Pathway to Japanese Literature

The preparations were complete.
All that remained was to wait for her to arrive.
The spread seemed slightly inadequate, but cluttering various items would only appear vulgar in this situation.
Everything must be kept neat and tasteful.
Heavy foods should be avoided.
Meat was generally vulgar.
If one grew hungry, white bread with caviar... The bread should naturally be white, but this was a wretched era where even that white bread remained frustratingly out of reach.
Other than that, I had made thorough considerations.
First of all, I wanted to handle this without relying on the maid or Sayoko—no, rather, to manage it alone with her.
The bowl of chicken eggs was slightly concerning, but since she had a habit of extracting and slurping just the yolks, that quirk should be overlooked.
Alcohol was plentiful.
Sake, along with wine, gin, whiskey, and carbonated water, had been prepared.

“Since today’s work will likely last all night, have the food laid out in the study.”
“I don’t require dinner.”

He had thus instructed the maid. In other words, he wanted to make it appear as though Ms. Souma Takayo had visited by pure coincidence, without any prior arrangement. Until then, using the excuse of pressing work, he would keep all visitors at the entrance for brief conversations, and once she finally arrived, he would feign absence to avoid meeting anyone. After that, it would be time for just the two of them, a world for just the two of them.

What would happen—that alone he couldn’t predict.

“I want to see your study.”
“I want to get drunk in your study.”
Within their embrace she had said this—
her voice taut with conviction—

In truth, it was a study with no distinguishing features—if anything, rather shabby.
However, places like an artist’s studio or a novelist’s study seemed to be perceived by others as hallowed spaces.
Since even for the creators themselves there were times when this held true, it was only natural.
That a thirty-five-year-old married woman would want to see your study could not be attributed solely to some romantic whim.
Moreover—no, rather—the most crucial point was the matter of affection.
I wanted to peek into her bedroom too, and I wanted to get drunk in her bedroom.
She would, in my study…

I wanted a safe place where I didn't have to hold back.
The Souma residence drew too much attention.
She disliked inns and meeting houses.
Was there no place where we could meet freely whenever we wished?
On my part, I didn't fear scandals in the slightest.
On hers too, she wasn't so anxiously concerned about social appearances.
There were even those who had stolen married women in the twilight of their love.
Yet their relationship needed to remain secret.

The cause lay in her husband's stinginess.
He was a former army officer who possessed considerable assets and, after the war's end, had established a commercial company with several former subordinates, engaged in black market trade, and further increased his wealth.
He indulged in debauchery, kept what appeared to be a mistress, and seemed to harbor little affection for his wife.
Instead, he maintained strict oversight over household finances—once, when suspecting his wife's conduct, rather than growing jealous, he had nearly ceased giving her money altogether. This was what she feared.

She didn't watch many movies but loved both classic and modern plays; joined tanka poetry circles where she composed clumsy verses; though she didn't dance, preferred fine coffee and cakes; drank a fair amount of alcohol; and lived an extravagant, showy daily life. She was apparently the daughter of an impoverished aristocratic family, with a somewhat carefree air about her. Perhaps it was in precisely such aspects that her husband's domestic stinginess took root. She seemed to be quite an expensive woman.

“If I were penniless, I might just die.”

She said this without a trace of jest.
So if their affair were discovered by her husband and her allowance completely cut off, that would mean a living death for her.
That said, she lacked the resourcefulness to embezzle readily available funds from his assets in advance.
When push came to shove, she lacked even the courage to come rushing to me and start a life together—didn’t seem to have considered such a thing in the slightest.
She disliked traveling; after marriage, she had never visited her husband’s postings, always living in their Tokyo residence—no summer retreats or winter getaways either.
For her to come rushing to my place would be an adventure surpassing any journey.

But even I was no different from her when it came to indolence.
Living together with her—I had never even considered it.
When I had fought with my wife and formally separated, I had actually felt rather relieved.
Living with a woman who held status and authority within the household—once had been more than enough.
A few inconveniences in daily life could be managed depending on how you looked at them.
In reality, with just the maid and Honma Sayoko there, I felt no inconvenience whatsoever.

However, being poor—that's a problem. If I had money, I'd drink every last drop—always ending up drinking it all—that's my bad habit. What follows is an endless string of regrets. And this thing called regret is like fog—even if it were to envelop everything around, once money becomes available again, it would vanish without a sound or scent, leaving not a single trace behind.

If there's no money—that is, no money I can freely use—then even I might as well be a living corpse. I understand her feelings all too well. If there were someone who publicly declared such things, given the current times, I might just beat them senseless for what they'd say—but she and I are different. Being different means we're not strangers.

Lately, I’ve been completely cash-strapped and at my wit’s end.

Generally speaking, that was how things were—but particularly in publishing, which was in dire straits: royalties went unpaid, even manuscript fees were chronically delayed, and getting an advance was practically out of the question.
As for debts from outside the publishing industry, I couldn't seem to find any way to manage them.
Even so, in my relationship with Souma Takayo, I needed extra money.
Yesterday, having roughly estimated, I visited a certain publisher and tried to claim the remaining royalties.
The president's response was that he wanted me to wait until the tenth of next month.
There seemed to be no cash at all.
Next, I visited a certain magazine publisher and tried to request an advance on my manuscript fee.
There had been a promise to write a manuscript.
The Editor-in-Chief made a terribly troubled face and, in any case, made an inverted request: "Could you bring the manuscript, even if it remains unfinished?"
The understanding was that once my manuscript had been received, he would prevail upon their president and take full responsibility for having all required funds released without delay.
Thanks to that goodwill, I felt moderately relieved.

However, the problem was that manuscript.
Due to the summer heat and exhaustion from overwork, my work simply wouldn't progress smoothly.
When my work didn't progress, I ended up drinking even more; then after drinking, both mind and body became drained, making the work all the harder.
It was like a game of cat and mouse with myself—an endless cycle of self-reproach.
The toxic cocktail of shochu, sake, and cheap whiskey began taking its toll, while even the mind-sharpening medication seemed to cloud my thoughts when layered atop.
Yet I remained convinced this was only temporary.

Be that as it may, I had to write the manuscript urgently. Moreover, there was no time left to spare. My promise with Souma Takayo took precedence over everything else.

When driven to extremity, one finds a way—I too had discovered a last-ditch solution. I recalled fragments of a novel I’d scrawled chaotically in a notebook. These were rough drafts meant for future use someday, utterly worthless on their own. Yet framed as postwar deformation, they might unexpectedly fool readers’ eyes after all. That the content felt antiquated couldn’t be helped—who knows, this very quality might serve as ironic commentary. It amounted to factual notes about the ludicrously mismatched circumstances surrounding one man, his wife, and his regular geisha.

For those who call themselves novelists, daily diligence and study are crucial.
You never know what might prove useful.
I had Honma Sayoko transcribe that notebook onto manuscript paper.
Even I found it too absurd to do myself, and I had no time.

Sayoko was, so to speak, a literary aspirant who stayed at my house, helping with household chores and organizing manuscripts and correspondence.
She had previously worked at a certain publisher but was deemed slow and useless, so I took her in.
The fact that she was slow and useless was precisely what I liked.
In a household, all clever women are inadvisable.

After asking her to transcribe the notebook, I said.

“This will be good for your studies, so give it your all.”
“Don’t approach this as mere transcription—consider half of it your own creation. Feel free to add wherever you find lacking.”

There was a solemn eagerness and delight in both Sayoko’s demeanor and the look in her eyes.
This instead filled me with unease.
As I pondered for a while, an important realization struck me.
She had likely never even heard a geisha’s words.
What if I changed the geishas to dancers?
If they were dancers’ words, they could be passed off as not much different from those of the female editors she knew well.
That way, the work would become more modern.
In other words, her ignorance actually improved the work.—As for this final point—though I kept silent about it—I diligently instructed her on changing geishas to dancers.

Sayoko was in the other room, diligently writing the manuscript.
As that progressed, manuscript fees would flow into my pocket accordingly.

When there was a part she didn’t understand, she would come to consult me.
I would kindly instruct her.
Then I would ask.

“How about it—is this work interesting?”

“It’s very interesting, but…”

“But… what is it?”

She wiped the sweat from her forehead with a handkerchief and sat primly.

“Don’t hold back—go ahead and say it. It’s not like we’re publishing this anywhere. I’m just having you make a clean copy for your studies. As I always say, writing things is about thinking things through clearly. You make thinking and writing one and the same. So, how about this work?”

“It feels a bit too simplistic, but…”

“But… go on.”

“It’s been tremendously educational for me.”

She offered a rather clever response.
It was meant to be either too simplistic or educational for her.
It remained nothing but a memo, nothing but a rough sketch.

“If it aids your studies, that’s satisfactory.”
“But mark this—the simpler a work, the better.”
“Those who style themselves writers must cultivate a spirit of service to the masses.”
“Self-indulgence proves most intolerable.”
“To express profundity through simplicity—this constitutes the highest technique.”

She remained silent, listening attentively. She might still be sitting there until I told her it was enough. She's so dense.

“That’s enough,” I said.

Then I began drinking alone.
I would bring in an electric heater and heat sake.
I had long impressed upon both Sayoko and the maid that thinking too was a form of work.
If I didn’t call them myself, no one would come to attend.
The training had taken hold well.

What on earth had happened to Souma Takayo?
No matter how long I waited, she didn't come.
There had been a firm promise - by afternoon, without fail by evening.
The light was growing dim.

Takayo would come to my study, and the two of us would get drunk together, and then... beyond that, something fateful and decisive awaited.
I would affirm it; I would accept it—all refusal was cowardice.

Just like me, she knew no refusal.

"I don't understand myself."

She muttered as if talking to herself.
The two of them having ended up like this—that was what she had been referring to.
However, it was precisely where there was no reason that true love existed.

We took each other’s hands with utmost naturalness—as if it had been decided from the very beginning—drew close together, and pressed our lips. I couldn’t understand why it had turned out that way. Or should I call it a mutual gravitational pull? There was not the slightest friction.

In me were bones and sinews and claws and angular aspects. But in her, there was none of that. She wasn’t overly obese, nor did she have excessive fat, but her entire form was rounded. Her face was plump; her neck short with rounded shoulders; her hips rounded; her ankles rounded; her breasts forming fully realized spheres. In keeping with that form of hers, both her manner of speech and the movements of her emotions were rounded and softly floating. Even when I lunged at her or thrashed about, there was nothing to grasp anywhere—it was like tumbling into cotton batting. And within that entire cotton batting, I was wrapped—body and soul laid utterly bare. To give up, close my eyes—there was nothing left but to indulge myself. At forty-five years old, this me was capable of nothing but indulging myself with her.

But today—no, tonight—it was my turn to let her indulge to the fullest.
With my body, with my heart, with my love—I had to make her understand what it truly meant to indulge.

The rest I left to fate.
A decisive moment—to live or die—would manifest itself.

My mind was keyed up; my ears were sharpened.
But there was no sign of anything.
She still hasn’t come.
What could have happened to that firm promise we made?

“Will you… will you really come?”

“Yes. It was I who proposed it, after all.”

“That’s certain.”

She nodded, extended a soft hand toward me, gazed intently into my eyes, and smiled.
I now recall sensing something ominous in that smile—but wasn’t it rather that such an ominous hue in those circumstances contained, at its core, a hidden determination?
She will come.

I would wait all night—until tomorrow, even until the day after.

A phone... There was one in a nearby house, but calling was beneath me.
The cigarettes tasted foul.
Liquor was better.
The water in the electric heater cooled too fast, and heating sake was too much trouble, so I cracked open a bottle of dry gin and let it slowly flow down my throat.

Outside, the sound of insects could be heard.

“What’s wrong?”

A sudden human voice sounded.
When he turned around, there was a woman in a whitish kimono with iris patterns sitting with the fusuma slightly open.

“Master.”

She called in a faint voice.
Caught off guard, I felt a shudder run through my entire body, every hair standing on end, and sensed the blood draining from my own face.

“Master.”

It was Sayoko.

"What shall I do about the meal?"

Taking a cold breath, he took a little time to regain his composure.

"I told you I didn't need a meal, but you all..."

"We have been waiting."

"You idiot. Hurry up and finish it."

He felt strangely irritated. For some reason, he called over Sayoko—who stood timidly hesitant—and decided to have her take away all the animal-based dishes from the small plates: folded sardines, sparrow skewers, water clams, and everything else. I don't need such things anymore. I was simply irritated.

“You mustn’t harbor such a servile attitude.”
“Independence and self-reliance—this is what’s most important in literature.”

I asked her as she gazed vacantly up at my face.

“What do you make of that recent President Shimoyama incident?”

She sat there blankly, seemingly making no effort to even consider the question.

“That car driver—Mr. Shimoyama goes into Mitsukoshi saying he’ll just be five minutes, and someone ends up blankly waiting from 9:30 in the morning until 5:00 in the afternoon—seven and a half hours! Does such a thing even exist?”
“Ministers and officials may nonchalantly keep people waiting—such things might happen all the time—but those who wait are fools.”
“The mentality of blankly waiting for seven and a half hours is absurd.”
“It goes beyond ridiculous—it’s utterly idiotic.”
“As long as such slavish mentalities persist, humanity will never be saved.”

“I think so too.”
She finally answered.

“And then there’s the Teigin Incident in Shiinamachi from years back.”
“Even if we were to believe they followed metropolitan health officials’ orders—would over a dozen people really line up their beaks like swallow chicks and gulp down poison in unison? Does such absurdity exist?”
“To deem everything bureaucrats say as perfectly reasonable and obey without question—this too reeks of slavish mentality.”
“Such things must be eradicated.”
“In other words—a critical spirit, an independent spirit, a free spirit—these are what matter.”
“To be bound by nothing—what we call human liberation ultimately means escaping into a realm where nothing binds you at all.”

“I think so too,” she answered again.

“Do you really think so?”

“Yes.”

She sat upright with downcast eyes.

"I'm not scolding you."
"I'm just stating my own thoughts."

This time, there was no response.

“That’s enough.”

Sayoko left quietly, muffling her footsteps.

Be bound by nothing.
That's right.
I put down the gin glass and began heating the sake.
I mustn't get drunk too quickly.
If I'm to get drunk, I want to get drunk with Souma Takayo.

Why isn't she coming?
Could there have been some incident?
No—that couldn't be.
She'll definitely come.
I'll wait until she comes.
I'll wait forever!

Around the electric light, a single fly circled restlessly.
The buzzing was irritating.
I grabbed the folding fan and stood up to knock it down but had little success.
The fly skittered against the lightbulb, retreated into the lampshade's depths, traced wide circles through the room, then came to rest on the ceiling.
After considerable effort，I finally managed to knock it down.
Grasping it with paper and crushing it produced a squelching sound that resonated through my fingertips, spewing white viscera.
Disgusting creature.
I wrapped it in paper and—though troubled about where to discard it—ultimately didn’t care and flung it into the toilet.

While urinating, his legs wavered.

"Could I be drunk?"

He placed both hands under his head and tried lying on his back, but his eyelids felt heavy.
"I must not sleep."
"She'll be here soon."
He got up and searched the bottom drawer of the small organizing cabinet to find several small bottles.
On the desk, he rolled several tablets.
Playing with flat white tablets was a childlike joy.
"I am not particularly fond of using these."
"They're neither Hiponion nor Adormer."
"I just take a little nibble as needed."
"Sometimes they have no taste, sometimes they're bitter, sometimes sweet and sour."
"In any case, the aftertaste is unpleasant."
"To wash away that aftertaste, nothing beats alcohol."

There is thinking to be done.
There are important matters to consider.
By merely holding lukewarm sake in my mouth synchronized to thought's velocity and fixing my gaze, the study's ceiling and four walls dissolve until mind merges with heaven and earth.
A breeze flows soundlessly, dew quietly forms—it is a clear night.

“Master.”

This time, the voice was clear.

“May I come in?”

“Ah, fine.”

Sayoko entered carrying the notebook.

“I’m a bit unclear about this part…”

“Are you still working on that?”
“Tomorrow’s fine.”

“But if you tell me something like ‘When tomorrow comes and this is no good, stop it already,’ I’ll be in trouble.”

“It’s fine—I won’t change my mind. But if you want to keep working longer tonight, that’s acceptable too.”

What she didn’t understand was the part in the notebook where the teahouse proprietress appeared. Since he had changed the geisha into a dancer, she was asking what should be done about the proprietress. “In that case,” I half-heartedly advised her, “make the proprietress into a dance hall manager or such—and for that manager role, have her bring in an editor-in-chief from some publishing company she knows.” She nodded as if savoring each word. Pathetic creature.

Suddenly, a surge of pity welled up in my chest.

"Everything's a learning process," I said. "They claim genius means endurance, but endurance through effort—the very capacity to keep striving—that's true genius. You ought to study more."

She blinked rapidly up at me. Her sallow skin stretched tight over pinched nostrils, a pale birthmark clinging near her ear. No conventional beauty by any measure.

"Men might scrape by," I continued, "but women require absolute resolve for literary pursuits. You must resist every temptation—every last one." The words curdled in my throat even as I spoke them. "Embrace austere poverty. Cultivate humility before the world. No cozying up to publishers as advisors or executives for pocket money."

She appeared to be nodding from the depths of her heart.
Her neck stood out with oddly tense muscles; her chest undoubtedly contained thick ribs; despite her youth, her breasts sagged while only the nipples remained large—he could discern it all.

"If you don't maintain humility, you can't grasp the true form of things."
"It's said that what's most crucial for a literary person is possessing a certain lucid vision."
"To cultivate and nurture such vision—I believe one must discard all prejudices and preconceptions, then situate oneself in absolute humility."

She appeared to be nodding deeply.
She sat leaning forward.
The reddish, tacky obi was tied in an oddly baggy manner.
Instead of having much flesh on her chest, her abdomen carried excess fat, and black grime had accumulated in her navel—he could see it all.

“As long as you maintain humility, you needn’t waste mental effort on foolish things like makeup or clothing.”
“External beauty or ugliness isn’t the issue.”
“What matters most is inner beauty.”
“Inner beauty—through that, even something like sexual desire can be overcome.”

She glanced up at me but immediately lowered her gaze to her knees.
She kept her knees pressed neatly together.
Her thighs had tough skin, and he could see that her pubic area was densely covered with awfully coarse hair.

"The object of sexual desire lies unquestionably in the opposite sex, and this most often takes violent forms."
"That's why true love remains so scarce in this world."
"Since literature bears humanism as its standard, it must persist as love's steadfast ally and violence's eternal foe."

She looked up at me again.
Her eyes looked as if they were brimming with grateful tears.
I suddenly felt a surge of loathing.
It was because I had stripped off her clothes and seen her ugly naked body there that I loathed her.
I extended my hand toward her face, which was once again lowered, and forcefully lifted her chin.

“What’s this? Don’t just keep looking down.”
“Keep your face pointed straight ahead.”

He stifled the urge to push her down right there and, averting his eyes, spoke.

“That’s enough.”

Before she left, I lay sprawled out there and shut my eyes.

Something savage was rearing its head inside me.
Then abruptly before my eyes materialized Souma Takehiko's form.
Takayo's husband.
I'd glimpsed him once or twice in that vegetable patch beside his Bunka-style residence.
Growing all manner of crops he tended himself.
A man lavish in externals yet miserly within, unexpectedly svelte in build for all that.
He'd supposedly gone traveling briefly - perhaps made some sudden return preventing Takayo from coming.
I'll duel that bastard.
Former officer or not, he's just some two-bit nobody.
I'll slaughter him without composure till it's finished.
I'll murder him for certain.

The duel scene flickered and spun.
I mustn't rush.
Take your time to savor it.
I sat up and grabbed the gin glass.

The surroundings were profoundly still.
It had the air of deep water's depths.
No insects sang, no small birds stirred; the atmosphere hung stagnant.

Something like smoke swirled and swirled, spreading outward somewhere.

"Nakane Keijirou."

It called my name.
Who's there?

I looked around, but the glass doors of the bookcase were just dimly white, with nothing amiss.
In the corner of a different shelf, a Buddha statue about two feet tall seemed to be grinning.
I felt my cheeks relax into a smile.

“Thy indulgence…”

The voice broke off for a moment.

“How base.”

That’s a familiar phrase.

“How vulgar.”

It rephrased it.

“How despicable.”

It rephrased it again.

After that, the voice fell silent.
I took up the gin glass.
My head felt slightly unsteady.
Sake was better after all.
When I flipped the switch on the electric heater, it began to drone—a low, persistent buzz.

“Disaster isn’t built in a day.”

In response to the voice, I loudly corrected it back.

“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

“Disaster wasn’t built in a day,” the voice said.

“Rome wasn’t built in a day,” I said.

*“Disaster wasn’t built in a day.”*

“Rome wasn’t built in a day.”

*“Disaster wasn’t built in a day.”*

I stopped responding and decided not to engage any further.

Then all hell broke loose.

“Idiot... Idiot... Idiot...”
“...Disgrace... Drop dead... Still not drunk?... Drink... Drink until you drop dead.”

That Buddha statue seemed to be speaking.
I suddenly—utterly unexpectedly, with instantaneous abruptness—flew into a rage.
Biting my lip, I looked around to find canned asparagus, pears, cheese, bottles of spices—all sorts of things—with eggs heaped in a bowl.
Her sole vulgar habit was that compulsive slurping of egg yolks.
Her husband Takehiko must have drilled that into her.

“You bastard!”

I grabbed an egg and hurled it at the Buddha statue.
The egg hit the wall and shattered.
I threw again.
It missed.
I threw again.
It missed.
I threw wildly.
The Buddha statue also got angry and glared at me.
I burst out laughing, but my fury only swelled alongside it.
I grabbed the one-shō bottle, closed in, and smashed it down on the Buddha statue’s head.

Everything fell deathly quiet.
It felt like the water's depths.

When he turned toward the presence, Sayoko stood rigidly at the room’s entrance.
I shuddered.
She looked like a ghost. Then another ghost came running in.
The maid.
She was stronger than I.

In an instant, I regained my composure.
My fury was gone.
Nor was there any hatred.
With a calm demeanor, I returned to my original seat, sat cross-legged, and picked up the gin glass.
While sipping it, I pointed at the canned asparagus.

“Open this for me.”

Nobody responded.
The maid was crouched down, slowly, slowly picking up the glass shards.
Sayoko crouched on the veranda, hid her face against the shoji screen, and pressed a handkerchief to her eyes.
Both of them looked like utter lunatics.
I was at a loss and shouted.

“Won’t you answer? Open this! Open this!”

I hurled the canned asparagus onto the tatami mats.
When people go mad, do they become mute?
Both of them remained silent.
Even so, they came over and served the asparagus and mayonnaise on a plate.
I’ll drink gin...