Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Tomiga Ikuko, now that I feel my soul liberated from all constraints, I shall lay everything bare. To lay everything bare is nothing less than bidding you farewell. When the time comes to bid farewell, one finally lays everything bare—this is the loneliness inherent to humans.

Do you remember the day when I first made a certain request regarding your life and actions? That afternoon, we abandoned the automobile before the lodge on Kamakura Mountain. Though closed for renovations, we walked through the chill clarity of early autumn light like lovers—no regret for its closure. Autumn flowers, pampas plumes, blue sea—Mount Fuji stood sharp against the sky. At dusk you spoke of aviation beacons sparkling... there on Hakone's slopes leftward of Fuji.

The reason those words stay clear is this: I'd begun yearning then for something like beacon-light myself.

I was nothing more than a lumpen.
I was that disreputable lumpen Tsuboi Hiroshi - who had embezzled company funds and fled to Shanghai, secured just enough through illicit dealings to stave off hardship, returned again to Tokyo, and now wandered perplexed about what manner of life to pursue.
Thus when I met you and our relationship formed from that mood of unbridled recklessness, it held no particular significance.
To you I remained merely an instrument of pleasure, as you were to me.
When did it begin? We couldn't even recall that initial date.
When I remarked with a bitter smile how unsettling it was that we'd forgotten even the first date, you mirrored that bitter smile.
Yet yours was a clear bitter smile.

That was when things began to change—from that moment on Kamakura Mountain.
Gazing at the sea, looking up at the sky, surveying Mount Fuji, lingering over autumn grasses by the roadside—exactly like lovers... truly like lovers—after our wordless stroll, when we had relaxed until evening in that house at the three-way intersection along the road connecting Katase to Ofuna, and I began expounding how mere dalliance serves no purpose but to wither one's vitality for living—you suddenly, unexpectedly—burst into tears.
Why did you cry?
That must have been your true feelings.
But true feelings are not something one should lay bare without discerning consequence.
I was tempted by those tears of yours.

In the bright glass-walled bath chamber, soaking leisurely in the bath, we gazed at the darkening sky. Then, while drinking sake, we gazed at the smoke rising from the thatched roofs of a small village nestled among the hills in the shadows of pine and cedar groves. When evening mist rose in the valley between the hills, before we knew it, the moon appeared. Even if all those things gave us a journey-like atmosphere, and even if men and women on journeys are most exposed to the perils of romance, had your tears not existed, I would never have begun constructing this edifice of love. “I don’t want to play games anymore.” “Please truly love me.” You said through tears. “If you would protect me alone…,” I said. Oh, what a way to phrase that. What compelled us to phrase it that way? It was no longer a game. We vowed.

From Ofuna, past Yokohama, until exiting Shinagawa, inside the automobile, we held hands.

We kept that vow.
And from then on, we behaved openly.
Even when we went to the hall, you danced only with me.
We walked through the crowds of Ginza together.
Even to cafés frequented by friends, I calmly took you in.
My figure smoking a cigarette while reading the newspaper in your parlor must have been noticed by various people as well.
The sight of us getting in and out of automobiles together must have been seen by various people as well.
But I didn’t care.
I held conviction.
I believed in your heart, believed that I loved you, and was resolved to live by that conviction.
Each time that conviction wavered even slightly, I would lash my own heart.
I came to think that the wavering of conviction stemmed from one's way of life.
Dance, cafés, theater, mahjong... I came to think that these most ordinary, most idle of amusements were harmful.
That is why I threw myself wholeheartedly into that earnest plan—the farm project—and began consulting you in earnest as well.

After returning to Tokyo, that I considered various jobs and finally turned my attention to farm management—these circumstances you know well. I investigated the current state of vegetable gardens in the suburbs of London and Paris, researched the theory and practice of their intensive cultivation methods, and to study the artificial production of fertile soil, the effects of electric heat on plant seedlings' roots, the measurement of seedbed temperatures, and particularly the challenging measurement of seedbed humidity—how I struggled with all this, making use of an unexpectedly spacious corner of the garden in a ramshackle house deep within inconvenient backstreets of the city under a specialist's guidance—you know this well. Seeing the various accumulations of glass in the storage shed, you were astonished at the variety of glass types. And if there remains anything for which I still feel gratitude toward you even now, it would be that loving you served to advance my research.

What I wish to tell you actually concerns what comes next, and since matters will suddenly become complicated from this point onward, I ask that you listen carefully.

Tomiga Ikuko, this is what I thought.
True love can only grow upon a life with direction—a life oriented toward some form of work.
Love indulged only in stolen moments amounts to mere animal lust.
If you truly love me and I truly love you, we must ground our love not in idle diversions alone but through a shared livelihood.
This did not mean marriage, of course, but rather a practical partnership through labor.
Having reached this conclusion, I resolved to manage the farm project jointly with you.
You consented.

Up until now, it had been a smooth progression.
And what must not be misapprehended there is that our vow of love came first, followed then by talk of farm management.
As a practical matter, it is true that my assets were insufficient to the point of being precarious for solo farm management, and it is also true that your late husband's inheritance had suffered unexpected damage from the aftermath of his brother's failed fishery—but had those circumstances made farm management unsuitable, then it wouldn’t have been limited to just the farm.
If that had been so clear, I should have simply considered other more suitable work instead.
But my love did not shy away from some risks.
You, with what might be called a society woman's frivolousness—and then through life's weariness and novel expectations—carelessly delighted yourself and, like a chirping songbird, ended up chattering all manner of things to Okabe Shuukichi.

I did not blame you for having chattered away to Okabe.
In terms of results, that may have been beneficial.
If we had actually started the farm, I had no idea what would have become of our assets.
It was only natural that Okabe—recommended by your late husband’s brother as something between a tutor and counselor for your small child, frequenting your household—felt uneasy about our work.
And given his kind nature, it didn’t seem unreasonable that he not only heard from you but also inquired about various matters, prompting you to speak more than necessary.
He was a kind man of common sense.
He had a good understanding of the logic of things and human emotions.
It was simply that this understanding operated on a flat plane—never extending into three-dimensional aspects of height or depth.
The value of common sense must have lain in that very quality.
He must have considered your minor indiscretions—even our relationship—as something that could be overlooked for a bourgeois unmarried woman in her early thirties.
However, when it came to our open behavior and especially our financial relationship, he must have considered it something to be appalled by.
For your sake and mine as well—yes, for both our sakes—it must have been considered something to be appalled by.

“There’s a rumor that you’re trying to siphon money from Ms. Tomiga—even if it’s just a rumor, I can’t help worrying for your sake.”

When the farm proposal came up—though during a drinking occasion—Okabe said this to me.
This was done with genuine-seeming concern, his eyes reflecting what appeared to be considerate kindness toward me.
Under that gaze and his coldly critical words, I found myself utterly defeated.
Had there been even a trace of malice in him... Or perhaps, given that he knew us so thoroughly anyway, had those words sprung from some circumstantially motivated feeling... I might have weathered it.
But being suddenly confronted with talk of siphoning money and such—all delivered with this veneer of kindness—I was left speechless.
There exist utterly banal phrases that, depending on their delivery in the moment, can stab straight through one's chest like a blade.

"How could this man possibly understand?" I defiantly thought, adopting an attitude of silent dismissal. And the reason I kept that from you was none other than that my heart had been wounded. I must have been cowardly. I didn’t want to confront the wound in my heart. And yet I continued the farm delusions. I continued to share those delusions with you as well.

Thereupon, in rapid succession, your betrayal occurred.

Tomiga Ikuko, my grasp of this matter remains unclear, yet ultimately I can only articulate what reverberated within me through the word "betrayal." What currents moved through your true feelings, I cannot fathom. But these were your words:

“What about you and Mimasu’s daughter?”
“Compared to that, something like me doesn’t matter at all, does it?”

You laughed brightly as cigarette smoke curled from your lips.
This was already the you from before Kamakura Mountain.
That you could so easily trample your present self and revert to the past—the mere thought left me wretched.
And yet did you truly believe that about Mimasu’s daughter Miyoko and me?
Even through later inquiries, I found you’d known nothing concrete.
“To become that girl’s patron now and launch her as a geisha—that’s quite clever of you, Mr. Tsuboi.”
Why you believed Okabe’s words—on what grounds—you yourself never understood.
He’d likely said it in genuine kindness, thinking of you.
This too I understood perfectly.
And I understood how those ordinary words—“Mr. Tsuboi is quite clever indeed”—must have pierced your heart deeper than mine.
But they were merely words—nothing beyond Okabe’s mistaken utterance.

The matter of Mimasu, too, was not such a trivial thing for me. After seven years of shabby living in Shanghai, when I returned to Tokyo, the deepest emotion I touched resided within Mimasu’s daughter Miyoko. During my earlier dissolute life in Tokyo, I had frequently visited that small restaurant Mimasu near the geisha quarter. I would bring geisha along to eat lunch there or stop by late at night for a meal. Miyoko had been a child just starting elementary school then, and we would bring her toys and stationery supplies. I remembered those times. Though I’d lost all interest in venturing into the pleasure districts now, some strange impulse made me recall Mimasu and drop in for a quick drink one day. It was still early evening with lingering daylight, the shop empty of other customers. Oiku behind the counter, the cook, the very state of the place—all remained unchanged from before. As we conversed with the effortless familiarity such establishments breed, bridging seven years in our talk, a girl with traditional Japanese coiffure peered out from behind the account desk’s shoji screen, watching me intently. When I met her gaze, those eyes quietly brimmed with tears before fluttering shut in a beautiful blink. That was Miyoko. Her stature had shot up though her face retained childish softness, only the eyes beginning their transition toward adulthood. Called forth by Oiku, she emerged with hesitant movements that betrayed an urge to rush forward in greeting. That alone constituted the deepest emotion I had touched upon in Tokyo.

After that, I began frequenting Mimasu, either for meals or drinks.
There were times when I had serious conversations with Oiku.
Miyoko had been trained in shamisen and dance since childhood, but as she showed promise, upon the recommendation of the local senior geisha, she was to become a geisha.
Oiku would broach the matter in a manner that was neither proper discussion nor consultation—saying she wanted to debut Miyoko through banquet entertainment but due to various circumstances intended to formally establish her as a full geisha once she turned seventeen after another year had passed—approaching me with this, someone who had once been familiar with that area's pleasure quarters.
As I earnestly engaged in these exchanges, I ended up supporting Miyoko and taking on some degree of responsibility for her.
That was not in the slightest born of frivolous intentions.
The geisha profession is generally viewed as a fickle trade dependent on fleeting patronage—and by and large this holds true—but I knew well that among them existed women approaching their work with more steadfast diligence than respectable ladies.
Sitting at a corner table in Mimasu, contemplating my future while envisioning Oiku and her daughter's daily struggle for livelihood, I felt this brought me intense joy—as if I'd finally returned to human society from my dissolute Shanghai existence.
For me, who had wandered past forty, looking after Miyoko even slightly was ultimately nothing other than comforting my own heart to some degree.
From common sense advocate Okabe's perspective, that situation would likely appear as quite a clever approach.
Whether even you truly thought that way remains unknown to me, but at least you wielded Okabe's words as an authoritative shield.

And yet, what manner of man was this partner with whom you betrayed me?
He was an indolent second son of some nouveau riche family—perpetually bewildered about how to kill time, thrashing about like a fish out of water—a pallid, smirking high-collar boy of twenty-five or twenty-six, all surface animation devoid of spiritual fiber.
From the freshly pomaded hair, the striped silk scarf, and the effeminate slender gold chain alone, I recognized that man instantly.
That was perilous even as a companion for your pleasures.
As an accomplice for betraying me, he trampled upon both yourself and me beyond measure.
Had it been an entertainer, a sumo wrestler, even a dance instructor—that would have been preferable.
If you could purchase a man with your money, that would have been ideal. Or had you sold yourself to some corporate executive in financial straits, that too would have been acceptable.
Such transient pleasure transactions conclude cleanly, leaving scant residue behind.
But consorting with that sort of man leaves a clammy stench adhering to one's flesh.
In your estimation, this might have served as triumphant compensation against the small restaurant's girl.
Yet even were we to assume my relationship with Miyoko resembled that between ozashiki entertainment and client service, your appraisal would have been wholly inverted.
As human connections go, I value what exists between myself and the small restaurant's daughter incomparably more than what persists between you and that man.

The matter of that man and you had not been entirely absent from my mind for some time.
But I forced myself to believe.
Yet facts hold greater power.
That you all went to Tsunashima, to Isogo, even to Izu—this too reached my ears.
The brazen pride coloring that man's seemingly shy downcast eyes suggested far more than his ambiguous words ever could.
This too was corroborated by kind Okabe.

“That man seems to be scattering all sorts of mysteries; it’s quite troubling.”
“It would be good if you could somehow use your influence to keep Ms. Tomiga from leaving now, while there’s still time…”

That was a serious, common-sense statement.
At that time, I still did not know he had told you about Mimasu.
With a crushed spirit, I lashed out at you.
But by then you were already laughing while toying with a cigarette.

Where have your tears gone?
Where has my conviction gone?
I have strived to believe that we love each other.
I have even thought about matters concerning the farm.
As all that crumbled away at once, I could do nothing to stop it.

Sincere feelings aren’t something that exists full-sized from the start.
They germinate from tiny seeds, gradually swelling larger.
Midway through that swelling, they got stomped flat.
I attempted explanations about Mimasu, pleaded our mutual affection, yet could clearly sense everything had already slipped into the past.
"Those trivialities shouldn’t matter between us"—that became your final verdict.
That likely came straight from your core.

A ruin had formed within my heart. Within it, I could clearly see your remains. A foreign-seeming countenance lingered around sunken eyes and a pointed nose; lips that appeared intellectual yet fragmented and disconnected; well-curved fingers; a fur stole; specially tailored white tabi socks with tautly drawn heels; or perhaps the stone gate with its massive shutters fast closed; the beautiful gravel before the entrance; the sunlit parlor; the portrait of your deceased husband; the silver cigarette set; the large doll in the display cabinet... The ancients said, "Though the nation perishes, its mountains and rivers remain." For me, those things were the mountains and rivers that remained after your demise.

Tomiga Ikuko, what has transpired between us thus far has been ordinary matters of carnal love.
After this, that unforeseen problem arose.
I first became aware of it at Mimasu.

When I sat alone drinking sake absentmindedly, Oiku brought up settling down while pouring my drinks.
Since it was a topic she'd raised before, I hadn't paid it much heed, but she proved unexpectedly earnest.
The more I deflected with jokes, the graver she grew—until she invoked your name outright, insisting we ought naturally to marry.
She knew you thoroughly.
She understood completely what existed between you and me.

“It’s strange that you’ve never considered such a thing before, isn’t it?”
“Is there some sort of problem, perhaps?”

When pressed like that, I found myself strangely lost in thought.
Had I ever once considered something like marriage?
I had absolutely not.
In your case as well, you probably had not.
And yet I had been thinking about things like a life for the two of us, farm management—matters of that nature.
Why had I failed to consider marriage—that very thing alone?
And yet it was after our love had fallen into utter despair that we collided with these very problems.

It wasn't logic—at that moment, I found myself inexplicably enraged. That I should naturally consider marriage too—this very thought exasperated me. The idea of marriage between us—it held something that instinctively repelled me. Why? I don't understand. Perhaps our love belonged to a category fundamentally opposed to marriage. Or maybe I entirely lacked any sense of anything resembling marriage.

“If I were to marry that person, I’d rather marry Miyo-chan,” I asserted to Oiku. Then I added: “But rest assured now. I won’t marry Miyo-chan, nor will I lay a finger on her. I’m Miyo-chan’s uncle, you see.”

If there were such a thing as a pallid smile, I must have been wearing one. When Miyoko brought the sake decanter, I took that delicate hand in mine and declared:

"I'll always be your uncle, Miyo-chan."
"Mark my words."
"Whether you become a geisha or anything else, you must stand firm."
"If not, I'll thrash you soundly."

Miyoko twisted one corner of her lips on that childish face, crafting a mulish expression of defiance. Her eyes laughed with womanly charm while her undernourished chin jutted tautly....

My chest became clear and bright. Yet within that brightness, a peculiar loneliness welled up. That loneliness persisted afterward, and lifting me slightly higher, I could still go out among people arm in arm with you.

I still pretended as though I loved you. Knowing everything full well, I affected concern for you from lofty heights. Yet to others' eyes, it might have seemed I was being dragged along by you. You persisted in your indifferent arrogance. At your side, I would sink into dark moods while self-mockingly entertaining thoughts like "If I were to marry you..." How strange that marriage alone—this mere notion—pierced my heart like a needle. At such times, I would deliberately walk pressed close to you. In café brightness by your side, I even attempted playful banter with waitresses. In the hall's chiaroscuro hues, clutching you swathed in austere yet intricate kimono as if you were mine, taking desultory steps, I strained to hear the band's tedious music. At this discordant conduct of mine, you must have found curious amusement—casting sidelong suspicious glances while displaying coquettish smiles.

And that evening, I found myself strangely drained; leaving the dance hall early, I sent you home ahead by automobile and walked the streets alone. Perhaps owing to my state of mind, the streetlights seemed dimmer than usual; the sky appeared heavy with impending rain. I walked straight ahead without deviation. Gradually, I became aware of footsteps trailing behind me. The sensation intensified until I reached the shadow of a wooden fence where chinquapin branches hung thickly overhead—there I stopped and turned around. A slender young man in a dark brown soft hat approached steadily, his gaze fixed unwaveringly upon me. That man... In that moment, I realized I could now name him—Hirano Ryouji—the very man you had chosen to betray me with.

“Do you have some business?”

Having said those words, I started walking without waiting for a reply.
He too walked alongside me.
After a while, I repeated my question.
“What business do you have?”
After a while, he began to speak.
“There’s a rumor that you’re getting married to Ms. Tomiga—is that true?”
After a while, I answered.
“I will never marry.”
It was a surprisingly wide and quiet backstreet running parallel to the tramway.
Our dialogue resounded settledly, at intervals of several steps, in soliloquy-like tones as if underwater.
I said.
“What does my relationship with Ms. Tomiga have to do with you?”
After walking a few steps, he said.
“I thought you wouldn’t marry her, but if you were to marry her, I would be saved…”
I stopped.
His pale well-formed profile looked as cold as a seashell.
And the frank, shameless gaze did not waver in the slightest.
Having taken in that gaze, I started walking again.
Since I’m no longer involved with her, let’s drop this conversation.
And as I walked on, his figure had vanished somewhere along the way.

It was a scene that drifted dreamlike yet remained starkly clear.

You claim Hirano's act was mere theater, but I cannot agree. For a man of his nature, the line between performance and sincerity hangs by a thread, swayed wholly by circumstance's whim. After parting from me, he telephoned you. You happened to be home. He swallowed pills and raced to your residence. There before you he collapsed. Prompt treatment saved him. That constituted the entirety of events. Had you been absent, he'd never have ingested those tablets; had he fallen in some public thoroughfare, death might well have claimed him.

Your decision to immediately summon Okabe by telephone was a wise strategy.
When I arrived late at night by the car that came to pick me up, everything had already been settled through Okabe's arrangements.
The matter was kept secret among the three: Okabe, Hirano’s brother, and the doctor.
Hirano had recovered by the next day and left the hospital on the third day.
During that time, you withdrew into the inner rooms of the house and avoided meeting anyone.
Your arrogant heart hardened, appearing to contain not a shred of affection.
You seemed to find Hirano’s actions an absurd farce, something utterly irritating.
On top of that, you had even taken the offensive against me.
"There was talk of marriage—have you heard?"
I simply smiled and recognized a wax sculpture-like beauty in your face.

“Please do not take that matter into consideration.
“I will decline,” you said.

Where was the need for you to go out of your way to refuse such a foolish thing?
I was simply dumbfounded.
And what I wanted to know was where on earth such a story had come from.
You made a pained, irritated expression.
Emotions were crushed flat, and only reason stood jagged.

“It came from Mr. Okabe, didn’t it?” I said.

You remained silent, but from that alone I understood everything. Okabe had been worried about you. He had considered marriage to be the best course. That was probably a solution plan stemming from kindly common sense. And because that kind common sense had begun to move, various things became clear to me as well.

Tomiga Ikuko, I can now state clearly. There was not a shred of true love between us. All that existed was the conceptual effort to believe we were in love and mere physical pleasure. We were the ones who had been performing the farce. The only sincere one might have been Hirano. What I feared—that indulging with that sort of man would leave behind some viscous bond and residue—referred precisely to this. Sentiments and flesh become one and entwine. If you were to marry anyone, it should be Hirano, and absolutely not me.

I now feel my heart completely liberated from you. I will protect this freedom of my own heart.

In this sense, I am grateful for Okabe’s kind common sense. You must also be feeling all sorts of gratitude. However, while I feel gratitude, I cannot rid myself of this hatred. Toward the existence of such contradictions, I feel an instinctive revulsion. That I cannot reconcile this gratitude and hatred—this is my torment. If reconciliation proves impossible, should I persist in gratitude, or surrender to hatred?

Tomiga Ikuko—I ask that you at least consider these matters with a tranquil heart.
Knowing that you and I had no intention of marriage, why did Hirano commit such a desperate act?
Why did you never once visit Hirano in the hospital?
By going out of your way to refuse the marriage proposal to me, did you truly feel redeemed?
By leaving your side and treating everything up to now as a farce—was I truly satisfied…?

I am now free, but lonely.
That is my own affair.
I am nothing more than a single lumpen—Tsuboi Hiroshi.
I am nothing more than a wild man who has escaped futile dreams.

II

From the very beginning, there was something vaguely discordant. Even so, nothing stood out in any particular way. Everyone was thoroughly drunk. In the sole room on Mimasu's second floor, the glow of an underpowered electric lamp illuminated a hushed gathering. On the serving table lay scattered dishes of half-eaten food, the white ceramic of sake flasks glaringly conspicuous. Okabe Shuukichi, his face flushed crimson, held forth alone. Murao Shoji played listener, inserting terse comments between nods. Shimamura Yoichi drank steadily in silence, occasionally smirking as if chasing private fantasies in his mind's recesses. In one corner, Tsuboi Hiroshi sprawled smoking cigarette after cigarette. Shimamura's sodden persistence at drinking served as a stopgap against conversation lulls, but Okabe's verbosity proved more potent still. His talk remained ever reasonable—hence ordinary and dull—yet when drink or dialogue wearied others, such banter made serviceable mortar. That evening however, his tedious prattle carried nervous undertones, as if dreading silence itself. Though Shimamura, Murao and Tsuboi had been drinking first—with Okabe joining later as an interloper—and though rapport with the trio never quite settled, more telling was how his otherwise bold composure betrayed shallow roots.

Then came the phone call……

At that moment, he was expounding on matters of feminine psychology.
When Miyoko arrived carrying a sake flask, he fixed his gaze upon her and remarked—not as sarcasm or pointed commentary toward Tsuboi, but with earnest gravity—that she was blossoming into womanly beauty; this observation prompted him to recount his days as an instructor at a girls' academy.
In those years he had remained unmarried, for a young bachelor pedagogue in such an institution finds his every gesture scrutinized by pupils.
Though not yet what one might call romance, this dynamic saw virile youths become shafts of sunlight to which floral maidens instinctively turned.
Each petal strained to drink its fill of radiance.
Rivalries and expectations blossomed.
Thus must the pedagogue maintain celestial detachment—a solar presence aloof whether in classroom or playing field.
Should his gaze linger upon any single blossom, envious rancor would sprout among the rest.
Hence he developed the habit of lecturing while contemplating ceiling beams.
This mannerism became entrenched, proving disastrous when he later transferred to a boys' school.
Among male students, such ceilingward discourse reeked of pretentious affectation.
Given these delicate balances, girls' schools wisely avoid employing youthful unmarried masters.
Yet these considerations represent merely passive concerns—ultimately trivial.
The jealousies festering among multitudes of students evaporate without residue as seasons pass.
True peril lies solely in active cultivation.
Those florets specially illuminated, those scholars singled out by tutelary attention—they nurture subtle influences within themselves, gradually amplifying them into formidable growths.
Even when sunlight dims and mentorship's focus wanders, these imprints endure eternally, achieving autonomous maturation.
That singular phenomenon alone constitutes genuine hazard.
Interrogate any number of women if you doubt this.

“Everyone retains memories of first love, but none preserve memories of first heartbreak.”
“Negative sentiments fade swiftly without blossoming into heartbreak, while positive emotions grow autonomously until they flower into love.”
“Ask even Miyo-chan here—you’d comprehend.”
“Feelings of revulsion or resentment vanish quickly, yet affection only swells ever larger.”
“They gradually expand to construct love’s figure.”
“Girls are love’s sculptors.”
“Mr. Shimamura—as a professional, you’ll appreciate this—when carving a statue, there’s no instant when it abruptly quickens to life, correct?”
“The initial chisel strike already holds life’s germ—that sprout elongates with each subsequent chisel notch.”
“Once a girl lowers affection’s chisel into her heart, she becomes wholly consumed in carving love’s effigy.”
“Thus only initiating that first notch poses true peril—all else signifies nothing.”
“Yet upon adulthood, circumstances transform completely.”
“Not merely the positive aspects—even the negative ones…”

“Mr. Okabe…”

When had she come up the stairs? Oiku was there, her face peeking out just above the tatami mats.
“There’s a phone call for you... from Ms. Tomiga...”

Startled as if struck by a hurled stone, Okabe held his breath before abruptly standing up and hurriedly descending the stairs, slipping past Oiku.

As Tsuboi abruptly sat up, Shimamura smirked.

“That guy’s spouting nothing but nonsense.”
“Dragging sculpture into it of all things…”

Tsuboi's eyes were staring intently.

“The notion that a statue comes alive from the very first chisel strike—that’s merchant talk. Art isn’t like that.”
“Through this endless ‘again and again’ struggle... there comes an instant when the flesh faintly stirs awake.”
“Strike upon that moment and you’ve won your prize—but sometimes you might grope right till the end without ever finding such an instant.”

Since Tsuboi remained silent, Shimamura picked up his cup with a disenchanted expression.
The sake had gone cold.
Shimamura clapped his hands.
Before long, Miyoko came upstairs and spoke without even being asked.

"Could you please come here for a moment…"

The gaze was directed at Tsuboi.
When Tsuboi stood up to leave, Shimamura ordered a sake flask, but he and Murao exchanged looks that suggested something didn’t quite add up.

Downstairs held no other customers, and Okabe leaned against one of the tables lining the earthen-floored space.
Tsuboi marched straight toward him.
Looking up at this approach, Okabe's eyes maintained their calm composure.

“I’ve gotten myself into a bit of a predicament…”

It was a low, composed voice—the phone call from Tomiga Ikuko, and his coming here amounted to nothing more than that.

“If she wants to come, let her come,” Tsuboi said.

“Well… you see, I really don’t like this.”
“Just a whim…”
“The truth is, I went to Ms. Tomiga’s place today—out of nowhere she said she wanted to visit Mimasu—I was overwhelmed…”
“Since then, you haven’t met her, have you?”
“She might feel lonely… that could be part of it—but there’s no need for her to come all the way here…”
“Since I thought that way—I said I’d bring Mr. Tsuboi along—but he took offense… Then when she insisted on coming to Mimasu—things got complicated.”
“Somehow managed to gloss that over—promised I’d come check on things in the evening—but I got worried and came anyway—only to get cornered by you all—this is quite a predicament.”
“Then came that phone call just now.”
“When I mentioned ‘Mr. Tsuboi and the others are here…’ she immediately said ‘In that case it’s even better—I’m coming now’—and hung up.”
“You should leave.”
“If she comes here… it’s unpleasant…”

To Okabe’s slow, deliberate tone—speaking as if weighing each thought—Tsuboi hurled angry-sounding words.

“What’s so unpleasant about it? If she wants to come, then let her come—just leave her be.”

“But considering everything that’s happened before... and since I assumed you’d find this place disagreeable too...”
“I myself don’t mind, but—how should I put this—if your delicate feelings were to become unnecessarily tangled, it would cause problems later. This is perhaps an overstep, but...”
“Since it doesn’t matter anyway, why not stand her up and leave?”
“After all, she’s acting capriciously too—you could just respond in kind...”
“Or you could simply go off somewhere together right away...”

Cheeks abundant in excess fat and lacking firmness were tinged red from alcohol; thick lips were stained with a feminine crimson. Tsuboi stared fixedly at them and remained silent. Then suddenly, he let out a loud voice.

“Oiku-san, we have a rare guest.”
“Please prepare a feast for her.”
“Ms. Tomiga Ikuko—that woman from the marriage proposal with me.”
“Sake, please.”

Oiku leaned out from the counter, eyes round.

“Oh...”

That utterly serious look of astonishment—devoid of even a single joke—seemed to make Tsuboi grow increasingly composed.
He rested both elbows on the chair.

“I’ll handle this, so you can stay upstairs.”

And he, disregarding both Okabe and Oiku, fixed his eyes on the table and began to drink.
He remained silent indefinitely.
He stayed motionless.
Okabe whispered something to Oiku and went upstairs.
Oiku came over and poured drinks, but Tsuboi kept his mouth shut.

The sound of a slow-moving automobile came, and when eventually the front glass door opened, Tsuboi raised his face.
Ikuko’s figure stood out sharply in the direct light.
Her purple satin coat with embossed floral patterns hung sleekly without wrinkle or crease, a beige fur stole resting gently over slender shoulders, her facial contours sharply defined like waxwork.
She paused there briefly before gliding toward the now-standing Tsuboi without a waver in her stride.
By the time Oiku hurried out, she was already removing her gloves while addressing Tsuboi.

“Are you alone?”

“Are you asking about Mr. Okabe? He’s upstairs. Shall I call him?”

She dismissed it with a smile and held slender fingertips over the Seto brazier. With a curious gaze befitting her sunken eyes and foreigner-like features, she stared intently at Oiku and surveyed the room. Then she turned back toward Tsuboi.

“Would you like something to eat?”

“I’ve had enough.
Instead… I think I’ll try having some sake…”

When Oiku poured the sake, she skillfully received it.

And so Tsuboi and Ikuko sat facing each other in silence, drinking sake and smoking cigarettes.
They appeared composed in their constant companionship, as though there were nothing left to say or hear between them.
In such moments, time passed without hindrance...
Then, suddenly, Ikuko laughed out loud.

“Strange… Sitting here like this, it’s not as if we’re enemies.”

Tsuboi seemed to be thinking of something else.

“Shall we leave?
The car’s waiting…”

“Where would we be going?”

“Wherever…”

A cold smile rose to Tsuboi’s lips.

“Didn’t you have business with Mr. Okabe?”

Ikuko stared fixedly at Tsuboi’s face.
As she kept looking, his eyebrow twitched.

“Mr. Okabe said we must meet again properly.”
“It’s as if we’ve had a lovers’ spat, isn’t it?”
“So I—because it irritated me—simply followed that advice.”

“To the advice…”

“Because it irritated me.”
“Ridiculous.”
“Well, I’ll be going then.”
“Give my regards to Mr. Okabe…”

Ikuko stood up.
It was utterly abrupt.
She stood up and, clutching a glove in one hand, with a nervous—what could be called noble—arrogance, looked around the room, then turned toward Tsuboi.

“Will you see me off?”

Tsuboi stood up silently.
He lowered his head, averted his eyes, and followed her outside.

A pale light flowed over the street, the black-lacquered automobile box looming too close and large before them.
In the shadow of the automobile, Tsuboi extended his hand.

“I’ll take my leave here.”

He gripped Ikuko’s hand, his eyes lowered to the ground.
Ikuko stopped and waited.
The driver hurriedly jumped down and opened the door.

After the automobile drove away, Tsuboi stood rigid as a pole for a moment, then dashed into the house.

“Mr. Okabe…!” he shouted.
Oiku was looking at him with a quizzical expression.
“Please call Okabe immediately.”

When Okabe came down, Tsuboi was walking while smoking a cigarette.
His eyes, reminiscent of an owl’s, were particularly wide open.

“Mr. Okabe… I understand now,” he said while looking at a corner of the ceiling.
“I’ve come to fully grasp what you meant about us not being allowed to meet in a place like this.
In a place like this…”
The tone dripped with sarcasm.
“So I had them leave already.
You’ve finished your business here too—why don’t you go?
They might have business with you over there.”

Okabe’s complexion changed.
Tsuboi stared at this.
His eyes held a look that brooked no argument.

“You’re not… misunderstanding something, are you?” Okabe muttered.
“I haven’t done anything.
It’s just… since that person was coming… I thought it would be meddling…
What on earth happened…?”

“I know.”
“I understand your meaning perfectly.”
“I want to be alone right now.”
“Go home.”

That intensity verged on physical violence.
Yet his body remained frozen.
He slammed his full weight into Okabe and forced him out.

He threw both arms upward in an exaggerated stretch.
From the counter's entryway, Miyoko observed this display, her sharp eyes narrowing as she hunched her shoulders.
He seized her and hoisted her abruptly into the air.
She emitted a piercing shriek.
Thrashing limbs and stamping feet, laughing wildly all the while, she clutched fistfuls of Tsuboi's hair.
Tsuboi cradled his squirming burden and paced across the earthen floor.
When Miyoko's laughter finally spent itself, she went slack.
Her face buried itself against Tsuboi's collar as she clung to his neck.
Tsuboi scanned the room through watery eyes.
Oiku stood gaping.
Shimamura and Murao descended from the second floor to stand motionless behind her.

“Come on, Mr. Shimamura—now it’s your turn to give me a piggyback.”

Tsuboi dumped Miyoko before everyone.
Miyoko turned bright red and fled.
At her retreating figure, Tsuboi’s owl-like eyes remained teary as they smiled.