Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

While working, Ryūsuke wondered what he should do today. It was almost eight o'clock. Whenever work dragged on and it became an awkward time, Ryūsuke would always be conflicted about this.

He went down to the basement, opened the coat box, took out his overcoat, and as he put it on, thought about taking the 8:20 train back to his suburban home. The station stood barely two blocks from the bank. Since his house neighbored the station too, he could return promptly and resume reading that book he'd left unfinished. Though demanding patience with its difficulty, Ryūsuke found himself drawn precisely to that quality now. It was his habit - this accumulation of books abandoned mid-read whenever some obstacle arose.

Ryūsuke resolved that at any rate today he would go straight home.

He greeted the night watchman and stepped outside. In Hokkaido, an unusual sticky thaw-snow was falling. Pausing briefly at the exit while pulling on his gloves, Ryūsuke abruptly imagined himself reading a book in stillness on the unheated second floor. Returning home now felt absurd to him - like mechanically drawing a straight line between two points. As he started walking, he wavered about what to do. When he reached the station, people already crowded the platform.

Ryūsuke stopped for a moment, keeping his hands thrust in his pockets. At that moment, a train whistle sounded. At that, he felt a sense of relief. He began walking across the tracks. Then came the clatter of the railroad crossing gate lowering, followed by a ground-shaking rumble. Ryūsuke thought he would try visiting T at the library. The train entered the platform. When he looked back, two or three cars of the stopped train could be seen from the edge of the houses. He momentarily thought of turning back. Because he had a commuter pass, if he started running now, he might still make it. He took two or three steps back. Yet even as he did so, there was a vague uncertainty. A whistle blew. A clattering sound reached him sequentially from ahead, and the train began to move. Once that happened, he was now unbearably tormented by regret for not having gone straight home. He felt as though it were something irreparable. Ryūsuke ended up returning to the front of the train station. The waiting room was desolate, with a stove burning. In front of it stood a man with a ruddy face, wearing a hanten coat bearing no discernible crest or mark and workman’s leggings torn in places to expose his shins. He had a dirty handkerchief draped around his neck.

Ryūsuke changed his route this time and emerged onto a bustling street. As he walked, he thought that if he had taken that train home, he could have already been there reading a book. Yet at the same time, he found his own indecisiveness utterly worthless. And he thought that all of this stemmed from what had happened with Keiko. But Ryūsuke shook his head. For him, memories of Keiko were unpleasant. Because the self living within those memories seemed too wretched.

The street had a slight incline with a river flowing through its center. Small bridges spanned the waterway at intervals of a few meters each. Pedestrian traffic was heavy. Under bright electric lights, each falling snowflake stood distinctly visible. With no wind to stir them, they drifted down in unhurried silence.

When he came before the Permanent Motion Picture Hall, a ticket-seller woman in a blue office uniform was vacantly watching the street traffic from her booth at the entrance. Ryūsuke briefly wondered if he should go to the movies. But he thought that watching even five minutes would bring no relief when every film laid bare its predictable process of development and conclusion from the start. Yet now he felt drawn to see just the acclaimed final reel playing here. Should he turn back and enter? "If I just go inside—" This feeling would resolve itself, he thought. But consciously doing so—being aware of himself—finally struck him as utterly wretched. He gave up.

Ryūsuke crossed the bustling crossroads. At that moment, he caught sudden sight of two figures approaching from ahead. It was a bank colleague who had recently taken a wife. He veered slightly diagonally to avoid them. The pair passed by without recognizing him. After walking some paces, he turned to look back. They continued walking shoulder to shoulder. Showing off, he thought. But facing his own reflection in that glance, he flushed crimson.

The library stood within the park. As he walked, Ryūsuke thought that if T weren't there, tonight might once again disrupt his equilibrium in some peculiar fashion. This thought made him increasingly certain of T's probable absence. Yet when the library's entrance lights came into view, he halted. Why do I keep visiting my friends like this? he wondered. He sensed this habit of calling on friends originated from some deficiency of resolve within himself—a weakness he felt they must clearly perceive.

—He would go in and say, "I came to hang out." If at that moment the other person were to emerge with an utterly composed demeanor—if they came out holding a pen (or a book, even)—then that would be when his wretched self would be made starkly aware of this face-to-face confrontation. He couldn’t bear that.

Having walked rather briskly up the sloping road, his body grew hot. He could see the brightly lit lamp in the room where T was. There he could picture T at his desk, working without letting outside matters distract him in the slightest. To bring this vague unease into such a place and then spout nonsense to cover it up! Outrageous! At every turn, I found this self of mine utterly pathetic. He made as if to turn back. But his resolve had already slipped beyond reach. He emerged onto a different park path. It was dark behind city hall. Tall trees lined both sides of the road, their branches intertwined high above. And from far overhead came the faint sound of snow brushing against leaves still clinging to their branches.

Ryūsuke wanted to meet another person—the painter S. But if he went to the station right now, he would make it in time for the 9:10 train. Even then, he felt he could still study something at home. At any rate, he wanted to settle his mind in one direction.

II

From the park on the hill, the entire city could be seen at a glance. The sky above the brightest, busiest street reflected the light. Ryūsuke walked along the road descending into town,

"What on earth do I want to do?" he wondered. But he couldn't figure it out. "I don't understand?" "Hmph—what absurd nonsense. Such illogical reasoning could never hold," he thought, and Ryūsuke gave a solitary wry smile.

When Ryūsuke entered the town, he thought of going into some café and trying to call S. But each shop he passed along the way refused to let him enter with an honest heart. In the end, he stopped by his regular bookstore, borrowed their telephone, and called S. As the operator connected and the other party answered—during that brief interval—Ryūsuke simultaneously felt both "If he were there…" and "If he weren’t home, this would finally be settled." Before the other party could answer, he thought of hanging up the receiver and hesitated, but at that moment, S’s sister came on the line. S was not there. He was disappointed. He thought that tonight had once again come to nothing.

When Ryūsuke exited the bookstore, he froze.—Keiko! Because he had come from a bright place, his vision hadn't fully adjusted. But the impact came like an electric shock—sharp and sudden. Ryūsuke couldn't get a second look. Rather than look again, his first priority was to hide himself from the woman. He pressed himself into the shadows as though leaping over muddy puddles.—But it wasn't Keiko. When he heaved a sigh of relief, he realized he had been sweating. He flushed on his own.

Ryūsuke always remained vigilant when walking through town. Even when strolling with friends, he would often abruptly turn upon mistaking an approaching woman who resembled Keiko for Keiko herself, slipping into a side street. Keiko’s large frame and forward-leaning gait—uncommon among women—meant that every time he encountered someone with those traits, he would jolt in mistaken alarm. The unpleasantness became unbearable.

Ryūsuke’s feelings toward Keiko had emerged only after undergoing various developments. It had begun with Keiko—quite alluring as she was—fretting over the inevitable consequences that came with being a café worker. He knew that such women often followed twisted paths. When that thought came to Keiko, for whom he felt even a shred of affection, he couldn’t remain composed in the slightest. This inability to remain indifferent—this “concern”—had unknowingly intensified Ryūsuke’s feelings toward Keiko. However, on the other hand, he suppressed such feelings through his awareness that he himself was both physically weak and without money. He could not undertake the adventure of affirming his love merely by the intensity of passion alone. For him, such an adventure was impossible—or rather, it would be more accurate to say he couldn’t bring himself to do such an “immoral thing.” That was it. And when those two had been progressing in tandem, Ryūsuke could meet women with ease. Keiko, on the contrary, had shown him blatant affection. Letters from the woman would occasionally come. “I had a feeling since morning that you were coming. But in the end, you never came. I went to bed with a suffocating ache in my chest.” Such things were written. Various rumors about Keiko reached Ryūsuke’s ears. He also heard that Keiko was engaging in prostitution. Regarding that, meticulous—phrases like “Eternal Prostitution,” “Periodical Prostitution,” and “Five yen a time” had been coined. He asked Keiko about it.

Keiko said—“If that’s how it is, then you should believe me no matter what anyone says!” Rumors arose with even more specific details—that Keiko had been detained for prostitution, that there was a secret tunnel behind her house, and so on. Ryūsuke grew irritated. Even believing Keiko, such things still intruded into his awareness, making it unbearable. Yet simultaneously, he began feeling a desire to make her completely his own—a tenacious intensity taking root. Ryūsuke recognized the danger within himself, but it was futile; his feelings had already raced far ahead. He resolved to confess everything at Z Coast, reachable by a thirty-minute train ride from the city—a place where sand dunes stretched endlessly to the horizon, where cows grazed while flicking cord-like tails at horseflies on their backs. It had to be there—nowhere else would do. He imagined countless scenarios unfolding on those sands.

When there were no other customers, Ryūsuke said to Keiko, “Let’s go to Z Coast,” and asked about her availability. Having uttered this, he himself grew flustered.

Keiko asked in return, “Why?” “…Just to hang out.” “Hmm… I’ll think about it,” she said. “You’ll think about it?” “But there are various circumstances… and then there’s my husband…”

“Alright, then I’ll come by in two or three days.”

Ryūsuke let out a sigh of relief when he stepped outside.

He let two or three days go by. Keiko said this coming Sunday would work. He determined the train’s departure time, resolved to wait at the station, and returned home.

On Saturday he took winter clothes he didn't immediately need to the pawnshop and sold a book. With that he managed to scrape together enough money. The next day he went to the train station. Since the weather was fair, it was packed with people going out. Ryūsuke paced restlessly back and forth at the waiting room entrance. He checked his watch again and again. Then he went out toward the street where Keiko was supposed to come. The train pulled into the platform. Keiko didn't appear!

After the train had departed, Ryūsuke wondered what to do but went to the café. Keiko was cleaning with a hand towel wrapped around her head like a maid. When he entered, she apologized for not having been able to go. He arranged another date and left.

On the night before their scheduled meeting, he went to the café, thinking to prevent a repeat of what had happened last time. The woman told him she had just sent him a letter, then abruptly added that something had come up the next day and she couldn’t go. And she made a truly pitiful face. He ended up spending right there the money he had painstakingly scraped together again for the following day. He returned home late.

Two or three days later, Ryūsuke went to the café again. And he resolved that they would definitely go this coming Sunday and returned home. From Saturday evening, the sky turned overcast with rain. When he woke in the morning, it was pouring. Disappointed, Ryūsuke burrowed back into his futon. He kept seeing strange dreams and woke around noon. This was the third time it fell through. And these repeated failures eroded his resolve. During that time, he could not settle down at all and was unable to do any work. Yet these repeated failures only intensified his feelings for Keiko in a strange, gnawing way. He went again to where the woman was. The woman also said, “This time for real!”

There was about a week left until the promised day. During that time, it did nothing but rain. Snow mixed in at times. Ryūsuke became obsessed with the weather, his mood swinging between cheer and irritation based on the evening paper’s forecast. Even I had finally become ridiculous to myself. The weather cleared up from Saturday.

With the nervous exhilaration of a schoolchild on their first overnight trip, Ryūsuke lay awake all night. That day, he went to the train station. He was in a cheerful mood. But Keiko didn’t come! What should he do? Ryūsuke became lost.

Ryūsuke sent a long letter that clearly laid out his feelings for Keiko. When he put it into the mailbox, he hesitated two or three times. For Ryūsuke, "being clear" was terrifying. But if he kept clinging to this unsettled feeling indefinitely, he would be ruined that way. He steeled himself and dropped the letter in. And after turning the handle two or three times, there came the sound of the letter falling to the bottom of the box. Keiko’s reply arrived immediately. At the beginning it said: "You were too late!" According to it, she had recently decided to marry a certain man—

“Even a dog!” Even a dog would be too miserable like this! Ryūsuke thought without exaggeration and cried. More than having lost the woman, what he now couldn’t endure was the humiliation. He wept from his very core—after being strung along again and again, only to have them stick out their tongues in mockery! Since this incident, Ryūsuke had grown weary of himself. He could feel confidence in nothing. He couldn’t make clear decisions—somehow, whenever he tried to decide things properly, it felt like everything would twist into something strange.

…When Ryūsuke now pressed himself into the shadows, he became aware of himself as inferior even to a dog.

III

Ryūsuke felt, as he walked, that he still wanted friends. He was terrified of being alone. Because the past awoke without restraint. That was a specter to Ryūsuke.—Even alcohol would have sufficed. But he knew that being unable to get drunk on alcohol would only make him more miserable. Ryūsuke thought of stopping by S’s place on the way.

The snow was still falling.

Even so, five or six night stalls were open on both sides of the street. And because snow was falling between the night stalls, few people stopped by. But there were two or three places where people had gathered. From one of those circles came the sharply rising, strident strains of a Yagibushi song—"Aah-aah—A—"—accompanied by drums. A bus splashed through the slushy snow as it passed by. Behind it was pasted an advertisement that read, “Chaplin’s *The Gold Rush*—Coming Soon.” Ryūsuke suddenly remembered the movie called *A Woman of Paris*. Chaplin did not appear in it, but it was his work, and he had directed it. He had seen it right after things with Keiko had ended unpleasantly. It had struck him with absolute precision. In his excitement, he went to see it three times in a single week. The ticket-selling woman recognized him and made a strange face. The film depicted how a serious man ultimately committed suicide because of a woman who—though not unfaithful—embodied that characteristically feminine superficiality and refused to take responsibility for both the man’s and her own true feelings. And such weaknesses of women were quite scathingly exposed. Ryūsuke felt that his own experience was being re-experienced there once more.

As he walked, he resolved that he must go see *The Gold Rush*. When he turned down that street, five or six people were standing right at the corner. As he passed by, Ryūsuke glanced inside. A thirty-five- or thirty-six-year-old woman with poor eyesight was holding a shamisen and saying something. In front of her stood a grubby twelve- or thirteen-year-old girl with a sullen face that still bore traces of recent tears. “This child!” The middle-aged woman poked the girl’s shoulder with her plectrum. “Come on, we’ll sing now, alright?—So cute…” Having said that, the woman moistened her wrist against the shamisen case with spit, then twanged the instrument in stiff-handed discordance—*jiranjiran*. “Come on!” She urged the girl. And then, with a thoroughly hoarse voice, she launched into a rasping “Aah—aah—”.

The girl kept her hands tucked inside her sleeves and remained silent.

“Again!” the middle-aged woman said through gritted teeth.

The girl instinctively raised her hands to her head as if about to be struck. “Oh, this child!” The middle-aged woman suddenly struck the girl’s back with her plectrum. The girl stumbled over her geta, staggered, and lurched toward the feet of the onlookers.

“Oh my, this child’s such a handful.” “If things keep up like this, we’ll both be left high and dry.” “Hee hee hee—how ever did I end up with such a child…” she said through strained laughter, bobbing her head toward the standing crowd. “Here we are performing like this, but tonight we’ve not made a single penny—all on account of this child…”

Someone threw them some money. The middle-aged woman with poor eyesight tilted her head but, wearing a smile, bowed two or three times. “Here! “They felt sorry for you and gave us alms.” “Say thank you.” “Take the money…” The girl picked up the money and handed it to the middle-aged woman. The woman took it, held it up before her eyes, and checked the amount by touch.

“Oh, oh... Thank you ever so much.” At that moment, another person threw money. Then he said, “Don’t torment her so much.”

He could no longer bear to watch. He felt sullen excitement welling up from his gut. The snowfall had grown heavier. From behind came the muffled twang of a shamisen.

S had not yet returned. S’s sister said her brother had asked that when Ryūsuke came, he look at the painting before leaving. She brought out a No. 12-sized canvas depicting a still life. S’s mother brought a lamp from the adjacent room and directed its light toward the painting. “It’s splendid,” Ryūsuke said. “Oh my, you’re too kind,” the mother replied with a laugh.

As soon as Ryūsuke stepped outside, he abruptly wanted to return home.

IV

The train was already gone. As he walked home, Ryūsuke thought he wanted to accomplish something splendid in his work. Whenever he returned from wandering pointlessly around cafés and such, he would often think that way and grow excited. But all of this seemed like mere hollow excitement—reactive surges born from a thoroughly exhausted mind—and he felt lonely. Ryūsuke had been working on a novel. However, because his own life had been unstable, it remained strangely unfocused and was left unfinished. They would go to the bank every day looking forward to their ever-increasing monthly salaries, save a little each month, marry a quiet, pretty wife, and live carefree lives. Before long, they would probably have adorable children too. And spend their old age without hardship… There was nothing there to criticize. All his colleagues thought that way and lived to make it so.

However, Ryūsuke believed there was great sin in such a life. If this world were perfect and happy—a place where “everyone could eat sweets”—then such a life might be acceptable. But it was a transitional period. Everyone must join forces and first—first, strive to make such a world a reality—it must be a time for that. But they had no business with such matters. They were in a "position" where they could at least become happy if they endured just a little longer—where was the need to willingly choose unhappiness! Ryūsuke thought that these people—whom many described as serious, quiet, splendid individuals of considerable education who contributed to society—were, contrary to all expectations, nothing less than blasphemers obstructing humanity’s inevitable historical development.

Ryūsuke suffered pangs of conscience over his life among such people. He was shackled to this false existence not merely for himself but to sustain his fatherless household. The resulting turmoil became entangled with matters involving Keiko until even Ryūsuke could accomplish no work whatsoever. This awareness of existence would not leave him. Yet “in reality,” being unable to extricate himself one step from it meant these thoughts merely circled endlessly through his mind like a caged lion. He felt himself sinking into melancholy as always. That he clearly understood why this mood gripped him—that he knew full well mere “thought” offered no escape—made it unbearable. It was a hell permitting neither advance nor retreat. And whenever such suffering grew acute, he would paradoxically—to his own bewilderment—find himself overcome by reckless abandon instead.

*

After walking a short distance, Ryūsuke stopped with an uncertain feeling.

He became aware that he had been underhanded. He had not touched on this matter at all until now, yet through his subconscious he had wanted to come here—and so he came. When he thought this place was the last refuge for those with such undisciplined minds as his own, he felt desolate. As he stood still, he considered returning straight home. But his desire to visit the woman he'd called on the previous two nights grew stronger still. In the end, he walked toward her quarters.

Lining both sides of the road were houses with shop curtains bearing the words “Instant Meals” and “Pure Soba.” A woman stood at an entrance calling out to passersby. A man in a cloak was conducting “negotiations” at such a place. When she saw Ryūsuke, the woman called out from between the curtains. He passed through these spaces. After walking a short distance further, set apart from the others, there stood a solitary house of that sort. That was the place…… Ryūsuke had passed by here two days prior. It had been a cold night with clear skies. When he approached the entrance, a woman wearing a shawl stood by the curtained doorway. The entryway was dimly lit, making her facial features indistinct, but she appeared to be a fair-skinned, petite girl of seventeen or eighteen.

“It’s cold.” When Ryūsuke poked his head through the curtain and said this, the woman replied curtly, “Cold, isn’t it.”

Both fell silent for a moment. The woman stared fixedly at him. “Are you coming up?” “I don’t have any money.” Having said that, he asked, “How much?” The woman grabbed Ryūsuke’s hand and made him grip two fingers. “Just this much…” Without taking her eyes off Ryūsuke’s, the woman said. “I don’t have it.”

The woman fixed her eyes on Ryūsuke’s face. Then she said, “You’re lying, aren’t you?” “I don’t lie.”

The woman looked at him again.

“Well…” The woman first had him grip one finger, then five. “Can’t do.” Ryūsuke said.

The woman fell silent with a snort, then hunched her neck and muttered “It’s cold” under her breath like a soliloquy. Then she asked, “How much do you have?” She tucked both hands into her sleeves and clattered her geta in small, rapid steps, shivering from the cold. “How’s business?” “Not a single one!” she said with unexpected earnestness. He felt a slight goodwill toward her. “There’s no discussing it. The master… he’ll be upset… won’t even let me eat properly… and…” The woman shook her head several times demonstratively. “Look, look.” Her loosely pinned traditional hairstyle swayed unsteadily forward and sideways with each movement. “If there are no customers, they won’t even give me hairdressing money. This hair’s been like this all along!”

“……Yeah…” Ryūsuke thought to ask how much the hairdressing fee was. If it were just that much, he felt he could give it to her. “Hey, if you don’t have enough to come up, at least give me the hairdressing fee… thirty sen.” The woman said this with an awkward laugh. With a slight shake of her body, she looked toward the street. His earnest goodwill had warped into something twisted, leaving him sickened. At that moment, he noticed a shabby-looking woman of about forty pacing before the house, stealing glances his way. Ryūsuke told the woman, “I don’t have it. I’ll come again.” Having said that, he turned back. He didn’t want others seeing him in such a place. After walking a short distance, Ryūsuke relieved himself in the roadside snow. While urinating, he glanced toward the house. The shabby fortyish woman who’d been loitering now stood talking with the younger woman in the dim space beside the building. The older woman pulled something from her bundle and handed it over. The younger one kept her head rigidly bowed. They conversed quietly for some time.

――Ryūsuke understood!

When he realized it was the woman’s madam, he turned bright red. And he hurried out to the next street.

The next evening, Ryūsuke walked past that place thinking if the woman were there, he would give her the hairdressing fee. Taking thirty sen from his frog-mouthed purse, he clenched it in his hand. As he walked, he whistled pointedly. She’ll come out if I do this, he thought. He reached the front entrance, but she didn’t appear. Ryūsuke crouched in the street and peered inside through a gap. She seemed absent. He approached the entryway. Washi paper covered the shoji’s glass panes, obscuring clear vision inside—still no sign of her. Leaning against the glass-paned door, Ryūsuke blew a short whistle into the house’s interior. No response came. That’s when he noticed them—men’s geta with freshly patched toe-leather neatly aligned at the raised entrance’s edge. Ryūsuke stiffened abruptly. He felt he’d witnessed something obscene. Walking away, an odd dissatisfaction settled over him. And beneath it all—a hollow loneliness.

After a while, Ryūsuke noticed his right hand—thrust deep into his overcoat pocket—was tightly gripping thirty sen. Ryūsuke suddenly hurled it into the piled-up snow. But the three silver coins made not the slightest answering noise in the snow. And tonight made the third time. When Ryūsuke suddenly realized this, he shuddered at the emotion stirring in his depths—the unspoken reason he kept coming here. The woman had not gone outside. But upon hearing footsteps, she immediately came out.

“Big brother, come in…” While saying this, she looked at his face and said, “Like before… just here to tease me again?” “I’m going up.” His voice came out slightly hoarse.

“Really?” the woman asked.

Five The floorboards in the hallway were warped one by one and creaked when stepped on. The woman took the lead holding a cushion and guided him to the room at the very end. After receiving the money, she left. Ryūsuke listened intently to her footsteps receding down the hallway. He suddenly began trembling. Ryūsuke thrust his hands into his trousers and paced about the small ice-cold room. This was his first time coming alone to such a place. He had always harbored this desire. When waking in bed at night, some impulse would make him feel "I can't sit still or stand still"— There were times he felt such urges. When this happened, unspeakably obscene images would casually take shape in his mind one after another, each adorned with outlandish flourishes. This only inflamed his lust further. Yet he couldn't visit such places for that reason alone. He had gone out occasionally. But always returned without acting. It wasn't from what people call "moral conscience," but rather something more innate—the torment of using money to insult a woman's dignity "as a human being."

There were times when he went to such places with friends. But he would return without doing anything until the very end. At such times, his friends would tell him, “Quit hanging onto your virginity like some antique—how pathetic!” But that didn’t apply to him. He had no particular attachment to losing his virginity. Even in that case, it was absolutely necessary for him that there be a personal relationship between them. He could not become like his friends, who would say, “A prostitute is just a prostitute after all.” He could not perceive such women as erotic in any way. Immediately, the misery struck. And so there were nights when sexual urges came over him like physiological seizures, leaving him agitated and sleepless until morning. Suffering over such things might be foolish. But when he heard that Proudhon would climb onto the roof at such times—gazing at stars to calm himself before returning to sleep—he felt a deep resonance. The thought that someone else might feel the same way made him happy.

He couldn't stop trembling. He paced back and forth across the room countless times. He abruptly tried sliding open the fusuma partitioning the next room. Kimonos were strewn about haphazardly, and in what appeared to be the woman's room, a mirror stand stood close by. The small drawer was left open, a powder brush lying tumbled beside it. At that moment, he heard the sound of the woman approaching down the hallway. He closed the fusuma. The woman entered holding toilet paper while softly humming something like a work song. Then she folded the zabuton cushion there in two and ×××× (omitted).

Ryūsuke suddenly felt his heart pounding violently. "Idiot! I don't intend to do anything." He stammered slightly. The woman at first genuinely did not, ×××××. Ryūsuke stood in silence.

“Really?” “It’s true.”

“So?…” ××× And then she asked again, “Really?” The woman stood up.

The woman went out of the room to fetch sake. Ryūsuke flung himself onto his back in the center of the room. The low ceiling boards were amber-stained with soot dripping here and there.

Ryūsuke gazed vacantly at the ceiling and muttered "Idiot" in a low voice.

“Idiot!” He raised his voice slightly. Then he listened to its lingering sound. Suddenly he wanted to roar “Idiot!!” at full volume.

The woman entered with an expressionless face carrying sake. There were two chipped sake flasks alongside vinegared octopus and simmered fish. Right after, another short woman with thick lips brought in fire. But after transferring it to the brazier, she left without uttering a word.

It was cold. Ryūsuke brought the table next to the brazier, sat down on it, and propped his feet on the edge of the hearth.

“You have bad manners.” The woman looked up at Ryūsuke from below.

“It’s cold.” “Instead, lay this out.” He pushed the zabuton toward the woman. But she said “No need” and shoved it back at him.

“It’s freezing.” “Doesn’t matter anyway.” When he urged her again, she said, “No need.” “That’s strange.” He forced her to lay it out. “Why aren’t you laying it out yourself, Big brother?” Even after sitting, she fidgeted restlessly. “Well then, I’ll lay it out,” she said. She poured sake and said “Here” to him. “I’m not drinking. You drink it.” “Why?” “I don’t want to.” He made her hold the cup.

“Alright,” the woman drank immediately this time.

Ryūsuke poured for her. “Are you sure it’s okay?” “Yeah.” The woman drank with a slight smile. He poured for her without setting down the sake bottle. Each time she drank, she asked, “Really?” “You can eat both this octopus and the fish.” He snapped apart the disposable chopsticks and placed them on the plate. “Is it okay? I mean…”

The woman flushed slightly, cast two or three furtive glances up at Ryūsuke, then said, "Why, Big brother…" “I’m not eating. Just go ahead.” “Well… I don’t know…” The woman poked the fish with the tip of her chopsticks and again asked softly, "Is it okay?" Then, when she first picked up a tiny morsel of food with the tip of her chopsticks, placed it on her left palm, and brought it to her mouth, she stole a quick glance at Ryūsuke, twisted her body slightly, turned her face away, and ate. He immediately poured her more sake. The woman ate more fish. She turned her chopsticks to the octopus. She must be hungry, he thought.

“How old are you?” “—Year?” She looked at him with a subtle playfulness in her eyes. “Yeah.” “…Seventeen.” “Don’t think up an answer—it’s no good.” “It’s true—seventeen.”

“I see… Is the octopus good?”

“—”

Without responding, the woman laughed.

“Since when?……” “Since I was fifteen.” “Fifteen?—”

Ryūsuke poured her more sake. One of the bottles was already empty. He shook the sake bottle in front of the woman to show her. The woman hunched her shoulders slightly and laughed without sound. “There’s still more. Relax.” He took the other bottle in his hand and said, “Now I’ll pour for you.” Then he asked, “Why did you come to a place like this?”

The woman fell silent for a moment. Propping both elbows on the brazier's edge and holding her cup at eye level, she stopped just short of bringing it to her lips and stared fixedly into it. Both fell silent. Then she lifted her face and,

“What’s the point of asking that?” she asked. And then,

“No!”

“No! I won’t!” she said, shaking her head. “I want to know.”

A silence.

“Why?” “It’s just… “Is it for money… or because I wanted to…?” “I won’t say…” The woman suddenly burst into laughter.

“You got into this because you wanted to, didn’t you?” He said in a slightly conclusive tone.

“It’s the money… But…” The woman placed her sake cup on the edge of the brazier.

“But… what’s wrong?”

The woman stared directly at him this time and said. “Why are you so eager to ask all this? …My family was poor. I still have four younger siblings to care for. So… But… well… I suppose… there was also that part of me that wanted—wanted to try putting on white powder like this, you know.” Having said that, she laughed alone again. “Hmph… Is that so? And have you all never hated guys like us for this?”

The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “Why?” She said it as though she truly didn’t understand why she was asking. The woman picked up a piece of octopus with her chopsticks and brought it to her mouth. While putting it into her mouth, she said again, “Why?” “You... your bodies... for money... isn’t that right?” Ryūsuke also turned red as he said this. “Because they’re customers...”

The woman answered simply. Ryūsuke hesitated for a moment.

“They’re buying chastity with money…”

“Such a thing…” “Huh… such a thing…” He found the words escaping him too. “If they weren’t rough customers, then it’s nothing worth mentioning.”

“Hmm... What was your first time like? Weren’t you scared?”

“Well…” The woman poured herself a drink and drank alone. “But this feels strange… Going into every little detail like this… Somehow I’ve come to hate talking about it…” “Think of it as losing a woman’s precious treasure…”

“I won’t talk anymore.” The woman looked at him and began to giggle quietly.

“Tell me.—” “No way.—Well, at first I just felt a little awkward, that’s all.” The woman said bluntly, “I won’t say anything more. But if you come next time, I’ll talk.” “—I’m not coming back.” “Do you think I’d fall for that trick?”

The woman shook her body and laughed exaggeratedly. Ryūsuke became disgusted. He remained seated in silence, looking down at her as she drank sake and such. The face powder daubed on her neck had turned patchy, creating an even filthier, blackened appearance. Her hair still hung loose. Each time she ate, the temple where faint veins showed through sallow skin twitched spasmodically—as though that single patch of flesh alone retained vitality.

He tried to say something. But the woman refused to engage. At that moment, Ryūsuke thought he saw something on the woman’s neck. They were lice. They seemed to have crawled out from within. When they reached a bright area on her nape, they changed direction as though hesitating and moved to the collar of her undershirt. Then, upon reaching the very top of the collar, they stopped again. At that moment when the woman set her chopsticks down on the table—lice crawling out as if drawn by an itch—she tucked her chin to her chest, stretched the back of her neck, and lightly scratched with her little finger. Ryūsuke remained silent. The lice then began retreating slightly toward where they had come from before stopping abruptly, this time burrowing between the undershirt and second kimono layer.

Ryūsuke took out a fifty-sen coin from his pocket and placed it on the table. “What’s this for?”

“Hairdressing fee.” “From last time…” Then Ryūsuke said “I’m leaving now” and stood up. The woman stood up too. “Let’s go.” “Oh?” “Thank you.” “See you again.”

The woman who had followed Ryūsuke out shook her body two or three times after saying that. He left without uttering a word. “See you again—please do come back,” the woman said once more at the exit.

When Ryūsuke stepped outside, agitation surged through him. "No one," "Nothing," he thought—they didn't understand. Everything arose from unconsciousness. It was because nobody examined their own lives, he concluded. Miserable as I am, those women remain utterly unaware of their own wretchedness. This horror chilled him. He stomped repeatedly into snowbanks. Yet simultaneously, self-reproach gripped him. Though knowing exactly what needed doing, this vague, indecisive self persisted—incapable of resolution. Somewhere Keiko must be laughing at him wandering like a stray dog. In this state, even conjuring Keiko's image became unbearable.

Someone approached from ahead. As they passed each other, their bodies collided with a heavy thud. It was a tall laborer wearing a hanten coat. He glanced back over his shoulder. The man also turned to look. "And muttered, 'Idiot...'" The man appeared drunk.

“You idiot!! What the hell are you loitering around for, you good-for-nothing!!”

However, whether the man had actually said that or not—the moment Ryūsuke thought he'd heard it, he suddenly felt his body grow light, as though jerked upward. His vision swam. In the next instant, he planted his hands in the roadside snowbank. One eye burned terribly. He couldn't open it wide. Ryūsuke stayed frozen like a child fallen from height—breath trapped, tears arrested—unmoving. He couldn't budge. He remained like that for some time.

He felt the snow falling on him with a faint sound. Yet, he remained rigid.