “one comes to know a candle’s origin and nature at a glance.” Her fingers traced the wax’s ridges as if reading braille. “Burnt remnants retain their scent—a clock measuring extinction. Through routes I’ve traced,” her nail tapped the stub, “this reeks of Shitaya backstreets, not Asakusa’s temple rows.” The candle rolled between her palms. “This one I thought nearby—Daishuji-sama’s perhaps—until tobacco grit betrayed it.” A smile flickered. “No festival day warrants such fresh ash. A petty deceit,” she breathed, “but to resent tricks during our first encounter would be childish.” Leaning close, her whisper carried the threat of snuffed wicks: “Lie about candles again—even while sweetening other falsehoods—and my resentment shall burn truer than any altar flame.”

I had practically resolved never to tell another lie.

She removed her house robe, slipped into scarlet undergarments, and as her bare feet flashed for an instant—pfft—extinguished the oil lamp.
...that chilling sensation with lingering warmth seemed about to entwine swiftly with the welling wine in his chest through their fine fragrance—yet did not.
——

With a clatter, she opened the dresser drawer in the darkness.

“Let me show you Suitengu-sama’s—”

Having said this—as the soft rustle of fabric against her knees sounded—she struck a match with a sharp scrape.

“Ah...”

Kinhachi blinked rapidly at the sudden flare—

“Then, onto the stand of the vermilion-lacquered oil lamp, she lit a single candle—a burnt remnant—and stood it upright.”

As she gazed with intense focus, there the candle stood straight, its flame settling into a slender glow.

“Since it was utterly still—abnormally so—I somehow perceived a pale shadow within that dim light.”

"This one's from Shitaya—no, this is Toranomon's—then skipping to Zoshigaya's—no—actually Ōkido's, I should say—and into the oil dish she had extinguished fourteen or fifteen candles one by one, each producing smoke with a raw fragrance... strangely enough, not all of one color. Though you wouldn't exactly call Lord Inari's amber-colored, Lord Daikokuten's rises black... this I came to perceive. There were some slightly brown ones, pale yellows, and misty pale blues."

Where the fragrance of those burnt remnants rose—with thick eyelashes, brows relaxed, eyes entranced—as if striving not to disperse the scent nor disturb the smoke, she covered it with her palm and sniffed exhaustively.

"If this were medicine," he imagined it permeating every strand of her body from the tips of jet-black hair down through skin interwoven with blood—then observed those pale arms, still luminous without smoldering residue, left unwrapped by crimson sleeves...

Kinhachi listened with a peculiar expression.

“Now then…”

Nobukazu jolted, bent forward at the chest, threw himself onto his own knees with arms still wrapped around himself, and coughed hackingly.

Ten

Suffusing his eyelids with crimson... he wiped his sweat-streamed forehead,

“At that moment... there was an unextinguished candle in the oil lamp by the pillow, illuminating the space utterly still, you see.”

That—

“—This is Suitengu-sama’s sacred candle—”

And there the two aligned faces spoke forth.
“What do you suppose is reflected in the lamplight’s shadow—...countless things weigh on my mind.”

“—Aren’t you going to put it out?—”

“—Forgive me—”

If pressed to answer—she wept bitterly, this Shiratsuyu, crying as though her very form might scatter and vanish—but...
“Speculate all you like about me growing cold—call me heartless if you will—to be with some demon or serpent man in this place... But without that single light which once shone before gods and buddhas—without even one glow in the darkness—I would die terrified.”
“If it troubles you, you should simply close your eyes.”
“—And I,” she said, opening her crystal-like dark eyes wide and clear, “there are those who visit even during the day.”

If there are gods and buddhas, there are also married couples.
What are these candles—I wondered.
The candles glided slick against my hand... I started to find five or six concealed beneath her obi sash—more inside her collar, under her breasts—countless others hidden away.
All of them had once burned brightly before divine eyes—...among them were not a few aragami deities—ones so fearsome we hesitate to speak their names.

That wasn’t all. Finally, from among them, she plucked out one particularly beautiful illustrated candle, transferred the flame to it, and threaded it through the silver hairpin’s eye. “What do you suppose she did first?…I later learned the designs on these candles were carved by the courtesan herself whenever she found time—using a sewing needle like one would for indigo dyeing—then painstakingly colored.” “That is truly splendid.” As for her hair—though her appearance and attire changed across dozens of meetings—she always styled it in that manner unbefitting her character: swept upward and tied, woven with scarlet, pale blue, and tie-dyed fawn-spotted ornamental cords, wrapped in black tresses like a peony bud, thrusting a hairpin straight into its center—exclusively coiffed in what she called the *Nanten-something* style.

She would light an illustrated candle, thrust the hairpin straight into the center of her topknot, and with the torch-like flame flickering against her jet-black hair—swaying right and left as she tossed in sleep.

“If you would cherish me like this—I could die content—”

Even having witnessed this much—Shiratsuyu’s beauty defied description.
Yet no matter how he hardened his heart like a demon’s, sharpened claws like an eagle’s, gnashed wolfish fangs—had this been some midnight forest pilgrimage, it might have been bearable—but here in this sacred hall, it felt akin to ritually slaughtering a shrine maiden. Without daring to touch her dimpled smile, cold sweat poured from him...

And then—turmoil.

"I cannot sever this karmic bond... but,"

“Oh, how delightful—”

To think—merely witnessing that state drove me to cling to life—in truth, I need not mention Narita, Nakayama, Ikegami, or Horinouchi.
“As long as my roots and vigor held out, I would bring burnt candle remnants again and again—tearing my flesh and grinding my bones.”

His clouded eyes were dazzled even by that lamplight during daytime trysts.

Even when twisting his own fingers and toes until they cracked, clutching his hair and writhing in agony, the courtesan would not extinguish the candles when she slept.
As their encounters multiplied, she increased both their number and intensity until thirty-nine candles filled the room all at once—illuminating divine names—then slept with an illustrated candle’s five-colored hairpin burning in her black tresses.

That alluring charm—more than the warmly flowing wax—made one’s body turn to mud and melt away.
I will not forget.

With karmic cause and this accrued burden—now that I had been reduced to this state—affording brothel fees became impossible; even returning to my lodgings left me breathless despite clinging to my cane.
In the end, even now—still intending offerings for her—I only obtain these burnt candle remnants through divine aid at nearby temple festivals.
“Precisely this.”

And as he fumbled through his sleeve—what had been lit here was actually those same twenty-seven from earlier.

When the dog barked furiously—

“Well now—what do you suppose I shall do with this?”
“It’s a confession—there’s something I must show you.”

“It’s terrible, terrible! What’re you on about, Reverend? That bastard’s finally gone off the deep end.”
“Reckon the woman took pity—gave him that crimson underrobe. Had it propped up in the closet like some doll, y’see.”
“What’d he stuff in the torso, eh? No arms nor legs to speak of.”
“The face? Bundled dozens o’ candles into a man-sized lump—slicked ’em over with wax again and shaped it proper.”
“Course the burnt ends ended up on top—speckled black like some she-devil thunder god’s head.”
“White as bone, I tell ya—damn uncanny stuff. Wax through ’n’ through.”

“I twisted around—when I saw that dazed thing in the closet—then pulled it out real gentle-like and cradled it across my lap... What d’you think? He tears it from the fire basin, transfers the flame to that barbered-lookin’ candle wick—and there it goes flickerin’ as it burns, see?”

“Its tongue’s red—mouth gone slack—and that bastard grins sly while transferring flames from one candle to another, then another—till strand upon strand of wispy fires twist up skyward, their tips stretching higher... At this point it’s downright terrifying—like seeing crimson hair blazing long.”

“In a blink—you’d not believe—he rolls the underrobe’s shoulders into both elbows, heedless of decency, binds it round chest and shins like dressing some corpse, the hem scraping tatami as he drags.”

"The heat transfers natural-like, see—'A burning candle’s a woman’s warmth,' the bastard says—can ya believe it?"

Sucking his cheeks hollow until they caved inward, clamping his teeth until they seemed embedded—no mere skewer trick.

After a brief moment—as if his soul had receded into the distance—he grew still. Then the crimson of his underrobe flashed vivid and cold, swaying and billowing until vermilion shadows pierced through the wax. Whether from frustration, sorrow, or pity itself, it scattered glimmering droplets like Shiratsuyu’s tears—there now simmering thick and slow.
He sniffed; you licked with frenzied tongue.
Candle-wax tears dripped from his eyes, trailed down his nose, then fell into his mouth. As he gasped for breath between heaving shoulders, his entire body began to quiver—then he collapsed sideways.
Now came wild thrashing through that swamp-like six-mat room caked in grime... Flames coiled like some blue lizard writhing in its death throes.

“I fled in a panic.—When I suddenly reached Mitsuke, I thought to scramble up the fire tower, but no fire had broken out from Tanamachi yet.”

“What a fool—no, he’s crossed clear over into madness.”

Kinhachi of Shitaji, who had knocked on Fudo Myo-o's hall and told this tale in the dead of night,
"But she's quite a woman, isn't she."

he had ill-advisedly tacked on afterward.

“Kinhachi, watch yourself.”
“You’re looking pale.”

He laughed it off with an “Ahaha,” dismissing his friend’s warning,

“The woman came hazily—the downtown’s on fire!” he declared boisterously.

Yet within a mere three months, this lunatic—stabbing a candle into the crimson-tied chignon of his sole wife with her pale sleeping face, slowly burning it to inflict burns—then went mad.

However, he differed from Shindo. He wasn’t gloomy. If there was a temple festival, he would barge in anywhere, dancing with a plasterer’s strange gestures while chanting “Here I come, here I come,”

“Won’t you give me candles?”

Suspicious indeed—that friend was next—then another.
………

June 1913 (Taishō 2)