Pathway to Japanese Literature

Chiyoko (Part II)

(1)

Outside, a light rain fell softly, making no sound on the thatched roof.

Chiyoko, feeling a mood that suggested heavy thoughts to ponder, found herself gazing absently at the dampened hues of leaves and the radiance of flowers.
Plink!
Plink!
While finding the sound of dripping rain annoyingly persistent, she began writing a letter to a close friend in Omori to whom she hadn’t sent correspondence in some time.

Unusually, she continued writing in fine script on scroll paper.

that it was a place where butterflies were remarkably scarce.

An unpleasant fish smell was drifting about from somewhere.

She wrote her reply with such polite honesty it bordered on foolishness.

She also told her to come in about three days.

She placed the plump letter into a plain white envelope and went out herself to drop it into the mailbox right in front.

After listening to it fall inside, she stood before the gate for a moment and gazed out at the hazy estate-lined district.

As she stood watching—the gate of some ordinary rich neighbor that resembled an old middle gate visible through gaps in the leafy cherry trees, art students who left everything carelessly open, and the occasional passersby from Ueno singing in practiced voices—she thought that even with a bit of inconvenience, moving downtown was simply out of the question.

When she opened the mailbox upon returning inside, there was a peach-colored envelope—the kind that had become quite fashionable lately—along with what seemed to merge envelope and contents into one item that had come to her place.

On the back was written "Kyoko" in rather clumsy handwriting.

While turning it over here and there, she disliked how this person—who could nonchalantly send something smeared with such a tacky picture—seemed so utterly mismatched with her own tastes. When she considered that the person to whom she had just sent a letter was so nonchalant about such things, she couldn’t muster much joy. When she returned to her room and opened it, she found that despite having listed the unpleasantness of Omori’s unsightly town to the point of shedding tears, Kyoko had written that she would return here in just two more days.

They would miss each other—Chiyoko thought briefly.

Just think about it.

Stretching endlessly beneath her gaze lay that trash-littered shore of the inland sea, where most women one met were either unsightly with thick white powder caked on their faces or reeked of fish—

"When those diapers go flapping about, the fish stench comes wafting over—it's truly unbearable."

After all, it’s better there, so I’ll be returning in two more days.

Amidst the tedium of having no other conversational partners, she had written about wanting to meet Chiyoko in a tone balanced by careful penmanship, and Chiyoko found herself recalling the appearance of that dark-skinned, tall friend with beautiful hair and an oddly inarticulate way of speaking.

Even so, the day of her arrival was eagerly awaited.

It struck her as strange—why had they been maintaining this association for nearly seven years now, despite there being no particular distinguishing feature to speak of?

That they could frequently go a year or even half a year without meeting or exchanging letters, yet when they next met interact as unreservedly as people who had seen each other just yesterday—this too had somehow endured because Kyoko was a thoroughly quiet person and she herself was a willful, capricious woman.

She also thought that.
And then, at teatime, she went out of her way—

“Hey Mother, Kyoko sent word saying she really does dislike Omori after all and that she’ll be returning in two more days. If the rain doesn’t stop, it’ll be a problem.”

She thought Kyoko would face all sorts of inconveniences if caught in the rain while being jostled for so long on the Keihin electric train and city tram. For three days until Kyoko’s arrival, she waited restlessly with a face that suggested she had nothing to do. “She really ought to come today—after all, I waited all day yesterday for nothing,” she muttered almost to herself to her mother.

That night, Chiyoko found herself attending a certain play with a nagging sense of reluctance, as if someone were tugging at her from behind.

Though she had long wanted to see it, when she actually went, she found herself unable to feel truly satisfied from the depths of her heart.

At times her mind would drift completely away from the stage, and she wondered whether that person might come by around now.

Yet as she walked slowly through the jostling crowd of well-dressed young people, she found herself in an entirely lighthearted mood.

After tucking the tightly rolled theater program into her sleeve and returning home quite late with eyelids heavy as leaden weights, she immediately asked the maid whether Kyoko had come.

"Yes, she did come around eight o'clock."

"When I informed her you were out, she looked quite disappointed and stood in the entranceway for quite some time, so I felt truly sorry."

Chiyoko made a very sour face.

"So that's how it was."

"I’m sorry."

After saying that, she changed into a kimono with slow movements.

While smoothing out wrinkles in an obi while speaking about how Kyoko seemed to be preparing for a trip.

Early the next morning, she went to Kyoko’s house and sent word saying, “I’ll be home all day today.”

By late afternoon, Kyoko arrived wearing a striped kimono with what looked like a heavy ginkgo-leaf hairstyle, her hands appearing conspicuously large in her bearing.

“I’d been waiting quite a while, but just last night when I went out, you showed up—can you imagine?”

“I do apologize for that.”

Looking at Kyoko’s figure—far more substantial than her own—Chiyoko said.

“No, I don’t think anything of it. But when they told you I was out, you became upset? What happened then?”
“There.”
“Instead of talking about me, why don’t you tell me what you were doing over there?”

“I often wondered why you were staying in such an unsightly place.”

“But it’s been a full month, you know.”

She had endured well.

“What does it matter whether I do anything or not?”

If you were in such a place, I wonder what it would really be like—I don’t even want to talk about it.

“Anyway, I have to leave for a trip west starting the day after tomorrow.”

“Why so suddenly?”

“I don’t know why, but that’s how it turned out.”

Kyoko said she would accompany her uncle for about a month and that her purpose was simply leisure.

She had also said that since this was something she’d been contemplating for some time, she felt as though something joyful—or at least favorable—might be waiting for her.

“You’re the one going off on your pleasure trip, so everything’s fine for you—but here I am left all alone to keep watch!”

Seeming displeased by how rushed she was acting, Chiyoko said this in a dismissive tone and formed a stiff smile.

She spoke of having matters to discuss upon returning or things she wanted considered,

“No matter how long I’ve wished for this myself, you’re going with such a fixated mindset—”

“Half the joy comes from escaping that tiresome discussion, you realize.”

The moment Kyoko spoke as if burdened by some pressing matter, Chiyoko immediately wanted to hear it.

“What is it? What’s this matter you want me to consider?”

“It can wait until I come back.”

"It’s not such an urgent matter anyway."

She spoke in an indecisive tone.

"But…"

"I truly have to think seriously about this—"

When she thought about that matter—how emotions surged forward—she had to calm them and remain composed—

“After all, I can’t manage alone—”

Considering that Kyoko—who usually didn’t fuss over things—was acting this way now, Chiyoko imagined the incident that had cropped up around her to be something along those lines and disliked delving deeper into the conversation to the point where she’d have to think about it seriously.

“Then save that for after you return.”

Chiyoko, while occasionally staring at Kyoko’s body—which looked as though its spill-prone areas were bound with both thin and thick cords—told her about the plot she was currently working on and made some trivial small talk.

Kyoko, who kept talking only about things after going to Kyoto—like being able to see Ganjirō’s Kamiji or learning pure Kyoto dialect—spoke in an uncharacteristically showy tone.

“Your body doesn’t suit Kyoto.”

She rubbed her swollen stiff arms and darkened fingertips.

The fact that they wouldn’t meet for nearly a month from then didn’t strike her as either sad or lonely in the slightest.

Carrying two new books, Kyoko hurried home.

She neither asked about the departure date nor attempted to say anything like “Safe travels.”

She hadn’t even dreamed of seeing her off to the station.

Kyoko’s fidgeting excitement about nothing but her trip grated unbearably on Chiyoko.

Yet when the next day arrived, the prospect of not meeting at all felt so unsatisfying that she sent someone to ask about the departure time.

On the day she was finally to depart, she did not come, but the sky wore an expression on the verge of tears.

After finishing her midday meal, Chiyoko immediately put on her meisen kimono and geta with claw leather straps and headed to Shinbashi with hurried steps.

While worrying about how her first pair of tabi socks from the Western laundry was gradually turning brownish from dust, she climbed the stone steps and immediately spotted Kyoko nearby, looking up at the timetable.

The stiff, swollen chignon of her meticulously arranged traditional Japanese hairstyle shone coldly in bleached-out light, while a comb—resembling one meant for bobbed hair—appeared to pierce through the top of the chignon.

She silently embraced her shoulder lightly from behind.

Kyoko suddenly turned around, her face brimming with joy,

“Oh, you came all this way—just for me?”

Having said that, she shook Chiyoko’s hand and looked toward her chest with tear-filled eyes.

Since there wasn’t much time，Chiyoko was buying a platform ticket when Kyoko—who had been standing beside her—

“It’s my uncle.”

Having said that, she introduced a man. He wore a thin Inverness coat with a rigid shadow perpetually lingering around his mouth. The man referred to as her uncle exchanged a few perfunctory words with Chiyoko before promptly heading toward the redcaps. Though they had only just met, when she thought of Kyoko having to sit face-to-face all the way to Kyoto with this unsmiling uncle, Kyoko—who seemed so satisfied with the arrangement—appeared pitiful.

Upon entering the platform she became so rushed she could barely speak, handing over the chocolate box she'd brought and straightening the wrinkled collar until departure time arrived.

With a clack of movement beginning, when Kyoko's window had traveled three ken ahead, Chiyoko left the station in her usual brisk stride as though bearing no lingering attachments.

Standing in the middle of the suddenly opened-up thoroughfare and watching strangers walk briskly past before her eyes, an unusual sort of lonely feeling—the kind that comes from seeing off a friend—suddenly filled Chiyoko’s chest.

On the train, her attention was caught by the magazine of the person next to her, and she soon arrived home.

Unfamiliar geta were neatly arranged on the stone at the entrance. Chiyoko couldn't quite imagine who the visitor might be. In her mother's parlor, she could hear the guest's voice.

That person had a voice that, for a man, was thin and rasping like peeling varnish.

When Chiyoko entered her room and was arranging various items from her kimono sleeves on the desk, she was called by Mother and went to the living room.

When she sat down beside the open veranda, her mother stated that he was a close relative of hers and someone quite close to Chiyoko.

Soft, thick hair hung over his forehead; that person had thoughtful eyes and neatly aligned white teeth.

His name was Hajime.

His slender face and small Adam’s apple—unusually delicate for a man—along with his reserved, timid manner of speaking bit by bit, stirred a pleasant feeling in Chiyoko.

Hajime’s attitude—fumbling with the stubborn conversational threads of a first meeting—made him appear both incapable of casualness and yet likely to soon become engrossed in a single pursuit.

“Do visit us again often.”

“I’ll prepare a proper meal for you next time.”

After being told these things by her mother, Hajime departed, whereupon she began recounting stories from his childhood.

There were many aspects—such as how even at twelve or thirteen he hadn’t been able to go to the lavatory alone at night, or how he’d had a habit of being easily frightened—that Chiyoko found herself nodding along to as she considered his current demeanor.

“He was such a gentle child in his younger years.”

“As it’s been over a decade since I last saw him, I can’t say how his nature might have changed.”

“But it seems that timid disposition alone remains unchanged.”

Her mother said such things.

“I don’t have many friends myself, so I’ll visit whenever inclination moves me.”

Hajime began coming to Chiyoko’s house with increasing frequency—both because his residence stood nearest and because his mother possessed notable intellect.

When he did come, without particular eating or speaking, he would observe leaves growing more densely than elsewhere or unexpectedly discover fine illustrations and phrases within the multitude of books that appeared forgotten.

This refined silence he maintained each time he visited made Chiyoko feel that whatever words he would eventually speak carried truly significant weight.

"You're the sort who'll keep talking endlessly once you start, aren't you?"

"And then you make no effort to release that thread."

Occasionally, Chiyoko would say such things.

Hajime had no particular fondness for lively, showy places.

The hue of his heart—resembling a summer evening forest viewed from afar—cast gentle shadows upon all things, and even Chiyoko’s resolute, self-assertive heart occasionally received faint traces of their influence.

To Chiyoko, who still did not know things like his own preferences and thoughts well, there was practically nothing to disclose—one might say as much.

Chiyoko soon realized he was someone who preferred quietly listening to others’ initiated conversations and minutely observing people rather than proactively starting talks or revealing himself. She always felt as though eyes were active beside her, and when facing Hajime, she took care—even if her methods were clumsy—not to be too easily seen through.

For no particular reason, I find being watched by calm eyes with little blinking unbearably unpleasant.

Chiyoko, who wished to render her knowledge profound and her thoughts noble in Hajime's eyes, did not carelessly speak of all she knew.

They each held an invisible mirror, striving to reflect one another—a mutual awareness that hung between them.

Chiyoko watched with interest as he would occasionally attempt to speak with an excited glint in his eyes, only to abruptly seal his lips and retreat into wordless stillness.

She resolved not to inquire about Hajime's preferences until he broached them himself; likewise, he remained ignorant of Chiyoko's inclinations and daily occupations.

Through his forehead, gaze, and manner of speaking, Hajime knew the generalities well enough, but he thought it better not to let his own imagination delve into the deeper recesses of what he was thinking.

It’s better not to know others too well, isn’t it?

Anyone—mutually.

I make a point of getting to know people too well, and most of the time, it just leaves me utterly weary.

Chiyoko said such things. On some occasion, while staring fixedly at a single spot—"Noble Sadness and inviolable silence—whoever possesses them must be deemed precious."

Chiyoko had remembered Hajime’s tone clearly for a considerable time.

Many people may rejoice in and speak of inviolable silence, but those who contemplate what might be called noble sadness are likely few.

To think that people with upright, guileless hearts feel abundant joy alone was a mistake.

In laughter’s shadow dwelled breathing sadness; behind revelry lurked sobbing sorrow.

Joy without sadness did not exist in the world.

In the shadow of any poet-sage’s words, or beneath the rhythm of even the greatest musician—even if the surface dances wildly with laughter’s gaudy splendor—it was the noble sadness lurking in those unseen shadows that moved people’s hearts.

Yet when we speak of sadness, it is not merely tears that spill forth.

When people reached the pinnacle of joy, they felt a certain kind of sadness; that unspeakable sorrow proved identical to what dwelled at beauty’s zenith and the sublime’s utmost height.

When that unspeakable sadness dwelled within the heart, all noble things that could not be expressed came to pass.

Thinking thus, Chiyoko loved this “noble sadness” she believed must inevitably exist.

Because what she had constantly been thinking in her heart was spoken of at an unexpected time, Chiyoko remembered it for a considerable period.

However, being someone who could not continue to dwell on a single matter unless it welled up from her own heart, even after a long time, Chiyoko soon forgot it.

Chiyoko had always wanted to have friends of the mind and friends of form.

She wanted friends whose mental faculties worked swiftly to produce things of value.

However, that wish could by no means be fulfilled.

People with delicate minds—those who had matured intellectually ahead of others—were individuals who at a certain period harbored an especially tearful disposition, peering at one fragment of all the world’s affairs and convincing themselves it was the entirety.

They were people who relentlessly expanded the rain clouds—whether visible or not—that arose in a corner of their hearts, who allowed their hearts to be drenched by the pouring rain without a single thought, and who came to believe that the sky of their own summoned storm clouds constituted the entirety of nature’s heavens.

And so，Chiyoko could not find satisfaction in her friends of the mind.

For Chiyoko—who wished to behold beautiful things and dwell within beauty even without being pretty herself—to desire friends as radiant as flowers was not so outlandish a notion.

Chiyoko had yet to encounter anyone so beautiful that she would willingly seek their company.

Once，Chiyoko stepped into a place and，for no reason at all，encountered a person of effortless beauty.

It was a person with unforgettable wide-open eyes and long hair at the nape，but because their lips—when viewed from the side—hung slack and sagged limply，at a single glance the joy in Chiyoko’s heart vanished without trace，and there came a time when someone she had until then thought beautiful became unbearably unsightly to her.

That her long-standing relationship with Kyoko—who was neither beautiful nor could be said to possess a superior intellect—had been maintained without a single awkward feeling was something one might well call marvelous.

It was likely nothing more than this: that Kyoko’s soundless nature—the exact opposite of Chiyoko’s—and their childhood friendship, steeped in a pliable disposition that accepted anything, had become the unbreakable "bond" between Chiyoko and Kyoko.

The mere notion that she could form a friend of the mind—someone who would listen attentively to each word she spoke—was pleasant to Chiyoko, no matter who that person might be.
For Chiyoko—who preferred a life brimming with vigor, fulfillment, and purpose—the prospect of even one more person joining her surroundings brought gladness; moreover, her heart swelled with a favorable expectation that this still-unfamiliar individual might partially satisfy the feelings she harbored toward her unfulfilling friends.

(II)

Night was most beautiful.

The straight daytime avenue held only a sparse flow of passersby, vividly evoking how it must have flourished as a capital in bygone days.

"I wish I could show you the Miyako Odori too."

"Gion’s maiko are so exquisitely lovely that I couldn’t possibly show them to you carelessly."

On a picture postcard bearing what seemed to be a self-drawn head-shaped doll, there came such a message from Kyoko.

"So exquisitely lovely that I couldn’t possibly show them to you carelessly—"

Seeing those words, Chiyoko laughed quietly to herself for a long while.

Chiyoko thought Kyoko—who understood her own nature well—was likely truthful in saying she couldn't casually show them. Anything dubbed "beautiful," Chiyoko would immediately grow fond of and become reluctant to relinquish—whether trivial children's toys or splendid tools—invariably wanting to claim them as her own if they pleased her eye. Thus when things she'd deemed beautiful proved dirty or unsightly, it became her habit to feel profoundly disappointed.

The family members would say that Chiyoko, who thought everything was beautiful, was just like a naive young girl who knew nothing of the world. At such times, Chiyoko would fervently expound on "beauty."

“What is called beauty lies hidden in all things; those who cannot swiftly perceive the noble beauty that dwells beneath the surface—even if it does not emerge outwardly—lose about half their life’s worth.”

“If you neglect the beauty of nature too much, it will lead to dire consequences.”

One could criticize artificial beauty quite thoroughly, but natural beauty was exceedingly difficult to criticize. Since it was a flawless beauty, criticism could find no purchase. It was because it possessed a beauty beyond human reach. She always said such things.

Chiyoko had lost count of how many times she had engaged in this sort of conversation with Kyoko, whom she had known for so long.

When Kyoko became too engrossed in talking, she had even taken to calling her "Ms. Beauty Madness."

Even being called that, Chiyoko was satisfied.

――○――

Shortly after receiving the postcard, Chiyoko wrote a reply. And she playfully appended something about not forgetting to bring her a souvenir—a neck doll whose stick wasn’t too thick. After entrusting the maid to send it off, Hajime arrived just then. Whenever he came, she would usher him into the usual room, and Chiyoko—with eyes that seemed genuinely pleased—spoke about various disjointed things. The two talked of such insubstantial, trivial matters—stories about walks taken and desires to travel—that within an hour they would dissolve into nothingness.

“Hey,

“Don’t you have anything slightly more substantial to talk about?”

“Well...”

Something a bit more… something.

Hajime’s refined silence began to spread once more.

Chiyoko reclined in a large wicker chair, propped both elbows on the armrests, cradled her round face between her hands, and sat perfectly still.

If neither broke the silence, this sort of hush would continue endlessly without resolution.

It was most often Chiyoko who ruptured that oppressive silence—heavy as a stage curtain—seemingly without reason.

At that moment, Chiyoko—who had been reading a small, neatly shaped book she had started earlier—rested it on her knees.

“Have you read it?”

With that, she turned the book’s spine toward him.
Chiyoko, judging from Hajime’s manner of speaking, had assumed he must have read at least what she was reading—which was why she did such a bold thing.

Hajime gave a small nod, and in a tone of surprise,
“Do you really read that many such things?”
he asked.
“Yes,”

“Why do you ask?”

“No particular reason.”

Hajime once again assumed a deeply thoughtful expression, staring fixedly into space.

“You too are reading and writing just as I am.”
“Then why have we never once discussed what we’ve read?”
“Were you being reserved out of politeness?”
“That isn’t precisely why.”
“I had assumed someone like you wouldn’t be reading such things.”

With a face like a blossomed flower, Hajime suddenly began to talk about various things.

He knew things even Chiyoko didn’t know.

The way he spoke in a low voice while gazing at a single spot resonated pleasantly in Chiyoko’s ears.

That he spoke so extensively about noble sadness and death—to the extent that Chiyoko herself felt her face grow hot—was something unprecedented.

Each of Hajime’s sensitive, tear-prone responses lingered one by one in Chiyoko’s equally impressionable mind.

“Until today, I was troubled because I couldn’t figure out what would be good to talk about...” Hajime said.

It was on that day that Chiyoko first learned how Hajime’s thoughts regarding “death” aligned with those held by any young person, and how he approached all matters through an intensely philosophical lens.

The sense that he carried some hidden burden rose in Chiyoko's mind at that moment with twice its usual force.

She had long considered him akin to a shadow-child beneath a misted moon—one whose lonesome silhouette seemed to cradle joy within itself, bearing crimson patterns against black.

This paradoxical quality of being both approachable and remote had become Hajime's greatest virtue, letting him effortlessly preserve his elevated composure with every person he met.

Being a man himself, he could never experience the comfort or particular joy derived from the colors of kimonos. Forcing himself to swagger around in flashy kimonos was not something Hajime—with his scholarly disposition—could ever do. His feelings toward color were stronger than those of any ordinary person. When he said such things, Chiyoko—exposing her head with its short-cropped hair—looked at Hajime, who stiffly wore a bluish hakama and a kimono that was either black or white, and felt deeply sorry for him.

Young women these days wore quite scattered arrays of various colors.
Those with new Daiya accessories glittering in their hair and red “knob-shaped ornaments” were also among them.

Even so, while summer did not bother her so terribly, Chiyoko disliked using overly clashing colors for winter haori kimonos, undergarments, and half-collar linings.

Chiyoko, who preferred deep indigo and brownish hues, found it unbearably jarring to wear a white obi with reddish tones during summer outings.

There were times when having many colors freely available was considered both a good thing and a bad thing.
It was even said to breed tragedy.

When the thread of conversation came loose, Hajime spoke with true freedom to Chiyoko about various things.

As expected, whenever he came, there was none of that sensation of a yawn tickling the back molars.

When speaking of his upbringing and such matters, he had become overly nervous.

Yet when heightened emotions subsided like a receding great wave that had once surged, and he spoke quietly and beautifully like small waves playfully lapping at the shore, Chiyoko both envied and found terrifying his ability to redirect his own words and psychology in any direction.

Liking the poets Chiyoko favored, appreciating the painting styles she admired, engaging in conversations she found meaningful—whenever the discussion grew lively, Hajime would stay for quite a long time.

But even until the lamps were lit, he did not speak much with Chiyoko.

With how people ate others' food—their mouth movements and hand gestures—it wasn't that Chiyoko didn't grow to dislike them.

Losing a friend who had finally begun to understand conversation was no happy matter; thus in the end, it was better that this resonated all the way back to its source.

――○――

It was a terribly hot day.

The window that could be opened had been left wide open with some effort, left in such a state that had there been guests, the interior would have been fully visible—all while she was engaged in her bookwork.

Chiyoko—her room crammed with books arranged in tasteful decor—found herself thinking, “I want to show this to someone.” Though she couldn’t help wanting to startle Hajime by revealing it if possible, as she gradually became absorbed in her work, even this desire to show him the room slipped free from her emotions and vanished.

And she moved her pen as if licking the paper, laying bare her usual habit.

While she was absorbed in this, Hajime had come and left—an occurrence she hadn’t anticipated in the slightest.

Chiyoko later heard that Hajime had told Mother not to interfere when she tried calling out.

But Chiyoko, with her strong stubborn pride, did not say a word about it afterward.

That night, she told her mother the things she had intended to tell Hajime.

“What sort of person do you suppose they are?”

Chiyoko asked this of her mother.

Though she never articulated what constituted true character, Chiyoko could sense her mother’s inner response—something like a muted *Hah*.

There was no need to probe so deeply, she thought—not when they were merely ordinary friends keeping casual company.

That evening, Chiyoko spoke of how a child’s nature must inevitably be shaped by their parents’ comeliness or plainness—an inescapable truth that seemed almost oppressive in its certainty.

“I truly believe there must be.”

I felt it must indeed exist.

She forced her mother—who had said such things and wanted to sleep—to stay awake and kept talking.
It was indeed true that Hajime would pour out his stories every time he visited.
However, the fact that he never encroached upon what Chiyoko read or wrote was indeed one of the comforts.

Parents ought to be kind protectors, not supervisors.

As a protector, what she thought was not necessarily limited solely to parents.

If it was something that person said, Chiyoko could wholeheartedly comply.

But even if she complied with a supervisor, it was not from the heart.

Even so, this could not be said unless one had truly tasted how different a true protector was from a supervisor.

Whenever talk turned to parents from other households, Chiyoko would discuss it with her mother and had occasionally mentioned it to Hajime too.

Chiyoko—who loved speaking of her family—spoke with such earnest seriousness that even Hajime found it peculiar.

Every time Chiyoko spoke of her household, she invariably proclaimed them happy.

"They are filled with hope," she would say, "overflowing with joy."

For Hajime—who since childhood had endured harshness in a desolate home—mingling with the people of Chiyoko’s household became both solace and balm; their plump richness like freshly baked castella cake’s fragrant sweetness, ample moisture seeping into every grain.

When Hajime murmured something like “If only one could truly savor ‘Home, Sweet Home’,” Mother immediately retorted with a laugh: “You ought to become a father yourself.” Hajime began to smile reflexively but pursed his lips into a bitter expression instead. Mother found this reaction peculiar and later remarked to Chiyoko: “I suspect he carries some dark shadow from his past.” To Chiyoko—who readily grew fond of objects and trusted people with equal ease—this seemed inconceivable. Though she regarded Hajime as nothing more than an ordinary friend, her mother’s intense scrutiny of him—meant for Chiyoko’s benefit, she assumed—occasionally left her unsettled.

With his quietly cultivated mind and refined manner of speaking, he did not give the impression of someone raised in a harsh household.

"Given his demeanor and intellect, such a thing seems unlikely."

I feel certain there is none.

As Chiyoko said this to her mother, she recalled an acquaintance who—despite possessing a nervously beautiful tone of voice and a solid mind—had ended up doing foolish, trivial things until their whereabouts became unknown. When she thought that Hajime too might be among those humans capable of unexpected actions, it occurred to her that if they continued associating for another year, unexpected things might emerge from unexpected places.

The next time Hajime came, Chiyoko said nothing about what had happened before.
Hajime likewise did not utter a single word about it.
In the magazine Hajime had brought tucked inside his coat, there was something Chiyoko wanted to read; as soon as she found it, she snatched it away and began reading breathlessly as if forgetting Hajime existed.
When she lifted her head after reading so hurriedly that her eyes ached from strain, she found Hajime solemnly examining the brief notes she had carelessly left out since the previous night.

Chiyoko sighed in relief as her face grew hot. Yet she gazed at Hajime's face—his pallid complexion having quickly regained composure, now directed straight ahead as he bent over his reading—as if beholding something extraordinary. His long black eyelashes remained utterly still, as though entranced in slumber, while the slender fingers holding the thin manuscript paper didn't twitch at all. When she imagined the mind beneath that calm exterior—quiet yet crackling with activity—an eerie dread crept through her.

After a short while had passed—when Hajime placed it on the table—he glanced briefly at Chiyoko, who had unexpectedly been watching him, and laughed in a childlike manner.

As if prompted by this gesture, Chiyoko also smiled silently.

Her mind brimmed with an urge to address his having read her writings without permission.

Yet like a bashful girl, she voiced nothing of it; instead, with her mother and Hajime—the three of them—she conversed unreservedly about nearby theater productions and newly published books.

Among the fairly well-known novelists, Chiyoko found herself unable to tolerate even the mere mention of those she disliked for no particular reason, and she dismissed outright the matter of that wife whom her husband referred to as "Ms. Nanoko."

Among women involved in literature, there were those who operated on nothing more than trivial, singular curiosity or a vague fondness for it.

There wasn’t a single person who could be truly satisfied.

Once they gain some fame in women’s magazines and publish a work or two, they start swaggering around cafés pretending to be literati.

"I detest even the name 'literati,' and I loathe those women all the more—flitting about chaotically within that muddle."

Chiyoko said such things in an excited tone. After speaking, when she looked at the faces of Mother and Hajime silently listening, she felt she had gone too far and laughed in a forced manner. And in this way, as she got carried away talking, she felt an unpleasant sensation, as though Hajime had completely seen through the contents of her mind. Even so, Hajime agreed with what Chiyoko had said. Among men as well, there were plenty of such people.

When those literary enthusiasts—who had once flitted about like birds among blossoms while they had patrons to rely on—were cast adrift into the world after losing that support, countless among my acquaintances found themselves unable to ride out the great waves that came crashing down—thud after thud—against heads less valuable than their former confidence, swallowed until they vanished from sight. I too might be no different from them. But I will try all I can. If that becomes my fate, then so be it.

While making a face as if brushing away something flickering before his eyes, Hajime said in a low voice.

Ever since I was a child, I have met with nothing but misfortune. Even if I now hold some hope of a way forward, whenever I try to act upon it, I can't help feeling something ill will surely occur.

There are times when one who thinks too deeply about matters appears as a spineless person.

When Chiyoko saw Hajime's large eyes grown teary as though recalling his lonely past, she too felt a damp loneliness welling up within her—like an infant crying from having no siblings—and thought she wanted him at least to find happiness from now onward. Yet hearing his slender form with its faint shadows and voice that seemed endlessly mournful, it looked as though a sorrowful shade would cling to Hajime's being until he departed this world.

Chiyoko found it utterly disagreeable that such thoughts about Hajime had occurred to her—while the farmland she would have to weed and till stretched resolutely, uncertain whether its growth suited the seedlings being planted or whether it might wither without even taking root, something impossible to know.

Chiyoko had always believed, through her own fortunate circumstances, that everyone she had ever spoken to should be happy—yet now it felt as though heaven itself had shattered that belief to pieces.

"I must make him happy."

Chiyoko thought this with profound sincerity—like a devoted sibling or a tender mother pondering her child.

Even after Hajime had left, she kept speaking to her mother—

"What’s come over you?"

—until being asked this, Chiyoko had repeated countless times how Hajime seemed somehow fated for misfortune.

"He’ll likely die young."

Lying down to sleep, Chiyoko suddenly felt that if the kindling of his life lay within her grasp, she would want to smother it outright.

(3)

There was a boy—the only son of the granduncle who had passed away about ten years ago—named Shinji, who was eighteen.
The granduncle had been a pure religionist who hadn’t lived a showy life, but being from an old family, they now lived quite comfortably in Tokyo.

Since they were quite close with Chiyoko’s family, Chiyoko herself would often go there.

Grandaunt and Chiyoko were the ones who called. When she was thirty-eight or thirty-nine, she had Shinji, so for her son’s age, the mother looked aged, her temples already quite white with “tear wrinkles” gathered at her forehead—a person incapable of holding a coherent conversation, swaying her exhausted head unsteadily while tears welled up in her eyes.

“Because he has no father, he’s pitiable in every situation,” she said. When I think of how unreliable he must be…

When she spoke these words tearfully,

“Really now…”

As she spoke, Chiyoko let her hips drop heavily from her seated position, sinking into a dejected slump alongside her grandaunt as if they might both collapse from exhaustion.

The granduncle had been a capable and clear-headed man, so things had gone well, but after her husband’s passing, this grandaunt—with a mind perpetually addled by cheap liquor—found her efforts to single-handedly raise her own dependent child properly in her old age equivalent to three ordinary mothers raising children.

“I don’t understand a single thing that boy says or thinks.”
“Lately, it’s nothing but one trouble after another.”
“He’ll be leaving his current school soon with no notion what to do next—I’ll have to beg your father’s help yet again.”

and so she grumbled endlessly and even consulted Chiyoko.

“During his break recently, day after day he was writing something on grid-lined paper, so when I asked ‘What’re you up to?’, he said he was writing a novel or such. Not that I’d mind him being a novelist if it’s what he likes—so long as he isn’t struggling to make ends meet.”

“Would that even make money?”

Chiyoko felt as though her entire body were crawling with restlessness.

It’s a mistake for those who want to get rich to become novelists□□□—though someone who becomes a great figure might end up wealthy through their own efforts, if getting rich is your goal, it’s no good.

Chiyoko explained in a roundabout way—seven times over—until her grandaunt understood.
After hearing this, the grandaunt looked utterly exasperated,
“In that case, that novelist business isn’t working out either, hmm?”

When she said this and listlessly shook her head as usual, an indescribable feeling—something between amusement and absurdity—arose, and laughter surged irresistibly up her throat.

Shinji too—sufficiently enough to cause this grandaunt such worry—was in a limp and listless mood, like a moonflower swaying loosely in the breeze without firmness.

He was saying there was no particular job he wanted to do in this world.

With no life purpose determined, he himself did not know which school to advance to next; having taken the Kuramae exam on his relatives’ advice, he lacked even the exceptional intellect required to be selected—a result everyone had anticipated.

He intended to take a supplementary exam for some school, but all his relatives were doubtful.

The sight of him—leaning against a pillar as if bewildered by his own adult frame, hands thrust deep into both sleeves of the kimono he'd only recently started wearing—appeared ten times more vulgar, absurdly comical, and downright foolish than some slapstick street performer in a makeshift farce.

As Chiyoko twitched her eyebrows in vexation,

"Don't you have anything you care for? Moping about like this won't do any good."

Grandaunt is deeply worried about that.

Whenever something was mentioned,

“Mm.”

The sight of his face—with its bluish oily sheen—flushing red as he gave a drowsy reply struck Chiyoko as unbearably unsightly.

The emotions characteristic of his age, which dominated his disorganized mind, rendered Shinji unseemly in every gesture.

Shinji’s vaguely bloated body, fixed stare, and unnervingly crimson lips had matured with his years; when that grating voice issued from those lips, Chiyoko felt her own body contract—a mingled sense of relief (*Thank heavens I’m not a man like this*) and weary resignation escaping her in one sigh.