Pathway to Japanese Literature

White Morning

The gate of Mr. Shibata’s house was somewhat unusual.
The area being an estate district had many modern features like concrete walls, iron lattice gates, and granite gate pillars, yet set slightly back from the road within this landscape stood two large round logs about 1.5 ken in height and two arm spans in thickness, with a wooden lattice attached.
That was the gate of Mr. Shibata’s house.
As for the round log gate pillars, they looked like something you’d find at a suburban nursery—old and beginning to rot—but the wooden lattice door, on the other hand, was freshly whitewashed.
During the day, the lattice door was opened wide to both sides, revealing a gravel-covered front garden enclosed by a bamboo fence with several hinoki cypress plantings; to the left lay the entrance.

One time, beside those gate pillars, a beggar-like man had placed a small furoshiki-wrapped bundle on the ground and crouched motionless.
Then Mr. Shibata—on his way out—passed by there and left without a word after shooting a sharp glance at him.
Such was that gate’s nature—and such was Mr. Shibata’s character.

Masao strode briskly through that gate.
Perhaps due to the gloomily overcast stillness of windless weather, the darkened gate pillars and stark white lattice door stood out conspicuously—though Masao had grown accustomed to passing through them.
Yet once inside he slackened his pace slightly—tilted his head—and surveyed his surroundings.
Then his eyes caught on something—a black cat clambering through hinoki cypress foliage.

"Oh!"
With a look that seemed to say as much, Masao stared at the black cat.
The black cat remained motionless, but eventually shook its head and pressed a hand to its mouth.
It appeared to be some sort of signal.
Wait—this wasn't a black cat.
It was Chibi.
That peculiar little creature they called a minor demon or such.

"Oh, just Chibi."

Having dismissed it thus, Masao turned away contemptuously and marched straight toward the inner entrance.

Masao sat down on the tearoom’s veranda edge and took a drag on his cigarette.
Today he wore a meisen kimono with wide sleeves.
For a middle schooler, a meisen kimono with wide sleeves was somewhat too grown-up, but Aunt Nakane had dressed him in it.
The cigarette felt slightly presumptuous, but with those kimono sleeves, he kept idly blowing smoke.

Even so, he still felt somehow restless.
Today, in a rare occurrence, Mr. Shibata had called to invite him over, but when he came, he wasn’t there.
Tanno, the live-in student, wasn’t there either.
At times like these, even Ms. Kikuko Komai, who would always come out to greet him right away, was holed up in the inner room.
The fact that Chibi was climbing the front hinoki cypress was also starting to bother him a bit under these circumstances.

Masao stood up and went to check on the plum tree in the back.
The plums were growing in abundance.
He picked one and bit into it, but it was so sour that he grimaced.

Beyond the plum tree lay a narrow field of about five or six tsubo (approximately 16-20 square meters). Though called a field, nothing was grown there. It was simply the patch of ground that Mr. Shibata would sometimes till, wearing nothing but an undershirt and sweating profusely.

"I don't do any other exercise, so that's why I'm doing this, but working the soil is better than anything for the body, and therefore better than anything for the head, and therefore once again good for the body."

While saying such things, Mr. Shibata would bring in piles of fallen leaves, bury them in the soil, then dig them up again.
Lately, perhaps having grown weary of even that, it seemed left untended, and green grass sprouts were emerging here and there like needles.
Masao smiled as he gazed at the field and took another plum.

“Masao-san….”

He was called in a cool voice.
He already knew it was Ms. Komai.
Ms. Komai's voice always carried a coolness.

"Oh, I looked everywhere for you…"
"They're poisonous—unripe plums…"

When he turned to look, Ms. Komai's face peering from the window across seemed dazzling, as if enveloped in light.

But as he drew closer—he noticed something was amiss—her complexion turned pale, her eyes sunken, with only her hair standing out neatly combed.
The smile she showed looked like a tearful face.

Ms. Kikuko Komai’s room was an eight-mat space, but it had an oddly mismatched feel. Only the clothes chest, the Kyoto-style doll that seemed to be a gift atop it, and the mirror stand beside the chest were feminine touches; the rest—crude bookshelves, desks, ashtrays, ink bottles, and a wall calendar—made it resemble a man’s boarding house room.

However, in Mr. Shibata’s house, every room contained only the tools necessary for their use. A long time ago, when they received a seizure of household goods from a certain party, there had been a clear exchange between the bailiff and Mr. Shibata.
“Do you not have scrolls or similar items?”
“No, there aren’t.” —“What about other items—artworks or antiques…?”
“There aren’t any.” —“Is there nothing at all?”

"There isn’t a single unnecessary thing in my house." — Chibi had been deeply impressed by this final statement, but according to Aunt Nakane from Masao’s side, having not a single unnecessary thing meant lacking taste, and lacking taste constituted a human flaw.

That was the kind of house Mr. Shibata had.
Even Ms. Komai’s room wasn’t cluttered and decorated with all sorts of things like Aunt Nakane’s room.

Even so, when entering Ms. Komai’s room, Masao felt as though enveloped in a soft fragrance.
Masao liked Ms. Komai.
He really liked the eyes that seemed never to blink, the resilient lips, and the chest that felt like it would smother him if he buried his face in it.
Today, those eyes were sunken, those lips were dry, and that chest was rigid.
“Are you sick?” Masao managed to say.

Ms. Komai—who had been pouring tea—uttered “Huh?” and raised her face but shook her head with “No” upon grasping what Masao had said.
Then suddenly—a glimmer surfaced faintly within her eyes.
Had she teared up?
Masao—who’d been looking downward—caught sight of it through upturned eyes.

She must be worried about something.

When he thought that, he found himself unable to speak.

Ms. Komai also remained silent.
While remaining silent, she offered tea and sweets.

Masao gradually developed a feeling that was neither anxiety nor dissatisfaction and blurted out.

“What could have happened to Uncle?”
“He specifically told me to call, and yet…”

“The phone call… to you… when…?”

“Even this morning.”
“Aunt Nakane spoke—maybe about other business—and at that time, since he’d be back by early afternoon, she told me to tell you to come visit at your leisure.”

“Oh.”
“I wonder what could have happened to him.”

Ms. Komai also seemed to be waiting for Mr. Shibata to return for some reason.
It was already past five o’clock.
Ms. Komai had been thinking for a while but suddenly began saying something entirely different.

“What kind of flower do you like best?”

The abruptness of the question left Masao momentarily at a loss for a reply.

At that moment, there was a visitor.
It was an elderly woman; through the maid, she relayed that if the master was absent, she wished to speak with whoever was minding the house.

“Please wait here,” Ms. Komai said to Masao.
“I have something to discuss with you later.
The Professor will be back soon.”

And Ms. Komai left, still holding the business card she had received from the maid.

Masao lay sprawled there.
Even the two or three books Ms. Komai had brought out for him went untouched.
I feel so hollow somehow.

“What are you doing?”

In a whisper-like voice, Chibi suddenly appeared.

Masao remained silent.

“There’s something good,” Chibi said. “You’ll get to eat lots of tasty fruit tonight. A woman came by, right? She’s the one who brought it.”

“To whose place?” Masao asked.

“Of course, to Uncle’s place.”
“But you can eat them, you know.”
“It’s a gift from the job-seeking efforts.”

“You’re not supposed to accept stuff like that.”

“You’re such an idiot.
“Your uncle doesn’t get hung up on trivial scruples.
“He’ll accept anything someone brings.
“That’s where he’s laid-back.
“I like that about him.
“But….”

Chibi scratched his ear.

"What is it?"

"Truth be told—there was something far more serious than job-seeking efforts lying in wait... Earlier—right there—in that tree out front..."

That rang strangely ominous.
Masao leaned forward.
Chibi blinked his eyes smugly and spoke.

There existed a certain paint manufacturing company with which Mr. Shibata was involved—officially as head of the research department, but in reality as one of its executives. Though concerning past events, there remains a story that is quintessentially Mr. Shibata. When approximately one hundred shares of this company’s stock were put up for sale, Mr. Shibata took on debt and purchased them all. Later, at a meeting attended by numerous employees, he publicly declared: “By buying one hundred shares of our company’s stock, I incurred a debt exceeding seven thousand yen. Yet through remaining faithful to the principle that company shares should ideally be held by employees, I take personal pride in this action.” Such proclamations served only to cement his reputation as an eccentric man—they neither produced meaningful effects nor helped him gain influence within the company. Still, no one ever understood where Mr. Shibata’s true intentions lay. Moreover, Mr. Shibata truly was an unusual man. On one hand, he served as research department head at a paint company; on the other, Riiichiro Shibata stood as a rather renowned social critic. As a commentator with interests in literary matters, he occasionally contributed pieces to newspapers and magazines.

Meanwhile, turmoil arose within the company, splitting it into two factions locked in a power struggle.
Under these circumstances, Mr. Shibata—being socially renowned as a critic—naturally drew attention, prompting both factions to devise strategies to recruit him.
To both sides, Mr. Shibata responded with evasive statements like, "First we must consider the company's official principles...," rendering his position even more ambiguous.
Moreover, suspicions lingered that Mr. Shibata had privately misappropriated some company funds.
Due to various matters involving investigations and recruitment overtures, people from both factions were expected to arrive separately that day.

“Which faction arrives first—that’s what really matters,” Chibi said.

“What does it matter which comes first?”
“Uncle isn’t here,” Masao said.

“I know. But Uncle will definitely side with whichever comes first.”

It was a ridiculous notion, exactly the sort of idea you’d expect from Chibi. Yet Chibi insisted it would absolutely happen this way. That business about siding with whoever arrived first... There was something secretive lingering in the air. “Uncle’s just that type of person,” was all Chibi said—but did that mean Mr. Shibata was somehow taking cues from Chibi’s hints?

As Masao tried to ask more questions, Chibi pulled his head back with an “Oh, bad idea!” and ran away.
Ms.Komai had returned.

Ms. Komai seemed to perk up a little.
A flush came to her cheeks as well.

“You must have been bored all by yourself.”
“The person who just came was Mr. Kaneko’s mother.”
“Do you know Mr. Kaneko?”

Masao did not know such a person.

"When I heard her story, she struck me as quite an admirable person."

Kaneko referred to a young man who had graduated from the university’s law department that year. He had sometimes visited Mr. Shibata’s place and asked for help finding employment. His mother was quite admirable—she had worked as a supervisor’s assistant in the sewing department of a certain department store and had lived off a small inheritance up until then. But from then on, she would have to rely on her son’s support. She had apparently returned home after earnestly asking him to look after her son.

While talking about such things, Ms. Komai herself seemed strangely somber.
Was she reminiscing about the past?

It was around the time when Ms. Kikuko Komai was in her fourth year at girls' school.
When her father passed away, the family decided to return to their hometown of Kanazawa.
While her younger siblings' situation was manageable, whether Ms. Kikuko could transfer into the fifth year at the local girls' school became the pressing issue.
Tokyo girls' schools almost never accepted fifth-year transfers.
Just as they were at a loss over where to seek help, her father's friend Mr. Shibata extended assistance.
And so Ms. Kikuko alone remained in Tokyo, boarding at Mr. Shibata's house while receiving tuition support from him.
Because of her excellent academic performance, she continued living there and graduated from the English department at a women's university.
Now that Mr. Shibata's wife—in poor health—had relocated to a small house in Hayama, Ms. Kikuko assumed a position resembling his secretary while preparing summaries of various English books as he requested.

Just as those summaries were highly dubious in nature, so too were the secretarial duties equally precarious, yet Mr. Shibata appeared satisfied with this arrangement. There was also a male live-in student, but according to Mr. Shibata’s own words, only women could faithfully and obediently fulfill secretarial roles.

“If Ms. Kaneko were to find employment, how overjoyed that mother would be.”

Having said this, Ms. Komai—perhaps weighing her own circumstances in her heart—gazed at Masao’s face with vacant eyes that nevertheless held intensity, then suddenly broke into a sweet smile.

“Oh right, today I’ll treat you to a feast, okay?”

On the dining table were lined up such a variety of dishes that Masao’s eyes grew round.
The salt-grilled sweetfish, red sashimi, white abalone slices, and other dishes particularly caught the eye.
However, on the staggered shelf sat a large fruit basket, left untouched still wrapped in its paper.
Instead, the wine bottle had been brought out.

Such a thing was rare when Mr. Shibata was absent.

“Uncle still isn’t here yet, I wonder,” Masao said restlessly.

“He must be eating somewhere,” Ms. Komai said.
Yet still seeming concerned, she turned to the maid and said, “You’d think there would have been a phone call by now.”

As if to dismiss this herself once again, she offered wine to Masao.

Not only was Mr. Shibata absent, but having a meal alone with Ms. Komai left Masao feeling both awkward and delighted; to conceal his embarrassment, he drank the wine.
His cheeks grew hot.

“Hey, Masao-san,” Ms. Komai said, staring fixedly, “have you ever been scolded by the Professor?”

“The Professor…?”

“The Professor here…”

“Ah, you mean Uncle?”

Masao had no memory of ever being scolded by Mr. Shibata.

“Well… you’re a special case….”
“But I’ve never been scolded by the Professor either, you know.”
“He’s never gotten angry with me either, it seems.”
“And so, never being scolded or gotten angry at—in reality, might that mean I’m being completely ignored? I wonder if that’s just me being resentful.”

It was an oddly serious conversation.
But such things were beyond Masao’s understanding.

“Uncle surely doesn’t know how to get angry or scold.”

When he said that intending to brush it off, Ms. Komai took it seriously and fell into deep thought.

It was an oddly silent, heavy meal.
Certainly, Ms. Komai lost her usual cheerfulness.

Moreover, during the meal, the phone rang about three times.
"When will your master return? Where could he have gone...?"
In such calls where the caller did not state their name, the maid relayed.
Therefore, Ms. Komai, acting as a secretary, would stand up and leave each time.
When she returned from the phone room, she appeared to be forcibly suppressing her irritation.
And she drank the wine herself and offered it to Masao as well.

It was probably around nine o’clock when the rain unexpectedly came pouring down.

In Ms. Komai’s room, the two were playing cards—fortune-telling games and other childish pastimes they engaged in.

The rain intensified further. Lightning occasionally flashed with startling brilliance. The crushing roar of the downpour and the piercing flashes set their hearts racing. Masao and Ms. Komai exchanged glances, their attention pulled toward the storm outside.

The torrential rain maintained its peak intensity as if unable to grow fiercer still. When they stepped onto the veranda and slid open the glass door, a pure white mist of spray filled their vision. The damp air—neither quite water nor fog—seeped into the room.

Just then, the phone rang again.

“Please tell them we don’t know,” Ms. Komai said sharply.
“But it’s Master from Honmura-cho…”

Honmura-cho was Mr. Shibata’s younger brother Kohei.
Upon hearing this, Ms. Komai seemed startled and hurried out.

Masao watched the rain alone and watched the lightning.
His heart—which had been leaping with excitement moments before—was dragged down by some great force into utter silence, over which distant thunder rolled away.

Ms. Komai did not return for a long time.
What could she be doing?

A long time seemed to have passed.

The lightning grew distant, and the rain softened somewhat.
Masao's kimono, as he crouched on the veranda, had lightly absorbed moisture.

Ms. Komai entered and suddenly grabbed Masao’s shoulder—he hadn’t even turned to look at her, his expression sullen.

“Hey… let’s stay up all night tonight… and play.”
“You can stay over, can’t you?”
“I called your house… Aunt Nakane.”

Masao was in a silence so deep it seemed to swallow even the sound of rain.

“Earlier, when those repeated calls came—they kept asking ‘Is your husband there?’ so we said we didn’t know. No matter how many times we asked who they were, they wouldn’t give a name. Then suddenly—‘Ah, Mrs.? Mrs., is it? Pleased to make your acquaintance…’ and slammed down the receiver.”
“The voices were different each time, but they always said ‘Mrs… Mrs…’ in this oddly polite way, then hung up abruptly.”
“If they’re the sort to call here, they should know the Professor’s wife has gone to recuperate in Hayama…”
Then she trailed off, and after a moment murmured:
“And besides… I might just get married off anyway.”

“You become a wife after getting married off, right?”

That was what Masao said sarcastically.
He was dissatisfied somehow.

"No, that's not it.
Both matters are separate.
They're separate matters.
So...."

Ms. Komai seemed to have many things she wanted to say.
She seemed not to know how to broach them.
Then she leaned against Masao, embracing his shoulder.

Masao suddenly buried his face in Ms. Komai’s chest.

“I don’t want to go anywhere.”

When her words trailed off, the sound of pattering rain grew audible.

“Oh, you’re all wet.”

Ms. Komai stroked Masao’s back.
Even Ms. Komai’s kimono was damp.

Something was different—this Ms. Komai wasn’t the one he had imagined.
She wasn’t a sister, nor a lover, certainly not a mother—just a distant, cold, unreliable presence.

Masao stood up and closed the glass door.

Around eleven o’clock, Masao and Ms. Komai became engrossed in trivial games of playing cards and flower cards, their interactions strangely laced with hostility.
Then came what they’d been dreading yet never expected—Mr. Shibata returned.
Adding to the surprise, the rain had stopped completely now, and Tanno, the live-in student helper, had slipped back unnoticed to study in his room.

Mr. Shibata was slightly wet from the rain.
When sitting down, he stumbled and slumped heavily against the dining table.
Was he drunk on alcohol or something?
And then, with only his eyes gleaming strangely, he remained silent.

Today of all days, Masao felt somehow afraid of Mr. Shibata.

Even when asked about the phone call to Masao’s house, Mr. Shibata remained absentminded, as if he had already forgotten.
He probably hadn’t had any particular business to begin with.
When asked about the evening meal preparations, he had the remaining dishes served and started drinking.
When Ms. Komai brought out the fruit basket from Mrs. Kaneko, she immediately unwrapped its packaging and began selecting what looked like the tastiest pieces.
And despite Ms. Komai repeatedly bringing up Mrs. Kaneko’s job-seeking matter, he merely responded with absentminded nods.
Then he remained silent, said nothing at all, slightly knitted his brows, and stared intently at Ms. Komai, Masao, and the maid.

Mr. Shibata seemed slightly different from his usual composed self.
His salt-and-pepper thick hair and fleshy mouth appeared to intimidate those around him.

“That Kohei… saying such awful things, calling people animals...”
He muttered this, then chuckled with a muffled laugh.

Is he really drunk?

At that moment, when the maid cautioned, “Your clothes are wet—perhaps you should go home?”, Mr. Shibata did not reply, yet obediently stood up and moved to the next room.

Ms. Komai remained motionless, sitting like a stone.

Masao stood up, went out into the garden, and took a deep breath.
The pitch-black sky after the downpour seemed intensely deep.

“Masao-kun, Mr. Shibata’s acting a bit strange, don’t you think?”

A voice came from the pitch darkness.
It was that Chibi.

“I don’t know,” said Masao.

“So saying ‘I don’t know’ is proof that you do?”

“Idiot.”

“Even I’ve started losing my grip.”
“Completely lost my bearings.”

“You’re always wrong anyway.”

“Not really. I kept it hidden, but hey, should I spill everything?”

Masao did not respond.
But was the absence of an answer a sign of consent?
Masao sat down on the crude bench of the arbor that existed more in form than substance.

And the matters Chibi spoke about seemed both terribly complex and yet simple, and they didn’t quite sink in for Masao, but in short—

Mr. Shibata’s current house had become collateral for two separate debts—the primary and secondary liens.
The secondary collateral involved a particularly predatory 3,000-yen loan from moneylender Tsumemi.
As Ms. Kikuko Komai intermittently delivered the chronically delayed interest payments acting as intermediary, the creditors gradually escalated their demands to include principal repayment, eventually necessitating a meeting to negotiate terms.
They specifically requested Ms. Komai’s presence at this discussion.
Accordingly, Mr. Shibata took Ms. Komai to a designated restaurant.
From the creditors’ side appeared Tsumemi along with a witness—a man named Namikawa who was both Tsumemi’s relative and an employee at a securities firm.
The conversation remained civil throughout, with casual topics exchanged over food and drink until Mr. Shibata grew pleasantly intoxicated.
This had occurred the previous day.

“Getting drunk at a time like this—that’s so like Mr. Shibata. Isn’t it amusing?” Chibi said with mock admiration.

However, early this morning, a special delivery letter arrived from Tsumemi stating that after sleeping on it all night, he would wait for the deadline but demanded they provide one reliable guarantor—threatening to take unavoidable measures otherwise—in menacing terms.
Since last night’s matters had been settled while intoxicated without proper discussion, Mr. Shibata hurriedly made a phone call but still couldn’t get a clear answer.
Thereupon, Mr. Shibata went to the other party’s house.
Tsumemi politely yet coldly did nothing but repeat the letter’s contents.
Then between discussions, he lowered his voice as if sharing a secret and prodded them—saying Namikawa actually wanted to take Ms. Komai as his second wife, wouldn’t they consider arranging this match?
If this marriage went through, he’d have Namikawa cover the loaned amount—no, even more than that.
Namikawa’s obsession ran deep—it seemed he’d already made subtle advances toward Ms. Komai last night.
Tsumemi wore a faint smile.
Mr. Shibata was left speechless.

Mr. Shibata was taken aback, then at a loss, and finally wandered off to his brother Kohei’s office in a daze.
Kohei was a lawyer whom he had troubled multiple times before, yet there he went again nonchalantly.
And then, in a carefree tone, he mentioned that a troublesome matter had arisen and talked about Tsumemi.

However, there once again, Mr. Shibata was taken aback.
Kohei listened silently without interjecting a single word until the end, but finally asked, “Is that the truth?”
“There’s not a single lie,” Mr. Shibata answered.
That was the trigger.

Mr. Kohei suddenly struck the table with his fist and became extremely angry.
He berated Mr. Shibata.
He raged on, saying things like, “Are you trying to sell off Ms. Komai? Getting flattered by moneylenders and setting up some self-funded arranged meeting—what a disgrace!”
For Mr. Shibata, everything was unexpected.
He tried to mutter an explanation, but Mr. Kohei would not listen.
His indignation mounting until finally, “Fine! I’ll take on that debt myself,” he declared and stormed out.
Mr. Shibata remained there in a daze, playing Go with a clerk while waiting for Mr. Kohei to return.

“Waiting around playing Go with a clerk—isn’t that just amusing?” Chibi remarked with mock admiration.

Mr. Shibata played about three games of Go, but Mr. Kohei did not return.
There had been no prior agreement in the first place.
Thereupon, Mr. Shibata stood up and went outside.
His expression grew increasingly troubled.
He suddenly had an idea and went to check on the paint company located in the old city outskirts.
Mr. Shibata had transitioned to working every other day, and his title of Chief of the Research Section was essentially an alias for an advisory role.
The fact that it was not his scheduled workday became the source of the misunderstanding.
Several people had gathered and were discussing company reforms, so they assumed Mr. Shibata had come out of interest in the issue.
He was bombarded with opinions from all sides.
At its core lay a power struggle between the Sales Department and Production Department factions, with sales networks and product technology serving as surface issues.
Mr. Shibata barely grasped the underlying factional conflict each member harbored, but finding their questions tiresome, he perfunctorily handled them under the guise of company policy.
Then came a deliberately audible whisper from the side: "Let's hear the 'wife's' opinion too—she's supposed to be quite knowledgeable."
The speaker was likely a radically sarcastic employee.
The term "wife" clearly mocked Ms. Komai.
Some time earlier, when asked about the critical essay in the magazine, Mr. Shibata had mentioned having an assistant and openly discussed Ms. Komai.
This spread through the company, allowing those with ill intent to cast a dubious light on it.

Even when hearing the mocking remarks about Ms. Komai, Mr. Shibata did not particularly take notice, but the others did, and the discussion naturally came to an end.
Then after a while, Mr. Shibata ambled out of the company again.
But after all, Mr. Shibata was a man of some renown.
He was being watched by both factions.
And the carefree Mr. Shibata seemed inclined toward the faction that had earlier laid bare their intentions through consultation.
Both factions showed signs of secretly trying to court Mr. Shibata and visit his home.
Moreover, there was also the pretext of apparent financial misconduct by Mr. Shibata toward the company.
But this remained rather unclear.

“I don’t really understand it either,” Chibi said.

Chibi’s story—abruptly cut short—seemed to consist largely of surface-level details alone, with many points appearing either systematically arranged or deliberately omitted.
In truth, it must be something far more complex.

“Is that all?” Masao asked.

“So far, it’s okay.”
“I don’t like what comes next.”

The things Chibi took issue with were always strangely vague and ambiguous matters.
This time too——it was no different——

Mr. Shibata was walking through Ginza that evening.
He encountered a literary scholar acquaintance.
And together, they drank.
As they discussed literature and society and grew drunk, Mr. Shibata began talking in an amused way about Tsumemi the moneylender and matters concerning the paint company.
“It’s an absurd story,” the literary scholar dismissed simply.
“It’s an absurd story,” Mr. Shibata also dismissed simply.
In the midst of that amusing story, the literary scholar suddenly turned serious and said, “But it would be troublesome if you started getting interested in that girl because of such things.”
“That’s right,” Mr. Shibata said with a serious expression.
“If I start reevaluating her over trivial things like marriage schemes or being called ‘wife,’ that would be dangerous…”
That kind of talk continued on.
And, for her continued well-being, the two raised a toast.

“That’s even more absurd!” Chibi said.
“Why do literary scholars only ever make issues out of such ridiculous things?
But from that point onward, Mr. Shibata became even stranger.”

It had been raining heavily, and when it began to let up, Mr. Shibata parted ways with the literary scholar.
Deep in thought, he wandered along the edge of the backstreet canal for a long time.
Then he hailed a car and told them to head north for fifty sen.
Even though he still had money, what could he have been intending?
The car started moving.
Midway through passing from Ogawamachi toward Hijiribashi, Mr. Shibata suddenly had the car stop and got out.
At the base of Nikolai-do stretched a wide, desolate dimly lit street.
There were nothing but stone walls, large buildings, and boarded-up vacant lots.
Mr. Shibata walked slowly with his head down, as if lost in meditation.
When he emerged at Hijiribashi, the scenery suddenly became three-dimensional as if he had climbed a hill.
It was a bridge that seemed to soar into the sky—below it ran a train, and further down lay the stagnant black water of the canal. Because it was nighttime, the lights reflected on that water looked dreamlike.
Mr. Shibata leaned against the bridge’s wet railing and stared intently at the scenery.
He remained motionless for a long time.

“It was so absurd that I came back first, but Mr. Shibata probably hailed another car and returned,” Chibi said.

Masao remained silent.

“Pretty absurd, don’t you think?”
“What?”
“Mr. Shibata’s situation, you know.”

Masao remained silent.

“At this point, even I don’t understand anymore. What a waste—he was such a good person too...”

Masao remained silent.

“What’re you thinking about?”

“It’s something you wouldn’t understand.”

“Well, well.”

In the darkness, Chibi let out a playful voice and seemed to scratch his ear.

"But you see, if Mr. Shibata were…"

As Chibi began to say something, a rustling commotion arose from the sitting room area.
When he looked, Mr. Kohei had come.
Chibi withdrew into the shadows while Masao returned to the formal reception room.
The air had suddenly turned bitingly cold.
The hour must have grown quite late.

Mr. Kohei wore a Western-style suit.
Though traces of agitation lingered in his eyes, his face maintained an expression of bemused detachment.
Mr. Shibata welcomed him with drunken composure, a magnanimous smile playing at the corners of his eyes.

“Still drinking?” Mr. Kohei remarked without particular displeasure. “When I called earlier, you still hadn’t returned. Where were you wandering about?” He had tried to go to bed but found himself unable to sleep. “In the end, I wanted to settle this tonight and rushed over—but if you hadn’t been here, I was prepared to sit through till morning.”

“I also wanted to meet, but…”
“Then you could have just called, couldn’t you? There are various things I want to discuss. I’ve heard various things as well… I need to hear your resolve beforehand. This is a serious matter. Let’s go somewhere outside. I have a car waiting.”

Having said what he needed to say, Mr. Kohei got up to make a phone call somewhere.
When he returned, as if noticing for the first time, he looked around at the group.

“Is everyone still awake?”
“Masao’s here too… What time is it now?”
“If you’re going to drink sake, you should do it alone.”
“There’s no reason to keep everyone up.”

“Tonight’s special,” Mr. Shibata said with a cheerful smile.

“Hurry up and get ready… In the meantime, I’ll have a drink.”

Mr. Kohei reached for the sake cup.

Ms. Komai kept her eyes stubbornly downcast, sitting motionless in the corner of the room.
Masao was sitting on the veranda, his eyes fixed into the darkness.

“Hey, you all should have a drink too,” Mr. Kohei called out to no one in particular.
“It’s a shame you’ve stayed up so late.
Don’t go imitating your uncle now.”

And he offered cups to both Ms. Komai and Masao.
They both bowed politely and drank modestly.
For some reason, he couldn’t feel any closeness toward Mr. Kohei.
His manner was easygoing, yet there was something sharp about it.
Perhaps the firm-looking forehead and mustache were giving that impression.
When Mr. Shibata changed into a kimono and came out, Mr. Kohei—as if suddenly remembering—carelessly pulled some documents from his pocket.

“These are the Tsumemi faction’s certificates.”
“The receipt is attached too.”
“Make sure to keep them secure.”
“I’ll take care of the deregistration.”
“It took considerable effort to scrape together this amount.”

Mr. Shibata calmly received the documents, as if it were the most natural thing, and entrusted them to Ms. Komai.

“I’ve caused you worry too, but with this, you can rest assured.”
“They apparently meant yesterday’s meeting as an arranged marriage introduction—it’s absolutely preposterous.”

The words rang out coldly and mockingly for some reason.

Ms. Komai buried her face in her breast, and Mr. Kohei, while looking at Mr. Shibata, knit his brows deeply.

Mr. Shibata seemed not to notice this and staggered to his feet.

“Well then, shall we go?”

Mr. Kohei called out only to the maid.

“This is an important matter—it might go on until dawn.”
“You can go to bed.”

They all saw the two of them off at the entrance.

When the sound of the car starting up was heard, Ms. Komai went straight down the hallway and entered her room.

When Masao returned to the tea room, the maid said to him.

“I’ve laid out the futon in the back sitting room.”

Masao simply nodded, remained standing, and lit a cigarette.

Ms. Komai was leaning against the desk, crying.
It was the kind of crying where emotions she had been suppressing until now suddenly gushed forth all at once, turning into tears.

When Masao quietly drew near and placed his hand on her back, Ms. Komai suddenly clung to him and began crying even harder.
Was she sad? Was she happy? What was happening?

But before he knew it, Masao was tearing up too.

It was a hushed night.

Flickering thoughts of Mr.Shibata kept catching at the edge of his mind.
Masao had been recalling a strange thought since earlier and turning it over.
In his father’s pencil scribbles was written: “A bright personality—Shibata.”
“Shibata” must refer to Shibata Riiichiro.
Though they hadn’t interacted much—being distant relatives—they must have known each other well.
Mr.Shibata still occasionally spoke of his father even now.

That phrase had probably been written shortly before my father died.
Father had written several cipher-like phrases in the books he cherished.
It was about four or five years ago now—I don’t remember clearly—but my father was reading Greek mythology frequently at that time.
In the margin of one of those mythology books, that phrase had been jotted down.
It was in the part about the story of King Midas’s donkey ears.

Father must have thought Mr. Shibata was a person with a bright personality.
That much was certain.
However, what connection could that bright personality have with that story?
Was it King Midas? Or his foolish ears? Or those grotesquely long ears? Or the barber who had learned the secret? Or the act of whispering the secret into a hole?
It was like a riddle.
Perhaps, on the contrary, it was the ears that weren’t foolish or the barber who held no secrets that were meant to be called clear-hearted.

Masao quietly asked Ms. Komai.

“Hey, do you know the myth about King Midas?”

Ms. Komai smiled with tearful eyes.

“The story of King Midas’s donkey ears and the barber—that one.”

“I know.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what it says.”

Ms. Komai stared intently at Masao’s face and smiled again.

“Such things don’t matter at all.”

And then she pulled Masao closer.

“I’m sorry for crying like this.”
“But I was just... strangely scared.”

And so, both the donkey ears and the barber vanished somewhere.
That’s right—Masao too felt somehow scared and sad.

When they had been silent for a while, Ms. Komai spoke.

“I wonder if those two will end up fighting.”

It was indeed about the Shibata brothers.
Masao smiled.

“Even if Mr. Kohei says something… since Uncle’s the one dealing with him, there won’t be any fight…”

“That’s right.”

The strange thing was that Ms. Komai, a full six years his senior, seemed almost like Masao’s younger sister.

Even if Mr. Shibata were to vanish completely, something would remain afterward—leaving one achingly lonely.

“Hey, Masao-san—let’s promise never to forget each other.”

Once more, tears threatened to surge forth.

“Don’t… Don’t say things like that…”

Ms. Komai closed her eyes.
Her small, supple lips trembled faintly.

Masao pressed his face against Ms. Komai’s bosom.
If he buried his face there, it was a sweetly fragrant bosom that seemed as though it might suffocate him.
That was what he wanted.
As if to say “No, no…”, Ms. Komai lifted Masao up…

A faint pattering sound came from outside.
Had it started raining again?
As he listened, everything else outside vanished into thin air, leaving only that sound.

Had he not slept at all? Had he managed some sleep? He couldn’t quite tell.
A hazy brightness filled the outdoors, carrying a faint sense of things rustling.

Masao quietly rose.
Ms. Komai’s eyelids fluttered, then fell completely still.
It was a deep, utterly unblinking gaze.
With just that, Ms. Komai did not say anything.

Masao went out to the engawa and opened one of the rain shutters.

It was simply a dimly white dawn across the entire expanse.
A mist so faint it could hardly be called fog—a fine moisture—drifted thinly, clothing all things in dim white garments.

Masao jumped outside and stretched out wide.
There hadn’t been anything particularly shameful between him and Ms. Komai.
There was nothing shameful at all—he was simply enveloped in this pale, mist-like haze.
As he thought this, a surge of strength welled up within him—so intense it startled even himself.

As he walked through the garden, a large earthworm wriggled by.—There had been a time when Masao came over and found Mr. Shibata wearing nothing but a shirt, digging up that field out back.
His large face turned bright red, sweat pouring down, as he dug up the soil.
And he picked up a large earthworm and showed it to Masao.
"Earthworms, even if you cut them into two pieces, both parts will grow and become two separate worms," Mr. Shibata said.
“It’s only the head part that survives, right?” Masao said.
“No—both parts!” “No—just the head part!” As they went back and forth like this, both of them burst into laughter.

Masao remembered that moment vividly. Now an intense dislike for earthworms surged through him. Avoiding their wriggling forms, he came to stand before the insubstantial pavilion—little more than a symbolic structure now. Last night’s events felt both like distant history and some half-remembered dream.

When he looked around, Chibi sat motionless on the ground like an earthworm caught in sunlight. At the sight of Masao’s face, he blinked rapidly and scratched one ear.

“So what happened to you after that?” Masao asked.

Chibi, for all his usual chattiness, remained silent.

“What is it?” Masao said again.

“I went to check on Mr. Shibata’s condition,” Chibi finally replied.
“Then it seems Mr. Shibata has come back toward me again.”

“He came back… What do you mean?”

However, what Chibi was saying remained unclear.
After that, Mr. Shibata and Mr. Kohei apparently began arguing—the more fervently Mr. Kohei became invested, the calmer Mr. Shibata grew—until finally the impassioned Mr. Kohei collapsed drunk, the composed Mr. Shibata also collapsed drunk, and they shook hands.

“And soon, something terrible will happen.”

“What kind of thing?”

“Another fight’s going to break out.”

“Who knows.”

“No—it’s going to start! And Mr. Shibata’s side will win—I’m on his side.”

He couldn’t trust it that far.
Chibi was, by nature, a guy absolutely incapable of lying.
However, there were cases where what someone believed to be true was actually a mistaken falsehood.

This time, it was Masao who fell silent.

“When I came back, you—what on earth is that?”

“Ah, it’s about Ms. Komai,” Masao declared boldly.

Chibi was startled and blinked his eyes rapidly.
And then scratched his ear.

“Well, someone like Mr. Shibata would be a good match for you.”

Having said that, Masao started walking.
The words that had just slipped out suddenly returned clearly to his mind.
That's right—the one in the wrong wasn't someone like Mr. Shibata, it was Chibi.
It was just superficial brightness—there was nothing inside at all.
The very emptiness within became its brightness.

From now on, someone like that...

Masao muttered that, felt a pang of loneliness, and clenched his fist.

A pale white mist, indeterminate as to when it would lift, still lay thickly over everything.
Through it all, Masao kept walking.
Suddenly, the proverb “A white morning, a red evening—that is the pilgrim’s weather” came to mind.
Was this what they meant by a white morning?
And today would surely be clear.
It would be good weather for setting out on a pilgrimage.

“Masao-kun...” called out a frail voice.

“Are you still here?” Masao said.
“Why don’t you go climb up the tree out front or something.”
“Today, something interesting is sure to happen.”

Masao laughed brightly and started walking again.

At the window across the way, dimly from within the pale white mist, something even paler emerged.
It was Ms. Komai’s face.
She was staring intently this way.
Masao ran toward her.