Pathway to Japanese Literature

Author: Toyoshima Yoshio

I

Imamura gazed at his watch again and, seeing there was still about thirty minutes until seven, ordered another cup of coffee and began to smoke.
Leaning one elbow on the table and propping his chin in his palm, he would occasionally close his eyelids only to snap them open again as if startled.
Now that it's come to this—it's mine.
However, since I also needed to give myself a final boost of energy and felt like tickling the pit of my stomach—Are you sleepy? Or are your eyelids heavy?
Either way, it amounts to the same thing—pull yourself together.
Your new taupe hat stands out stiffly new, whereas Oshima's kimono and haori have lost their creases and hang limply—but that doesn't mean you yourself should be so mismatched.
What are you getting so twitchy about?

You should just stay sitting still right there.
Like a corpse—limp and listless—you should just prop your body up there.
Since the day before yesterday, even I’ve been somewhat amazed—you’ve really been quite something.
You must be somewhat tired by now.
Your eyelids are swollen, your face puffy and bloodless, your hair standing on end.
The whites of your eyes are clouded over.
Your entire face looks as if wax had been spread beneath a single layer of epidermis.
But isn’t that exactly what you wanted?
In truth, even I was amazed by your plan.

Weren't you actually in love with Ms. Namie?
Just come clean already.
Huh? 'I don't really understand'—that's exactly why your indecisiveness makes me hate you, I say.
Shall I lay it all out for you step by step?

I'll say it clearly.
Ms. Namie was the daughter of a Fukuoka restaurateur.
Therefore, her father owned a restaurant.
That restaurant owner plunged into politics, became a city council member, and even conceived ambitions of becoming a Diet member.
This required substantial funds.
At this juncture, wealthy Mr. Kurokawa began pursuing Ms. Namie.
Ms. Namie's father could hardly object.
Ms. Namie—whether coerced remains unclear—was ultimately persuaded to marry Mr. Kurokawa despite their twenty-year age difference, becoming his second wife.
As time passed, Mr.Kurokawa's debauchery grew increasingly brazen while her family home neared bankruptcy from political expenses—a situation that greatly inconvenienced Mr.Kurokawa himself.
Amid these circumstances, Ms.Namie fled Fukuoka for Tokyo.
An aunt resided in Tokyo.
The two women opened a small restaurant in a Nihonbashi back alley.
Initially they managed adequately, but after her aunt's death the business faltered.
She approached thirty.
Thus through ambiguous arrangements she came to receive subsidies and enter Mr.Hiraga's care.
Given these facts alone, there's nothing particularly remarkable about it—wouldn't you agree?

If one only traces the surface, there’s nothing strange about worldly matters, but beneath lies a weave of bizarre psychological intricacies.
Years ago, when you returned to your hometown of Fukuoka, you became acquainted with Ms. Namie through your mother; at that time she still carried traces of a schoolgirl’s essence, was embroiled in marriage negotiations with Mr. Kurokawa, while you yourself remained innocent—then on that Obon evening during the lantern-floating ceremony, through some trick of fate, the two of you shared a kiss.
That part I rather liked—how you completely went your separate ways afterward: you returning to Tokyo, Ms. Namie entering marriage.
Yet when Ms. Namie came to Tokyo and started her small restaurant, she began writing you letters, and off you’d hurry to visit her.
As for your reunion scene then—I missed witnessing it—what was it like?
Was it sweet? Was it bitter?

Ms. Namie had changed too—being precisely in her feminine prime despite enduring hardships, she retained brightness and carefree imagination; yet precisely through her broad understanding of society, she maintained common sense with flashes of intellect while mastering customer interactions. So to speak, only half her respectable bearing remained. After all, she sprang from restaurateur stock—a southern woman through and through. Moreover, women from proper households who fall from grace naturally develop distinctive charms once liberated. In the end, didn't she start bar-hopping with customers to teahouses and bars?

That shop was practically sustained by Ms. Namie alone; without her, it simply didn’t function.
The atmosphere was gloomy, the drinks passable, but the food dull.
The chicken mizutaki they touted as authentic Hakata-style tasted worse than any common mizutaki place in Tokyo—it was appalling.
Admittedly, being an oden shop-style makeshift eatery lacking proper equipment, it couldn’t be helped.
And that okiyuto... That thing was merely novel.
They claimed it came from special seaweed locals adored, but wasn’t it just coarse tokoroten jelly with a briny scent slapped on?
They’d taken what looked like dried rice crackers, soaked them overnight to plump up—no wonder the flavor paled next to the real thing.
With just that okiyuto, dreadful mizutaki, a few token dishes and booze, the place couldn’t possibly thrive.

It's about why you kept frequenting that place to drink. An English teacher at a vocational school—though your status might be low—you're a cultural critic attracting considerable attention, once standing as a proletarian movement sympathizer before devoting yourself to cultural history research. And yet there you were—visiting that place to sometimes grow strangely talkative or lapse into oddly sentimental silence, all while remaining constantly drawn to Ms. Namie, your eyes pulled her way—wasn't that how it went? Ms. Namie acted strangely too—she rarely made you settle the bill, sometimes even quietly slipping you a ten-yen note. If we tallied everything—though such things don't appear in ledgers—you might've been eating and drinking there gratis from the start. Had there been some contrived rationale about future glorious achievements—whether from you or Ms. Namie—that would be different. But with none of that—everything having slovenly developed on its own—isn't that rather peculiar? Though I must say I adore such things myself... From an ordinary person's perspective— That's why strange rumors spread and strange consequences follow. Yet you couldn't see it through to the end, could you?

If only you'd converted to my methods—my school of thought—a little sooner.
Your expression when you sniffed out Mr. Hiraga and Ms. Namie's connection was downright farcical.
There was Mr. Hiraga handing Ms. Namie a small paper parcel before four or five customers—she accepted it and promptly tucked it away.
Yet he coolly proceeded to trumpet its contents straight to your face, didn't he?
Some miracle cure called Myōhōmaru—exclusive to Horinouchi's Oso-sama—panacea for all stomach ailments, absolutely no side effects, tested since his grandmother's era or some such rot...
That man's all polished manners and calm deportment, but make no mistake—he's a seasoned operator.
Once folks hit fifty, they all turn into seasoned operators anyway.
Regardless—the way he passed that medicine, how she received it and stashed it instantly—it reeked of intimacy only close associates would display.
You caught onto that immediately—typical of your sharpness.
Then you just clammed up and drowned yourself in drink.

The next time, it was even clearer.
Still early in the evening, Mr. Hiraga was already quite drunk—when he tried to go outside, he stumbled into a palm bamboo pot placed there—whereupon Ms. Namie, who followed him out, lent a hand to support him.
Where normally one might laugh with a "Ha ha, he's drunk!" or similar remark, the two of them stood there whispering about something.
Could that be about the price of round cypress logs?
It must be about the restaurant’s layout.
While straining your ears, you grew irritated and then sullen.

If even what met your eyes suggested that much, then what transpired in the shadows became painfully clear.
And when Mr. Hiraga's name arose as if by chance and you learned he was an executive at some company, your eyes went round with shock.
Truly, he lacked the bearing of a company executive.
But hearing it was a partnership firm dealing in cotton fabrics, there should have been nothing surprising about it.
What truly startled me was how you greeted him that time.

“I couldn’t manage anymore, so I asked Mr. Hiraga for a financial favor, but…” — “Is it acceptable to degenerate like this?”

At that moment, Ms. Namie bit her lip and turned into a cold stone statue.
A woman’s resolve—through what circumstances it may form or toward what direction it may turn—remains unknowable.
A heart sincere enough to stake one’s life upon—such a thing is rarely found, and unless clinging to it, one forever floats adrift.
No—a man’s resolve proves equally unreliable.
If you examine your own circumstances carefully, you should comprehend this.

However, I agree with you.
I agree with you completely.
After all, there was merit in my estimation.

The other day was lovely.
Oh, that was the school’s academic year opening social gathering or something like that, wasn’t it?
That whole sphere was more depressing than anything.
Their salaries were meager, they had to maintain a decent standard of living, yet they had no extra work like night shifts that factory workers took on—desperately clinging to the little time—and thus their salaries—they had, while seizing any opportunity to steal others’ time whenever possible.
Then, taking a hint from that, I once conceived of an amusing idea.
Establish a company and hire many employees at low salaries.
Even with low salaries, given how teeming with unemployed people things were nowadays, there’d be no shortage of employees.
If you hired more employees than there was work for, they’d be packed into the office from morning till night, and in their desperation not to lose their positions, sordid competition, backstabbing, and internal strife would arise.
What an amusing spectacle that would present, wouldn’t it?

By the way, that... social gathering, was it? There was someone making insinuations about you. Because you were somewhat careless yourself, people thoroughly misunderstood matters regarding Ms. Namie—all sorts of rumors circulated behind your back, spreading outlandish scandalous tales. The problem was this: as you became slightly known as a critic, some called you an arrogant bastard, while others who took your side went out of their way to report the rumors—that you were involved with the woman from the small restaurant or exploiting women—making the whole affair terribly vexing. At the social gathering, since everyone had gotten drunk, their pointed insinuations came out in full force. However, you were also somewhat drunk, and likely in a foul mood.

You marched straight over to Mr. Tsukada—who’d been slandering you all this time—and said just one thing: “Tsukada-kun.” Without your complexion changing, with perfectly composed demeanor—it was splendid. The way you struck him with a fist to the cheek just as he turned when called, then strode briskly out of the venue—that was excellent. When hitting someone, that’s the proper technique. You suddenly deliver a blow; while the opponent staggers and stands dumbfounded, before they can even prepare for a fight, you smoothly withdraw. If it turns into a full-on brawl with punches and grappling—whether you win or lose—it won’t bring that refreshing clarity or clean satisfaction.

If I'm to be honest, hitting Mr. Tsukada was terribly disadvantageous to you.
If it's baseless slander, one should simply ignore it—but if you go so far as to hit someone, that implies there was substance to it.
If you did that knowing full well the consequences, then you're quite something.
But in truth, that still carried traces of being an outburst of temper.
Look here—because of that incident's influence too, didn't you become strangely serious toward Ms. Namie?
Ms. Namie also seems to have heard about that incident from someone.
There was a meddlesome fellow, wasn't there.

Due to all that, it had become strangely difficult for you and Ms. Namie to have unreserved conversations, hadn't it? When intimate relationships grow strained in communication, an explosion inevitably occurs eventually. I had been eagerly awaiting it. Yet it turned out unexpectedly banal. Couldn't it have unfolded more straightforwardly?

It was indeed Ms. Namie who proposed it first—saying since you seemed despondent, she'd treat you to lift your spirits. That moment resembled an exchange of cryptic riddles. When Ms. Namie inquired what troubled you, how could you have uttered such preposterous lies about lacking funds for essential books? Then Ms. Namie pressed a hundred-yen note into your palm. The mutual understanding that this charade signified her becoming dependent on Mr. Hiraga's patronage made the whole affair utterly absurd.

Afterward, growing oddly maudlin in the bar booth, Ms. Namie pressed herself inch by inch against you while murmuring about wanting to see the ocean together... which inevitably rekindled nostalgic memories of that distant night when you'd shared a kiss during Fukuoka's lantern-floating ceremony by the shore. As you both drank gin cocktails, you'd grown quite sentimental indeed. And how thoroughly unbecoming it was—maintaining a lively facade through empty words while your true feelings sank like stones into the depths of your chest.

That night, you hardly slept at all.
You kept tossing restlessly all night long, didn't you?
Then came morning—a telegram from Ms. Namie arrived, soon followed by an express letter: she couldn't meet today but proposed meeting the day after tomorrow at seven in the evening, planning to stay overnight... You promptly wrote your consent and sank into brooding silence.
What consumed your thoughts?
Though I warned you repeatedly, you lay motionless on the veranda—impossible to tell whether awake or asleep.
By your social justice standards, Ms. Namie trading her body for money and entering this mistress-like existence might seem unforgivable.
But in her line of work, keeping a patron or two is standard practice.
Can you truly believe she's touched no man since coming to Tokyo?
Setting that aside—wasn't your deep contemplation focused less on such matters than something far more immediate and personal?

At first, even I couldn’t quite grasp your true intentions.
When evening came, in haste—wearing an Oshima-style kimono and straw sandals, no hat, no luggage, just a single cane, with 100 yen received from Ms. Namie and all the money you could muster in your pocket—you abruptly set out on what was supposed to be a four- or five-day trip.
Not just Mother and the maid—everyone would be surprised.

Because you first bought that taupe hat, I smiled for the first time.
Then you drank your fill in the Ginza backstreets, holed up at a waiting house in Fujimicho that night, drank again the next day, returned to the Ginza backstreets at night, and finally made your way to Yoshiwara late into the evening.
At first glance you might think it was self-abandonment—but it wasn’t really.
It was a strangely proactive kind of debauchery, wasn’t it?
And you ended up wasting all your energy, didn’t you.

Now that it's come to this, this must be what you truly wanted. All that remains is to put it to the test. You needn't watch the clock—Ms. Namie will certainly come. She might be slightly late, but just settle in calmly. You look utterly spent. Of course you do. But why this constant twitching? Is your chest churning too?

That was rather amusing, wasn't it? I knew you drank, but never imagined to such excess. Having roughly grasped your true intentions—now that we're here, within my jurisdiction—I thoroughly indulged myself as well. Do you recall? Hmm, not clearly... Naturally. Let me share something curious. When you reached the bridge abutment in Ginza's backstreets, you kept trying to climb the railing. Yet oddly enough, never leaning out sufficiently, you failed repeatedly. Though leaning too far would've sent you tumbling into the ditch's muck. Even drunk, you retained enough caution—but misapplied it, perpetually sliding backward. Watching you, I realized—this is how humans are even sober, no? If only you'd steeled your resolve slightly, standing properly on that bridge rail without timidly jutting your rear should've been simple enough, shouldn't it?

Whether you went to Fujimicho or Yoshiwara, on the nights you went there, you were energetic, proactive, and bestial—but come morning, you’d put on a solemn face and turn sullen. That sort of thing made women dislike you. What happened? Was it your conscience—or perhaps your pride—that had been wounded? Then you shouldn’t have gone in the first place. Once you went—and carried it out with clear intent—what reason was there to feel displeased the next morning?

This afternoon, you plunged into the first public bathhouse you found—the expansive washing area completely empty of patrons, afternoon sunlight streaming through glass-paned doors as steam hung faintly in the air.
Having emerged from the bathwater, you sprawled in that sunlit spot and stared vacantly at the flesh of your chest, stomach, and limbs.
Seen like this, your body does appear somewhat beautiful.
A man's body fresh from bathing must surely be more beautiful than a woman's.
Had you been thinking about that woman's flesh you'd touched the previous night then, it would've been natural to frown—yet instead you seemed almost entranced.
This is debauchery's nature: through being cleansed by an ugly woman's flesh, one's own grows ever more beautiful.
If you'd even momentarily imagined Ms. Namie's body as beautiful then, that would've been a grave error.
There's no possibility Ms. Namie's flesh could surpass in beauty those women you've known.
Need one look beyond that poorly powdered skin of hers to understand?

You gazed entranced at your own body, then through the glass door squinted at a faintly hazy corner of the sky. What were you thinking about at that moment? After a considerable time had passed, you stood up, stretched and bent your arms, did something resembling calisthenics, collapsed after a few attempts, reentered the bath, rested the nape of your neck against the bath's edge, and floated limply on your back like a corpse. Thanks to that, hasn't your body completely shed its oiliness, drained away its strength, and left even your bones utterly limp? If that too was one of your intentions, it was an inspired notion.

The one thing that doesn't sit right with me is how you remained perfectly calm after leaving the bathhouse—wandering a bit, getting a shave, finishing a light meal at the Western-style restaurant—yet grew restless as night fell.
Even when you stopped by a bar, didn’t you come right back out?
What on earth are you so agitated about?
Surely you haven’t come to regret it.
Your face looked as though wax had been applied beneath a single layer of epidermis.
Your body was exhausted to the core, drained of all elasticity.
Isn’t this exactly as you intended?
And what an abnormal attempt it was.
If you don’t break through this now, everything will collapse.
Calm down and wait motionless for the hour.
If it becomes too much, I’ll lend you another clever scheme.
That quivering rising from your chest—isn’t this disgraceful?
If nausea grips you, try downing a glass of whiskey.

“Oh, what’s wrong?”
“What are you so startled about?”
“…”

Ignoring my own verbosity, Imamura stiffened his face, widened his eyes roundly, and stared straight ahead.
When I looked back, there stood Namie.
Clad in a mostly black striped silk kimono with a whitish obi scattered with floral patterns, she carried a small leather handbag and draped a velvet-patterned shawl over her shoulders; her face bore the usual faint makeup applied as mere formality, yet it was oddly flushed, her eyes tinged with excitement as she started to smile only to stop midway before resolutely approaching.

“I’m sorry for being late…”
“Have you been waiting long?”

She stared fixedly at Imamura for just an instant, then immediately settled herself close beside him. And she restlessly alternated between apologizing for two days prior, ordering coffee, inquiring about destinations—at one point mentioning having reserved a room with an ocean view—all while blending the demeanor of a small restaurant proprietress with maiden-like inflections in her tone.

Imamura merely gave brief replies, the earlier air of impatience had vanished, and his entire being seemed to have sunk into complete stillness.

II

The car was traveling along the Keihin Highway.
Namie took Imamura’s hand under her sleeve, turned her face away, and gazed vacantly at the scenery outside.
The lights of houses, passing vehicles, and beyond that only the dark night sky remained.
Imamura kept his eyes firmly closed, and Namie’s eyes remained wide open, fixed on the world outside.
In those eyes, the flickering shadows of lamplight fell, appearing lonely and beautiful—even verging on tears.
I found myself feeling uncharacteristically sentimental and, wanting to touch Namie’s heart a little, tickled her solar plexus.

And then—

Tonight I want to forget everything outside and think only of that time.
And make it an extension of that dream.
It was precisely on the fifteenth night of Obon that we walked alone along the dim shore and watched the lantern floating ceremony.
We would build small lantern-like things by attaching paper to wooden boards on all sides, light candles inside them, and push them out to sea from the water's edge.
Households with new deaths would prepare boats and float dozens of those lantern-like things toward the open sea.
They swayed gently on the calm bay waters, their flames flickering across the wave crests—it was truly beautiful.

It was a calm evening.
Whether the moon had hidden behind clouds or simply never appeared, the coast lay dimly lit beneath a hazy veil, with only a faint breeze whispering through—yet the night beach felt cool and refreshing.
It was the sort of evening that made one want to walk endlessly along the shore over the sand.
We watched the lanterns floating offshore, observed their flames trembling on the waves, and pondered matters of life and death.
We never bothered looking up at the stars.
Before me loomed my tragic marriage like some dreadful shadow.
I can’t recall what we were discussing then, but Mr. Imamura suddenly took my hand and said, "What you lack is nothing but strength."
Growing sorrowful, I kept holding Mr. Imamura’s hand and walked clinging to him.
Since people were scattered about here and there, we moved slightly away from the beach to where seven or eight pine trees stood—when we reached a spot with exposed roots, Mr. Imamura spread out a snow-white handkerchief.
As I settled there, I ended up leaning against Mr. Imamura; he drew me close, and for the first time, we kissed.
Beyond remembering being held so tightly, my mind went blank and I recall nothing else.

Why couldn’t I forget something so simple until now? Neither Mr. Imamura nor I could even tell whether we had loved each other or not. It was simply that such a thing had happened.When my marriage failed and I came to Tokyo to start a small restaurant with my aunt, even inquiring about Mr. Imamura’s address and sending him a letter had been meant solely to request support from a fellow hometown native.But in the depths of my heart, he was not merely a fellow hometown native.That—how should I put it—this feeling of familiarity, as if we'd known each other well long before that time, from infancy even, had gradually grown stronger.When I met Mr. Imamura after so long—perhaps because I had changed too much—not only did he seem completely unchanged,but he even appeared slightly shorter—though that couldn’t be the case—yet that’s how I felt.That may have further nurtured the sense of familiarity.Within that feeling,the memory of that lantern-floating night stood isolated floating like a dream.It was truly something as distant as a dream.

Moreover, I liked lively things.
When I began drinking heavily and socializing with geishas, notions like affection started seeming utterly foolish.
There was a geisha who kept a patron—some influential politician—but when the three of them—the patron, a bureau chief from government circles, and an industrialist—started holding secret meetings at her place, she eventually left her patron for the industrialist. She laughed while confessing to me that the whole arrangement had been settled with a check for several thousand yen.
Even excluding geishas, aren’t most women just tools for men’s pleasure—no different from commodities?
My married life proved exactly that.
So shouldn’t it be perfectly fair for women to view men as nothing but wads of cash?

My restaurant had attracted quite a variety of people.
Those who openly joked or mocked were manageable enough, but the worst were those who tried sniffing out information about my patrons through roundabout means while giving me lewd looks and feigning indifference.
However, Mr. Hiraga’s approach had shifted slightly.
Though it likely wasn’t due to his receding hairline, he maintained an absurdly polite tone while audaciously asking things like “How much debt do you incur monthly? That must be troublesome. For minor matters, I could assist you”—that manner of speaking.
He even went so far as to instruct that the shop’s layout needed altering.
After my aunt’s passing left me alone—two maids being no substitute for proper counsel—I gradually reached my limit, and when I consulted Mr. Hiraga, he laid out clear terms: an initial investment followed by 150 yen monthly, but let’s set it for three years.
When I, feeling slightly unhinged myself, joked “Having you constantly hanging around would be inconvenient,” he replied with perfect composure: “No—even once or twice monthly would suffice.”
Matters like my body or emotions weren’t even subjects for discussion—they’d become tacit conditions requiring no objection.
Because everything was so straightforward and clear-cut, I carelessly acquiesced.
When treated too explicitly as merchandise, one might pass through unawareness entirely.
Even prostitutes, I supposed, must experience this.

However, from slightly before that time, Mr. Imamura’s demeanor began to change.
It was no surprise when he repeated his longstanding opinion—"Honest work is good, but couldn’t you find something better than this kind of business?"—but when I was drunk, he would gaze at me with strangely sorrowful eyes, even as he himself was often intoxicated.
One night after I’d closed the shop, he came and made me open the firmly shut front door, yet didn’t drink—just stared intently at my face, shook my hand, said "Prepare yourself—I’ll punch you properly someday," then left me standing there dumbfounded.

That threatened punch ended up being directed toward his fellow teachers instead, which shocked me.
There was someone who taught alongside Mr. Imamura at the school—a man he’d brought along once before—who occasionally visited, and through that person’s drunken ramblings, I heard the full story.
Then I was shocked anew to discover how strangely rumors about Mr. Imamura and me were circulating.
I felt furious.
When I tentatively asked Mr. Hiraga what he thought about my relationship with Mr. Imamura, he dismissed it as irrelevant—refusing to even acknowledge the matter.
That only stoked my anger further.

Around that same time, I was asked by Mr. Hiraga to help at what resembled an evening garden party at a certain residence.
The spacious garden held cherry blossoms just beginning their magnificent bloom, with bonfires burning and oden and sushi stalls erected.
Though there were twelve or thirteen guests and four or five geishas already present—why must even I be here?—I found myself thinking this when Mr. Hiraga soon pointed out a short, lean, energetic-looking man across the way and instructed: "Go to that person. Use talk of war or liquor or airplanes—anything—to create an opening and ascertain solely whether the company’s capital increase will proceed."
Then through that residence’s host, I was introduced to this man who was also said to hail from Fukuoka.
In any case I obtained general information about the capital increase, but though I’d heard similar circumstances both at my family home and during my marriage, only then did this peculiarly indignant feeling surge within me.

Amidst all these vexations and angers, as I grew disgusted with myself and saw Mr. Imamura’s slightly disheveled state, that memory—that distant lantern-floating night—was recalled anew with an itching restlessness.
There, something like a small, solitary flame seemed to flicker.
A solitary flame burned distant and beautiful.
I wanted to fly toward it like a night moth.
Unusually—truly unusually—when tears began to well up, I grew angry at myself for it.
Was I losing my mind?
In all my life, I have not a single beautiful memory.
I don’t want to lose that distant flame.
And so I wanted to go see the sea with Mr. Imamura.
I invited Mr. Imamura.
However, I had forgotten that I was supposed to go to Kabuki that day.
If it had been just me alone, it would have been fine—but I was with Mr. Hiraga.
To vent my frustration... or rather, driven by some agitated impulse, I became determined to spend the night with Mr. Imamura.

I no longer want to think about anything else.
I want to share at least a single night's journey with Mr. Imamura—that is all.
What makes me lonely is this: now, being rocked in the car together with Mr. Imamura, that distant flame from long ago has faded somewhere.
But this wasn't how it was supposed to be...
No, more than that—why didn't I surrender myself completely to Mr. Imamura back then?
I should have been able to tempt him myself.
I am already defiled.
Before becoming defiled, why didn't I throw myself to Mr. Imamura back then?
Now that it has come to this, it's already too late.
But if it's about dreaming... if it's about seeing that continuation of the dream...
Even so—why are Mr. Imamura's hands so cold?
No, I mustn't look at his face.
Averting my eyes, gazing into the distance, I continue the dream...

III

The sea at Omori was filthy and muddy, but I didn't particularly dislike it.
Out of consideration for Imamura and Namie's room—and really, that whole situation was too absurd to keep watching—I wandered along the coast until late at night, then crawled into a crevice in the concrete seawall and fell fast asleep.

When a sound came from above his head and he woke up—surprised at how early it was (though it must have already been around eight)—Imamura slipped on his geta climbed over the bamboo fence marking the garden’s boundary reached atop the concrete seawall and crouched down.
He had already changed into a kimono washed his face and smoothed his hair but his cheeks had hollowed his eyes sunken and around both temples there was a faint reddish tinge that looked almost tubercular—his eyes had grown even cloudier than the day before.
When he looked toward the room storm shutters had been fully opened and Namie was facing her mirror stand combing her hair.

Clouds hung over the eastern horizon up to a certain height, and from above them, the sun began to peer out.
Imamura shivered minutely as if cold, huddled within the morning sunlight, and gazed vacantly at the calm yet goosefleshed sea.
A few seagulls flew.

I tried to speak quietly.

“It’s a nice morning.”

With an expressionless face, she gave no reply.

How was it?
Was it a success?
Was it a failure?

He seemed unable to fully comprehend the meaning.

“Are you cold?”
“It seemed cold, but the morning sun was warm.”

“You didn’t sleep well last night, did you.”

He raised his eyebrows slightly and assumed a thoughtful expression.

“So Ms. Namie bullied me, you mean?”

An imbecilic faint smile surfaced at the corners of his mouth.

“So—do you still love Ms. Namie even now?”

“I don’t know.”
“Just so damn lonely.”

“Are you lonely?”
“That’s strange… Wasn’t this supposed to make things brighter?”

“I have no strength.”
“In my body... and in my spirit too...”

“That’s terribly conventional.”
“Well then, shall we take a walk?”
“It’ll lift your spirits.”

Even so, he remained crouched motionless without moving a muscle.

“Look at this lovely weather. Once the sun rises a little more and the haze clears away, it’ll turn into a radiant spring day.”
“What’s wrong? You’re so terribly lost in thought…”
“Why don’t you just kick that cotton cloth merchant’s mistress to the curb?”

I’d already kicked all that to the gutter.
But what filled my chest was something else entirely.
My calculations had missed their mark from the start.

Then, was even doing all those foolish things completely in vain?

It wasn’t in vain.
I learned to despise myself.

In other words—have I come to hate living?

No—in fact, I think it’s precisely from such depths that being alive might start feeling profoundly gratifying.

When things reached that point, it became such a hassle that I just felt like letting them have their way.
What I wanted to know was something far more crucial, but Imamura's thoughts seemed to be heading elsewhere.

“Shall we walk a little?”
“If you keep acting like that, you’ll not only be despised by yourself but even by Ms. Namie, you know.”

The words seemed not to have reached Imamura’s heart; he remained silent and still.

I grew bored, stretched once, and went toward the room.
Then, immediately from behind, Imamura also sluggishly followed.

Namie had already finished getting ready, but her bare face without makeup was startlingly pale.
And she pursed her lips tightly; though her eyelids looked sleep-deprived, her gaze carried a dark, harsh light.

Their eyes met briefly but quickly averted; moving to opposite ends of the open shoji, Namie sat down while Imamura perched on the edge.
And as if by prior agreement, they both lit their cigarettes simultaneously.

"You mentioned the meal earlier, but you'll be having sake, won't you? Or would you prefer beer?"

"Let's have sake."

However, Namie ignored him and remained seated without moving.

The clouds in the eastern sky gradually sank toward the horizon; the sunlight intensified and streamed down onto the sea surface, so that countless small waves seemed to form.

The meal was brought in.
And then—astonishingly—the two of them drank sake from daybreak onward, until Imamura posed an odd question.

"Is this an establishment you know?"

"No, it's my first time."

"But..."

"I had some geishas inquire and make the telephone arrangements."

At that alone, their conversation broke off.
After a moment, Namie's eyebrows twitched as she suddenly flushed crimson and spoke.

"I'll be going back now, but why don't you stay here and rest properly?"

“No—I’ll go back too.”

Even so, he lingered aimlessly without touching the meal, until Namie picked up the alcove telephone and requested the bill.

When leaving, after sending the maid ahead, Imamura hesitated briefly before lightly resting his hand on Namie’s shoulder.
And Namie, yielding to the entreaty yet keeping her lips firmly pressed together, offered them thus sealed.

When they went outside, Imamura suddenly announced that he wanted to take a walk all the way to Yokohama.
Namie coldly dismissed this and appeared intently focused on something.
She gave a curt nod, got into the car, and didn’t look back again.

Imamura hailed a passing car and, while having it drive to Yokohama, crossed his arms and closed his eyes.

Imamura went to the park along Yokohama’s coast.
And Imamura looked at the steamships anchored offshore, gazed up at the sunlight, stood for a long time beside someone fishing from the stone embankment, then while wandering about again, stumbled over something and nearly fell.
Withstanding it, he smiled wryly; then, as if struck by a thought, took off his hat—still new—crumpled it into a ball, and with all his strength hurled it from the stone embankment into the sea.
The hat spread out again, swaying with the swells as it floated gently.

Vitality seemed to gradually return to Imamura's face.
He went to Nankinmachi, entered a Chinese restaurant, drank lao jiu, and ate heartily.
Then he returned to Tokyo by train.

In the train, Imamura leaned against the window and dozed off.
Since his demeanor showed complete composure, I too felt relieved and ventured to speak.

Ms. Namie seemed rather upset.
Judging by that, your scheme must have been a success after all.
But clinging on at the end like that and having her offer tightly sealed lips—it wasn’t exactly a flattering picture, was it?
On the other hand, throwing the hat into the sea was somewhat symbolic—that was good.

Imamura faintly opened his eyes and closed them again.
And while dozing in a drowsy half-sleep, he murmured.

“A final kiss is just a formal farewell gesture—it doesn’t matter.
As for the hat—it wasn’t symbolic or anything.
I just wanted to let the wind blow through my hair.
Letting the wind blow through my hair... That was what mattered most.
Looking back, I’d been trapped in foolish delusions.
From the very beginning—even that night of the lantern-floating ceremony—I’d had a woman in Tokyo I secretly cherished.
She was about the same height as Namie.
That’s why things turned out that way, but in my heart, I couldn’t tell whether I’d kissed that Tokyo woman or Namie.
So we parted without incident just like that.
But recently, something strange happened.
It was a rainy night.
I’d drunk myself senseless and was sleeping soundly in that three-mat room at the back of the shop.
As I lay there, I thought I heard my name being called. Half-dreaming, I listened—there were voices talking.
‘Between me and Mr. Imamura... Marriage would be impossible.’
‘Then what about being lovers or carrying a torch?’ ‘That’s all well and good, but really—what about Imamura?’ ‘There’s nothing there.’ ‘...How tiresome.’
‘Without money, you can’t even enjoy yourself properly...’
‘But wouldn’t that rather... People often say such things themselves, don’t they?’
‘I sometimes give you an allowance...’”

“I look forward to it.—That’s what you call a fantasy…”
“You really have too many fantasies.—I’m often told that.”
“I wonder why.—You resemble one… A dreamer, perhaps.—Yes, that seems to be the case.—As expected of someone from the south.”—With that, their conversation shifted to other matters, but from what I had caught in fragments until then, it was unmistakably about me.
It was Namie and Hiraga talking.
I maintained my agonizing pretense of sleep until someone finally roused me.
When I got up, I left without a word, but walking through the rain, an inexplicable fury welled up within me.
Fundamentally, Namie possessed an unconscious tendency to tempt men.
Even back then—when she had consulted about marrying Kurokawa—I had never truly understood her true intentions.
Even now, when she discusses me with Hiraga in that suggestive manner, I still can’t grasp her true intentions.
Even if unconsciously—if such manipulation existed... Thinking this way, I was overcome by intense anger.
Moreover, that resentment drew me even closer to her, which in turn made me angrier still.
I suppose I am indeed a ridiculous dreamer.
She appears to be one too.
And were I truly in love with her, I felt it might lead either to my ruin or her death.
I grew afraid.
This fear drew me further toward her.
Then there was the matter between her and Hiraga.
A despicable transaction.
Even if I disrupted the balance somewhat, it couldn’t be helped.
I found myself compelled to take revenge—both on myself and on her.

In such circumstances, for a man like me, the only path to revenge was to humiliate myself and humiliate her... Ah, enough already.
You were right.
I will convert to your ways.
I let the wind blow through my hair and felt refreshed.

“Ah, so you’ve finally realized.”
“But it seems you’re still cursing Ms. Namie… cursing those like Ms. Namie.”
“In that case, things will be precarious from here on.”

Yes... I'll curse the likes of them.
Even so, I myself remain no less safe.

I shook my head but remained silent.

Imamura looked utterly exhausted.
He had buried his face in his arms and lay limp.
As I watched him like that—though I couldn’t help thinking that this man might actually amount to something.
When the train arrived at Tokyo Station, Imamura startled awake, looked around with a bewildered expression, and searched the luggage rack for his hat. Then, seeming to remember something, he hurriedly disembarked from the train.