Pathway to Japanese Literature

The man called Teraiuchi who told me this story—according to what I heard—had apparently died last November, around seven in the evening on the very day I listened to his account and returned home, having aggravated his illness and struck his head against a pillar in his room.

When you consider it was seven o'clock—the incident occurred less than three hours after he sent me away.
The acquaintance who had casually mentioned this during our chat—responding to my uncharacteristic astonishment—explained that while Mr. Teraiuchi's death was indeed a suicide, it ought properly to be termed a death from illness, and that everything had already been properly concluded as such.
But at that moment, I found myself doubting whether this so-called death from illness could truly merit such a designation.
This was because I recalled the story I had heard from Mr. Teraiuchi during his lifetime; at the time—when I had been compelled to listen—given both the peculiarity of the location and the nature of my interlocutor, not to mention having this imposed by a complete stranger, I had dismissed it as merely curious. Yet now, upon learning of his suicide, both the intensity of his earnestness then and the absence of logical flaws in his account struck me with fresh clarity.

Mr. Teraiuchi insisted on his own righteousness during pauses in his story, but now, considering it all—those unrestrained outbursts of agitation and cutting insults directed at others—I feel I can fully understand them as desperate cries before his suicide.

Mr. Teraiuchi might have told this story to someone before me.
However, given how drastically the story deviated from our common sense and the prejudice toward the places and people involved, probably no one would have believed it.
For Mr. Teraiuchi, there must have been no path left but suicide.
Even I, who now speak these words, had at that time been drawn in by the story's intrigue and indeed sat facing him for nearly two hours in that monitored room—yet I recall maintaining a readiness to bolt immediately should danger arise, gripped by the anxiety that I might suffer some unforeseen harm at any moment.

The eyes glaring wide with rage, the particularly vehement tone of his curses, his demeanor reminiscent of a political activist, and those moments when he would peer down the hallway like a wary cat—all these indeed misled our perception of Mr. Teraiuchi.
Mr. Teraiuchi had every right—just like us—to assert his humanity with dignity under this cheerful blue sky!

I think I will try to publish this story for Mr. Teraiuchi’s sake.
Even if this cannot save Mr. Teraiuchi's suicide from being misdesignated as death from illness, should there be even one person who considers this truth, it would bring some measure of satisfaction to Mr. Teraiuchi beneath the earth.
Moreover, I believe that Mr. Teraiuchi’s fate as manifested in this story will before long become one aspect of our collective fate.

This terrifying story began with a rather peculiar springtime adventure from Mr. Teraiuchi's twenties—he who died in his thirties.
But readers must surely know that behind every smile lurks a black mask—

It is said that by then, Mr. Teraiuchi no longer felt even a shred of attachment to what people call "the city."
Having realized that employment offices existed solely for a limited, specialized class of people and held no meaning beyond that, Mr. Teraiuchi stuffed into his pockets a resume, his school appointment documents, a copy of his family register, and an empty purse—then simply kept moving forward.

He couldn't bring himself to lift his head, so he walked with his eyes fixed on the grimy ground. However, from time to time into his field of vision would enter countless feet—some moving parallel to him and others not—busily striding away or approaching. At times, through gaps between those innumerable feet, he glimpsed across to where rows of houses stood rooted along the street beyond. He saw the wheels of a tram that appeared packed with people being carried away. And those feet, wheels, and rows of houses made Mr. Teraiuchi feel the loneliness of not having a single acquaintance among all those people.

Of course he was hungry, but as he kept walking, it wasn't so bad. But in his head—that unpleasant, sleep-deprived mind—the face of an apron-clad woman, the signboard of an eatery, a single spoon on a table, the color of miso soup—such things flickered and flickered without cease.

While walking in this half-dreamlike state, Mr. Teraiuchi found himself at Asakusa Park.
A distance of nearly three ri—yet before he knew it, he found his way to one of those benches with peeling paint by Hyoutan Pond.

The time was just after Rokku District had emptied out, where cheerful people—now reduced to dark shapes—were still being swept toward the tramway. Yet to Mr. Teraiuchi’s ears, collapsed on that bench, the shuffling footsteps growing distant resonated as though he were listening from within a buried pit to mourning relatives retreating after interment.

The lights of Rokku District flickered out one after another.
As if chased by their extinction, the raucous cries of night market vendors that had persisted until now dwindled away, and beneath the vanished commotion lay an intensified chill that crept up to engulf his toes.
A sickly sweet wind seemed to pass through his lungs from chest to back, he recounted.

After closing his eyes for a while without any particular reason, Mr. Teraiuchi took out the resume from his pocket and, with equal nonchalance, slowly read over its text.
He found the declaration of his samurai lineage absurdly comical, while the characters indicating his school employment abruptly filled him with loathing.
Thoughts of the countryside fleetingly grazed his mind.
However, Mr. Teraiuchi's train of thought—extending beyond mere train fare to his current lack of even a single coin—dissolved like tofu into vague mush.

Mr. Teraiuchi threw the resume over his shoulder into Hyoutan Pond.
Next came the official appointment document, the family register copy, then the empty purse.

The pitiful glow of the all-night lamp beside the bench flickered palely, illuminating Mr. Teraiuchi's sinking past like a magic-lantern show.
Whatever past, whatever history—wasn't all of it completely unnecessary to the current me?

“Ha ha ha!” Mr. Teraiuchi tried to laugh as heartily as he could.
And then, as if keeping time with it, “Ha ha ha!” someone immediately laughed right beside Mr. Teraiuchi.

Mr. Teraiuchi said that the sensation he felt at that moment was like—for instance—being struck on the shin with a hard fire tong: an utterly indescribable feeling.
When he looked, there at the opposite end of the same bench sat a man—an old man wrapped in a tattered blanket—still grinning at Mr. Teraiuchi with only his face.

“What’re you gonna do?”

Eventually, the old man addressed him, but Mr. Teraiuchi says that at that moment, stunned by the shock of unexpectedly finding someone there, he couldn’t immediately respond.

“The samurai class is such dull creatures.”

When the old man addressed him yet again, Mr. Teraiuchi was thinking about the laborers bound for Hokkaido he had once heard of.
And as he stared at the old man’s round face, gentle eyes, healthy-looking complexion, and robust physique, he wondered whether this man was truly such a terrifying person.

“Schoolteachers are such dull creatures.”

The old man continued.
But Mr. Teraiuchi still could not muster a response.

“That purse is a hopeless piece of work.”

When had this old man come to this bench—and when had he learned that Mr. Teraiuchi was of samurai lineage and had once been employed at an elementary school?
And it is said that Mr. Teraiuchi remained silent, still staring at the old man’s face.

“How about it? Wanna eat?”

“Ha ha ha!” laughed the old man as he took out a newspaper-wrapped package from the blanket he’d been fidgeting with and opened it.
And the eight or nine bananas—apparently leftovers—suddenly stirred Mr. Teraiuchi’s appetite.
Don’t reach out, don’t reach out—what little reason remained made him imagine the fate of those Hokkaido-bound laborers.
But at that moment, Mr. Teraiuchi later recounted, he simply couldn’t resist the temptation.

“May I...?”

Young Mr. Teraiuchi had meant to say as much, but the sudden clammy stickiness in his mouth made those words vanish before they could escape his lips.
But in the next instant, without reason or logic, Mr. Teraiuchi was already sitting beside the old man, amiably peeling the banana’s skin.
And how softly that flavor caressed his throat!

“Got any cigarettes?”

Just as they finished eating, the old man asked.
Mr. Teraiuchi hadn’t anticipated a post-meal smoke, but when posed the question, an irresistible urge surged through him, reaching the very tips of his chilled fingers.

“Oh, did I already smoke them all? I was sure some remained—no, wait, they must still be around. I’ll have you go fetch some.”

Before Mr. Teraiuchi could respond, the old man—who had been rummaging through his blanket—apparently finding no cigarettes on his person, muttered this and rose from the bench.

And until the old man returned with cigarettes, the thoughts passing through Mr. Teraiuchi’s breast were neither curses toward the past nor imaginings of the future, but rather this single question: what manner of man was this old man who had just departed?

Judging by his clothing—even to Mr. Teraiuchi, unfamiliar as he was with the area—the old man appeared to be nothing but a beggar.
Yet to call him a beggar felt inadequate—there was something distinctly gentlemanly in his turns of phrase and demeanor.
If one were to judge by his mention of “going to get cigarettes,” then surely the old man was a labor recruiter for Hokkaido-bound workers—wasn’t the place he’d gone to fetch them his comrades’ house?
If that were true, what would become of me now?
I’ve heard that once they engage with someone, through their fearsome collective power, they never let their mark escape.
But how could such a villain not even have cigarette money for his own dealings?
If the old man was a beggar, then he had already been given a meal by that beggar.
Having come to the capital barely two months ago—had he already taken a step down into beggar society?—such lonely premonitions kept passing through Mr. Teraiuchi’s breast.

“Well, Asahi cigarettes—”

It wasn’t long before the old man returned energetically.

Mr. Teraiuchi said that even then, he couldn’t resist the temptation.
If he was going to be shipped off to Hokkaido either way, he might as well take whatever was offered—or so he claimed this wretched calculation had taken root.

The joy of snapping open a fresh pack of Asahi and lighting one!
Mr. Teraiuchi thought he had finally understood the true meaning of gratitude at that moment.
Filling his lungs to the brim, then slowly—as gradually as possible—exhaling quietly, quietly; once fully emptied, he closed his eyes for a time. Mr. Teraiuchi became intoxicated by the cleansing freshness of violet smoke rising skyward, sweeping away all manner of impurities from within his stomach.

“So you threw away your purse and ended up stranded, eh?”

The old man spoke in an exceedingly gracious manner, his tone as though he were leaning against a café table.
In Mr. Teraiuchi’s breast, the health weighed down by hardships since morning—no, these past two months—was gradually returning.
Bitter, bitter urban experiences came back to him in fragments.

A wariness stirred within him at the old man’s question.
With an inexplicable feeling he couldn’t rationalize even afterward, it’s said Mr. Teraiuchi divulged everything up to that moment.
Yet the old man never broached the Hokkaido matter Teraiuchi had secretly anticipated.

“So you’ve got nowhere to stay tonight, eh?” was the old man’s first words upon hearing him out, spoken in a voice brimming with sympathy.
“But well, never mind—you’re young.”
“Your time to sprout will surely come—just keep at it without fretting. So tonight, if you like, you can come to my place. What do you say?”
“Well, between folks like us, there’s no need for formalities—but let’s get out of here anyway.”
“It’s about time the cops start making their rounds. If they find us, it’ll cause trouble again.”

When the old man mentioned cops, Mr. Teraiuchi was startled—or so it is said.
A loneliness he had never before contemplated now enveloped Mr. Teraiuchi’s chest like the tide.
Mr. Teraiuchi followed the old man and stood up without a moment to think.
And from their brief respite at the pondside, they now emerged onto the stone-paved road of Rokku District—thoroughly darkened by this hour.

When they took two or three steps onto the stone pavement,

“Oh right—how about a bath before we go? You must be exhausted.”

The old man came to a stop.
Mr. Teraiuchi had no particular desire to enter at that moment, but feeling that opposing him now would prove futile, he indicated through his expression that he would comply with the old man’s will—

“Just wait here a bit—I’ll go scrounge up the bath money now—”

With that, turning the corner of Cinema G, the old man disappeared from view for some time.

What did he mean by “scrounging up bath money”? Surely he didn’t intend to steal it—? Mr. Teraiuchi, increasingly baffled by the old man’s true nature, now found himself reviewing his own strange behavior of this past half-hour as if seeing it anew.

“Alright, kept you waiting—let’s go.”

The old man’s return came after a considerable time had passed.
Since he’d said “Let’s go,” he must have secured the bath money.
Mr. Teraiuchi hesitated to ask about it but ended up following the old man as he was, passing through the curtain of a bathhouse in a town whose name he didn’t know late into the night.
He saw the old man place one five-sen silver coin and five one-sen copper coins on the counter.

Mr. Teraiuchi scrutinized the old man anew as he removed his kimono.
No—rather, Mr. Teraiuchi casually surveyed the gazes gathering around the old man—the counter attendant’s eyes, all such things.
If he could know even how the eyes of those around shifted their focus, he could likely discern his true nature.
He thought this, but it proved futile.
The city was individualism through and through.
The counter attendant nodded repeatedly as if declaring “Once I’ve taken their bath fee, the rest is their business,” while the few remaining customers all hurried off to their respective homes, not a single one sparing so much as a glance toward Teraiuchi or the old man.

Under the bright electric light, the old man’s round face gleamed with a glossy sheen. His gentle eyes shone unceasingly with happiness. The childlike plump palms were far more beautiful than Mr. Teraiuchi’s own.

When he realized the old man was no beggar after all, Mr. Teraiuchi felt something akin to terror unlike anything he’d known before.

But when he again considered how he had nowhere particular to go even now, that terror-like feeling gradually faded away without his notice, until Mr. Teraiuchi—now settled cross-legged in the washing area—found himself scrubbing the old man's back and having his own back scrubbed by the old man in turn. The grime on the bathhouse towel he’d borrowed no longer concerned him in the slightest.

Yet who could have known that at this very moment, Mr. Teraiuchi was already being driven into a terrible scheme by the old man! The old man, having emerged from the bath, took a smoke and then spoke as if to himself.

“Well then, since there are guests today, perhaps we should go to the villa rather than the main residence.”

Accompanied by the old man, Mr. Teraiuchi passed through several shadowed alleys.
Not a single house with glass-paned doors stood on either side.
The irregular construction likely accounted for this.
Through every crevice of the closed wooden shutters seeped faint electric lights betraying the houses' cramped modesty.
Had sunlight ever reached here, this would surely have revealed itself as some squalid quarter of the destitute.

The villa they ultimately reached loomed large and ink-black in a corner of that town.
No encircling wall met the eye; no glimmer of light showed anywhere.
Only through its sky-cleaving silhouette could Mr. Teraiuchi discern this structure as Western architecture.

“The gate’s already closed, so wait here till I work a little magic.”

The old man said in a low voice, then circled around to what seemed like the front side of the building.
Standing alone on the dark ground, it was only natural that Mr. Teraiuchi would once again weave various imaginings about this old man.
Yet strangely, Mr. Teraiuchi recounted that he now found himself unable to harbor any suspicion toward the old man’s words and actions.

“Alright, go on in.
“It worked.”

A voice came from the darkness, and an unexpected hole opened before Mr. Teraiuchi.
One of the building’s doors had been opened.

“Take off your shoes there—there’s a step.”

Had it not been for the old man’s warning, Mr. Teraiuchi would have struck his shin against the step right before him at that moment. It was a narrow corridor that seemed to press against one’s chest. Following the old man down the corridor and turning a corner, a soft glow streamed from a room on the left. A large room—seemingly created by knocking through two eight-tatami rooms—appeared before Mr. Teraiuchi’s eyes, devoid of any shoji screens at the boundary with the corridor.

When he looked—there they were, packed nearly forty strong into that vast room bathed by a single electric bulb: men in patched work clothes, men in festival happi coats, most shockingly men with sacks of rationed rice over their heads—all of them the sort never seen on proper streets—sprawled filthily across every inch of space in haphazard slumber.

“Be quiet.”
“And there—lie down in that space there.”
“You must be hungry, but that’s tomorrow’s concern.”
“If you’re cold, you can cover yourself with this when you sleep.”

The old man lent him the blanket he had been using until then.
It was said Mr. Teraiuchi did not realize this building was A Ward’s free lodging house until the following morning.
Though he had come to understand the old man’s “villa” was mere code, even as he lay covered by the blanket in that makeshift lodging, Mr. Teraiuchi found himself unable to stop pondering the increasingly incomprehensible true nature of the old man.
One might think even this old man belonged to the same breed as these people sleeping rough, yet Mr. Teraiuchi still could not reconcile the strangely gentlemanly aspects of his demeanor and other traits.

"Alright, I'll ask once tomorrow comes. And if this kindness shouldn't be accepted based on the old man's true nature, I'll resolutely decide not to take it."

Having regained some composure, Mr. Teraiuchi—after resolving himself thus—finally fell asleep while feeling half-starved.

“I’m no laborer—though you couldn’t exactly call me a beggar either. Of course, it’s been ten years since I last concerned myself with anything like a proper occupation.”
“Well now, I’ve long since passed sixty.”
“But it’s not like I go hungry without working, nor do I freeze when I sleep. Though if we’re talking filth—well, what I eat, what I wear, even where I sleep—it’s all plenty dirty. But hey, it’s all how you look at it.”
“I simply live as I please—eating, sleeping, amusing myself—just getting by in this fashion you see, that’s all there is to it.”
“The city’s an ingeniously constructed thing, you see—it’ll give you whatever you ask for free.”
“So don’t you worry—if you want liquor… Ah, liquor’s no good? Then cigarettes—cigarettes, just name whatever you fancy, I’ll go fetch it same as yesterday.”
“If you want a woman, I’ll get you a woman—let’s hurry though, or we’ll miss dinner.”

The old man answered Mr. Teraiuchi in this way as they walked.
Having left the free lodging house from the night before, the two were still making their way along the dark riverside street.
Even as they hurried, the old man recounted to Mr. Teraiuchi the astonishing hidden underbelly of city life.
Take last night's cigarettes, for example.
He had simply gone to nearby shooting galleries, shown his face, and received them for free, he explained.

The old man had once timed his approach to each and every shop among those twelve or so shooting galleries lined up,

“Evenin’,” he said as he entered. “How ’bout it, miss? You gonna hand me as many as I want?” and slid half his body onto the counter.

At the first shooting gallery,

“Here you go.”

And they simply thrust pellets into his hands.
Then the old man, who couldn’t hit a target to save his life,

“Ha ha ha! You’re still young, miss. When you get so worked up, I can’t bring myself to shoot.”
“I’d feel bad pressuring you, so let’s save this for next time.”

And so he simply moved on to the next one, but what shooting gallery could possibly discern an unknown old man’s skill before even letting him take a shot? Yet there too, bullets were thrust upon the old man.
But repeating the same words each time, it was said that the old man tirelessly made his rounds through all twelve shops.

But what was interesting was that from around the seventh or eighth shop onward, a great crowd of curious onlookers with no business there had already begun trailing behind the old man, and whenever he entered a shooting gallery, they would furtively whisper,

“That’s him—you know, the old man from [XX], the one who blew his whole fortune like this,” and

“If they let this guy take a shot, no matter how many shooting galleries there are, not a single one’ll stay standing.”

doing such things as [whispering those comments], they naturally provided covert support—and by the tenth shop,

“Well sir, we’re unfortunately quite busy today—please accept this humble offering and forgive us...”

Without him even having to say a word, they had handed him an Asahi packet—or so the story went.
Since then, whenever the old man wanted cigarettes, he would time his approach and show up at one of those twelve shooting galleries—whichever suited his purpose—to demand “Let me take a shot!” and come away with Asahi or Bat cigarettes or what have you—or so the story went.

As for bath fees too—if it was just ten or fifteen sen—they say every entertainment district had its little pockets where such coins could be found.
One could argue endlessly about lost property rights, but what possible wrong could there be in retrieving money that would otherwise rot away unused? After all, money’s true purpose lay in being spent—amidst such talk, the two of them arrived at their destination.

“Listen—walk straight, keep quiet, and eat like you intend to pay for your meal.”

The old man gave a brief warning and, taking the lead ahead of Mr. Teraiuchi, strode confidently through the unmarked wooden gate into the compound.
To that still dimly lit entrance came figures in happi coats and wrapped leggings—men who would soon reveal themselves as laborers—arriving singly or in pairs.
And Mr. Teraiuchi too, blending with the crowd alongside the old man, found himself eating a warm meal to satiety in the cavernous new wooden dining hall without a trace of anxiety.

“Is this another of the city’s hidden underbellies?”

While thinking this, Mr. Teraiuchi helped himself to several more helpings.

When exiting through the gate, they required some strategy.
This was because the cafeteria was run by a certain union, where workers permitted to eat would wait inside the walled compound before being led by supervisors to their workplace to earn that day’s wages.

Yet among the nearly thirty workers, there were indeed those who slipped out through the gate to buy cigarettes.
Mr. Teraiuchi and the old man, disguising themselves as such workers with perfect naturalness, effortlessly made their way out through the gate into the unmonitored town once more.

“Well? Do you think it’s a sin—the way I live like this?”

A few blocks from that gate, still walking, the old man spoke up.
Now that Mr. Teraiuchi had grown somewhat more at ease with the old man and had offered a tentative objection in response,

"Of course a sin remains a sin—but this sort never inconveniences other workers or gives supervisors indigestion. If it's truly a transgression that doesn't involve those around us, then socially speaking, it's no sin at all."

Thus the old man voiced a rather unconventional opinion.
And then the old man spoke of his conviction that these were not sins at all, and after providing a few examples of such non-sins that proved highly beneficial to him,

“If you find this intriguing, why don’t we go to a certain place now and try transforming your current outfit into something more presentable?”
“Of course, not a single penny needed—naturally.”
“If I were even a bit younger now, I’d put some effort into looking presentable—still got some charm to work with, you know. But at this age, this way’s more comfortable.”

And so, this too was an intriguing proposition.

At that moment, Mr. Teraiuchi compared his own life up to that day against what might be called the old man’s doctrine or philosophy and felt something partially affirmative in it—or so he later recounted.

Now, rather than questions of whether this strange life constituted sin, he felt ineffable interest and courage toward the sartorial adventure he was about to face.

“Since it’s you we’re talking about, there’s no danger involved, I presume?”

“Ah, of course—there’s not a soul who’d raise any objections. Even if there were any, it would never be a sin. Well, since it’s such fine weather, let’s take a leisurely stroll.”

Thus Mr. Teraiuchi and the old man strolled leisurely through the now midday-approaching town streets, debating urban road theories unbefitting their attire.

“Well then, if we linger around here for a while, someone should come along with clothes for us.”

It was in a grove behind the former library in Hibiya Park.
The old man muttered that and sat down on a nearby bench.

In this part of the park, there was a serenely secluded atmosphere, with strollers' figures being exceedingly scarce.
The faint early spring sunlight still wove delicate patterns of shadow through the trees onto the ground.
Mr. Teraiuchi seated himself beside the old man and meant to ask why lingering in this area would make some eccentric person bring them clothes.

Then, at that moment.
No sooner had a sudden rustle arisen behind them than,

“Hey!”

A dry rustling!
With that sound from the grove, a peculiar figure materialized before their eyes.
And in his hand gleamed an unsheathed dagger.

“I’m begging you—give me your clothes! Take this of mine in exchange! If you refuse then say no—come on, hurry up!”

The man looked every bit the stockbroker’s wayward son. He appeared around thirty, with eyes slanting upward at the corners and an affectedly pretentious countenance. Wearing the manner of one pursued from behind, he repeated:

“Hurry up! I’m begging you!”

With his left hand that didn’t hold the dagger, he gestured pleadingly at Mr. Teraiuchi, who stood dumbfounded by the sheer shock of it all.

“Hurry up, hurry up!”

Regaining his senses, Mr. Teraiuchi reluctantly took off his clothes—the high-collar uniform stiffened with grime and grease that remained after he had sold his only suit, and then his misshapen black ankle boots. As Mr. Teraiuchi removed each piece, the man deftly donned the uniform. Almost as soon as he had put it on, he was already dashing off beyond the grove.

Forced to don the man’s Oshima garment and tie the cords of its matching haori, Mr. Teraiuchi at that moment sensed something akin to divine providence in the old man’s words—but an instant later, he found his shoulder seized from behind by a plainclothes detective who had come running.
But the detective must have known the aforementioned man.
When Mr. Teraiuchi timidly recounted having been threatened with a dagger,

“Alright, and which way did that bastard go?”
“Alright—then you come to the XX Station later. You’re a material witness!”

With that, he thrust a large business card at him and dashed off beyond the grove.
It was truly a moment like a dream.
This incident—for some time afterward, until the old man eventually provided an explanation—apparently remained something Mr. Teraiuchi could not bring himself to accept as fact.

His outfit transformed.
Mr. Teraiuchi now became a splendid young man.
What words from the old man! What wisdom!
At Mr. Teraiuchi’s astonishment, the old man burst into his usual hearty laugh.
Then he said:

“Well now, haven’t you transformed completely? With just a bit of grooming, you’d be a presentable young man anywhere. How about we celebrate with lunch at a restaurant?—Though I wonder if there’s even a penny in that pocket of yours. If there’s none, we could just pick some up around here—”

At the old man’s words, Mr. Teraiuchi reached his hand into his pocket. And what do you know—though there was no purse to speak of, out came a single bare five-yen note, barely even creased!

“Well now, this is a lucky find.”

If anything, it was the old man who appeared more surprised than Mr. Teraiuchi.
Mr. Teraiuchi simply stood dumbfounded, at a complete loss for some time.

“Anyway, let’s have lunch somewhere. So long as there’s money, no need to fret over appearances.”

The old man took the lead.
Mr. Teraiuchi followed from behind.
And entering a nearby restaurant, what tale did the old man spin for Mr. Teraiuchi while nursing a glass of beer?

“Ah, once you get to know the ways of the city a bit, such matters become no trouble at all.”
“This morning at that cafeteria, I happened to catch a bit of what those guys next to me were saying. Apparently some incident occurred over in Kōjimachi.”
“It’s a petty theft, but given that those guys are talking about it, I can roughly imagine what kind of person the culprit is.”
“So then, for someone like me who’s lived this life nearly ten years, you see, I can immediately grasp roughly where and how many of those culprits are hiding, and which routes they’ll take to escape.”
“So if they’d be chased by plainclothes cops around there—well, that’s why I dragged you along, you see. That’s the gist of it.”
“Having cash in your sleeve must be what they call a perk of the trade—exactly, exactly! That guy’ll change his clothes and hightail it out of there in no time. What’s the point in going anywhere? In all of Tokyo’s sprawl, you’ll never cross paths with that detective again.”
“If you go to the police, they’ll just confiscate those hard-won clothes.”

The old man cheerfully explained in that manner.
And still continuing his explanation,

“Well now, you’ve become so presentable—after leaving here, you should stop by a barber on your way and clean up that face.”
“Then I’ll teach you even more interesting things!”
“It’s absolutely not a crime.”
“And this one—if things go well—might turn into quite a sum of money.”
“No—there might even be something good that money can’t buy.”
“You’re a solid man—with that, you might just make your way back into proper society.”
“Well, that’s settled then—just make sure to clean up your face and come back quickly.”
“I’ll be at the park playing with monkeys or something.”

What could this next 'good thing' the old man spoke of be?
Mr. Teraiuchi, through his experiences from that morning—no, from the previous night—now believed absolutely in the old man.
And he now found himself in almost complete agreement with this pleasant lifestyle.

Mr. Teraiuchi listened to the pleasant snip of scissors near his ear at a nearby barbershop as he contemplated the old man’s next “good thing.”

—I slept.
And then I ate. I dressed.
What could that good thing be?
Money? No—the old man had spoken of something beyond money.
If we’re talking about something beyond money—ah—a woman! Could it be that the old man meant to give me a lover?

Mr. Teraiuchi left the barbershop in a buoyant mood and headed back to the park where the old man would be waiting.

“Listen—this town has no name. A place like this doesn’t even appear on the General Staff Headquarters’ maps.”
“Make sure you listen carefully and don’t get it wrong—”

The old man made that preface, then—to teach the location of the next “good thing”—began drawing an intriguing line with a stone on a patch of smooth soil in one part of the park.

“This is Mitsukoshi, you see. And here’s the station. If you draw a line between this Mitsukoshi and the station like so, then go straight at a right angle from this point for a while, you’ll come to a tobacco shop with a white post out front.”
“Yeah, the paint’s peeled off and turned white.”
“To the right of this tobacco shop there’s an alley—you go down this alley like so, count the houses on the right: first, second, third, fourth—that’s where the road splits into two like this.”
“You mustn’t go left with this one.”
“From here it’s a straight path—keep turning right along this one.”
“After walking fourteen or fifteen minutes, you’ll come upon a black plank fence—just push it open and go through.”
“Got it?”
“Then you’ll come out onto a narrow, quiet street like this—listen—once you’re finally on this street, walk as quietly as you can, whistling while you slowly move from here to there.”
“Yeah, just that’s all you need.”
“If you keep doing that, something good will definitely happen.”
“Never act nervous.”
“Stay lively no matter what, and stay bold no matter what—well, just go and try it out.”
“If nothing comes of it, just come back to Asakusa.”
“I’m usually at that bench around that time.”

There was a certain power in the old man’s words that he could sense. Though he could not foresee what outcome might follow, after some time discussing this very adventure with the old man—in a prolonged exchange of questions and answers—Mr. Teraiuchi courageously resolved to set out for that town not on the map.

Though days had grown longer, the city's dusk soon reached even the park bench. There must still have been time before five o'clock when evening paper bells clamorously rang out, their cold electric lights beneath house eaves beginning to glow with nostalgic chill.

Having parted from the old man, Mr. Teraiuchi set out toward the enigmatic town—strange curiosity stirring in his chest—starting from that line between Mitsukoshi and the station he'd been shown, proceeding to the tobacco shop with its post, then onward to count first, second, third houses as instructed.

The area around the alley by the tobacco shop still felt no different from other backstreets nearby, but upon taking a single step past the fourth house’s corner—to his astonishment at finding such a bizarre alley in this bustling quarter of Tokyo—the path meandered sinuously onward, every house flanking it enclosed by black plank fences, not a single toilet opening facing the alley itself.
It was a complete dead-end that seemed to hold no significance whatsoever—one might even call it the handiwork of some jaded eccentric who’d crafted it in secret as a pastime.

After proceeding only a short distance, he came upon the plank fence exactly as described.
Mr. Teraiuchi pushed it.
And to his astonishment, there—just as the old man had said—lay before Mr. Teraiuchi the first house of an utterly tranquil row of lattice-shuttered townhouses, its presence revealed in hushed silence.
Mr. Teraiuchi gathered his resolve and softly whistled.
The soft melody flowed as if knocking on the eaves and lattices of those houses where not a single soul seemed to dwell.

I prefer not to recount here a particular incident that subsequently befell Mr. Teraiuchi.
Yet following the narrative sequence established thus far, I must outline in broad terms how he came to engage with a woman at that residence.

I myself struggle to credit that within Tokyo's very heart there exists a district for those bound toward some restricted sea—but in essence, it constituted a quarter inhabited solely by women guarding empty households, and the house to which Mr. Teraiuchi had been lured proved precisely the dwelling of one who had long endured confinement's agonies.
That he had ventured there unguided particularly gratified his counterpart, leading him to pass those astonishing days—an entire week—in her company, forgetting all else through delights both exquisite and torturous.
While Mr. Teraiuchi's wholesale oblivion may demand fuller explication, readers will doubtless comprehend better than I the subtle dynamic prevailing between man and woman.

Mr. Teraiuchi, while living this way, came to realize the woman’s remarkable beauty—a beauty encompassing her intelligence, erudition, and dignity.
And before long, transcending mere interest, Mr. Teraiuchi began to feel for Miyoko—that woman—a love he had never before felt.

Consequently, when that indescribable week ended and it became impossible to remain any longer, how achingly fleeting Mr. Teraiuchi found that parting!

“We’ll meet again in a month—it cannot be helped—please come when the month has passed.”

Mr. Teraiuchi remarked that something moist had glistened in the other person’s eyes.

In such a manner, this bizarre week came to an end; yet when Mr. Teraiuchi left her house and became a man of the town again, he was no longer the penniless man he had once been.
Whether that constitutes a sin or an unmanly act, I cannot say—in any case, Mr. Teraiuchi had secured enough money in his pocket to live for two full months.

But this story does not end here.
Though it was but a minor incident, I must record that when Mr. Teraiuchi left her side and emerged onto the thoroughfare for the first time in ages, there was an automobile that nearly ran him down.
The automobile, as if intent on taking Mr. Teraiuchi’s life, pursued him left and right through the center of the tram thoroughfare for nearly five minutes—veering right whenever he dodged right, turning left whenever he swerved left.
Yet miraculously—truly, miraculously—Mr. Teraiuchi escaped that peril, and soon a modest new life began for him. But when, after a month of unbearable longing, he went to see that mysterious town again, though such a district did exist, not only was she gone—even inquiring at neighboring houses yielded no knowledge of such a person ever having been there at all.

Mr. Teraiuchi spent another day in Asakusa searching for that old man as well, but no matter how many evenings he leaned on that memorable bench, he ultimately could not find him—.

And so two years had passed—but at the start of that second summer, Mr. Teraiuchi unexpectedly discovered both the old man and her, united as one, in the opulent box seats of Kabukiza Theater.

“Oh! Miyoko! It’s Miyoko!”

Mr. Teraiuchi reportedly shouted this, heedless of the crowd around him.

As Kikugorō’s *Bōshibari* moved with satisfying thumps through its rhythm, Mr. Teraiuchi—seized by some impulse—glanced toward the special box seats. There she stood, resplendent in formal splendor beside that enigmatic old man from before, while a beautiful young woman—likely a maid—held two children in her arms as they gazed quietly at the stage.

That unforgettable oval face, those eyes, those lips—and there was that old man, composed and seated in full morning attire beside her!
What must Mr. Teraiuchi’s astonishment have been—who exactly was that old man, and whose wife was she, his beloved Miyoko?
The old man before him now was clearly no longer the beggar he once had been—and she, unmistakably, was not the sailor’s wife she had once appeared to be!

“Miyoko—Miyoko!”

Mr. Teraiuchi shouted again, beside himself.
And then he stood up from his seat just like that.

But at this very moment, on the other side—whether the old man and she had recognized his voice or some appointed hour had arrived—they too began rising from their seats to depart.

Mr. Teraiuchi stumbled through the clamoring crowd, once taking a wrong direction, and desperately ran toward the entrance.
His breaking into a run coincided precisely with the old man and she getting into the automobile.
Before he could even gasp, the automobile had already vanished into the dusk.
He thought he vaguely recognized the driver’s face in that fleeting glimpse, but at that moment, Mr. Teraiuchi could not recall where he had seen it.

Yet Mr. Teraiuchi did not despair.
He had clearly read the automobile’s license plate number by the surrounding light.
The theater staff’s polite demeanor toward them and the driver’s reverential manner toward those individuals made clear that they were a renowned old man and a distinguished lady.
That automobile must undoubtedly be their private car—.

Based on the license plate number 111-6666, Mr. Teraiuchi soon discovered that she was Viscountess Wakasaka and that the old man was Dr. Nanao, the family physician.

Mr. Teraiuchi had not held any extortionate intentions.
But when he learned this, drawn by something inexplicable, Mr. Teraiuchi visited the viscount’s residence in Kōjimachi one day.
And oh, that slight action would lead Mr. Teraiuchi into such unfortunate circumstances!

“You see, when you think about it, it was all planned from the very beginning—even that business with the cigarettes,” said Mr. Teraiuchi, having concluded his lengthy tale.
“The shooting gallery business might make some logical sense on paper—but would such things actually be permitted? Would bathhouse fees or that Hibiya thief’s blade align so perfectly with reality? And why would the old man go so far to help me? You see—it was all to forge a connection with that woman! He must’ve been scouting for a suitable young man from the start.”
“If they looked at resumes and spent all day testing that young man, wouldn’t they know just how flawless a man he was as a human being?”
“What’s more, that very night, my own flesh was scrutinized inch by inch from the very start.”
“That’s right—in that nameless bathhouse.”

The baby that woman took to Kabuki—ah, was indeed my child. They exploited me through their single-minded desire for an heir. Having wrung me dry, they tried to eliminate me. The car with plate 111-6666—that was the very vehicle that attempted to crush me when I first emerged from that unmarked town onto the thoroughfare. I know that driver’s face! And when I finally sought out that old man—can you imagine?—they used their wealth and influence to confine me here. The more I protested, the more they cemented my status as a madman, trapping me in this inescapable purgatory. Ah, who—who would ever believe a word I say? Will they ever acknowledge that child—the future viscount—as my own?—

In a relatively unrestricted room of the mental hospital, Mr. Teraiuchi told me this entire story.

When I heard that Mr. Teraiuchi had committed suicide, I vividly recalled all of this.

Will readers not believe this story at all—dismissing it as the words of a mental patient—or even consider it?