Pathway to Japanese Literature

Keisuke Shimura was already fifty years old, but his white hair remained inconspicuous, his complexion retained its luster, and he carried himself with apparent cheerfulness. Having lost his wife ten years prior, he had rejected every suggestion of remarriage and persisted in his bachelor existence. The care of his two children and supervision of domestic matters fell to a middle-aged woman from a distant branch of his family, assisted by two maids beneath her—an arrangement that left him perpetually unburdened and at ease.

Through the residual prestige of his late father, who had been prominent in business circles, he maintained extensive connections across various spheres while holding nominal positions at several companies. His leisure hours were occupied with reading voraciously, composing classical waka poetry, and producing works that resembled personal essays. Having authored several books, he came to be addressed as "Sensei" within literary circles—a title typically reserved for established scholars. In short, he presented himself as an urbane gentleman thriving within cultured society.

He showed no compunction about squandering money on liquor and women's company yet steadfastly declined requests for straightforward financial aid.

When going out, he would let a silk-linen handkerchief peek from the breast pocket of his jacket and carried a rattan cane. He frequently changed his necktie.

When pufferfish season arrived, he would invite friends and sometimes go alone to pufferfish restaurants. To be sure, pufferfish could be eaten year-round, but following Tokyo’s custom, he generally considered November through February to be its season.

Regarding this pufferfish, he began saying strange things.

Due to his social standing and network of connections, he was frequently invited to various gatherings.
That said, there were natural limits, and his circle of acquaintances remained largely fixed.
At such gatherings, he would strangely find himself seated next to a woman.
At first, he would drink with an air of composure, but as he became slightly intoxicated, he would strike up a conversation with the woman beside him and eventually begin whispering as if sharing a secret.

“Have you ever eaten pufferfish?”

If she were to say no, he would launch into an explanation about the exquisite taste of pufferfish, but modern women typically tasted it once or twice already.

“I’ve had it a few times, but... I always feel rather nervous about it.”

“Even you? How unexpected.”
“I eat it regularly myself—there’s absolutely no danger of poisoning.”
“With home cooking perhaps, but restaurants remove all toxins thoroughly—you couldn’t get poisoned even if you tried.”
“Which parts did you try?”

“Sashimi and... hot pot, I believe it was.”

“I see—that’s how it’s done everywhere.”
“Sashimi and hot pot.”
“The usual combination.”
“But at this place I know, they serve something truly exceptional.”
“Pufferfish tea.”

“What... pufferfish tea?”

“Pufferfish tea over rice.”
“You know sea bream tea over rice—tai-chazuke?”
“They substitute pufferfish for the bream.”
“It’s a celestial delicacy—one taste and you’ll be enslaved.”

“This is my first time hearing of such a thing.”

“It’s not something available everywhere.”
“Only at this establishment I know.”
“Drink your fill, eat your fill... and since it conveniently functions as a traditional Japanese inn with fine dining, I generally wind up staying overnight.”
“If it suits your convenience, I could take you there sometime.”
“Though naturally, whether you decide to stay or return home remains entirely at your discretion.”

Leaning forward and bringing his face close to his companion, Shimura spoke in a hushed, whisper-like tone, but with people around, it couldn’t truly become a secret conversation between just the two of them. Moreover, Shimura didn’t seem to intend it as a secret conversation in the first place; even at a whisper, he maintained a volume audible to those in neighboring seats. He made no distinctions among his companions. He didn’t care whether they were married women, widows, or single. However, there were hardly any young ladies at such gatherings.

Even if it wasn’t a house specifically for taking lovers, inviting ladies to eat pufferfish tea at the traditional Japanese inn with fine dining where Shimura often stayed was not entirely proper.

The reactions varied widely. There were also women who turned bright red and lowered their faces.

There were also women who turned away as if angry. There were also women who laughed coquettishly as if to slay him with mirth. “By all means, allow me to accompany you,” said a woman mockingly.

At that alone, Shimura raised his face and arched his back, blowing cigarette smoke with an air of feigned ignorance.
He also seemed somewhat melancholic.
He would sometimes slightly furrow his brows.

In reality, while specifying exact dates and times to invite someone was of course a delicate matter, it appeared he had never done so.

Takehara, who had overheard his "secret talk" from nearby, once found himself walking alone with him along the street and suddenly posed a question.

“You’ve mentioned something called pufferfish tea over rice before—does that actually exist?”

“It’s possible,” answered Shimura.

“Huh… Could exist….”

“Since there’s sea bream tea and shibi tea, there’s no reason pufferfish tea shouldn’t exist.”

“Of course, there’s no harm in it existing.”

“Shall we go try it?”

Shimura stared fixedly at Takehara’s face.
Then he started walking again.

“There’s no point if it’s just two men.”

Takehara did not understand the meaning of those words and remained silent.
After a while, Shimura muttered.

“Things like pufferfish tea or traditional inns with fine dining—they’re just tools for me to declare my intentions.”

“Well now, that’s rather dramatic—‘declaring intentions,’ you say?”

“If it’s you, I can confide in you.”
“As you know, I drink heavily and sometimes get outrageously drunk.”
“Because I usually forget what happens when I’m drunk, it doesn’t bother me.”
“No matter what I do or say, I don’t care.”
“However, afterward, I sometimes find myself remembering something.”
“If I were to put it pretentiously, they’re like rocks jutting above the waters of oblivion.”
“If they’re something absurd or ridiculous, that’s still bearable, but sometimes they’re intensely shameful things.”
“When those shameful things—just those fragments—come floating back to me, it becomes unbearable, and I want to let out a scream.”
“In the middle of the night, I suddenly wake up wanting to scream…”
“Haven’t you ever had that kind of experience?”

“Oh, I’ve had that.”
“People who drink often have those kinds of experiences.”
“Nothing out of the ordinary.”

“However, the most embarrassing among them is still matters between men and women."
"I indulged quite freely with professionals."
“But I’ve always avoided amateurs.”
“Yet somehow, as I’ve aged and sexual acts lost their appeal, my wariness toward amateurs faded."
"When drunk, I’d end up kissing or bedding them over trifles."
“Of course, women I dislike are exceptions."
"So long as I didn’t dislike them—even without particular fondness—things would often turn peculiar."
“That’s why I came to utterly despise sexual acts."
“A crude conclusion—that it’s merely the sensation of mucous membranes."
“Such conclusions and contempt—voicing them abstractly before ladies would only breed misunderstandings—so I adopted another method."
“That method became things like pufferfish tea or fine-dining inns.”

“But you—there’s no need to make such declarations in front of proper ladies, is there?”

“There’s no need.
But I’m angry.
I’m angry at women as a whole.
To soothe that anger, I just want to vent a little poison.”

“So you’re saying you’ve had some foolish encounter, then.”
“Men are supposed to be like that.”
“They’re always being made to face nothing but foolish situations.”
“And getting angry about it just makes you all the more foolish.”

“Ah, such foolishness.
Shall we go eat some pufferfish or something?”

“Since we’re going anyway, let’s make it pufferfish tea.”

“There’s no such thing. Or should we leave the pufferfish sashimi behind, order sea bream tea, and try our hand at stylishly preparing pufferfish tea ourselves?”

“Very well,” answered Takehara.

Shimura’s improper “secret talks” about pufferfish tea over rice and traditional inns with fine dining elicited wry smiles among men—dismissed as the antics of an eccentric fellow—and caused little reaction, but among women this was not the case.

In these leisured society circles, food talk and scandal reign as supreme topics.
Shimura’s matters became the subject of hushed whispers.
There were those who called him a shameless man.
There were those who called him a clownish man.
There were those who called him a man who insults women.
And while offering varied criticisms, they in fact employed scrutinizing sidelong glances, wondering whether there might actually exist someone who had gone alone with him to that inn or whatever it was.

Shimura himself knew such things all too well.
He knew that while he seemed to be avoided on the surface, in reality he wasn’t being ostracized at all.
When one suspects someone might be playing with fire, beneath that suspicion lies an element of playing with fire within the suspect themselves.
There existed something like a secret ulterior motive, or perhaps a crack—that sort of thing.

Therefore, Shimura mingled among them with an amiable demeanor while inwardly leaning back in arrogance—it was the day of the tea party at the Suga residence, coinciding with the elderly lady’s birthday celebration.

Though called a tea party, for the men it was more of a cocktail party.
A certain bartender who had brought a full set of ingredients was showcasing his cocktail-making skills.
Since it was a gathering of close acquaintances, they could drink without reservation.
In the parlor, having pushed aside the large central table, there were also young people dancing to records.
In the Japanese-style hall, sake was also being served.

It was a cloudless, brilliantly clear day, and bright slanting sunlight streamed through the glass doors of the veranda.
But the garden lawn lay frost-withered, and beyond it in the hedge, the leaves of evergreen trees stood jet-black and utterly still.

In a corner of the wide veranda that bent slightly off the long engawa—where a woolen rug had been spread and a small table with a wicker chair was placed—Shimura found himself cornered by Mrs. Fusayo Imai.

She had been talking with Mrs. Ota, but when Shimura passed by, she beckoned him over with a flick of her fingertips. Mrs. Ota rose and departed, leaving Shimura no choice but to take her vacated seat.

For Shimura, Mrs. Fusayo was an adversary he struggled to handle.
Among the women gathered at the Suga residence, she was likely from a foremost distinguished family—her husband served as an executive at a communications firm—and she herself possessed both meddlesome sociability and formidable influence.
Shimura had once been profoundly indebted to her.
A casual romantic entanglement had grown unexpectedly convoluted, nearly escalating into legal proceedings until her intervention quietly resolved the matter.
Ever since then, he had felt strangely incapable of meeting her gaze as an equal.

“We were just talking about you, you know,” she said.

Her forehead was crowned with tight curls, her lower cheeks plump with flesh, and her small eyes glittered restlessly.
When Shimura offered his cigarette case, she deftly plucked one out.

“Won’t you come over there, toward the hall?”

“I’ll wait until I sober up a bit more.”

Nevertheless, both tea and a cocktail were arranged before her, and she picked up the cocktail glass and sipped from the corner of her lips.

When a maid passed by, she ordered that cocktails be brought for Shimura as well—two glasses, in fact.

Through the cigarette smoke, she gazed intently at Shimura’s face.
Her expression was unclear whether she was smirking or angry.

“You’ve been quite... lively lately.”

“Not at all.”
“I’ve been utterly crestfallen.”

Shimura formed a smile.

“It’s all well and good to be spirited, but you really shouldn’t make such sport of people.”

Shimura deepened his smile—as he wondered if this was about that incident, it indeed turned out to be just that.

“I hear there’s an establishment that serves pufferfish tea over rice and such. Where might that be?”

“Oh, any place can make it if you ask.”

“No, the establishment you frequent… What is it called?”

Shimura drank his cocktail.

“I adore pufferfish, you see. I’ve been wanting to visit this place myself. Won’t you tell me its name? Consider this my personal request.”

“A personal request…”

Beyond the garden, against a background of camellias growing thickly clustered among the whitish trunks of crape myrtles, a large natural stone was placed, and at its base lay a cluster of kerria with a few yellow leaves still scattered. Shimura fixed his eyes on it.

“It’s called Yamabuki...”

“Yamabuki—what a confectionery-sounding name.”

Having started to laugh, Mrs. Fusayo Imai suddenly turned serious.

“Whether it’s Yamabuki or whatever they call it, why don’t I accompany you to that supposed traditional Japanese inn with fine dining?”
“Or perhaps a plump old woman like myself doesn’t meet your standards?”

Shimura shrugged.

“I understand.
Please don’t scold me like that.”

Mrs. Fusayo Imai extended one hand and grasped his wrist.

“Mr. Shimura, your jokes are going a bit too far.
You may pass it off as a joke, but the other party won’t simply comply.
Everyone is outraged.
While there may be some who, deep down, feel slightly tickled by it all, for the most part—to put it grandly—their honor has been wounded.
And as for you, you’ll be branded as an immoral, shameless man.
When those two combine, a rather troublesome situation might arise.
Well, don’t you agree?”

“I understand.”
“Let’s drop this subject.”
“What on earth is this story of yours...”

“What about my story?”

“It’s all too valid—I find myself at a loss for a response.”

“Then shall I say something unreasonable?”

Mrs. Fusayo Imai laughed, her small eyes crinkling.

“Then shall I make myself everyone’s sacrifice and accompany you? Let us make our promise openly before everyone. Let us publicly agree to visit Yamabuki—that traditional inn with fine dining—together at some appointed date and hour, you and I, to partake of pufferfish tea over rice and such. Will you truly take me then?”

“There’s no help for it.
If you insist on having it done that way...”

Mrs. Fusayo Imai grasped his wrist again.

“You’re laughing.”
“Actually, there’s something I’d like you to hear seriously.”
“I’d been wavering over whether to tell you or not, but since today presents a good opportunity, I’ll muster my resolve and speak.”
“Just stay silent—no excuses—and listen.”

“As you wish.”
“I shall be your lamb to the slaughter.”

Shimura had already downed three cocktails by that point.
Mrs. Fusayo Imai also sipped from the edge of her cocktail glass.
Then he ordered two more cocktails from a passing maid.
Beyond the maids, guests passing by would greet Mrs. Fusayo Imai before moving on.
The two looked as though engrossed in clandestine discussion.

“Actually, there happens to be a person who would make an impeccable wife for you.”

She came from a family of status and wealth—a war widow without children, reinstated with her birth family—and by both education and temperament, was said to be perfectly suited to become Mrs. Shimura.

Shimura smirked.

“That’s quite an honor. Isn’t that story a bit too precious to serve as drinking conversation?”

Mrs. Fusayo Imai gazed at Shimura as he sipped his cocktail, her eyes narrowing in reproach.

"I expected that would be your response, given your recent conduct."

"What's strange about my conduct?"

Shimura put on a comical act, stroking his face.

"You must exercise more restraint, Mr. Shimura."

Suddenly, Mrs. Fusayo Imai’s tone changed, and her voice dropped lower.

“It seems your home receives quite a number of female visitors.”
“And I hear you’ve been drinking since morning, haven’t you?”

“Well now, come to think of it, such things may have occurred…”

“Oh, do be quiet and listen—I’ll lay everything bare for you.”
“I’ll tell you everything exactly as it is, I will.”

Shimura steeled his resolve and fell silent.
He crossed his arms and leaned against the table, holding his feet over the edge of the brazier until the tips of his socks nearly scorched.

“Do you know what that elderly maid has been saying?”
“‘This house might as well become a rendezvous house,’ she declared.”

That was likely not something uttered by that maid Tsuruya herself, but rather by someone outside. However, no matter who said it, there was a half-truth to it.

“People do have their own favorites, don’t they? Your maids were gossiping about which lady the master likes best—they say it might be Kimura-san, or perhaps Tsuchiya-san, or maybe Nakao-san. Apparently opinions were quite divided.”

The maids’ gossip was likely fabricated.
However, whether it was Kimura-san, Tsuchiya-san, or Nakao-san, the fact remained that they were women who had some manner of relationship with Shimura.
They visited Shimura more frequently than ordinary socializing would warrant—sometimes keeping him company over drinks, and on occasion even staying overnight.
On the surface, they were considered Shimura’s waka poetry students, but whether they actually composed poetry was questionable.

“Tsuchiya-san seems to be your cherished pupil, doesn’t she. When one refrains from visiting for a time, the teacher sends a note asking if one hasn’t caught cold—that’s what she claims, you know. A cold, she says—isn’t that an amusing way to put it? And then she also claims that after New Year’s comes, she received an invitation from the teacher to visit some hot spring together—that’s what she says, you know. And isn’t what comes next simply amusing? There’s truly nothing between me and the teacher—but when I say such things, does it sound as though there’s some hidden meaning… Oh my,” she said with a light laugh. “And isn’t the way you inquire of others whether it sounds like there’s some hidden meaning simply charming?”

The story was a bit too amusingly fabricated.
Shimura had written her postcards for other matters.
He had spoken about hot springs.
However, while Mrs. Fusayo Imai’s story was artfully constructed to be entertaining, it contained elements that could not be dismissed as merely amusing.

“Oh, I’ve just remembered something rather curious.”
“You did spend some time at Mr. Noda’s villa in Kamakura, did you not?”
“There was a young and beautiful maid there, was there not?”
“That maid later praised you as a kind and good man, they say.”
“And though she said you were a good person… she trailed off, so when pressed further, she mentioned there was just one unpleasant thing.”
“The teacher would keep drinking endlessly, so when she retreated to her room, he’d suddenly slide open the fusuma door to check if she’d gone to bed, and then there were times he’d get drunk and make her massage his shoulders.”
“She found that utterly unbearable.”
“That’s what she said, you know.”

Shimura started to leap up but forced himself to settle back down.
He downed his cocktail in one gulp and lit a cigarette.

“Is there more?”
“Please feel free to say whatever you wish.”

Mrs. Fusayo Imai also lit a cigarette.

“Therefore, Mr. Shimura, while your dalliances with geisha may be acceptable, you should take care with untrained women.”

She delivered the latter part slowly, in an affectedly solemn tone.

While suppressing his growing irritation, Shimura suddenly harbored a different suspicion.

“Just how on earth do you come to know all these various things?”

“So then, everything you’ve just told me is true, I take it?”

“That’s precisely what I want to ask you.”

“From what I have heard, it does appear to be true.”

“May I ask from whom you heard that?”

“From no one in particular… Well, I suppose you could say from society at large.”

“That is your world alone.”
“It concerns your own associates, does it not?”
"I must clarify—I live as an ordinary person, one among the common folk."

“Therefore, I suggest you refrain from such self-indulgent behavior and act like an ordinary person—why not consider remarrying?”

Shimura frowned and fell silent.

Mrs. Fusayo Imai grabbed his wrist.

“Listen, Mr. Shimura—I may have offended you, but I’m truly worried about you.”
“Please give careful consideration to marriage as well.”
“There truly is a perfectly suitable person for you.”
“Ah, let’s do this then—was it Yamabuki? Before accompanying you to Yamabuki, please make sure to settle your feelings.”

“Yamabuki… Does it actually exist?”

“Yes, anytime—if you would be so kind as to set the date.”

Mrs. Fusayo Imai stood up. As if no conversation had occurred, her small eyes floating a smile, she nodded courteously and departed toward the hall. Her corpulent frame carried thick hips, the figure below her waist turning blocky.

Shimura puffed furiously on cigarettes. The sensation resembled waking in drunken midnight stillness to recall some mortifying fragment—he wanted to scream aloud. And he grew angry.

Kawaguchi and Yoshioka passed by and stopped before Shimura. Both were slightly drunk.

"Looks like you got caught by Mrs. Imai, huh?"

"You were probably lectured about something."

"That woman's such a nuisance."

"Why didn't you just bolt?"

Shimura didn't respond and turned away. Then he stood up silently, ignoring the two men completely, and headed for the hall.

Mrs. Fusayo Imai sat at the head of several guests, nodding along to their conversation. Shimura approached her side and announced loudly enough for those nearby to hear:

“Let’s make it next Monday.”

Mrs. Fusayo Imai answered composedly.

“You’re referring to Yamabuki, I presume.”
“You will kindly come to pick me up, won’t you?”

“Around six o'clock….”

“I’ll be expecting you.”

Shimura left the room under the people’s gaze.

Shimura intended to stand Mrs. Fusayo Imai up.
There was no one eccentric enough to eat something as unappetizing as pufferfish tea over rice, and the so-called Yamabuki inn with its fine dining had been a fabrication from the start.
Mrs. Fusayo Imai should have noticed that much by now.

Still, Shimura couldn’t shake off his simmering resentment. Mrs. Fusayo’s candid remarks contained too many venomous elements that felt like personal insults. She herself was likely oblivious to this fact, but that changed nothing.

Shimura had always vaguely sensed the impudence common among women, but now he felt he had smashed headlong into its concrete reality. Those very stories laid bare their brazenness, and the mere existence of such tales being circulated amounted to the same offense. He couldn’t begin to imagine what other gossip might be spreading out there. And it was precisely this brazenness that kept insulting him.

Had he lost interest in sexual acts between men and women because of his reckless behavior? Or had he started acting recklessly because he had lost interest? That was something even Shimura himself didn’t understand. It was likely that both were interrelated. Even so—if women in general hadn’t been so impudent, if they’d possessed more upstanding moral character—Shimura told himself—I wouldn’t have suffered such humiliation.

Even so, Shimura still couldn't quell his irritation.
Feeling irritated, he drank morning sake and evening sake.
The habit of alcohol was a curious thing—drink in the morning and you'd crave it again by evening; drink in the evening and you'd yearn for it come dawn.
It was endless.

On Monday morning, as Shimura drank at home, there came a call from Mrs. Fusayo Imai.
Shimura frowned and picked up the receiver—Mrs. Fusayo had not forgotten their arrangement.
She repeated her instructions: since she wished to modify their plans slightly, he shouldn’t book a room at Yamabuki; he must come to her house without fail; she’d be waiting at six so he mustn’t forget. Having pressed these points thoroughly, she concluded with “Do take care.”

Shimura clicked his tongue and decided to leave things to fate.

In the afternoon, he made an appearance at his company; in the evening, drank sake at his usual small pub; passed the time drinking; and arrived at the Imai residence around seven o'clock.

The maid, upon seeing Shimura’s face, immediately guided him to the ten-tatami Japanese-style room.
Familiar faces were all gathered.
Kawaguchi and Yoshioka, Mrs. Arimatsu and Mrs. Hisaki the widow, along with Mrs. Fusayo—five people in total—were gathered around the dining table.
Large plates of pufferfish dishes were lined up, and many sake decanters were brought out.

Mrs. Fusayo Imai welcomed Shimura in a casual tone.
At home, she was always like that.

“We had a six o’clock appointment—what were you doing?”
“As punishment for your tardiness, I didn’t come out to greet you.”

When Shimura took his seat, she said with a flickering smile in her eyes.

“We had agreed to accompany you to Yamabuki, but since such a traditional inn with fine dining was clearly a complete fiction anyway, I decided to treat you to pufferfish dishes at my home instead.”
“You may consider this place your fine dining inn—should you pass out drunk and wish to stay over, that would be perfectly acceptable.”

Mrs. Arimatsu and Mrs. Hisaki the widow exchanged glances and smiled faintly, while Kawaguchi and Yoshioka burst into laughter.
Various matters concerning Shimura were dished out and undoubtedly served as drinking conversation.
Both Mrs. Arimatsu and Mrs. Hisaki the widow were women to whom Shimura had whispered that "secret talk."

Shimura summoned his courage and picked up the sake cup.

Mrs. Fusayo Imai—serving as proxy for her husband who was away traveling—indicated the hanging scroll in the alcove as she spoke.
It was the Takehisa Yamakawa painting that Mr. Imai cherished, with winter chrysanthemums arranged elegantly in a vase slightly below it.

In this domestic setting, it became clear there would be no danger even if he were to visit a traditional inn with Mrs. Fusayo Imai.
This security didn't stem from her obesity—that blocky lower body when standing, that immovable solidity when seated.
Rather, there was something neuter about her, divorced from carnal desire.
Shimura mentally conjured the middle-aged geisha favored by Mr. Imai.

“Mr. Shimura, what are you thinking so deeply about?” said Mrs. Fusayo Imai.
“Regarding your remarriage—have you made up your mind?”
“I’ve resolved not to settle such matters.”

“Oh, we were at the wrong place, weren’t we? Since our agreement was for when we went to Yamabuki.”

“Oh, do you have some marriage talk going on too?” Yoshioka said curiously.

“Just like Yamabuki—existing as if it weren’t, and not existing as if it were.”

Shimura grew irritated and from then on drank in silence, saying little.

Even though Shimura fell silent, the gathering remained lively.
Talk of food, talk of war, talk of movies and theater—and above all, gossip about people—never ran dry.
However, there seemed to be an unspoken boundary somewhere that they could not cross.

Since Shimura had been drinking before coming to the Imai residence, his intoxication gradually deepened until his consciousness began fading intermittently.
He seemed to attempt breaching that boundary which should not be crossed, and through some unknown trigger began recounting something bizarre.

He had lured out a dancer from a Ginza cabaret, gone to a hotel, made her undress, licked her navel, and then simply fled the hotel…….
That it had been such a simple story—this much Shimura himself remembered.

How he had spent the time, even Shimura himself didn't really know, and late that night he returned home by car. On the way, it seemed as if he had stopped by a cabaret in Ginza—and yet also as if he hadn't.

Near dawn, Shimura awoke in shock.

A vision spun at high speed.

He was lying on the hotel bed.
Beside him lay a young woman completely naked on her back.
He quietly raised his upper body，buried his face in that rice cake-like abdomen，and kissed her navel.
The woman lay as if dead while letting out light mechanical laughter—kuku kuku.
As he continued kissing her，the mechanical laughter—kuku kuku—persisted……

Suddenly, something else rose in his mind.
It was inside the bathhouse.
Someone was standing in the washing area, looking at their own navel in the light filtering through the frosted glass.
Inside the navel, black specks of dirt, like sesame seeds, were scattered.
Someone tried to pick out those sesame seed-like specks of dirt.
At first it was slightly ticklish; soon it became faintly painful.
Enduring it, they kept digging away incessantly.
A sesame seed-like speck of dirt plopped out.
A pale mark remained.
Someone began working on the next sesame seed-like speck…….

On the hotel bed, he suddenly jumped up and spat forcefully.
He hurriedly put on his clothes and slipped into his shoes.
The naked woman sat draped in a blanket, looking dazed.
After casting just a glance in that direction, he fled through the door…….

Last night, Shimura got out of the car at the corner of the side street and staggered home.
He spat repeatedly and forcefully.
He felt unbearably filthy.
He swung his cane wildly.
As he did so, he suddenly stopped in his tracks.
In that dimly lit street, someone was standing.
The figure stood as if lying in wait for him.
It was a middle-aged woman.
Her hair was pulled back neatly; her neck was slender; her shoulders looked coldly thin.
Only the half-collar of her underrobe was thickly padded; her obi was pulled tightly; her figure tapered slenderly from the waist down; the hem of her kimono arranged in a slight figure-eight drape.
The woman—though her facial features remained indistinct—was staring through him.
“Ah,” he uttered.
The instant he did so, her figure disappeared as if erased.
It was indeed a woman he knew.
Though he didn’t know who she was, she was a woman he knew well….

Shimura awoke in shock, opened his eyes wide in the faint light of the night lamp, and chased after the phantom.
With a feeling that made him want to grit his teeth, he let out a voiceless scream in his heart and yanked the futon over his head.

That morning, he did not drink alcohol, remained shut in his house all day, and in the evening drank only a single bottle of beer. For about ten days after that, he met with none of his visitors and answered no phone calls. He had the maids inform callers that he was away—they didn’t know where he had gone or when he would return—and made no distinction between visitors. What happened after that remains unknown.