Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Miyamoto Yuriko

The Virgin's Death and Red Lanterns

A young virgin, just past twenty-two, had died; with her weak body and long-standing lung ailment, her brief life had been one of purity.
"How dreadful—first your wife, and now your daughter... Truly, the poor master must be so devastated." People were all saying such things.
The house was filled with that ineffable loneliness particular to such moments, yet beyond the window of the quiet room raged a frenzied clamor.
When the festivals of Nezu-san and Hakusan-sama overlapped, their bustling energies converging—when young men’s cheeks flushed faint red with drink and girls’ necks turned pale—this virgin departed life.
Around the virgin’s body lying there with a cold, noble demeanor were filled all sorts of trivial, unmistakably human sounds.
Immediately behind the room stood a stage for the raucous festival music.
The men with slack, booming voices who laughed while making clattering sounds like rustling paper, and those shouldering festival lanterns who dashed about—they knew nothing of such matters, or if they knew, had completely forgotten as they whirled in madness.
The light of red lanterns hung along the rows of houses, the incessant clatter of geta sandals, and bursts of laughter pressed into the quiet room. Those inside seemed to stiffen with fearful desperation to block it all out, feeling crushed from head to toe by forces they could not contain.
They closed the windows, shut the doors, and set up folding screens around the virgin’s bed as best they could to block out the noise—yet it still seeped in through invisible gaps.
The sounds and light seemed on the verge of stirring the virgin’s still body, making her float out with eyes forever shut.
Such thoughts filled everyone’s minds; people would occasionally peek at the hem of her kimono as if checking, and upon seeing that it remained perfectly still just as they had left it, they would let out small sighs of relief.
Clatter-clatter-clatter... It seemed like the sound of the virgin’s pale blue lips quivering.
The red lights swaying unsteadily and flickering were seen as resembling the color of the spirit who had departed without knowing love.

It seemed as though something beyond human comprehension might come crashing down before their very eyes; the people’s gazes trembled and glimmered as they stared into the folding screen.
All manner of things kept slipping in with growing intensity.
The vision of a figure in white kimono beneath yellowish-red candlelight—their face half-blue, half-reddened in madness—and the pale glowing spirit slipping soundlessly past rouged girls and young men again and again; no matter how tightly I shut my eyes or tried to speak of other things, these images kept forcing themselves upon me.
The people, their faces stiffening coldly as if to restrain some frenzied outburst, edged closer to the virgin’s bedside.
The ill-intentioned commotion slipped in ever more.
The people, having grown so uneasy that they couldn’t feel secure without pressing down on the virgin’s body, kept exchanging glances; each time, they saw within one another’s eyes such indescribably terrifying, anguished hues that they could only stare back in shock.
Many, many spirits had escaped from their owners’ bodies and were dancing atop the motionless virgin’s head.

The red lights flickered, the clattering sounds echoed—the virgin’s body lay rigid in death.

I and That Person

That we could never live apart—no matter what might occur, acting utterly oblivious—was something known not only to the two of us, but to those around us as well.

Whether we met only three times a year or saw each other every single day throughout entire months—to capricious onlookers, ours might have seemed an unfettered relationship—yet never once did we make unpleasant faces at each other, never once did we grow angry; thus five tranquil years raced over our heads.

“Without meeting for such a long time… He must have forgotten.”

My mother said such things upon seeing that we neither met face to face nor exchanged letters.

“I know that person well... If he were someone who’d forget me after a year or two apart—if he were someone whose feelings might drift askew—I would’ve bid farewell long ago.”

Free from unease, I could declare this resolutely no matter what others said because I trusted him completely—and knew he placed at least equal, if not greater, faith in me than I did in him.

Uncle was a painter—that person who himself loved paintings, books, and literature would habitually say, “If I were to do something, I’d become a performer, a painter, or a writer.”
I neither told him which path to follow nor urged him to decide.

And on my part, due to my usual caprices, there had been no chance for us to meet since around last year's end.

Around March he briefly called to say things like "I've launched a grand enterprise lately," but I didn't dwell on it either; with my own affairs accumulating, I'd no desire to inconvenience myself arranging meetings.

Afterward, through occasional meetings with Uncle who attended art school, I knew only that he remained in good health.

The other day, on a rainy day when I went intending to borrow that brown pot I found irresistibly charming, I asked, “Where might he be now?” and—

“He’s in Kobe.
“I was concerned about leaving without telling you, but with all the sudden urgent matters piling up, I couldn’t get away as I’d intended...”

He gave this reply.

Even after returning home, I thought it didn’t matter where he was as long as he remained healthy, yet I couldn’t shake the vague unease that something might have happened to that person. Once this thought took hold, it consumed me—day after day, I went to Uncle’s place to ask when he might return.
Each time, I grew impatient with the vague replies and returned home.
My heart had become completely filled with thoughts of that person.
Even though I thought it was my usual habit, I couldn’t distract myself no matter what.

Nevertheless, I was certainly going to school.
On the twenty-second day, around four o'clock, I boarded the train in front of the school, clutching a black bundle and wearing a striped kimono.

Because it was crowded, I ended up riding near the conductor's platform, nearly tumbling over.
Peering through gaps between sleeves, the woman's hand held a strange power that pulled at my eyes.
The way the pale blue umbrella handle dangled from a single pinky could only belong to that person.
The relatively dark hue and slight inward curve just below the fingertips seemed unmistakably his.
The motionless hand appeared to be gripping something.
I craned my neck out from beneath the current sleeve—that's right—I slipped stealthily through as if hiding and stood before that person's eyes.
"Oh…"
He slightly lifted his hips, rearranged long sleeves across his knees, and regripped the rolled object in his left hand.

“It’s truly been a while—when did you return from there…”

“The day before yesterday… Something truly unexpected happened. Since I’m heading to Higashikatamachi now, come with me—at least that far…”

Blushing, That Person said.

“Where are you staying now? Since Uncle said you weren’t in Hayashichō or Higashikatamachi…”

“Later… I’ll come up in the evening.”

“Please keep your anticipation for this evening…”

Then we—like anyone who unexpectedly meets someone they’ve been longing to see—talked in that rambling manner bound to later bring regret, laughing as we parted at the beef shop corner; after which I raced home.
Oh, how I truly yearned for nightfall—finishing dinner, I immediately went to the gate and waited restlessly for that tall figure to materialize within the twilight.
A long arrow made his striped silk sleeves flutter as he moved with lithe steps, until that person stood before my eyes.
Laughing together, we clattered across the paving stones into my room.
The books I owned had nearly doubled in number since his last visit.

“Oh my, you’ve collected quite a lot… As for me, I’ve been nothing but busy lately…”

That person said such things and pressed his recently slightly plump shoulders with both hands.

“Please tell me your surprise sooner—”

“Shall I say it? Though somehow, it’s a bit hard to put into words… I’m staying at Kakuko’s house now, as a disciple…”

Having said this, that person—as if anticipating what I might say—looked into my eyes with a faint smile.

“Finally… but I suppose it’s fine—since it’s what you’ve wanted, and if everything’s working out… It’s not as if I dislike it either…”

I said such things.

“Others who hear this would surely say something... But really, I don’t care what anyone says... As long as you don’t mind it yourself...”

“So... I’m staying at that house in Tamachi over there now...”

“Yes, it’s quite an extravagant lifestyle—self-indulgent of me—”

That person spoke in a tone as if discussing a house that had nothing to do with him.

That person’s demeanor had not changed in the slightest.
And yet nowhere was there any sign that he was the sort of person to do such things.
While I was happily thinking about that, we discussed various things.
When the conversation turned to theater—scripts and such topics—he listened to what I said with a seriousness and enthusiasm entirely unlike before.
“I have to return by around ten tomorrow morning, and since I’m going to Osaka on the 20th, I’m busy—with all that, I can’t settle down,” he said with a face bright with happiness. “Now I’m truly studying seriously.”

That Person said this too in clear tones.
In his lips' curve, the depths of his eyes, his fingertips—overflowing with vigorous hope—I found him shining bright.
The tips of his nails, his fingers, the shells of his ears—these parts had taken on a more maidenly beauty than before, his shoulders grown rounder.

Since there was no school tomorrow anyway, we piled books high on the desk and talked with flushed faces, carrying ourselves with the solemn dignity of those wearing hakama. Around ten o'clock, since that person said it would be better to return, I lent them numerous scripts and *Woman and the Red Bird*, then accompanied them as far as Uncle’s house. From six until ten—the time proved all too brief for us. Nevertheless, I walked silently down the ghostly pale road with an air of resignation. My emotions glowed faint blue, brimming with tears.

At the gate of Uncle’s house, we promised to send a letter to Osaka and parted ways, having vowed to mail it when time allowed.
Walking all alone through the dimly lit town, I felt truly miserable—so sad that tears were welling up.
My emotions had become utterly overwrought, to the point where nothing more could be said.
The unexpected joy; the fact that he had become an actress’s disciple; and that we wouldn’t meet again until he returned from Osaka—
Such things had set my heart’s pulse pounding at the crown of my head.
Until around one o'clock, I had been thinking of that person's face tied to the wig base, the gaze of drawn eyebrows.

When I woke from my doze, it was around seven in the morning.
Immediately jumping up, I took a mirror wrapped in old paper of faded crimson and rouge, a song, and a strand of hair, and hurried over to that person's house.
That person was out elsewhere.
I left them on the veranda.

“Take care of yourself,

“Think of yourself as something precious,

“Study hard.”

After relaying this message to Uncle and returning home, the following evening—

“About the other day... I must apologize... I’ll be departing tomorrow morning at nine.”
“Since I’m renting the previous house... goodbye.”

That was all that person said to me through the thin metallic device before leaving.

That person and I—no matter how much time passes—could never become strangers.
"Whichever of us dies first—let whoever remains do makeup for the deceased—we even said such things."
"No matter what that person does—I can believe—I can believe in that person—"
Yet within this whispered conviction lingered an unfamiliar sliver of anxiety.

I did not want to let that person be called an actress, nor did I want to say it myself.

Actress—this word carried a jarring note that somehow grated on my ears.

I found myself preferring the term "female performer."

That person as a female performer and I—whenever I thought of this, tears would spill without reason.

That person was now in Osaka.
I was in Tokyo.

That person was a female performer, and I—

That person and I—the fact that we could never be separated—was the only thing I knew with certainty.

Night Town

The distant clamor of downtown, the liveliness of night stalls, the light buoyant mood enveloping these—as someone raised in the high district, I found myself longing for such things. Gazing at the sky beyond—which in the residential district’s simple hues and air seemed to blush faintly from the warmth of bodies and lamplight—I imagined the bearing of the people living beneath it and the town’s appearance. That Ginza Street—which seemed perfectly suited for nocturnal strolls, where one felt that no matter how far one might walk on and on, something delightful surely awaited just ahead at every turn—was where I wished I could walk daily. Somehow like this—under willow trees that stirred warm emotions, where dimly lit lanterns cast their glow over a faded crimson rug—mother-of-pearl trays, small boxes, sword bags with frayed threads, and such things faintly redolent of antiquity—I could not bring myself to believe these night stall vendors arranged them thus merely for their livelihood. On the grayish-black willow trunks, paintings by Utamaro and Toyokuni—those alluring curves that stirred young hearts like ours—trembled in the air stirred by the swaying sleeves of women; my heart grew so overwhelmed that I’d no leisure to even glance at those counterfeit imitations of such art. Beside buildings too tall for the eye to follow—in the shadow of dazzling electric lights—a separate world of crimson rugs and lanterns clustered together, where traces of a genius's sword gleamed through Utamaro's women with their hidden smiles—merely thinking this made me want to narrow my eyes shut, smiling as I let out a small sigh.

I wanted to go and see—with the same intensity that a country girl yearns for the capital—Ginza’s streets with their entirely different colors, air, and mood.

If I could become one—even for just a single night on that street, whether joyful or not—I found myself thinking such things: wanting to transform into that antique dealer and sit watching.

A foreign woman in a narrow-hemmed kimono peered with both curiosity and wariness at what they called a katana glinting upon a deer-antler sword rack, and when I imagined how every element of this night scene seemed perfectly attuned to the vibrant hearts of young people, such a faint tremor arose from deep within my body—Ginza’s nights felt achingly dear to me.

I wanted to glide along that path with a kindred young soul—silent yet sharing identical thoughts—with a sensation like some small yet irreplaceable poem welling up from my heart’s depths—

I would encounter town girls with Chinese-style topknots and heavy makeup, women in trim outfits—

If I were to go to Ginza’s night streets—wouldn’t someone know me and be waiting there?—

In the night hours, Ginza—having uttered these words, I contemplated the roundness of women's cheeks in Toyokuni's prints.

Tranquility and Joy

A tranquility paler than dreams—the light rain fell without a sound.
The black soil was like a girl’s skin.
The pear fruits, their branches heavy with ripeness, glistened as though their sweet juice had seeped through the skin.
The bush clover drooped modestly, while upon the velvet-like surface of loquat's pale green young buds—one, two—dewdrops gathered like pearl ornaments. Ah—filled with such joy—I could not help releasing this small, trembled sigh.
Like tear-drenched eyes—thinking this—I gazed at the camellia leaves.
Like wanting to press one's cheek against it—thinking this—I gazed at the soft-looking blue moss.
The thicket of tree leaves—from their skin seeped a joy that coursed through my heart with such painful intensity that tears welled up in my eyes.
My heart grew turbulent in a way that defied all control.
When I firmly closed my eyes—the tranquility and joy seeped softly into my heart with stealthy steps.
Pressing my face with both hands as a faint, tickling smile rose to the surface—I buried myself against it.
In a quiet, calm, tremblingly wonderful feeling beyond words—the sound of thin, thin rain—each strand brushing against another—enveloped my body.

Unbearable tranquility, joy—tears flowed ceaselessly down my cheeks.
The whisper of rain resonated through my tears and assailed my body once more.
My heart trembled until I wondered whether I might go mad or lose consciousness.
"Throwing myself down—I want to be struck by this beautiful soft rain."
I laughed while thinking this.
Tears streamed, yet a smile lingered at my lips.
Peering softly with a strange state of mind—like those in Greek-era paintings—at this tangled feeling I couldn't comprehend.
Tranquility—tears still flowed down my cheeks.
Within this boundless joy and tranquility, I—Ah...
"I'm truly happy!"

A time of intense low pressure

In the mirror's reflection, my cheeks appeared—one side strangely warped and swollen, the other withered to a bluish hue.
"Hateful rotten tooth..."
The formless, invisible thing—I rebuked it thus.

I darted away from the mirror, irritated beyond endurance.
And I entered a room where nothing reflected my face—a room containing only my books.
Sitting down at the desk and resting my cheek absentmindedly on my hand, I realized with a start just how pronounced the asymmetry was.
"Ugh, this is unbearable."
I slammed these two clumsy hands—these hands that had uttered such awful things—down onto the desk with a slap.
Trying to distract myself, I looked at the books in the bookcase and recalled each of their contents.
As I looked through them one by one, the two books I liked were nowhere to be seen.
When I thought he must have taken them again, the image of that slovenly man immediately came to mind—always wearing those sagging hakama pants that clung to his backside. "Of all things to take, why my favorites?—I said he could borrow them if he just wanted a quick look, but then he gets cocky and walks off with whatever he pleases!"

Even things I could never say to his face—I blurted them out in a fit of irritation.
No matter what I looked at, everything appeared stubbornly disagreeable and frail, yet I found myself drawn to this pain that clung with such relentless persistence.
When I tried gently pressing my dentures together—a jolt shot from my toes to the crown of my head—tears immediately began seeping out in silence.
When this tooth went bad around New Year's, I went to Dr. Chikawa, but that man with his sickly pallor was so repulsive it made my skin crawl—they might say I quit after ten days because of that—but if told "That's how it was, wasn't it?" I, with my stubborn refusal to concede, would inevitably retort "That wasn't it at all."

The logic aside, the pain was real—this face of mine, already so anatomically complete, now with my left cheek puffed out and contorted into an '八' shape, filled me with such infuriating vexation that I could scream. Making a useless fist and tap-tapping it on the desk—even that mockingly derisive resonance grated on my nerves. When I tried to belt out some song—realizing my mouth wouldn't move properly—I huffed and stopped short. I pressed my cheeks, bit down, tried this and that—still the pain wouldn't subside. I received Hōtan from a family member and desperately smeared it all over my mouth. My mouth had grown thicker in substance, turning doughy as sensation dulled. The pain eased slightly.

The bee on my tear-streaked face must have thought this was the reason.
"I can't fathom the feelings of those who laugh," I fumed to myself, alone.
Even if I wanted to laugh, irritation welled up and I couldn't manage it.

I’d come to want prayer beads clutched up to the middle of my skull.
My younger brother twitched his shameless nose—the kind that treated that person as less than human—and laughed when he saw my face before walking off.
The blurry shape irritated me more and more.
"It’s such a nuisance—why not just chop it off?" I found myself considering even this heartless solution.
Clutching my head, I paced through the house like a scholar lost in thought.
The floor creaked; soot dangled from the ceiling.
The maids laughed with thoughtless guffaws—lining up as if specially arranged today to mock me, perfectly synchronized in their willful provocation of my anger and irritation.
With strides like a man’s, I returned to my original room.
Irritation swelled until tears threatened to spill.
My chest thudded, my head pounded, and my ears rang shrilly.

I threw myself down as if crashing against something.
The Hōtan's odor assailed my nose—pungent and sharp.
When I looked at the wall before me exposing an unsightly body-like form, I felt such oppressive, obstructed heaviness that I wanted to hurl myself against it and smash everything to pieces.

I closed my eyes and clutched my face…… As my heart gradually grew calm, unbearable loneliness—the aftermath of that senseless, furious outburst—pressed in relentlessly.
In my mouth,

*Tōre no Kimi no Katarigusa*

Having met his end through sincerity

*The lover has now left behind*

Guarding the golden chalice,

I had been reciting such things.
As my mind grew calmer, I found myself recalling that Great Hen’s kimono, voice, and mouth from when I saw her at the Imperial Theater.
Then again, the tiny children started fighting.
Those crying voices, scolding voices, shouting voices—and when I hear them, the irritation bug begins to squirm, and pain springs up between my teeth.
Because of such a trivial little thing, my thoughts were once again stirred into chaos.
I can’t stay still whether sitting or standing.

I slammed my body against the pillar thud after thud while spilling tears.

“I suppose I’ll have to spend another day lying around… How could anyone ever come to like children…?” I muttered, glaring at the ceiling. Unable to distinguish between the pain and the tears welling up, feeling nothing but this jumbled mess—a terrible low-pressure system was assaulting my very heart.

*Monkey Farce*

Propped up from beneath the stage

Stealthily peered at the Monkey Farce

Tsurieda Yamadai Hige Sen

*The lamplight flickered and glimmered*

"Isn't it truly beautiful?"

Clinking-clinking they paraded along

Red-Bibbed Mr. Monkey

Though the wig fits snugly

A crimson face and hairy

*What shall we do with these O hands!*

Yet they call her Kiyohime-san—isn't that absurd?

*The spectators seated on the earthen floor—*

*In Oshige's chamber—lustrous*

*Flowing sleeves swirling in dance guise*
*At the moment meant for tears, they blunder—*
*Striking strange poses, they burst into laughter*
*Truly ridiculous, isn't it?*
*Propping up*
*Stealthily peeked at the Monkey Farce...*
*Moth*
*Buzzing hither comes this capricious one—*
*By what name art thou called?*
*With a round body and short legs,*
*Thus you must fly with vigor now—*
*I have thought so from the start*
*'Tis better to roll,*
*Like that straw handicraft,*
*A moth bearing a blue back*
*Buzzing round the gas lamp—*

*To boast of sturdy wings—*

A child gave chase with a fan.

The little moth spoke thus:
"What a brash little child you are! Do you have wings? This is my hiding place—heavenly deities—oh my! You're quite the crafty one, aren't you?"

The small moth kept buzzing
around the gas lamp in ceaseless circles.
No matter how robust a moth might be,
even the hardiest could not sustain such drunken fluttering.

Wings seeking rest upon the floor—
It fell onto Jūtan.
Then suddenly a bony—
A huge finger jabbed out—
Lifted the body into midair.
And the owner of that hand—
They said in a gruff voice:

“Hey there, y’know that turkey I’d been keepin’—
loved turkeys so much—
give ’em what they want and there’d be no end to it, huh...”

*The Shelf’s Daruma Removal*

Oh bearded uncle, you—
What an imposing figure you are!
From dawn till dusk—greed’s hide stretched taut—
Wishes stretched taut—
Declaring unmet desires as failures—
Not a drop of water do you give me…
One painted eyeball glaring—
The Shelf’s Mr. Daruma’s Grumbling
What a stubborn gentleman you are!
May money chests multiply—
May storehouses rise in abundance—
May kimonos flow like rivers—
May prosperity swell ever higher—
Uncle’s desires know no bounds.
*What a stubborn gentleman you are!*

One-Eyed Daruma-san's Grumbling

From atop the shelf

Shelf Removal

Take a wife and children will come.

Have children and money will flow in.

If money flows in, it’s trouble.

If the wife’s looks are poor,

she won’t even serve as a shop sign.

Just ate and slept and money flowed in.

If that's how things got troublesome—

The Bearded Uncle lived alone.

the meticulous application of fervent prayers and—

The Startled Mr. Daruma

Once a month at Daishi-san’s temple they would visit—each time bringing home another purchase. The number of Daruma dolls kept growing until—well—this enormous shelf stood piled to overflowing.

From those standing two shaku tall (about two feet)
even down to those measuring exactly five bu (about six inches)
they were lined up in a row and piled,

All were uniformly one-eyed...

The Bearded Uncle—regarding wishes—
Until those wishes are granted…
He says he won’t put in the eyeballs…

Then until Uncle dies,

We remain one-eyed after all,

On final days when December ends,

He removes us by seniority’s bend.

"You ill-natured Daruma wretches—not only bring no profit whatsoever—but guzzle down our hot water day and night!" After delivering a solid kick—ponk!—with one foot, he discarded us as playthings for the apprentices. Kicked mercilessly until dented and battered, when we became misshapen with stuffing spilling out, into the hellish hearth we were thrown... In the sorrow of being born as Daruma dolls—though we try to flee, we have no legs—helplessly suffering cruel treatment—waiting to die—what shall we do with these sorrowful hearts? Bearded Uncle, you—

What an utterly formidable lord you are!

When new, pampered and coddled—

“Please let there be profit,” we prayed—

raising up selfish pleas—

When we grew old—three years later—

you showed us hell’s gaze in the hearth—

What profit was there in that?

Whether houses burn or balls—

If fleeing the storehouse brings □□—

Bearded Uncle, you— oh,

What an utterly formidable lord you are…

The Unloading of the Shelf’s Daruma

Oak Tree

In this endless world,

Even those youthful and vigorous noble ones—

Even those advanced in years—

Shining with spring’s bounty,

The oak tree turning golden—

With the vigor of this Oak Tree’s

Come forth with hope

Even when transformed into verdant foliage in summer,

As summer gradually deepened,

Autumn’s bounty upon these branches

When it dwelt in one place, the oak tree
glowed once more in gold,

The oak tree towered into the clear heavens.

All the leaves had fallen,

But behold—the Oak Tree,

It stood tall and rigid.

With skeletal prominence and rock-tiered

Baring trunk and branches,

It stood towering majestically.

The ladybug on the underside of the Japanese aralia leaf

On leaves spread like hands

A ladybug alighted lightly,

In the midrib of pale green leaves

It rested like a pattern.

She had just plucked it...

Black areas with red dots,

Sprinkled here and there...

“Would this make a good hair ornament?”

“Or should I put it on my finger?”

“It doesn’t suit the yukata’s pattern.”

Plump and stubby, so red—

The fifteen-year-old girl spoke thus.

Lured by the insect’s charm…

Ladybug Trickster

Lush green and slender, swaying delicately,

On sprouted mustard leaves above

Perched a ladybug—black and red markings adorning its back...

She gently picked it up and placed it on her hand.

“You—such a cute little ladybug.”

“Why are you so plump?”

“Just like a certain someone…”

She said while rolling it around.

The little insect said nothing and kept rolling around, just as before.

Even so, it remained as lovely as before…

On the sleeve of her white kimono,

She gently placed it there and moved along the fence.

She went to show it to the neighbor woman.

“Auntie, just take a look at this! What an adorable little bug this is! And it’s truly beautiful, don’t you think? I’d connect them with thread into a circle—even if I hung it around a bare neck, even that one wouldn’t laugh at it.”

“Auntie, just look at this!” I said in that unbearably sweet voice of mine...
The neighbor woman with her large iron-rimmed glasses pushed them firmly up her nose.
“That’s no ladybug,” she rasped in her western drawl. “This here’s a trickster beetle, ain’t it?”
I rolled my eyes three full circles before darting wordlessly back into the house...

I had just spun them three times when—
I silently fled into the house...

Exactly as I saw it
In sky blue and aqua blue
Upon the glittering hydrangea
A demon's envoy—the black butterfly—
Flew in enigmatic flight
Flutter, flutter, flutter
Beside them spiderwebs of silver
Crafted handles with their threads
Flutter-flutter went the black butterfly

A summer evening of flight amid the hydrangea

Untitled

Shine, shine, lovely dear star
What manner of being are you?
So joyfully sparkling
Like heaven’s diamond...
After the great sun had set
The shy young sprouts that dare not
At the hour moistened by night dew
Your small, modest
Light appears faint.
Shine shine, little dear star
Shine through midnight
Heavenly firmament’s dear star

Sprouts

The morning glories that had bloomed thrice the year before last and once last year before withering—this year, they never showed themselves on that fence where they usually leaned their frail bodies.

“They might not come out this year—they were so weak after all.”

“That’s probably not the case.”
“They’re growing where you can’t see them, I’m sure.”
“You can’t imagine such plants—they have a vitality beyond human imagination.”

Exchanging such words, we've come to today.
While I couldn’t help feeling restless even though those charming yet not-quite-charming flowers had begun to appear on the fences of other houses, I—

"I'll wait without planting others until those usual ones bloom—I'd feel guilty if they emerged later."

While thinking this way, I would examine once daily the delicate grain of the soft black soil beside the fence. Imagining milky sprouts just beginning to emerge beneath the pitch-dark earth—that fragrant, moisture-rich soil surface—I cast upon the black soil a smile brimming with joy and hope, like one might give to sprouts that had broken through to the surface.

I spent anxious days gazing at the fence’s black soil, agonizing over whether those milky thread-like sprouts had simply rotted away in the darkness or whether some careless person had cleanly sliced them off with a hoe’s sharp edge during tidying and killed them outright.

Today, truly today, I unexpectedly found two fresh green morning glory leaves growing joyously, youthfully, and boldly upon the usual black soil.

"Oh!"

When I first discovered them, I cried out in a small trembling voice mingling joy and surprise.

"Well done!" I said, gazing intently at those two leaves while kneeling on the ground with such fondness that I nearly pressed my cheek against them. That what I had previously declared in my heart—"Humans possess a vitality beyond imagination"—had now manifested before my eyes formed part of this joy.

Oh! They’d come up—they’d truly come up!

Having spilled a stream of fragmented words, I crouched again before the black soil.

Oh my, oh truly my—you came up for me! I’d been waiting, you know—you understand, don’t you? Even now at peak season I hadn’t bought others, kept waiting just for you alone—truly happy from my heart.

As one speaks to something comprehending human words, I said in this small tender voice.

I sat there endlessly wanting to hear those tender sprouts respond, but they didn’t utter a word. Only, I felt how the throbbing pulse of that colorless blood flowing through and nourishing those supple, delicate cells merged perfectly with the pulse of my own red, warm blood nourishing all my similar cells into one entity, quietly undulating with a thump-thump rhythm.

The First Wallet

Shinkichi, who had been entrusted with a wallet for the first time in his life, had only just turned six years old by traditional reckoning. He gently stroked the yellow pouch adorned with Daikoku-sama that bulged slightly even over his kimono. Before his eyes, two slightly tarnished ten-sen coins and one slightly larger twenty-sen coin took turns dancing about. Every time he met someone, he wanted to thrust out his chest and declare, "I got a wallet! Ain't that somethin'?"

Recalling his mother’s voice—“Don’t go wasting it now”—when she handed him the coins, he hurried past the toy shop where he’d nearly stopped.
Alongside this, the question of “What could I buy that wouldn’t be a waste?” had come to occupy his thoughts so thoroughly that it now seemed more difficult than a university entrance exam.

“Should I get a book? Some sweets? Or maybe a toy?”

All these matters became jumbled together and traversed his small, thin-haired head.

Shinkichi thought this.

"I've never eaten a stick of bean jelly before, so I'll get that."

He walked before the confectionery as if relieved, where adult customers—elderly ones at that—had come.

"Buying a whole stick of yōkan... I wonder if they'll say 'What a good boy.'"

Thinking this, he began to feel those people might know what was in his pocket and even see the tarnished ten-sen coin.
He started walking restlessly away from there again.
He no longer even knew what toy to buy.
When he peeked into the storefronts, even the books seemed beyond his comprehension.

"What on earth am I going to buy?"

Shinkichi muttered in a voice on the verge of tears.
Unable to bear the thought that he might drop it, he clutched his pocket with both hands.
Finding himself utterly at a loss, Shinkichi broke into a run, paying no mind to colliding with people as he dashed headlong all the way home.
Seeing him there with his bright red face panting heavily,

“Oh, what’s happened? Did’ja lose another fight?”
“What a crybaby!” the mother said.
Shinkichi shook his head,

“No! I just... I didn’t know what was right to buy, so I ran home!”

In a quarrelsome tone, he yelled at his mother and burst into loud tears.

Every time his mother laughed, he kept shouting “I didn’t know what was right to buy!” while clutching his pocket and crying on and on.

Nameless Plant and the Brown-Winged Insect

A seed sown who knows when had sprouted.
And bore flowers.

Pressed into a corner of the grassy field as if shoved aside...

And thereupon, about twenty stalks sprouted up vigorously, standing straight in perfect alignment.

Once during cleaning when I tried to pull it out, the just-sprouted leaves—truly just emerged—with their blue velvet-like curled thickness and endearing appearance made me leave them as they were, and that became the plant which bore flowers.
The flowers resembled face powder blossoms—delicately feminine and demure.
Their colors ranged from white to crimson to pale pink, measuring about five bu in diameter. The white flowers particularly—each bearing a small brown pattern at their center—were such approachable blossoms that any curious young lady who discovered them would immediately pluck them without hesitation.

“Why did they sprout?”
“When nobody knows who sowed them...”

“A seed must have flown into someone’s hand by itself...”

“That couldn’t possibly be true.”
“If they flew here, would they sprout in such perfectly neat rows? You...”

While they went back and forth about such things, tormenting their heads over matters already known to be unknowable, the flowers had all bloomed fully, and about seven days passed.

Wordlessly, before long, it came to be known that in each flower's stamen—day and night without fail—dwelt a single small brown-winged insect, in every single flower...

A story took shape.
They stirred up a commotion as if some great incident had occurred.

As for the elderly,

"For a provision plant to sprout... That alone seems rather strange..."

“That must be it—it’s surely been cursed by an evil spirit!”

For some reason, that day they extended the sutra chanting time longer than usual and offered about twice as much incense as well.

From evening onward, every time we went into the garden, we would without fail peer into these flowers.
Because some small children among them developed an artistic fever, everyone seemingly conspired to forget all about the flowers.
Suddenly noticing without any particular reason, when I looked at the flowers that day, those small lovely flowers had all withered away.

"Oh dear, they've already wilted... Come to think of it, I wonder what became of those insects."

Having said this, I began meticulously peering into each withered flower one by one with a toothpick tip from the very start, but until I reached what should have been the last one, no insects were inside any of them.

"They might finally be gone."

While thinking this, when I gently opened it with the tip of a toothpick as though unfastening a souvenir box, a small brown insect unexpectedly tumbled out inside.

I kept watching it as if entranced for what felt like an eternity.

Abruptly—truly without warning—the small insect emitted a powerful wingbeat disproportionate to its size and flew off into the blue sky as though mocking us.

I couldn’t help but think that we—the winged insects who in life had been captivated by flowers, and the flowers that had surely each served as abode to a single winged insect—must have been bound together since some prior existence by threads of fate drawn taut.

At the Reclaimed Land

I pressed both hands to my cheeks to keep the various unsightly things around me that I didn’t want to see from entering my vision, blocking from view the display stands visible to my left and right and the colors of kimonos hanging there.

And so I gazed with all my might at only those pleasant things—the vast, endless blue of the inland sea, the green of Odaiba’s grass, the white mountain-like clouds.
As if the power of my eyes had grown stronger than ever, I could see everything from the faintly floating white sail ahead to the people standing at Odaiba’s edge.
The cool wind, carrying the hues of dusk, came riding on the tide flowing from the offing.
"What a pleasant feeling this was."
If I were to say it aloud, I feared this pleasant calm and quiet might flutter away.
So I said in a voice so small only I could hear it.

In that blue-green grass of Odaiba—a mystery within the deep blue sea—there must be buds waiting to unfurl and tiny flowers blooming, surely. How I wanted to go see it—having thought so upon seeing that boat previously burned there—what bliss it would be to sit at that edge enveloped in the waves’ whispers and grass’s fragrance while singing a song.

Within my mind surged a tumult of disjointed fantasies and uncontainable joy. The moment I saw the white sail shift slightly, Odaiba’s grass changed color—half turning darkish, half becoming greener than before—while the mountain of clouds crumbled like a draped sash. When the cloud band fragmented again into human shapes, the white sails had already vanished—steamship smoke hung like an old woman’s sash as Odaiba turned completely blue, while where I stood a faint shadow formed……

In this ever-changing, vast sea—both dignified and innocent—I felt myself dissolving into its essence. If one wave swayed, I too swayed once; if two moved yonder, I moved twice. All things seemed to move in perfect unison with me.

I sang the Echigo Lion song with an unprecedented feeling like vivid aquamarine.
In the manner of a maiden wearing a long-unworn kimono, her black hair tied in a split-peach style...

As I watched, the sunlight deepened into evening hues.
Before I knew it, the old boatman’s craft had entered the river ahead—separated from the sea by a single railway line.
Bathed in sunset’s glow like a crimson demon, the old man retrieved tools from the boat’s belly.
He began scrubbing with a large brush-like implement—dipping it into water and sweeping from prow to stern, creating light rhythmic splashes akin to bathing a cherished steed.
Droplets falling from the brush onto the gilded river surface became golden tears, the boat shimmering in kind.
A golden vessel on golden waters—a bare-skinned scarlet ogre dashed across them.
...forgetting entirely the sea’s color and sky’s aspect, I stared transfixed at this tableau straight from storybook illustrations.
The crimson demon settled on the boat’s edge and began singing while smoking.

“O slender island-aah, wild rice fields-oooh, what might you be-ehh?”

“O irises in bloom-aah, how modest-eeeh they be-ehh…”

The song was old, and the singer was old, but that very song rang out with fresh vitality—a voice brimming with life. It slid across the river’s surface, crossed over the railway tracks, and flew away toward the distant sea. Drawn by that voice, my heart too went off in its direction, but when the voice vanished it felt as though I’d been flung back—now acutely aware, I observed with startled clarity how my lips puckered tightly as if tasting something intensely sour from that beautifully singing mouth so terribly wrinkled.

While I was engrossed in watching the old man, the sun completely set, and the slender moon—looking as though it might vanish with a single swipe of a finger across its surface—

“I’ve been right here since quite some time ago.”

As if declaring this, it now stood clearly visible beside the clothes-drying pole.

Odaiba began to haze faintly; the cloud mountains turned pale purple; the blue sea grew bluer than before—the tide’s strength and fervor gathered within each undulating wave and surged closer and closer from the distant, distant offing.

Performer's child

“What’s this? You’re just a performer’s brat, aren’t you?”

Such cold, heartless voices enveloped Chōji’s body—he being merely twelve years old.
Even when attending school, by the second day he would inevitably be bullied as the “performer’s child.” Pale-faced and biting his lip as tears fell drop by drop with no one to take his side, mean-spirited children would swarm around him jeering “Yan-ya!”, a scene that repeated itself time and again.
When school let out, without so much as a backward glance he would enter the latticed house at Ōkawabata—on precisely such days forgoing any “I’m home”—and climb straight to the second floor to snap the shoji shut.
Then, as if suddenly remembering, he shook his shoulders in bitter frustration and wept.
Sobbing and gasping,

"Why did you give birth to me? Why did you give birth to me?"

He often said things that seemed to resent his parents.
After crying his heart out, whenever he became distracted by the sound of his mother giving a shamisen lesson to her disciple and started humming along softly to momentarily forget his sorrow,

Tomorrow again.

Whenever such thoughts crossed his mind, a dark shadow would fall over him, and he would sink into silence wearing a lonely expression—this was his usual state.

That day too, taking off his geta outside and inside the lattice without so much as glancing at the mother giving a lesson, he went up to the second floor.

"He was bullied again."

The mother fumed at her child's helplessness while thinking how their current circumstances made such criticism unavoidable—this tangled mess of emotions grew so agitating she nearly wanted to hurl her plectrum down right then.

Having finished the lesson at last, the mother crept upstairs on tiptoe and peered through a gap—there he sat slumped against the railing, gazing wistfully at plovers skimming over the glittering surface of the afternoon river.

“He must’ve cried himself out, poor thing.”

The mother murmured to herself as she slid open the shoji.

Chōji kept gazing ahead without turning around.

“Chō-chan, how ‘bout it? Why don’t we play somethin’ together?”

She said this as if she knew nothing at all.

“Ma.”

Chōji said in a voice that sounded pathetically tender.

“What?”

“Y’know… why am I a performer’s child?”

“Well, why… you ask such strange things. If you’re a performer’s child, then you’re a performer’s child, ain’t ya?”

“From olden days, were performer’s children just bound to be looked down on?”

“There ain’t no such thing! If you’re doin’ right, folks ain’t gonna look down on ya no matter what.”

Even if she brushed it off casually, the mother was beside herself wondering what she would do if he pressed the matter further.

"But they say before Meiji we were just like beggars."

"You don't gotta keep goin' on about it like that.
The past is the past, the present's the present. You see? You get that, don'tcha?
His Majesty the late Emperor was so great—if you're truly great, doesn't matter if you're a commoner or whatnot, he'd treat you splendidly. Performers too! Why, didn't Fukusuke and Danjūrō themselves perform 'Ataka' before His Majesty? So you see..."

“Can I ever become that…?”

“You can! ’Course you can! If ya just work hard enough, you can become as great as anybody!”

“Mom... ain’t you just sayin’ that to make me feel better?”

When he casually uttered something too mature for his age, his mother looked startled and studied his face intently before saying,

"Comforting? Don't go thinkin' I'm just tossin' you hollow words now."
"Your hurt's my hurt too, so c'mon—let's quit this talk and play us somethin' together, there's a good lad."

Chōji stayed silent, his face still shadowed by unresolved feelings.

“Okay, let’s play together.”

Because he had spoken in a clear voice, his mother—as if both body and soul had lightened—hurried downstairs and brought two shamisen from a yellow bag.

“What should we play?”

The mother said while licking her fingers.

Chōji kept restlessly switching his plectrum grip,

“Somethin’ flashy… maybe…”

“Echigo Jishi would be good. Let’s do that.”

As Chōji and his mother’s hands flashed swiftly, the crisp “twang” of their shamisen skimmed across the river’s surface, grazed the warehouse roof on the far bank, and rode upon the white wings of plovers.
The mother closed her eyes and with crisp gestures smoothly produced beautiful notes.
Looking at her still-small child’s reliable demeanor and recalling her spouse who had passed away five years prior—resolving that she absolutely must elevate him to that standing—she gazed at the small white hand gripping the plectrum.

The two of them played as though they had forgotten everything for a long time.

From that day on, Chōji grew remarkably stronger.
But even at school, he was still bullied just as much,

“What’s this? I’ll play before His Majesty the Emperor himself!”

He said this through tears.

As soon as he returned home, he would say this no matter who was there.

“Hey Momma, performers are great too… They can even play before His Majesty the Emperor, you know…”

The Kyoto Visitors

“Since we have the chance, we thought we’d visit after all this time—Yaya-san, who was just a little one when we last saw you, must have grown ever so big by now—what a joy that will be!”

The person called Miss Omaki who had sent this informal letter lived comfortably with her sixteen-year-old only daughter in a place as beautiful as a spring dream near Arashiyama in Kyoto. Born in snow-laden Echigo—true to the saying that snow country breeds beauties—her youthful loveliness had once drawn comparisons to Komachi herself. Now wearing a kerchief, she would occasionally recount various sorrowful and beautiful tales as if they concerned strangers.

The daughter too—bathed at birth in Kyoto’s river waters—grew into peony-like splendor with a round mellifluous voice, becoming what people called a treasured daughter kept in ornamental seclusion without sophistry or finishing school.

While recalling such things, we waited as though some unknown breed of people were coming—

“Pardon me.”

We had been anticipating that voice.

After about a week had passed—the maid’s eyes widening at the unfamiliar Kyoto dialect—the guests we had been expecting arrived.
They immediately entered the tea room,

“My, it’s been an age, hasn’t it?”

Miss Omaki said before exchanging formal greetings.
Behind her stood her daughter in a medium-sleeved gauze kimono with a stiff pale tea-colored obi tied in plover knots, hair arranged in an elaborate chignon studded with fabric flower pins, face painted white with crimson rouge—silently scrutinizing my unconventionally styled hair.
Observing her gaze and mouth, though feeling guilty for it, I thought with the weariness of a sixty-year-old: “She doesn’t seem particularly quick-witted.”

Mother and Miss Omaki were exchanging the usual polite greetings, as anyone would.

“My, she’s only grown in years and not in grace, our Yaya-san here, hasn’t she?”

Adding this comment, she introduced her daughter to Mother.
I studied intently as she gingerly lowered her heavy-looking head, her face turning bright red.

“Well now, Yuri dear—do you remember? Though you’ve probably forgotten by now—this is Miss Omaki, and you are… Miss Osen, was it?”

When Mother asked the daughter and she nodded in understanding,

“Our daughter truly is a handful—she spins nothing but sophistries despite being incapable of anything.”

After receiving an introduction that didn’t particularly please me, I hurriedly bowed—this marked the fifth or sixth time now.

I watched Miss Osen—who had come into the home of someone close yet did nothing but nod or shake her head without speaking—with a feeling akin to observing a marionette, something not quite alive.
And so, without feeling even a hint of joy or nostalgia, I simply looked at her elaborately coiffed hair, plover-patterned obi, and long sleeves as one would gaze upon an unusual large doll.

"Why don't you play together? Chise here simply adores cutting hair too, you know."

Miss Omaki interjected this during Mother's conversation.

"Um..."
Having said that, I found myself at a loss for words.

I had already cut both my older sister's and Chise's hair five or six years prior, with no remnants of that time remaining.

"Mother, how are we to play? We've nothing but Chiyogami paper and toy cooking utensils—not even proper Hina dolls."

I consulted Mother in a small voice.

“Just go and play however you like.”

Having dismissed me with this remark, the two resumed talking about their youth.
The smooth Kyoto dialect and crisp Edo dialect intertwined pleasantly as they resonated.
Miss Osen stood behind her mother, alternately adjusting and releasing her sleeve alignments.

“Please come in—let’s find something to play.”
“I don’t have anything with me, though.”

Miss Osen kept hesitating despite having nodded in agreement, so her mother—

“Go on now, off you go and play. You needn’t stand on ceremony like that.”

Having said this while nudging her forward,

“Do come in—now, teach me what I don’t know, and let’s play together. There’s no need for such formality here.”

I too said these words with a laugh, tugging her hand until I finally succeeded in leading her to my room. Surrounded by bookcases on all sides—dusty tomes flanked by eye-catching volumes, manuscript papers peeking from document boxes—Miss Osen stood spellbound as she surveyed the room’s disarray.

And then, in a small voice,

“Why don’t you hang decorative balls?”

When she asked this,

“Do you hang them?”

I countered with a question.

“Oh, Mother fussily insists we hang them—to pack in scent sachets, you see.”

Miss Osen fell silent again after saying just this.
The two of us sat side by side before the desk, and I showed her my prized collection of illustrated manuscripts and woodblock prints.
Miss Osen, flipping through them one by one with slender craftwork-like fingertips, appeared so beautifully doll-like that I wanted to keep her exactly like this—never letting age touch her, never exposing her to the world, preserved as decoration.
I felt I wanted to look at her every day, lined up behind those old tales and illustrated storybooks.
Moreover, I found it delightful that by remaining blissfully unaware of so many things of little consequence, I could feel at ease.

I chose topics that seemed reasonably understandable and began speaking first.
With every word I uttered, Miss Osen became more accustomed to me.
I found it absurdly comical—how I, though younger, was regarding and treating this sixteen-year-old like a younger sister—that I nearly burst out laughing.

I spoke with meticulous care about everything from Tokyo's bustle to people's appearances and speech mannerisms—even down to the commonplace habits anyone among them might exhibit.

"What a restless place... Kyoto's truly quiet, truly."

She said this in a small voice, as if already exhausted by Tokyo’s bustle.

"Do people in Kyoto use parasols even on ordinary days? The kind made of paper."

“We do use them.”
“As for someone like me, I always use one properly with Master—they have simple patterns drawn on them, you know.”

“What might you be studying, may I ask?”

“The hand drum, the koto, tea ceremony, and flower arrangement.”

“My! Do you really study all those things in a single day?”

Thinking she did quite a variety of things compared to myself, I asked this.

“Well, that’s how it goes… When I’m not in the mood, I don’t attend…”

“They’re all things everyone likes anyway.”

“If I don’t state my preferences, Mother tells me, you know.”

Miss Osen and I were talking about such things.
Gradually, as the evening darkness deepened and the electric light came on in the room,

“I’ve gone and gotten homesick.”

In a girlishly playful voice, Miss Osen said this and sidled closer to me.

“Why?”

“It’s just... I’m feeling rather frightened.”

While thinking she spoke like a child, I gently took her hand and—

“Well then, let’s go over there where everyone is.”

I took Miss Sen’s hand and moved along the dim corridor to the tearoom.
Miss Sen walked with shuffling steps even through that space.

“Do you walk about at night without carrying a lantern?”

“Inside our house…”

“Oh, someone like me even brings a lantern along to my lessons.”
“My, how very prim!”

I said this with a hearty laugh.
Miss Osen also smiled bashfully while holding firmly onto my hand and walking gingerly.

“Thank you ever so much for your kindness.”

Omaki-san said while packing tobacco and opening the shoji screen to look at our faces.

After that, the four of us sat in a circle and listened as Omaki-san told us about the Gion Festival, Kamo River's evening cool, and scenes of Kyoto we'd never seen before. During this time, Miss Osen leaned against her mother and listened to the stories while gazing at her brow. Even during meals, Miss Osen ate with pursed lips. Omaki-san looked as though she found Miss Osen utterly adorable at all times, while Miss Osen wore an expression and way of speaking that seemed to say she could never get enough of her mother.

After finishing her meal, Miss Osen turned aside, took out a hand mirror from her kimono sleeve, reapplied a touch of rouge to her lips, and daintily dabbed around her mouth with a small brush.

Despite being someone who truly knew nothing of worldly matters—like a sheltered young lady—why did she pay such meticulous attention to her immediate surroundings? I found it strangely curious.
And then I gently moistened lips that had never once known rouge.

Before long, Miss Osen announced her intention to leave, and Omaki-san too,

“It’s rather overwhelming here.
“This Elder Sister resides in Ushigome—you must come visit properly.
“I’ll be waiting now.”

Omaki began saying such things while half-rising from her seat.

"My! How gracious of you—do come visit again sometime."
"Isn't it still rather early?"

Miss Osen, hearing Mother say this, restlessly tugged at Omaki-san's sleeve.

"It's most kind of you...but we simply cannot trouble you further here."
"Well now, you see? We've truly imposed on you greatly—I do beg your pardon."

Omaki-san made Miss Osen bow in farewell and then hurried off to the entrance.

“People from western Japan are said to take their time, yet you’re quite the impatient one.”

Mother said this while seeing them off; I too walked in a way that blurred Miss Osen’s trodden footprints.

“Tomorrow brings Kabuki.”

When Miss Osen boarded the carriage, she mentioned briefly:

“Goodbye, Miss Osen. Until soon.”

As I spoke these words, Miss Osen in the carriage—

“Do come visit next time—and bring a doll or such when you do.”

She said this.
Mother and I exchanged glances and laughed.

“I do beg your pardon.”

When Omaki-san said this, the carriage gradually disappeared into the darkness.

“Girls raised in Kyoto are such vague creatures—yet how remarkably attentive they are to their makeup.”

“With their thick rouge and long kimono sleeves—such heads make fine ornaments, but...”

Mother and I exchanged such words.

None of Miss Osen’s words or gestures held anything truly unforgettable.
Yet those images—the crimson rouge on her lips, the plover-shaped hair knot, the flower hairpin, and her shuffling steps—kept flitting before my eyes endlessly.