Pathway to Japanese Literature

――Before my eyes appeared something like a great octopus. They stood with eight legs gathered, shook their bald monk-like heads, rolled bulging eyes, and danced about—swaying unsteadily, rocking gently—their numbers ten, twenty, perhaps thirty. Nearly indifferent to the music’s shifting tempo, they drifted through pale red light—clinging together, pulling apart—dancing onward until the music stopped. Then they scattered to the narrow hall’s corners, spread legs wide, and crouched flat against the floor. A moment of the night at Cabaret Ruby.

“Why are you silent?”

But what could there possibly be to say? Everyone kept their mouths shut and stayed quiet. Or even when they spoke, it was in hushed whispers—no different from silence. What voice could an octopus have? They just gurgled through their mouths and slapped their suckers wetly. Those eight limbs became legs when needed and arms when required. Twining legs together, entwining arms together, or intertwining them with each other’s—slapping their suckers wetly…. How ticklish! How repulsive! There—the band had started up again. This time it was dancing girls. Watch quietly. With the lighting turned blue now, it shouldn’t be too distracting.

“Hey, I’m hungry.”

“What the hell are you talking about at this hour?” That’s why Kimura tells her women only think about eating and sleeping. Admittedly, you said men only drink—but this too held a grain of truth. When Kimura got drunk at Bar Penguin, it proved amusing. The fool kept guzzling brandy until his legs gave out entirely, then—oblivious to his condition—tried rising from the sofa to charm Madame at the counter… First off, there was no call to show that Madame any respect. Bar Penguin—what an apt name. With her stubby legs, barrel torso, and buck teeth, didn’t Madame resemble a penguin exactly? If we consider absurdity a form of charm, then perhaps reciprocating with charm was only fair. Kimura walked a few steps forward, eyes crinkling with mirth—then his hips gave way. He missed grabbing the counter, fumbled past the stool, and landed hard on his backside. That alone might’ve sufficed, but attempting to rise, he flailed limbs wildly— having forgotten to brace his hands against the floor. There he sprawled: double-breasted jacket askew, pomaded hair gleaming, dance shoes flashing midair as limbs thrashed—so utterly ridiculous I burst out laughing, joined by other drunken patrons. None moved to help. Then Madame Penguin swept forth, hoisted him up, and began dusting him off with grave solemnity…

And that was how it all began. That was likely the first time Kimura touched Madame’s body heat and felt her breath upon his skin. It seemed he’d taken a slight liking to Penguin’s torso. Upon reflection, when Madame helped Kimura up, it took a bit too long for just that simple act. If two octopuses entangled each other, they would inevitably touch each other’s suckers somewhere. Birds may have feathers, but humans—like octopuses—are left with defenseless bare skin.

“I never thought things with Mr.Kimura would last forever.” “I knew Mr.Kimura was unfaithful, and I knew I wasn’t the only one.” “But…I never imagined you’d be with Madame…” “It’s humiliating.” “Madame tries to look young, but she’s already over forty.” “So while I can sort of understand Madame getting worked up, your…I can’t fathom.” “It’s less that I can’t fathom it—it’s that I’m humiliated.” “……I’m humiliated.”

While lamenting in that manner, Kyoko cried, but her weeping was distinctly hysterical. Hysteria apparently isn't limited to older women alone. Or perhaps it spreads contagiously from older to younger. If Madame Penguin and Kimura had been involved first, and Kimura had then transferred his affections to Kyoko, Madame Penguin's hysterics would have been truly spectacular. By the way, if Kimura had switched from Kyoko in her twenties to some teen girl, even I can't imagine what Kyoko's hysterics would have looked like.

Kyoko shot back a feminine sarcastic remark and moved from Bar Penguin to another bar.

“I can’t stay in such a disgraceful place.”

She alone fancied herself as having proper manners. So women are such frivolous creatures. When I teased her like that, Kyoko got angry and polished off Tome Shichi’s pork cutlet and fried oysters in one go.

Tome Shichi was a small shop, but its pork cutlet was the largest in Tokyo. Delicious as it was, its size—enough to fill a large plate—made it no easy feat to finish. What astonished was that there existed a woman who devoured two of these.

Kyoko was of average build and height, but Hikari was slightly shorter and thinner than that. Her nose was sharply defined, her eyes held a piercing gleam, giving her an aristocratic, intellectual air.

Hikari was seething with anger. She was angrier than Kyoko—truly so. At the tailor shop where she handled designs and operated sewing machines, when Hikari gobbled up the peanuts sent by a client too greedily while sharing them with her colleagues, everyone criticized her.

“But they say such awful things like ‘the skinny one eats like a starved laborer,’ you know.”

That must certainly be true. It had been an established fact since ancient times that thin women were bigger eaters than fat ones. But more than that, the far more intriguing question was how they had ended up quarreling over mere peanuts in the first place—a matter that concerned ladies’ delicate sensibilities and did not readily permit scrutiny from others.

Hikari was tearing up. It wasn’t tears of frustration or sadness—the fact that they were tears of anger was evident from the faint blue veins visible on her forehead.

“It got on my nerves, so I hurled the peanut shells at them with all my strength and scattered them all over the room.”

Judging from this, the beans must have still been in their shells. The scene of those young women vigorously peeling, crunching away, and quarreling was a spectacle that left one at a loss for words.

Rather than getting angry, I figured it’d be better to stuff her belly with pork cutlet instead—so when I invited her to Tome Shichi, she showed no reaction whatsoever to the sarcasm and, still fuming over the peanut incident, ended up devouring two enormous pork cutlets. To keep her company, I also devoured one.

When I parted with Kyoko, the sun had already set. The canal water lay dark and murky, city lights glimmering on its surface, young willow leaves swaying gently though no wind blew. At such times, strangely, the stars in the sky go unseen. No—one doesn’t look up at the sky. Eyes hung heavy upon the water’s surface; in my gut, pork cutlet sat stagnant. Long ago, a certain poet had sung of pork cutlet melancholy and beefsteak hypochondria. But this feeling weighed far heavier than any of that.

Beneath the stone wall, on a narrow sandbar in the canal, something black was writhing. Slowly, as if crawling, it moved. It couldn’t be human. It moved in an octopus-like manner, lurching forward in fits and starts. If it were to stand up, it would surely become human.

The oppressive mood transformed into a vague dread.

Ah. Something flashed like an epiphany.

―I have lost my dream.

To realize one has lost is to desire to possess.

To possess a dream, ordinary diligence must come first—but depending on time and circumstance, there should be room for flexible measures.

Cities were strange things—no matter how orderly they might appear, they created currents and stagnant pools everywhere. In stagnation dwelled yin; in flow resided yang. In war-devastated cities like Tokyo, that disparity grew all the more severe. If one ventured just a little further, it abruptly transformed into a clamorous thoroughfare.

The clanging of trains, the honking of automobiles, the tramping of crowds—transcending these, the loudspeakers of advertising towers resound through the air. This is precisely the violence of yang. Yet beyond the reach of these violent interferences, outside the glare of neon signs, there exist quiet corners. It is quiet—but that is no oversight.

There, alcohol-induced intoxication, dreams, and philosophical thoughts coiled and swirled.

One such place, Sugi Cottage, was filled with a crowd of regulars. A bar renovated according to the owner’s preference—the first-floor hall of a burnt-out building refitted with cedar wood associated with sake and lined with odds and ends made of cedar.

It was nearly full with regulars alone. Here, of course, there was no band. Neither radios nor gramophones were played. Each person was chattering loudly about whatever they pleased. Greek philosophy, modern politics, labor unions, après-guerre ideals—no topic went undiscussed. Yet strangely enough, even those boisterous debates were swiftly sucked up into thin air, leaving the hall’s atmosphere eerily quiet. Whether due to the poor acoustic reflection of the concrete walls or the high ceiling, every group’s voices vanished into thin air, leaving behind only the gesticulations of those who kept talking. That still resembled the secret meetings of octopus monks.

Since it was a gathering of octopus monks, they naturally had both arms and legs. Yet even these gestures made with arms and legs proved of little use here.

The waitresses were well-behaved girls dressed in indigo-dyed kasuri and monpe trousers. The octopus monks, exuding alluring charm, tried to extend their arms and legs—but their suckers, much like the voices of profound logic that vanished into thin air, wandered aimlessly without gaining any purchase.

A hushed atmosphere was created, nurturing intoxication and dreams. In a corner booth, a young man who had been half-rising and chattering away was suddenly slapped sharply across the cheek by another young man with an open palm. Then he retaliated by slapping the other's cheek in turn, grabbed a glass from the table, and hurled it to the floor with a crack, shattering it into pieces. At that moment, a middle-aged man rose from the neighboring booth and grabbed his raised arm as he spoke.

“Stop it, stop it! If you’re going to fight, take it outside.”

The word “Go on” resonated with the cadence of “Pour another round.” The young man paid no heed, laughed with a “ha ha ha,” retreated deep into the booth and began whispering furtively with his companion, while the middle-aged man too withdrew into his own booth, seemingly raising his glass. Were they acquainted with each other, or were they strangers? I couldn’t begin to guess. At first glance, it was nothing more than an octopus peeking tentatively from its pot before furtively retreating. The air inside hung as still as water.

While glancing sideways at the girl sweeping up glass fragments, Manager Morita said. “It’s the broken glassware that troubles me most.” That was an entirely reasonable concern.

“However, at my establishment, no matter what gets broken, I make it a rule never to have them compensate me.”

That was only natural. It was too obvious to be either interesting or amusing.

What he said was ordinary, yet Morita’s eyes remained remarkable—acorn-like orbs that whirled ceaselessly, their gaze unfocused yet seemingly taking in every direction at once. At times he would close those eyelids to ponder something within, then suddenly snap them open, eyeballs rotating wildly enough to dazzle observers. There’s that saying about eyes being “so precious you’d keep them close without pain”—but Morita’s eyes likely embraced many things gently. If only they’d stay a bit quieter. Like a cup brimming with sake. Right then, the cup on the table did hold sake within it. Electric light reflected off its surface, hazily flashing in a perfect circle…

Ah.

I was inside the sake cup.

I was flying through the air. The sky was uniformly blue and round; the sea too was uniformly blue and round. The Earth appears convexly round when viewed from ground level and concavely round when seen from above. The airplane was flying through two grand lapis lazuli sake cups stacked together. The rim where their edges met glowed with a hazy brightness. Islands came into view. They were lined up irregularly in great numbers. As we passed over them,the sea grew even bluer while white waves encircled their shores. There stood an uninhabited rocky mountain - white waves would rush up its peak only to recede just as swiftly,baring black jagged crags before surging back again. The eternal interplay of white and blue. It had been a flight over Ryukyu.

In that house resided an Okinawan-born maid with eyes that evoked the lapis lazuli sea of Ryukyu. With long, clear eyes, she fixed her jet-black pupils in a steady gaze. Wheat-colored, firm cheeks and thick black hair. She had a tropical air. Papaya, mango, durian… Leave those intensely fragrant fruits to the even deeper south; settle instead for a cup of awamori in the cool breeze beneath the trees.

The second floor had a splendid tatami room, but in the dirt-floored entrance area stood a small drinking space lined with plain wooden tables. Sipping Okinawan white soup and picking at pork, they took small sips of awamori from tiny cups. The Okinawan people gathered politely and spoke in hushed tones. In the postwar era, there must have been those for whom homesickness proved impossible to suppress. But after they left, this time impolite behavior began.

“Hey, awamori really gets you drunk, huh.” “Awamori’s the finishing touch on drunkenness.”

A man with a tanned face—his striped tie loosened at the knot and striped dress shirt cuffs dangling far past his sleeves. “Especially since what they serve here’s straight from Okinawa.” Just when you thought he was making some hearty remark, he abruptly began sniffling.

“I’ve been drinking all over town and blew through half my salary.” “Now I can’t even get my wife’s spring wardrobe together.” “What’ll that damn wife of mine say...” “Hail Awamori the Great Deity—grant me wisdom! That’s why I’m drinking this—but liquor’s just tears...or whatever they say...” He buried his face in the table and actually started crying. Completely pathetic. If he hadn’t been a stranger, they would’ve punched him senseless.

“Even if you tell me not to cry,” he said through sniffles, “how could I possibly hold back?” “Hahaha!” He had already regained his composure.

“Everyone’s gone home already.” “Leaving me all alone.” “They’re all heartless bastards.” “I am lonely.” “I am absolutely lonely.” “And I’m sad.”

He ended up lowering his head again.

Okinawan-born Ryoko emerged and lightly placed her fingertips on his forearm. Her kimono collar crisply fastened, neck held straight, a slender standing figure, the natural curve of her outstretched hand—an appearance befitting the leading lady of the salon.

“Mr. Mikami, you’ve gotten drunk again. The sake decanter’s empty now, so it would be best for you to head home.” Her voice was beautiful.

“I’m sad… I’ll go home—yes—go home.”

With astonishing obedience, he staggered out. Ryoko smiled as she watched his retreating figure.

Wasn’t it shameful in the face of her smile? No—rather than shame, it was simply sad. Everyone was like that—sad.

From the building’s shadow emerged a short woman in Western dress with crimson lips; positioning herself within the darkness, she whispered in a spot where lamplight fell only on her companion, assessed his expression with a “Hey,” slid her gaze from chest to waist with a “Play with me,” scrutinized him down to his toes at his refusal—and if his trouser knees were frayed and shoes caked in mud, she turned abruptly away. The sharpness of her professional gaze, and the man’s shabby attire—wasn’t it less shameful than simply sad?

What is there to be sad about—how fortunate are those who can resist.

--I think of Okinawa's deep blue sea.

In that sea, even if a corpse were to float, it would likely still be beautiful. Tokyo’s canals are grotesque. The other day—moreover in broad daylight—a woman’s body, her chest and legs exposed, drifted gently with the tide’s ebb and flow around the bridge. Passersby had gradually formed a crowd and were gazing at it. No one uttered a word; they merely kept watching. Since it wasn’t a particularly busy bridge, this was no eccentric advertising mannequin—it was unmistakably a corpse. In such thickly murky water, there’s no way to know why it was floating there—even if you asked the corpse.

Since that incident, I’ve been trying to avoid passing through that area as much as possible.

However, the canals in the city center were generally connected, with the same murky water flowing between them, and wherever one went, one had to cross a canal. Water soothed and comforted the human heart, but one wished these canals could be purified—to be clear not just at night but also during the day. Okinawa’s seas—the waters of Okinawa’s seas.

Crouching by the canal’s edge, he gazed at the water’s surface where city lights flickered—once more, an octopus illusion surfaced. Was it due to the muddy, raw stench? Beneath the stone wall’s tidal flat, something black appeared to writhe. In the water, something seemed to squirm and churn bubbles. If that thing smoothly rose up and hoisted the giant octopus monk’s head, what would I do? I couldn’t resist that, could I?

I knew there was a giant octopus monk inhabiting the upper floors of that building behind us - knew it through bitter experience. During air raids they'd bought up furniture sold at panic prices, transported it inland for storage, and made obscene profits. After surrender they'd dealt in black-market goods, raked in fresh fortunes. Now with society stabilizing, they'd stopped dirtying their hands, sprawling instead across office sofas upstairs to watch world affairs like spectators at sumo. They kept one permanent mistress, swapped her out periodically, stationed pretty secretaries downstairs to brew coffee, pour whiskey. Those bastards were bald-headed octopus monks through and through.

―Great octopus-like entities existed both on land and in water.

For warding off octopuses， tobacco is the only way. He took out a cigar he’d received at Cabaret Ruby from his waistcoat pocket and tried lighting it with his lighter， but it just wouldn’t catch. “What are you doing， mister?” When he looked back， there stood a dwarf. Dressed in a blue jacket and black trousers—who knows what on his feet—he emerged soundlessly from the willow tree’s shadow and drew near. By my lighter’s light， he must have decided I was harmless. This guy must be scared of those octopus monks too. After all， it was that dim riverbank edge.

I put on a bold front and answered that I was fishing for octopus, but the boy didn’t even laugh. “There’s no way there are octopuses in a place like this.” “There are carp here.” “Mister, are you fishing for carp?”

This satisfied me. I stood up and held out a 100-yen bill as a reward for his clever remark. The boy stared intently at my face, snatched the bill, and vanished with a “Thanks.”

Could this too be an illusion? It was an uncompensated act. A cool relief spread through his chest. The poison drained away.

Leaving the riverbank edge—though there was no particular destination—he decided to walk a little more.

The violence of noise was gone; only the neon lights were bright.

As he tried to cut through there, he abruptly encountered Old Man Takagi.

“Well, well—what a rare encounter this is…”

What’s so rare about this? The rare one here is you. What’s even more unusual was that Old Man Takagi was drunk and in high spirits.

“I’m very happy today. Let’s drink a bit more.” “Take me to some quiet place you know.” He had already had quite a bit to drink. “No, I don’t dance.” “I don’t care for cabarets either.” “Somewhere quiet like this would be preferable.”

"In that case, well—Sugi Cottage then." Taking the old man’s arm, their steps naturally fell into rhythm.

“Earlier, I met Yuriko and finally saw conclusive proof,” Old Man Takagi said. “With that settled, there should be no issues now.” Being told this abruptly while walking left him utterly bewildered.

“I went through quite a lot of trouble, you know. I would go occasionally to discreetly check on the situation and secretly hand over a bit more money than usual as a tip, you see. Yuriko initially refused with a surprised look, but when I explained there were circumstances... she began accepting it obediently. Of course, it seems she didn’t really understand what those circumstances were. It would be troublesome if she really understood. Well, putting that aside, that place had too many prying eyes, so I was at my wit’s end with this. First of all, if I were to run into Sadao, it would be humiliating, and I couldn’t exactly peek in from outside to see if he was coming… I was at my wit’s end.”

Sadao was Old Man Takagi’s son, and Yuriko seemed to be a café waitress or something of that sort. The image of Old Man Takagi being so cautious to avoid meeting his son—likely sneaking back and forth furtively in front of that café multiple times—was rather amusing, wasn’t it? “Though mind you,” he said, “I only went there during times when Sadao’s movements were restricted—when he had research work or meetings or day-long outings—but since we’re parent and child living under one roof, I should naturally know such things.” “But unexpected things do happen.” “Better safe than sorry.” “It was all the trouble I took for caution’s sake.”

It was already quite late, and Sugi Cottage wasn’t very crowded. They settled into a corner booth and raised their sake cups. “Well now—this is a fine place.” After settling into the back of the booth, Old Man Takagi looked around the interior for the first time and kept murmuring his admiration.

By the way, Old Man Takagi’s story was like a textbook example of a doting parent’s folly. It was an utterly mundane affair: their son Sadao fell for Yuriko, a waitress, ran short on funds, confessed to his parents, and sought their approval for marriage—only to meet his mother’s obstinate opposition, which left him so despondent he nearly resorted to suicide. The mother refused to yield an inch. The father, Old Man Takagi, so worried that he resolved to first observe Yuriko’s character. When he met her, she seemed to have a kind nature. However, given the nature of the place, there was also the risk that she might be tempted by unscrupulous men for money, and so the old man had occasionally given a certain amount of money not to Sadao but to Yuriko. ——After all, it probably wasn’t a significant amount of money.

“Tonight, I put the finishing touches on it.” “After handing over the money—though I felt a bit embarrassed—when I tried inviting her by saying, ‘Shall we go somewhere? Maybe spend a day or half a day at a hot spring?’ Yuriko flushed crimson.” “And then—would you believe it?—she pretended to sweep back her curled hair with one hand, tightened that pale-foreheaded, slender face sharply, and while averting her eyes, what she said was perfect, don’t you think?” “I am not that sort of woman.” “Don’t you agree?” “I am not that sort of woman.”

This was just naive nonsense. Old Man Takagi and Sadao shared such similar facial features that his behavior must have struck her as suspicious; even if Yuriko hadn’t fully grasped the truth of things, she must have sensed something was off. Women put on such skillful acts at times like these. Without uttering a word to Sadao or Old Man Takagi—staying silent until finally delivering that single line— “I am not that sort of woman.”

Even so, what was strange was Old Man Takagi’s storytelling mannerisms. From the very beginning, he had seemed genuinely delighted through and through. Even regarding those final touches he mentioned—they felt somewhat too suggestive. It was practically like lovers' talk through and through. Could it be he'd unexpectedly grown fond of Yuriko? Could his senile delusions have made him unable to distinguish kindness from affection? If Yuriko were to warmly clasp his hand and plead “Take me with you”... what followed would remain known only to God.

Old Man Takagi, while sharing his confessions, would sometimes smile warmly, sometimes grin slyly, and occasionally have tears welling up in his eyes. In the end, was the deepest recess of his heart happy or sad? This old decrepit octopus remained unaware of his own growing numbness.

I too seemed to have settled too deeply into an octopus pot. A gloomy mood descended upon me. When I stood up and told him, “The last train’s about to stop running,” Old Man Takagi hurriedly rose, had no sooner settled the bill than he dashed out. He might have slipped and fallen on the slope outside.

“He’s a strange old man, isn’t he?”

Morita smiled. I traced a spiral on my head with my fingertip.

I'm not quite right in the head either. I want some strong liquor. Madame Penguin’s place, or Kyoko’s… But even that feels too bothersome now, and Ryoko’s place is a bit awkward to visit. Thanks to Old Man Takagi, I feel as though I’ve lost sight of the Okinawan sea.

I decided to drink the questionable cocktail Morita prepared for me.

Both my body and consciousness feel unsteady, flickering.

Morita escorted me outside and looked up at the sky.

“Looks like tomorrow’ll be nice weather too.”

I’ve made up my mind not to respond to soliloquies. In the first place, who cares about the weather forecast?

I'll take a rickshaw—quickest way.

A space just large enough for one’s body—inside that canopy was another world. Neither threatened by octopus monks nor lured by the Okinawan sea, I drifted into a drowsy doze. And then I had a dream.

It was a bridge-like boulevard with railings on both sides. Not quite a proper bridge, yet not entirely unlike one either. Two women walked along each railing. They ambled along slowly, as if out for a leisurely stroll. Upon reaching the railings’ end, the left woman spun around—the right woman mirrored her movement—and they exchanged a slight nod of acknowledgment, as if murmuring “Oh?” The right woman’s face was clear—he knew her well—yet her name escaped him. The left woman’s face stayed shadowed, indistinguishable—but she mirrored the right one completely. Who was that?

The woman on the right moved closer to the woman on the left and whispered.

“Ms. Isako, I heard you were ill—are you better now?” The woman on the left responded with a nod of acknowledgment. Then, everything suddenly brightened as if aflame, and the dream vanished. Oh, so those two were Isako? If it’s Isako, I should know her—she’s my former lover.

It wasn’t a fire. A bright light momentarily pierced the canopy, only for dimness to reclaim the space. In my half-dreaming state, I thought again—Isako should know.

He forced his eyes open, but the gloom remained.

A double person—I beheld.

The rickshaw went rolling on with a clatter-clatter, clatter-clatter. It went rolling straight ahead.