Pathway to Japanese Literature

I had finally parted ways with the woman.
There were two reasons we ultimately parted ways after mutual consultation: one being that circumstances would not permit it, and the other that our hearts had lost their initial intensity.
We resolved to cease all correspondence.
Later, I heard through rumors she had moved from Shitaya to Honcho, but this failed to stir my curiosity.
I had lost interest in everything.
The accumulated weight of long listless days had settled within me as a mass of melancholic tedium.
I increasingly spent my days in idle daze at home—on the second floor of an amateur boarding house with eight-mat and six-mat rooms.
At that time I handled translations for ○○ Trading Company, but since I—with sufficient funds arriving from my hometown and an aversion to time-bound duties—had chosen this position myself, the income proved modest yet afforded complete leisure.
Observing my perpetual idleness, the landlady frequently urged me to marry, even producing two or three photos of women she called candidates, but such matters only wearied me.
I came to keenly understand how present society proved equally melancholic for both those enduring cramped poverty and those living carefree without financial want.

However, such things were merely the atmosphere enveloping me at the time—deep within my heart, I harbored two distinct thoughts.

The First: In the current state of society, every single person is yawning.
Whether rich or poor, busy or idle—all pile up day after identical day, building the tomb of their lives with each passing moment.
If the world continues on like this, what will ultimately become of us all?
If everyone were to die out amidst yawns and lethargy, what then?
It was unbearable to contemplate.
There is nothing that poisons humanity quite like melancholic boredom.
Moreover, present-day society has become utterly plagued by this very thing.
Is this really acceptable?

The Second: In present-day society, everyone was clenching their teeth over something.
Everyone was dissatisfied; everyone was trapped by some unfulfilled desire.
Yet this had gradually intensified, and by now they could no longer discern what exactly dissatisfied them or what desires drove them.
And all that remained for them were clenched teeth, cramped lives, and eyes that had begun to gleam gloomily through exhaustion.
The core lay blind while the exterior became a ravenous beast.
What would become of things if they continued progressing like this?
Is this really acceptable?

The aforementioned two thoughts—seemingly contradictory yet fundamentally aligned—had long existed within me.
But I felt no inclination to act upon them.
I considered myself too indolent and powerless.
And so I waited perpetually for something, as if anticipating a miracle.
Yet when I finally recognized this too as vain hope, I became increasingly ensnared in weariness and melancholy.

Lying listlessly in my room, I could see the clear November sky through the windowpane.
The sky stretched emptily high and pure, devoid of even a single cloud or bird's silhouette.
Turning my gaze, the veranda's shoji screens glowed with warm-looking sunlight.
At this sight I momentarily yearned to venture outside, but memories of quivering frost-blighted treetops, clammy cold earth, desolate wintry air, and those unnervingly lucid yet sinister faces made me reluctant to rise from my sealed chamber's warmth.

Yet when night fell, the accumulated weight of boredom from morning would become unbearable, my stomach stuffed full of food would grow strangely oppressive, and I would invariably visit Sakaguchi in S——. Sakaguchi greatly enjoyed Go and being well-matched with me, so he always welcomed me gladly. If I didn’t visit for a while, he would send an invitation postcard from his side. Sakaguchi too was a man who grew bored in his idle hours. During the day he worked at a company, but by night he apparently no longer felt any motivation to study at home, left to manage his corpulent frame within the three-person household of his wife and maid. Moreover, being the kind-hearted man he was, he knew the circumstances surrounding my breakup with the woman I had been involved with for so long and seemed to harbor some intention of comforting me. And for my part as well, rather than visiting other friends and engaging in idle chatter, I couldn’t tell how much better it was to go to his place and immediately face the Go board. I had long been on familiar terms with his wife as well.

Moreover, the Yamanote Line train from Ueno to S—— brought a certain interest to my utterly bored mind.

Past midnight in the waiting room above S—— Station's platform, I would often wait ten minutes, fifteen minutes, sometimes nearly thirty minutes.
A large square brazier stood at the center, its fire usually reduced to white ash.
Through doorless openings on all four sides, the bitter wind blew in without restraint.
Sitting on the wooden bench, I felt cold creeping up from my feet until it engulfed my whole body.
Indeed, those who entered that narrow waiting room to sit on cold benches were only elderly people or those worn out from their day.
All other passengers stood waiting on the platform.
Rails ran along both sides of the platform.
Beyond the tracks lay a ditch about a foot wide where clear water always flowed.
It must have welled up from somewhere.
High cliffs rose on both sides with a road running along their edges.
I never understood why they'd dug so deep through flatland to lay these tracks—after crossing the bridge from ticket gates and descending dim stairs to reach the platform, it felt like stepping into a basement.
Still, stars would often twinkle in the strip of sky framed by those cliffs.

Over the bluish-white glowing rails, when a long freight train passed, the passenger train’s arrival would grow particularly delayed.
Freight trains always arrived without sounding their whistles, so at first I would mistake them for passenger trains. As they gradually drew nearer and I realized they weren’t, I grew strangely irritated at the locomotives that raced off leaving behind a nauseating warmth.
Especially when watching the pitch-black freight cars that followed—clattering away at a tepid speed as if mocking us—I would feel as though I were seeing senile, incompetent, ugly demons, and I always spat fiercely upon the tracks they had passed over.

Past midnight, passengers were always few.
Especially when the train bound for the opposite direction arrived first, leaving about half behind, the loneliness of late night would be acutely felt.
Unconsciously, everyone had gravitated to the edge of the walkway, where they stood clustered together waiting for their train to arrive.

First came intermittent blue sparks flickering in the distance, then rails gleaming under bright headlights, above which the train glided smoothly forward until—in the blink of an eye—the carriage halted before me. At that moment, I felt a relief like resurrection.
The benches were usually empty.
The sparse passengers all remained silent with vacant eyes open.
There were also those sleeping with their heads bowed.
They appeared utterly at ease while simultaneously seeming thoroughly exhausted.
I plopped down heavily onto the cushion and, while gazing fixedly up at the white ceiling light, smoked a cigarette.
And I felt a calmness as though setting out on a distant, peaceful journey.
The sound racing through the cold dark night made the brightness inside the train car feel even more like a lonely dream.
Whenever the train stopped at a station, several people would get on and off.
Everyone remained quietly silent.
The gentle rocking of the train pleasantly loosened all my muscles, my eyes grew hazy, and I would sometimes find myself drifting off.
When the train arrived at Ueno, I felt reluctant to stand up.
After that, I would usually walk the roughly fifteen-minute journey home.
Since my family was always already asleep, I would lock the front door myself.

Such things had, before I knew it, become one pattern in my life.
I had been repeating this about three times a week without fail.
Yet that alone was the part of my days that held not a shred of boredom.
The games on the Go board were in constant flux.
The faces of people I encountered on the train were also constantly changing.
On late-night return journeys, I felt as though something different was about to happen at any moment.
I wouldn’t say life itself, but I felt as though something was about to happen that would completely transform the stagnant boredom and melancholy settled within my heart.

And indeed, I actually encountered something strange.
No—perhaps it would be more accurate to say I did something strange.

During late-night returns on S——'s walkway, a familiar face came to form for me.
When had I come to recognize that face? I couldn't recall the beginning of it at all.
Such an acquaintance without a beginning was a truly strange thing.
Although he and I were complete strangers who knew neither each other's names, addresses, nor social standings, we became thoroughly familiar with one another's faces.
When we met at S—— Station, we would exchange a certain intimate glance.
Even in the train, we would often sit closely side by side like friends.
When we got off at Ueno, we clearly knew which direction each of us would head home (I turned right toward Yamashita, he went straight toward Hirokoji Avenue).
And yet we never once exchanged words.

He was a tall, slender man who always wore setta sandals. His eyebrows were thick and short, and his eyes—with their dull, rounded light—had a somewhat simple-minded air, though his high nose and small mouth appeared refined. That mouth held a childlike charm that suggested it would produce a drawling voice (and indeed it did). He wore neither glasses nor a mustache. The contours of his tapered cheeks framed those features. His chin narrowed pleasantly while his forehead remained broad. When viewed from a slight distance, the upper half of his face carried an air of indolence and simple-mindedness, while the lower half exuded a charm attractive to women. He always wore a double-layered coat with a fur collar and a dark brown fedora. He did not carry a walking stick (I always carried one). It was something I learned later—his hair was cut in a military crop (I kept mine long).

At any rate, we frequently found ourselves together at S—— Station. There were often awkward moments while standing on the platform waiting for trains. When I smoked a cigarette, he would silently approach me and smile with his eyes while studying me meaningfully. In the dimness, the glow from my cigarette faintly revealed that gaze. I too would return an eyeful smile without particular intent. Yet by then our faces had already grown shadowy. The waiting room's electric light only cast a vague brightness across the platform. I kept puffing vigorously at my cigarette. He paced back and forth over yonder. Though we both wanted to speak, no opportunity arose. Had either attempted to borrow a light from the other, we easily could have seized that chance—yet somehow both forgot this possibility entirely.

I felt an oddly vexing sensation toward him. In those encounters with "acquainted strangers" set against the dim station interior, bright train cars, and desolate late-night streets, there was something inexplicably strange that lurked within. When I didn't meet him, I felt strangely unfulfilled; yet when we did meet, I found myself at a loss for where to situate my own heart. Was it truly forbidden to nonchalantly strike up a conversation? Yet I simply couldn't bring myself to do it. "We always maintain such foolish reserve," I thought.

It was a cold night.
I left Sakaguchi’s house shortly after the clock struck twelve, as usual.
A thick mist hung in the air.
The streetlights' glow blurred, and the outlines of objects grew indistinct.
Yet when I looked up, the starlight shone clear and cold.
When I passed through the ticket gate and came down the stairs, I looked all around the area.
He was standing dimly in the shadow of the platform's pillar.
I felt relieved for no particular reason.
He glared sharply at me too, but then suddenly began pacing about for some reason.

Seven or eight passengers were waiting for the train.
The train simply wouldn’t come.
The old woman who had been sitting in the waiting room with both sleeves folded in front of her would occasionally come outside to peer far down the tracks, then return to her original seat while muttering something under her breath.
When she did so for the third time, the train opposite mine arrived.
The old woman boarded it.
About three other passengers also boarded it.
And three or four people were left behind.
I suddenly felt as though it had grown colder.
When I entered the waiting room and peered into the brazier, white coals nearly extinguished lay scattered where they'd been raked from the ashes.
I tried warming my feet, but they didn’t grow even slightly warmer.
I looked at timetables, maps, and advertisement posters hanging on the wall, then sniffed a potted chrysanthemum in the corner that seemed to have run out of fertilizer.
Meanwhile, that man was pacing back and forth along the edge of the walkway.
When I saw his figure through the waiting room's glass window, I too wanted to imitate that pacing.
So I went outside and tried walking along the opposite edge of the walkway.
One misstep would mean a three-foot drop to the tracks.
Over darkened sleepers and gravel ran two rails, gleaming with a metallic cold bluish-white light.
And the electric lamps' glow vanished as if being sucked into distant darkness that refused penetration.

For some reason, the train never came.
Even after another opposite train had passed by, it still didn't come.
The passengers numbered six or seven.
Everyone had grown tired of waiting.
Maybe there was some mechanical failure, or could they have hit someone?
I grew anxious.

At that moment, I thought I heard a heavy reverberation in the distance.
Finally feeling relieved, I went to the edge of the tracks where the Ueno-bound train would arrive.
The others also gathered there.
However, the train did not come.
The heavy reverberation was from a cart passing over the bridge spanning beyond the tracks.
Two men were pulling a cart loaded with an absurdly large load, one at the front and one at the back.
A small lantern was attached to the side of the cart.
It passed slowly across the high bridge that had emerged from the mist.
Only that reverberation resounded absurdly close by.

When the cart had passed over the bridge and disappeared from view, and its reverberations could no longer be heard, the surroundings suddenly fell silent.
A shuddering chill crept up my back.
The passengers all stood gathered in one place.
There were two student-like youths, a woman carrying a large cloth bundle, another woman in a coat with her face buried in a scarf, a man of peculiar appearance wearing only a suit jacket over navy-blue underpants with gaiters and shoes, and then there were me and him.
Before long, a man who appeared to be a company employee in Western clothes joined them.
All those people stood in the shadow of the walkway's pillar.
And they gradually clustered together in one spot.
To be apart from the group seemed intensely cold.
The presence of two women among them seemed to make that small group oddly warm.
In the darkness and cold, I came to understand for the first time how women could impart such warmth.
And I even harbored a ridiculous romantic fantasy about that coat-clad woman.
Casting a fleeting glance at the pale profile of the woman half-buried in the scarf, then lowering my eyes, I found myself facing the cold railway tracks laid out before me.
I shuddered and hunched my shoulders, and when I looked around, that man was standing right beside me.
We involuntarily exchanged glances.
I was startled by how close he was.
He too seemed startled.
The meaning was clearly understood between us.
Both of them gave wry smiles.
And as if having reached an understanding, they abruptly stepped away from the group and began walking.

“It’s damn cold, isn’t it?” he said.

“It’s damn late, isn’t it?” I said.

Both remarks came out nearly in unison.
We raised our faces and smiled in response to each other's words.
Then we were no longer strangers but instead became old acquaintances.

The two of them started walking side by side along the walkway.

“Where do you always go?” he asked.

“I’m going to a friend’s house to play Go.”
“Just amateurish games, though.”

“Ahaha, so you’re part of the high-class loafer breed too.”

I hesitated for a moment in my response.

“I’m much the same myself,” he continued. “There’s this billiards parlor that recently opened around here, you see. Since it’s run by a madam I’ve known for some time—someone I can let my guard down with—I make a point of coming all this way. At nearby billiard parlors, you only run into familiar faces—it’s not interesting—and besides, there are all sorts of complications. This place has a more novel location, both the balls and baize are new, and the sort of dowdy charm you find in outlying districts is quite appealing, you know.”

"And perhaps a new Frau as well..."

“Oh now, coming at me so directly like that is rather...”

“But you do seem quite dedicated to it.”

“Now that you mention it, aren’t you rather dedicated yourself?”

“Me? Well, I come here to kill time because I’m simply unbearably bored.”

“So you’re the same then. Truth be told, I too come here out of sheer boredom.”
“Nothing holds even a shred of interest anymore.”

While we were talking about such things, the train arrived.
It seemed we had been made to wait over thirty minutes.

The train car was crowded.
So we had to separate from each other.

When we got off at Ueno, we found ourselves together again. And then we wandered towards Hirokoji Avenue.

“Why don’t we have some tea somewhere?” he said.

The night stalls had already closed, and there wasn’t a single house still lit anywhere.
Fortunately, the café on that corner remained open, so we went inside.
Hearing four or five customers upstairs loudly discussing something, we were able to settle at a table with relief.
We drank beer, ate food, and even set down whiskey glasses afterward.

We leaned both elbows on the pure white tablecloth and stared intently at each other's faces.

“Since it would be strange for us not to know each other’s names, why don’t we introduce ourselves?” I said. Having gone hungry, I was already somewhat drunk.

“Ah, I’d completely forgotten to introduce myself,” he said.

The waitress across the way made a strange face as she stared in our direction.

His surname was Murase.
I gave my own name.

“Hmm... Matsumoto-kun? That name does sound familiar.”
As he said this, he furrowed his thick brows in thought. “Ah yes.
“Isn’t that you? You know—the one connected to that geisha called Umekichi...”

I stared at his face in surprise.

“Ah, I thought as much,” he said. “I’ve heard about you before. Because I also knew the little one who was terribly worried about you all.”

“Oh, do you often go around there too?”

“Well, these days it’s not interesting at all, so I don’t go anymore. It ended up looking like I’d been tactfully brushed off—made me feel life’s coldness, you see.”

“And like me, have you been driven to retreat all the way to S——?”

“Hahaha, ‘retreat’—now that’s well put!”

And we raised our beer glasses once more.

We left that café past one o'clock.
I parted with him and, passing along the edge of the lonely pond, returned to my house.

I found myself strangely happy about that evening's events.
I suddenly felt as though I had gained a kindred spirit.
"Why had I not spoken to that man sooner?"
Thinking this, I abruptly wanted to see him again.
And then, with some apprehension that I might meet him, I visited Sakaguchi again the following evening, and when twelve o'clock struck, I half-heartedly concluded our Go match and returned to the station.

As I descended the stairs, someone called out, “Hey!”
It was Murase.

“I knew you’d come again tonight—I waited,” he said.
“Made me miss a whole train because of you.”

“Is that so?
I had a feeling you’d be here too—that’s why I came all this way.”

We began walking side by side along the corridor once more.
Then I suddenly stopped, gazing intently at his face as he turned toward me.

“We’ve met here quite often, haven’t we?” I said.

“That’s true,” he replied, though he seemed to be thinking of something else.

“Why didn’t you speak to me sooner?”

“Huh!” he said, his eyes lighting up.
“I was just about to say the same thing to you.”
“Then we’re even-steven.”

"I see. But for quite some time now, even though we both wanted to speak to each other, we held back due to some strange reserve and ended up with this tingling sense of unease, didn’t we?"

“Tingling... Now that’s an apt word you’ve chosen. Are you involved in literature?”

“Well, my literary endeavors remain half-digested.”

After remaining silent for a while, he said in a hushed, hesitant voice.

“Hey, you—why don’t we try talking to anyone here waiting around whom we’ve seen here before?”

My eyes lit up.

“But would there really be people we’d encounter here twice?”

“There certainly are,” he said with conviction. “Take that man in the hunting cap and Western suit over there.” He pointed toward a figure standing across from us. “I’ve actually encountered that fellow here once before.”

“That sounds interesting.
Let’s do it.”

“But I can’t quite handle it alone—let’s make it when we’re both here, don’t you think?”

“Yes, I’m rather timid myself, so that approach would be better.”

And so we established various procedures.
Since Sundays were often interrupted by guests, Mondays were days when I had many errands at the company I worked for, and Saturdays tended to have some conflict on his end, we decided to go out every Tuesday and Friday without fail—twice a week.
We would come to the station when twelve o'clock struck as our signal; carefully observe the passengers' faces; speak to anyone we encountered twice (including women); and take turns doing so.

“Then shall we try approaching that man in the hunting cap?” I said.

“Shall we do it?”

Just then, the train arrived, so that night ended without anything coming of it.

Truly, it was a strangely fascinating thing.
To approach those whose faces we'd seen even once; to exchange open-hearted banter with nameless strangers of unknown station; then abruptly part ways again—if this succeeded, it seemed the very fabric of society might transform before our eyes.
Words like "insidiousness" and "craftiness" became unnecessary; everywhere was a Bacchanalian revelry.

I eagerly awaited the next Tuesday.

On Tuesday evening, when I visited Sakaguchi and was playing Go, I found myself holding the advantage more often.
"This bodes well," I thought.
And when twelve o'clock struck, I immediately rose from my seat.

When I arrived at the station, Murase had not yet come.
The train came immediately, but I let it pass.
Then before long, Murase arrived.

“Hey, sorry about that. Did you wait long?”
“...Right, I rushed here too, though...”
“For some reason today, my game luck’s been absurdly good.”

“I was the same way. This must be a good omen.”

We were utterly delighted.
When I looked around, there were only two or three people about—all complete strangers we’d never laid eyes on before.
As we waited thinking someone would surely come along soon, time slipped away unnoticed until the train arrived.
We felt faintly disappointed.
We lacked the courage to deliberately wait for another train.

But come Friday, Murase declared he’d spotted someone alone.
It was a portly man with a ruddy face clutching a briefcase beneath his cloak.
The sight of him dampened my spirits.
So I yielded my turn to Murase and watched from the sidelines.

Here and there, a few people stood on the platform.
The florid-faced man stood among them, leaning against a pillar.
Murase approached with an air of nonchalance and stood beside him.
I held my breath.
But Murase remained silent for a long time.
He's being cowardly, I thought.
However, before long, he raised his face and glanced at me, then said to the man beside him:

“It’s awfully cold, isn’t it.”

The man made a strange face and looked at Murase, but still answered.

“That it is.” The voice was hoarse.

“Do you come here often?”

“Huh?”

“I believe we’ve met here before...”

“Is that so,” he answered, studying Murase’s face.

“Where are you headed?”

“Home.”

With that flat declaration, the man turned and strode away.

I found it comical. Then, chuckling softly, Murase removed his hat and wiped the sweat from his face.

"No good!" he said in a low voice. "It's because you didn't back me up that I had such a terrible time."

The pair of men standing across gazed at us curiously. Fortunately, it was dark in the shadow of the pillar, but I pulled my hat down low like someone who had committed a crime.

"You're hopeless when you're like this."

"Oh, we'll come across an interesting fellow soon enough."
"It's not something to be so disappointed about."
"But your approach was an excellent job."

“Don’t mock me.”

Even so, we became cheerful.
When the train arrived, we boarded it.
The florid-faced man appeared to enter a different car after watching us board.

However, just as I had feared, we scarcely encountered again those faces we remembered meeting there twice.
We grew disappointed.

One time, two craftsmen wearing insignia-adorned half-coats found themselves waiting with us. One was drunk. Waving his arms wildly, he kept shouting something incomprehensible. As we stood there, he suddenly gave us a quick bow.

“Sir, sake’s a wonderful thing, I tell ya! You gotta be drunk to know the real taste of sake!” He burst into raucous laughter. “On that drunken night, all careless-like, couldn’t sleep ‘cause you’re so cute…” At some point he’d started singing a folk song.

“You’re in good spirits,” I remarked.

He stopped singing and looked at me.

“Well I’ll be! Can ya see into my pockets, sir? See? Right here!” With that, he tapped his pocket. The coins jangled. “Warm pockets mean a warm belly’s core. Sir, shall we head out?” He raised his hand in a gesture pointing ahead.

“Knock it off,” said the companion, grabbing his arm to stop him.

“The hell you say? Who’s stoppin’ me, ya fool!”

“Oh, just get over here already.” With that, he pulled the man into the waiting room.

“I ain’t going home like this!”

“Oh, enough already—just keep quiet for a bit.”

“Alright.”
“If that’s how it is, I’ll be good as gold, I tell ya.”
“Cup in hand, I say, press it down—katydid, weaving insect…” he began singing again.

I exchanged looks with Murase.
I felt both terribly mocked and as if I myself looked foolish.
We remained silent.

When the train arrived, those two also boarded.
For some reason, the drunk man had also fallen quiet.
He sat sideways on the cushion, swaying his head unsteadily with his eyes closed.

That night, we found ourselves stopping by a café again without either of us suggesting it first. And we drank beer. Then we made the following agreement: from now on we would try speaking to at least one person even if they were complete strangers—even just a single word exchanged would suffice.

We were slightly drunk. And in our hearts' depths we felt a faint resentment. Though we didn't understand why, it remained true that the drunk craftsman had cast something into our midst.

After that came a succession of enjoyable Tuesdays and Fridays.
Murase and I would always meet inside S Station, then during the wait before trains arrived, address whoever seemed most approachable.
When we offered remarks like "It's cold" or "They're making us wait quite a while," short responses always came back.
Having been chastened by our initial failures, we generally found this sufficient.
But when someone seemed moderately receptive, we'd avoid personal topics and make brief comments about weather patterns or current events—they'd give equally concise replies.
On nights when trains arrived too quickly for conversation attempts, we even felt faint disappointment.
We would discuss that evening's outcomes while walking from Ueno Station to Kōen-mae and laugh.

While standing on the subterranean-like dimly lit chilly passageway waiting for the train, the people gathered there began to feel like close friends to us. Everyone hunched their shoulders against the cold. They were probably all somewhat hungry too. Everyone looked as if they wanted something. And everyone wore gloomy expressions. If everyone had been able to gather and chat cheerfully, how much more pleasant those lonely late-night hours would have been. How much more pleasant it would have been for us two in particular.

“Can’t we somehow manage to get better results?”
We would often repeat this exchange in front of Ueno Park.
And gradually, without realizing it, we grew bolder and more tenacious.

One day I encountered a "good result."
As I stood on the platform surveying two or three passengers, a woman in her mid-thirties wearing a spinning-mill kimono and haori, her face buried in a woolen scarf, caught my eye.
It was a figure I had certainly seen before.

"Today I'll try an adventure," I thought.

At that moment, Murase came hurrying over.
“Hey,” he said.
At the sound of his voice, the textile-clad woman turned around and flashed a faint smile.
I gained confidence from that.
I thought she might know about us.

Eventually, I approached her with an air of nonchalance. And after remaining silent for a while, I spoke out.

“The train is quite late.”

“Yes, I’ve already been waiting about fifteen minutes.”

At that moment, I noticed there was a large mole next to her nose.
The mole lent a certain familiarity to the slightly rounded face.

“Perhaps it was delayed because someone was run over,” I said again.

“Though such a thing is surely impossible, if they must make us wait, they might at least keep the waiting room properly heated.”

“That’s right, you know. Ten minutes late at night are equivalent to about thirty during the day.”

“But wouldn’t it be more interesting if the train were delayed?”

“Huh?”

“For you gentlemen, certainly.”
Having said that, she laughed.

“Then do you know about us?”

“No, not really…”

She began to say but then stared intently at my face.

“Ah, so you did see us once before?”
I was surprised.

"...Hey, Mr. Murase!"
With that, I called Murase.

But while Murase was approaching, a train came rushing from the opposite direction.
There, because the tracks curved sharply, no sooner had the train come into view than it was right beside us.
I had no chance to say anything.

“Another time.”
With that abrupt dismissal, I boarded the train.

We had made it a rule not to speak at all inside the train.
Moreover, the woman had ended up sitting on the far side.
She was just occasionally looking in our direction.

However, even such a result was a great success for me.
I became happy.

“Women are indeed more progressive than men,” Murase concluded.
“Shall we try targeting women from now on?”

And we burst out laughing at the word "targeting."

The result was contrary to our expectations.
Women were often even more unfriendly than men.

One time, I spoke to a young woman.
Then she glanced briefly at my face but silently walked away.
There stood a man around fifty years old.
The woman whispered something to him.
The old man shook his head once sharply to the side and stared fixedly at me.
He was an old gentleman holding a thick walking stick.
I saw the sharp-eyed glare of furrowed brows.
Oh no, I thought.
I felt a little like I had committed some crime.

However, our hearts had already grown quite calm.
And we had grown quite cheerful.
A strong curiosity was also at work.
Yet for that very reason, we decided never to approach people in pairs from then on.

“The human heart opens most fully only when one is alone,” I said to Mr. Murase.

Thus among those gathered at S Station past midnight were people of all sorts.
Predominantly middle-class or lower, but we tried selecting those who might interact with us.
Paradoxically, those who welcomed our words most readily wore shabby clothes – through this I perceived how social class plants both intimacy and distance between people.
Moreover, when approaching laborers, I felt pangs of self-reproach.
Though I couldn’t fully comprehend why this was so, the emotion itself felt genuine.
Yet I remained convinced such actions weren’t entirely meaningless.
When hearts are truly guileless, I believed our approach deserved universal endorsement (though this might have been mere post hoc justification).

And we saw vividly how servilely the human heart is constructed, how it remains constantly on guard and threatened, how filled with hostility it is.
When we first spoke to them, the person on the other side would usually give a brief reply.
But when we spoke to them a second time, many would not even reply but instead stare back with a strange, sinister look in their eyes.
The fact that it was late at night, the fact that the surroundings were dimly lit, and the fact that it was a deserted small station—perhaps that was what went wrong.
But in truth, wasn't that actually for the better?
Wasn't everyone's heart lonely there?
Moreover, had this been about inquiring after some object or other, everyone might have kindly told us.
But isn't it purposeless words that better warm people's hearts?—We even considered such things.
"Theories follow after practice"—thinking this, we exchanged bitter smiles between us.

But above all, it was something intriguing in the state of our lives back then.

The human faces we observed in the dimness were strange. In those who moved away unnerved by our attempts at conversation only to turn and stare back fixedly, there remained only eyes and mouths. The eyes shone cold and sharp. The mouths hung oddly slack. Hostility dwelled in the eyes while the mouths held an eerie charm. This contradiction between eyes that should have been beautiful and mouths that should have been greedy—did it not soon come to reveal society's inherent contradictions? Those with sinister eyes and charming mouths—it seemed to me such creatures existed only among humans in the animal kingdom. Yet what felt strangest was how noses never once drew my notice during those observations.

By the end of December, a man who had imperceptibly caught our attention appeared.
He wore a cloak and sandals, but sometimes donned a hunting cap or a fedora.
Nearly every other time, we found that man on the walkway of S Station.
As we approached, he walked off into the distance.
He was often standing inside the waiting room.
And so we never got an opportunity to speak to him.

While we thought him merely a peculiar man and paid little heed, before we knew it, New Year had arrived.
So we "took a break" for about ten days. But since we had no particular business even with it being New Year, we decided to resume immediately.
Especially after New Year began, as we encountered women more frequently, it became all the more engaging.
The results alone remained utterly futile as ever.
However, since we did occasionally encounter interesting men and women, we persevered.

Around January 20th, that man began to appear again. And before we knew it, he came to strongly capture our attention.

He would sometimes stand inside the waiting room looking at advertisement posters. Then when the opposite train arrived, he would approach it and peer inside as well. When standing on the walkway, he would always choose the shadows of pillars or corners of stairs. However, we soon noticed that his eyes were constantly directed toward us. When looking at advertisement posters, he would occasionally dart sidelong glances in our direction, something we could discern under the bright electric lights there. Yet despite this, he always seemed to be trying to avoid us. When we walked toward where he was standing, he immediately started walking away. Whenever one of us spoke to someone, he would invariably be staring intently at us from the shadows. He would never face us directly but always glared sideways.

“That man might be cross-eyed,” I said to Murase.

He was a short man with squared shoulders, sporting a short mustache beneath a flattened nose. Though he always wore his hat pulled low over his eyes, the narrowness of his forehead could be discerned from his facial outline. His eyes carried an oddly sinister gleam - that peculiarly blackened sharpness seen in those who gradually decline into old age. Such was the light in his eyes. While the eyeballs themselves appeared more protuberant than normal, their gleam held an oddly profound depth. His age proved difficult to pin down; at times he seemed around thirty, others closer to forty.

When we boarded the train, he too would invariably get on.
Yet he would always sit either in a different car or in the corner farthest from us.
There was a time when we thought we had caught his gaze directed at us, but usually he didn't appear to be paying any particular attention our way.
When we arrived at Ueno, he immediately went off somewhere.
We didn't even feel curious enough to follow his trail.
No, rather than that—the moment he exited Ueno Station, his figure would immediately vanish.

“He’s a strange man.”
“What on earth could he be?”
We often repeated such questions.
“He might be a devotee of ours,” he burst out laughing.

But the gleam of his blackened eyes imperceptibly began to unsettle our minds.

One night, when I quietly descended the stairs of S——Station, that man was standing there.
It was in the dark shadow of a pillar, right by the tracks at the edge of the walkway.
He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, seemingly deep in thought, occasionally tilting his head slightly to the side.
As I watched, wondering what he would do, he remained motionless no matter how long I waited.
I quietly approached him.
Suddenly, he turned around.
Our breaths condensed white and flowed together as one.
The moment he stared fixedly at my face, he gave a sinister blink.
Then he abruptly raised his right hand and bit his thumbnail.
And then he walked smoothly away.
It was over in nearly an instant.

I stood dumbfounded, vacantly watching his retreating figure.
He wandered about for a while longer, then quietly ascended the stairs for reasons unknown.
And never came back down.
He must have left the station just like that.

I was seized by ever-deepening doubts. And from around that time, I began to feel I couldn't afford to be careless.

Roughly every other time, his figure would usually be seen. When he wasn't visible, I felt he might be hiding somewhere. Nevertheless, we kept speaking to some passenger.

However, one time I heard something strange from Sakaguchi.
Two or three days prior, a man had come to visit Sakaguchi and apparently investigated my background.
"It's regarding a marriage arrangement," the man had reportedly said.
Sakaguchi—who had grown suspicious of my regular Tuesday and Friday visits where I would leave Go games unresolved at midnight, and who had also become wary of my sudden surge of energy around that time—added this:
"You ought to be a bit more careful and restrain yourself."

As something seemed amiss, I mentioned it to Murase on our way back. Murase paused in thought for a moment, then suddenly slapped his knee.

“Ah, got it. Actually, I’ve had the same thing happen on my end. A strange man showed up at my usual billiards hall—while clumsily playing, he apparently made casual inquiries about my circumstances. Said it was for a marriage arrangement and got thoroughly mocked by the mistress.”

“Oh, you too?”

“You can’t afford to be careless about this.”
“We’re undoubtedly being targeted with malice by someone.”
“Because we’ve been rather rude to too many people, you see.”

When we thought about it, there were indeed numerous points that came to mind.

That night we stopped by the café again and, while drinking beer, devised various contingency plans. There was no longer any room for doubt. It seemed both uncanny and exhilarating.

But what that man truly was remained as our final unanswered question. We even wondered if he might be a police officer, but if that were the case, there was no reason he would have wandered about before us like that or made such clumsy attempts to avoid detection. No—first and foremost, he would have undoubtedly paid us more direct attention.

Then what?... We had finally reached our conclusion—that man was undoubtedly the henchman of some old-fashioned educator, nouveau riche, aristocrat, or other moneyed idler. Someone whose daughters had been "threatened" by us (we had indeed approached some well-dressed young women before) must have deemed us "delinquent youths" seeking to catch us red-handed for punishment. And they were deploying superfluous moral scruples, money, and manpower.

This idea pleased us.
For it was precisely because such people existed that society became so shallow, formalistic, and too inflexible to be interesting—or so we thought.

“In any case, now that things have come to this, why don’t we try staging a splendid play?” said Murase.

“Well... Do you have any brilliant ideas?”

“Ah, there’s something interesting.”

Murase whispered into my ear.
I was utterly delighted.

That man must be trying to catch us “in the act.” So we would bring along an acquainted woman and decided to stage the seduction act on that platform as previously planned. Since it’d be a waste if that man didn’t show up, we decided to skip the next Tuesday and carry it out on Friday. Even if we were caught, we could offer a proper defense; even if we weren’t, it would at least make for a fine show.

“Is there a suitable woman?”

“Well, I don’t have anyone.”

“Then I’ll bring her.”
“There’s a waitress at a restaurant right near my place who’s fond of that sort of thing.”
“Instead, you’ll be the one acting.”
“If it’s someone we’re familiar with, she might burst out laughing halfway through and ruin our carefully laid plans.”

I agreed.

I did feel it was somewhat dangerous, but I also felt that unless we went that far, I wouldn't be able to quell the anger in my gut. I considered that doing this much was permissible. I also considered how pleasant it would be if things went well—laughing together with that man, guiding him around a bit, and chatting amiably as we grew more at ease. I also considered that while the "idle person" employing that man was pitiable, that man himself was even more wretched and needed rescuing.

I waited for the next Friday.

However, when that Friday arrived, snow began falling from morning.
I thought about contacting Murase, but since I didn't remember his address, I decided it wouldn't be much loss even if I made a futile trip and set out.

The snow fell lightly but hadn't stopped even by night.
The streets were deep with mud, and roofs and tree branches had turned white.

Being in the habit of not using a scarf, I buried my face in my mantle collar and hurried along the road.

“I didn’t think you’d come today,” Sakaguchi said with a laugh as he welcomed me warmly.
“Rather poetic, I’d say,” I responded.

That evening, for some reason, I kept losing.

“There’s something off about you today,” Sakaguchi said.

I hadn’t noticed it myself, but it seems I was indeed somewhat unsettled.

When the clock struck twelve, I stood up as usual.

As I walked through the snow that fell with a soft pattering sound on my umbrella, I began to feel as though I were in a dream.
There was not a breath of wind; the heavy air hung stagnant.
Murase was supposed to have come to the station with the woman, having taken the trouble to make a detour on the city tram.

Arriving at S Station and descending the dark staircase, I found Murase indeed waiting for me. I approached his side. "You—that's her," he whispered to me.

In the shadow of a pillar across the way stood a woman with bobbed hair, hunched inside her coat.
When she saw us talking, she slightly lowered her head and smiled at us.
Murase raised his hand in signal while shaking his head.
In my eyes, the woman's eyes and mouth lingered absurdly large.

That man hadn't come.
We were disappointed.
Even so, we let one train pass and waited.
He still hadn't come.
I also thought, Maybe he won't come today because of the snow.
Even so, we let one more train pass.
My feet grew cold as ice.
Occasionally we entered the waiting room to warm our feet.
The fires in the braziers were more numerous than usual.
The woman occasionally glanced our way.

Footsteps sounded at the staircase.
I jolted.
That was almost intuition.
That man had come.
He wore a camel-hair scarf, carried a Western umbrella in hand, and had geta sandals on his feet.
In a snowy night, this wouldn’t be particularly unusual, but the Western umbrella and geta sandals struck me as peculiar.

He paid us no heed, marching straight into the waiting room where he held his feet over the brazier.
Then, taking out a cigarette and lighting it, he seemed to be deep in thought about something.
He glanced briefly in our direction but then immediately lowered his eyes again.
Yet from his turned back, I sensed his attention remained fixed on us.

Outside our group were only two merchant-like men and a woman who appeared to be a maid.
They were all inside the waiting room.
The timing was perfect.
I left Murase there and walked over to the woman standing in the shadow of the pillar across the way.
The woman flashed me a brief smile but suddenly turned aside and put on a prim expression.

I stood there for some time, then finally spoke.

"It’s terribly cold, isn’t it."

“Hm.”

I thought it was a strange reply.

“But with no wind, it’s a relief.”

“How true,” she said, though this time her tone had shifted.
"The train is dreadfully late."

"Yes.
To make people wait on such a night is positively immoral."

“My, to call that immoral...”

At that moment, I caught sight of that man exiting the waiting room and walking toward us from the corner of my eye.
He stopped four or five steps ahead and appeared to gaze out over the tracks into the distance.

We fell silent for a moment.
Snowflakes falling from the pitch-black sky appeared white against the stone wall in the background.
When I stared fixedly at them, I felt as though my own body were drifting down to the ground along with the snow.
Immediately before us lay low railway tracks, their rails glowing with a pale light that seemed to draw everything toward catastrophe.
I was suddenly struck by an eerie terror and glanced at the woman beside me.
Then she too glanced my way and smiled with her eyes.
She was a plump-cheeked woman with a large mouth and expressive eyes.
Because she had applied stark white powder, her face floated into view within that peculiar flat brightness—a blend of dim electric light and snow’s reflection that lacked any shadows.

“Where are you headed?” I said again.

“I’m headed to Shimizuchō.”

I felt uncertain whether I was actually performing in a play or dreaming.
The late-night small station, the snow, the woman, and the suspicious man all blended into a dream-like illusion.
I kept silent.

“To reach Shimizuchō, should I still take the park route?” This time the woman initiated.
“I have urgent business there but don’t know that area well at all.”

“Let me think... Since it’s already late, it would be better for you to go around below the park. As I’m just returning that way myself, I’d be happy to guide you.”

“If you would grant me that kindness, I should be truly put at ease.”
“Though it may prove an imposition...”
“As it lies along my way, I shall be pleased to escort you.”

“Well, I have truly been relieved.”
“Certainly… And since I do not know the house over there well either, if it would not be too much trouble, might I ask you to accompany me all the way…?”

This seems a bit forward, I thought.
Instead, I found myself in a position of being the one tempted.
While I fidgeted there trying to think of something to say, three students came clattering down the stairs.
Then the train arrived immediately.

“Is that acceptable?”
Having said that, the woman boarded the train first.

There, Murase arrived.
We exchanged looks and smiled.
That man was standing toward the back.

I lightly grabbed Murase’s sleeve as he moved to board the train.
Murase looked back at my face but seemed to immediately grasp my intention.
We casually walked toward the rear of the train.
And at the moment when the train began to move slightly, both of us leaped onto the conductor’s platform.

It was then. That man had been observing our movements from afar, but upon seeing us leap aboard, he suddenly rushed over and attempted to do the same. Meanwhile, the woman who had boarded earlier came out to the conductor’s platform out of concern for us.

“Oh, what were you doing?” she said. Murase and I burst out laughing. That was our mistake. Hearing that laughter, the man momentarily relaxed his body’s tension. Meanwhile, the hand that had grabbed onto the train car’s pillar yanked him forcefully. “Danger!” shouted the conductor. He tumbled sideways onto the tracks, half-dragged as he fell.

We held our breath.
The train stopped immediately.
A crowd of passengers emerged.
The conductor leapt down onto the tracks and hauled him upright.
He managed to stand but swayed unsteadily before collapsing back down.
He sat silent with face lowered.
An uncanny tension rippled through the crowd.
Station workers came running from a shack across the tracks.

Hoisted onto the walkway by the workers, he clutched one man's shoulder and rose.
He muttered something to the conductor.
When the conductor responded, he waved dismissively, spoke again, then jabbed a finger toward the cliffside station.
He shook his head once more as he added final words.

We remained standing at the conductor’s platform during that time.
Something had nailed us in place there.
Though the distance between us and him was merely five or six ken, strangely enough, not a single word exchanged between him and the conductor reached our ears.
Only his gestures remained clearly etched in the backs of our eyes.
His bowed face remained unseen, shrouded in dark shadows.

Soon, the train started moving, leaving him behind.

“Did he get injured?” one of the passengers asked the conductor.

“Since he says there’s nothing serious, it should be fine.”
“It’s his fault,” the conductor answered.

We fell into an odd silence, our heads hanging low over the bench.

“I was truly shocked. That’s him, isn’t it? The one they call ‘that man’,” the woman whispered to Murase.

“You all were too good at it,” Murase said.

“But wasn’t that the promise?”

To that, no one answered.
And we remained silent all the way to Ueno.

“Anyway, the results were just too perfect,” Murase concluded as we walked beneath the park.

When the woman suggested going somewhere, we said "next time" and parted ways.
And it was already quite late.
I walked back alone along the pond at Yamashita.
At that moment, I found myself in an indescribable state—whether angry, pathetic, or even happy.
I felt as if an unspeakable black mass of emotions was churning in my gut.

On the lonely evening of the following day, as I sat strangely preoccupied with the previous night's events in an absent-minded daze, Murase unexpectedly came to visit.

“I only knew it was Hanazono-cho and didn’t have the address number, so I had quite the time finding it,” he said.

“And did something happen?”

He silently took out that evening’s Mayu from his pocket and spread a copy out before him.
In the corner of the bottom column, there was a small article listed under “Train Accidents.”

At Yamanote Line S—— Station last night, Detective ○○ of S—— Precinct accidentally fell from a train into the tracks, sustaining several minor lacerations on his right arm and right leg; however, the fracture at the knee joint proved unexpectedly severe, requiring a full month for recovery, though should fever develop, it may lead to considerable critical condition.

I read the article and stared wide-eyed.
Murase also tightened the muscles in his face.

An indescribably dark shadow rose in my heart.
We gathered as many evening papers from that night as possible, and when morning came, we purchased various morning and evening editions.
But it was all futile.
Not a single article pertaining to the incident could be found.
We spread out the Mayu again.
What caught our attention was how his name had been specifically withheld as "Detective ○○".

First of all, was that man truly this Detective ○○?
If he were a real detective, he wouldn't have taken such an attitude from the start, nor would he have met with such a botched outcome.
Yet the Mayu article affirmed that every single phrase referred to the same person.
The sole point raising doubt was how "last night" remained unclear in its timing.
And now we had no other way but to either inquire at S—— Station or approach the newspaper company.

However, we did not do that.

"Why? — Let's leave that dissection to the 'clear-headed theorists.'"
Yet we felt an indescribably gloomy shadow.
We felt something that left us uncertain whether to cry or laugh.

The black eyes of that man, gleaming with a dull metallic shine, peered at us from somewhere.
That night's "strange play" resurfaced in my mind against a snowy backdrop.
On the tracks illuminated by blue arc lights, a vision of dripping blood materialized.
These elements coalesced to form an ominous, expansive trap.
Whether that man had truly been Detective ○○ no longer mattered.

“Life isn’t a farce,” I said to myself. “Let your guard down and you might end up in real trouble.”

That evening, I drank leisurely with Murase as we unwound.

"That day was ill-fated," Murase said, "being the Friday when Christ died."

As we drank, whether what we had done was ultimately good or bad became impossible to discern.
And in any case, we vowed to put an end to such matters.
"That would be more prudent," we concluded.
At that ordinary conclusion, we exchanged glances and smiled.