Pathway to Japanese Literature

One day—

Muffling my footsteps, I entered through the entrance hall into my own room and hurriedly changed clothes before sliding open the sliding door to Father’s bedroom. The dim lamplight pooled near his pillow as he lay there gasping. His chronic asthma always flared on days like this—damp and heavy. Though autumn had come, not one crisp clear day had yet arrived that year; each morning dawned strangely sweltering yet edged with chill.

“I’ve just returned. I’m sorry for being late. How are you feeling…?” Father silently stared at my face. Though I had grown accustomed to receiving that gaze countless times, each instance still compelled me to bow my head politely in deference. Then I awkwardly stepped back and left the room. A cold lump of rice clung to one side of the wooden tub. Beside it sat boiled daikon turned russet-brown, its broth long evaporated. The earthen teapot held only dregs of chilled Senryu tea. I hastily poured tea over the rice and finished eating. Something cold and sorrowful seemed to plunge headlong into my stomach. Just then, Mother must have entered Father’s room—their conversation reached me. They were talking about me.

“Yukiko hasn’t eaten yet. “Even though it’s almost nine.” “What can I do? “She goes out from evening onward and doesn’t lift a finger around the house…” “It’s your fault for not making her do it.” “My deepest apologies.” Mother seemed to be rubbing Father’s back, and between his occasional labored voice and her listless one came the rustling sound of her tsumugi silk robe. To me, the words my parents spoke didn’t even feel like they were about me. More than that, my mind was filled with the Yi Dynasty plate I’d bought today with the five hundred yen I received in exchange for giving Father a fifty-go blood transfusion. The medicine and injections lasted only three hours, their effects gradually weakening from overuse. Following one doctor’s advice that a transfusion would help, I poured my blood into Father’s veins. Father had Mother fetch the wallet, then silently lined up five hundred-yen bills before me. Without a word, I took them and left the house. I walked through the chilly evening streets. And with that money, I bought the plate I’d wanted, drank coffee with what remained, and smoked expensive cigarettes.

After roughly washing the soiled dishes with clattering noises and carelessly stacking them into the cupboard, she returned to her room and unwrapped the newspaper bundle. She pressed the pottery’s velvety surface against her cheek and caressed it for a while. “There you go again with your retired person’s hobbies, Sister.” “Even though we can barely put food on the table.” “If you’re going to buy something like that, you should’ve just brought home beef or something.” Shinjirō, her younger brother who had just entered, suddenly flicked the plate with his fingernail.

“You shouldn’t do that! “It’ll break!” I placed it on top of the bookshelf. The fact that Father’s “blood” had become a “plate” began to seem comical to me. Holding the wrapped plate carefully while walking alone through night streets—this brought me joy. Retired person’s hobbies? I recalled the words Shinjirō had spoken. Was that criticism? Was it mockery? To me, it seemed like envy. Seeking refuge in such things was the one thing Father and I had shared. Long before the war began, Father would take me to Kyoto’s antique shops. He would buy bowls, jars, iron kettles, and such to arrange in his second-floor room. The chicken-comb-shaped vase—said to be one of only two in Japan—had been his most cherished piece among them, but under war’s flames, it too had vanished with all the rest.

For a while, as though longing for a lost child, I conjured up each of those many items one by one before my eyes and was lost in reminiscence.

Suddenly, jazz blared loudly. Then immediately, it snapped off and returned to silence.

“There, you’ve been scolded. How foolish of you, Shinjirō.”

Before I knew it, I lightly scolded Shinjirō who had gone out to the neighboring room. Father, though appearing to be in pain, was nevertheless raising his voice quite loudly in anger.

“Hmph. Don’t you even get jazz?” “Honestly, staying home’s just depressing.” “Not like it’s fun anyway. And you’re one to talk, Sis—playing at being modern while…” “So even this old maid counts among the moderns now.” “Starting next year I’ll be one year younger. But mahjong and cards—those I can discuss.”

I liked gambling and games of chance more than three square meals a day. I would become utterly absorbed in trying to win. During those moments, I forgot everything else. "Sister, I'm thinking of taking a part-time job, but..."

At that moment, Shinjirō, who had entered my room once more, said in a low voice. “What kind?” “A jazz band.” “Steel guitar.” “When did you learn that?” “Whenever. I’m pretty damn good.”

“Fine, go ahead and do it. But given what happened last summer, you’d better think carefully before jumping in.” The incident from last summer referred to when Shinjirō, having enthusiastically resolved to peddle ice candies at the baseball stadium, rushed off to Nishinomiya on the very first day of that part-time job—only to end up standing there with the empty candy box slung over his shoulder after taking just a couple of steps, utterly unable to move any further. “I told you so,” Father said. Shinjirō had entered one of the new-system universities that year. Though he wore a square cap like a proper adult, as the youngest child he still couldn’t manage to handle things decisively on his own.

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

It seemed Father had used his inhalant, for an acrid smell permeated throughout the house. Then I began rolling dice with Shinjirō, just the two of us. If I won, things remained as they were; if I lost to my brother, I would have to surrender one of the cigarettes from earlier. It was nothing remarkable—a losing venture—but truly, the very act of tumbling the dice enthralled me.

The next day—

I went to the hospital to visit my brother. My only brother, Shin'ichi, had been attending university when he was hospitalized with pulmonary tuberculosis two summers ago due to strain from the war years. Being a cautious and meticulous man, he had not once stepped outside since being admitted and devoted himself entirely to recuperation—yet this illness proved unyielding, and he remained hospitalized still undergoing pneumothorax treatment.

At the far end of the long corridor was my brother’s hospital room. I carried 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?” “Oh.” My brother sat up and looked at me. “Pretty chrysanthemums. From the courtyard?”

“Yes, that’s right. They don’t have much fragrance, though.”

I arranged the chrysanthemums in the Persian blue vase where cosmos had been left to wither. The white petals and yellow centers stood out beautifully against this blue vase. My brother had always loved the soft, rounded curves of its surface—though it would have fetched a considerable price if sold, we had kept it for his sake. “Brother, I gave Father a blood transfusion.”

“Is Father that unwell?” “He’s not that bad—it’s just as usual.” “Yukiko’s blood worth ¥500… heh.” I remembered the white plate and laughed. “Five hundred yen?”

“I sold it… my blood.” “Wait—you gave it to *Father*? And you took five hundred yen for it?” “Is that wrong? Yukiko here has used it all up. Next time, Brother, I’ll buy you that Mozart record.” “Aren’t you parent and child? What a hopeless man.” The conversation broke off. I opened the lid of the phonograph and started playing the Mozart pieces my brother—more than merely liking them—had become utterly devoted to. It was a rondo in D major. My brother lay stretched out on the white sheet, eyes closed, listening.

“Hey, Shinjirō told me last night he wants to take a part-time job with a jazz band. What do you think, Brother?” “Is Shinjirō actually studying for that? Working nights must be exhausting. It’ll keep him out late, won’t it?” “But it’s supposed to be on Saturdays and Sundays.” “And it’s not like they’re fixed days either…” “Since it’d be pointless to ruin his body like mine. So what’s he going to do?” “Steel guitar.” “He’s going to borrow it?” “And he says if he plays once or twice, he can buy his own.”

“Well, given the nature of the place, I’m opposed, but…” “Having been cut off from the world for two years now, I shouldn’t speak so boldly.” “To the world, my feelings must seem foolishly old-fashioned as well, but…”

“Brother, that’s not true. No matter how the world changes, Brother, you must remain someone who loves Mozart’s music…”

I looked around my brother’s room once more. There were a Kannon statue from Chūgūji Temple and a framed portrait of Mozart hanging on the wall. Beneath them were crammed foreign art books, catalogs, records, and the like. That summer, when I suggested selling the leather-bound Louvre catalog, my brother glared into my eyes as if enraged. And he was always asking me to buy this and that—those records, these books—for him. I had to manage the money for that. If even a month’s worth of ordered items was delayed, he would fly into a terrible rage.

“Anyway, I’ll take responsibility for Shinjirō. After all, he needs to buy books and such.”

I shook hands with my brother who had come to see me off at the hospital entrance and walked down the slope. The sight of him standing there despondently—looking utterly disconnected from the era, like someone already expelled from society—made me grow sorrowful as I recalled what we had just discussed.

On my way back from the hospital, I sold an old jacket and earned three hundred yen. So I drank coffee, bought ink and stationery, and headed out to the bustling streets with the remaining hundred yen to catch a movie. And there, I caught sight of Shinjirō’s retreating figure. He was with a slender, beautiful woman in her mid-thirties. Skipping school in broad daylight— I felt uneasy. I recalled Shinjirō’s figure from last night, unusually pressing his trousers to straighten the creases. I followed him for thirty meters, but when I suddenly turned into a side street, I found myself standing motionless in a dead end for a long time. What on earth could Shinjirō be feeling?

Shinjirō had been a kind-natured, obedient child since he was little. He had a frail constitution and seemed to spend more of the year lying in bed than up and about. Naturally, he never went out to play with the neighborhood children, preferring instead to stay indoors reading books or tending to the canary on the veranda. Outsiders often compared me, with my spirited nature, to Shinjirō and said it would have been better if we had been swapped. He had gentle features, skin as soft as mochi even now, with a faint peach fuzz under his eyes. He was considerably taller than I was, yet he possessed an endearing innocence that made one want to embrace him. I had come to hold feelings beyond what a sister ordinarily feels toward a brother. To dispel the loneliness of feeling left behind by my younger companions, I often went out drinking, but even amidst the boisterous noise of those moments, I never forgot about Shinjirō. Shinjirō was a good boy who never talked back to me, his sister, but he disliked my affectionate gestures that often veered into physicality. Even so, wasn’t Shinjirō receiving the affectionate attentions of an older married woman? If it were a pigtailed schoolgirl, I wouldn’t mind at all. Precisely because it was someone who stood on equal footing with me, I felt something akin to defeat—even felt a twinge of jealousy. After leaving the alleyway, until I returned home, I kept thinking about Shinjirō. I had no desire to watch a movie. Recently, the articles frequently appearing in newspapers about the scandalous behavior of women in the Hanshin area flitted through my mind. I want only Shinjirō to walk the straight path. Brother was a dropout, and since I am a woman, we never had any great hopes or ambitions from the start. Shinjirō must revive this house when he grows up. He must restore the family estate to its former state. No—more than that, I think I just want Shinjirō alone to live a stable and peaceful life.

I had to support him. Mother had no education and was now consumed solely by the daily struggle to eat, with no room in her mind to consider anything else. Father was also an invalid. I quickened my pace.

When I entered the gate, in the garden of the detached tea room, my father’s sister’s widow was lighting a fire. Having lost her husband decades ago, she now lived with her only son Haruhiko, who attended middle school, supporting themselves through knitting piecework and meager stock dividends.

“I’m home, Aunt.”

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

On the narrow veranda made of ship planks, sweet potatoes lay arranged, a kitchen knife discarded mid-chopping beside them. In that tea room, seasonal tea ceremonies had once been held without fail. The sound of bubbling water, young ladies in furisode kimonos, matrons in muted Yuuki silk moving with quiet steps. O-Fuku-san would give a light tap. Now the tatami mats that had once been blue and moist were yellowed and torn in places.

“Yukiko-chan, starting today I’m going to try to get by on under fifty yen a day. Breakfast will be bancha and bread; lunch will be pickles and tsukudani; dinner every other day will be kamaboko and chikuwa.” After saying that, the aunt laughed dryly. During her marriage—when our family was at its zenith—her wedding preparations had become quite renowned in society alongside her beauty.

Father and Aunt would often recount memories of those days. After all, by the time we were born, the family’s fortunes had already begun to decline, so I never knew the height of its grandeur—yet every time I passed by the place where Father was born and caught a glimpse of it, I found myself struck dumb. The mansion had changed hands before the war and was completely destroyed by a flood, while the gatehouse and main gate that had barely survived were burned down in an air raid. Whenever I found things like garden party photos in the corner of the storehouse, I would often feel not so much envy for that lifestyle or pride in my ancestors having lived it, but rather a dread of our uncertain fate. Even speaking of our childhood, which had already begun to decline somewhat, the life we led now seems almost absurd in retrospect. Even to go somewhere nearby, we took the car, and the children would fight over the seat next to the chauffeur. I recall entertaining many guests. In the second-floor guest room, large thick floor cushions were arranged. The maids removed their white aprons and carried black-lacquered trays. Tea bowls and such would be taken out from the specially stored paulownia wood boxes kept for such occasions. In the tokonoma alcove, three hanging scrolls were displayed, and in a large cloisonné vase, the most splendid flowers of each season would be arranged. I too would don a long-sleeved kimono and formally greet the guests. But being unable to sit still, I would immediately retreat to the back and eat snacks with my elder brother and Shinjirō. At that time, I didn’t find it particularly enjoyable but took it for granted.

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

“Well, at the Matsukawas’ place, they apparently had the deceased’s gold teeth removed to cover the funeral costs—no matter how you look at it, what a dreadful world we live in now.” “Why shouldn’t they?”

Shinjirō interjected from the sidelines. I glanced briefly at Father’s face. “Why? Goodness, you’re impossible. Those things belong to the deceased.” Mother replied.

“What’s wrong with that? It’s smarter than letting some thief steal them. What do you think, Sis?”

“I think it’s fine. There’s no need to reproach them—I’m not a materialist like you, Shinjirō—I do want to honor the spirits of the dead, but I don’t think removing gold teeth is disrespectful to them. So if they can hold a proper funeral for her, isn’t that fine?”

Father made a bitter face and remained silent. Aunt let out a piercing voice. “But who would do the pulling?” “Have a dentist do it,” I said. Father opened his mouth for the first time then. “Enough of this unpleasant talk. When I die, you’ll have plenty of gold teeth to sell—feast to your heart’s content.” I said while laughing.

“Even if Yukiko dies, it’s a wasted bet! There’s not a single gold tooth in me. How human value’s depreciated! Though I suppose it’s better not to have them while you’re alive.”

The conversation ended abruptly there.

After the meal, I went to Shinjirō’s room. When I thought he might be studying, he was lying back smoking a cigarette.

“You should 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.”

Shinjirō made an angry face and turned his back toward me. I sat down beside him and spent some time pulling threads from the torn part of the carpet,

“You didn’t go to school today, did you? Though I suppose it’s fine since it’s university.”

I asked gently. Shinjirō remained silent.

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

Cutting off his attempt to speak, I pressed further, “I don’t want to hear anything, nor do I want to say anything—but because of that… you really should quit the band.” “Sis will manage to get your textbook money somehow.” “Sis may not have any right to scold you… but she’s worried about your future—though sounding all high-and-mighty like this—you’ll probably get angry…” I said. “I’m not angry at you at all, Sis.” “But I’ll live my own way.” “The band’s already beyond saving—whether I quit or keep going doesn’t matter anymore.”

“Today’s—she must be some married woman.” “What kind of relationship is this?” “Whatever’s fine, whatever’s fine.” “Sis, go away.” “Please leave me alone.”

I stood up. When I entered my room, I suddenly pitied Shinjirō. How should I live? Is it better for me to remain silent after all? Shinjirō is Shinjirō. I am I. I can only guide myself and cannot control anyone else.

Before going to sleep, I came to Shinjirō's room once again without thinking and heard the sound of sobbing there.

Another day—

Shinjirō, Aunt, Haruhiko, and I were playing cards. Father was, as always, wheezing and gasping for breath in the next room. “One heart.” Among the dealt cards, there were as many as six hearts. And there were as many as four owners. “Two clubs.” “Two hearts.”

“Three clubs.” “Three hearts.” The side cards were also this strong. And since there were no clubs, I could cut from the very start. I announced triumphantly. It was hearts. I was partnered with Aunt, and her revealed hand looked fairly decent. We took four and won the round. “Bien joué, Mademoiselle.” Aunt grasped my hand in delight. She often mentioned how she’d played bridge with French people in Paris twenty years back. I’d also heard stories about their gambling obsessions and quick tempers. We’d resumed gambling from the very next day after vowing to quit for our brother’s sake. From next door, Father finally snapped at the commotion.

“Go to bed. It’s past eleven.” We stealthily crossed the covered corridor and retreated to Aunt’s room, the tea room. We continued playing bridge there until around one o'clock. “See you tomorrow. Good night.”

Shinjirō and I hurried back through the night-wind-swept corridor. Mother was writing a letter to Aunt in Tokyo in the dim light. Peering over her shoulder, I saw an elaborate request for my marriage written there. I entered my room with a wry smile and suddenly found myself thinking about marriage. The number twenty-five floated first to mind. When does marriageability begin and end? At any rate, I already felt I was no longer young. What had I been doing all this time? Many classmates had long since married. Not a few even had children. Those still single became schoolteachers or company secretaries—each living defined lives in their own way. Wasn’t I the only one stuck in this limbo, utterly immobilized? I concluded I must be "unfit as a woman." Until now, marriage proposals had numbered only a handful. All had been declined. At my first proposal—I’d been just under twenty then, brimming with vigor— the match was with a diplomat’s son, an impeccable young gentleman. Flawless in every way, yet that very flawlessness felt too polished, too unraw for social ease—I couldn’t bring myself to like him. Gaudy socializing ill-suited my nature. When introduced to acquaintances while standing on that bearskin rug, I’d flushed crimson, desperately clutching a handkerchief. Being thus, my refusal had been inevitable.

My parents were greatly disappointed, but I was relieved. Anyway, though I was stubbornly headstrong, on the other hand, I also had a spineless, timid side. That may be what had kept me in this indecisive state until today. I no longer considered marriage a matter of great importance, and I had come to think anyone would do. Eventually, I would have to leave this house. I had not a shred of affection for the family home, and I had no intention of remaining single my entire life. Lately, I had been in a mood where I plopped my body into a flowing river, thinking, *Take me wherever you will—I’ll settle wherever I end up.* Yet with no crucial marriage proposals in sight, I couldn’t help but feel a loneliness as though my youth was wearing increasingly thin, and an impatience toward it.

“Mother, let’s cut out the nobility and aristocracy categories.” As if it were someone else’s business, I chuckled to myself.

“Rather than that, someone with money would be better, right?” Mother said lightly.

After getting into bed, I made plans for tomorrow. I resolved that if the weather was good, I would go on an outing to Kyoto. The autumn foliage was at its peak. I liked choosing to walk along less-traveled paths where people seldom went. A couple of days ago, I had received a small commission fee from arranging the sale of a piano, so with plans to spend the day leisurely thanks to that, I drifted off to sleep feeling quite pleased with myself.

However, the next morning. Father began compiling a list for me to examine items since his condition had improved slightly today. It was a list of things to sell. Caught off guard and slightly irritated, I sullenly sat down beside Father’s desk. About fifteen or sixteen items were recorded. Inkstones and incense cases. White porcelain jars, hanging scrolls, and shikishi boards. The Sèvres coffee set—a gaudy lapis lazuli-colored one they’d claimed would be part of my trousseau—was the sole set we’d kept unsold until now. Then five or six pieces of silverware.

“Yukiko, take these out from the storehouse.” “Then call Mr. Higashi over.” “I’ve roughly written down the prices, but make sure to discuss them thoroughly again.” “It would be better not to use Mr. Higashi for the silver.” “A jeweler would be better…” “Then I’ll take care of it today.”

I reluctantly stood up, took out the heavy iron key from the cupboard, and opened the storehouse. When the large door creaked open, a musty chill hit me. The space inside stood mostly hollow now, the dim lamp overhead caked in dust. I arranged the items on the veranda of Father’s sickroom and checked for damage. Mother and Aunt watched these objects with grim expressions.

“It can’t be helped.” “Through knitting work, I’ve managed to feed Haruhiko and myself, but orders keep dwindling, stocks keep falling, and there’s nothing left to sell.” “My jade and diamonds are all gone.” “This ring I’m wearing now—I bought it for ten sen at a night stall.” “The amulet ring—it’s been thirty years now.” “Aunt is remarkable—surprisingly composed even at rock bottom.” “Things will turn out as they must.”

“I want to make it happen,” I said. “I want to do it.” “Maybe if you have your fortune told,” Aunt suggested, “a good idea might come to mind.”

“That’s an excellent idea! Let’s have Yukiko consult him.” “Why don’t we have Mother do the same?” “No,” she stated firmly. “I entrust all matters to divine will.”

It was then that Mother spoke for the first time, stating firmly as follows. Mother was a believer in Shinreikyo, a sect of Japanese Shinto. No matter what calamity befell her, she believed the gods would assist her so that matters were resolved with minimal damage—she would promptly make a gratitude visit. Her faith bordered on fanaticism. Neither Father nor my household belonged to Shinreikyo. She was the only one. On the first and fifteenth days of every month, there was a festival; sakaki branches would be placed on the altar next to the Buddhist altar, and a priest would come. Nowadays no one except Mother participated in these festivals, but when we were young, we had been made to sit through them as if it were an obligation. During the lengthy divine proclamations, we siblings would count tatami mat seams or pinch each other’s exposed feet and were often scolded. I felt nothing particular about Mother’s faith. But there were times when I thought that if we economized on the offerings, I could buy shoes.

I brought the items from the veranda to the sitting room and arranged them in a corner. And then I went to call Mr. Higashi, the antique dealer. When I entered the alley beside the shrine, Mr. Higashi’s shop was right there. When I slid open the rattling door and stepped inside, the scent of fine incense wafted out.

“Welcome, young lady.” “It’s been a while. How have you been lately?” “Business hasn’t been selling at all.” The owner tapped his tobacco against the long hibachi with a brisk motion and shook his head. When I looked around the shop, items of various shapes lay jumbled together. The Korean bamboo shelf gleamed with a fine luster, setting off the Songhuluk bowl placed atop it. “Sitting here like this, I could never grow tired of it.”

“Heh heh, well now—please have a seat. I’ll make some tea.” The owner nodded as he brewed fragrant green tea. “You see—Father says he’d like you to buy some remaining items. Could you come by? They’re nothing too grand, but…” “Ah, is that so? If it’s from your family’s collection, I’ll gladly take anything at all. I’ll come by your place this very afternoon.”

“Thank you.”

This owner had a receding hairline and an imposing build, his chin rounded and smooth with an auspicious appearance. I stood up, suddenly thinking I should have my fortune told by this owner with his auspicious features. I checked the clock—half past ten. If I went now to Mr. Horikawa’s reliable shop that handled watches and jewelry, then to the famously accurate fortune-teller in Sannomiya, Mr. Higashi would likely arrive by the time I returned home. Walking briskly down the bustling main street, I headed to Mr. Horikawa’s place. The owner was absent, and a technician was repairing a watch.

“I’d like you to buy some silver.” “I’ll buy it.” “How much will you pay for it now?” “Well, that depends—what exactly is the item?” “Cups and such.” “Between eighteen and twenty-one or two yen.” “Per monme.” “Is it really that low?” “Prices are down right now, but they change daily, so I won’t let you take a loss.” “After seeing the items, I’ll have to consult with the owner as well, so…” “Well, anyway, I’ll bring the items tomorrow—they’re definitely genuine.”

“Young lady, you should check elsewhere too. If others have offered higher prices than our shop, we’ll match them… Confidentially—don’t tell the owner—if you take them to the mint, you’ll get the highest price. After all, we end up taking things there ourselves. But mind you, it’ll take a week, and once you factor in train fare to Osaka and such, the difference ends up being pretty small.” He kindly said this. I left Mr. Horikawa’s shop and inquired about the price of silver at two or three jewelry stores along the way. They said fifteen yen, twenty-four yen—it was quite inconsistent. I decided to leave the silver matter for tomorrow after showing the items and arrived at the back-alley corner where the supposedly accurate fortune-teller was located—a cluttered place that served Chinese noodles and had a cheap stand bar. There were no other customers, and the white-haired old man was reading some Japanese-bound book.

“Could you take a look? How much exactly?” “One hundred yen.” He stated it bluntly and studied my face. His features strongly resembled those of my elementary school teacher. “Your age and date of birth?” I gave my birthdate. Watching him chant spells while endlessly separating and reuniting slender bamboo rods, I began half-mockingly but found myself growing earnest. What prophecy would emerge? For five minutes the incantations persisted, until he started flipping and rearranging wooden blocks resembling dominoes. The red lines on their surfaces blinked in and out of visibility, sending cold ripples through my chest.

“You’re…” “Yes?”

“Are you married?” I found it somewhat comical that a fortune-teller wouldn’t know such a thing and, laughing, shook my head. “That’s right.” “Hmm, I see.”

He kept making an impressed face as he gazed at the dominoes. “Within this month, you see, the character for ‘movement’ has appeared.” “There will be some kind of change—either in yourself or your household.” “It can’t be called fortunate or unfortunate.” “In any case, what you’ll carry hereafter grows ever larger.” “You’re so fixated on carrying things that you don’t even notice your own strength.” “That’s why there’s a danger you’ll be crushed under the baggage.” “In any case, due to one event happening this month, I think your current approach will naturally change.”

“I don’t know what kind of shift it will be.” “That cannot be foretold.” “In any case, keep watch.” “As for marriage—well, no need to hurry now.” “Someone like you fares better alone.” “Money won’t trouble you.” “A lifetime’s brief.” “Ten years would count as good.” “This too may alter.” “Long life doesn’t guarantee human happiness.” “But the pity is you being a woman.” “Were you male, you’d have been a hero.” “Bronze statues raised.” “Being female turns those destined traits to calamity’s seeds.” “In any case—there’s movement. Mind it carefully.”

I placed a hundred-yen note down and fled from the place as if escaping. I attempted to methodically reconstruct his words in order. They appeared contradictory at first glance, yet ultimately defied comprehension altogether. An abrupt sense of absurdity surged through me. Speaking of bronze statues—my ancestors too had statues erected in their honor, even my great-grandfather. Yet they'd all marched off to war wearing those red tasuki sashes across their chests. Now only granite pedestals remained on temple mountainsides where those monuments once stood. Remembering how they'd chanted sutras in the rain while tearing down those very statues made me laugh at life's cruel irony.

When I returned home and was having a meal, Mr. Higashi showed up. At his shop he always wore a kimono with a padded silk vest, but the man I saw at the entrance was dressed in a flimsy suit with a crooked tie. He might have tried dressing up for the occasion, but Mr. Higashi definitely looked better in that kimono. “Please come in—Father will want to see you too.”

I ushered Mr. Higashi into Father’s room, hurriedly finished my meal, then took tea and went back to them. I arranged the items. Father and Mr. Higashi were looking at them. Father looked uneasy, “What a waste.” He would occasionally remark. Mr. Higashi slowly observed each one.

“Twenty-three thousand yen in total.”

Mr. Higashi said that. Both Father and I had thought it would amount to at least 30,000 yen. I was looking at the area around Father’s beard, which had grown white and unshaven due to his illness. Father also looked at my face.

“But Mr. Higashi, this has real value. Even the teacups are far better than the ones at your place.” I said this while calculating each item’s worth in my head. “But you see, these things won’t sell quick… This one’s four thousand yen, this maybe eight thousand, and the Sèvres—no demand at all.” “Impressionist pieces—three thousand yen.” “The rest totals eight thousand.” “You’re putting up quite a fight here.” I looked at the landscape painting now hung on the floor. I looked at the teacup placed atop the box. Father remained silent.

“Mr. Higashi, this vase is too cheap.” “At least twelve or thirteen thousand yen for all these small pieces together—that’s what I need.”

As we went back and forth arguing, I too began to feel that it didn’t matter anymore. It made no difference how much it sold for. It was a matter of whether it would last us a week for food. In the end, we settled on 25,000 yen. Father, too, said that that was fine. When he finished speaking, Mr. Higashi packed a bowl into his kiseru pipe and took a deep, satisfied drag with a pfft. The crimson of the cut tobacco had a fine color.

“When I go to Mr. Higashi’s place, there’s nothing but things I want. Father, there was a Korean chest of drawers there too, you know.”

“Is that so? Even though it was burned, the one we had at home also had a nice color.” “It’s a lonely thing.”

“Now now sir,” he said soothingly. “Do cheer yourself up.”

Having said that, Mr. Higashi left, saying he would come tomorrow to collect the items. Aunt came in and announced that all the lottery tickets had been duds.

“I’d promised you a one-course meal at the hotel… But…” “It didn’t work out.” “I’ll hit the jackpot next month!” Aunt said this while laughing loudly, her skirt dotted with patches. “Aunt, if you calculate what you spend buying those every month, it must add up to quite a loss.”

“That’s right… But I can't stop.”

The two of them laughed again. “Even if we call ourselves poor, we might still be living rather luxuriously.” “This aunt’s got beef tonight.” “Let’s have a consolation party for not winning the lottery.” Aunt hurriedly headed toward the tea room. The corridor door snapped shut with a clatter, and a cold wind blew in.

“We need a hot water bottle now.” I retrieved the hot water bottle from the junk box. After dusting it off and pouring water in, it gushed noisily and became unusable. That evening, I was in my room reading a magazine. Mother and Aunt were knitting in the adjacent room. The conversation between the two could be heard.

“Dear Sister-in-law.” “Haruhiko’s textbook expenses are quite substantial, you know.” “Science materials and such.” “Notebooks, pencils—those things add up too, you know.”

“That’s true.” “But I at least want to properly provide what he needs for his studies.” “And I couldn’t even buy Yukiko a single chest of drawers…”

I smiled bitterly. Then I called through the sliding door. “Mother, money doesn’t rain from the sky.” “Sitting and waiting gets us nowhere.” “We must act... Our pawned treasures are nearly exhausted—”

“We can’t just start a business.” “If people like us who aren’t merchants try, we’ll only end up losing money in the end.” “But then—what exactly do you intend to do? If we don’t act, how long do you think this can last?” “There’s taxes too—but well, we’ve left it all to God.” “We must see it as punishment for our past extravagance.” “If we endure a little longer, God will grant us aid again.”

I thought it was futile to say anything. Father and Mother had their pride. If we were to half-heartedly start a business，rumors would spread throughout this town in no time．They claimed it was a disgrace．Even if I said I wanted to get a job，they wouldn’t allow it．After all，they said it was a matter of appearances．Therefore，until now，I had secretly done all sorts of things to obtain money．I sold candy．I sold soap．I sold simmered preserves．Sometimes I received introductions through acquaintances；other times I approached strangers’ back doors．With small commissions from each transaction，I smoked tobacco and drank coffee．I bought magazines and antiques．If I just lived for myself，I thought，I wouldn’t need to consider family matters anymore．

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

The next morning.

I handed the items to the messenger from Mr. Higashi, received the cash, placed it at father’s bedside, and went out to sell the silverware. I had Mr. Horikawa purchase everything for twenty-three yen and fifty sen—a mere thirty-six thousand yen in total. The sake cup bearing the Imperial Chrysanthemum Crest somehow seemed to shine with particular brilliance there on the silver surface where my face was reflected. I blew sharply, and the face vanished. As I kept repeating these aimless gestures, Mr. Horikawa saw this and laughed. The purple string on the paulownia wood box snapped when lightly pulled. I carefully wrapped the broken piece of string together with the money in a furoshiki and returned home. When I arrived home, my aunt came rushing out.

“Father is in a bad way, and he says he wants Dr. Nonaka from Osaka called in.” When I entered Father’s living room, there was a peculiar smell. This unpleasant smell always arose when his asthma worsened. Mother was rubbing his back. Dr. Nonaka, a friend of Father’s, operated a large hospital in Osaka. I immediately went to call him. He was too busy to meet directly, but a round-faced nurse who seemed kind assured me he would certainly come that evening or night. I hurried back, and around three o’clock as I ate lunch, the doctor from my brother’s hospital arrived. Father must have been in considerable distress—he then asked Mother to go request prayers from the Shinreikyo priest again. The hospital doctor gave him an injection and left, and Mother went out to request prayers. Father kept wheezing without any effect from the injection. I administered the smelling salts. To keep the smoke from scattering, I cupped my hands around them. Through the gap between my palms, Father wheezed as he inhaled the smoke. After a while, the terrible attack subsided. In the evening, Dr. Nonaka arrived with the round-faced nurse from earlier. They administered another injection. No matter where they tried to insert the needle into his vein, the hardened calluses from repeated injections made it impossible. Each time they brought the needle near a vein, it seemed to retreat. Still, they finally managed to administer two syringes.

Dr. Nonaka stated there was no cure for asthma and that carotid artery surgery would likely prove ineffective. Mother received the sacred rice and returned home, then cooked it and made Father drink it. By nine o'clock, the asthma attack had completely subsided. "He should be fine tonight," Mother said, and went to stay at my elder brother's place. My elder brother had been slightly unwell himself lately, and leaving him solely in the attendant's care had been worrying.

That night, I woke in the dark for no discernible reason. Such midnight awakenings being rare, a vague disquiet made me sit upright and hold perfectly still for some time. In the adjacent room, Father appeared to be sleeping peacefully. When I peered into Shinjirō’s room, the electric light still burned—through the half-open door I could see him thrashing beneath his covers. Though it was a Japanese-style chamber, Shinjirō alone slept on a Western bed; each restless turn produced metallic complaints from the springs that carried clearly through the night-quiet house. My mind refused to settle back into sleep, yet I merely drew my head deeper into the futon’s cotton embrace.

The next morning.

Father, who usually woke early, was oddly silent today. Finding this suspicious, I quietly slid open the fusuma door. And there, I saw Father’s corpse. No—it was only when I approached that I realized. I turned pale and touched Father’s body lying face down. Almost no warmth remained. Father was dead. I was surprised. I woke Shinjirō. I called Aunt. I called Mother. In any case, I told her only to return immediately. I had no idea what to do and simply stared blankly at Father’s face. But not a trace of sadness or pity welled up within me. Shinjirō rummaged noisily through Father’s desk drawers, muttered “Nothing here,” and retreated into his room. Had Father taken the smelling salts? The vial lay empty, the glass half-filled with water. The fact that I hadn’t heard even a faint moan last night struck me as strange. Had he already been dead when he sat up then? I even began doubting whether Father’s death was real. Aunt brought boiled water. Mother returned.

I also helped prepare the body. Mother was reciting the divine oracle under her breath while crying. A trusted doctor from the neighborhood came, sent to call Haruhiko.

I tried to consider whether Father’s motive for dying had been his illness, a worsened nervous breakdown, nihilism, or aristocratic pride. But almost immediately, I thought, What did it matter? and retreated alone to my room, where I began reminiscing about Father as he used to be.

Father was a lonely eccentric. He was not a person loved by others. Father—who had no friends at all despite what should have been a stable upbringing—possessed an oddly warped and twisted disposition. In his youth, he had apparently dabbled in Marxism. That Father, who tried to find closeness within the family—his sole refuge—only to be distanced by his children might have been his greatest misfortune. But this was not the children’s fault. It stemmed from Father’s personality and the divide of the times. Father had voluntarily retreated into a shell of loneliness. He also seemed to regard romance as something sinful. His marriage to Mother was of course an ordinary arranged one decided by their parents, and in my memory, Father never even uttered a woman’s name. When we half-jokingly discussed which wives were beautiful or whose type we preferred, he would make a terribly displeased face, and we couldn’t gossip about newspaper scandals in his presence either. As we children grew older, the distance between us and Father only widened further. As for Mother, more than Father, everything—absolutely everything—revolved around God. We were parent and child only biologically—nothing more than people sharing the same surname. It wasn’t merely a difference of opinion. It seemed that even the act of living itself held entirely different meanings and methods for us.

“Father was the sort who’d pretend he’d eaten even when he hadn’t. The sort who’d act like he had money when there was none. Such aristocratic affectations.”

I had often said as much. In Father there existed something akin to pride in that aloofness, in dwelling upon such solitary heights. But there was one time—just one—when Father and I could love each other, if only slightly. It was when we painted and when we cherished ceramics. Father and I would share joy without words. Through visiting exhibitions, we had discovered a world belonging solely to us. When a single brush-washing bowl gave rise to two distinct paintings, we sensed our own sanctuary—a place even Mother could not enter. Could it be said that one mediating object had brought Father and me into harmony?

I went to Father’s desk. The other day, when Father was feeling somewhat better, there was a haiku collection he had me compile. How long will my life last? Fireflies drift by. When I casually opened the haiku collection, there lay this summer’s work. I went to Shinjirō’s room. Shinjirō was whistling while rolling dice.

“Stop whistling.”

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

“Sister, Father has died.” “I’ll live.” “I won’t follow Father’s way of living.”

he said with a sullen face.

“You must live, Shinjirō. “But the path Father chose—in its own way, it was still fine.” “I can’t despise it—if you were to commit suicide, I couldn’t forgive you.” “It’s fine that Father passed away.” “It’s fine.” I suddenly remembered my elder brother. I must inform elder brother. Even though it might affect his health, since he’s the successor after all, we must call him—and so I consulted Mother and Aunt about it.

“Let’s send for Shinjirō.” “We’ll just say his illness worsened and finally became too much to bear.”

With that conclusion reached, Shinjirō reluctantly went to the hospital. A great many people came and went in quick succession. While handling the reception, I did not feel Father’s death. While making a white silk futon, I could not believe that it would wrap Father’s body, be placed inside a wooden box, and be cremated. In the afternoon, the maid who had long served our household in the past came by. After entrusting all the tasks to her and returning to my room, I once again began dredging up memories of Father. Father and I often strolled through verdant Nara and Sagano’s crimson foliage. We would visit old temples and, in their tranquil atmosphere, enjoy colors and admire forms.

“With Mother, you see—not long after we married—we would visit Nara and Kyoto like this.” “Mother would look so bored she couldn’t stand it—there were times she’d start dozing off even while I was earnestly talking about architecture.” “It was sad.” Having said that, there were times when Father would laugh forlornly. But Mother, too, must have had her own dissatisfactions with him. For Mother—who had spent her relatively freewheeling youth in Tokyo—Father’s hobbies must have been incomprehensible; a man tone-deaf to dance or music or such pursuits would have seemed provincial, uncouth. I was often told stories about embassy parties— riding horses through Karuizawa, skiing with crowds of male friends, sailing yachts in her youth. That Father and Mother could never meld together was only natural. And so Father sought in me what Mother lacked. The hobbies Father cherished were ones only I shared. Both Elder Brother and younger brother had inherited only Mother’s traits. But I—I too had my share of flamboyance—that is to say, Mother’s traits.

“I like chandeliers and perfume.” “I like talking in fits and starts by candlelight too.” “And I love breathing in that temple incense smell.”

There had also been times when I said such things.

In the evening, elder brother and younger brother returned by car. Elder brother wept in a way that was painful to behold.

“I’m deeply ashamed of this frail body.” “Father.” “Father.” “I will absolutely restore our house.” “When I regain my strength, I’ll prove it.” “Father—can you hear me? Father—please answer me.”

At the sight of my elder brother earnestly and desperately speaking to the corpse, I felt slightly moved.

“The dead don’t talk, you know.”

My younger brother said that with a sigh. I silently signaled my younger brother with a glance. I did not want to show the elder brother the younger brother’s completely changed state. For the wake attendees, I prepared the food with the maid. I arranged hibachi and set out formal cushions. Previously, Toshima, who had once been our steward, came and consulted with elder brother and the uncles about the funeral arrangements. The matter of printing death notices and placing them in the newspaper. The inheritance. Of course, even if you called it an inheritance, there was nothing besides the land and house we currently lived in and the family temple. Such discussions continued for quite a long time. Not only did we have to spend a surprisingly large amount of money just to purchase and arrange various small items, but we also drew up a budget for the funeral expenses by deciding to borrow from acquaintances and company connections after all.

I suddenly recalled Mrs. 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 realized I needed to write the absence notice Shinjirō had asked for and opened the inkstone box. While grinding ink, I remembered how Father would summon me when I was in elementary school to make me grind ink in the inkstone. I would prepare large amounts. Pouring it onto a plate, grinding, pouring again and grinding. That’s right. It was when he became fixated on painting pine trees. Lately he had been creating only small wash paintings.

One day—

It was a perfectly clear, quiet afternoon. Father had become bones. The day after his death was the next day. Through Mr. Higashi’s goodwill, an unsold white porcelain jar had been borrowed just for the funeral and placed before the mortuary tablet. A great number of people from Father’s former company came and fluently recited formulaic condolences. Chrysanthemums bloomed fragrantly throughout the room, their scent suffusing the air while the blackness of women’s mourning clothes stung the eyes. I had my elder brother rest in my room, and for a while we remained alone there.

“Brother, stay strong.” “Shinjirō’s grown up now too—I’ll help you with everything, Brother.” “For now, just think about your health.” “We’ll manage somehow with what little stock we have left, so please don’t worry.”

“I’m sorry, Yukiko.” “There’s nothing to be done.” “I’ll entrust everything to you, Yukiko—work together with Mother.” “I’ll try not to make selfish demands either.”

My elder brother said that weakly. The Fortune-Teller’s words had come true. A significant event had come to pass in the family. However, my way of living does not change. My will. My egoism. My freedom. I will suppress that and continue to carry a heavy burden. I must consider that my duty—my fate.

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

At that moment，my elder brother said this quietly.

Shinjirō came in and, “When I die, you don’t need to hold any funeral. “Burn my body and toss the ashes into the sea.” “Whoosh-whoosh, you know?” “At that moment, you know, let it turn into a Takasago or whatever.”

I told Shinjirō to go over there. My elder brother said he suddenly felt distressed and immediately coughed up about half a basin of blood.

Another day.

Shinjirō, Aunt, Haruhiko, and I became engrossed in bridge. While Elder Brother was fighting his illness in the hospital, and Mother was devoting everything to God, everyone carried on living. I too, without purpose or reflection on each action, merely found beauty in pottery and paintings, harboring faint yearnings as I went on living.

〈November 1, 1950〉