Pathway to Japanese Literature

People called me a man-hater, but that wasn’t some fixed truth.
Men—no, every last one of them—were lewd and filthy, which was why I hated them.
If there existed someone neither lewd nor filthy—someone truly untainted—I couldn’t say I might not grow to like them.
I knew nothing of Shakyamuni or Mohammed, but Christ—Christ I liked.
Not because I’d attended a mission school for a time.
Christ was clean.
Clean to the point of sorrow.
In other words, he lacked that manly stench.

Manly odor—what exactly it was,I had often wondered,but I still didn't have a clear answer.It wasn't just a matter of smell.It wasn't just a matter of body odor.It seemed to be an amalgamation of greasiness,foulness,garrishness,and nausea-inducing qualities.When Ojousan—here called Ojyousan—was alone,the room's air felt pure.Apart from perfume and cosmetic scents,the entire atmosphere stayed clean.Yet when Mr.Inoue visited,the air grew murky.It turned stomach-churningly oppressive whenever he stayed overnight.Ojousan managed her own bedding,saving me effort,but even during my subsequent cleanings,the room retained its vulgar stench.The source festered entirely in Mr.Inoue's masculine miasma.

Even when going to bed, Mr. Inoue had never washed his feet.
He would take off his socks and get straight into bed.
When new they were tolerable, but once slightly soiled—especially on rainy days—they turned damp and musty with a foul stench.
That smell must have seeped into the feet themselves.
He’d once scratched at them with his fingertips as if athlete’s foot had taken root.
With those very feet he would climb under the covers.
I can’t speak for other nations, but shouldn’t Japanese people at least wash their feet before sleeping?
The reek of shoe leather and fusty socks—isn’t that sheer filth?

Men’s skin too generally resembled leather.
That’s why leather gloves suited them better than silk or wool ones.
They were animalistic.
They had too much hair.
Beards, chests, shins—they had hair everywhere.
As for Mr. Inoue, his nose hair was thick, and he even had hair growing in his ear canals.
After noticing that, I once spent some time secretly peeking into men’s ear canals at our shop and on trains.
I was surprised by how many people had bushy hair.

They have abundant hair and leather-like skin, and on top of that, they reek.
The breath of drunk people is utterly unbearable.
I cannot forget the words Mr. Inoue once whined to Ojousan when he was drunk.

“When you drink, your breath smells minty.”

Ojousan was fastidious and clean, so when she drank, her breath might take on a minty scent.
But Mr. Inoue’s breath only grew foul and defiled.
All men were like that.
They said it was like the breath of a ripe persimmon—though I didn’t know what a ripe persimmon smelled like—but it was a much worse stench.
That foul stench wasn’t solely due to alcohol.
It was because they had such things inside their bodies.
It was because they had something nauseating inside their bodies.

What would happen if one were to get into the same futon along with that foul smell?
Just thinking about it makes me shudder in disgust.
I would feel nauseous and might lose consciousness.
That Ojousan remains unfazed is utterly baffling to me.
Is she putting up with it because she’s indebted to Mr. Inoue?

Once, on a cold night, we set up a kotatsu in the lower room and all slept sprawled out.
Mr. Inoue had brought a large group of customers; the second floor was left in disarray; Ms. Oshima had gone home; and it was decided that the cleanup would be left for tomorrow.
The special gin was brought out; I diluted it with water and drank it, and a minty scent began to rise in my breath.

Between Mr. Inoue and Ojousan, when they got drunk, the same conversation was often repeated.
On Ojousan’s side, she expressed a desire to return to the old city district rather than remain in this remote riverside area of Tokyo.
Mr. Inoue also agreed with that, but it seemed a suitable house was hard to find.
On Mr. Inoue’s side, he made sarcastic remarks to Ojousan about Pomade Man slathering pomade in his hair.
He was the young master of a local kimono shop—when it came to clothing fabrics, we were the customers, but at our coffee shop, he was the customer.
The second-floor room and special dishes and drinks were limited only to Mr. Inoue’s companions; all others were confined to the downstairs café.
However, even among the café customers, there was a slight distinction; they sometimes served alcohol with light snacks.
When it came to this alcohol—particularly Western liquor—Mr. Inoue’s oversight was extremely strict.
He would insinuate with slow-burning sarcasm whether Pomade Man—Mr. Kuramitsu—was being allowed to drink too much.
It was unclear whether he was acting jealous or mocking her—his tone hovered ambiguously between the two.
On Ojousan’s side as well, her tone remained ambiguous—unclear whether she was making excuses or not.
Listening to them made me so frustrated.
It would be better if both of them were just clearer about things.
Since they had nothing else to talk about, were they using that as a topic for their drinks?
While sipping gin, the minty scent in my breath grew increasingly stronger.

And then, everyone got drunk and slept sprawled out around the kotatsu.

Suddenly, I awoke.
My chest churned, my breath grew stifled, and I cried out.

“Men stink! Men stink!”

I didn’t know whether I’d actually screamed—I’d meant to scream.
At the same time, I leapt up.

It reeked absolutely of men.
Mr. Inoue had drawn closer to me, turned toward me, breathing snore-laced breaths.
That breath must have fallen across my head and face.
Lukewarm, rancid, sour-tinged breath.
He opened his mouth slightly, baring teeth blackened with tobacco tar, and from deep within his throat came a noisy exhalation of foul air.
It wasn’t just alcohol’s stench.

“Men reek.”

I held my breath and sat up straight.

“What’s wrong with you? You’re acting all dazed from sleep.”

Ojousan looked at me, then immediately turned over to face the other side.

Toward that back, as if clinging desperately, I crawled in.
I took a deep breath.
I couldn’t sleep properly.
The entire room felt lewd and filthy.
A rustling sound comes from the direction of the dirt floor.
The black dog Kuma is scratching its body.
Shh, shh—even when scolded, it kept making that rustling sound.
It’s probably mites or a skin disease.
Why she keeps such a dog—I can’t fathom Ojousan’s reasoning.
It was just a small, ordinary pitch-black dog that had wandered in from somewhere.
It probably wouldn’t even serve as a thief deterrent.

That utterly worthless Kuma being doted on so specially by Mr. Kuramitsu with his pomade—it was absurd.
First of all, that pomade itself was absurd.
With his long hair slicked back, he slathered on pomade so thickly it shone brighter than his shoe tips.
Women might use binzuke oil for traditional Japanese hairstyles, but even that didn’t make them gleam so garishly.
The oil glistened like floating liquid, sometimes collecting white dust.
It was downright filthy.
When that pomade stink mixed with the dog’s odor, it became truly unbearable.
Mr. Kuramitsu would always stroke and pet Kuma—even hoisting him onto his lap at times.
Why didn’t men ever mind the smell of dogs?
Not only did they not mind—they seemed to positively relish it.

They like dogs, and they like pomade.
When you combine both smells, it becomes the stench of lewdness.
Oh—I’d blurted something outrageous, but now that it came to this, I couldn’t back down anymore.
I’d say whatever came to mind, no matter how absurd.

Mr. Kuramitsu did it too, and Mr. Inoue as well—when sitting on something, they spread both knees wide to either side.
All men did that.
Even when observing train cars, they spread both knees wide—their own thighs having space—yet pressed their groins against those beside them.
Why on earth did they do such things?
It couldn’t be due to pelvic bone structure.
Was it because men had that thing between their legs getting in the way?

Regarding that matter, I heard a strange story.
It was a story between the guests Mr. Inoue had brought over.

Men must always keep their testicles clean. Having agreed on this point, one of them said:

“So every morning when I wake up, I make sure to wash my testicles with water.”
“It’s refreshing.”

The other one also said:

“I always take off everything—loincloths and all—strip completely naked, change into my nightclothes, and then go to sleep.”
“It’s refreshing.”

Listening to this, I wasn’t so much embarrassed as I was appalled.
Both washing them with water every morning and sleeping completely naked without even underpants were equally absurd.

But there had to be a reason for it all. In other words, if they didn’t do those things, their groins mustn’t stay clean. Their groins had to be—how to put it—well, damp enough to necessitate such measures. That was it. Men’s groins were universally damp. That’s why they always spread their legs wide—to ventilate themselves better. If they kept both thighs pressed together like women did, blocking airflow, their groins would grow damper still and feel utterly revolting.

How can they claim women are the unclean ones? Women are always fresh and clean.
Men aren’t clean.
Their groins are damp.
Isn’t that filthy?
Damp filthiness—from that too, the manly stench emanates.

It is said that when naked, women are more unshapely than men.
That may be so.
Their legs are short in proportion to their torso; their buttocks are large; and their figure may not be considered attractive.
But women compensate for that with their clothing.
Clothing isn’t merely for shielding against cold and heat—it must also serve to beautify one’s appearance.
As for that clothing meant to beautify—what do men think of it? They immediately want to strip it off and bare their skin.
Shouldn’t it rather be women who ought to expose their skin?
Women’s skin is smooth and delicate—how incomparably more beautiful than men’s leathery hide.
Moreover, men are slovenly.
They let earwax crust, let snot accumulate; their elbows and knees grow rough.
Even in public, they calmly gouge ears with pinkies and root through nostrils with index fingers.
Whether Mr. Kuramitsu or Mr. Inoue—they’ll stroke Kuro, pick their noses, then pinch sweets with those filthy hands and eat them.
As for women—whether me or Ojousan—we would never do such things.

They ought to know shame.
And they ought to have a sense of decency.

Ojousan lined up a lace-embroidered handbag and a red coral obi clasp in front of me and said, “These are from Mr. Kuramitsu.” They were not items from his shop but things he had bought while out in Tokyo; he usually received various favors through coffee and alcohol. It was said to be a token of gratitude. I was surprised and asked.

“To me?”
“What about you, Ojousan?”

Ojousan fixed me with a steady gaze from her almond-shaped eyes, then suddenly giggled softly—*ho ho ho*.

“Why bother about someone like me?”

Since Ojousan had been a geisha before, whether she received things from others or not must have meant nothing to her.
But for me, accepting such items from Mr. Kuramitsu felt distinctly wrong.
It partly seemed like bypassing Ojousan’s position, partly made me dread future consequences, and moreover, I kept imagining the handbag and obi clasp had absorbed smells of dogs and nose-picking.
Not only did I feel no gratitude whatsoever—it struck me as downright burdensome.

The next time I met Mr. Kuramitsu, I gave a brief word of thanks but kept a cold demeanor.
The glossy pomade-slicked hair became downright detestable.

“Wasn’t sure if you’d like it—but just put up with this for now.”
“I’ll pick out something better next time.”

Mr. Kuramitsu chatted familiarly, asking what sorts of things I liked and such, and drank more whiskey than usual.

"I’m no beggar—I won’t accept handouts, I thought, and even considered whether I should get back at them somehow."

However, not only Mr. Kuramitsu but even Mr. Inoue brought me things—things like patterned handkerchiefs and sandals. It felt as if their foul breath had clung to them, and I found it repulsive. When I fidgeted, Mr. Inoue would disregard me, turn his slightly bearded, plump face toward Ojousan, and start a different conversation.

It felt as if I were being mocked by everyone yet also secretly targeted. Why are men so shamelessly brazen?

This feeling—Ojousan didn’t seem to understand.
In my place, Ojousan said thank you to both Mr. Kuramitsu and Mr. Inoue.

On the evening of the town festival, plenty of alcohol was specially prepared, and it was decided to let everyone drink.
Out front, lanterns and peach blossoms were hung.
With how hectic it was, I had grown quite tired.
Mr. Inoue was here, and Ojousan was often upstairs, so it was just me and Ms. Oshima left in the shop.

It had grown quite late, and five or six men came in.
They seemed quite drunk.

“Isn’t Mr. Kuramitsu here?”

“He isn’t here,” Ms. Oshima responded.

Somehow things became chaotic, and those people sat down at the tables and began drinking cheap whiskey.

“What happened to Kuramitsu?”
“You’re not hiding him, are you?”

Ms. Oshima stopped engaging.

“Auntie can’t be trusted—where’s Mie?”

“Hey, Mie!” When called, I couldn’t stay hidden and went out—they were people I recognized.

“Isn’t Kuramitsu here?”

“So he’s really not here.”

“He’s not hiding somewhere, is he?”

Pressed by them all at once, I was at a loss.

“If Mie-chan says so, it must be true. I’ll wait a little longer.”

While being made to pour their whiskey, someone suggested dancing.
I didn’t know how to dance, and I didn’t want to dance with men or anyone.
But they caught me.
Ms. Oshima put on a record.
It didn’t matter what record it was.
They pushed some tables aside and just moved around the narrow dirt-floored space.
With me at the center, they spun in circles.

“Barrel portable shrine! Wasshoi, wasshoi!”
“Wasshoi! Wasshoi!”

“What—it’s a princess portable shrine! Wasshoi! Wasshoi!”
“Wasshoi! Wasshoi!”

I was turned into a princess portable shrine, surrounded by everyone, hands gripping my shoulders and waist as they spun me around.
The men’s clammy hands brushed against mine, their foul breath washing over my face.
Disgusted and defiled, I struggled with all my strength, but they wouldn’t release me.
I let out a shriek, tears springing to my eyes, and slapped wildly at whatever I could reach.

“What’s going on here? Quit making such a racket.”

It was Mr. Nakao wearing a kimono.
He had been having a secret talk with Mr. Inoue in the back and was about to leave.
At times—probably regarding transactions of goods or something—he would have secret talks with Mr. Inoue.
He was said to be a local boss—a bald old man, but one who seemed physically strong.

“Ah, Mr. Nakao?”

The group fell silent.
I was freed.

“Bullying a young girl… how disgraceful.”
“Seems like the festival didn’t have enough booze, huh.”
“I’ll treat you.”

There were those who scratched their heads and made apologetic bows.

“Well, you see—we were just questioning her ’cause they said Mie-chan had hidden Mr. Kuramitsu somewhere.”

“Don’t talk nonsense.”

They rearranged the tables and each took their seats.
Strangely enough, even Mr. Inoue—who should’ve been seeing Mr. Nakao off—ended up sitting down at that seat.
The fact that Mr. Inoue was drinking with locals was something that had never happened before.

“Hasn’t Mr. Kuramitsu come even once today?”

Even Mr. Inoue was asking Ms. Oshima about that sort of thing.

They didn’t need any proper dishes.
They only served snacks and heated sake.
Since Ojousan had also come out, I retreated to the back.
I washed my face and hands.
It reeked of men, making me sick.
Mr. Nakao was already an old man, but even so, he was somehow disgusting.
Slightly bull-necked, the thick, fleshy nape of his neck was rough from sunburn yet oddly greasy.

After a while, the young men left, but Mr. Nakao and Mr. Inoue remained behind, mixing special whiskey into beer and drinking it.
They whispered conspiratorially then suddenly burst into raucous laughter.
Were they concluding their secret talk?
Or had they started some lewd conversation instead?
Even Ojousan was laughing along with them.
I had grown utterly sick of it all.

After Mr. Nakao had left, and Ms. Oshima had tidied up a bit, closed the shop, and departed, Mr. Inoue suddenly staggered—or pretended to—and leaned against my back at the foot of the steep stairs leading to the second floor.
He hadn’t truly staggered.
He pressed himself against my back, wrapped both hands from my shoulders to my chest, and embraced me tightly.
Hot breath hung over from my cheeks to my collar.
With the feeling that my breath was stopping, I couldn’t stand and limply collapsed, ending up collapsed face down on the wooden floor there.
Mr. Inoue said nothing and staggered up the steep stairs.

I got up and brushed my kimono furiously across every inch of my body.
Then I scrubbed my face and neck, washed my hands, scoured my feet.
My stomach heaved, and I gulped down what whiskey remained.
Every corner reeked of men, everything filthy.
But that wasn’t all—it had taken on a grotesque terror.
There was no telling what might happen.
Something pitch-black and sinister—no telling when it might strike.
A lewd, shapeless dread.

I drank whiskey.
It might have been completely useless, but I let the bear out of its cage into the dirt-floored area.
The bear sniffed around the dirt-floored area and went back into its cage.
I kicked it.
Then I dragged out the futon and, still in my kimono, pulled it over my head.

Footsteps of two or three people sounded outside.
The footsteps stopped in front of the shop.
Leaning against the door, they knocked rhythmically.

“Have you already gone to sleep?”

They seemed drunk and were speaking loudly.

“Have you already gone to sleep?”

They knocked rhythmically.

“Mie, Mie, open up a bit.”
“It’s me.”

This time, it was Mr. Kuramitsu’s voice.
He knocked loudly on the door.
If she stayed silent, he would knock again.

It seemed Ojousan hadn’t gone to sleep yet; she came down from the second floor.
Ojousan called out to me, but when I didn’t respond, she went to the front herself and opened the door slightly.

About three men came staggering in.
Mr. Kuramitsu’s pomaded hair gleamed.

I had already gotten up.
While Mr. Kuramitsu and the others were saying something and making a commotion, I quietly left the room, slipped on my zori, opened the back door, and slipped outside.
I could no longer bear the house becoming any more saturated with the stench of men and wanted to breathe the clean outside air.

The fog was deep.
Even so, the fog was dimly bright—had moonlight shone through?

I felt like I had seen such fog in a dream.
Thick and deep fog remained stagnant and settled as far as the eye could see.
I couldn’t tell where the moon was; only dim brightness permeated the haze.

Walking along a narrow path and climbing slightly upward，she emerged onto the river embankment.

The river water flowed soundlessly beneath the fog，but no visibility pierced through.
A drum’s rhythm echoed faintly.
Was someone still beating that festival drum so late?
As I half-listened，both that man-stinking house and its foul air seemed to withdraw into distance，quieting my mind.
I walked upstream along the embankment.

It was a spacious embankment with only a few wheel ruts remaining. There were no groves, only grasslands; the spring grass had not yet begun to emit its scent. There was nothing—no human figures—only deep, quiet fog blanketing everything.

From within that fog, unnoticed, some form had emerged.
When I looked carefully at it, it had already taken on the form of a human figure.
It was gradually approaching—not along the embankment but over the river—toward me.
It wasn’t so much that I recognized it visually, but rather that I felt a sense of familiarity.
Ah, I do remember this.
It was the figure of Christ.
And it wasn’t a Christ painted by some great artist, but a commonplace one widely circulated in society—an utterly unremarkable image seen everywhere.
It was walking on the river.
Christ who walked across the lake must have been just like this.
It was precisely that most commonplace, ordinary figure of Christ that, to me, was the most refreshing, the least tainted by man’s stench, the purest thing.

If it’s that Christ, then I too will love him.
I want to love him from the bottom of my heart and hold him close.

My body grew hot, and with a feeling more of being deeply moved than joy, I knelt there, lowered my face, and clasped my hands to my chest.

It felt like a long time.
Christ did not approach; there was no rustle of garments, nor could I detect any fragrant breath.
I raised my face.
Christ’s figure had vanished—there was nothing to see anywhere, only dense fog shrouding everything.
I was crying.
Though I wept, I felt not a trace of betrayed expectation—instead, I sensed myself made pure and cleansed.

I stood up and began walking.
Tears still pooled in my eyes as I walked.
I walked slowly through the dimly bright, thick, deep fog.
I didn’t know where I was going.
But I could no longer turn back.
I would absolutely never return to that place reeking of men—lewd and filthy.
I kept walking upstream along the embankment, following the river further and further.