Pathway to Japanese Literature

Toshiko

Why are you crying?
There’s no reason to cry.
Is she happy? Is she sad?... No—in any case, who the hell cries at a time like this?

I was in the wrong too. But hey—I’m exactly the unworthy brother everyone says I am, so call it twisted logic, but cut me some slack in the name of that title.

I didn’t know—about what was between you and Hamada… until that next morning.
In hindsight, I might have sensed it vaguely—but in truth, it only became clear when I first heard it from Mother the next morning.

It was a strange morning.

Even I had the events of the previous night vaguely weighing on my mind—and precisely because I was in such a daze, it left me feeling somewhat worn out.
So I lazed around in bed until about eleven, and the moment I got up, I declared I wanted a drink.

“Huh? You want sake?”

As Mother held her breath with her words and stared at me in utter exasperation, I gave a slight shrug of my neck, but then quickly furrowed my brows to brush it off.

“Yes. I seem to have a bit of a headache, so just a little is fine.”
“One bottle… Tsuneya,” I called to the maid, “Tsuneya, hurry up and heat one bottle for me.”

“Oh, you really are…”
“After drinking so much last night, you still intend to drink more?”

“So—just a little… My head’s been acting up… Really.”

Mother wore a look that seemed to say, “How could anyone believe such a thing?”—yet her mood didn’t appear particularly sour. It worked, I thought.

But when I sat down to breakfast and began sipping alone, enduring the bitter taste, Mother stood by the rice tub and watched me intently.

“What on earth are you thinking? You claim to support Mr. Hamada and Toshiko’s arrangement, yet last night you spoke of him like that… And he’s supposed to be your friend. Just like the repulsive sight of a drunkard… And today you slept until nearly noon again—the moment you finally get up, it’s sake again…. This house isn’t some drinking den. Or if there’s some dissatisfaction you can only voice when drunk—come out and say it plainly. If there’s something about Mr. Hamada that doesn’t sit right with you… If we act now, things can still be changed… Since you know Mr. Hamada best of all, if there were clear reasons against it, we wouldn’t push forward with the matter. But when it comes to things like last night—unclear whether lies or truth, just like a drunkard’s ramblings—we can’t possibly take them seriously, you know.”

When spoken to like that, I was completely overwhelmed.
Mother’s feelings were shifting with unusual intensity.
At first, I had been preoccupied with the fight with my brother, but Mother seemed to be seriously focused solely on Hamada’s matter, as if she’d completely forgotten about that.

I said while tapping my head.

“I was drunk last night…,”
“Rambling nonsense until I got even drunker…”
At that, I straightened up properly.
“No—I approve.”
“I wholeheartedly approve of Hamada and Toshiko’s arrangement.”

“But what did you say last night?”

“Who knows what I said… It doesn’t matter now.”
“I think it’s a good match.”

The way I spoke seemed to make Mother even more uneasy.
She stared into my face with a probing gaze, as if trying to uncover something.

Because of this, I couldn’t even get the sake down properly.

Toshiko

I wasn’t opposed to your marriage with Hamada.
If anything, I was in favor of it.
It was a terribly callous way to put it, but I couldn’t say anything more than that.

As for why I started badmouthing Hamada that night—it was actually born from my resentment toward Brother.

As you know, I don’t particularly like Brother.
Brother seems to dislike me as well.
The two of us differ greatly in temperament and even in our tastes.

The two of us ended up having a meal together at home by chance.
Since Brother had gotten married and moved out, such occasions had become rare, so I treated Mother to a feast.
That was just an excuse—I’d wanted to get drunk at home for the first time in ages.

And at first, it went well.
However, gradually—after you had gone out with Shizuko-san—my mood grew inexplicably frayed.

Brother had apparently endured my company for some time, but by the third or fourth sake bottle, he began eating first.
At that point, the conversation naturally turned to the matter of your marriage with Hamada.

“But Mother,” Brother said with a laugh, “if Mr. Hamada has a drunkard for a close friend like this, he can’t be very reliable either.”

“But,” Mother said with a laugh, “the fact that he remains steadfast despite having such a friend makes him all the more admirable, don’t you think?”

I let their conversation flow past me as I kept refilling my cup alone.
The sake at home tasted excellent precisely because Mother had carefully chosen it.
The tipsiness felt pleasant.
And before I knew it, I’d clumsily begun humming a little tune.
But really—could I help it? I was feeling so good.

That began when Brother called me out on it, turning into another one of those roundabout arguments. But I acted like I didn’t notice. That seemed to have offended Brother’s feelings.

“You scribble out two or three trivial things, then smugly declare yourself an artist and laze around every day—what an enviable position you’ve got there.”

“If you’re so envious, why don’t you quit that piddling little company and become an artist yourself….”

Brother was slightly drunk too. But I was quite drunk myself.

“The other day, I was made to read something you wrote and felt truly ashamed.”
“You know—that novel of yours with some title or other—the one that features a harlot or something.”
“In my company there’s a man who has that magazine—‘Your younger brother’s apparently quite skilled,’ he says—and makes me read it.”
“When I read it, I was so ashamed I turned bright red.”
“That’s just nonsense!”
“Don’t write that sort of thing anymore.”
“Can’t you produce something more high-minded—something ideologically profound and respectable?”
“I’m not just saying this—if you keep drinking with those disheveled women, you’ll end up a failure for sure.”
“If you intend to become an artist, then you must start by reforming your conduct—no, your entire way of life.”

Brother was ravenous.
Despite being thoroughly drunk, he devoured everything on the plates, poked greedily at the contents of the pot, and downed four or five bowls of rice.
In his lower front teeth, right before the canine, there was a single black decayed tooth.
It seemed like something a dentist could have fixed, but for whatever reason, he’d left it small, shriveled, and blackened like that forever.
It kept peeking out whenever he ate or lectured me, grating on my nerves.

“In truth, Mr. Hamada is too good to be a friend to someone like you.”

“Hmm, I always thought *I* was too good for Hamada…”

“What the hell are you so conceited about?”

"Then in what way is Hamada superior to me?"

"He’s superior in character… He’s not corrupted like you."

“Not corrupted…? Don’t make me laugh.”
“You can’t see it, Brother.”
“Even so, mentally I’m not the one who’s corrupted!”

Perhaps my wording was poor, but Brother seized on it, and as we argued back and forth two or three times, he pressed in aggressively: “It’s outrageous to slander our friend! If you’re not slandering him, then prove it!”
At that moment, Brother’s arrogant face—along with his black decayed tooth and bold appetite—though it may sound odd to say, grated on my nerves all the more because he was my own brother.

“Well, if you want proof, I’ll give you proof—but you’d never understand anyway, Brother.”
“Maybe Mother would understand.”
“Hey, Mother, you understand… you do understand, don’t you?”

Holding a cup and pivoting sharply at the hips, Mother smiled bitterly.
I found it amusing.

“Hey Mother—strip anyone naked and there’s not a pure soul among them.”
“Take Hamada for instance. Acts all prim like some virtuous sage, but peel back that layer…right, Mother?”

Seeing Mother fidgeting uncomfortably, I found it amusing to ramble on.
I like Mother.

So I told the following story.

One time he went out for a walk after dinner.
As he walked along a dim backstreet one summer evening, the second-floor room across the way became visible through the electric light—its window hung with bamboo blinds.
At the window ledge—on what might have been a desk—two young women sat writing busily.
From the street, only their profiles from the shoulders up were visible.
This somehow added to the charm.
Affecting nonchalance, he walked back and forth along that street several times.
On his way home from the walk, he deliberately passed by again.

Then, the next day and the day after that, he walked around that area. Inside the second-floor window with bamboo blinds, two women were always diligently writing. What they were writing couldn’t be discerned from the street. The house was also quite splendid and did not appear to be an amateur boarding house.

And for him, nighttime walks became a pleasure.
From the women’s hairstyles to the shapes of their profiles, he completely memorized them.
They weren’t particularly beautiful but had a modern, intellectual air—one couldn’t quite tell if they were schoolgirls or working women.
Various fantasies took shape in his mind.

That continued for a considerable period.
And then, at the beginning of October, a violent storm struck.
After that storm, the bamboo blinds were removed from their window, and the shoji was shut tight.
The shoji still glowed brightly with electric light, but their profiles could no longer be seen.
And so he too stopped taking strolls along that dimly lit street.

“Well?” I said. “Even so, isn’t he spiritually corrupted?”

Mother wore a look of incomprehension.

“Nonsense,” Brother interjected from the side. “It’s just like your novels. A ridiculous made-up story.”

“Well then, hey Mother, how about this one?”

One time he went to a vaudeville theater.
During the rakugo performance, there was a maiden dance.
Girls with plain faces thickly coated in white powder wore gaudy kimonos, flashing crimson underrobe hems as they writhed across the entire stage.
He watched with feigned astonishment but later declared, “That sort of thing is dull.”
“Not just dull—it’s downright vulgar and unacceptable.”
“Well?” I said to Mother. “Even so… spiritually… right, Mother?”

“Well, you see, unlike you, Mr. Hamada wouldn’t find maiden dances interesting.”

The fact that the meaning didn’t quite get through to Mother was, if anything, amusing to me.

“Ah… Mother’s virtue shines through.”
“Well then—I’ve got a better story for you… Though now that it’s chilled like this…”

While having my sake flask reheated, I would launch into another story.
One time he went to Asakusa to see motion pictures.
It being Friday evening changeover time, the theater was packed solid.
At that moment next to him sat a beautifully dressed young woman affecting aristocratic airs.
Then she began leaning unnaturally close toward him.
When the film reel changed over, she claimed she'd lost her program and asked to borrow his—using that pretext to whisper various things close against his ear again and again.
Though cautious at first due to his characteristic shyness, he gradually became drawn in until their hands started occasionally touching.
By the time he became aware of this himself, the performance was nearly over.
Even he began feeling unsettled and tried slipping out ahead of her.
Then that very young lady followed right after him.
As they walked together without particular purpose along the pond's edge toward Kannon Hall three delinquent boys leaped from the shadows there and suddenly thrust forth a dagger.
"Why you tryin' t'seduce our precious lady we're mindin'?" they growled low but boldly.
The young lady kept laughing unperturbed.
He had shriveled back completely.

“And then,” I said, “well, you see—either he’d get all his money stolen, or be beaten to a pulp, or get slashed up. None of those would end well.”

“Oh my, did Mr. Hamada encounter such an ordeal?”

But that was actually not Hamada’s story.
It’s a story I heard from some delinquent boy.

“Well, Hamada’s just the sort of man who’ll end up in that kind of mess sooner or later, I tell you.”
“And why’s that? Let me see… Because he’s spiritually corrupted… Right, Mother…?”

“Cut it out. Haven’t you gone far enough?”

While drinking his post-meal tea and blowing cigarette smoke, Brother was truly angry.

“Don’t tell me to stop! That’s proof you’ve surrendered.”
“Hmph, how’s that?”

“What’s that pitiful spectacle?”

As a symbol of victory, when I raised my brimming cup high, my hand slipped and it spilled down onto my knee.
I drank the remainder in one gulp and sat up straight.
“This proves it, doesn’t it?”

“What proof?”

“What... Oh ho! Preparing to flee now?”
“How cowardly.”
“Look—Christ said something like, ‘He who looks upon a woman with lust...’ right?”
“Hey, Mother—you know this one.”
“Those who don’t know it... why, only the Lord Himself...”

Right when I was feeling smug, Brother suddenly knocked my cup away.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

I tried clenching my fist and bracing myself, but my propped knee wobbled unsteadily.
Just then, as my wrist was struck with a sharp smack and I started to collapse, I grabbed chopsticks and hurled them at him.

“Idiot, idiot… Take that!”

The way I was pinned down felt strangely gentle, so when I suddenly tried to spring up, I found myself being restrained by Mother.

“What are you doing?”
“You… directing that at your brother….”
“Now apologize properly.”
“If you don’t apologize, I won’t stand for it.”
“You’re drunk and don’t even know where you are here.”

Mother’s words resonated gently in my ears. I truly felt drunk. It had been ages since I last got drunk in front of Mother.

“Yes, I’ll apologize—as much as you want.”
“I truly do love Mother.”
“Someone as good as Mother… Even if the world’s vast… Hey, Mother.”

In a swaying rhythm as if rowing a boat, I performed a bow. Perhaps because of that, the drunkenness in my head was stirred up, and my consciousness grew hazy. Then, while clinging to the edge of the dining table, I listened to Brother’s persistent curses and scoldings as though they were clumsy music. Mother’s thin lament accompanied his coarse words. Then suddenly, the accompaniment emerged with startling clarity.

“Who in the world do you take after?”

I suddenly raised my head.

“Of course I know that.”
“I take after Father.”
“To a father in heaven I don’t know, that nobody knows… Hey, Mother…”

It seems my drunken habit of saying "Hey, Mother" was the problem.
Suddenly, Mother’s face grew absurdly large and pressed in on me.
I shuddered and collapsed there, starting to cry—no, I don’t remember whether I truly cried, but I felt like I started crying.
Everything became completely blurred.
In the end, I apparently tried to incoherently justify my thoughtless remarks and was then driven into bed.

Toshiko

If I tell you such things, you might start harboring strange suspicions.
But I have never indulged in such an absurd fantasy as thinking that I alone am the child of a different father from you all.
Toward my deceased father, and especially toward Mother, I have never harbored even a trace of such blasphemous thoughts.
Even if I sometimes grow despondent upon discerning traces of our late Father and Brother in my own features...

Yet in my heart—in my soul—I couldn't help but feel like a different breed altogether from Father and Brother. Somehow, I felt like a solitary wanderer at the edge of the world. I felt incredibly free and refreshed, but also lonely. At such times, I imagined something like a father to my soul. It might have been something insubstantial, yet I also felt it clearly existed somewhere nearby—within nature, beneath the low sky. And I felt a powerful love toward that father.

As you know, I love Mother very much.
Yet depending on some peculiar state of mind, there are even times when I envision the existence of a second mother—one more vague yet profoundly deeper.
Therefore, now that many years have passed since Father died, it’s no wonder I envision the existence of a second father.
What an unfortunate child I am.
Once Mother too is gone and years have passed, I will have forgotten my birth parents entirely—doing nothing but imagine and yearn for different, expansive forms of fatherhood and motherhood—for nothing but the father and mother of my soul.

But because of that, how freely and uninhibitedly I can live!

But you likely wouldn’t understand such things, so I’ll stop here. Yet if someone were to claim these feelings make my life dissolute, I’d have no retort. Though mind you, I don’t consider it dissolute myself.

And there's one more thing I must apologize to you for.
You must feel upset thinking I deliberately slandered Hamada.
That’s only natural.
My way of phrasing it was wrong.
I had absolutely no intention of hurting Hamada by speaking that way.
What I’d wanted to tell Brother was that a man’s heart isn’t so pure.
Just because I occasionally visited pleasure quarters, Brother treated me like some corrupted creature—wouldn’t even let me bathe first, went so far as to joke about it openly—and out of resentment toward that treatment, I’d meant to indirectly assert that even if my body was stained, my heart remained pure.
But with resentment and drunkenness fueling it, things twisted in an odd way.
In truth, I didn’t really care about Hamada or anything like that.

So when the next morning came and Mother specifically asked me about Hamada alone, I was truly overwhelmed.
There’s no way I could possibly say that I’d used Hamada as a tool to take down Brother.

“From your behavior last night, I can only think you’re opposed to this matter.”
“So if you’re opposed, then be opposed—but just tell me clearly what exactly you find objectionable.”

Mother was oddly composed.
I was getting rather annoyed.

“Then I’ll say it plainly.”
“I’m not opposed—I approve.”

Mother was still staring intently at my face.

“If that’s not mistaken, then I can rest assured…”
Mother relaxed her cheeks slightly.
“But do think carefully.
“You’re the most crucial person in this matter.
“Mr. Hamada is a close friend, Toshiko is your sister—this concerns their entire lives, you see…”

Mother taking my position so seriously was, in that situation, rather a well-meaning burden to me.
So I felt compelled to say a little more than necessary to bring the conversation to a swift close.

“Just how far along has that matter progressed?”

“How far along? It’s just that Mr. Kato made such a proposal.”
“Both Brother and I think Mr. Hamada would be suitable, but…”

“And how about Toshiko?”

“She seems to have agreed.”

“What about Hamada?”

“Of course he has consented.”
“Since it appears a proposal was made from Mr. Hamada’s family to Mr. Kato.”

“Then there shouldn’t be any objection, should there?”
“If the two people themselves are fine with it, there’s nothing to say.”
“I also approve.”
“What’s this—Hamada and Toshi are already in love with each other, aren’t they?”

“Yes….”

"Oh," I thought.
Mother knew something—or rather, something had happened—I felt this from Mother’s demeanor.
She was being oddly evasive in her phrasing, gauging my reaction.
I may have been a bit careless.
However, while Hamada was my close friend and you were my sister, my mind wasn’t so idle as to keep watch over the two of you.
I was simply pleased knowing only that you two got along well.
I did occasionally wonder if you two might even come to love each other, but the idea of marriage was entirely beyond my consideration.

Receiving a somewhat odd implication from Mother’s demeanor, I abruptly launched into an interrogation.
Does Toshiko truly love Hamada? Does Hamada truly love Toshiko? And is their love a profound one? Is there any proof of that…?

Mother lowered her gaze and spoke in a low voice, as though she herself had committed some transgression.

“It seems they’ve kissed.”

Toshiko.

You're such a fool.
If that's how it is, why didn't you tell me sooner?
Of course I never asked anything, and you probably couldn't have volunteered it yourself—but still, if you could confide in Mother, you should've been able to confide in me right away too.
You know my usual self inside out—you probably thought I'd laugh at you—but even someone like me wouldn't dismiss a maiden's first love.
The thought of how Mother interrogated you makes me sick.
—Let me have my shameful imaginings.
—But I ended up interrogating Mother too.
It was all just filthy curiosity at work.

However, it wasn’t just curiosity.

I dismissed the previous night’s events as a drunken joke and argued in favor of the marriage proposal’s intent, finally putting Mother at ease—but afterward, I felt intensely lonely.
An elder brother who had grown up alongside you for years, still carrying that childhood closeness—surely even you must acknowledge the mix of affection and loneliness such a brother would feel when his sister becomes engaged.

But that wasn’t all there was to it.

“You must remember when I showed you that strange poem I wrote called ‘A Young Love’.”
You looked puzzled by me back then.
But you must understand now.
The truth is, I always showed you every poem I wrote.

To claim it was out of respect for feminine sensitivity would sound noble—but really, I just lacked confidence in my own verse.
That’s why something like ‘A Young Love’, manufactured with such calculated intent, holds no real worth.
Yet you praised it.
You—who always tore my poems apart without mercy—praised this one as good.
Studying your face and eyes, I thought Ah-ha...
Then, pretending to read it again while deep in thought, you asked:

“Brother, whose memory is that?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

I blurted out without thinking, then tore up the manuscript of the poem.

“Oh.”

The look of surprise on your face at that moment—it was beyond description.
But in an instant, your black eyelashes concealed the emotion that had surfaced in your eyes.

Someone from the West once said something along these lines:
“Ancient barbarians left behind women who were pure though lacking virginity, but our civilization has produced virgins devoid of purity.”

You’ll likely think this quotation misplaced here—but just keep quiet and hear me out.

That night… It was a completely quiet, peaceful evening, wasn’t it.
After dinner, wasn’t it that Mother, you, and I—the three of us—gathered in the tearoom and sat silently around the electric light?

“What an awfully quiet evening this is…”

Because the atmosphere had grown too solemn, I felt somewhat awkward and casually remarked.

Then, unexpectedly, Mother let out a relieved sigh.
But her words were gentle.

“Yes, if only you would stay serious, things would always be like this...”
“You really must settle down a little from now on.”

“I’ll settle down alright—starting tonight, just like this…”

You were smiling beside me then. Seeing that seemingly happy smile, I—on pure whim—read you Hugo’s poetry. Scenes of families gathered round lamplight, wives and children yearning for their master’s return, cheerful dinner-table moments—those modest domestic blisses. Then finally, that Coppée poem.

The husband planes boards from dawn till dusk, never spends on Sundays; two children play in wood shavings; the wife knits at the doorway while tallying savings—a peaceful home and thriving trade.

I read it with that deception, but truthfully—it’s a coffin-maker’s poem. He even dreams of epidemics and imagines profits. Isn’t that ironic?

I was being ironic too.
I was playing a role contrary to my true feelings.
In my heart, I was thinking about Brother's household... or rather, about such households as represented by Brother's.
The husband went to work from morning till evening, toiling away mechanically.
The wife, while protecting the baby, shut herself inside the house.
And then a meager evening meal, exhausted silent nights, followed by a faintly chilly sleep.
That continued literally like ten years as one day.
For a lifetime.
And finally, meager savings and death.

Of course, such matters cannot be summed up in a single word.
Within that modest life—if one were to dig deeper—who could say what happiness might lie hidden?

But I—
"Listen—this 'I' is what matters here."
Didn't I say before? This me who imagines or feels a second father or mother—this I—what am I?

That I saw in your smile another household like Brother's about to be born.
Hamada shares Brother's nature through and through.
He would go diligently to school each day.
You would faithfully guard the household.
And from those same days would come meager salary savings and a baby...

I should stop here.
Because I must not cast a dark shadow over your heart.

Anyway, to tell the truth, regarding your marriage to Hamada, I was neither in favor nor against it. While hoping there might be some better way of life for you, I also thought from another perspective that marrying Hamada might be the safest path.

But I... Look here—I... what am I... I wanted to keep you as part of my own world forever. At least you—I wanted to place in a spacious, unconstrained realm. And yet, why did you go and fall in love with Hamada? It's pointless. Marriage is a form of constraint... And that's how I felt, yet still held back, cowardly deceiving myself.

At that moment—you remember—there came a light knocking sound at the back door.
I shuddered and froze for some reason.

“Oh.”

Without voicing it, with such an exhalation, Mother half-listened and half-watched my expression.

“What’s... what’s wrong?”

In a calm voice, you looked back and forth between my face and Mother’s with a puzzled expression.
——Those who dream of happiness, it’s said, feel no fear.

“It’s probably nothing—just a dog or a cat or something.”

The fact that I’d said such a thing felt strange even to myself, and I clung to the edge of the brazier.

“Ah, it’s cold.”

“Yes.”
“Would you like a padded robe?”

“No… it’s nothing…”

“Well then, what is it? You want sake again, don’t you?”

“No, today… When I drink sake, I end up harming the family’s peace—that’s what I realized…”

“How can you say something so sarcastic? Just when I think you’re unusually refusing it today, there you go again.”

Mother’s eyes held the kind of look one might direct at a spoiled child.
I am fond of that kind of mother.
You, who should have known that well, came at me with opinionated remarks.

“Brother, it’s fine if you like sake, but you really should stop drinking outside.”
“If you drink at home… no one will say a thing.”
“So hurry up…”

“What…?”

“Hurry up and do something…”

“Hurry up… What’s this ‘hurry’ about?”

“Do something about it….”
“Hey, Mother…”

It was good that Mother nodded with a smile.
I puffed on my cigarette with a derisive snort.
And I stopped pursuing you.
In that situation, making you clearly say something like “Hurry up and get married” from your own mouth would have been too heartless an act.
How you and Mother discussed me behind closed doors—that’s none of my business.

But in truth, it was an oddly cold and quiet evening.
I wanted to forcibly retreat into my own shell like a snail, suppressing the restless stirring in my chest.
And then I suddenly hit upon the idea and suggested making a kotatsu.
I forcibly made Mother and you set up the kotatsu despite your disagreement.
And then, after having someone buy fruits, Ohatsu was laughed at for saying something like offering them to Father’s Buddhist altar.
But that’s absurd—who would believe in Buddhist deities anyway?
And as the kotatsu grew warm and cozy inside, I ended up chilling the beer after all.
Behind the scenes, Tsuneya had the busiest time.

And so, while drinking beer in the kotatsu and making aimless conversation, I struggled to hold back my tears.
For no particular reason, I felt on the verge of weeping.
But in truth, my mind was elsewhere.
Blow this wretched family to bits—obliterate this pitiful happiness, this crumbling ceiling—let it all vanish! Bring forth an endless blue sky... I thought.
Then again—I'll hold your vigil tonight...

You'd be utterly disgusted.
Even I was disgusted with myself.
That's why I was hurrying the story along like this.

Just one thing—I said while raising my beer glass.

“The foam on beer and a kiss are much the same. No sooner does it linger on your lips than it vanishes.”

Then you got angry instead of being embarrassed.
Mother also looked stern.

“Oh, I’m talking about children,” I said.
“Children get made to kiss anyone.
Adults can’t do that because their hearts are corrupted.”

“Then you’re still a child, Brother,” you retorted.
“You make even geishas and everyone kiss you.”

“That’s right—my heart stays a child forever,” I agreed.
“Leaving it behind while only my body became an adult—that’s why I’m worn out.
Ah, how tedious.
Truly tedious.”

In the pause where I deliberately heaved an exaggerated sigh, Mother spoke with a stern face.

“That’s enough now—stop this kind of talk.”

I startled and turned serious.
But you were still angry… until you shook hands with me as a sign of reconciliation, sucked on that saba, and then finally laughed at that story about the bald-headed kid or whatever.

Toshiko.

I feel like I ruined that entire evening.
Quiet evenings like that—under those circumstances—weren't something that came around often.
What state of mind had I been in as I spent that evening?
Even you...

Wasn't it you who leapt in the sea with me?
Wasn't it you who grew teary-eyed with me while listening to music?
Wasn't it you who always tore my poetry to shreds?
Wasn't it you who listened tight-lipped to my geisha stories—the ones I couldn't tell Mother—then laughed brightly while saying "How vulgar you are, Brother"?
Couldn't you have spent that evening more honestly...?
Not that I was honest either.
But truly—I'd wanted to laugh freely with you and weep from the depths of my heart.

When I think about it, I might have not only poisoned that evening but also the entire air within the house—and perhaps even your heart as well.
What a poisonous insect I am.
But as for all that—what sin it constitutes—only those who know know.

When Mother finally resolved to give her consent to Mr. Kato, I at last felt as if a weight had slipped from my shoulders.
What twisted psychology.
And driven by that sense of being able to breathe freely again, I took a short journey.

There’s some urgent writing I need to do, so I’m taking a trip—that’s what I told both Mother and you.
I took manuscript paper with me purely for appearances.
But there was no such thing as work to be done.

……And then, on the third day, I returned.

"Do you wonder what I was doing all that time? I'll let you hear it now."

When I left the house—as expected—it must have been a clear, mild autumn day.
I looked up at that vast sky and—how wonderful…—cried out in my heart.
Then I abandoned heading to the station and decided to try visiting Teruyo’s house.

You want to fall in love? Go ahead and fall in love. You want to build a little household? Go ahead and build it.
But how could I possibly let myself get dragged into all that?
I’ll keep wandering freely with an untainted heart—just you watch!
The sunlight was shining beautifully, wasn’t it.

Driven by such feelings—so to speak—I found myself wanting to act as willfully as a bird escaped from its cage.
I discarded the manuscript paper at my friend’s place, wandered around killing time, then went to try visiting Teruyo’s house.

Toshiko.

Just because I go all the way to Teruyo’s house to visit doesn’t mean you should think I’m putting on airs like some patron or that there’s something strange between us—some kind of heart connection—or anything like that.
For me, rather than meeting her in the banquet rooms, sitting silently in her house for five minutes is far more interesting.
After all, we’re both sober.
It was all because of some trivial little thing that things turned out that way.

But that day, I ended up having a terrible experience.

Since the lights were already on, I thought it must be around five o’clock, but Teruyo was still in the middle of styling her hair.
With a white cloth draped over her shoulder and her half-combed hair left disheveled atop it, she came to stand at the entrance.

“Oh—”
Then putting on a mock glare, she said: “What day do you think today is?”

“What day… What’s that about?”

“My, have you forgotten already?
“You know… Inage….”

“Ah, that thing did happen.”
“How sharp of you—never letting anything slip.”

“That’s it.”

To explain—the truth was, during some conversation or other, we’d made that nonsensical promise to go to Inage this coming Sunday—Sunday, how laughable—around Sunday or such.
That Sunday had already passed over ten days prior.

When I was led into the room and responded to her renewed greeting, through the gap in the open sliding doors to the adjacent room, the face of a woman lying there appeared faintly pale amidst the darkened tatami mats, red futon, and its white collar.

“What’s wrong?”

“It’s Miyo-chan.”
“She’s sick.”

When I looked, Miyoko seemed to be sleeping peacefully.
At the edge of the room, the old nursemaid was boiling something over the brazier.
“Is it serious?”

“It came on suddenly around noon, but she’ll be fine… Just wait a moment, please.”
“I’ll finish fixing my hair now.”

In front of the long brazier, I began smoking a cigarette.
Before I had finished that cigarette, Miyoko suddenly began to suffer, letting out a groan.
Teruyo rushed over.

“Don’t lie on your back… Lie face down… That’s it… Okay…?”

Amidst moans, as Miyoko cried “It hurts! It hurts!”, Teruyo and the old nursemaid leaned over her from above and pressed down with all their might around the waist area.

“Sis, please get the injection, I beg you….”
“Ow… It hurts… It hurts so much….”

“Endure it—it’s just for a little while…”
“The doctor said no more injections, remember?”

When the pain eased slightly, Miyoko clung to the metal washbasin.

“You shouldn’t try to force yourself to throw up.”
“It’s because of the injection.”
“Nothing’s going to come out anyway.”

While this was happening, Miyoko had gone limp and closed her eyes.

“Shall I replace the konnyaku compress? It’s boiling now,” said the old nursemaid.

“Right.
“It’s probably fine—we’ll do it when she wakes up next time.”

And then Teruyo returned to the mirror stand again.

While the hairdresser was combing her hair, the mistress kept clattering her pipe against the hand warmer.

“She seems to be suffering.”

“Yes, she says it’s agonizing.”
“Her intestines keep seizing up—she says her lower back and abdomen feel like they’re being ripped apart.”
“They say it’s just like childbirth.”

“Hmm, really?”

I was making tea and drinking it alone.

“So, it’s spasms?”

“Yes.”

“Then you should apply chili peppers.”

“Oh now—that’s stomach spasms we’re talking about.”

Still, Teruyo carried herself like a scholar.
The doctor had said to warm it with konnyaku, but she maintained that icing it thoroughly worked better—though that depends on the person—and so on.

I began to get up when the moment felt right.

“Well then, take care…”
“I’m going home.”

“No… You can’t…
I’m waiting.”

In a tone that said “Hey—”, she stared into my eyes from beside the mirror, her bare eyes opened unnaturally wide.
Nodding reflexively, I sank back down.

Miyoko’s spasms kept recurring.
Each time they struck, Teruyo would rise and tend to her.
I laid two merino cushions between the long brazier and cabinet, curling into the narrow space.
The old nursemaid wrapped me in a kakegi robe.
Fragments pressed at my awareness—woodgrain swelling from ceiling planks, a gaudy crimson altar, strands of Teruyo’s hair slipping through the mistress’ fingers, phantom telephone rings, Miyoko’s convulsions, reddish lamplight—until curled tight as a fist, I drifted into fitful sleep.

When I opened my eyes, Teruyo was beaming from across the long brazier. She had arranged her hair in a round chignon. “How does it suit me?”

I simply watched with a strange feeling.

“It’s fine. It’s not like I can go to any geisha engagements tonight anyway. So I had a whim and tried doing it this way.”

When she tilted her glossy sidelocks to show me, I suddenly swung my left hand and made a clattering noise.

"It hurts... Oww, it hurts..."

"Numbness."
"Oh how dramatic! You've got less endurance than Miyoko."

When she laughed—or rather, at that moment I noticed—everyone in the next room was looking at me.
An unfamiliar middle-aged woman with a round chignon, Teruji in her geisha robes, and even Miyoko—all with flushed, narrow faces resting on pillows—were staring this way with vacant eyes.
And all together, they had the air of greeting me with a "Welcome."

I blushed completely, sat up straight again, and rubbed my eyes. And then I leaned over the brazier and lowered my voice.

“Who’s that person?”

“You don’t know?”
“It’s Mom.”
“See? I used to live with her…”

“Ah….”

“Hey, why don’t we go somewhere?”
“……Take me with you, please.”

“But…”

“Let’s go, okay?”

And then she once again, this time drawing near, stared intently with her wide-open, bare eyes.

“But... there’s a patient here...”
“I don’t know anyone that heartless.”

“Fine then… Hey, let’s go.
If Mom and Miyo-chan say it’s alright, then it’s alright.”

But then, Miyoko had another spasm.
Teruyo dashed over.

“If you apply miso moxibustion, she’ll recover right away, you know.”

Her mother said such things and earnestly persuaded Miyoko, whose pain had subsided, that it wouldn’t be hot or anything.
The old nursemaid brought strained miso on a small dish.
Using that, her mother first prepared flat dumplings about the size of old two-sen coins, then rolled mugwort into several small pieces roughly the size of pinky fingertips.

“Place this on your navel.”
“You’ve got to endure until the miso gets hot.”

I shut the sliding door completely.

The miso moxibustion began.
Midway through, Miyoko began to cry.

“I don’t want it anymore! I don’t want that stuff!”
“It hurts... Ugh... It hurts... And it’s cold.”

Everyone held it down, and then it fell silent.

A while passed.
The sliding door flew open.
Teruyo was standing stiffly.

“What are you spacing out for?”

When I glanced over, her mother was holding miso dumplings and mugwort dumplings in both hands.
I suddenly found it funny.

“That must be cold.
You’re putting miso on the belly button like that—”

“That’s why,” her mother said with a straight face, “if she endures until it gets hot, she’ll recover right away.”

“But I mean… miso on the belly button…”

Teruji was the first to chuckle, and then Teruyo and I joined in laughing together.
Only her mother kept her straight face.
Miyoko opened her eyes at some point, gazing entranced at the scene with a vacant look.

Teruyo was already haphazardly pulling out kimonos, obis, and such from the chest of drawers.
“Did you… go ahead and deliver it?” her mother asked.

“Yes.”

"I'll be staying out," Miyoko said.

“Yes. I’ll bring you a souvenir.”

And then, I left there with Teruyo.

In the taxi, Teruyo said the following.

“Last night I kept you company drinking all night, and that’s why she caught a chill.”
“She’ll get better right away if she just stays in bed.”
“As you saw, she’s perfectly fine.”
“Just a while ago, she even got up to put up her hair.”
“And then she says—‘If I settle down to sleep now, Sis, my debt’s going to grow again’—that’s what she tells me.”
“Poor thing.”

“Hmm.”

I gave a disinterested reply.
The flickering streetlights were beautiful.

We had planned to go to Asakusa, eat something, and watch motion pictures or a play.

“Where shall we go?”

“Anywhere’s fine.
I’ll silently follow wherever you go.”

“Right, today you’ll do as I say.”

In that manner, the taxi came to a stop at the crossroads of Senzokuchō.
And then we entered the narrow stone-paved alley lined with delicate two-story houses.
The fact that Teruyo knew such a house in the distance was unexpected to me.

Toshiko

From this point onward, even I find it difficult to speak of.
I don’t really remember it well either.
To put it simply, we ordered food and drank sake on the second floor there.
Both she and I got drunk.
And we started getting rowdy, and before we knew it, it turned into badmouthing her.
"Even though Miyoko was suffering from illness, going out to drink sake is outrageous," I started berating her.
She too called herself a truly heartless wretch… half in earnest.
And the two of us went on badmouthing her in various ways.
Such things seemed to bring pleasure to both me and her.
The target of the badmouthing was no longer her.
It could have been anyone.
And then, after suddenly feeling lonely, we fell silent and moved to another room.
Forgive me… when I say this, it’s not directed at you.
No—it wasn’t directed at anyone.

It was around eleven o'clock when we left that house. On the way, we stopped at a sundries shop and bought souvenirs. For her mother, Teruji, and herself, they were all just small tokens, but for Miyoko alone, she prepared proper things. She was enthusiastic about selecting Miyoko's half-collar and fawn-patterned designs. She offered to send me home, but I stubbornly refused.

“You’re really such a handful.”
“Yeah, I’m a handful.”

And we exchanged unreserved smiles.

She took the souvenirs and some money and left by taxi.

The edge of Azuma Bridge was cold.
There was no wind, but cold air still came flowing in from the river.

What a clean, pure feeling.
This won't do.
Deeper and deeper—I'll burrow in.

I headed toward the northern quarter.
It was an almost unfamiliar area, but after taking the train, I walked.
And then, through the back alleys further in, I browsed through shop after shop.

“Well now, sir, how about... Seeing as it’s nearly midnight, under these late circumstances whatever your situation may be... Well now, two and a half ryō—we won’t ask for a penny more.”

“That’s a relief—I thought I’d be sleeping under Kannon Hall’s eaves tonight.”

“Heh heh heh, you’re joking….”

I unsteadily climbed the steep staircase.
And that night, I slept alone in a bare rectangular room with nothing but a single window facing north.

“You can go on ahead now. Just make sure to ask for plenty of futons so you don’t catch a cold—I’ll tell you that much.”

The woman—who looked like a country-bred maid—brought an extra futon and laid it out for me.

Even if I lost all my wealth and had to earn a living with my own hands, I’d show them I could work vigorously—that’s what I was thinking, feeling utterly broke in my empty pockets.

And then I slept soundly until around nine o’clock the next morning, rushed out from there, and went to Inage.

Because of Teruyo, my pockets had truly grown thin.
The thought of the next day filled me with unease.
Skipping lunch, I had them bring me just one bottle of sake that evening.

"You know that annex well—the one in the pine grove on the hill of that inn."
"It was almost too quiet for being off-season."
"In that room, I spent half the day like a dead man, doing nothing but occasionally casting my eyes toward the distant sea."
"After taking a bath and thoroughly washing my hair, having a lonely dinner with a kind maid in the quiet annex where there were no other guests around, resting both elbows on the vermilion-lacquered dining table, I vaguely recalled events from yesterday and further back."
"And then, carelessly thinking that I was supposed to come with Teruyo, a lonely smile rose to my cheeks."

A long-winged mosquito, having somehow survived into late November, crawled feebly along the edge of the vermilion-lacquered dining table.
It suddenly flew up and landed on the tip of my nose.

I managed a wry smile, but then found it strangely amusing.

Toshiko.

“When I lay it out like this, you must grasp the essence.”
No matter how deeply I interrogated my heart, I detected no shred of wretchedness, revulsion, or self-condemnation.
Not in that trite moralistic surface sense anyway.
It resided in the heart’s immediate verdict.
“Yet as you well know—I’m no true libertine at core.”

“This makes no sense—what even constitutes my essence?” I soliloquized.
Then dimly mused—all things are relative. Facts themselves, human hearts, emotions, ideologies—every mortal affair hangs suspended in relativity’s web.
“Nothing absolute exists… none at all.”
Thus—no clinging to fixations—no hasty attachments…

Childish.
But do I understand?
No—I probably don’t.
After all, even I don’t really understand myself.

Having unusually woken up early, I sat dazedly in the sunlit veranda when—into the garden where pine shadows faintly crept across the ground—a large dark shadow suddenly darted.
"Oh," I thought, raising my eyes to see two or three pigeons playing in the pine treetops.

It was morning sunlight—chilly yet deeply serene.
From the base of the hill to the distant hazy offshore, the sea lay calm like a lake, dimly gleaming.
The small boats moored here and there were utterly still.

Deeply inhaling that scenery into my chest, I returned to Tokyo.

“You seemed surprised, didn’t you—because I came back from my trip so soon, and then immediately started pestering Mother for money…”

Mother kept staring at my face.

“I didn’t have enough travel money,” I said.
“But if it’s not with Mother, that’s fine.”
“I’ll earn it—”
“Ah, whatever—if I just work…”
“Anyway, I’m starving.”
“Please let me have some food.”

And then, while eating, during the time Mother had gotten up for an errand, I said.

“Shall I take you to Inage?”

“But,” you showed no interest whatsoever, “Brother just returned from there, didn’t you?”

“Well actually—I’d meant to go with a woman called Teruyo.”
“But...”
“So instead, I’ll take you there.”

“No—I couldn’t…”

“But you—sooner or later, you’ll end up going with Hamada as a little bride in a small household. So before that happens, why don’t I take you there once?”

Before even hearing it all, you turned bright red and looked down. I smiled—a sly smile, perhaps…

In truth, the whole idea of going to Inage was utter nonsense. The one about this coming Sunday.

But with this, I intended to prove my resolve was genuine. After lunch, while reading the newspaper on the sunlit engawa of the zashiki room, you came over without any purpose and sat motionless, pretending to gaze out at the garden. Thinking you might have some remark saved for later, I deliberately feigned ignorance. But when your silence stretched too long, I glanced up to find your eyes brimming with tears. The black lashes and delicate bridge of your nose looked profoundly forlorn.

“What are you crying about?” I said.
“You don’t need to worry.
I may be a hopeless cosmopolitan, but I know where my heart lies.”

Then you shook your head nervously and truly burst into tears.
I froze.

“It’s fine—I understand…… That’s not it.”
“But… who even cries in broad daylight?”
“You should laugh.”

That was my real feeling.
There’s no such thing as crying.
What a fool I was.