Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The vast sky held not a single cloud yet was suffused with darkness; the moon of the twenty-fourth night had yet to rise; the stars sparkled with an almost spiritual radiance that chilled to the bone when gazed upon. The electric lights that pride themselves on illuminating the sleepless city could not escape the desolation of frost-withered March; from the brothel gate to the waterway's end, not even the shrill clamor of voices from teahouse upper floors could be heard. The eighth of November, two days before the first Tori-no-Ichi festival—though this year was somewhat warm, not cold enough to require three layers of silk underkimono—the deepening night nevertheless saw the early winter chill seep into one’s bones.

A short while ago, Sumi-ebi's great clock had struck twelve. In Kyo-machi, even the shadows of sightseers vanished; in Sumi-cho, the clanging of the nightwatchman's iron staff could be heard. The flute music from the Sato-no-Ichi market trailed off lingeringly, and even in the display rooms, the idle chatter began to subside. The sound of indoor zori sandals in the hallway grew sparse, and there were some rooms where they were now putting out the remains of the feast. From the distant third floor came a shrill voice calling, "Kisuke! Kisuke!" for the nightwatchman.

“Shut up!” “Aren’t you being too damn persistent!” “This is so damn stifling!” declared Yoshizato—the star courtesan of this establishment—as she strode briskly down the corridor with visible irritation. “It truly troubles me when you speak this way.” “Please come here for a moment.” “Oiran, this is improper,” called Okuma—the young attendant—as she hurried after Yoshizato.

Yoshizato was perhaps twenty-two or twenty-three—now in the prime earning years of her profession. She wasn't a classic beauty, but possessed a round face that men found appealing—though with an undercurrent of sharpness. Her pure, lovely double-lidded eyes—intimidating when glared with, yet provoking a desire to challenge when she smiled—were slightly teary, while her straight-line eyebrows were raised in that vexing manner people found irritating. She tilted her head back so far that her cheeks jutted out deliberately, and with her left canine tooth biting into her upper lip, her tall, beautiful nose took on an air of haughtiness. With hands tucked in her sleeves and shoulders shaking, she nodded her heavy Shimada hairstyle from yesterday in jerky motions, letting the hem of her lined kimono jacket—freshly changed on the first of the month—wipe the hallway as she strode widely yet hurriedly, dragging her indoor zori sandals.

Okuma was around forty, with faint pockmarks, a bald spot at her temples, a crooked right eye, and a pointed mouth—no matter how one looked at her, hers was a young maid’s face through and through—a young maid’s face specially crafted for spite.

The two women had been arguing until now; thus Okuma came chasing after Yoshizato, who had rushed out of the room in exasperation. “Isn’t the hem dragging? It can’t be helped, can it?” “What’s wrong with that? If it’s dragging, what’s it to you? It’s not like I had you fix it, so don’t go meddling.” “That’s right. I’ve never had the honor of attending to you, Oiran.” Yoshizato walked briskly away without replying. Okuma continued clinging to her and would not let go.

“But you see, Oiran. If you keep being so willful, I’ll get scolded by the management.” “Hmph. How pitiful that you’re the one getting scolded. If Yoshizato’s being impossible, go complain to the gods however you like.”

Yoshizato stopped before a room marked by a black-lacquered placard bearing "Komatsu" in white characters. “Mr. Zenkich is also a customer.” “Hasn’t the sake been ready since earlier?” “Mr. Zenkich is a customer too, you say.” “Who claimed he wasn’t?” “Don’t state the obvious,” said Yoshizato as she slid open the paper door, entered the room, and slammed it shut behind her. “What’s the matter?” “Another fit of temper, I see.” The voice calling to Yoshizato while warming sake at the long brazier in the adjoining room belonged to Komatsu—a senior courtesan of this establishment who carried herself with uncharacteristic dignity for her profession and stood two or three years Yoshizato’s elder.

“But they’re being so insufferable!”

“Again tonight? He comes quite often, doesn’t he,” Komatsu muttered under her breath, furrowing her brows.

“Just understand,” Yoshizato said, shuddering as she crouched before the brazier. Though newly replaced, in the lantern’s dim glow the two women locked gazes. When Komatsu smiled gently, Yoshizato mirrored it with apparent delight—yet her expression betrayed helplessness too. “Since Mr. Hirata has come tonight, I’ve already notified Oume-don for you.”

“Right.” “Thank you.” “If you say it’s just a consolation—well, Mr. Nishinomiya has substance.”

“Come to the back room quickly,” said Komatsu, fanning beneath the iron kettle with tissue paper. Yoshizato peered into the upper room illuminated by the blazing candlestick and, without thinking, tucked her chin into her collar as she murmured, “Somehow this makes me so sad.” “Even just showing your face would be enough,” called Okuma’s voice from beyond the shoji screen. “Please come over there for a moment.” “Be quiet,” Yoshizato snapped back. “A customer is here.” “Forgive me,” said Okuma as she slid open the shoji screen. Bowing with a polite smile toward Komatsu’s direction, she added, “My apologies to your Oiran.” Then from behind Yoshizato, who was already retreating toward the inner rooms, she pressed: “Oiran, this simply won’t do.”

“Isn’t it fine if I go now? Oh, you’re insufferable!” said Yoshizato as she entered the upper room without so much as turning around. There were two guests. Nishinomiya sat cross-legged with the tokonoma alcove at his back, while Hirata remained seated with his knees formally upright against the window.

Nishinomiya was thirty-two or thirty-three years old, with a stocky build and a charming round face. Dressed in a Yūki tsumugi underkimono and matching haori, he somehow gave off the air of a merchant. Hirata bore the appearance of either a private school instructor, technical college student, or what one might perceive as a minor official, wearing a black nanako-patterned haori jacket with three family crests over two underkimono layers of indigo-striped knot-woven fabric and whitish Ueda stripes, his obi sash tightly wrapped in white crepe silk. He must have been around twenty-six or twenty-seven years old. Though no comb teeth showed through his hair, its glossy jet-black locks cascading in great waves made his snow-pale complexion appear all the more striking. Though slender-faced, he had a robust build with an elegantly high nose and firmly set lips whose charm might be mistaken for dimples. The gold-rimmed glasses that often lend a delicate impression did not appear affected, and since he possessed a manly demeanor that even other men would acknowledge, he seemed particularly likely to be favored by courtesans.

When Yoshizato entered, both guests looked up at her face. Hirata immediately averted his gaze and, as if suddenly remembering, took up the sake cup and raised it to his lips—whether there remained any drink within was unclear. Yoshizato's eyes first fixed on Hirata but immediately shifted to Nishinomiya as she smiled affectionately. "Brother," she called out while still dragging her lined kimono jacket, running over to throw herself against the man's shoulders.

“Hahaha. “You’ll cause trouble lingering at the gate like this. What’s this? You’ve been peeking through the second-floor lattice and tapping rhythmically at the shop’s grating like a cricket all this time,” said Nishinomiya with a laugh, looking at Yoshizato. Yoshizato deliberately put on a cold front and said, “Don’t treat me like a fool. That’s ancient history now.” “If you’d just accept things like that, it’d be a huge relief for me. Ow ow ow! A thigh slap as your way of switching targets—that’s more than I bargained for, you know. If you jab my arm here and put a grinding lock on me, it’ll be real trouble. You’d better remember this—revenge scares me.”

“But you’re just too hateful!” said Yoshizato, looking at Hirata. “Mr. Hirata, you actually came tonight.” “Aren’t you going back home yet?” Hirata momentarily met Yoshizato’s gaze before turning sharply aside.

“Well, it’s about to begin.” “Tonight isn’t a regular appointment day—more like what you’d call a Day of Turmoil.” “Once things start over there, they’ll start here too.” “The Tori-no-Ichi festival is the day after tomorrow.” “I lose, I lose! A total defeat!” declared Nishinomiya with forced bravado, laughing exaggeratedly. “You’re really making a fool of me,” Yoshizato retorted with a mocking smile.

“Jests are jests, but you’ve been causing quite a commotion since earlier.” “You shouldn’t let your temper flare up like this.” “But—” “Now, look...” said Yoshizato with her eyes speaking volumes, “Well, I won’t get even a little angry now, will I?”

“Is that so. Is Tomizawa-cho here?” Nishinomiya said quietly. “That’s fine too. “It’s been a while—though not really that long. It was just the night before last, wasn’t it?” “Even so, let’s consider it a reunion after all this time. Hey Hirata, why don’t you pass around the sake cups?” “Whoa, time for a refill.” “Hey, not ready yet?” “Sake! Sake!” he called toward the next room. “Just a moment more.” “You’re quite impatient too, aren’t you?” “That’s hardly the case.” “It’s because Ms. Oume lacks tact—if she’d just tend to the charcoal.” The rustle of Komatsu’s kaishi paper and hushed voices could still be heard—a sign that Okuma remained in the next room.

Yoshizato lit a hand-rolled cigarette and handed it to Nishinomiya. “They’re still going on about something. Oh, I can’t stand this, I can’t stand this.”

“There you go with the ‘I can’t stand this’ again.” “He’s still coming around as persistently as ever, isn’t he?” “He doesn’t fall short of us by much.” “You’ve kept him dangling—now you can’t just say you’re tired of him.” “Offer a sweet word or two and show some kindness—it’ll count as a virtuous act.” “Please stop this.” “Don’t treat me so cruelly just because I’ve become all alone now.”

“A lone person, you say,” said Nishinomiya with theatrical emphasis. “But I am a lone person, aren’t I?” Yoshizato replied, smiling bleakly at Nishinomiya before turning her gaze piercingly toward Hirata. As she stared, her eyes brimmed with tears.

Two Hirata had not spoken a word since earlier. Though an empty sake cup could not be drunk from many times over, he busied himself with various distractions—peeling unwanted side dishes, adding spring water to the boiling pot, fiddling with mitsuba leaves—all while seizing every moment when Yoshizato wasn’t looking his way to fix his gaze upon her. Missing his chance to look away, he unintentionally met Yoshizato’s gaze—her tear-filled eyes glaring at him resentfully—and though startled into trying to avert his own, failed completely, ending up staring back just as fixedly. When tears streamed from Yoshizato’s eyes, Hirata couldn’t bear it and looked down, exhaling deeply as his own tears welled up.

Nishinomiya, having lost any opening to intervene at the sight of the two, with no sake and nothing else to do, once again called toward the next room. “Hey, not ready yet?”

“Ah, it’s finally ready,” said Komatsu as she took the sake warmer from the iron kettle. “That’s how it is.” “Listen well, Ms. Okuma.” “I’ll explain properly later, so let her have her way tonight.” “How about it?” “I humbly beg you,” said Okuma through the sliding door, “Madam, does this arrangement not suit your convenience?” “Enough!” Yoshizato glared through the sliding door. “Stop criticizing others and mind your own conduct.” “Why don’t you go tend the sake warmer there instead.” “Can’t you see Ms. Komatsu working here?” “If you dislike it so, have someone else take your place.”

“Yes, madam. Yes, madam.” “How very unfortunate for you,” said Okuma as she exited the room. “Properly send someone over.” “Since Oume must be around somewhere, have her come here,” Komatsu called out as she entered the upper room, but whether Okuma had already left or not, there came no reply. What an utterly hateful person. What does she think a maid is? Aren’t you just a servant employed by the courtesan? If you keep grumbling like this, I’ll have you reported to the management. The nerve of a mere servant.

“Haven’t you had enough already?” “What good comes from dealing with those maids anyway?”

Komatsu came to the upper room and sat down before Hirata.

Hirata, looking as though he could wait no longer, said, “Ms. Komatsu, why don’t we share a cup?” “Well now, while it’s still hot,” said Komatsu, steadying the sake flask as she poured for Hirata. “Mr. Hirata, why don’t we try getting properly drunk tonight—it’s been ages.” She spoke while casting a sidelong glance at Yoshizato. “Right,” said Hirata after a moment’s consideration. He drained his cup in one gulp and handed it to Komatsu. “What do you say—shall we get properly drunk?” “Well, I suppose so...” “You’re not going to trouble me too, are you?” said Nishinomiya, laughing as he looked at Komatsu. “What’s this—you can’t even hold your liquor.” “If she starts rambling drunkenly, his lordship will be troubled again.”

“When have I ever rambled drunkenly?” Komatsu said with exaggerated emphasis as she turned toward Nishinomiya. “Go on, say it. Don’t go spreading such embarrassing talk.”

“Ms. Komatsu, you go ahead and get drunk too.” “If I don’t ramble drunkenly about something, I’ll go mad with frustration. Right, Brother?” Yoshizato glared sharply at Hirata while firmly grasping Nishinomiya’s hand. “You’ll forgive me for this little outburst, won’t you?”

“Well then, it’s settled.” “Even handling one would be more than enough—how could I possibly endure taking on two formidable opponents?” “Hirata, you handle one front.” “Ms.Yoshizato’s front—I’ll handle it.” “Ms.Yoshizato, go ahead and ramble to your heart’s content.”

“Hohoho.” “After saying such things, now you’re trying to pick on me again?” “Ms. Komatsu, you lend me a hand here.” “How vile.” “I’ll get along nicely with Mr. Hirata and drink quietly.” “Hey there, Mr. Hirata.” “Hmph.” “What a fine pair of traitors you two make.” “Mr. Hirata, am I really that frightening to you?” "I won't cling to you, so you can rest assured." “Ms. Komatsu, pour for me,” said Yoshizato, holding out her sake cup, but then swapped it for the teacup nearby. “These tiny cups are such a bother. Fill it right to the brim.”

“It’s about time you started your usual routine.” “Too much will poison you.” “I don’t care if it poisons me.” “If the sake were to poison me and I died...at least my troubles would end...” Yoshizato looked down, tears spilling onto Nishinomiya’s hand she had been clutching. Hirata put his hand to his forehead and turned away. Nishinomiya and Komatsu exchanged glances and involuntarily sighed.

“Boring, so boring,” said Yoshizato as she poured heavily into the teacup herself. “I told you to stop,” said Komatsu as she tried to take the sake flask, but when Yoshizato began pouring again with “If I don’t drink…,” Komatsu forcibly seized it from her. Yoshizato drank it down in one gulp, grimaced, turned away, and let out a pained breath. “You’re so stubborn—planning to make yourself suffer again later.” “If it’s just suffering from alcohol...” “The only one who understands me is you, Brother,” said Yoshizato, looking at Nishinomiya. “Please forgive me.” “Wasn’t there a promise that I wouldn’t vent complaints anymore?” She laughed hollowly.

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

“I’ll be right there,” Yoshizato said gently this time. Okuma went away without saying anything. “Why don’t you go out for a moment? Return properly reinvigorated.” Yoshizato sat thinking, having filled to the brim the sake cup Nishinomiya had offered. “You really ought to do it properly.” “It won’t do to neglect him so excessively.” “Mr. Zenkich is a pitiable man.” “Though treated this coldly night after night, he comes without complaint—you should at least avoid provoking his anger,” Komatsu added, carefully wording it so as not to irritate Yoshizato.

“You’re making unreasonable demands again,” said Yoshizato, draining her sake cup. “Here, Brother. I truly do feel sorry for Mr. Zenkich, but I can’t stand seeing his face either. He may be devoted, but... The more devoted he acts, the more I detest him. It’s not that he lacks real feelings or doesn’t understand obligation...”

Hirata abruptly stood up. "Restroom," said Komatsu as she too began to rise. "Nah," said Hirata as he hurried to the next room.

“Just let him be neglected, Ms. Komatsu. Let him go wherever he pleases, I tell you.”

In the next room, Hirata slid open the shoji screen. “Oh? The sandals aren’t here.” “Someone must’ve taken them again.” “No trouble at all.” “You can wear mine,” said Ms. Komatsu as she called out, and while she spoke, the sound of Hirata heavily dragging indoor zori sandals could be heard. “What a spineless way to walk,” Yoshizato said with exaggerated disdain. Nishinomiya gave her cheek a light poke. “Hahaha. You’re being quite dismissive, aren’t you?” “I most certainly will say.” “Hey, Ms. Komatsu.”

“Hmph, planning to cry about it later again?” “Who would?” “Fine.” “You’re absolutely certain?” pressed Nishinomiya. “Heh,” Yoshizato laughed hollowly. “I’ve had enough torment.”

The clamorous footsteps of four or five people scrambling up the brothel ladder resounded. “Guests!” voices called out in unison. The sound of zori sandals rushing through the hallway grew more frantic. “Ms. Komatsu’s Oiran! Ms. Komatsu’s Oiran!” voices came running and calling. “How bothersome, at this hour,” said Ms. Komatsu, frowning without offering a response. The clatter of hastening zori sandals halted before Komatsu’s room. “Oiran, a moment,” called out in a moderate tone by Komatsu’s young maid, Oume.

“What is it?”

“Just your presence for a moment.”

“Right,” said Ms. Komatsu. “If it’s a first meeting, have them apologize.” “Because it’s a regular,” replied Oume. “Who is it?” Ms. Komatsu pressed. “Who came?” Nishinomiya stared seriously at her face. “Ohohoho—you’re just jealous,” Yoshizato laughed out.

“Hahahaha.” “How about it—isn’t steam rising from my kettle?” “Ah, it’s rising,” said Yoshizato, digging her nails into Nishinomiya’s arm. “How vexing!” “Ouch! That’s cruel.” “It hurts!” said Nishinomiya as he rubbed his arm exaggeratedly. Komatsu smiled warmly. “Don’t make them suffer too much now—if tempers flare, it’ll be trouble.”

“Hahahaha. Not even a proper worm,” said Nishinomiya. “Hohohoho. What a cute little bug.” “Isn’t it just a greasy bug?” “The hardship bug,” said Komatsu, glaring briefly at Nishinomiya before leaving. Just then, the striking of wooden clappers marked two o'clock. As the caged birds of Honmise and Hokemise pleasure quarters returned to their respective nests, the sound of indoor zori sandals began roaring all at once.

Three

Yoshizato had just given her final reply when she burst into tears. Nishinomiya wiped his sapè pipe while gazing at Yoshizato’s disheveled Shimada hairstyle, appearing at a loss. The candle’s wick burned long, oil smoke rose in black plumes, and the lamplight dimmed, casting an air akin to tear-streaked visages. As Yoshizato’s voice, choked with tears, began to subside slightly, Nishinomiya stopped wiping his sapè pipe and spoke. “I feel unbearably sorry.” “I truly understand.” “With this, Hirata can return to his hometown without any regrets.” “It means my worrying wasn’t in vain.” “I’m truly grateful.”

Yoshizato half-raised her face but, without replying, wiped her tears with a tissue. "If it were any other matter, we could find a way around it," said Nishinomiya, "but since this concerns his household's survival, Hirata truly has no choice but to return home. I'm at my wits' end about it." "Why ever did your family head incur such losses?" asked Yoshizato, still dabbing at her eyes. "Why? It was an administrative error—nothing could be done." Nishinomiya leaned forward, his voice lowering. "With his father grown listless, a young brother and sister to care for—and their mother dead, as you know—Hirata must return to set the family's affairs in order." He sighed heavily. "The man deserves pity too."

“If Mr. Hirata goes back home, will everyone find peace?”

“It won’t be that simple. In ordinary circumstances, things probably won’t resolve so easily. So, since there’s no sudden reason for him to leave the capital again, it’s as though I’ve made an unreasonable request of you. If you keep crying like you have these past few days, we can’t have a proper conversation—I was truly at my wits’ end. With this, I too can finally rest easy. I’m truly grateful.”

Yoshizato had given her final reply in words, but in her heart, she still seemed unable to resign herself, lost in deep thought.

Nishinomiya brought the poured sake cup to his lips. “Oh, it’s cold.”

“Oh—I’m sorry. I hadn’t noticed.” Yoshizato laughed forlornly and picked up the sake bottle.

Her eyes—once praised as priceless—now had swollen, reddened lids; her rouge was washed away by pitiful tears, leaving her bearing no resemblance to the Yoshizato of an hour before.

“How about a cup?” said Nishinomiya, offering the sake cup. As Yoshizato received it and tried to bring it to her lips, her tears created ripples in the sake. She closed her eyes, drank it down in one gulp, set the cup aside, then bowed her head and wept anew. “It’s genuine, isn’t it?” said Yoshizato, looking at Nishinomiya with tear-swollen eyes that made her appear wretched.

“What?” said Nishinomiya, widening his eyes. “Somehow... I feel like I’m being deceived,” said Yoshizato, shifting her gaze from Nishinomiya to the tatami mats. “This is troubling, really. “You’re still doubting, aren’t you? “Whether Hirata is that kind of man or not—you should know better than I, who’ve been like brothers with him these five or six years. “As if I would ever deceive you...” As Nishinomiya tried to press on, Yoshizato hurriedly cut him off. “Oh, that’s not it at all! “I’m sorry to you, Brother. “Please forgive me. “But it’s because Mr. Hirata is being so composed…”

“What do you mean he’s composed? A man usually so carefree can’t even speak properly—just keeps watching your expression until he can hardly stay here.” “If it’s truly so, he should talk to me directly instead of making Brother worry—isn’t that how it should be?” “He did talk. He must have tried many times. Isn’t it that you wouldn’t engage? Whenever he tried to speak, you’d snap ‘What nonsense!’—Hirata was utterly worn down by it.”

“But I’m not,” said Yoshizato, smiling faintly as if she found herself amusing.

“There, you see?” “That’s why.” “How could Hirata possibly hold a proper conversation?” “I know your nature well.” “That’s why I went so far as to bring Hirata here like this—so he could depart for his hometown once you’ve come to accept it.” “If you were to think him faithless, he might depart suddenly without a word.” “As for me—but Hirata isn’t such an unfaithful man; it’s truly unavoidable.” “Since you’ve already agreed; there’s no need for me to belabor the point…” “Given your nature… Since I already understand it, I’m at ease, but…” “Ms. Yoshizato, I’m truly counting on you.”

Yoshizato burst into tears again. The sound was loud enough to leak outside the room. Nishinomiya too found himself unable to offer comfort.

“Here you are,” said Nakadon, who seemed to leave something in the next room.

Again, someone slid open the shoji. The one who peered into the upper room from the next and called out, “Oh my, is the parlor courtesan still over there?” was a sixteen- or seventeen-year-old girl with large, lovely eyes—this being Ms. Komatsu’s young maid Oume. “Mr. Hirata hasn’t come yet either, has he,” said Oume as she carried the items on the tray that Nakadon had left behind to the upper room. “Shall I prepare some eggplant rice for dinner? Shall I call everyone?”

“Oh, never mind it.” “Is Mr. Hirata in Ms. Yoshizato’s parlor?”

“Yes. He was lying there all alone, you know. Thinking he must be lonely, I went to him—but he told me to go away. Seems he’s deep in thought about something, you know.”

“You put it nicely.” “It’s not that you thought he was lonely—you tried sweet-talking Hirata and got snubbed, didn’t you?” “Ha ha ha ha ha.” “Serves you right.” “That’s your punishment for not listening to what I told ya!”

"Oh my, such things." "Do keep that in mind." "Honestly, you turned bright red." "Ha ha ha ha ha."

“Oh my, when did your face turn so red?” “If you go saying such things, this is what happens.”

“Oh no, I can’t take this!” “No more tickles!” “I surrender, I surrender!” “Won’t you stop now?” “I won’t say it, I won’t!” “Let’s have tea to make up.” “If the water’s boiling, make it strong, please.” “What a bother,” said Oume as she prepared tea in the next room and brought over teacups on a tray. “Though you’re insufferable… here.” “No—how kind of you.” “With this, I’ll call it even for trying to woo Hirata.” “Still on about that?” “Whoa, careful!” “It’s overflowing, overflowing!”

“Only at a time like this can we breach your defenses, eh, Oiran?” “Well, Oiran?”

Yoshizato smiled a lonely smile and said nothing.

“There’s no way I’d let you tickle me now.” “I surrender, I surrender, I truly surrender!” “Is that a promise?”

“I’ll do it, I’ll do it!”

“Serves you right,” said Komatsu. “I made you apologize.” “Ha ha ha ha ha.” Yoshizato’s laughter rang out. “As if I’d let Miss Oume tickle me. She knows all the weak spots to make a man squirm, you know.” “Say what you will.” Komatsu’s voice held weary defiance. “I can’t possibly win against you anyway.” Oume stood abruptly, her indoor zori scraping against the tatami. “I’ll serve dinner later when everyone’s gathered. I’ll return shortly.” She disappeared into the next room with a swish of her lined kimono sleeves.

Someone—who had been peeking?—snapped the shoji shut from outside.

“Oh my, someone was peeking!” said Oume as she hurriedly opened the shoji, and the rapid patter of zori sandals running down the corridor could be heard. “Well,” came Oume’s exasperated voice.

Four

“What’s going on?” said Nishinomiya, looking up at Oume as she entered with an air of urgency. “It’s Mr. Zenkich. It was Mr. Zenkich who was peeking,” said Oume, her eyes widening as she looked at Yoshizato, who had just lifted her face. “What an insatiable jealous man!” Yoshizato appeared irritated. “Since earlier, he’s been peeking into your guest room time and again. I was truly worried that Mr. Hirata might get angry.”

“If you keep up that nonsense any longer, I’ll cut you off for good. Ah, how utterly unfree I am,” said Yoshizato, gazing intently at Nishinomiya before hanging her head and sighing. “The Oiran in the guest room is running rather late. I’ll go check briefly,” said Oume, leaving with the sound of adding water to the iron kettle in the next room.

“Mr. Nishinomiya,” said Yoshizato with force in her voice, “what should I do? It’s truly agonizing. Please try to put yourself in my position and understand.” “I do understand,” said Nishinomiya after a moment’s thought. “I truly do understand. I want you to understand the feelings that compelled me to make this unreasonable request of you. Since I couldn’t bring myself to say it, I initially meant to have Komatsu speak for me. But when she said she couldn’t discuss such matters either, I had no choice but to broach it myself—so believe me, I understand full well what your agreement cost you. Given how sullen you look and how foolishly I’ve pressed you, others might laugh—but rest assured, I do understand human feelings well enough. Please—endure this for Hirata’s sake. Yoshizato, I beg you.”

“There’s no helping it, Brother,” said Yoshizato, finally declaring as though she had given up—yet still she kept thinking. “I too have never experienced such pain.” “This must be what they call a fleeting bond, isn’t it? When I think about it, Ms. Komatsu is enviable,” Yoshizato mused. “No—I don’t intend to come either,” declared Nishinomiya clearly. “Huh?!” Yoshizato startled, then “Huh? Why? What happened?” she pressed, staring at Nishinomiya’s face in disbelief.

“No—there’s no particular reason. The anguish is universal. When I contemplate your and Hirata’s predicament, how could I visit alone?”

“Why would you say such a thing? That wasn’t my intention.” “I know that well enough. It’s not about whether I come or not. It’s truly unbearable.” “No—no, I’m not refusing. I must apologize to Ms. Komatsu. I have to part with Mr. Hirata, and if even Brother won’t come anymore, what am I supposed to do? If I’m at fault, I’ll apologize, so Brother, please keep coming as you always have. Please come out of pity for me. Huh? Will you? Huh? Huh?” Yoshizato repeated countless times, apologetically, imploringly.

Nishinomiya bowed his head, closed his eyes, and thought intently. Yoshizato peered into his face. “Is it okay? Brother, is it okay? If even Brother won’t come anymore…” Her voice turned tearful again. “Huh? Is it okay?” Nishinomiya kept his eyes closed and his head bowed. “Is it okay? Is it okay? Truly, truly,” Yoshizato pressed countless times until she got Nishinomiya to nod, then exhaled deeply and wiped her tears. “If even Brother won’t come anymore, I can’t go on living.”

“Very well, very well,” said Nishinomiya with a nod. “You’ll give up on Hirata, won’t you? I’ll take care of everything regarding you later on, so—” “There’s no helping it—I have no choice but to give up. So... there can be no more correspondence at all?” “Well... You must think that way—” Nishinomiya too found himself unable to give a clear answer. Yoshizato thought for a while. “It may seem too clinging of me,” she said, her face flushing red as she looked at Nishinomiya, “but I beg you—bring him once more by tomorrow.”

“Once more.” “Yes. Before he departs for his hometown, please bring him to see me once more—I beg you.” “Once more,” repeated Nishinomiya, “there’s no time left for that.”

“What?! When’s he leaving for his hometown?” Yoshizato pressed forward on her knees, staring at Nishinomiya. “On tomorrow’s night train from Shinbashi,” Nishinomiya answered with visible reluctance. “Tomorrow’s—?!” The color drained from Yoshizato’s face. Her eyes fixed unnaturally on Nishinomiya as she ground her teeth with an audible scrape. When Nishinomiya started in alarm and tried to speak, Yoshizato arched backward with a choked gasp and collapsed against him.

Komatsu, who had fortuitously entered, was startled by Yoshizato’s condition. “What’s happened?!” “This is beyond ‘what’s wrong’!” “Quickly—do something about this.” “It’s… some terrible force.”

“Hold on tight!” “Yoshizato—hold on tight!” “You mustn’t arch back like that—oh, you’re arching so much!”

“What happened to Hirata? Hirata—Hirata—” “Hirata—Hirata—”

“Mr. Hirata?” Okuma too had come to this room at some point and stood frozen in shock, unable to act.

“Oume—were you there all along?” “What are you dawdling for?” “Go call Mr. Hirata quickly!” “You’re so slow on the uptake, aren’t you?” “Hurry up and go!” “Make it quick!” “I told you not to arch back, and yet…” “Hold on tight.” “Yoshizato.” “Yoshizato.”

Okuma suddenly began to panic, collided with the karakami sliding door and knocked it over, then ran out into the corridor barefoot.

Five

Hirata stood on the bedding, fastening his obi. At the edge of that obi, Yoshizato dropped her knee and sank down, pressing Hirata's haori against her face. Hirata looked upward with a fixed gaze; tears from the corners of his eyes traced lines down his cheeks, his lower lip bitten and upper lip quivering as he lacked even the courage to pull his obi tight.

The pillow bearing their family crests joined in paired wings lay collapsed in spiritless disarray. The wick burned low; the andon's faint lamplight reflected on the scroll inscribed with "Spring Like the Sea," rendering the characters dreamlike.

The young maid Okuma, who had come to announce the time of departure, shaded hands over the long brazier in the adjoining room, warmed cheeks, and strained ears toward the upper chamber.

“I wonder what time it is now,” Hirata called out to Okuma in the adjoining room in a disinterested tone. “It struck five a short while ago.” “Huh? Past five. “It’s late, it’s late,” Hirata exclaimed desperately as he tried to fasten his obi with all his might, but Yoshizato remained motionless, rendering his efforts futile. “Are they already preparing over there?”

“Yes.” “Mr. Nishinomiya hasn’t slept a wink and is still on this side…” Okuma trailed off，as if realizing she had spoken too much. “I see.” “How pitiful.” “Come on—let’s go.”

Yoshizato still did not release the obi.

“Ah, it’s fine. There’s no need to hurry so much,” said Nishinomiya as he slid open the shoji screen. “Oh! Mr. Nishinomiya,” Okuma exclaimed, turning to look back. “Were you up?” Nishinomiya roughly slid open the karakami door and peered unceremoniously beyond the folding screen. There, Hirata was just finishing fastening his obi, while Yoshizato, having draped his haori over him from behind, appeared reluctant to remove her hands from the man’s shoulders.

“My apologies, my apologies.”

“Alright—let’s be off,” said Miss Okuma. “Ah, never mind that,” replied Nishinomiya. “No—no,” protested Hirata as he shook himself free and hurried from the room. “Ah—wait—” Yoshizato’s voice trembled. “Hirata,” called Nishinomiya sharply. “Aren’t you forgetting something?” “Nothing,” she insisted. “There’s absolutely nothing.” “You might not have anything to forget, but—” He clicked his tongue. “Why this haste?” “What do you mean?” she countered.

Nishinomiya grabbed Hirata’s arm. “Well, whatever.” “I have business to attend to...” “Well, let’s head out calmly,” he said as he pushed him back into the room again and leaned against the corridor railing with Okuma while gazing down at the courtyard.

The whetted moon cast the Japanese red pine's treetops from the roof to the corridor. Frost glistened white on the torii gate at the base of the artificial hill and on the roof of the small Benten shrine atop the hill. Not a wisp of wind stirred, yet a piercing cold seemed to freeze the entire body from the tips of the toes upward, so much so that one shuddered involuntarily. In the third room across the courtyard—perhaps still drinking in the adjoining room—the shadows of a man and a woman were cast upon the shoji screen, their conversation audible yet too faint to make out.

“It’s bitterly cold,” Nishinomiya murmured as he turned backward and shifted his weight against the railing. Just then, the strains of Nijōri Shin'ai singing floated over from the guest room opposite. “Though no bonds restrain you—release your grip— Lest tomorrow’s sun and moon cease to be— More than your heart that seeks to stop me— How cruel—how cruel—this returning flesh must feel—” “That must be Ms. Shinonome’s guest room.” “A splendid voice—worn smooth with age.” “Where does she come from?” Nishinomiya asked Okuma as a man rushed down the corridor—veering wide of Yoshizato’s door in his haste.

Okuma lightly tugged at Nishinomiya’s sleeve and whispered, “That was Mr. Zenkich,” while watching the man depart. “Huh? Mr. Zenkich,” Nishinomiya murmured while watching him depart, then added, “Hmm.” No sooner had someone made a spittoon sound in the third guest room ahead than they let out a startlingly large yawn.

At that very moment, Yoshizato stepped forward first, and Hirata followed from behind. “Forgive the wait. Brother, forgive me,” Yoshizato’s voice was unexpectedly composed. Hirata, his face startlingly pale, muttered “It’s late, it’s late” as if talking to himself and began to walk hurriedly. He had forgotten to put on his indoor zori.

“Mr. Hirata, please put on your indoor zori,” said Okuma as she returned to fetch the indoor zori and chased after Hirata, who didn’t so much as glance back. “Brother,” said Yoshizato, embracing Nishinomiya’s shoulder from behind, “you will come again, won’t you?” “You will, you will.”

Nishinomiya firmly grasped Yoshizato's hand resting on his shoulder, but with his chest tightening strangely, he found himself unable to respond—managing only to nod. “Mr. Hirata, wait.” “Mr. Hirata.”

Though Okuma called out several times without Hirata so much as glancing back—as he moved to turn down the corridor’s dead-end corner toward the front staircase—"Where do you think you’re going?" "This way," called Komatsu. "Huh? What’s this." "Oh, Ms. Komatsu." "Excuse me," said Hirata, staring quizzically at Ms. Komatsu’s face. "What’s happened to you?" "Ohohoho."

“Put on your indoor zori sandals,” said Okuma as she placed them before Mr. Hirata. “Ah, right,” said Hirata. As he was putting on his indoor zori sandals, Nishinomiya and Yoshizato caught up to him. “It was all so much that I wondered what had happened—Mr. Hirata, please come to my tatami guest room. Please have some tea at your leisure. Hey, Ms. Yoshizato.”

“Thank you… No—let’s go.” “Hey, Nishinomiya.”

“Please don’t say such things. What’s that? Oh, it’s fine, isn’t it?” Nishinomiya stared fixedly at Komatsu’s face. Yoshizato stood behind Nishinomiya with her head bowed. Hirata was looking up at the corridor’s Western-style lamp without purpose.

“Let’s just go like this. If dawn breaks, it’ll cause problems.” “If dawn breaks, it’ll cause problems,” said Nishinomiya, signaling to Komatsu with his eyes. “Okuma, bring the hats and coats.” “Hirata’s too.” “The rickshaw has arrived, I suppose.”

“They’ve been waiting for some time now.”

Okuma ran off to Komatsu’s room to retrieve the two guests’ coats and hats. “Mr. Hirata,” Komatsu drew near to his side, “it truly pains me to bid you farewell. When will I have the chance to see you again? Please take care on your journey. When you arrive at your hometown, please send word—will you now? To think it would come to this...”

“What now?” “What are you saying?” “Wouldn’t one word settle it?”

Having been scolded by Nishinomiya, Komatsu averted her face while falling silent. “Ms. Komatsu, for all you’ve done for me—” Hirata began before falling silent for a while. “Please, I beg of you.” His voice held too much force, but he couldn’t say anything beyond that. Komatsu too found herself unable to say anything; when she saw Yoshizato standing behind Nishinomiya with her head bowed, her chest churned and she could not stop the tears from overflowing. When Okuma brought the hats and coats, Nakadon—the nightwatchman who had come up from downstairs—impatiently announced that the rickshaws had been waiting for quite some time.

With Hirata leading the way, the group descended the stairs. Yoshizato was last, looking so weak that even stepping on the stairs seemed dangerous.

“Ms. Yoshizato! Ms. Yoshizato!” By the time Komatsu called out, Hirata and Nishinomiya had already descended to the dirt-floored entrance. Yoshizato’s legs seemed to have shriveled; she couldn’t make it to the threshold.

“Ms. Yoshizato—here, here,” Nishinomiya called out. Yoshizato did not utter a word, her pallid face fixed in a stare at Hirata. Hirata too had been staring fixedly at Yoshizato, but when he could no longer endure it and turned away, the sound of Nakadon opening the side gate clattered harshly. Hirata stepped briskly outside. “Good evening, Mr. Hirata,” Komatsu and Okuma called out in unison. Nishinomiya left words for Yoshizato—saying he would return that evening to check on her—and exited through the side gate.

“Hey, you better be careful.” “I’ve got your tip here.” “Goodbye. Take care.” “Please come again soon.”

The rickshaw began to move. The side gate clattered shut.

Yoshizato, who had stood like a withered tree until this moment, met Komatsu's gaze and let her tears fall freely. Whether she even heard Komatsu's calling voice or not, she clattered her indoor zori sandals in quick steps, rushed up the back stairs to her second-floor room, and collapsed weeping atop the still-warm futon.

Six

Having absorbed the grime of countless guests, the bedding in the Meisho Room—chilly even in summer—might have proven more unbearable than lying upon ice in the depths of winter nights. Perhaps due to the maid’s attentiveness, by the pillow sat a box brazier with a kettle hung over it, and beside it lay a tray bearing a sake flask and a small plate emptied of its accompaniments. The lower portion was enclosed by a folding screen, while night wind blowing through tears in the paper-paned sliding door at the head side fanned the flame of the paper lantern with its nearly depleted oil.

“Oh, c-cold! So cold!” came a voice trembling violently as he entered, slid into the bedding, threaded his hands through the sleeves of a rolled-up quilt, pulled the brazier closer, and shielded both hands—this was Minoya Zenkich, Yoshizato’s patron and secondhand clothes dealer from Tomizawa-cho. He appeared around forty years old, with severe pockmarks and ordinary features around his mouth and nose, but bore a lizard-like scar on his left eyelid that rendered him a vulgar-looking man of small stature. Zenkichi had begun visiting Yoshizato about a year prior, around when Hirata first started coming. Yoshizato habitually treated Zenkich coldly, often refusing to show her face at all throughout entire nights. Nevertheless, Zenkich persisted in visiting nightly without fail—his visits growing particularly frequent from October onward, then becoming an every-night occurrence since the month’s start. He didn’t merely waste money on dead-end expenses; where cuts could be made, he made them—a trait that kept him always welcomed with smiles by the maids and brothel staff.

“Even if you say it’s cold—it’s a damn cold night.” “The sake’s worn off, and there’s no help for it now.” He shook the sake flask—wondering if any remained—then picked up his pipe. “No good,” he muttered through two or three quick puffs of tobacco. Nishinomiya had been standing there earlier—the man who’d become Komatsu’s lover. The one accompanying him must have been Okuma. As Okuma had said, Hirata seemed set on leaving tonight after all. He wondered if they’d let him enter once the guest room freed up—not that it mattered anymore. The guest room meant nothing now anyway. All he needed was to share her bed briefly and hear her declare this night would be his last chance—he surely wouldn’t return after tonight anyway. Even wanting to return would prove impossible for him now. Hadn’t he left yet? Shouldn’t he have departed by now? The delay felt interminable—was he truly going home at all? Leaving or staying mattered little anymore; given their clamor over lovers and scandals anyway... Let him stay then—just one glimpse of his face would suffice... Tonight marked their final chance...

He wouldn’t be coming anymore. What tomorrow would bring... Well, I supposed I sort of knew, and yet... Even I myself didn’t understand. “Ah…”

From the direction of Yoshizato’s room and at roughly that distance came the sudden clatter of indoor zori sandals, followed by Okuma’s voice calling, “Mr. Hirata, wait!” as if in pursuit. Afterward, two or three sets of footsteps began moving in the same direction.

“Don’t go! He’s really leaving now,” Zenkich blurted out, jerking upright to slide open the shoji before hesitating. Peering through a tear in the paper screen, he muttered “Wouldn’t do to have Okuma catch me again,” then grinned and burrowed back under the futon.

The sound of indoor zori sandals faded away after some time. Zenkichi strained his ears.

"So he really isn't leaving after all," "If he doesn't leave, Yoshizato won't come." "Ah..." Zenkich buried his head between the hands he had been shielding over the brazier.

After some time he raised his head and groped for his pipe with his right hand, but made no real attempt to smoke, his complexion darkening and brows furrowing as if lost in profound thought. "Ah... I've wronged Ochiyo." "What must she be thinking." "She probably thinks I've gone to Yokohama." "She probably doesn't know I'm here in the Meisho Room by choice." "She must resent me terribly." "I lost my shop, sent Ochiyo back to her parents' home—poor Ochiyo, I sent her back to her parents' home." "I'm a terrible person—a terrible person." "Ah, I'm spineless."

The sound of indoor zori sandals became audible again in the distance. The sound of someone descending the ladder could also be heard. As Zenkichi strained his ears, there came the sound of the side gate opening, followed by that of a rickshaw running.

“Ha ha ha! He’s gone, gone, finally gone! Yoshizato’ll come now. With no other customers but me, she’s bound to come to my room. Ah—she’s started running! That clattering’s her zori sandals. Up the back staircase she comes. Now—now she’s coming here! That’s it! That’s it! There—she’s running this way!”

Zenkichi felt certain Yoshizato was about to slide open the shoji and appear there at any moment. Unable to keep his hands shielding the brazier, he rolled sideways and lay squinting at the section of screen door visible through a foot-wide gap at the edge of the folding partition. The indoor zori sandals passed by in front of Zenkichi’s Meisho Room. Zenkichi, startled, sprang up and hurriedly opened the shoji screen to look—the owner of the indoor zori sandals was indeed Yoshizato. Zenkichi was blankly watching her go when Yoshizato, without so much as a backward glance, entered her own room and roughly slid the shoji shut.

Zenkichi tried to say something, but his lips quivered as he gasped, forgetting even to close the shoji screen before collapsing onto the futon.

“Damn you! Damn you! Damn you!” After a moment’s pause, Zenkich screamed these words, his tear-filled eyes fixed on the ceiling as he kicked the futon two or three times.

“Oh, what are you doing here?”

When had someone come? What had someone said? Startled by the sudden voice, Zenkichi sprang up and stared fixedly at the person.

“Ohohohoho.” “Mr. Zenkich, what’s come over you? Oh! Making such a face like that.” “Well then, let’s head over there.” “Okuma, what’s this about? Didn’t I just say something?” “Didn’t I just speak to you?” “No, you didn’t utter a single thing.” “How peculiar, isn’t it?” “What’s troubled you so?” “There’s nothing troubling me.” “Nonsense! What’s there to fuss about?” “Well then, let’s head over there now.” “Over there.”

“Since he has departed, please proceed to the oiran’s guest room.” “Ah, I see.” “Hahahahaha.” “That’s gutsy!” Zenkichi sprang upright and marched briskly into the corridor.

“Oh, wait a moment,” said Okuma. “Have you left anything behind? What about your wallet?” Zenkichi did not respond. While Okuma was tidying the bedside, the sound of hurried footsteps in the hallway could already be heard. He’s completely obsessed, she thought. He doesn’t listen to a word I say. She wondered if he had left anything behind. There! He forgot them. Even after all that reminding, he went and forgot his wallet. The tobacco case too. There’s just no helping him, is there?

Okuma retrieved the wallet and tobacco case that were under the futon and, holding the tray in one hand, went out into the hallway. Zenkichi was already gone from the hallway, and the shoji screens of Yoshizato’s distant room stood wide open. “You should go to bed now. It’s quite cold,” said Okuma as she entered Yoshizato’s room, addressing Zenkichi who stood in the next chamber appearing reluctant to proceed to the upper quarters. The sliding doors of the upper chamber stood wide open. Within the partially pushed-aside folding screen, Yoshizato could be seen sleeping turned away, her futon lay haphazardly draped over her—so carelessly arranged one might worry she’d catch cold.

The paper lantern had already gone out, and the window shoji was faintly brightening. The distant whistles 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 wallet,” said Okuma with a laugh as she held it out. Zenkichi forced a bitter smile and stuffed it into the breast of his sleeping robe, which hung open at the chest. “I should get some rest now.” “The night has… already grown light, hasn’t it?”

“What do you mean? It’s only six.” “You should rest till around eight o'clock—have yourself a drink—then make your way home.” “Right…” Zenkich remained rooted in place.

“Oiran, Oiran,” called Okuma to Yoshizato, but there was neither response nor movement. “There’s no helping it, is there? Mr. Zen, you should go to bed now. When eight o’clock comes, I shall come to wake you.” Okuma, who had wanted Zenkichi to stay a bit longer, left the room.

The sound of shoji screens being opened in rooms could be heard from various directions, and the sounds of zori sandals ascending and descending staircases grew more frequent. Some were seeing off regular patrons and gossiping about them, while others clung to first-time clients reluctant to part, promising another night together. Night fully broke. 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 especially biting. Yoshizato, facing west, found the cold of the room unbearable to endure. Yoshizato sneezed two or three times in succession.

“You’ll catch cold,” Zenkichi blurted involuntarily as he approached Yoshizato’s pillow. “Lying like this—no wonder you’re freezing. I’ll dress you properly. Hey, Yoshizato. Yoshizato, you’ll catch cold.” Yoshizato lay prone with her sleeve pressed to her face; seeing she didn’t respond when addressed—whether asleep or not—Zenkichi decided she must be sleeping and stared fixedly down at her.

The beauty of a collar whiter than snow. The loveliness of earlobes flushed yet dusted with white powder. The upswept hair, fragrant as though perfumed, tumbled disheveled over flushed cheeks. The sleeve was soaked with tears, dulling the willow-leaf hue of the pale tea-colored fabric's ox-pen striped lining. The Shimada hairstyle had completely come loose at the roots, the lavender namako half-coat had slipped off, and the pillow lay thrust out like something discarded.

Zenkichi stared at Yoshizato without blinking for a short while.

The whistle of the Ueno train began to sound—a drawn-out wail like some endless cry. “Oh—the train,” said Zenkichi, still gazing at Yoshizato’s sleeping face. “It’s leaving already.” “What am I to do…” A sob escaped Yoshizato’s lips as she suddenly stood and threw open the window’s shoji screen. The morning wind swept in, startling Zenkichi into shrinking back.

Seven

The morning sun shone starkly upon the treetops of Shinobigaoka and Taro Inari's forests. Iriya remained half-shrouded in mist, while Yoshiwara Tanbo lay entirely blanketed in frost. In the sky, flocks of small birds formed circles as they flew southward, and in Ueno’s forest, crows began to caw. By the wetlands near Ōtori Shrine, white egrets took flight one by one, then two by two, then three by three; from the stalls newly erected for tomorrow’s Tori-no-Ichi festival grounds emerged two or three people. The iron gall ink ditch had frozen mid-bubble, and the steam from the hot spring before Daionji Temple streamed wildly in the wind.

The Ueno first train sounded a single high-pitched whistle that lingered long in its wake as it began moving; swiftly rounding the base of the hill and entering Negishi until its smoke vanished into Tennoji’s forest. Gripping the window bars with both hands as sleeve cuffs pressed against them, Yoshizato had watched the train depart in a dreamlike state; even after the smoke disappeared she kept staring without blinking. “Ah—he’s already gone,” Yoshizato murmured in a trembling voice.

The morning wind, still devoid of warmth, merely stung cheeks. More than Yoshizato exposing her face to the window, Zenkichi—who had been standing behind her—trembled violently and could no longer endure it now. “You’ll catch cold, Yoshizato. Isn’t it cold? How about closing this?” said Zenkich through chattering teeth. Yoshizato turned around and noticed Zenkich for the first time. “Oh, Mr. Zen?” “You should close it. Yoshizato, you’ll catch cold. Your complexion is deathly pale!”

“Where does that train go, I wonder?” “This train? If it doesn’t go all the way to Aomori, it must stop at Sendai.”

“Sendai. When does 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, looking down. “Tonight’s Shinbashi night train, was 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 shoji, sat facing Yoshizato across the brazier, and huddled with his hands tucked into his sleeves as if cold.

Okuma, who had been doing the laundry, entered the room while saying, “Oh, you’ve already risen? You should have stayed abed a while longer,” and began putting away the teacups and small plates she had brought into the tea cupboard.

“There’s no need to sleep anymore—it’s gotten so bright I couldn’t possibly stay in bed.” “I'm freezing—I can't bear this anymore.” “Okuma-don，why don't you get my kimono out?” “Oh，it’s fine，isn't it?” “Take your time this morning—have something before you go back.” “I suppose so.” “It doesn't really matter—it's just so cold.” “My，isn't it dreadfully cold?” “Let me give you something.” “Here now—put this on for a bit，” said Okuma as she took Yoshizato’s crepe-silk sitting robe from the clothes rack and draped it over Zenkich from behind.

Zenkichi smiled while glancing over both shoulders. “This one’s quite daring.” “Is it all right if I borrow this?” “It’s about Mr. Zen.” “You know.” “Oiran.”

“Hehehehe.” “Smooth talker.”

“It suits you quite well.” “Hohohoho.” “Hahahaha. If I were to put my arms through the sleeves, it would look ridiculous.” “Oh, you. Please slip your arms through the sleeves and stand up to see—it will surely suit you well. Say, Oiran.” “Don’t be silly. Hahahaha.” “Hohohoho.”

Yoshizato did not utter a single word. She did not even glance. She remained leaning against the chest of drawers, still thinking.

“While you’re at it, please go and wash your face.” “I’ll clean up in the meantime and get the sake ready.” “Oiran, let me escort you.” “Here,” said Okuma, placing the toothpick box before Zenkich. Zenkichi twisted off clusters of Yoshiwara toothpicks and fed them into the brazier’s flames. “What shall we prepare for you?” “It’s still early—there’s little we can make.” “Shall I have some simmered tofu prepared?” “Or perhaps fried eggs?”

“Anything’s fine. “Simmered tofu will do.” “That should suffice then. “Now then, Oiran—please let me escort you.” Yoshizato said nothing and rose swiftly to exit into the corridor. Zenkichi too left the room after her, still draped in the sitting robe. “Oiran—your hand towel?” called Okuma to Yoshizato.

Yoshizato did not respond. She was already two or three rooms away.

"Give it to me," said Zenkichi as he returned to take the hand towel. When he looked at Yoshizato, she was already starting down the service stairs. Zenkichi hurried after Yoshizato and caught up with her midway down the staircase, but she veered toward the lower bathhouse without so much as a backward glance. He waited awhile, but seeing no sign of Yoshizato emerging soon, went off to wash his face alone in dejection. Two customers were washing their faces there. Each had a rival courtesan attending them—scooping water, pouring it over their hands—a sight that struck Zenkichi as enviable.

The courtesan called Hatsumidori, who had shared seats with Zenkich two or three times during his introductory visits, adjusted the collar of the customer's haori to keep it from creasing and looked back at Zenkich.

“Oh, Mr. Zen. Last night you were alone again. That’s too cruel of you, Mr. Zen. You could have brought her along at least once, couldn’t you? Honestly, that’s too cruel of you.” “That’s not exactly how it is, but since that person isn’t here right now.”

“Nothing but lies.” “How very proper of you.” “Do stay luxuriously alone then.” “This is truly vexing.”

“Oh, that’s quite all right,” “Do remember that.” “You’ll be coming to visit during the day today, won’t you?” “Oh, it’s not like that.” “Please don’t leave yet—I’ll come entertain you later.” “I hear Mr. Yoshi from Shinonome’s place is keeping his seat warm again today,” began Meizan, another courtesan, pressing down on the shoulder of her customer—a student-like man scrubbing his face—before adding, “You shouldn’t slip away either—stay till nightfall.”

“Me?” “I can’t.” “Ah… you.” “That’s right! You’ll come back tonight—mark my words.” “Oh sure thing—you’re faithless through and through.” “What’s that?” “Faithless!” “Meizan—pass me that basin when you’re done,” said Komurabe fresh from escorting her client. Hatsumidori shoved one washbasin toward Komurabe while filling another to overflowing. “Here—use this one,” she told Mr.Zenkichi. “All out of hot water—it’s cold now.”

“No, that’s all right. Thank you.” “When you come next time, be sure to do so.”

Zenkichi nodded while rinsing his mouth. Hatsumidori and her group departed noisily, their playful banter echoing as they left.

A voice called out, "Yoshizato, Yoshizato." When Zenkich, rinsing his face with water, looked toward where the voice had come from, Yoshizato was talking with Komatsu beneath the back stairs. Zenkichi stared for a while. When Zenkich finished washing his face, he saw Komatsu and Yoshizato walking along the second-floor corridor while talking.

VIII

From the bucket came the sound of tofu boiling vigorously, sending up plumes of steam. Noshiro’s tray held a sake bottle dressed in ceremonial hakama trousers, accompanied by a playfully seasoned dish resembling a child’s diversion and a wooden plate bearing a chopsticks rest shaped like spider lilies. In the golden-hued sake cup, two scattered cherry blossom petals formed a pattern while kana characters spelling "Yoshizato" along the rim appeared to float upon the surface.

At an angle to the meal tray, Yoshizato leaned absently against a chest, while across from her, Zenkich struggled against the mediocre sake. Yoshizato would only occasionally glance at Zenkich with downcast eyes and never poured him a drink. Okuma had gone on a morning pilgrimage to Asakusa Kannon, combining proxy prayers for several courtesans with some personal vow of her own. Zenkich’s bashfulness permitted him only a faint sigh.

“Ms. Yoshizato, how about—” “I’d like you to accept a cup.” “Even drinking like this—when you drink alone, it gets so lonely you can’t even feel like you’re drinking.” “I’d like you to accept a cup.” “Ha ha ha ha.” “Since I’m no lingering jewel, I’ll be leaving soon—but Oiran, just this morning, please take this deftly and kindly.” “This is our farewell.” “Since today’s the last I’ll drink with you, take this deftly and let me have you pour.” “That’s enough.” “I don’t want anything else at all.” “So I’ll offer it again—please, Ms. Yoshizato, take it deftly.”

Zenkichi drank down the poured cup, poured himself another and drained it, then rinsed the cup thoroughly. "Here, I offer this. “This is the last day.” “Listen here—deftly accept this.”

Yoshizato received the sake cup, took a sip, placed it on the edge of the brazier, and stared fixedly at Zenkich.

Yoshizato found parting from Hirata—knowing full well how unlikely they were to meet again—more painful than death; even in death, she had no intention of parting. Yet pressed by the sincerity of Nishinomiya’s truthful words and the turmoil within Hirata’s agonized heart, she had no choice but to consent. She had consented, yet her heart intended to go with Hirata to his hometown—no, intended to have gone. But if she viewed it as separation, the heart that should have gone with him would immediately grow achingly fond of that person. Could I not meet him once more? I want to make that rickshaw turn back. I want to meet him and tell him of our parting once more. There were still things I hadn’t said. There were also things I hadn’t heard. Was there truly no way left to meet him? Is there no way tonight’s departure could be postponed? It feels like it could be postponed. It feels like he might come to see me once more. He'll come to see me. No, he won’t come to see me. There is no sign that the person who must depart on the night train tonight will come. He won’t come. If only the train wouldn’t depart. It might not depart. It feels like it won’t depart.

It definitely won’t depart.

Even if only through my resolve, I definitely won't let it depart. What if it departs spitefully anyway? Is there truly no way for me to meet him? What should I do if I can't meet him? If parting with Mr. Hirata is what it comes to—I'd rather die than be parted from him. If I part with Mr. Hirata, there's no worth in living. Even if I die, I'll make sure I become Mr. Hirata's wife. Circumstances that won't allow me freedom, and circumstances that won't let me go freely—my heart alone refuses to leave Mr. Hirata's side. I intend to stay together. I intend to go together. I am staying together. No matter what happens, I will not leave Mr. Hirata's side. How can I go on like this after parting with Mr. Hirata? Even if my body remains in Yoshiwara, my heart stays by Mr. Hirata's side in Okayama. And so, the same thoughts kept swirling through her heart, endless and unceasing. The thoughts arose from the heart that should have been by Hirata's side, and as the actual moment of that morning's send-off drew near, the shifts in delusion had been extraordinarily rapid; but as she settled, each delusion grew both prolonged and profound.

When she sank into contemplation, various things appeared vividly in the present. Her own state, her own figure, her own delusions all became the present and were visible within her heart. In the anguish of this morning’s parting, she could also see herself grasping Hirata’s sash and sinking down. Even her singing of Nijōri Shin'uchi ballads in the Shinonome room without restraint now seemed to echo in her ears. When she had sent him off from the establishment as if in a dream—what had I been thinking at that moment? That thing and that thing—all those things I had wanted to say—why hadn’t I been able to say them? No, it was only natural that I couldn’t say them. Ah, was there no way to stop that train anymore?

Overcome with unbearable sorrow, she had dashed out, climbed the back stairs, come to the tatami room, and collapsed in tears—the figure of herself now seemed both pathetically weak and yet somehow justified. Just as she had hoped against hope, when night fell that day, Hirata would come and say nothing but joyful things—that he no longer needed to return to his hometown. The joy of hearing this—her body feeling almost weightless with elation—would immediately be negated by some unknown voice; "Hirata has indeed departed," yet the steadfast Nishinomiya would eventually sit facing her and offer consolation. A letter that should never have arrived does—filled from start to finish with assurances of his devotion—and there materialize the characters in Hirata’s familiar hand, each stroke unfurling as though being recited aloud. Then before I knew it, I had gone to Okayama—the city was more bustling than I had imagined, and Hirata’s house had an imposing gate with a layout just as I’d always pictured: a garden, a second floor, and a storehouse all present. The master of the house resembled Hirata—gentle yet appearing somewhat absent-minded—and when he looked at me, his face seemed to want to ask where I had come from; but upon hearing the details from Hirata, he suddenly became delighted and doted on me extensively. Both the younger brother and sister were the ages she had heard about from Hirata, their facial features and builds just as she had always imagined—both of them utterly adorable. The younger sister remained exactly as I had imagined—perhaps a bit mean-spirited—which was somewhat irksome, but when she affectionately called me "Big sister, Big sister" and asked me to do her hair in Tokyo style, that too struck me as rather endearing. Having long ago been shown a photograph by Hirata and knowing her face, his deceased mother too would occasionally appear. She too was being kind to me, and I thought how dearly Hirata's mother would have cherished me if she were alive—how she might have doted on me exactly as described in those bedtime stories he'd shared. But then there emerged this woman said to be Hirata's childhood fiancée working there, her face identical to that of Hanako—a courtesan within the brothel whom I'd always disliked—a woman both endearing and detestable, ultimately detestable, and it became clear that Hirata had returned home to wed this very woman. So it was true after all—when I realized I’d been deceived, the sadness within me deepened further, and my tears began flowing without end. When I reconsidered that Mr. Nishinomiya wasn’t the sort to tell such lies, I remembered how he and Komatsu had comforted me in various ways—how I’d made a sisterhood pact with Komatsu, how we’d discussed me living with them when she became Mr. Nishinomiya’s wife, and how once Hirata settled his family affairs back home and left the capital, our two married households would stand side by side, becoming relatives who’d forever support each other. That too vanished like a dream, and when I found myself alone, only thoughts of my lack of freedom arose—must I really stay 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 anytime soon—I can only depend on Mr. Nishinomiya and Ms. Komatsu. Ms. Komatsu is truly enviable. Am I going to be constantly shown like this from now on? Why did Mr. Hirata have to end up like that? Is there really no way he could come to see me again? As she wondered whether each coming day would bring nothing but unpleasant feelings, Zenkich sat drinking before her - his every movement vividly visible to her eyes - and before she knew it, she couldn’t help but sigh at the thought that this might have been that person.

Yoshizato felt sad, and forlorn, and vexed, and fleeting all at once. Ultimately, her own unreliability was foremost—she simply could not forget Hirata.

The words Zenkich had spoken—that today was the end, that this morning had been their farewell—struck Yoshizato's heart with an eerily ephemeral and pitiless weight, leaving her chest somehow constricted.

Even when customers she kept coldly rebuffing climbed to the brothel right before hers, even when those patrons got reassigned to other courtesans—if she maintained this icy treatment, she ought ultimately to rejoice. Yet it was courtesans' universal nature to stoke an inner war between sincerity and pretense, driven not just by prideful reputation but something deeper. Yoshizato had treated Zenkich with such chill disregard. Yet he remained a man devoid of hateful qualities. The very depth of Zenkich’s devotion to her made Hirata’s existence all the more grating. That Okuma—the young maid ever swayed by money—had somewhat defied Yoshizato’s wishes for Zenkich’s sake only hardened her outward coldness beyond what her heart truly felt. For reasons she couldn’t articulate, it had become intolerable. Now that separation’s knife had carved its lesson about life’s transience into Yoshizato’s soul, hearing those same farewell words repeated through Zenkich’s lips pierced her breast with peculiar acuity.

Yoshizato accepted Zenkich’s cup, thought for a while, then cheerfully drained it. “Mr. Zenkich, here’s your return cup,” she said, handing him the sake cup. “Allow me to pour for you,” she added, opening the cabinet to serve.

Zenkichi’s eyes widened; he stared at Yoshizato without a word, the hand holding the sake cup beginning to tremble.

Nine “Mr. Zenkich, why don’t we have another?” Yoshizato smiled deliberately. Zenkichi was at a loss for words for some time. “Ms. Yoshizato, I offer this, I offer this—I’ve had more than enough already.” “I have no more regrets left,” Zenkich said, his hand trembling as he offered the sake cup, his eyes brimming with tears. “What’s come over you? “Please don’t say such unpleasant things—that today’s the end or today’s our farewell. Keep coming to see me for years to come. Won’t you, Mr. Zenkich?”

“Huh? What’re you sayin’?” “Ms. Yoshizato… You’re serious…” “Ha ha ha ha.” “Just spoutin’ nonsense to mock me…” “Ho ho ho,” Yoshizato laughed bleakly, “Don’t go sayin’ today’s the end—keep comin’ like you always do, won’t you?” Zenkichi exhaled deeply, tears pattering down. Yoshizato stared fixedly at Zenkich.

“I can’t come anymore after today. Ms. Yoshizato, today truly is our farewell,” said Zenkich as he drained the sake cup in one gulp, then lowered his head and bit his lower lip. “You say such things—is that really true? Are you going somewhere far away?” “Well... whether I’m going far or... where exactly...” He trailed off, sinking into thought. “What do you mean? Why must you say such disheartening things?” Yoshizato’s voice grew subdued.

“You call that disheartening, Ms. Yoshizato?” Zenkich sniffled. “I’ve become unable to stay in Tokyo—unable to stay anywhere now.” “I’m Minoya Zenkich—had a shop in Tomizawa-cho known as Minosen that even some folks knew about, but…” “Okuma-don came by two or three times for me—you’d know that—and I even had three or four servants working for me, but within barely a year passing—no, not even a full year since I first started coming here to the courtesan’s place—the shop vanished, the house became someone else’s property, ha ha ha ha—I’ve ended up homeless.”

“Huh?!” Yoshizato exclaimed before laughing bleakly. “Oh ho ho ho—don’t speak such nonsense! Such a thing couldn’t possibly happen!” “It’s no lie.” His trembling lips twisted bitterly. “I wish it were.”

There was nothing jest-like in Zenkich’s demeanor; his eyes brimmed with tears, and the fists gripping his knees trembled. “Mr. Zenkich… Is that really true?”

“Because I’m spineless…” Zenkichi trailed off, unable to continue, his cheeks trembling and upper lip still quivering. The moment she realized her cold treatment had destroyed his livelihood and cost him his home, Yoshizato felt hollow terror seize her—as if all the blood in her body had frozen—yet her heartbeat alone raged violently. “What has become of Mrs. Kami?” Yoshizato asked after a moment’s pause, her voice trembling. “Hmm,” Zenkich fell silent for a moment, then continued: “When ya end up homeless—when even beggin’ together as husband ’n wife ain’t possible—I hadda send ’er back to her parents’ place, see…” “Ha ha ha ha ha,” Zenkich laughed while wiping away tears.

“Oh, how pitiable,” Yoshizato said, lowering her head with a sigh. “But Ms. Yoshizato, I’m fine with this now.” “Being with you like this—having you pour drinks for me this morning, getting pleasantly drunk and leaving—then I’ll have no lingering attachments.” “Given how things were last night, I thought I wouldn’t be allowed to show my face—you might’ve gotten angry if you’d noticed me—but even from a distance, I just wanted to see you, if only your face, so I went to peek into Ms. Komatsu’s room.” “When you went to see off that person called Mr. Hirata, I’d been peeking then too.” “Since I can’t come anymore after today… Not even a single kind word from you…” “I never imagined I’d be able to drink with you like this this morning…” “Ms. Yoshizato, I’ve never been as happy as I am this morning.” “The first time I learned about courtesan patronage was through your place.” “I don’t know the ways of other brothels.” “My final patronage will also be at your place.” “In that time—I’d thought all sorts of things, I’d thought foolish things, I’d felt countless things—but now… now that I’ve reached this point where I don’t even know where to place myself tomorrow… now that it’s come to this morning…” “Ms. Yoshizato… I’ve come to feel something indescribable,” said Zenkich, constantly wiping tears as he spoke, the feelings he had laid bare seeming utterly devoid of pretense.

Yoshizato found herself oscillating between considering Hirata and Zenkich separately and blending them together in her thoughts. When she thought she could no longer meet Hirata, her desolation became all the more acute. Even while acknowledging Hirata's unavoidable circumstances, she couldn't help thinking that if he had truly wanted to do something for her, he might have found a way; yet even as this thought formed, Zenkich's current plight struck her as profoundly pitiful and heartrending. As Zenkich's sincere feelings—whose intensity terrified her—seeped into her very being with the knowledge that this too stemmed from herself, she found herself longing unbearably for Hirata. Upon hearing Zenkich too would cease visiting after today, she wondered why she had treated such a sincere man so coldly—truly, she felt as though she had committed a grave sin. The pitiable state of Zenkich's wife struck her to the core, and her own transience at being abandoned by Hirata grew unbearably acute. And so—unbearably longing for Hirata, pitying Zenkich, feeling desolate—her head grew heavy and still as if she herself were being rendered ephemeral and sinking away; each of Zenkich's words rang clearly in her ears, she could vividly see Zenkich weeping, an unbearable sorrow welled up within her until finally she could no longer hold back her tears.

Zenkichi, watching Yoshizato weep into her sleeve, found himself unable to distinguish between dream and reality; dazed, his tears instead ceased to flow. “Mr. Zenkich, please forgive me.” “I was truly inexcusable,” said Yoshizato, finally raising her face to stare at Zenkich with tear-filled eyes.

Zenkichi had not anticipated hearing these words from Yoshizato; finding himself unable to formulate a response, he could only continue staring.

“So then, Mr. Zenkich—what will you do?” Yoshizato asked with concern. “What does it matter? I... I still haven’t decided what to do.” "I keep thinking... go to relatives in Yokohama... lower myself however it takes... want to raise Minosen's shop curtain again... but relatives..." Zenkich paused, his pallid face shuddering violently, "...whether they'd take me in or not—can't even tell that... so can't bring myself to go..." He stared into space before continuing: "...what'll become of me... even I don't know..." Yoshizato poured him sake, which he drained in three successive cups.

Yoshizato was thinking intently. “Ms. Yoshizato, I have a request,” Zenkichi said, placing his cloth wallet on the edge of the charcoal brazier. “You might laugh at me, but... well, I just can’t bring myself to leave yet—please let me stay until evening today. There’s about five yen in the wallet. That’s every last thing I have now. If I settle last night’s bill… could I stay here today? Just let me stay as your guest—please allow me to remain. It’s fine if not a single penny remains. If thirty or forty sen remain for lodging somewhere tonight, that would suffice… Ah, it’s fine if none remains. Hey, Ms. Yoshizato, please do that for me,” said Zenkichi, his face slightly flushed yet with an air of deep sincerity.

“Very well,” Yoshizato responded airily, “Do stay and enjoy yourself. Never mind the bill—stay tonight as well.” She pushed the wallet back toward Zenkich. “This truly isn’t needed.” “That won’t do,” he insisted. “That won’t do at all.” His voice cracked. “Please—keep this for me.” Yoshizato fixed her gaze on Zenkich. Those eyes appeared to articulate unspoken truths. Zenkich rested his hand upon the wallet, overwhelmed by sensations he himself couldn’t parse.

“Mr. Zenkich, leave it to me. I won’t do you wrong.” “It’s perfectly fine—keep that money as your pocket money.” “Given my limited means, I may not serve as your confidant, but I’ll certainly do all I can.” “Is that agreeable?” “Please don’t lose heart.” “Your pocket money can be managed somehow—please don’t lose heart. Is that agreeable?”

Zenkichi could not comprehend why Yoshizato would say such things to him. While he did not understand, he could not contain his joy. Amidst his joy, he felt an undercurrent of unease; as he gazed at Yoshizato's face, wavering between whether her emotions were feigned or genuine, she no longer resembled the Yoshizato he once knew. In her eyes, genuine emotion seemed visible—he simply couldn't perceive it as feigned. The hand that clutched the wallet he'd been told to keep as pocket money was grasping proof that this wasn't pretense. How had things come to this? And so, while not understanding why, he felt unbearably happy, and before he knew it, he had even forgotten about his own tomorrow.

“Mr. Zenkich, I too... truly have no one to rely on,” said Yoshizato, tears streaming down as she gazed at him. When she added, “Please depend on me from now on,” thoughts of Hirata flashed through her mind like lightning from every direction. Yoshizato’s entire body shuddered violently, and she felt as though even she herself didn’t understand why.

Zenkichi wandered through a dreamscape. He did nothing but stare at Yoshizato’s face until tears streamed down his cheeks—unable even to wipe them away.

“Ms. Yoshizato,” called Komatsu from the hallway. “Oh, Ms. Komatsu, do come in.” “There’s someone else here, isn’t there?” Komatsu said as she slid open the shoji screen. “Oh—Mr. Zenkich.” “What a pleasant time you’re having.” Komatsu’s words seemed laden with meaning for both Yoshizato and Zenkich. Having interpreted them as significant, Yoshizato felt disinclined to respond. Zenkichi sat speechless, unable to muster any reply.

Komatsu found it strange that neither Yoshizato nor Zenkich offered any response, so she too fell silent. The three of them felt vaguely uncomfortable and lapsed into mutual awkwardness.

“Ms. Komatsu! Ms. Komatsu!” someone called from down the hallway. When they looked across the corridor, the shoji screen of Shinonome’s room stood open, with someone inside gesturing them over. This was Yoshi-san—a regular patron of Shinonome’s—who moved in the same social circles as Komatsu and shared the kind of rapport that allowed exchanging playful jabs.

“Ms. Yoshizato, come by later,” Komatsu said abruptly, sliding the shoji screen shut before hurrying off to Shinonome’s room.

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

Around eleven at night, Nishinomiya came. Yoshizato went to Komatsu’s room and heard that Hirata would depart on the 8:30 train that evening; she cried so profusely that Nishinomiya was at a loss. Unable to bear amusing himself alone any longer, Nishinomiya broke free from her attempts to stop him; she stayed by his side until he left around one o'clock, pouring out all her grievances. Zenkichi lingered through the next day. He did not leave the following day either and finally departed on the morning of the fourth day. Because Yoshizato had kept him there, the ten yen Hirata had left at their parting was entirely spent for Zenkich’s sake—she had even secretly pawned one or two garments behind Okuma’s back.

After that, it was mostly Yoshizato who summoned him, and Zenkich came without fail every three days. He had come until around December 10th, but after that, he stopped visiting the brothel and began occasionally sneaking to the shop wearing a tattered hood to meet her. There were those who spotted Zenkich standing across an iron gutter beneath the window of Yoshizato’s room facing Tano.

Ten

A couple of hours past noon—having cleansed away last night’s grime—it was now the hour for bathing to polish themselves like jewels for tonight.

Each having brought their own makeup tools, three to five nude beauties were already positioned at the washing area.

Just as they scrubbed away their worldly grime in this bathhouse of the floating world, so too did their separate realm seem to possess an inexhaustible supply of fitting conversation topics - beginning with colleagues' misdeeds, then moving through backroom scandals, brothel-quarter reputations, rival courtesans' looks spotted at inspections, even physicians' charms. As one group gave way to the next at the washing area, fresh variations on those same themes kept emerging endlessly from behind, appearing as though they might continue perpetually without end.

“They say tomorrow’s finally the soot cleaning.” “Even though it’s called New Year’s, there’s barely ten days left! I’m really at a loss about what to do.” “In any case, there’s nothing left to do.” “The kind of clients who’d actually book us aren’t coming—what’ll become of us?” “When the time comes, we’ll just have to scrape by somehow.” “If you could get clients chasing after you, anyone’d want that.” “But someone like me can’t manage it—it’s nothing but trouble, I tell you.” “The New Year—it really doesn’t need to come at all, does it?”

“Even if you say that, Ms. Chidori, since that man from Kakigaracho will take care of everything, there’s no need to worry at all, is there?” “No no, that’s not how it works at all. They spread out these grand promises like festival banners, but when trouble comes, they always run off and don’t show their faces for two months straight. There’s nobody worse than those bastards!” “As for me, I haven’t had a single client in three days—it’s got me completely fed up, I tell you.”

“Even just the second day would do, but they insist it must be three days.” “And even that’s not properly settled yet, I tell you.” “Ms. Komatsu’s got Mr. Nishinomiya for all three days—Seven Herbs Festival with him too, and the fifteenth as well, they say.” “If you had just one client like that, you’d have no year-end worries at all—Ms. Komatsu’s truly enviable, I tell you.” “Speaking of Mr. Nishinomiya—that Mr. Hirata who often came with him was quite the looker, wasn’t he?” “Mr. Nayama, you had a crush on him, didn’t you?”

“Nothing but lies!” “That’s Ms. Hatsumidori.” “Ms. Yoshizato was desperately in love with him, wasn’t she?” “I’m sure that’s true.” “That Mr. Zenkich can’t even hold a candle to him, I tell you.”

“Why did Ms. Yoshizato take Mr. Zenkich as her lover, I wonder? At first, didn’t she treat him so coldly it was downright pitiful?” “That situation must have improved, I suppose.” “Ms. Yoshizato is fickle, you know.” “But it’s not like Mr. Zenkich is someone you’d fall for through infidelity anyway.”

“But that’s neither here nor there—there’s simply no one like Ms. Yoshizato.” “She said she’d return it tonight, so I lent two yen last month—on the twenty-seventh.” “Still no repayment.” “There’s nobody as shameless as that woman!” “Ms. Chidori—did she borrow from you too?” “She took my white crepe obi and fifty sen—vanished straight after.” “Without that obi—how shabby I look receiving clients in my display room!” “All ‘I’ll return it, I’ll return it’—it’s been since the fifteenth!”

“Mr. Nayama, isn’t my situation just awful? She borrowed a ring I was keeping for a client! Because she said she’d return it by tomorrow morning, I lent it to her—and she never gave it back. The clients are blaming me, Ms. Yoshizato won’t return it—I’ve never been in such a bind! When I pressed her this morning, she told me to wait until tomorrow, so I did wait... but with Ms. Yoshizato being who she is, it’s suspicious, I tell you.”

“Among the second-floor courtesans, there’s probably not a single one she hasn’t borrowed from.” “Five on the third floor and three downstairs.” “She’s even borrowed from Ms. Yachiyo, who just started working here.” “To deceive even someone as childlike as that—isn’t it going too far?” “That’s why she’s gradually losing all her associates, I tell you.” “Back when Mr. Hirata used to come, even Ms. Komatsu—who used to be so close with her—stopped associating with her long ago.” “Who would associate with such an ungrateful person, I ask you.” “As for someone like me, getting angry now would be pointless—that’s why I’m biting my tongue and keeping quiet.” “Even though New Year’s is almost here—when will she return it?”

“That’s the truth, isn’t it.” “If she doesn’t return the ring tomorrow, I won’t stand for it!” “At the year-end cleaning, you should strip her of her pride in front of everyone.” “She wouldn’t even care if we did something like that. There’s no one as devoid of common decency as that person!” When Meizan suddenly glanced back at the sound of footsteps in the corridor, Yoshizato was just emerging from the restroom and passing in front of the bathhouse. At Meizan’s sharp “Shh,” they all turned toward the corridor. But upon seeing Yoshizato’s figure, even they couldn’t help feeling pity—not a single one spoke as they exchanged glances.

＊　　　　＊　　　　＊

Yoshizato had used some business as a pretext and had been absent from the establishment for about ten days now. Though not ill, her cheeks showed signs of emaciation; without makeup, her skin's texture was rough and her complexion pallid. Her hair was done in a shimada style with no hairpiece added. She appeared to have suddenly aged two or three years. In front of Yoshizato—who leaned her elbow on the edge of the charcoal brazier, pressing both hands against her bowed head—senior maid Okuma stood staring intently, using her kiseru pipe like a walking stick. The paper lantern's front shoji screen stood open, oil smoke blackened with cloves billowing upward. Beside the open inkstone box lay a half-torn sheet of paper, while the chest's drawers were stacked diagonally in two layers and pressed into the corner of the decorative paper.

Just as Okuma was about to say something, a voice called for her from downstairs. She responded and tried to stand up, but then crouched down again momentarily. “Well now, will you agree?” “Why don’t you come back to the establishment starting tonight?” “If you’d just stay at the establishment, the guardian deity would keep favoring you—then things can be settled somehow, can’t they? Well, won’t you agree?” “Oh, they’re calling again. Will you agree, Oiran?” “Even though Mr. Zenkich doesn’t come anymore now, if you decide not to call him for the time being either—well now, Oiran, will you agree?” “I’ll just step out for a moment, so please think it over carefully.” “I was just about to go now—they’re being so noisy calling me. Will you agree, Oiran?”

Okuma stepped out into the corridor and immediately dashed downstairs.

Yoshizato pondered deeply and let out countless sighs.

"I can't take this anymore." What's the use of struggling more—there's no point in struggling any further. I truly can't make amends. I can't make amends to Mr. Nishinomiya either. I can't make amends to Ms. Komatsu either. "Ah..." Yoshizato sighed and took out a wrinkled letter from her sleeve. Though called a letter, it contained just five or six hastily scribbled lines with no proper closing at the end. As she read it over repeatedly, her eyes filled with tears. Finally steeling herself, she wrote no addressee—appending only her seal bearing her real name O-Sato—before tying it into a missive and slipping it back into her sleeve. Then she sank into thought once more.

While listening intently toward the corridor, Yoshizato brought the chest's drawer before the paper lantern, searched the bottom of the upper compartment, and took out a thin paper package. Inside was Hirata's photograph. Stacked together with it was Yoshizato's photograph. As she stared intently, tears fell one after another onto Hirata's photograph. In haste, she pressed paper against them to wipe the tears away, aligned his photograph with her own and gazed, then wept again before wrapping them back in paper as before and placing them beside her.

What she now took out from another drawer were two bundles of letters, each tied with twisted paper. All of these were letters from Hirata; having untied the binding paper and begun examining them, she selected four or five from among them, read them through tears, then rolled them back up while weeping. Among them were letters she had reread two or three times over. Had tears been red in color, countless crimson dots would have appeared scattered across the pages. Throughout this time too, Yoshizato kept straining her ears. What had she detected now? She sprang to her feet. She slid open the corridor’s shoji screen to peer left and right, closed it again, paused by the upper room’s window, and once more listened intently.

When the whistle from Ueno faded into the distance, and three low whistles—so faint they could barely be called such—sounded in rhythm, Yoshizato quietly opened the window and glanced into the next room. Her hand had already drawn the tied letter from her sleeve.

Eleven

The year-end cleaning that began at 3 AM had already finished storing away the inner sanctums before dawn. Starting when guests left, they began sweeping through each courtesan’s room one by one until by 11 AM, not a single strand of spiderweb remained in over a hundred chambers—including the Meishiro Room—and even the corridors bore fresh wipe marks from cleaning cloths. From the head of the regular construction workers to various merchants, female hairdressers, and elderly errand men—beyond what was listed in the register, they were provided with food and drink from the inner sanctums, making this day one of unceremonious revelry, with a deafening uproar echoing from the storefront to the third floor.

The courtesans too refused all but their most intimate regulars and held banquets as they pleased. The rooms of the professional courtesans were naturally no exception; in the chambers of those seasoned courtesans who held sway, groups of four or five close companions gathered—light drinkers and heavy drinkers alike—eating and drinking to their hearts’ content. Komatsu was indeed a professional courtesan; her face was seasoned and her influence considerable. The various trays of provisions brought from the inner sanctum filled nearly every space from the ten-mat upper room to the six-mat adjacent room. Eight or nine construction foremen and shop workers had just finished celebrating and left when Komatsu—along with courtesans Hatsumurasaki, Hatsumidori, Meizan, and Chidori—all seventy to eighty percent intoxicated—found even senior maid Oume flushed crimson from cheeks to earlobes, drunk on both company and sweet bean soup.

Oume, who was in the next room, cried out, “Look out! Ms. Yoshizato, the Oiran—she’s in a bad way!” came the sudden cry, and when everyone turned toward the commotion, Yoshizato staggered in, so drunk she could barely stand. Yoshizato had styled her hair in a shimada knot, wore Okuma’s short coat over a thread-woven padded garment tinged with red and adorned with a satin half-collar, layered a well-worn scarlet Chinese crepe under-robe beneath it, and tied a navy Hakata men’s obi with a raised fold. At a glance, she looked five or six years older; her appearance was that of a veteran Oiran who had fallen to a senior maid’s status.

Before Komatsu, who stared with exasperation, Yoshizato collapsed into a seat. Yoshizato—her face pallid yet eyes narrowed—forced a smile at Ms. Komatsu. “Ms. Komatsu. “I’ve—I’ve been so terribly remiss—sorry, sorry—truly sorry, you know? “Sorry—know I shouldn’t keep saying it—but can’t help it. “Ms. Komatsu—been thinking this for days—enough now—even if I say such things—you’ll just laugh at my foolishness. “Let them laugh—whoever wants to. “Laugh all you like. “Go on—laugh! Laugh! “Doesn’t matter who laughs—let them! “You’re the only one who understands me—only you. “You’ve realized. “Of course you have. “So perceptive. “Hohohoho.” “Oh—Ms. Meizan.” “Ms. Chidori—you’re here too.” “Ms. Hatsumidori.” “Ms. Hatsumurasaki.” “Ms. Konoito—give me that cup.”

“I—the sake’s so good, so good, so good—really so good. Hurry up and give it to me.” “Hurry, hurry, hurry!” Yoshizato smirked, yet seemed unable to fully laugh—eyes narrowed, body swaying unsteadily, drool threatening to spill from her mouth as she repeatedly wiped it with the back of her hand. “Ms. Konoito—hurry up already! Even if you gave me one cup or half, it wouldn’t be any trouble at all, would it?”

“Ms. Yoshizato,” Komatsu called out, “you’ve had quite a lot to drink, haven’t you?” “Whether I’m drunk or sober—who even knows—not that I’m spouting Heiemon’s lines, but we’d better have just a bit more sake…” “Hoho, hoho, hohohohoho.” “If you can drink, then go ahead and drink as much as you like.” “Since you’ve come after so long, drink properly—just don’t lay a hand on anyone.” “Come on—I’ll pour the drinks.”

Yoshizato hung her head and, for a while, said nothing.

“Ms. Komatsu, I’ll never forget,” Yoshizato said with deep feeling. “Mr. Hirata...” “You know, that Mr. Hirata.” “When Mr. Hirata was leaving for his hometown tomorrow—the night before that, Brother—Brother—Mr. Nishinomiya brought him here...” “Ms. Komatsu, you still remember me, don’t you?” “The only wonder is that I can’t forget.” “It was this very room—your room here.” “This room—that time.” “When I flew into a rage and tried drinking sake from a teacup, you stopped me, saying ‘It’s poison, it’s poison,’ remember?” "I’ll never forget," she murmured, her voice sinking lower as her head gradually drooped.

“Why didn’t that sake turn into poison back then?” Yoshizato’s voice sank lower still, then she abruptly laughed as if something amused her. “Hoho, hohohoho.” “If sake were poison, would there be any fool left drinking it?” “Hey, Ms. Konoito.” “Well then, Ms. Komatsu—since it’s been ages since you last poured for me…” Yoshizato let Komatsu fill her cup and gulped the sake down at once—but when the liquor flooded her mouth, she clenched her jaw and barely managed to swallow.

“Say, Ms. Komatsu.” “If that sake could turn poisonous back then, this sake might become poison too.” “Ah well—if it’s poison then let it be poison.” “If I die here and now—that’d be the end of it.” “Ms. Meizan and Ms. Chidori are pulling such sour faces.” “No need to fret—rest easy.” “‘Dead flowers may bloom? They say love thrives on suffering.’” “Now that was cleverly put.” “Who’d ever choose death willingly?” “Ms. Meizan, Ms. Chidori—this Yoshizato won’t die crushed by trifles borrowed from your kind.” “If I die—it’ll be sudden.” “Then you’ll have your condolence money.” “Hohohoho.” “Condolence money should be given while I breathe.” “Ms. Konoito! Ms. Hatsumurasaki! Give your offerings now!” “Hoho—hohoho.”

“Ah! I forgot,” said Hatsumidori as she rose from her seat while declaring: “I need to pop over to Shinonome’s place! Ms. Yoshizato—I’ll take my leave first! Oiran—I’ll return later!” With that she swiftly exited Komatsu’s room. Konoito stood up; Hatsumurasaki stood up; Chidori and Meizan went out—until finally only Komatsu and Yoshizato remained together.

In the next room, Okuma added charcoal to the brazier. “Ms. Komatsu,” Yoshizato’s tone abruptly shifted as she inquired with apparent purpose, “is Mr. Nishinomiya not coming today?” “Ah, he’s not coming. He said he had unavoidable business for two or three days. 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 you were doing, Ms. Yoshizato. He’s a born worrier, so it seems he’s concerned after all.”

“Right.” “With Mr. Nishinomiya, I truly can’t face him.” “But today… I suddenly wanted to meet Mr. Nishinomiya—” “If he doesn’t come for two or three days…” “If he doesn’t come next time, tell him I said this—please pass it on as a favor to me.”

“Ah, if you come next time, I’ll let you know, so do visit for company,” said Komatsu. Yoshizato thought for a while. Then she drank two or three cups by her own hand and sank into thought once more.

“Ms. Komatsu,” Yoshizato’s voice sounded unexpectedly composed, “has there been no word from Mr. Hirata to Mr. Nishinomiya either?” “Ah, not a single letter has arrived since then,” Komatsu replied. “They say there’s been no response to the letter Mr. Nishinomiya sent either.” Her eyes fixed on Yoshizato with a gaze that held a trace of derision as she added, “But you know—how people end up can’t truly be foreseen.” “Oh, that’s simply how things are,” Yoshizato brushed off lightly before continuing, “Ms. Komatsu—there’s something I need to ask of you.”

“ ‘Something to ask’?”

Yoshizato took out a paper packet containing fourteen or fifteen letters from her pocket and placed it before Komatsu. “About these letters… Among the letters that came to me from Mr. Hirata, I thought it would be too ungrateful to discard them, so last night I went through and set them aside. Keeping them stored away serves no purpose, and leaving them behind would just mean using them as scrap paper, which also feels too ungrateful. So I’ll leave them with you—please ask Mr. Nishinomiya to deliver them to Mr. Hirata when he gets the chance. Please, Ms. Komatsu—I beg of you.”

Komatsu’s face paled. “Ms. Yoshizato—are you truly serious?” “Tell Mr. Nishinomiya to have them delivered to Mr. Hirata,” Yoshizato repeated. “Ms. Yoshizato—why did you get into such a state of mind? I’d never known you to be so heartless. Just because they might not even be used as scrap paper—isn’t that taking heartlessness too far? If you cast aside Mr. Hirata so completely, wouldn’t that be terribly ungrateful?”

“But… thinking about someone I’ll never see again…” Yoshizato hung her head. “I’m truly appalled.” “Given this trade we’re in, you can’t stay devoted to one man forever—can’t live alone clinging to him your whole life—but even so, putting Mr. Hirata in the same basket as Mr. Zenkich… you’ll never reconcile yourself that way.” “I don’t know how dear Mr. Zenkich is to you, but forgetting Mr. Hirata is heartless beyond measure.”

“I’m fond of Mr. Zenkich.” “I might be far fonder of him than I ever was of Mr. Hirata.” “Not caring about Mr. Hirata… Well, I suppose that makes me terribly heartless,” said Yoshizato, hanging her head and biting hard on her collar. “You’re truly an appalling person.” “Fine, go ahead and do as you please.” “I never thought it was bad that you’ve been carrying on with Mr. Zenkich as you are now, but having learned how heartless you can be today of all days, I won’t exchange another word with you.” “Well, go on home.” “You’re truly an appalling person.”

Yoshizato stood up despondently. "Make sure to deliver them to Mr. Hirata."

Komatsu did not respond.

Yoshizato, who had gone out to the next room, turned back once more. “Ms. Komatsu—I’m counting on you.” “And please send my regards to Mr. Nishinomiya too.” Komatsu again gave no reply.

Yoshizato looked at Okuma and said, “Ms. Okuma, you looked after me so much during Mr. Hirata’s time. If Mr. Nishinomiya comes by, tell him Yoshizato sent her regards.” “Ms. Okuma, I’m counting on you.” Okuma hung her head and did not respond this time either. Yoshizato stared intently at Komatsu in the upper room, and no sooner had she left the chamber than she was heard speaking in a booming voice in front of the neighboring oiran Oshina’s parlor—a clear sign of her being heavily intoxicated.

As that day too drew to a close, it came time to open the parlor.

Komatsu had already put on her lined kimono and was tidying herself before the mirror when Okuma came rushing in frantically, “Oiran! It’s terrible! “Ms. Yoshizato hasn’t come—they say.” “What? Ms. Yoshizato?” “There’s a huge commotion in the inner quarters! “The back drawbridge was down, and the back entrance was left open, they say.” “Huh, is that so? Well…” Komatsu, startled, abruptly realized she had left the packet of letters Yoshizato had left behind still placed in the tokonoma alcove without putting it away. She opened the packet and untied the twisted paper wrapper to look inside, where from between the letters emerged a photograph wrapped in paper. There was writing on the wrapping paper. With a sudden suspicion, she unfolded and read it, and turned pale in shock.

I leave this brief note. Having resolved myself through unavoidable necessity, I humbly beg your kind understanding of this inconvenience. To Mr. Hirata, I could not fulfill my obligations. To Mr. Nishinomiya too, I remain indebted. To you as well, dear one, I have failed to atone. Yet through these photographs, I earnestly entreat you to discern my true heart. My sole regret lies in never again meeting Mr. Hirata and Mr. Nishinomiya. From yourself, I ask you convey my regards to all concerned. In haste, I leave nothing more unsaid.

From the quarters, Dear Madam

The people looked at the photograph where Hirata's and Yoshizato's faces were placed front to front, while on the back was the character for "heart" written large and bound crosswise with twisted paper. Clutching the photograph and suicide note through her tears, Komatsu rushed to Yoshizato’s room on the same second floor to check, but Yoshizato was nowhere to be found. Okuma, along with the clerk and two others, were making a commotion. Komatsu 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 Kanasugi, with Ueno’s electric lamp glowing like a will-o’-the-wisp in the distance.

Around noon the following day, through the efforts of Asakusa Police Station, it was discovered that in an alley near Hashiba of Imado lay discarded Okuma's haori which Yoshizato had worn when leaving, while along the Sumida River bank in the same alley were abandoned a courtesan's indoor zori sandals and a man's straw-soled sandals.

However, the corpse was not easily found. In late January of the following year, when a newspaper article reported that a woman’s corpse had washed up upstream of Eitaibashi Bridge, Okuma went to verify it just in case. Though the face was too decomposed to identify, the kimono was unmistakably the one Yoshizato had worn when she left. Okuma tearfully buried her at Minowa’s Muen Temple, and Komatsu had Okuma make offerings of incense and flowers every seven days.