Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

The rain that began in the evening continued late into the night.
It was a lonely, pattering rain.
When the light rain stopped around ten o'clock, four guests who looked like office workers hurriedly left.
And afterward, three students and the game attendant remained.

Inside the room, murky air had settled thickly.
There was a kind of utterly exhausted atmosphere within it.
On the two billiard tables lay four ivory balls—red and white—and yet, bathed in the gaslight, they shone beautifully.
And when cool outside air flowed smoothly through the window, everyone just instinctively looked at one another's faces.

In the back corner of the room, the game attendant and a student were sitting.
A short distance away from them, two university students sat side by side on chairs right next to the billiard table.
The man called Murakami was a fair-skinned, large-framed, stout man with thick eyebrows.
He wore fairly strong nearsighted glasses, but his demeanor and appearance gave an overall lively impression.
In contrast, the other was slender in build, his dusky cheeks bearing a somewhat nervous glint.
He had a habit of firmly lowering his eyes while maintaining a gaze as if looking into the distance.
His surname was Matsui.

“Hey!” Murakami called out in a low voice, turning toward Matsui.
He was laughing in his eyes.

Matsui simply stared back at Murakami’s face without saying a word.

Murakami averted his gaze and looked around the room, then suddenly stood up.

“Shall we play one, Otaka-san?”

“Yes, let’s do that.”
“This is payback for earlier.”
“What do you mean? It always ends up being counter-payback anyway.”
“Well then, you’d better boast all you can while you still have the chance.”

The woman stood up and came over, wiping the balls with a cloth.
And while arranging them, she called out to Matsui.

“Matsui-san, how about joining that person over there?”

“I’m too tired today,” Matsui said dismissively.

There, Okami-san came out from the back pouring tea.
She was already quite an old woman.
She always tied her hair into a small bun and shaved her eyebrows.
She had an odd way of staring intently at people’s faces.

“Did something happen?” Okami-san immediately hijacked the conversation.

“Huh?!” Matsui pulled a puzzled face.

“You seem awfully down, don’t you?”

“Is that so?”

“Well, well. Why don’t you have some while it’s hot?”

Okami-san offered him tea while teasing him like this.
And she called out to the other student sitting silently across the room.

“Hayashi-san, come over here for a game.”

The man called Hayashi still remained silent, smiling as he looked this way.

“Come on now,” Okami-san urged Matsui again.

“Let’s stop today,” Matsui said after a while.

“So you’re brooding over something in secret…” she began, but suddenly changed her tone.
“Well then, please feel free to amuse yourself.”

And as she headed into the back, she called out to Murakami, who was playing billiards.

“Murakami-san, you should trounce him thoroughly．You can’t just be all talk these days.”

Being told this, Otaka smiled with her eyes.

When it got late at night, it was always just Otaka by herself; though she couldn’t play well, she would serve as opponents for customers or referee games. Normally, the owner would act as opponents for customers, but he—already quite balding—would retire early to the back, claiming his eyesight wasn’t good at night. When there were many customers, Okami-san would come out and oversee one side of the games, but usually it was just Otaka alone. And there were customers who would often linger late into the night keeping Otaka company. Murakami, Matsui, and Hayashi were particularly habitual night owls. Murakami and Matsui were companions. Hayashi always came alone. It was also from Otaka’s words—“How about Hayashi-san?”—that they learned his name was Hayashi.

Matsui had been in low spirits since that afternoon.
Everything he thought and saw kept sinking incessantly into the depths of his chest.
Such melancholy was not unusual for him.
At such times, he would always naturally find himself pondering various things intently.

So he was once again absentmindedly lost in his rambling thoughts while watching the balls being struck by Murakami and Otaka. Then, when he suddenly shifted his gaze to look at Hayashi, Hayashi was staring intently at the balls.

At that moment, a sudden feeling of disgust flashed through Matsui’s heart.

Matsui and Murakami often stayed at the billiard hall until late into the night.
Hayashi also often stayed late to play.
They would often end up together.
At such times, without fail, neither would rise until the other had left.
It had come about naturally, without any particular reason.

I'm not trying to compete with Hayashi or anything, Matsui thought.
To begin with, I didn't have any feelings for Otaka either.
Even if there were emotions within me that I wasn't consciously aware of, why on earth would I compete with someone like Hayashi?
That absurdly broad forehead, that flat nose bridge, that thinning hair, those slack lips—that was more than enough!

He abruptly stood up, leaned against the window, and gazed outside.
Immediately in front was a large hinoki cypress leaf, and beyond it, in the right-hand corner, stood a yatsude plant.
The leaves still held a full measure of raindrops.
Yet the sky had cleared beautifully, and the stars were twinkling brightly.
As he gazed at the starlight, he felt the night air—purified by rain—seep into his chest.

A moment later, “Hey!”

When his shoulder was tapped, he turned around to find Murakami standing there.

"What do you want to do?"

"I got completely trounced."

The woman was still hitting the balls but, excusing herself as she finished, struck through to the end.

“Do come again.”

“I’m done.”

“Getting angry over losing doesn’t suit you at all.”
“Hey, Matsui-san,” the woman said with a piercing look.

“Now, now,” Murakami interjected.
“When you win, you should show more restraint.”

“Then treat me to something instead.”

“Well… Whatever you wish.”

“That depends on your wallet’s convenience,” the woman laughed while mimicking Murakami’s tone.
“How about... soba?”
“And then?”
“What do you mean?”
“And then you mean beer, right?”

“No, I won’t drink today. Or if you mean Otaka-san will cover half,” he added pointedly, “we might as well settle the financial side too.”

“That’s pure fortune-telling.”

Hearing that, Matsui involuntarily smiled.

“What fortune-telling?”

“That fortune-telling of yours,” said Matsui.

“Oh my, this is a surprise,” Murakami replied. “I’d go mad if that got remembered forever like this!”

Yet beneath those words, a lonely shadow flickered across Murakami’s face.

Murakami's fortune-telling was not such an old story.
It was early July, just as the rainy season was nearing its end.
He came into some money he needed.
Since he hadn't told anyone anything, there was no way to know for sure, but Matsui surmised from the circumstances that the funds were likely meant for a two- or three-day trip to discreetly part ways with a woman he'd been involved with for some time.
In any case, having come to need a modest sum, he'd discreetly appealed to an uncle back in his hometown of Hiroshima.
For a while, no reply came.
He passed his days in restless unease.
One evening while wandering aimlessly, he spotted a fortune-teller's sign on a dimly lit street.
In this strange mood, he ultimately obtained an auspicious reading from a suspicious old man that night before returning home.
The next morning brought word that money had arrived from his uncle.

“Have you ever told fortunes?” Hayashi spoke for the first time.

“Oh, it’s just a trivial matter,” Murakami replied.

“That must be quite interesting, though.”

“Well, who can say?
It might be rather dull, you know.”

“Is that so?”

After that, everyone fell silent for a moment.

“The soba’s off tonight too,” Otaka broke the silence.
“Matsui-san, come play a game.”

“I’m calling it quits for today.”

“You’re such a coward.”
“Shall I ask Hayashi-san for a game instead?”

Hayashi simply smiled.

Otaka already had the cue stick in hand and gazed intently with seductive eyes.
And Hayashi stood up just like that.

Hayashi seemed somewhat more brusque than usual.

“You’re at a great advantage,” Murakami called out to Otaka.

“Yes, tonight’s incredibly good, you know.”
After saying this, she let out a mysterious smile.

A lonely feeling welled up in Matsui’s heart as he silently watched the game.
It was nothing in particular—just an elusive sense of emptiness.
The gaslight’s glow was oddly forlorn.
The sheen of the balls was oddly ephemeral.

He listened to the sound of the balls as if hearing some distant noise.
After a while, he finally made up his mind.

“Hey, let’s get going already.”

“Huh?” Murakami peered into Matsui’s face.

“I’ll be taking off first,” Matsui rephrased.

“No, I’ll head back too.”

“Oh, leaving already?”
Otaka said in a familiar tone.
“You’re departing rather early today.”

Matsui glared at Hayashi, then abruptly went outside.
Murakami followed right after him.

The ground was pleasantly damp.
The sky was beautifully clear, and the stars were shining.
Pure, fresh air enveloped the night, and the streets lay hushed in perfect stillness.
In the late-night gaslight, there lingered no memory of the evening’s bustle anywhere.

“It’s a lovely night, isn’t it.”

“Yeah.”

They had been walking in silence for a while when Murakami suddenly spoke as if remembering something.

“What on earth’s with you today?”

“What do you mean?”

“You’re acting different from usual, you know.”

“Oh, right,” Matsui said, but suddenly found various thoughts churning in his head. Various thoughts spilled from his mouth all at once. “I’ve been thinking I don’t want to stay up too late at that house anymore. I’ve grown sick of loitering around even after getting tired of hitting the balls. First off, that Hayashi’s unpleasant. I can’t stand his weirdly silent, clingy attitude. And somehow when he’s there, we end up staying too, don’t we? It’s not like we’re trying to compete with him over Otaka—it’s downright absurd. If I fool around too much, my mind gets scattered—that’s no good.”

“You’ve got a strange way of thinking.”
“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t think like that.”
“Well, you—when two or three people are playing a game together, isn’t it just natural that as long as your opponent’s there, you’d want to keep playing too?”
“……Thinking like you is dangerous.”
“You—that woman Otaka isn’t like most women.”
“Her face isn’t particularly commendable—masculine and lacking in nuance—but there’s something truly formidable about how her eyes move.”
“You can’t let your guard down!”

At that moment, Otaka’s face rose vividly in Matsui’s mind.
Her hair was styled in a large chignon, with thick eyebrows and a tight-lipped, masculine countenance.
Her strikingly complex eyes were gleaming…….
Matsui, becoming aware that he had suddenly conjured that face so vividly, felt a disturbance in his heart.

“What on earth,” Murakami said again.
“You take things too seriously—that’s the problem.”
“Everything in the world is nothing but a comedy, you know.”

If we let Murakami tell it, it goes like this—life is a series of events after events.
However, the connection between one event and the next lies entirely beyond human control.
It is determined by something other than humans.
People have no choice but to entrust themselves to fate.
However, an event itself can be interpreted in any number of ways depending on one’s perspective.
Depending on the perspective, it becomes red or blue.
But the event itself always takes the form of comedy.
There is chance, unexpectedness, ignorance, and absurdity.
One must bow to fate yet refrain from inflating the significance of things.
To critically dismantle things and evaluate them properly is the path to living most vigorously.

“So,” Murakami continued.
“If you keep chasing after seriousness like this, you’ll end up losing big time.”
“You’ve got to have some fun now and then.”

“But you—” Matsui retorted.
“To remain detached and play above human affairs, you must possess tremendous power within yourself.”
“Otherwise, there’s a risk of getting dragged down bit by bit, you know.”
“So where does such power come from?”
“I believe that power wells up from earnestly considering everything.”
“And I believe true play lies in thoroughly pursuing seriousness.”

“That must be what you call reaching the realm of the divine.”
“But you—do you really think you can become a god so easily?”
“Mixing up ideals and reality like that just makes everything unbearably painful.”
“Well, even I’d want to become a god, you know.”

“What a god you are.”
“Well, with this, I might just end up becoming a higher-grade god than you.”

When their words momentarily broke off, a sense of loneliness welled up from the depths of their hearts.
It was a feeling akin to hunger.
After that, both of them fell completely silent.

The street where all the doors had been closed held a hollow silence.
Occasional passersby quickened their steps.
And on rain-filled puddles and muddy patches, red light glittered and sparkled.

II

Matsui and Murakami continued to frequent the billiard hall as usual.

When night fell and electric lights were lit, they would recall the blue gaslight of the spacious room.
The red and white balls—four others besides—gliding smoothly across the baize would flicker before their eyes.
Then, as if hearing some distant nostalgic sound, the clack-clunk of billiard balls would reverberate.
They could even imagine hearing Otaka's crystalline voice calling out the game.

Matsui and Murakami went to the billiard hall, each inviting the other without either taking initiative.

It was a kind of inertia.
However, something more than inertia gradually entwined itself around the two of them—and around Hayashi and Otaka as well.
Matsui, Murakami, and Hayashi often held late-night competitions by Otaka’s side.
That irritated Matsui, made Murakami smile, and drove Hayashi even deeper into silence.

Otaka would sometimes be away from home for two or three days at a time.
At such times, Hayashi too would usually not show his face.

A strange hint passed between Matsui and Murakami.

“Visiting when someone’s away isn’t very tactful at all, is it?”

As they were leaving the billiard hall, Murakami said this.

“I really hate that Hayashi.”
“What a repulsive guy.”

“He’s quite the smooth operator, isn’t he?”

“Why?”

“Why? Well, that’s because you…” Murakami said, laughing.

It was a certain beautifully clear evening.
The outside air felt slightly too chilly against the fabric of their lined garments.
Matsui, invited by Murakami, set out for an aimless stroll, wandering without purpose.

They chose to walk along the bright streetcar thoroughfare.
Murakami had a look that suggested he had something on his mind.
That reached Matsui as well.
Neither of them suggested playing billiards and just kept walking.
However, as they walked on, the very act of walking began to seem meaninglessly, absurdly foolish.

“Shall we have some beer?” said Murakami.

“Very well.”

They went up to the second floor of a Western-style restaurant.
And they immediately entered the narrow room on the right.
The room had no other guests.
On the dining table sat a single cycad pot, its form reflected in the pillar mirror across the room.

They ate the meal and drank beer.
Then they also had a couple of glasses of spirits.
And for some reason, they found themselves in a state where they seemed to be avoiding each other’s gazes.

“You’re not drinking at all.”

“What? I’m just getting started,” said Murakami as he picked up his Western-style glass.

“It’d be fun to play billiards drunk.”

“Well, shall we go out again tonight?”

“Ah, let’s give it a try.”

“Actually…” Murakami started to say, peering into the other’s face.
“There are some things about that house that bother me a bit.”

“What’s wrong?”

“Well, last night, you see, I ended up going out alone.”
“I played until around eleven, you see.”
“In the end, I was the only one left.”
“And Hayashi didn’t show up either.”
“Then Otaka said, ‘You must be lonely without an opponent,’ and gave a strangely sarcastic laugh.”
“…What exactly do you think of Otaka and Hayashi?”

“What do you mean?” Matsui hesitated, unsure how to respond.

“They’ve been acting suspicious for a while now.”
“You should understand that much yourself.”
“That Okami-san arranged things to her liking, didn’t she? …Oh right—since Otaka said to me, ‘You must be lonely,’ I playfully teased her quite a bit about Hayashi.”

“Huh!”

“Well, that one was acting all composed.”
“But then Okami-san nearby started getting spiteful.”
“‘Murakami-san here isn’t so pitiful as to need jealousy now, is he? Heh heh heh,’ she dared to laugh.”
“And exchanging looks with Otaka, she leaked this sarcastic chuckle.”
“It grated on me something fierce!”

“So you got bested then.”

“Nonsense—if anything, *I* was the one who cornered *them*!”
“Like you say—she’s a thoroughly disagreeable old crone.”

“Is it exactly certain about Hayashi and Otaka?” Matsui asked.

“There’s probably no mistake.”
“Of course, from Otaka’s perspective, it’s probably nothing more than a fleeting fling.”

Matsui silently raised his Western-style glass.
And Murakami simultaneously gulped down a full glass.

“And another thing,” Murakami said, lowering his voice.
“That Hayashi fellow—I think he might be a Chinaman, you know.”
“He’s annoyingly tight-lipped and just keeps grinning like that, you know.”
“If you read it as ‘Lin,’ isn’t that a name commonly found in China?”
“There’s something really off about his face.”

“If you put it that way, there’s something about the composition of his face that seems authentic.”

Both of them were quite drunk.
While staring fixedly into each other’s eyes, they sensed some ominous thing together.
It was something vague that couldn’t be put into words, but both were conscious of it gradually growing more distinct.

“What nonsense.”

“What nonsense.”

Almost simultaneously, the two of them said.

“Is Hayashi really a Chinaman?” Matsui said after a while.

“Nah—the fact is that’s not really the case. It’s just more fun to think that way.”

“Things are getting complicated.”

“What is?”

“What do you mean ‘what’? …The situation around Otaka.”

“We’ll naturally get dragged into it too eventually, won’t we?” Murakami said with a laugh. “That’d make things more fun.”

“Hard to say.”

“But you like Otaka, don’t you?”
“Go on—admit you like her.”

“I don’t dislike her…… What about you?”

“I don’t dislike her either.”
“But I don’t like her either.”

The two of them drank again.

“Hey, you,” Murakami said, immediately bringing his face close to Matsui’s.
“If Otaka belonged to the two of us, would you duel me over her?”

Matsui silently met Murakami’s gaze.

The two of them openly gazed into each other’s eyes.
For a moment, there was no shame there.
They stood naked before each other's gaze.

Matsui was startled.
The realization of what that something was had flashed through his mind.
He clenched his fist.
And at the same moment he jerked his face back, Murakami too pulled away.

“Ah!” Matsui exclaimed in surprise.

“Come on, let’s drink,” Murakami said.

The two of them drank a little more.
But between the two of them lingered a faint animosity.
They cast strangely evasive glances at one another.

The two of them left that place a little past nine o'clock.
Both of them were quite drunk.
Cold air flowed against hot cheeks.
The streetlights appeared redder than usual to their eyes.

“Shall we go play billiards?”

“Sure, let’s go play.”

And then the two of them entered the usual billiard hall.
When they spotted the familiar billiard table under the gaslight, their hearts suddenly eased, and they forgot what had happened earlier.

That night, Hayashi did not come.
Murakami and Matsui played billiards while chatting idly until late.
Otaka called the game in her beautiful voice, properly but carelessly.

III

It grew colder with each passing rain.
A shrike was singing, and the ginkgo leaves had turned yellow.

The sky looked ominous since morning, but by afternoon it had turned into a violent wind-driven downpour.
And it continued until evening.

Pitter-patter, pitter-patter went the large raindrops as they continued to fall, pausing for breath between intervals.
It whipped through the wind, striking eaves, doors, and thickets of leaves to create a blanket of mist.
As the rain and wind twisted together, passing from eave to eave, all other sounds were erased, leaving only the tumultuous sound of rain to fill the space.

Otaka was alone in the billiard hall.

She felt somehow disheveled in spirit.
Her heart teetered on the edge of collapse.
Everything seemed strangely ephemeral and insubstantial.
Yet a raw energy pooled in her fingertips and toes, leaving her with the sensation of craving vigorous movement.

She quietly hopped up and sat on the billiard table.
Then she swung both legs idly.
The sensation of her soles brushing through empty space and the gentle motion of her knee joints eased her heart.
This was the only sensation she had preserved unchanged since childhood.

At that moment, she suddenly recalled how once before, when she had been sitting on the billiard table in the same manner, a customer who entered had seen her and lodged a protest. Then somehow it struck her as comical.

She wiped the balls while perched on the billiard table. In a low voice, she tried singing various folk songs. Later she even hummed school songs learned in childhood. Within her heart, she dreamed of happiness in some distant future. She fantasized that the raging storm outside might bring some completely unexpected happiness.

However, that moment passed immediately.
She was startled by her own dream.
That was a heart from a childhood long past, flickering within the present.
It was a dream she herself could neither recognize nor comprehend.

Otaka clicked her tongue in annoyance and jumped down from the billiard table. Then she hurriedly finished wiping the billiard balls and put them away in the box. She concluded there would be no more customers. And then she wiped the table’s baize with a brush. A weariness of life, as it were, had soaked into her heart.

At that moment, sudden footsteps sounded at the front, and the entrance’s glass door clattered open.

That was Matsui.
Holding an umbrella, nearly half his body was soaked from the rain.

“My, what happened to you?”

“I came to play billiards.”

“Oh my, thank you as always,” Otaka said with a laugh.

“Well, actually, I went to a friend’s place earlier today.”
“Since it didn’t look like it would let up, I tried heading back, but as you can see, I ended up soaked through. Had no choice but to duck in here.”

“Oh my, you’re absolutely drenched.”
“If only you had a change of clothes at home.”
“Oh, right,” she said, taking a deep breath.
“I’ll light the hearth for you.”
“It’s a bit early for that.”
“It’ll dry soon.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

Even so, Otaka fed charcoal into the hearth and lit the fire.
The two of them arranged chairs before it.

“As expected, no one’s coming today, huh?”

“Yes, you’re the only one who’d go out of your way to get soaked.”

“Well, that’s a surprise.”

“No, that’s why I’m saying you’re the kindest.”

“You’re saying I’m the kindest and the most troublesome, huh?
...But really, what do you do at times like this?”

“Huh?”

“When you’re alone with time to spare.”

“Even this much,” Otaka said with a laugh.
“There are various things to do—that’s why I’m busy.”

“Hmm.”
“Just a lot of unsavory errands, I suppose.”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

The hearth’s fire crackled to life.
The hearth turned red and lit up their faces.
The rare red fire’s color, sound, and even its unfamiliar scent aroused a joy and radiance throughout their senses.
The two of them suddenly exchanged glances and smiled for no reason at all.

“Fire is such a good thing, isn’t it?”

“Yeah. But I prefer kotatsu over hearths. Get nice and warm.”

“Sipping sake little by little at a kotatsu wouldn’t be half bad, huh?”

“I can’t. I can’t drink at all.”

“Except on special occasions… But on a stormy day like today, a hearth isn’t bad either. Listening to the rain while watching the fire… it’s nice, isn’t it?”

“My head’s all scrambled—I hate days like this.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Well then, might I suggest you become a lighthouse keeper or something?”

“A lighthouse keeper? That’s a strange thing to come up with.”

“I had an uncle who worked as a lighthouse keeper, you know.”
“Apparently from the Toyama area.”
“I hear there are quite a few unusual things there.”

“Well, that makes sense…”
“Just where is your hometown anyway?”

“It’s Izu.”

“Huh, it’s close then.… So you drifted all the way to Tokyo, huh?”

“That’s a cruel way to put it.”
“There were... circumstances.”

Otaka began her life story there.
It resembled the sort of tale ordinary maids from small restaurants would tell.
A story whose very foundation made it impossible to tell truth from lies.
Yet Matsui found this kind of story curiously engaging.
Apparently it concerned the time she'd stayed with her aunt in Asakusa.
When her aunt took her out for an evening stroll and they happened through a park on their return, there lay a boy sprawled asleep on a bench—so Otaka quietly placed the silver coin she'd been carrying beside him.
Upon returning home, her aunt severely scolded her for losing the money, but she apparently kept silent and concealed the truth.

“That must be the only act of charity in my entire life,” Otaka said with a laugh.

Matsui stared intently at her face, finding the story ill-suited to her character.
Her face glowed red in the hearth’s fire.
At that moment he suddenly noticed—
Though not conventionally beautiful, there was something undeniably charming about Otaka’s features.
Until then he hadn’t been able to pinpoint its source.
It lay in a faint muscular quiver stretching from the corners of her mouth to her cheeks.
There lingered an allure that stirred one’s heart—a particularly sensual magnetism.
Matsui fixed his gaze on that spot.

“What are you looking at?” Otaka smirked.

Matsui started and averted his eyes.
But at that moment, he felt a great turmoil in his heart.
An expectation and a strange anxiety seized him.

“I’ve met all sorts of looks, but none of them have done me any good,” the woman said in an earnest tone.
“My thoughts aren’t of any use at all.”
“I just feel like I’m being dragged along by something, you know.”
“If I do that, I’ll just end up ruining myself.”
“Even when coming here, I thought I should get serious from now on, but it’s still no good.”

“What’s no good?”

“I’m thinking of leaving here soon.”

“And what do you plan to do then?”

“What will I do? Well… it doesn’t matter at all.”
“In that case, I’d like to pay a visit to your place sometime.”

“Oh, come visit me.”
“I can’t offer you any treats, though.”

“Is it really okay?”
“You don’t mind me intruding?”
“...But Mr. Murakami and your friends are always coming over, aren’t they?”
“I’d hate to run into them...”

“They don’t come over that often.”

“Right.”
“Then I’ll definitely pay a visit.”
“I know your lodgings well, you see.”

After that, their words briefly trailed off.

And an oddly restless silence lingered.

“Oh, it’s already dry, isn’t it?” Otaka suddenly reached out and touched Matsui’s kimono as if she had just remembered something.
Then, while exclaiming “Ooh, hot!”, she stood up and went to open the window.

Before they knew it, the storm had ceased, and a fine rain was falling.
Even so, the garden remained littered with fallen leaves and scraps of paper, over which the rain now fell soundlessly in a steady drizzle.
Otaka gazed outside while letting the cold wind cool her fire-warmed cheeks.
Stray hairs danced at her nape.

Matsui turned and saw the woman’s figure.

“Shall we play a game?” she asked, glancing back with a smile.

“Ah,” Matsui answered reflexively.
He hadn’t particularly wanted to play.

Even so, he was remarkably successful.
For some reason, his mind felt light.

Just as their game was about to end, the front door opened.
Hayashi could be seen standing there with a smile.

Otaka discarded the billiard cue and stood up to leave.
And she took the hat from his hand and hung it on a nail.

“One tea, please,” she called out toward the back.
When there was no response, she called out again in a loud voice, “One tea, please!”

“Oh, right away,” came Okami-san’s drowsy voice.

Hayashi came all the way in and stopped curiously before the hearth.

“Are you lighting the hearth already?” he said.

“Yes, just now,” Otaka said, looking at Matsui with a coquettish smile. “Since Mr. Matsui was completely drenched, I lit it specially.”

“It really is about time to start lighting it properly,” he said. “I love watching fire.”

“It’s truly a wonderful thing, isn’t it?”

There, Okami-san came out carrying tea.

“Oh, Hayashi-san.”
“I thought it was someone else.”
“…The other night must have been quite something for you.”

“Yes, a little…” Hayashi said with a sly grin.

Okami-san peered into Hayashi’s face and whispered like this:

“Are you all right?”

“Yes,” Hayashi nodded.

Then he ordered a few Western dishes from Okami-san in his usual tone.

“The truth is, I was hungry and went out for a stroll, but I ended up coming here first.”
“Oh, it’s nothing…” he said, looking up at the clock.
It was past nine o’clock.
“Around ten o’clock is fine.”
“It’s still raining quite a bit, you see.”

Matsui stared fixedly at Hayashi.
And Murakami’s remark that he might be Chinese suddenly seemed absurd.
However, as he looked at Hayashi’s strangely broad forehead, he found himself growing irritated for no reason.
Even so, he cleanly finished his shots in the end.

“This time, why don’t you come with Hayashi-san? … Hayashi-san, how about you and Matsui-san play a round?” Otaka said.

“Well,” Matsui said as he discarded the billiard cue and sat down in a chair.

However, Hayashi stood up, came over, and while arranging the balls, said.
“Let’s play one game.”
Matsui also reluctantly stood up.

Otaka put charcoal into the brazier and placed it under the billiard table.
Then she sat down by the game table and stared fixedly at Hayashi.
A smile emerged from her eyes, and that made Hayashi’s face break into a grin.

Matsui suddenly felt a sense of humiliation since Hayashi had arrived. The fact that everyone was secretly communicating with Hayashi in the shadows, and that Hayashi was acting like the master—this grated on Matsui’s sharp nerves. And taking the cue stick and facing Hayashi, he felt a strong hatred welling up within him.

Matsui tried as much as possible to yield to his opponent, making the subsequent balls unfavorable. He avoided leaving anything to chance himself and devised a way to prevent his opponent from gaining points. And he splendidly won the first round. He also secured victory in the second round. In the third round as well, he employed the same method. However, Hayashi calmly struck the poor shot Matsui had left behind. Not a single muscle in his face moved. Otaka too remained composed. Matsui grew increasingly irritated. He thought there was no way Hayashi and Otaka couldn’t understand what he was doing. He fixed his agitated eyes on the tip of the cue stick. And when he finished the game, he discarded the cue stick.

“You’re really off your game today,” Otaka said to Hayashi-san.

“Yes, it’s no good,” Hayashi replied calmly.

Matsui immediately prepared to leave.

“It’s still early yet, isn’t it?”

“No, I need to hurry a bit.”

When Matsui was about to step outside, Otaka came running there.

“Please come again tomorrow,” she whispered, staring intently into Matsui’s eyes.

Outside, the rain was still falling.
The shadows beneath the eaves and the glow of the eaves lights glistened damply.
Matsui hunched under his umbrella as he walked, a sudden chill running through him.

His heart remained agitated yet was shrouded in desolation.
Everything began to seem like some ill omen.
As he walked, gazing at the light reflected on the muddy ground beneath his feet, he recalled Otaka’s face.
The allure of her voluptuous cheeks—noticed for the first time that day—flickered before his eyes.
Yet this desire was seen through a veil of restless irritation, a kind of hostility, and vague loneliness.

He tightened the muscles of his face, raised his eyes, and gazed out at the rain-soaked street.

IV

Matsui’s boarding house was on a quiet back street.
In front of his room was a sizable garden.
He would often lean on his desk and gaze at the deepening autumn.
The treetops towered high into the sky.
At night, the stars shone lonely yet beautiful.

He still frequented the billiard hall often.
Most often with Murakami, the two of them together; on rare occasions, by himself alone.

However, there was no further change in Otaka’s surroundings.
The current situation continued, as if being dragged along sluggishly.

But one day, Otaka did not appear at the billiard hall.
And just like that, five days passed, then ten days passed.
Around the same time, Hayashi’s figure also vanished from sight.

Matsui and Murakami did not discuss Otaka much.
They began avoiding that subject.
There was a certain awkward feeling, and it caused them to hide the depths of their hearts from each other.

One evening, when Matsui had opened the shoji of his room and was gazing blankly at the stars in the sky and the trees in the garden—and when he was irritably recalling Otaka and her surroundings without focus—Murakami hurried over.

“Hey, I saw Otaka,” Murakami said, his eyes wide.
When he had visited a friend’s house and was ambling aimlessly along Hirokoji on his way back, he encountered Otaka coming from the opposite direction.
She was wearing a fine silk kimono with a haori and Kilk-ura zōri sandals.
Whether she had noticed Murakami or not, she turned away and passed by.
Murakami, too, had apparently remained silent.

“Is that true?” Matsui asked, his eyes sparkling.
“What’s the point of lying?”

The two of them stared intently into each other’s eyes.

“That old hag’s to blame.”

“That’s right,” Matsui agreed.
“Let’s stop going to that house so much.”
“Yeah, we should cut back a little.”

However, the two of them still frequently went out to that house.

They were drawn by a certain blind force.
And in that house, there existed for them a lonely sense of ease.

About two weeks after Otaka had disappeared, the two of them found Hayashi at that house and were completely taken aback.

Hayashi saw them and gave a slight nod.
Murakami walked off to the other side with feigned indifference.
But at that moment, Matsui—without any clear reason—felt an unexpected lightness in his chest and strode directly up to Hayashi.

“It’s been quite some time,” Matsui said.
His voice emerged strangely hoarse from deep within his throat.

“Yes.”
“I’ve been ill for some time now.”
“I’m still taking medicine, but I’m nearly recovered.”

“That must have been trying.”

Silently, Matsui stood motionless before Hayashi.
Hayashi turned away.
Suddenly noticing, Matsui started in surprise and went over to where Murakami was.
And when a table became free, the two of them played a game.

That evening, when the other customers left, Hayashi also went home early.

Murakami and Matsui played billiards late into the night.
An inexplicable emotion kept them there.
Something that had lost its equilibrium resided within their hearts.
The narrow-eyed woman wearing white makeup who had come after Otaka took charge of the games.

The two of them left there nearly at midnight.

It was a windless, quiet night.
A quiet stillness swirled around the eaves light.
Everything was now about to fall asleep.
And the shadows lay still and heavy.

“Is Hayashi saying he was sick?” Murakami asked.

“That’s right.
But you know, Hayashi seems like a much greater person than us.”

“You’ve really taken a liking to Hayashi again, haven’t you?”

“Not really… But you really are an awfully reckless fantasist.”

“Well, I’m not as much of an idealist as you are.”

The two walked on in silence.
In their hearts, each bore an indescribably empty wound.
From there, a vague, groundless resentment—whose object remained unclear—gradually began to arise.

“Why have we ended up feeling so strange this time?” Matsui said.

“It’s because the woman’s remarkable.”

“What on earth did you think of Otaka?”

“What do you mean—do you think there’s some settled feeling like that? It’s just that with Otaka around, we could play billiards more enjoyably—that’s all.”

“But I still feel this peculiar emotion will linger on and on. Right now, I like Hayashi.”

“I dislike him all the more.”

They walked about ten steps in silence.

“I have, from the very beginning of this matter,” Matsui said, “somehow felt as though I were separated from God. I feel as though my heart has been steeped in something base.”

“Well, you’ve lost the woman, that’s why,” Murakami said coolly.

“Maybe so.”

But Matsui felt as if hot tears were welling up in the depths of his eyes.
At that moment, Murakami suddenly let out a loud “Ooooh—” that echoed all the way to the far end of the street.
Matsui stopped in surprise.

“What?!”
Murakami said.

The two resumed walking in silence.
The sky, the earth—everything lay in the depths of night.