Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Toyoshima Yoshio

There was something within me that compelled me to address myself as Sakata—no, not 'Mr. Sakata'—just Sakata, dropping all honorifics.
In other words, it existed within himself.

His mother remained vigorous still, managing all household matters through two maids.
The interior stayed impeccably ordered—tatami mats and karakami paper doors neither aged nor fresh, furnishings arranged without surplus or lack, fresh flowers perpetually arranged in the sitting room’s tokonoma alcove.
The traditions of middle-class existence persisted in damp equilibrium—neither sprouting mold nor blooming flowers—maintaining through every particular an absence of shabbiness or luxury, ambition or despondency, achieving perfect balance through unexceptional moderation.
And behind such living one would naturally anticipate finding those foundational elements: a modest inheritance passed through generations and an unremarkable household head.

However, these two background elements were, in fact, not in equilibrium.

The patriarch—that is, Sakata—was in one sense ordinary, yet in another extended beyond the margins of mediocrity; moreover, it proved impossible to discern whether this protrusion leaned toward wisdom or foolishness. There were various rumors about him. One held that during his student days, after immersing himself in philosophy books until he could no longer organize his conflicting ideas, he had attempted to take his own life. Another claimed that with second-dan kendo skills, he had gathered the local delinquents under him and rampaged through the streets as their leader. He possessed a sturdy build with lean musculature—a fair-skinned handsome man distinguished by his prominent nose—yet his defining traits were pallid cheeks that seemed drained of blood and a distant gaze adrift in midair, as if perpetually hovering on the verge of dozing off. On rare occasions when some emotion welled up within him, his cheeks would flush crimson while a fierce light kindled in the depths of his eyes. It was as though another face might abruptly peer out from beneath the surface of the first. Now nearing forty and still unmarried, various rumors circulated about his private conduct—though these amounted to mere dalliances too trivial to merit elaboration here. Notably absent were any whispers of cohabitation with women or even the faintest suggestion of romantic entanglement. Several years after voluntarily leaving the company connected to his late father, he maintained an ambiguous relationship with an economic magazine as neither investor nor advisor, drifting about with no particular purpose. When at home, he either read miscellaneous books on economics, literature, and natural science in complete disorder or—more often than not—lay sprawled out in drowsy lethargy. His appetite for sleep knew no bounds. He would nap through the afternoon, rouse himself for dinner, skim the evening paper, then promptly return to bed. Whether mentally or physically, he might have been afflicted by some malady. And now he held over 300,000 yen. Still it grew. Nearly all took liquid form—stock certificates or cash rather than real estate. But this matter warrants prior explanation.

It went without saying that Sakata as described above and his assets were fundamentally incompatible with the settled modesty of middle-class life. This household life depended entirely on the mother’s modest savings, the monthly funds Sakata provided her, and her own personal qualities. She was a taciturn, placidly obese elderly woman with an air of enlightenment about her; she refrained from meddlesome remarks toward Sakata and perhaps within her heart imagined expectations of his financial acumen and some future ambition. Therefore, Sakata himself existed within his household as if floating above it—his presence there being no different from that of a boarder.

Sakata’s study seemed to corroborate that fact.
This study was a Western-style room Sakata had remodeled, bearing a completely distinct appearance within the house.
One side featured full glass windows above three-foot-high wainscoting, while the opposite wall held bookshelves, a desk beneath a small window, and to the left, a gas hearth—the room being an ordinary blend of Japanese and Western styles. Yet its furniture and decorations lacked all harmony and unity, appearing as though each piece had been haphazardly acquired one after another.
The writing desk was an unadorned thick plank of oak—reminiscent of a butcher’s block—upon which sat a sturdy rosewood inkstone box and an intricately crafted glass inkstand.
At the center stood a magnificent large round table of cherry wood, surrounded by deep-seated armchairs.
The chairs before the hearth and the sofa to the side were all new and luxurious, but in one corner, two Western-imported leather-upholstered blue armchairs had been forgotten.
On the wall hung Rodin’s sketch of a woman alongside South Seas masks.
The mantelpiece held garish wooden nesting dolls, an Ainu hand-carved wooden box, a rust-eaten old iron five-story pagoda, and other such items.
In this manner, not only was there no trace of traditional middle-class taste to be found anywhere, but the entire room emitted a discordant cacophony.
And on one side of the hearth stood a small cupboard containing bottles of Western liquor and glasses.
“I drink this to ward off drowsiness when I’m busy,” Sakata had said, though whether he ever actually experienced such a thing as a busy period was questionable.

Adjacent to the study lay a narrow room furnished only with a bed, a small table, and a wardrobe.
When returning home late at night drunk, he would collapse there, but ordinarily, whether he slept in that bed or the Japanese-style room varied depending on his mood.

Sakata was in his study, waiting for Nakatsu Toshiko.
"I have a matter of some urgency I wish to discuss, so I will come to visit this evening..." It had been an express letter with this presumptuous yet simple wording—unusually forward given their lack of intimacy.
Sakata read it through again and tried to crumple it in his hand, but this time tore it into small pieces and tossed them into the wastebasket.
And for a moment he began to form a slight smile, but it drowned within his melancholic expression; he began smoking a cigarette, his brow furrowed.

Before long, he took out a small thick ledger from the back of his desk and began intently inspecting it from the first page.
Numbers, dates, and simple characters were lined up.
While tracing them, he would occasionally press a hand to his forehead as if trying to summon memories.

"Tch," I clicked my tongue.
I moved closer to his side.
His melancholy expression just didn't sit right with me; more than anything, I found it disagreeable.

At the very beginning of the first page was inscribed the number 10,000.
This was the primal source of his assets—this alone lay beyond my knowledge or involvement, yet one might say it also demonstrated his formidable prowess.

After his father's death, he and Muroi—his middle school friend—came and inquired about the inheritance amount.
But there had been nothing that could be called a substantial inheritance.
The estate consisted of their residence, one neighboring rental house, some savings under his mother's and his name, and stock certificates and bonds worth around ¥20,000 at market value—that was all.
"However, that's sufficient," Muroi said.
Then he proposed lending collateral property worth about ¥5,000.
He had come to need a substantial sum of money and was short by about ¥5,000, so he asked Sakata to provide collateral for borrowing that amount from the bank—a three-year term, promising to repay double or triple. If he failed to repay, Sakata could reclaim the collateral himself; if even that proved impossible, he should resign himself to thinking the inheritance had been meager... That was roughly the proposal.
Sakata agreed and provided the government bonds as collateral.
Three years later, Muroi brought about triple the amount—¥15,000.
Muroi was laughing, saying everything had gone smoothly.
And he himself, having pocketed a considerable sum of money, abruptly went off to Manchuria.
A paradoxically dashing figure—the sort of man one wants to trust yet cannot.
But when it came to him, it was a different matter.

Sakata reclaimed the government bonds from the bank as collateral and invested the remaining ¥10,000 entirely into market trading.
Truly, with money that might as well have been picked up off the street and having the resolve to lose it all without regret, I could afford to be as aggressive as needed, and luck was on my side… Though of course, that was really because I was behind it all.

Thus, the numbers in that ledger were, so to speak, money that had welled up from nothing.
That Sakata grew increasingly melancholy while inspecting them—no matter how I considered it, it just didn’t sit right with me…
I tried addressing him in a cloying voice.

"Isn't this delightful? Creating something from nothing—this is precisely what it means."

He merely raised his eyebrows slightly and offered no response.

"First comes creation from nothingness; next comes multiplication from existence itself.
That’s the secret to amassing wealth.
Didn’t I tell you?
To hoard money, you mustn’t depend on other methods—you must make the money itself proliferate.
This is an absolute truth.
It worked perfectly."

"It worked too perfectly."

An absentminded reply.
He seemed to be thinking about something else.

“Well, I can’t quite agree with that.”
“The strategy was sound.”
“Here—look at this.”
“That was perilously close to disaster.”
“Just when you switched to selling short, prices kept climbing relentlessly—margin call after margin call stacking up.”
“It’s only because you held firm for three months that we avoided catastrophe. Had you panicked or acted rashly, everything would’ve collapsed.”

“That isn’t the fundamental issue.”

“Then what exactly is the issue?”

“The fact that it always succeeds is what’s strange.”

“Are you still saying such things?”
“Shouldn’t it be expected to succeed?”
“You sell when you think it’s peaked and buy when you think it’s bottomed out—and even if those judgments are off, if what seemed like the peak wasn’t or the bottom wasn’t—as long as you have the financial leeway and nerve to hold on, then barring some catastrophic… revolution or the like, stock prices will behave like a clock’s pendulum. So in a sense, peaks will become peaks and bottoms will become bottoms, won’t they?”
“That’s why it succeeded.”
“It’s not strange at all.”

“No—that’s not it.”
“To say it’s strange that it always works out is just another way of saying it works out so remarkably that it defies belief.”
“So isn’t this merely a numbers game—a play of abstract notions?”

“But you’re actually using that money—the money you earned from it—aren’t you?”

“Hmm, I’m practically using it, yet this market itself remains fictional.”
“That’s precisely what’s strange about it.”

“Why?”
“Didn’t you say from the beginning it was a fairy tale?”
“Didn’t you call it a magic mallet?”
“Even if the mallet itself is an abstract concept, the gold coins it produces are tangible, aren’t they?”
“So… isn’t that sort of fairy tale permissible?”

“At first, I intended it to be a fairy tale.”
“That’s why I kept everything as numbers to maintain the fairy tale—never converting them into real estate.”
“But even so, it can’t stay entirely as cash.”
“They inevitably become stock certificates and government bonds.”
“Government bonds are manageable enough, but stock certificates—once they accumulate beyond a certain point—force you to imagine actual enterprises behind them; they cease being mere abstractions.”
“This means the fairy tale is collapsing.”

“There’s no need to dwell on such background matters.”
“Or if that contradicts your original purpose, you could convert everything into cash and government bonds.”

“I’m considering that right now.”

“Then wouldn’t it suffice to execute it tomorrow?”

“That’s acceptable.
But as you see here, it’s already reached three hundred seventy thousand.
Five hundred thousand will come soon.
Once it hits five hundred thousand, a million becomes effortless.
From a million onward, it’ll…”

“That’s exactly why it’s a fairy tale.
Even if it becomes ten million or a billion—so long as it remains a fairy tale—what difference does it make?”

“No—it’s precarious.”
“Precarious… what do you mean?”

“The fairy tale collapses.”

“There’s no such thing. Do fairy tales have limits? Aren’t numbers like ten million or a billion found in fairy tales?”

“Numbers exist. But when they become money—it ceases to be abstract. No longer a fairy tale.”

“Then convert it into magnificent artworks or jewels instead—that would make it a fairy tale. Or perhaps—a vast forest... mountains... islands....”

“I’ve considered that too. …But even before that—it’s still precarious.”

“Why is that?”

“It’s a fundamental problem—something arising from nothing.”

“But aren’t all fairy tales like that?”

“No—that’s not it. It existed from the beginning… whether as something abstract or substantial…”

“It never existed from the start.”

“It existed from the beginning.”

It finally devolved into a futile back-and-forth.

In that case, I should just keep quiet.

Sakata appeared deep in meditation when he abruptly stood up, walked around the room a bit, put away the ledger, stretched out on the couch, and sank back into meditation.

It was past eight in the evening when Nakatsu Toshiko arrived. Sakata threw himself onto the couch and sank into deep contemplation. His cheeks were drained of color, and his gaze seemed veiled by a thin curtain. He seemed unable to recall Toshiko even upon seeing her business card in that instant. Then he called to stop the maid and said it was fine to show her in here rather than to the sitting room.

Upon entering, Toshiko performed a formal bow before stopping there. Her taut cheeks flushed suddenly, and her intelligent eyes were cast downward. Sakata gazed fixedly at her, but his expression was as though he were seeing someone other than the person he had expected. Unnaturally long—taking as much as ten seconds—when the image before his eyes and his consciousness finally converged, color rushed into Sakata’s cheeks. But it faded the next instant, and he seated himself at the central round table, having ushered Toshiko to the opposite side.

“Um… I hope I’m not intruding,” Toshiko said in a low voice.

“No, it’s no trouble.”

Sakata puffed on his cigarette while Toshiko casually surveyed the room.
The room’s appearance seemed entirely different from what she had imagined, drawing her attention away.
Through wisps of cigarette smoke, Sakata gazed absently at her casually tied-up hair and purple-striped Omeshi meisen kimono.
With natural grace, she turned her face aside, fixed her eyes on the doll atop the hearth shelf, and let a stiff smile rise to her cheeks.

“I met Mr. Nakatsu… your brother last night,” Sakata said abruptly.

Toshiko visibly startled, then for the first time looked directly at his face.
The unexpected impulse struck her; this very shock seemed to heighten her mental tension while paradoxically fortifying and steadying her composure.

“I hadn’t heard anything about it… Where…?”

“Didn’t Mr. Nakatsu say anything to you?”

“Yes.
Last night… when my brother returned, I was already asleep, and this morning…”

“Your brother must’ve been the one oversleeping.”
“Last night, he was thoroughly drunk, so…”

And Sakata assumed an oddly melancholic expression.

“It seems it was already late.”
“After getting drunk and wandering the back alleys of Ginza, when I stepped into a small bar, there was Mr. Nakatsu—also alone—drinking.”
“Then both of us got truly drunk, talked at length until we couldn’t make heads or tails of anything… but anyway, he was in high spirits.”

Sakata’s melancholic expression had deepened further.

“Did my brother say anything at that time?”

“There was nothing coherent—just the two of us rambling on pointlessly…”

Toshiko fixedly watched Sakata’s face as if probing.

“How do you regard my brother?”

“People don’t change so abruptly.”
“Only circumstances change.”
“Mr. Nakatsu seems to have grown quite cheerful lately—as if he sees bright prospects ahead.”
“I must have missed it last night—has he found employment somewhere?”

And he let slip a bitter smile.

I had been vaguely listening to their conversation from my favorite spot above the hearth—inside that old iron five-story pagoda—but Sakata’s words felt utterly hollow. That bitter smile of his was especially insufferable.

“That’s wrong,” Toshiko shouted.
“Everything you’re telling me is lies.”

That’s a complete lie.
I know because I was with him last night—Nakatsu at that time wore a jacket with mended elbows and trousers frayed at the hems, his face gaunt with flesh fallen away, his complexion suggesting he might be suffering from a stomach ailment.
When Sakata entered, he looked startled, then hurriedly stood up and bowed.
And though the two of them started drinking together, Nakasu repeatedly began explaining the reason for stopping by such a house.
The explanation seemed meant as an excuse.
Lately he had grown distant from alcohol, but after a certain gathering with friends, he had come for the first time in a while—or that he had arranged to meet someone there for some discussion—in short, trivial reasons, all delivered in a tone one might use with someone to whom they’d sworn off drinking.
Then the conversation abruptly shifted to topics such as the general state of the economy, difficulties in finding employment, rice prices, and the Rice Control Law.
Sakata was only vaguely lending an ear.
When Sakata stood up, Nakatsu also rose and followed.
The two of them entered another bar, drank Western liquor, and then went into a sushi restaurant.
Nakatsu was gradually becoming more energetic.
He also said that government facilities, while using the people as their signboard, utterly betray the people.
“I also said I’d rouse myself from now on and fight for the people.”
“He also said that a certain playboy son of a wealthy man had taken a particular interest in her and even spoke of wanting to marry her—but that if he overstepped, he intended to beat him up.”
“He also said that it was only right for my sister to have torn up that check.”
“Even if I am a dropout, I intend to keep a man’s pride.”
“And the determination to spurn bourgeois selfishness is always there.”
“I fully understand the psychology behind my sister tearing up that check of yours.”
“But I am grateful to you.”
“I’ve taken it to heart completely.”

“I’m merely speaking in general terms.”
“I’m talking about that spirit of my sister’s.”
My sister had apparently realized later that it had been a misunderstanding.
“But generally... generally speaking—we, both my sister and I... we despise the bourgeois.”
“It’s precisely for that reason that I despise you too.”
“You won’t do such… dishonorable things anymore, right?”
“Do you think a person’s body can be bought with money?”
“That’s a huge mistake.”
“The point we rebel against is precisely that…”
He went on repeating such things—then praised his sister’s plucky spirit, then exposed the inner hardships of their impoverished family life: his mother’s illness, his frail wife burdened with a young child.

Exiting the sushi restaurant and now on a street where the foot traffic was already beginning to dwindle, Sakata came to an abrupt stop and thrust two ten-yen bills at Nakatsu.
Nakatsu looked blankly puzzled.

“Take it.”
“Haven’t you come to borrow more once or twice since then?”
“Don’t you want it today?”
“I can’t drink anymore.”
“This is the leftover change.”

Nakatsu, swaying unsteadily, silently accepted the money.

Leaving Nakatsu there, Sakata started walking briskly.
“With those dog-like eyes, he just keeps following me everywhere.”
He muttered those words under his breath, repeating them several times more—yet strangely, a single tear streamed down his cheek…

All those things may have been mere events in thick fog for the two of them, thoroughly drunk as they were, but Sakata's words to Toshiko were far too hollow.

“What you’re saying is all lies,” Toshiko said.
“My brother may be beyond saving now.”
“He comes home drunk nearly every night.”
“I thought everything had been settled after that incident, but some debts apparently remained unresolved. What’s more, he keeps dabbling in market speculation here and there—seems he’s racked up new debts again.”
“Lately I hear he’s been loitering around Kakaigara-cho area doing something called Gōhyaku.”
“They say you only need two or three yen to play… though they also say even beggars stoop to such things…”

She turned bright red and, with utmost seriousness, stared fixedly at Sakata’s face as she continued speaking bluntly yet methodically.
But Sakata averted his eyes and seemed to be deep in thought about something else.

Sakata suddenly raised his face and gazed at Toshiko.
But still, his gaze remained distant.

“Why did Mr. Nakatsu get involved in something like market trading?”

His abstracted tone instead seemed to pierce deep into Toshiko’s heart. She answered with the faint shadow of an ambiguous smile.

“After all… he must have wanted money.”

“Was it truly that necessary?”

“How should I know? I don’t understand such matters…”

“If it was truly necessary, why did he only incur losses?”

Toshiko didn’t reply and instead smiled genuinely.

“There’s no law forcing him to wallow in such poverty.”
“When he could’ve lived quietly, why deliberately choose destitution?”
“With a mother… and a sister—having married and even sired children—he should’ve stayed put.”
“Instead he wrecks everything—wandering with dog’s eyes, clinging to people…”

Sakata abruptly fell silent.
Toshiko suddenly stiffened her cheeks and widened her eyes.

“Well then… um, since that time as well, I have come to make another request.”

Sakata did not reply.
After a while, he pressed the call bell, summoned the maid, and ordered coffee.

It somehow felt like a signal to abruptly end the conversation. Toshiko fell silent and remained rigid. Those eyes were glistening.

Sakata sipped his coffee and began pacing around the room. He seemed furious. He also seemed deep in thought. Before long, his eyes began to gleam with an uncanny intensity. He went to the wastebasket, stirred through its contents, and retrieved Toshiko’s torn letter.

“This is the express letter that arrived from you today.”
“I tore it up and threw it away exactly like this.”
“You tearing up my... that thing and this exactly cancel each other out.”
“With this, we can now speak as equals.”

Toshiko’s complexion changed; biting her lip, she stared at Sakata.
Sakata crumpled the scraps of paper and tossed them back into the wastebasket, then settled into his chair.

“So then… What is your business?”

The strange thing was that until then, both Toshiko and Sakata had acted as though they had completely forgotten their actual business.
But first, let us explain this matter of tearing—when Nakatsu, hounded by debts from all sides, had reached utter desperation; when his self-destructive dissipation forced him to quit his company job; when his wife lay ill after childbirth at home; when every recourse had been exhausted—it was then that he came seeking Sakata's counsel, and Sakata agreed to intervene.
Having settled all debts on condition that Nakatsu refrain henceforth from market speculation and similar ventures, he wrote out a check for seventeen thousand yen and handed it over.
Nakatsu vowed regarding his future conduct.
In heartfelt gratitude, he confided everything to his sister Toshiko.
Toshiko's countenance altered.
At that time, driven by financial hardship, she had voluntarily taken employment at a certain department store.
Yet through some chance occurrence, she had learned how Sakata had seduced and toyed with one of her coworkers there.
The story went that he lured the girl with honeyed words, took her somewhere to violate her, then when matters threatened to become public, maneuvered through connections with the department manager to bury the affair—though the full truth need not be exposed here—in any case, it was said he committed this outrage through monetary means.
Moreover—though this came to be surmised only later—there appeared to have been some emotional entanglement between Toshiko and Sakata as well.
In short, Toshiko became incensed.
She expounded upon her own position of working at a department store, rebuked her brother, denounced Sakata violently, and tore up Sakata's check.
Nakatsu stood dumbfounded at this unforeseen outcome.
Somehow managing to placate Toshiko, he gathered the torn check fragments and came apologizing to Sakata.
He could hardly conceal the circumstances.
Sakata rewrote the check and gave it anew.
Then he said:
"I won't make excuses—though there seem to be various misunderstandings regarding that incident."
"But you may indeed be right."
With this he showed no inclination to pursue the matter further—or rather, such concerns now seemed trivial compared to some weightier problem that had surfaced in his mind.

Sakata leaned deeply back in his chair and waited for a reply.
Toshiko kept staring at his face and remained silent.

“What is your business?” Sakata repeated.

A hint of anguish surfaced in Toshiko's eyes.
As she steadfastly endured it, her face began to shine coldly and beautifully.

She differed from her brother by twelve or thirteen years. Though the two sisters between them—one married, one having died young—were far older than her, perhaps because of this, a carefree willfulness remained within her; cloaked in rationality and further tinged with suffering, it revealed a fresh kind of beauty. Moreover, her facial features—with shoulders somewhat broad yet her frame slender—had a quality that became more striking when alone than among others; her short-lidded, deep-set eyes and mouth would emerge distinctly as tension rose. Sakata met her gaze directly and intently.

She averted her eyes as if frightened.

“I… no longer need to say it.”

“Are you afraid to say it?”

“You… despise me… look down on me, don’t you?”
“I understand.”
“You must think me a shameless woman.”
“I understand perfectly.”

She suddenly let a single tear fall.
And as if rebelling against it herself, she continued in a trembling voice.

“I understand perfectly.”
“But...but I didn’t mean it that way.”
“Brother is like that, sister-in-law is like that, and with poor sick Mother… If it’s for Mother’s sake, then two hundred yen… For you it’s such a trivial amount… I thought it would be all right to ask.”
“But it’s all right now.”
“I’ve come to fully understand that it was my mistake.”
“I will never...ask anything of you again.”
“If you despise me...I’ll return the contempt.”

Sakata crossed his arms and sank into thought.
Whether he had heard her words or not, he remained silent for a long while.
Then suddenly he stood up and began pacing.
Abruptly, as if tossing a stone, he spoke.

"How can you stand it?"

Toshiko glanced briefly at him, but his words seemed not to reach her; she lowered her face and bit her lip.

Sakata began to speak in a soliloquizing tone as he walked.

“I often have these thoughts.”
“I like sitting quietly in places like cafés or restaurants—the kind with glass doors facing the street where you can watch people come and go. All sorts pass by.”
“There’s a woman who buys cheap sweets at the confectionery shop, wraps the paper bag in a furoshiki cloth, and carries it away like some treasure.”
“But why must she eat such things?”
“There’s a delivery boy straining under a huge load on his bicycle.”
“Why must he carry such burdens?”
“There’s a young woman teetering on ridiculous high heels, putting on airs as she click-clacks down the street.”
“Why must she wear those things and rush about?”
“And you... you came to me—enduring humiliation—to secure two hundred yen for your mother and household.”
“Why must you do this?”
“Why must it fall to you?”
“...This is childish thinking—absurd, trivial ideology.”
“But what if such thoughts make you despise humanity? Loathe the world itself?”
“Imagine a man who seeks something—anything—that might clash against him... resistance, yes resistance... who drinks himself senseless... chases geishas... seduces department store clerks... What would you make of him?”
“And yet... where does such resistance exist?”
“Women sell themselves; men leer like dogs—if money solves everything...”
“If one retreats homeward, detesting all existence... drifting through days in half-sleep... That man—is me.”
“Don’t you despise me?”
“To claim otherwise would be false.”
“You do despise me.”

Sakata stopped and stared fixedly at Toshiko.
The light in his eyes had grown strangely dim, making it unclear whether he was truly seeing anything.
Toshiko gave a slight shiver.
Sakata resumed walking.

"But what if such things—happiness...luck—were to blame?"
“Mr. Nakatsu missed completely in the market, but I hit perfectly.”
“Luck was good.”
“And money came into being.”
“That is—the numbers increased.”
“Imaginary numbers…”
“And those imaginary numbers lift people into midair—or rather, push them to the edge of a cliff.”
“It’s the edge of a high cliff....At such a moment—don’t you think of pushing that worthless man off the cliff...pushing him off?”

Toshiko looked at Sakata quizzically.

“Don’t you think of killing him?”

“No.”

It had been a resolute reply, yet one that emerged almost instinctively—Toshiko seemed to hear it as though it were someone else’s voice, clearly flustered… then suddenly flushed crimson.

“Why don’t you kill him?”

“I won’t do the killing myself.”

“You won’t kill him yourself…”

“I’ll have someone else do the killing.”

They had engaged in this abrupt exchange while staring intently into each other’s eyes, and afterward remained frozen in place for some time…
Toshiko drew back.
Sakata sank into the chair as though reeling.

Sakata closed his eyes in the chair.
His cheeks were pale enough that one might say they held no trace of blood.

Toshiko started to rise twice or so, only to sit back down each time.
Then she began to gaze around the room—at each piece of furniture and decoration one by one—as if to firmly imprint them on her mind.
And when she again looked at the ornament atop the hearth mantelpiece, Sakata opened his eyes.

“Toshiko-san.”
He called her that and paused briefly.
“Tell me—from your childhood until now—either the happiest thing you’ve felt or the saddest. Whichever you prefer.”

Toshiko remained silent.

“Anything’s fine.”
“Just one thing that’s stayed with you—that’s all I need.”

He crossed his arms, closed his eyes again, leaned back deeply into the chair, and waited.

Toshiko abruptly began speaking in a quiet tone without moving a muscle.

“...Since my mother’s milk wasn’t enough for me, there was a wet nurse.”
“That wet nurse stayed at our house until I was six or seven—before I started elementary school—then took her leave and left.”
“I must have been terribly sad when she left—though I don’t remember it well.”
“And… about a month later, she came to visit me.”
“It felt strange—both happy and terribly awkward.”
“She talked with Mother and helped in the kitchen, but we had dinner earlier than usual, then she took just me out to play on the riverbank.”
“It was a river right by our town.”
“Summertime—still bright out—with little fish leaping on the water’s surface.”
“She had me sit on the grassy bank, sat down right beside me, and stayed silent for ages.”
“I sang a song but grew bored of that too—when I looked at her, tears were streaming down her cheeks.”
“‘Nanny, why are you crying?’ I asked—then she really started sobbing aloud, clutching my shoulders.”
“I felt sad too and began tearing up—she stared hard at my face before saying, ‘Young mistress, I did something wrong.’”
“‘Please forgive me,’ she said, bowing her head.”
“I didn’t understand at all.”
“When she kept asking ‘Will you forgive me?’ I just said ‘I’ll forgive anything.’”
“Then she heaved a deep sigh—I hadn’t even noticed it till then—and opened this small cloth bundle she’d been holding.”
“Inside was wrapped in newspaper again.”
“When she took off the paper—Ah!—I cried out.”
“My kimono… a yuzen-patterned kinsha lined robe with huge red peonies.”
“She placed it on my lap and apologized.”

“Because parting with you, young mistress, was too painful—even though I knew it was wrong—I stole this kimono and took it home.”
“I knew they would give it if I asked, but somehow I couldn’t bring myself to say it, so I stole it quietly.”
“But afterward, tormented by guilt, I cried so bitterly.”
“And today I’ve come to return it—I’ve confessed the theft only to you, young mistress—I intend to seek forgiveness for my sin—please pardon me… That’s how it was.”
“I threw myself at the wet nurse’s neck.”
“And I said I’d give her the kimono.”
“But the wet nurse wouldn’t take it.”
“‘I confessed to seek your forgiveness—it wasn’t to receive the kimono,’ she kept insisting.”
“But in the end, I threw a tantrum and made the wet nurse accept the kimono.”
“The wet nurse once again carefully wrapped it in newspaper, then in a cloth bundle.”
“The sun had already set, leaving a hazy glow, but the wet nurse’s face was radiant.”
“I walked home holding the wet nurse’s hand.”
“That moment… I can never forget it…”

Even after falling silent, Toshiko remained motionless, her eyes fixed on a corner of the room. Her face was cold and clear, devoid of expression. She appeared indifferent to being watched by Sakata.

Sakata's eyes were glaring. His cheeks had a tinge of red. He apparently hadn’t been listening closely. He made a gesture as if rebelling against something. After a while, he stood up and took a step or two toward Toshiko while keeping his gaze fixed on her.

“Let’s stop this talk.”
“But….”

He hesitated.

“I truly loved you… I still do.”

In a tone that blurred love and loathing—by the time Toshiko gave a faint shudder—he had already flung himself against her shoulder, face buried there.
She tried to thrust him away, but in the next instant closed her eyes and clasped his head—

I had no choice but to keep watching silently.
Their interaction was so damn serious that I had no chance to interject, and moreover, there lurked within me a complexity that never quite sat right.
As for what transpired between the two of them that night, there is nothing more that need be said.
However, where my prediction had been completely off was regarding Sakata the next day.

The following morning, around 4:30, Sakata and Toshiko leaned against the window that had been left open since the night before and gazed outside.
The eastern sky had already brightened, and the stars in midheaven faintly twinkled.
Toshiko’s hair was disheveled and her face pale, but Sakata—though his hair too was tousled—wore a bright, refreshed expression with a gaze filled with intensity.

While looking at the brightening eastern sky, seemingly gazing into its depths, they held each other's hands.
Eventually, as if her strength had given out, Toshiko quietly rested her head on Sakata shoulder.
Sakata led her to the sofa.
And there, leaning against each other and embracing shoulder to shoulder, they closed their eyes.

Whether they had actually fallen asleep like that remained impossible to determine.
Occasionally, one of them would faintly open their eyes only to close them again.
They would do so approximately every twenty or thirty minutes.

Around six o'clock, after sunlight began to stream in, the two stood up.
They exchanged an ambiguous smile and then averted their gaze.
Using a single comb of Sakata's, they both smoothed their hair.
Toshiko looked around the room, then peered into the neighboring one as well.
Then the two left together.

A little over an hour later, Sakata returned alone.
The maids were still asleep.
Sakata stretched his arms wide, then began pacing around the room in circles.
Strangely, his complexion began to shine with an unhealthy undertone.
He walked for nearly an hour.
He seemed to move mechanically, unconsciously.
He appeared mentally unable to stay still yet showed no signs of active thought.
Then he suddenly stopped, tilted his head slightly, strode briskly to the desk, pulled out the usual ledger, and began tearing it apart without a glance.
Apparently, my plan had failed.
I withdrew into that iron five-story pagoda and had to start thinking anew.
But I don't dislike Sakata.