Pathway to Japanese Literature

After lightly ascending the high staircase with two landings, the sixteen-year-old female attendant gently knocked on the president’s office door.

“Very well.”
Matsumura Hatsuzo, the president, frowned slightly for a moment but immediately composed himself into an indifferent manner and called in the attendant.

“Um... There’s a call from Mr. Tashiro.”

“Hmm.”

“He says he wishes to come see you right away...”

“Did he ask if I’m here? I’m here.”
Matsumura irritably cut off the attendant mid-sentence.

“No.
“I mean...”
The attendant faltered,

“I didn’t say that.
“He only asked me to tell you he’ll wait...”

“Right.”
Matsumura thought,
“Tell him I haven’t left for the company yet—say that…”
Having delivered these final words with slight gentleness, the attendant relaxed and turned to leave.
“Ah—wait.”
Matsumura called the attendant back.
“And—if Kuwano’s there, tell him to come here.”

He considered the sequence of tasks he needed to accomplish that day. What demanded immediate attention was mediating the procurement of business funds for a reclamation project—a matter that had developed over an extended period but had suddenly become urgent three days prior. The investors would provide capital; the business operators had settled on offering collateral—albeit second-rate—yet wished to avoid any direct creditor-debtor relationship. This stemmed both from the complete lack of prior acquaintance between financiers and operators, and from another layer of complicated circumstances that had coalesced. Originally stemming from discussions with his alumnus Shirakawa Sho, Shirakawa had devised a scheme to appropriate the profits generated by these funds as a financial source for settlement money in a lawsuit under his charge. Through repeated earnest negotiations with investor Tobata to resolve their ongoing litigation via mediation, Tobata had agreed to disburse up to ¥50,000 through a method Shirakawa deemed reliable and Tobata found acceptable. In exchange for granting Shirakawa discretionary control over profits thereby obtained, Shirakawa would withdraw and settle the lawsuit entrusted to him. Given this arrangement, Shirakawa consulted Matsumura regarding utilization methods for extractable funds. Matsumura plotted to redirect these funds—to which his trust company maintained indirect ties—toward capital for the reclamation project’s operations. Positioning himself between operators and financiers, he attempted to resolve the tripartite conflict by acting as both borrower and lender. As discussions gradually progressed, Shirakawa ultimately persuaded Tobata to deliver fifty thousand yen in cash to the trust company three days earlier.

“Well, Mr. Matsumura, the funds are finally prepared.”
“You’ll take them today.”
“Compelling the opposing litigant to provide capital, generating profit from it, then directing that money toward settlement—that’s an unprecedented framework.”
“It was truly backbreaking work.”
“One might say only I could accomplish such a task.”
“I always act with complete sincerity.”
“No artifice.”
“No underhanded tactics.”
“A settlement benefits both parties—isn’t that so?”

However, Matsumura could not readily accept that money. Even listening to Shirakawa recount his hardships had become unbearable to endure. This was because promissory notes from the company endorsed by both Matsumura and his colleague Okuda had been stipulated as documentation for the payment. When Shirakawa confirmed this arrangement, Matsumura had casually agreed—yet he still hadn't obtained Okuda's consent. Moreover, the investigation report on collateral to be collected from lending-side business operators remained undelivered. Though Shirakawa insisted he would withdraw the funds without fail, Matsumura's skepticism about trusting such claims—combined with his arrogant tendency to underestimate others—made this sudden progression of events feel inconceivable. Even if not entirely unexpected, his self-serving calculations thrived within this strategy: first positioning Shirakawa to secure the capital, then personally intervening to claim what he deemed his optimal vantage point. This remained his habitual tactic—one that occasionally bordered on outright irresponsibility.

“Are you saying we should conduct the transaction immediately today?”

Matsumura said this to Shirakawa.

“You’ll have to get it done today. On my end there’s the person involved too—and you know full well what kind of money this is.”

Having believed that months of grueling effort had finally borne fruit—that Shirakawa’s burdens would now lift—he’d felt secure thinking no complications remained. Thus when he heard Matsumura’s inexplicable reluctance, he couldn’t help growing impatient.

“You still haven’t seen the reclamation project, have you.”
Matsumura shifted the conversation with a composed expression.

“You still haven’t seen it.”
“Not seeing it shouldn’t matter, should it?”

“Actually...”

Matsumura became serious and lowered his voice.
“I haven’t shown it to Okuda yet. Because unless I show it once first, the discussion will be problematic.”

“That’s troublesome.”
“This wasn’t our arrangement.”

“You’re being too hasty.”
“I intended to wait three or four days after confirming your side’s completion.”
“These negotiations carry significant financial stakes.”
“Even regarding our approach to these borrowers—being forced into that position would create real complications.”

He said this and laughed lightly.
A certain warmth toward his close friend couldn’t help but flicker within him.

Shirakawa thought there was no help for it.

“Well then, let’s have Mr. Okuda come. Since the investor’s representative has also come along, let’s have them wait a little and go inspect the site, shall we?”

Thus, the three of them chartered an automobile, went out to the nearby suburbs, toured the construction site, and returned to the company—by which time it was already well past four o'clock.

Shirakawa, seeing Okuda’s seemingly reluctant expression, felt a certain unease.

For the next two days, Shirakawa waited idly due to Matsumura's schedule conflicts. He had promised the investors he would cover the daily interest rates and made them wait too. During this period, Matsumura summoned the borrowers—the project operators—to negotiate collateral and compensation terms. Their side naturally raised no objections, settling everything. The sole remaining issue was Okuda's endorsement. It seemed Matsumura's premature disclosure of consent to Shirakawa and Tobata without confirming Okuda's stance had provoked his resentment. The project would undoubtedly succeed; the loans had collateral. Responsibility toward Tobata rested with both the trust company issuing the promissory notes and Matsumura personally as endorser. It would never inconvenience Okuda. With a mere fifty thousand yen at stake, what could possibly ruin this Matsumura? Thinking thus, he dismissed the significance of Okuda's endorsement obligation. Assuming a single word would make Okuda comply immediately, Matsumura kept Shirakawa scrambling to arrange the funds. The money was ready, the borrowers finalized—yet when pressed, Okuda's position remained ambiguous. He neither flatly refused nor showed any eagerness to provide his signature.

After sending the attendant to summon manager Kuwano, Matsumura took out a memorandum written on company stationery from his desk drawer and read through it once. On the desk in the study lay the memorandum he had written that morning before leaving, using whatever red ink was at hand. When he sensed someone approaching, he raised his head and looked toward the entrance. It was Kuwano who had arrived. Moreover, another person who had entered following Kuwano was Shirakawa the lawyer. When Matsumura saw Shirakawa’s face, a sudden sense of aversion flooded through him.

The fact that he and Shirakawa had studied at Meiji Law School dated back over ten years. After graduating, Shirakawa had opened his law practice while he became an adopted son into the Matsumura family, using the adoptive household's assets as capital to manage several businesses. Mutual Trust Co., Ltd. stood as one such venture; though initially close enough that Shirakawa had participated in detailed consultations during his enterprises' founding years. As his reputation in business circles gradually grew and his social connections expanded, he found himself increasingly occupied with obligations. Even his social engagements predominantly involved those tied to his professional interests. The intimacy between them had cooled without either consciously intending estrangement—lacking spiritual alignment or shared hobbies and temperaments, what grated on Shirakawa was Matsumura's mentality: flourishing through adoptive family wealth yet valuing no old bonds beyond transactional friendships.

Without pressing business matters, Shirakawa wouldn't visit; even when such matters existed, he saw no need to carve time from his own schedule for someone equally preoccupied. A blend of petty jealousy and resentment saw him unconsciously distancing himself from Matsumura's threshold—not desiring estrangement yet finding his steps naturally retreating.

He may thrive so splendidly now, but let one misstep occur—all those fairweather friends would abandon him instantly. How delicious that spectacle would prove. How profoundly lonely he'd feel then, how utterly desolate he'd become in that downfall's wake—and there I'll appear before him. Only through my arrival would my sincerity finally permeate his being.

Shirakawa had even nurtured such cruel yearnings. Kuwano—Shirakawa's childhood friend turned Matsumura's trusted confidant—would often remonstrate that this dynamic disadvantaged Shirakawa socially while harming Matsumura's interests too. It had been Shirakawa himself who first introduced Kuwano to Matsumura's circle.

“Why won’t you reach out to the Commander?”
“In the end, it’s…”
Kuwano spoke with overflowing enthusiasm, making a gesture as if striking the tatami.

“In the end, there’s no harm in it, is there?”

“That’s how it is.”
Shirakawa had no choice but to say this, yet he could not suppress his resentment.

“But you see... I can’t stand it.
“I can’t stand being thought of as someone past my prime either.
“Matsumura-kun’s become so grand that someone like me isn’t even in his sights.”

“That’s precisely where you’re mistaken.
“The closest friend from his school days must be you.
“When you’ve visited, has the Commander ever shown displeasure?
“Though the Commander bears fault too.
“He makes no effort to find someone who’d truly devote themselves to him.
“But you’re the only one—the sole person he’ll come calling with ‘kimi.’
“‘Shirakawa’s here,’ he says while happily speaking of you.
“It’s the absolute truth.”

“I know that too, but…”

“Well, just go ahead and do it.”
“There’s no harm in it.”
“He’s actually feeling insecure.”
“Work will get busier—he’ll spread himself thin.”
“When it comes to reliable consultants, it would just be me, wouldn’t it?”

“Even so, have you noticed?”

“Well, you see—when it’s just the two of us alone, he shares confidential matters. Someone that clever doesn’t stay entirely carefree.”

Since such incidents had accumulated repeatedly, Shirakawa too swallowed his pride and brought forward this consultation.

“As for me... Well, if I continue like this, I can manage to live quite luxuriously.”
“I still haven’t done enough work.”
“It might sound odd to call it a side job, but what do you say—I’d like to try working a bit more.”
“If there’s anything in your work that I could handle, would you share it with me?”

There was a time when Shirakawa had said such things to Matsumura.
Even when fully intending to be open and friendly, Shirakawa found it disagreeable that such earnest conversations forced him to say “you” formally rather than using the familiar “you”.

“Is that so? If you have such hopes...”
Matsumura paused thoughtfully for a moment,

“How about Oriental Performances?”

“Would that be the company in Yaesu-cho?”

“That’s right. There’s a managing director there.”
“I’ve been asked to recommend someone, but…”

“That’s interesting, isn’t it.”
“In that case, I would be the suitable candidate.”
“I’m willing to put myself forward for it.”

“Well, I’ll consider it.”
“That place is currently troubled by the corporate bond matter.”
“I—”

In the midst of their conversation, the telephone rang.
Matsumura stood up and completed the call with it,

“This is the problem. Just when everything was completely settled, that Kawashita bastard started grumbling. I’ll give him a good yelling now.”

As their meetings grew more frequent, the friendship between the two was rekindled.
Matsumura too gradually came to want to draw Shirakawa closer.

Matsumura, who upon seeing Shirakawa's face had abruptly felt disgusted, immediately changed his demeanor and forced a smile onto his face.
However, the sharp-eyed Shirakawa did not miss this momentary change.
Yet not only could he not bring himself to resent it, but rather he felt a trembling in his own chest at Matsumura's anguished inner turmoil.
For he believed that within him still flickered a sincerity not yet numbed.

“No.”
Matsumura gave a slight nod.

“No.”

After echoing the same greeting, Shirakawa settled into the chair Kuwano had offered.

In the Western-style room of about ten mats—devoid of any decoration save for an office desk placed in front—the beautiful March morning sunlight streamed through the window, casting slanting rays.

Matsumura leaned back into the chair directly opposite, stroking his neatly trimmed mustache as he groped for the opening words he was about to say.
His cheeks—deeply complexioned yet almost unnaturally fair for a man—always bore a soft, pleasing hue, as if faintly brushed with rouge.
With his thick, soft hair neatly parted down the middle, his finely striped morning suit trousers properly arranged, and his slender frame carried with dignified ease, he appeared every inch the elegant gentleman—nay, a veritable nobleman.
Yet today he looked utterly haggard.
The relentless busyness and chronic sleeplessness had drained the color from his face, leaving even traces of dandruff visible at his hairline.
A gaunt shadow now marred his beautiful cheeks.

“This is perfect timing.”
“I have to go out again, so I’ll leave this to you, Kuwano.”

Matsumura directed his eyes toward Kuwano, while fumbling with the memorandum paper spread on the desk,

“I wrote this up this morning.”
“When Mr. Shirakawa arrives, I want you to consult with him about this point.”

With that, he slightly pushed the piece of paper toward Shirakawa in a manner that suggested he wanted him to look at it.

Shirakawa couldn’t begin to imagine what had been written, so

“What is this?”

With that, he adjusted the orientation of the paper toward himself and read it silently.

The main points stated that the legal dispute arising between Party A (Tobata) and Party B (an unnamed party) fell entirely outside this company's jurisdiction.
However, it continued, having our company act as issuer of promissory notes to resolve said dispute would contravene principles of fairness.
Therefore, our company must maintain its intermediary position at all times while assuming only secondary liability, thus necessitating the designation of another party as primary obligor.
Additionally, details concerning the promissory notes' maturity dates had been appended.

Shirakawa finished reading and passed it to Kuwano, unable to avoid contemplating where the meaning of this memorandum might lie. However, if he were to dismantle this reasoning with a single word, he considered the risk that instead of losing face, the negotiations might break down entirely. So Shirakawa, intending to probe, said as follows:

“According to this, someone must become the primary obligor—you’re saying?”

“Hmm... I do think that’s the fundamental issue, but...”

“Who should become [the primary obligor]?”

“It could be anyone. Why not have your own principal do it?”

“That’s how it is, I suppose.” Shirakawa said with deliberate coldness while looking at Kuwano, “As you know, Tobata couldn’t possibly grasp such things. I tell you, people that clueless are few and far between. Whenever they mention even a minor change in terms, he goes ‘Well, let me think it over,’ then spends two or three days stewing on it. There are those who call him Old Man Tanuki and claim he’s feigning ignorance, but that’s not it. He’s utterly slow on the uptake. If we were to overturn everything we’ve built up to this point from its very foundation…”

“But isn’t this not coming from the very foundation?”
“The responsible party has already been determined.”

“That’s exactly it.”
“He agreed only on the condition that the promissory note specifies who the issuer is and who the endorser is.”
“He says that if those conditions were to change, it would become an entirely different matter.”
“That’s definitely how it’s been settled.”

“What a troublesome old man.”

“That’s precisely why the discussion became so fraught.”
“It’s all because of this approach of his.”

The two men exchanged glances and forced a wry smile.
Kuwano simply remained silent, listening to what the two were saying.
Shirakawa, with his characteristically blunt temperament, kept pushing forward relentlessly, and though anxious that the discussion might devolve into an argument, found no opening to interject.
Matsumura grew impatient as time continued to pass.
He had an appointment for a meeting at a certain club in Tsukiji at ten o’clock.
He had to quickly wrap up the conversation and go there.
The careful crafting of both the eloquence and polish of his words grew frustrating.

“Anyway, isn’t it strange for the company to take the position of arbitrator?”
He moved his hand aimlessly near his trouser pocket while adopting a manner of resolute delivery and spoke as follows.
Even if Matsumura thought Shirakawa was a man who spoke selfishly—and indeed, until now, Shirakawa had maintained a deferential stance—having been addressed in this manner, Shirakawa began to feel he had to make a decisive argument.
Though normally of a meek and weak-willed disposition, whenever an opponent began to assert dominance, a fiery spirit that feared nothing would ignite within Shirakawa’s mind.

“If you insist on phrasing it that way, then I too would like to lay out some logical reasoning…”

Shirakawa took a handkerchief from his sleeve and wiped around his mouth.

“To begin with, I didn’t bring this consultation here to cause you distress. I could’ve stubbornly insisted on proving my capabilities, but instead, I brought this money thinking you’d appreciate me handling things leniently.”

When he finished speaking, the blood surging through his veins must have rushed to his head. He felt as though a chill ran through his entire body.

“But look here, I never asked you to arbitrate this case from the start.”
“There’s this sum of capital, but I consulted you believing there must be some way to generate returns.”
“At that time, had I abruptly mentioned possessing fifty thousand yen in funds, you wouldn’t have trusted me.”
“To explain that, I had to discuss the lawsuit connections.”
“In other words, I laid out the background details.”
“If you accept this money and simply give me the agreed-upon reward, what I do with that compensation is entirely my own affair—whether I use it to settle legal matters, purchase land, or engage in speculation. I’ve no intention of letting you dictate terms about it... That’s the gist of it, anyway.”

When Shirakawa delivered this decisive statement, Kuwano felt relieved.

Shirakawa shifted to a more worldly tone and turned to Matsumura, who had been listening to his arguments without response all this while, a shadow of anguish drifting across his brow.

"What I ultimately want to know is your true intentions."
"No matter how thoroughly I persuade the investors, this will all be futile if you aren't truly committed."
"If this deal collapses now, failing the investors would be one thing—but having no excuse for my principal or being unable to face Mr. Ohkusa, the opposing agent..."
"I'm nothing but a tool for ceremonial seppuku."
"But I don't intend to guilt-trip you while saving myself alone."
"Just tell me plainly—are you truly willing to proceed or not? No evasions."

Having said this, Shirakawa felt bitter resentment that the conversation had veered away from his original intent, now compelling him to confront Matsumura directly.

“I will do it.”

“Are you truly willing?”

“That’s right.”
“Truly.”

The breath Matsumura exhaled at that moment felt as though it came from the depths of his abdomen.
This is my true intention—once I resolve to see this through completely, the promissory note's form becomes irrelevant.
There was an agreement from the start that this note wouldn't be circulated externally or used for collection through exchange, so no reason exists for the company's reputation to suffer externally.
Even regarding Okuda's endorsement—if I were to plead earnestly enough, his resentment would likely fade and consent could certainly be obtained.
Having drawn Shirakawa this far into things, were I to suddenly withdraw now, his standing would be completely destroyed.
To demand alteration of even hypothetical conditions now and force Shirakawa to bear such difficulties could indeed be called a cruel act.
To avoid this cruelty and spare Shirakawa further hardship, I need only bow my head to Okuda—sacrifice the smallest sliver of the company's dignity.

"Approach matters with utmost sincerity—that’s all that’s required."

Matsumura’s innermost voice spoke thus and spurred his resolve. Yet he still could not fully extricate himself from hesitation. If there existed a method both presentable and maximally advantageous, he would adopt that approach first. He would keep his ultimate strategy submerged in his gut’s depths, compelling Shirakawa to exhaust every measure of effort and ingenuity. True sincerity could be revealed at any moment. But to unveil it now remained premature. At last, he forcibly suppressed the insistent demand welling up from his innermost heart as he began raising his head.

“So please coordinate thoroughly with Kuwano.”
“I have an appointment.”

Matsumura stood up.

“Is this about the Oriental Performances matter?” asked Shirakawa.

“Yeah, they’re finally getting things sorted out today.”
“With troublemakers mixed in among them, it’s a real pain.”

“Dealing with unsavory types always complicates matters.”

“Well then, I’ll leave it to you.”
“Kuwano—you got that?”

“Yes?”
When Kuwano responded, his well-formed silhouette was already moving toward the doorway.

“This is really troubling.”
Shirakawa muttered resentfully, as if talking to himself.
Kuwano remained utterly sincere throughout.

“It’s truly nothing substantial, but…”
“Once responsibility has been formally assumed, such formalities become irrelevant.”

“But Mr. Matsumura is being far too self-serving.”
“Even this format—each point has been clearly communicated, hasn’t it?”

“However, it seems the Commander also had a misunderstanding.”
“Last night, he called me on the telephone and said the promissory note format was acceptable, didn’t he?”
“I had conveyed the matter as instructed.”
“This has turned into quite a predicament.”

“Well, I…”
“I thought about really cornering him, but then this hard-won discussion would get all muddled…”
“But since I’ve ascertained his true intentions, I suppose it’s fine.”
“So we’ve got another negotiation to handle, I suppose.”

“That’s correct.”
“In the end, we have no choice but to proceed.”
“The Commander understands this perfectly well, but—”

However, upon reflection, Shirakawa could not help but feel dissatisfied.
Could even this level of fervor from me still be insufficient to sway Matsumura?
Even if I were to eliminate all distance and approach him myself, would he still only regard me as a friend of convenience?
Even during our earlier conversation, I felt that our positions were so vastly disparate, and that from start to finish, I was being oppressed and treated like a machine.
Must our positions differ to such an extent?
If one were to strip him of his adoptive family’s wealth, would he not rather be someone who should stand beneath me?
Merely because he has the force of money behind him, I end up harboring a servile heart that views him as somewhat superior, while from his side arises an arrogant heart that looks down on me greatly.
If I were to take a submissive stance, I would be crushed completely.
Crushed as he was, he continued to prostrate himself without even mustering much resentment.
Is this something a man’s dignity can endure?
In his eyes, I am nothing.
Once this lucrative deal is settled one way or another, I will once again become someone unrelated, and he will treat me as a completely useless person.
Even if I were to devise some rebellious scheme now, I could neither make him suffer nor force him to think, "I should have treated Shirakawa better."
Should I stubbornly cling to my petty pride and completely retract all reliance on his power, or should I swallow everything whole and feign compliance while biting into him?
For me, there are only these two paths available.

“Whatever. In the end.”
“In the end.”
Shirakawa said irritably.

“We must proceed.”
“This is where we must endure.”
“When you pressed the point earlier, it seemed to pierce right through the Commander’s head.”
“He’s a strong-willed man indeed—he doesn’t show it outwardly, but he seemed quite troubled.”
“Well, actually…”

Kuwano held his hands over the hibachi, hunching his back and lowering his voice slightly,

“There are times when I’m consulted about strange matters and find myself at a loss.”

“What is it? The Commander?”

“No. It’s not the Commander. The young one...”

“The wife.”

“That’s correct.
I was actually planning to seek your counsel regardless.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, you see…”
“If the Commander would just think it through a bit, that would settle things.”
“He never comes home before midnight anyway.”

“Is he still out carousing? Just the other day he said something like ‘I quit because it got too dull.’ ‘But man，it keeps getting harsher by the day.’ ‘It’s all ’cause you keep scheming to steal glances at people’s faces,’” didn’t he say?”

“But that doesn’t seem to be the case. Lately he’s been keeping even me out of private affairs, so I can’t grasp the full truth. Mrs. Matsumura is the one worrying herself sick alone.”

“How peculiar.”
“That Mrs.Matsumura being jealous.”
“I was just speaking with my wife moments ago.”
“‘It’s Mrs.Matsumura who’s the carefree one,’ she said.”
“After all, she’s that sort of person.”
“Don’t you think she believes it’s perfectly natural for men to keep mistresses as social obligations?”
“That’s truly peculiar.”

“However, she has become completely lost in thought... ‘I must make up my mind as well,’ she keeps saying, you see.”

“That’s quite a problem. After all, he’s a husband whose looks are a bit too striking for anyone’s eyes. Even if the wife resists, that’s no use.”

“Exactly—that’s precisely where it lies.”
“It means she herself is tormented by various worries, you understand.”
“Ahaha!”

Kuwano laughed briefly before sobering up,

“It’s truly pitiable.”
“The day before yesterday, I found myself consulted about such matters.”
“You must know of her—the woman called Ayako.”

“Just once.”
“And that was three whole years ago.”
“Is it still going on?”

“I too had thought it was already over between them, but it seems that isn’t the case.”

This story is from the day before yesterday. When I went to see what kind of consultation she had, the young Mrs. Matsumura called me to a secluded corner,

“Mr. Kuwano.
“I have something to discuss with you.
“I won’t tell anyone about this particular matter, you know.
“Well, you see—about my husband—he never comes home before one o’clock every night without fail.
“Since he has so many pressing matters to attend to, there’s nothing to be done about that, but if he were to fall ill with that recurring sickness again, it would be quite troublesome—so why not just make Ayako his official mistress?”

“What she meant by ‘consultation’ was this kind of talk.”

“How could such a foolish thing even be possible?”

Shirakawa found it rather exasperating that Kuwano was making an issue of this.

“Of course I did say that too. But according to the young one’s thinking, it seems she’s come to feel it might be better to go ahead and do so.”

“His wife?”

“Yes. It seems Ayako spoke to her directly, you see. She seems to have sweet-talked her into agreeing by saying things like, ‘It would be better for the master’s health if I were to stay by his side.’”

“It’s because she’s naive. The wife is misunderstanding. She thinks if he makes her his mistress, he can just drag her off to some teahouse whenever he likes, does she?”

“That’s why it’s a problem. The Commander isn’t the type to keep one woman and stop visiting teahouses—and besides, visiting teahouses is actually necessary these days.”

“It’s a rotten custom in the business world—they’ve reached a point where they can’t discuss matters unless it’s at a teahouse.”
“But shouldn’t we just eliminate that problem altogether?”

“Well, I think so too.”
“That being settled, there remains the matter of his… activities.”

“He should really just stop while he’s ahead.”
“The man’s fine—he’s got money and is actually popular, so it can’t be helped.”
“Well… Wives around thirty must face a crisis at least once.”
“Mrs.Matsumura is now facing that crisis as well, so considerable caution is required here.”

“Because she’s such an innocent wife, you’d think she’d be brooding over it, but it’s rather pitiable.”

“You’ll serve as her guardian first, I suppose.”
“Then comes the wife’s attitude.”
“Whether in looks or intellect, it’s settled she can’t possibly compete.”
“One without competitive power stands no chance even if they try.”
“If I may put it this way—”
“She must maintain complete humility.”
“Never let her display any pretentious airs.”
“And no matter how late he returns, she must serve him kindly without complaint.”
“If she takes the initiative to rouse affection from the woman’s side, it follows the principle that gentleness conquers force.”
“Even Matsumura has social obligations, and since his wife isn’t someone he hates, I believe he’ll manage to find some equilibrium.”
“After all, any division between husband and wife is the greatest taboo.”

“Well, I suppose there’s no other way but to do that.”
“Well then, let’s eliminate the mistress problem.”

“Of course.”
“That Ayako is quite the operator, isn’t she?”

“The Commander is usually quick to act, but when it comes to this particular problem…”

“But there’s something suspicious about this whole matter.”
“This must be collusion between two people.”
“It might be.”
“Then elimination becomes absolutely necessary.”
“I’m truly at my wit’s end.”

Kuwano gave his head a quick scratch and stood up.

In the office below, it seemed the employees had all gathered, for the mingled sounds reached up to the quiet room on the second floor.

Having finally seen off the guest, Matsumura slumped exhaustedly against the armrest in front of the alcove, then upon being informed of a telephone call, once again hauled his weary body to the phone room near the entrance.

The scattered cups and dishes had been neatly put away; the cigarette butts were plucked from the paulownia hearth, and the white ashes were beautifully mounded anew.
The warmth that had hung steamy with the scent of alcohol, women’s breath, and the fire’s glow was now entirely replaced by fresh air after the cleaning—the shoji opened wide to let it all out.
The late-night March wind still carried a restless edge that refused to settle against human skin.
Ayako, feeling a shiver run through her, drew the hearth close and held her face over the flames.
And then, in a leisurely manner, she was stirring the ashes around with fire tongs.
Though petite, she was a beautiful woman.
Her eyes, dominated by dark pupils, sharply defined the contours of her face, while the flesh from her cheeks to her mouth bore a masculine firmness.

“Oh, you’re here alone.”

Osada, the head maid, abruptly slid open the shoji and poked her face in.

“Sis, please come in.”

“Well…”

Seeing Osada hesitating at the entrance,

“Sis.
“Come in, Sis.”
Ayako urged once more.

Osada bent at the waist, as if sitting on her heels, and finally came to the hearth.

“Master?”

“He’s on the phone now.”

“Right.
“He’s been so busy lately, hasn’t he.”

“It’s true.
“He’s at the teahouse like this every night.
“So he can’t even relax for an hour.”

“How tedious.
“It isn’t like you have to do any work at all… What a cursed fate this is……”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”

“Oh don’t be silly, Sis.”
“It’s not like I’m saying I’m his wife.”

“But isn’t this different with you?”
“You’re a special case.”

“That’s not it, you see…”
“If only he’d kept favoring me this long...”
“It’s already been four years, you see.”
“May 4th was our first day, you know.”
“And you know, this year we’re holding a fourth-anniversary celebration—apparently the master has gone and gathered all the geisha he’d invited before…”
“He’s telling me to wear a formal black kimono with a white collar…”

“What’s this, Ayachan. You’ve been quite chatty, haven’t you.”

“Oh.”

The two of them dissolved into laughter.

"You're quite lively, aren't you."

Matsumura entered, hunching his shoulders against the cold.

“Hey, Master. I was just telling Sis about the anniversary celebration.”

“Enough of this nonsense.”

“It’s not boring at all, Sis.”

“Yes, quite the feast indeed.”

Osada left in a hurry while making a snappy retort.
Matsumura squatted in front of the hearth and was jiggling his leg.

“That’s disgraceful. Stop it.”

The woman jabbed the man’s knee.
The man instinctively braced his hands behind him, then straightened his posture without a word before rolling onto his side to pillow his head on his elbow.

The two sat quietly, each nursing private thoughts.
Then Ayako seemed to recall something forgotten,

“Who was that on the phone just now?”

“Shirakawa.”
Matsumura answered with evident irritation.

“Mr. Shirakawa.”
“How did it go?”
“That matter.”

“Hmm.”

“Why don’t you make up your mind?”

“............”

“It’s still not settled? This has been going on for quite some time now, hasn’t it.”

“............”

When he gave no response, she drew closer and peered at his face; he quietly closed his eyes, resting his right palm upward on his forehead. He didn’t seem asleep.

“Master. Master.”
She called out in a hushed voice laden with concern.

“Why don’t you loosen up a little?”

“Well, fine.” When the man opened his eyes wide, the woman’s face was pressed so close that he felt as though he might choke; then he quietly closed his eyes again.

“Master, why don’t you decide how we should arrange the bedding?”

“............”

“Let’s call Sis.”
“You really shouldn’t go home tonight.”

The way the woman had spoken suggested she was about to summon a maid; the man abruptly stood up.

“I told you to stop, didn’t I?”
His voice carried a slight edge.

“Alright, I’ll stop.”
“But Master, it’s past eleven already.”

“Hmm, I should go.”

“Master, are you going back? So our earlier promise is just worthless scrap now, is it?”

“What nonsense are you spouting?”

“It’s not some trivial thing.”
“For me, it’s an important—an important thing, you know.”

The woman said this with a flippant air, picked up her slender golden pipe, twisted some tobacco, and took a puff.

He had never fallen in love with this woman.
No—he had fallen in love before, but never a love that didn’t grow stale.
From age fifteen to twenty-four—a span of nearly nine years—there had been plenty of men who bought her and men she bought, but even as she embroidered their family crests onto her belongings and boldly boasted about them before fellow geisha or clients in teahouse rooms, she already had a new man chosen for herself.
With Matsumura, she had severed ties twice before; the bond formed on the third attempt was what now bound the two of them together.
Of course, both of them had restless hearts.
Yet while the man flamboyantly frequented the pleasure quarters, the woman too had to remain vigilant in keeping up appearances.
When their relationship became publicly known throughout that social circle, the woman had to stubbornly keep the man's heart tethered.
And yet the woman would occasionally engage in dalliances.
The rumors that had been spread about her involvement with a certain young actor and the whispered accusations that she had manipulated a young master from the countryside were not entirely baseless.
When reproached by the man about it, she showed not a hint of remorse,

“Yes, that’s right.
But since you keep me as an exception anyway.”

The woman never attempted to conceal things and force them through.
The teahouse maids and fellow geisha—who could not yet discern the true nature of their relationship—would remark “Aya-chan is such a clever one” in admiration, while simultaneously fixing the man with pitying looks that seemed to ask, “Does Master Matsumura truly know nothing at all?”
To the man, this was perceived as an insult.
And so he would often say to the woman:

“It’s a problem when you involve my name in such matters, don’t you think?”

The man would often adopt a deliberately composed air when saying such things, though his face bore the strained look of one struggling to contain deep resentment. There were times when he seethed with the urge to kick this worthless woman away in one furious motion. For him—who had spent four or five years constantly frequenting teahouses and gained considerable social polish—the very idea of uttering tactless words to list a woman's misdeeds and handle a courtesan like some proper wife had become distasteful. At times he reconsidered that the woman’s candid confessions stemmed from having no reservations toward him, and by associating this with the straightforward manner in which seasoned patrons of old conducted their affairs, he would feel a certain satisfaction. During periods when her wantonness reached its most intense and blatant expression, he could sit perfectly still and observe it unfold. "She'll come crawling back eventually." He anticipated the woman inevitably lowering her hands before his knees to beg forgiveness, and there were times when he would deliberately feign ignorance and let her have her way. Thus at such moments, the space between them would paradoxically—though it could not be called heartfelt reconciliation—appear almost harmonious.

Eventually, the woman was left alone.
The loneliness seeped into her bones.
When she suddenly glanced around her own surroundings, she realized the man—with his handsome features, wealth, moderate demeanor, and inherently fickle nature—had been eyeing younger women and vying with skilled mature geisha. Overwhelmed by this realization, she tried to seize the fleeing threads of his affection, only to be yanked further away by him instead—their bond inevitably snapping at such moments.
When the severed bond reconnected, their intimacy redoubled itself.
As they repeated these same patterns, the woman found herself gradually pulled deeper into the man’s gravitational field, while he too grew increasingly unable to extricate himself from her orbit. Over long months and years, their relationship became an open secret among his many associates—no longer raising eyebrows—until even in chambers of confidential discussion, she alone was permitted to come and go without restraint.
From half-overheard fragments of whom he met with, what they discussed, what schemes they plotted—listening without meaning to—she gradually developed an interest in his work.

“Master, you must be careful.”
“Mr. Tashiro is such an unsettling person, isn’t he?”
“If I say even a word, I’m just currying favor with you, Master.”

As he said such things, he seemed to regard serving as an observer as his own duty.
Before he knew it—regarding every aspect of the man’s work—he had accumulated a certain degree of understanding and opinions and frequently voiced pointed remarks that touched on factual cores directly to him.

He had encountered women of all sorts in various places and made advances on no small number of them, yet every single one had ultimately been mere diversion—he could never engage with them in any meaningful way. There was Minako, a woman who had come from Osaka and made her name in Shinbashi—she had kept company with him for quite some time—but what could have drawn him to her beyond the ordinary interactions of an ordinary woman? Her gentle disposition? Her lack of artifice? Her kindness? There had never been anything worth remarking upon in the first place.

In other words, women thought only of matters concerning women. Meet a man they fancied—they rejoiced. Get cheated on—they wept. They would laugh enticingly, draw a man’s heart close, then drift off to sleep without a care for tomorrow. Only women in nightgowns ever filled his vision.

With Ayako, however, there were many nights spent talking half in jest and half in earnest. Every person he met—every last one—was, from his perspective, a stakeholder acting out of self-interest. Just as they were self-centered, Matsumura himself remained equally self-centered. Even in the lulls between conversations, there could be no moment’s lapse in vigilance. Even amidst wine cups and serving plates, covert struggle followed covert struggle without cease. He could never neglect his prudent preparations to ensure his true self remained undetected in any situation.

When this painful, tense, infuriating existence dragged on day after day, the man would groan and collapse into the woman’s lap. The misery of one who wanders seeking meager solace in such female company—never realizing his need for a kindred spirit—must indeed be called pitiable in this regard.

Tonight again, Matsumura was a man utterly spent with fatigue.
That morning he had met Shirakawa and continued prolonged negotiations with executives from Oriental Entertainment at Tsukiji’s N.N. Club from ten o’clock onward; without pausing for lunch, his nerves had remained strained by suppressed endurance and mounting frustration until around two.
Then came planning for establishing a leather company; by evening, having performed his duties as guest in two banquet rooms, his body had at last been set free.
Though it had come time he ought to return home—and though he spoke of departing—he made no move to rise.

"You haven’t been associating with Mr. Shirakawa at all lately, have you?"
The woman offered the man the pipe she had lit.

“Hmm, I’ve been rather busy.”

“But isn’t he your closest friend?”

“That’s right.”

“I feel this way—you tell me everything—but I’m just a woman.”
“I’m truly grateful for that, but I’m no good—as your confidant, someone like me can’t help at all.”
“That’s why you should make Mr. Shirakawa your confidant.”
“Trying to handle everything alone like this—it’s impossible.”
“You’re so exhausted….”

The woman felt a somber mood unlike anything she had experienced before begin to settle over her. It was that the man’s face lacked luster. His habitual gesture of furrowing his brow in deep contemplation stood out starkly, arresting the woman’s gaze.

“Ever since last year’s serious illness, you haven’t fully recovered—it wasn’t so bad before, but lately you tire so easily.”
“You huff and puff like it’s such a burden, yet when facing guests, you completely steel yourself.”
“Even if someone like me thinks worrying’s pointless—still I end up fretting over you.”

The man had been listening without conscious intent when he found himself completely drawn into the woman’s words—but unexpectedly,

He gave a cold, faint laugh.

It was neither mockery nor indifference—the man had simply been unaware—but the woman couldn’t perceive it that way.

“Are you listening to me?”

“I’m listening.”

“I’m not speaking idly tonight—this is serious.”

“I’m serious.”
“I’m listening seriously too.”

“Then why do you keep brushing me off like that?
I’m saying this because I’m genuinely worried, you know.”

The man found himself strangely unable to engage.
He thought he would say something sardonic and muster up hollow vigor.

“Your concern must be about Mr. Gotō, right?”

With these words, he hissed through his teeth—bending his lips and sucking in with his tongue being his habit.

“What are you talking about?”

The woman’s heart surged uncontrollably with the frustration of her words not reaching him and the vexation of having that old name—Mr. Gotō from a year ago—dragged into this.

“What are you talking about?”
“Are you saying I’ve done something wrong—what have I done?”
“What have I done now?”
“Go on, say it.”
“By all means, do say it.”

The man appeared belatedly perplexed.
Having often observed before that when she worked herself into such furious agitation it became nearly impossible to restrain her, he thought he must say something to placate her before violent outbursts erupted—yet she edged closer as if begrudging even momentary respite.

“You’re so stubborn.”
“You’re truly relentless in your stubborn pretense.”
“You... you treat a woman like me—a worthless woman—as...”
“I’m just... worthless...”

He could no longer speak through his tears.
Throwing herself across the man’s lap, she collapsed into loud sobs.

Matsumura let the woman do as she pleased and remained perfectly still.
And he fixedly watched the trembling clusters of the woman’s back hair.

“I am truly lonely.”
Having thought this, he engaged in deep introspection.
Reputed as an up-and-coming young industrialist, I now extend vigorously into the world like a sapling’s branches sprouting buds.
Even those called seniors lack distinction—having money is their sole merit.
The credit and status they’re overestimated to possess appear magnificent when viewed from afar—a force so exceptional it seems unapproachable—yet upon closer inspection, each proves a hollow reputation.
Compared to these men—bereft of education, insight, experience in their own enterprises, blind to broader currents—I may indeed be called a genius capable of standing alone.
Though I’ve barely spent five years in this field, the world already proclaims me a first-rate operator.
I have gloomily established myself as a master.
This promotion came too swiftly.
Yet I am lonely.
I stand utterly alone.
The world charges toward the banner I wave beyond this dark curtain, mistaking it for my headquarters.
My suffering springs from this first defensive line I defend unto death.
Though fortune has kept this line unbreached until today, I am weary.
I must rest.
That is—I retreat behind the curtain.
There is no one.
Truly no one.
Only I remain here.
My loneliness is born from within this blackened drape.

Anyone will do.
Come behind the curtain.
Though I occasionally thought this way—if that person turned out to be a spy from the enemy who, while offering kind words of comfort, discerned the true state of my headquarters with neither guards nor preparations, then went forth to openly proclaim it to the world—my first defensive line would collapse without offering the slightest resistance.
I could scarcely even invite friends inside.

He quietly placed his hand on the woman's back.

"Only this woman is my unarmored friend.
What a wretched thing this must be."

How much truth could dwell within the passion of this woman grown weary of feigning sensation?
I didn't know.
At least with her I could lower my guard.
Only she had infiltrated my solitary fortress to grant some meager solace to my exhaustion and desolation; leaning against her arms I could find rest.
I could loosen my armor's fastenings and sleep.

“Hey.”
He stroked her back and roused the woman.
The woman raised her face.
The traces of tears left the area around her eyes faintly reddened.

“Let’s go back now.”
The man said gently.

“No.”
The woman’s voice held firm strength.

“I won’t be going back tonight.”

“Then what will you do?”

“I’ll stay over.”
“If there’s trouble at your home, I’ll go make apologies tomorrow.”

“You speak like a child.”
“What foolishness.”

“I simply can’t return tonight—no.”
“Please—I beg you.”

The woman said this in a resolute tone and grasped the man’s left hand.
She stared fixedly at the slender scar, about two inches long, running from the back of his hand to his wrist joint.

“Now Master, you won’t forget this, will you?”

“It was when you went mad, wasn’t it?”

“Surely not,” the woman laughed sadly.

“Now listen—you must show me mercy.”
"I never intended to do such a thing."
“It just so happened that the fire tongs touched my hand.”
“It was when I became hysterical and was recklessly confronting you.”
“But I’m happy.”

The woman assumed an utterly chaste—even virginal—appearance of sorrow like a maiden might display,

“This scar will brand you for life.”
“And it shall memorialize my entire existence.”
“Each time you gaze upon this mark, you’ll recall me.”
“Even should I turn vagabond—drifting through Manchuria’s wastes—you’ll remember thus, yes?”

The man pondered deeply on the woman’s state of mind. A powerful emotion struck him—as if her soul were melting and flowing into his skull. With this woman, through long months and years, he had waged intricate battles of emotion. He had witnessed her tears countless times before. Yet never until this moment had he seen her manifest such a form—a figure charged with force that would scorch anything it touched to cinders. Through the tears of this licentious woman now appeared truths of the human world he had never glimpsed. Was this sublimity? Or divinity? He had believed himself laid utterly bare before her, that he kept no reservations—but this conviction hadn’t stemmed from truly discerning her essence. Reflecting thus, even his faith that he’d laid his whole self bare to her alone seemed insincere. No need to dredge distant memories—here in this very seat, even now, he maintained vanity and hollow pride. Even when drawing her into his solitary shroud of darkness, desperate to escape boundless gloom—hadn’t he still concealed something precious, something singular from her? And hadn’t he demanded the entirety of her true self in return? Repeatedly he’d overlooked her wantonness. With a bystander’s detachment, he coldly observed his own derangement. Though agitation might seize him, facing her he often feigned composure. Had true depth of love and attachment resided within him, how could he have remained inert? To use her flesh merely as a physiological instrument for dispersing transient pleasure—such means alone shouldn’t yield satisfaction. Ultimately, he realized—he’d still shrouded himself even from her. Therefore, it followed she too must have been veiled. Tonight differed.

This form of hers was none other than her true self.
It is reality.
It is truth.
This is it.
What men everywhere had uniformly longed for was this figure.
I sought it in the woman of my first love, but suspicion and hesitation intervened, and ultimately I failed to grasp it.
Family life is too materialistic.

The men who had searched in vain headed to the quarters of debauchery.
There, falsehood ruled everything.
Even on the tips of dance fans, artificial lines of falsehood were drawn.
They purchased false sentiment with false treasures.
The eyes of many men sought out women’s flesh—white, swollen to bursting, greasy—and what faintly breathed within them was instinct.
It was a base, squalid thing—this blind instinct that had never known shame.
What had appeared as the beauty of beautiful women was in fact an unnatural monstrosity born of sickness and exhaustion, utterly starved of nourishment for the heart.
Indeed, the woman sitting here facing me now was precisely that.
I am that.

However, we must now transcend flesh.
We must open the eyes of instinct.
I love thee—must I declare it thus?
Or perhaps—I part from thee—must I declare it thus?
To tell the truth, I have not yet seriously considered this problem.
Now was precisely the moment.

The man stiffened, about to say something, and looked at the woman’s face.
The woman was already composed.
And from her sloppily slumped knees to her shoulder, only the unnerving beauty of those artificially crafted curves caught his eye.

The man’s strained heart slackened again in that instant.

At this very moment, in Matsumura’s inner parlor, Kuwano was explaining to the young wife—having distilled the essence of his consultation with Shirakawa into digestible terms—laying it all out in a manner she could comprehend.

(*Dai Kokumin*, Taishō 2.10 / Included in *Yukō*)