Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Shigeo often discussed his father with his mother, Shigeko. For Shigeko, it was rather a matter of indifference, but for Shigeo, it was an unsettling issue he couldn't help but discuss. In truth, Shigeo's father Tahara Kōhei was a contemplative person in all matters and excessively lenient. But that might have been a good thing. What unsettled Shigeo was how, through his father’s lifestyle—bereft of any force to confront reality—a certain emptiness had begun to settle within the man. Directing his gaze there was eerie and terrifying. However, Shigeo had no choice but to do so.

“Lately, hasn’t Father been often getting up in the middle of the night to take walks in the garden?” Shigeo said to his mother. “No, even if you call it midnight, it’s around four or five in the morning,” answered Shigeko. “He says rising early is better for one’s health when summer heat arrives—better than sleeping in as you do, I suppose.”

She was smiling. It was her habit to always wear a gentle, sincere smile. She, always filled with goodwill—or rather, a serene mood that couldn’t even be called goodwill—was slightly thin yet perpetually youthful and pure. Her long-lidded, narrow eyes showed a surplus of vitality.

"But," Shigeo said, "isn't Father getting up early not so much because he can wake up easily, but rather because he can't sleep and has no choice but to rise?" “Hmm, to me it seems he’s sleeping quite well.” "Has he ever mentioned anything like that?" "He hasn’t said anything specific, but…" "There was a time when I stayed up late reading books, and as I passed through the veranda thinking to go to bed, he called out from the room asking 'Aren't you asleep yet?'" "That kind of thing happens often." "Somehow, it seems like Father is always awake..."

"That's simply because he's sharp-eyed and awake." "He's always been that way." "And as one grows older, that tendency only becomes more pronounced." "But he hasn't even reached that many years past forty yet, has he?"

“If we’re talking strictly about age, that’s true—but once past forty, one starts feeling they’ve lived quite a long time.” “But… well, it was just the other day.” “There was that time I went to Enoshima with a friend early on a Sunday morning, remember?” “That morning.” “When I got up around five and stood on the veranda using a toothpick, Father was standing motionless in the distant garden.” “When I looked at him from behind, it suddenly seemed his hair had grown terribly thin, and I felt a strange sensation.” “But Father remained standing motionless facing away.” “It gave me this strange sensation, as if I were looking at the hollow trunk of an ancient tree.” “The morning sun hadn’t yet risen, but night had completely given way to a crystal-clear brightness reaching beneath those plantings over there.” “I was overcome with an indescribable feeling and stood staring at Father’s back when he suddenly turned toward me and said, ‘You’re up unusually early.’” “He must have known all along that I was watching him.” “He had even shown a strange, almost sarcastic smile.” “So I became completely flustered and ended up saying something strange like, ‘The night has already ended, hasn’t it?’” “Then Father stared into my eyes from afar as if peering into them and said, ‘That’s right—lately it’s been getting a bit brighter around four o’clock.’” “‘Someone like you wouldn’t know such things,’ he said, flashing that same sarcastic smile again.” “Then, as if to smother my silence, he said, ‘You’ll be late if you don’t hurry with your preparations,’ and turned away again.” “At that moment, I somehow felt like I had done something terribly wrong and couldn’t say anything.” “It really did feel strange.”

“But isn’t that nothing?” “Well, it is nothing important, but still…”

There was something "not nothing" within Shigeo's heart, but being too vague, he couldn't articulate it clearly when speaking aloud. "But if you call it strange, then you're being strange too." "Why is that?"

"But isn't that a strange way to think?" "But Father's appearance makes one think that way." “Then we’re both being strange, aren’t we?” Shigeko said that and let out another smile. But she too fell completely silent and began gazing through to the garden. In the east-facing garden, the afternoon sunlight was blocked by the eaves and did not fall, yet even so, under the reflected glare of the fiercely bright sky, the air in the shadows of the plantings seemed oppressively hot and dry. The tree leaves were rustling dryly, the soil in the planters had completely dried out, and the stepping stones between the upland grasses looked unnaturally white.

“It looks like it’s going to be a hot year,” Shigeo suddenly remarked. “Well, given how it’s already like this in June.” “Let’s all go to the mountains this year.” “I too have been thinking of going somewhere, but... if we’re going anyway, wouldn’t the sea be better?” “The sea would dull your mind.” “The mind again?” Having said that, Shigeko raised her eyes and looked at Shigeo’s face. “You’re always worrying about nothing but your mind.”

“That’s because for young people like us, the mind is the most important thing.”

At that moment, footsteps sounded on the staircase on the second floor. Father was coming downstairs. When they heard this, they both fell curiously silent. However, it wasn't particularly out of hesitation toward Father. It was because their attention had naturally been drawn in that direction. Father walked over with heavy steps and appeared before the two of them.

“Are you awake?” Shigeko said. “Ah.” “You’re up unusually early today,” Shigeo said. “Even so, I fell fast asleep. When taking a nap, it’s best to sleep soundly but briefly.”

However, Mr. Tahara wore a profoundly gloomy expression. From his thick brows across his broad forehead, faint vertical wrinkles had formed—the kind he typically showed when angry. And around his mouth—half-hidden by the long, thick mustache—there drifted an emptiness indicative of a lack of volition.

“Did no one come?”

“No, no one has come to visit.”

Mr. Tahara tilted his head slightly at that response. Then he went to the kitchen to wash his face with cold water.

After washing his face with water and then even his head, Mr. Tahara felt that his earlier emotions had somehow vanished and his mind had become strangely hazy. But that was still somewhat better.

The emotion from earlier was what he had felt upon waking from his nap. Something that seemed to draw in loneliness had softly settled over his heart. That was not mere mood. Lonely, desolate, and fragile things had been cast over his heart like wisps of smoke. And he instinctively tried to shake them off by opening his eyes. Yet he had still been half-asleep until that moment. And that very desolation he tried to escape now drew his eyelids closed again. While his entire body dozed, he focused his awakening mind on that presence. A desolate sensation—unbearable to endure yet impossible to escape—welled up within him then. It was an empty, soft, prickling anguish. As he yielded to it, he felt a faint breeze flowing across him. By then, his eyes had opened once more. From the open second-floor room, he could see the treetops in the garden grove. Green leaves trembled faintly. Beyond them stretched a blue sky. A solitary shred of cloud hung in the air, only to vanish swiftly into the azure depths. It was utterly silent. A silent yet magnificent transition. Magnificent yet utterly fragile and desolate. From the vast cloudless sky came a tepid breeze drifting in...

He kicked off the blanket with his feet and half-rose on his pillow. It felt like a tremendous effort. Stretching both arms out, he released a cavernous yawn. That yawn laid bare the hollowness in his chest. Something seemed to have been ripped from within him. Every muscle in his body had gone slack. His flesh felt unnervingly still and fragile. Then a viscous, languid melancholy pooled thickly in his heart.

What he saw was neither the quiet transitions flowing through great nature nor the pettiness of life placed beneath the vast sky. Rather, it was the raw existence's languor and loneliness—a feeling akin to "Today has ended once more; tomorrow will likely dawn again." From the depths of that emotion rose pure, unadulterated dissatisfaction. Immersed in this state, he contemplated neither "What should be done?" nor "What should not be done?" He simply felt the act of existing—an existence unbearably desolate.

Mr. Tahara rose to his feet, went downstairs from the second floor, exchanged words with his wife and son, then washed his face and head with water. The gloomy emotion vanished, but afterward, a strangely hazy sensation remained in his head. Mr. Tahara returned again to where the two were. There lay a banana and chilled milk. He ate a banana dipped in the sugar-sweetened milk. “Has Ryōsuke not returned yet?” asked Mr. Tahara.

“Not yet, but he should be back soon.”

Then Mr. Tahara ascended to the second-floor study.

Taking an afternoon nap every day and then secluding himself in his study until dinner was almost his daily routine.

In the study were placed two bookcases packed with many Japanese and Western books, while in its center stood a single rosewood desk. Mr. Tahara would sit facing that desk, sometimes perusing new publications in his specialized field of electricity or contemplating ideas related to shop management, but more often he would immerse himself in reading stories from past and present eras or rest his cheek on his hand while gazing outside. The financial stability of the household and the robust foundation of the shop had placed him in a largely idle position.

The house stood at the edge of the elevated terrain in Nishikata-chō, Hongō, so that when the windows were thrown open, the high ground surrounding the botanical garden would spread out immediately before one's eyes. To the right lay Hakusan Forest, while to the left rose the distant smokestacks of the artillery arsenal. Mr. Tahara would sometimes contemplate the tranquil woods, or watch the swirling soot from the chimneys. Above it all stretched the ever-present vast sky. Whether windy, rainy, or clear, these vistas remained unchanged.

In Mr. Tahara's heart, as he gazed out at them all in a single sweeping view—the undulations of the land, the rows of houses standing upon it, the forest, the soot, the vast sky—there always remained the same sort of tranquil expansiveness. If one looked down upon the city from above, and if one did so with a tranquil heart, it became a single expanse of quiet nature.

However, Mr. Tahara was somehow feeling bored. Boredom is a bad emotion. Mr. Tahara also knew that. So he went and stood by the window, fixing his eyes on each of the rows of houses. In some places, laundry fluttered on drying racks. In some places, plant pots were lined up under second-floor eaves. There were trees that were withering and darkened. Beyond them stood two large ginkgo trees, towering imposingly.

At that moment, Ryōsuke returned from his errand. He was immediately summoned to the second floor. Mr. Tahara greatly cherished the talent of the boy who held the position of student-servant. Ryōsuke had gone to the shop in Jimbochō on Mr. Tahara's errand. The shop in Jimbochō was an electrical equipment shop that had been operating since Mr. Tahara’s father’s time. Ryōsuke sat properly with his knees bent at the entrance to the study. Then he presented the reply from the shop. While Mr. Tahara read it, he remained properly seated.

“Ah, you’ve done well,” said Mr. Tahara as he rolled up and put away the reply letter.

“You may go downstairs and study now that there’s nothing more needed.” “Yes, I’m sorry for being late.” “It’s not that I mind you being late, but somehow today seemed to take longer than usual. Did you stop by home on your way?” “No, it was because Mr. Hirota wasn’t at the shop.” Having said that, Ryōsuke reported that because Mr. Hirota had not been at the shop, he had gone to inquire at his residence and then returned together with him to the shop. Mr. Hirota was the chief clerk who managed nearly all aspects of the shop. Finally, Ryōsuke added this.

"Mr. Hirota has many children and such, so it seems he has various household matters requiring attention. Even so, apart from unavoidable business, I hear he usually remains at the shop until evening, but today I happened to go where he wasn't present, which caused the delay." Mr. Tahara listened to Ryōsuke's explanation with a smile playing at his lips. What gladdened his heart was Ryōsuke's act of "benevolent interpretation."

Shigeo had always counted his father’s excessive tendency toward "benevolent interpretation" as one of his flaws. That same tendency existed even in the astute Ryōsuke, who respected and revered Mr. Tahara.

Mr. Tahara now remembered those words of Shigeo. “Benevolence, when taken to excess, becomes malice,” Shigeo had said. However, for Mr. Tahara, benevolence was always benevolence. No—it was something that transcended good and evil intentions, “naturally being so within him.” And his heart, having passed forty years of age and possessing both wealth and idleness, remained perpetually tranquil because of it.

II

A story from the past.

Part One——

One year-end, an irregularity was discovered at the shop in Jimbochō. Three induction coils, two rheostats, and one ammeter were missing. According to the account books, those items had been properly entered into the shop and their payments settled, yet the items were not in the shop and had not been sold. Clearly, someone must have taken them out either en route or from the shop and concealed them. The payment of approximately three hundred yen was not a significant matter for the shop, but the incident was not something that should be overlooked.

Mr. Tahara summoned the chief clerk Hirota to his room on the second floor of the shop. "I don't mean to blame you at all. Do you understand? I don't mean to blame you. However, as chief clerk, you must also bear half the responsibility. So could you investigate this secretly? I think you’re more familiar with the shop’s inner workings than I am—that’s why I’m asking you."

Hirota remained silent in thought.

“What do you think?” said Mr. Tahara again. “But we can’t indiscriminately suspect the shop staff either…” Hirota looked perplexed. “You’re right—casting suspicion on others is wrong. So please investigate this discreetly and secretly.”

Then Mr. Tahara called the accountant Haraguchi and requested that the incident be kept confidential for some time. The only ones aware of the inventory shortage were Mr. Tahara, Hirota, and Haraguchi. Then a week passed. However, no leads emerged regarding the perpetrator.

One day, Haraguchi came to visit Mr. Tahara. And then he said the following: "You mustn't trust people too much. The culprit might be somewhere unexpected." Mr. Tahara gazed intently at Haraguchi, who sat with his head bowed, seemingly lost in thought. Then he said: "Very well. You must stay alert too. I'm keeping watch discreetly myself." The honest old man Haraguchi left looking vaguely dissatisfied.

Then, a few days later.

Hirota came to Mr. Tahara at the shop. “I still haven’t found any leads since then, but as there are some suspicious points, perhaps we should inspect the items once more?” So Mr. Tahara, along with Hirota and Haraguchi, re-examined the shop’s inventory with the three of them. Then all the items that had been missing before were accounted for. The accounting also showed no particular irregularities.

While staring intently at Hirota, who seemed to want to say something, Mr. Tahara said:

“This will do. Since nothing is missing, I see no need to investigate further. However, I must caution you all—be more attentive from now on.” It was a cold, overcast day threatening snow. Mr. Tahara sat in his chair staring at Hirota’s face illuminated by the gas stove’s flames. Sweat glistened around his neatly parted hairline. “Very well then—return to your duties,” said Mr. Tahara.

Haraguchi bowed politely and left promptly. As Hirota left the room, he glanced back once and stole a furtive look at Mr. Tahara. Mr. Tahara did not overlook that.

That evening, Mr. Tahara rode a rickshaw to visit Hirota's residence in Iidamachi. The wife, her hair done in a comb bun, came out and was flustered by the sudden visit.

“There’s an urgent matter I need to discuss,” said Mr. Tahara, proceeding to the sitting room to wait for Hirota’s return. In a house with four children where the youngest lay ill, the wife—with only one maid—was bustling about in confusion. This too became perfectly clear to Mr. Tahara. From behind the sliding door’s shadow, two boys peeked alternately at Mr. Tahara while sucking their fingers.

After nine o'clock, Hirota returned home. He came to where Mr. Tahara was without even changing out of his kimono and bowed so deeply it seemed he might press his head into the tatami mats. “I hear your child is ill.” "Yes," Hirota merely replied and kept his head bowed. His complexion was pale.

After a period of silence continued, Mr. Tahara began to speak.

“You must know why I’ve come here so suddenly.” “Yes,” Hirota answered again in a low voice. “I am not deliberately trying to blame past matters. However, if such matters become known to the entire staff, it could have a detrimental effect.” And Mr. Tahara stared fixedly at Hirota. “You must be more careful from now on. First and foremost, aren’t you in a position to oversee the entire shop? You yourself... No—I won’t say anything more about that. Since you must have sufficiently repented, I simply need you to be especially careful about this matter. What’s been done once is easily done a second time. Understand? Once something’s been done, it leaves a lasting mark. You must give careful thought to that. This incident will serve as good discipline for you. Whether you make use of it or not depends entirely on your own efforts. ...You do understand what I’ve said, right?”

Hirota silently raised his face. His cheek muscles were twitching. “Just take care not to entertain any reckless notions,” Mr. Tahara continued. “You are not yet forty.” “Your life is still ahead of you.” “And please work diligently for the shop—think of it as your own business, understand?”

Then Mr. Tahara casually handed over 100 yen in bills. “This is merely a token of my heartfelt wishes regarding the child’s illness. Please keep this. You must take good care of the child’s illness.” Hirota’s tears fell profusely. And without saying a word, he simply kept his head bowed low and remained still. “Today I came for a brief visit, but I ended up rambling about unnecessary things. Please forgive me. Well then, I have business outside as well...”

“I fully understand your kindness.” “I will be absolutely careful from now on...” Hirota could say nothing more after that. When Mr. Tahara stood up, the wife, who had apparently been listening to their conversation from behind the sliding door all along, her eyes brimming with tears, hurriedly aligned Mr. Tahara’s geta at the genkan step.

Mr. Tahara called out to Hirota once more at the entryway. "You've understood what I've said, have you not?" "Then you should explain the situation frankly to Haraguchi beforehand." "He's an honest old man—if you explain matters properly, he'll understand." "But above all, you must not tell lies." "Yes," Hirota answered. Mr. Tahara got into the rickshaw that had been waiting.

The next day brought snow. Mr. Tahara deliberately refrained from going to the shop and instead watched the snow fall from his study. That evening, he talked about Hirota to his wife and Shigeo. Then he added:

“Hirota must have actually needed the money. He may have overexerted himself in returning the goods to the shop, but that might instead be good for him.”

Part Two――

Next to Mr.Tahara's house was a household called Uesaka. Mrs.Uesaka and Shigeko became acquainted before they knew it, and on summer evenings they would sometimes talk while standing on the quiet street. Then later, a person named Uno moved in across from Mr.Tahara's house. Mrs.Uno also gradually became acquainted with the previous two. And this wife would sometimes come to visit the Taharas' house and go to visit the Uesakas' house. She was a hysterical, childless woman in her early forties.

However, as she gradually approached from across the way, Mrs. Uno told Shigeko various things. They all concerned the private matters of other people's households. In the end, the conversation shifted to matters concerning the Uesaka household—the Uesaka household had twice undergone compulsory execution due to debts. Mrs. Uesaka was originally a woman of lowly origins; Mrs. Uesaka had called Shigeko a naive fool, and so on.

The genuinely good-natured Shigeko simply let such talk flow past her with an "I see." And she still exchanged greetings with Mrs.Uesaka.

One evening, as Shigeko stood idly at the entrance, Mrs.Uesaka happened to pass by. Shigeko offered her usual greeting. Without responding, Mrs.Uesaka turned away and walked past.

Shigeko thought something was off but left it at that. And for a time, her dealings with Mrs.Uesaka ceased. Before long, she heard strange rumors from the maid. It was said she had thoroughly bad-mouthed Mrs.Uesaka to Mrs.Uno— that Mrs.Uesaka was originally a woman of lowly origins, a naive fool, and so on. By then, everything had become clear to Shigeko. And even the gentle Shigeko became immensely angry at Mrs.Uno. In her indignation, she told her husband everything.

At that moment, Mr. Tahara said this: “That’s because you’re a fool. “That’s why you shouldn’t associate with people like that.” “Try thinking about yourself properly.” “You’re angry right now.” “Getting angry at Mrs. Uno lowers you to her level.” “If you want to become like that sort of person, then by all means, go ahead and stay angry.” “But that’s going too far, isn’t it? “Even though she herself thoroughly badmouthed Mrs. Uesaka, she went on and on at Mrs. Uesaka’s place as if I had said all those things.” “It’s only natural to get angry.”

“Exactly—if you were the same kind of person as Mrs.Uno, then getting angry would be perfectly natural.” “But you must rise above.” “If you were far superior to someone like Mrs.Uno, there’d be no need to get angry at all.” “To get angry at others is to lower yourself to their level.” “There’s no need to become like Mrs.Uno.” “You should simply accept that such people exist in the world and look down on them from above.”

Shigeko wore a dissatisfied expression but offered no response to that.

Several months passed. Before they knew it, Shigeko and Mrs. Uesaka had resumed speaking with each other. And it became clear that Mrs. Uno was constantly trying to drive a wedge between the two of them. And also, Mrs. Uno found herself in a peculiar position standing between the two of them.

After that, the Uno household relocated elsewhere.

Mr. Tahara said: "There are countless people like that in this world." "There are quite a number among men too." "But the lies of such people aren't sins themselves." "They're fashioned with characters that cannot exist without lying." "Getting angry at such a character is like getting angry at a crooked tree." "For a straight tree to grow angry at a crooked one for not being alike would be foolish." "The one who grows angry is at fault."

Part Three—

One summer, Shigeo contracted severe gastrointestinal catarrh. He suffered from diarrhea occurring over ten times daily and ran a high fever fluctuating around thirty-nine degrees. Despite his intense thirst, he was given only small amounts of liquid. The doctor conducted stool tests daily. As it was precisely during a dysentery outbreak, the doctor feared the worst. A nurse was immediately assigned.

Mr. Tahara commuted to the Jimbochō shop every morning as usual amidst all this. In the afternoon, he sat by the sick boy’s bedside and peered at his face. In the evening, while the doctor came and conducted the examination, he waited motionless in the next room. And each day, he received nearly identical updates on the patient’s condition from the doctor. Everyone in the house was quietly going about their tasks, yet the calm air remained unsettled with anxiety. Shigeko was growing increasingly agitated. She proposed calling another doctor.

“Wouldn’t that be better?” she said to her husband.

“That’s right, that might be a good idea.” “Or perhaps we should wait a little longer to see how things progress. Dr. Sawada did say it should be all right.”

“That’s right,” Mr. Tahara said again. “What should we do? If we don’t act quickly, we’ll be in trouble. What would you do if he were to develop dysentery?” “Then go ahead and handle it as you see fit.”

So Shigeko immediately sent for a certain specialist.

“Quite severe, isn’t it?” said the doctor, tilting his head. Mr. Tahara remained quietly reserved amidst such commotion. And he always kept his mouth tightly closed. Even so, within about a week, Shigeo’s illness gradually began to improve. Precisely because the illness had struck so suddenly, its recovery was equally swift. After a week, he was able to get up. At that moment, Shigeko said to her husband, “He should be alright now, don’t you think?” “He’ll be fine,” Mr. Tahara also replied.

“But really, there’s no one as lacking in initiative as you,” she said. “You stayed perfectly composed through all that commotion, responding to everything with just ‘That’s right.’ That’s precisely why I grew more and more irritated.” “No—when there’s an ill person, one must remain composed,” he replied. “And truthfully, I was actually more worried about Shigeo than you were.” “Even so, if we’d been too late and it had turned into dysentery, there would have been no undoing it, would there?”

"That's right. I may have just been thinking about various things…" "I may have just been thinking about various things…" Having said that, Mr. Tahara made an indescribable expression. The look of him slightly knitting his brows and narrowing his eyes appeared to Shigeko exactly like a tearful face.

Then Shigeko too became strangely sad and didn't say anything more.

Part Four…………

Part Five…………

Three

In the evening, Mr. Tahara went out to the garden and watered the plants. That was one of his daily tasks during the summer. The leaves of plants, washed clean of the daytime's scorching heat and dust by the cold water and now shining with a rejuvenated color, pressed directly upon his heart and made it feel vividly alive. Highland grass, stepping stones, and pine trees arranged between them; in the depths to the right, a large rock had been set with ivy leaves entwined around it. To the left rear, oak and chinquapin trees towered thickly, and beyond them, smoke rose from the bathhouse chimney. Mr. Tahara simply splashed water recklessly across the garden. Beside the stepping stones, a small portulaca had opened its yellow flowers.

Mr.Tahara, having watered the garden and looked up at the suddenly bright evening sky nearing dusk, appeared utterly tranquil. His face—with its slightly receding hairline and thick mustache tinged with red—showed no particular emotion. He simply breathed the tranquility of sky and earth with his mind as it naturally was.

When Ryōsuke arrived there, Mr. Tahara was sitting on the veranda. “Have you finished preparing?” Mr. Tahara said. “Yes.” “Then go right away. And tell your father exactly as I said.” “Then I will take my leave.” Holding his night school bundle in hand and tucking the envelope containing money received from Mr. Tahara into his pocket, Ryōsuke left the house. When he stepped outside, he paused briefly to look around, then suddenly quickened his pace. On his way to night school at Central Technical School in Nakasarugakuchō, he had to stop by his father’s house in Yumichō.

Ryōsuke wasn't particularly happy. Nor was he sad. He simply felt there was something he had to face through Mr. Tahara's instructions. That was his actual father. The father who had pulled rickshaws and served at the Tahara household for years. The father employed at the Artillery Arsenal. The father who had submerged himself in alcohol since losing his wife last winter. The father who repeatedly came begging money from Mr. Tahara. He was perpetually drunk, his breath reeking of liquor.

Ryōsuke quietly peeked inside the house from the doorway. Under the dimly burning ten-candlepower electric light, his father Tokuzō was eating his meal. His younger sister Miyoko had already finished her meal and sat still beside him with a pale face. The two of them remained obstinately silent. Something must have happened again. Father had probably shouted at young Miyoko about there being no alcohol. And he, not being drunk, must have become displeased with himself and his own words, falling into silence.

Ryōsuke resolutely entered the house. "Oh, Brother…" So Miyoko exclaimed in a loud voice and immediately stood up.

“What? Ryōsuke?” Tokuzō said that and tried to rise, but then plopped back down heavily. And suddenly making a glaring look, he said. “Sit down.”

Tokuzō stared intently at Ryōsuke, who had placed his school bundle there and neatly folded his knees. “What’s wrong?” he said again. That Ryōsuke had come seemed completely unexpected to him. Ryōsuke silently took out the envelope of money from his pocket and placed it before his father. “Master told me to give this to you, so I stopped by for a moment on my way to school.”

Tokuzō took the envelope and opened it to look inside. Inside were five one-yen bills. When he saw that, he kept his mouth half-open in a daze and stared fixedly at Ryōsuke's face. “Well,” Ryōsuke said, “Master gave this to me.” “Because I became a scholarship student at school, he gave it to me as a reward.” “And he said that when you’re around, he’ll provide money at home, so I should bring this to Father’s place. He said you’re free to use it as you please.”

Tokuzō said nothing for a while, but suddenly spoke in a loud voice. “Great!” Then he suddenly flung one of the bills in front of Miyoko. “Miyo, go buy a sho of alcohol right away.” “Make sure it’s one sho.” “And two slices of flatfish.” “Do you understand? Hurry up. Go run and get it.” Miyoko hurried out to the front just as she was told.

After Miyoko had left, Tokuzō tilted his head slightly as if pondering something, then opened his mouth as though speaking to himself and his own heart.

“Great. You became a scholarship student? So Master gave you a reward. Makes sense. He’ll provide money at home... Take this to your old man... Master’s truly great, I tell ya. You’re great too, I tell ya. I may be a drunk now, but I worked hard for Master back then.” “Master often speaks of you. And he’s been very kind to me too. He always says I must study hard.”

“That’s right, you gotta study while you’re young,” Tokuzō said. “When I sent you into service, Master declared he’d certainly raise Ryōsuke into a fine person. Then when I was headin’ home—since he wouldn’t be keepin’ any rickshaw pullers no more—he said ‘I’ll give this to you,’ so I took the rickshaw. Was a splendid thing, I tell ya. Could’ve gotten twenty ryō if I’d sold it…… Wonder—Master probably commutes to the shop by train every day now, eh?” “Ah, he takes the train,” Ryōsuke replied.

“Yeah….” Tokuzō began to say that but suddenly clamped his mouth shut. And he seemed to be deep in thought about something.

When Miyoko returned, struggling under the weight of the sake flask and dangling the flatfish, Tokuzō's eyes suddenly lit up. “Well then.” With that, he stood up. Then he stirred up the fire in the hibachi himself and grilled the flatfish.

“Hurry up and heat the alcohol with the charcoal brazier,” he shouted at Miyoko. However, Tokuzō immediately had her stop heating the alcohol. Then he placed the cold alcohol on the dining table as it was. “You,” he said, turning to Ryōsuke, “have school today.” “You can’t afford to take your time, can you?” “Just come here quickly.” “This is celebratory alcohol.” “You became a scholarship student, huh?” “Have a drink.” “You’ve gotta cheer up.” “Come on, have a drink then….”

“I can’t drink alcohol,” Ryōsuke replied. “What? You can’t drink?…… Oh, right.” “It’s better not to drink while you’re going to school, I tell ya.” “It’s bad for the brain, I tell ya.” “Then have some flatfish instead.” “Flatfish is an auspicious dish, I tell ya.” “Hey, Miyoko, you have some too.”

Ryōsuke picked up the flatfish with that. Tokuzō drank the cold sake greedily. After a while, Ryōsuke began to speak. “Do you drink alcohol every night, Father?” “Don’t talk nonsense. I wanna drink every night I wanna drink, but nobody ever lets me have any.” “But you drink often enough.”

“Of course. “If I couldn’t drink anymore, the world would be over.”

“But Master used to say the same thing—that if you drink alcohol, the world would be over.” “So you’re saying if I drink alcohol, the world would be over?” “Ah,” he answered, but Ryōsuke paused briefly to think. Then he spoke again. “Father, do you want to die?” “What nonsense are you spouting, you fool? Who in their right mind would wanna die?”

"But you know what? They say drinking too much alcohol amounts to suicide." "They say overdoing it will surely shorten your lifespan." "And even if you don’t actually die, they say being perpetually drunk and useless is no different from being dead." "Master often told me that," he continued. "I won’t tell you to quit drinking, but you mustn’t die until Ryōsuke and Miyoko come of age."

Tokuzō put down his cup and stared fixedly at Ryōsuke’s face. “What’s this about me not being allowed to die….” “Don’t make such bad jokes.” “Look how alive and kicking I am!” “So that’s why he said, ‘Don’t become a living corpse.’” “As long as you understand just that, it’s said to be fine no matter how much you drink.” “I see, Master certainly has a way with words.”

Tokuzō said that, but tilted his head slightly, then took the cup again. Ryōsuke immediately stood up with the air of having said what he needed to say.

“What? Leaving already?” “I’ll be late for school.” “I see. Well, study hard then.” As he said this, Tokuzō licked his lower lip briefly and fixed his gaze on Ryōsuke.

Miyoko saw Ryōsuke off to the entrance. “Please come again, Brother.” “Yeah, I’ll come again. Is Dad always this loud?” “No, not exactly…” And she simply lowered her head. “I’ll be late for school, so I’d better get going.” “Next time I’ll come when I can stay longer.” Miyoko silently nodded. And she kept watching Ryōsuke’s retreating figure until he disappeared from sight.

Outside was still dimly lit, but the outlines of objects were blurring into dusk as the gas lamps glowed faintly white. Ryōsuke kept his gaze fixed on the ground as if lost in thought while quickening his pace. It was already a little past seven, when night school began. His heart was gripped by a desolate anxiety. The future was far too hazy. There was something far too distressing in the present moment. But as long as Mr. Tahara existed, he had nothing to worry about. Yet that very fact filled him with a vague unease, a heaviness of heart, and a sense of insufficiency. Amidst this, he vaguely envisioned something like society at large in his mind, and felt a stifling emotion that brought tears to his eyes.

IV

Four or five days after Ryōsuke visited the house in Yumicho, Tokuzō came to Mr. Tahara’s house.

He came around from the back entrance as usual and called out, "Good day."

Shigeko, who happened to be right there, immediately spotted Tokuzō.

“Oh, Tokuzō? You haven’t shown your face around here for some time now.” “Heh heh, I’ve been terribly remiss in my visits.” “Is the arsenal closed today?… My, what vigor you’re in—flushed like that in broad daylight.” “Ah Madam, things were too dismal, so I had a little drink to liven things up. By the way, is Master at home?” “Ah, go around to that side.”

So Tokuzō made his way unsteadily from the garden around to the veranda of the tatami room.

Mr. Tahara was crouching on the veranda at that moment, letting the electric fan's breeze blow over him. "Oh, Tokuzō. How have you been lately?"

“Heh heh... Same as always, really...” “You’re still going strong, I see.” “Oh, just a little pick-me-up.” “Thanks to you, I finally vented my pent-up frustrations properly the other day—first time in ages—so today I came to pay my respects, so to speak.”

“There’s no need to come just for thanks.” “That was simply to celebrate Ryōsuke.” “You’re fortunate to have such a fine son.” “Ryōsuke will become a great man before long.”

“Is that true, Master? Is Ryōsuke really that great?” “Yes, he’s great indeed. So you need to pull yourself together a bit too. I wonder... Given how you look, you must have already drunk the one from the other day.” “Heh heh... Well, you know how it is...” “Well, drinking’s fine and all, but didn’t Ryōsuke say something to you back then?” “Oh yes—he said it alright. Said something grand. Well, ‘You can drink alcohol, just don’t die.’ And… My memory’s terrible, so I’ve forgotten everything else, but I remember those words clearly. Master, you really taught Ryōsuke well. I’m truly impressed…”

“And then?” “I resolved to quit drinking alcohol, but…” “It isn’t working out?” “That’s right—it just ain’t workin’ out, you know. In the first place, there’s no reason it should work out. If I don’t drink alcohol, the fire inside my body’ll go out, see. I’ve heard this from someone, you know—they say the most important thing for humans is the fire within the body. If that fire goes out, then you’re gonna die for real, see.”

Mr. Tahara didn’t answer and kept staring at Tokuzō’s face. His sunburned face glowed red from alcohol. The thick eyebrows, low sturdy nose, and thick lips—all seemed ablaze with summer’s scorching heat and liquor’s warm haze. “And Master,” Tokuzō went on, “when it’s blazing hot outside like this, you gotta keep your insides burning too to stay balanced.” “And when it’s cold—you gotta keep that inner fire burning or you can’t take it.” “But y’know, I remember clear as day.” “‘Drink all you want.’” “‘Just don’t die.’ Now if Ryōsuke said that, it’d sound fresh—but comin’ from you, Master, it’s pure wisdom.” “But Master—quittin’ the drink’d kill me faster.” “The fire’s gotta burn or it’s curtains.” “Long as it’s burning, I’m alive and kicking.” “Dead folks are cold.” “Like stones.” “Me—I figure that’s ’cause their fire’s gone out.” “...Say Master—that fire in Yushima t’other night?” “Mighty thing.” “I ran right up front and saw proper—crimson flames roaring up to the sky.” “Whole neighborhood turned red, I tell ya.” “Wind whipped those scarlet flames into whirlpools.” “Ain’t nothin’ as fierce as that.”

And Tokuzō tilted his head slightly in thought, then continued speaking. “Master, have you ever gotten drunk on a crimson sunset evening?” “A fire’s just like that, I tell ya.” “Everything around starts spinning wild-like.” “Then it all flares up crimson-red, I tell ya.” “The sky’s blazing with a crimson sunset, I tell ya.” “Sky and ground both turn blood-red and start swirling, I tell ya.” “Then everything bursts into flames at once, I tell ya.” “Ain’t nothin’ you can do about it.” “I’ll keep charging into anything and everything long as these arms hold out.” “Wars and such might be just like that.”

When Tokuzō found himself rambling on alone, he suddenly clamped his mouth shut and gulped down the tea that had been sitting there since earlier. Then he abruptly turned his gaze toward the electric fan. “It really does give a nice breeze.” “But this breeze feels rather lukewarm, Master.” “Can’t you come up with some way to make this breeze cooler, Master?”

“That’s right.” Mr. Tahara gave a disinterested reply. Then he took a hand-rolled cigarette, lit it, and took another one for Tokuzō as well.

“Is the Arsenal taking a break today?” Mr. Tahara said, changing the subject. “Oh, it’s just a little breather.” “That work really wears you down.” “I’m worked to the bone without even a moment for a smoke break, you see.”

“That must be exhausting work, but if you keep taking breaks like this, wouldn’t Miyoko be in trouble?”

“Nah, it’s all right.” “But I make sure to look after her proper instead.” “She’s a pitiful thing through and through.” “I often take her on my lap and sing lullabies.” “Then she won’t even try to sleep—just bursts out laughing.” “I wind up laughing right along with her.” “After all, she’s twelve already.” “Sharp as a tack though.” “When I come back from the Arsenal and try to turn in, she rubs my shoulders.”

"But there must be times when you yell at her."

“That’s just when there’s no booze, see.” “But here’s the strange part.” “When there’s no booze and I start hollerin’, it feels just like I’ve had a drink.” “My heart starts boilin’ over, see.” “At times like that, I take her on my lap and sing lullabies.” “Then we both end up laughin’, usually.” “Sometimes the kid starts blubbering on me.” “I start snifflin’ too... Nah—burnin’ fire’s the only way.” “Cryin’ ain’t no good feeling.” “Cryin’ just ain’t right.” “Here’s what I think—folks gotta keep a fire burnin’ inside all the time.”

“But you know, even if you don’t stoke your fire with alcohol, you should burn it with something else.” “Well, if it’s like Master’s way, we could say that, but...” “It don’t work for folks like us.” “After all, we’re stripped bare to the bone, I tell ya.”

Mr. Tahara stared fixedly at Tokuzō's face. “Losing your wife must have been hard on you.”

When Tokuzō heard those words, he abruptly started to rise but then hunched back down. “Master, you shouldn’t dwell too much on those who are dead.” Those words sounded like an accusation to Mr. Tahara. Then, without saying a word, he stared fixedly at Tokuzō, whereupon Tokuzō sat with an almost insensate, expressionless face, his gaze vacantly fixed on the garden stones beyond. The garden was now entirely in shadow, but from the sky that blazed with the slanted sun’s glare, the scorching afterglow poured down to earth, creating a shadowless brightness that permeated every corner. The two of them remained silent after that, vacantly gazing out at the garden. The windless grove of trees in the garden had fallen completely silent.

At that moment, the maid came to inform Mr. Tahara that the hot water had boiled. Tokuzō suddenly stood up and attempted to leave at that moment.

“Hey, wait a moment.” Mr. Tahara said this as he stood up, wrapped some money in paper, and gave it to Tokuzō. “No, Master, I can’t accept this.”

And then Tokuzō placed the wrapped package on the veranda.

“Why? You should just keep it.” “Because I can’t accept it.”

“It’s nothing—just keep it. And with that, you should buy something for Miyoko.”

Tokuzō’s eyes suddenly lit up. “Then I’ll take it.” “Miyo loves manju, so I’ll buy her one ridiculously big one to make her happy... Well then, Master, I’ve gone and disturbed you.”

Tokuzō bowed politely. Then he went around to the kitchen area, greeted Shigeko, and left for home. His drunkenness seemed to have subsided as he walked away with heavy footsteps.

Mr. Tahara then watered the garden, took a bath, and sat down to dinner. However, he felt strangely weary inside. It was a weariness resembling what he himself had termed "the worst kind of fatigue." Mr. Tahara frowned slightly, then fell silent and ate little. He kept feeling like Shigeo was staring fixedly at him.

After dinner, Shigeo addressed his father in a gentle tone like this. "Did you give money to Tokuzō again today like you always do?" “Ah, I gave him a little.” Mr. Tahara merely answered like that. The tone of his voice was utterly composed. "But if you keep silently giving money to that slovenly man, he’ll only grow more presumptuous."

“Oh, it’s fine. Moreover, I feel I’m gradually coming to understand Tokuzō’s feelings.” “Father, you’re always saying things like that, but you can’t distinguish the value of things at all. Father’s approach is always just interpretation. And they’re all overly benevolent interpretations. You don’t exercise any judgment at all.” For Shigeo, who had an interest in philosophy and attended the German Law Department at his high school, all matters required judgment and rulings. His established argument was as follows: Mere interpretation does not improve society. To improve society requires judgment and rulings. From there, he would at times even submit protests to his respected father. His eyes always shone with youthful vigor. Red blood flowed down his cheek. He was filled with a force that collided against everything.

Mr. Tahara cast a brief glance toward Shigeo, then answered quietly. “Judgment is something that comes after understanding.” “However, I’ll leave such abstract debates to young people like you.” “But you still don’t truly understand what it means to be human…… Ah yes, Tokuzō’s situation.” “You cannot possibly comprehend what a blow losing his wife dealt to Tokuzō.” “As you know, Tokuzō had been working at the artillery arsenal ever since leaving this house.” “His wife was doing piecework at home.” “And they raised Ryōsuke and Miyoko in poverty.” “Then suddenly his wife died.” “That’s how Ryōsuke came to live with us.” “That’s when Tokuzō started drinking alcohol.” “Today he said:” “‘It is crucial for human beings to keep a fire burning within their hearts.’” “‘People like us have no choice but to keep our inner fire burning with alcohol.’ Think carefully about that.” “Even if you don’t understand now, the time will come when you too will clearly understand that.”

Shigeo had been listening intently to his father’s uncharacteristic eloquence but eventually spoke. “I mostly understand． But merely understanding isn’t enough—without deciding what to do next， nothing will come of it．”

"If you say it amounts to nothing, then that’s all there is to it…"

At that moment, Mr. Tahara gathered fine wrinkles beneath his eyes and let out a bitter smile. It was exceedingly rare for Mr. Tahara to show that bitter smile to others. And Shigeo, feeling as though he were causing his father pain, fell silent just like that.

Mr. Tahara suddenly went out for a walk after that. He returned after nine o'clock. He then spent about an hour in his second-floor study. He then came back down and this time walked around the garden.

It was a perfectly still night with not a single leaf stirring, but a cool breeze flowed through the garden from nowhere in particular. Stars twinkled in the sky. Seeing the pale light flowing along the eaves suggested that the moon had risen as well. The dark stillness of the night on the ground and the brightness spilling from the sky created a strangely discordant atmosphere that stirred the human heart. Mr. Tahara tightly pursed his lips and occasionally stopped. He looked up at the sky and shrugged his shoulders, then immediately peered at the light visible beyond the shrubbery. Before long, he walked from the direction of the sitting room toward the entrance without saying a word.

Suddenly, he stopped and fixed his gaze. On the four-and-a-half-mat veranda beside the entrance, a black figure stood motionless. When he realized it was Ryōsuke, Mr. Tahara spoke for the first time.

“Ryōsuke?” “What are you doing?” “Is that you, Master?” “I just returned from school and finished my review, so—”

“Ah, I see. Won’t you come down? It’s a fine evening.” Ryōsuke slipped into his garden geta and came down as told. He began walking just like that, keeping close to Mr. Tahara’s side like a shadow. Neither of them spoke a word.

Eventually, Ryōsuke spoke.

“I understand my father came by today.”

"Ah," Mr. Tahara turned slightly. “Did he say anything? He wasn’t drinking alcohol again, was he?”

“He was drunk.” “And he said human beings must keep a fire burning within their hearts.” Ryōsuke found it difficult to grasp the meaning and remained silent. “He said you have to drink alcohol to keep the fire burning in your heart.” Ryōsuke remained silent. “What your father says contains truth.” “Humanity became stronger than other animals after learning how to make fire.” “And wiser than other animals after first igniting the fire within their hearts.” “You know the myth of Prometheus.” “The story of how he stole fire from heaven, was bound to Mount Caucasus, and had his liver pecked out by vultures.” “Human beings must keep fire burning—but through that very act come to know anguish in their hearts.”

Ryōsuke remained silent. "The other night there was a fire in Yushima, wasn't there? Your father apparently watched it from the very beginning. And even now he was still marveling at it." Ryōsuke still remained silent. "And then he said when you get drunk on evenings with sunset glow, it's exactly like being in the middle of a fire. Apparently everything turns crimson and swirls."

Ryōsuke still remained silent. "Your father might commit arson if he can no longer drink alcohol." Hearing these words, Ryōsuke abruptly drew closer to Mr. Tahara and wordlessly gazed up at his face.

Mr. Tahara stared intently into Ryōsuke's eyes. And he said. "In fact, anyone might feel the urge to commit arson in an unguarded moment!"

The words were nearly hurled at him, but Ryōsuke showed no particular surprise and did not retreat. He simply stood motionless by Mr. Tahara's side. Mr. Tahara took another step forward. Then Ryōsuke too took a step forward as if being dragged along by Mr. Tahara. And the two of them walked around the garden in silence. The figure of a tall adult with a thick mustache and the figure of a short boy with closely cropped hair—the two moved side by side like an object and its shadow, circling round and round through the garden shrubs.

The thick darkness fell utterly still as the faint bluish reflection of the sky drifted through. Beyond the black pines, the garden stones stood out white, and the tips of the grass blades glittered. Mr. Tahara suddenly stopped as if startled by something and coming to his senses. And he turned toward Ryōsuke. “You should go to bed.” The voice held a hollow resonance, somehow drained of strength.

“Yes,” Ryōsuke replied.

Mr. Tahara left Ryōsuke standing there and strode into the house.

V.

Tokuzō came to Mr. Tahara’s place three or four times a month without fail.

And Miyoko would come to deliver milk to Mr. Tahara’s house every morning. For a twelve-year-old girl, delivering milk was a job that provided considerable income. She received ten-odd bottles of milk from the milk shop and delivered them early in the morning. Both the milk shop people and the customers held sympathy for this delicate girl. However, during the cold winter months, this job was quite agonizing for her. Her earlobes swelled large from frostbite, and her cheeks turned red and chapped. And her hands and feet became chilled to the bone. When spring turned to summer, her earlobes grew smaller and thinner, revealing red blood vessels beneath, while her cheeks took on a youthful hue with a faint downy fuzz visible.

She would always deliver the milk to the kitchen entrance and receive the empty bottles, then stand there awhile wondering if she might catch a glimpse of her brother. Her eyes shone round and sorrowful. And there she would sometimes meet her brother. Miyoko, for her part, had nothing particular to say. No—she likely had various small matters to discuss—but at such times, her mind was not turned in that direction. For his part, Ryōsuke also had nothing particular to say. The two of them would often stand there in silence, perfectly still.

However, it was especially at such times that Ryōsuke feared Mr.Tahara's eyes. He had never once been told or asked anything about it, yet still he feared Mr.Tahara's eyes. It was not merely hesitation or reserve. He always felt as if Mr.Tahara's eyes were watching him intently from somewhere. And he felt as though those eyes existed within his own heart as well.

Ryōsuke often abruptly left his sister's side. Miyoko was left behind there; she gazed fixedly at her brother’s retreating figure, then picked up the basket of milk bottles and left the Tahara residence with her head hung low. However, Miyoko's sorrow was somewhat eased by Shigeko and Shigeo's kindness. Shigeko often spoke kind words to her. Shigeo sometimes gave her sweets or handed over pocket money. At the month-end accounting, Miyoko always received the full change without deduction. At such times, Miyoko would widen her eyes roundly as though welling up with tears and gaze fixedly at the person's face. And she bowed silently.

“Evil must always be resisted, and good must always be protected.” That was Shigeo’s creed. And for him, Tokuzō was evil, and Miyoko was good. Shigeo often spoke to his father about Miyoko. “I’ll give her a bit more pocket money next time,” he would often say at the end of their conversations. “That would be good,” Mr. Tahara replied. However, at such times Mr. Tahara would always avert his eyes from Shigeo and show an irritated expression.

That profile of him slightly furrowing his brows with his mouth half-open conveyed a certain unease to Shigeo’s heart. Shigeo thought to himself: "Father only makes it his business to apply benevolent interpretations to evil. Good itself doesn’t hold any interest for Father." Shigeo’s state of mind was clearly understood by Mr. Tahara. And Mr. Tahara grew increasingly bitter. For Mr. Tahara, the problem that Shigeo was considering was not a problem. What then was the problem? He had no answer to that. Mr. Tahara would go up to his study, take walks, and then commute every morning to the shop in Jimbochō. And though he felt somehow unable to stay still, both he himself and his days remained extremely quiet and composed.

One day, Mr. Tahara found himself unusually irritated. This stemmed from having slept through his afternoon nap until evening, only to be abruptly awakened when dinner was ready. If "irritated" seemed too strong a term, one might instead say he was suffused with a disagreeable mood. He completed his evening meal while barely uttering a word. Why had this disagreeable mood taken hold? Even he himself couldn't clearly grasp the reason. Yet the undeniable truth remained that on that day, Mr. Tahara had been denied any opportunity to gradually sense that formless loneliness and melancholy - akin to naturally awakening from slumber amidst bright daylight and quiet reveries - which seemed to find no resting place within his heart.

“You, you—well, dinner’s ready, so...” Shigeko said this and shook Mr. Tahara awake.

And so Mr. Tahara was abruptly roused from his doze. Though he had taken his nap in the broad daylight of afternoon, by the time he awoke, the shadows of dusk were already closing in. There was a gap somewhere in the progression of his psyche. After the meal, he crouched on the veranda and gazed at the garden. The garden had been watered just as he always did. From how the water clung to the leaves down to the way it pooled in the hollows of the garden stones—it differed not at all from when he himself did it.

Mr. Tahara said to Ryōsuke, who had come out prepared to attend night school.

“Did you water it?” “Yes,” Ryōsuke answered. “You’ve remembered well how I always do it.” “Yes, I thought I must remember everything Master does, so I’ve been paying careful attention at all times.” “Then does that mean I become your ideal in all matters?” “……”

At that moment, Mr. Tahara felt strangely uneasy about the words he himself had spoken. He harbored a vague feeling that he was constantly being hounded by Ryōsuke. And that feeling was something he could do nothing about.

However, when he turned and saw the boy holding his night school bundle and wearing short hakama trousers, Mr. Tahara suddenly felt absurd. He was a sensitive and intelligent boy, but he was still just a boy.

“It must be time already. Why don’t you go?”

After a moment, Mr. Tahara said this. “Is there nothing else you require of me?” “Ah, there’s nothing else.” “Then I’ll take my leave.” Ryōsuke said this and stood perfectly still by Mr. Tahara’s side for about thirty seconds. Then he hurriedly left the house. Mr. Tahara also went out for a walk afterward. After about two hours, he returned home. And then he immediately went to Shigeo’s room.

“I ran into Tokuzō earlier,” Mr. Tahara said. “I see,” Shigeo replied in a disinterested tone.

“He had an extremely solemn face. And then he said this: ‘I’ve received so much kindness that I simply can’t visit Master’s house with a sober face.’ You see? If he didn’t drink alcohol, he’d be an honest, good man.” “It’s because you keep allowing him to drink alcohol that it’s a problem.” “Oh, it’s not just that. Besides, if we suddenly make him quit alcohol, it might actually do more harm than good.”

“If you say things like that, there’ll be no end to it.” “No—forming or breaking habits requires their proper season.” “Even so, you’re too lenient by half.” “I see...”

Mr. Tahara started to say something but cut himself off abruptly. And so Shigeo too fell silent then and there.

That night Mr. Tahara could not sleep until late. The room felt strangely stifling, and inside the mosquito net was oddly sweltering, so he quietly got up and opened the rain shutters on the veranda.

It was a quiet evening under starlight, the air crisp and clear. Mr. Tahara went down into the garden and took a deep breath. Then he suddenly scanned every corner of the garden. It seemed as though he sensed a human presence. But there was no one there. Only the shadows beneath the shrubbery loomed threateningly dark. Mr. Tahara began walking through the garden. And before long, he had somehow approached the doorway of the four-and-a-half-mat room next to the entrance where Ryōsuke was sleeping. He listened intently from that doorway. The door remained tightly closed, and no sound came from within.

Time passed quietly. Then suddenly Mr. Tahara took a step back. And then abruptly, as if regaining his senses, he scanned his surroundings. He felt his mind was terrifyingly clear, like glass. Then, as if bracing against something, he pulled both shoulders back and tightly clenched his fists. Maintaining that posture, he returned to the garden adjoining the drawing room. It was an odd stance—only his upper body had stiffened as if cowering before some unseen presence. A single sliding door he had left open earlier now gaped wide. He walked straight through it.

Six

On a certain August afternoon when the sun scorched and blazed, a crowd of onlookers trailed behind a policeman and a drunken man, shuffling their way to the front of Mr. Tahara’s house. The scorching heat, dust, and smell of sweat all at once disrupted the quiet street. Yet everyone remained silent. Silently wiping sweat from their foreheads, they peered again at the drunkard. The drunkard shuffled along with one hand held by the policeman. His black eyes were drawn up to his upper eyelids as he seemed to glare fixedly ahead.

The two men entered Mr. Tahara’s gate. The crowd of onlookers was left behind there and, still silent, peered through the gate. And eventually, they began to disperse in twos and threes.

The policeman stood at the entrance and said the following to Mr. Tahara who had come out there.

“This man suddenly sat down in the middle of the street. No matter how much we scolded or coaxed him, he wouldn’t stand up. It must be because he was dead drunk and then exposed to the blazing heat of the day. When asked his address, he would only answer, ‘I’m going to Master Tahara’s place.’ When I said I’d send him to your place since there was no other choice, he silently stood up and started walking. Is this man someone you know?” Mr. Tahara fixed his gaze on the man crouching dazedly in the entrance—Tokuzō. The thin-striped yukata was covered in dust. His exposed chest revealed black chest hair, and he was breathing heavily as if gasping for air.

“Yes,” answered Mr. Tahara. “A man who used to work for the household. “He is by no means a suspicious person, so I would be most grateful if you would leave him in my care.” Seeming relieved, the policeman took out his notebook from his pocket and wrote down Mr. Tahara’s name along with Tokuzō’s address and full name. And with that, he said, “I apologize for the intrusion,” and left. Mr. Tahara stood watching over Tokuzō for a while, but eventually instructed the maid to have him sleep in Ryōsuke’s room. Tokuzō silently followed the maid around to the garden side but refused to go up from the veranda there.

“This is fine right here!” he barked at the maid.

Having no other choice, she laid out a mat on the veranda for him, whereupon he immediately flopped down on it and fell asleep. He gulped down a single mouthful of the water offered in a glass, then at once began snoring loudly as he slept on.

When the commotion subsided, the house suddenly felt humid again. A shrill screeching - the sound of cicadas crying out somewhere. Mr. Tahara sat in the tearoom as though listening intently to the heat, but occasionally stood up to check on Tokuzō. Tokuzō lay with his chest bared, head slid from the pillow to expose his Adam’s apple, limbs stretched out, sound asleep. The sleeping figure of his entire body limply laid out on the veranda was intensely sweltering. In the garden, the leaves glittered fiercely under the strong sunlight.

Mr. Tahara sat back down in the tearoom with a languid expression, absentmindedly.

“You’re so concerned about Tokuzō, aren’t you,” Shigeko said with a smile.

Mr. Tahara did not answer that. Around four o'clock, about an hour and a half after Tokuzō had been brought by the policeman, Ryōsuke—who had gone on an errand to Shiba—returned. Mr. Tahara suddenly took on a vivid expression. "You've had a hard time." "It must have been hot."

Ryōsuke sat there still wearing his hakama. “He instructed me to tell you that he will come here tomorrow evening and to kindly expect him.”

“Ah, I see. You met Mr. Kawaguchi?” “Yes. And I was treated to a meal there.” “That’s good. Well, you should go wipe yourself down.”

At that moment, a sound came from the front veranda. When he heard that, Mr. Tahara suddenly made a gloomy face and stood up.

Ryōsuke followed Mr. Tahara for no particular reason.

Tokuzō had raised his upper body and was sitting dazedly on the veranda.

“How’s your condition?” Mr. Tahara asked in an irritated tone.

Tokuzō turned around to look at Mr. Tahara, then suddenly bowed two or three times. "How's your condition?" Mr. Tahara asked again. "No, I'm completely fine now. Oh, it's nothing, just..." Tokuzō abruptly stopped speaking and seemed to ponder something, but appeared utterly unable to recall it. "Won't you have a glass of something cold? That'll help clear your head."

Hearing this, Tokuzō suddenly blinked his eyes. And he moved away from the veranda and stood up. Everything seemed to have finally returned to his memory. "No—Master, I must beg your pardon." "If I have any more, I’ll die!" "No—I had a terrible time of it!" "My whole body burst into glaring flames, you know." "The crimson-burning stuff I can handle, you know, but the glaring-burning kind—I just can’t take it." "My head was struck with a gong-like blow, you know." "My eyes got all fogged over, you know. ...I'm terribly sorry." "Could I have a glass of water?"

“Fetch some water,” Mr. Tahara said, turning to Ryōsuke. At that moment, Tokuzō seemed to realize for the first time that Mr. Tahara was not alone there; raising his face, he discovered Ryōsuke standing in the shadow of the sliding door in the next room. Then he lowered his eyes to look at the mat spread out on the veranda. Tokuzō silently folded the mat and pushed it into a corner. Soon he downed the glass of water Ryōsuke had brought in one gulp. He silently held out the glass again. Ryōsuke poured another glass of water and brought it to him, which he drank in one breath.

He set down the glass, stared fixedly at Ryōsuke in his hakama, then turned toward Mr. Tahara and bowed his head. “I’ve caused you terrible trouble.” “I’m all right now.”

Having said that, he started to leave.

“Well, take your time and rest,” Mr. Tahara said. “Oh, I’m all right. “I’m terribly sorry.” “From now on, I’ll quit drinking for good.” “Indeed.” “Hey, Ryōsuke... You too, make sure you study hard.” Tokuzō left as if fleeing. Ryōsuke stood there silently staring at father’s retreating figure. At that moment, Mr. Tahara made a strangely displeased face. Something loathsome—a vague, objectless loathing—had entangled itself in his head. And he remained silent.

At that moment, Ryōsuke turned toward Mr. Tahara and said.

“What has happened to my father?” “He came in drunk, so I let him sleep.” “Even so, he said something about a blazing fire clanging against his head...” “It must be from getting drunk during the day. …He’s setting fire to his own body.” Ryōsuke remained silent. “There’s nothing to worry about. Didn’t he say he would quit drinking? …You should go take off your hakama and have a bath.”

Mr. Tahara ascended to the second floor with those words. Ryōsuke followed a step behind but then shook his head and entered his room.

Mr. Tahara’s displeased face and that somehow strangely loathsome emotion continued until that evening.

And that evening, Shigeo said something like this.

"If we don't deal with a guy like Tokuzō soon, he'll bring terrible trouble upon us." "Oh, he's an utterly honest fellow," Mr. Tahara replied. "The only flaw is his drinking."

“His honesty may be honesty, but because he’s foolish, he’s dangerous. When he’s cornered, there’s no telling what he might do. And he has a habit of getting dead drunk...” Mr. Tahara had no response to that. And because of that, he grew increasingly displeased. The displeasure clung to his nerves, making his eyebrows twitch spasmodically.

Such a thing was unusual for Mr. Tahara. For him, who was always calmly settled and composed, such a thing was indeed extremely rare. And both Shigeo and Shigeko fell strangely silent that evening.

That night, Mr. Tahara retired to bed early. When Ryōsuke returned from night school and asked the maid, “Where is Master?”, Mr. Tahara was sleeping more soundly than was his custom.

In the middle of the night, Mr. Tahara awoke. The house was hushed and completely silent. And his mind too was utterly quiet. As he lay there with his eyes half-open, from somewhere came a plink... plink, a sound like something dripping. It never stopped. And in the end, it clung persistently to his head. The dull, heavy sound resonated through the core of his head as if clinging over him. Mr. Tahara had been thinking for a long time but suddenly sat up as if he had gradually located the source of the sound. When he went to the kitchen area, it was indeed the water from the faucet leaking over the sloped surface of the sink area. When he tightened the faucet handle, the sound of dripping water stopped abruptly. And the house suddenly fell completely silent.

Mr. Tahara got back into bed, but the five-candlepower electric light visible through the mosquito net flickered irritatingly against his eyes. So he got up again and turned off the light. After that, there was only darkness and silence. When he stared fixedly into that darkness for a while, before he knew it, he dozed off again.

He couldn’t tell how much time had passed—it might have been immediately after, or perhaps some while later. Outside, the wind was raging with a roaring, terrifying noise, Mr. Tahara thought. The fierce wind swept through, parting the eaves and the spaces between the trees. And amidst that wind, in the corner of something, there was a flickering red glow. As he stared fixedly at it, it soon grew into a large flame and began to burn. And a single shadowy figure darted off somewhere. The flame swirled and spread to the house. And before he knew it, he was surrounded by the flames. The moment he thought "Damn it!", Mr. Tahara awoke.

It was a hallucination that had occurred in nearly an instant. But that consciousness remained remarkably clear; it continued seamlessly into his awakened state. Only the sound of wind and flame had been replaced by silence and darkness. When he strained his ears, he detected a presence in the direction of the garden. Someone seemed to be stealthily creeping closer, trying to muffle their footsteps.

Mr. Tahara sat up and retightened his belt. Then in the darkness, he took out a pistol from the cupboard and loaded it with bullets as a precaution. He softly approached the storm shutters and quietly slid open one panel without making a sound. It was a heavy, oppressively cloudy night. In the garden, a faint bluish haze of light lingered in the air. When he peered through, on the pale garden stone beyond crouched a human figure. Mr. Tahara felt no surprise whatsoever. Everything had unfolded exactly as anticipated. He felt his mind growing clear. Frighteningly crystalline in its clarity. When he looked at the pistol in his hand, it shone cold silver. Everything stood terrifyingly lucid. He remained perfectly still. Silence reigned.

Mr. Tahara stared fixedly at the figure.

The man had been crouching on the stone for a long time. Then he fumbled in his sleeve for matches and lit his hand-rolled cigarette. The tip of the cigarette flared up but immediately went out. Then the man stood up. He started walking with his head bowed, but after five or six steps suddenly jumped up as if he'd tripped over something. There was a rustling sound. The man stopped there and stared fixedly at the ground before picking up a single withered phoenix tree leaf. While shaking it off, he took several more steps. Then suddenly, the man made a gesture like he couldn't endure it. And then he abruptly struck a match and transferred the flame to the withered leaf. A flame flared up.

All these events appeared before Mr. Tahara's eyes as blurred, magnified outlines in the darkness that contained a faint glimmer. And when the phoenix tree leaf suddenly flared up, Mr. Tahara's mental clarity and focus of his nerves reached their utmost intensity.

“Who’s there?!” Mr. Tahara shouted. The man whirled around in shock.

In that instant, Mr. Tahara fired the pistol toward the man below. A thunderous roar echoed through the darkness as the man collapsed with a thud onto the ground. Almost simultaneously, Mr. Tahara felt "Damn it!" surge through the hand gripping the pistol. Even so, he clenched his lips firmly and quietly descended barefoot into the garden. Ryōsuke lay fallen with a bullet through his left chest, still clutching charred remnants of withered leaves in one hand. Mr. Tahara stood frozen there. He tilted his head as though something refused to make sense.