Pathway to Japanese Literature

It was a jet-black automobile. When the automobile came to a stop at Karuizawa Station’s front entrance, a German-looking girl alighted from within.

He thought it was too beautiful a car to be a taxi, but when he saw the girl hand something quickly to the driver as she alighted, he walked toward the automobile, passing by the girl in the yellow hat. “Take me to town.”

He entered the automobile. When he entered and looked inside, the interior was pure white. And there was a faint scent of roses drifting in the air. He recalled the girl in the yellow hat whom he had casually passed by earlier. The automobile turned sharply.

He suddenly looked around the interior with curiosity. Then he found fresh traces of saliva scattered across the lightly swaying floor. Though fleeting, a strangely coarse pleasure rubbed against him. To him, with his eyes closed, it appeared like torn and scattered flower petals.

After a while, he opened his eyes again. He saw the driver's back. Then he pressed his face against the clear window glass. Outside the window was now a pampas grass field fully in plume. Just then, an automobile passed by. It too seemed to carry people leaving this plateau.

At the approach to town stood a large chestnut tree. When he reached that point, he had the automobile stopped.

⁂

The automobile, loaded with only his trunk, drove off toward the hotel located some distance from town.

As he watched the dust it had kicked up gradually fade away, he slowly walked into Main Street. Main Street was quieter than he had imagined. He nearly failed to recognize it altogether. This was because he had only ever come to this summer resort during the height of the season each year.

However, he immediately found a post office he recognized. In front of the post office, Western women in colorful attire gathered. As he walked and observed from afar, to him they appeared just like a rainbow.

When he saw that, various memories from last year finally came flooding back within him. Before long, their chatter became vividly audible to him. He passed by them with the emotion of one walking beneath a tree where small birds were twittering.

At that moment, he suddenly caught sight of a girl turning the corner ahead. Oh, could that be her? With that thought, he walked straight to the corner in one go. There was a single path leading to the hill Westerners called “Giant’s Chair,” and down this path the girl was now walking. She hadn’t gone as far as he’d expected. And without a doubt, it was she. He too turned onto that path in the direction opposite the hotel. On that path, only she was walking. He tried to call out to her but for some reason hesitated. Then he was suddenly seized by a peculiar sensation. He perceived all things in the air as if in water. It was terribly arduous to walk. He unintentionally stepped on something fish-like. Small fish grazed past his shell-shaped ears. There were also things like bicycles. The barking of dogs and the crowing of chickens could be heard as if from the distant surface of water. And whether it was leaves rustling against each other or water lapping at itself, such faint sounds were constantly occurring overhead.

He thought he must call out to her now. But merely thinking this made him feel as though his mouth was stoppered with cork. Gradually, the rustling sound overhead grew more intense. Suddenly, he noticed a red-ochre bungalow that looked familiar in the distance.

Around the bungalow was a green thicket, and into it her figure disappeared...

When he saw that, his consciousness suddenly sharpened. He thought it would feel somewhat awkward to visit her house right after her. Resignedly, he paced back and forth along the path. Fortunately, no one passed by. When he finally heard footsteps approaching from the base of “Giant’s Chair,” he hid himself in the grass thicket beside the path without understanding what had prompted him to do so. From his hiding place, he watched a Westerner stride past with vigorous, lively steps.

She was still in the garden. She had seen him approaching from behind when she glanced back earlier. Yet she did not stop to wait for him. For some reason, she felt ashamed to do so. And she sensed a faint prickling where his gaze lingered on her back from afar. She imagined the leaf shadows and sunlight blending beautifully across her spine in ceaseless variation.

She waited for him in the garden. Yet he would not readily enter. She felt she could almost grasp what he was dawdling over. A few minutes later, she finally saw him coming through the gate. He doffed his hat with foolish exuberance. So infectious was his manner that even she found herself wearing a lovely, playful smile. And no sooner had she begun speaking with him than she noticed he possessed that peculiarly fresh sensibility common to all who had regained their physical health.

“Is your illness better now?”

“Yes, I’m completely better now.” While answering, he gazed at her face as though dazzled. Her face possessed a classical beauty. That rose-petal skin of hers seemed somewhat weighty. When she laughed like that, it was as though only laughter drifted there. He had always secretly called her “Rubens’ Fake Painting.”

When he squinted at her, he found it strikingly fresh. He felt he was beginning to experience something entirely new. And so he looked only at her teeth. He looked only at her hips. In the meantime, he made no attempt to speak of his illness. He believed recalling such bothersome realities held no value whatsoever. Instead, he took pleasure in describing how beautiful it had been—the girl in the yellow hat seated within that black automobile with its immaculate white cushions—like something plucked from a Western novel. And he declared cheerfully that he had ridden here in that exquisite automobile where traces of her fragrance still lingered.

But he ended up not mentioning the saliva that remained in the automobile. He thought it better that way. Yet by keeping silent, he felt that strange vividness—the pleasure from when that saliva had seemed like flower petals—would linger within him indefinitely. This won't do, he thought. From that moment on, he began to stutter slightly. And now he could speak only awkwardly. Meanwhile, she found herself at a loss with him. At last she said reluctantly.

“Won’t you come inside?” “Yes.”

But they wanted to remain longer in the garden. Yet as their exchange teetered toward awkwardness, they finally resolved to enter the house. It was then they noticed her mother gazing down from the veranda like some angelic presence. Their faces flushed unbidden as they squinted up at her through the glare.

⁂

The next day, they invited him on a drive.

The automobile ran through the desolate highland nearing summer’s end with a cheerful hum.

The three of them hardly spoke inside the automobile. However, as all three of them felt almost the same pleasure in the changing scenery, it was a pleasant silence. Occasionally, faint voices would break that silence. But they would be immediately swallowed back into the original deep silence so completely that one might have thought no one had spoken at all.

“Oh, that little cloud...” (Following the Madam’s finger with one’s gaze revealed a cloud shaped like a seashell floating above a red roof) “Isn’t it rather charming?” From then until reaching Grin Hotel at Mount Asama’s foot, he alternated his gaze between the Madam’s taut fingers and her plump ones. The silence allowed this.

The hotel was empty. Boi said that since all the guests had already left, he had been thinking of closing up around today.

Stepping out onto the balcony, they could not help feeling the indescribable ugliness of the departed season's traces in the scenery before their eyes. Only the foot of Mount Asama smoothly traced a glossy slope. Below the balcony lay a flat roof; stepping over the low railing would let one emerge onto that roof immediately. When she saw how flat the roof was and how low the railing was, she spoke.

“I rather feel like walking up there, don’t you think?” The Madam replied to her, “Why don’t you have him go down with you?” Upon hearing that, he casually stepped out onto the roof. She too followed him, laughing. And when the two of them walked to the edge of the roof, he began to feel slightly uneasy. That wasn’t solely due to the subtle sense of physical instability caused by the roof’s slight incline. At the edge of that roof, it was then that he suddenly noticed her hand and its ring. And he imagined that she might pretend to slip for no reason and grab his hand so tightly that her ring would dig painfully into his fingers. Then he felt strangely uneasy. And suddenly he began to acutely feel the roof’s slight incline.

“Let’s go now.” When she said that, he involuntarily let out a sigh of relief. She had already climbed up to the balcony alone. He too attempted to follow her up and heard the Madam and her conversing on the balcony. “Did you see something?” “Yes, I happened to see our driver down below swinging on the swing.” “Was that all?” The clatter of plates and spoons reached his ears. Alone and blushing, he climbed up to the balcony.

He kept recalling the Madam’s "Was that all?" while drinking tea and in the automobile on their return. In that voice there seemed to be contained something of the Madam’s innocent laughter. It also seemed to contain a gentle irony. And then again, it also seemed to be nothing at all.…

⁂

The next day, when he visited their house, both of them had been invited to tea at another household and were out.

He tried to climb "Giant’s Chair" alone. But he soon found it dull and returned to town. And he wandered along Honmachi Street. Then he noticed a familiar young lady walking ahead of him. That was the daughter of a certain famous Baron who came to this summer resort every year. Last year too, he had often encountered this young lady riding horses along mountain passes and through forests. At such times, five or six youths who appeared to be of mixed race would always be gathered around her. They would ride horses and bicycles together.

He too had thought this young lady as beautiful as a tattooed butterfly. However, with just that, he had of course not paid any particular attention to this young lady either. But those very mixed-race youths surrounding her were somehow unpleasant. It might have been something akin to mild jealousy, but it could be said that he held at least that degree of interest in this young lady.

So he began following the young lady without any particular thought, but soon among the people straggling toward him from ahead, he suddenly noticed a single youth. That was the youth who appeared to be of mixed race—the one who had stayed by her side throughout last summer, accompanying her in tennis and dance. When he saw this, he frowned slightly and thought to leave the spot as quickly as possible. At that moment, he discovered something truly unexpected. For the young lady and the youth, pretending not to notice each other at all, had simply passed by like that. However, at the very moment they were about to pass each other, the youth’s face distorted as though seen through warped glass. Then he furtively glanced back toward the young lady. His face bore an expression of unmistakable bitterness.

This episode strangely moved him. He even felt something akin to a peculiar charm in that seemingly spiteful young lady. Of course, he could not feel the slightest sympathy for that mixed-race youth. That night, even after lying down in bed, the young lady’s figure kept appearing and disappearing annoyingly in his closed eyes like a moth repeatedly flying back to the same spot. He tried to recall his "Rubens’ Fake Painting" to dispel it. But the fact that it now appeared to him as nothing more than a discolored old reproduction compared to its former self tormented him all the more.

⁂

However, when morning came, that strange charm had already vanished somewhere like a night moth. And then he somehow felt refreshed.

In the morning, he took a long walk. Then, while drinking cold milk in a lodge, he decided to rest awhile. In such a refreshing mood, he had even thought he wouldn't mind confessing yesterday's episode to the Madam and her daughter at all. It stood in a small larch grove somewhat removed from town.

Above him as he rested his cheek on the wooden table, a parrot was mimicking human voices.

However, he made no attempt to listen to the parrot’s words. He was earnestly sketching his “Rubens’ Fake Painting” in the void. That it was taking on more vivid colors than usual pleased him…… At that moment, he heard two bicycles come racing along a path obscured from his view by tree branches and stop before the lodge. Then, though their figures were still not visible, a young girl’s characteristically clear voice could be heard.

“Why don’t we have a drink?” Hearing that voice, he started. “Again? This makes three times now.” A young man’s voice answered thus. He stared somewhat anxiously at the two people entering the lodge. Unexpectedly, it was the young lady from yesterday. And then there was a youth of refined features whom he was seeing for the first time. The youth glanced at him and attempted to sit at the table farthest from him. Then the young lady said.

“I’d rather be by the parrot.” And the two sat at the table right next to him. The young lady sat with her back to him, but to him it somehow seemed she had done so deliberately. The parrot began mimicking humans even more clamorously. She occasionally shifted her back to look at the parrot. Each time she shifted, he averted his eyes from her back. The young lady chattered away without pause, alternating between engaging the youth and the parrot. Her voice would at times become indistinguishable from that of “Rubens’ Fake Painting.” The reason he had been startled upon hearing this young lady’s voice earlier was precisely because of that.

The young lady’s companion youth differed remarkably from last year’s mixed-race youths not only in countenance but in his entire refined bearing. Everything about him carried an unhurried aristocratic grace. In this contrast between them, he felt something distinctly reminiscent of Turgenev’s novels—as if their dynamic had been lifted from those pages. It might be that around this time, the young lady had finally begun to recognize her own station in life. ...Indulging in such fancies, he grew uneasy at the thought that he himself might inadvertently become ensnared within that very fiction.

He hesitated for a while, uncertain whether he should stay there longer or leave right away. The parrot still mimicked human voices. No matter how intently he listened, he couldn’t comprehend a single word of its speech. This somehow seemed to him to mirror the disarray within his mind. He abruptly stood up and left the lodge with an ungainly stride. When he stepped outside, he saw two bicycles lying fallen on the grass in a peculiar posture, their handlebars intertwined like clasped arms.

At that moment, the young lady’s resounding laughter reached him from behind. As he listened to it, he felt something like bad music suddenly welling up inside his own body. Bad music. That was certainly true. It must be that the dim-witted angel in charge of him occasionally strummed an out-of-tune guitar. He was always exasperated by his guardian angel’s dim-wittedness. This angel had never once accurately distributed the karuta cards to him.

It happened one evening.

He was making his way back along the pitch-dark path from her house to his hotel, bewildered by some indescribable emptiness he couldn’t quite grasp.

At that moment, he noticed a group of young Westerners approaching from the darkness ahead.

The man was using a flashlight to illuminate the ground at his feet. And occasionally directed its light onto the woman’s face. Then, within that glinting small circle of light, the young woman’s face appeared, squinting against the brightness.

To see it properly—since the woman stood considerably taller than he—he had to tilt his head back almost upright. Viewed from that angle, the young woman’s face appeared utterly divine. An instant later, the man dropped the flashlight back down to his pitch-dark feet.

As he passed by them, he discovered their arms intertwined like monogrammed initials. Then, left alone in that darkness, he grew strangely agitated—unpleasantly so. He even began to feel like he wanted to die.

That feeling bore an uncanny resemblance to the aftermath of hearing bad music. Struggling to shake off that peculiar musical agitation, he spent the morning wandering recklessly about everywhere. Before long, he came upon an unfamiliar path.

Perhaps because he had never been to that area before, he felt as though he had strayed impossibly far from town.

At that moment, he suddenly felt as though his name had been called. He looked around but saw nothing of note. As he wondered at this strangeness, something called his name again. This time hearing it more distinctly, he turned toward the voice’s origin to find a grassy bank rising three feet above his path, beyond which a man faced a canvas. Seeing the man’s face reminded him of an acquaintance.

He painstakingly clambered up onto it and approached his friend. But his friend, without making any particular attempt to speak to him, remained intently facing his canvas. He too thought it best not to speak. And so he remained seated there in silence, keeping watch over that half-finished painting. He occasionally searched the surrounding area for the landscape that served as the painting's motif. But try as he might, he couldn't find such a landscape. After all, upon that canvas there were only intermingled forms—fish-like shapes in various colors, small bird-like figures, and flower-like patterns.

After gazing at that strange painting for some time, he quietly stood up. Then, looking up at him as he began to rise, his friend said: “Ah, it’s fine. I’m heading back to Tokyo today.” “Leaving today? But wait, isn’t that painting still unfinished?” “It’s not finished. But I have to go back now.” “Why’s that?”

Instead of answering, his friend once again lowered his gaze back down to his painting. For some time afterward, his own eyes appeared intensely fixated on one particular section of it.

⁂

He had returned to the hotel alone first and was waiting in the lobby for his friend—the one who had promised to join him for lunch—to arrive. He leaned out from the lobby window and gazed blankly at the sunflowers blooming in the courtyard. They stretched taller than Westerners. From the tennis court behind the hotel came the cheerful pop of rackets that sounded like champagne corks being pulled.

He suddenly stood up. And then he reseated himself in front of the window-side table. Then he picked up the pen. However, as there unfortunately wasn't a single sheet of paper atop it, he proceeded to blot several clumsy characters across the large blotter provided there.

The hotel was a parrot. From the parrot’s ear, Juliet’s face emerged.

But Romeo is not here. Romeo must be playing tennis. If the parrot opens its mouth, the blackamoor came fully into view.

He tried to read it over again, but the ink had bled so completely that he could no longer make out anything he had written.

Even so, when his friend—who had arrived slightly later than the appointed time—leaned over to peer at it, he flipped it over. “You don’t have to hide it.” “This is really nothing.” “I know all about it.” “What do you mean?” “The day before yesterday, I happened to see something good.” “The day before yesterday?” “Oh, that?” “So that’s why you’re treating me today.” “That’s not what it was, you know.”

That had merely been me accompanying them in the automobile to the foot of Mount Asama. “That was all there was to it.” He recalled the Madam’s words from that time again. And then he blushed alone.

Then they entered the dining hall. Seizing that moment, he tried to change the subject. "By the way, what do you plan to do with your painting?" "My painting? It'll stay like that." "Isn't that a waste?" "There's just no helping it. The scenery here's first-rate, but it's so hard to paint it's maddening. Last year too I came to paint, but nothing worked. The air's too damn pure. However distant the leaves are, you end up seeing every single one clearly. Makes it impossible to handle, you know."

“Hmph… So that’s how it is.” He was scooping soup with his spoon when his hand stopped of its own accord, turning his thoughts inward. Perhaps his relationship with her refused to progress as desired precisely because this mountain air was too pristine—exposing even the faintest quivers of their psyches to each other’s scrutiny. He tried earnestly to believe it.

And he thought. Just like this friend who was about to return to Tokyo carrying his unfinished landscape painting, would I too have no choice but to leave this place again in a few days—carrying my own "Rubens’ Fake Painting," which would likely remain unfinished as well?

In the afternoon, after seeing his friend off to the edge of town, he visited her house alone.

The two of them were just having tea together. When she saw him, the Madam suddenly spoke to her as if remembering something.

“Aren’t you going to show him the photograph of you in that baby carriage?”

Laughing, she went into the next room to fetch the photograph. In the meantime, within his eyes, the old mushroom-like hues of her childhood photograph seemed to gather of their own accord. When she returned from the next room again, she handed him two photographs. But they were both such fresh photographs—so newly taken that they made his eyes falter—that it appeared to be one taken this summer in the villa’s garden, showing her seated in a rattan chair.

“Which one came out better?” She asked. He grew slightly flustered and, narrowing his eyes as if nearsighted, compared the two photographs. Without quite knowing why, he ended up pointing to one of them. At that moment, the tip of his finger gently touched the cheek in the photograph. He thought he touched a rose petal.

Then the Madam picked up the other photograph and said. "But doesn’t this one resemble her better?"

When told this, he too came to think that one resembled the real her more closely. And he felt the other bore perfect likeness to the her in his imagination—to "Rubens’ Fake Painting." After a while, he recalled the mushroom-toned vision that had vanished before he could see its original subject. “Which one shows the baby carriage?” “Baby carriage?”

The Madam made a somewhat uncomprehending expression. But that expression vanished immediately. And it transformed into her usual smile—that unique blend of kindness and irony. “It’s about that rattan chair.”

And that harmonious atmosphere continued unchanged over all the hours of that afternoon. Was this truly the blissful moment he had awaited with such unbearable anticipation? The entire time he was apart from them，he had burned with longing to meet again. In his desperation，he had fashioned this arbitrary construct—his “Rubens’ Fake Painting.” Now came fresh compulsion：to verify whether this mental image truly mirrored her. And thus desire coiled tighter，driving him ever more urgently toward their presence.

Yet in moments like this present one, when he found himself before them, he was utterly satisfied by that fact alone. And all his earlier anxieties—about whether his mental image had truly resembled her up until that moment—were forgotten without any conscious effort to forget them. This was because he wanted to feel as vividly as possible that he stood before them; throughout that time, he would sacrifice all other matters—even the homework assigned the previous day of determining whether that mental image truly resembled her.

Yet however vague it was, he couldn't help feeling that the girl before him and the girl of his mental image were two entirely separate entities. Perhaps the rose-petal skin that belonged to the heroine of his unfinished "Rubens’ Fake Painting" was exactly what the girl now before him lacked.

The episode with the two photographs had somewhat clarified those thoughts of his.

As evening fell, he made his way back alone along the dimly lit path to the hotel. At that moment, he noticed something unidentifiable climbing onto a large chestnut tree’s branch deep within the grove lining the path, vigorously shaking it. As he gazed up at it with an anxious look, suddenly recalling his slightly dim-witted guardian angel, some dusky-colored animal abruptly leapt down from that tree. It was a squirrel.

*Stupid squirrel,* he muttered under his breath. While unconsciously voicing the thought, he kept his gaze fixed on the squirrel—its tail arched over its back as it scampered frantically through the dim grove—until it vanished from sight.