Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Through the pure white expanse of a snowy night path, devoid of human figures, as he returned from an outing to the male household beyond the palisade in Yarai, the sight that greeted him was one of incomparable beauty—the woman who had come to meet him, clad solely in a blazing crimson underkimono, slipping upright smoothly from where she had been waiting with her shoulders buried in the movable kotatsu beside the desk in the narrow six-mat room on the second floor.

With crimson alone veiling her skin, she maintained an air of composure in another's house.
Even those who had lived together for years—their dispositions, haori coats, and obi sashes all softened through familiarity—could scarcely claim such intimacy.

One should have thought her behavior brazenly inconsiderate of societal norms, yet Shunkichi found nothing strange about it.
It was not that his nostalgic, yearning emotions had surged, dazzling his eyes with the snow pellets along the path.

Upon hearing the message that "She came to meet me," even as he tilted his bamboo-and-paper umbrella this way and that against the snow while returning from a friend's house in Ushigome's Kitamachi district of the same ward, whenever he thought of that woman, he saw flickering beyond Sakai's mansion grove—rising and sinking like a phantom—a deep crimson hue more vivid than the faint lamplight leaking through chinks in latticed townhouses, rather than being dazzled by pathside snow pellets.

That night, in that very parlor of his friend in Kitamachi, about five acquaintances had gathered for a rotating composition gathering.
Though it hadn’t been planned as a snowbound gathering, the dusk turned white, and now the snow fell incessantly without pause.
The colder the desolation outside grew, the more the allure of lamplight swelled within—this spirited lot, perpetually in debt with no wives to speak of, cried out for blowfish and firearms alike.
Though their momentum had waned, against enemies who pressed against the storm shutters with terrifying force—pushing all the way up to the nanten plant by the pot in a rustling advance—they had no arrows left to startle them into retreat or gather them up by flinging open the gate and sallying forth. Thus, Itsuo and his companions ground their teeth as they solemnly resolved on a strategy of siege.

With that resolve—though they lacked preparations for a shower of a thousand breaking arrows—they hadn’t tilted the heated sake bottle in their provisions since nightfall.
The additional snow-themed topics, having merely increased by one, turned into the long-awaited promised sake only after midnight when the mutual selection had been delayed.
However, while they were at it with their brushes, each person in attendance wrote down their preferences and dislikes—the season, names of flowers, voices, people, birds, insects—and when all were gathered, one entry read: “What someone likes most: a beautiful woman.”

“No need to hold back.”

It was decided that they would loudly proclaim: “What we detest are caterpillars.”

Among the listed items, there was one marked as "most preferred".

“This ‘most preferred’...”

“It’s when you take all your favorite things—the good stuff, happy moments, what you love—bundle them up into tempura and gobble them down.”

Beneath that heading, before anything else—“Awaited person arrives”—it was at that moment Yoshioka Shunkichi wrote this down.

The sliding door whispered open as this household’s maid announced:

“Mr. Yoshioka, there’s a messenger from your residence.”

“From home...”

“Yes sir—the housemaid is waiting.”

“Say again?”

“She says she needs to see your face for a moment—she awaits in the entrance hall.”

"What could it be?" Shunkichi was suddenly made to ponder deeply.

People who might have business with each other generally gathered in this circle.
Having no recollection of sending such an urgent messenger from his current location, he concluded it must be sudden illness—his heart heavy with concern for an elderly person.

"Could it be an enemy spy?" said the master of the house, who sat to the right of the gathering, holding a sake cup while picking through items on his lap, his head still bowed as he spoke.

“Impossible.”

When he glanced around and saw every face in the surrounding circle turn toward him, the lamplight suddenly turned white to Shunkichi’s eyes, appearing as if snow had come pouring in.

II

“Excuse me for a moment.”

Following the maid who turned back to leave, he closed the central sliding door on his way out—and in this night of piled snow, even a single layer of separation muted all sound, making the sake gathering seem to slide away into vast distance…… He slid smoothly through the wind-bitten cold of the frost-lined veranda, moving without hesitation in this familiar house, passed through one dark parlor room along the wall edge, and there stood the entrance.

The maid who had ushered him in had already gone out to the kitchen, leaving behind the shadow of steam rising from a pot.

From there, a comet-like tail of lamplight passed through the half-opened sliding door to faintly illuminate the entrance tatami. When he looked, there stood—with the concrete shoe-removal area between them—the middle-aged maid from Shunkichi’s household, pressed sideways against the dark lattice door.

The maid who had debts amounting to about two months' wages now stood waiting with a black lantern bearing the shop's crest—borrowed through the steward's arrangement and likewise three months overdue—tucked into her sleeve. But if they had gone so far as to lend this lantern, they wouldn't have made her wait outside the shop in the middle of the night.

"Hey... What is it? What is it?" he said, reaching the threshold.

"Ah, Master."

She bent slightly at the waist but then turned to face him directly,

“Please, this way,” she said softly.

Though the matter seemed urgent, his impatience sharpened his tone.
"Come in, over here."

“Umbrellas and everything—well, they’re all buried in snow because...”
“Everyone’s footwear—”

Indeed, the arrangement of clogs resembled boats fleeing a storm. It must have been out of consideration—if snow fell, it would ruin them. "Moreover... um, please, just this way." "What is it?" he said sharply, still speaking in a strong tone as he closed the sliding door opposite—through which kitchen light filtered—behind him. In the pitch-dark earthen floor area, a single paper lantern with snow-laden sleeves made the night seem to stretch into endless distance. With a solicitous heart, "Is it coming down that hard?" he said as he stepped into the dirt-floored area. "The snow is already so deep that your geta are sinking."

Without even finishing hearing her out, he reached the lattice door.

"What?"

“There is a guest,” she said breathlessly, drawing her face back slightly… Her hurried breathing from rushing through the streets made the paper lantern’s light at her forehead glisten redly, almost damp with sweat.

“Who is it?”

“A Mr. Miyamoto, he says.”

“Miyamoto... What sort of man is he?”

At that moment—as she removed the umbrella sideways with a rustle and readjusted the lantern in one hand—snowflakes drifted beneath the eaves.

“No, it’s actually a lady who’s here.”

“A lady?”

“Yes.”

“A lady... Is she waiting?”

“Yes, she says she absolutely wishes to meet you.”

“Hmm...”

With only that, Shunkichi fell silent for a moment.

The maid, as if working her stout body into motion, bent her waist once more while—

“Moreover, when going out to meet her, she earnestly requested that you not inform your companions about your own affairs and keep it discreetly.”

“Strange. Weird. Did she say where she’s from?”
“Yes, from a distant place.”
“From far away?”
“She said she’s from Fukagawa.”
“Ah, you don’t need to fetch a scarf or anything.”
“…Go back.”

The maid stood dumbfounded, pressing her puffy-gloved hand and the paper lantern’s handle to her lips.

“What shall I do?”

“……Very well. I’ll return shortly.”

He turned back toward the sitting room, his geta clattering against the earthen floor—then paused abruptly.

“What does she look like?” he whispered.

“In that crimson underkimono... and barefoot.”

III

“First of all, it caught my eye—what with it being night and… well, the snow being white.”

Shunkichi—without an overcoat, hurrying homeward beneath a bamboo umbrella—found that even as his footing became treacherous in the snow, the sensation of being spiritually barefoot—heart and sky both pure white—pierced through him.

But how strange—no, not strange, yet peculiar—that time, yes, when they met after so long, only to part again that very night... And then, at that moment, through an unexpected careless mistake, he ended up doing something that drenched Osome's body in blood from chest to knee—

When he glanced around, his sleeve and every neighboring fence were snow.

—Last summer—I believe it was the end of August—

At the time of that incident, Osome wore white-ground Akashi silk layered with indigo-striped gauze—her circumstances being those of a mature woman fully contracted to a small geisha house—so even the sleeves entangled in this pitiful current took on seasonal hues: blossoms, autumn leaves, frost.
Speaking of September—both shadowed and sunlit areas around here... alongside sacred lanterns, one should change into gauze silks, fine figured silks, or unlined kimonos.
It had been drizzling and cool but still before August had made its presence known.
Moreover, this was when Osome had only recently begun working in Asakusa, seeming unaccustomed to everything; she would whisper discreetly with the mistress of her employing Tsuta house about where to go next, ultimately deferring to her instructions.

The debut day was blindingly hot, she said.

The proprietor being who he was—with few destinations where he could make grand entrances complete with retinues and creaking carriage wheels—having no regular clients at gleaming teahouses either, they carried Western umbrellas instead, the employer accompanying him as they diligently made their rounds through neighborhood meeting spots and small restaurants.

“Rustling and droning on and on—it was practically on the verge of tears.”
“I felt as though I’d been reborn an infant, yet I wasn’t disheartened.”

“Even that Western umbrella of yours isn’t new and cool, is it? You carried it around through the countryside on your travels—it’s covered in yellow stains, isn’t it? And when it comes to long underkimonos—well, it’s still this one, you see,” she said, gently pressing the light wisteria-colored half-collar with her thin-faced yet pale chin.

At that moment, in the back-alley meeting place on that drizzly night, the one who blushed while reminiscing bore not the delicate features of an evening glory but rather the crimson that enveloped her skin.

“[...] In this area, they say it must be this way. The master insists—it’s my debut attire, so there’s no helping it.”

“So I must stride about in white tabi socks, mustn’t I? At five years old I’d be pure white—my face turning patchy... If I leaned sideways in some mountain-deep place beneath a sooty lamp’s shadow and took my leave with a bow from the shoulders—that might pass—but even that’s terrifying, don’t you think?”

"It was broad daylight—utterly unbearable."

"A cold sweat—you see, with the blazing sun beating down and my hand holding the Western umbrella slipping—right from my palm—"

Her upper arm stood starkly pale, a white linen handkerchief pressed to her shoulder, the white dew of eyelids seen through a fixed gaze.

—Shunkichi stood alone at the heart of the snowbound mansion district.
……He flapped his shoulder sleeve to brush it off.
……When brushed away, it fluttered away—yet even in the night’s gaze did not vanish, still leaving its white impression stark.

IV

“With this—your handkerchief—I gripped the Western umbrella’s handle tightly as I walked.”

“As for the mistress trailing behind me—just look at that getup! Not that I’ve any right to judge others, but she’s even more made-up than me—trailing some absurdly long hem or whatnot, side locks plastered flat, black eyes glinting away, sleeves rolled up like she’s delivering a sales pitch!”

“Please try to understand.”

With an air of resignation, she furrowed her brows and cast down her eyes—then added self-mockery (“How pretentious—like a novice onnagata impersonating a modern girl!”)—as she pressed the handkerchief to her face. When droplets from her damp hair and iris petals fell while wind chimes tinkled along the eaves, she collapsed forward onto her knees, her geisha-style shimada coiffure bowing toward the floor.

At that moment, the mistress of the meeting house called out through the sliding door from where she sat by the long brazier.

“Osome-chan, it’s time to come out.”

When Shunkichi heard this, the hand resting on the woman’s shoulder trembled... She was too old to be called “Osome-chan.”
He felt repelled by this woman who had left the red-light district—yet somehow strangely felt that she too was being scorned, belittled, and coldly judged—a sensation that stiffened his entire body with dread until he found himself mired in this profoundly unpleasant state.

It was—so to speak—on account of that summons that the incident of drenching her in blood had occurred.

Looking back, he should never have met that woman—needless to say that night, nor indeed at any time, forever.

Because she had initially forced her way out of the red-light district, even after crossing the town’s bridge once, she ended up being swept away by the tide and went to Chiba to become a geisha.

In that region, he was thought to run a modest kimono shop—but when this young man, consumed by provincial temperament and rage through all-consuming obsession, destroyed both home and business, he abandoned his wife and child at a crossroads and fled to Tokyo with another woman through desperate scheming—marking that night’s spectacle of transient lodging in an inn.

When entering Suzaki’s red-light district, he—declaring “I’ll make these women of the great lattice bloom anew like broken branches putting down roots”—resolved to show their colors reborn. Desiring to cut a dashing figure, he found a brothel-teahouse that had been put up for sale after financial collapse and dispersal. Through whatever loans he could scrape together, he rushed through earnest money negotiations and took over running the business.

First came the scene where the brothel's day-night bell rang once to signal closure.

Did he recall—deliberately using a short smoking pipe, lined up beside a brand-new copper pot, blowing smoke from a half-seated position while watching shadowy figures flicker through the red-light district beneath snow’s bare face?

--He hid the accounts, concealing them in the ledger with his sleeve—so it was humbly reported—

After two years came word from the woman who had severed all ties.
Yet Shunkichi dared not respond to her employer regarding any line of work.

Letters bearing closure marks and wild-goose wings—naturally—soared through spring and autumn skies above his old boarding houses, reaching Shunkichi’s current dwelling two or three times. Without suspicion or jealousy, he instead spent those days berating himself as cowardly while shunning any meeting.

Before even the hazy night could pass—though the red-light district stood at the height of its double-petaled cherry blossoms—the woman had already hidden herself away.
...The chignon with its pale hem-edge likely stole out from the embankment's gloom.

The teahouse could not endure even half a year—due to the remaining debts of broken obligations, they drifted from Fukagawa along the Ōkawa River and washed up in Asakusa... With the severed hairpiece tucked within my geisha chignon, I cleanly severed ties with that man from Chiba—I humbly report.

It was when Shunkichi received such letters—amid the call of the lesser cuckoo by the five-storied pagoda.

The season of fresh greenery in deep mountains......

Snow-covered forest, snow-covered wall—Shunkichi arrived at the crossroads.

V

It was late August. That day, Yoshioka Shunkichi—returning alone from Mukōjima’s Hyakkaen Garden—saw clouds suddenly sweep over the embankment near Mimeguri, turning the Ōkawa River white. He came by rickshaw as far as Nakamise and tried boarding a streetcar from there, but encountered the usual chaos.
The sudden rain had multiplied the crowd beyond measure.
A spectacle as if all Edo’s populace had been crammed into boxes.
The imprudence manifested like flies kneaded into rice cakes—limbs flailing as they clung to windows and footboards.

The streetcars swelled black and monstrous before their eyes, then creaked forward three cars, five cars at a time—as though the rain were scouring away the crowd by force.
With brazen disregard, a Western-clad woman clutching a child finally managed to cling to the handrail and begin boarding—only to be thrust back by the conductor’s hand as if swatted with an iron rod.
When she stumbled, her hat went flying—and the child released a piercing shriek.

At this surge of determination,

"The hell I will."

If I was going to get soaked, then soaked I'd be—and with that resolve, he dashed out resolutely.

From Nakamise to the main hall, all traces of people vanished. The rain fell unchecked, its sound deepening the solitude. He passed resolutely through the Nio Gate, followed the temple’s stone pavement to the right, viewed the corridor railings as though they were third-story heights, gazed up at the imposing eaves like a ship’s prow, and dodged spray with each panting breath.

Leaving his wet hat on the stairway’s giboshi ornaments, he wandered in a daze by Setahashi Bridge like a solitary traveler at dusk…

The wind picked up, and the rain began to let up coldly.

Startled by the eeriness of the raindrops, he lowered his rolled-up sleeves and adjusted his damply clinging collar.
Because of this sultry weather, the mugginess would inevitably bring thunder.

Dusk was already deepening; lights flickered here and there—as many as their number—and scattered figures passed by. Voices floated up weightlessly, flickering before his eyes like bats emerging from a great roof; willows came into view, tree trunks emerged, all melting into ink strokes—some dark, others faint.

Having left home since morning, the man who had journeyed a considerable distance now felt as though he were on some strangely distant pilgrimage—like someone taking solitary shelter from rain in a temple amidst vast wilderness, overwhelmed by longing for his village and yearning for human connection.

"Should I go and visit? It’s around here."

Already, from the moment he rushed in and caught his breath, the loneliness of this trapped, confining rain made him think of relatives or friends—someone in Asakusa with a single bamboo umbrella—and at once, right there before his eyes, it felt as though a frail face peered out from an alley’s bay window, clinging to the lattice to gaze his way. The woman’s presence… soaked into his very muscles and bones, crushed tight by this pressure… and this human longing only grew stronger indeed.…

To meet her there—in that distant red-light district in another part of the country along his journey—was to encounter a disheveled young woman clinging to him late into the night; the crimson crepe silk brushing her hand against his chest stirred him as though it were shared blood coursing through kindred flesh.

The house that had sheltered her, the name of her employment—learned through letters—he could not forget them.

"Very well."

He shook his shoulders once, steeled himself with a breath drawn deep into his chest, pulled his hat low over his brow, and stepped out from beneath the temple’s eaves…

The rain had eased enough that it no longer struck his face directly, but his drawn-tight sleeves hung heavy as he plodded dejectedly through serpentine backstreets and cross lanes.
Following a ditch along the valley's deepest trough lay a mountain path growing steadily darker.

VI

At times from his feet came the shadow of a woman where a startled bird took flight.
...To shrill, pitiful cries of cicadas—said to be snatched by kites—their fragile voices chilling Shunkichi to the core, and to flickering fox-fire from sacred lanterns illuminating his face, he startled repeatedly and covered his eyes; yet the path only sank deeper into the slope.
At last in the valley’s depths, by a ditch where water flowed like lacquer, before a thorn-like lattice gate, there lingered a single fox-fire that never vanished from sight—dimly glowing with the characters for "Tsutaya."

“This is it.”

Stealthily bending down to peer at the sacred lantern, he found no trace of small grasses—only a single slip inscribed with "Someji."
And even this was scrawled on paper pasted over where a geisha’s name had likely once been.
Rather than the newness meaning they hadn’t even had time to change the signboard—still freshly opened—what met his eyes was the pitiful sight of a frail woman in this cheap traveler’s inn, wrapped in a paper-stuffed quilt.

With that unvoiced thought, Shunkichi passed by in silence.

But at the rodent-like squeak from the lattice door across the way, he startled with a gasp—as if startled by a flying squirrel’s bark—then turned back and retraced his steps to Tsutaya’s gate.

He bowed his head, trudged forward, and peered at the sacred lantern again.
But whether the earlier rain had forced it shut, the framed shoji was drawn closed. …There, blinded by patched paper, he wondered if that woman was Someji—his heart racing—and passed by once more.

The rodent-like squeak looked this way.
Like a fox’s, yet the nose was white.

Shunkichi retraced his steps.
He went back again and repeated the same actions four or five times.

It wasn't some shameful matter of lodging at a cheap traveler's inn in pursuit of finer things... Having followed various shadows these three years like a pilgrim's pack filled with famous sites from every province, meeting this long-unseen acquaintance here and now would surely not end peacefully—they would likely face some sudden upheaval, he felt a premonitory unease stirring in his chest.

“Excuse me.”

When Shunkichi finally steeled himself to call out, his hand pressed against the latticework as he stood with one foot poised to flee.

“Good evening.”

“Good evening.”

With a flat yet precisely enunciated tone, she slid open the shoji halfway—what he had initially mistaken for a reclusive crone now revealed swollen eyelids over a short stature, her neck whitened with powder, the yukata’s pattern incongruously youthful against her unmistakably middle-aged appearance.

He recognized her at once as the mistress.

Shunkichi shrank back sharply toward the alley’s shadows, avoiding the sacred lantern’s light.

With her white-powdered neck beneath that jutting forehead, her shrewdly gleaming golden-pot eyes—petty-cunning and worldly-wise—piercingly surveyed him.

“Good evening.”
“And who might you be?”

“Is there someone called Someji at your house?”

“Yes, she is indeed here, but...”

She planted herself squarely in the doorway—as if to bodily block his path yet simultaneously prevent his escape—filling every inch of the frame.

“Might I trouble you to call her out?”

Ah—I shouldn’t have come—though there likely wasn’t even an inner chamber—if she wouldn’t emerge after hearing my voice—the sensation struck me like plunging into a mire of clinging mud.

“She’s just now gone to bathe... Oh you.” Her gilded eyes gleamed brighter still.

“Then I shall return later.”

“Oh, you.”

Having perhaps assessed his appearance, she hurriedly stepped down into the earthen floor with one foot,

“I’ll be back shortly now, so do come in.”

“No—I thought to borrow an umbrella as I was in trouble along the way, but the rain’s already let up.”

“Oh now, you’re not being serious.
“Why, I’d get an earful from Some-chan if I sent you away like this.”

VII

“Do come share an umbrella, Some-chan—you must be delighted, ehehehe. You there, fare you well.”

With that she ushered him out.…

The umbrella—Someji took hold of its edge and raised it.

“What a vile old hag.”

“She can still hear us.”

She gently pulled the edge of his sleeve downward.

In that manner they walked several meters in silence through the drizzly alley... Shunkichi gradually... until at last he stepped out from under the umbrella.

"You'll get wet."

The man wordlessly crossed his arms and walked on.

“You’ll get a bit wet.”

Still toward the darkness, the man whispered.

“Even though I told you you’d get wet,”

Her hand reached out—grabbing the sleeve of his haori and tugging firmly—tilting the umbrella,

“How stubborn you are.”

“Are you crying or what, ‘big sister’?”

“…You know—this nostalgia, this longing—age sets no limits on them.”

“Anyway, you… It’s no good standing here at the edge of the alley.”

“Oh, let’s go quickly.”

When she let fall the sleeve that had been covering her eyes, it fluttered faintly in the distant gaslight.

“It feels rather affected and awkward, isn’t it.”

Adjusting the hem into place—

“If we’re speaking of awkwardness—here I stand with every hair standing on end. My light makeup’s passable enough, but when I returned flushed from the bath, didn’t the mistress call out ‘Some-chan, a customer—’?”

No regular would come inside like that—I thought it must be some gawker from nowhere in particular. Gave some half-hearted ‘Oh really?’ while hanging the hand towel, then peeked from the kitchen entrance—and there you were! I turned crimson.
“So mortifying.”

“Why?”

“I thought they might notice, you know.”

“What…?”

“But what do you mean? You could’ve just called from a teahouse or meeting place somewhere, instead of barging in here so abruptly.”

“It’s been three years, and not a single letter came through. It feels like searching for something precious I’ve lost—I know it must be somewhere, but whether it exists at all—whether I can find it—there’s no telling. Moreover, I’m completely unfamiliar with the area—can’t tell east from west. I sat waiting in the teahouse’s great hall with just a single tray set before me—and no such geisha exists... She does exist—if she’s gone out somewhere far, it would’ve been better to come check. You know how utterly inflexible it all was—so fine, I couldn’t exactly call some unfamiliar woman over while ordering another flask of sake on the side. Went there meaning to abandon all caution, I tell you.”

“Though of course, had I known you were there, I would have turned back from the entrance and called for you somewhere else, I suppose. The old madam would’ve come chasing after me, wouldn’t she? I had no choice but to go inside. There was only one room. The old madam waited right there by the long brazier—with nowhere to direct my gaze, I sat there utterly dejected, I tell you.”

“He wasn’t some flashy patron—you’re the one with the scandalous reputation, aren’t you? My apologies.”

“Well now—it seems you’ve learned spitefulness and taken to resentment.”
“Who was it that spoke of reputations, Mr. Shun?”

She tightened her grip on the seized sleeve,

“If the mistress notices—if she notices—then every time we meet from now on will require explanations, won’t it? Using excuses like temple visits or practice lessons to meet in secret—how hateful it is!”

“I know all about how things began—given my age. My husband makes such a fuss—and then my face was seen… I was utterly dejected, I tell you. —Your precious reputation, was it? My apologies. …Who told you?”

With a soft “Hmph” of laughter,

“You’re such an amateur.”

Eight

“...I deliberately kept quiet and tried my hardest to endure. Forgive me.”

Her voice grew husky again and sank low,

“I wanted to bite you without a word, but there you were acting all composed, leisurely smoothing your hair like that.”

“With nowhere else to rest my eyes, I observed you thoroughly… It was dazzling.”

“Like snow, don’t you think? This pose with one knee slightly raised—it feels ancient somehow, frozen for a thousand years… Then the mistress says ‘My, Some-chan’s being quite particular today!’ When usually she nags—‘Apply more powder! Show more nape hair!’”
“I don’t know what you thought, but I imagine you were thoroughly bewildered.”

“I may want to present myself well, but even if I’m frail—it’s not like I’m before you… Please understand.”
“I was embarrassed before you—something like my breasts.”

Her chest tightened as though constricted; her shoulders appeared slender yet heavy. Shunkichi reached for the umbrella, then silently let go as if forgetting.

“No, it was quite alright—with my damp hair after bathing and my light makeup hastily redone, not to mention having donned that scarlet crepe underkimono on the very day I arrived.”

“Oh please—stop… The brazier area’s visible from the side street! Whether undressing or dressing—there’s only the space before that mirror stand… That’s why I told you to face the wall—didn’t I?”

“But wasn’t that how you were more often before—without your clothes? I’m not frightened in the slightest.”

“Hey… hehehe…”

She laughed and briefly faltered,

“But you see—once it comes to this, even I feel transformed. Before you, even a bride would be no different… What was it now? That Senryū verse—‘The bride below dresses then rises swiftly…’”

“You’re such a scholar.”

“That’s just like you.”

“Thanks for nothing—since when do people make scholars tie obi? Hey… Can’t you even fasten it alone yet?”

“People… Geisha do that, you know.”

“Do as you damn well please!”

“Huh?”

“This is getting ridiculous.”

“You’ll fall into the gutter, you know.”

“Ahem!”

He shouted, and someone passed by in the opposite direction.
Already, the pale blue shoulder area veiled by aged gaslight.

“Where is it?”

“It’s by the straight wall.”

It was right near that straight wall.

"Is this the only sitting room?"

Shunkichi said in a small voice.

"There's another room."

said Someji.
The eight-tatami room they were shown into had its lamp lit, the tatami mats crisp and vividly blue.
In the alcove stood arranged flowers.
To Shunkichi's eyes—fresh from mountain dwellings—the space felt like viewing an exhibition tea pavilion.
Yet upon entering, he had seen that a single sliding door led directly to a tea room with upper frame and banding, where a worldly man with topknot sat knees planted firmly in place.

He couldn't produce even a sparrow's worth of voice in conversation.

When he peered into what seemed to be another room, the edge of a small garden bent sharply and ended at a wooden door.... Through its narrowly opened gap, what appeared like moonlight was actually the pale glow of a box lantern hung beneath the eaves—its light deepening the greenery while blurring them into a faint blue haze beyond.

They exchanged glances.

Suddenly, the two shifted.

The man propped his elbow on the central low table,

“After that...
What do you want to do?”

“It’s no use talking.”

In desperation, she shook her stray locks... then offered a gentle, knowing smile—sisterly in its reassurance that she wouldn’t cause worry.

IX

“How rude of me—I must apologize for summoning Madam like this.”
“But I thought if someone else were to come into your presence, it would only be a hindrance, you see, sir.”

The maid said this through the sliding door from the waiting area.

After cleanly closing the sliding door behind her with both hands, she glanced back at the silent response. Still holding the tea utensils tray in one hand, she straightened up. Her figure—trailing the crimson hem of her underkimono over Akashi silk—appeared vividly beautiful, like steady raindrops soaking through striped pale yellow fabric to awaken dewdrops.

“No.”

Without any sense of timing in his response to what she had said—thrusting her knee forward abruptly—the maid deposited both tray and teacup onto Shunkichi’s lap.

A suction cup filled with tea sat positioned in one spot.

This should have been placed on the low table. Otherwise, had she waited a bit longer, there would have been no issue. She had never been properly trained as a geisha. The former courtesan was accustomed to leaning against others. Moreover, ashamed of the cold sweat from her debut day, just as she had prostrated herself across Shunkichi’s lap, she was called “Debana” and made to stand up. ……

Osome returned to her original seat and approached while presenting the tray, glancing back once more through the sliding door.
How should he treat such a woman of repute—(she had called her “Madam”)—had she peered through with eyes that clung to his knees? Her gaze, brimming with shame and resentment, concentrated twenty years’ worth of tensions from the pleasure quarters before fixing itself intensely upon the sliding door.

Absently watching as if in a dream—when Shunkichi reached for the morning-glory-shaped tea bowl brimming with liquid—the clattering sound resonated through her chest. The woman seemed to think he had taken the entire tray.
With a thud, the tray fell. Pulled by her startled hand trying to right it, the tea bowl containing Shunkichi’s portion spilled its contents.
The suction cup too sprang into action—Osome was drenched from shoulders to chest and across both knees with every last drop of tea.

Billowing white steam enveloped and settled like a crimson heat haze over a collapsing hem.

With neck slenderly tilted, face turned away, shimada hairstyle askew,

“Ah!” she said.

“Are you burned?” he said, grabbing her shoulder as she started to collapse.

“What happened?” The maid rushed in, and upon seeing their state,

“A cloth! A cloth!” she cried, leaping upward—her leg kicking back the hem of her robe appeared like some demon’s thrall caught there, slipping through the lintel to escape.

When Shunkichi flicked droplets from his hand onto the upturned tray—after she had been drenched from sleeve seams to knees, scooping tea leaves like buried autumn leaves—

“It’s quite all right—just leave it be. Now I’ll—”

As she spoke, she pressed a white hand towel edged in pale yellow against her side—the side.
When she pressed squelchingly on the knee—the wetness soaking through her underkimono into the Akashi stripes—lapping peach-colored droplets stained the hand towel.—

“Yes—I remembered that time… When they cut me here with a dagger,”……

And so, a year later on a snowy night in the second month, Osome leaned weakly against the movable kotatsu in the second-floor room behind Shunkichi’s lattice fence and spoke.

Now that night, when the maid from the waiting area reappeared holding cleaning rags in both hands, Someji—though despondent—parted her gauze silk sleeve to show,

“It’ll leave a stain, won’t it.”

“Oh, well… I’m so…”

The stain stretched and shrank.

“Anyway, we’ve got to get you out of it—it’ll dry quick enough once we do… Come over here.”
“Now then—sir, I need to attend to Madam’s skin. My apologies, but since you’re being difficult, there’s no helping it.……”

Shunkichi silently turned away.

“Here’s a yukata—come on, you.”

Led away in this manner, Someji quietly exited next.
...Through the guild’s connections, even the maid of the waiting area—knowing full well the loss incurred when the brothel owner had her decked out in her finest outfit—must have handled things so roughly. Ah.

X

“It’s all right… It’s all right.”

“What an outrageous calamity… What will you tell the master?”

“I’ve no intention of devouring it, so spare me your fretting.”

She smiled faintly; her face appeared pale—though this proved merely a trick of light from green-dyed mosquito netting cast across her features.

When it was time to return，she had briskly dried it and hastily put it on；though she’d made the man hold an umbrella，when he told her to stop，she scurried through the light rain to hire a rickshaw herself and climbed in．

Tilting the snake-eye-patterned umbrella into the mud，nearly crushing the punt pole as she clung to the mudguard，the petite woman’s pale face peered upward into the hood；

“Soon．”

“…………”

“Surely?”

“Mm.”

“I will, definitely.”

Shunkichi silently nodded.

It must have been too dark to see.

“Definitely.”

“I get it.”

“Is that acceptable?”

“Shut up,” he said without meaning it—merely venting his irritation before the rickshaw driver—exhausted from worrying since dusk, drained until even summer rain chilled him to shivering. Paying this no mind, he straightened up as if relieved, and when—

“Rickshaw man, here—... That fare has been paid, you know.”

“There is.”

“He acted all high and mighty—and here’s a small gratuity.”
“Please take care… really now, take care… Is that acceptable?”

“It’s quite all right, sister,” he said while accepting the gratuity with one hand that held the punt pole.

"But it's so far - the road's terrible, and dark besides."

"Understood."

"Then... soon."

As the car charged through shadowy contours of the avenue with a hollow thud at its rear, Someji stood abandoned by night's receding tide—her figure drooping in dejection.

When the vehicle veered from the roadbed, Shunkichi hid his face between both palms beneath the rickshaw hood where no prying eyes could shame him, tears streaming through his fingers......

"But it's so dreadfully far—the road's ruined, and pitch black besides."

Without knowing her whereabouts, he thought they had parted.

Though it was no matter to be treated lightly—for without being prepared to compensate both the master and the woman for that gauze silk, he believed they must not meet even through forbearance—no matter how frantically he struggled, he could not amass the funds in half a month or even a full one.

Not only that—at the edge of a letter where Osome had persistently summoned him—it stated: *The Akashi silk’s stain was refused even by professional cleaners; thus having no alternative but to perform soaking washes, warming and drying it against human skin, we do a little each day—the mistress and I lying together nightly※ (cursive variant of “参候”)*.
"Though each night brings torments worse than a bed of nails, when I recall the lingering memory of meeting your lordship, even this reality feels joyously nostalgic to my waking heart…※ (cursive variant of “参候”)"

The stain on the Akashi silk that we press against ourselves each night with soaking washes.

How could she go through with that? With bare hands—how?

In mid-autumn, she had moved—so it was said—and only that brief message came from Jōshū Ikaho.

The promise of "I’ll explain in detail later" had remained unfulfilled—until tonight.

Shunkichi trampled through the ceaseless snow, and recalling when he had seen off the rickshaw—having forgotten his umbrella—he let the falling snow pelt his bent head as thoughts of obligation and betrayal, public eyes and society’s judgment, inexcusable absence and lingering tenderness—and there, within them all, the woman’s figure—left his heart shadowed and his sight blurred by white snow; a droplet fell—perhaps melted from his lashes.

XI

“……That’s how it was, you see… You shouldn’t hold it against me so.”

Over the woman’s single-layered underkimono-clad back, Shunkichi draped his own removed kasuri-patterned padded haori, his hand resting on her shoulder as he leaned against the same corner of the movable kotatsu without facing her.

When he returned inside, stumbling once as he stepped up to the threshold, he opened the sliding door to where the Buddhist altar stood in the back, placed a foot warmer there, and then saw the maid sleeping peacefully—her neatly combed lovely white hair and undone hem visible in the lamplight. He quietly closed the door again and stomped up the stairs, but with the shoji shut tight and no tension in its frame, the lamp revealed no shadow of that person.

And he thought it was a lie.

There, thinking that with a plop he would awaken from the dream—even the phantom snow that had lingered until now seemed to vanish all at once—he opened the shoji with a drained resolve born of deflated spirits. From within the chintz-draped movable kotatsu positioned far from the desk and facing the veranda edge in darkness came swaying black hair and a gaunt yet pale face.
The crimson crepe silk shoulder slipping smoothly away was no dream.

“What’s wrong?”

He looked at her face.

“You must have been surprised by such clever attire.”

she smiled wryly.

“I was surprised.”

Letting out a relieved breath, Shunkichi sat down heavily—for the first time—on the edge of the Seto-ware brazier.

“Ah, the zabuton cushion is over here.”

At her words—seeing her try to shift aside the cushion that had been pressed against her back as she slept—

“Lay it out there. Let’s move over—half each,”

And Shunkichi laughed for the first time.……

Osome had come from Ueno Station.
—without even going to her parents’ home in Fukagawa—she had come directly here by carriage.
They had passed Kagurazaka, but in snow deepening by the minute found themselves breathless at the post office’s steep slope—unable to advance despite their efforts.
With no alternative, they pushed through pathless snow beyond that point, wandering among bamboo fences this way and that—hesitating at every glimpsed window light—searching about for a time.
The Western-style umbrella they’d carried broke under snow’s weight and was abandoned mid-journey.
It had been bought fresh when departing Suzaki.
"It felt like being haunted," she said with a joyless laugh.

Shunkichi thought of disheveled black hair undulating through snow within the swastika pattern.

After the maid—considering nothing more pressing than lighting the kotatsu and guiding them to it—had gone out to meet them at their destination, she removed her sleeves, skirt, and all garments that had merely felt cold but now turned eerie from being soaked, hanging them beneath the futon—or so it was said.

"What's most unnerving is soaked clothing... Even hearing about it chills me."
"...I'm sorry."
"Ms. Osome."

At this, the woman harbored resentment.

Even along the return path, having heard excuses accompanied by genuine tears, within the kotatsu's warm surface heat, melted snow had uniformly come to dwell in the woman's eyes.
At that moment, Osome's eyes were opened wide and beautiful.

“What about the maid?”

“The maid? When tears come unbidden in the snow, everything turns hazy and red somehow—you know how it is.”
“I rubbed my eyes, and there—a lantern went drifting ahead.”
“At last, for the first time, I could make out scattered indentations from geta clogs in the snow.”
“The wind had risen... She must’ve struggled through it.”
“That maid who went ahead—still staggering there, not even hearing the laborers behind her.”
“I caught up with her—this very maid—and while taking her hand to lend strength as we plodded along, I asked about the kotatsu too.”

“When I said, ‘Since we’re at it, stop by the sake shop,’ she agreed right away with a bright ‘Yes!’, so I got carried away and ordered another kitsune soba.”

“For a customer from Joshu, this suits perfectly, doesn’t it.”

“Don’t be sarcastic. …But knowing you’ve refused noodle dishes from the beginning, I had them prepare ten-no-nuki.”

“Oh, I’m happy.”

Taking his hand firmly on her knee,

“Well then—place a tray on this kotatsu, pour the sake, you pour a cup, then I’ll drink too.”

She gazed intently at his face,

“My wish has come true. Just once in my life, I wanted to drink sake with you like this.”
“Ah, I’m happy.”
“This joy makes me tremble so—how vexing that my pouring remains clumsy.”
“I’ll practice.”
“…Pass me that small hanging vase?”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll practice holding the sake flask.”

“You’re acting like a madman, you know.”

“Come now—I’m begging you—has there ever been a single time you’ve done as I wished?”

“Alright, alright—for tonight, it’ll be as you wish.”

There was the built-in cupboard. Her hand immediately reached for the slightly wilted narcissus brushing against it—clinging precariously as if about to fall—and stealthily took them. While alluringly slipping her haori off one shoulder, no sooner had she received it than—without pause—she gulped it down in one go with gurgling sounds through her throat.

“Oh, Osome.”

“But it’s so painful here,”

she said with white fingers tremblingly rubbing her chest.

“Ah, that was delicious.
Now pour.
No, I wouldn’t give you anything poisonous. Just take a tiny sip, please.
As if to a flower.”

“Fine then.” …When he tried to drink without hesitation, not a drop remained.

It was when he brought the flower to his lips.

“When the sake comes, I want to drink it happily without thinking of anything... I truly suffered such cruel, pitiful things in Ikaho.”

“Because meeting you makes me want to forget everything, please listen.”
“In Ikaho… I immediately got a patron.”
“He was what they called a local contractor, you see. Even though I never asked, he forced me to come along—set up a shooting gallery under the stone steps with prize displays. That’s where the woman with the round chignon was.”
“In this cold, wearing just a single-layer kimono and shivering violently—that… Chiba one.”
“The clothier came by earlier, didn’t he?”
“Feeling pity, when someone spent money to arrange an inn for her, she wouldn’t leave even after staying—so the master grew madly jealous over this woman he kept, and since the so-called speculator was a gambler with many reckless wastrels under him… if they found out it’d cause trouble… so they explained the karmic reasons and told her to come to the next lodging…… We should’ve stopped then—entering the bath was a mistake…… You saw when I untied my obi, didn’t you.”

“Osome—today’s fine weather makes this snow-viewing spot famous, where you can faintly see the Sumida River from the mountains behind us. He invited me to go see it together.”

“Overcome with longing, I carelessly climbed the snowy path. At the mountain pass plateau—they grabbed my hair and knocked me down—dragged me through the snow—my limbs torn by honey locust branches where piled snow slid off—and when I saw those truly crimson fruits, I thought—am I a tormented spirit being driven up Needle Mountain on this snowy pass?”

“And then… tied to a standing tree……”

“Osome.”

“When they slashed me with the dagger—here, here, and there—the blade glinting sharply as blood flowed across my whole body... I—the way it oozed down from my chest, my breasts—found it so intensely gratifying it could have quenched my thirst.”
“I smiled and smiled.”
“It was an indescribably sweet sensation.”
“To you… to you… At that time—remembering being completely drenched in it gave me such an indescribably sweet sensation.”
“This underkimono.”
“They slashed me here—and here—and here—”

To Shunkichi's transfixed gaze, she opened her chest and pressed a hand towel against it. When he looked, her face turned deathly pale as what had been soaked with blood overflowed, trickling through trembling fingers. Shunkichi lunged forward. The blood kept overflowing—like soundless snow—splattering ceaselessly. With a clang, the Buddhist altar's bell rang out.

“Master, Master.”

“Ah.”

When he raised his face, there was no one.
A narcissus had fallen onto the kotatsu, water from the flower vase dripping down.

Shunkichi ran down.

The maid, who had been standing reservedly at the bottom of the steps, looked startled,

"Oh my, well—the sake decanter has run out."

Shunkichi’s breath came in gasps,

“W-well, after all that trouble… The guest has left.”

When he looked, a light had been lit at the Buddhist altar where the old woman sat piously—the voice of Dharma.

"...I eternally abide here through manifold supernatural powers, yet deluded sentient beings nearby cannot see me. When the multitude witnesses my nirvana and extensively venerates relics, all shall cherish longing and awaken thirsting reverence..."

The starlight of sacred lamplight upon white hair—Kannon Bodhisattva abides there.
He rushed over and suddenly embraced her shoulders.

“Grandmother, why are you reciting sutras at this hour?”

To her flustered grandson, she turned calmly toward him, prayer beads in one hand,

“Well, just now in my dream… there was a beautiful woman… who asked me to perform a memorial service… I’ll tell you all the details tomorrow.”
"Namu Myōhō Renge Kyō."
"...extensively venerate relics; all cherish longing and awaken thirsting reverence. When sentient beings submit faithfully, their minds become honest and pliant..."

The newspaper telegrams and subsequent Jōshū articles will not be mentioned here.
Shunkichi was twenty-seven years old.

O fields of Ikaho, O marsh of Ikaho—how is it that

Now would I glimpse my beloved once more.

Taishō 3 (1914), January