Pathway to Japanese Literature

One day— Muffling my footsteps, I entered from the genkan into my parlor, hurriedly changed into Western clothes, then slid open the fusuma door to Father’s bedroom. By his pillow lay Father wheezing, the dim lamplight drawn close. His chronic asthma would invariably act up on days like this—these damp, oppressive days. Though autumn had come, not a single crisp clear day had yet arrived this year, leaving each one somehow both sweltering and chill against the skin.

“I’m home, Father. “I’m sorry I’m late.” “How are you feeling...?” Father lay silently staring at my face. Though I had grown accustomed to receiving that gaze countless times, each instance still compelled me to bow my head politely—overcome by that same familiar awe. Then I retreated from the room with stiff backward steps.

A small clump of cold rice lay on one side of the rice container. And the stewed daikon, now discolored and devoid of any broth, sat on a plate. In the earthenware teapot, what little remained was also cold Senryu tea. I hurriedly made ochazuke and finished my meal. I felt something so cold it was almost sorrowful plummeting hurriedly into my stomach.

At that moment, Mother seemed to have entered Father’s room, and the sound of their conversation reached me. It was about me. “Yukiko still hasn’t eaten. It’s almost nine o’clock already.”

“What now? “Gallivanting out since evening and doesn’t lift a finger around the house…” “It’s your fault for not making her do anything around the house.”

“I’m deeply sorry.”

Mother seemed to be rubbing Father’s back; interspersed with his labored voice and her listless one came the rustling sound of her tsumugi silk robe brushing against itself. To me, my parents’ words felt so detached that I could barely recognize them as being about myself. More than that, my mind was filled with the Lee Dynasty plate I’d bought that day using the five hundred yen received in exchange for giving Father a fifty-gō blood transfusion. Neither medicine nor injections lasted more than three hours anymore—their efficacy had gradually diminished through overuse—so following one doctor’s advice that transfusion might help, I had transfused my blood into Father’s veins. Father made Mother fetch his wallet and silently laid five hundred-yen bills before me. Without uttering a word, I took them and left home. I walked through streets chilled by evening air. Then purchased that long-desired plate with the money, drank coffee from what remained, and smoked an expensive cigarette.

After roughly washing the soiled dishes with a clatter and carelessly stacking them in the cupboard, I returned to my room and unwrapped the newspaper package. I pressed the ceramic’s velvety surface against my cheek and caressed it for a while. “There you go again with Elder Sister’s hermit hobbies. “We’re barely scraping by as it is! “If you’re gonna buy that thing, you should’ve just brought home some beef or something!”

My younger brother Shinjiro, who had entered the room, abruptly flicked the plate with his fingernail.

“Stop that! You’ll break it.” “It’ll break!”

I placed it on top of the bookshelf. The fact that Father’s “blood” had turned into a “plate” began to strike me as absurd. The memory of walking alone through the night streets while carefully cradling the wrapped plate brought me joy. Hermit hobbies? I recalled Shinjiro’s words. Was this a rebuke? Was it out of mockery? To me, it seemed it must have been envy. That we sought refuge in such things was the one and only thing Father and I had in common.

Long before the war began, Father would often take me to antique shops in Kyoto. He would buy teacups, jars, iron kettles, and such things, then arrange them in his second-floor room. The chicken-comb vase—said to be one of only two in Japan—had been his most cherished possession among them, but under the fires of war, it too vanished along with the others. For a while, as if longing for a lost child, I summoned each vanished treasure before my eyes one by one and sank into remembrance.

Suddenly, jazz blared noisily. And immediately, it was abruptly cut off, returning to silence. “There, you got scolded. How foolish you are, Shinjiro.”

Before I knew it, I lightly scolded Shinjiro who had gone out to the next room. Father, though visibly pained, nevertheless shouted in a loud voice.

“Hmph. You don’t even understand jazz?” “Honestly, being stuck at home is depressing as hell.” “There’s nothing fun about this. Even Elder Sister’s acting all post-war decadent…”

“So even an old maid like you falls under the post-war decadent crowd, hmm?”

“Starting next year, I’ll be one year younger.” “But mahjong and cards—those I can talk about.”

I like gambling and games of chance more than my three daily meals. I become engrossed in trying to win. In those moments, I completely forget about everything else.

“Elder Sister, I’m thinking of taking a part-time job.”

At that moment, Shinjiro, who had entered my room again, said in a low voice.

“What kind?”

“A jazz band.” “Steel guitar.”

“When did you learn that?”

“It doesn’t matter when—it’s the real deal!”

“Alright, go ahead and do it. But there’s the summer incident to consider—think it through properly before jumping in.” The “summer incident” refers to when Shinjiro, having enthusiastically resolved to walk around the baseball stadium selling ice candy, rushed off to Nishinomiya on his first day of that part-time job—only to sling an empty candy box over his shoulder, take two or three steps, and then find himself unable to move another inch—or so the story goes. “There, you see?” Father said. Shinjiro had entered the new university system this year. Though properly wearing a square cap as a university student, being the youngest son meant he still couldn’t take decisive action independently no matter how much time passed.

“I’ll keep it hidden from Mother for you.” “Father may be an impregnable fortress, but we’ll manage somehow.” “Thanks. I’m counting on you.”

It seemed Father had used his inhalant, for an acrid smell now permeated the entire house.

After that, Shinjiro and I started rolling the dice, the two of us. If I won, it was no loss, but if I lost to my brother, I’d have to forfeit one of my cigarettes from earlier. It was nothing really—a losing proposition at that—but simply rolling the dice itself was what made it interesting.

The next day――

I went to the hospital to visit my brother. My only brother, Shin’ichi, had been attending university, but due to the strain during the war, he had been hospitalized in the summer before last with tuberculosis. As he was a cautious and meticulous person, he had kept strictly to his convalescence without ever stepping outside since being hospitalized, but this illness did not heal easily, and he remained hospitalized with an ongoing pneumothorax.

When I reached the end of the long corridor, the room at the far end was my elder brother’s hospital room. I was holding five or six chrysanthemums that had bloomed in the garden, wrapped in newspaper. When I knocked, a low voice responded.

“Good morning. How are you feeling?”

“Hey.”

My elder brother raised his upper body and looked toward me. “Pretty chrysanthemums—from the courtyard?”

“Yes, they are. Though they don’t have much fragrance.” I arranged the chrysanthemums in the Persian blue vase where the withered cosmos still remained. The white petals and yellow centers showed up beautifully against this blue vase. My elder brother had always been particularly fond of the softly rounded surface of the vase. Though it would have fetched a considerable price if sold, it had been kept for his sake.

“Elder Brother, I gave Father a blood transfusion.” “Is Father in very bad shape?” “It’s not that bad—it’s just as it always is.” “Yukiko’s five-hundred-yen blood… heh.”

I laughed, remembering the white plate.

“Five hundred yen?” “I sold it—the blood…”

“What? You, to Father? And you received five hundred yen for it?” “Is that wrong? Yukiko’s used it all up now—next time I’ll buy you Mozart records instead.” “Aren’t you parent and child? Utterly hopeless people.” The conversation broke off. I opened the lid of the thunderbox and put on Mozart—not just music my brother liked, but something he had become utterly enamored with. A rondo in D major. Elder brother lay long on the white sheet, listening while keeping his eyes closed.

“Hey, Shinjiro told me last night he wants to work part-time in a jazz band. What do you think, Elder Brother?”

“Is Shinjiro studying that? Working nights must be tough; he’d be out late, wouldn’t he?”

“But it’s Saturdays and Sundays, apparently.” “And it’s not like they’re fixed either…” “You don’t want him ruining his health like I did. So what’s he going to do?”

“Steel guitar.” “He’s going to borrow one?” “And he says if he does a couple of gigs, he can buy his own.”

“Well, given the nature of the venues, I’m opposed to it…” “Given that I’ve had no contact with society for two whole years now, I can’t exactly speak out of turn.” “Even if my feelings seem foolishly outdated to the world…” “Elder Brother, that’s not true.” “No matter how the world changes, Elder Brother must remain someone who loves Mozart’s music…”

I looked around my elder brother’s room once more. A Kannon statue from Chūgūji Temple and a framed portrait of Mozart hung on the walls. Beneath them were foreign art books, catalogs, records, and similar items piled high. That summer, when I suggested selling the leather-bound Louvre catalog, Elder Brother had glared into my eyes as if furious. And he was always asking me to buy things—those records, this book, all sorts of things. For that purpose, I had to scramble for the money. If his orders were delayed even a month, he would fly into a terrible rage.

“Anyway, I’ll take responsibility for Shinjiro. After all, he needs to buy books and such now, doesn’t he?” I shook hands with my elder brother who had come out to the hospital entrance to see me off and walked down the slope. The sight of him standing there despondently struck me as utterly divorced from the times—like someone already expelled from society—and recalling our earlier conversation, I myself grew sorrowful.

On my way back from the hospital, I sold an old jacket and earned three hundred yen. With that money I drank coffee, bought ink and stationery, then headed out to the bustling streets with the remaining hundred yen thinking to catch a movie. There I saw Shinjiro's retreating figure. He was with a beautiful, slender woman in her mid-thirties. Eyes wide open—he wasn't going to school. I grew uneasy. I recalled how Shinjiro had been pressing his trousers last night to straighten the creases—something quite unlike him. I followed him for thirty meters, but when I abruptly turned down a side alley found myself standing motionless for ages in that dead end. What on earth could Shinjiro be feeling?

Shinjiro had been a kind-hearted, honest child ever since he was little. He was frail and seemed to spend more of the year lying down. Naturally, he didn’t go out to play with the neighborhood children, preferring to stay indoors reading books or tending to his canary on the veranda. Others often compared my headstrong self to him and remarked how they wished Shinjiro and I had been switched at birth. His features were gentle, his skin still soft and doughy even now, with faint peach fuzz beneath his eyes. Although he was quite tall compared to me, he had a cuddliness that made me want to hug him. I had come to harbor something more than the ordinary feelings an elder sister has for a younger brother at some point. To dispel the loneliness of feeling left behind by my younger companions, I often went out drinking, but even amidst the noisy commotion, I never forgot about Shinjiro. Shinjiro was a good boy who never talked back to me, his sister, but he disliked my affectionate gestures that often escalated into physicality. And yet, could it be that Shinjiro was receiving the caresses of an older married woman? If it were a schoolgirl with pigtails, I wouldn’t mind at all. Precisely because it was someone who stood as my counterpart, I felt something akin to defeat, and jealousy even arose.

After leaving the alleyway, I kept thinking about Shinjiro until I returned home. I had no desire to watch a movie. Recently, newspaper articles about the scandalous behavior of women in the Hanshin area had fleetingly crossed my mind. I want Shinjiro alone to walk the straight path. Elder Brother is a dropout, and I am a woman—from the very beginning, we had no grand hopes or ambitions. Shinjiro must grow up and restore this house. He must reverse the decline of the family estate. No, more than that—I want even just Shinjiro to lead a stable, peaceful life. I must become that child’s support. Mother has no education and is so consumed by securing each day’s meals that she has no room left in her mind to consider anything else. Father is also an invalid.

I quickened my pace.

When I entered the gate, in the garden of the detached tea-house, my father’s widowed sister was lighting a fire. Having lost her husband decades ago, she now lived with her middle-school-aged son Haruhiko, sustained by knitting piecework and meager stock dividends. “I’m home, Aunt.”

“Welcome home.” “Oh right, the mail came—two or three letters, I think.”

On the narrow veranda made of weathered planks, sweet potatoes were lined up, and beside them lay a kitchen knife abandoned mid-chop among scattered vegetables. Long ago, seasonal tea ceremonies had always been held in that tea room—the bubbling sound of boiling water, young women in long-sleeved kimonos, matrons in muted Yūki silk moving with hushed steps. A soft rustle as they straightened their ceremonial cloths. Now, the tatami that once lay lushly blue and damp had yellowed, fraying at the edges.

“Yuki, starting today, I’m thinking of getting by on less than fifty yen a day.” “Morning: coarse tea and bread; lunch: pickles and simmered preserves; dinner every other day: fish cake and fish sausage.”

Aunt said that and chuckled dryly. At the time of this aunt’s marriage, when the family was at its zenith, her wedding preparations had become quite the talk of the town alongside her beauty. Father and Aunt would often recount reminiscences from those days. After all, by the time we were born, the family had already entered a slight decline—I never knew those opulent days firsthand—yet every time I passed by and gazed upon the place where Father was born, I found myself overwhelmed. That estate had been transferred to new owners before the war and was completely destroyed by a flood; then what little remained—the gatekeeper’s hut and main gate—were burned down in an air raid. When I discovered things like garden party photographs in the corners of the storehouse, I often envied such a life—or rather, more than taking pride in my ancestors having lived that way—I even feared tomorrow’s uncertain fate. Even though our childhood was already somewhat in decline, the life we led now seems almost comical in retrospect. Even to go somewhere nearby, they would ride in a car, with us children fighting over the seat next to the chauffeur. I recall entertaining many honored guests. In the upper-floor grand guest room, large thick cushions would be arranged. The maids removed their white aprons and carried lacquered black trays. Tea bowls and such were taken out from the paulownia wood boxes they were specially stored in for such occasions. In the tokonoma alcove, three hanging scrolls were displayed, and in the large cloisonné vase, the most splendid flowers of each season would be arranged. I too would put on a long-sleeved kimono and pay my respects to the guests. But I couldn’t sit still for long, so I would retreat to the back and eat special treats with my elder brother and Shinjiro. At that time, I didn’t find it particularly enjoyable—it simply felt like a matter of course.

That night, Mother—who had returned from the funeral of Grandmother Matsukawa, a distant relative—spoke these words after dinner.

“At the Matsukawas’ place—their grandmother—well, I heard they removed the gold teeth from the deceased to cover funeral expenses. However you look at it, what a dreadful world we’ve come to live in.” “What’s wrong with that?”

Shinjiro interjected from the sidelines. I glanced briefly at Father’s face.

“What do you mean ‘why’? You impossible child! Those things are part of the deceased!” Mother said. “It’s fine—it’s smarter than having some thief steal them, right? What do you think, Elder Sister?”

“I also think it’s fine.” “There’s no need for reproach. Unlike you—a materialist—I do want to honor the deceased’s spirit. But I don’t think extracting gold teeth disrespects them.” “Then wouldn’t it be fine if we could hold a proper funeral for him?”

Father made a bitter face and remained silent. Aunt let out a shrill voice. “But who’s going to pull them out?”

“Why not have someone like a dentist do it?” I said. It was then that Father opened his mouth for the first time. “Enough of this unpleasant talk. When I die, you’ll have plenty of gold teeth to live off, won’t you? So eat your fill then.” I said with a laugh.

“Even if Yukiko dies, it’s a bad investment. She doesn’t have a single gold tooth. People’s value has dropped a bit, hasn’t it? But it’s better not to have any while you’re alive.”

The conversation came to an abrupt end there.

After the meal, I went to Shinjiro’s room. When I thought he might be studying, he lay sprawled out smoking a cigarette.

“Study.” “What are you doing? You’re wasting time.”

“I’m thinking—it’s not a waste.” “What profound thoughts are these? What do you see in that purple smoke?” I said teasingly.

“Leave me alone—you’re so annoying.”

Shinjiro made an angry face and turned his back toward me. I sat down beside him and spent some time pulling threads from the tear in the carpet, but—

“You didn’t go to school today—though I suppose with university, it might be acceptable.”

“You didn’t go to school today—though I suppose with university, it might be permissible,” I asked gently. Shinjiro remained silent.

“I saw you in town—you weren’t alone, but you weren’t with a friend either.”

Interrupting his attempt to say something, I pressed further—

“I don’t want to ask anything or say anything—but because of that… let’s just drop the band.” “Elder Sister will manage to get you the money for your textbooks somehow.” “Elder Sister may not have the right to scold you, but she’s worried about your future. I know saying such high-handed things will make you angry, but…” I said.

“I’m not angry at you, Elder Sister.” “But I’ll live my life as I please.” “Whether I quit the band or not—it’s already fallen through.” “The one today—she must be someone’s wife.” “What kind of relationship do you have with her?” “Whatever it is, whatever it is.” “Elder Sister, go away.” “Please leave me alone.” I stood up. And when I entered my room, I suddenly began to feel sorry for Shinjiro. How should he live? Is it really better for me to stay silent? Shinjiro is Shinjiro. I am I. I can neither guide anyone but myself nor exert control over anything beyond that. Before going to bed, I casually came to Shinjiro’s room once more and heard the sound of sobbing there.

Another day—

I, Shinjiro, Aunt, and Haruhiko were playing cards. Father was still in the next room, wheezing and gasping. “One heart.” Of the dealt cards, six were hearts. And there were as many as four Owners.

“Two clubs.”

“Two hearts.”

“Three clubs.”

“Three hearts.”

The side cards were this good too. With no clubs in my hand, I could discard from the very start. I explained triumphantly. It had to be hearts. Partnered with Aunt, I saw her revealed hand was relatively good too. We took four tricks and won the round outright. “Bien joué, Mademoiselle.”

Aunt grasped my hand in delight. Aunt often said she had played bridge with French people in Paris twenty years ago. And I heard stories about their love of gambling and quick tempers. The very next day after we resolved to quit gambling for our younger brother’s sake, we started up again. From next door, Father finally grew angry at the commotion. “Go to bed. It’s past eleven!” We retreated across the corridor, sneaking into Aunt’s tea room. We continued playing bridge there until around one o'clock.

“See you tomorrow. Good night.”

Shinjiro and I hurried back along the open corridor swept by the night wind.

Mother was writing a letter to Aunt in Tokyo in the dim light. Peering over her shoulder, I saw that a lengthy marriage proposal concerning me had been written out. I entered my room with a wry smile and suddenly began thinking about marriage. The number twenty-five floated first to mind. When does one’s marriageable period begin, and when does it end? At any rate, I considered myself no longer young. All this time—what had I been doing? Many of my classmates had already married. Not a few even had children by now. Those still single had each carved out clear paths—becoming schoolteachers or company secretaries—living defined lives in their own ways. Was I not the sole one stuck in this neither-fish-nor-fowl state, utterly immobilized? I myself believed I was “unfit as a woman.” Until now, marriage proposals had been few enough to count on one hand. All had been refused. At my very first arranged meeting, I’d still been under twenty and full of vigor. The prospective groom was a diplomat’s son—a splendid young gentleman. Though he seemed faultless in every way, that very air of polished social grace—so lacking in raw sincerity—made it impossible for me to feel affection. Gaudy socializing ill suits my nature. When introduced to a crowd of acquaintances while standing on the room’s bearskin rug, I’d flustered and desperately clutched my handkerchief. Being thus, the refusals had naturally followed. My parents were deeply disappointed, but I felt relief.

In any case, I may put on a stubbornly determined front, but on the other hand, I also have a spinelessness—a timidity—about me. That may well be what has kept me suspended in indecision until today. At this late stage, I no longer take marriage seriously—anyone would do. Eventually I must leave this house. I feel not an ounce of affection for my family home, nor do I intend to remain single my whole life. Lately I’ve felt like tossing myself into a flowing stream—take me wherever you please; I’ll settle wherever I wash ashore—yet with no real marriage prospects materializing, I can’t help but sense my youth wearing thin like old fabric, accompanied by an impatient irritation toward it all.

“Mother, you really should stop fixating on nobles and peers.”

I said it as though it were someone else’s affair and let out a chuckle all by myself.

“Having money would be better than that, wouldn’t it?”

Mother said that lightly. After getting into bed, I made plans for tomorrow. If the weather were good, I resolved to go on an outing to Kyoto. The autumn leaves were at their peak. I liked choosing less-traveled paths to wander along. A couple of days prior, I had received a small commission for arranging the sale of a piano, so with plans to spend the next day relaxing, I drifted off to sleep with quiet satisfaction.

However, the next morning.

Because Father was feeling somewhat better today, he began compiling a list of items for me to verify. It was a list of things to sell. Having had my plans thwarted and feeling slightly cross, I sullenly sat down beside Father’s desk. Some fifteen or sixteen items were recorded. Inkstones and incense cases. White porcelain jars, hanging scrolls, and square art papers. A Sèvres coffee set—gaudy lapis lazuli pieces that he had declared would form part of my trousseau, keeping this single set unsold until now. Then came five or six silver items.

“Yukiko, take these out from the storehouse. Then call Mr. Higashi over. I’ve written down approximate values, but make sure to discuss them thoroughly again. The silver shouldn’t go through Mr. Higashi. A jeweler would be better…” “Then I’ll do it today.”

I reluctantly stood up, took out the heavy iron key from the closet, and opened the storehouse. When I creaked open the large door, a musty, cold odor greeted me. By now it was mostly empty, the dim light fixture thickly coated with dust. I arranged the items on the veranda of Father’s bedroom and checked for any damage. Mother and Aunt were gazing at those items with tragic expressions.

“It can’t be helped.” “With knitting piecework, Haruhiko and I have managed to get by, but orders keep dwindling, stocks keep falling, and there’s nothing left to sell.” “The jade and diamonds are all gone.” “The ring I’m wearing now—I bought this at a night stall for ten sen.” “A talisman ring—it’s been thirty years now.”

“Aunt, you’re truly admirable—even at rock bottom, you’re surprisingly unperturbed.” “Things can only turn out the way they do, I suppose.” “I want to make it happen. I want to do it.” “If we have our fortunes read through bagua divination, perhaps a good idea will come to mind.” “That’s a good idea. Yes, let’s have Yukiko’s read. Why don’t we have Mother’s read as well?” “No, I won’t have any of that—I leave it to God.”

It was then that Mother spoke up for the first time, stating flatly: Mother was a believer in Shinreikyo, a sect of Japanese Shinto. No matter what calamity befell us, God would always help ensure matters were resolved with minimal damage, and she would promptly make a thanksgiving visit to the shrine. It was a faith bordering on fanaticism. Neither Father nor my household belonged to Shinreikyo. Mother alone was.

On the first and fifteenth of every month, there was a festival; sakaki branches would be placed on the altar next to the family Buddhist altar, and a Shinto priest would come. Nowadays, no one besides Mother participated in that festival, but when we were young, we had been made to sit through it as if it were an obligation. During the long ritual chants, we siblings would count the tatami mat seams or pinch each other’s exposed feet and often got scolded. I had never thought anything of Mother’s faith. But sometimes, I would think that if we economized on the offering expenses, we could buy shoes.

I brought the items from the veranda to the main room and arranged them in a corner. Then I went to call Mr. Higashi, the antique dealer.

She turned into the back alley beside the shrine, and Mr. Higashi’s shop was right there. When she opened the rattling door and stepped inside, a pleasant scent of incense greeted her. “Welcome, miss.” “Long time no see. How have you been lately?” “They’re just not selling at all, I tell you.”

Placing a cigarette on the long brazier with a light tap, the proprietor shook his head. When I looked around the shop, objects of various shapes lay jumbled together. A Korean bamboo shelf gleamed with a fine luster, setting off the Songhuluk bowl placed atop it. “Sitting here like this—I could never grow bored no matter how much time passes.”

“Heh heh, please have a seat. I’ll brew some tea.” The proprietor nodded along as he poured fragrant green tea for me.

“You see, Father says he’d like you to buy some of the remaining items—could you come by? They’re nothing particularly remarkable, though.” “Ah, is that so? If it’s from your household, I’d be happy to buy anything. I could come by as early as this afternoon.” “Thank you.”

This proprietor had a bald head and an imposing build, with a rounded chin and smooth, fortunate-looking features. As I gazed at his auspicious face, it suddenly struck me that I needed to get my fortune read, and I stood up.

I checked my watch—10:30. If I went now to Mr. Horikawa’s trustworthy shop that handled watches and jewelry, then to the famously accurate Sannomiya fortune-teller, I’d return home just as Mr. Higashi was due to arrive. The thought made my walking pace hurried as I headed to Mr. Horikawa’s place on the bustling main street. The proprietor was absent, and a technician was repairing watches.

“I’d like you to buy some silver.”

“I’ll buy it.”

“How much will you give for it now?” “Well, it depends on the item—what exactly are you selling?” “Cups and such.” “Somewhere between eighteen yen and twenty-one or twenty-two yen, I’d say.” “Per monme.” “That low?” “They’re dropping right now, but they change every day—rest assured, I won’t let you take a loss.” “I’ll have to look at the items first and then discuss it with the owner.” “Well, anyway, I’ll bring the items tomorrow. They must be genuine, but...” “Miss, you should check elsewhere too.” “If they offer more than our shop, we’ll match their price...” “This is a secret from the owner, but if you take them to the Mint, you’ll get the highest price. We end up taking them there ourselves anyway. But mind you, it’ll take a week or so, and once you factor in the train fare to Osaka and other expenses, the difference ends up being pretty small.”

He said kindly.

I left Mr. Horikawa’s shop and asked about the price of silver at two or three jewelry stores along the way. Some said fifteen yen, others twenty-four—the quotes were quite varied. Putting the silver matter off until tomorrow after showing the items, I arrived at a backstreet corner where there was a cluttered Chinese-style udon shop that supposedly housed an accurate fortune-teller and a cheap stand bar. There were no other customers, and the white-haired old man was reading a Japanese-bound book.

“I’d like you to take a look—how much will it be?”

“A hundred yen.” Bluntly stating this, he looked at my face. That face closely resembled my elementary school teacher’s. “Your age? And your date of birth?”

I stated my date of birth. As I watched him splitting and joining slender bamboo sticks while chanting incantations, what had begun as a half-mocking attitude gradually grew serious. What would he prophesy, I wonder. For about five minutes, the incantations continued, after which he began flipping over and rearranging what looked like wooden dominoes. The red lines on those dominoes appearing and disappearing sent chills through my heart.

“You…”

“Yes.”

“Are you married?”

I found it somewhat comical that a fortune-teller wouldn’t know such a thing, and shaking my head, I laughed. “I thought so. Ah, I see.”

He gazed at the dominoes with a look of deep admiration. “By the end of this month, you see—the character for ‘movement’ has appeared.” “There will be some kind of change—either in yourself or your household.” “That cannot be called fortunate or unfortunate.” “Anyway, what you’ll have to carry from now on will only grow heavier.” “You keep thinking about bearing loads without ever considering your actual strength.” “That’s why there’s a risk you’ll get crushed under the weight.” “In any case—you see—I believe one event happening this month will make your current path shift on its own.”

“I don’t know what kind of change it will be.” “That cannot be predicted.” “Just be sure to stay cautious.” “As for marriage—well, there’s no need to rush for now.” “Someone like you is better off staying alone.” “You won’t want for money.” “Life is short.” “Living even ten years would be fortunate enough.” “This might change again.” “One cannot assert that longevity necessarily brings happiness.” “But the regrettable thing is that you are a woman.” “If you were a man, you’d have become a hero.” “A statue would stand.” “Precisely because you are a woman, those very destined qualities become seeds of misfortune.” “In any case, there will be movement, so do take care regarding that.”

I placed a hundred yen and fled from that place. I tried to systematically reconstruct the words he had spoken. They seemed contradictory—in the end, I couldn’t grasp what meant what. Suddenly, absurdity surged up within me. Statues—my ancestors too, my great-grandfather too, had statues erected for them. Yet they’d gone off to war wearing red sashes during the fighting. Now only their Mikage stone pedestals remain on the temple mountain. Remembering how we’d chanted sutras in the rain while tearing down a statue made me laugh aloud.

When I returned home and was eating a meal, Mr. Higashi came over. When sitting in his shop, he wore a kimono with a padded silk jacket, but the man I saw at the entrance was dressed in a thin suit with a crooked tie. He might have dressed up for the occasion, but Mr. Higashi definitely looked better in that kimono. “Please, since Father will be meeting you as well.” I ushered Mr. Higashi into Father’s room, and after hurriedly finishing my meal, I took tea and went back to where they were. I arranged the items. Father and Mr. Higashi were looking at them. Father looked uneasy,

“What a shame.” he would sometimes say. Mr. Higashi slowly examined each one.

“The total is twenty-three thousand yen.”

Mr. Higashi said. Both Father and I had thought it would amount to at least thirty thousand yen. I was looking at the area around Father’s beard, which had grown white and long because his illness made it impossible for him to shave. Father also looked at my face. “But Mr. Higashi, these are valuable pieces! Even this tea bowl is much better than that one you have at your place.”

I said while tallying each one in my head.

“But you see, these things won’t sell quickly... This one’s four thousand, this one maybe eight thousand, and the sable pieces are completely worthless.” “The impressionist color prints—three thousand yen, right?” “The rest total eight thousand yen.” “You’re quite the go-getter, aren’t you?”

I looked at the landscape painting that was now hung in the alcove. I looked at the tea bowl placed on top of the box. Father remained silent. “Mr. Higashi, this pot is priced far too low. At the very least, I want twelve or thirteen thousand for all these small pieces together.”

As I kept arguing back and forth with Mr. Higashi, I too began to feel a sense of resignation. No matter how much they sold for, it was all the same. It was just a matter of whether it could stretch to last a week.

In the end, the matter was settled at 25,000 yen. Father also said that it was acceptable. Mr. Higashi, having finished speaking, packed a bowl of cut tobacco into his kiseru and puffed contentedly. The crimson of the sarasa on the tobacco pouch was a fine shade.

“Whenever I go to Mr. Higashi’s place, it’s full of things I want.” “Father, there was a Korean chest there too.”

“I see. Though I burned it, the one that was in that house also had a fine color.” “It’s a lonely thing.” “There, there, Master.” “Do cheer up.”

Mr. Higashi said this and left, stating he would come tomorrow to collect the items.

Aunt entered and announced that all the lottery tickets had been duds.

“I promised you a hotel course meal, Yukiko dear, but…” “They were all duds.” “I’ll win next month!” Aunt, wearing a skirt full of patches, said this while laughing loudly.

“Aunt, if you calculate how much you spend buying them every month, it must add up to quite a deficit.”

“That’s true, you know.” “But I can’t stop.”

The two of them laughed again. “Even if we call ourselves poor, we might still be living rather luxuriously. “Aunt, we’re having beef tonight. “Shall we have a commiseration party for not winning the lottery?”

Aunt hurried off toward the tea room. The corridor door clattered shut, letting in a cold gust of wind.

“We need a hot water bottle now.”

I took out the hot water bottle from the junk box. When I dusted it off and filled it with water, it was so full of leaks that it couldn’t be used.

That evening, I was in my room reading a magazine. Mother and Aunt were knitting in the adjacent room. The sound of their conversation drifted in.

“Dear Sister, Haruhiko’s book expenses are costing quite a lot. Science materials and such too. Notebooks, pencils, and such things aren’t trivial either, you know.”

“That’s true. “But I do want to provide sufficiently for things related to his studies.” “I couldn’t even buy Yukiko a single chest of drawers…”

I gave a wry smile. And then I called out through the sliding door.

“Mother, money doesn’t fall from the sky.” “Just sitting there waiting won’t do any good.” “We have to do something… The selling-off is already hitting rock bottom.” “Even if we tried starting a business, we couldn’t do it.” “People like us who aren’t merchants would just end up losing money.” “But then what exactly do you plan to do? If we don’t act, how long do you think this can last?” “There’s taxes to consider too—well, we’ve left it all in God’s hands.” “We must think of it as punishment for our past extravagance.” “If we endure just a little longer, God will surely help us again.”

I thought it was no use saying anything. Father and Mother had their pride. Were they to half-heartedly start even a small business, rumors would immediately spread throughout this town. They called that a disgrace. Even when I said I wanted to get a job, they wouldn’t allow it—it was all about maintaining appearances, they claimed. So until now, I’d secretly done all sorts of things to earn money. I’d worked at a candy store. I’d worked at a soap store. I’d worked at a simmered-foods store. I got introductions from one acquaintance to another and knocked on strangers’ back doors. With whatever commissions I earned, I smoked cigarettes and drank coffee. I bought magazines and antiques. If only I could live for myself alone, I thought—then I wouldn’t have to think about family matters at all.

That night, for the first time in a long while, I played dice with Shinjiro.

The next morning.

I handed over the items to the messenger from Mr. Higashi’s place, received the cash and placed it by Father’s pillow, then went out to sell the silverware. I had Mr. Horikawa buy all of it for twenty-three yen and fifty sen. It was a mere thirty-six thousand yen. The sake cup with the chrysanthemum crest somehow seemed to shine especially well. My face was reflected on the silver surface. When I blew my breath in surprise, the face vanished. As I kept repeating this idle gesture, Mr. Horikawa saw it and laughed. When I gave it a light tug, the purple cord on the paulownia box snapped with a pop. I carefully wrapped the scrap of cord together with the money in my furoshiki and went home. When I arrived home, Aunt came rushing out.

“Father is in bad shape, you see. He says he wants Dr.Nonaka from Osaka to be called.” When I entered Father’s study, I was met with a peculiar smell. When his asthma worsened, this unpleasant smell would occur. Mother was rubbing his back. Father’s friend Dr.Nonaka was someone who managed a large hospital in Osaka. I immediately went to call him. He was busy and couldn’t meet me directly, but a kind-looking round-faced nurse said he would certainly come this evening or tonight. I immediately returned home and was eating lunch around three o’clock when the doctor from my brother’s hospital came. It seemed Father was in such distress that he told Mother to go again to have the Shinkyo priest perform prayers for him. The hospital doctor administered an injection and departed, and Mother went out to request prayers. Father was wheezing without any effect from the injection. I made him inhale the inhalant. To keep the smoke from scattering, I cupped my hands around it. From the gap between my hands, Father inhaled the smoke while wheezing. After a while, the severe attack ended. In the evening, Dr.Nonaka came bringing the round-faced nurse from earlier. They administered another injection. No matter where they tried to probe the vein, the injection calluses had hardened it, making it difficult for the needle to penetrate. When they brought the needle near the vein, it would retreat. Even so, they finally managed two.

There appeared to be no medicine that could cure asthma, and Dr. Nonaka said that surgery on the carotid artery likely wouldn’t work either. Mother received sacred rice from the shrine, returned home, cooked it, and had Father eat it. By around nine o'clock, the attack had completely subsided. Mother said, "He’ll be all right tonight," and went to stay at my elder brother’s place. Elder Brother had also been in somewhat poor condition lately, and leaving him to the attendant had been a source of worry.

That night, I woke in the dark hours without knowing why. This being so unusual, I sat upright and stayed motionless for some time, my chest tight with foreboding. In the adjacent room, Father appeared to be sleeping peacefully. When I peered toward Shinjiro's room, the electric light still burned, his silhouette thrashing beneath sheets. They'd converted the tatami space Western-style for him alone to sleep on a proper bedstead, and with every restless turn came the metallic complaint of springs. Though my mind refused to settle into sleep, I simply burrowed deeper into my futon, turtling my neck against the world.

The next morning.

Father, who usually woke early, today of all days wasn’t making a sound—this struck me as suspicious, so I quietly slid open the fusuma door. And there, I saw Father’s corpse. No, it was only when I approached that I realized. His face had turned blue; I touched Father’s prone body. There was almost no warmth. Father was dead. I was surprised. I woke Shinjiro. I called Aunt. I called Mother. In any case, I only told her to return immediately. I simply remained in a daze, staring at Father’s face. But feelings like sadness or pity simply weren’t welling up at all. Shinjiro rummaged noisily through the drawers of Father’s desk, declared there was nothing, and went back into his room. Had Father drunk the inhalant? The potent medicine was empty, and half a glass of water remained. Last night, the fact that I hadn’t heard even a single moan struck me as strange. When I awoke and sat up that time, had he already died? I even began to doubt whether Father’s death was real. Aunt boiled water and brought it. Mother returned.

I also assisted in preparing the body. Mother was crying while reciting the divine oracle under her breath. We sent for Haruhiko, and the trusted local doctor arrived.

I endeavored to consider whether Father’s death had stemmed from his illness, an aggravated neurasthenia, nihilism, or aristocratic pride. But almost immediately, I felt it no longer mattered and retreated alone to my room, where I began recalling Father as he once was.

Father was a lonely eccentric. He was a man unloved by others. Father—who had not a single friend though he should have grown up normally—possessed an oddly spiteful and warped disposition. They say he'd even dabbled in Marxism during his youth. That Father, while trying to draw close within the family that was his sole refuge, instead became distanced by his children—this might have been his greatest misfortune.

But this was not the children's fault. It had been due to Father's personality and the generational divide. Father had withdrawn into his shell of loneliness by his own choice. He also seemed to regard matters like romantic love as sinful. Of course, his marriage to Mother had been an ordinary arranged match decided by their parents, and to my recollection, Father never once uttered a woman's name. When we children would half-joke about which wives were beautiful or whose type we preferred, he would pull an awful face—we couldn't so much as discuss newspaper scandals in his presence. As we grew older, the distance between us and Father only widened. As for Mother—more than Father, it was God who consumed her thoughts. Everything was God. We were parent and child in flesh alone—nothing more than people sharing a surname. It wasn't merely differing opinions. From the very act of living itself, we seemed to differ in both meaning and method.

“Father was the sort of person who would pretend to have eaten even when he hadn’t,” I often said. “He was someone who pretended to have money when there was none. “Aristocratic affectations.”

I often said that. Father had something like a pride in standing alone in some lofty realm. But there was one single, very brief time when Father and I could love each other. It was when painting and when appreciating ceramics. Father and I would share our joy without words. Through visiting exhibitions, we had discovered a world that belonged solely to us. When a single brush washer gave rise to two separate paintings, we would feel a place of rest that belonged solely to us. It was a place even Mother couldn’t enter. Could it be said there was some mediating object that brought Father and me into harmony?

I went to Father’s desk. The other day, when he had been in a slightly better mood, there had been a collection of haiku he had me compile. How long must my life endure? Fireflies take flight.

When I absentmindedly opened the haiku collection, there lay a composition from this summer. I went to Shinjiro’s room. Shinjiro was rolling dice and whistling.

“Stop whistling.”

I said a bit sharply. Shinjiro obediently stopped. And then,

“Elder Sister, Father is dead.” “I will live.” “I won’t follow Father’s path.”

he said with a sullen face.

“Shinjiro, you must live.” “But the path Father chose was also good in its own way.” “I can’t despise it—but if you were to commit suicide, I could never forgive you.” “Father’s passing—it’s all right.” “It’s all right.”

I suddenly remembered my elder brother. I had to inform Elder Brother. Even though it might harm his health, since he was the successor after all, we needed to summon him—and I discussed this with Mother and Aunt.

“Let’s send for Shinjiro.” “We’ll say his illness had worsened and it was finally beyond hope.”

With the conclusion settled as such, Shinjiro reluctantly went to the hospital.

A great many people came and went in quick succession. While attending to those guests, I did not feel Father’s death at all. While making a white silk futon, I could not bring myself to believe that it would wrap Father’s body, be placed inside a wooden box, and be cremated. A former maid who had long worked in our house came by in the afternoon. After entrusting all the tasks to her, I returned to my room and once again began dredging up memories of Father. Father and I would often stroll through the fresh greenery of Nara and the autumn foliage of Sagano. We would visit old temples, and in their quiet atmosphere, enjoy the colors and gaze at the shapes.

“Mother and I—not long after we married—would stroll through Nara and Kyoto like this.” “Mother would look utterly bored—you see—and there were times she’d start dozing off even while Father was earnestly talking about architecture.” “It made me so lonely.” There were times Father would laugh with a lonely smile after saying such things. But Mother must have had her own dissatisfactions with Father too. For Mother—who had spent her relatively freewheeling youth in Tokyo—Father’s hobbies must have been incomprehensible; a man unfamiliar with dance or music would have seemed an uncouth and boorish man to her. I was often told stories about embassy parties— the youth she had spent galloping on horseback through Karuizawa—skiing with crowds of male friends—sailing on yachts. It was only natural Father and Mother couldn’t blend together. And Father sought in me what Mother lacked. I alone had inherited Father’s hobbies too— Both Elder Brother and Younger Brother had taken after only Mother’s traits— But I had also possessed flamboyant things—that is—an aspect of Mother—

“I like chandeliers and perfume, chatting in fits and starts by candlelight, and smelling that incense at temples.”

There were times when I had said such things.

In the evening, my Elder Brother and Younger Brother returned by car. Elder Brother wept so pitifully it hurt to watch.

“I’m so sorry for being in this state.” “Father.” “Father.” “I will surely restore our house once again.” “Once I regain my health, I’ll make it happen.” “Father, can you hear me? Father, please answer me.”

Watching my elder brother desperately speaking earnest words to the corpse, I felt faintly moved.

“Dead men can’t talk back.”

My younger brother said that with a sigh. I silently signaled my younger brother with my eyes. I didn’t want to show my elder brother how utterly altered my younger brother’s demeanor had become. For the wake attendees, I prepared the meals together with the maid. I arranged the hibachi and brought out the zabuton cushions. Toshima, who had previously served as the steward, came and discussed the funeral arrangements with my elder brother and the uncles. Printing death notices and placing newspaper announcements. The inheritance. Of course, even if you call it an inheritance, there’s nothing besides the land and house we currently live in and the family temple. Such talk continued for quite a long time. Just purchasing and arranging various small items alone required unexpectedly large sums of money, and as for the funeral expenses, we decided to borrow from acquaintances and business connections to establish a budget. I suddenly recalled the time of Ms. Matsukawa’s grandmother’s funeral. Father had four or five gold teeth. I remembered Father’s bitter expression during that conversation. I had kept silent about the gold teeth.

When I left the wake attendees and returned to my room, I remembered the absence notice Shinjiro had asked me to write and opened the inkstone box. While grinding the ink, I recalled how Father would summon me during my elementary school days to make me grind ink in the inkstone. I prepared a large quantity of ink. Pouring it into the dish to grind, then pouring again to grind once more. That’s right. It had been when he was obsessed with painting pine trees. Lately, there had been nothing but small wash paintings.

One day—

It was a clear, quiet afternoon. Father became ashes. It was the day following his death. Thanks to Mr. Higashi’s kindness, an unsold white porcelain jar was borrowed just for the funeral day and placed before the memorial tablet. Many people from Father’s former company came and fluently offered formulaic condolences. Chrysanthemums bloomed fragrantly throughout the room, their scent mingling with the women’s mourning clothes whose blackness stung the eyes. I had Elder Brother rest in my room, and for a while we remained there alone.

“Elder Brother, stay strong.” “Shinjiro’s grown up now too, and I’ll help you with anything you need.” “For now, just focus on recovering your health.” “I’ll manage somehow with the few stocks we have left, so please don’t worry.” “I’ve burdened you terribly.” “There’s nothing more to be done.” “I leave everything to you—work together with Mother.” “I’ll try not to make selfish demands either.” Elder Brother said this weakly. The fortune-teller’s prediction had come true. Our family had indeed met with great misfortune. Yet my way of living remained unchanged. My will. My egoism. My freedom. I would suppress these and continue bearing my heavy load. This I resolved to consider both my duty and my fate.

“When I die, play Chopin’s Funeral March for me.”

Elder Brother said that abruptly at that moment. Shinjiro came in,

“When I die, don’t bother with a funeral. Just burn the body and throw the ashes into the sea. Make it quick—whoosh-whoosh! Then let Takasagoya handle the rest however they please.”

I told Shinjiro to go away. Elder Brother suddenly said he was feeling unwell and immediately coughed up half a basin of blood.

Another day.

I, Shinjiro, Aunt, and Haruhiko were engrossed in a game of bridge. While Elder Brother battles his illness in the hospital, and Mother dedicates everything to God, this is how we all live on. I too live on without purpose, without reflecting on each action, merely finding beauty in pottery and paintings, clinging to faint yearnings. 〈November 1, Showa 25〉