Pathway to Japanese Literature

Yamada thought that it was Hideko who had seduced him.
And as for himself, he lacked the courage to say that he had fallen in love with her.
Even without love, there are cases where a man becomes a woman’s slave—in a certain sense.
However, he thought that it was he himself who had gladly—and with some proactive willingness—fallen into the trap of her temptation.
It was she who stood on the second-floor veranda and stared down at his passing.
However, it was I who always quietly looked up at that second floor.
When her figure wasn’t there, it was I who felt a faint disappointment.
However, at such times, she must have been lying in the downstairs room without giving a single thought to me.
But the one standing at the entrance was her.
It was I who had nearly tried to stop my steps before that.
And it was she who showed a bewitching smile.
In response to that smile, it was I who returned a smile that concealed the turmoil in my chest.
And then, it was she who dropped the handkerchief on the path.
However, it was I who picked it up.

The things that first tempted Yamada’s heart were her lips and eyes.
The slightly thick crimson lips were neither quite closed nor open, simply resting naturally together.
Her white teeth—her set of teeth was indeed perfectly aligned—would flash between her lips only to vanish instantly.
The corners where the two lips met were slightly indented, and there was always a shadow there that captivated people’s hearts.
When seen from afar, those lips were smiling.
When seen up close, they were filled with a fresh, physical allure—if such a term is permissible.
Above those lips, after a slight interval—it made her face look somewhat vulgar—was attached a low, unremarkable nose.
Around the brow area where her low nose seemed to disappear, she would often form charming wrinkles.
On either side of those wrinkles, beneath thin eyebrows, were long, narrow eyes.
Above the large black pupils was a shimmer that flickered and wavered.
That radiance shifted to another before one could grasp it.
Within that existed reflections of all things she saw.
Moreover, within her heart existed shadows of every emotion.
Those eyes spoke of many things and conveyed many meanings.
But ultimately, they left nothing behind.
It was a radiance that shifted every moment.
It was a ray of light slipping across tree leaves swaying in the wind.
Those eyes did not fixate on anything.
Even if they remained fixed on a single object, their radiance differed with each passing moment.

When seen from afar, from a slight distance, her face was only eyes and lips.
On the pure white-painted face, the two stood out distinctly—one beckoning, one smiling.

From the tram street, a quiet lane lined with dense hedges curved inward in a U-shape.
At the lower part of its left leg was Yamada’s amateur boarding house.
Near the right leg of the lower bar stood a new two-story house, its wooden fence barely containing the tips of planted pines, oaks, and cypress foliage that peered over the top.
Beneath the round eaves light, a hinoki nameplate inscribed "Ito" had been nailed in place.
Around the time Yamada would pass by, Hideko often stood underneath it.

Drawing a line atop the U-shape formed what was the tram street.
Yamada often took a detour toward the right leg to reach the tram street.
Compared to the vulgarity of the tram street, he did so because that lane felt so pleasantly compact, and above all, because Hideko’s presence was there.
However, there were also times when he deliberately did not take that detour.
At such times, his heart was in turmoil.

When she saw Yamada’s figure, Hideko smiled at him from afar.

“Won’t you come in?” she said with her entire being.
“I’m just bored right now!”

If Hideko’s body were a magnet, Yamada was an iron fragment.
And what a soft, sweetly fragrant magnet that was!
She never parted from her Bouquet d’Amour perfume.

In her eight-tatami room, a half-hanging scroll by Motonobu was always displayed in the tokonoma alcove, and beneath it flowers were invariably arranged in a bronze vase. Opposite that, against the wall, stood a paulownia chest covered with an oilcloth-protective cover, and beside it was placed a large rosewood mirror stand. On the wall slightly diagonally above hung a single thin-necked shamisen in a turmeric-dyed cotton bag suspended from the lintel—Yamada had never once heard the sound of a shamisen leaking from her house. There were times when the sound of the koto leaked out. That koto was probably kept in the second-floor room. Yamada always drank the tea Hideko prepared in that room, and more often on its veranda.

“Today I’m going to surprise you.”

So one day, Hideko said to Yamada.

The two of them sprawled their legs out on the veranda of Hideko’s room as usual.
And they were having their usual trivial conversation.
In the twilight dimness of the room where the lights had been deliberately left off, Hideko's face floated faintly white.
That face—with eyes and lips—constantly smiled at Yamada.
Every time Yamada felt that temptation, he repeatedly brought his hand to his forehead and stroked back his long hair.

“What’s this surprise you mentioned?” Yamada finally asked.

“Hoho, you still don’t understand?”

“But since you’re not telling me anything, how could I possibly know?”

“Oh, you’re impossible—playing innocent like that when you know perfectly well.”

Yamada stared fixedly at her face as she spoke.

She said.

“My, how skillful—you’re truly a master at feigning ignorance…… Or do you genuinely not understand even now?”
“Then you’re being quite insensitive.”
“Oh, stop it already—how tedious.”
“Feigning ignorance and being dense are ultimately next-door neighbors.”
“Shall I turn on the light? Then you might understand.”

Even so, she made no move to rise.
Yamada stared fixedly at her figure but could find nothing unusual anywhere—not in her appearance, nor in the room itself. Feeling a kind of humiliation, he averted his eyes and looked toward the garden.
And suddenly, he noticed it.

“Ah… that?” Yamada said, his mouth hanging slack.

“You only just noticed? How very perceptive.”
As she began to speak, Hideko turned her gaze toward him.
“What’s with that absurd face you’re making?
Keep it up and you’ll look a perfect fool.”

Yamada could not suppress an inexplicable bitter smile.

The garden was arranged quite well with stepping stones placed among the plantings and moss here and there.
Yet now looking closer, in the very center of that open space—making skillful use of stepping stones—a rather large pond had been newly constructed.
Water filled to the brim showed a surface glowing faintly white in the twilight gloom, its depths holding a darkened hue.
Upon closer inspection, a single fallen leaf floated upon that water's surface, swaying in the gentle breeze.

“I had it hastily prepared for me,” said Hideko, her lips curling into a sarcastic, inscrutable smile. “A garden truly feels desolate without at least one pond, don’t you think? Now that I’ve had it made like this, the garden’s vistas naturally converge around the pond—one might say the pond becomes the garden’s very center. And during summer months, it’s delightfully cool. A single pond makes the entire garden feel cooler somehow, wouldn’t you agree? I intend to release a whole school of goldfish into it soon. How many do you suppose it can hold?”

Yamada did not answer and kept staring fixedly at the pond.
Hideko’s words resonated with undeniable truth.
Particularly her statement that the pond gathered the garden’s scenery into a focal point felt like it had captured its essential quality in a single phrase.
But… Hadn’t he himself wanted a pond there from the very beginning?
He must have actually voiced that desire to Hideko.
Or perhaps he never had.
Yet regardless, the pond now stood more splendid than he had ever envisioned, while Hideko expounded its effects with even greater precision than he could have imagined.

Yamada’s head grew strangely hazy.

“What are you silently making that face for?”
“You do approve of my having had the pond made, don’t you?”

“Yes.
“From the very beginning, I wanted a pond.”

“Ah, so.”
“I thought so too, you know.”
“How truly strange.”
“You and I always think of the same things, don’t we.”

However, this time Yamada could not laugh.
There had still been nothing particularly noteworthy about how, whenever he mentioned disliking rhythmic patterns, the rhythmic designs on Hideko’s collars would vanish before he knew it, or how whenever he said that air sandals weren’t particularly good, Hideko would start wearing slightly higher clogs before he knew it.

But now, for Yamada, Hideko had become far too sovereign, far too encroaching upon his territory.
He could no longer consider that mere flattery.
Especially now that even his habit of wandering late-night streets had been taken from him.

That’s right—it had been taken.
Yamada could only think that it had been taken.
After returning from walks, he would be called in to engage in trivial talk late into the night, and when he eventually tried to leave, Hideko often followed him outside.

“Shall we take a short walk?”
“It’s truly a lovely evening, isn’t it,” Hideko would often say.

It was indeed a fine evening.
On nights following long stretches of rainless hot days, the air seemed especially clear—perhaps owing to one’s state of mind—with even the slightest breeze feeling cool against the skin, and the moon shining brightly.
To wander through the town with its storm shutters tightly closed; through the town where tram rails glowed bluish-white amidst scattered electric lights and gas lamps; through the town where one by one belated figures intersected with stray dogs emerging from shadows; through the town where the moon floated dimly above lonely rooftops—entrusting aimless thoughts to the cool breeze as he wandered—this was an inexpressible pleasure for Yamada.
However, once Hideko began joining in that pleasure, before he knew it, he was relegated to a subordinate position.

Hideko walked ahead, wearing those clogs, her demeanor perfectly composed. She was nothing but supple lines, a rich fragrance, and smooth flesh—a pliant innocence that yielded to everything and refused nothing. Yamada walked slightly behind, keeping pace while occasionally glancing her way. From between her black tasseled hair peeked a white earlobe—small and thin, a soft reddish-tinged piece of flesh that would likely reveal every vein if held to lamplight. Curving in rounded folds, the lobe beneath swayed gently with each bodily movement, yet remained so thin it might disappear between fingertips while possessing a softness akin to moonlit water. As he stared, Yamada felt his chest tighten—he had strangely associated that earlobe with thoughts of her "husband." Yamada had come to know that this industrialist Ito—her "husband"—was a man with a gaunt angular face where narrow eyes, nose and mouth seemed to float within its square planes. This face bore no resemblance to Hideko’s earlobe. But why had these two become linked in his mind? Even he himself didn’t understand. Perhaps here lay the secret of contact between men and women. Yamada twitched his nose as if sniffing for something.

However, he was not particularly driven by feelings of jealousy.
He still maintained his purity toward Hideko.
And Hideko treated him as nothing more than a friend to pass her tedious time.
That fact distanced him from feelings of jealousy and enabled him to observe Ito and Hideko.
If ever he were to be drawn into the sphere of their dealings—if ever his pure, physically pure position were to be endangered—that very moment would be the time to decisively retreat from the field, he had sworn to himself.
However, when he wondered how the two of them must appear in others' eyes, his heart grew pained.
And now that his heart had begun to know this pain, Hideko's earlobe ceaselessly menaced it.

At times, the two of them would wander far into the late-night hours.

“Shall we head back now?” Yamada urged from his side.

“I suppose so— Are you tired now?”
“I’m not tired, but there’s no end to walking no matter how long we go on.”

“That’s true—there’s no end to walking no matter how long we go on.”
“But this is the kind of night that makes you want to keep walking till dawn.”
“If I said I wanted to keep walking till daybreak—would you walk with me?”
“Well? What do you say?”

“I might walk.”

“Might, might—you’re impossible!”

“Then I’ll walk with you, no matter what,” Yamada said with a bitter smile.

“Really?”
“Then I’m happy.”
“Then let’s head back now.”
“If I declare I’ll walk all night, you’ll walk with me—so if you declare you’re going home now, I’ll oblige by going home too.”
“It’s a transactional matter, isn’t it.”
“But isn’t love ultimately a transactional matter?”
“What do you think?”

“Normally that would be the case, but there are also situations in the world where that isn’t so.”

“Exactly—in this world…”
“But that isn’t our world.”
“……You’re an absolutist, aren’t you?”
And Hideko laughed.

Yamada stared at her face in surprise.
The terms like “absolutist” and “relativist” were ones Yamada had often used.

When she sensed Yamada’s gaze, Hideko abruptly stopped laughing.
And then she said in a coquettish tone.

“Forgive me.”
“No scolding now, okay?”
“You once declared that absolutes exist only in the realm of art, didn’t you?”
“That life is entirely relative.”
“So you’re actually a relativist too, aren’t you?”
“I’m a relativist too.”

Yamada tried to protest something, but no words came out.

“I’ve gone and brought up such trivial things, haven’t I?”
“With this, I’ve become quite the scholar, haven’t I?”
“It’s all thanks to you.”
“So even though I really want to keep walking, I’ll go home with you.”

And Hideko laughed, baring her white teeth.
Yamada shuddered uncontrollably.

The two of them unconsciously began walking toward the house.
A moon strangely blurred with a coppery hue hung low in the distant sky.

“Don’t you want to eat something?”

“I suppose so.”

Peering through the street, not a single lit house remained.
Every trace of human presence had vanished.
And so the two walked back silently to the house’s front.

“Forgive me for dragging you around,” Hideko said with a slight bow.
“Please visit again.
“It’s truly tedious being alone.
“He hasn’t been coming much lately.”
(When speaking of Ito, Hideko always casually omitted the subject.) “Won’t you come tomorrow?
“I’ll treat you.”

“I have matters tomorrow.
“I’ll visit another time.”

“Very well.
“I’ll be lying in wait tomorrow.”
She abruptly shifted her tone and rapid-fired:
“Do you take me for a fallen woman? I won’t tolerate abandonment!”

As Yamada tried to say something at that moment, she cut him off and spoke.

“Ohoho, it was just a joke.”
“Good night then.”
“I’ll be waiting for you again.”

The earlobes of Hideko pushing open the gate and entering were once more etched into Yamada’s vision. Yamada turned around in a daze. Suddenly he felt as though something within him had been stolen away along with her. When separated from her and left alone, he began acutely sensing the tenuousness of his own shadow. Yet when this had begun, even he himself could not say. Still he felt what lay inside him being gradually devoured by her. This extended beyond mere matters of taste. Before long he found himself staring wide-eyed in astonishment.

That had begun on the night they encountered that beggar.

The beggar was a filthy crawler.
He wore a tattered yellowish yukata with both sleeves torn off, his legs with the rolled-up hem covered in what appeared to be navy blue leggings.
The tips of both feet were tightly wrapped with cloth resembling military gaiters.
Dragging his legs heavily behind him, he crawled about using hands clad in sandals and his knees.
Above the villainous face with its high cheekbones and thick eyebrows hung disheveled hair grown wild.
He carried a large sack on his back.
What lay inside bulged out roundly.

The night had deepened considerably.
However, a large crowd trailed along behind him in a straggling line.
“What is it? — Where did he come from? — Won’t the police stop him?”
“—Where does he plan to sleep tonight?” — The people whispered among themselves in low voices.
Yet those who followed silently while comparing the whispering faces with the beggar’s figure were still more numerous.
Among them was a boy who appeared to be a liquor store errand.
He wore a self-satisfied look as if privy to some secret, surveying the surrounding crowd as he spoke.
“There he goes again.”
“Nah, he’ll jump up and start running any second now.”

Yamada and Hideko happened to pass by there just as the boy said that.
When she heard those words, Hideko signaled Yamada with her eyes.
And the two silently joined the crowd and followed behind the beggar.

That very spot was a tram line without any tree-lined avenues.
The beggar crawled along the edge of the sidewalk, occasionally stopping.
He seemed to be quite tired already.
He took out a dirty rag-like cloth from around his lower abdomen and wiped the sweat from his forehead.
And when he finally reached the base of a utility pole, he settled his buttocks there and did not move.
The crowd formed a semicircle from afar and surrounded him.
He would occasionally raise his eyes to look at the people, but immediately lower his head again.
And he seemed to be deep in thought about something.
No, it would be more accurate to say he was simply sitting there vacantly, not lost in thought at all.

Yamada glanced toward Hideko.
Her eyes gleamed as she stared fixedly at the beggar.
Her figure—leaning slightly forward with tightly pursed lips and gleaming eyes—was filled with cruelty-tinged curiosity.
And from the depths of that curiosity peered a kind of solemn authority.
Yamada saw her in such a manner for the first time.
He felt a kind of pressure before her.
Suddenly, Hideko shouted in a low voice from the depths of that authority, “Look at that!”

When he averted his eyes and looked toward the beggar, a single act of charity was taking place there.
From a bakery two or three shops down, a maid came out and bestowed a piece of bread upon the beggar.
The beggar received it with one hand and bowed low once.
Then he looked between the maid and the bread in his hand, and bowed low once more.
The maid ran off toward the other side.
The beggar stared at the bread for a while, then stored it in the sack on his back.

After a while, this time from the dimly lit hardware store right beside them, an elderly woman emerged and bestowed upon the beggar a single Golden Bat cigarette.
The beggar, in the same manner as before, stored it in his sack again.
The elderly woman immediately withdrew into the store.
Under the eaves of that hardware store hung a small red-lettered sign reading "Tobacco."

A whisper arose once more among the crowd.
A man who appeared to be a craftsman said in a rather loud voice,
“What a lousy advertisement! But that beggar’s come up with a damn clever scheme.”
Whether the beggar had heard those words or not, he suddenly raised his head and looked around.
And when he saw the rough crowd, he lowered his head again.
It seemed no one else was coming to give alms anymore.

The beggar began crawling again.

After a while, the beggar began crawling again.
Some who had grown weary of the spectacle from earlier began to leave, but in their place, new people joined the crowd.
Yamada also glanced toward Hideko.
Hideko returned a faint smile toward his gaze.
However, that smile contained a powerful force.
Yamada, as if being pulled by her once again, followed after the beggar.

After walking for some time, they came upon a large post office.
Along its stone wall ran a narrow alley that faded into dim obscurity.
The beggar slipped into this alleyway.
Having advanced about eighteen meters, he stopped and leaned against the stone wall, lowering his head motionlessly into his hands.
The crowd halted at the alley's entrance, pressing together in jostling proximity.

At that moment, four or five deliverymen emerged from the gate beside the post office.
They gazed at the crowd, then shifted their eyes to look at the beggar.
They whispered something to each other.
Then one of them shouted loudly.
“Here he comes again!”
“Why don’t you get lost, you fraud!”
“Quit your lollygagging! Keep this up and we’ll throw you out!”

The beggar silently looked back.
And with sharp eyes, he shot back a piercing glare.
And then he suddenly began crawling in the opposite direction.
The crowd remained standing there, watching the beggar crawl away with even greater speed than before.
When that figure disappeared into the dim corner ahead, the deliverymen were the first to leave into the post office.
Then the crowd vanished, whispering things of various meanings—some cursing “the fraud,” others defending “the unfortunate one.”

Hideko stood there, undeterred by the dispersing crowd’s stares.
When everyone had gone, she abruptly turned a solemn gaze toward Yamada.
“Let’s go and see,” she said.

The two of them entered the narrow alley along the post office's stone wall.
There was a musty, stifling odor.
When the post office wall ended, they emerged into a dirty, cluttered square.
A communal water tap stood at its center, and the ground was damp.
Then, turning sideways across the square and passing through between the low row houses, they abruptly emerged into a quiet backstreet.
They let out a relieved breath as if waking from a dream.
The beggar’s figure was nowhere to be seen.

“Look at that!” Hideko said, turning to Yamada.

Yamada felt a blow as if something within his heart was abruptly awakened.
He felt as though within Hideko there existed a certain mysterious authority that governed the present events.
That authority was contained within her two utterances of “Look at that!”—or rather, within the meaning of that simple word “that” itself.

Yamada sank into an oddly meditative mood.
On one hand, the dark aspect of life he had glimpsed through the beggar floated before his eyes.
On the other hand, the penetrating eyes he had sensed through Hideko rose within his heart.
The two would sometimes separate, sometimes entangle, unfurled in a chaotic haze across the distance.

“Exactly the same,” Hideko said.

“Huh?”

Yamada did not understand the meaning of Hideko’s words.
And when he looked back at her face, she had a mocking smile in her eyes.

“Do you understand?”
“Huh? You really don’t get it?”

Having said that, this time she tilted her head while making a coquettish gesture. The white earlobes upon her slender neck enticed Yamada's heart. Yamada suddenly averted his face.

“Oh—what’s wrong? Are you angry?”

“What on earth are you talking about?” Yamada asked roughly.

“You really are such an impatient baby.”
“I’ll tell you now, so just stay quiet like a good boy.”

Yamada no longer had the strength to resist and merely nodded silently like a baby.

Then suddenly, Hideko’s face turned serious.
The seductive hue vanished from her eyes, transforming into a grave and affectedly serious gleam.

“The Tolstoy short stories you were kind enough to lend me.”
“The angels and demons in those stories look exactly like that beggar, don’t they?”
“They appear like that and vanish like that, don’t they?”
“I’ve thought so from the start—is that beggar an angel or a demon?”
“And before you can tell which one he is, it’s already over.”
“The mistresses of that bakery and hardware store must have known which he was.”
“We’re people from another country, aren’t we?”

Yamada couldn’t say anything and just looked back at Hideko’s face.
Sure enough, he had lent her the translations of Tolstoy’s short stories, yielding to her request for something interesting.
Hideko said she found them so amusing that she read many volumes over and over again.
However, that this would be applied in such a manner was something Yamada had never anticipated.
Yamada himself had once been utterly captivated by those very stories, reading them obsessively.
However, while following the beggar, he never once recalled them.
The meaning of Hideko’s words—“Look at that!”—finally dawned on him.
At the same time, those words came back directly to him.
He harbored a vague fear.
But what was there to fear?
From the perspective of his principles and ideas, wasn’t it indeed a joyous thing that Hideko was awakening spiritually, even if only slightly?
Even so, he could do nothing about a certain fear and anxiety within his heart.

After a while, Hideko said something like this.

“Since you’re someone who intends to become a literary scholar, you must understand.”
“Which is that beggar—an angel or a demon?”

“I don’t know,” Yamada answered.
“Before passing judgment, one must consider carefully…”

“But what could there possibly be to consider?
“What’s seen with one’s own eyes is most certain, isn’t it? ……Though truly, such distinctions mean nothing at all.”
“For us, angels and demons amount to the same thing.”
“We can’t possibly approach either one anyway.”

Hideko uttered this in a tone that seemed like jest.
Yamada could no longer discern whether she was truly speaking with considered thought or merely babbling from sudden whimsy.
Her eyes would gleam with solemn intensity one moment, only to immediately assume a derisive smile the next.
Before these elusive shifts, he compelled himself to voice the next question.

“Among those short stories, which one was the most interesting to you?”

“Well,” Hideko paused briefly and put on a thoughtful look.
“After all, Ivan the Fool might have been the most interesting.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I’m uneducated—I couldn’t possibly understand such things.”

As she answered, she seemed to recall something and giggled softly to herself.

“What’s so funny?”

“But just think about that Ivan.”
“I found it so funny, so funny…”
“What if someone like that existed now?”
“They’d surely stop being able to eat.”
“Even so, they’d say this.”
“I ain’t sad at all—I don’t eat ’cause I can’t.”

And she began to laugh again, but suddenly returned to a serious tone.

“But Ivan would surely make an excellent diplomat, don’t you think?”

“Diplomat?”

“No, it’s not strange at all.”
“I think skilled diplomats must have some quality like that somewhere.”
“The reason Japan has no diplomats is that Japanese people don’t possess even a speck of such qualities.”
“But even Japan should produce at least some diplomats—what was his name, Ōtani something?”
“Honganji’s… Oh right, Ōtani Kōzui—they say he’s the greatest diplomat there ever was.”
“When there was a certain foreign minister, whenever trouble arose, he would always go to that man’s place to consult him.”
“If that person were to become foreign minister, Japan’s diplomacy would surely be effortlessly sorted out.”

Yamada was utterly dumbfounded.
More than where Hideko had picked up such things, he found himself unable to comprehend how she could declare them with a tone as if discussing matters in the palm of her hand.
What on earth was inside her?
When he tried to peer into it, he felt only a large void.
It was seeking to devour all.
There was no longer any "digestion" or "selection" there.
All that remained was an infinitely deep cave.
And yet she walked on, emitting the seductive fragrance of Bouquet d’Amour, striking coquettish poses while smiling, her high clogs producing light, crisp sounds.
The small jade hairpin she favored, inserted singly into her tightly bound hair, kept threatening to slip out, and she would lift her slender fingertips to readjust it now and then.
Her fingers were slender and supple, so much so that they seemed ready to coil around objects like morning glory vines.
Her nails were somewhat flat—a sign of low birth—and awkwardly shaped, but their translucent red color appeared beautiful.

The light breeze ceased unnoticed, leaving a heavy evening of stagnant air and sultry heat.
Yet enveloped in rich fragrance, Hideko appeared unaware even of the sweat seeping through.
Amidst the gazes of passersby turning to look, she lifted her bright face and turned her eyes toward Yamada.

“Why are you silent?”
“Are you angry about something?”

Yamada responded to that with nothing but a bitter smile.

“I’ve been prattling on about nothing but rather silly things.”
“Forgive me.”
“When I’m by your side, I end up wanting to say everything—all that’s in my head. But that’s all right, isn’t it?”
“But I won’t have you remembering this for long.”
“Forget it.”
“Hey, say you’ll forget.”
“Come on, just say you’ll forget—that single word will do.”

“Isn’t that alright? Do you think even I could remember everything you’ve said forever?”

“But no—no.
“I won’t have it unless you say it clearly.”

“Then I’ll forget everything.”

Hideko smiled brightly.

“Just ‘then’ is unnecessary.”
“But you’ll endure that much for me, won’t you?”

The two walked around again quite late into that night.
And they entered a certain café and had black tea and sweets.
Yamada drank a glass of beer, but Hideko did not.

The fingertips with which Hideko picked up the teaspoon lingered in Yamada’s mind.
Her supple fingertips, entwined with nickel’s metallic glint, were exactly like the legs of an octopus seen through a glass lens on the seabed.
And when those fingertips suddenly caught her moonlit-water-like earlobe between them, Yamada felt a powerful surge in his chest.
His eyes were greedily riveted there.
And Hideko smiled gently.
However, since there were other customers present, she didn’t say anything.

For Yamada, the perspective from which he gazed at Hideko was no longer her face and lips.
Now it was those fingertips and earlobe.

When walking the streets alone, images of her fingers and earlobe would flicker before his eyes and persist for four or five minutes at a stretch. And even when he faced his desk alone in his boarding house room, he no longer possessed the strength required to open books. He felt as though elements of his very being were gradually migrating to Hideko's domain. No—the greater part had already migrated. He suddenly recalled and attempted to summon Tolstoy's short stories to mind. But no concrete concepts materialized. And before his eyes rose the figure of that beggar, while in his ears echoed the words Hideko had spoken. He threw himself down there and vacantly stared at the knotholes in the ceiling. Those serene evenings that soothed the heart while simultaneously tempting it with their crisp twilight stillness—even these moments of quiet he could no longer savor alone. There stood Hideko, quietly relishing that feeling in his stead. There stood Hideko, recounting back to him the very sensations he had once experienced.

“I like sitting still like this in the evening best.”
Hideko sat on the veranda, swinging her dangling legs as she spoke.
“When everyone’s bustling about with evening preparations, there’s nothing as pleasant as gazing motionless at the sky.”
“Somehow it feels like an evening that belongs solely to me.”
“Men may not be like that, but women are indeed busy in the evening.”
“Every last woman is working up a sweat.”
“At times like this, when I’m alone like this, it feels indescribably wonderful.”
“And there’s this cool breeze blowing, the sky’s turned crimson in the sunset, and soon this dewy twilight will settle over everything.”

The veranda where she sat had already been thoroughly cleaned, water had been sprinkled in the garden and entrance, and the modest evening meal preparations were nearly complete in the kitchen. A single bribed maid with improper income diligently bustled about and did not let Hideko hold even a broom. And Hideko had prepared herself for the evening early, donning a Kikugoro-checkered yukata with a tie-dyed habutae silk obi, swaying like a spoiled child in the evening air carrying a vague fragrance. Before her, the pond's koi fish splashed at the surface with plopping sounds.

Before the alkaline residue from the cement had fully leached away, Hideko released a multitude of Ryukin into the pond.
Yamada, upon seeing this, had once said that koi would suit the pond better.
And then before one knew it, the pond’s Ryukin had been splendidly replaced by variegated koi.
Hideko said triumphantly, looking back at Yamada:
“When it comes to ponds, nothing surpasses koi.”
“They’re so free and unrestrained, and so lively.”
“And they sport these adorable little whiskers around their mouths.”
“When I lie in bed at night listening to the sound of koi leaping in the water, it’s an indescribably pleasant feeling.”
“Have you ever heard it?”
“...You haven’t? How unfortunate.”
“Do take a look—I put considerable effort into collecting these fine varieties.”
“But they say the good ones are terribly scarce this year.”
“They were washed away in last year’s flood, you know.”
“The goldfish vendor said it was quite a struggle to gather that many.”

Yamada no longer had even the courage to voice a protest against her, who had already appropriated his argument without him even noticing.
She pretended not to know anything, swinging her legs while gazing at the pond's koi.
Each time this happened, the gentle slope of her shoulders collapsed slightly, revealing through her single-layer yukata the swelling curve of a breast.
Yamada bit down hard on his lower lip.
A restlessness resembling anger moistened his face with sweat.
He abruptly uttered these words.

“Just how old are you?”

The question was so abrupt that even Yamada himself, who had posed it, stared at Hideko with a bewildered expression.
But before long, Hideko understood the meaning of the question and laughed with her white teeth bared.

“Ohoho, there’s no one as strange as you. Abruptly asking someone’s age like that.”

Yamada had even lost the capacity to muster a bitter smile. And rubbing his forehead with the back of his left hand, he lowered his head. Hideko had been staring intently at his figure, but suddenly began to speak in a light tone.

“You still don’t know my age?”
“How heartless.”
“You’ve already forgotten.”
“Didn’t I tell you once?”
“Since you’re twenty-three, I’m one year older—twenty-four.”
“Do you dislike twenty-four?”
“But once a woman reaches twenty-four, she’s practically an old lady.”

And then—what thoughts crossed her mind?—Hideko assumed a serious expression and sank into contemplation. When Yamada turned a look of surprise toward her, she abruptly lifted her face and spoke in a solemn tone—

“To an outside observer, I must look much older than my years.”
“Because I’ve endured all sorts of hardships.”
“I lost my mother when I was little.”
“And then after that, because Father failed, I couldn’t do anything about it.”
“I had a fiancé, but he stopped coming around.”
“You dislike engagements, don’t you?”
“I dislike them too.”
“And in the end, that was better.”
“And then I’ve seen all sorts of miserable things.”
“There were days when I didn’t even get to eat a single meal.”
“And then... To have become what I am now, there were so many things I couldn’t possibly recount them all.”
“You don’t bother to write about it in your novels.”
“In that case, I’ll tell you.”
“But simply telling it would be dull.”

She had already imperceptibly shifted to a tone that trivialized matters.
Yet Yamada kept pressing with his questions.

“That elderly woman comes by sometimes, doesn’t she? And that person?”

Yamada had seen a short-legged, plump woman around forty years old visit Hideko’s house two or three times. Despite her awkward build, she always wore deep indigo silk gauze haori and such, with large gold rings gleaming on her fingers.

“Oh, that person—she’s someone I know.”
She began to say this but then gave a peculiar faint smile.
“But what on earth are you doing, asking such things?”
“You’re practically conducting a background investigation on me.”
“Or… could it be you intend to propose marriage?”
“Well now, if you were to propose something like marriage... whatever should I do?”
“That’s exactly why one must consider things thoroughly beforehand.”

“I might indeed propose before long.”
“But I too must give it proper consideration first,” Yamada deflected with forced levity.

“But I’m truly all alone.”
“I’ve already completely forgotten even my parents.”
“The man I was engaged to—all sorts of amusing things and painful ones.”
“And now I’m in the position of someone else’s mistress.”
“But I’ll surely forget even that soon enough.”
“I’ll probably forget even you eventually.”
“You once said that the past is the past, didn’t you?”
“If you were to drag along even things that have passed, you’d just end up out of breath and collapsing.”
“And even present things will eventually become the past, you know.”
“I’ll have to forget it all someday.”

For Hideko, Yamada’s so-called “the past is the past” seemed to hold true exactly as stated. For her now, the premise of “for the present” had become unnecessary—because even the present would eventually become the past. And as she instinctually laid out that thoroughgoing theory with casual precision, Yamada listened vacantly through a haze of dull wonderment. A muddled fog had settled over his mind. From the depths of his chest rose a groundless irritation clawing upward. He stared greedily once more at the smooth white skin peeking from Hideko’s collar—traced in his mind those rounded curves until they resolved into two small hills of breasts: perfectly circular and elastic beneath their faint iridescence, pure white blurred with jewel-beetle hues, each bearing a nipple like silk thread clumsily knotted—one slightly smaller than its twin.

Once he began to feel that temptation, Yamada started visiting Hideko more frequently than before. The two would spend long hours passing time in Hideko’s room or walking around outside. Moreover, Ito rarely came around. “I’m angry because I’m going to abuse you,” Hideko said. “He’s traveling around Osaka,” she also said. She seemed to handle opportunities quite cleverly. However, Yamada no longer concerned himself with such matters. The thought lingering in the corner of his mind—“I’m maintaining purity toward Hideko”—made him turn a blind eye to every development. As he closed his eyes, he ceased to be aware of his own mind growing duller by the moment. He resignedly threw himself wholeheartedly into Hideko’s manipulations.

During the scorching midday hours when the heat intensified relentlessly, Yamada lay sprawled in his room greedily taking afternoon naps. He felt too listless to do anything. He didn’t even consider traveling to escape the heat. When he awoke from the oppressive sweat-drenched dream of his nap, he simply turned vacant eyes toward the sky. Low broken clouds flew northward as if flowing across it. When he stared fixedly, everything on the ground—the groves, houses, all earthly things—appeared to move rapidly in the direction opposite the clouds’ motion. As he surrendered himself to that movement, he even tasted an indescribably uncanny pleasure. The sun would be blocked by fractured clouds, plunging the ground into sudden shadowed darkness—only for intense rays to come pouring down again in a flash.

The typhoon barreled from the waters off Ryukyu toward Shikoku.
According to Dr. Okada’s report, the central pressure of the low-pressure system had apparently fallen below 710 millimeters.
With ferocious speed, it crossed Shikoku and the central Inland Sea to emerge off Noto, then went on to ravage western Hokkaido as well.
On its way, the aftermath reached Tokyo, bringing some wind and rain.
City residents, their minds still fresh with memories of last autumn’s typhoon, wore tense faces tinged with anxiety despite the Central Meteorological Observatory’s somewhat reassuring reports.
Pressing their hands to hat brims while gazing up at the urgently clouded sky, people everywhere quickened their pace.

Yamada went out without even wearing a hat, strolling casually.
The southern gale blew in gust after gust, tousling his hair and lifting the hem of his kimono.
But in the end, even that felt pleasant to him.
He wanted to hurl his own utterly decadent mind against something.
And as he walked absently along, suddenly someone called out to him.
When he raised his eyes, Hideko stood on the second-floor veranda.
He had unconsciously come to her house.

Hideko wore a radiant smile and pulled him into the house.

“I was certain you’d come in, so I kept watch from upstairs.”

Yamada merely worked his mouth wordlessly.

“It feels nice,” she said. “On days like this—as if all the fusty thoughts in my head were being swept away.”

As she said this, Hideko poured tea and retrieved things like the box of castella from the cupboard.

The wind grew increasingly violent.
And soon came a torrential downpour.
The storm shutters were half-closed, leaving the house dim.
The roar of wind and rain—lashing violently before briefly relenting—filled every corner.
They sat silent, listening.
Never had Yamada observed Hideko so closely.
Her every motion cast stones into his heart.
His heart rippled with restless agitation.
Through those ripples, her whole being appeared merely as supple flesh tracing endless curves.
When her outline momentarily stilled into a single line, even her slightest gesture sent new ripples through him, making her entire form sway once more into vast, elusive undulations.
He felt an impatience and fascination like moonlight shimmering on restless waters—always visible yet never grasped.

“Shall we go upstairs? It’s more exhilarating than here.”

Hideko had already risen upright without waiting for his answer. Before Yamada’s eyes stretched a slender, effortless line that seemed not so much ascending from below as descending from above.

Yamada hesitated momentarily when his foot touched the ladder’s first rung. He had never once climbed to that second floor before. To him, the upstairs room felt like some manner of demonic den. Entering there seemed tantamount to stepping into ruin’s very abyss. Yet that fleeting glimmer of reason was already supplanted in the next instant by a reckless, blind fervor that charged forward without looking back. He raced up to the second floor right at Hideko’s heels.

However, it was not a room that was any different.
It was an eight-tatami sitting room with a three-tatami anteroom. In the tokonoma hung a calligraphy scroll, beneath which a bronze swan with its neck stretched out and a mother-of-pearl inlaid vase holding four or five long peacock tail feathers were tastefully arranged.
On the staggered shelves next to where a koto was propped up, various art books lay scattered in disarray, and even five or six volumes of Tolstoy’s short story collections that Yamada had lent were placed there.
Hanging on a clothes rack beside a rosewood round table, a single tiger pelt stood out conspicuously in the room.

“What are you spacing out for? Ohoho.”
“This is still your first time in this room, isn’t it?”

Letting Hideko’s words flow past him, Yamada sank down where he stood and stretched out his legs.

The wind and rain grew increasingly violent.
Wind speeds nearing twenty meters per second and rainfall reaching fifteen millimeters per hour bore down across the earth, rushing past treetops and eaves while sending up white spray.
A waterfall-like roar cascaded down the gutters, and through the half-closed storm shutters, cold air laden with water droplets blew into the room.

Hideko raised her dreamlike eyes, tracing the storm racing into the distance like galloping horses. Yet amidst that turbulence, how tenderly quiet her breathing stayed. As the very house seemed to tremble, Yamada stared fixedly at the part of her chest swelling with each gentle, fragrant breath.

Hideko suddenly turned her gaze toward Yamada.
She firmly bit down on the corner of her lower lip.
Her eyes took on an uncanny gleam.
And once that tense moment had passed, her face—through her eyes and lips—melted away into a quiet smile, or rather into a faint, radiant redness that could hardly even be called a smile.
Yamada was in her arms.
And at the very moment he became aware of it—alongside a soft, breath-stealing pressure—he heard her low voice.

“I won’t let you go home today.”
“Alright?”

The downpour stopped a little past five.
However, the wind remained strong.
When night fell, occasional downpours borne on the wind came lashing down.
And within that monstrous, demon-like roar, Yamada transformed into an obedient beast.

A foot that slips one step into the abyss knows no way to halt.
Yamada had to sink to the very bottom while writhing in resistance.
Yet he alone had fallen, while Hideko looked down upon him from above.

It was a night too persistent to be merely the aftermath of a typhoon.
Yamada now suffered a deep wound he knew no way to heal.
Moreover, the words "While Ito is here..." rendered that wound nearly fatal.
He no longer possessed the strength to conduct independent thought.

And July 12th became decisive for him.
Over him who could never rise again—over everything that was his—Hideko, having seized sovereignty, let slip a bewitching smile.
His dull eyes had now risen tremulously toward her, there to watch the gentle elastic undulations of her abdomen that recalled a mountain's foothills.
While his gaze remained fixed on her face, lingered at her ears and fingertips, and settled upon her chest, he could still maintain mastery over himself.
But when that gaze reached her abdomen—that abdomen of a woman bearing the mysterious unfathomable breath of life and its temptations—he could no longer restrain himself.
And yet in reality, this perception came to him both first and last.

He aimlessly wandered the town.
Sleepless nights continued.

For the first time he became aware of those sweltering stagnant hours between two and three in the morning when all air movement ceased completely.
Before that stretched an unbroken night continuing from dusk; after came a morning when chill northern breezes began flowing.
Through all those congealed motionless hours he writhed in his bedding and berated himself repeatedly.

The blacker Yamada's mind grew, the more radiantly Hideko bloomed.
Yamada himself began inviting Hideko out to various places.
Yet he became a dog that summoned its master to the gate and accompanied her with tail lowered.
When this dog paused, its master would float a smile in her eyes and beckon with five pliant fingers saying "Come-come."
The master continued her stroll while lightly tapping the head of this dog that came running up, as if administering scolds.
Her standing figure wore a rough triple-striped silk gauze kimono with matching gauze obi tied poukuri-style—demure yet through her pale ro-shibori crepe half-collar peered a nape revealing fragments of flesh so overripe they could murder with allure.

They would often stop by restaurants and drink alcohol.

“I’ve gotten rather good at drinking lately, haven’t I? It’s all thanks to you.”

Hideko held a glass of Curaçao and cast a disdainful look.
Yamada stared vacantly before her with idiotically wide eyes while repeatedly draining his beer glass.

“Where shall we go next?”

Hideko tilted her head as if peering into Yamada’s eyes.
They had made it their practice to enter a different restaurant or café each time they went for a walk.

“Since it’s come to this, I’ll see it through to the end,” Hideko said.
“Let’s not think about anything anymore.”
“You’ll do exactly as I say—is that clear?”
“Come on, raise your little hands up.
...Make a stern face.
Sneeze.
Ohoho, even your sneezes don’t quite work right, do they?
“Now come here.”

And Hideko spread both arms wide.
However, that was the sole indulgence she ever permitted Yamada thereafter.
When he tried to seek more, Hideko raised a finger to her eye and hissed, "Shh!"
And Yamada bowed his head.

The sweltering heat steadily intensified.
There were days when the temperature at two in the afternoon exceeded ninety degrees.
Steamed by sweat and scorching heat, the townspeople would gather at cafés come evening to cool their stomachs with cold drinks.
Even at cafés with a cool-looking second floor, there were times when Hideko and Yamada had to endure staying late into the night in a narrow, stifling room downstairs.

When they were in a corner of the room feeding slices of corned beef to the slightly dirty little dog there and laughing, the three workmen seated at the table across from them fixed their drunken gazes intently in their direction.

“That mutt’s looking lean from the rising prices too, I tell ya,” said one of them.

“But I tell ya, there’s some damn extravagant people out there.”
“That’s why that damn mutt won’t kick the bucket anytime soon.”
“But when you think about it, humans’re the pathetic ones here.”

Then the third young man with a crew cut spoke up in a loud voice.

“Hey lady! Ain’t no call for such wastefulness. Humans’re way hungrier’n dogs, I tell ya.”

Hideko was taken aback and looked back in that direction.

The crew-cut man stood up.
And ignoring the two men’s attempts to stop him, he raised his beer glass high.

“Whoops, my bad! Ahaha, we’re plastered, see?”
“Shouldn’t’ve called you ‘lady’—my bad.”
“Cut me some slack here.”
“So, once again... uh... ma'am!”
“We’re raisin’ a toast for the dog!”
“Humans can go hungry and still be fine.”
“That damn mutt’s a wretched bastard, I tell ya.”
“Yappin’ its damn head off.”
“Ma’am, it’s a crime against thrift—but hell, why hold back? Give us more of that grub!”
“We’ll help ya out proper-like.”
“No offense meant, but we’re eatin’ rice that costs fifty sen a meal!”

“Cut it out! Enough already!” said one of the men, forcing him back into his chair.

However, this time it was Hideko who spoke.
Her eyes glinted with a kind of fierce intensity while maintaining a smile at the corners of her mouth.

“What fine spirits you all are in. I’ll treat you to two or three more bottles of beer.”

“That’s real generous of ya,” said the crew-cut man.
“Well, actually... uh... ma'am, this here’s the worst damn slump.”
“These tightwads keep yappin’ stingy talk, so now my gut’s feelin’ even emptier.”
“Hey, lady banzai... no, ma’am banzai we’re doin’!”
“Ain’t ya gonna stand?”

With that, he started to rise from his chair but stumbled back down again.

Before long, the waitress brought two bottles of beer to their table.
Then a man lit a cigarette and whispered under his breath.

“You’re treating people like dogs!”

Meanwhile，Hideko dumped the entire plate of corned beef onto the floor.
The puppy wagged its tail as it licked at it.

“Dogs and humans are the same，” Hideko answered calmly.
“I even sleep with the house cat，you know.”

“That’s right!” The crew-cut man stood up.
“Dogs, cats, humans—all the same.”
“Ma’am, you sure got a way with words, ain’t ya?”
“Why, we’ll show ya—we’ll be sleepin’ with stray dogs ourselves soon enough.”
“If there ain’t no women, we’ll sleep with stray dogs.”
“If there ain’t no men，they’ll sleep with cats.”
“Long live the ma’am! — Hey! What’s with the lollygaggin’?”
“Ain’t ya gonna pour the damn beer?”
With that, he barked at the waitress.

In the meantime, Hideko settled the bill and, taking Yamada with her, suddenly darted outside.

“Ohoho, what amusing people,” she said. “If there are no women, they’ll sleep with stray dogs, and if there are no men, they’ll sleep with cats.”

And she laughed hysterically.
However, by the time Yamada, startled, turned to look, she had already returned to her usual bright expression.

However, that was not merely drunken banter. As an effect of the European Great War—with all economic conditions overturned from their foundations—rice prices soared, and despite government intervention, a disorderly market emerged where futures broke through thirty yen. And indeed, the lower-class citizens were starving. Tacitly, within them, an indeterminable spirit of rebellion was being brewed. Yamada vaguely sensed it. However, Hideko’s smile instantly obliterated everything from his mind. In his head, only Hideko’s recent hysterical laughter clung stubbornly to its depths. And he could no longer suppress himself. An idiotic gurgling laugh welled up from his chest. And he clenched his teeth.

Hideko stared at him in surprise, then abruptly took his hand and clasped it tightly.
“What’s wrong? You’re being silly,” she said.

When he felt her words and soft palm, Yamada suddenly came to his senses.
He hung his head and clung to Hideko’s hand like a drowning person.

Yamada was now nothing more than a panting beast.
And moreover, an utterly submissive beast.
The bestial wound he suffered that night, precisely because it was both the first and last, dug ever deeper into him.
And what could be called his thoughts and tastes had already been entirely eroded and stolen by Hideko before he suffered that wound.
Nothing remained within him anymore.
Only his wounded animal nature remained.
He wandered aimlessly.
And then, as though returning to his own prison, he went back to Hideko.
Hideko no longer needed to lie in wait for him at the gateway or the second-floor veranda.

Strangely enough, Yamada never once encountered Ito at Hideko’s house.
But he was no longer keeping that danger in mind.
But…

One day, he was running toward Hideko’s house from his usual “wandering.”
At that moment, someone suddenly called out to him from the shadow of a telephone pole.
When he turned around, the man said.

“You are Mr. Yamada Tatsuji, correct?”

Yamada didn’t answer and stared back at the man.
The man—in his forties—wore layered shioze silk under a vertically striped haori coat, white tabi socks on his feet.
The angular face framed by small eyes, nose, and mouth; those nervous wrinkles around the forehead... Yamada gasped.
That was Ito.

For an instant, they remained locked in a mutual gaze.
Then Yamada assumed a combative stance, clenching the knob of his walking stick.
Yet Ito spoke in a composed tone.

"I’ve been meaning to speak with you about something for some time now, but my work kept me occupied, hence the delay."
"You probably know what this concerns."
"Would you mind walking with me a short distance?"
"We could discuss it over drinks."

"That won’t be necessary."
"I’ll hear it now."

Having answered, Yamada took a step back.

“Then let’s talk while walking.”
“But really, there’s no need to get so agitated.”
Ito said this while clearly suppressing some inner turmoil.
Without even glancing back at Yamada following behind, he began speaking in a soliloquizing tone as he walked slowly.
“The matter is simple.”
“I want to give you one brief word about Hideko.”
“The truth is, that woman is an extraordinary creature—not something any man could ever hope to handle.”
“So I want to offer you some advice.”
“If you truly value yourself, distance yourself from that woman.”
“Continuing this relationship will only lead to your ruin.”
“I’m not saying this out of jealousy or any such sentiment.”
“If jealousy motivated me, there are countless other methods I could employ.”
“It’s simply that having endured bitter experience myself, I speak from an old woman’s meddlesome concern for your sake.”
“I no longer retain even a shred of feeling for that woman.”
“I let her do as she pleases and leave her to her own devices.”
“I merely provide her livelihood security.”
“As long as she doesn’t refuse, I intend to continue ensuring she lacks nothing materially.”
“I too have that much pride, so I ask you to understand this.”
“…Only your well-being concerns me.”
“You must have some general notion of what sort of creature she is, but unless you reflect deeply, you may meet with unexpected disaster.”

“This is purely an old woman’s meddlesome concern, but if you still haven’t lost your true self, I would advise you to consider matters thoroughly.”

Ito stopped after saying that much.

“Is that all you have to say?” Yamada spat out.

The two of them once again stared intently into each other’s eyes.
A tense silence persisted for an instant.
Yamada suddenly said,
“I gratefully accept your advice.”
“However, I too have some thoughts to consider, so I will give you my reply at a later time.”
“Moreover, as I’m in a bit of a hurry, I’ll take my leave here today.”

And he swiftly turned his back on Ito and walked away.
He felt Ito’s gaze on his back but did not turn around.
Some violent force propelled him relentlessly forward.

Yamada walked for a while and then turned around.
There was nothing but the quiet back street at night.
He shook his head vigorously and resumed walking.
He exited onto the main street and ducked into back alleys.
And as he walked, before he knew it, his mind had sunk into a dazed, dreamlike stupor.
When he suddenly noticed, his legs moving mechanically, he found himself repeating “Harada, Harada, Harada” under his breath.
Harada was the name on a nameplate he had seen along the way.
At that moment, he made a strange gesture.
It was as if trying to brush something away from before his eyes.
Then he himself shouted aloud, “Idiot!”
He started walking again.
And this time, in rhythm with his footsteps, he mechanically muttered “Idiot, idiot, idiot” under his breath.

That night, he did not stop by Hideko’s house, returned late to his boarding house, and plunged into his futon as if collapsing.

On August 3rd, Yamada suffered a crushing blow to his very core that afternoon.
"Mobilization ordered: Report for enlistment by morning of the seventh."
He had received such a telegram from his father in his hometown.

Yamada stared at the telegram's paper scrap and became utterly vacant.
He felt as though crushed beneath a giant boulder.
Everything had vanished from before his eyes.
Before him spread a dark, unfathomable abyss of immeasurable depth.
This was not merely mobilization or war.
It was the violent hand of an immense, inexorable fate.
He had already ceased being master of his own self under Hideko's influence.
And now, it was about to be stolen away completely by this violent hand of immense force.

He suddenly stood up.
And then he rushed outside.
As if trying to escape the shadowy chains binding him, he walked recklessly onward.

As he passed by a certain used bookstore on Densha-dori, a kitten was playing atop the books displayed at the storefront. When he looked closely, a large butterfly flapped its wings and legs through gaps in the piled books as it struggled to escape. The kitten made no real effort to catch it, turning sideways and somersaulting around its quarry instead. This play continued endlessly. Besides Yamada, two or three passersby had stopped to watch. Eventually a shop boy emerged from the store’s interior and carried the kitten away. He could no longer see where the butterfly had gone.

Yamada felt a pleasant sensation come over him as he watched.
Somehow he felt intensely happy.
And when the kitten was taken away, his body became strangely weightless while his head grew hazy.
He kept on walking.

Around eight o'clock that evening, Yamada arrived at Hideko’s house.
(The word "arrived" perfectly encapsulated his condition.) He had a pale complexion.
Only his eyes were uncannily steady, burning with an unnatural light.

“My, what’s the matter?”
“How very odd you’re being.”
“……Come here this instant.”
“My tiny little baby.”
“Let me give you milk.”

Hideko showed Yamada a smile that was alluring to the point of cruelty.
She wore a shibori-patterned yuukata with a narrow Hakata obi.

Without saying a word, Yamada took out the telegram from his hometown from his pocket and placed it before her.

“What’s this?”
As she said this, she took the scrap of paper, but as she read through it, her complexion changed.
Then, after staring fixedly at Yamada’s face for a while, she suddenly threw herself onto his lap.

“Mr. Yamada!”
Thus Hideko called out his surname.
And she shook her shoulders and began to cry.

Yamada couldn't make heads or tails of what was happening.
Hideko’s abrupt transformation triggered a profound turmoil within him.
He grabbed at Hideko’s body like a beast sinking its claws into prey.

“Mr. Yamada!”
“I—I was in love with you.”
“Forgive me.”
“Forgive me!”

As she spoke these words, Hideko raised her tear-streaked face and lunged at Yamada.
This was no longer an embrace of love.
It had become a struggle.
Clutching each other’s bodies with breath held tight, they spun wildly as one frenzied mass.