Pathway to Japanese Literature

I

Many people still say Shimamura's heart was desolate back then, but I don't believe it. For a man with a desolate heart to display such extreme contempt in his eyes is an impossibility. That kind of spark cannot gush forth unless from a keen mind.

Admittedly, concerning Shimamura, various unsavory rumors were circulating among us.
I myself had felt vague apprehensions about him.
At that time, due to various errands—errands for his sake, no less—that frequently required me to meet him urgently, I had come to understand the general scope of his movements; yet there was undeniably something off-kilter about him.
By nature, drinkers may sometimes sequester themselves at home for days on end, while at other times they might venture out nightly to roam from bar to bar—yet even in the latter case, their footprints... tend to follow a roughly fixed pattern.
Even a dog allowed to roam freely tends to follow a fixed path when wandering about.
However, around that time, the paths along which Shimamura drank his way through town had begun to change conspicuously—he would be found settled in utterly unexpected places, or his destinations would become completely unfathomable.
It’s possible there was some commendable restraint born of mounting financial neglect toward familiar establishments, but a drinker’s footsteps seldom fret over such matters, and Shimamura had not yet reached such dire straits.
In other words, Shimamura had deviated from his established orbit and would vanish from our midst at times—behavior that ran counter to a drunkard’s habitual patterns and hinted at some upheaval in his life.
Therefore, I believe that even that night’s strange behavior was not an impulsive act.

That evening, we were drinking at Sasamoto.
This was a modest tavern with an earthen floor near the entrance lined with stools along a long table, two small tatami-matted rooms in the back—a place where both the food and sake were excellent and customers occasionally arrived accompanied by geisha.
We were longtime regulars; even when going out alone, one would usually encounter a companion.
That night too, Nagao, Onishi, Miyazaki and I—the four of us—had gathered.

Now, regarding that evening—drinking companions as a whole can be intensely intimate yet also distant; they may clash openly with each other or maintain facades, and moreover, as these aspects interweave in various ways, the truth between them becomes exceedingly elusive. Sparks flew, clouds loomed, and both those sparks and clouds were exaggerated by drunkenness. I myself was drunk.

When I viewed them through drunken eyes—Nagao being a separate matter—the sight of Onishi and Miyazaki calmly chatting with Kiyoko appeared bizarre. Kiyoko was supposedly the niece of Sasamoto’s proprietress—though the exact nature of their relationship remained unclear—but in any case, someone connected by family ties who had once worked as a café waitress for a time, spoke with impertinent familiarity, and was a petite woman whose face looked slightly older than her twenty-one years. Regarding this Kiyoko, before coming to Sasamoto, I had been plagued by Miyazaki.

We had been drinking at a certain bar when this literary youth—though he was already twenty-seven, occasionally earning manuscript fees, one who had ostensibly devoted his entire life to literature—this Miyazaki clung to my neck and began to sob.

“Mr. Shimamura told me to quit literature, but there’s no logic to that.”
“Look, that’s absurd!”
“So he says—that me brooding endlessly about Kiyoko, unable to love or hate her, means I can’t truly love anyone, so what right do I have to literature? But how could such an idiotic argument exist?”
“When I think even Mr. Shimamura misunderstands me, it makes me so sad.”
“First of all, I love Kiyoko... If I’m just brooding alone, how could that ever be proven?”
“And what does that have to do with literature?”
“It has nothing to do with anything.”
“Right? There’s no connection.”
“Even if I had settled things, I don’t love Kiyoko one bit.”
“I don’t even think about her.”
“Even if I bought dolls and brought them to her sickbed every day, does that become proof that I love her?”
“Bringing the dolls was, for me, a bit of a romantic pleasure.”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“Only the act itself brings pleasure—the person involved doesn’t matter at all. Why can’t they grasp something so simple?”
“That’s why I don’t care at all even if Kiyoko were to kiss Mr. Onishi or whatever relationship they might form.”
“If the two of them were to fall in love… Yes, I even think it would be interesting.”
“That’s all it is.”
“Why can’t they understand that?”
“Everyone misunderstands me.”

“Even Mr. Shimamura misunderstands me….”

He kept insisting to me in that manner.
But truthfully, even I didn’t fully understand.
This doll business was quite the famous story among us back then.
When Kiyoko was hospitalized for two and a half weeks with appendicitis, Miyazaki bought a doll each day and visited her.
Though they repeatedly assured her that an appendectomy in this age of advanced surgical techniques was no worse than lancing a boil, Kiyoko remained unsettled, her teary eyes fixed on the hospital room’s white walls.
More than worrying whether the surgery would succeed, she seemed terrified by the very idea of her abdomen—her flesh—being sliced open.
Yet Miyazaki never tried to comprehend these feelings, instead declaring he’d perform a protective ritual to guarantee her safety.
This ritual consisted of bringing her a doll every day.
In late January’s bitter cold, there were days when northern gales raged and others when sleet fell.
Still Miyazaki never missed a day, visiting the hospital with doll in hand.
They were cheap little things—Nara dolls, mask-faced dolls, Kabuki dolls—until seventeen or eighteen crowded her bedside table by discharge time.
After presenting each doll, Miyazaki would smile cheerfully and leave immediately without further conversation.
Nearing her discharge date, she sat up in bed and spoke in a cloying voice.
“Don’t I seem like your little sister?”
“Your little sister’s bored right now.”
“A kind older brother would stay and chat awhile.”
He replied brusquely.
“No need once I’ve brought the doll.”
And left.

After being discharged, she arranged those dolls on her desk in her room and teared up. Such matters became known among us through the words of Sasamoto’s proprietress and from Kiyoko’s own mouth. Miyazaki also made no attempt to conceal it. Therefore, we initially imagined that Miyazaki and Kiyoko were in love. However, the two of them showed not the slightest indication of such a thing. In Miyazaki's case, not even a semblance of interest in Kiyoko was visible. He came to drink alcohol with an air of boredom, and when drunk, he would reveal an unbearable aspect, but this seemed to stem from something far removed from Kiyoko.

We habitual drinkers all harbored somewhere within us what might be called a crisis-like disposition—a sense that the world was tedious and somehow unbearable. Whether we drank because of this disposition, or whether this disposition arose from drinking too much, remained profoundly unclear; likely it was both. Yet those who became cheerfully drunk in wholesome fashion were exceedingly few.
And we came to crave some sort of stimulus.
The more we realized there was nothing between Miyazaki and Kiyoko, the more we felt our expectations had been dashed.
It was Onishi who declared, “No, that can’t be! I’ll prove it,” and one evening—though thoroughly drunk—he suddenly seized Kiyoko in front of everyone and kissed her.
She uttered a sound and laughed—but in the next instant, stiffened her facial muscles, opened her eyes so wide they seemed parched, stared fixedly at Onishi, then leaped at him and pressed her lips squarely against his mouth.
“Because you took, I took too.”
“But… disgusting!”
Then she took the beer glass and gargled exaggeratedly.

If the whole affair had been mere drunken antics, that would have been one thing—but there was something excessive in treating it as simple mischief. Even after gargling, Kiyoko did not turn her eyes toward Miyazaki, but it was clear she was sensing his presence in the corner of her vision. But Miyazaki, though he did furrow his brows—if only for a moment—showed no signs of agitation whatsoever. And then he began drinking alcohol with apparent cheerfulness. Thus Onishi's test ultimately ended in failure, but from then on, the phrase "beer gargle" became popular, and Onishi and Kiyoko would frequently demonstrate theatrical embraces. It was a ridiculous affair, but we would sometimes greet it with applause. Everything was due to alcohol. The truth can never be fully grasped. When it comes to making clear statements, I cannot help being perplexed. Even now, I still feel a lingering dissatisfaction at being unable to fully comprehend the entirety of that subsequent incident. Furthermore, it appears to be true that the proprietress of Sasamoto, having been considerably troubled by Kiyoko’s illness and such, borrowed some money from Nagao through Onishi’s mediation. However, linking Kiyoko’s attitude to that matter seems unfounded.

What Miyazaki had persistently insisted to me about were the matters described above.
He seemed to have been harshly cornered by Shimamura about something and was both indignant and saddened by it.

“I think I can... ignore the other person—the subject—and savor only my own actions.”
“The pure joy and sorrow of the act itself cannot be felt otherwise.”
“While Kiyoko was hospitalized, I brought her a doll every day.”
“For me, that was pure enjoyment.”
“I don’t care who it is.”
“It could be an old woman, a man, a beautiful princess, a child—it doesn’t matter.”
“But when it becomes limited to a specific person like Kiyoko, all sorts of other emotions get mixed in, poisoning the pure act of bringing dolls to visit her... Don’t you agree?”
“So what connection is there between me bringing her dolls every day and whether I loved her?”
“There’s no way Mr. Shimamura wouldn’t understand that.”
“Not only that... I suppose you could say it too... What kind of disgraceful behavior is this—clinging to Mr. Nagao and Mr. Onishi’s coattails to get them to buy me drinks? If I want to drink, I should split the bill equally with them. That’s what Mr. Shimamura said.”
“I... I find that pathetic.”
“The fact that Mr. Shimamura would look down on me over something like that is what’s pathetic.”
“I don’t care about Kiyoko—I was just bringing her dolls. Isn’t that... the same thing?”
“I’ve been relying on Mr. Nagao, Mr. Onishi, Mr. Shimamura, you, and various others to cover my drinks... Being young and penniless, I’ve been holding back on paying my share.”
“But what relation does their paying for me have to my drinking alcohol?”
“If they dislike it, they needn’t drink with me.”
“I just drink alone.”
“I’m not freeloading.”
“Hey—I’m not freeloading, am I?”
“Whether someone else pays or not—whether one pays oneself or doesn’t pay at all—none of that makes sake taste better or worse.”

“The act of drinking sake alone is my Pure Act.”
“Whoever it may be—even a money-gorged social parasite or a tick clinging to profit’s coattails… these are Mr. Shimamura’s words… what does it matter?”
“Whether drinking with royalty or beggars, the sake tastes no different.”
“Those whose drink changes flavor with their company are lowly base wretches.”
“This point is something Mr. Shimamura doesn’t understand at all.”
“It can’t be helped if he doesn’t understand, but that’s no reason to look down on me.”
“Hey, there’s no way something so absurd could be true…”

I felt somewhat annoyed and was giving perfunctory replies.
As this went on, Miyazaki suddenly shifted his tone and leaned in to peer into my eyes.

“Since you’re so close to Mr. Shimamura, you must know everything about him—but hasn’t there been something going on with him lately? …I know he’s been terribly short on money lately. Drinking around so much—that’s only natural. And then, um… that geisha called Shizuba—I know he’s gotten into some deep relationship with her too. Whether Mr. Shimamura and Shizuba truly love each other or whatever they do—I don’t care about that. Hey, it doesn’t matter, right? I do not oppose it. But that’s not what this is about. Could there not be something else—something entirely unrelated to that—something we know nothing about at all? I’ve got this weird premonition. Hey, you know about it, don’t you? If you know, please tell me. Mr. Shimamura is one of the people I respect most. He is one of the people who has understood my art. No—he’s someone I care about. I could even say he’s someone I love. That person has lately gone somewhere beyond my reach. There must be something. The other day, when he was drunk, he told me to ‘stop with the dirty things’ and hit me with a cane. That ‘dirty things’ he mentioned—it’s entirely in the physical sense.”

“But where exactly am I dirty?”
“Where exactly is my body dirty?”
“Hey, where am I dirty?”
“Why don’t you just tell me plainly?”
“If my body is dirty, then isn’t Mr. Shimamura’s body—soaked through with Shizuba’s stench—even filthier?”
“But I don’t consider that an issue.”
“The problem lies... in other words, in how the very act of calling something physically dirty is absurdly mental in nature.”
“You describe physical matters in intellectual terms—that’s where the problem lies.”
“Certainly, there's something wrong with Mr. Shimamura.”
“There’s something going on.”
“Haven't you heard? He's been writing a novel lately.”

Miyazaki uttered this final line in a hushed voice, enunciating each word with deliberate gravity as though it were a matter of utmost importance.
And fell silent.
I felt utterly ridiculous.
Whether Shimamura wrote novels or didn’t—that very matter was utterly unimportant.
Moreover, even if Shimamura occasionally wrote literary criticism or such, with that philosophical, analytical mind of his, there was no way he could write a novel.
The notion that he was writing a novel or attaching such grave significance to it was nothing more than the fantasy of Miyazaki the novelist, I thought.
But Miyazaki—as if wanting me to properly consider the matter, and while contemplating it himself—remained silent for a time before abruptly speaking up again.

“Certainly, there must be something going on with Mr. Shimamura.”
“That’s why he’s misunderstanding me too.”
“When have I ever done anything unclean? Come on—I want you to prove it.”
“I want you to prove whether I love Kiyoko or not.”
“Let’s go….”
“The facts will prove it.”
“Come on, let’s go to Sasamoto….”

And so, Miyazaki and I went to Sasamoto late that night.
When we arrived, Nagao and Onishi were drinking in the back room.
As was their custom, they started drinking together again.

At this point, it should be mentioned—the proprietress of Sasamoto. Her real name remained unknown, but everyone called her Okei. Though she appeared to be around thirty, her actual age was likely well over forty-five. Despite being overweight, her build remained firm, and she carried herself with a tall, somewhat striking figure. Her eyes held a fierce sharpness that became conspicuous when she laughed through her large mouth. She was always either drunk or feigning drunkenness, chattering incessantly. Though she would accompany anyone to theaters, restaurants, or teahouses when invited, she constantly telephoned home and returned immediately whenever favored customers arrived. She maintained connections with unexpected people. She had always worn a black-collared kimono with her hair in a round chignon, but after Kiyoko’s arrival began having Kiyoko arrange her hair in traditional Japanese styles while adopting Western coiffures herself. For most women, Western hairstyles lent youthfulness compared to Japanese ones, but curiously enough, her neat Western style—untouched by curling irons—gave her an air of composure that made her appear distinctly madam-like. This quality revealed the distinctive features of her face. Alongside her Western hairstyle emerged a certain affected poise in her demeanor. Apart from Kiyoko, there was a single rosy-cheeked girl at the restaurant.

When Miyazaki and I arrived, Okei amiably stood up, chattering away as she exchanged five or six drinks with us before giving way to Kiyoko.
Kiyoko abruptly pushed her way beside Miyazaki.

“Oh my, you’re drinking quite a lot.”

“Of course.”
“If I don’t drink alcohol, I can’t stand it.”

Onishi set his drunken gaze and gave a wry smile.

“Look at that—another one’s joined.”
“If you don’t drink alcohol, you can’t stand it—isn’t that crowd of folks just growing bigger by the day?”
“That’s why I’m saying I’ll become a sake brewery owner.”
“When I secure the capital, I’ll serve you the best sake in Japan—at the cheapest price in Japan.”
“This is the most effective, direct form of social service.”

Kiyoko gazed fixedly in Miyazaki’s direction.

“Something’s… off.”

“Ah… I have someone I want to meet.”

Miyazaki suddenly shouted and staggered to his feet.
He went to where Okei was warming sake at the accounts desk and collapsed forward.

“I have someone I want to meet.”

“Hey Miyazaki, quit clowning around,” Onishi called from across the room.
“Don’t put on some antiquated love act.
Is sake tears… or sighs…?”

The song's tone seemed to ring with irony.
Miyazaki returned and began drinking.
However, after a while, he remembered again.

"I have someone I want to meet."
"Or do you think there isn't?"

"If you have someone, just say so!"
"I'll make sure you meet them."
"I'll handle it."

“You’re… Huh—barking up the wrong tree.”
“There’s someone I want to meet… But nobody here’ll let me see her.”

He looked around the group, then leaned against my shoulder.

"I... Shizuba... That's right, I want to meet Ms. Shizuba."

An unusual silence fell.
Only Nagao sat there smiling to himself.

“If you want to meet Shizuba… then let’s meet her.”
“Let’s call her here.”
“Even if Shimamura isn’t here, she’ll come.”

“No, don’t do that.”

Kiyoko had—for some reason—vehemently tried to stop it.

“I hate that sort of thing.”

“Hey Miyazaki, Kiyo-chan says she hates that sort of thing,” Onishi said.
“She says she hates that sort of thing.”
“Say something already.”

I was somewhat at a loss, wondering if Miyazaki—leaning against my shoulder with his face down—might burst into tears or start shouting, but when he immediately sat up straight and began drinking again, I felt relieved.
But somehow, the atmosphere among the group became unsettled.
The conversation spread from such questions—whether Shimamura truly loved Shizuba or whether Shizuba truly loved Shimamura—to encompass matters between men and women.
And when it came to such matters, Onishi voiced the most unrestrained opinions.
Not only Onishi—when it comes to alcohol, all men act as if they're single.
The talk of single men need not be recorded here.
However, Miyazaki—the only true bachelor among the group—had fallen silent midway through, fixed his eyes on the void, and done nothing but drink.
In response to this, Kiyoko kept drinking herself into a stupor.
She couldn’t bear to listen to such talk—the only way not to hear was to keep drinking.
With those words, she let out a loud cry.
“Auntie, bring another flask!”
Staggering, she linked arms with Miyazaki.
“Hey you, let's drink.”
“Yeah, let’s drink.”
The large Shimada-style chignon atop her slender neck swayed listlessly like an artificial ornament as Nagao and Onishi, gazing absently at it, continued their absurd debate.
Nagao—fair-skinned and gently plump, idly squandering his vast inheritance on drink without dedicating himself to a single pursuit—and Onishi—swarthy and muscular, ostensibly an insurance company employee yet eager to meddle in every affair—made for a perfect contrast.
But they shared one redeeming quality.

It was an instinctive awareness that a person’s mental state depends on their living conditions and thus their economic circumstances, coupled with a reckless belief that pleasure should not be savored alone but indulged in by the masses.
And since both remained confined within the bounds of individualism, they likely still needed alcohol to endure it all.
I wanted to forgive them in this regard.
Therefore, I thought it only natural that they had misgivings about Shimamura.
Shimamura’s financial collapse might soon lead to his mental collapse; his disappearance from among us to hide away with Shizuba could have been proof of emotional instability.
In short, they no longer trusted Shimamura.
Shimamura was thought to be merely following a path of decline.
And when it comes to a stone tumbling down a slope, there is nothing to do but watch it go.
If they rashly tried to intervene, they would only injure their own hands.
Moreover, Shimamura was quite a large stone.
Yet, deep in my heart, there remained a part that still believed in Shimamura.
Even so, there were times when I quite wanted to throw in the towel.
He was always asking me to run around for his debts.
“It’s not about Shizuba—it’s external matters,” he said, and that seemed genuinely true.
However, he did not disclose what the money was needed for.
And the amounts also varied in size depending on the time.
Moreover, the deadlines were always pressing—within a week or five days.
I ran around to my acquaintances and the places he had specified.
Only once was I successful.
After a while, he would again ask me for urgent financial arrangements.

Even when it ended in failure, he never showed a particularly despondent face.
To me, his true intentions—the truth—gradually grew unclear.
Even when pressed, he never properly explained.
All he ever said was that with that much money, he could clear everything up.
The last request involved a rather substantial sum—partial amounts wouldn’t do, he insisted it be arranged within ten days—so after exhausting every option, I reluctantly approached a distant relative who was a businessman, someone I normally kept at arm’s length, only to have the matter outright dismissed, leaving me in despair.

Given such circumstances, when Shimamura made a rare appearance—or rather, rare even compared to our group—at Sasamoto, I felt an ominous premonition. Okei’s exaggerated greeting made even those of us in the back room immediately aware.

“Well, it’s not exactly like that—I’ve just been a bit busy…”

Shimamura said in a calm voice.

“Ah yes, perfect timing.”
“Could you call them for a moment?”
“I have business to discuss.”
“We’ll drink later.”

Even before being summoned by Okei, I had excused myself to everyone and risen from my seat.
Around the long table in the earthen-floored area stood no customers.
Leaning against one corner of it was Shimamura smoking a cigarette.
When I saw that face，something uncanny stirred within me.
He appeared only slightly thinner，yet his complexion had turned alarmingly sallow，his forehead unnervingly vivid，eyes gleaming with sharp intensity.
Originally his features had radiated vigor through a tall，sturdy nose—but now that vigor seemed drawn inward，the lurid forehead and piercing eyes combining to create an impression of some living doll.

“It’s regarding that matter…”

He stared fixedly at my face.
I lowered my eyes and explained that things hadn't worked out before confessing I'd exhausted all possible leads.
He responded with a composed smile.
So I proposed—if it was truly essential—that I could try hitting up a couple of those channels we'd mentioned before; if he had any contacts himself I'd make the rounds everywhere; let's just wipe the slate clean...

"No need for that."
"Apologies for troubling you."

In an icily detached tone—and he let slip another smile.

When we entered the back room, Onishi greeted us with a cold gaze, Nagao with a composed one.
Kiyoko let out a startled exclamation.

“Oh, alone? They’ll be coming later, right? Earlier, there was someone who desperately wanted to meet you….”

“Idiot—what nonsense are you spouting? You utter fool….”

In a truly furious, overbearing tone, Miyazaki shouted—simultaneously flushing crimson.

Shimamura calmly took his seat.

“It’s been a while,” said Nagao.
“Haven’t you been drinking much these days?”

“Hmm, I’ve been trying not to drink as much as possible, but…”

“I doubt that’s quite true, Mr. Shimamura,” Okei interjected, cutting in with a sake decanter in hand.
“Come over to my place a bit more.”
“Don’t wander around other places so much…”
“I assure you, you won’t end up clinging to anyone or getting punched here….”

“What’s that supposed to mean…?”

“That business with Mr. Inoue at that café in Ginza… That really happened, didn’t it?”
“That’s how it went, you see….”
She turned toward the others.
“They say he and Mr. Inoue rounded up waitresses for a drinking party.”
“Then one of the pretty ones—completely smitten with him—started clinging shamelessly to Mr. Shimamura. Leaning on his shoulder, plopping onto his lap—letting him do as he pleased, you might say. But when she got too disgustingly clingy, Mr. Shimamura flew into such a rage—whether he actually slapped her cheek or not, they say he made a spectacular scene.”
“I would’ve loved to see his face then.”
“Couldn’t afford to miss that… Well, that’s how it played out.”

Okei deliberately feigned admiration in a mocking manner, but Shimamura remained unperturbed.

“Such things may have happened—but instead, there were these things too.”
“One night when I was walking drunk…”

That was a story I had once heard.
As he staggered drunkenly along—at a dimly lit street corner—two young women stood.
Women of ambiguous station—whether cheap café waitresses, low-grade restaurant maids, nannies from some household, or unlicensed prostitutes—their suspicious figures bore pallid, swollen cheeks smeared with white powder.
He approached the two women, smiled at them, spoke to them, insisted on treating them to soba, forcibly dragged them into a nearby soba shop, drank a bottle of sake himself, then pressed a fifty-sen coin into each of their hands before walking away.

It was just that—a ridiculous story—but Shimamura’s tone contained something approaching cruelty.

“Neither of those stories has any meaning, does it?”

Kiyoko said that, but there was no response; everyone remained silent.
Shimamura picked up a cup.

“Mr. Shimamura, let’s drink. Let’s raise a cup for them.”

Miyazaki shouted as though roused from a dream and stood up with the sake decanter, salvaging the silence in that moment—yet the distinctly awkward atmosphere remained unbroken.
Kiyoko fell silent as though nettled by something, Okei and Onishi traded jests, Nagao smiled sparingly with closed lips, Miyazaki resumed his skyward gaze, and time slipped by—whether this progression was real or merely an ephemeral vision imprinted on my retinas, I couldn’t discern.
Drinking gatherings fundamentally consist of light and shadow interlacing—flickering phenomena defying clear perception.
When I abruptly regained full awareness—this I remember distinctly—Shimamura and Nagao were murmuring in low tones, and at the precise moment Nagao heaved a profound sigh—unmistakably one of benevolent concern—Shimamura raised his voice slightly to speak.

“Rather than such concern, you of all people should understand that money is the primary issue.”
“I’m completely in trouble.”
“I owe quite a bit here too.”
“How about lending me four or five hundred yen?”

It seemed everyone had heard it—or rather, in a tone deliberately meant to be heard—everyone looked in that direction.
I was positioned directly facing him and perceived it clearly—his face had turned ashen at that moment, his eyes fixed unwaveringly on the other party.
His forehead alone remained unchanged, retaining a doll-like vividness.
The entirety of his demeanor was permeated with inexpressible contempt.
Nagao must have taken that contempt head-on.
Precisely because it was a remark that would normally be dismissed as a joke, the impact must have been all the greater.
His complexion changed, and his lips quivered spasmodically.

“Of course, considering how much I’ve been indebted to you before, I can’t exactly refuse.”
“Don’t worry about it. ……Well then, I’ll take my leave first.”

With an even more contemptuous smile, Shimamura stood up.
In the heat of the moment, we could only watch his retreating figure.

Okei ran out, caught him outside, exchanged a few words, and returned.

“Mr. Nagao, did you say something that upset him?”

Nagao shook his head.

“I thought so.”
“That’s just your grudge talking.”

However, it was clear this wasn't mere spite—and she herself blushed after saying it. With that, a cold void opened within the sake-induced haze, leaving us utterly helpless. That was the most unmanageable situation. Nagao and Onishi invited Okei, saying they should start drinking merrily again.

It was nearly midnight.
I was the last to remain and kept Miyazaki company as he clung to the counter.
Kiyoko was drunker than Miyazaki.
In the end, it got too rowdy, so I went home alone.
Strange to say, I now recalled that after Shimamura left, not a single thing about him was mentioned.
While everyone was privately turning him over in their minds, they apparently didn’t voice a single thought.

That night, past two o'clock, Miyazaki was shaken awake by Kiyoko.
Only a single light remained lit, leaving the shop's interior shadow-drenched and unnervingly silent.
Kiyoko's face stood bristling with terror as she trembled.
"Will you stay or go?" she asked.
The cook and apprentice lodged on the neighboring house's second floor—already retired there—the serving girl slept soundly—leaving her stranded alone. In truth, while collapsed from drink, she'd given half-hearted orders, drifted into drowsiness, then jolted awake to this desolate predicament.
Okei...had just telephoned to say she wouldn't return tonight.
She's surely with Mr. Nagao and the others...
Miyazaki let her words dissolve into haze as he stared at carnations atop the earthen-floored room's long table.
Caught between lamplight and shadow, they floated pale and tremulous.
A summoning...the sensation swelled through his chest. He tried rising but swayed unsteadily.
An icy shudder racked him.
Kiyoko's eyes glimmered faintly like isolated stars.
He plunged through fractures of memory...
Kind brother...you remember saying that?
"I remember!"
With strange solemnity they wept, then clasped each other's shoulders.
She shook her head at every unspoken plea while he kept his eyes sealed tight.

II

Late at night, just after the city trams had stopped running.

Shimamura and Miyazaki walked from Ueno Hirokoji Avenue toward the park.
Both were drunk, their steps quite unsteady.
They continued talking as they trod deliberately through it.

“Your concern is appreciated, but it’s probably too late now.”
“What? You’re saying it’s too late?”

Miyazaki momentarily halted his steps and stared at Shimamura.
Shimamura continued walking without turning around.

“There’s a proper time for everything.
If I say this, you’ll probably worry again, but honestly, your strange groundless fears are ridiculous.
It’s merely a financial matter.
Financial matters are a matter of numbers—elementary school arithmetic.
What fool would die over something like that?”

“There are plenty in the world…
Moreover, your attitude is utterly reckless…”

"If merely borrowing money were the objective, I wouldn't have adopted such conduct. But having discerned that matters are fundamentally hopeless, when one feels compelled to test society itself this time—isn't that perfectly natural?"

"And if it proves utterly hopeless... If society values money over your very self... What would you do? If I were to..."

"Hmm, I understand perfectly."
"There exists a final trump card."
"When that moment comes, even you should comprehend it instinctively."
"You're familiar with the proverb about burning ships?"
"It refers to landing on enemy shores by vessel, incinerating your own ships to sever retreat routes, then resolving with absolute finality—either conquer the territory or perish in combat."
"Can you burn your ships?"

“…………”

“Unless you burn your ships first, you can’t truly test society.”
“Intending to test society, you’re really just testing yourself.”

“But if you couldn’t conquer enemy territory….”

“Once you test it, that itself counts as conquest.”
“It’s like despising the land after conquering it, then building new ships to sail again.”
“But such things aren’t in the budget.”

“Budget….”

“Take your ‘pure acts,’ for instance.”
“A pure act differs from an unmotivated one.”
“Thus it can contain every possible act.”
“Even those ending in death….”

“That might be the case.”

“But do you think humans truly possess what you’d call a will to die? Even if a death act were performed without this will to die, it would cease being a death act.”

“Therefore… such acts don’t exist…”

“They don’t exist—yet they do. They’re simply excluded from the budget. For instance, you claimed you don’t love Kiyoko. Should you come to love her, you’d insist you’d loved her all along. Budgetary revision.”

Miyazaki remained silent.
The park interior was dim, but the scent of fresh greenery hung faintly in the air, making it refreshing.

Miyazaki suddenly said.

"If I were in love with her, what would you think?"

“Well, loving her is your prerogative, but it’s rather perilous.”

“Why?”

“True love takes the form of struggle against society.”
“But you likely lack that strength yet.”
“With insufficient strength, it ends in unhappiness, or perhaps…”

“Please say everything.”

“You might want to die.”
“But even dying would achieve nothing.”
“Whether you die, she dies, or both perish—it would simply end there.”
“Because of that, Sasamoto’s sake wouldn’t change its taste one bit.”
“Because of that, Okei’s—or Nagao’s and Onishi’s—sake bottles wouldn’t decrease by one.”

Shimamura glanced briefly in Miyazaki’s direction.
“You know… what kind of woman Kiyoko is… regarding her conduct, right?”

"I believe I do."

"Extracting someone from that environment isn't simple.
"You should understand about Okei too."

"Then...what about Ms. Shizuha?"

His voice carried near-venomous intensity.
Yet Shimamura remained unmoved.

“I know that.”
“You wouldn’t understand.”

After walking in silence for a while, Shimamura said.

“Filthy… that single word sums it up. That’s why I’ll deliver my farewell speech. My farewell speech consists of nothing but contempt.”

Miyazaki shuddered as though gripped by sudden chills.

“What matters is having the power to deliver a farewell speech. The specific words mean nothing. You need only find one word that’s truly your own.”

“But if all that were illusions… I’ll have no part in any of you. Yet if society’s filth contains true humanity… what then? If individualist idealism is merely a lens…”

“I understand perfectly what you’re saying. However, that’s before burning one’s own ships. Once you burn your ships, you can’t go wandering around concepts like individualism or idealism. It’s a battle of sharper immediacy. Reality isn’t something to be passively observed—it’s something you must seize through battle. If you can’t do that, there’s nothing left but to die.”

Shimamura’s voice was unnaturally calm.
Miyazaki strained his ears to listen while becoming absorbed in their footsteps.
He kept his gaze fixed on his feet, remaining silent for a long time.

“You must either truly love or hate. Leave the half-hearted middle ground to your literature.”

Miyazaki was still silent.
As they exited the park and emerged onto a slumbering street, a dog barked in the distance.

When they reached Miyazaki’s apartment, Shimamura stopped.

“Take heed.”

With that, he walked away.
Miyazaki stood there and crossed his arms.

III

I was at a loss when Okei of Sasamoto made a ridiculous request to me.
—Miyazaki would show up every night and drink himself into a stupor for some reason.
He might stop by briefly, then return late at night.
If anyone tried to force him to leave, he’d turn so belligerent that violence seemed imminent.
Then Kiyoko would become his drinking companion, making him utterly unmanageable.
When Okei stayed out overnight—though how they coordinated this I couldn’t say—they’d bring Miyazaki in and drink until dawn.
This had become routine… I gazed at her.
Though called ‘every time,’ barely ten days had passed since then.
“…No, that’s not it at all,” she said, slapping the counter with her palm.
“That time and once more… Surely even I have errands outside sometimes?”
“But twice is more than enough.”
“You could say it happens every time.”
“Even if there’s nothing strange about it, isn’t it still troublesome?”
“Couldn’t you talk to him?”
“As for Kiyoko—she’s hopeless. Would she ever listen to me?”
“I’m truly at my wit’s end.”
“Everything’s gone awry, and I feel so irritable…”
She furrowed her brow deeply.
But her claim of having scolded Kiyoko was dubious itself.
Be that as it may, having been asked, I wanted to admonish Miyazaki—but clumsily raising the matter would only worsen things.

Perplexed, I tentatively suggested, “What if we asked Nagao or Onishi to…”
Okei furrowed her brow deeply and grew heated.
“Fine then—I won’t ask anything more of you…”
I saw her angry face for the first time.
Her forehead was narrow, and on her quivering upper lip, faint hair appeared ready to sprout.

Fortunately, I was able to avoid that unpleasant duty.

At that time, we had indeed grown somewhat unruly.
That evening too, Nagao, Noguchi—a man who worked at the broadcasting station and had the peculiar habit of wanting to wrestle when drunk, though he normally acted like a haughtily aloof poser—and I caused a commotion, bringing two geishas to “pay our respects” at Sasamoto.
And then, while we were drinking in the back room, a slightly tipsy Shizuba came bursting in energetically.
“Good evening, maaaaa’am….”
Then, upon noticing us, she gave a stiff bow.
“I have business to attend to….”

She and Okei were whispering about something.
It took quite a while.

“Then now’s just fine.”
“Shall I call him?”
“He’s here.”

“Well, this person…”

Shizuba got on the phone.

I was paying attention to her.
Because she hadn't met Shimamura since then, she had grown somewhat concerned.
As I observed, Shizuba had apparently come to settle the bill under Shimamura's instructions, and Okei had seemingly asked to meet with Shimamura—likely concerning Miyazaki.
I felt the burden on my shoulders lighten, but I also grew anxious.

Shizuba eventually came over to us.
She never changed, no matter when you looked.
Her eyes, nose, and mouth were all small for her face—she carried enough weight that one might think she’d become quite beautiful if she slimmed down a little—a large-framed woman with striking presence; forthright yet without shadow or depth, elusive and cheerful, yet with a slightly dangerous edge to her demeanor.
Observing her closely, I sensed a dangerous air as though she were capable of anything.

“I’m a customer today.”

And she tilted her cup at an angle, but immediately began whispering in confidential tones with the other geishas—particularly Kiyoko.

Shimamura arrived before long.
He glanced in our direction and slightly furrowed his brow but wordlessly headed toward Okei.
They talked for quite a long time.

When he came over to us and gave a perfunctory bow, for some reason his face flushed faintly.
Shizuba stood up and went over, exchanging whispers with him.
He sat in the seat Shizuba had vacated.
They were using two adjacent rooms, but as it was narrow, it felt cramped.
They tended to fall silent around Shimamura and did nothing but smoke.

His eyes were calmer than before, and a faint flush had appeared on his vivid forehead, yet there was an undeniable sense of sickly fatigue seeping through. Just then, Okei emerged and threw the gathering into disarray. The group spread out even to the benches by the earthen floor. I couldn’t shake off some lingering anxiety, finding myself involuntarily attentive to various things, yet even so I kept drinking until my memories became mere fragments. Kiyoko asked Shizuba to go buy cigarettes. It seemed someone had called Miyazaki from somewhere.

It was unclear how much time had passed since Miyazaki arrived, but he took one step inside and stopped dead. His eyes were sunken, the flesh from his forehead to cheeks sharply defined, creating a discordant contrast between the two features.

"The person you want to see is here."

Kiyoko pulled him toward Shizuba.
For some reason, the two were meeting for the first time.

Miyazaki stared intently at Shizuba’s face.
And that was all.

“Hey, Miyazaki, let’s shake hands.”

Shimamura looked in his direction.

“With me…?”

Miyazaki gazed into Shimamura’s eyes while clenching his hand.

“Kiyo-chan, the sake’s heated.”

Okei kept using Kiyoko relentlessly.
She sat beside Nagao, making cat-like gestures while chattering incessantly.

I asked Shimamura whether he'd managed to sort out the money.
"It hasn't been arranged, but it's settled," he answered.
Those words—"It hasn't been arranged, but it's settled"—lingered in my ears like an enigma for an unnervingly long time.

Noguchi was talking to a geisha about sandwiches. He knew thirty-some types. Rooster combs were quite delicious, but if prepared poorly, they were said to be inedible.

Miyazaki was clinging to Shizuba’s knees and crying. He was muttering something incomprehensible. Suddenly, “No!” Shizuba shouted. At the same moment—there, at the room’s raised entrance—Miyazaki tumbled down to the earthen floor. He didn’t get up for quite some time.

“Oh, I’m sorry—what happened to you...?”
“No—you tried to poke someone’s breast.”

Half in apology, half in anger, Shizuba made no move to help him up.

Miyazaki got up and staggered over to cling to Shimamura’s neck.

“You’re strong... All right, let’s wrestle.”

Noguchi’s habit was kicking in.

“Stop it now, again….”
“Ms. Shizuha is terrifying!”
“Because she slaps people without thinking.”

And that geisha mimicked Shizuba’s mocking tone.

“What do you mean by such rudeness?”

Noguchi also joined in keeping time.

“How dare you… How dare you.”

“Well then, I’ll be taking my leave ahead of you.”

Shizuba said this while laughing and signaled to Shimamura with her eyes.

Amidst all the commotion and various happenings, what caught my attention was how Shimamura and Shizuba’s gazes were constantly communicating.
Every time they said something or did something, their eyes remained fixed on each other.
Their gazes seemed never to be severed, no matter how dense the crowd or how drunkenly absurd the behavior around them.
And even now, when he caught Shizuba’s meaningful look, Shimamura immediately nodded, then slowly stood up.

The two tried to leave just like that.

The first to notice was Okei.
She called out to stop them.

“Mr. Shimamura, where are you going?”

Shimamura turned around.

"I'm going out."

He gazed intently at everyone for a moment.
His forehead had turned pale, and his lips wore a smile that defied description.
Precisely because they were such ordinary words and such an ordinary demeanor, what lay concealed within them could clearly be sensed—a kind of challenge and contempt.
Above all, that smile belonged to someone acutely aware of the impact it would deliver.
A tense atmosphere hung in the air.
In that instant, Shizuba spoke.

“Well then, everyone… if you’ll excuse me.”

The drawn-out pronunciation of "excuse me" gave the tension an ironic twist.
No one spoke.
The two of them left.

Miyazaki slammed the ashtray from the long table onto the earthen floor.
Kiyoko tried to stop him, but Miyazaki kept kicking at the scattered ashtray fragments with his foot.
The atmosphere grew tense.
Okei stood frozen with a deathly pale face.

“Please expel them—the violent ones….”

Noguchi, who had been left dumbfounded, said.

“What on earth happened?”

When Okei saw Kiyoko joining in kicking the scattered ashtray fragments, she gritted her teeth and tried to splash alcohol.

“What a bunch of lunatics,” Noguchi said again.
“It’s just like hysteria.”
“Yes, it must be hysteria.”

Okei let out a sob and crouched down to bury her face in Nagao's shoulder.
The two geishas stared wide-eyed.

And just like that, as if the tide had receded, the commotion subsided—yet beneath that scene, an elusive unease lay thick and stagnant.
I had no intention of placing blame on anyone or anything.
I want to believe that our lives—lives spent passing time like this—have had their very foundations churned up.
The drinking party grew increasingly desolate.
The banter lacked its edge.
We strained to get drunk.
Then, dragging the two geishas along, we moved to different seats and continued drinking.
Okei sullenly tagged along.
Miyazaki and Kiyoko pretended not to notice and continued drinking alcohol.

That night, I did not know what became of each individual, but the next day on Sasamoto's second floor, Kiyoko sat motionless at Miyazaki's bedside—her disheveled hair with strands torn from the roots, her face drained of color—as he continued to sleep deeply. Beneath his ear lay a purple bruise from an impact with something. Okei had carved deep frown lines between her eyebrows, as if resolved not to utter a single unnecessary word. Only her neatly combed hair stood out conspicuously. Even when I was summoned by telephone and went there, Miyazaki remained unconscious. His eyes had sunk deeper still, the flesh from forehead to face receded so cleanly... it appeared almost serene. No trace of pain marked his expression, and he lay utterly motionless. The doctor who had been summoned gazed at his face for a long time before remarking casually, "Just let him sleep undisturbed for two days." From Miyazaki's breast pocket emerged a bottle of Calmotin tablets. Evidently used regularly, its contents had diminished far beyond expected levels of consumption. Kiyoko said nothing. They had meant to stay awake through the night, but became too intoxicated to comprehend anything—that was all that could be pieced together. I found it impossible to believe Miyazaki had harbored any suicidal intent. Yet neither could I definitively assert its complete absence.

Shimamura never came to Sasamoto again after that night.
He nearly vanished from among us as well.
Shizuba was still working as a geisha but frequently took time off under various pretexts.
However, their stories would have to wait for another day.
After all, there have been so many things happening.