Pathway to Japanese Literature

I The firmament held not a single cloud yet was steeped in darkness; the twenty-fourth-day moon had yet to rise, and the stars’ shimmer—as though possessed by spirits—made one’s very flesh ache with cold when gazed upon. Even the electric lights that prided themselves on illuminating this sleepless city could not escape the desolation of an early winter chill; from Daimon to Suijirishiri, not a clamor of shrill voices could be heard from the teahouses’ second floors.

The eighth of November—the first Tori no Ichi Festival—lay two days ahead; though this year’s mild warmth scarcely required layering three thin silk kimonos, the deepening night carried the bite of early winter that seeped into one’s bones. What had chimed a short while earlier was the twelve o’clock toll of Kadoebi’s large clock. In Kyōmachi, even the shadows of sightseers vanished; in Kadomachi, one could hear the clatter of nightsticks keeping watch over the night. The flute sounds from Sato no Ichi trailed off lingeringly, ushering in a time when even the brothel’s idle chatter momentarily subsided. The corridor’s indoor sandal sounds grew sparse; here and there, the remains of feasts were being taken out of rooms. From the distant third floor came a shrill voice calling repeatedly for Kisuke-don, the bed attendant.

“That’s enough! Quit being so damn persistent! This is so damn stifling!” snapped Yoshizato—the brothel’s leading courtesan—as she hurried down the corridor with visible impatience. “You really mustn’t say such things. Won’t you come here for just a moment? Oiran, this is unacceptable!” cried Okuma—the junior attendant—as she chased after Yoshizato. Yoshizato must have been twenty-two or twenty-three—now at the peak of her earning years. She wasn’t a classic beauty, but her round face held an allure for men, with a sharp edge lurking beneath the surface. Her pure, lovely double-lidded eyes—fearsome when glared at, yet when she smiled they made one want to rise to battle—glistened slightly with unshed tears, while her straight eyebrows arched upward as if vexed. She tilted her head back so far that her mottled jaw jutted out deliberately, her left canine tooth biting into her upper lip—this made her tall, beautiful nose appear almost haughty. Her hands tucked into her sleeves and shoulders shaking, she made yesterday’s Shimada chignon bob heavily with each nod, let the hem of her uchikake—freshly donned for the seasonal change on the first of this month—wipe the corridor floor, and dragged her indoor sandals in wide, hurried strides.

Okuma was fortyish with faint pockmarks, a receding hairline at her temples, a crooked right eye, and a pointed mouth—unmistakably the face of a junior attendant, one custom-made for spite. The two women had been arguing until now; annoyed, Yoshizato had fled the room, and Okuma had come chasing after her.

“The hem of your uchikake is dragging on the floor, isn’t it? There’s simply no helping it.” “What’s it matter? So what if it’s dragging? What’s your problem? Since you won’t fix it for me anyway, don’t go meddling.” “Indeed,” “I’ve never had the honor of attending to you properly, Oiran.” Yoshizato walked briskly away without replying. Okuma still clung to her and would not leave.

“But Oiran.” “If you persist in such willfulness, I’ll be reprimanded by the mistress’s quarters.”

“Hmph. How awful for you if you get scolded. Even if I am this way, go complain to the gods all you like.” Yoshizato stopped before the room marked by a black-lacquered placard bearing “Koman” in white characters. “Mr. Zen is still a customer,” came Koman’s voice from within. “The sake accompaniments arrived ages ago.” “So he’s a customer too? Who said he wasn’t?” Yoshizato slid open the shōji door with excessive force, entering before slamming it shut behind her with a sharp crack.

“What’s wrong?” “You’re having another fit, I see.”

The one who called out to Yoshizato while warming sake at the long brazier in the next room was Koman—a senior courtesan of this brothel. She bore none of a courtesan’s vulgarity, her demeanor dignified throughout, and was two or three years Yoshizato’s senior. “But she’s just so damn annoying!”

“You’re here again tonight? Aren’t you persistent?” Koman muttered under her breath, her brows knitting together.

“Just figure it out yourself,” Yoshizato said, trembling as she crouched before the brazier.

Although the paper lantern had just been replaced, in its hazy glow, the two women stared intently at each other. When Koman smiled, Yoshizato too smiled as if delighted, but a look of resignation also surfaced. “Since Mr. Hirata has arrived now, I let Okuma know right away.” “Right. Thank you. But if you’re calling it just a consolation, Mr. Nishimiya has his merits.”

“Hurry back inside,” said Koman, fanning the fire beneath the iron kettle with tissue paper.

Yoshizato squinted at the tatami room illuminated by a blazing candle stand and murmured, “This makes me so sad somehow,” instinctively tucking her chin into her collar. “Even just showing your face would do—please come over there for a moment,” called that Okuma from beyond the shōji door. “Keep quiet,” Yoshizato snapped. “There’s a guest here.” “My deepest apologies,” said Okuma as she slid open the shōji door. With a saccharine bow toward Koman’s direction, she added, “My pardons to Ms. Koman’s Oiran,” then called after Yoshizato’s retreating back— “Oiran, this is truly unacceptable!”

“Why don’t I just go now?” “Ugh, you’re insufferable!” Yoshizato entered the upper room without turning around.

The guests were two. Nishimiya sat cross-legged with his back to the tokonoma alcove, and Hirata remained formally seated with his back to the window.

Nishimiya was thirty-two or thirty-three years old, with a plump, amiable round face. He wore a Yūki tsumugi kosode and matching haori, his attire giving him the air of a merchant. Hirata’s clothing suggested he might be a private school instructor, vocational student, or minor official: a black nana-ko haori bearing three family crests layered over two kosode—one of indigo-striped fushiori fabric and another in pale Ueda stripes—with a white crepe obi cinched tightly about his waist. He appeared twenty-six or twenty-seven years old. His hair fell in thick, undulating waves so glossy and jet-black that no comb teeth could be seen through them, making his snow-pale complexion appear all the more striking. Though his face was slender, it held robust strength—a nose elegantly high and straight, with mouth corners so firmly set their charm nearly resembled dimples. The gold-rimmed glasses that might have lent delicacy instead accentuated his masculine bearing—a virility so pronounced even men would acknowledge it—marking him precisely as the sort to be especially favored by courtesans.

When Yoshizato entered, both guests looked up at her face. Hirata immediately averted his gaze; as if suddenly remembering, he took up his sake cup and brought it to his lips as if to drink—though whether any sake remained was unclear. Yoshizato’s gaze first fell upon Hirata, but she immediately turned to look at Nishimiya and gave him an affectionate, beaming smile. “Brother,” she called out, then ran over—her uchikake trailing behind her—and threw herself against him to clasp his shoulders.

“Hahahaha.” “Can’t have you getting lost now.” “What’s this? For someone who’s been peeking through the second-floor lattice and lingering by the shop’s lattice like a cricket all this time,” Nishimiya said, laughing as he looked at Yoshizato’s face.

Yoshizato deliberately put on a cold front. “Don’t make such a fool of me. That’s all ancient history.” “If you’d resign yourself like that, it’d be a great relief to me.” “Ow.” “Whacking your thigh like that—your way of taking it out on me is a bit too ‘generous,’ I’d say.” “If you keep jabbing my arm and I end up twisting it properly, that’ll be real trouble.” “Revenge is scary—best keep that in mind.” “But it’s just so maddening!” Yoshizato turned to Hirata. “Mr. Hirata—you actually came tonight...” “Still not returning to your hometown?”

Hirata glanced back at Yoshizato for a moment and immediately turned away. “Alright, it’s finally starting!” “Tonight’s not a regular day—you might as well call it chaos day.” “Once they kick off over there, we’ll get going here too.” “The Tori no Ichi Festival is the day after tomorrow.” “Lost! Lost! Utterly defeated!” declared Nishimiya with nonsensical bravado, letting out an exaggeratedly booming laugh. “You’re really making a fool of me,” Yoshizato began to laugh in turn. “It’s just a jest, but things have been quite chaotic since earlier, haven’t they?” “Don’t get so worked up.”

“But...” “Well, you see...” Yoshizato made her eyes plead. “But I just can’t help getting worked up!” “Is that so? He’s come—Tomizawachō?” Nishimiya said in a low voice. “That’s fine too.” “It’s been a while—though not really that long. Wasn’t it just the night before last?” “Even so—let’s treat this as our reunion after all this time. Hey, Hirata—why don’t we pass around the cups?” “Whoa—needs refilling.” “Hey, isn’t it ready yet?” “Sake! Sake!” he called out toward the next room.

“Just a little longer.” “You’re so impatient.” “There’s no need.” “Okuma’s so clueless—if she’d just adjust the charcoal properly,” came Koman’s voice accompanied by the rustling of her tissue paper, while low murmurs suggested Okuma still lingered in the adjoining room.

Yoshizato lit a rolled cigarette and handed it to Nishimiya. “They’re still talking about it. Ugh, I hate this I hate this.”

“Starting with the ‘I hate this’ again, huh.” “That person’s still coming around as usual, isn’t he?” “He’s quite the persistent one—doesn’t lose out to us much.” “Having led him astray, you can’t very well say you dislike it now.” “Say a single kind word and pamper him a bit—that’d be a good deed.”

“Would you please stop it.” “Don’t think I’ve become someone who’s all alone and treat me so cruelly, please.” “So you’re ‘all alone,’” Nishimiya said with exaggerated emphasis. “But I am someone who’s all alone, aren’t I?” Yoshizato looked at Nishimiya with a lonely smile, then stared intently at Hirata. As she stared, her eyes became filled with tears.

II

Hirata had not said a word since earlier. Though he couldn’t drink endlessly from the empty sake cup, he picked at unwanted side dishes, added cool water to the boiling pot, toyed with sprigs of mitsuba herb—occupying himself with these distractions while stealing glances whenever Yoshizato wasn’t looking his way, unable to tear his eyes away. When he missed his chance to avert his gaze and unexpectedly met hers, her tear-filled eyes stared back at him reproachfully. Startled, he tried to look away but failed, locking into an equally intense stare. As tears began streaming down Yoshizato’s face, Hirata couldn’t endure it—he hung his head, exhaled deeply, and felt his own eyes grow wet.

Nishimiya, at a loss for how to intervene in the pair’s exchange, found neither drink nor purpose—and once again called out toward the next room.

“Hey—still not ready?” “Ah, finally ready,” said Koman as she took the sake warmer from the iron kettle. “That’s just how it is.” “Listen here, Okuma.” “I’ll give you a proper talking-to later, so just let me have my way tonight.”

“How about it?” “I humbly request,” said Okuma through the sliding paper door, “Oiran—is this arrangement here not to your convenience?” “Shut up!” Yoshizato glared through the sliding paper door. “Instead of nitpicking others, you should watch your own behavior.” “I tell you, why don’t you go tend to the sake over there?” “Can’t you see Ms. Koman working here?” “If you don’t like it yourself, you should just send someone else.”

“Yes, yes.” “I do apologize,” said Okuma as she stepped outside the room. “I mean it—send someone over already.” “Since Oume must be around somewhere, tell her to come,” Koman called out while entering the upper room, but Okuma was likely already gone—there came no reply. “What a detestable creature.” “What does she think a junior attendant is?” “She’s nothing but a servant employed by the Oiran.” “If she keeps mouthing off like this, I’ll have her dismissed through the household office.” “Who does she think she is—a mere servant?”

“Isn’t that enough already?” “What’s the point in bothering with junior attendants anyway?”

Koman came to the upper room and sat down before Hirata. Hirata, with an air of having waited impatiently, said, “Ms. Koman, why don’t we share a cup?” “Oh my, right when the sake’s piping hot,” Koman restrained herself, poured for Hirata, and said while stealing a glance at Yoshizato: “Mr. Hirata, why don’t we try getting properly drunk tonight—it’s been ages?” “Right,” Hirata said after a moment’s thought. He thrust the cup he’d gulped down in one breath toward Koman. “What do you say—shall we get properly drunk?”

“Well, I suppose so.” “You’re not going to trouble me too, are you?” Nishimiya laughed, looking at Koman. “What’s this? You can’t even drink properly.” “If you start venting complaints, the Master’ll be troubled again.” “When have I ever vented like that?” Koman said theatrically, turning her knees toward Nishimiya. “Go on, say it.” “Please don’t go spreading such scandalous rumors.” “Ms. Koman, you should get properly drunk too.” “If I don’t vent a little through drink, I’ll go mad. Right, Brother?” Yoshizato shot a piercing glance at Hirata and firmly gripped Nishimiya’s hand. “You’ll forgive me for this much, won’t you?”

“Enough of this.” “Even handling one alone would be overwhelming—how could I possibly take on two formidable fronts?” “Hirata, you defend one position.” “I’ll handle Ms. Yoshizato’s side.” “Ms. Yoshizato, go ahead and vent to your heart’s content.”

“Hohoho.” “You say such things, but you’re just trying to bully me again.” “Ms. Koman, you help me out here.” “How unpleasant.” “I’ll get along with Mr. Hirata and drink quietly.” “Hey, Mr. Hirata.” “Hmph.” “You two traitors made quite the pair.” “Mr. Hirata, am I really that frightening to you?” “I won’t cling to you, so rest assured.” “Ms. Koman, pour me some,” said Yoshizato, extending her sake cup—then swapped it for the teacup beside her with a dismissive “These tiny cups are such a hassle”—“Fill it to the brim.”

“Looks like you’re starting your old habits.” “Big cups are poison, you know.” “Poison me then—I couldn’t care less.” Yoshizato bowed her head, tears pattering onto Nishimiya’s hand she still clutched. “If this sake poisons me dead, all my troubles would—”

Hirata put his hand to his forehead and turned away. Nishimiya and Koman exchanged glances and involuntarily sighed.

“How dreary, how dreary,” Yoshizato muttered as she messily poured into the teacup by her own hand. “I told you to stop,” said Koman as she tried to seize the sake flask, but when Yoshizato began pouring again with a “If I don’t drink something…,” Koman forcibly took it away. Yoshizato drank it down in one gulp, grimaced, turned aside, and let out a labored breath.

“You’re so stubborn—you’ll just make yourself suffer later.” “If it’s just a little suffering from drink… The only one who understands is you, Brother,” Yoshizato said, looking at Nishimiya. “Please forgive me. Wasn’t there a promise about not spilling complaints anymore?” She laughed desolately.

“Oiran, Oiran,” Okuma called out again from beyond the room.

“I’ll be right there,” Yoshizato said gently this time. Okuma went away without saying a word. “Why don’t you step out for a moment? Show some proper spirit.” Yoshizato received the brimming sake cup Nishimiya had offered and sat thinking.

“You ought to handle this properly now.” “It won’t do to keep neglecting him so much.” “Mr. Zen’s a pitiful soul too.” “Even when treated this coldly, he comes every night without complaint. At least manage him well enough not to provoke his anger,” Koman added, carefully wording it to avoid irritating Yoshizato.

“You’re asking the impossible again,” Yoshizato said, draining her sake cup. “Here, Brother.” “I do truly feel sorry for Mr. Zen—but I can’t stand even seeing his face.” “He is a devoted person, but…” “The more devoted he is, the more I detest it.” “It’s not that he lacks real feelings like some people, nor that he’s ungrateful…” Hirata abruptly rose from his seat. “The restroom,” Koman said, also trying to rise. “Nah,” Hirata said, hurrying to the next room.

“To cast someone aside so completely, Ms. Koman! You can just go wherever you like, can’t you?”

In the next room, Hirata slid open the shoji screen. "Huh? The sandals are gone."

“Someone must’ve taken them again.” “No trouble at all.” “Wear mine,” Koman called out, and as she did so, the sound of Hirata dragging his indoor sandals heavily away could be heard. “What a gutless way to walk,” Yoshizato said with forced theatrics. Nishimiya poked her cheek lightly and laughed: “Hahaha! My, you’ve grown quite fed up with him, haven’t you?” “I certainly will say.” “Hey, Ms. Koman.” “Hmph. You’re just saving those tears for later.”

“Who would?”

“Fine.” “You’re certain, right?” said Nishimiya, pressing for confirmation.

“Hmph,” Yoshizato laughed. “I’ve had enough of your teasing.”

The frantic footsteps of four or five people scrambling up the brothel staircase echoed through the building. Voices called out in unison: “A guest! A guest!” The clatter of sandals racing down corridors grew more urgent. “Ms. Koman’s oiran! Ms. Koman’s oiran!” came a shout barreling closer.

“How bothersome, at this hour,” Koman said without replying, furrowing her brow.

The clattering sound of sandals running up stopped before Koman’s room. The one who called out in a moderate voice—“Oiran, a moment”—was Koman’s junior attendant, Okuma. “What?” “Just your face for a moment.”

“Yes. If it’s a first meeting, make sure they apologize.” “Because he’s a regular.” “Who is it?”

“Who came?” Nishimiya asked, staring solemnly at Koman’s face.

“Ohoho—you’re jealous, aren’t you?” Yoshizato laughed out.

“Hahahaha! Well? Isn’t my kettle steaming up good now?” “Oh, it’s steaming up alright,” Yoshizato said, digging her nails into Nishimiya’s arm. “How vexing.” “Ouch! You’re being cruel. Oww, that hurts!” Nishimiya rubbed his arm with theatrical exaggeration. Koman smiled warmly. “Don’t torment them too much—it’ll be trouble if tempers flare.” “Hahahaha! Not even a bug worth swatting,” said Nishimiya.

“Hohohoho.” “What an adorable little bug.” “Isn’t that just a cockroach?” “A hardship bug,” Koman said, glaring briefly at Nishimiya before walking away.

The clappers that had just struck marked two o’clock. As the caged birds of Honmise and Hokemise each returned to their nests, indoor sandals began thundering through the corridors all at once.

III

Yoshizato had just given her final reply when she burst into tears. Nishimiya wiped his sapita pipe while gazing at Yoshizato’s defiant Shimada chignon, seeming at a loss. The candle on the stand burned with an elongated wick, its soot rising in black plumes as the lamplight dimmed—a scene reminiscent of Yu-shi’s trailing tears. As Yoshizato’s voice, choked with tears, finally subsided slightly, Nishimiya stopped wiping his sapita pipe and began to speak.

“I can’t stand how pitiful this is.” “I truly understand.” “Now Hirata can return to his hometown without regrets.” “It means my fretting wasn’t wasted.” “I’m truly grateful.”

Yoshizato half-raised her face but did not reply, wiping her tears with kaishi paper.

“If it were any other matter, we could manage somehow, but since this concerns the very rise and fall of the Hirata family, there’s simply no way around Hirata returning home. I’m truly at a loss myself.” “Why ever did the family head have to suffer such losses?” Yoshizato said, still wiping her tears. “Why? It was a mishap—nothing can be done about that.” “Even though they say the family head has grown listless, there’s still a younger brother and a sister—and as you know, his mother has passed—so Hirata absolutely must return to set the household in order.” “Hirata deserves pity too, you understand.”

“When Mr. Hirata returns to his hometown, will everyone find relief?” “Things won’t go so smoothly.” “With matters of this scale, relief won’t come easily.” “And since there’s no sudden reason for him to leave the capital again, I suppose I ended up asking too much of you.” “If you kept weeping day after day like this, we couldn’t hold a proper talk—I’d reached my limit.” “Now I can finally rest easy.” “Truly grateful for that.”

Though Yoshizato had given her final reply in words, her heart still seemed unable to resign itself as she sank into deep thought.

Nishimiya brought the poured sake cup to his mouth. “Oh, it’s cold.” “Oh, my apologies—I hadn’t noticed.” “Hohohoho,” Yoshizato laughed forlornly and picked up the sake bottle. The eyes once praised as priceless were swollen and reddened at the lids, her rouge pitifully washed away by tears—Yoshizato looked nothing like herself from an hour before.

“How about a drink?” said Nishimiya, offering the sake cup. When Yoshizato took the offered cup and brought it to her lips, her tears as ill luck would have it rippled the sake’s surface. She closed her eyes, drank it down in one gulp, set the cup aside, bowed her head, and began crying again.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” said Yoshizato, glaring at Nishimiya through tear-swollen eyes with a look of bitter resentment. “What?” said Nishimiya, widening his eyes.

“I just… feel like I’m being deceived,” said Yoshizato, shifting her gaze from Nishimiya to the tatami mats. “This is really troubling, I must say. “You’re still doubting me, huh? “Whether Hirata’s that kind of man or not—you should know better than I, who’ve been like a brother to him these five or six years. “As if I’d ever deceive you—” Nishimiya tried to press on, but Yoshizato hastily cut him off. “Oh, that’s not it at all. “Brother, I’m sorry. “Please forgive me. “But it’s just… Mr. Hirata’s acting so composed about it all……”

“What do you mean he’s composed? That man who’s always been so carefree can barely string two words together now—he just keeps watching your face, to the point he can hardly stay in this room.” “If that’s truly how it is, then he shouldn’t trouble you with his worries and should just speak to me directly himself, don’t you think?” “No, he did tell you. He must’ve told you countless times. It’s that you wouldn’t engage with him, isn’t it? Whenever he tried to talk to you, you’d snap ‘What are you saying?!’ and get angry—Hirata was utterly worn down.”

“But I’m the one refusing,” Yoshizato said, grinning as if she herself found it amusing.

“There, you see? That’s why. How could Hirata possibly hold a proper conversation? I know your temperament well. That’s precisely why I went so far as to bring Hirata here—so he can depart for his hometown once you’ve truly accepted this. If you suspect treachery, he might just leave without a word. Never mind me—but Hirata isn’t that sort of disloyal man. It’s truly unavoidable. Since you’ve already agreed, there’s no need to repeat myself… Given your nature… Well, I know it already, so rest assured… Yoshizato, I’m truly relying on you.”

Yoshizato burst into tears again. Her sobs were loud enough to spill into the corridor. Nishimiya also found himself unable to offer comfort.

“Here’s your order,” Nakadon seemed to have left something in the next room.

Again, someone slid open the shoji. Peering from the next room into the upper one, a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl with large, lovely eyes called out, “Oh, is the courtesan of the tatami room still over there?” This was Oume, Koman’s junior attendant. “Mr. Hirata hasn’t arrived yet either, has he?” said Oume, carrying the tray Nakadon had left into the upper room. “Would serving eggplant over rice be acceptable? Shall I call everyone over?”

“Ah, never mind. Is Hirata in Yoshizato’s tatami room?” “Yes. He was lying down all by himself. Thinking he must be lonely, I went to him—but he told me to go away. He seemed to be deep in thought about something.” “Smoothly put! You didn’t go there out of pity—you tried to make a pass at Hirata and got slapped down for it, didn’t you? Ha ha ha ha! Serves you right! It’s punishment for not listening to what I told you!”

“Oh, how could you say such a thing!” “You’ll remember this!”

“Really now—you’ve gone scarlet in the face!” “Ha ha ha ha ha!” “Oh? When did I ever turn red? Keep saying such things and this is what happens!” “No—enough! No tickling! I yield, I yield!” “Will you stop now?”

“I won’t say it again, I won’t. Let’s make peace with a cup of tea. If the water’s boiling, make it strong, please.” “What a nuisance,” muttered Oume as she prepared tea in the next room, then brought over teacups arranged on a tray. “You’re insufferable—but here.” “Well, how gracious of you. I’ll call it even with your attempt to sweet-talk Hirata then.” “Still on about that?”

“Whoa, careful! It’s spilling, spilling!” “It’s only at times like this I can catch my enemy off guard. Hey, Oiran.”

Yoshizato laughed with a desolate air and remained silent.

“How could I endure being tickled now? I surrender, I surrender—truly I surrender!” “Are you certain?” “I mean it, I mean it!” “Serves you right. I made him apologize.”

“Ha ha ha ha ha! Like hell I’d let Oume tickle me! You know all the spots that make a man squirm.” “Say whatever you like. I’ll never beat you anyway,” said Oume as she stood up. “The meal will be served later with everyone. I’ll come back shortly.” She went into the next room.

Who had been peeking? Someone from outside slammed the shoji shut with a sharp clack.

“Oh, someone was peeking!” Oume exclaimed, hurriedly sliding open the shoji. The rapid clatter of indoor sandals racing down the corridor echoed through the air.

“Oh,” Oume’s voice dripped with exasperation.

Four “What’s wrong?” Nishimiya looked up at Oume as she entered with an air of urgency.

“It’s Mr. Zen.” “Mr. Zen was the one peeking!” Oume widened her eyes and looked at Yoshizato, who had just raised her face. “He’s such an insatiable jealous fool,” Yoshizato said with visible irritation. “He’s been peeking into the Oiran’s tatami room time and again since earlier.” “I thought Mr. Hirata might get angry—I was genuinely worried.” “If he keeps up that nonsense, I’ll cut him off for good.” “Ah... How impossible it is for me to ever be free...” Yoshizato stared intently at Nishimiya before lowering her head with a sigh.

“The Oiran in the tatami room is running late—I’ll just go check on her,” said Oume, leaving with the clatter of her adding water to the iron kettle in the next room.

“Mr. Nishimiya,” Yoshizato said, putting force into her voice, “what am I supposed to do?” “It’s truly unbearable.” “Please try to understand what it’s like to be me.” “I do understand,” said Nishimiya after a moment’s thought. “Truly, I understand.” “I want you to understand what’s in my heart too—the heart of someone who forced this request upon you.” “It wasn’t something I could easily bring myself to say, so at first I’d planned to ask Ms. Koman to speak for me.” “Since Ms. Koman said she couldn’t talk about such things either, I ended up being the one to bring it up—so really, just having you agree to it makes me all the more aware of what you’re going through.” “I’ve groveled enough and played the fool—I know full well that beyond this, people would only laugh at what scraps of human feeling I have left.” “Please—think of it as for Hirata’s sake and endure this. Hey, Yoshizato—please, I’m begging you.”

“There’s no helping it, Brother,” Yoshizato declared at last as though surrendering, yet still she turned it over in her mind.

“I’ve never endured such anguish before.” “This must be what they mean by a fleeting bond, isn’t it? When I think of it, Ms. Koman seems enviable,” Yoshizato said with deep resignation.

“No, I don’t intend to come either,” Nishimiya declared bluntly. “What?!” Yoshizato gasped, startled. “What? Why? What’s happened?” She fixed Nishimiya with a dismayed stare. “There’s no particular reason.” “Suffering weighs equally on all.” “Knowing your plight with Hirata—how could I come alone?”

“Why would you say such a thing? I didn’t mean it that way.”

“I know that.” “That’s not why I’m talking about coming or not.” “It’s truly unbearable.” “No! No! I refuse!” “I must apologize to Ms. Koman.” “I have to part with Mr. Hirata—if even you stop coming, Brother—what will become of me?” “If I’ve done wrong, I’ll apologize properly—so please keep visiting me as you always have.” “Come out of pity for me.” “Huh? Is that all right?” “Huh? Huh?” Yoshizato repeated endlessly, her tone both apologetic and imploring.

Nishimiya bowed his head, closed his eyes, and thought intently. Yoshizato peered into his face. “Is that okay? Brother, is that okay?” “If even Brother won’t come—” Her voice broke into a sob again. “Huh? Is that okay?”

Nishimiya bowed his head and closed his eyes. “It’s okay, right? It’s okay, right? Truly, truly,” Yoshizato pressed repeatedly until Nishimiya nodded, then exhaled sharply as she wiped her tears. “If even Brother won’t come anymore… I won’t be able to go on living.”

“Very well, very well,” Nishimiya nodded. “Hirata has given up on this, yes? I’ll handle all matters concerning you afterward.” “There’s no alternative—we must resign ourselves.” “So we can’t even exchange letters anymore… can we?”

“Well...” “If you won’t think that way...” Nishimiya couldn’t give a clear answer. Yoshizato thought for a moment, then said with flushed cheeks as she looked at him, “I know it sounds desperately clinging, but I implore you—bring him once more, even as soon as tomorrow.” “Once more.”

“Yes.” “Before you depart for your hometown—please come see me together one more time… I beg of you.”

“Once more,” Nishimiya repeated, “there’s no time left for that anymore.”

“What?!” “When’s he leaving for his hometown?” Yoshizato pressed forward on her knees, drilling Nishimiya with her gaze.

“At Shinbashi Station—on tomorrow’s night train,” Nishimiya said with difficulty.

“Huh?! Tomorrow’s—” Yoshizato’s complexion changed. Her eyes fixed on Nishimiya took on a strange hue as she ground her teeth with a grating crunch. Just as Nishimiya, startled, tried to call out to her, Yoshizato twisted with a groan and collapsed against him.

Koman, who had fortuitously entered, was startled by Yoshizato’s state. “Huh?! What’s wrong?” “This isn’t just some minor trouble.” “Hurry, do something!” “It’s... such a tremendous force.” “Hold on!” “Yoshizato, hold on!” “You mustn’t twist like that—oh, you’re twisting so much!”

“What happened to Hirata? Hirata... Hirata...” “Are you asking about Mr. Hirata?”

Before long, Okuma too came to this room and, shocked, stood there dazedly without lifting a hand.

“Okuma—you were there all along?” “What are you dawdling for?” “Go call Mr. Hirata at once!” “How utterly clueless!” “Move!” “This can’t wait!” “I said don’t twist like that!” “Steady now!” “Yoshizato.” “Yoshizato.” Okuma suddenly erupted into panic, slammed into the karakami-papered door toppling its frame, and bolted down the corridor barefoot.

Five

Hirata stood on the bedding, fastening his obi. Yoshizato threw her knee onto the end of that obi, pressed Hirata’s haori to her face, and lay prostrate. Hirata looked upward and closed his eyes; tears streamed from their corners down his cheeks, his lower lip was bitten, his upper lip quivered—he lacked even the courage to pull at his obi.

The pillow bearing their two family crests joined in a paired design lay fallen in pitiable collapse. The lamp wick burned low; the paper lantern’s faint light, cast upon the plaque inscribed “Spring is like the sea,” rendered the characters dreamlike. Junior Attendant Okuma, who had come to announce the time of departure, shaded her hands over the long brazier in the adjacent room, warmed her cheeks, and strained her ears toward the upper chamber.

“What time is it now?” Hirata called out to Okuma in the adjacent room with a listless tone. “It was just before five o’clock.” “Huh? It’s past five already.” “We’re late, we’re late!” Hirata tried determinedly to fasten his obi, but with Yoshizato not moving, his efforts proved futile. “Are they already making preparations over there?” “Yes.” “Mr. Nishimiya hasn’t slept at all, and on this side—” She seemed to realize she was overstepping, and Okuma cut off her words.

“I see.” “What a pity.” “Ah, let’s go.”

Yoshizato still did not release the obi.

“Ah, don’t worry. You don’t need to rush so much,” called Nishimiya as he slid open the shoji screen. “Oh! Mr. Nishimiya,” said Okuma, turning around.

“You awake?” Nishimiya deliberately slid open the decorated sliding door with rough hands and peered unabashedly beyond the folding screen. Inside, Hirata was just finishing tying his obi, while Yoshizato—draping a haori over him from behind—seemed reluctant to let her hands leave the man’s shoulders.

“My apologies, my apologies. “Alright, let’s get going.” “Ah, never mind.”

“No, no,” Hirata said as he shook himself hurriedly and made to leave the room. “Ah, um, well...” Yoshizato’s voice quivered.

“Hey, Hirata. “Haven’t you forgotten something?” “Nothing.” “There’s nothing.” “You wouldn’t be… “Hey, hey—what’re you in such a rush for?” “What’re you—”

Nishimiya grabbed Hirata’s arm. “Ah, never mind. I have business to… Ah, let’s just go calmly.” He pushed him back into the room, then leaned against the corridor railing with Okuma and gazed down at the inner garden. The razor-edged moon cast the red pine’s treetops from the roof onto the corridor of the inner garden. White frost glistened on both the torii gate at the base of the artificial hill and the roof of the small Benten shrine atop it. Though not a breath of wind stirred, a penetrating cold seemed to freeze them from their toes upward until they shivered involuntarily.

In the third room across the inner garden—where they were perhaps still drinking in the adjacent chamber—the silhouettes of a man and a woman were cast upon the shoji screen, their voices could be heard though indistinct.

“It’s really getting cold,” Nishimiya murmured in a low voice as he turned his back and shifted to lean against the railing. Just then, the sound of someone singing Nijōri Shin'ai drifted over from the tatami room across the way. “Even without restraint—release me there— / More than your heart that would halt tomorrow’s days / This self returning—how excruciating—how excruciating—” “That’s Shinonome-san’s tatami room, isn’t it? A beautifully husky voice.” When Nishimiya asked Okuma “Where’s he from?”, a man hurried down the corridor at a brisk pace—passing by Yoshizato’s room as if running—appeared.

Okuma lightly tugged at Nishimiya’s sleeve and whispered, “It was Zen-san,” as she watched the man depart. “Huh, Mr. Zen,” Nishimiya murmured while watching him depart, then let out a pensive “Hmm.” No sooner had someone made a spittoon clatter in the common room three doors down than they let out a startlingly large yawn.

No sooner had this happened than Yoshizato stepped forward first and Hirata emerged behind her. “My apologies for keeping you waiting,” she said with unexpected composure. “Brother—I’m sorry.” Hirata appeared startlingly pale-faced as he muttered “Late—I’m late” like a soliloquy before starting off hurriedly. He had forgotten his indoor sandals entirely. “Mr.—Mr.—Hirata! Your sandals!” Okuma called out while rushing back with them clutched in hand and chasing after his retreating figure that refused even a backward glance.

“Brother,” Yoshizato embraced Nishimiya’s shoulder from behind, “You will come, won’t you? You will! You will!”

Nishimiya firmly grasped Yoshizato’s hand resting on his shoulder, but—overcome by an inexplicable constriction in his chest—could only nod mutely, unable to form a reply.

“Mr. Hirata, please wait. Mr. Hirata.” Even after Okuma called out repeatedly, Hirata still did not look back and was about to turn the corner at the corridor’s dead end toward the front staircase when—“Where do you think you’re going? It’s this way!” Koman called out. “Huh? What.” “Oh, Ms. Koman.” “Sorry,” Hirata said, staring at Koman’s face with a look of curiosity.

“What’s gotten into you?” “Heeheehee.”

“Please put on your indoor sandals,” Okuma said as she placed them before Hirata.

“Ah, I see,” said Hirata as he put on his indoor sandals, just as Nishimiya and Yoshizato caught up to him. “Since things were getting rather intense, I wondered what had happened…” “Mr. Hirata, please come to my tatami room.” “Have some tea at your leisure.” “Hey, Ms. Yoshizato.” “Thank you… No—let’s go.” “Hey, Nishimiya.”

“Please don’t say such things— What do you mean? Oh, isn’t this fine?”

Nishimiya stared fixedly at Koman’s face. Yoshizato looked down behind Nishimiya. Hirata gazed up meaninglessly at the corridor lantern.

“Let’s just leave as we are. We can’t afford dawn breaking,” Nishimiya signaled to Koman with his eyes, then added, “Okuma, bring the hats and coats. Hirata’s too. The rickshaw’s probably here by now.” “It’s been waiting since earlier!”

Okuma ran off to Koman’s room to fetch the two guests’ coats and hats. “Mr. Hirata,” Koman approached him and said, “How truly bittersweet this parting is.” “When will I have the pleasure of meeting you again?” “Do take care on your journey.” “When you arrive there, do send word, won’t you?” “To think it would come to this...”

“What? What nonsense are you spouting? Couldn’t you just say one damn word?” Scolded by Nishimiya, Koman averted her face and fell silent. “Ms. Koman—you’ve done so much for me,” Hirata began, then fell silent. “Please... I’m begging you.” His voice carried too much force—but he couldn’t say anything beyond that. Koman too found herself speechless; when she saw Yoshizato looking down behind Nishimiya, her chest tightened and tears overflowed despite herself.

When Okuma brought the hats and coats, Nakadon the night watchman—who had come up from downstairs—impatiently announced that the rickshaw had been waiting for a long time.

With Hirata leading the way, the group descended the staircase. Yoshizato lagged behind the rest, looking so enfeebled that even stepping on the stairs appeared perilous. “Yoshizato! Yoshizato!” By the time Koman called out, both Hirata and Nishimiya had already descended to the dirt-floored entrance. Yoshizato’s legs seemed to have shrunk—she couldn’t bring herself to go as far as the threshold. “Yoshizato, hey, hey,” Nishimiya also called out. Yoshizato, without uttering a single word, stared fixedly at Hirata, her face deathly pale. Hirata had also been staring fixedly at Yoshizato, but when he could no longer endure it and turned away, the sound of Nakadon opening the side gate rang out harshly. Hirata briskly exited the house.

“Farewell, Mr. Hirata,” Koman and Okuma called out in unison. Nishimiya left word with Yoshizato that he would return that evening with news, then stepped out through the side gate. “You’d better watch yourself.” “I’ve accepted your congratulatory gift.” “Goodbye. Safe travels.” “Do come again soon.” The rickshaw wheels began to turn. The side gate slammed shut with a clatter.

Yoshizato, who had been standing like a withered tree until this moment, exchanged glances with Koman and let her tears stream down. Perhaps not hearing Koman’s voice calling out to her, she clattered her sandals as she half-ran, dashed up the back staircase to her second-floor room, and collapsed weeping onto the still-warm futon.

Six

The futon in the common room—saturated with the grime of countless patrons and chilling even in summer—might have proven more unbearable than lying on ice during winter nights grown deep. Whether due to the junior attendant’s consideration, a box-shaped brazier with a kettle stood by the pillow, its adjacent tray holding a single sake flask and a small plate emptied of accompaniments. The bedding’s lower half lay enclosed by a folding screen while night wind seeping through torn gaps in the headboard’s shoji fanned the flame of a paper lantern whose oil neared exhaustion.

“Brr, so cold—so cold!” came the voice trembling as he entered, burrowed into the futon, threaded his hands through the sleeves of his padded robe, pulled the brazier closer, and held out both hands to its warmth—this was Zenkichi of Minoya from Tomizawacho, a secondhand clothes dealer and Yoshizato’s client. He was around forty years old with severe pockmarks; while his mouth and nose were unremarkable, a scar resembling a bulging fish’s eye marred his left eyelid—a vulgar-looking, small-statured man in appearance.

Zenkichi first began visiting Yoshizato about a year ago, precisely around the time Hirata started coming. Yoshizato often treated him coldly, to the point where there were many nights she didn’t show her face at all. Despite this, Zenkich persisted in visiting relentlessly—from around October his visits grew even more frequent, and since the start of this month, he had been coming every night. He didn’t just waste money on lost causes but also knew when to stop, so the junior attendants and shop staff always greeted him with smiles.

“Even if you say it’s cold—it’s a damn cold night.” The sake had worn off—there was nothing to be done about this now. “None left?” He shook the sake flask. “No good—no good,” he muttered through gritted teeth as he grabbed his pipe and took two or three rapid puffs of tobacco.

"That’s Nishimiya standing over there—the one who’s now Koman’s lover." "The one with him must’ve been Okuma." "Just as Okuma said—looks like Hirata’s leaving tonight too." "I wonder if they’ll let me in once the tatami room’s free." "Enough—that doesn’t matter." "I don’t care about the tatami room." "All she needs is to spend a little time with me—just say she won’t come after tonight." "She definitely won’t come after tonight." "Even if she wanted to—she couldn’t." "Is she still not leaving?" "She should’ve left by now." "It’s taking too long." "Is she really going back?" "If she doesn’t leave—she needn’t leave." "With all this fuss about lovers—she won’t leave anyway." "If she stays—that’s fine—just her face—even a moment…" "Tonight’s the last." "She won’t come anymore." "Tomorrow—I think I know what’ll happen…" "But even I don’t understand myself."

Ah…

From the direction of Yoshizato’s room, at roughly that distance, the clatter of indoor sandals arose as Okuma’s voice called out, “Mr. Hirata, wait!” followed by the sound of her giving chase. Afterward, two or three sets of footsteps began moving in the same direction.

“Ah—don’t go! So he’s really leaving,” Zenkich sprang up to open the shoji, then paused. “But if Okuma spots me again, it’ll look bad,” he muttered, peering through a torn gap in the shoji for a while before grinning and burrowing back into the futon.

The sound of indoor sandals became inaudible after a while. Zenkichi strained his ears. “So he’s still not leaving after all.” “If he doesn’t leave, Yoshizato won’t come.” “Ah,” Zenkichi buried his head between his hands held over the brazier. After a while, he raised his head and fumbled for his pipe with his right hand, though he made no real attempt to smoke it. His complexion darkened, his brows furrowed—the very picture of someone lost in profound thought. “Ahh… I’m so sorry to Ochiyo.” “What must she be thinking?” “She probably thinks I’m in Yokohama.” “She doesn’t realize I’m stuck in this common room against my will.” “She must resent me terribly.” “I lost my shop, sent Ochiyo back to her family home—poor Ochiyo, I sent her back to her family home.” “I’m a terrible person—a terrible person.” “Ah, I’m so spineless.”

The sound of indoor sandals once again began echoing faintly. The sound of someone descending the ladder could also be heard. As Zenkich strained his ears, the sound of the gate opening reached him, followed by the clatter of a rickshaw departing.

Ha ha ha ha! He’s gone, gone, finally gone! Now Yoshizato is coming. There are no other customers besides me—she’ll definitely come to my room. Ah—she’s started running! That running sound is Yoshizato’s sandals! She’s coming up the back staircase! Now—she’s finally coming here! That’s definitely it! That’s definitely it! There—she came running this way! Zenkichi felt Yoshizato would slide open the shoji and appear any moment. Unable to keep his hands hovering over the brazier, he collapsed sideways and lay squinting at the foot-wide strip of shoji visible beyond the screen’s edge.

The indoor sandals passed by where Zenkich stood before the common room. When Zenkich, startled, leapt up and hurriedly opened the shoji to look, the owner of the indoor sandals was indeed Yoshizato. As Zenkich stood dazedly watching, Yoshizato entered her room without so much as a glance back and roughly slid the shoji shut. Zenkichi tried to say something, but his lips quivered as he held his breath. Forgetting even to close the shoji, he collapsed onto the futon. “Damn it all! Damn it all! Damn you!” After a moment of shouting this, Zenkich stared at the ceiling with tear-filled eyes and kicked the futon two or three times.

“Oh my, what are you doing there?” When had she arrived? What had she said? At any rate, hearing a voice, Zenkichi started up and stared fixedly at the woman. “Ohohohoho.” “Mr. Zen, what’s come over you? My, making such a face.” “Come now, let’s head over there.”

“Okuma… what’s this about? Didn’t I just say something to you now?” “No, you didn’t say anything at all. How strange, isn’t it? Has something happened?” “Nothing’s wrong. What? What should I do?” “Well then, let’s head over there.”

“Over there.” “Now that he’s gone, do come to the oiran’s room.”

“Oh, is that so?” “Ha ha ha ha ha ha.” “He’s got guts!”

Zenkichi abruptly stood up and energetically stepped out into the corridor.

“Wait a moment.” “Have you forgotten anything?” “What about your paper case?”

Zenkichi did not respond. While Okuma was tidying the bedside, the sound of hurried footsteps in the corridor could already be heard.

“He’s completely obsessed.” “He doesn’t listen to a word I say.” “Did he forget anything at all?” “There! He left it behind.” “After all that reminding, he still forgot his paper case.” “The tobacco case too.” “There’s just no helping it.”

Okuma took up the paper case and tobacco case that had been under the futon, then went out into the corridor holding the tray in one hand. Zenkichi was already nowhere to be seen in the corridor, and the shoji of Yoshizato’s room in the distance had been left open. “Please do lie down quickly. It’s quite cold, you know,” said Okuma, who had entered Yoshizato’s room, addressing Zenkich as he stood in the anteroom looking reluctant to advance into the main chamber. The paper-paneled doors of the main chamber had been left open, and beyond the partially pushed-aside screen, Yoshizato could be seen lying faced away, her futon draped so carelessly over her that one worried she might catch cold.

The paper lantern had already gone out, and the window shoji was faintly brightening. The distant whistle of either the Senju Felt Factory or the Kanegafuchi Spinning Company could be heard, and the six o’clock morning bell of Ueno also began to toll. “Mr. Zen, get a hold of yourself—you’ve gone and forgotten your paper case,” said Okuma with a laugh as she held out the case, which Zenkichi stuffed into the breast of his nightclothes with a wry smile, his chest still exposed. “You ought to lie down properly.” “It’s already… getting light out.”

“What do you mean? It’s still six o’clock.” “You should lie down till around eight—have just one drink—then it’d be best for you to go back.” “I see,” said Zenkichi, still rooted in place. “Oiran, Oiran,” Okuma called out to Yoshizato, but there came neither reply nor movement. “There’s no helping it. “Mr. Zen, do lie down properly now. “I’ll wake you when it strikes eight.”

Okuma, whom Zenkichi had wanted to stay a bit longer, left the room. The sound of shoji screens being opened could be heard from various directions, and the clatter of indoor sandals going up and down the stairs grew more frequent. Some were seeing off regular customers and gossiping about them, while others were lamenting their departure with first-time guests and making promises for another night together.

The night finally broke into dawn. Zenkichi’s mind grew even more restless; he wanted to sleep yet felt strangely unsettled. Having missed his chance, he stared fixedly at Yoshizato’s sleeping form. The morning cold was particularly biting. The cold of Yoshizato’s west-facing room was unbearable. Yoshizato sneezed two or three times in a row. “You’ll catch a cold,” Zenkichi said involuntarily drawing closer to her pillow. “Lying there like this—no wonder you’re freezing. Let me cover you up. Hey—Ms. Yoshizato. Ms. Yoshizato, you’ll catch a cold.”

Yoshizato pressed her sleeve to her face and lay facedown—whether she was asleep or awake, seeing how she didn’t respond when spoken to, Zenkichi concluded she must be asleep and stared down at her intently. Her collar’s beauty—whiter than snow. Her earlobe’s loveliness—flushed yet powdered. The fragrant-like hair bun lay disheveled across her flushed cheeks. Her sleeve was soaked with tears, the willow-leaf green lining of its light tea-colored ox-stripe pattern clouded over. The Shimada chignon had completely come undone at its roots, the wisteria-purple namako-patterned half-draped robe slipped off, and the pillow lay thrust out like a discarded thing.

Zenkichi stared at Yoshizato without blinking for a considerable while. The whistle of the Ueno train, like a long, drawn-out blast, began to sound.

“Oh—it’s the train.” “It’s leaving now,” Zenkichi said still gazing at Yoshizato’s sleeping face.

“What am I to do?” “The train’s leaving now,” came Yoshizato’s tearful voice as she abruptly stood up and slid open the window’s shoji. The morning wind gusted in, and Zenkichi, startled, shrank back.

Seven The morning sun stood out vividly upon the treetops of Shinobugaoka and Taro Inari Shrine’s forest. Iriya remained half-shrouded in mist, while Yoshiwara’s rice fields lay blanketed entirely in frost. In the sky, flocks of small birds flew southward in circular formations, while crows began cawing in Ueno’s forest. As the white herons in the rice fields beside Ootori Shrine took flight—one by one, two by two, three by three—two or three people emerged from the stalls newly erected for tomorrow’s Tori no Ichi Festival marketplace. The iron-stained gutter froze mid-froth, and the hot spring steam at Daionji-mae streamed madly in the wind.

Ueno’s first train, its single whistle blast rising high and long as it trailed off, began moving. In the blink of an eye, it circled the base of the hill, entered Negishi—and in that instant—its smoke vanished into Tennoji’s forest.

Gripping the window bars with both hands, her sleeves pressed against them, Yoshizato—who had been seeing off the train in a dreamlike state—continued to watch without blinking even after the smoke had vanished. “Ah, he’s already gone,” Yoshizato’s voice trembled as she murmured. The morning wind, not yet carrying any warmth, did nothing but sting their cheeks. Compared to Yoshizato, who was exposing her face to the window, Zenkich—standing behind her—trembled violently and could no longer endure it. “You’ll catch a cold, Ms. Yoshizato. “Aren’t you cold? Why don’t you close it?” said Zenkich through chattering teeth.

Yoshizato turned around and finally noticed Zenkichi. “Oh—Mr. Zen, was it you?” “You might as well close it.” “Ms. Yoshizato, you’ll catch a cold.” “Your face is deathly pale!”

“I wonder where that train is headed.” “You mean the train that just left? It has to go all the way to Aomori—probably stops at Sendai.” “Sendai. When will it arrive in Kobe, I wonder.” “To Kobe? That has to be the Shinbashi train. It’s completely the wrong direction.”

“Right.” “That’s right—it was Shinbashi,” Yoshizato murmured, bowing her head. “Tonight’s Shinbashi night train, wasn’t it?” Yoshizato sat down beside the long brazier in the next room and, leaning against the chest of drawers, began to think.

Zenkichi closed the window’s shoji, sat down across the brazier from Yoshizato, and huddled with his hands in his sleeves, shivering as if cold.

Okuma, who had returned from doing laundry, entered the room while saying, “Oh, you’re already up? You should’ve stayed in bed a bit longer,” and began putting away the bowls and small plates she’d brought into the tea cupboard.

“There’s no need to sleep anymore—it’s gotten so bright I couldn’t possibly stay in bed.” “It’s so cold—I can’t stand this any longer.” “Okuma, why don’t you get my kimono out for me?” “Oh, there’s no need for that.” “Take your time this morning—have a bite before you go back.” “I guess so.” “It doesn’t matter anyway, but it’s just so cold.” “It truly is terribly cold, isn’t it?” “Let me get you something.” “Here, drape this over yourself for now,” said Okuma as she took Yoshizato’s crepe-silk sitting robe from the clothes rack and threw it over Zenkich’s shoulders from behind.

Zenkichi grinned, looking over both shoulders. “This one’s got some nerve. Can I borrow this?” “It’s for Mr. Zen, after all,” said Okuma. “Hey. Oiran.” “Heh heh heh,” Zenkichi chuckled. “Well said.” “It suits you quite well,” Okuma remarked with a tittering “Hohohoho.” “Hahahaha!” Zenkichi barked. “If I actually put my arms through the sleeves, I’d look ridiculous, wouldn’t I?” “Oh, come now,” Okuma pressed. “Go on, slip your arms through and stand up—I’m sure it’ll suit you perfectly. Hey, Oiran.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” “Hahahaha.” “Hohohoho.”

Yoshizato did not utter a single word. She didn't so much as glance their way. She was still leaning against the chest, thinking. "While you're staying like that, why don't you go wash your face." "In the meantime, I'll clean up and have some sake ready soon." "Oiran, please allow me to escort you." "Yes," said Okuma, placing the toothpick box in front of Zenkich. Zenkich was twisting off the tassels of Yoshihara toothpicks and burning them in the brazier's fire. "What shall I order for your meal?" "It's still early morning, so we can't really do anything." "Shall we do something like tub tofu?" "And some oil eggs too."

“Anything’s fine.” “The simmered tofu will do.” “That will do then.” “Then, Oiran, please allow me to escort you.”

Yoshizato said nothing and swiftly stood up to exit into the corridor. Zenkichi too, still wearing the sitting robe, exited the room after Yoshizato. “Oiran, your hand towel?” said Okuma, calling out to Yoshizato. Yoshizato did not respond. She had already moved several meters away. “Give it to me,” said Zenkich, turning back to take the hand towel. When he looked at Yoshizato, she was already about to descend the back staircase. Zenkichi quickly pursued Yoshizato and caught up to her on the middle of the stairs, but Yoshizato turned toward the lower bathhouse without so much as a glance back. Zenkichi waited for a while, but since Yoshizato showed no sign of emerging abruptly, he went alone to wash his face with a desolate air.

There were two customers washing their faces. Each rival courtesan stood attentively by their side, scooping water for them and pouring it over their hands—to Zenkich’s eyes, it appeared enviable beyond measure.

Adjusting the collar of a customer’s haori jacket so it wouldn’t fold, the one who glanced back at Zenkich was an oiran named Hatsumidori, with whom he had shared a few meetings during his initial visits. “Oh, Mr. Zen. “Alone again last night.” “That’s too cruel of you.” “You could’ve brought her along at least once, couldn’t you?” “That’s truly cruel of you.” “It’s not like that—she isn’t here right now.” “Nothing but lies.” “How splendid!” “Oh, do keep coming alone then!”

“This is such a bother...” “How perfectly splendid.” “Do keep that in mind.” “You’ll be amusing yourself during daylight hours today, won’t you?”

“Oh, it’s not like that.” “Don’t go running off now—I’ll come play with you later.”

“I hear Shinonome’s Yoshi is lingering around again today,” began Meizan—another oiran—as she pressed down on the shoulder of her student-like customer washing his face, “and you shouldn’t leave either—stay till evening.” “Me? I can’t stay. Hey, you.” “I can’t.” “Hey, you.” “Exactly. You’ll just come crawling back tonight anyway.” “Oh, that’s just perfect—since you’re the unfaithful one anyway.” “What? Unfaithful?” “Unfaithful?”

“Ms. Meizan, when the golden basin’s free, let me borrow it,” said Koshikibu, the oiran who had just guided a customer in. “Ms. Koshikibu, take this one,” said Hatsumidori, pushing one golden basin toward her. She filled another to the brim with water. “Now then, Mr. Zen—go ahead and use it. There’s not a drop of hot water left, so it’s just cold.” “No, thank you.” “When you come next time—do be sure to.” Zenkichi nodded while rinsing his mouth. Hatsumidori’s group departed noisily, still jesting as they went.

“Yoshizato, Yoshizato,” a voice called out. Zenkichi, rinsing his face with water, looked toward the voice and saw Yoshizato talking with Koman at the foot of the back staircase. Zenkichi stared for a while. When Zenkichi finished washing his face, he saw Koman and Yoshizato walking along the second-floor corridor while talking.

VIII

From the bucket came the sound of tofu boiling, steam billowing up vigorously.

On Noshiro’s meal tray stood a sake bottle clad in hakama trousers, accompanied by a playful dish of aromatic delicacies and a wooden plate set with a lotus-petal-shaped spoon. In the golden-hued water of the sake cup, two cherry blossom petals appeared to float like a painted scene, with kana spelling “Yoshizato” drifting near its rim. Diagonally across from the meal tray, facing Yoshizato—who leaned listlessly against the chest of drawers—was Zenkich, grappling with mediocre sake. Yoshizato only occasionally glanced at Zenkich from beneath lowered lashes, never pouring him a single cup. Okuma had gone on a morning visit to Asakusa Kannon Temple for some prayer-related matter, serving as proxy for two or three oiran. Zenchich’s flustered state permitted him only faint sighs.

“Ms. Yoshizato, how about it? “I’d like you to share a drink with me.” “Drinking like this all alone—it’s so lonely it hardly feels like drinking at all.” “I’d truly like you to share a drink with me.” “Ha ha ha ha ha.” “I’m no jewel for idle lingering—I’ll be taking my leave soon—so just this morning, Oiran, won’t you deftly accept my offer?” “This is our farewell.” “Since today’s the last day I’ll ever drink with you, accept graciously—let me pour you a cup.” “That’s enough now.” “I want nothing else.” “I’ll pour it properly anew—come now, Ms. Yoshizato—accept it deftly.”

Zenkichi drained the cup set before him, poured himself another cup and drained it, then thoroughly washed the cup in the basin. “Now then—I’ll pour for you. “It’s only today. “You hear me? Take it graciously.”

Yoshizato received the sake cup, took a sip, placed it on the edge of the charcoal brazier, and stared fixedly at Zenkich. For Yoshizato, parting from Hirata while knowing how unlikely it was they would meet again was more painful than death—even had she died, she would never have chosen to part. But compelled by Nishimiya’s unvarnished words and Hirata’s tormented heart, she had relented against her will. She had relented, yet her heart meant to go with Hirata to his hometown—no, meant to have already gone. But when confronted by separation, that heart which should have departed together grew instantly wistful and tender toward him. Could they not meet once more? She wanted to turn his carriage around. She wanted to meet him—to bid farewell properly one last time. There were still words she had left unspoken. There were still words she had not heard. Was there truly no way left to meet him? Could tonight’s departure not be delayed? It felt like it might be postponed. It felt like he might come to see her once more. He would surely come. No—he would not come. There was no sign of the man bound for tonight’s train coming here. He would not come. If only the train would not depart. It might not depart.

I have a feeling it won't depart. It definitely won't depart. Even if through my desperate will alone—I won't let it depart. But what if it spitefully leaves anyway? Is there truly no way to meet him? If I can't meet him—what should I do? If parting with Mr. Hirata means death—then I'll choose death over separation. Living holds no meaning without Mr. Hirata. I'd rather die than fail to become his wife. My circumstances bind me; my circumstances chain me; only my heart clings unyielding to Mr. Hirata's side. I intend us to stay together. I intend us to go together. We are going together now. No matter what comes—I cannot leave his side. How can I endure existing like this after parting from him? Though my body remains trapped in Yoshiwara—my heart dwells by Mr. Hirata's side in Okayama. Identical thoughts surge endlessly through my breast. These imaginings flow from that heart which ought to reside beside Hirata—though when this morning's final farewell loomed imminent，my delusions shifted with frantic speed—now as false calm takes root，this singular obsession grows deeper，prolonged beyond measure.

When I sank into contemplation, various things became vividly present before me. My own condition, my own form, my own delusions—all turned vividly present within my heart. In the anguish of that morning’s parting, I saw myself clutching Mr. Hirata’s obi and sinking down. Even without being stopped—the Nijōri Shin’ai I had sung in the Shinonome room—it felt as though I could hear it now. When I sent him off from the shop, it had been like a dream—what had I been thinking at that moment? All those things I had wanted to say—why couldn’t I have said them? No—not being able to say them had been only natural. Ah—could I no longer stop that carriage? When I had become unbearably sad, run out, climbed the back stairs, and come to the tatami room—the sight of myself collapsing in tears looked both pitiful yet somehow justified. As I had hoped against hope—when that night came—Mr. Hirata would arrive saying he no longer needed to return home, uttering nothing but joyful words. The joy of hearing that—my body nearly floating with elation—was immediately negated by someone: “Mr. Hirata has indeed departed,” and the ever-faithful Nishimiya would eventually sit facing me to offer consolation. A message that should never have arrived came—filled from start to finish with assurances of his devotion—promising he’d come for me without fail, each character in Mr. Hirata’s familiar handwriting materializing before my eyes stroke by stroke. Then before I knew it, I found myself in Okayama—the city more bustling than imagined—Mr. Hirata’s house with its imposing gate, its layout just as always pictured, complete with garden, second floor, and storehouse. The master resembled Mr. Hirata—gentle yet somehow vacant-looking—wearing an expression like he wanted to ask my origins, but upon hearing details from Mr. Hirata, he suddenly brightened and doted on me extravagantly. Both siblings were the ages I’d heard about from Mr. Hirata—their features and builds exactly as imagined—utterly adorable. Even my suspicion that the younger sister might be slightly mean remained unchanged—though this irked me somewhat—her clinging with cries of “Big sister!” and requests for Tokyo-style hairdos struck me as rather endearing nonetheless. The deceased mother—whose face I knew from that photo Mr. Hirata had once shown me—also occasionally appeared. This mother too had been kind—had she lived, how she’d have cherished me as Mr. Hirata whispered in bedtime stories—but then emerged his betrothed: a girl with the face of Hanako—that oiran from our brothel whom I’d always loathed—both endearing and detestable yet ultimately detestable—and it became clear Mr. Hirata had returned home to wed her. So it was true after all—when I realized how deceived I’d been—sorrow deepened within sorrow until tears wouldn’t cease. When I recalled that Nishimiya wasn’t one for lies—how he and Koman had comforted me in myriad ways—how we’d made sisterly vows that I’d live with them once she became Nishimiya’s wife—how we’d planned for both couples to build neighboring homes after Mr. Hirata settled his provincial affairs and left the capital—remaining kin forever while supporting each other.

That too vanished like a dream, and when I found myself alone, only thoughts of being trapped arose—must I truly remain in this brothel until next April? Having parted with Mr. Hirata and with no other joys left, how could I possibly keep up this charade until April? Unlike other courtesans, there’s no prospect of gaining someone reliable soon; all I can depend on are Mr. Nishimiya and Ms. Koman. That Ms. Koman is truly enviable. Will I always be made to see nothing but this from now on? Why did Mr. Hirata end up like that? Was there truly no way he could come to see me again? As I wondered whether I would endure nothing but misery day after day from now on, every single movement of Zenkich drinking sake before my eyes became unbearably vivid—and before I knew it, a sigh escaped me at the thought: *If only this were him.*

Yoshizato felt sad, and pitiful, and vexed, and ephemeral all at once. When it came down to it, having no one to rely on was foremost—she simply couldn’t forget Hirata. The words Zenkich had spoken—“Today is the last day; this morning was our farewell”—struck Yoshizato’s heart as strangely ephemeral and pitiless, leaving something like a weight pressing on her chest.

Even when a customer—cold-shouldered time and again—ascended to the brothel right before her eyes, even when he was substituted for another courtesan, she ought to have rejoiced at her own persistent coldness; yet it was a courtesan’s nature to stoke not just pride in appearances but a true heart ablaze with torment. Yoshizato had been cold-shouldering Zenkich as well. However, he was a man with nothing hateful about him. The very depth of Zenkich’s devotion to Yoshizato only rendered Hirata’s presence all the more grating. Okuma, the money-driven junior attendant, having somewhat defied Yoshizato’s wishes for Zenkich’s sake—this compelled Yoshizato to cold-shoulder him even more vehemently than her heart desired. Though she knew not why, it became utterly unbearable. Now that Yoshizato had come to feel life’s impermanence through separation’s lens, hearing those same words repeated from Zenkich’s lips left her with a strangely heart-piercing ache.

Yoshizato accepted Zenkich’s cup, paused in thought for a moment, then drained it readily. “Zenkichi—your return cup,” she said, handing him a sake cup. “Let me pour for you,” she offered, sliding open the cabinet to serve.

Zenkichi’s eyes widened. He stared at Yoshizato without speaking, his hand trembling around the sake cup.

Nine

“Zenkichi, why don’t we have another?” Yoshizato deliberately smiled. Zenkichi was at a loss for words for some time. “Yoshizato—I give up... I give up entirely. I’ve had more than enough of this.” His hand trembled as he held out the sake cup, eyes brimming with tears. “I’ve nothing left to regret.”

“What’s come over you? Please don’t say such awful things—‘today’s the last day’ or ‘today’s our farewell.’ Keep coming to see me for a long time. Won’t you, Zenkichi?” “Huh? What’re you saying? Yoshizato... you’re serious? Ha ha ha ha! You spoke in jest and mocked me…”

“Hohohoho,” Yoshizato laughed emptily, “Please don’t say things like ‘today’s the last day’—keep coming to see me just as you always have.” Zenkichi exhaled deeply, tears spilling freely. Yoshizato stared unblinkingly at Zenkichi.

“I can’t come anymore after today．Yoshizato，today truly is our farewell，” declared Zenkichi．He drained his sake cup in one gulp，stared fixedly downward，and bit his lower lip．

“You say such things—is that truly the case? Are you going somewhere far away or something?” “Ah, whether I’m going somewhere far away or... where I’m going at all—even I don’t know…” he murmured, staring fixedly into space again. “What do you mean? Why must you say such disheartening things?” Yoshizato’s voice grew slightly subdued. “If you call that disheartening, Yoshizato,” Zenkich sniffled, “I’ve reached a point where I can’t stay in Tokyo—can’t stay anywhere anymore. I too was Minoya Zenkichi—had a shop known even to people of some standing in Tomizawa-cho as Minosen, but… Okuma came to help two or three times—you’d know that—and I even had three or four servants working for me. But in less than a year—no, just about a year since I first started coming to the oiran’s quarters—the shop vanished, the house became someone else’s property… Ha ha ha ha! I’ve ended up homeless.”

“Huh?!” Yoshizato gasped, then laughed hollowly: “Oh ho ho! Don’t spout such nonsense. How could such a thing ever happen?” “It’s not nonsense,” Zenkichi countered. “I wish to God it were.”

Zenkichi’s demeanor showed no trace of jest; his eyes brimmed with tears, and the fist gripping his knee trembled. “Zenkichi, is this truly real?” “Because I’m spineless…” Zenkichi couldn’t finish the thought, his cheeks quivering, his upper lip still trembling. When she realized that despite her cold treatment she had caused him to lose both his livelihood and home, Yoshizato was seized by a sudden, hollow terror—her entire body’s blood running cold even as her heart pounded violently.

“What happened to Okami-san?” Yoshizato asked after a pause, her voice trembling. “Hmm,” Zenkichi fell silent for a moment. “Once I became homeless—since we couldn’t even become beggars together as husband and wife—I sent her back to her parents’ home…” “Ha ha ha ha!” Zenkichi laughed while wiping away his tears.

“Oh, how pitiful,” sighed Yoshizato, bowing her head. “But Yoshizato, I’m already content with this.” “With you like this—if I leave now, pleasantly drunk from having you pour me drinks this morning—there’ll be no regrets left.” “Given how things were last night, I thought I wouldn’t be allowed to show my face—and if you’d spotted me, you might’ve scolded me—but even from afar, just wanting at least to see your face, I went to peek into Ms. Koman’s tatami room.” “Even when you came to see off that Mr. Hirata or whoever he is—I was peeking then too.” “Since I can’t come after today… even one kind word from you…” “I never imagined I’d get to drink with you like this morning…” “Yoshizato—I’ve never been happier than I am this morning.” “The first time I ever learned about courtesan patronage was here with you.” “I don’t know what other brothels are like.” “My last time will be here with you too.” “In between—I had all sorts of thoughts—foolish thoughts—pondered many things—but now… now that I don’t know where to place myself tomorrow… now that it’s come to this morning…” “Yoshizato—I’ve come to feel something beyond words,” said Zenkichi, ceaselessly wiping tears as he spoke, his laid-bare heart showing no trace of pretense.

Yoshizato found herself able to think of Hirata and Zenkichi separately, then blend them together in her thoughts. When she thought about never being able to see Hirata again, her loneliness grew all the more acute. Though Hirata had unavoidable circumstances, she reasoned that if he had truly wanted to help her, he might have found a way—yet even as this thought surfaced, Zenkichi’s current plight struck her as pitiful and tragic. That this too stemmed from her own actions made Zenkichi’s raw emotions seep into her bones with terrifying intensity, even as her longing for Hirata became unbearable. Upon hearing Zenkichi too would cease visiting after today, she wondered why she had treated someone harboring such genuine feelings so coldly—she felt she had committed a grave sin. As she viscerally understood the pitiful state of Zenkichi’s wife, the ephemerality of her own abandonment by Hirata sharpened further. And so she ached for Hirata uncontrollably, pitied Zenkichi profoundly, grew desolate—her head turned leaden as if she herself were dissolving into transience—her ears captured every trembling word Zenkichi uttered, her eyes traced each tear tracking down his face, until unbearable grief overwhelmed her, and at last she could no longer hold back her sobs.

As Zenkichi watched Yoshizato weeping into her sleeve, he could no longer distinguish the boundary between dream and reality; dazedly, his tears instead ceased to flow. “Zenkichi, please forgive me. I’m truly sorry,” said Yoshizato, finally raising her face to stare at Zenkich with tearful eyes. Zenkichi had not expected to hear these words from Yoshizato; unable to respond, he could only stare. “So then, Zenkichi, what will you do?” Yoshizato asked with concern.

“What do you mean?” “I... I haven’t decided what to do yet.” “I’m thinking of going to relatives in Yokohama—to rely on them, no matter how low I fall—and put up Minosen’s shop curtain once more… But even calling them relatives, I don’t know if they’ll help me or not… So I can’t bring myself to go to Yokohama…” Zenkichi paused, his face pale. “What’ll become of me… even I don’t know…” He shuddered violently, had Yoshizato pour him sake, and drank three cups in succession.

Yoshizato sat deep in thought. “Yoshizato, I have a request,” said Zenkichi, placing his cloth pouch on the edge of the hearth. “You might laugh at me… but somehow I can’t bring myself to leave yet. Let me stay and enjoy myself here until evening today.” “There’s about five yen in this pouch.” “That’s every last thing I own.” “If I settle last night’s bill… could I perhaps be entertained here today?” “Just let me stay—please.” “I don’t need a single sen left.” “Though if thirty or forty sen remained for tonight’s lodging… that’d be enough.” “No—nothing left is fine.” “Hey, Yoshizato—please let me do this,” Zenkichi said, his face flushing slightly yet radiating earnestness.

“Of course,” Yoshizato replied lightly, “stay and enjoy yourself. Don’t fret over the bill—stay tonight too.” She pushed Zenkich’s wallet back across the hearth’s edge. “This isn’t needed.” “That won’t do,” Zenkich insisted, his voice cracking. “That won’t do at all.” His fingers trembled against the worn cloth pouch. “Please—keep this for me.” Yoshizato stared fixedly at him, her tear-swollen eyes burning through the morning gloom. Those eyes seemed to speak entire sentences of unvoiced pity. Zenkich hovered his hand over the rejected wallet, feeling like a man watching his own reflection dissolve in murky water.

“Zenkichi, leave it to me. I will not do you wrong.” “Do not worry now—just keep that money for your own spending.” “Given how little I amount to, I may not be much of a confidant for you, but I will do everything I possibly can.” “Is that acceptable?” “Please make sure not to lose heart.” “And as for your spending money, I can manage that somehow, so please do not lose heart, all right?”

Zenkichi could not understand why Yoshizato would say such things to him. Though he did not comprehend it, he was unbearably happy. Amidst this joy lingered a disquieting sense of peril; as he stared at Yoshizato’s face—wavering between illusion and reality, between feigned and genuine emotion—she no longer resembled the Yoshizato he once knew. In her eyes he perceived sincerity so palpable he could not dismiss it as pretense. The hand clutching the wallet she’d told him to keep for pocket money now gripped irrefutable proof of her authenticity. How had things come to this? And so, though understanding eluded him, his happiness proved so overwhelming that he had somehow forgotten all thought of what tomorrow might bring.

“Zenkichi, I too... truly have no one to rely on,” said Yoshizato, tears falling freely as she stared at him. “Please let me be your support from now on.” At that instant, thoughts of Hirata flashed through her mind like lightning from every direction. Yoshizato’s entire body shuddered violently, leaving even herself unable to comprehend what she felt. Zenkichi wandered through a dreamlike state. He did nothing but gaze at Yoshizato’s face until tears began streaming down his cheeks—tears he made no move to wipe away.

“Yoshizato,” called Koman from the corridor.

“Oh, Ms. Koman—do come in.”

“Is someone here?” Koman slid open the shoji screen. “Oh, Mr. Zenkichi.” “Enjoying yourselves, aren’t you?”

Koman’s words seemed to hold meaning for both Yoshizato and Zenkich. Having received those words as meaningful, Yoshizato felt no desire to speak. Zenkichi, having lost the means to speak, remained silent.

Koman found it strange that neither of them responded, so she too remained silent. All three of them felt inexplicably awkward, mutually deflated.

“Ms. Koman! Ms. Koman!” someone called from afar.

Looking over, the shoji of the Shinonome room on the opposite corridor stood open, someone inside beckoning. That was Mr. Yoshida, a guest of the Shinonome room—Koman belonged to the same circle and knew him well enough to exchange playful banter.

“Yoshizato, come visit me later,” Koman tossed over her shoulder before sliding the shoji shut and hurrying off to the Shinonome tatami room.

Even when night fell that day, Zenkichi did not return.

Around eleven o'clock at night, Nishimiya came. Yoshizato went to Koman’s room and, upon hearing that Hirata had departed on the eight-thirty train that evening, cried so profusely that even Nishimiya was overwhelmed. When Nishimiya found he couldn’t simply entertain himself alone and tried to restrain her, she broke free and stayed by his side until he left around one o’clock, venting all her grievances.

Zenkichi lingered the following day as well. He did not leave the next day either and finally departed on the fourth morning. Because Yoshizato had kept him there, the ten yen Hirata had left behind at their parting was entirely spent on Zenkich’s behalf, and she had even pawned a couple of garments, evading Okuma’s notice. After that, it was mostly Yoshizato who summoned him, and Zenkich would come without fail every few days. He had come until around December 10th, but after that he no longer visited the brothel, instead occasionally sneaking to the shop wearing a tattered hood to meet her. Under the window of Yoshizato’s room facing Tano, there were those who spotted Zenkich standing across the iron gutter.

Ten

Two or three hours past noon, it had come time to cleanse away last night’s grime and bathe in preparation for polishing tonight’s jewels.

Each bringing their own makeup tools, three or five naked beauties had already stationed themselves in the washing area. Just as they washed away the grime of this fleeting world in its bathhouse, perhaps topics befitting their separate realm truly knew no end: beginning with disparaging their peers, then critiquing inner-chamber affairs, assessing brothel reputations, debating the beauty or plainness of rival courtesans seen at inspection halls, even exhaustively appraising the medical examiner’s looks—and when one group departed and another took their place, these replacements brought forth variations on the same themes, emerging endlessly until it all appeared inexhaustible for all eternity.

“They say tomorrow’s finally the year-end cleaning.” “Call it New Year’s all you want—there’s barely ten days left! What am I supposed to do? I’m truly at my wit’s end.” “It’s not like there’s anything left for us to do anyway.” “The sort of clients who’d request us aren’t coming—what’ll become of us?” “When the time comes, we’ll just have to muddle through somehow.” “If someone’s chasing you, anyone’d want to chase them back.” “Someone like me can’t even manage that—it’s nothing but trouble, I tell you.” “New Year’s—wish it wouldn’t come at all.”

“Chidori-san, even if you say that—since that man from Kakigara-cho will handle everything for you—isn’t there really no need to worry at all?” “No no—there’s no way things would work out like that.” “They spread out these grand plans like a giant cloth, but when things get tough, they always run off and don’t even show their faces for two months or so.” “There’s nothing worse than those men!” “As for me—I don’t have a single customer targeted for the three days yet—it’s really making me so fed up.”

“I’d be fine with just the second day too, but they say they can’t come unless it’s the third.” “And even that hasn’t been properly finalized yet.” “Ms. Koman has Mr. Nishimiya for all three days—the Seven Herbs Festival too, and even the fifteenth!” “If you had just one customer like that, you wouldn’t need to fret about year-end at all. How enviable Ms. Koman is.” “Speaking of Mr. Nishimiya—that Mr. Hirata who always came with him was quite the looker, wasn’t he?” “Mr. Namiyama, you had your eye on her all along, didn’t you?”

“Nothing but lies. That’s Hatsumidori-san.” “Ms. Yoshizato was lovesick to death, wasn’t she?” “Must be. That Mr. Zen isn’t even worth comparing.” “Why ever did Ms. Yoshizato take up with Mr. Zen as her lover? At first she treated him so cold it hurt to watch.” “That must’ve changed by now.” “Ms. Yoshizato’s fickle through and through.” “But Mr. Zen isn’t even worth cheating for.”

“I don’t care about that, but there’s no one quite like Ms. Yoshizato.” “She said she’d return it tonight—let me see—so I lent her two yen on the twenty-seventh last month.” “Still no repayment.” “There’s no one as ungrateful as her!” “Chidori-san, did you lend her something too?” “She borrowed my white crepe obi and fifty sen too—never saw them again.” “Without an obi, how shabby she must look when receiving clients.” “Keeps saying she’ll return it, but it’s been since the fifteenth!”

“Mr.Namiyama, isn’t my situation just awful?” “She even borrowed a ring I’d been entrusted with by a client.” “Because she said she’d return it by tomorrow morning, I lent it to her, but she hasn’t given it back since.” “The clients are blaming me, Ms.Yoshizato won’t return it, and I’ve never been in such a bind.” “When I pressed her this morning she said ‘Wait until tomorrow’—and I waited like she asked—but with Ms.Yoshizato’s ways, you can never trust anything.”

“There’s likely not a single second-floor courtesan she hasn’t borrowed from.” “Five on the third floor, three downstairs.” “She’s even borrowed from Ms. Yachiyo who only just started working here.” “To trick someone as childlike as that—isn’t it downright shameful?” “That’s why she’s losing all her associates bit by bit.” “Back when Mr. Hirata still visited, even Ms. Koman—who she used to be so close with—hasn’t kept company with her for ages now.”

“Who’d ever keep company with such an ungrateful wretch? Someone like me—getting mad now would just backfire, so I’m swallowing my rage and playing nice.” “New Year’s practically here—when’s she ever going to return it?” “This has gone far enough.” “If that ring isn’t back by tomorrow, I won’t let this slide!” “Come the year-end cleaning—strip her bare before everyone.”

“Doing something like that wouldn’t faze her. There’s nobody as ungrateful as that woman!”

When Namiyama suddenly glanced back at the footsteps in the corridor, Yoshizato was exiting the toilet and passing before the bath chamber. At Namiyama’s hissed “Shh,” the group turned to look down the corridor, and upon seeing Yoshizato, they were overcome with pity yet exchanged glances without speaking.

＊　　　　＊　　　　＊

Yoshizato had been absent from the brothel for about ten days under pretext of business. Though not ill, her cheeks showed gauntness; without makeup, her skin’s texture turned coarse and her complexion pallid. Her hair remained coiled in a comb wrap, uncovered by any headscarf. She suddenly appeared to have aged two years. Before Yoshizato—who leaned an arm on the brazier’s edge while pressing both hands to her bowed head—stood junior attendant Okuma, scrutinizing her while using a kiseru pipe as a cane. The paper lamp’s front panel gaped open, cloves smoldering as oily smoke billowed blackly. Beside an open inkstone box lay a torn half-sheet of paper; two chest drawers sat stacked diagonally against decorative paper’s corner.

Okuma was about to say something when a voice calling her was heard from downstairs. Okuma responded and attempted to stand, but then crouched down slightly again. “Wouldn’t that be best? “You should return to the brothel tonight. “If you just return to the brothel, the patron god of the inner chambers will surely favor you again—then we can settle everything somehow, can’t we? Now, wouldn’t that be best?” “Oh—they’re calling again. Wouldn’t that be best, Oiran?” “He doesn’t come anymore now, but let’s agree not to invite Mr. Zen for a while either. Right, Oiran? Wouldn’t that be best?” “I’ll just step out for a moment—please think it over carefully.” “I was about to go—they keep calling so insistently! Wouldn’t that be best, Oiran?”

Okuma exited into the corridor and immediately ran downstairs.

Yoshizato sat motionless in thought, heaving sigh after sigh. I can’t take this anymore. What’s the use of struggling any longer—there’s nothing left to struggle for. I truly can’t make amends. I can’t make amends to Brother Nishimiya either. I can’t make amends to Ms. Koman either. Ah. Sighing deeply, she pulled a crumpled letter from her sleeve. Though called a letter, it held only five or six hastily scrawled lines without proper closure. As she read it repeatedly, her eyes brimmed with tears. Finally resolved, she added no address—only brushing her real name O-Sato’s seal across the paper—before tying it into a bundle and slipping it back into her sleeve. There she sat pondering again.

While straining her ears toward the corridor, Yoshizato brought the drawers of the chest before the paper lamp, searched through the bottom of the upper drawer, and took out a thin paper package. Inside lay Hirata's photograph. Stacked beneath it was Yoshizato's own photograph. As she stared fixedly at them, tears pattered down onto Hirata's picture. Hastily pressing paper against them to blot the tears away, she aligned her photograph beside his and gazed at the pair through fresh weeping before rewrapping them in paper and setting the bundle aside.

What she now took out from another drawer were two bundles of letters, each tied with twisted paper. All of these were letters that had come from Hirata. She untied the twisted paper and began examining them, selected four or five from among them, read them through her tears, and rolled them back up while weeping. Among them were letters she had read two or three times already. If tears had been red in color, it would have looked as though countless vermilion dots had been stamped.

All the while, Yoshizato had been straining her ears. When she detected something, she abruptly stood up. She opened the corridor’s shoji screen to look around left and right, closed it again, stopped by the upper room’s window, and once more listened intently. As the train whistle from Ueno faded into the distance, a whistle—so faint it scarcely qualified as one—sounded three rhythmic notes. Yoshizato quietly opened the window and peered into the adjacent room. Her hand had already drawn the tied letter from her sleeve.

Eleven

The year-end cleaning that began at 3 AM had finished the inner chambers before dawn, then began sweeping through each courtesan’s room as the guests departed. By 11 AM, not a single spider’s thread remained across over a hundred rooms including the nameplate rooms, with even the corridors wiped down. From the regular tobi leader to merchants, female hairdressers, and elderly errand runners—all were provided with food and drink from the inner quarters beyond what was listed in the ledgers. For this entire day, formalities were cast aside, and a deafening commotion filled every corner from the front parlors to the third floor.

The courtesans too turned away all but their most familiar patrons and held banquets as they pleased. The rooms of the seasoned courtesans were of course no exception, but in the chambers of those long-established courtesans who still held sway, groups of four or five close companions gathered—light drinkers and heavy drinkers alike—drinking and feasting to their hearts’ content.

Koman was a seasoned courtesan—long-established and influential. The assortment of trays bearing provisions from the inner quarters had filled nearly every space from the ten-mat upper room down to the six-mat adjacent chamber. The tobi leader and eight or nine shophands had just departed after their congratulatory drinks when Koman—alongside Koromo, Hatsumurasaki, Hatsumidori, Meizan, and Chidori—all hovered at that stage of drunkenness where senses blur yet tongues loosen; even the junior attendant Oume, flushed crimson from cheeks to earlobes by both liquor and sweet bean soup, swayed among them.

Oume, who had been in the next room, cried out, “That’s dangerous—Oiran Yoshizato! She’s in peril!” When everyone turned toward the commotion, Yoshizato staggered into view, swaying so violently she could scarcely keep her footing. Her hair was bound in a comb-wrapped bun, Okuma’s hanten coat thrown over a padded garment of reddish gasu silk adorned with satin half-collars. Beneath this lay a faded scarlet Chinese crepe underrobe, all cinched by a navy Hakata men’s obi patterned with mountain motifs. Had five more years etched themselves upon her face, she might have passed for a retired junior attendant from some bygone oiran’s retinue.

Before Koman, who had been staring with an exasperated expression, Yoshizato sat down as if collapsing. Yoshizato had a pale face, yet narrowed her eyes and smiled at Koman. “Ms. Koman. “I, you know—I’ve been terribly remiss. I’m sorry, I’m sorry—rea~lly am sorry.” “I’m sorry, I’m sorry—I know full well how awful this is, but I just can’t help it.” “Ms. Koman—I’ve been thinking this for days now, but… enough, enough. Even if I say such things—ah, Ms. Koman—you’ll just laugh at me, won’t you.” “Let those who’d laugh go right ahead.” “Go right ahead and laugh.” “Go on—laugh. Laugh at me.” “Let them laugh—whoever they are. Let them laugh all they want.” “The only one who’d understand me is you, Ms. Koman.” “You’ve already figured it out.” “You’ve certainly figured it out.” “You’re truly perceptive, after all.” “Hohohohoho.” “Oh, Ms. Meizan.” “Ms. Chidori’s here too.” “Ms. Hatsumidori.” “Ms. Hatsumurasaki.” “Ms. Koromo—hand over that cup already.”

“The sake’s so good—so good—so good, really good. Hurry up and give it here.” “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” Yoshizato grinned mirthlessly—eyes squeezed shut, body swaying drunkenly, spittle threatening to drip from her mouth as she kept wiping her lips with the back of her hand. “Ms. Koromo, if you’d just hurry already—it’s not like parting with one paltry cup would ruin you now, would it?”

“Yoshizato,” Koman called out, “you seem thoroughly drunk.” “Whether I’m up or down—who the hell knows—but this ain’t Taiemon’s line, so let’s have another drop of sake… Hoho, hohohohoho.” “Hoho, hoho, hohohohohoho.”

“If you can drink, drink all you want.” “Since you’ve come after so long, drink your fill properly—just don’t let anyone touch you.” “Here—I’ll pour for you.”

Yoshizato looked down and said nothing for a while.

“Ms. Koman, I won’t forget,” Yoshizato said earnestly. “Mr. Hirata…. “You know—that Mr. Hirata.” “Mr. Hirata leaves for his hometown tomorrow—the night before that… Brother—no—Mr. Nishimiya brought him here for me…” “Ms. Koman… you still remember me, don’t you?” “The fact I can’t forget—that’s what’s truly strange.” “It was this very room—your room here—this very room.” “This room… back then.” “When I threw a tantrum and tried drinking sake from a teacup—you stopped me—‘It’ll poison you,’ you said—‘it’ll poison you.’” “I won’t forget,” she said, her voice sinking as her head gradually lowered.

“Why wasn’t that sake poison back then?” Yoshizato’s voice sank even lower, but then she suddenly burst into laughter as if amused. “Hoho, hohohoho.” “If sake turned into poison, would there even be such things as purification charms?” “Hey, Ms. Koromo.” “Well then, Ms. Koman—it’s been so long since I’ve had your sake-pouring…” Yoshizato had Koman pour her a drink and gulped it down in one go, but when the sake filled her mouth to the brim, she endured and finally managed to swallow it.

“Hey, Ms. Koman. If that sake back then could’ve been poison, then this might be poison too.” “Ah well, poison me if it must.” “Dying’d just end things quick, wouldn’t it?” “Ms. Meizan and Ms. Chidori—look how sour their faces’ve gone.” “No matter—rest your worries.” “What blooms after death? They say love’s made of suffering.” “Now there’s pretty words for you.” “Who’d be fool enough to chase death willingly?” “Ms. Meizan, Ms. Chidori—I’m no Yoshizato to die crushed by your petty debts—so breathe easy.” “Die sudden—get my dues.” “Then comes your condolence coins.” “Hohohohoho.” “Give those offerings while I live.” “Ms. Koromo, Ms. Hatsumurasaki—pay up now if you mean to.” “Hoho, hohohoho.”

“Ah, I’d forgotten.”

“I need to pop over to Shinonome’s place,” said Hatsumidori as she rose from her seat. “Ms. Yoshizato, I’ll take my leave first. Oiran, I’ll come again later,” she added, already stepping out of Koman’s room. Koromo stood, Hatsumurasaki stood, Chidori and Meizan left as well—until finally only Koman and Yoshizato remained.

In the next room, Oume was adding charcoal to the brazier.

“Ms. Koman—won’t Mr. Nishimiya be coming today?” Yoshizato’s tone abruptly shifted as she posed the question with apparent purpose. “Ah, he isn’t coming.” “He said he had some unavoidable business for two or three days, you see.” “I don’t think he’ll come unless it’s around the day after tomorrow.” “The other day, he mentioned you—said he hadn’t seen you in ages—and asked how Yoshizato was doing.” “He’s a chronic worrier himself, so it seems he’s still concerned after all.”

“Right.” “I simply can’t bring myself to face Mr. Nishimiya.” “But today… today I suddenly wanted to see him…” “He won’t be coming for two or three days…” “When he comes next time—tell him I said this. As a final request, make sure you pass it on.” “Ah—if he comes next time, I’ll let you know. Do visit then.”

Yoshizato sat thinking for some time. Then she poured herself two or three cups of sake and drank them down before sinking back into thought.

“Ms. Koman, has there been no word from Mr. Hirata to Mr. Nishimiya either?” Yoshizato’s voice sounded unexpectedly composed.

“Ah, apparently not a single letter has come since then.” “They say even the replies to Mr. Nishimiya’s letters never arrived either.” “But you know,” said Koman, her eyes fixed on Yoshizato with a faint sneer, “a person’s fate remains truly unknowable until the end.” “Oh, that’s simply how things go,” Yoshizato dismissed airily. “Ms. Koman—there’s something I need to ask of you.” “A request?”

Yoshizato took out a paper bundle containing fourteen or fifteen letters from her pocket and placed it before Koman. “It’s about these letters. “Among the letters that came to me from Mr. Hirata, I thought discarding them would be too improper—so last night I sorted through them and set these apart. “Keeping them locked away serves no purpose, and leaving them here would just mean they’d end up as scrap paper—but that feels too improper too. So I’ll leave them with you. Have Mr. Nishimiya deliver them to Mr. Hirata when he gets the chance. “Hey, Ms. Koman. Please—I beg of you.”

Koman’s complexion changed. “Ms. Yoshizato—are you truly serious about this?” “Tell Mr. Nishimiya and have him deliver them to Mr. Hirata,” Yoshizato repeated. “Ms. Yoshizato, why would you get such an idea?” “I never knew you were such a heartless person.” “Just because they won’t even be used as scrap paper—isn’t that too heartless of you?” “If you forget Mr. Hirata so completely, it would be far too improper, wouldn’t it.”

“But… even if I think about someone I can never see again…” Yoshizato hung her head.

“I’m truly appalled,” said Koman, her voice sharp as winter frost. “In our line of work, no one expects you to stay devoted to one man forever—to live out your days alone. But to put Mr. Hirata in the same category as Zenkichi? That won’t sit right with your conscience.” Her eyes narrowed like tarnished hairpins. “However fond you are of Zenkichi, forgetting Mr. Hirata completely—that’s heartless beyond measure.” Yoshizato’s fingers whitened around her cup. “I love Zenkichi.” The words fell like oversteeped tea leaves, bitter and sodden. “More than I ever cared for Mr. Hirata.” A jagged laugh escaped her as she stared at the tatami’s frayed edge. “Not pining for Mr. Hirata anymore… I suppose that makes me the coldest-hearted courtesan in Yoshiwara.” She sank her teeth into her collar’s silk until the fabric groaned.

“You’re truly appalling.” “Fine! Do as you please.” “I never thought there was anything wrong with you carrying on with Zenkich like this, but having seen your heartlessness today of all days, I’ll no longer speak to you.” “Well, get out already.” “You’re truly appalling.”

Yoshizato stood up despondently. “Make sure you deliver these to Mr. Hirata.” Koman did not respond. After exiting to the next room, Yoshizato returned and said, “Ms. Koman—I’m counting on you.” “Please give my regards to Mr. Nishimiya as well.”

Koman once again did not respond. Yoshizato looked at Okuma and said, “Okuma, I was truly looked after during Mr. Hirata’s time. If Mr. Nishimiya isn’t here, tell him Yoshizato sent her regards.” “Okuma, I’m counting on you.”

Oume looked down and did not respond to this either. Yoshizato stared fixedly at Koman in the upper room, and no sooner had she left the chamber than she was heard talking loudly in front of the neighboring courtesan Oguruma’s quarters, clearly very drunk. As dusk fell and it came time for the brothel to open its doors. Koman had already donned her ceremonial robe and was adjusting her appearance before the mirror stand when Oume came rushing in frantically, “Oiran, something terrible has happened!” “They say Ms. Yoshizato isn’t here!”

“Huh?! Ms. Yoshizato—” “There’s a huge commotion in the inner quarters! They say the back bridge was lowered and the rear entrance’s been left open.”

“Huh… Is that so? Well…” Startled, Koman suddenly remembered—the bundle of letters Yoshizato had left behind earlier still lay unpacked in the alcove. When she opened it and undid the twisted paper wrapping, a photograph encased in paper slipped out from between the letters. There was writing on the wrapper. With trembling hands, she unfolded and read it—Koman turned deathly pale. I hereby leave this final missive. Having resolved myself through unavoidable circumstance, I humbly entreat your gracious understanding. To Mr. Hirata: I remain eternally remiss. To Mr. Nishimiya: I remain eternally remiss. To yourself: I remain eternally remiss. Yet through this photograph, I most reverently implore you to discern my true heart. My sole lingering regret is being denied one final audience with Mr. Hirata and Mr. Nishimiya. To all parties concerned, I beseech you to convey my regards through your own voice. In this urgent hour, I leave nothing further unsaid.

Respectfully, Dear Madam

People.

When she looked at the photographs—Hirata’s and Yoshizato’s placed front to front—the back bore a large handwritten character for “heart,” bound crosswise with twisted paper. With tears streaming down her face, Koman clutched the photograph and suicide note as she rushed to Yoshizato’s room on the same second floor—but of course Yoshizato was nowhere to be found. Only Okuma, a clerk, and two others were there, making a commotion.

Koman went to the upper room and peered out the window, but all she could see were scattered lights from houses around Taro Inari and Iriya-Kanesugi, with only Ueno's electric lamps glowing like will-o'-the-wisps in the distance. Around noon the next day, through the efforts of Asakusa Police Station, it was discovered that in an alley near Hashiba in Imado, Okuma's half-coat—which Yoshizato had worn when she left—had been discarded, and that along the Sumida River bank in the same alley, a courtesan's sandals and a pair of men's hemp-lined sandals had been left abandoned.

However, the corpse was not easily found. At the end of January the following year, when Okuma went to verify a corpse that had washed up upstream from Eitaibashi Bridge—as reported in a newspaper article—the face was decomposed beyond recognition, but the clothing unmistakably matched what Yoshizato had been wearing when she left. Okuma tearfully buried her at Minowa’s Muen Temple, and Koman sent Oume to make incense offerings every seventh day for seven weeks.