Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

A relatively large facial outline, thick fleshy build at the forehead, thin-lidded bulging eyes, a sturdy nose, a weighty lower lip, hair always neatly parted by comb teeth, a small mustache... Within this countenance that radiated staunch integrity, the thinly swept-back hair appeared to smile, while the closely trimmed mustache shifted with social deftness.
Of course, he was broad-shouldered and tall.
Former Army Major…………

He was the man who had discarded his position as an Army Major like worn-out sandals.
He carried less the air of a retired officer and more that of a failed Diet member candidate.

When drunk, he had a habit of rolling up his right knee to show it; above the kneecap, on the outer side of the thigh, there was a scar about seven or eight centimeters long that looked rather deep.

Ariyoshi’s familiar tale of martial valor—with such smiles, the close friends exchanged glances.

Having never aimed for the Tenpō coin standard of valor, instead focusing his efforts on linguistic studies—moving through the Foreign Language School, military attaché posts at embassies, the Education Inspectorate General, the Army Ministry… these administrative spheres he chiefly navigated—Ariyoshi Yutaro, who had little connection to actual combat let alone frontline infantry roles yet paradoxically excelled in such bureaucratic realms, meant that even his so-called “tales of martial prowess” amounted to thoroughly trivial affairs.

However…

“If it were you lot, you’d have been cleanly stabbed through the side.”
“That... up until then, it had been entirely a joke... but even as a joke—in the heat of the moment—the slash... landed on the thigh.”
“He seems to have been unexpectedly serious….”

And with heartfelt intensity in those bulging eyes, he pursued the visage of Sugimoto Hiroshi, who was in far-off Shanghai.

"A villain... a coward..."

But in truth, he did not hate him as much as his words suggested.
No matter what, his competitive spirit naturally gravitated toward him without any sense of hatred—a figure he was close to both emotionally and ideologically.

Among his associates—a small faction where, after he had even lost as an independent candidate for Diet member, a mood of unity had secretly begun to ferment—the mood of Japanese Fascism held considerable sway.
It was indeed a fact that one of its driving forces lay in the scar on his thigh.

“If that bastard comes fluttering back to Japan…”

With a kind of nostalgia and self-assuredness in his own power, Ariyoshi Yutaro thought this.

II

Sugimoto Hiroshi lived in a single room of a shabby apartment.
And his life consisted of translation work, essay writing, reading, strolling...
In the bustling crowds of Asakusa, Ginza, and Shinjuku—their main streets and back alleys—his vague figure was often seen.

He was always alone.
From beneath an aged hat peeked a few curls of unkempt hair.
On plump, ruddy cheeks and a rounded chin sprouted a tenacious black stubble.
A nondescript nose, small mouth, and beneath thick myopic glasses—eyes gleamed with depth...
Those eyes watched the tips of feet dancing across paved roads.
And he thought:
—People had gradually come to walk by putting force into their toes rather than their heels, preceding even dance or shoe influences.
This proved life was growing restless.
Should 100% of body weight shift to the toes, life would spiral into madness—so he mused with detached objectivity, even as he himself entrusted 50% each to heels and toes while lumbering through his aimless stroll.
Dragging a thick cane, kimono collar slightly disheveled, occasionally exhaling morning smoke...
There lingered something indistinct about him.

High-rise buildings, speeding automobiles, lights, mechanical music, noise, colors, people, people, people… like a stirred-up ant colony….

“Hey, Sugimoto!”

As he passed by, he turned toward the direction of the voice, stopped, and took in the other’s face—in his eyes floated a friendly smile, while on his face appeared an expression that seemed to say “You sure meet all sorts of men.”

“How’s it going?”

“Hmm….”

By the time he answered vaguely, the smile in his eyes and the expression on his face had already vanished, leaving behind a countenance that was impossible to grasp.

“How about somewhere? Just for a bit….”

While surmising whether the invitation would lead to alcohol or tea, he grinned.

“I can’t today…”

“Are you in a hurry?”

“No… Not really.”

“I have some, if it’s just a little.”

“A little….”
And his eyes glinted mockingly.
“But it’s not like I’m hungry, nor am I thirsty….”

He was the type who became unrestrained when drinking alcohol.
Moreover, he was not particularly interested in drinking, nor was he interested in listening to others’ debates.

“You’re unusually clear-cut lately… Are you up to something?”

“Nothing….”

With just his habitual reply regarding work, the friend was satisfied, seeing anything further as futile.

“Well, then…”

“Later…”

With his ruddy face wearing a pallid smile，Sugimoto once again continued his solitary stroll through the bustling crowd．In the vulgar whirlpool of tangled light，color，and sound—without seeing anything，without hearing anything—he carried his not-so-tall，well-built body，his heart filled with something bright yet somehow tedious，entirely separate from his surroundings…

When he grew tired，he returned by bus…．

Even without money, bus tickets were always prepared.

Because he hated the streetcar.
The streetcar had the feel of a box no matter how one looked at it—from its cramped entry steps to its doors and windows, its sturdy-looking frame to the iron cylinders of control mechanisms standing fore and aft...
It packed itself full of people and crept along twin rails.
A prison-like transportation system...
But buses—even an old Ford model—were still better.
Compared to streetcars, they felt lighter and freer, possessed a dangerous charm, and moved with greater speed.
Speed... When considering steam trains or elevated-underground rail systems, this became the most crucial point...

Sugimoto waited for the bus while vaguely thinking.

One time when he boarded that bus—

On his way back from a daytime stroll, the bustling streets were abruptly illuminated by the sinking evening sun. At such times, there would occasionally pass by a strangely empty bus—as if catching its breath. It was a momentary gap in an anxious, restless evening.

Sugimoto, looking even more detached in demeanor, gazed vacantly at the five or six passengers.

“Please take care of this.”

By the time he noticed the voice, the bus had already started moving again after briefly stopping at Kiridoshita, having departed from Ueno Hirokoji. Outside the bus, he caught a glimpse of what appeared to be a young shop employee in a white shirt and shorts.

On country roads where automobiles, carriages, and streetcars ran, it was common, especially in the evenings, for people to ask conductors to deliver personal messages or parcels. Both those making requests and those receiving them would smile amiably without compensation...

At that flitting impression sinking into his mind, Sugimoto began to offer a faint smile, but when he looked, there was a five- or six-year-old girl being supported by the conductor’s practiced hand on her back as she nimbly took a seat near the entrance.

The bob-cut, supple hair.
A face that appeared intelligently precocious, with well-proportioned features.
A gold and yellow jacket snug at the torso.
A peach-colored short skirt. White socks.
Adorable black shoes with a ribbon…
She neatly aligned her feet floating in midair and presented a fifty-sen silver coin.

“Masago-cho…”

And then—with the ticket received from the conductor in her right hand, and the change along with a small red coin purse attached by a string gripped in her left—she tilted her shoulder, twisted her neck, and gazed out the window.

The intelligent-looking face, the soft white skin, the Chinese-style clothing—all were dyed crimson by the reflected glow of the setting sun…

Sugimoto did not take his gentle gaze away from the girl.
If only someone had shown the simple kindness of putting her change into that coin purse… he thought with righteous indignation directed at the exhausted conductor’s slumped back, all while keeping his gaze fixed on the girl’s entirely separate, delicate figure.

After passing two stops and arriving at Masago-cho, the girl promptly handed over her ticket and, still clutching the coins and coin purse in one hand, was guided off the bus by the conductor’s automatic hand.

Sugimoto also hurriedly stood up and got off.

A short way along the tram street, then left into an alley….
Waving her hands and walking as if hopping, the girl moved forward, and from behind her, Sugimoto’s lumbering figure followed…

III

When he gave a light, perfunctory knock and opened the door to enter, he came face to face with Eiko—her expression suggesting she had been waiting.
Without needing to ask, through their exchanged glances, they mutually understood two things: that something had changed, and that there was something to discuss.

“Well, now….”

But Sugimoto, changing his mind, threw his hat onto a nail, sat down sideways, and said.

“I’m hungry.
Let’s eat.”

“Yes, soon… What is it?”

She had always been the one to briskly bring up her own matters first and then brush them off nonchalantly, but now she was approaching her inquiry with uncharacteristic caution.

“What is it?”

Sugimoto made a wry smile.
And in an oddly gloomy tone, he talked about the girl from the bus.

Youthful hair carelessly tied up, slender elongated eyebrows, eyes with rounded lower lids that opened wide, a chin that tapered with intellectual sharpness, the plump flesh swelling at the corners of her mouth… Centered around that plumpness, she formed an adorable smile.

“And then…?”

“That was all. No matter how long I waited, she didn’t come out. The smell of something delicious started wafting over. I felt like a dog might bark at me any moment. I suddenly remembered I was hungry and came back.”

“……”

“That must be her own home. She went out playing and came back… Even if I waited, she wouldn’t come out.”

“Didn’t you realize that from the beginning?”

“That’s ridiculous. Who the hell would think about that kind of thing at a time like that from the very beginning?”

She did not laugh.
Seriously stiffened—a habit of hers when somewhat serious—she stared fixedly at him.

“Do you really like children that much?”

“Whether I like them or not, I don’t know, but anyway—cute ones are fine…”

“And you think you yourself can’t have cute children?”

“Myself… me…?”

“……”

Her eyes—with their rounded lower lids—glistened with a thread of irony.

“Idiot... idiot... Who the hell would say something like that? That’s…”

But she had said.

“Reproduction, sexual gratification, sexual indulgence….”
“To return to the first—human existence cannot permit it.”
“The third concerns the decadent class.”
“Only the second remains socially viable….”
“You… you… mustn’t have children….”
“And also… wastefully….”

With a gaze that peered into the depths of memory, in a tone as if delivering lines on stage….

“Stop this nonsense—such…”

He stood up, grabbed her shoulders, pressed both her laughing cheeks, tilted her back, and kissed her.
She let out a quiet breath.

“What’s gotten into you today… something…”

“Do I look strange?”
“I don’t know myself.”
“I thought about various things.”
“It’s strange.”
“Even calling myself an idiot over and over—all sorts of things keep surfacing in my head on their own... I’ve become quite a slacker.”
Though receiving special treatment, no matter how you look at it, when paying the bar fee, I can’t even raise my face before the proprietress.
“I feel awkward around everyone too...”
“What’s the point of doing such things... Yes, I do sometimes say the same things as you—but even that’s just for survival... No—that’s right.”
“But still—what exactly is life?”
“This is absurd.”
“...Women’s work ultimately comes down to having to present one hundred percent coquetry.”
“Men demand it.”
“When forced into that position, one hundred percent coquetry becomes one hundred percent sacrifice.”
“And... through that... paying a hundred percent sacrifice for just... ten percent of a life...”
“Ah—what a pain!”
“But I remember well—don’t I?”
“Just as you said.”
“I should’ve become an actress.”
“I’d deliver my lines splendidly...”
“I’m smart.”

……You can rest assured—it’s alright.
I remember it well.
Never—100% coquetry or anything like that…
No—50% coquetry either…
That above all—absolutely not!
But you must dislike me doing such things—or rather, working as a café waitress.
I hate it too.
But then—what am I supposed to do? Working is the right thing!
What kind of work should I do….
Such things—my head’s all tangled up.
It’s not like I’m thinking for myself, but all sorts of things feel… strange….

In a tone somehow both childlike and tinged with laughter, she spoke.
Her head and heart seemed mismatched.
While watching her face, he tried to uncover what lay beneath.

"Did something... did something happen?"

“…………”

For a while, they gazed at each other; suddenly, she exclaimed cheerfully.

“That’s what’s wrong.”

“What?”

“A military man… an officer. Splendid-looking.”
“Red on the collar, gold braid on the shoulders—wearing full dress uniform, saber clinking…”
“I took off my hat, and he gave me this terribly polite bow… It startled me.”

“Who?”

“…Ariyoshi….”

“What? Ariyoshi… Ariyoshi came?”

“You know him?”
“Ariyoshi—if I say that, you’ll understand….”
“And then he bowed politely again….”
“What’s with that man?”

“He’s a newly minted Major and quite the go-getter.”
“Did he say anything?”

“Nothing at all.
Just that he’ll come again….”

“Hmm….”

“What kind of person is he?”

“Well, he’s a relative of Mr. Tayama, who I’m deeply indebted to.”

“Oh, Mr. Tayama’s….”
“Was it wrong for me to meet him…?”

“Don’t be absurd…”

“Is he close with you?”

“Hmm… Just a slight acquaintance….”

Beyond that, he did not speak of Ariyoshi and fell silent.
Sinking the light of his eyes behind his glasses, letting his mind race into the distance…

In their life together, loquacity and silence shifted abruptly.
It had gradually settled into something like a habit.

Through the windowpane, the world outside dimmed into dusk.
The lamplight intensified.
Eiko, while still preoccupied with thoughts of Ariyoshi, instinctively sensed that it would be better to wait for the right moment to inquire further, yet at the same time felt a faint loneliness and found herself thinking of their meal.

On the crude dining table were boiled potatoes and grilled salmon…

“There’s no proper meal, you know.”

“No need to apologize.”
“But something like this has plenty of nutrients….”

“It’s rich in calories….”

“There you go again with your lines…”

The two laughed.
But they spoke little.

After the meal, as Eiko hummed a folk song and energetically cleaned up, the door opened, and Kobayashi’s sun-tanned, beaming face softly peered in.

“Am I interrupting?”

“Oh, come in.”

Sugimoto’s eyes suddenly began to shine more gently than usual as he welcomed Kobayashi.

He was a young free laborer who lived in the adjacent room with two university students.
Even when exhausted from working all day or idle with time to kill after failing to find work, he remained unfazed.
When asked by the university students if he had any money, he would immediately hand over whatever he had.
The university students would loiter outside, and even when he had no work and was utterly destitute, he would calmly drink nothing but water.
When he got too hungry, he would come to Sugimoto’s place asking for a full meal, devour enough for two or three servings in one go, and then, unfazed, head off to the foreman’s to ask for work.
Saying he had to study..., he borrowed Sugimoto’s books and left.
He had Sugimoto correct his daily simple notes.

That sort of diary... two sheets of paper—Kobayashi handed them toward Sugimoto.

“Here’s today’s.”

“Oh, that was quick.”

“Today’s work was rather dull, so...”

But his expression suggested it hadn’t been entirely dull... Sugimoto, with a gaze that took in everything from head to toe in one sweep, silently observed him as he returned the previous day’s manuscript densely marked with red corrections.
Kobayashi carefully read through it and asked about the parts he didn’t fully grasp.

If one were to transcribe a portion of it—

It was the transportation of steel bars.
A bundle of five-meter-long steel bars—one person at the front, one at the back—was carried by two workers.
In this work, any disparity in strength—and consequently, any disparity in labor—was not tolerated in the slightest.
The same weight rested upon both shoulders.
Yet out of a sense of chivalry and honor, the stronger man took the front position.
At the front position, besides bearing the weight, caution was necessary.
If the end of a steel bar struck an object, the recoil would drive it deeper into one’s shoulder, tearing through flesh beneath kimono and shoulder pad alike.
Moreover, there were many such hazards to collide with due to the crude assembly of scaffolding.
Making human shoulders carry these through cramped spaces was where things went wrong.
But because it was narrow—because machines or carts couldn’t pass—humans did it.
Facing heavy iron rods with that “by my own strength” resolve made everyone feel fiercely responsible.
Under that weight, none would bend their knees even unto death or cast it from their shoulders.
It was simply carelessness.
Those who carelessly struck objects and had their shoulders torn by recoil were not uncommon.
Humans cannot sustain mechanical vigilance…

In that manner, Kobayashi finished reading the still-continuing text, nodded, and made to leave.

"Well, it's fine."

"A vulnerability?"

“Hmm…
What about those ‘teachers’?”

“They’re not here.”

“They shook you down for money again and went off drinking, didn’t they?”

“……”

Kobayashi remained silent and wore a faint smile.

“You still can’t break away from those people, can you?”

Kobayashi seemed taken aback by Sugimoto’s sharp gaze; he spent a moment gauging its intensity before speaking.

“It’s not about whether I can break away or not, you know.”
“They’re from the same prefecture, so we stay together like that…”
“That’s why we’re just staying together.”
“When they don’t have money, I often do, so that’s why I end up giving it to them.”
“Those guys just want to drink.”
“I don’t want to drink.”
“So…”
“Moreover, this is my spiritual training.”
“Because it’s still a question of how far neighborly love can endure, whether God can be believed in to the utmost… or not…”

“That sort of individualism is worthless.”

Sugimoto shouted and cut him off. Then he steered the conversation toward Tolstoyism, which Kobayashi still clung to. "What makes Tolstoy remarkable isn't neighborly love or non-resistance. It's his great individuality."

That individuality ultimately represented a dead end for individualism.
He, as an individual, had confronted all things head-on.
He had attempted to apply personal critique to such matters as whether faith sustained people or not, whether God was righteous or not.
What should humans be?
He had attempted to resolve such problems through individual means.
It was, so to speak, a giant’s struggle against nature itself.
The fact that he had charged headlong into that struggle to the bitter end was what had made him great.
However, through such methods, neither love nor God could be found.
Their presence grew ever fainter…

Sugimoto continued to assert his own views with unusual enthusiasm.
Kobayashi was listening attentively.
Even when encountering eccentric arguments, he showed neither surprise nor anger, listening with solemn focus.

And this dialogue between the young Tolstoyan—with his close-cropped hair, sunburned forehead creased with premature lines, kind eyes and mouth... a robust frame sheathed in undernourished flesh—and Sugimoto, whose vague countenance seemed to blur at the edges... Beside them, Eiko kept weaving lilian without interjecting a single word or straining to comprehend, her fingers working ceaselessly.

Vibrant silk threads of red, yellow, purple, white, and pink danced playfully around supple white fingertips adorned with a sapphire ring, pinned to the embroidery frame as they formed a monotonous yet pleasant pattern...

When even that grew tiresome, she took a long strand of lilian, found one among the countless fine silk threads fraying at its end, and pulled it smoothly.
The braided threads unraveled and stretched long...
It felt as if her worries were dissolving.
The unraveled silk threads crinkled and frayed under their twisted tension, becoming softly fluffy like cotton...
She gently shaped them with her palm...
A silk thread ball—a tangle of fresh colors seeming to float midair—gradually expanded...
At that childlike play—innocent yet smoldering with latent intensity—Eiko's eyes shone.

The dialogue between Sugimoto and Kobayashi advanced with a steady pace…

IV

Ariyoshi visited Sugimoto in the evening when Eiko was out at the café.

Sugimoto was writing something.
Out of habit during such times, he had scattered discarded draft pages around both sides of the desk.
Haphazardly sweeping them into a corner of the room, he welcomed Ariyoshi.

Ariyoshi wore a kimono without hakama, yet still in active service at the time—his short-cropped hair, long mustache, skin weathered by exposure, forehead shaped by years under a military cap, and large eyes unflinchingly fixed on their target… all coalesced to unmistakably suffuse his entire being with military essence.
And in the moment host and guest faced each other, that military essence was mirrored in both their minds.
When Sugimoto graduated from school—having passed first-class conscription eligibility during his student years—he stood on the threshold of military service. Hoping for exemption through connections, he went to seek Ariyoshi’s assistance.
Then he unexpectedly collided with the doctrine of universal conscription.
Though ultimately exempted from the draft, he came to regard this outcome as having engaged in something trivial.
——Afterward, whenever Ariyoshi met Sugimoto—whether to display belated goodwill or from sympathy with global ideological currents—he would cite numerical ratios between total national expenditures and military budgets, expound on the necessity of arms limitation, and assert his theories about maintaining minimal defensive forces.
Then he unexpectedly encountered an argument insisting one must choose between extreme militarism or total abolition of military forces—between an early Mohammedan state or Ivan’s nation.
And he came to think the other had begun uttering nonsense.

“We’ve had quite some heated debates, you and I, but since then…”
Cutting off his words, Ariyoshi surveyed the room.
“Still at your studies as ever, I see. …Lately, I’ve been thinking of not confining myself solely to military matters and stepping out—so it seems there may be all sorts of things I’ll need to seek your guidance on….”

It was a strange greeting.
Trying to read the underlying intent, Sugimoto fixed his eyes on the other man’s expression.
Ariyoshi averted his eyes and began browsing the shelves lined with a jumble of Japanese and Western books.

It was a room blending Japanese and Western styles in a shabby apartment so crude it could be called a makeshift barracks.
A square division—cut off by an entrance anteroom here, partitioned by a closet there, indented by a floor opening housing a three-foot cupboard below, with sliding doors leading to the inner room and a six-foot glass window…
In a corner sat a desk, and beside it… Both host and guest seemed somehow ill at ease.
Sugimoto, with clumsy hands, offered tea and sweets, and Ariyoshi edged closer to the bookshelf.

“Hmm, quite a wide range you have here... Kropotkin... I hear his logic is clear.”

“I’ve been collecting a few, but I intend to read them when I find the time.”

“Anatole France… Do you find him interesting?”

“That one as well—I haven’t read it yet.”

“Magi… and magic?”
“This must be quite amusing.”

“Actually, I haven’t read that one yet either…”
“…………”

The disjointed exchange continued…

Ariyoshi sat back down and sipped his bitter tea.
“You’re able to research freely—how enviable.”
“As for someone like me—I have no time to spare…”
“So then—if one listens to Russia experts, they come to sympathize with the Workers’ and Peasants’ Government; if they listen to Italy experts, they find themselves agreeing with the Blackshirts—leaving them utterly conflicted about where to stand… Ha… ha… ha…”

Ariyoshi suddenly burst into laughter.
But it was unexpectedly serious…

“What do you think?”

“Huh?….”

And between the two of them, a purely conceptual conversation began to unfold.

To summarize—

Sugimoto stated as follows.
“Fascism contains within itself two contradictions.
“Fascism is originally an offensive weapon of the bourgeoisie, and its target of opposition should encompass everything outside the bourgeoisie.
“In the course of its development, it attempts to base itself broadly upon the masses—not only the petty bourgeoisie but even extending to the small peasant class and certain strata of the proletariat.
“Therein lies the structural contradiction.
“Furthermore, fascism aims for its own dictatorship.
“Therefore, it affirms the uselessness of parliamentary politics—the superiority of executive power over legislative authority.
“However, it attempts to obtain that on the foundation of parliamentary politics.
“Therein lies the contradiction in means….”

Ariyoshi slightly furrowed his brows.
But he refrained from protesting.
Sugimoto wore a faint smile on his heavy-featured face.

Sugimoto stated as follows:
“The Bolsheviks exist through masks.”
“They are a faction of usurpers wearing the people’s guise.”
“While proclaiming they fought to wrest power into popular hands, they truly fought to wrest the people themselves.”
“They concede ten percent to seize ninety percent of authority.”
“To gain and keep this power, they’ll even swap means for ends without compunction.”
“However sound Marx’s theories may be, when they reach those labor politicians’ hands, they undergo a transformative leap into their opposite.”
“Modern politics cannot function without anticipating power.”
“When that anticipation fades, it ceases to be politics at all.”
“They fail to grasp this ideology—”
“—because it contradicts their own political authority….”

This time, it was Sugimoto who furrowed his brows with faint irritation.
And Ariyoshi, with a faint smile, twisted his mustache.

When their gazes met, Ariyoshi said.

“Your theory is rather unique—quite intriguing….”

That, like a flash of light, illuminated Sugimoto’s face.
The opponent’s smile, not reaching the depths of ideology, naturally made him smile in return.

“Oh, it’s nothing—they’re all just borrowed ideas.”

“Borrowed ideas….”

And, drawn in by Sugimoto’s smile, he suddenly burst into loud laughter.

“Ha ha ha… There’s no need to feign ignorance like that.”
“Opinions are opinions, and…”

He started to say something, then—as if suddenly remembering something he had forgotten—widened his eyes and looked around.

“The problem is you—this habit of feigning ignorance won’t do.”
“Well… What’s with today?”
“You could make an introduction.”

“Who are you talking about?”

“The other day, there seemed to be a woman….”

In response to his sarcastic smile, Sugimoto answered directly.

“That woman? She’s… at work today.”

“At work….”

“She’s a café waitress.”

“Oh….”
“And with you….”

“We’ve been cohabiting temporarily.”
“Before long, we’ll likely separate again.”

Ariyoshi truly furrowed his brows this time.
From that mouth with the thick lower lip came a strong tone of voice.

“Unacceptable. That is utterly unacceptable.”

Ariyoshi stated as follows.
“Associating with professional women—as a man—may warrant forgiveness under certain circumstances.
However, toying with amateurs must be resolutely rejected.
In Europe’s great cities, they generally ignore this distinction between professionals and amateurs in relations between men and women.
This proves moral conduct has decayed.
The Japanese people still clearly maintain that distinction.
Therein lies Japan’s splendid moral virtue.
It is precisely this virtue that preserves our nation’s wholesome customs….”

Sugimoto remained composed.
And he said, “Such arguments are nothing but those arising solely from an erroneous standpoint that endorses a feudal slave system imposed on women….”

Ariyoshi, his large eyes slightly heated, was staring fixedly at the other man’s face. His long mustache stiffened rigidly.

“Theory and practice are separate. You… It’s because you harbor such an immoral heart… Lately, even regarding Mr. Tayama’s place….”

“…………”

“If you can’t show your face because you yourself feel guilty, then there’s still some merit to you… but….”

“That’s a separate matter,” Sugimoto remained cold. “I do think of visiting from time to time, but somehow, with no common topics to discuss and our lives being too far apart, I feel like I’d only be causing a nuisance….”

“Don’t be ridiculous—that’s your own bias.”
“With Mr. Tayama, your name often comes up in conversation—he asks about you….”
“He said you seem to have become quite left-leaning and wondered if you’d be willing to engage in some ideological debate.”
“You could at least show up from time to time….”

“I know that well.”
“Ever since my father died, I’ve been receiving support for my tuition fees, so I’ve been quietly grateful in secret.”
“In all the world, there’s probably only that man whom I can personally feel grateful toward.”

Wondering if he had gone too far… Sugimoto studied the other man’s expression.
But Ariyoshi, seemingly thinking of something else, was gazing at the night sky from the window while blowing cigarette smoke.
Eventually, as he lowered his gaze to the wristwatch on his wrist, he suddenly said.

“If your feelings on that matter are genuine, why don’t you come to Mr. Tayama’s place this time?”

“…………”

Sugimoto felt his own sarcastic words had backfired.

“Actually next month—October 1st, postponed by a month due to summer heat—we plan to hold a private gathering under the theme of earthquake remembrance… something along those lines.”
“We’ve done this annually… you must know.”
“...Last year you didn’t come… but why not attend this year?”

Sugimoto’s eyes gleamed from their depths.

“Last year… and the year before… no invitation ever came...”

“An oversight.”
“This year I’m supposed to send the notification, so….”

“I’ll attend.”

In the ensuing silence, something akin to hostility could be felt.
Ariyoshi abruptly straightened his posture.

“I’ve imposed on you for too long….”
“Well then, until that time comes, we’ll also sharpen our arguments. Ha ha ha….”

Ariyoshi looked around the room once more and left in a composed manner.

Sugimoto remained standing and gazed at the cigarette butts heaped in the ashtray. Then he sat down by the window.

“You spy!”

But, in an oddly gloomy manner, he propped both elbows on his knees, rested his chin in his hands, and sank deep into thought…

After a long while had passed, he raised his face and looked around the room.
Ariyoshi’s visit had brought something strange, and he was now gazing at his own residence as if seeing it for the first time.

In the far corner stood Eiko's small desk, women's magazines, a brush holder adorned with bird feathers, cool-toned Lilian lacework draped over the lampshade...
Beyond that, with the partition to the inner room removed, lay scattered a large mirror stand, countless cosmetic bottles, makeup brushes, a basket, gaudy garments—and the upturned lid of a camphorwood trunk....

That night, late into the hours, she pounded on the door as if to shatter it and came flying into his room.

"I... I too will get my revenge."

She fixed her gaze on the sky, and from the pure white line between her lower eyelid and the edge of her dark iris—the space between two arcs—large teardrops spilled copiously.
And then, suddenly, she burst out laughing and gazed at his bewildered face with a look of wonder.
She suddenly flew at his neck.

“Come on, give me a kiss, kiss me…”
“That’s all.”
“Don’t ask for anything more!”

When Eiko returned, Sugimoto was still sunk in meditation.
She approached quietly.

“What’s wrong?”

A bitter smile spread slowly across his face—like one gradually awakening from a dream….

She suddenly clung to his shoulders and neck, embracing him as if he were a wooden statue…

V

The main room blazed with electric lights; on the veranda where the shoji screens had been removed, Gifu lanterns flickered, and across the garden lawn, tall paper lanterns stood here and there, their white faces tilted sideways. Beyond that lay the shrubbery—under the early autumn starry sky, towering and darkly huddled….

At the front of the room beside the alcove pillar sat Tayama Yoshisuke—his face less aged than weathered into a mellowed maturity—wearing an effortless smile that seemed more attuned to the night air drifting over conversations than to the discussions themselves. His embroidered ro-weave haori slipped from the shoulders of his unlined linen summer kimono—a consequence of his loosely folded knees. Cigar smoke curled upward languidly... Encircling him were men vigorous not in years but station: Diet members fresh to their posts, industrialists, bureaucrats—some in Western suits, others in Japanese attire—gathered around banquet tables spread across the room. White tablecloths bore water-filled basins where floral arrangements rose... Modest dishes contrasted with abundant sake decanters... Their revelry carried an undercurrent of restraint—toasts exchanged formally or drinks poured casually... From midway down the table rows onward lay emptiness—lonely table linens, flowers and porcelain left unattended...

The people who had abandoned the main room were scattered throughout the garden.
In two or three spots were clusters of small tables, chairs, sofas, wooden benches…
There were no flowers or tablecloths, but large plates held heaps of sandwiches, confections, and then cider, beer, whiskey, cognac, and so forth.
Assorted Japanese and Western cigarettes….
The viscous liquid of strong liqueur grew cloudy in the cigarette smoke... Far more than in the main room, the difference between the electric lights and the tall paper lanterns’ glow was inverted—boisterous, crude, clamorous...
And they were, in every sense, young and vigorous—or perhaps unfinished—people not yet molded into a defined form.

In the main room, the occasional maids carrying sake bottles added a wordless splash of color as they came and went without pouring drinks.
They had replaced the candles in the lanterns quite some time before.

This Tayama family banquet commemorating the Great Earthquake was a peculiar gathering.
The fact that the food was meager and drinks abundant somewhat lived up to its name, but there was not a trace of women or boys who should naturally have been present at such a gathering.
And it was solely men—deeply connected, prominent men within Tayama Yoshisuke’s sphere of activity, within the scope where he still pulled the strings of a faction—that filled the gathering.
In some sense, they believed that Tayama Yoshisuke would rise again—or perhaps rise anew.
Having shouldered responsibility for a certain Imperial Household matter that was never made public, he now seemed to be simply enjoying his remaining years; but given his energy and financial power, he was not a man who should have ended there.
And so, at this gathering, even the remembrance of the Great Earthquake could not become a central topic of conversation; it remained nothing more than a peripheral accompaniment to discussions centered on current political and economic affairs.
Moreover, even these political and economic issues were handled fragmentarily, sarcastically, and through unspoken understanding—more often touched upon through implication than articulated outright.
In appearance, the evening banquet passed by amid social chatter.
The astute Mrs. Tayama had served the meal early as a formality; afterward, she withdrew from the drinking banquet and did not have her maids attend.

Differing slightly in tone from the whole, there was a group in one part of the garden conversing blatantly, scathingly, sophistically—yet somewhat ponderously, insensitively, and unrestrainedly. Bottles of strong liqueur abounded, snatched away one after another by their hands. Numerous caricatures—sometimes even those of Tayama Yoshisuke himself—were being drawn amidst the banter, some in meticulous detail, others merely in profile. A roar of laughter erupted. At such times, as was their habit, they would adjust their sitting positions, stand up, take a step or two… Among them, Ariyoshi Yutaro twisted his mustache with apparent delight. He wore a military uniform with a single Fifth Class Order of the Rising Sun pinned to his chest. The red sun and silvery rays—each time he laughed—caught the light’s reflection and emerged upon the russet fabric of his uniform…

Time passed, and in the night sky, the starlight grew stronger.
Beyond the shrubbery—where the air hinted at the gathering of dew—lay an utterly still silence….

Before long, the number of people in the main room gradually dwindled.
Tayama Yoshisuke rose from his seat and, with his slender body unadorned by hakama, quietly made a circuit toward the garden—before withdrawing to the parlor.

Next to Ariyoshi and his group, in the shadows cast by the tall lantern posts, Sugimoto Hiroshi leaned on the table, pulled the whiskey bottle closer, and remained silent, lost in thought.
In the loneliness of feeling like a foreigner, his daydream began to take on hallucinatory form——

Mr. Tayama sat facing his wife at the evening meal’s dining setting.
The dining setting—a large black-lacquered table—and beside it, Sugimoto himself sat formally before the same dishes.
With his wife’s hands, lukewarm Hakutsuru was alternately poured from the Kutani decanter into their two cups.
Between sips from their cups and bites of the fresh dishes abundant with raw ingredients, Mr. Tayama addressed Sugimoto.
Recent activities… future aspirations… daily life… and specifically—what he was doing, what he intended to do, how he was managing… such were the light-toned questions.
Sugimoto replied as noncommittally as he could manage.
The conversation turned to Sugimoto’s deceased father who had died young.
He was an impressive man, Mr. Tayama said.
You too are your father’s child…
Whether he could somehow make a living…
The sake seemed to please him…
Skin lustrous yet seasoned with age’s astringency, hair half-grayed, eyebrows thickly grown, an impenetrably seasoned gaze, a mouth shaped by resolute will…
And enveloping all this was an avuncular, magnanimous demeanor…
The sake appeared inviting.
But for Sugimoto, the sake wasn’t good.
It wasn’t merely the awareness that his every move was being observed by the wife—her high-bridged nose, intelligent, strong-willed, slender.
The conversation did not venture a single step beyond matters pertaining to Sugimoto’s personal affairs.
Not only had he provided tuition unconditionally, but he had also completely left post-graduation matters to me.
He was a grateful benefactor, but…

I am nothing more than a drinking companion to this man.
That I am currying favor like this—how much sacrifice does it demand from my mind?
How much sacrifice did the tuition I received demand from this man’s wealth?
The percentages for both…
Obligation should be compensated by the giver’s enjoyment of giving and repaid by the receiver’s gratitude for receiving. ……This man didn’t intend to impose a slave mentality on me by providing tuition…….

Precisely because the gulf in lifestyles was vast and there was no common ground for conversation, Sugimoto found himself thinking such things.
If there had been even a trace of senile vanity in Mr. Tayama compelling him to boast, or frivolous confidence in Sugimoto prompting him to posture, the situation might have been salvaged—but alas…

Yet even now, with his back to the alcove pillar and surrounded by junior Diet members and businessmen, Mr. Tayama—just as when he had Sugimoto as his evening drinking companion—remained at a height beyond the reach of conversation, sipping his sake with apparent relish, smiling all the while…….

In the whirlwind, a tranquil center point...
This man would do something soon—Sugimoto found himself thinking.

Sugimoto raised his face.
Tayama Yoshisuke was passing by.
Sugimoto stood up.

“Ah…”
A flicker of a smile flashed across his eyes.
“Please do stay and take your time.”

With that alone, he had already turned his eyes to the next person.
Sugimoto watched his retreating figure.
At the initial greeting it had been one thing, but this time he had thought there would be something... Yet rather than "wanting to engage in a leisurely debate," it was entirely different.

He was merely an ordinary old man—shoulders slightly stooped, well-fleshed but small-statured—and yet…
When Tayama Yoshisuke’s figure withdrew into the back, a voice arose from the lively group.

“Now begins our era.”

A large watermelon was thrown into the air.

“Hold on—the watermelon!”

“Just watch!”

Taking a large triangular knife with a sharp tip, they split it cleanly in two, scooped out the flesh, and poured in whiskey.

“This guy’s pulled off something slick.”

From all directions, they scooped it out with large ladles until one watermelon became nothing but rind in an instant.

Sugimoto too had been drawn into such company at some point.
But most simply ate and drank in silence…
Amidst well-groomed hair, mustaches, tie pins, medals, handkerchiefs peeking from breast pockets, sharply creased trousers, crest-embroidered haori jackets, military uniforms, summer gauze hakama—his old wrinkled Western-style suit stood out jarringly, a fact that now seeped into his own awareness…

“Speaking of watermelons,” came a voice from beside Sugimoto, “during the earthquake, there was this lad running desperately along the riverbank clutching one…
“Even if he ran and ran, everywhere was fire.”
“Out of breath, the moment he stopped, it hit him.”
“He split the watermelon, moistened his throat with its flesh, put its rind on his head, and entered the great river.”
“And it’s said his life was saved, but…”
“This one here was probably the wisest guy in all of Tokyo.”

“At first, he must have carried it out in a frenzy.”
“After all, they say wisdom gushes forth afterward—isn’t that a mystery?”
“Far from wisdom gushing forth afterward—from start to finish, everyone was in a frenzy back then.”
“You, for one, were part of the group that couldn’t even walk outside.”

The tall, continental-looking man who had been addressed laughed haughtily.

“Don’t be ridiculous! I strode right out there.”
“And when I hit the cordon, far from being questioned about my ABCs or the alphabet, they were left sputtering a garbled mess of syllables—*su se mo hi e shi mi me yu ki sa a te e*…”
“How about it? Can you say it?”

“Su... se... mo... Hahaha, how absurd.”

“At that time alone, Ariyoshi, even your military uniforms had the honor of being thanked.”

“Oh, it was nothing—just standing at intersections… like street trees, that’s all.”

Ariyoshi said nonchalantly, smiling.

“There was something more substantial than street trees…”

Sugimoto—who had been vacantly staring at Ariyoshi’s military uniform and Rising Sun Medal—abruptly spoke.
All eyes turned toward him.

——The night of September third… to speak of it now was to recall the hours just after martial law had been imposed.
Wild rumors had crested to their most perilous pitch.
The avenues seethed with self-defense militias and displaced masses.
Yet within this turbulence lingered strangely shadowed backstreets—unlit passages like gaping voids where few souls ventured.
These became the most treacherous zones.
Particularly near temple gates adjoining sprawling graveyards…
At one such temple entrance stood a stone Buddha.
Then on that third night, some quick-witted soul had thrown a reservist’s tunic and cap over the statue.
Thus clad in military garb, the stone figure kept rigid vigil past the fourth day and into the fifth morning’s light…
More potent than any field scarecrow…

“Nonsense!”

Ariyoshi barked.

It was only then that the group seemed to feel the peculiar impact of the story.
That silenced Sugimoto.

“Are you mocking me…?”

“…………”

Sugimoto stood up dazedly with a look of incomprehension.
Ariyoshi grabbed that arm.

“What’s this ‘scarecrow’? What constitutes a scarecrow…?”

“But more than street trees…”

Sugimoto felt himself being shoved. The moment he withstood it, a large fist was thrust before his face.

“Come at me!”

He was drunk.
He couldn’t quite grasp what it was about… not by anyone.
Serious eyes tinged with curiosity gleamed in multiple places.

A large fist grazed the tip of Ariyoshi’s nose and jutted out abruptly once more before him—on the table, under extreme contempt, a sharp triangular knife gleamed.
Grabbing it, a sarcastic smile rose on Sugimoto’s face, and with a tone that seemed to say “How about this…”, he thrust it forward—only for his wrist to be yanked back sharply.
From the momentum, staggering, the force of his clenched hand concentrated—the full weight of his body bore down…

Sugimoto pitched forward and collapsed abruptly.

It was over in an instant.

The next instant, Sugimoto jumped up, his face pale, and he clutched a knife in his trembling hand.
That arm was restrained by someone’s hand.
Ariyoshi stood rigidly before him, a faint smile on his cheek.
But on his right thigh, the military uniform was torn, and blood…

“Wh-what foolishness!”
“Watch yourself!”

And he staggered a step and grabbed the table.
He grimaced.
He lowered his eyes and looked at the blood on his thigh.

“Get out!”

Sugimoto clenched his teeth and fixed his eyes—burning with hatred—on the other man’s eyes.
But Ariyoshi’s eyes met them with composure.
A scornful hue shifted.

“Let him go.”

Commanding and leaving no room for defiance was the tone.
The hand gripping Sugimoto’s arm was released.
Sugimoto dropped the knife, hung his head, and walked away.

At that moment, while surrounded by people, Ariyoshi suddenly clutched his thigh wound and collapsed onto a chair…

VI

It was a quiet, windless midnight, the starlight intense.

Sugimoto sat in his old Western clothes, half his body leaning against the desk.
His forehead bore wrinkles never before seen...
The area around his mouth trembled faintly.

“Are you saying you don’t want to break up?”

“…………”

In silence, Eiko bit her lip.
The plumpness of her cheeks swelled more than usual, her chin was more pointed than usual—a mismatched countenance blending natural charm and self-centeredness.

“We didn’t become slaves to each other.
That’s the virtue of our dream.”

“Dream…”

“Not that… but even in our daily life…”

A sarcastic glint flashed in her eyes.

“Then what… what is it?”

“Something… I don’t understand either.”
“Looking back now, it seems I was wrong.”

“Are you regretting it?”

“No—that’s not it.”
“You did that insane thing purely out of jealousy toward him.”
“Venting jealousy… That petty, personal mindset was the problem.”
“You should’ve gotten angrier—truly furious, from the pit of your stomach.”

“It’s precisely because I was angry… that you can’t understand.”

“That—you weren’t truly angry at all.”
“I understand that.”
“As I just said, tonight with Ariyoshi, I started out meaning it as a joke.”
“However, after that point, I truly hated him.”
“If my arm hadn’t been restrained, I would have stabbed him to death on the spot… He wasn’t like that.”
“At first he was relatively serious, but later he no longer seemed to hate me.”
“That is the fundamental difference between me and Ariyoshi.”
It is now that I had come to understand.
And I got angry at that kind of person, at that kind of existence.
I was truly angry….

“So, are you saying you want to break up with me too?”

“I was truly angry, and then I came to understand.
“I was alone—utterly alone.
“He had numbers… the entire weight of that class on his shoulders.
“……Even you were all alone when seized by jealousy.
“But he—that man—shoulders the entire weight of that kind of people… that kind of life….”

“…………”

She stared at his face in silence.
From those eyes… from the rounded edges of wide-open lower eyelids… tears seeped out….
When they were about to spill over, she suddenly clung to his head.

“No—no—breaking up…”

“Are you lonely… being all alone…?”

She embraced his shoulder even more tightly.

“You’ll end that solitude all by yourself.”

“So… we’re not breaking up?”

He quietly released her hand and kissed her forehead.
Offering her powdered forehead—cold to the touch—she closed her eyes...

“You understand… If we keep this up, you’ll remain alone forever.
Even clinging tightly together, that lonely feeling of solitude—it still won’t vanish.”

She shook her head vigorously.

“That’s the difference between men and women.”

After he said this, the depths of his eyes grew hot and moist.

“I will resolutely retract what I once said.”
“Women must bear children.”
“Children.”
“Men…”
For the first time in a long while, I thought of my mother.
“My mother who died when I was still small….”

From the open window, cold night air flowed in.
He stood up, went to the window, and gazed at the sky….

Before he knew it, she was also standing behind him.

“What are we going to do… from here on….”

“There’s much work ahead.”
“The road stretches far.”
“Walk slowly—don’t hurry.”
“By parting from you, I feel this might instead bind us tighter.”

“…………”

When he looked back, her youthful hair and body glistened under the electric light, pulsing with life.
The whole of her seemed like a silent protest…

He suddenly grabbed her and pulled her tightly to his chest.

“Forgive me—there’s no other way.”

“You want to be free, don’t you?”

“…………”

“It’s fine.
“I too… want to be free…
“It’s okay.
“I won’t do anything reckless.”

“Do you swear?”

“…………”

She merely laughed.
He too wore a melancholy smile.

In the neighboring room, the young Tolstoyan Kobayashi, exhausted from his daytime labor, was breathing deeply in sleep.

Seven

Ariyoshi Yutaro’s thigh wound required two weeks to fully heal.
He requested a leave of absence during that time.
And after about a year had passed, he obtained permission for discharge.
Behind the scenes, Tayama Yoshisuke’s intervention had naturally been at play.

Ariyoshi discarded his military uniform and switched to a business suit.
He grew out his hair and, in exchange, trimmed his mustache short.

By that time, Sugimoto had already gone to Shanghai….
Ariyoshi obtained those fragmentary reports from within the Metropolitan Police Department.

"That bastard…"

While muttering this to himself, Ariyoshi still could not bring himself to feel hatred.
——